LLOL (Literally Laughing out Loud)

Listen to your heart

2011-02-15T07:57:00.003-05:00

A couple of days ago the 14-year-old and I were heading out the door in the morning to school. A pencil was lying on the kitchen counter. I hate clutter.

"Is that your pencil, buddy?" I asked.

"Yeah," he replied without a shadow of guilt for having left it lying around (just kidding. If I flipped out every time a kid left a pencil lying around, in addition to the hundreds of other random items of crap they magically spread from their domain throughout the house I would be in a mental hospital).

"Do you need it for school today?" I lovingly questioned.

"What does your heart tell you?" he questioned in return.

ya can't make this stuff up.

What's wrong with going the wrong way through the car wash?

2011-01-18T18:50:00.001-05:00

Sometimes other people give us the best laugh!

Hope you enjoy this lady!

The 14-year-old thinks he's funny

2011-01-11T09:21:00.004-05:00

The 14-year-old thinks he's funny and well, I guess he is. For my grandmother's 93rd birthday, I made a chocolate cake with chocolate icing; the three generations of women in my family would consider no other flavors appropriate for birthday cakes.

As the cake was being sliced, I loudly announced before anyone had taken a bite that I had made the entire thing completely from scratch - no box mixes, no canned pre-prepared icing. I was quite proud of myself.

The 14-year-old thought this was a good time to quip: "You might have wanted to have waited until we've all tasted it before you gave us that little tidbit of information."

The 12-year-old guest blogs...

2010-12-22T21:29:00.002-05:00

Well, not really, but I wanted to publish this cool play he wrote - a spoof on Greek mythology:

Sailing in Myths
By the 12-year-old

Scene 1
(The curtain opens. Two men are standing on a ship.)
Capt. John: Ah, nothing like a nice whaling trip, eh Louis?
Louis: Are there even any whales in the Mediterranean Sea?
Capt. John: Of course!
(A whale appears.)
Louis: What is that?
Capt. John: That's a Sperm Whale!
Louis: Really, Captain?
Capt. John: No, it's a woodpecker.
Louis: Really?
Capt. John: Yes. Now quick, get the harpoon!
Louis: Why are we going to shoot a woodpecker with a harpoon?
Capt. John: It's not ... why do I even bother?
Louis: Too bad. It flew away under water.
Capt. John: What's wrong with you?
(The curtain closes.)
Scene 2
(The curtain opens. There is a storm rocking the ship. Capt. John and Louis are hanging on for dear life. The lights are dim.)
Louis: What's going on, Captain John?
Capt. John: Well, I'm no expert on the weather, but I'd say this might just be a STORM!!!
Louis: Wow! You're so smart!
Capt. John: I don't need your idiocy right now Louis! We're sort of in a pickle if you haven't noticed.
Louis: (Amazed) We're in a pickle? Cool!
Capt. John: ... Really Louis ... Really?
Louis: Yeah! You just said so Captain.
Capt. John: HOLD ON!!!
(The lights turn off)
All: Waaaaaaa!!!
(The curtain closes.)
Scene 3
(The curtain opens. The storm is over. Louis is on top of Capt. John. Capt. John shakes him off and stands up. Louis stands up to.)
Louis: That sure was a mighty strong storm, eh Captain John?
Capt. John: Uhhhhhh ...
Louis: Still shaken up from the storm, Captain?
Capt. John: What? No, I've been through much stronger storms. I can't believe we didn't get the whale.
It's entirely your fault! You onerous, incompetent fool!
Louis: I'm sorry ... I didn't know-
Capt. John: (yelling) See that's just it! You never know, you idiot!
Louis: I... I'm sorry. I-
Capt. John: Just be quiet! I don't have time to deal with you! (Mocking) We're in a pickle? Don't shoot the woodpecker with a harpoon! You-
(A hole opens in the water. A giant figure rises out of it.)
Capt. John: Who are you?
Poseidon: Poseidon! The Greek God of the Sea!
Capt. John: Poseidon?
Poseidon: Yeah.
Capt. John: Did you create that storm?
Poseidon: Yeah.
Capt. John: Are you trying to kill me?!
Poseidon: Yeah.
Capt. John: Why?!
Poseidon: Because you tried to kill my Sperm Whale. I'm just lucky that nice boy stopped you.
Capt. John: That was your whale?
Poseidon: Yeah, his name is Mr. Whale.
Capt. John: Mr. Whale?
Poseidon: I was never very good with names, okay?
Capt. John: Oh, go back to Greece!
Poseidon: As much as I hate to burst your bubble, I'm not the only one going to Greece.
Louis: Land ho!
Offstage Voice (Male): POSEIDON!!!
Poseidon: Oh, here. (Poseidon hands a small metal lightning bolt to Captain John) Bye.
(Poseidon leaves. The curtain closes.)
Scene 4
(Capt. John and Louis are on land next to another giant figure holding a lightning bold.)
Capt. John: Let's see. A lightning bolt? Oh, let me guess… you're Zeus.
Zeus: CORRECT! I AM ZEUS! THE GREEK GOD OF LIGHTNING!!!
Louis: (cheerfully) Hello!
Zeus: WELL HELLO! NOW, YOU! (Zeus points at Capt. John) YOU HAVE MY STOLEN LIGHTNING BOLT! FOR THAT, I MUST PUNISH YOU!!! YOU WILL FIND YOUR BOAT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF GREECE!!! HA HA HA HA HAHA HA!!!!!
(Zeus leaves)
Capt. John: Well that's just great! C'mon Louis, let's go get that boat .
. (Capt. John and Louis leave.)
Scene 5
(Capt. John and Louis are walking. Zeus chases after them and blocks their path.)
Zeus: (panting) WAIT! I FORGOT TO GIVE YOU THIS! GREEK MYTHOLOGY FOR DUMMIES!
Louis: Thank you!
Capt. John: It should be called Greek Mythology for Louis'.
Zeus: WELL, I SHOULD GET GOING. STORMS TO BREW, PROBLEMS TO TAKE CARE OF OR, POSSIBLY, MAKE WORSE, HERAS TO CHEAT ON-
Offstage voice (Female): WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!
Zeus: BYE!
(Zeus hurries offstage. Capt. John and Louis continue along their wcry.)
Scene 6
(Capt. John and Louis walk onstage. A giant female figure walks out the center of the curtain.)
Athena: Hello, travelers. My name is Athena, the goddess of wisdom.
Louis: (a loud whisper) She's much prettier in the book, Captain John.
Athena: Hey!
Capt. John: (a loud whisper) Never trust illustrations Louis.
Athena: You know I'm standing right here! Here! See? Five yards from you guys!
Capt. John: Yes! The goddess of wisdom! I was wondering if you knew where my boat is.
Athena: Oh, you must be Captain John the lightning bolt thief! It's on the other side of Greece.
Capt. John: I'm aware of that. I was wondering if you could tell me where.
Athena: Of course I can!
Capt. John: Great!
Athena: But I won't.
Capt. John: Huh?
Athena: You called me ugly. Bye. (Athena walks offstage.)
Capt. John: Well that's just perfect! (Capt. John storms offstage followed by Louis.)
Scene 7
(The curtain opens. A giant man is behind it. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)
Dionysus: Hey peoples. What's up in yo crib, dogs? I'm Dionysus, the Greek God of Wine.
Capt. John: That's nice. Do you know-
Dionysus: Say, do you dogs got any wine?
Capt. John: (to Louis) Wine is the last thing he needs.
(Dionysus snaps. A bottle of wine appears.)
Dionysus: AwwwwwYeah!
Capt. John: Okay Bye!
Louis: Bye. (Capt. John and Louis slowly make their way offstage. Dionysus starts to rap.)
Dionysus: Wine! Made from grapes from a grapevine! Oh Yeah! Yummy in my tummy!
(The curtain closes.)
Scene 8
(Capt. John and Louis walk across the stage in front of the curtain. Another giant figure runs up on the other side of the stage. He stops them.)
Ares: Halt! I am Ares! The mighty Greek God of War! What is your purpose for traveling?
Capt. John: My boat is on the other side of Greece. I'm trying to find it.
Louis: (to Capt. John) A boat? Hey! I've seen a boat! We were just riding in one! Do you think it could be the one we were looking for?
Ares: Wow He's stupid!
Capt. John: Yeah.
Ares: So, who do we have to fight to get that boat of your back?
Louis: Ewe. Fighting? Fighting is never the answer. Let's see if we can solve this dispute in a more peaceful manner.
Capt. John: Fight? There's no fighting.
Ares: Well, as the god of war, fighting is my instinct. Well, if there's no fighting, I'll have to pass. Good Luck!
Louis: Bye!
(All characters continue on their way and offstage.)
Scene 9
(The curtain opens. A giant figure is standing onstage with a lyre. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)
Apollo: Hello! My name is Apollo. Not a speed skater. Not a boxing champion in a movie that sounds like it's about a rock named by Poseidon. o. I am-
Capt. John: Let me guess. You're a Greek God.
Apollo: Why yes! How'd you know?
Capt. John: Wild guess?
Louis: We've seen like, a million!
Capt. John: We've seen five.
Louis: Yeah, well .. I was close!
Capt. John: Sure.
Apollo: So I'm the God of music and light. My twin sister's name is-
(Louis takes out the book)
Louis: Wait! Wait! Waitl. .... um a p o here, Apollo. Page 95.32,48,55,64, 78,87, 106, oops!
Missed it! Here page 95! Urn ........... Airtymis!
Apollo: It's pronounced Artemis.
Louis: Okay.
Apollo: Oh no! The lyre quintet meeting is in an hour! I have to go! Bye!
Capt John: Bye.
Capt. John and Louis walk on and Apollo hurries off. The curtain closes as they do so.)
Scene 10
(Artemis walks onstage. She is holding a bow with an arrow notched in it and is taking aim. She is a giant like the others. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)
Artemis: Hello travelers. I am Artemis. The Goddess of the hunt.
Capt. John: Hello there.
Louis: Hi!
Capt. John: We just met your brother, Apollo.
Artemis: Oh, him? That's weird. I could have sworn he had a lyre quintet meeting in forty-five minutes.
Capt. John: Yes, he did.
Artemis: I hope he's not late.
Capt. John: Hey! Have you seen a whaling boat?
Artemis: I'm an immortal Goddess! Of course I've seen a whaling boat!
Capt. John: I mean recently! I'm missing mine.
Artemis: You lost a boat? That's embarrassing.
Capt. John: Aarrgg! This isn't helping! Let's go Louis!
(Artemis goes back to hunting and leaves. Capt. John and Louis leave.)
Scene 11
(A giant woman walks onstage. Capt. John and Louis enter on the other side.)
Louis: Hi there lady!
Capt. John: Hello. Please excuse my comrade's stupidity.
Demeter: Hello. My name is Demeter. I am the Goddess of the harvest.
Louis: The harvest? That so boring.
Demeter: Hey punk! You wanna have a winter anti-wonderland the rest of your life?
Louis: N ... n .......................... n .. n .. n .. n .. n .. n n n n n .. n .. no!
Demeter: I didn't think so! (Mumbles to herself) Aaahhhh! Mortals.
(Demeter storms off)
Scene 12
(The curtain opens. A giant figure is typing at a computer. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)
Capt. John: Ummm ... hello.
Hermes: (Doesn't look up) Hi. I'm Hermes. The messenger of the Gods. I used to fly around but I just found out about e-mail and it is soooooo much easier!
Capt. John: Yeah ... anyway, have you seen a boat? Recently?
Hermes: No. Wait. Really? No way! OMG! I've got to tell Cary and Marvin and Kyle and Stacie on Facebook and-
Capt. John: Okay you are soooooo not doing your job!
Hermes: I'm the messenger God. I'm instant messaging. Messaging! That's my job.
Louis: Ohhh snap! You just got burned Captain John.
Hermes: It's true. I totally just burned you.
Capt. John: You're the messenger God. Not the instant messenger God!
Louis: Ohhh snap! You got burned back Mr. Hermes!
Hermes: Instant messaging is a type of messaging.
Louis/ Hermes: Ohhh snap! Double burned!
(Louis and Hermes high-five.)
Capt. John: We have to go! C'mon Louis!
(Capt. John and Louis leave. Hermes continues typing. The curtain closes.)
Scene 13
(The curtain opens. A giant man with a giant hammer is onstage. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)
Capt. John: Hello sir, how are you?
Hephaestus: I'm okay. My name is Hephaestus. I am the God of fire. I am also the blacksmith of the Gods.
Louis: Why just okay? You have a big hammer. Happiness is just set up for you!
Hephaestus: That's what I thought too. But I've learned that there is more to life than just giant hammers.
Capt. John: (Sarcastically) Really? Enlighten me.
Hephaestus: Well, I think my wife, Aphrodite is running around with Ares again.
Louis: Hey! We saw Ares!
Hephaestus: Really? Did you teach him a lesson he'll never forget?
Capt. John: Okay. Let me explain something to you. Me mortal, he God. We fight, he win. Comprendo?
Hephaestus: Si, mucho comprendo.
Louis: (confused) What er you taaalking about? I don't speak German.
Capt. John: Shut up Louis!
Louis: Hey Captain, look at the map!
Capt. John: What about the map?
Louis: We're almost across Greece!
Capt. John: No, Louis. We're almost across the Greece you spilled on the map.
Louis: Oh.
Hephaestus: Well then you men better get moving.
Louis: True that!
Capt. John: Bye.
Louis: Bye.
Hephaestus: Bye.
(Capt. John and Louis continue. The curtain closes.)
Scene 14
(The curtain opens. A giant woman is sitting in front of a mirror. Capt. John and Louis enter.)
Capt. John: Well looking at the book, considering we've only seen Olympian Gods, you must be, Aphrodite. Hephaestus's wife.
Aphrodite: That, my ... ugly friend is true.
Capt. John: Ugly?!
Aphrodite: Why yes! Look at those wrinkles! Dreadful! Oh, excuse me. I am the Goddess of love and beauty.
Capt. John: Now that makes sense.
Louis: Well gosh, you shore are pretty!
Aphrodite: Why thank you, I know! And you ... aren't.
(Louis starts crying)
Capt. John: Well now look what you made him do! He'll be like this all day and I'll have to deal with it!
Aphrodite: Well it's not my fault that he's almost as ugly as you.
Capt. John: That's it we're leaving! C'mon Louis!
(Capt. John and Louis exit. Aphrodite turns back to the mirror. The curtain closes.)
Scene 15
(Capt. John and Louis cross the stage. Louis is no longer crying, but he is red-faced. A giant woman storms across the other way and stops next to the two men.)
Hera: Hello. Have you seen Zeus? Wait! You two? Oh, you're the ones that Zeus took the boat from.
Hermes told me the whole story. Here's your boat.
(A boat comes out of the middle of the curtain.)
Hera: Zeus is with that 10 nymph again! ZEUS!!!
(Zeus comes out where the boat did)
Zeus: HELLO HERA. HEY! YOU TWO!
Hera: I gave them back their boat because you were seeing Io!
Zeus: WE'LL TALK ABOUT THAT LATER. YOU TWO SHALL NOW FEEL MY WRATH!!!
Hera: Now wait! It wasn't their fault anyway! They didn't steal the lightning bolt!
Zeus: FINE. BUT DON'T INTERVENE ALL THE TIME LIKE THAT HERA. IT DOESN'T MAKE ME LOOK GOOD.
Hera: Oh, I'm going to intervene! C'mon Zeus!
Zeus: OKAY.
(Zeus and Hera leave. Poseidon enters.)
Poseidon: Well I really fired him up didn't I?
Capt. John: What's your problem?
Poseidon: Fine. Maybe I went a little too far.
Capt. John! Louis: A little!?
Poseidon: Fine ... but I'm an Olympian God so I still school you!
Capt. John: Fine. C'mon Louis. Let's head home.
Louis: Right behind ya Captain.
(Capt. John and Louis push the boat through the center of the curtain. Poseidon exits on the side.)
Scene 15
(Capt. John and Louis are sailing again.)
Capt. John: Well that was an utter waste of time!
Louis: Not really.
Capt. John: Oh? How do you figure?
Louis: I took Poseidon's trident.
Capt. John: Well Louis, it looks like we won after all!
(The curtain closes.)
The End

Laundry liability

2010-12-08T21:04:00.003-05:00

I get tired of pulling random items out of the laundry... so I came up with the idea of putting a sign above the laundry chute reminding the boys to empty their pockets of crap before throwing said clothes down the chute.

It doesn't work.

Sophie the opera star

2010-11-22T10:52:00.003-05:00

I love watching dogs with their heads hanging out the window of a moving car; it's just one of those things in life that makes me smile. I've never seen a dog look sad with its entire head (or more) protruding from a car window, wind in its face, eyes slightly closed, nose to the air, delectable scents wafting readily toward it.

I used to be chagrined that Sophie couldn't enjoy this favorite doggie pasttime because she's confined to the very back of the SUV... but then I thought of folding the back seats down so that she, too, could partake of this near nirvana experience.

Once I figured it out, she needed no encouragement. She's gaga about the wind in her whiskers as we drive down the road, no matter the speed. She's in the doggie zone. Happy as a clam.

I must admit that, when she sticks her head out the window, I get such a kick out of watching her that I reposition my sideview mirror so that I can see her more readily (yes, I also watch the road and my rearview mirror).

Now, Sophie-style is to poke her full head out of the car window, close her eyes slightly, and close her mouth completely.... at least it was her style until recently.

Last week on the way to pick up the 12-year-old from school, she changed tact in a way that had me giggling uncontrollably. She had her full head out the window; it was raining slightly. For some reason (I forgot to fill her water bowl, perhaps?), she opened her mouth. No big deal, right? Except that opening her mouth gave her a completely different sensation, and she loved it. She loved it so much that she proceeded to maneuver her jaw left and right, back and forth, to feel the difference in the streaming air. That was funny in and of itself. What made me lose it was that when she moved her jaw around, the altered windstream created a whistling noise. The noise delighted her to no end, and before you know it I was driving the country roads with a German Shepherd girl sticking her head out the window, moving her jaw consciously back and forth to enjoy the melody it created. The "aha" moment was hysterical. She would close her mouth, cock her head, then open it and move her jaw: boom - whistle sound.

Driving with Sophie will never be the same again.

Hell is freezing over...

2010-11-05T13:05:00.003-04:00

Hell is freezing over because look! I did something creative! I made a pumpkin cheese ball, complete with a stem fashioned from the icky tasting end of a bunch of broccoli.

I admit that it's from a recipe, but still.... it turned out pretty cool.

It's the little things in life... lol

Real conversations with the 14-year-old

2010-11-02T08:52:00.004-04:00

me: "Son, is your seatbelt on?"

14-year-old: "nope."

me: "Put it on, please."

14-year-old: "It IS on, Mom!"

Halloween challenged

2010-10-29T10:36:00.006-04:00

I am just taking a moment to be grateful this morning.... grateful that the 14-year-old, as a freshman in high school now, no longer must have a Halloween costume.

I know, I know. Some of you are gasping for breath, unable to believe that there exists, right here on earth as your fellow human, a person who despises having to generate an idea for a child's Halloween costume, let alone find the time to create it from scratch. While I have some very good friends whom I admire immensely for their ability to produce an incredible, homemade, imaginative Halloween costume, I, myself, always depended on Target.

Therefore I am grateful this morning for my older son's status as a freshman in high school, exempt from all activities which prove his mother Halloween costume-challenged, and a younger son who is old and creative enough to produce his own homemade Halloween costume.

This year the 12-year-old is a "Cereal Killer." He is carrying a cereal box (a cereal which had no high fructose corn syrup, artificial colors or hydrogenated oils, mind you) with a fake knife plunged into it and fake blood spurting out of it. I could never have come up with that idea.

Though I am inept at Halloween costume creation, I can carve, as you can see, a mean pumpkin (assuming someone creative has already laid out the pattern for me on paper). I also do some pretty good iced Christmas cookies....

Would you, could you with a mouse?

2010-10-28T16:38:00.005-04:00

We have stink bugs. Who doesn't? Before I found out that the unfortunate and grotesque result of two stink bugs' mating was 400 more stink bugs and that their only predators are my husband and I, I used to throw them delicately outside where they belong, as I do for other bugs I find within the confines of my house. Yup, I'm a pacificist when it comes to anything living in my house, big, scary spiders and those disgusting centipedes, of course, excepted. They die. I'm not really clear as to why God created those sorts of creepy crawly things that seem to serve no purpose except to give humans the heebie jeebies. Or maybe that IS the purpose. Perhaps it's part of punishment of the human race for Eve's greed in eating the apple? Being subjected to creepy crawly creatures?

I've digressed, haven't I?

My point is that when, 2 nights ago, the 12-year-old pounced down the stairs and, relatively calmly, informed me: "um, mom. There's kinda sort of a mouse in your bathroom."

After clearing up that he wasn't kidding and that there was, indeed, a mouse in the bathroom, trapped into a corner by a candle, ostensibly, I quickly yelled to the husband: "we are NOT going to kill him." See? I had already assigned the little guy a gender.

Chaos followed.

I was assigned to procure a pot and its top while the husband raced to the garage to put on his work gloves in case the little guy bit him in our best efforts to free him. The boys sped upstairs to get a glimpse of the action.

We arrived in the bathroom, closed the door to make escape more difficult, and carefully removed the candle to reveal a quivering, good size mouse in the corner, wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into.

"I'm not touching him," the husband proclaimed.

"Oh, fine," I said. "Give me your gloves." When I tried to grab him, though, he moved.... and he moved VERY quickly... into the room with the potty in it. The boys followed, the husband followed, and I followed. We were all chasing this little tiny mouse around the master bathroom.

"Cut it out!" the husband demanded, stressed out already by the ordeal. "I don't need you boys in the way!"

I laughed, but the husband wasn't yet seeing the humor in the situation.

He blockaded himself inside the potty room with the door closed... just him and the mouse.

A loud and chaotic struggle ensued, audible but not visible, with the husband muttering various things to himself or no one in particular... "F_ING MOUSE!!" Clanging of the pot could be heard clearly. It sounded like world war three in the tiny room behind closed doors. At one point the request for a tall trash can in lieu of the pot was made.

Then... a silent moment.

"Did you get him?" I asked.

"Kind of," answered the husband.

"You didn't hurt him, did you? What do you mean kind of?"

"Well, I've got him under the trash can but don't know how to get him IN."

Finally, after a lot more noise and perserverance, the husband triumphed. He emerged from the little room, sweat covered and holding the tall trash can.

"Athletic little guy, geez," he observed.

We unceremoniously replaced him outdoors, as far away from the house as we could (as if that will prevent his visiting again...)

Now it's back to stink bug eradication around here...

Why does my car hate me?

2010-09-27T08:15:00.002-04:00

A couple of days ago I was innocently driving along in my car...when I look at the radio briefly and see this....

Ya can't make this stuff up...

2010-08-17T14:06:00.003-04:00

I am currently paying for last week's vacation time by plowing through the 151+ emails I have at work awaiting my wise replies.

I just opened the Quarantine Summary email, a spam filter system my company blessedly utilizes, to double check that a message from a customer didn't get thrown mercilessly into the spam pile.

Here are my favorite two subject lines in my spam email:

1. "She thinks I have an adorable willy"

and....

2. "She was drunk and I did her"

Ya can't make this stuff up, folks.

I'm a good mom...I'm a good mom...I'm a good mom...

2010-07-23T09:32:00.003-04:00

The 14-yr-old and I have been down at the beach this week while I take some time off of work and the 11-year-old is at camp.

In an effort to spend some quality time with him, we exhausted lots of "together" activities: gin rummy, Rummikub, take-out sushi, running together, sailing a catamaran in the bay (a teeny weeny one), dipping in the ocean...

A couple of nights ago, we were tired of gin and tired of Rummikub, and he loathes backgammon.

"Okay," I said. I'll teach you how to play poker.

I'm a good mom I'm a good mom I'm a good mom.

It seemed innocent enough. We used plastic chips and I taught him that a full house beats 3 of a kind. We played 5-card draw. He caught on quickly but his luck couldn't match mine - I'm EXTREMELY lucky in cards and parking spots. I got tired of winning. He had no chips left. The most important lesson I tried to impart was the "poker face" concept. When I couldn't stand winning anymore, I quit. I told him I had had enough. The 14-year-old, however, had become obsessed.

With my withdrawal from the game, he desperately considered his options. I picked up a book. He dealt a hand to Sophie (the German Shepherd) and doled out some chips to her. He played with Sophie.

Sophie kept winning. "She's really good," he joked.

The next morning he was still sleeping at 11:45 when I went down to the beach. He finally came down around 1:00 pm. "Whatcha been doin'?" I asked him.

"Playing poker with Sophie," he answered. "She keeps winning."

We need to find him another good book...

This is not a pie chart

2010-07-19T09:12:00.003-04:00

Last week I just had to go to Barcelona for an International Sales Meeting for work. Yeah, my job sucks sometimes.... I did get to explore part of the town for the first jet-lagged afternoon after my flight arrived and before the meeting started. The rest of the time was spent in a conference room doing and watching power point presentations.

My favorite part of the presentations was watching one done by a French colleague, who put a pie chart up on a slide and explained his "camembert" chart. This got me giggling pretty hard. I guess that makes more sense if you're French... I mean - how much more sophisticated is a "camembert" chart than a "pie" chart. The semantics alone give it an eloquent credibility....

It also got me craving a nice glass of Cab and a slice of camembert...

On the way home I had settled into my economy class seat for the 9-hour plane ride home. I had just gotten all of my books and laptop organized where I could reach them easily, had my seat belt on, and was all set to go, when the German flight attendant from Lufthansa walked the aisle toward me, stopped, looked at me, and questioned my identity.

Um yeah, I nodded, that's my name.

"We would like to invite you to join us in Business class," she chirped.

Ahhh. The eye-darts from the people all around me felt stupendous. "Sucks for you all," I thought, actually feeling kind of guilty. The guilt lasted until I sat down in business class and was offered a glass of champagne.

This all made up for their having lost my luggage on the way home and delivering it to me 72 hours later....

The 14-year-old: a text challenged boy

2010-06-30T09:49:00.004-04:00

When the 14-year-old started middle school 3 years ago (and now he's graduated from middle school...sniff sniff), he depicted the husband and me as the meanest, most injudicious parents on the face of the earth. The reason? We wouldn't permit him to have a cell phone.

"But Daaad..." he inefficaciously whined, ALL the other kids in my class have them. Without looking up from the Wall Street Journal, the husband would quip: "well, buddy... that's because their parents love them more than we love you."

A year later, in his 7th grade, unceasingly barraged by the cell phone beg, I bargained. "You can have a cell phone," I off-handedly told him, "when you get straigh As." That semester he came home with straight As (and has maintained them ever since). The boy got a cell phone.

I tell that story in order to illustrate the irony of the boy's subsequent lack of use of the cell phone. Not a girl, he is not constantly on the phone, and very rarely does he engage in the teenager's replacement for telephone conversations: texting.

So... with all of that background... the husband and I sent him off 2 days ago to a week-long overnight Leadership Conference/Camp held in Washington D.C., his being accompanied by his cell phone and its charger.

After the first day of the conference, the husband and I both tried his cell phone, both efforts having ended in voice mail abyss. We wanted to hear from the boy with the cell phone we provided to him.

Finally, after a few more hours of waiting for some type of communication, the husband received this cryptic text message from him (my company blocks texts, so I can't get them on my phone); the husband kindly forwarded it to me:

"dad im doing well at camp. We have toured the capital visited alot of veteran cemeteries and went through the saudi arabian e"

This was the first of two. I'm hoping that the "alot" is a typo, although I'm proud that he modified how he's doing with an adverb. Is the "e," which ostensibly stands for embassy, meant to be an abbreviation or is he inept at texting?

Here's the 2nd text:

"e going to gettysburg. Love you. See u later."

I suppose the "e" is "We" and can excuse the absence of the helping verb (isn't that what it's called? I forget...) "are" as well as the small g ... it IS a text message after all. With all this cryptic abbreviation, though, he spelled out See rather than the usual "c," which I find a little humorous.

It seems to me there may be some portions of the text missing from the beginning of the 2nd and the end of the 1st...

In short, I think our son sucks at texting and he'd better keep up his grades as a fall back.

The secret to a good run

2010-05-18T08:28:00.003-04:00

I finally had a kick-butt run yesterday, and, as one does when one has a good workout, I tried to figure out why I was feeling so much more energetic. I just kept running faster and faster. 5 miles: first mile: 9:03. 2nd: 8:37. 3rd: 8:05. 4th: 7:47. 5th: 7:36. or something like that. chah.

Here are the components to my awesome run:

- evening. I always seem to run well in the evening. mornings suck (on so many levels).
- perfect weather. drizzle and 60 degrees. Doesn't get better than that!
- my running buddy Sophie along with me.... NOT. Sophie had to be coaxed along with me running away from the house. At times I felt like I was dragging her... "pretend you're chasing a squirrel, Soph," I kept telling her. On the way home she practically sprinted ahead of me. sandbagging German Shepherd.
- rest day yesterday. Rest is good.
- Finally.. my world famous chocolate chip cookies, which the 11-year-old and I made that afternoon, both provided incentive (I had, um... enough dough to equal about 4 cookies, I'd estimate, plus 2 cooked cookies) and sugar energy!

I'd just like to mention, for the record, that my cookies are superior to mama-face's cookies. ;)

Strange encounters of the animal kind

2010-05-14T14:14:00.007-04:00

I went for a lunchtime run today. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

When I arrived at the trail, I could barely pull into the parking space straight because of the sight which confronted me when I turned into the parking lot. A bull. with horns. In the grass. On the side of the parking lot at the public running/biking/walking trail. big horns. I said bull, right?

I quickly went to take a picture of it, but of course didn't have my camera with me. Murphy's law very clearly states, in section 102a, "if one were to see a huge bull with prodigious horns standing on the side of a public parking lot, happily grazing on the tall grass without concern, one will not have one's camera with one."

Here's kind of what he looked like (thanks, google images):

WTF, I thought.... and proceeded to begin my workout without having taken a picture, my fellow trail users all around me, more prepared and immune to Murphy's Law, snapping photos of the big fella left and right.

Just not something one sees in the trail parking lot every day. At least not in suburban Baltimore.

I then began my workout, pumped up by something I had just read from an article about a world class triathlete who was quoted as saying: "Always reach beyond what you think you can achieve." I had been in the mood to run all morning. Nothing was going to get in my way of hitting my paces for my 1K repeats....

I did my warm up and was in my first 1K interval, running faster than normal, when all of a sudden I see, up ahead, a LOOOONNNNGG slithery black snake just starting to make his way across the path. Well, so... nothing was going to get in my way of hitting my paces... except maybe a ridiculously long and thick and scary black snake about to cross my path.

You all know how I suck at drawing, especially with a computer mouse, but here goes my rendition:

I promptly jammed on the breaks.... (screech...)

And the big fella kept coming.... but my time was really good so far. I told myself if I stopped for the length of time it took for the scary black snake to sun himself slowly all the way across the trail, I may as well not be out here doing speedwork. I muscled up the courage to slide by him, thinking that if my sons were here they would chastise me for my wimpiness.

As I ran by him, he bit my ankle...

just kidding!!

He was probably more afraid of me than I was of him (nope. uh uh.)

Anyway, perhaps all of my energy was sapped by my encounters with my fellow earth creatures, because I hit the pace for my next 1K but conked after that.

My run sucked. It was hot (the effing temperature went up 15 degrees during my run, for crying out loud) and I'm getting old. And my back hurts, dammit.

I think instead of reaching beyond what I think I can achieve, I'm going to reach for a margarita.

The end.

I just had a horrifying thought...

2010-05-13T09:11:00.004-04:00

A couple of days ago I had a horrifying thought, most disconcerting.

In a little over 2 weeks I'll be swimming, cycling and running in my first triathlon.

I've run enough races - 5Ks, half marathons, marathons, 10-milers - to know that the one thing a participant needs to do before the start of the race is PEE. A combination of nerves and caffeine-providing coffee makes every runner have to pee multiple times before the start of the race.

The paucity of portapots combined with an overabundance of runners needing to pee before the race lends itself to a situation in which many runners pee wherever any cover whatsoever may be found, and folks get creative.

So here's my horrifying thought. In a triathlon, I assume everyone will have to pee before the start of the race as well.... but.... the first leg of a triathlon is the SWIM.

Are you with me? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

It SUCKS to be a slow swimmer...

oh, well. I suppose it will warm up the water.

Birthday um... wishes

2010-04-30T08:28:00.004-04:00

One of my best friends, knowing me quite well, gave me the following birthday card. Don't bother wishing me a happy birthday; it was last month. :)

Open it up...

Ha!

Being the model mother I am, I immediately shared it with the 11-year old and the 14-year-old.

You... I wanna talk to you...

2010-04-28T08:08:00.004-04:00

above: my own rendering of me sucking at swimming

I told myself that I'd be happy after I qualified for Boston; it had been my prodigious goal for a little over a year or two. I told myself that, after I qualified, I could do more fun, hilly marathons and not worry about being so competitive.

At some point after I qualifed, not being sure of any exact moment, I decided that I wanted to do an Ironman triathlon the year I turn 40. That would be next year.

So hmmm. I'd better get some triathlon experience in before I start training for that next year.

Next up is a local Olympic Distance triathlon at the end of May. Sure, it would've been more ideal to have begun with a short sprint tri to get my feet wet (literality intended). I didn't know anything about triathlons (and still don't know much) so I had to google the distances. An Olympic tri is about a mile swim (1.2, maybe?), a 40-something-mile bike ride, and a 10K run (6.2 miles). A sprint is about a 1/2 mile swim, 20-something-mile bike ride, and a 5K run. The Ironman that I want to do next year is a 2 mile swim (or perhaps a little more?), a 112-mile bike ride, and a full marathon (26.2 miles). hee hee.

I already swim and cycle to cross train for marathons, so I'm not starting from scratch. Like many beginner triathletes, however, I'm not a strong swimmer. I've practiced (I did a "long swim" instead of a long run for my last long run for the Boston marathon because of a strained back) and improved so that I can go longer and breathe on both sides now, but I still suck at swimming.

A swimmer friend of mine, an ex college roommate, recommended my taking a masters swimming class, which is a class with an instructor who critiques your stroke and kicks your butt with a prescribed workout.

Long, boring intro almost over.

I went to my first masters swim class last night. I was so proud of myself for having taught myself to breathe on both sides (after many trials of sucking in water and coughing for minutes on end like an idiot)...

The first thing I learned is that I've been swimming farther than I thought, because I thought it was a 25-meter pool and it's a 25-YARD pool!!!

Thanks for sharing in my joy.

We did our warm-ups, 200 YARDS of freestyle, and the other two ladies went on to the workout, while the instructor called me over.

"I want to talk to you," she told me, finger waggling me her way.

"You're swimming box-like," she told me. "You need to imagine you're turning a big wheel and round out and stretch out your stroke."

I looked at her, not quite understanding.

"Here; I'll show you." And she did.

And I practiced another two laps stretching out my stroke turning a wheel.

"Better," she praised me.

I need praise.

I continued with the laps.

"Come 'ere," she waggled her finger once more.

I did as I was told.

"Swim toward me while I watch under water."

Again, I did as I was told.

"You're scooping your arms too far down in the water; you need to push back instead of down."

She demonstrated again.

Now I was practicing trying to push the water back closer to the surface rather than scooping down and around as I'd been taught as a kid.

I'll spare you the details, but by the end of the hour I had been corrected again and again so that I couldn't focus on all of the new forms simultaneously: push back closer to the surface, keep your elbows low, keep your butt up, skim your fingers closer to the water when you take a stroke, rotate your hand so that it's facing forward when you dig back into the water, stretch out your stroke longer and more round so that you're turning a metaphorical wheel... it was all a lot to remember....

I was grateful, though, for the advice; it's actually why I took the class. I knew my stroke sucked and that I needed some coaching. I think it's going to take awhile, though, for the changes to make it to my muscle memory...

And the cat continues to hurl....

2010-04-22T21:05:00.002-04:00

So... we just moved, which means I needed to find a new vet. I approached this challenge the same way I always approach a challenge to find the best of something. I google it. What in the world did we do before the internet?

I have to add that I REALLY liked my old vet; all of them were really laid back and down to earth, but I can't drive 45 minutes to the vet, especially since the cat hurls after approximately 3 minutes in the car. I'm not kidding. It's ridiculous.

So... I googled. I found a vet. I made my decision based on the pictures on the website... well, partly.

I had to take her for an updated vaccination, nothing more. A quick shot.

"Okay... so it's been awhile since she's had a complete exam," the receptionist tells me. "He'll do an exam before administering the vaccination."

I'm thinking... great. That's $50 bucks so he can look in her mouth and ears and tell me she's fine. But I don't say anything. I surmise that maybe they have to cover their asses since I'm - I mean she's - a new patient.

So I go in and meet the vet. He asks me how she's doing. I tell him she's fine and that she has a nasty habit of upchucking pretty often.

He embarks on a long-winded explanation of how evolution hasn't yet caught up with cats' diets. They're biologically still used to feasting on wild mice and other natural wild victims and manmade cat food just doesn't agree with them.

I can understand that, I think, although we humans don't wretch left and right and we have the same evolutionary issue...

He then looks into her mouth, which she despises.

"Ah.." he says with a disappointed look on his face. "Have you looked at her teeth?"

Now why the hell would I open my cat's mouth and look at her teeth?

"Nope," I answer.

"They really need brushing," he admonishes.

For crying out loud, I'm thinking. So how is it that cats haven't yet evolved quickly enough to master man-made food but they sure have evolved at lightning speed to need their teeth brushed by humans. That is ridiculous. At this point I'm thinking these people just see dollar signs when folks walk through the door.

I'm not so sure about this new vet... and my cat's teeth need brushing, apparently. Sucks for her.

Boston bound! (oh, wait... I hafta pee...)

2010-04-21T10:13:00.009-04:00

Being the overachiever I am, as soon as I realized that there was this marathon out there... the Boston marathon... for which one needed to qualify... well, that did it. No one was going to shut me out of a race because I couldn't run 26.2 miles fast enough.

So (never start a sentence with so), those of you who know me (and love me notwithstanding knowing me) or follow my long-lost blog are fully aware that I qualified for Boston last October.

Well, I done it. I done ran Boston. Not well, mind you, not as fast as I could, but part of that was on purpose so I could soak in all the excitement and part of that was due to my strained back, which began sending shooting pains down my legs starting at mile 17 and continuing past the finish. If it weren't for the throngs of yelling spectators I doubt I could have kept running... but on the Boston course... you just can't help it.

Guess who won the Boston? A Kenyan! Shocking! Americans Ryan Hall and Meb K. (an African turned American) were in the hunt but couldn't pull it out, coming in 4th and 5th respectively (although give Hall a break; he ran Boston faster than any other American ever has and the winner blew away the old course record). I think I know why Ryan didn't pull it out, though. Take a look at the photo. Here it is. Look. I'll wait. These are all AP photos, by the way. Just to give credit...

Did you look? What do you notice? Besides the fact that Ryan Hall is white and the others aren't. What else? Look again.

Still don't know? It's the hair. The Africans all have this smooth, aerodynamic doo, but not Hall. His HAIR is what's holding him back, I'm sure of it. He led the race for just about the entire first half, and I'm sure the Africans saved all kinds of energy just streaming behind his wall of hair blocking the wind. The hair just provides too much wind resistance. I'm sure if he had shaved his head he would've had it; I just know it. I'll suggest it to him next time I see him.

All kidding aside, what an awesome course and what awesome fans. Boston is so proud of this marathon, the sporting event 2nd only to the Superbowl in terms of media coverage. The entire race route is lined with people, but not just any people. People all ages, shapes and sizes who are busting their butts as hard as the runners are to encourage the runners... handing out water, beer, jelly beans, wet sponges, orange slices, m&ms, kisses, hugs, and most of all high fives. I think I high-fived every little kid in Boston, and I don't know whom it made happier: me or them.

I experimented with my motivation. Parts of the race I ran in the middle because (as my sister in law knows from having run a marathon with me) I like to stick the center of the road to avoid the slope; I found, however, that I was a lot more juiced running right next to the crowd and high fiving as many as I could.

The highlight of the day for me was the bus ride from the Boston commons out to the suburb of Hopkinton, MA where the race starts. A plethora of buses transport all of the runners from downtown Boston out to Hopkinton, and I found myself on one of them at 6:45 am headed west on a crowded school bus out to Hopkinton on interstate 90. After about an hour on the bus, still on the interstate, the guy in front of me, sporting a Brazil hat and a Brazil shirt and presumably from Brazil (although that's not really important), got up from his seat and crouched mysteriously next to the bus driver. A few minutes later the bus pulled to the side of the road and the Brazilian got out, walked to the edge of the interstate by the woods, and peed. He peed and he peed and he peed and he peed. Then he peed some more. The man had to pee and had to pee badly. Everyone on the bus shared the same conundrum. Do we stare or try to give him privacy? As the poor man jumped back on the bus, he thrust his hands into the air, looked up, and yelled "YES" in triumph. This was a very relieved man (pun intended). The busload of people applauded and whooped and hollered. We were very happy for this man and his empty bladder.

Subject change without transition: On my long runs weekend mornings I sometimes see people wearing the Boston marathon jacket; there's an official Boston marathon running jacket every year (whose design changes). I always stared at the jacket wearer with jealousy. "Ooh. Mr. fast runner. Aren't you cool? Got the boston jacket, huh? Think you're fast, huh?" Now I have mine.

Yeah, the color is kinda icky, but at least the drivers will see me as they look up from texting.

A mailing about a mailing

2010-03-11T20:07:00.004-05:00

The U.S. is in debt up to its ears. Everyone knows that, right? China downright owns us. They've gobbled up every one of the bonds we've sold to make money - like a national yard sale - and they own us. Kathleen Madigan, one of my favorite comediennes, jokes that one day, we Americans will come downstairs on a Saturday morning, all hung over from the previous night, pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, and there will be a family of Chinese properly sitting on our family room couches telling us:

"You go now. We own house."

The point is - we're in debt. There is a rather large deficit.

You'd think the United States government would be scrambling to save money, right? You'd think their marketing budget would be slashed, just like in the corporate world.

"Hey, uh, boss? We need to send out these postcards as direct mail to get people to buy this book..."

"Nope. No money in the budget for a mailing. Figure out another way to sell or we'll cut your position."

The U.S. should be looking for ways to save, right?

Yesterday, we received in the U.S. mail an envelope whose return sender was the U.S. Census Bureau.

"Cool," I thought. We received our census. I'll be a good American and fill it out and return it. I have an affinity for filling out forms (I'm not being facetious; it's one of my flaws. I really like filling out forms. I should work for the government!).

I opened said envelope from the U.S. government. Contrary to my expectations, it wasn't a census.

Know what it said?

It said that, any day now, yessiree Bob, the U.S. government would be mailing us our Census and to look for it.

Did y'all get the same mailing?

We got a mailing informing us about a mailing.

Um. Is there anyone else out there who thinks that could've been one place they could've cut costs?

"Frank, do you have that mailing prepared to inform U.S. citizens about the mailing?"

"Yessir."

"Great. And it will tell U.S. citizens that they'll be receiving mail?"

"Yessir."

"Terrific. And you've got the mailing prepared to go out after the Census? The one that tells people they've just received a mailing?"

"Yessir."

While they're kindly reminding us about stuff, maybe they'll do a mailing reminding us that tax time is coming up...

"Dear U.S. citizens, ahem. As you know, China owns us. We really need your hard-earned cash. Please send it to us as soon as possible, but not after April 15th, or we'll take more of it! HA!"

And how about a letter reminding us about holidays?

"Dear U.S citizens, every year of your life, you have enjoyed Memorial Day - it's around the last Monday in May, we think. So, um. We wanted to remind you about it. We just wanted to say - hey - go out and enjoy yourselves. Have a nice barbeque, play croquet in the yard... just don't forget it's coming up!"

Love,

Uncle Sam

Silly me....

2010-03-03T08:34:00.002-05:00

One of the results of having moved in between monumental record snowstorms is not having TV, telephone, or internet until Verizon can get to us.

There has been a delightful upside to not having television; I've come home recently from errands to find both boys curled up on the couch reading books.

I sat down next to the 13-year-old as he read, pride surging within me, and commented: "golly it's nice to see you two reading books rather than watching tv. Maybe you can keep reading after our tv gets hooked up, huh?"

My 13-year-old gazed at me with an incredulous look. He paused. He then put his hand gently on my shoulder and looked at me with pity.

"Mom," he broke it to me, "I think we both know that's not going to happen."

How to fly to Brazil with style and panache... or... wanna talk? I've got time...

2010-03-01T21:34:00.002-05:00

Sunday night I said adios to the family and set out for the airport for my business trip to Brazil.

It started auspiciously enough, a mere 1 and a half-hour delay on United airlines, nothing I couldn't handle. What the heck? I thought... one more glass of the red wine which was so lacking and yet so needed right after the move from hell.

Indeed, the 10-hour flight from Washington, D.C. to Sao Paolo, Brazil, where my connection was, was going quite well. It had all of the positives going for it: I was pleasantly plied with red wine, I had my Sonata sleeping pills with me, and I had a nice quiet lady who didn't want to talk to me next to me. We briefly figured out, through our common reading materials, that we had sons the same ages, but, both being weary and wise travelers, had that silent telepathic agreement between us to leave each other in peace and quiet without children.

It was perfect....

until we landed in Sao Paolo.

Having landed at 10:30 am, I figured I had plenty of cushion for my layover until my connecting flight at 1:05 pm.

HA!, some little demigod was chuckling.

Like the bright airline passenger I am, I dutifully followed signs to "connecting flights;" I had my baggage ostensibly checked through to my final destination and had my boarding pass for my connecting flight.

The "connecting flights" sign led me and my fellow bright passengers to a maze of lines in immigration. So as not to upset the laws of Murphy, the "Brazil citizens only" line was empty, while the "foreigners" line seemed not to have an end, literally, as people continuously took their places at the end of the ever growing queue.

The line moved relatively quickly, and my passport was stamped without much fanfare. With that line behind me, I moved ahead to discover a new line, this one not moving so quickly. The customs line. A queue of folks lined up to declare nothing. The line painstakingly snaked its way back and forth as bleary-eyed passengers from 2 overnight flights converged in line and struggled against the gravity which dragged their eyelids earthward.

After an hour, I was through customs and immigration and searched for departure signs which would lead me to my connection's gate.

Alas, this was very foolish and silly of me.

Though our luggage was checked through to their final destinations and though we all had boarding passes for our connecting flights, we had to collect our luggage there and re-check it.

Okay, I thought. This isn't uncommon. They make the foreigners do this in Philly when they arrive from international cities. I saw my suitcase right away, recognizable from its bright red color and further distinguishable by the big-ass brightly colored baby rattle-themed ribbon tied to it, grabbed it and figured I was ahead of the game since most folks were still waiting for their luggage.

Instead of quickly being able to re-check it and proceed to the gate as in Philadelphia, though, I was met with unexpected horror as I turned the corner and gazed upon yet another prodigious line at the TAM Airlines check-in. The chaotic line zig-zagged back and forth for what seemed like a mile and protruded from its opening by about 15 people and was still growing. I looked around in desperation, trying to make sure I was supposed to be here. My fellow travelers and I exchanged glances, thinking... "really?" We really have to wait in this line to re-check our luggage? Worse, the line didn't move. At all. No movement.

2 very confused and stressed out female TAM airlines employees in charge through the crowd.

After a few minutes, the crowd began its friendship making.

"Where are you going?" "What time's your flight?" It took us awhile to figure out that we were ALL running late at this point, but desperation hadn't yet kicked in. Every once in awhile one of the desperate looking female TAM airlines employees would stand up on the luggage conveyor belt to be seen over the crowd, pause, and then yell something in Portuguese, unintelligible to most of the travelers who had originated in the ethnocentric United States where no one speaks any other languages but English.

Trying their best to be good diplomats, the few Brazilian teenagers who were stuck in line with us gave us updates every now and then. "Yeah, your flight has been canceled. That sucks."

Further, my international world blackberry wasn't functioning, not allowing me to make phone calls or send or receive emails. I had no way of communicating my delay to my kind customer who was scheduled to pick me up at my destination airport.

Three hours later. Yes. Three hours later, after I had completely read and digested an entire issue of Runners World magazine and my back hurt from standing, I was called to the front. It was my turn! I was elated.

I said to the haggard-looking TAM employee, who couldn't understand a word I said: "Wow. That was the longest I've ever waited in a check-in line." I smiled. I didn't want to be an ugly American. I'm sure she was having a tough day, too. But c'mon, folks, Isn't this routine? We just needed to give them our bags and proceed to the gate, eh? Are there not procedures in place for this sort of event? Doesn't this happen every day? Doesn't anyone in charge sit back, take a look, and think... "hmmm. This is really an asinine process. We should figure out a different way to do this, Bob."

She smiled back and nodded. Handed me a boarding pass for a flight 2 hours later than the flight I had missed.

Oh well, at least I could go find a potty at this point.

Only nope I couldn't. Turns out that the domestic flight on which I was booked 2 hours later than my earlier flight was going to be boarding soon and I was supposed to be at the gate within 5 minutes before they closed the entrance to the gate area (an hour before the flight left).

No food and no potty.

I looked on the bright side, though... I was on a flight out the same day (I got the 2nd to last seat), I had successfully found my gate, and ...

there was one chair left in the waiting area! I pictured myself racing a little old lady to get first dibs on the last remaining seat... but happily no there was no competition.

sometimes one has to be grateful for the little things.

How to move with style and panache

2010-02-28T21:47:00.002-05:00

We did it! We've moved. We're in the new house. I'm unpacked. I thought I'd put together a little guide as to how to move with style, just the way we did. Here we go...

1. Make sure and settle/sell your old house before your new house is ready. This will ensure a period of time during which you are homeless. It helps to have 2 kids, a big German Shepherd, and a cat.

2. While you're homeless, choose to live in a hotel that takes dogs, cats and kids. This way you can all be miserable together, one big happy family. Make sure that, just before you're scheduled to check in to the hotel, the management changes and the suite with the adjoining room that you reserved is not available. This way your 11 1/2-year-old and 13-year old boys will have their own separate room, complete with their own separate room keys of which they need to keep track. The adults also need to keep track of their own keys and the kids' room keys.

3. Ask God for lots of cold weather and snow so that your kids' school gets canceled and they are stuck, without their video games, in the hotel room with you all day long for days at a time.

4. Count down the days you have left in the hotel where you've tried to cook without an oven or your usual seasonings. Crock pots, sautees... be creative. One day before you're supposed to settle on the new house, have the bank providing your mortgage call you and tell you that they're just not ready yet. yeah. Just not ready. When purple smoke starts coming out of your and your husband's ears and you demand to know why, the bank should say: "well, um... one of our underwriters was sick for a couple of days..." Once you get over the denial that you really are not going to settle tomorrow, ask the bank when you might settle. Have the bank reply: "I don't know."

I don't know.

You don't know?

Um. I don't know. sorry, ma'am.

Wait to postpone the moving company, carpet cleaners, cleaning company, Verizon (telephone, tv, and internet) and painters until you know when the settlment will be...

5. Once the bank finally calls you to let you know when the new settlement date will be, re-arrange the dates for the moving company, carpet cleaners, cleaning company, Verizon and painters. Try and squeeze in your previously planned ski trip 3 hours west of you by car.

6. Have settlement take 2 1/2 hours (rather than the usual one) because the bank still has not wired the money the seller needs.

7. Schedule a historic snow storm the afternoon of settlement which dumps an unprecedented 29 inches of snow around your new house and then drive west for the ski trip, thinking they know how to handle snow out in western Maryland. Postpone the movers until after the weekend since one cannot move in during a blizzard. Decide you may as well head out to the ski trip, then.

8. While driving out to the ski trip after settlement, enjoy the white-knuckled experience of no visibility whatsoever on the interstate. Go off road every so often to go around tractor trailers which are stuck going uphill. Make sure there are myriad plows going in the opposite direction, but none in the direction in which you desire to go.

9. Also while driving out to the ski trip, it's great if your wipers keep icing up so that you can't see a damn thing. Every so often, stop where you are (there is no place to pull off without the roads being plowed), make sure no one is coming behind you who can't see you to stop, jump out of the car into the 70-mph 30-degree winds, and try to de-ice the wiper blades. Jump back into the car as quickly as you can when a car is coming behind you. Thank your lucky stars you are bringing the lasagnas, cookies, paper towels and toilet paper to the ski house for the group. These may have to sustain you if you get stuck in the middle of nowhere.

10. As a really fun diversion, have the engine cut out as you're heading downhill on the interstate. Ask the husband to say: "oh my God. I've lost...." He doesn't finish his sentence. "Brakes?!" state. You've lost the brakes?!! "No," have him respond, "I don't have any power." Yes. Have the engine completely cut off. Have the smart husband re-start the engine while you're going downhill and breathe a sigh of relief. Somehow, make your way through non-visibility toward the ski house. Arrive and have several large glasses of cabernet.

11. Get home early from the ski trip to find that the plow you had scheduled to have plowed your new house's driveway for your arrival home not have arrived yet. Call the plow guy to ascertain that, because of the record snowfall, he is not only running way behind, but his equipment is breaking down left or right. He does not know if/when he'll get to you. Arrange that the road on which your new house sits has only one lane plowed so that there is no place for you to park your truck and unload (with your unplowed driveway) except for the street blocking traffic. Spend an hour and half hand shoveling 30 inches of snow off of the end of your driveway just to have a place to park the truck. Shovel a walkway to the house to unload the truck and boys.

12. Arrange for the plow never to come. Make sure the other plows servicing the street don't have time to do your driveway. Call the cavalry (your brother). Have him and your mom bring 2 small snowblowers to try and clear the way for the moving van the next day. Make the snow SO high that the snowblower can't handle it without someone first chopping into the snowdrifts to cut down the height of the snow. Spend 6 hours getting the driveway clear enough for the moving men; make sure you snowblow a walkway to the front door for another 2 hours.

13. The next morning, have the moving company call you to tell you that there is no way they can come that scheduled day. They have to dig out their truck. Pay someone with a front-end loader to widen the street in front your house so that there is a place for the moving truck to sit all the next day without blocking the road.

14. Schedule another blizzard with snow totals approaching 28 inches (the 2nd one in a week) to start the afternoon that the moving van was rescheduled to arrive.

15. Have the moving van get stuck in 3 hours of traffic due to a overturned tractor trailer so that they can't get there early enough to get the entire truck unloaded before the blizzard starts.

16. Make sure the husband is out of town for move-in day and 3 days afterward.

17. It's really a bonus if all of your best furniture and antiques get unloaded last out of the van as the snow has already begun to accumulate and make the walkway into the house and up the stairs extraordinarily slippery.

18. Breathe a sigh of relief that you finally have settled, are in your new house and have your stuff. Get snowed in with 27 more inches of snow and no plow (thank God for your brother who twice snow blows you during the storm).

19. Have Verizon not show up the day they are supposed to show up (moving in day) and then have them not be able to reschedule until 2 weeks after the move (no tv, telephone, or internet access).

20. Make sure the oil supply is drastically low so that you have to turn the heat WAY down to ensure you have enough oil until you can set up an account with the oil company and schedule an oil delivery.

21. After all the aforementioned stresses of moving in, make sure there is no red wine in the house to be found. Start shaking.

22. Swear never ever to move again.

This takes the cake... or White trash baby shower... you choose

2010-01-28T08:59:00.002-05:00

Someone I know knows someone who went to a baby shower recently which featured the above cake. (P.S. the mommy to be is not African American...)

interesting, huh?

comments? bring 'em on....

Diamonds? No. Carrots are the hardest substance on earth

2010-01-26T20:16:00.005-05:00

It's official. The husband, the 13-year-old, the 11-year-old, Sophie the dog and Katie the cat and I are homeless. All together. In one little budget hotel suite. Yup. One big happy family, inclusive of furry members. Here we all are... until the middle of next week.

The move out went surprisingly well; it was quite painless - quite the difference from when we moved in the house out of which we just moved - all by ourselves. This time I started way ahead of time, packed all of our own boxes (weeding out unwanteds along the way), and pulled up a lawn chair as the four hardworking guys evacuated my house of all of our earthly belongings. Well, believe that if you will.

The fourth guy did a great job of emptying our refrigerator, coming back often for sustaining snacks. It was very nice of him to purge the fridge for us. By the end of the 12-hour move out I think it was pretty much free and clear of food.

So.... everything we own is in storage, and here we sit in the hotel. With our furry friends. Just thought I'd make sure you knew that.

The first night here we tried putting Sophie in her crate to make it just like home for her. At 1 am she stirred and barked, thereby waking me up from a deep slumber, a much desired deep slumber after 2 nights of having had very little sleep. I ignored her and she stopped barking, but the stirring... the stirring did not stop. Her long claws scraped the bottom of the crate almost exactly every half hour. In addition to the regular stirring/scraping, there was an odd, irregular noise above me somewhere, unidentifiable yet irregularly irritating.

6:40 am rolled around lickety-split, and dutifully I arose to take the scraper out to go potty. I put her leash on and walked out into the hotel's hallway with her. She broke into a run, nose to the floor, dragging me helplessly along with her. Abruptly she stopped and let the diarrhea flow... right onto the carpet in the middle of the hotel hallway.

No!!! my soul protested. It didn't matter. As quickly as I possibly could, I thrust the Target bag (aka poop scooper) under her rear end to catch as much of the runny matter as possible. I didn't have time to open the bag, just caught as much as I could in a pool on the side of it.

Just like that, she was finished.

Ahhhh, you could see her relief.

I was now in the middle of a hotel hallway, poop (well, the liquid version) in hand and under foot, dog leash (attached to dog) in the other hand.

Now what?

I quickly prayed no one else would venture down the hallway, and I sprinted, with the dog, back to the room. As I cleaned up the mess in the hallway, I realized how intelligent these hotel designers (who foolishly allow pets) were, making the hallway carpets (and the room carpets) the exact color of poop. Go figure.

Past that drama, I thought I'd make it more homey here in our hotel room and make a crock pot lentil soup for tonight. It turned out okay, but I think my hands will be sore tomorrow after trying to chop onions, celery and carrots with the Walmart serrated knife that's in the hotel room drawer- the only knife allotted to us here. I settled for much bigger chunks than usual, and the family would just have to suck it up.

My 11-year-old, home sick from school, observed my challenging task and heard my complaints. He came and stood closer to me, bird-dogging the process (bird-dog, by the way, is a vocabulary word from our new 365-day word-a-day calendar to prepare the kids for SATs someday. It's a verb, oddly enough, and means to watch or observe intently). He remarked, and I quote verbatim, "Mom, that's not a chopping knife."

"Ohhhh. Thanks, buddy. Gosh - I didn't realize. Well... that should solve everything, thanks."

Things I have needed since I packed them into boxes

2010-01-21T10:02:00.002-05:00

1. My capri running tights. Who knew it would get up to the 50s during the end of January?

2. Tequila

3. Margarita salt

I'm sure there will be more.

Thanks... wait, ... what?

2010-01-19T18:50:00.003-05:00

When I got married, I had a deal with the husband that he would fetch his own drycleaning, a deal by which he abides most of the time.

Every so often if he's running late he'll call and ask whether I can pick up his shirts before 7:00 pm since he won't make it.

This happened tonight. Being the perfectly accommodating, wonderful wife that I am, I agreed right away.

"Sure, no problem," I answered.

Our drycleaner, not atypical of many, is owned by a Korean couple; I've not met her husband, but the woman is extraordinarily full of personality.

She didn't recognize me when I walked in, onaccoutubecuza the deal I have with my husband (I just don't go that often).

"Herro," she brightly greeted me.

"Hi there!" I answered just as enthusiastically, as enthusiastically as is possible when one is picking up shirts from the dry cleaners.

"Rast name?" she asked me. I answered.

"Furse name?" she asked me. I answered.

"Oh," she exclaimed, blushing. "Your husband handsome guy! Tall? Dark? That him?"

"Yup," I said, proud of the husband.

"You a rucky girl, you know?"

"I am lucky," I answered.

I told her I had met him when he was 16 years old.

I was flattered.

"Wow," she said thoughtfully, "I guess you have some good qualities to have handsome guy like that, huh?"

"Thanks," I started to say.... wait a minute...

keys + unlocking front door = I hafta pee

2010-01-19T10:48:00.003-05:00

I could be in the middle of a desert, not having had a drop of water to drink for days, and if I suddenly happened upon a house which needed unlocking (I know, pretty impossible that a house in the middle of the desert would be locked), I would suddenly need to pee.

Have you ever noticed this Pavlovian link between unlocking the door and the urge to go?

oy vey.

80s flashback... a man named Russel

2010-01-17T13:06:00.002-05:00

How do you make packing up a house in which you've been for 11 years more fun? With music, of course.

As I was downloading some new songs I had been wanting to get onto my iPod, Down Under by Men At Work was playing- a preview just before it downloaded.

The husband, reading the paper nearby, belted out, all in tune: "buying bread from a man named Russell!!"

I turned around.

What did you say? I questioned

"what?" he nervously answered.

Did you say a man named Russell?

"Yeah; that's what he says."

I burst out laughing.

"It's buying bread from a man in Brussells," I explained.

"No way!" He didn't believe me.

I googled the lyrics. voila.

There are SO many songs whose lyrics I flub, too. Some of them I'll just never know (unless I google the lyrics).

Conversations with the 13-year-old

2010-01-15T15:55:00.002-05:00

The scence: coming home after school

me: "hey, bud. How was your day at school? What's new? What's happenin'? What's goin' down? Tell me all about it!"

13-year-old: "Mom, how much horsepower does this car have?"

me: "I have absolutely no idea."

13-year-old: "what? why?"

me: "I'm a girl. Girls just don't retain that kind of information because they don't care."

13-year-old (quite put out): "That's ridiculous! You're not a girl; you're a woman. And just because you're female doesn't mean you don't know how much horsepower our car has!"

me: "oh, I beg to differ. Ask any girl in your class whether she knows how much horsepower her parents' cars have; then, ask the boys."

13-year-old: "Mom. They won't know if it's not their car!"

I gave up at that point.

So... here's a quick poll. Please tell me 1) are you a man or a woman? and 2) do you know how much horsepower your car has?

A middle school basketball game referee's worst nightmare

2010-01-13T18:38:00.003-05:00

The 13-year-old had an away basketball game today.

It started out well enough, a very low-scoring game; at halftime I believe it was a whopping 7 to 5.

In the 4th quarter, though, things got heated. The score was tied. The teams were trading the lead.

All of this could only mean one thing:

emotional parental overinvolvement from the stands.

As the boys played their hearts out, the boys gave it everything they had... and so did their dads.

"What do you mean, out on blue. It was CLEARLY out on red!!"

"Are you kidding me? How is that not a TECHNICAL?!!"

"Seriously? His foot was a foot behind the 3-point line!!"

The ref kept his composure, didn't miss a beat.

During a time-out the ref casually wandered over to the stands. He gave a friendly, sideways glance to the vocal Dads and remarked, quite casually: "hey, guys. Quite a fan base here. I appreciate the help."

Everyone burst out laughing. And that was that.

Could there have been any better way to approach the situation, I ask you?

Florida, land of freezing (well, below freezing) marathons

2010-01-12T08:30:00.003-05:00

Presumably Disney starts its popular beginning-of-the-year marathon, likely run by myriad folks honoring New Year's resolutions about which they'll soon forget, at 5:40 am because of the usual heat in Florida this time of year.

Yeah. ... Cue heat? ........... Hello? Okay, okay. Forget heat. How about just warmth? ............... anything?

This year the first wave of the marathon again began at 5:40, though at the time of the early start it was 29 degrees with winds of 12 to 15 miles per hour. All week long Florida has been experiencing record lows, with lizards falling out of trees as their bodies simply shut down from the cold (I swear I am not making that up. It was on the local Orlando news) and turtles being rescued from the lagoons, whose water has become too cold to sustain their lives. I didn't hear anything about snake rescues, thank goodness. Let 'em die, I say. Useless maniacal creatures...

Months ago when my company picked Orlando as the sight of our sales meeting I thought hey! While I'm down there there's a marathon. I should run the marathon, I brilliantly deduced, since I'm already down there!

Little did I know it would be colder in FLORIDA than it was in Massachusetts for my last marathon in October.

I considered throwing in the towel, being a wuss, and skipping this one, but then I pulled myself together and reminded myself that I’m a marathoner. We deal. We suck it up and run. We're the idiots who actually listen when Nike says Just Do It.

The alarm went off at 3:30 am so that I could get up and out to check my bag by the required time of 4:30 am. (Really, Disney? 4:30?) When I arrived late in the bag check tent there were plenty of other late runners checking gear, so I breathed a little sigh of relief that I could still check my warm sweatshirt to replace my wet running tops at the finish. Like an experienced marathoner, I had already expertly safety pinned my bag check tag to my bag to identify it readily; however, the bag check volunteer took a look at it and frowned. “Um, can you take that off?” she politely asked. “We need to secure it with these white ties.” I thought that was a bit anal retentive, but hey... any way that I can get a warm sweatshirt while I'm soaking wet in 30-degree temperatures works for me. The rules said any checked gear/baggage must be in the drawstring bag that Disney provided at the Expo; there was nothing about attaching your ID number to it in the most proper way possible. Heck, when the 13-year-old and I volunteered at the half marathon bag check at the Baltimore marathon, people threw cell phones at us with a tag wrapped around it as they huffed to the start in a panic. One person gave us his keys, no ID. I'm like, hey buddy. You're gonna want at least a tag around them, huh? I can just imagine the scorn those folks would feel from the Disney marathon volunteers/employees in the land of the organized, anal retention (actually I would probably fit right in).

It was then time to schlep the 20-minute walk in the dark to the starting corrals. Unfortunately, though, the race wasn't due to start for another hour and ten minutes, so I took my time, figuring as long as I kept moving maybe I wouldn't notice the 15-mph 29-degree wind in my face. The conversation buzz among runners making their way to the start line, very pied piper-esque, was, without exception, about how freaking cold it was. Every few feet there were energetic Disney volunteers or employees directing runners toward the starting area. “We’re trying out a new concept,” one sprightly Disney employee said to us as we passed, “the Disney Freeze – what do you think?” It was universally agreed among those of us who passed that the Disney Freeze idea sucked.

The journey to the start area was well lit using generators, and, as I passed said generators, I noticed groups of runners congregated around them. At first I thought it was to enjoy or utilize the light; I soon discovered that the generators were throwing off some delightfully hot air as an added bonus to their lighting capabilities. I sauntered over to a generator surrounded by about 5 runners and asked whether I could join the group. “Sure!” exclaimed my fellow marathoner, “share our warm dirty air!” During the time I stayed around the generator sucking in the delightfully dirty hot air, about 25 minutes, we all compared notes on how many marathons we had run and where we hailed from. “I came from Canada, and it’s the same temperature here that it was there,” he lamented. Another told me that yesterday’s temperature in Denver was warmer than the Orlando’s. heh heh. funny.

One of the things that a marathoner treasures about running the distance is the camaraderie of your fellow nuts who are out here running 26.2 miles with you. There are always characters certain to entertain, whether by chatting or by clothing. Notwithstanding the 29-degree dark morning, there were folks in short-sleeved shirts and shirts; there were Elvises, there were men in kilts. There was also a runner I’ll call Happy Charlie, who cracked jokes for quite a few miles, telling us “I’ll be here all day, folks.” I actually wanted to take him out.

I think the thing that most amused me was the kid-like exuberance with which the runners ran up to have their pictures taken with the Disney characters along the marathon route. “Oh, HOOK!” one 45-year-old cried excitedly; he ran over, put an arm around his idol and had his picture taken, a silly grin from ear to ear.

All in all, the Disney marathon didn’t disappoint. Experts at crowd control, their management of the marathon proved no exception. Water, Powerade, and other snacks were animatedly offered, announcers and DJs who had clearly had too much caffeine energized runners, the finish line activities were well organized, and the employees and volunteers were extremely helpful and friendly, regardless of their frozen fingers.

I finished in the time I thought I would (just a slow training marathon for fun for me), found my warm sweatshirt, and got out alive.

Later that day I flew home. When I arrived at the Philly airport and made my way onto the frozen jetway I said: "ah. Feels like Florida."

I'm going to hurl and, uh, you'll get the bill, won't you?

2010-01-05T00:12:00.006-05:00

Notice I am writing this in a brown font. To match my thoughts of hurling.

I'll back up.

As I mentioned yesterday (actually earlier this morning), I've not been running as frequently because it is just RIDICULOUSLY cold and windy (I can do a wind chill of 17, I can... but not for days at a time. It gets old). I am ready for spring. Ahem. I said:

"I am ready for spring!!"

Darnit. Still nothing. I've got to start going to church. I just have absolutely no influence.

Anyway, I flew down to ~~sunny, warm~~ Florida this morning, where it is in the 40s/50s during the day and 30s at night, for our company sales meeting. Upon my arrival at the hotel, I ran into a customer from Brazil and made dinner plans with her for later in the evening.

I had time after my flight arrived to squeeze in 13 miles, which ideally should have been 24 miles yesterday in preparation for Sunday's Disney marathon, which I'm squeezing in while I'm down here for the sales meeting. Why not? I figured. I'm here, the marathon's here,... what the heck?

I was sluggish and crampy (I NEVER have running cramps) and had to stop a few times while running the 13 miles. I felt like crap, which I attributed to my having gone a few days here and there without running.

I got back to the hotel, stretched, showered, and called my customer to meet.

Then it hit me.

Nausea. Sweats. Ugh.

Usually I need to eat within a 1/2 hour to an hour after a long run to prevent nausea (your body needs to refuel asap), but 13 miles isn't usually long enough to give me this issue.

duh, funny runner. I hadn't eaten anything since before my flight this morning (and that was an omelet with spinach and broccoli and ham and only a few measley home fries as carbs). 10 hours since my last meal + 13-mile run = bimbo. Not only did I not eat anything immediately after my run (no mini bar in the room. wtf?), but it had been 10 hours since I had eaten anything at all.

I would now pay for my utter stupidity.

(insert sardonic laugh here).

I sucked it up and told myself that, as soon as I ate something, I would feel infinitely better.

I took the elevator downstairs, walked over to the sushi bar where I was supposed to meet my customer, and found some other colleagues. As I started to speak to them, it hit me.

A horrible wave of nausea. Boom. Just like that.

I discovered that the sushi bar was just a bar bar now and that the sushi was now in the restaurant about 200 feet from where I was standing. Two problems.

1. I could not stand up much longer, smiling and chatting with my colleagues, let alone entertain the thought of walking 200 more feet before I was able to collapse into a chair.

2. I was breaking out in a sweat and feeling more and more like hurling while trying to smile.

I hastily asked my coworkers if they could direct my customer where I would be waiting in the restaurant, hopefully sitting down with a gingerale and not puking under the table.

Pull yourself together, funny runner. This is your biggest customer. You did this to yourself, so suck it up and be a big girl.

I got to the restaurant. The hostess, who looked like she was about 10, seemed alarmed at the rate at which I needed to sit down. She intelligently didn't mess with me.

I actually felt much better after I sat down. My customer found me and sat down with me.

I ordered a gingerale. This might be okay now...

And then I didn't feel so much better again.

I confessed my bimbo chain of events and their effects on my stomach and sweat glands. She was very understanding and rode the waiter to get the food out there asap while I got greener. I felt better, and then worse.

This was just not good. I felt so rude.

The sushi finally came and I ate a couple of pieces, hoping it would go directly to my blood stream and perform a miracle in allowing me to continue to have a discussioon with my poor customer that wasn't centered around whether I thought I was going to need a trash can now or in a few minutes....

It worked for a few minutes, if only in my head, and then I needed a bathroom.

I needed a bathroom RIGHT THEN AT THAT VERY MOMENT.

I excused myself as politely and apologetically as I possibly could and got to my room as quickly as humanly possible, where I did indeed visit the bathroom and then collapsed in shame and embarrassment. Not only did I leave my customer stranded in the middle of the hotel restaurant, it hit me when I got back to my room that I stuck her with the bill!!

oy.

So let this be a lesson to y'all: If you're going to completely neglect your nourishment before, during, and after a long run, stick someone you don't like with the bill.

Resolution, schmesolution

2010-01-04T10:12:00.004-05:00

2010? Really?

Tap tap. Hello? Anyone there? I think this is my long lost blog...?

Okay, okay. Life has been a bit busy. Things like job and kids getting in the way of my blogging habit. annoying.

On the radio this morning they were chatting about New Year's resolutions... specifically resolutions for other people. i.e.... I resolve that my kids stop fighting... etc.

It got me thinking... I didn't resolve anything this year. I really don't have any New Year's resolutions. I'm good the way I am, really. heh heh. I did skip a few days of running because it's so flippin' cold out there (and windy... it's the wind that gets me), and I do feel guilty about that... but on the other hand it's good to take a break now and then.

A recap of what's been keeping me away from blogging? A whirlwhind fall/early winter....

1- the 13-year-old's high school applications are in, done. Entrance exams taken. done. Now we wait. And prayers won't hurt.

2- House is sold! yahoo! To people who LOVE our house, which gives me the warm fuzzy feeling in my heart which almost mitigates the low price we accepted. But then none of our houses is worth what they were a couple of years ago... and that's just the way it is. Suck it up.

3- More job responsibility- good in this economy, right? And stuff I enjoy doing...

So that's why I've been away.

There have been lots of bloggable moments throughout my last couple of months....most of which I've forgotten. I do remember saying to the 11-year-old just before thanksgiving: "gee, bud. You didn't give me your usual Christmas list in July, huh? Or did you give it to me and I've lost it?"

"Nah, he said," quite maturely, "I didn't do one this year. I decided to let you get me what you want." Then he gave it some deep thought; I could see the cogs turning. "Actually," he mused, "what I should do is give you a list of what NOT to give me."

I sputtered my coffee. "Excuse me?" I defended, "like what?"

"Like puzzles. You always give me puzzles and I'm just not into them anymore."

"I see," I said. "You shall get no puzzles this year, then." Coal, I thought. Lots of coal.

Most of all, what I want to say today, though, from the bottom of my heart, is...

I know there is a God because my two boys are back in school today.

There. I said it. And I'm not ashamed.

The environment in our household over Christmas break closely approximated the allied forces versus WWII Germany, the two boys literally screaming at, kicking, and punching each other. Okay, well, one of them did most of the screaming. I won't...11-year-old... mention any names. Somewhere, not so long ago, in my literature of parenting tutelage, I had read that parents should give their kids the opportunity to solve their own spats as long as it didn't get physical. Whoever wrote that particle of wisdom obviously didn't have boys. It always gets physical with boys.

Each day of vacation was the same. I enjoyed the peace and quiet in the household until around 10 am. Then, the boys got up. Inevitably, one would look at the other the wrong way, an offense punishable by lifelong hatred and disgust. Next, it would lead to blows, which led to mom's intervention. Mom's intervention consisted of sending both up to their rooms, notwithstanding the main offender or who was at fault, both of which are impossible to establish (as any fellow good parent knows).

I'm really proud of myself for waiting untiul 5 pm each day to start drinking.

Anyway, that is in my past now. The urchins are in school again, hopefully getting enough homework to last them until bedtime so that they are unable to interact with each other and have no free will whatsoever.

I do resolve to blog a bit more, publish more articles for Examiner.com, and call my grandmother more. Our household items, except for the everyday things, are mostly in sealed boxes throughout the house now, ready for our move toward the end of January. It's just a matter of time before I discover I need something from one of them.

At the end of January, we will be homeless for awhile, so I will have lots of blog material.

Happy New Year, friends.

The queen naps...

2009-12-05T22:15:00.001-05:00

And when you've finished cleaning out my litterbox, give me some fresh new food and rinse out my water bowl... I need some more sleep...

Flying is funny, and Chicago needs porta pots

2009-12-02T16:37:00.003-05:00

Right after a long road trip home from Thanksgiving in Atlanta (everyone else on I-95 left at the same time as we did, apparently), I left the next morning for a business trip to Chicago on United Airlines, whose hub is Chicago O'Hare. That's not necessarily important, but someday you might get that on a trivia question or something, so I'm just trying to educate here...

chapter 1. After 12 1/2 hours in the car with 5 other family members the previous day (no offense to any of y'all), the very last thing I wanted to do on my flight was chat incessantly (or really at all) with the person next to me. I sat down on the plane the next morning, strapped in to my window seat, and took out a book (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo), clue # 1 that I am not interested in chatting.

Friendly but apparently blind and/or stupid, the guy next to me chuckled: "guess I'm the guy in the middle," as if it were a title or something. I think he wanted me to switch with him, which was not going to happen in a million, gadzillion years. nfw, buddy.

I am not apt to be rude, so I answered as concisely as I could: "yeah. sucks." I said it in a nice way. I did.

Hint not taken. He launched into his life story. I wasn't interested. I nodded my head courteously and kept my head pointed toward my book.

Finally, I said: "well, I'm gonna get back to my book," which prompted him to ask me ABOUT the book I was reading and ALL of the books I've ever read in my life. For crying out loud, buddy. Bring something to entertain yourself next time. I don't care what it is. But I am not your entertainment. capiche? I finally had to close my eyes and take a short nap to shut him up. Thank goodness it's only an hour and a half flight.

Chapter 2 - in which I run (among myriad other runners and cyclers) 11 miles along the lake front on a bucolic morning at 6 am, lake on one side of me, perfectly beautiful blue sky as the sun is rising, and gorgeous Chicago skyline on the other side. ahhhh. These are the days that make me love running and being a runner. If only there had been a porta potty, it would have been perfection. Luckily, um, there was a bird sanctuary which offered some cover.

Chapter 3 - We saw The Blind Side over Turkey Day break, and it was fabulous. My 11-year-old sat up in the front of the theatre away from the rest of us (don't ask). I have a little habit of laughing out loud at a pretty high volume in movie theaters (and everywhere... thus the title of my blog, partially) and a little longer than everyone else. At the end of the movie, when we reconvened with the 11-year-old, he said: "Mom, I heard you laughing really loudly...and I thought to myself, 'that's my mom...' "

I told you that story to make this story more meaningful.

So I'm on my United airlines flight home. As everyone was boarding, the head flight attendant did a "destination check," the humorous perspective of which I have heard before.

"Folks," he explained, "this is a flight to the land of pleasant living, which is Baltimore, Maryland. If that's not where you're going, you have a problem. Look around, grab your belongings and anyone who's with you and see if you can figure out where you're going."

I had heard a similar version of this before, so I was mildly amused - but then he kept going.

"People," he continued, "turn and look over your shoulder as you are, no doubt, trying to fit the oversized bag you refused to check into the overhead bin. You'll notice that, almost assuredly, there are people behind you. Waiting for you. If you could kindly step into the row and let those people pass so that they could, in turn, block other people, we would very much appreciate it."

Well that did it for me. I busted out laughing pretty loudly and noticed that no one else was. What a bunch of dorks. It was funny, people...

As we were coming in for a landing I also loved the variation in his spiel: "Thanks for flying the friendly skies with us," he said. "We realize you have your choice of financially-strapped airlines, and we're glad you chose United."

I need to fly United more often.

Hello...McFly

2009-11-24T08:28:00.005-05:00

Okay... so remember the list of cookware/bakeware items my 13-year-old was supposed to bring to school to make quickbreads with the other 8th graders?

Here it is again:

two 10”-12” mixing bowls

one set of measuring spoons

one fork

one set of dry measuring cups

one liquid measuring cup

one rubber spatula

one mixing spoon

I learned in a subsequent email from the teacher that the kids, who are baking in teams of two, could divide up the necessities between them. I was glad I wasn't going to have to label all that stuff... I mean think about it - labeling every measuring spoon and every dry measuring cup ... and not being able to get the darn masking tape off of the bottom of anything. I relaxed a bit, foolishly basking in the knowledge that our duty would be cut in half.

You see the foreshadowing here once again, don't you?

Last night as we were preparing the items to accompany him to school, I brightly mentioned: "oh - hey, buddy. Your teacher said that you could divide the items between the two of you; did you do that?"

"Oh yeah," he answers, my little McFly, "yeah we did."

"Whew," I sighed with relief. "How did you split it up?"

"I agreed to bring the first 4 items and she agreed to bring the last 3."

My first thought was: "Great; that's really fair..." and then my slight irritation increased as I gazed upon the list while juxtaposing the first 4 items on the list with the last 3. Go ahead and peruse the list again yourself.

No, really. Go ahead. I'll wait.

k. See what I mean?

Essentially my son is bringing everything while the chick brings 2 spoons and a cup.

I'm frustrated now because he didn't think this through, and this means my having to send him in with not one, but TWO large, heavy good mixing bowls... not one, but FIVE separate dry measuring cups, each with its own permanently affixed label to mitigate the urchins' "little to no recall [of whose items are whose] when it comes to which cooking utensils they took out of their bags less than an hour before," individually labeled measuring spoons (again - FIVE of them), and .. oh... a fork.

She's bringing 2 spoons and a cup.

I kept shaking my head, not really believing he hadn't noticed this disparity.

"Bud," I asked, "did you not LOOK at the list? Do you think it makes sense how you divided it?"

"um, nope," he answered. "I just knew there were 7 things on a list."

I smacked myself in the forehead and managed to calm myself down while tediously labeling 13 items.

Then... as we pulled up to school this morning for him and his brother to hop out, he whined: "how am I going to carry all of this stuff in?" - the stuff being his heavy backpack, an extra large binder and folder, his lunchbox, AND 2 large mixing bowls, 5 dry measuring cups, 5 measuring spoons and a fork.

I couldn't restrain the feelings which were lying dormant.

"Well gee, I dunno, buddy! Maybe you should have looked at the list before you decided to bring most of it!"

There was no way I was parking the car (I would be lynched for stopping where I was in the drop-off line and walking all the way to the middle school with him and back) and walking him in on a morning when I had no make-up (not a big deal, really, that one), my hair in a ponytail (again - part of my regular look), my pink, green and blue pajama bottoms, my non-matching hot pink slipper socks puffed into my heelless sneakers, my long-sleeved non-matching maroon Bay State marathon Tshirt (my favorite item of clothing now since I qualifed for the Boston marathon there... I never take it off), and here's the best: a hot pink (but different shade of hot pink than my slipper socks) scarf hanging around my neck. Wait. For you to really get it (split infinitive, I know) I'd better take a picture....

See? He was on his own schlepping all of that stuff in to school.

argh.

Your kids are mentally challenged...

2009-11-16T19:12:00.004-05:00

This memo I just received from the 13-year-old's teacher had me laughing out loud, so it's blog worthy. Here goes. Pay special attention to the part in red. llol.

To: All 8th Graders and 8th Grade Parents

From: witty Head of the Middle school and erudite librarian (these names have been changed :)

Re: 8th Grade Thanksgiving Baking Tradition

On Tuesday, November 24, the 8th Grade will bake loaves of quick bread during their first two periods. The breads will be donated to a local charity.

The class has been divided into teams of two (or three, in one case) students. Each team will need to bring in the following:

two 10”-12” mixing bowls
one set of measuring spoons
one fork
one set of dry measuring cups
one liquid measuring cup
one rubber spatula
one mixing spoon

Bitter experience has taught us that, despite our 8th Graders being bright, visually perceptive, and generally knowledgeable about their own possessions, they have little to no recall when it comes to which cooking utensils they took out of their bags less than an hour before. So please LABEL the items you send with your child in such a way that the label will remain evident after washing.

I have also enclosed the baking pairs list so that your child can work out with his or her partner who is bringing what.

We will buy all the ingredients; all you have to do is send in the requested equipment.

Thanks in advance for your support.

Only evil people write checks at the grocery store

2009-11-13T15:15:00.005-05:00

Early this morning after I ~~drop kicked the boys~~ sadly said goodbye to the boys as I dropped them off at school, I went to my local Safeway for, literally, one item. Our house is on the market (anyone want a house?), we had a walk-through scheduled for late this morning, and I like to have fresh flowers in a vase on the kitchen island for walk-throughs.

I procured a lovely bouquet of alstroemeria, Gerber daisies and Asters and proceeded to the checkout line.

I like my local Safeway because it is a mile from my house and I know its contents and their whereabouts like the back of my hand. In and out.

What I don't like about Safeway is that there are never enough cashiers, but I give them a break and don't complain (much) because I know the economy is tough and they need to pinch pennies.

I mosied up to the only line open (I could mosy because there wasn't any competition approaching the checkout area at the same time as I was), an express lane for 15 items or fewer which contained a woman with a plethora of items, I'd estimate 50. (See the link in that last marathon sentence to learn grocery store line strategy).

I know what you're thinking... but no. I wasn't irritated at the lady, because it wasn't her fault. Safeway only had that one lane open at that early hour, and I have been that lady with the 50 items needing to check out when the only lane open is an express lane. I felt her pain, I did.

I employed a different strategy. I conspicuously kept checking all around me within view of the cashier and the store manager. Getting the hint, the cashier said: "is there someone behind you?" to which I truthfully responded: "uh huh." My strategy worked; she got on the intercom and called for help with the cashier lanes. I'm brilliant, I know.

Well, Linda from produce took her sweet time getting to the lane which she was to open, and I played the game we all play when relief is coming to the cashier lanes: I tried to figure out which was it was going to be so I could dart over there, what with my being next in line. In the meantime, a harried looking woman took her spot at the end of our line, now 5 people long.

You can see the foreshadowing, can't you?

When Linda took her spot in aisle 5 and flipped on her light, the harried looking woman, last in line, darted over to the newly opened register. I walked over and planted myself behind her and bit my bottom lip hard. If she didn't have so few items and it didn't look as if she were going to make something specific with them (I think maybe it was a blueberry cheesecake? - which I imagined would be for some housebound old woman somewhere), I would have said: "excuse me, but I was before you, ma'am," in my nicest, sweetest, most diplomatic voice possible (yes, husband, it does exist).

Like I said, I held my tongue. I am going to heaven for sure.

My lip started bleeding as this woman, when her few items had been tallied and bagged by sprightly (not) Linda, proceeded to dig into her pocketbook. She couldn't possibly have begun digging into her purse while Linda was bagging and tallying, could she have!? THAT would have made sense and been efficient, especially by someone who was in such a hurry that she had to cut in front of the entire line...

As blood started running down my chin from my lower lip and my blood pressure began to rise, she finally pulled out her checkbook. People, if you still write checks in the grocery store, know that you are living in the age of dinosaurs. They take credit cards, folks. They take debit cards. It's all electronic these days, people. Get with the millenium.

Because this woman was in such a hurry that she had rudely to cut in front of everyone, she had already written out her signature and the signatory and was just waiting for Linda to give her a total, right? NO! She hadn't even pulled the checkbook out of her 80s purse!

[Insert sound effect: a distant scream, as if from a mountaintop, starting out as a piercing, loud scream and then ever so slowly fading....]

The woman took 10 minutes to fill out the check and hand it to Linda, whom I think had finished filing her nails by now. There ensued some controversy as to the exact amount of money Linda wanted to receive as change from having written above the amount she needed to pay for her flippin' blueberry cheesecake ingredients!

Why, oh why, oh why do people cut in front of you only to be so flippin' slow?

When the evil, check-writing woman was finally gone and I had purchased my flower bouquet (in a matter of 30 seconds; I actually timed myself and my quick credit card transaction), I had blood dripping down from my lip (oh LORD I wanted to say something to her or to the cashier after she had gone) and I decided I had burned enough calories in anxiety to skip my training run today (not).

Ah. I feel better now. Thanks for listening.

Surprise! Surprise again!

2009-11-12T21:49:00.005-05:00

It has KILLED me not to blog about such a blogworthy subject, but I finally can now.

Get this: one of my best friends and her husband both turned the big FOUR OH this fall, and they each planned a surprise party for the other. How funny is that?

The whole plan was quite convoluted; I avoided talking to her just so I didn't mess anything up.

His surprise party came first; as everyone had gathered in their home, waiting for him to arrive, she depravedly made the rounds, proclaiming for all to hear: "he hasn't even SHOWERED today. ha ha!"

We just all nodded to ourselves and thought, knowing her turn would come in a couple of weeks. "Ha. You just wait."

Sure enough, last weekend, as she thought she was coming to listen to a band, she ended up entering a room of friends and family and a canine, some of whom had traveled 500 miles to attend.

YOWZA!

That pooch? One of her surprise presents. This makes her FOURTH dog. (They also have 3 cats, 2 horses and 2 goats). Did I mentioned she's depraved? I love her anyway.

Her party fell on the same day as the husband's and my 16th anniversary, so we were grateful for the party...

There they are, the two 40-year-olds, each the surpriser and the surprisee in turn.

Things got a little crazy when the band played Sweet Home Alabama (3 times)

You can dress her up, but, well....

Happy Birthday, friends!

Nonverbal communication

2009-11-10T09:56:00.002-05:00

Without even muttering a "woof," Sophie has made it quite clear what she thinks of being left in her crate during the day.

But she's really cute, isn't she?

I am a good mom

2009-11-04T14:23:00.002-05:00

There are exactly 3 chocolate chip cookies left, and the TWO boys get home from school in a half hour.

I think I need to eat one of them so that they're not fighting over who gets the extra, yes? (Fractions, smactions)

God I'm a good mom...

Costumes of kids whose parents have waaaay too much time on their hands...

2009-10-30T22:13:00.007-04:00

The boys' school hosts a ~~cut-throat, ultra-competitive~~ fun Halloween parade each year. Each of the grades parades around the gym exactly two times while they are judged by unbiased administrators, and the winners in each grade are awarded.... a candy bar. This event is extremely well attended by parents who want to ~~get a jump on next year's competition~~ see their cute little ones parade around the gym. This year's parade offered no exception, perfectly exemplifying that some kids' parents have just way too much time on their hands.

Take a look...

Ya can't buy that in a store, can you?

Look - an entire Peter Pan cast + boat

check out the spookey homemade haunted houses

and the parrot....

It's a Maryland crab theme...complete with a mallet and Old Bay seasoning

For this one I took a video - this is a "costume" of the poor teacher who patrols traffic in the morning as parents are dropping their kids off at school and again in the afternoon when parents return to pick up their kids. Cell phones are strictly prohibited....

And then there are my parental-creativity-deprived kids...

(Obama)

and... um.... ?

These 2 just cracked me up....

that's a boy in those red high-heeled boots.

Happy Halloween, all! ;)

Tardiness and Bleachers

2009-10-29T11:11:00.006-04:00

Today I have, up for discussion, two completely unrelated items. Let's begin.

1. I don't know why it's taken me 22 years to figure this out (current age - 16 = # of years driving), but I'm a genius. Folks, ever been in your car on the way to a destination, and you're late? When you're late, you hit EVERY RED LIGHT, n'est-ce pas? Of course this has happened to you!

Now... same setting. In your car. But not late. Wanting to reply to an email on your iPhone or Blackberry or need some lipstick at the next red light. Can't get a red light to save your life, can you?

Duh... what a simple solution! The next time you're running late in your car and getting stopped frequently at red lights, simply start fumbling through your purse for a tube of lipstick to apply or start typing a reply to an email or text message during the red light. voila! No more red light. God I'm smart. Problem solved.

2. Yesterday I went to the 13-year-old's final soccer game (which they won, making their record for the year 8-0!). The game was an away game, which meant I had to schlep across town 45 minutes to an unfamiliar school's campus. I've brought Sophie to all of the home and away soccer games, because (a) generally there is an abundance of open space and grass at suburban middle school soccer fields (b) it's good for her to be social - she's extremely friendly and all the kids love her and (c) if I leave her home she eats the house. yeah. chews on the moulding. Not a good thing when one is trying to sell one's house, or really at any other time. Makes for a grumpy husband, to say the least. We now leave her in her crate if we can't take her with us during the day, and I hate to think of her cooped up for hours in a crate.

Anyway, when I arrived at the away game middle school, I noticed a distinct dearth of open space and greenery. This school had really impressive, high-rising metal bleachers towering over the soccer field instead. Sophie has no problem with stairs, so I toted her along and sat down with her in the bleachers among my fellow soccer moms and dads (of whom there was an increased presence because of its having been the last game).

Now - the above picture is not Sophie, which is fairly obvious because the owner of the pictured dog had the common sense to have the dog on a leash, while Sophie's mom does not, often.

Like the perfect dog she is (except for eating the house), Sophie snoozed on the floor of the bleachers next to me almost the entire game. She rose once to greet the husband when he arrived, then plopped back down. She did rearrange herself periodically, which prompted me to remove her leash to make it easier for her.

In the last 10 minutes or so of the game, she stood up and just casually began walking laterally down the aisle a bit. I got up to guide her back toward me but couldn't really figure out how to turn her around without (a) picking her up and turning her around (b) leading her all the way up to the top of the bleachers and back down or (c) leading her down one step to turn around and then ostensibly back up in the other direction.

I chose C.

Can you hear the loud buzzer?

As I tried to lead her down one step, she slipped, thereby causing her claws to scrape loudly against the metal bleachers, thus freaking her out completely. She went into full panic mode, scrambling on the metal bleachers, her claws deafeningly loud against the bleachers, which only made matters worse. She wanted OFF of the bleachers (from 3/4 of the way up to the top) and she wanted off NOW. I tried to contain her, but a fully panicked, full grown German Shepherd determined to leave the immediate vicinity is not easy to contain. I grabbed her, picked her up and held her as tightly as I could against my body on the bleachers as best as I could. She was violently, visibly shaking from head to toe in fear of the evil bleachers.

"Oh my gosh," the folks in the crowd (90% of whom I knew well) observed, "look at the dog shaking! "

"What a scaredy German Shepherd."

"Poor thing."

The husband, noticing the commotion, asked as I tried desperately to keep her from bolting, while half perched on a bleacher stair, teetering back and forth with her weight: "hey - do you want me to come get her?"

well, yeah.

The knight in shining armor swooped down, picked up the frenzied, hysterical, 65-pound German Shepherd, and carried her to the safety of the flat cement above. She was exhausted. She lay down immediately and cowered in the comfort of the flat non-metal land. I was horribly embarrassed.

When all had settled down and the focus had returned to the soccer game, one of my friends chided: "hey - nice hearts," which referred to my underwear which, unbeknownst to me at the time, so tactfully stuck out of my low-rise jeans while I was holding the horrified dog.

I had to wear the underwear with the hearts.

Just to preserve her canine dignity, here she is captured on video being quite ferocious. I think there's a cat passing by in the front yard or something...

Thanks.... wait a minute...

2009-10-28T13:55:00.003-04:00

I just received this email from one of the Indonesian customers with whom I met at the Frankfurt Book Fair in Germany recently:

"Dear funnyrunner,

Thank you for your email of 23rd October 2009 regarding the result of the meeting with you during last Frankfurt Book Fair. It is always nice to see you once a year..."

I guess they can't take much more of me...

Boys will be, well... boys

2009-10-27T08:10:00.004-04:00

The high school applications process continues, folks.

Last weekend, the husband, the 2 boys and I schlepped to 3 high school Open Houses (one after the other after the other), dog and pony shows wherein one is ushered around the high school campus and filled with information from its administrators, student guides, and parent volunteers about all things good about the school .

I think I was more tired at the end of the day than I was after a marathon.

At one particular Catholic school, the student guide led us into the school's beautiful, college-esqe library, where we were enthusiastically greeted by two parent volunteers - moms of current students. While our sophomore student guide proceeded with my son, the husband and I got waylaid into a conversation with these two moms about laptops in the library.

"They don't allow the students to use laptops in the library during free time," one mom explained.

The other mom chimed in: "Yeah. You know... they're adolescent boys. You just don't know what they'll be up to on the internet."

The husband and I nodded, thanked the parent volunteers, and walked a few steps from the two women. When we were far enough away, we muttered in stereo without even a glance toward each other: "porn."

I DID IT !!!!

2009-10-18T18:21:00.002-04:00

I did it I did it I did it I did it!!!!

I did it, y'all!!!

I qualifed for the Boston marathon! My time was 3:41 (previous personal best was 3:50) and I needed a 3:45!!!

WAHOO!!!

A day and a half after flying home from a business trip to Germany, on a morning which was rainy, windy, and cold, I qualified!

If you need to get a hold of me I shall be on cloud 9 for awhile.

Big thanks to the husband who, notwithstanding his personal loathing of running in general and aversion to being outside on cold, rainy days, he met me at mile 23 and ran with me to the finish. (awwwww). Thanks to my brother and sister in law, too, who diverted their normal travel plans to come stand in the rain and cheer me on through miles 3 and 13. Thanks to the 13-year-old who could have stayed home with his grandparents but came to watch his mom. sniff sniff.

funny blog today, huh? more tomorrow on the funny parts of the marathon....

Tomorrow's marathon forecast...

2009-10-17T14:10:00.001-04:00

Snow and high winds at the start (38 degrees)... turning into monsoon-like winds and driving rain.

Sounds fun, huh?

What a great marathon day I've chosen for my Boston qualification attempt!

Latka is our carpet cleaner

2009-10-12T09:45:00.004-04:00

(Note to the reader. Today's post was constructed inbetween projects and tasks readying our house to go on the market. As the writer is OCD and anal retentive [can I - I mean one- be both?] about completing tasks/projects she has begun, the writer would like lots of pats on the back for pausing from her house-cleaning-out frenzy to write about Latka. Thanks.)

We found the perfect carpet cleaner way back when we first moved into our house 11 years ago. Okay...well the carpets weren't dirty yet when we first moved in. So we probably found him 10 years ago to help purge the stains and regular traffic dirt from the carpets caused by 1 and 3 year old boys. I still remember the first day he came. From Bulgaria, he introduced himself with a thick accent and arrived at our front door, politely toting a massive notebook. He liked to talk. A lot. With his thick Bulgarian accent. He was proud. Very proud.

We invited him in to show him the areas where our babies had spit up orange carrots and green peas (different blog), where juice cups had spilled notwithstanding our steadfast keep-it-in-the-kitchen rule, and where we had tracked in dirt with our shoes.

"It is not a problem!" he proudly declared. To show us just how not a problem it was, he opened his prodigious notebook, which proved to be a repository for all nice things ever said about him and his carpet cleaning business. Just seeing the dauntingly large notebook was enough to convince us; he had us at "it is not a problem." It was not enough for him, though. He showed us, despite the resistance which surely showed on our faces, every page of his accolades. Every before and after picture. Every word of praise for his miraculous cleansing of carpets. It took a long time. Each displayed picture was accompanied by a thickly Bulgarian-accented description of the people who owned the carpets photographed. He was fond of his clients, and they of him, ostensibly.

When he finally began the actual carpet cleaning, the husband and I huddled out of his hearing range in a different room.

"Oh my God," the husband mused. "He looks and sounds exactly like Latka from Taxi!"

"Oh my God," I agreed. "He totally does!"

When Latka left, he gave us pointers on how to preserve the carpet's cleanliness.

"You are not wearing of the shoes on the carpet," he lectured. "Most of the dirt of the carpet comes when wearing of the shoes on it." We nodded vigorously, not about to argue with the accent.

From then on, we have always referred to him fondly as Latka, so much so that I sometimes forget his real name. When our carpets are in need of their annual cleaning, we say: "time to call Latka."

Throughout the years when Latka has come to purge our carpets of their stains and dirt, he always brings the notebook. It seems he must convince us every year that he is worthy.

Last week was no exception. Latka entered my house. I put out my hand to shake his. He lurched toward me and gave me a bear hug. "How you are doing?!" he asked excitedly. "You are not wearing of the shoes on the carpet, yes?"

I swore I was not, but that the boys didn't always listen.

He proceeded to my kitchen and put down his heavy notebook. I rolled my eyes to myself.

"Oh, I know how good you are," I said as convincingly as I could muster, "I have seen your miracles with my own eyes."

"Oh," he laughed, "no. no. This is new here. Come look at the papers. You listen of the Angie's list?"

"Oh - yes!" I lied. I have never heard of Angie's list.

"See all of the people who recommend of me to the Angie's list? Look! They talk good things on me. You see the stars the people give to me?"

"Oh wow," I replied. "I am not surprised at all. You do a fabulous job."

He stopped, smiled a very proud smile, and put his chin in the air.

I thought perhaps that did it. I was wrong. He continued to turn the pages of his notebook.

"It is funny," he shared with me. "I do not know the people who write these stars. The name of the people are not here."

After awhile, Latka finally went to get started. He did the 11-year-old's room and came downstairs to talk to me.

"I finished from the one room," he announced. He narrowed his eyes and looked at me with a frown. "You see the stain on the carpet that was there to the door?"

"Oh," I reacted. "You couldn't get it, huh?"

He burst into an ebulliant grin. "It is gone," he told me. "The spot to the window?"

"Ah," I played along. "Too tough to get it out?"

"It is not here," he assured me.

With that, he went outside for his first of 10 "coffee" breaks, during each of which he spoke on his cell phone and smoked a cigarette.

When the husband arrived home from work, Latka was still there. We were in the home stretch. I was hoping he could finish so we could leave for an appointment, so I didn't want to start any new conversations.

The husband greeted him: "Hey there! Good to see you! How are you?"

Latka put his chin up and grinned. "I am fine," he answered.

"Great!" said the husband. "And how is your daughter doing?"

BIG MISTAKE.

"Oh. You are nice so to ask. She is to ABC school and she is artist. She is so good from the drawings!"

"Wow; that's great," we said.

"Wait. You wait here. I go to see I have of a picture."

I shot the husband the look of death. He shrugged helplessly.

Latka bounced back, returning with a Christmas card whose cover was adorned with a pencil drawing of the virgin Mary and baby Jesus. It was pretty good.

"She win of the contest for the picture to Christmas," he boasted.

"Wow," I said. "It's terrific. Does she draw animals? I'd love to have a sketch of Sophie."

Latka didn't hesitate. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed his daughter, and gave the cell phone to me to talk to her. After an uncomfortable conversation, I returned Latka's phone to him as he finished the last room.

As he was leaving, he admonished us: "No wear of the shoes on the carpet!"

"Oh," the husband chuckled. "We don't; it's the kids!"

"Yes," said Latka, "that is the thing the people they all say."

And with that, he was gone.

Hello? Anyone there?

2009-10-07T09:53:00.003-04:00

Hello?

Tap Tap Tap Tap.

Anyone still out there in blogland?

I am hereby certifiably the worst blog reader friend in the blogosphere. Not only have I not been blogging (with no paucity of material, either), but I haven't read any blogs. I'm so sorry, y'all.

I get in that crazy mode when life gets busy. It feels like I'm all hyped up on caffeine and I must accomplish 300 things at once every minute. I have no time to chat on the phone, let alone blog. I'm a bad, bad blogger. Guilt. guilt. guilt.

I can explain. Want a list?

- We've just unexpectedly bought our dream house. It fell into our laps and we jumped. This has led to all sorts of unplanned things that take up lots of time, such as the ho hum task of getting our house all cleaned out and ready to go on the market (hey - anyone looking for a house in the Baltimore area?). Yesterday I put out 9 (N I N E) huge trash bags of stuff for Purple Heart to pick up and take away from me... Remember over the summer (or was it spring break?) when the boys cleaned out their rooms? That was nothing. nada. zilch. zippo. I have cleaned out the basement. The finished part. The unfinished part. I have sold Tonka trucks. A plethora of Legos. I am selling a piano. I have filled bags with useless toys and puzzles my boys have outgrown. I have cleaned out the 11-year-old's room. With him. There were tears. There was yelling. But it's done. I have much more to do...

- We have been working on high school applications for the 13-year-old. It's time consuming and a lot of work. This is simultaneous with the house stuff.

- I have a full-time job. yup.

- I haven't written any articles for Examiner.com, and I feel guilty about that, too. Especially since it's MARATHON SEASON!!! wahoo! excuse me. sorry about that.

- Speaking of which, I have been training for the marathon that's on October 18th! Almost there. Can't skimp on the training now!

- I have a business trip to Germany next week which takes A LOT of preparation. Days of it.

ARRRGGHHHHH! again. k. excuse me. I'm even drinking decaf coffee.

So... since I'll be on a plane to Europe on Monday with 9 hours of peace and quiet, I thought I'd revisit some pointers for long flights.

Long flights ROCK. They are THE BOMB. (but only if your kids aren't with you). It's hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet. Except when the captain breaks in to announce that he's turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. No s**t, really? Thanks for that. Oh - and when they interrupt the MOVIE to announce a special CREDIT CARD DEAL. Yes - that happened to me on the way home from China once. Advertising is both ubiquitous and obnoxious these days.

Anyway. I digress. How surprising.

To make the most of your hours of peace and quiet on a long flight, you must follow these guidelines.

1. Under absolutely NO circumstances do you make friends with the person (or people, God forbid) sitting next to you. He or she may SEEM friendly at first, but inevitably on a 9-hour flight s/he will want to chat when you don't. Don't get started. You can nod or say a quiet "hi" but that's it. Don't ask where they're from, where or why they're going. You just don't care. This is me time, people. It's all about you.

2. If the person next to you persists in trying to be friendly, employ one of these strategies:

- Take out a book and pretend to read. Or you can really read, of course.

- Put on headphones.

- Take out a laptop

If the person overlooks any of these strategies or sees them for the farces they are (and this has happened to me), you DON'T SPEAK ENGLISH.

Or... you can't hear very well if at all. It's a last resort, but some people are annoyingly tenacious.

- For overnight flights to Europe, I highly recommend a glass or two of wine followed by a Sonata sleeping pill. What? We're here already? Geez. And I was just starting to enjoy the "me" time.

Ciao, y'all.

I don't know when I'll see you again. But I'm here. I'm trying.

Oh, hey. Before you go.

Any recommendations for inspirational tunes for my marathon playlist? Don't tell me Rocky theme music. It's corny and I already have it. Music to hype me up and kick my own butt? Warrior stance stuff? You can do it kind of tunes? Don't give up kind of stuff? Recommendations for your blog-absent friend?

thanks!

Caution: homework may be hazardous

2009-09-25T08:19:00.003-04:00

Scene: Sitting in the car on the driveway at home with the 13-year-old, waiting for the 11-year-old to come out and get in so we can drive to school.

13-year-old: (aghast) Ya know, I just realized I haven't watched tv in, like, a month!

me: (delighted) Well that's good!

13-year-old: (disgusted that homework and sports have kept him from tv) No it's not. I feel like my brain is turning to mush!

This post is about fruit flies

2009-09-23T08:19:00.004-04:00

Having a predilection for both bananas and red wine, the husband and I tend to attract fruit flies every year at this time. Well... our house does.

We pull out all the stops to get red of the pesky varmints, who delight in flying close to my face and then whizzing off just before I clap my hands together to end his pathetic life. Or hers. I don't want to be sexist.

When we first started having this problem, I did what any educated, intelligent person would do to ameliorate the problem. I googled.

Ye old wise internet counseled me to set about, as traps for the fruit flies, glasses of wine or vinegar covered with plastic wrap with a few tiny holes punctured in the top. It's also necessary, to thwart their breeding, to get rid of the fruit (duh). We therefore placed the bananas in the refrigerator. Cold bananas suck, don't they?

We placed said glasses throughout the downstairs, each filled with a bit of wine to attract and trap the delinquent invertebrates.

The husband wandered around, a dejected look on his face: "what a waste of good wine," he lamented.

Meanwhile, the 13-year-old, ever the recent star of this blog, questioned: "why are we trying to catch fruit flies?"

"So we can kill them," I brilliantly responded.

He considered the fatuous nature of his question immediately, and tried to save face: "I'm not buying it."

Who's on first?

2009-09-22T09:18:00.002-04:00

The 13-year-old was doing some last-minute studying for his French quiz on the way to school this morning....

13-year-old: "Mom, what does 'quoi' mean?"

me: "what."

13-year-old: "quoi."

me: "what."

13-year-old: "Quoi, Mom..."

me: "It means 'what,' son."

Huh? and yahoo!

2009-09-21T12:12:00.003-04:00

me: "Buddy, is your seatbelt on?"

13-year-old: "no."

me: "Put your seatbelt on!"

13-year-old: "It is on!"

(photo from the Philly Distance Run official website)

In other news, the weather for the Philadelphia Distance Run (1/2 marathon) yesterday was GORGEOUS! 54 degrees at the start, ideal for running. Our own American Ryan Hall won it, outpacing 3 Kenyans, and I, myself, came in with a new Personal Record! 1:44:44 (7:52 minute/mile pace). yahoo!

It's a mad, mad world

2009-09-17T07:37:00.010-04:00

I live with an insane asylum bunch of looneys (no offense to anyone there... not that there's anything wrong with that...).

I have an 11-year-old who loves to make up his own complex math problems and give them to me for "fun."

"Hey, Mom. Here. Try this math puzzle I made up."

"Buddy," I say. "You know how you find math fun?"

"yeah?"

"I don't."

I have a dog whose purpose in life is to shed as much hair as humanly possible, well as caninely possible. She does quite an admirable job fulfilling that purpose, too.

Then this morning... I call in my chipper morning voice (a rare thing) to the 13-year-old, still upstairs getting himself moving before school.

"Dude!" I yell (in a chipper sweet voice, of course). "Are you up and dressed?!"

"Would you like a hamburger?" he answers.

You see what I'm dealing with? See what I'm up against?

On top of all that, get this. My cat loves ear wax. Yeah, no. I'm not kidding. She lives for it. Craves it. Goes nuts for it. Catnip? It's nuthin'. Wait for it.... wait for it... yeah. Earwax. Look. I can prove it. Here (below) she pillages the bathroom trash can for a Q-tip like a homeless person looking through a trash can (no offense to those of you who are homeless). She's nuts. Maybe that's why she pukes all the time?

So she doesn't mind eating the earwax, but God forbid it get all over her pristine paws.

Me? I'm completely normal. What? I am. Really.

Uh.. what kind of dog do you have?

2009-09-16T08:48:00.007-04:00

I went to pick up the gas-guzzling, eco-conscious Expedition from Dr. Detail yesterday. Before I walked in, I took a quick look at it. Wow. I don't know how, but the dog hair? Gone. It smelled... clean.

(above: the Perpetrator)

The manager saw me looking at it and waved me inside. I walked inside to pay for it. He looked at me for a moment. Then he said, and I quote exactly:

"Uh. What kind of dog do you have?"

After I stopped laughing, I explained that she is a German Shepherd, the breed of dog which sheds most profusely, year-round.

I asked him what his secret was- told him my shop vac didn't even begin to suck those hairs out of the carpet fiber of the back of the truck.

He said if he told me he'd have to kill me. wink wink.

As if on cue, one of the employees then walked in.

"Wow!" he exclaimed, a big smile on his face, "we filled up an entire industrial shop vac with all that dog hair!"

Moments later, another employee entered. He didn't miss a beat.

"Holy cow, man," he told me, "we filled up a whole shop vac with your dog's hair..."

After I stopped laughing again, I asked for a discount for the dog hair. After all, they could use it... to um.. stuff pillows. I made a donation.

For the next, oh... 3 days? The truck is free of dog hair. Maybe Soph will have to stay home from now on...

Moms are from earth; kids are from mars

2009-09-14T12:14:00.004-04:00

Okay... so... the Expedition, our eco-friendly gas guzzler, really smells. It's the vehicle most used for transporting Sophie the German Shepherd and sweaty boys to and from soccer practice and games. The husband and I, frequent passengers in the truck, didn't realize our vehicle had an odor problem. We were, um... used to it. So we were rather surprised when, a couple of weeks ago, my brother and sister in law climbed into the back to accompany us to dinner.

"Hmm," they whined. "Um... kinda has a dog smell to it, guys."

"Really?" we questioned. We really did question. This was news to us.

Well, Sophie is a dog. Sophie is a dog who sheds. Sophie is a dog who sheds more than all of the dogs on our street put together. Sophie sheds. a lot.

No problem, I think. I'll just vacuum out the back of the Ford and give it a good cleaning.

"Ha!" said the loose dog hairs in the back of the truck. "We cannot be sucked up by a shop vac, you foolish girl." And then it laughed, an evil, sardonic, bone-tingling laugh. "We will never leave... NEVER!!!" And dangit if the dog hairs aren't right. They're very happy where they are, stuck in the fibers of the carpeting in the back of the Expedition.

So I did what any self-respecting, busy mom with 2 kids and a full-time job would do. I made an appointment at Dr. Detail. I gave in. I threw in the towel. "You guys handle this," I said. They assure me that they can handle dog smells and German Shepherd hair.

Now... I told you that story to make this observation.

The husband and I arose earlier than usual this morning, not easy for non-morning folks, to take the truck to Dr. Detail. The plan was for the husband to give me a ride home, and then for me to get the kids to school. Before we left for Dr. Detail, we woke up the urchins and got them going.

"Be ready to go so that, when I get back, we can leave for school right away, k guys?"

nada.

"k guys?"

"okaaaaay."

Now it becomes a matter of semantics. My definition of ready and the boys' definition of ready:

My definition:

- breakfast eaten

- teeth brushed

- lunch taken out of refrigerator and placed in backpack

- shoes on

Is that a lot to ask? Does that make sense?

The boys' definition:

- No shoes on- in fact, not even attempt to locate where they might be

- lunch still in the fridge

- teeth not yet brushed

- TV on

Speaking of TV, last night we were exhibiting fabulous parenting skills, sitting in front of the TV with the 13-year-old. I was googling on the laptop while the husband was flipping channels, as men are wont to do. The 13-year-old was trying to follow what was on TV: "Wait, Dad," he asked confusedly, "what happened to that guy?"

"Oh, buddy," I explained, "are you not yet aware of the malehood more that prohibits any man from watching a channel for more than 5 minutes? That guy is still on the other channel, bud."

This man is not my husband, but does provide a fine example...

Time machine

2009-09-11T08:18:00.004-04:00

The scene: Our drive to school this morning

me: Hey, buddy... ya know... your hair really looks better combed to the side,

rather than all down over your eyes and face like a mop.

13-year-old: whatever. Maybe in the 60s, Mom.

me: I wasn't even alive in the 60s!

13-year-old: whatever.

The low down on the down low

2009-09-08T20:01:00.008-04:00

Today was the first day of school for the urchins!!!

WAHOOOOOO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

whew. excuse me. ahem. Just had to get that outta my system.

where was I?

Oh... today the boys went back to school!!!!!

Even better, though, than having the whole house to myself today, in blessed, uninterrupted peace, enjoying the complete and total quiet around here... even better was the report I received when I picked up the urchins from school.

Yes sirree, bob. The reason I work from home is so that I can pick up the boys from school each day to hear how their days went. It's the highlight of my day. Okay. That's a lie, I admit it. The highlight is dropping them off at school. After that might come a glass of wine around 5 0'clock.... but picking up the boys is in the top 10, I'm sure...

And why? Because boys are just so darn loquacious. Today, the very first day of school, a day during which, no less, the 13-year-old started his first day at the top of the middle school totem pole as a big 8th grader... and the 11-year-old started his first day in middle school. Big day. Enormous. Momentous. Today was just like the other days I pick up the loquacious urchins from school:

me: "HEY, guys!!!! How was your FIRST DAY!!!?????" I ask enthusiastically.

13-year-old: "good."

me: "good? GOOD!!!!"

me: "what else? Tell me all about it! I wanna know everything!!!"

11-year-old: "It was good."

me: "Oh c'mon! Gimme more than that. You spent 7 [beautifully serene] hours away from your mom! What did you do?"

13-year-old: "Not much."

11-year-old: "Nothing."

me: "Okay, guys. Tell you what. I'll make a deal with you. You tell me everything there is to know about your first day of school today and we'll go to Dairy Queen and get blizzards... medium-sized blizzards."

13-year-old: "You mean after the orthodontist appointment that I have right now?"

me: "oops! That's right! You do have an orthodontist appointment right now. Yup.. so after the orthodontist...."

(Minutes later at the orthodontist's office. 13-year-old has been seen and returned to the waiting room. 11-year-old has usurped my blackberry to play Brickbreaker while he was waiting. The waiting room is full to the brim with snot-nosed, adolescent, metal mouths and their moms.)

receptionist: "Ma'am? Did you want to make your son's next appointment?"

me: "oh yeah. heh heh." (I walk up to the desk, soon realizing I don't have my blackberry to see my calendar or make the appointment).

me: "uh, hey, buddy... I need my blackberry to make the appointment."

The people in the waiting room apparently think this is humorous.

11-year-old: "aw, Mom.... can you wait until I die?" as he expertly maneuvers the click wheel to play brickbreaker.

Prodigious smiles are now on the faces of the people of the waiting room. Tension mounts. All heads turn toward me.

me: "heh heh. Very funny, buddy. No. I need it now."

The entire waiting room now looks as if a tennis match is ensuing in the middle of the orthodontist's reception area. They are looking back and forth at me and my son to see how I will handle this. They are judging me, I know it. Tension mounts further. There are smiles (or snickers?) on many faces.

11-year-old: "come on, Mom; I'm doing really well."

All faces turn to me.

me: "heh heh. I'm proud of your brickbreaker skills and your use of an adverb to describe how your doing, love, but really.... I need it now."

All faces turn to him.

11-year-old: "You really can't wait until I die?"

All faces turn to me.

me: I clear my throat and say: "ahem." I give him the evil eye, the one that says: "I will kill you. You will not see your next birthday." You know the one; I know you do.

He stands up and hands me the blackberry. There is a palpable sigh of relief.

End of orthodontist tangent and back to "what did you do today?" main thread:

2 medium Dairy Queen blizzards bought me all kinds of information.

me: "So, buddy," I ask the 13-year-old 8th grader, "was it pretty cool being the big man on campus this year?"

13-year-old smiles slightly: "yeah it's pretty fun."

I extracted quite a bit of information about his teachers and classes this year. The trick is:

1) Bribe with Dairy Queen blizzards

2) Ask detailed questions

Here, as a point of illustration, are your basic dos and don'ts of picking up urchins from school if you really want to extract information:

Don't do this. It just doesn't work. (unless you have a girl. Girls tell all).

Instead, do this:

You could also ask: "you didn't trade your organic lunch with anyone for a product that contains hydrogenated oils, did you?"

Among my favorite pearls of information from my interrogation of the 11-year-old, though, was in response to my question about what the rules were for middle school this year.

"Oh," he said. "yeah. We're not allowed to put each other in the lockers, even though we would fit."

Peace at last

2009-09-08T09:35:00.005-04:00

Shhh. Listen. Can you hear them?

I can't either! :)

They're in school! They're in school! They're in school!!!!!!!

Yippeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

okay. okay. decorum. clearing my throat here.... Calm.

Gosh. I can focus and concentrate now.

No one's humming.

No one's singing.

No one's complaining that I don't buy food with hydrogenated oils (or even partially hydrogenated).

No one's fighting.

No one's complaining about sunscreen application.

No one's telling me he's bored.

No one is bugging the dog.

No one comes to me with something very important as soon as I get on the phone.

No one's telling me I am so behind the times with the kids' haircuts I prefer.

No one's telling me he has no clean t-shirts (yeah, right. Did you search through the pile at the bottom of your closet?)

No one's not brushing his teeth

No one's shooting plastic bottles 50 feet up into the air.

No one's coming in and then going back out... and then coming in again. And then going back out. And then coming in ... and leaving the door wide open while the AC's on... and then going back out.

No one's bike is broken.

No one's not taking the dog for a walk.

No one's leaving his shoes in the middle of the room.

"Mom," the 13-year-old said to me last week, "I'm kinda ready to go back to school."

They're paying me for this?

2009-09-06T14:12:00.004-04:00

Hey, y'all!

I'm officially a paid writer!

Check out my new Endurance Training column for the online Baltimore Examiner!

http://www.examiner.com/Baltimore-Fitness_and_Weight_Loss.html

I'll forewarn you; it's a boring article. I have to get to know what I can do and can't do before I can spice it up.... In the meantime, if you're having trouble sleeping, click on the link! :)

Back to your regularly scheduled blog later this week....

So it's a gender thing...

2009-09-05T10:15:00.002-04:00

My brother and sister in law arrived yesterday. I had just returned from a run.

I showered, blew dry my hair, and rejoined the group.

"You got your hair cut!" remarked my brilliant sister in law.

:)

No brownie points here...

2009-09-03T21:55:00.006-04:00

13-year-old: "Mom, do you know what period of time the largest mass extinction was? It lasted for 500,000 years and was before the dinosaurs existed. 96% of all life on earth was wiped out, including plants. There were no plants, mammals, nothing... It was like... global warming to the max."

me: "Buddy, have you been watching that trashy Discovery channel again? Don't you have video games to play?"

On another note... yesterday I got a much needed haircut at last. It had gotten pretty long... to the point where my mom would say to me, quite subtly, " My, your hair is long." The husband, too, would say: "huh. Your hair's getting pretty long." So I finally got a haircut. It's a drastic difference to me - the cut where you go to wash your hair afterward and you're like... hey - where's my hair? And it's all healthy and full... I must admit it looks better.

But I digress. My point is that she cut, like, 5 inches off. I got home and stood in front of my kids, surreptitiously modeling my new doo.

"We're hungry, Mom," they whined.

"mmm hmmm," I acknowledged, staring at the urchins.

"Seriously, Mom. There's nothing to eat here." (translation - we're out of donuts).

"okay, hellloooo boys. Notice anything?"

"Um. ... nope."

"I got my hair cut!"

"Oh - ok. hey - I'm hungry."

Fast forward to hours later as the husband arrived home. He walks in the door. I stare at him (in a friendly manner, of course, after having vacuumed and put on lipstick. KIDDING!).

"Hey, hon," I greet him.

"Hey there," he responds, looking at me.

nada. zilch. zippo. no reaction.

Nobody noticed my haircut. And folks, the difference is drastic. Look:

Demerits for the entire family. No brownie points here whatsoever. What does Richard Gere say in Pretty Woman? "I'm gonna need LOTS of sucking up here... LOTS of sucking up...."

Junk food is good for you

2009-09-02T12:28:00.006-04:00

I've had the best runs this week! I can identify 2 factors which have been different:

1- I've switched to margaritas for happy hour rather than vodka/tonics

2- I've been eating Cheetos

whaddya think? I think Cheetos + margaritas = extra carbs?!

Well... and the weather's been cooler....

On another note... big thanks for Vivienne at The V Spot for my nifty award. I'm passing it along to A Reservation for Six and Mental Poo, the first because she's been absentee, and the second because I know Moog will have something very clever to say about the award. I can't remember what the rules are; be a rebel and do what you wish!

Also, thanks so Maggie at Sitting on the Mood Swing; I won a book on her site! Yippee!

off to consume more Cheetos...

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

2009-09-01T15:27:00.004-04:00

Yes, folks, it's back to school time. Cue the music and the staples commercial... It's the most..wonderful time... of the year..."

I took the 11-year-old with me to Staples to get school supplies last week and, unable to restrain myself, I broke out into song and skipped along the aisles joyously with my cart. The 11-year-old was utterly horrified (I had such sympathy for him) and exhorted me to stop IMMEDIATELY. Isn't THAT paradoxical... my 11-year-old desired that I stop a certain behavior... Rather than stoop to his level and continuing my annoying display (subjectively annoying, of course), I stopped at his request (I thought that was big of me).

I know some of you moms (and dads) out there are genuinely sad that your little ones are going off to school again for the season... boarding the big yellow school bus... off to a wide world of learning and education and outside influences... and frankly, I don't understand you. You must not have two boys two years apart who make noise constantly. There were some that cried when their kids went off to kindergarten, taking pictures as the bus pulled away. Me? I drop kicked the boys into the school building. Ciao, boys. Have fun storming the castle...

Every time I drop off my boys at school, I do a little dance. After all, they'll be out of my hair for an entire, blessed 7 hours. Gosh, whatever will I do with all that peace and quiet? What will go through my head when my 13-year-old isn't constantly singing or humming to himself (he is singing right now as I type and tapping a plastic puzzle piece incessantly against the table) Whose fights will I break up? For whom will I try in vain to come up with a creative and fun activity to keep him entertained? Who will whine to me? Who will I admonish not to DO THAT TO THE DOG!? Who will tell me he is bored? Who will tell me he doesn't want peanut butter and jelly for lunch? At whom will I yell to turn off the tv? Who will I discipline to play nicely, not call his brother names? Whose mouth will I threaten to wash out with soap? Whose iTouch will I confiscate? Yes, I'm just heartbroken that school is almost back in session.

Alas, my two aren't yet back in school. We start - I mean they start- the day after Labor Day. The boys have one final week before school starts and my precious freedom is returned to me through the blessing of education.

And then... it will be quiet around the house. Too quiet. Eerily quiet. And they will be learning even more because already they know more than I do, of course....

Hiring, anyone?

2009-08-28T10:30:00.004-04:00

So... remember the 11-year-old son who started the lemonade stand franchise?

yeah. him. My kid.

Recently we had friends visiting. I bought, because I'm a wild 'n' crazy kinda mom, a case of Orange Fanta (like crack for kids whose mom, in typical practice, does not purchase food stuffs with hydrogenated oils or food coloring) as a special treat.

While the group was outside, the 11-year-old and his female 11-year-old visiting friend (an angel on earth) volunteered to go inside, make sandwiches, and bring them out for the rest of the group. I should rephrase to state that, in actuality, the female 11-year-old (angel on earth) volunteered the both of 'em before my 11-year-old son could reasonably protest, much to his dismay.

I was delighted. A KID (well, kidS) going inside to fix MY lunch for ME and the rest of the crew. Surely pigs were flying somewhere.

An appropriate amount of time later, the two 11-year-olds emerged with the cooler in hand, complete with sandwiches for all and orange Fantas for the kids.

"Hey, cool..." the adults observed, "you guys get Orange Fantas, huh?"

"Yeah," the female 11-year-old (angel on earth) replied, "he made me pay him $1 for it."

After a healthy degree of horrified laughter, we learned that she had bargained her way down from $5.

I think he'll make a fine used car salesman someday.

This one time? At band camp?

2009-08-25T21:08:00.009-04:00

Remember the annoying yet amiable character from American Pie who constantly tells stories about band camp? "This one time, at band camp?"

That's my 11-year-old. He has the wonderful gift of gab, which will serve him well as he gushes corporate-speak in a major company, mingles at a party, or takes a sales job.

At his present age, though, it is sometimes background noise distracting me from what I need to accomplish. Unfortunately one of my faults is that I cannot concentrate with any kind of irregular sound in the background: a tv, the sound of a pencil tap-tap-tapping against a desk, wrappers being crunched, chips being chewed, my son jabbering... (as mama-face says, don't judge me. I know I have issues....).

Usually what he's doing when he talks to me is rehashing a movie or a tv show in painstaking detail. Ya know the corporate-speak term "high level"? Yeah. He doesn't do high level. He does,
to use more corporate speak, granular. In excitedly describing a [bad] movie he just saw, he tells the story in great, painstaking detail, blow by blow, scene by scene, recreating it as if you were sitting there watching the movie. That's great - except I don't have 2 hours to listen to him describe a movie. It would be one thing if he uttered a few sentences and moved on... but... he doesn't. He's like the energizer bunny. He keeps going and going and going... until I finally must say "hey buddy- can you just give me the summary?" (which doesn't have the desired effect)

Someday he'll make a perfect filibusterer in the Senate...

Do your kids do this?

The little engine that couldn't

2009-08-24T22:41:00.004-04:00

All that trash talking I did about my last 2 speed runs? I forgot to knock on wood so the gods wouldn't hear me bragging and punish me (yes; that's why you knock on wood). Obviously that gal lying on the ground isn't I, but I sure know what she felt like.

Today's training prescription, a la my marathon training schedule: run a 10K (6.2 miles) as fast as you can. (at mid-day in high heat and humidity in my case).

I recruited the 13-year-old to accompany me on his bike to push me when I became tired.

Here, roughly, is a log of my thoughts from beginning to end.

Before the run.

I am feeling GOOD.

I can do this.

I rock.

I am strong.

I want Boston.

I will tell myself to push when it hurts; run through the pain. Pain makes us stronger.

The first mile:

Hey- this is going pretty well. It's a little hot, but I'm okay. I'm feeling strong. I can do this. I WILL do this. (7:28)

The second mile:

Yeah. I'm getting a little tired. Maybe I started out a little too fast.

No... I'm not going to sabotage myself.

I CAN do this. Keep a rhythm.

Run strong.

Keep going.

Relax. Acknowledge the discomfort and run through it.

This is what's making me faster and stronger.

shew. I'm tired. (7:35)

The third mile:

Is the wind behind me or in front of me? When I turn around will it be harder?

I don't think I can do this. I think I'm gonna rest at the half way mark at 3.1.

No- I'm strong. I can do this. I'm supposed to push.

I can't. I have to slow down or stop at 3.1 (7:40)

(meanwhile- the 13-year-old, recruited for encouragement, is so far ahead of me he can't even hear when I yell. He's just in his own world ignoring me. It's inspiring).

The fourth mile

Wow. I didn't realize how tired I was until I stopped to rest.

It's really hot.

I'm going to keep pushing, though.

I've rested a couple of minutes, and now I'm going to push through.

I have to slow down.

My body temperature is way high.

I can't wait to get a drink of water when I get home.

I wish I were home already.

It's HOT. I'm being a wimp. I want this run to be over...

No... it's not healthy to go all out in this heat. I could hurt myself.

wimp.

I have to stop again after this next mile.

shew. I'd love to walk.

No. I'm not walking. I need to keep going.

If I'm going to stop after another mile, I may as well speed up and get this mile overwith.

(8:26)

The fifth mile

Okay; I'm going more slowly but I'm continuing.

I've slowed down but this workout has done me good.

I may not have done the prescribed workout but I got my butt out here and did speedwork, even if it did turn into intervals rather than a tempo run.

Man it's hot.

I feel a bit nauseated. (8:32)

The sixth mile

Okay. It's really hot. It's really humid. I'm thirsty. I'm tired.

I can't do this. I've got to walk.

I walked until the last 1/3 of a mile, which I ran at a 7:00 pace out of guilt.

The thirteen-year-old? Home already, bike neatly put away.

Oh well. Some days ya got it; some days ya don't.

The agony of defeat OR huh... You really ARE what you eat...

2009-08-22T10:44:00.005-04:00

With about 8 weeks go go until my 10th marathon, the Bay State marathon in Massachusetts (did I spell MA right?), I am in full training mode. I need a 3:45:59 to qualify for the revered Boston marathon, and my best time (set in May this year at the New Jersey marathon) is 3:50:14. Chah. I can do it! The Bay State has the highest percentage of Boston qualifiers every year, being a double 13.1-mile loop on pretty flat ground, thus my choice of that particular marathon. When I tell fellow runners what my next marathon is, I get a chortle and a: "ah. Going for speed, huh?" Yuppers, I AM. It seemed like the perfect choice until I realized that I return from a business trip to Germany the Friday before the Sunday on which the marathon is held. 1 1/2 days to recover from jet lag to go for my Personal Record and a BQ. oops. I'm just trying to ignore that little fact... details, details.

In the meantime, I've been training, and training during the summer sucks. It is (insert lots of whining) so hot. My long runs have been slower than usual, the combination of vacation-style eating habits and the heat have made me struggle with speedwork somewhat, and I have been skipping my resistance training.

THIS week, though, has given me reason to smile. I have kicked ass (and I do say so myself) during my two speedwork sessions this week (albeit they are shorter because it's a recovery week, but I'm patting myself on the back, anyway).

Both speedwork days I ate no junk food and lots of fruits and veggies, and lo and behold... my evening runs were awesome. Huh. Hot dang. Do you think there might be something to this "you are what you eat" thing? I wonder if all those nutritionists are right?

My first speedwork session was only 5 x 1K (.62 miles) repeats (after a 1.5-mile warm up and before a 1.5-mile cool down). My time on the track happened to coincide with the high school cross-country team out there on the track doing their speedwork. They were doing repeats of 800s (.5 miles). So: an old lady juxtaposed with skinny-minny high school kids.... oh... and Sophie, running around the track with me intermittently. It's hot for Soph with 2 fur coats (God knows how she has any hair left with all of the hair she sheds inside the house), so she takes breaks every so often, sitting on the side for a lap or two, then joining in. Problem is... after her break sometimes, she will sprint across the field to catch up to me (it's beautiful to watch), and she kept cutting off the high school runners. oops. my bad. well, Soph's bad.

Anyway... I digress. So here I am running speed laps with the skinny-minny high schoolers. Doing repeats of a slightly longer distance than the teeny-boppes. Well, here's the point of my story. During one lap I was behind a skinny-minny teenage girl in the middle of her speed interval... and I was approaching. Huh. I thought to myself. I'm going faster than she is. I wasn't the only one to notice this. Her fellow adolescents, doing a recovery lap, were tuned in to the situation. They were watching. I kept running. And I kept catching up. I got nervous. Should I pass her? It's going to humiliate her. Well, I didn't have much choice. I passed her at about a 7:10-minute-mile clip. I think she was stunned, and her cohorts were rolling. The poor girl would never hear the end of this. She stepped it up a bit, but so did I... it felt so good... and as she neared the end of her shorter distance, I kept going. Ahhh. The thrill of victory; the agony of defeat. Someone should use that as a tag line or something....

Yesterday, for my week's 2nd speed session, I was supposed to do a 3.5-mile tempo run at my 10K speed, supposedly 7:35-minute miles. When I tried to do this last week (a 5.5-mile tempo run at 7:35 minute miles), the best I could do was 7:44-minute miles resting for a couple of minutes after 2 miles and 4 miles. Yesterday, though, I was pumped from having passed the skinny-minny teeny bopper... AND I went out in the light rain just after a nice downpour had brought the temperature down 20 degrees. I was in a good place mentally.

And... I DID it! I ran my 3.5 mile tempo run in 7:18s - kicking in a 7:05 pace for my last 1/2 mile. This time, at the same track, a couple of teenage boys happened along just as I was starting. They ran a quick mile at about the same speed as I was going and then stopped, scratching their heads and watching me. Darnit if I was going to let up. I was less motivated when they left, but kept it up.

Not much humor in this post, sorry, but I am smiling. It's so easy to convince yourself you've lost what you need to do well - especially in the summer's heat and humidity- but now I feel like I can do it.

By the way... for my runner readers (and non runner readers if you're feeling cheerleader-like. I follow a blog called 26.2 Quest, a guy training for his very first marathon. Yesterday's post described the longest run of his life so far (14 miles) and asked for his followers to spread the word because he needs as much support as possible. If you're feeling kindly inclined, feel free to stop by and encourage him; that's what runners' comraderie is all about. While you're at it, I could use some support for my October 18th marathon BQ attempt. I've been hesitant to blog about it because I'm afraid of failure...but ya know what? I'll just keep trying! ;)

I just lost 3 1/2 hours of my life...

2009-08-21T14:47:00.004-04:00

Okay, okay. I know everyone complains about this, yielding the cliched "mom's taxi" and "soccer mom" stereotypes, but I'm special, so suck it up. Mine is worse than yours.

Here was my night last night:

Do you get it with my superior mouse drawing skills?

I left my house at 5:20 to take the 11-year-old to soccer practice at Field A . I went back to my house at 6:30 to get 13-year-old into soccer gear and into the car (a painstaking process... where are your soccer socks? I asked you to be ready. I dunno. where are your cleats? I dunno. Did you prepare a water bottle as I suggested? um. no.). I drive the 13-year-old to soccer practice at Field B (the opposite end of town) to arrive at 6:55 pm. I go back to the house to get the dog at 7:20. I get the dog into the car (much easier than getting kids into the car... especially since no shoes are necessary) and drive to get 11-year-old, whose practice ends at 7:30. Its not making sense for me to go all the way home and then all the way across town again, I suggest to 11-year-old that we simply spend 1/2 hour at the dog park before picking up the 13-year-old at 8:30. 11-year-old agrees. We go to the dog park. (Run, Soph, run! Alas, it's 94 degrees out and, although there are lots of canines at the dog park, they are all pretty much sitting around just looking at each other, too hot to move. Usually when a new dog comes in, all the dogs run to sniff the butt of the newbie. Yesterday it was like: "yo, Hank. 'sup. I assume your butt smells the same?). 8:15. We leave the dog park and go to Field B to pick up 13-year-old. It's getting dark so I schlep the dog and 11-year-old to the opposite end of the field where practice is conveniently held to make sure 13-year-old can find me. 8:45. I have been driving among home, Field A, and Field B now for over 3 hours and I actually fed the kids dinner before soccer practices. I decided to throw my healthy eating habits (which lasted 24 hours, I think?) out the window and get blizzards for all.

How do you parents with more than 2 kids do it?

Let's do it again next week!