School started last week and already the extracurricular activities have kicked in. It seems crazy to me, seeing as how my daughter’s school still hasn’t passed out textbooks since there aren’t enough to go around (thank you Mark Sanford! We all know South Carolina’s education system doesn’t need any funding.). While the school system seems a bit lax, the opposite is true for the YMCA soccer league. We joined there because they billed themselves as more recreational and less competitive than the other soccer leagues in town, one of which involves a three day a week practice schedule and the occasional pre-season scrimmage in subfreezing temperatures, and the of which involves Jesus. For some reason, however, this season’s coaches have forgotten they are Y volunteers and not paid professionals.
My daughter E’s coach takes his responsibilities very seriously. He starts each practice for his 8-9 year old all girls’ team by making them run laps around the field. I would like to see him do that in the late August heat. After that, they get down to the nitty gritty of soccer fundamentals for about 5 seconds so that they can spend the majority of their time scrimmaging. (I don’t really know what "scrimmaging" means, but I used to think it was the lost art of carving intricate seafaring scenes on whale bones.) For their first practice, the coach split the girls into two sides, those who had played together last year versus those who were new members of the team, some of whom had never played soccer before. He then announced to the new girls’ side that the other side never lost a game all season. Way to instill good sportsmanship and teamwork!
E seems happy, though, because while she might not have played on the winningest team in Y history, she has at least played. Plus, she rocks out the goal kicks.
Anywho, yesterday E and I brainstormed names for her team. The coach asked the girls to think up a name, even though they don’t have jerseys yet and therefore are unable to use a color as the basis for the name. Typically, the names are all the same season after season, names which invoke the mayhem and destruction this group of ten little girls will unleash upon the opposing group of ten little girls. The Hurricanes, the Yellow Jackets, White Lightning, Blue Heat. Oooh, intimidating.
E took the team naming pretty seriously. She had pen and paper and plans to draw pictures to get her creative juices flowing. She asked me to help, which was her mistake. I don’t like the traditional names for teams. I think kids can be more original in their team naming. After all, their individual names are pretty original, with all the Peytons and Sloans and McKenzies and Madisons running down the field. It sounds like a law firm, not a soccer team roster.
I was a big help. I came up with great names. Here’s how it went down:
Me: How about the Killer Robots?
E: Hmmm.
Me: The Stinky Socks? The Stinging Nettles?
E: What’s a stinging nettle?
Me: A plant. How about the Swine Flu? Everybody, run! The Swine Flu is taking the field.
E: Stop, Mom.
Me (making spooky jazzy hands): Oooo. What about the Muscle Spasms?
E: No.
Me: The Allergic Reactions?
E starts to laugh.
Me: The Upper Respiratory Infections? The Cramps? That’s the name of a punk rock band.
E: Who cares? I think I’ll go with the sock one.
At the end of their hour practice, the coach took an extra fifteen minutes (G-d forbid they miss a minute of play) to share information and team building propaganda, which included asking the girls what names they came up with. E said the Killer Robots, which surprised me because she seemed to like the Muscle Spasms best. One girl suggested the Giant Pandas. Another one said the cupcakes (I love girls!). The coach pointed out that it is never good in sports to be called a cupcake and told them to think about it some more. This dissolved into suggestions of the Killer Pandas, the Robot Cupcakes, and the Robot Pandas, before the coach cut them off entirely.
Personally, I am rooting for the Killer Cupcakes.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Elephants on Parade
I witnessed something at the zoo last weekend that I didn’t know occurred naturally in the animal world. I tried to get my camera out in time to capture the moment, but I was too slow for the amazing part and only got the part that you don’t want to see. Mind you, I’m no stranger to observing odd animal behavior. My sister’s last dog was a connoisseur of other dog shit when she wasn't darting through the electric fence, shocking herself before bolting for hours on end, when she would most like eat more other dog shit. My mother in law’s crazy poodle was a notorious carpet scooter who regularly masturbated with a bedroom slipper. My own two cats frequently indulge in mutual butt sniffing and anus licking, usually while the rest of are trying to eat breakfast. All I’m saying is, there is plenty of behavior in the animal kingdom that is frowned upon in the human world, but maybe it is natural after all, so who are we to judge?
This was not the first time I have been shocked at a zoo. I’ve seen my share of monkeys jerking it and turtles mounting each other. Once I saw a zebra’s giant cock unfurled, practically dragging along on the dusty ground behind him. And there is my favorite zoo story, at least until last weekend’s incident. My husband and I were at the San Diego Zoo. That zoo has a strong animal enrichment program, where they encourage problem solving and variety to improve their animal residents’ quality of life. They did this by smearing peanut butter on rocks and hiding tasty vittles inside of old logs in the enclosures and even providing children’s toys for the animals to enjoy. Anyway, we were watching the monkeys, along with a group of young children and their parents who were busy videotaping so they could relive the magic of their special day. The monkeys were in an enclosure that was more like a cage than a habitat. It had wire mesh on top as well as on the sides, and the monkeys were swinging around and ooh ooh oohing and generally doing their monkey business. That’s when things took a gruesome turn. A sweet little songbird alighted on the top of the monkey cage. Before you could say Ozzie Osbourne, one of the monkeys reached up through the wire and snatched that bird, biting its head off clean. While all the children and their Spielberg wanna be parents watched, those monkeys passed the headless bird corpse around, each taking a taste like it was some kind of communal ice cream cone. Those monkeys weren’t interested in peanut butter smeared on a rock. They created their own animal enrichment program, much to the horror of the human patrons. You can see why it was my favorite zoo story.
But back to last weekend at the zoo. We bought food for the animals, which resembles rye-crisp flatbread crackers. I couldn’t coerce my children to taste them, so we walked to the first animal exhibit, the elephants. We have two elephants at our zoo, and normally they are big fans of these crackers. We walked up to their area but didn’t bother to open the cracker pack. One elephant was standing still, chewing some hay. The other elephant had its trunk shoved up the first elephant’s ass. Now, I am not talking about a little finger like tip stuck in. I am talking a couple of feet of trunk rammed up there, so there was no mistaking where the trunk was, not even for the littlest of children who were trying to process what their formerly innocent eyes were seeing. This was no sweet elephant scene where one elephant daintily holds the tail of another in its finger like trunk opening, like you would see at the circus. No. This was fisting in the animal world, or as my husband put it later that day, trunking.
And it wasn’t brief either. It lasted long enough for us to have a good laugh, but not long enough for me to point and shoot my camera. By the time I got the camera out and zoomed in, the trunk had been removed from the first elephant’s anus, only now it was holding a giant wad of fresh crap in the equivalent of its elbow. That I did get a picture of, in case you would like to see it. You can imagine what happened next. The elephant with the shit covered trunk (nose?) snacked on the fresh poop, daintily pinching off hunks and stuffing it into its mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the steaming hot feces. At this point, I was the only one laughing. Everyone else hurried off to see the lemurs, but I stayed long enough to be impressed with that elephant's ability to simultaneously hold a ball of crap balanced on its trunk while using the same trunk's end to feed itself shit.
Needless to say, we didn’t waste our crackers on the elephants. The goats, those beggars, were thrilled.
This was not the first time I have been shocked at a zoo. I’ve seen my share of monkeys jerking it and turtles mounting each other. Once I saw a zebra’s giant cock unfurled, practically dragging along on the dusty ground behind him. And there is my favorite zoo story, at least until last weekend’s incident. My husband and I were at the San Diego Zoo. That zoo has a strong animal enrichment program, where they encourage problem solving and variety to improve their animal residents’ quality of life. They did this by smearing peanut butter on rocks and hiding tasty vittles inside of old logs in the enclosures and even providing children’s toys for the animals to enjoy. Anyway, we were watching the monkeys, along with a group of young children and their parents who were busy videotaping so they could relive the magic of their special day. The monkeys were in an enclosure that was more like a cage than a habitat. It had wire mesh on top as well as on the sides, and the monkeys were swinging around and ooh ooh oohing and generally doing their monkey business. That’s when things took a gruesome turn. A sweet little songbird alighted on the top of the monkey cage. Before you could say Ozzie Osbourne, one of the monkeys reached up through the wire and snatched that bird, biting its head off clean. While all the children and their Spielberg wanna be parents watched, those monkeys passed the headless bird corpse around, each taking a taste like it was some kind of communal ice cream cone. Those monkeys weren’t interested in peanut butter smeared on a rock. They created their own animal enrichment program, much to the horror of the human patrons. You can see why it was my favorite zoo story.
But back to last weekend at the zoo. We bought food for the animals, which resembles rye-crisp flatbread crackers. I couldn’t coerce my children to taste them, so we walked to the first animal exhibit, the elephants. We have two elephants at our zoo, and normally they are big fans of these crackers. We walked up to their area but didn’t bother to open the cracker pack. One elephant was standing still, chewing some hay. The other elephant had its trunk shoved up the first elephant’s ass. Now, I am not talking about a little finger like tip stuck in. I am talking a couple of feet of trunk rammed up there, so there was no mistaking where the trunk was, not even for the littlest of children who were trying to process what their formerly innocent eyes were seeing. This was no sweet elephant scene where one elephant daintily holds the tail of another in its finger like trunk opening, like you would see at the circus. No. This was fisting in the animal world, or as my husband put it later that day, trunking.
And it wasn’t brief either. It lasted long enough for us to have a good laugh, but not long enough for me to point and shoot my camera. By the time I got the camera out and zoomed in, the trunk had been removed from the first elephant’s anus, only now it was holding a giant wad of fresh crap in the equivalent of its elbow. That I did get a picture of, in case you would like to see it. You can imagine what happened next. The elephant with the shit covered trunk (nose?) snacked on the fresh poop, daintily pinching off hunks and stuffing it into its mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the steaming hot feces. At this point, I was the only one laughing. Everyone else hurried off to see the lemurs, but I stayed long enough to be impressed with that elephant's ability to simultaneously hold a ball of crap balanced on its trunk while using the same trunk's end to feed itself shit.
Needless to say, we didn’t waste our crackers on the elephants. The goats, those beggars, were thrilled.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Dirty Laundry
I am looking at the photos on my digital camera, and I wish I could show them to you. I can’t, for several reasons. The most obvious is that my blog is not the place for pictures of my daughters, except for those pictures I create with words, as I will have to attempt to do right now. They have also not given their consent for me to share them, and given the nature of these photos, they really shouldn’t. The biggest reason, however, is that I am sure if I were to upload these pictures and post them, store them in my computer memory, or in any way, shape, or form, retain the proof of the existence of these photographs, I am pretty sure the authorities would be busting down my door with that guy from Dateline NBC right behind them, wanting knowing what kind of a monster am I. But oh, if I could share them with you. I have never laughed like I have looking at them. No words that I know how to use can thoroughly describe the humor found in these images. Now to back up and explain.
My daughters are fans of “America’s Next Top Model” in an innocent way. They don’t watch it like I do, to see that narcissistic train wreck, Tyra Banks, get a bunch of stick figures to worship her and do her stupid bidding. They love it like I used to love paper dolls. They like to look at the makeup and the clothes and the final photos and the judging. They try to understand that the two main men on the show are men even though they look and act like women. And when it’s over, they like to play model. Luckily, neither of them wants to be Tyra Banks, and they both love ice cream too much to make me worry about any lasting influences. Playing model to them means one of them snaps pictures while the other one poses all over the house making serious faces at the camera and twisting their arms in odd ways. S seems to be a natural at it, with her eye contact, like she is making love to the camera. E looks more like a victim in a crime scene, all unnatural angles and dead eyes.
They have used my camera before, taking pictures of each other on a Sunday morning, still wearing their little nightgowns. Pictures of them draped over the couch and standing precariously on the stairs seemed innocent enough, if not more than a little amusing, so when they asked me this past Sunday morning, while I was trying to calculate how many vanilla vodka and ginger ales I had had the night before, I handed over my camera, pleased that they found something quiet to do. Later, after everyone was dressed and lunch had been consumed, I sat down next to my husband, who said, “Have you seen the modeling pictures?” “Nope, not yet,” I answered. “You really should,” he said noncommittally.
I turned on the camera and stared at an image of my 7 year old draped over her blue horsey ride-on like she had been shot in the head. The next one was her sitting upright, her head thrown back, the horse’s rounded blue nose poking between her legs. “Oh my,” I said to him. “Keep looking,” he said, while still reading the newspaper, never giving away what else was on the camera. S lying suggestively on the rug in the bonus room. S on the couch, the blanket covering her just so, making you wonder what was under it. Then it was E’s turn, her face serious, as if she had been captured by the camera doing something so wrong, even the lighting looked guilty. Her head lying on the blue horsey’s back. Her twisting unnaturally on the love seat as if she fell there from a great height.
And then, they moved to the laundry room. Now, I have no idea what made them think that posing suggestively in the laundry room was modeling, but holy shit. S looking over her shoulder directly at the camera, holding a blanket over the washing machine. I call that one Dirty Laundry. I was crying, I laughed so hard. Her chin pointed down, arm tucked inside the laundry basket. Lying belly down and butt cheeks up on the top of the folding counter, her back arched. It was E’s turn again. She had one leg hiked up on the washing machine like she was going to shave her legs with the water in it. Her head back so far it was in the laundry basket. Another on leaning across both the washer and dryer. I sure hoped they weren’t agitating while my children posed against them.
From there, they moved to the bathroom. I don’t know wish of them suggested it, but removal of clothing occurred, like in an after school special. (It all starts innocently enough, with the offer of seeing a new puppy or a giant dish of ice cream.) The next thing you know, little S is wrapped in a towel, the toilet still open behind her. And leaning against the shower wall. And sitting on the counter, her face solemn, as if she needs another hit of acid. On the monkey rug in the center of the bathroom floor. I would have been horrified if I couldn’t stop laughing, but I couldn’t. Each one was more inappropriate and therefore more hilarious than the next. I couldn’t get enough. E poking her head out from behind the shower curtain coquettishly. Draping herself in her pink kitty towel. Her head wrapped like a genie.
I could see how it all went down. “Hey,” one said to the next, “let’s go to Mommy’s room.” And it started again. S lying in the center of my bed, cocked up on one elbow, beckoning the viewer to join her. Her hair draped over her shoulders. Lying on her side. And then E’s turn, which actually involved a full frontal panty shot. I put the camera down and wiped my eyes, making wheezing sounds. “I didn’t find them that funny,” my husband said.
That afternoon, my friend MJ came over. She had orchestrated my birthday party the night before, I and wracked my brain trying to think of the perfect thank you gift. My husband had stepped out to run an errand, and the girls were (this time) playing innocently upstairs. “I want to show you something,” I told MJ while she picked at leftover party food. “Consider this your thank you present. You may look at each of these, but you may not laugh out loud or scream or do anything which would indicate that you are amused for any reason whatsoever, because of those two upstairs know we are looking at this, they will kill me.” MJ agreed to my conditions, and I handed over the camera, after setting up the modeling scenario for her. We looked at them together, pausing for the crying and inevitable wetting of panties. When it was over, MJ handed me back the camera and said, “You’re right. That was the best thank you gift ever.”
I'm sure it could have been worse. But thankfully, we don’t have a tripod. All I know is, if I see pictures like this in five years, I won’t be laughing at all.
My daughters are fans of “America’s Next Top Model” in an innocent way. They don’t watch it like I do, to see that narcissistic train wreck, Tyra Banks, get a bunch of stick figures to worship her and do her stupid bidding. They love it like I used to love paper dolls. They like to look at the makeup and the clothes and the final photos and the judging. They try to understand that the two main men on the show are men even though they look and act like women. And when it’s over, they like to play model. Luckily, neither of them wants to be Tyra Banks, and they both love ice cream too much to make me worry about any lasting influences. Playing model to them means one of them snaps pictures while the other one poses all over the house making serious faces at the camera and twisting their arms in odd ways. S seems to be a natural at it, with her eye contact, like she is making love to the camera. E looks more like a victim in a crime scene, all unnatural angles and dead eyes.
They have used my camera before, taking pictures of each other on a Sunday morning, still wearing their little nightgowns. Pictures of them draped over the couch and standing precariously on the stairs seemed innocent enough, if not more than a little amusing, so when they asked me this past Sunday morning, while I was trying to calculate how many vanilla vodka and ginger ales I had had the night before, I handed over my camera, pleased that they found something quiet to do. Later, after everyone was dressed and lunch had been consumed, I sat down next to my husband, who said, “Have you seen the modeling pictures?” “Nope, not yet,” I answered. “You really should,” he said noncommittally.
I turned on the camera and stared at an image of my 7 year old draped over her blue horsey ride-on like she had been shot in the head. The next one was her sitting upright, her head thrown back, the horse’s rounded blue nose poking between her legs. “Oh my,” I said to him. “Keep looking,” he said, while still reading the newspaper, never giving away what else was on the camera. S lying suggestively on the rug in the bonus room. S on the couch, the blanket covering her just so, making you wonder what was under it. Then it was E’s turn, her face serious, as if she had been captured by the camera doing something so wrong, even the lighting looked guilty. Her head lying on the blue horsey’s back. Her twisting unnaturally on the love seat as if she fell there from a great height.
And then, they moved to the laundry room. Now, I have no idea what made them think that posing suggestively in the laundry room was modeling, but holy shit. S looking over her shoulder directly at the camera, holding a blanket over the washing machine. I call that one Dirty Laundry. I was crying, I laughed so hard. Her chin pointed down, arm tucked inside the laundry basket. Lying belly down and butt cheeks up on the top of the folding counter, her back arched. It was E’s turn again. She had one leg hiked up on the washing machine like she was going to shave her legs with the water in it. Her head back so far it was in the laundry basket. Another on leaning across both the washer and dryer. I sure hoped they weren’t agitating while my children posed against them.
From there, they moved to the bathroom. I don’t know wish of them suggested it, but removal of clothing occurred, like in an after school special. (It all starts innocently enough, with the offer of seeing a new puppy or a giant dish of ice cream.) The next thing you know, little S is wrapped in a towel, the toilet still open behind her. And leaning against the shower wall. And sitting on the counter, her face solemn, as if she needs another hit of acid. On the monkey rug in the center of the bathroom floor. I would have been horrified if I couldn’t stop laughing, but I couldn’t. Each one was more inappropriate and therefore more hilarious than the next. I couldn’t get enough. E poking her head out from behind the shower curtain coquettishly. Draping herself in her pink kitty towel. Her head wrapped like a genie.
I could see how it all went down. “Hey,” one said to the next, “let’s go to Mommy’s room.” And it started again. S lying in the center of my bed, cocked up on one elbow, beckoning the viewer to join her. Her hair draped over her shoulders. Lying on her side. And then E’s turn, which actually involved a full frontal panty shot. I put the camera down and wiped my eyes, making wheezing sounds. “I didn’t find them that funny,” my husband said.
That afternoon, my friend MJ came over. She had orchestrated my birthday party the night before, I and wracked my brain trying to think of the perfect thank you gift. My husband had stepped out to run an errand, and the girls were (this time) playing innocently upstairs. “I want to show you something,” I told MJ while she picked at leftover party food. “Consider this your thank you present. You may look at each of these, but you may not laugh out loud or scream or do anything which would indicate that you are amused for any reason whatsoever, because of those two upstairs know we are looking at this, they will kill me.” MJ agreed to my conditions, and I handed over the camera, after setting up the modeling scenario for her. We looked at them together, pausing for the crying and inevitable wetting of panties. When it was over, MJ handed me back the camera and said, “You’re right. That was the best thank you gift ever.”
I'm sure it could have been worse. But thankfully, we don’t have a tripod. All I know is, if I see pictures like this in five years, I won’t be laughing at all.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Sometimes Target Won't Do
My daughters’ camp has a special theme each week, something to enrich the little monkeys’ lives, a break from the daily routine. Some weeks it is a field trip to some local kid friendly destination, like the bowling alley or the zoo, but others, they stay at camp and have some unique activity, like “DJ Dance Party” or “Carnival’, complete with pony rides. A few weeks ago, it was “Halloween in July,” which was hands down the best idea of what to do in the summer. What kid doesn’t love Halloween? They could wear costumes to camp and have games and haunted houses and creepy snacks and little crappy toys from Oriental Trading Company.
But back to the costumes for a minute. I love Halloween, and have been making costumes for my daughters for most of their trick or treating experiences. And not the usual hobo or ghost either. These are elaborate and grand and jimmy rigged, because I can’t sew for shit. They are held together by massive amounts of hot glue and hidden paper clips and rubber bands and will fall apart if you look at them funny. These costumes are not practical; once a friend of mine joked that she has never seen my kids in a costume that allowed them to sit. Last Halloween, my youngest daughter, S, was a piece of bacon. E, my oldest daughter, was a walking encyclopedia. I assumed we would just take those precarious creations out and wear them again, and lucky for me, S was more than happy to don her crispy costume, complete with fried egg headband, once more. But E had other ideas.
E’s friend A (it sounds like Sesame Street, I am aware, thank you) had a dilemma. She was staying with her father the night before the costume party, but all her costume stuff was at her mother’s house. A came home from camp with us that afternoon, and was pretty bummed that she didn’t have anything to wear for the next day. I told her I was pretty sure we could come up with something, since we have so much dress up clothes and other crap at home. E chimed in and said she didn’t want to be an encyclopedia again, she really wanted to be something with A. I asked if she had anything in mind, and of course, she did. Conjoined twins. E loves conjoined twins, even more than she loves learning about the Holocaust or volcanoes or other natural anomalies and disasters. A loved it. S didn’t know what it meant. We were driving right next to a Wal-Mart, so I made them swear they would wear whatever we bought for the costume if I stopped, which they promised to do, in unison, before I swerved into the parking lot.
We walked into Wal-Mart with a purpose, to find the biggest and cheapest clothes we could. I knew we were in the right place, and in less than a minute, I found the women’s section. Let me just say, I had no idea that one could obtain a garment in size 4X. But there they were, 1X through 4X t-shirts and skirts, elastic waist khakis and jeans. I don’t like to think of myself as cheap, but I didn’t want to buy this stuff if it wasn’t going to fit. So I made the girls stand together while I slipped a really big shirt over their heads. They were both able to fit in the 4X together, so it was onto the next challenge, finding a bottom. I had no interest in one child per leg, since I wanted them to be able to actually walk. Luckily, I found a gigantic pink flowing skirt with a forgiving elastic waist. I made them try that on too, so we could see how they looked and moved. It is no small feat to keep three girls quiet under such circumstances. E and A practiced walking together awkwardly, and then I took their shirt and skirt off them, careful to not knock either of them over, before run-walking to the self check out.
Of all the odd things I have ever done in the name of motherhood, having my child and her friend try on fat clothes in public to make sure they fit was near the top of the list. I don’t even think a conjoined twin costume is politically correct, but at least they weren’t in black face, and I was pretty confident no pro conjoined twin fans would protest it. Fortunately, I was able to outfit the two of them for around twenty bucks, so at least it was affordable, even as a joke. E and A kept their promise and wore it the next day, and only fell over once or twice. And no, they were not able to sit down.
But back to the costumes for a minute. I love Halloween, and have been making costumes for my daughters for most of their trick or treating experiences. And not the usual hobo or ghost either. These are elaborate and grand and jimmy rigged, because I can’t sew for shit. They are held together by massive amounts of hot glue and hidden paper clips and rubber bands and will fall apart if you look at them funny. These costumes are not practical; once a friend of mine joked that she has never seen my kids in a costume that allowed them to sit. Last Halloween, my youngest daughter, S, was a piece of bacon. E, my oldest daughter, was a walking encyclopedia. I assumed we would just take those precarious creations out and wear them again, and lucky for me, S was more than happy to don her crispy costume, complete with fried egg headband, once more. But E had other ideas.
E’s friend A (it sounds like Sesame Street, I am aware, thank you) had a dilemma. She was staying with her father the night before the costume party, but all her costume stuff was at her mother’s house. A came home from camp with us that afternoon, and was pretty bummed that she didn’t have anything to wear for the next day. I told her I was pretty sure we could come up with something, since we have so much dress up clothes and other crap at home. E chimed in and said she didn’t want to be an encyclopedia again, she really wanted to be something with A. I asked if she had anything in mind, and of course, she did. Conjoined twins. E loves conjoined twins, even more than she loves learning about the Holocaust or volcanoes or other natural anomalies and disasters. A loved it. S didn’t know what it meant. We were driving right next to a Wal-Mart, so I made them swear they would wear whatever we bought for the costume if I stopped, which they promised to do, in unison, before I swerved into the parking lot.
We walked into Wal-Mart with a purpose, to find the biggest and cheapest clothes we could. I knew we were in the right place, and in less than a minute, I found the women’s section. Let me just say, I had no idea that one could obtain a garment in size 4X. But there they were, 1X through 4X t-shirts and skirts, elastic waist khakis and jeans. I don’t like to think of myself as cheap, but I didn’t want to buy this stuff if it wasn’t going to fit. So I made the girls stand together while I slipped a really big shirt over their heads. They were both able to fit in the 4X together, so it was onto the next challenge, finding a bottom. I had no interest in one child per leg, since I wanted them to be able to actually walk. Luckily, I found a gigantic pink flowing skirt with a forgiving elastic waist. I made them try that on too, so we could see how they looked and moved. It is no small feat to keep three girls quiet under such circumstances. E and A practiced walking together awkwardly, and then I took their shirt and skirt off them, careful to not knock either of them over, before run-walking to the self check out.
Of all the odd things I have ever done in the name of motherhood, having my child and her friend try on fat clothes in public to make sure they fit was near the top of the list. I don’t even think a conjoined twin costume is politically correct, but at least they weren’t in black face, and I was pretty confident no pro conjoined twin fans would protest it. Fortunately, I was able to outfit the two of them for around twenty bucks, so at least it was affordable, even as a joke. E and A kept their promise and wore it the next day, and only fell over once or twice. And no, they were not able to sit down.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Hold the Relish
“Simply relish the moist towel, and I will remove it from your body when I return in a minute.” No funnier words were ever spoken, certainly not during a massage. It’s kind of hard to reach that aaahhh moment when stifling laughter. Not that I wasn’t relaxed. I was. As relaxed as I get. Even in yoga, during savasana, or corpse pose, I am making to do lists and thinking/worrying about a slew of things even while transcending my current plane. “Simply relish the moist towel.” Ha ha.
I went for a massage at a place I have gone to for about two years, even though my favorite massage therapist left this past spring. I have a few gift certificates to use up, so I have yet to venture out on my own for a new massage therapist, which you would think would be imperative. After all, I am naked on a narrow table while a stranger rubs all over my body, so being comfortable with that person should be pretty high up on the list. It’s not that she is a bad massage therapist, she is actually quite good. It’s that she’s odd. She is first and foremost a top-notch salesperson. The salon where she works sells Aveda products, and she uses them by the vat, making sure I know the name of each one.
She began my massage with a cleansing foot bath, not just some salts, but with rosemary mint body wash comingling with deep cleanse purifying salt crystals. I sat with my feet in a giant stainless steel mixing bowl and swished my toes until she returned to pat my feet dry for me. I didn’t know if I should lift my feet for her or leave them down in the bowl, so I ended up marching awkwardly while almost kicking her in the face while she bent over from the waist, holding a towel across her forearms, trying to avoid my flailing legs while capturing my wet feet.
Then she left the room again while I disrobed and arranged myself on the table like a mail order bride on her wedding night. She came back in, and while I waited, she rearranged lots of glass bottles and vials, tinkering around in the dark, before she finally heaved herself on her little stool behind my head. She opened three vials, one at a time, and held each to my nose, gently closing my left nostril, the good one, while I breathed in deeply through my right one, the perpetually clogged one. I could not discern the difference with my defective nostril, thinking all three fragrances smelled of mowed lawn, and settled on number two. I asked her what fragrance it was, hoping for lavender or chamomile, but she answered with another product name, “Aveda Earth. It’s very grounding.” Huh?
She rubbed the Earth between her palms to simulate global warming and then hovered her hands above my face, instructing me to breathe deeply, then breathing deeply herself to demonstrate. I thought such relaxing thoughts as Don’t smother me! And Enough song dance, commence to rubbing. As if reading my mind, she did, but it was less about the massage and more about the spirituality and salesmanship. Penetrating intensive salve for my hands. Peppermint repair cream for my feet. Invigorating balm for my chronically tight IT band. Lots of deep breathing, her, not me. I flipped over. More of the same. Moist hot towels applied to my outer thighs. Another one for my feet. And finally, the one for my back, which I was to “simply relish.”
She left the room for the third time, and I lay there, under my now cold damp towel, almost positive that she never rubbed my right calf or left upper arm. With all the coming and going and breathing and product placement, limbs had been neglected. But there are only so many minutes in an hour, since a massage hour is really more of a suggestion than a guarantee, and sometimes arms and legs are sacrificed for the sales pitch.
As she escorted me out, she handed me a paper cone of water and asked me if I had my gallbladder removed, which I had, over a year ago. She told me my gallbladder acupressure points were “backed up.” It was like she had guessed my card was the queen of hearts. Damn, she’s good. I didn’t really know what to do about my gallbladder acupressure point back up, but I was tempted to buy the purifying salt crystals because she could read my body. And I don’t mind paying for a good show. I do love a good massage, but a bizarrely mediocre massage is pretty good too, only in a very different way.
I went for a massage at a place I have gone to for about two years, even though my favorite massage therapist left this past spring. I have a few gift certificates to use up, so I have yet to venture out on my own for a new massage therapist, which you would think would be imperative. After all, I am naked on a narrow table while a stranger rubs all over my body, so being comfortable with that person should be pretty high up on the list. It’s not that she is a bad massage therapist, she is actually quite good. It’s that she’s odd. She is first and foremost a top-notch salesperson. The salon where she works sells Aveda products, and she uses them by the vat, making sure I know the name of each one.
She began my massage with a cleansing foot bath, not just some salts, but with rosemary mint body wash comingling with deep cleanse purifying salt crystals. I sat with my feet in a giant stainless steel mixing bowl and swished my toes until she returned to pat my feet dry for me. I didn’t know if I should lift my feet for her or leave them down in the bowl, so I ended up marching awkwardly while almost kicking her in the face while she bent over from the waist, holding a towel across her forearms, trying to avoid my flailing legs while capturing my wet feet.
Then she left the room again while I disrobed and arranged myself on the table like a mail order bride on her wedding night. She came back in, and while I waited, she rearranged lots of glass bottles and vials, tinkering around in the dark, before she finally heaved herself on her little stool behind my head. She opened three vials, one at a time, and held each to my nose, gently closing my left nostril, the good one, while I breathed in deeply through my right one, the perpetually clogged one. I could not discern the difference with my defective nostril, thinking all three fragrances smelled of mowed lawn, and settled on number two. I asked her what fragrance it was, hoping for lavender or chamomile, but she answered with another product name, “Aveda Earth. It’s very grounding.” Huh?
She rubbed the Earth between her palms to simulate global warming and then hovered her hands above my face, instructing me to breathe deeply, then breathing deeply herself to demonstrate. I thought such relaxing thoughts as Don’t smother me! And Enough song dance, commence to rubbing. As if reading my mind, she did, but it was less about the massage and more about the spirituality and salesmanship. Penetrating intensive salve for my hands. Peppermint repair cream for my feet. Invigorating balm for my chronically tight IT band. Lots of deep breathing, her, not me. I flipped over. More of the same. Moist hot towels applied to my outer thighs. Another one for my feet. And finally, the one for my back, which I was to “simply relish.”
She left the room for the third time, and I lay there, under my now cold damp towel, almost positive that she never rubbed my right calf or left upper arm. With all the coming and going and breathing and product placement, limbs had been neglected. But there are only so many minutes in an hour, since a massage hour is really more of a suggestion than a guarantee, and sometimes arms and legs are sacrificed for the sales pitch.
As she escorted me out, she handed me a paper cone of water and asked me if I had my gallbladder removed, which I had, over a year ago. She told me my gallbladder acupressure points were “backed up.” It was like she had guessed my card was the queen of hearts. Damn, she’s good. I didn’t really know what to do about my gallbladder acupressure point back up, but I was tempted to buy the purifying salt crystals because she could read my body. And I don’t mind paying for a good show. I do love a good massage, but a bizarrely mediocre massage is pretty good too, only in a very different way.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Reason #362 Why I Miss the Baby Days
Picture this, if you will: my daughter "Alison" getting ready for her shower. She takes off her clothes and puts them in her hamper. I am sitting on the toilet, peeing. (Yes, it is germane to the story!)
Alison: Mom, I need to use the stain stick.
(I love Stain Stick. I use it all the time. I have one for the laundry room and one in my bathroom near the hamper. I even pack it when I travel. It even gets out Frosty stains!)
Me: Why? Did you get something on your shirt at dinner?
Alison: No. I have a stain in my panties.
(Let me stop here and remind you that "Alison" is seven. A stain in her panties pretty much means one thing. Typically I throw those tainted ones away, unless they are one of her faves, in which case I scrub them so much they could be crotchless when I am through with them.)
Me: Have a little trouble wiping, did we?
Alison: No, Mom. It's not that.
Me (getting concerned): Well, what is it?
Alison: It's a pee stain, like a stripe. A stripe of pee.
(I know what is on her panties. And it isn't pee.)
Me: Oh, don't worry about that. It's not pee. We don't need to put Stain stick on that.
Alison: If it's not pee, than what is it?
(I have no idea how to answer this one. I don't think things through very well, as evidenced by the following.)
Me: That? Oh, that. That's just vaginal discharge.
Alison: Discharge? What's discharge.
(I am still sitting on the toilet. Alison is standing naked on the other side of the bathroom, and she is desperately trying to look at my panties to see if I too have a stain. I quickly pull them up and stand up.)
Me: Hmmm, how do I explain this?
(Self cleaning oven? Lubrication? Snail trail?)
Me (again): Okay, let's see. You know how your nose makes snot? To trap germs and dirt and kind of keep things moist and happy? Well, vaginal discharge is kinda like that.
Alison (eyes real big): Vagina snot?!?!
Me: Yep. Sort of. Yep.
Alison looks at me again, then falls on the floor laughing. She stumbles out of my bathroom, giggling all the way to her room.
I doubt this is the last I will hear of what is in her panties.
Alison: Mom, I need to use the stain stick.
(I love Stain Stick. I use it all the time. I have one for the laundry room and one in my bathroom near the hamper. I even pack it when I travel. It even gets out Frosty stains!)
Me: Why? Did you get something on your shirt at dinner?
Alison: No. I have a stain in my panties.
(Let me stop here and remind you that "Alison" is seven. A stain in her panties pretty much means one thing. Typically I throw those tainted ones away, unless they are one of her faves, in which case I scrub them so much they could be crotchless when I am through with them.)
Me: Have a little trouble wiping, did we?
Alison: No, Mom. It's not that.
Me (getting concerned): Well, what is it?
Alison: It's a pee stain, like a stripe. A stripe of pee.
(I know what is on her panties. And it isn't pee.)
Me: Oh, don't worry about that. It's not pee. We don't need to put Stain stick on that.
Alison: If it's not pee, than what is it?
(I have no idea how to answer this one. I don't think things through very well, as evidenced by the following.)
Me: That? Oh, that. That's just vaginal discharge.
Alison: Discharge? What's discharge.
(I am still sitting on the toilet. Alison is standing naked on the other side of the bathroom, and she is desperately trying to look at my panties to see if I too have a stain. I quickly pull them up and stand up.)
Me: Hmmm, how do I explain this?
(Self cleaning oven? Lubrication? Snail trail?)
Me (again): Okay, let's see. You know how your nose makes snot? To trap germs and dirt and kind of keep things moist and happy? Well, vaginal discharge is kinda like that.
Alison (eyes real big): Vagina snot?!?!
Me: Yep. Sort of. Yep.
Alison looks at me again, then falls on the floor laughing. She stumbles out of my bathroom, giggling all the way to her room.
I doubt this is the last I will hear of what is in her panties.
There is Nothing Funny about a Stroke
My father in law is in the hospital. He suffered a stroke about a week ago, the second one in three months. He was seemingly fine after the first one, with very little weakness on his left side that resolved quickly. He was back to volunteering at his former place of employment, what I like to call free consulting, and being the primary caregiver for my mother in law, who is in even worse shape than he is. But despite his daily walks, his abstaining from all things alcohol and sugar related, and his strict adherence to medication, he surprised us all by having another stroke.
Only this time, he isn't home and recovering in three days. He is still in the hospital, and while the medical professionals all agree he should recover well, they have no time frame they want to share with us. He is able to walk, talk, think, and feel. He has vertigo, though, so while physically he can stand, every time he does, he is like a falling tree. He has already had a good fall, too, good enough that he has a special fall bracelet and bathroom restrictions. And to top it off, he is experiencing double vision, so he isn't able to read a newspaper or magazine, and can only look at a computer or the television with one eye closed. So he is wearing an eye patch. Like a pirate.
My father in law is the strong silent type. He likes a good joke, especially if it is raunchy, but he doesn't laugh loudly unless he has a really good reason. He rather listen than talk, especially when you need advice. He belongs to the "show, not tell" school of love. He doesn't talk about his feelings, but if you need him to do something, he does it. Family matters more to him than anything in the world. Clemson football and a good hot dog are close seconds.
I love my father in law, and so do my kids. They got short-changed in the grandparent department, as some kids do. I was lucky in grandparents, which made up for the shitty parents I had. For my children, it is the opposite. They have no grandmothers to teach them how to bake, to put on lipstick or make pin curls in their hair, to take them shopping and to tea parties and spend the nights. They have no grandfathers to teach them how to whittle a stick, or catch a fish, or change a tire, or mix a tall Jack Daniels and water. They have two grandmothers who are unable to care for them or be alone with them, even though they both love them. They have one grandfather who won't talk to them, opting for his cigarettes and his daily nap over conversation or even game playing.
And then they have my father in law, who is different from the other three because he listens. He asks them questions and sits back for the answers to unfold. He teases them, in a subtle way, which is enough to make them smile and be glad for his company. They each have their own style with him, their own inside jokes, their own special relationship. He respects their individuality, and they know it.
None of us is handling his stroke well. We all want him to be like he was over a week ago, none of us half as much as he does. We want him to go back home, back to driving and working for free and grilling chicken tenders and falling asleep on the couch in front of the television. I don't know when that will happen. Until then, I hope he gets better, and I hope he gets over his frustration at himself, at his inability to self heal, at his anger for getting older. Actually, I hope that for all of us.
My youngest daughter thought they should make hospital gowns in plaid for her grandfather, since he wears plaid shirts almost every day of his life. She wants to play with the buttons on his bed and the levers on his tray and the convertible bed in his room and (of course!) his wheel chair. My oldest daughter, however, stands there and watches it all with her big doe eyes, wanting to ask the question that none of the adults in the room want to answer, because we don't know or don't want to admit it. She wants the truth, and we can't give it to her.
To make herself feel better, my oldest daughter drew a picture for her grandfather, whom my girls call Andaddy, since "grand" was too hard to say when they were babies. She was taken with his eye patch, since it gave him his first real air of mystery. It depicts him as a pirate, his hospital bed his ship, and his wheelchair as a treasure chest. I know he will love it when he see it. My daughter felt better making a fantasy out of a hospital stay, and honestly, it's a much better scenario than the ones I make up. Getting old sucks, but being a pirate is cool.
Only this time, he isn't home and recovering in three days. He is still in the hospital, and while the medical professionals all agree he should recover well, they have no time frame they want to share with us. He is able to walk, talk, think, and feel. He has vertigo, though, so while physically he can stand, every time he does, he is like a falling tree. He has already had a good fall, too, good enough that he has a special fall bracelet and bathroom restrictions. And to top it off, he is experiencing double vision, so he isn't able to read a newspaper or magazine, and can only look at a computer or the television with one eye closed. So he is wearing an eye patch. Like a pirate.
My father in law is the strong silent type. He likes a good joke, especially if it is raunchy, but he doesn't laugh loudly unless he has a really good reason. He rather listen than talk, especially when you need advice. He belongs to the "show, not tell" school of love. He doesn't talk about his feelings, but if you need him to do something, he does it. Family matters more to him than anything in the world. Clemson football and a good hot dog are close seconds.
I love my father in law, and so do my kids. They got short-changed in the grandparent department, as some kids do. I was lucky in grandparents, which made up for the shitty parents I had. For my children, it is the opposite. They have no grandmothers to teach them how to bake, to put on lipstick or make pin curls in their hair, to take them shopping and to tea parties and spend the nights. They have no grandfathers to teach them how to whittle a stick, or catch a fish, or change a tire, or mix a tall Jack Daniels and water. They have two grandmothers who are unable to care for them or be alone with them, even though they both love them. They have one grandfather who won't talk to them, opting for his cigarettes and his daily nap over conversation or even game playing.
And then they have my father in law, who is different from the other three because he listens. He asks them questions and sits back for the answers to unfold. He teases them, in a subtle way, which is enough to make them smile and be glad for his company. They each have their own style with him, their own inside jokes, their own special relationship. He respects their individuality, and they know it.
None of us is handling his stroke well. We all want him to be like he was over a week ago, none of us half as much as he does. We want him to go back home, back to driving and working for free and grilling chicken tenders and falling asleep on the couch in front of the television. I don't know when that will happen. Until then, I hope he gets better, and I hope he gets over his frustration at himself, at his inability to self heal, at his anger for getting older. Actually, I hope that for all of us.
My youngest daughter thought they should make hospital gowns in plaid for her grandfather, since he wears plaid shirts almost every day of his life. She wants to play with the buttons on his bed and the levers on his tray and the convertible bed in his room and (of course!) his wheel chair. My oldest daughter, however, stands there and watches it all with her big doe eyes, wanting to ask the question that none of the adults in the room want to answer, because we don't know or don't want to admit it. She wants the truth, and we can't give it to her.
To make herself feel better, my oldest daughter drew a picture for her grandfather, whom my girls call Andaddy, since "grand" was too hard to say when they were babies. She was taken with his eye patch, since it gave him his first real air of mystery. It depicts him as a pirate, his hospital bed his ship, and his wheelchair as a treasure chest. I know he will love it when he see it. My daughter felt better making a fantasy out of a hospital stay, and honestly, it's a much better scenario than the ones I make up. Getting old sucks, but being a pirate is cool.
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