Olympic Events

Just in case you thought the Olympics were over...they still happen daily at my house. Though we don't give out medals. Maybe that should change.
Getting out the door in the morning is like a new heptathlon. Five events only the most finely tuned Olympians can master. My sister, an elite athlete, would never be able to even place in these events. I scoff at her muscular body, her supreme coordination. She is no mother.
Event 1 Synchronised dressing: Everyone must be dressed appropriately and finish at the same time. This requires extreme patience, and substantial lung control so as not to burst into screaming fits. Clothes should be on in the right position (i.e., not everted or backwards). Clothes should be appropriate to the season (no sweatpants or long sleeves) and to the occasion (today is picture day). This requires ironing (only of shirt to be photographed) and grooming. Points to be awarded for timeliness, finished product,lack of violence, and number of attempts.
Event 2 Gymnastics: Must be able to juggle book bags, handbags, extra clothes, travel coffee mug, travel juice box, date book, and any other last minute additions. Includes skill movements such as holding open storm door with foot and car door with butt. Points to be awarded for: no injuries, falls or other deductions, coordination, grace, and fluidity of movement.
Event 3 Weight Lifting: Must be able to balance and carry 35 pound toddler, giant book bag, overflowing laundry basket, dog. Not all weights must be carried together, but significant strength must be proven. No dropping.
Event 4 Ping Pong: Information will be ricocheting around the house. One must absorb, process, and respond to any information required. This includes, but is not limited to, homework locations, book bag locations, who's on first, when various household members will be home, and after school schedules. Standing WAY back from the ping pong table helps to keep everything in front of you.
Event 5 Marathon: After the car is loaded in Event #3, and all information is processed in Event #4, then the Marathon begins. This event is particularly dangerous for competitors. Injuries can happen, articles can be forgotten, and routes can change without notice. Today's Marathon began at home, went to the neighbor's house for carpool pick-up, continued to school, then to Kindermusik, to the preschool, then back to school to deliver school picture check (forgotten in gymnastics event), to the grocery store, and finally back home again. The Marathon will continue this afternoon with preschool pickup, after-school activities and possibly dinner. I sustained the rare butt injury when mine became embedded into the driver's seat of the car. I'll rehab that tonight at cocktail hour.
We placed poorly today, due to failed communication in the ping pong event, forgotten articles during gymnastics, and cursing during synchronised dressing. I plan to use the three day weekend to train for next week. I wonder what Bela Karolyi is doing these days. We may need to pull him out of retirement.
Remember: noaa.gov Keep your fingers crossed!

I'll Bloat Away

I don't know what came over me last night. Yesterday afternoon, I dutifully went to the market and purchased fresh, organic meat and produce to make a lovely roasted vegetable/chicken enchilada dinner. Yum. Cheese and Mexican goodness. What could be better?
Then, it happened. At around 4:30, I was hit with an intense craving for Chinese Food. Not gourmet or healthy Chinese food, either. Greasy, fried, starchy, soaking through the cute little Chinese food holder Chinese food. The little waxen egg roll holder transparent in big round grease spots. Opening the delivery bag to the guilt inducing aromas of Sesame and General Tso. Ahh. I gorged myself. Really. It was disgusting. And after I ate all of that greasy, fried, corn-syrup laden food, I nibbled--ever so delicately--a fortune cookie.
My fortune, of course, was some optimistic quip about confidence and lottery numbers. What it should have said, is "apparently, it is the year of the pig. You disgust me, you gluttonous oaf." Because no matter HOW badly I want Chinese food, no matter HOW urgently my craving must be met, no matter WHAT I order, I always regret eating it 10 minutes after I'm through.
Maybe it's that post-feeding frenzy malaise. Maybe it's lethargy from eating dubious meat in high fructose sauces. Maybe it's the calculation of the 14,000 calories I ingested. Whatever it is, guilt washes over me almost as intensely as the initial craving.
I resolve to exercise harder.
So, this morning I get up and my fingers have morphed into little cocktail wieners. There are no knuckles, just chubby little blobs that used to be appendages. The salt strikes again. I can't possibly run with all this fluid retention. It will be like sloshing around in a fat suit. I need to flush this body out.
Instead I take an hour long speed walk. I feel a compromise. I negotiated with the saline retention to find a solution. Yes, I did slosh around a little. But I exercised pretty well. And I hope it will be a while before I become possessed by the Chinese food cravings. I hope.
Tonight Mexican?
By the way, Gustav has turned left, headed for poor New Orleans. (Gustav and Katrina are both fierce, Russian sounding names). Though we will probably still feel some effects. But Hanna has now formed east of the leeward islands. The Atlantic Basin looks like Air Traffic Controller Radar. Keep an eye on us at noaa.gov

Gustav is Coming to Visit

Do you remember in the olde days when women would say, "my cousin is visiting" as slang for having a period? Well, Gustav is coming to visit. And it actually seems worse than a period. Hurricane forecasters, including the eminent Joe Bastardi, predict gloom and doom for the Gulf Coast. Being obsessed with weather anyway, I have been visiting accuweather.com religiously. As if the forecast could change minute by minute.
In any event, the forecast does look pretty bad. Probably a category 3 storm. Probably early to mid-week next week. Probably more damage for a coast still not fully recovered from Katrina. It's all bad news.
Not to minimize the bad news, but I can only fixate on one outcome of the storm. Not the safety of my family, not the protection of my house, not the preservation of my personal treasures. I can think only of this: School will be canceled.
Come ON. We just got into the groove of it. This is the first week of school for me. Both my children are finally gainfully occupied for several hours a day in a way that pains me very little. But now, Gustav threatens to send them home with little/no electricity. Hideous heat. Mosquitoes. Trapped in the house. Bored. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. For how long?
This can't be happening.
Is there a Midol for hurricanes? Stay posted:
http://hurricane.accuweather.com/hurricane/index.asp?partner=accuweather&traveler=0

Cher, Elton John and Other Divas

I get it. Celine Dion, Cher and Beyonce are required to change outfits every time they reappear on stage during a performance. Poufy hair, straight hair, wig hair. Different mood, different image. It's Hollywood.
My question is, why does my E have to change clothes 14 times in the morning before school? I'm no fool: we lay out clothes every night. Right down to underwear and socks. And then this morning, he comes traipsing down the stairs in a bright blue stripe shirt with green and brown plaid shorts. What is this assault on my eyeballs? It's too early in the morning for him to be wearing clothes that make me dizzy. For SURE, that is not what I laid out with him last night.
He thought it was cool. But today is a school day. He doesn't need to look like a GQ model. He just needs to not look like an Escher painting. For chapel, I don't require he dress fancy. I require only a collared shirt. Shorts are even ok when you're five. But he can easily go the extra step and wear a polo-style shirt. (With or without pony on it)
First comes the Transformer Tee, on backwards. "I'll wear it backwards to chapel and then turn it around." I point my finger back to the bedroom.
Then a completely over the top black and white striped long sleeve polo shirt with a giant golden Ralph Lauren seal on it (not my purchase). With brown and green plaid skate shorts. Finger again.
Next down the runway we have a lovely Hanes white undershirt. Finger.
FINALLY, he makes his way down the stairs in a navy collared short sleeve shirt. No pony. No festoon. No freaking stripes. It looks good. You know why?
IT'S WHAT WE PICKED OUT TO WEAR LAST NIGHT!!!!!
By now, 12 minutes have elapsed, and we are frantically slamming on shoes, slicking down Alfalfa hairs, and slurping down cereal. The backpack I have prepared for him and left on the bottom step is missing. Ah, he took it upstairs. Why? Shoes untied, socks on crooked, teeth half-brushed, cereal bowl left on the table, frantic departure. Completely unnecessary.
Finally, he is off. I go into his room, and it looks like robbers have tossed his dresser.
I should get his autograph now before he forgets the little people.

Do you HEAR that?

It's nothing. Silence. Merely the clickety clack of my keyboard. My children are at school. My husband is at work. The dog is sleeping. The rain pours down, providing a perfect white noise on the roof.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Warp in the Time/Space Continuum

Did some one make weekends longer without telling me? Did I not get a memo somewhere? Yesterday, we took the kids to the exploreum and saw Fly Me To The Moon. First off, you are going to want to volunteer to be a test subject for Ebola before you go see this movie. The inanity. The predictable jokes. The Buzz Aldrin at the end, reminding us that it is a physical impossibility to have flies on a space mission. IT'S A MOVIE, BUZZ. IT'S PRETEND. Besides, he came off pretty well. He was the one who said, "don't kill the flies, they' re American after all." AMERICAN? Really, are we issuing passports to house pests these days? My cockroaches flashed me their Guatemalan papers yesterday, so I had to deport them. What the jingoistic heck is that crap? If they had been Canadian flies, would we have given them a bath in RAID and sent them home in tiny maple leaf caskets?
So, since you won't be seeing that movie any time soon, let me tell you more disappointing news about the exploreum. They are no longer going to feature a travelling exhibit. In place of the travelling show, there is going to be a permanent exhibit on the human body. Great. More filthy exhibits for the kids to climb on while learning the importance of washing their hands. The great paradox of hygiene instruction for the young.
E was hit especially hard by the news of the permanent exhibit. He ordered that we terminate our annual pass, because there will be no point in returning. He cried, he wailed, and while doing so, crashed into a light post on the street.
Meanwhile, there is just enough rain from T.S. Fay to make it too wet to go out. Mind you, there was an awful lot of hype for a little bit of rain. Granted, Florida got hit hard, and that's actual real storm damage. But Mobile is getting light rain. LIGHT RAIN, PEOPLE. So, we are inside. Again. Still. I am wondering how it can only be twenty minutes until 10. The day is moving like molasses. The arguing. The fighting. The mess. The need for entertainment...
Tomorrow, M, E and S will be gone to school by 9 AM. It will be quiet in this house and I have no errands. I will enjoy the silence.
My clock is not moving. Really. It's not.
Is there a leap to warp speed or something?

Squirrel Food

Kids are funny. I think they are funniest when they don't mean to be at all. I am not really into Stooge humor. I don't like it when S flops or crashes into things for slapstick effect. His rubber face is slightly funnier, but that's usually when he's not trying. E, of course has a totally different humor. His is verbal and he is experimenting with riddles and puns. Puns are one of the staples of my humor, so I am happy to see him fostering this style. This week, though, S dropped a couple of funnies of his very own.
First he saw an obese woman. He leans over and says "That is a BIG, FAT woman." I said, "Honey, it's not polite to talk about some one's size. It would hurt her feelings." He responds with "Then she's a LITTLE, FAT woman." Ah, yes. The concrete thinker.
This morning, he brings me a squirrel turd. He says it is a teeny tiny acorn that he saw a little squirrel drop.
I NEVER share these kinds of stories, because it seems like they're never real. These are real. Promise.
J