Yesterday, I sat at the car dealership for three and a half hours to have tires replaced and horn repaired. After that circus of delight, I went home and firmly planted my butt in front of my computer.
I have recently received the actual full featured game of Bejeweled, which as one can imagine, is interfering substantially with my family life. I also needed to do my daily search of inane shit through the interwebs.
Briefly, I left my seat to start dinner (read: make a gin and diet tonic). Upon my return, there were 16 windows of Internet Explorer open. Most seemed to be stuck on a google page searching "n." Which really had me stumped, until I remembered that I told Sam to type "n" in the address bar and nickjr.com would appear in the history pop up tab. He just had entered the "n" in the wrong place, which must have been frustrating for him, but irrelevent for me. I closed those windows right up. S also must have clicked on a couple of side bar ads, as netflix had a pop up as did a couple of others. But, my favorite open window, by far, was a questionnaire for an Internet dating service for cougars.
Of course, I instantly start to think of how E and S would describe themselves in a dating ad.
SWM, sensitive, creative and intellectually curious seeks love. Come cry at the movies with me, shadow box alongside me, and let us slay imaginary demons together. I'm musical, love to surf the web, and enjoy all kinds of indoor, sedentary pastimes. I'll read to you, play board games with you, and love to learn all kinds of card games.
SWM, seeks very very thin woman. Let me make you laugh with my slapstick comedy. We can practice rock climbing on your furniture, and build Lego bridges to one another's hearts. I love to socialize, hang out, but not going to restaurants. Let's go out and tackle the world. Blindside it, in fact. I crave speed, danger, and making you worry. I am not for the faint of heart.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Broken
Only the third week of January, and already:
- Have sworn at kids. A lot.
- Have yelled at kids. A lot.
- Have yelled and sworn at kids at same time.
- Valentine's cookies? What Valentine's cookies? I saw no Valentine's cookies.
- Dishes in the sink will teleport to the dishwasher, no?
- A catalog is a book, right? Mostly.
- I need that super cute shirt. Like NEEEEEED it.
- But Coke Zero is sooo much better tasting than water.
- Asking M if he wants more Valentine's cookies is meaningful conversation.
- On Saturdays, it's ok if I'm in pajamas at 2 pm.
- It's too rainy to go for a jog.
- It's too cold to go for a jog.
- It's too beautiful a day to waste it jogging.
- Cleaning out the closet would displace hundreds of dustbunnies. And they need homes, too.
- But I have a headache.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Finally, math I can do!
Kids babysitting kids is my favorite thing. It appears to defy all logic, and yet it represents prism-like simplistic beauty. I have taken my kids and friends' kids in all permutations and combinations these past few weeks, and I have come to some mathematical conclusions.
Theorem #1:
Having one of my children at a time is enjoyable.
Theorem #2:
Having two of my children at a time is not enjoyable.
Theorem #3:
Having one of my friend's children, and none of mine is enjoyable.
Theorem #4:
Having two of my friend's children, and none of mine is not enjoyable.
Theorem #5:
Having two of my friend's children and two of mine is very enjoyable.
Theorem #6:
Having one of my friend's children and two of mine is enjoyable.
Ergo, having four children is much easier than having three (they compete for one another's attention.) Having three children is easier than two, especially when those two are mine. Having one child is the easiest of all. Which affirms the egos of all those only children out there, and confirms the argument of every first born who claims that his/her sibling ruined everything.
Peer babysitting, the foursome combination, is by far the best. The faces and toys are new. The games are more fun, and the refereeing is minimal. I can poke my head in, demand all murder stop, and then leave them be for another half hour. With the twosome combination, the bickering is relentless, the arguing is petty, and the nerves are jangled, at best. The twosome of other people's children is tricky when navigating the rules of punishment. I am reluctant to punish other people's children, but often feel compelled when they are demolishing my house. And of course, the children I know tend to be charming and funny and bright and lovely when I am with them in an individual setting. (I qualify that statement because I am sure there are god-awful kids out there who are not fun to be with at any time. Thankfully, I don't know any of those.)
So, if any of my friends are interested in the geometry of peer babysitting, let me know. I am willing to use my children as guinea pigs for testing your own theorems!
Theorem #1:
Having one of my children at a time is enjoyable.
Theorem #2:
Having two of my children at a time is not enjoyable.
Theorem #3:
Having one of my friend's children, and none of mine is enjoyable.
Theorem #4:
Having two of my friend's children, and none of mine is not enjoyable.
Theorem #5:
Having two of my friend's children and two of mine is very enjoyable.
Theorem #6:
Having one of my friend's children and two of mine is enjoyable.
Ergo, having four children is much easier than having three (they compete for one another's attention.) Having three children is easier than two, especially when those two are mine. Having one child is the easiest of all. Which affirms the egos of all those only children out there, and confirms the argument of every first born who claims that his/her sibling ruined everything.
Peer babysitting, the foursome combination, is by far the best. The faces and toys are new. The games are more fun, and the refereeing is minimal. I can poke my head in, demand all murder stop, and then leave them be for another half hour. With the twosome combination, the bickering is relentless, the arguing is petty, and the nerves are jangled, at best. The twosome of other people's children is tricky when navigating the rules of punishment. I am reluctant to punish other people's children, but often feel compelled when they are demolishing my house. And of course, the children I know tend to be charming and funny and bright and lovely when I am with them in an individual setting. (I qualify that statement because I am sure there are god-awful kids out there who are not fun to be with at any time. Thankfully, I don't know any of those.)
So, if any of my friends are interested in the geometry of peer babysitting, let me know. I am willing to use my children as guinea pigs for testing your own theorems!
Friday, January 15, 2010
Anti Karma
Some things are just hexed from the get-go. Northwestern Football, for example. Much like the billy goat from Wrigley, there is a wildcat roaming this country, cursed. The Rose Bowl incident from a few years ago? Best forgotten. (Although Mr. Johnson, I have not in fact, forgotten. And USC is receiving some serious karma right now, as we speak.) But I digress..
Yes, so this year, at the announcement of the Outback Bowl invite for NU, I impulsively demanded that we go. "It will be fun," I said. "It will be nostalgic," I said. "It will be without kids," I said.
So, M begins to work on tickets. He buys tickets through Northwestern so that the school receives 'credit' for selling out its allotment of tickets. M begins to work on the hotel issue. Hotels appear costly, and he begins negotiations on Priceline. He bids on a price, having a specific hotel in mind. However, unbeknown to him, there is ANOTHER hotel within his radius that fits the parameters of his bid. And he wins that hotel with his bid. We look up the hotel, which appears to be very nice. However, his bid was $10 more than the hotel's listed price. At least we will get a good room...
Tickets arrive in the mail. While they are in the student section, they are the worst seats in the stadium. They are a few rows up from the field, but in the end zone, which means that any play run from the near ten yard-line to the end zone will be invisible to us; as will any play from the fifty yard line to the far end zone. Oh, well. We'll be with our comrades.
The drive to Tampa was uneventful, if long. But, we pulled in to our hotel without any damage. Our room is adjacent to the exercise room and the phht phht phht of the exercise equipment. It is also directly under the housing for the elevator Bzzt. Stop. Bzzt. Stop. Bzzt.
Beautiful day, that day of driving. Football weather? 50s and pouring rain. Brr.
At the stadium, M found himself in a foul mood because the hotel had failed to deliver on its promised stadium shuttle. Instead, the hotel drove people to the stadium in Town cars (four or 5 at a time) for $20 per person/round trip. As we entered the stadium, the "guard" confiscated M's Reese's Pieces. Which was not too galling, until we went inside and the concessionaire was selling Reese's Pieces for $8.
I know when not to bug M for a souvenir, but game wear was one souvenir I had to have. Overpriced shirt? Stupidly expensive hat? Wisely, and like a dad, he says, "you don't want to have to hold on to it for the whole game, we'll pick one up on the way out."
Sit through rain. More rain. More rain. One of our friends, who we were planning to see after the game, is forced to cancel because of his status as designated driver.
AMAZING COMEBACK...thwarted. Glum, heartbroken, we exit the stadium. I stop at the souvenir stand to buy my shirt. Wisely, and like a dad, M says,"I flagged down this dude in a golf cart who will drive us to the shuttle drop off point. Then we don't have to walk over a mile in the rain. You can buy your shirt online."
This is true. And walking in the rain is not appealing when the adrenaline of pregame is gone. We hitch a ride with the golf cart dude, and he does, in fact save us a hell of a walk. We are the first ones to the shuttle, and since it only holds four, we are stoked to be shoo-ins. The plus two are Auburn fans. Silence on the ride back to the hotel. Dinner? Two and a half hour wait...take out it is. The drive home? Uneventful except for our single gas stop at DeSomething Springs, Florida. This hamlet has only one functioning gas station. And a Burger King. Which we eschew for the slightly less revolting WhatABurger. I race into WhatABurger's potty. And slam, with great force, a door on my fingers. Crying, I wolf down my burger and drive the rest of the way home. WhatAnOwie.
I order my shirt and hat online on January 2. I receive confirmation and shipping date for January 5. I wait and wait. Yesterday, after still not receiving my souvenirs, I check the tracking information which confirms the shirt was delivered on the 7th. I go outside, look under bushes, NO FREAKING SHIRT.
Look, karma. We overpaid for our room, watched a losing game on the Jumbotron, sat in world's most overpriced shuttle, compromised on take out, filled our car with watery gas, broke two fingers, didn't get to see friends, and gave up our Reese's Pieces. I want MY FREAKING SHIRT NOW.
Please?
Yes, so this year, at the announcement of the Outback Bowl invite for NU, I impulsively demanded that we go. "It will be fun," I said. "It will be nostalgic," I said. "It will be without kids," I said.
So, M begins to work on tickets. He buys tickets through Northwestern so that the school receives 'credit' for selling out its allotment of tickets. M begins to work on the hotel issue. Hotels appear costly, and he begins negotiations on Priceline. He bids on a price, having a specific hotel in mind. However, unbeknown to him, there is ANOTHER hotel within his radius that fits the parameters of his bid. And he wins that hotel with his bid. We look up the hotel, which appears to be very nice. However, his bid was $10 more than the hotel's listed price. At least we will get a good room...
Tickets arrive in the mail. While they are in the student section, they are the worst seats in the stadium. They are a few rows up from the field, but in the end zone, which means that any play run from the near ten yard-line to the end zone will be invisible to us; as will any play from the fifty yard line to the far end zone. Oh, well. We'll be with our comrades.
The drive to Tampa was uneventful, if long. But, we pulled in to our hotel without any damage. Our room is adjacent to the exercise room and the phht phht phht of the exercise equipment. It is also directly under the housing for the elevator Bzzt. Stop. Bzzt. Stop. Bzzt.
Beautiful day, that day of driving. Football weather? 50s and pouring rain. Brr.
At the stadium, M found himself in a foul mood because the hotel had failed to deliver on its promised stadium shuttle. Instead, the hotel drove people to the stadium in Town cars (four or 5 at a time) for $20 per person/round trip. As we entered the stadium, the "guard" confiscated M's Reese's Pieces. Which was not too galling, until we went inside and the concessionaire was selling Reese's Pieces for $8.
I know when not to bug M for a souvenir, but game wear was one souvenir I had to have. Overpriced shirt? Stupidly expensive hat? Wisely, and like a dad, he says, "you don't want to have to hold on to it for the whole game, we'll pick one up on the way out."
Sit through rain. More rain. More rain. One of our friends, who we were planning to see after the game, is forced to cancel because of his status as designated driver.
AMAZING COMEBACK...thwarted. Glum, heartbroken, we exit the stadium. I stop at the souvenir stand to buy my shirt. Wisely, and like a dad, M says,"I flagged down this dude in a golf cart who will drive us to the shuttle drop off point. Then we don't have to walk over a mile in the rain. You can buy your shirt online."
This is true. And walking in the rain is not appealing when the adrenaline of pregame is gone. We hitch a ride with the golf cart dude, and he does, in fact save us a hell of a walk. We are the first ones to the shuttle, and since it only holds four, we are stoked to be shoo-ins. The plus two are Auburn fans. Silence on the ride back to the hotel. Dinner? Two and a half hour wait...take out it is. The drive home? Uneventful except for our single gas stop at DeSomething Springs, Florida. This hamlet has only one functioning gas station. And a Burger King. Which we eschew for the slightly less revolting WhatABurger. I race into WhatABurger's potty. And slam, with great force, a door on my fingers. Crying, I wolf down my burger and drive the rest of the way home. WhatAnOwie.
I order my shirt and hat online on January 2. I receive confirmation and shipping date for January 5. I wait and wait. Yesterday, after still not receiving my souvenirs, I check the tracking information which confirms the shirt was delivered on the 7th. I go outside, look under bushes, NO FREAKING SHIRT.
Look, karma. We overpaid for our room, watched a losing game on the Jumbotron, sat in world's most overpriced shuttle, compromised on take out, filled our car with watery gas, broke two fingers, didn't get to see friends, and gave up our Reese's Pieces. I want MY FREAKING SHIRT NOW.
Please?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Karma
I often have very bad luck when it comes to the service industry. My sister and her husband, for example, manage to find coupons, odd stock, mispriced merchandise, and other serendipitous cash windfalls. I, on the other hand, have SUCKER tattooed on my forehead, and the clerks (I swear) see me coming, and re-label their stock: "now, only twice the regular price!!"
**Sigh**
Today, after postponing the inevitable pain, I decided to start gathering estimates for tires. Because I had the ill fortune of leasing a car with 1) unusually sized tires and 2)tires that failed to last their promised 30,000 miles. Because the tires should last roughly as long as the lease, thereby not requiring me to put money into a vehicle that is ultimately not mine, this was not a purchase I had planned. The tires, by general consensus of Mobile tire stores cost $846.00
Gasp. That is the kind of price that momentarily takes your breath away. Especially when you realize that this car will only be in my driveway for another year and a half. Interestingly, however, the very friendly people at the tire stores suggested that the wear on my tire suggests improper alignment.
The thing is, I take my vehicle to the dealer for all scheduled maintenance and repairs for a few reasons. One, since the car is leased, I want the maintenance record to be beyond reproach. Two, since the car is new, any repairs should really be under warranty. (Which, in the case of my pathetic squeaky horn, is the case. New, full-sounding horn is ready to be installed). So, the dealer SHOULD have been rotating and aligning the tires with every oil change.
When I got my second $800-plus estimate, I decided to go to the dealer and ask why alignment should have caused this wear.
I'm dressed nicely today, because we all know that a middle aged woman gets nothing she wants when she's wearing sweat pants (unless what she wants is to be left alone). And, also, I feel more confident when wearing clothing that doesn't look like I slept in it. I've had my coffee. I'm ready to ask politely for what's mine and slink away when I don't get it.
I go in, armed for argument. The assistant manager of the service department at the dealer is great. She's a woman, which of course helps with the empathy factor, and she's really friendly. I explain my problem, and she immediately says that it's a problem for her manager.
Non-karmic me knows this phrase. Non-karmic me knows that this is where the manager says, "if you had come in yesterday or tomorrow or next week or the eleventh of October, I could have helped you. But not today. Give me my $800 and wait two hours, please." Non-karmic me knows this drill very well. This is where my slightly expired coupon, my holey sweater, my shrunken dry cleaning, is now all MY problem and the clerk has never heard of my situation, doesn't know what to do with my situation, refuses to acknowledge my situation, or refers me to a manager who will greet my situation with disdain, lack of interest, lack of empathy, and most importantly, lack of solution. Non-karmic me is prepared for this eventuality and braces for offense.
"My manager is in a meeting. Hold on, our regional manager is here. I'll be right back."
Regional manager? Non-karmic me seldom gets to the upper echelon of management. Non-karmic me usually gives up after shift manager, resigned to pay the full amount of whatever I owe plus the arbitrary fee often assigned to me as penalty for being non-karmic.
I wait.
Assistant Manager comes in the door, wearing an unexpected smile.
"Merry Christmas!"
I am confused momentarily. Is she going to greet me with a tardy salutation right before she socks me with the full price plus SUCKER fee?
"He said he's seen this problem before. He said to give you a set of tires."
Stunned, I repeat, "give?" As in, free? As in I don't have to pay nearly a thousand dollars for tires I didn't think would wear out but did and cost more than they should because of their unusual size that I didn't really need in the first place? FREE?"
"When do you want them?"
Feeling sheepish, as though I have approached this woman right before her final psychiatric break, I say, "now. Before y'all change your mind."
"Can't do now. But I have the signed paper saying free tires."
"ASAP."
My karma could run out at any time. I could be in a wreck on my way to the dealership. But for now, FREE TIRES. Karmic me is wondering if today's The DAY. Do I need plumbing? Electrical? Yard work? I should seize the moment before I use up all my good luck.
**Sigh**
Today, after postponing the inevitable pain, I decided to start gathering estimates for tires. Because I had the ill fortune of leasing a car with 1) unusually sized tires and 2)tires that failed to last their promised 30,000 miles. Because the tires should last roughly as long as the lease, thereby not requiring me to put money into a vehicle that is ultimately not mine, this was not a purchase I had planned. The tires, by general consensus of Mobile tire stores cost $846.00
Gasp. That is the kind of price that momentarily takes your breath away. Especially when you realize that this car will only be in my driveway for another year and a half. Interestingly, however, the very friendly people at the tire stores suggested that the wear on my tire suggests improper alignment.
The thing is, I take my vehicle to the dealer for all scheduled maintenance and repairs for a few reasons. One, since the car is leased, I want the maintenance record to be beyond reproach. Two, since the car is new, any repairs should really be under warranty. (Which, in the case of my pathetic squeaky horn, is the case. New, full-sounding horn is ready to be installed). So, the dealer SHOULD have been rotating and aligning the tires with every oil change.
When I got my second $800-plus estimate, I decided to go to the dealer and ask why alignment should have caused this wear.
I'm dressed nicely today, because we all know that a middle aged woman gets nothing she wants when she's wearing sweat pants (unless what she wants is to be left alone). And, also, I feel more confident when wearing clothing that doesn't look like I slept in it. I've had my coffee. I'm ready to ask politely for what's mine and slink away when I don't get it.
I go in, armed for argument. The assistant manager of the service department at the dealer is great. She's a woman, which of course helps with the empathy factor, and she's really friendly. I explain my problem, and she immediately says that it's a problem for her manager.
Non-karmic me knows this phrase. Non-karmic me knows that this is where the manager says, "if you had come in yesterday or tomorrow or next week or the eleventh of October, I could have helped you. But not today. Give me my $800 and wait two hours, please." Non-karmic me knows this drill very well. This is where my slightly expired coupon, my holey sweater, my shrunken dry cleaning, is now all MY problem and the clerk has never heard of my situation, doesn't know what to do with my situation, refuses to acknowledge my situation, or refers me to a manager who will greet my situation with disdain, lack of interest, lack of empathy, and most importantly, lack of solution. Non-karmic me is prepared for this eventuality and braces for offense.
"My manager is in a meeting. Hold on, our regional manager is here. I'll be right back."
Regional manager? Non-karmic me seldom gets to the upper echelon of management. Non-karmic me usually gives up after shift manager, resigned to pay the full amount of whatever I owe plus the arbitrary fee often assigned to me as penalty for being non-karmic.
I wait.
Assistant Manager comes in the door, wearing an unexpected smile.
"Merry Christmas!"
I am confused momentarily. Is she going to greet me with a tardy salutation right before she socks me with the full price plus SUCKER fee?
"He said he's seen this problem before. He said to give you a set of tires."
Stunned, I repeat, "give?" As in, free? As in I don't have to pay nearly a thousand dollars for tires I didn't think would wear out but did and cost more than they should because of their unusual size that I didn't really need in the first place? FREE?"
"When do you want them?"
Feeling sheepish, as though I have approached this woman right before her final psychiatric break, I say, "now. Before y'all change your mind."
"Can't do now. But I have the signed paper saying free tires."
"ASAP."
My karma could run out at any time. I could be in a wreck on my way to the dealership. But for now, FREE TIRES. Karmic me is wondering if today's The DAY. Do I need plumbing? Electrical? Yard work? I should seize the moment before I use up all my good luck.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Woah. Dude.
Since the week after Thanksgiving, our household has been plagued by an unusual convergence of food issues. Well, actually, we've apparently been suffering with it for a while, but have only recently identified our issues. S has been tentatively labeled as "Failure to thrive." Which, as I can sort it out, is a medical diagnosis for "doesn't eat any food." Since Thanksgiving, we have been in medical purgatory waiting to identify a cause for this (clearly not inherited) disorder. In response to this ambiguous disorder, I have been eating my anxiety, as any normal mother would do. Right? RIGHT!?!? So, we have the interesting dichotomy of small baby, fat mother. Jack Sprat and his Mom.
I was chatting with my neighbor and her husband about this situation. Partly, because I haven't seen them since forever, and also because I feel compelled to explain my recent bloat. He happens to be a physician, and they are of rather conservative lifestyle, so I appreciated his candid input.
There's only one truly reliable appetite stimulant that I know of, says he. It has significant side effects, though.
Sure, I say. Lay it on me. Maybe the side effects are worth it.
Medical Marijuana, says he.
As in the cartoons, the skies part, the rays of sunshine beam down upon me, and the angels burst out in choir.
Hallelujah! HALLlelujah! Hallellujahahallelujajallejah!
Why haven't I thought of this? My kid with a killer case of the munchies. All is solved.
I'm working on it, now. Do I give my kid a little joint? Can't you just see S with a joint dangling out of his mouth? Exhaling with a cough cough cough. Passing the roach?
Or, do I become the most popular mom at school and make special brownies? Everyone comes home from Julie's house feeling happy!
As an added bonus, I could quit antidepressants and mooch off S's script. The whole family would be healed. It's a medical marijuana miracle! When everybody gets home from work and school, we could pass the dutchie. Homework? Meh. Dinner? Hells yeah. What should we make for dinner? Rice Krispie treats and chicken wings. Hooray! Ramen with Stove Top Stuffing? YAY! Mom, you're the BEST.
Can't you just see my half-lidded boys showing up at school with, "Sorry ma'am. I didn't do my homework. We were stoned."
The side effects? Sure, my kid is six feet tall as an adult, but man is he LAZY. The house would have stacks of laundry (which it does now, of course) BUT I wouldn't care. We could give S his "medicine" before a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese & he'd be set. He could watch the animatronic animals all afternoon and then chow on some pizza. That's my idea of remedy. We could all watch Spongebob together now. Wait...we could home school! Everyone would take their "medicine" and then we'd watch Sunrise Earth on the Discovery Channel. Educational AND stimulating to the 'enhanced mindset.' We could make hemp jewelry and practice rolling joints for crafts. We could throw a bong on a potter's wheel. We could do chemistry and watch spiders crawling along the wall and listen to Pink Floyd for music appreciation.
Suddenly, I see my future more clearly than ever before. And it all hinges on a script for medical marijuana.
Please, please please. Help our family. Send a dime bag by.
I was chatting with my neighbor and her husband about this situation. Partly, because I haven't seen them since forever, and also because I feel compelled to explain my recent bloat. He happens to be a physician, and they are of rather conservative lifestyle, so I appreciated his candid input.
There's only one truly reliable appetite stimulant that I know of, says he. It has significant side effects, though.
Sure, I say. Lay it on me. Maybe the side effects are worth it.
Medical Marijuana, says he.
As in the cartoons, the skies part, the rays of sunshine beam down upon me, and the angels burst out in choir.
Hallelujah! HALLlelujah! Hallellujahahallelujajallejah!
Why haven't I thought of this? My kid with a killer case of the munchies. All is solved.
I'm working on it, now. Do I give my kid a little joint? Can't you just see S with a joint dangling out of his mouth? Exhaling with a cough cough cough. Passing the roach?
Or, do I become the most popular mom at school and make special brownies? Everyone comes home from Julie's house feeling happy!
As an added bonus, I could quit antidepressants and mooch off S's script. The whole family would be healed. It's a medical marijuana miracle! When everybody gets home from work and school, we could pass the dutchie. Homework? Meh. Dinner? Hells yeah. What should we make for dinner? Rice Krispie treats and chicken wings. Hooray! Ramen with Stove Top Stuffing? YAY! Mom, you're the BEST.
Can't you just see my half-lidded boys showing up at school with, "Sorry ma'am. I didn't do my homework. We were stoned."
The side effects? Sure, my kid is six feet tall as an adult, but man is he LAZY. The house would have stacks of laundry (which it does now, of course) BUT I wouldn't care. We could give S his "medicine" before a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese & he'd be set. He could watch the animatronic animals all afternoon and then chow on some pizza. That's my idea of remedy. We could all watch Spongebob together now. Wait...we could home school! Everyone would take their "medicine" and then we'd watch Sunrise Earth on the Discovery Channel. Educational AND stimulating to the 'enhanced mindset.' We could make hemp jewelry and practice rolling joints for crafts. We could throw a bong on a potter's wheel. We could do chemistry and watch spiders crawling along the wall and listen to Pink Floyd for music appreciation.
Suddenly, I see my future more clearly than ever before. And it all hinges on a script for medical marijuana.
Please, please please. Help our family. Send a dime bag by.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
On a cold winter's day
I remember now why I hated winter. Perhaps it is just my Southern California bones refusing to yield to the chill, or perhaps it is a psychological barrier that prevents me from enjoying it. But, whatever the reason, I do NOT like the cold.
And it is cold today in Mobile. It was in the teens this morning, and threatens to be in the tweens by Friday.
Everything is more difficult (as if it isn't difficult enough already). Kids need extra layers and forget their extra layers. The car takes longer to warm up & go. My skin is dry and itchy. The dog is all static-y. The pool pump requires M's attention. The fountain is frozen. The plants are all frostbit. The line at Starbucks is huge.
Two things, and they are closely linked, keep me from moving to Aruba for the next two weeks.
One, I can try to hurry up some weight loss while still wearing the marshmallow man outerwear. Maybe no one will notice the holiday/stress poundage I have packed on.
Two, all the winter foods are so yummy. Hearty stew. Beefy bolognese. Rich strogonoff. Comforting soups. Ahhhh.
So. Forget one. I will just go ahead and bare my Stay-Pufft-ness to the world come spring. For now, bring on the food. I've got blubber to build.
And it is cold today in Mobile. It was in the teens this morning, and threatens to be in the tweens by Friday.
Everything is more difficult (as if it isn't difficult enough already). Kids need extra layers and forget their extra layers. The car takes longer to warm up & go. My skin is dry and itchy. The dog is all static-y. The pool pump requires M's attention. The fountain is frozen. The plants are all frostbit. The line at Starbucks is huge.
Two things, and they are closely linked, keep me from moving to Aruba for the next two weeks.
One, I can try to hurry up some weight loss while still wearing the marshmallow man outerwear. Maybe no one will notice the holiday/stress poundage I have packed on.
Two, all the winter foods are so yummy. Hearty stew. Beefy bolognese. Rich strogonoff. Comforting soups. Ahhhh.
So. Forget one. I will just go ahead and bare my Stay-Pufft-ness to the world come spring. For now, bring on the food. I've got blubber to build.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Outback Bowl Mystery
So, it's been pouring out all day. It's freezing. Tampa Bay is not looking like such a desirable locale for a football game right now. Northwestern is in the hunt for its first Bowl Game victory in 60 years.
The kick is up, through the uprights, and over the "Your in Good Hands With Allstate" netting. Actually, as a kicked football comes cascading down at you end over end, you rapidly gain a new respect for the difficult task of kick returner. The ball landed with a phoomph in the seat next to mine in the midst of the Northwestern student section of Raymond James Stadium. Of course, we are Northwestern students and alumni, so our initial reaction to seeing a football is curiosity and novelty. Much like a character of "Big Bang Theory" would react to seeing something both pedestrian and simultaneously alien as a sandwich, we stared. Second, how often does a football come hurtling into the stands? My faith in the good hands of Allstate is momentarily shaken. So, football arrives in stands. Brief disruption. Focus returns to game. We are purple in clothing, in spirit and in frostbite. Dedicated.
Some semi-official looking guy wearing Outback Bowl paraphernalia approaches me in the aisle seat, and demands his football back. Him, in a macho kind of way that says he's not going to be intimidated by 11,000 fans freezing their asses off and losing: "I want my ball back." All Charlie Brown and whatnot.
Me: "What? I dunno. It was here." Casual look down at the ground. "I don't know where it went."
Him: We need that football back now. This is not a joke.
Me: "Well, it kind of is. This is a game. The team obviously has ANOTHER one, as the game is continuing and you are still talking. Some one probably picked it up. Big Deal."
Me, to M: "What did I miss?"
Outback Bowl dude leaves.
Two incredibly short guys in SECURITY jackets come down the steps. "We want our ball back."
Me: "Then you should have put the net up."
Them: "It's theft. We want the ball."
Me: "I don't have it. It bounced here. I don't know where it went." To guy next to me: "Did you see the ball? Pass it on. Rent-a-cops here want their ball back."
Them: "What's so funny?"
Me: "That you're down here giving every one a hard time over a football."
Them: "Are you laughing because of a guilty conscience?"
Me: "I'm soaking wet and you can see the exact outline of my body because every inch of clothing is soaked and clinging to me like unforgiving polyester. Where would I hide a football?"
Them: "We can take care of your attitude."
Shortycop and his partner leave.
Me, to M: "What did I miss?"
A very official Florida State Trooper with the hat and the bullet proof vest and everything comes down.
Me: "They're sending down the real police now."
Him (very officially): Yup. They want their ball back.
Me: "If we all promise to go buy a Bloomin' Onion (tm) this week, do you think the Outback Bowl will be able to cover the cost of a lost football? And we can go back to watching the game?"
Him: "I don't know why it's such a big deal. They wanted me to come down and tell you that they want their ball back. If we get it back, there will be no questions asked. Report says, the ball landed here and nobody's left."
Me: "There's a report already?"
Him: "If we catch the stolen property on the perpetrator, he will go to jail for theft."
Me: "Of a football? That was kicked into the stands? At a football game?"
Him: "Yes. Just pass the word."
Me, to guy behind me: "This guy's gonna arrest whoever picked up the football. Pass it on."
Me, to M: "What did I miss?"
Meanwhile, everyone in our section is casually looking for the ball between plays. If someone has stolen it, he's doing a good job of lifting up jackets and shuffling trash around to make a show at searching. Who knows where that ball went? Sure it bounced by us, but it bounced up high...it could be 10 rows ahead or behind. Is there an NU fan so desperate for a souvenir of a thus-far agonizing game that he is willing to risk jail for a field goal kicked by a quite bad, soon to be forgotten kicker? Rumbles of annoyance and rumor and "bacon" float upwards. Shortycop and his partner come back. They walk up and down the aisles, and then across every row in our section. A football is hard to hide. They make whispers of intimidation and jail. They threaten a long exit line because they are going to search every one in our section. They come up empty.
Shortycop: "We want our ball back. We will punish to the fullest extent of the law for theft."
M: "I'm willing to bet there are more than a few very good lawyers on this side of the field. I don't think it's theft. You guys didn't put up the net. Leave us alone."
Me: "We don't have your ball. Tell the Outback Bowl people to get over it. If one $20 ball is such a huge loss, then the $110 we paid for tickets clearly isn't enough. Don't give us such a hard time. We just want to watch the game."
Shortycop: "We're watching all of you."
Me: "Fine. But you're missing a great game."
In the ensuing time, the agony and ecstasy of college football plays out on the field before us. There is thrill and defeat and heartbreak. There is injury and poor sportsmanship and last gasp. And last gasp. And last gasp. There was a second chance. A third. A trick pony. And defeat. The lost ball was forgotten, replaced by the visceral reality of the lost game.
In the end, the mystery remains. The ball was never found. If I had found it, I would have found a way to flatten it and then turn it over to Shortycop. Or wrapped it in a purple hair bow and gifted it to him. In the end, Shortycop skulked off to the donut shop to mull over the mystery. The "open" file remains on his desk, only to taunto him for the rest of his rental career. The one that got away. The Outback Ball. Mystery.
*A special note to section 123: Well done. Treasure that ball, whoever brought it home. You, alone, emerge victorious for Northwestern on this day.
The kick is up, through the uprights, and over the "Your in Good Hands With Allstate" netting. Actually, as a kicked football comes cascading down at you end over end, you rapidly gain a new respect for the difficult task of kick returner. The ball landed with a phoomph in the seat next to mine in the midst of the Northwestern student section of Raymond James Stadium. Of course, we are Northwestern students and alumni, so our initial reaction to seeing a football is curiosity and novelty. Much like a character of "Big Bang Theory" would react to seeing something both pedestrian and simultaneously alien as a sandwich, we stared. Second, how often does a football come hurtling into the stands? My faith in the good hands of Allstate is momentarily shaken. So, football arrives in stands. Brief disruption. Focus returns to game. We are purple in clothing, in spirit and in frostbite. Dedicated.
Some semi-official looking guy wearing Outback Bowl paraphernalia approaches me in the aisle seat, and demands his football back. Him, in a macho kind of way that says he's not going to be intimidated by 11,000 fans freezing their asses off and losing: "I want my ball back." All Charlie Brown and whatnot.
Me: "What? I dunno. It was here." Casual look down at the ground. "I don't know where it went."
Him: We need that football back now. This is not a joke.
Me: "Well, it kind of is. This is a game. The team obviously has ANOTHER one, as the game is continuing and you are still talking. Some one probably picked it up. Big Deal."
Me, to M: "What did I miss?"
Outback Bowl dude leaves.
Two incredibly short guys in SECURITY jackets come down the steps. "We want our ball back."
Me: "Then you should have put the net up."
Them: "It's theft. We want the ball."
Me: "I don't have it. It bounced here. I don't know where it went." To guy next to me: "Did you see the ball? Pass it on. Rent-a-cops here want their ball back."
Them: "What's so funny?"
Me: "That you're down here giving every one a hard time over a football."
Them: "Are you laughing because of a guilty conscience?"
Me: "I'm soaking wet and you can see the exact outline of my body because every inch of clothing is soaked and clinging to me like unforgiving polyester. Where would I hide a football?"
Them: "We can take care of your attitude."
Shortycop and his partner leave.
Me, to M: "What did I miss?"
A very official Florida State Trooper with the hat and the bullet proof vest and everything comes down.
Me: "They're sending down the real police now."
Him (very officially): Yup. They want their ball back.
Me: "If we all promise to go buy a Bloomin' Onion (tm) this week, do you think the Outback Bowl will be able to cover the cost of a lost football? And we can go back to watching the game?"
Him: "I don't know why it's such a big deal. They wanted me to come down and tell you that they want their ball back. If we get it back, there will be no questions asked. Report says, the ball landed here and nobody's left."
Me: "There's a report already?"
Him: "If we catch the stolen property on the perpetrator, he will go to jail for theft."
Me: "Of a football? That was kicked into the stands? At a football game?"
Him: "Yes. Just pass the word."
Me, to guy behind me: "This guy's gonna arrest whoever picked up the football. Pass it on."
Me, to M: "What did I miss?"
Meanwhile, everyone in our section is casually looking for the ball between plays. If someone has stolen it, he's doing a good job of lifting up jackets and shuffling trash around to make a show at searching. Who knows where that ball went? Sure it bounced by us, but it bounced up high...it could be 10 rows ahead or behind. Is there an NU fan so desperate for a souvenir of a thus-far agonizing game that he is willing to risk jail for a field goal kicked by a quite bad, soon to be forgotten kicker? Rumbles of annoyance and rumor and "bacon" float upwards. Shortycop and his partner come back. They walk up and down the aisles, and then across every row in our section. A football is hard to hide. They make whispers of intimidation and jail. They threaten a long exit line because they are going to search every one in our section. They come up empty.
Shortycop: "We want our ball back. We will punish to the fullest extent of the law for theft."
M: "I'm willing to bet there are more than a few very good lawyers on this side of the field. I don't think it's theft. You guys didn't put up the net. Leave us alone."
Me: "We don't have your ball. Tell the Outback Bowl people to get over it. If one $20 ball is such a huge loss, then the $110 we paid for tickets clearly isn't enough. Don't give us such a hard time. We just want to watch the game."
Shortycop: "We're watching all of you."
Me: "Fine. But you're missing a great game."
In the ensuing time, the agony and ecstasy of college football plays out on the field before us. There is thrill and defeat and heartbreak. There is injury and poor sportsmanship and last gasp. And last gasp. And last gasp. There was a second chance. A third. A trick pony. And defeat. The lost ball was forgotten, replaced by the visceral reality of the lost game.
In the end, the mystery remains. The ball was never found. If I had found it, I would have found a way to flatten it and then turn it over to Shortycop. Or wrapped it in a purple hair bow and gifted it to him. In the end, Shortycop skulked off to the donut shop to mull over the mystery. The "open" file remains on his desk, only to taunto him for the rest of his rental career. The one that got away. The Outback Ball. Mystery.
*A special note to section 123: Well done. Treasure that ball, whoever brought it home. You, alone, emerge victorious for Northwestern on this day.
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