Do it for the boobs
(Not that I’m not enjoying wallowing in the self-pity of that last post, or anything, but….)
A big shout-out to my homegirl Holly (or Vermont Holly, as those of us down with the uber-hip New England lingo call her) for sacrificing a large portion of her weekend to help me with my latest project while I niggled and nitpicked and generally made myself an annoyance.
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Insert martyred title here
Any veteran mom is used to dodging the slings and arrows of the child who complains that she is the meanest mama ever, or that all the other mamas are better, or that she revels in making her children miserable. Most of my compadres adopt the same attitude I do, when this happens: We feign great glee and comment that our dastardly plans are finally coming together! (Bonus points for a crazed glint in the eyes and fiendish hand-rubbing.) I am accustomed to such rantings from my kids. Such comments truly no longer bother me in the slightest. I expect them and know they’re a good indication that I’m doing my job.
I was completely caught off-guard, yesterday, when a seemingly innocuous comment from my daughter cut me to the quick. We were having a great morning (indeed, the entire day was lovely), and after I consented to perhaps the third in a series of granted requests, Chickadee hugged me and then ran off, calling to her brother.
“Monkey! Come quick! Mama’s being nice today!”
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Hope, flattery, and loathing
See how I just run the gamut, like that? It’s a gift! Emotions just run thither and yon, more quickly than you can say, “Hey, where the heck IS ‘yon,’ anyway?”
Hope: You may have read about it elsewhere, and as usual I’m a day late (and probably a dollar short, but here, have this penny I just found in the couch). Swiffer is hosting the Amazing Women of the Year contest and nominations are open through March 6th. I have “met” some incredible women in the blogosphere and I am certainly hoping for one of my favorites to make the finals. I read on another blog where someone was annoyed that the prize is $5000 donated to the charity of the winner’s choice, but personally I find that a really cool prize. I mean, yeah, $5000 worth of ice cream and shoes would be nifty, too; but given the spirit of the contest, I think charity is probably the better choice.
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Oh, my aching calves
I thought I’d give y’all a preliminary update on my preparation for walking 60 miles this summer. Because I know everyone is just DYING to hear how I’m doing, like UNABLE TO SLEEP AT NIGHT wondering if I’m really doing this thing or if I’m still just mostly sitting on the couch eating oreos.
Well I am here to tell you that I am only eating oreos AFTER my workouts. So.
I am also here to tell you that I am sore AND it is extremely cold outside in February. (Apparently I am here to tell you a lot of extremely obvious things.)
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Pokehell
I would like to meet the person responsible for the Pokemon empire and chew up his face while twisting off his nipples and kneeing him in the groin.
Of course, I assume there was a Y chromosome involved because no female would’ve sat down one day and said to herself, “I know! How about a cartoon… no, wait, a cartoon AND TRADING CARDS… based on magical creatures who live to fight and can say nothing more complicated than their own names–over and over again–and who periodically evolve into some other, equally annoying form. But we need a few humans. How about a 10-year old who’s travelling the dangerous countryside with no parental supervision and nothing but a backpack and a bright yellow electric rat? And a couple of teenagers? IT’S GENIUS!”
That man deserves to die a slow, painful, nippleless death.
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Downward hairless dog
Here is what I know about myself and exercise: I am perhaps the world’s lousiest self-motivator. Tell me to get my ass out of bed and meet you for a workout at 6:30? I’m there. Promise myself I’ll get right up at 6:30 and hop on my elliptical trainer? I hit snooze. (Repeatedly.) Enroll me in an actual class of some sort? I won’t miss a one. Pledge to get moving even on a day when my partner has to cancel? I’ll move… right to the cabinet that the oreos are in.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy exercise. It’s that I hate exercise. With a deep and firey hatred that burns ever hotter whenever I CONTEMPLATE making my lazy self get off the couch.
When I actually DO get moving? It’s great. Invigorating! Feels wonderful! But not wonderful enough to make me do it again voluntarily! Usually!
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Manic Monday
You know what is a GREAT way to kick-start your day? Taking a really long walk. Early in the morning. In the snow. And wind. While a spastic puppy tries to tangle you and your walk partner in her leash.
Actually, it was awesome. So what if the best part was when it was finally time to STOP? No matter. And that was only the SECOND-best part. The best part was when we ran into an acquaintance on a loop through the center of town, and she was going on and on about how great it was that we were out walking, and my friend invited her to join us, and I said YES, DO, WE’RE IN TRAINING, and she said Oh? Training? For what? Which of course prompted me to elbow my friend rather too hard until she issued forth an appropriate plug and extracted a promise of a donation. Woo! And hey, speaking of? Have I mentioned I’m training for a little walk…?
After the walk I came home PUMPED UP and ENERGIZED. (Also rather fragrant, but I took a shower.)
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Just killing time until Grey’s Anatomy
I dunno, maybe it’s because I was getting the kids to bed and doing laundry and I’m just not feeling my best today… or maybe it’s because I’m just getting old and jaded (shaddup)… but this year’s Superbowl was perhaps the lamest in recent memory. For me. If it was a great game for you, well then, um, great. I’m happy for you.
It’s only fair to point out, I suppose, that I don’t care at all about either the Steelers or the Seahawks. Chickadee stated emphatically that she was cheering for the Seagulls and I assured her that that was as prudent a course as any. (Later I did correct her, but really I think the Seagulls is a great name for a a football team.) So the teams didn’t move me. The actual gameplay wasn’t very exciting. The commercials were dumb. The halftime show FRIGHTENED me.
[Note to Mick Jagger: Enough, already. Also, consider some aerobics or something to build up your pulmonary endurance. Or a nebulizer you can take onstage with you.]
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Nothing says I love you like…
… dead things.
That you can eat.
On a dare.
While surfing around in boredom this evening, I found that special gift for the person who has everything. Or is very, very hungry. And non-discriminating.
Should they require something a little more portable and/or phallic, this is not only perfect, it’s deeply discounted.
My favorite part? Note: sorry, no returns on food unless truly defective. And you would know that with these items HOW…?
Therapy gone awry
Before I launch into today’s antics, a bit of housekeeping.
1) I lied, yesterday, when I said I’d talk about the not-a-gibbon that Joss sent me. She called dibs, but isn’t ready to do it; so–a thousand apologies, but I must remain silent other than to say OH MY GOD IT’S SO COOL AND I LOVE HER. Sorry to be a tease.
2) Come closer, so that I can whisper in your ear and not piss off the fates any more than, you know, I already have. I think the current antibiotics are helping. Shhhhhhh! Do not tell! But I feel slightly less like wretched and stabbing-pain-ful dog vomit than I have for the last couple of weeks.
3) Every so often I get bored and Google people I used to know but have somehow fallen out of touch with. Recently I found a good friend from high school–how else?–because he has a blog. Huzzah! Of course I managed to open communication at such a time when this post was more or less his reintroduction to my life. (“Hi! Remember how I was weird in high school? CRAZIER NOW! ALSO WITH MORE TALKING ABOUT MY BOOBS!”) I feared that perhaps I’d… uhhh… frightened him into silence… and then yesterday I received an email wherein he informed me that I was overlooking the obvious diagnosis–that I have a “titzit.” I may be skipping one of my Greek favorites for a little while, now, but I did appreciate the giggle.
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