The Diet of the Lambs

The posts seem to only happen monthly these days. Partly, it's summer, and getting two brain cells to cooperate seems impossible. Second, it's summer and getting two kids to cooperate and give me 5 minutes alone seems impossible. Third, it's summer, and--oh, hell--I dunno.

I'm currently depressed over the return of my weight. Apparently, it's summer, and the only things I CAN get to cooperate are gin and tonic, bourbon and Coke, and vodka and lemonade. Fortunately, or unfortunately--as the case may be--those spirits find themselves mixing just fine.

Unfortunately, they're building an inner tube around my waist. Oh, well. I can starve again in the winter. Upon very careful study, I have decided that I need a getaway to one of those fat farms. Like The Biggest Loser, only less yelling.

I want to be pampered while I work out. So, in exchange for a near-death experience on the treadmill, I'd like an hour-long massage. This would be motivating. Fact is, a day alone would be motivating. It's hard to be sober and thin when surrounded by kids and their greasy snacks. Children are like the grit and dirt that irritate an oyster to make a pearl. Only the pearl isn't a precious gemstone, but a giant cocktail at the end of the day. Fine...it's a crappy metaphor.

So, at my fat farm, I'm going to wake up early and eat a nutritionally sound breakfast. Then, I'm going to train for 4 hours. Then, a nutritionally sound lunch and training. Then, a very small dinner, some form of spa reward for my hard work and then sleep. Like a movie star in a detox program: I need coddling.

Of course, the side benefits would be temporary asylum from the kids, proper training and encouragement, and of course, skinny thighs!

Naturally, you're thinking this is WAY to excessive for me. Too much luxury, too much pampering, too much indulgence. So, I propose an alternative: The Buffalo Bill Diet.

Remember Buffalo Bill? He was the villain in the Silence of the Lambs, Clarice. He kidnapped fatties, kept them in a hole, lowered lotion to keep their skin supple, starved them 'til their skin hung lose on their bodies, slayed them, and then made himself a transgendered skin-suit out of their remains.

So, what I'm telling you is this: if a psychotic killer wants to kidnap me & starve me, I'm okay with that as long as I get to moisturize. Rather than die, though, I'd like to escape and live to have some dinner with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Is it hot in here or is it me?

I'm hot. Not in the good, twenty-something-actress-of-the-moment-way, but oven hot. As in temperature.

I've been hot for over a week now, and it's only June.

Hot started in earnest the night before we left for vacation when I went upstairs to put the kids to bed. Since it's summer, we hadn't done the pre-bedtime ritual of bath and tooth brushing (cavities only happen during the school year, and besides, S only has baby teeth.)
Somewhere around the third-to-last step, it hit us. A wall of heat. Literally. Seriously, I do not exaggerate. Downstairs--pleasant 74. Upstairs--Hell.

92. That is not a civilized temperature for outside, much less my bedroom. Gross. I like sliding into cool sheets, not being suffocated by them. UNHOLY.
So, that last night before vacation, I waited until everyone else was tucked into their deathbeds, then I slunk downstairs into the guest bed. Sleep, thy name is coolness.
Departure day, and the upstairs temp had downgraded from Hell, Level 7 to Hell, Level 5. Only 83 upstairs. We trundled out to the car, and left everything in our bedrooms to roast.

On the plane(s) to Phoenix, we froze to death. The pilots up in their triple locked, windshielded cockpit had no idea that all of the passengers had turned into ice blocks. Maybe the flight attendants control the thermostat and think we'll be more complacent if they threaten us with climate agony. Once out of the tin ice box, though, we claimed our bags and stepped out into the early morning 90s of Phoenix.

But it's a dry heat.

Phoenix, presumably named for the mythical bird emerging from the desolation of the Sonora, is really a misnomer. The city should be named for raisins or prunes. One step into the sun, and you can feel yourself begin to evaporate. Imperceptibly, at first, but then, surely, your feet begin to adhere to the slightly softened asphalt while the rest of you is slowly inducted into the atmosphere. Your skin, never dampened by persperation, fails to cool. It's as though your face is doing that thing from Indiana Jones when the Nazis watched the Ark open. Eyeballs, parched, melting from your skull. And it's only June.

My sister, because she and her husband are a) economical and b) environmentally conscious and c) inured to the searing temps of the desert, have their thermostat set to 80 inside. While 80 is no great comfort, it is still TWENTY full degrees cooler in their house than outside it. Holy hell, Batman.

At night, though, even when I snuck out and turned the thermostat down to 78, it was still hot. I've been told that I radiate heat like a biscuit at night anyway, and in a guest bedroom, wearing pjs (can't go nude in some one else's house) in a queen sized bed (I'm used to the spacious, don't have to touch each other Tempurpedic King) with flannel sheets (is my sister sadistic?) we were like little sausages on a grill.

In Arizona, like in Alabama, businesses seem to think a cool interior will lure customers in. But, they OVERcool, so that an hour in a restaurant is decidedly uncomfortable at 65 degrees. Which, in my opinion, freaks out the body's internal calibration and makes the heat worse. Also, nothing makes you feel quite so stupid as carrying a sweatshirt around in 100+ temps, on the off chance that a lunch break is going to plunge you into Arctic cold.

So, like every other Phoenician, we dashed from our car (bun burning leather seats!) to the indoors (icehouse!) to the pool (comfort!) and back again. After a week of that, we hopped BACK onto freezing tin cans, flew back home to the swelter of Mobile in June.

Phoenix vs Mobile, is like the dry sauna and the steam room--you have to pick your pain. A week in Phoenix, my skin was all dry and flaky like the lizards who live there. Back in Mobile, it's like rehydrating a sun-dried tomato. I'm all water-retainy and puffy. But my skin is happy. It's a soggy melt here. Rather than shriveled and sere, we are more gooey and wilty like a candy bar in the sun. Home, where the humidity levels numbers are alarming, we slept for 2 nights in the steam rooms. Even poor Clooney who could sleep through anything, was restless and panting. He eyed us with accusation: "I thought you humans had this climate control thing in hand. What is this crap? What am, some wild animal?" We tossed and turned, and slept poorly.

But, this morning, an angel came to the door wearing coveralls and an Alabama hat. His visage glowed from the warped heat waves radiating from the blacktop. (At his 9 AM arrival, the temp was 89 already!) He strode in with confidence, tinkered, adjusted something I don't know about, and promised that in a few hours, our upstairs would be a civilized 76. All I had to do was write the check.

And in this heat, there's no way that check could have the energy to bounce.

20 thoughts while procrastinating over packing

My lovely family of four leaves tomorrow for Arizona, where we will stay at my (childless) sister's & brother's in law house. My parents will also be meeting us there. This morning, I wrote an email to my sister while the laundry started and my coffee cooled:

1. I have a rash on my thighs and butt. I don't know what is causing it. But it is raised and red, and painful and looks b-a-d.
2. I hate packing.
3. I hate getting the house ready to go on vacation.
4. It's effing hot out.
5. It's so hot here, and so humid, that yesterday you and I were forecast to have the same high temperature: 99. Our dewpoint was 71. Yours was 28. That's ridiculous.
6. Ran errands yesterday. It's hard to run errands with kids, even harder to do with husband. Can't just pick up what I like--have to make a reason for it. And is there EVER a reason why I need ANOTHER pair of black sandals?
7. Decided (I think) to check our bags.
8. TV turns kids into zombies
9. S is heart crushingly cute.
10. My dog has allergies
11. Perhaps my dog is giving me an ass rash?
12. Are you going to be able to pick us up from airport? Enough room? We can put M in your truck bed.
13. I bought M flip flops. He is protesting on the grounds that humans abandoned flip flops they minute they discovered shoes. He claims wearing flip flops represents an evolutionary step backwards.
14. I think I have PMS.
15. Which is great, because I'll be my monthly fattest while seeing all of you after desperately trying to lose weight. Just FYI--I usually gain 3 to 5 pounds during my period. Try to envision me 3 to 5 pounds thinner.
16. Nevermind. You'll be too distracted by the butt rash to notice my weight.
17. Will you come wake me up in the morning and run with me? I'm slow. It won't hurt your knees. You can walk beside me. And laugh.
18. No, working out is not the cause of the ass rash. I've experimented.
19. Do you think laundry reproduces sexually or asexually?
20. I sometimes don't like being the mom in charge of getting shit done. I wish some one else would run all the errands, pack all the clothes, make all the beds, do all the dishes, and I could just show up tomorrow at 4:30 AM.

*sigh* Back to work.

The Boys of Summer

In two weeks, when my boys are driving me crazy, and I'm drunk 6 hours a day, and I am convinced I'm going to be hospitalized in full fetal whimpering-ness, remind me that at some point, I WAS actually looking forward to summer.

I am looking forward to NOT packing lunches. Smelling ham (which, by the way, is the only luncheon meat my kids will eat) at 6:30 in the morning is nauseating. And our school (not that I'm complaining) is peanut free, which means on those lazy mornings when I am desperate to throw something in the box and be done with it, I can't make that blessed lunchtime staple, the pb&j. So, it's always ham and a fruit, and Kool Aid and rummaging through the dishwasher because I pack in a reusable box that requires no plastic bags, and oy. I'm glad not to have to do that.

Also, I am looking forward to not chasing down uniform socks. The boys have to wear white crew socks, and it seems that no pair ever elope to the laundry basket together. There is always a third wheel, a pathetic hanger-on who can't take the hint. Those socks have to be bleached every week, and while they are still white, there are about a third as many as there were at the beginning of the year and therefore have to be washed a third again as often to keep the kids' feet covered.

Also, I am TOTALLY over looking for that godforsaken belt in the morning. For whatever reasons, my kids come home and do some sort of ritualized strip every afternoon. Shoes flop into the playroom. Socks and shorts go by the wayside in the bathroom. Shirts often, but not always, make it up the stairs. The belt? The belt mystically disappears. We find it under the sofa, in the laundry basket, under the dresser. That thing has a nightlife I can't imagine. We turn off the dark and the belt goes wild.

I am also over the vast forest of trees that comes home every afternoon. A Brazilian rain forest goes into that red folder every day. Pulp describing parties, reminders, worksheets, homework, invitations, sign ups, a BILLION things in that folder every day. If I don't sort through it all, it accumulates in a very visible way that tells the teacher I'm not paying attention. If it came through email, I could ignore it without anyone noticing. Much less embarrassing for all concerned.

I could also live without bedtime rituals. Not that teeth shouldn't be brushed in the summer, or that baths don't need to be taken. Baths just need to be taken a LITTLE less frequently in the summer. (Scientific proof shows that kids get clean from the chlorine in the pool). Hair? Greasy, sunblocked hair is very 'in' this year. Floss those teeth and let's be done with it.

So, before I become totally disillusioned and revert to my summer alcoholism, let's hear it for summer! When a kid can be a kid, and a parent can be slightly less of a parent. Cheers!

Apocalypse To-Do

WOW. So this is the year. The year all the weirdos come out and spread their psychotic crap around. Apparently, per aforementioned weirdos, the world is going to end in Rapture on Saturday. Usually, this kind of Doomsday nonsense means bad news for me, but this is actually a happy tiding.

As a result of impending global shutdown, I am making a pre-Rapture To-Do/Don't List.

1. Do not clean out refrigerator


2. DO find George Clooney (human, not dog) and assault him.


3. Do not look for mates in the missing sock pile


4. DO buy shelves' worth of margarita mix


5. Don't bother to explain to E about what people do with their 'public' hair


6. Ride a motorcycle


7. Do not autopay credit card


8. Fly to Tahiti


9. Do not run on treadmill


10. Do not run at all


11. Drink a giant milkshake


12. Rescue all the dogs at the shelter


13. Do not do laundry or dishes


14. Do tell that bitch in carpool what I think of her


15. Do not wear sunblock and a hat


16. Do not fix roof leak


17. Sit back, relax, drink heavily, and wait for the creepy angel chorus

The post-Rapture To-Do/Don't scenario is kinda ok, too.

• Hell is cooler than Mobile in the summer


• I won't have to deal with the bitch from carpool anymore


• I'll get to spend eternity with most of my friends.


• I won't have to watch M watch the Bruins lose the Stanley Cup playoffs


• I'll probably be able to sleep in on Sunday, assuming the Apocalypse is quiet


• My whole next week's schedule just opened up


• I won't have to make plans to entertain my children non-stop this summer

While I am bummed that some of my friends will be given the free pass to the pearly gates, I realize we all reap what we sow. Which means there will be little martini plants cropping up in my garden any time now. And I will be basking in the toasty flames of hell, reeking of sulfur, but enjoying some s'mores.

Farewell to everyone. If I don't see you before Saturday, have a nice eternity.

The Funny One

I'm having myself a morning. Maybe it's because I'm coming off the high of being the center of attention on my birthday. Maybe it's because I'm getting better with age. Maybe it's something besides allergens in the air.
Regardless, I'm feeling pretty good about myself: skinny, charming, sophisticated, popular, and of course, witty. I'm a 10.

Shut up, or you'll ruin it.

Of course, everything out of my mouth is funny so far. Which brings me to a long-standing household debate. Because M and I are competitive, and you know, funny, we have light-hearted discussions about who's the Funny One.
In defense of me:
I find that my funniness is consistent, self-deprecating, has universal appeal, and can go either high- or low- brow. I can exploit all means of funny, including pun, potty, observational, parody, and malicious.
According to Wikipedia, the Authority Of The Universe, 5 basic pillars support the funny in Western culture:

1. Hyperbole--I will make you die laughing.



2. Metaphor--I'm the queen of comedy.



3. Farce--That's what she said.



4. Reframing--my context is better than yours.



5. Timing--the secret to comedy is--ooh, gotta go.

Ergo, I'm funny. To further describe my funniness, I direct you to Rowan Atkinson, also known as the imitable Mr. Bean. Mr. Bean asserts that some one can become funny:

By behaving in an unusual way
By being in an unusual place
By being the wrong size

To whit:
Drunk, Mobile, Alabama, and too short for my weight.

Clearly, by Aristotelian, Plutonian and Dumbonian logic processes, I am funny.

Additionally, I make my friends laugh. While this evidence is largely circumstantial, it helps buttress my claims.

My arguments AGAINST M being the funny one:

1. Sometimes he's not funny


2. He excludes a huge number of topics that he does not consider funny, but clearly are: Seattle Seahawks' Super Bowl Appearances, his driving, the fairness of the American League East, Bruins' quests for Stanley Cup glory, my credit card spending, Science Fiction nerd-dom, skinny arms, anti-depressants' adverse impact on sex drive (mine), the narrowing market for literary fiction. (OK, that's not funny. But it WILL make you laugh)


3. M's humor lacks universal appeal. So that, for example, Alex Trebek's snobby prickishness = funny. My kids accidentally kicking M in the nuts = not funny. But in fact, BOTH are funny.


4. He does not always find me funny. This point clearly calls any sense of humor he claims to have into question. Because clearly, I'm FUNNY.

As I write all this, I realize the word funny, is in itself, funny. You can't say it without smiling.

In any case, as I emerge from my post-birthday euphoria, I thank you all for your endorsement of me as the funny one.

Seriously.

WHY IS IT SO HARD TO POST?

I just can't get to it these days. Blame the weather, my really clean bathrooms, I don't know what the deal is. Especially since funny stuff has happened.

We had:

• S at school on Mother's Day announcing that there were martinis for everyone!


• An epic kindergarten graduation party


• School's spring festival. I HATE festivals and fairs.


• A stray dog sleepover


• Lifelong friends visiting from SoCal, and the subsequent embarrassment of showing them around Alabama


• Some thoughts on the collective Ewok celebration dance that embarrassing Americans did after the secretive assassination of public enemy #1


• Birthdays


• Anniversaries


• Half of Alabama destroyed by the wrath of the Tornado Gods


• Plague


• Pestilence


• Flood


• Apocalypse

And the thing is, I haven't EVEN played Bejeweled Blitz. Where does ALL my time GO?

Sorry. This isn't really so much a post as an excuse telling you why there are no posts. I'll work on it. Right after I finish my To-Do list. Really.