And….We Lost

And, by lost I mean; we got creamed.

Slaughtered.

Spanked.

Decimated.

We played worse than the Bad News Bears. On their worst day.

And, while it might have been funny had Walter Matthau was swilling booze in the dugout while Tatum O’Neal played second base, as it was, yeah, not so funny.

On the bright side, the boys really could not have cared less that they got trounced; they were just happy they got to play and, what’s that? Apple dippers with caramel sauce?! Suh-weet!

So, yeah; snacks: the great pacifier.

Hugh was sad to hear about our loss but not terribly surprised since, as he has said; this is a young team. They are just experiencing kid-pitch after getting used to machine-pitch and it will take a while for them to hit their stride. We just have to be patient. Besides, it isn’t like this is the first year that we have watched them build character through humiliation; two years ago we didn’t win a game the entire season. That was also a “building year”, one which enabled us to go undefeated last year.

Learning how to play the game, win or lose, is the whole point behind the league, anyway. And, luckily, we have parents who embrace that philosophy, expecting nothing near perfection from either the boys or their coach.

Still, I imagine they are happy to know that Hugh refrains from drinking in the dugout.

Generally speaking.

Single Mothers of the World, I Salute You

I was so busy running all over God’s creation this weekend, I can’t even tell you. I made at least four trips into town for stupid stuff including two trips to purchase crickets for that fucking tarantula to eat. It should have taken only one trip but, when we got home from the first trip we discovered that we had erroneously been given the kind of crickets that make noise. Yes, I know; Crickets that make noise, unheard of! Anyway, we went back to the pet shop for an exchange except, do you think they had what I needed? They most certainly did not and so we are stuck with five singing crickets. Crickets who sing all night long. It will take the spider at least a week to eat said crickets, assuming the noise doesn’t drive him batshit crazy like it is driving the rest of us, in which case he might kill them just to watch them die.

Here’s hoping.

The Girl couldn’t stand the noise and, unlike some of us, she has friends who are more than willing to adopt her lucky ass; she spent the majority of the weekend at Kaz’s house. The Man-Cub resorted to sleeping in his sister’s bed in order to escape the noise and I plugged my iPod in and drifted off to classical music each night.

Hugh doesn’t know how lucky he was to be in Florida but; he will be home tonight so, I give him ten minutes to figure it out.

Speaking of tonight, we have our first baseball game and I am responsible for chauffeuring a full quarter of our team to the field in a not-so-very-distant-town. Thing is, I have no idea where the field is. God, please don’t let me get lost; that would be embarrassing. On the other hand, I also have all the snacks so; at least we won’t go hungry.

Thank heavens Hugh will be home late tonight. I don’t like this solo-parenting gig one little bit; Hugh would have killed those crickets with his bare hands by now.

Let the Shopping Commence

Yesterday, Hugh and I finalized plans for our anniversary trip later this year; Barbados, here we come!

We chose Barbados because our anniversary falls in September which falls smack dab at the beginning of hurricane season and, since I wanted to go somewhere tropical, and Hugh didn’t particularly want to be blown away by winds gusting up to 150 miles per hour, Barbados was the logical choice as it sits outside of hurricane alley.

In fact, Barbados has not encountered a hurricane in over twenty years. Of course, now that I have said that and, you know, dropped thousands of dollars booking a vacation there; this will be the year it gets hit. If you live in Barbados, you can expect the storm somewhere around September third and, I’m sorry.

On the topic of dropping thousands of dollars; booking a vacation also means that I have to buy island resort wear for Hugh and myself. It’s a chore, yes but, I’ll persevere.

I’m thinking cotton summer dresses, sarongs, cute bikinis and a large floppy beach hat. For me, obviously; Hugh would look ridiculous in a bikini.

Truth be told, Hugh actually needs a whole new wardrobe since his usual attire is in no way suited for a week on an island and I’m not too keen on being seen with a man-albeit a good-looking one-wearing faded denim shorts with knee socks and a polo shirt circa 1987. I know, call me crazy.

So, while Hugh attends his grandmother’s funeral in Florida this weekend, I am off to Neighboring City to start the vacation-wardrobe shopping process.

Don’t be concerned if you smell plastic burning; it’s just my credit card.

If It Isn’t One Thing, It’s Another. Like, Duh.

Hugh’s grandmother passed away yesterday at the age of 94. She was a classy lady and I will miss her.

In accordance with her wishes, there will be a small gravesite ceremony in Florida, where her husband of fifty-years, is buried. In accordance with some rule of her religion, she will be buried as quickly as possible (which, I have no idea, Catholic, remember? When one of our people dies we have wakes that go on for days, viewings, a reading of the rosary, a mass, a rummage sale….you get the idea) which means that only Oscar, Emily, Oscar’s brother and his wife and the grandchildren (Hugh, his siblings and cousins) will be attending the funeral and, I’m ok with that.

What I’m not ok with is that fact that Hugh will be a thousand miles away Monday night, when our baseball team plays its first game of the season. It’s kind of hard to play a game without a coach. With any luck, though; one of the other fathers will step up and agree to coach the team during the game. If not, I guess I will have no choice but to do it my own damn self.

Did you hear that noise? That would be my father falling to the ground in a fit of laughter. Yeah, laugh it up now, big man but, don’t be surprised when I call you in a fit of hysteria because I need a rules clarification.

Hugh’s departure also means that I will be on my own this weekend, sorting, matching and distributing the team uniforms for each team in the league. The woman who usually handles this gargantuan task is attending the fifth grader’s annual trip to Mesa Verde and, as much as I might complain about dealing with a hundred and fifty pairs of purple socks; I would much rather do that than chaperone 120 ten and eleven year-olds on a school trip. Been there, done that. Got the tee-shirt.

Besides, I can sort through the boxes of uniform pants, shirts and hats while drinking white wine and watching Battlestar Galactica, the same of which could not be said for scaling ancient Native American ruins.

I win!

Do You Smell Smoke? Brimstone, Perhaps?

Day two of early morning exercising went fabulously well if you overlook the part where my right arm, still sore from yesterday’s blood draw, refused to perform at the level to which the left arm has become accustomed. Left arm was pissed.

Speaking of yesterday’s blood draw; it went great! I arrived fifteen minutes early for my 2:00 appointment thinking that, if it took Blood Bank Guy forty-five minutes to squeeze out a pint of plasma before watching me pass out, then I was going to be late getting back to work, so, better go early. Plus, I wanted to just get it over with, already.

Imagine my surprise when I encountered a lady in the Blood Suite, rather than Jack the Ripper the Usual Blood Bank Guy. Imagine her surprise when, upon being told that Usual Blood Bank Guy had broken his ankle, I actually hissed “Yessss!” while pumping my fist in the air all Arsenio Hall-style.

Yep. Pretty sure I’m going to Hell.

But! I gave blood, so maybe not.

And, as I said; it went great! The nice lady actually listened to me when I told her that the very promising-looking vein in my arm would roll to the side the minute it was stuck with a needle and she stuck the vein’s neighbor, instead. The neighbor proved quite accommodating and we had a full bag-o-blood in just less than fifteen minutes. With an experience like that; I might be less hesitant to make up a lie the next time they call me.

On the other hand, how long can it possibly take for the usual guy’s ankle to heal and what are the chances that he would break something else at the same time that I agree to donate? Probably not very good; I never get lucky like that. still, I guess I could hope.

Wow, did I just say that out loud?

Yep. Definitely going to Hell.

If Only I Were a Better Liar

I got up early this morning to keep a date with Trainer Bob since I have a meeting later this afternoon and won’t be able to exercise at my normal time. I don’t know how you morning exercisers do it; for the first ten minutes I just wanted to crawl back in bed, pull the covers over my head and sleep. Eleven minutes into it, however, my determination was much improved and I can check daily exercise off my To Do list for the day.

Maybe early morning exercising is something I should give more though to. Maybe.

My meeting later today is with the President of the Baseball Association Board; apparently, as secretary, I am required to produce the official team rosters that our organization sends to the Babe Ruth headquarters. I know not how to do the rosters so; his help will be greatly appreciated. Now, if he can just talk me through the whole business of stirring the neon orange nacho cheese product for the concession stand, I’ll have this baseball thing down pat.

Prior to my meeting with the President, I have the misfortune of visiting the local hospital blood bank to make a deposit. I know, I know, I'm not good at this sort of thing but, when the lady from the bank called to request the pleasure of my company on her magical gurney; my brain did not work fast enough to formulate a plausible excuse for declining the invite. You can’t really blame me; she started the conversation by noting that the last three times they have called me, I have been ill and, was I feeling well today? Was I healthy? Hmmm? I was reluctant to claim illness once again for fear they whole hospital would start to think I’m terminal or something.

Although, that would get me off the list.

Anywaaay, at 2:00 this afternoon, I have a date with the blood bank’s version of Sweeny Todd. Should be fun. Or you know, not.

In far more entertaining news, while playing in her room this weekend, The Girl and Kaz unearthed The Girl’s long-abandoned collection of dolls. The Man-Cub, accepting a challenge from the girls, has been “caring” for one of the babies since Saturday. Since both girls are under the impression that the Cub will make an inattentive father some day, they have taken it upon themselves to get him on the straight and narrow while he is still young and trainable. I cannot say that I disagree with their train of thought and, for the record, the Cub is doing a stellar job with the “baby”.

He carries her around in her carrier, feeds her an occasional goldfish cracker bottle, changes her diaper (he does such a good job, you can barely even see the duct tape) and has only forgotten her outside overnight once. He says she sleeps better under the stars, anyway and, since he did spend the first six weeks of his life sleeping in his car seat on top of the dryer, who am I to judge?

Hugh is, understandably, less entertained by this project than I am but, to his credit, hasn’t mentioned his misgivings to the boy. He won’t let me post pictures of the unbearable cuteness that is the Man-Cub toting around a doll but, I respect the limits of his good humor.

And our future grandchildren will thank us all one day.

These Are the People in Your Neighborhood

Friday night, the children escaped our evil clutches to attend sleepovers at the homes of friends. Saturday morning, at loose ends about what to do with ourselves, minus the responsibility of parenting; Hugh and I went out to breakfast at the local diner.

While we were enjoying our breakfast burrito (me) and Spanish omelet (him), we had occasion to visit with a number of local townspeople who were also enjoying a meal away from home. I came away from breakfast with an even deeper understanding of the fact that we live in a community of what my father would call, characters. In a good way, of course.

Characters such as our dear friend, Junior Jr.

Yes, Junior, Jr. And, while I am well aware that Junior Jr. has an actual first name to go along with his last name of Junior, a name he apparently shared with his father, Junior Sr.; I have never heard him answer to anything but Junior. Ever.

Junior is an older man, and although I’m not certain of his age, his stories of the town's children go back a couple of generations so; he’s clearly got some history on him. Due to a childhood illness or injury-once again, not entirely certain of the specifics and it seems rude to ask-the left side of Junior’s body is slightly paralyzed, leaving him to walk with a slight limp, his arm dangling loosely at his side. This slight handicap might lead one to wonder if Junior ever feels sorry for himself to which I would have to give a hearty hell, no.

Junior is an active volunteer in town, rising at dawn each day of the year to care for the community baseball field, weather permitting. He doesn’t get paid to do this; it is simply his self-appointed job and has been for all the time that I have known him. In recognition of his efforts, the field was renamed for him a couple of summers ago; an event that left him embarrassed and humbled all at the same time.

Each year, on the field bearing his name, Junior dons a blue bunny suit and leads the annual Easter egg hunt for the local chapter of the Lions Club, of which he is past president. He poses for photos with local children for as long as it takes to make certain that not one child misses a chance to be photographed with the Easter Bunny, regardless of the fact that, on a hot day, it will become stiffling in the suit. I have never heard him complain, once.

Junior, Jr. is good people.

Also slightly eccentric, but in a good way, is our friend, Mecurio. Mecurio, he of sky- blue eyes and broad smile; is a naturalized citizen of this great country, arriving via Mexico a number of years ago in search of a piece of land to call his own. The land he ended up with is one of the best cherry-producing sites in our area and, each summer, I can be guaranteed of a knock on my door and a heaping bushel barrel of fresh-picked cherries, courtesy of Mercurio. Despite his time in the States and his-quite good- grasp of the English language; I only understand about every third word that comes out of his mouth which, I have to admit; simply makes our conversations more entertaining.

“You want I bring you some pieces?”
“Pieces of what?”
“Pieces! Pieces! You know, pieces!”
“Pieces of what?”
“Pieces! With the juicy! And the fuzzes!”
“Peaches? You mean peaches?”
“Yes! Pieces! That what I say, pieces!”

Next up, we have one Mr. Irvin Dingle. Irvin stands almost seven feet tall and I am not kidding. Since birth, Irvin has had a condition in which the pituitary gland over-produces growth hormones; leading to accelerated growth. When Irvin was six years old, his father took him to the State Hospital located in Neighboring Big City and left him for tests. He never returned and Irvin lived his formative years in the State system before finding a home in our community a couple of decades ago. Like Junior, Jr., Irvin’s “handicap” is less a cause for concern among the people of our community, who have embraced Irvin to the point that there are townspeople who fight over the privilege of driving Irvin to doctor’s appointments.

He is a gentle giant, for certain.

There are more, of course, too many to mention in one post; we have our own version of Gladys Kravits, a police deputy who would give Barney Fife a run for his money, a crazy Cat Lady Who Lives Down the Block, and a whole host of old men who sit in rocking chairs on Main Street, gossiping like women and whittling. Yes, I said, whittling, can you think of anything quainter?

Clearly, there are worse places I could live and I do try to be a good neighbor, myself.

A task that I’m certain I failed at miserably this weekend when I allowed Hugh to run a borrowed roto-tiller in the new backyard well past dark. A loud roto-tiller. One that kicked up tons of dust which, when carried on the hellacious wind we were having, probably coated the households of everyone within a three-block radius.

You’re welcome, neighbors!

Men vs. Women: The Illness Edition

She-pulls her aching body out of bed at the crack of dawn to prepare the children for school.

He-whines "I'm sick!", rolls over and goes back to sleep.

She-drags herself to work to meet a deadline.

He-whines “I’m sick!” and drags himself to the couch.

She-comes home from work and, flushed with fever, prepares dinner for the family.

He-whines “I’m sick!” and, flushed with fever, manages to change channels from Sports Center to the local news. Barely.

She-cleans up the kitchen and tosses back a shooter of Nyquil before leaving the house for a meeting at which she must take the official minutes. She prays that the “drowsy” feature of the medication won’t kick in until after she gets back home.

He-calls his buddy on the planning commission and whines “I’m sick! Send me the minutes from tonight’s meeting” then rolls over and goes to sleep on the couch, remote control clasped loosely in his hand.

She-returns from the meeting just in time to tuck the children into bed, wimpers to no one in particular “I’m sick.” and staggers to bed.

He-wakes up feeling rested and refreshed and wonders why She is so damn grumpy and, by the way, where is his breakfast?

She-contemplates whining "I'm sick...of your whining!" but, instead, quietly plots the various ways that she could cause him physical harm without attracting the attention of the local police department then; realizes that she is too tired for plotting, sucks it up and starts her day.

Where Have All the Pretty Flowers Gone?

My tulips are not blooming yet this year. I’m pretty sure I had a lot of blooms by this time last year so, not quite sure what is up with that. Also, not happy.

This weekend, we are supposed to start our landscaping project. Hugh is going to till and enrich the soil in the backyard and start trenching for the new sprinkler system. Prior to the Remodel from Hell, we had a very nice backyard with like, grass and everything so, in a fantasy world, the system that we had back then would still be somewhat usable. In the real world, however, Hugh admits that there will be much yanking up of old pipes, complete with cursing and random expletives.

I can hardly wait.

On the bright side, Jana and company will be helping with the chore so, at the very least, I will have a drinking buddy. Whether or not we are allowed to simply sit on the rocking chairs on the porch, sipping white Merlot and shouting occasional words of encouragement while the men folk work remains to be seen.

And, of course, this entire plan is dependent upon the weather, always a gamble here in beautiful (indecisive) Colorado this time of year.

Should we get rained out (or snowed out, heaven forbid); I will be greatly disappointed as I am really hoping to have a vegetable garden in by the end of May. Once upon a time, I had a nice garden and it would be really nice to have one again; we saved a ton of money on groceries when all our vegetables and herbs were coming from our own little plot, money that I could use now to buy more white Merlot. Or, you know, shoes for the children. whichever.

An additional benefit to having my own garden was the plethora of opportunities that it gave me to do deep squats and knee bends, not to mention the workout that pulling weeds gave my lats. Gardening: The latest craze in workouts, you heard it here first. Also, I just enjoyed watching the random wildlife attracted to the garden; frogs, ladybugs, walking sticks, praying mantises (praying manti?), sneaky children in need of a fresh pea fix, you know, all the normal stuff.

Currently, our backyard is a hot mess of leftover lumber and other remodeling detritus. While it makes for a fabulous chew-toy treasure hunt for the dog, it doesn’t do so much for me. I anxiously await the carpet of soft green grass under my feet, flowerbeds rioting with color, and a small water feature bubbling away in a far corner of the yard.

That and the banishment of the mud; my wood floors, they have been through so much.

No Wonder Herman Munster Was So Tall

Yesterday, I went to the foot doctor to pick up my new orthotic inserts. A nice nurse trimmed them, helped me insert them into my New Balance runners and handed me a handy-dandy list of safety instructions which included a dire warning against actually wearing the devices for any length of time.

Now, I don’t know about you but, when my insurance company pays good money for something that I am supposed to wear, by god, I’m going to wear it! There are orthotic-less children in third-world countries who would be happy to have those orthotics, mister!

So, I strode out of the office with the orthotics firmly in place (three inches taller, I swear) and hit the Hellmouth for some fun grocery shopping.

Midway through the shopping trip I was using the shopping cart to support my upper body weight while dragging my legs behind me like a paraplegic; cursing those damn orthotics the entire way and thinking to myself, Self, if some woman with junked-up feet in a third-world nation actually wants these bad boys, she can have them.

It took the rest of the day to get over the resulting lower backache and feeling of numbness in my toes. And, the really great part is that I get to do it all over again today, oh, yippee. Of course, this time I will heed the dire warnings on the information sheet and wear the orthotics for only an hour or two and, at this rate, I should be totally used to them, and my new center of gravity, by Christmas. I might even like them by then. Maybe I’ll hang tinsel on them and teach them to sing carols.

And, if not, I can always wrap them up in shiny paper and send them to a third-world country, ‘tis the season for giving and all that.

Speaking of gifts, you know what you get when you leave your children behind for six days while you traipse all over a new city, drinking white wine and hanging out with fun people?

If you are Catholic or, a mother, you just answered “guilt” and, you would be correct. You know how guilt leads you to do silly things in order to compensate? Yes, well, look what guilt got the Man-Cub.

His name is Tank.

Hugh may never sleep again. But, at least my boy still loves me.

This is not an actual picture of Tank but a representation of the type of tarantula that Tank is, stolen from the Internet because, if you think for one second that I am getting close enough to that hairy bastard to actually take his picture; drugs have been really good to you.

Also, while we were gone, The Girl played in-and excelled at-her sixth-grade volleyball tournament. This is the second year in a row that work commitments have kept Hugh and me from attending one of her sports functions; talk about guilt. We're probably lucky she didn't ask for a pony.

Or, a tattoo.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Boston was fun. The red-eye out of Denver…not so much. In fact, do you know what is worse than not sleeping on an overnight flight? Sleeping on one. My neck developed such a crick in it; I couldn’t hold my head upright for our entire stay. On the plus side, I couldn’t help but notice the carpets in the Boston convention center are remarkably clean and stain-free. Nice job, Boston!

Also on the bright side, our business seminar was not nearly as challenging as I had feared it would be and I took some valuable insights away with me. Insights about the class material as well as insights about Boston proper. Things like, the fact that I actually like salt fries. Like, I really like salt fries. Salt water pickles on the other hand, no. Just, no.

One of our evening events was held at the Boston Science Museum and we got to watch a giant conductor create lightning inside the building. This, as exciting as it sounds wasn’t really. But, it did make for interesting conversation at the breakfast table the next morning.

Hugh: I didn’t really find the lightning show all that electrifying. Get it? Electrifying. Ha, ha.

Random Guy Sitting Next To Us: Well, of course you wouldn’t; look what you have to compare it against (pointing at me).

Chelle: Wow. I’m going home with him.

I didn’t, obviously. After all, he might not have indulged my wish to visit the bar from Cheers like my husband did. In a limousine, even. Plus, he bought me a tee-shirt. Living large, that's us.

Saturday afternoon, between our last class and the time we had to be back to the airport, Hugh and I walked to Boston Commons and took the walking Freedom Tour; we saw the home of Paul Revere, the USS Constitution, a slew of statues of our fore-fathers, some truly huge lobsters at the fish market near the piers and more cemeteries than you could shake a psychic at (I see dead people). It was a lot of fun and a good way to exhaust ourselves before getting on the flight back home.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my parents were doing a bang-up job of watching over our children, an especially challenging job given the fact that, while we were away, puberty hi-jacked The Girl.

Ugliness ensued.

Looks like we won’t need Paul Revere to tell us The Hormones are coming! The Hormones are coming!

Leaving’ On a Jet Plane

Hugh and I are taking the red eye out of Denver tonight. We are going here for a business class at which cursing at my own stupidity is certain to be a frequent occurrence. I’m so excited!

Speaking of excited, my parents are making the trip up to stay with our offspring while we are away and they are simply beside themselves with glee (the children, not my parents although...ok, them too); almost an entire week of spoiled indulgences; tuna casserole! Bacon in the mornings! Foods that require margarine as a major ingredient,

****TANGENT ALERT*** margarine is generally banned from my fridge. Do you have any idea what margarine will do to your insides? Do you? Chemically speaking, margarine is one molecule away from being plastic. Plastic, people! You might as well just melt down the container it comes in and slather that on your toast. I'm serious!****END OF TANGENT***

staying up past their bedtimes and, let us not forget the frequent episodes of back tickling and foot rubbing; Nana just cannot say no!

Yes, the kids are quite excited. And, I am jealous. Of the frequent episodes of foot rubbing, obviously.

I’m sure Hugh and I will find something fun to do in Boston. I mean, all work and no play and all that but, I’ll miss being here on Saturday for The Girl’s volleyball tournament and that is a bummer for sure. I have no doubt she will do great and have a good time doing it but, still. I be sad.

Hey, I know; maybe some retail therapy in Boston will soothe my guilty conscious!

I’m willing to try, you know, for the children.

Thus Endeth Spring Break

Jana requested the company of my children this weekend; picking them up on Friday morning and whisking them away for a day of bowling and chocolate-shake drinking at a nearby soda fountain. She returned them to us on Saturday night following an exciting day which included digging for worms, holding baby chicks, wading in the creek and eating homemade apple pie until they thought that they might burst.

And she thanks me for letting her take them.

While the kids were away, Hugh and I did all the usual things that a fairly young couple-in-love does when they find themselves childfree for a period of time bomp chicka bomp, bomp; I cleaned the house and organized things for my parent’s visit later this week while Hugh finished our taxes (Finally! Thankyoulordjeebus!) which, ok, bomp chicka bomp bomp, not so much.

Aside from the never ending chore of cleaning my hovel, I also stole away to neighboring city for some shopping. Shopping that didn’t include a surly pre-teen cringing at each clothing purchase and rolling her eyes at every sentence that came out of my mouth. Or, a nine-year old who argues-loudly- the point I make about him not needing one more freaking Webkinz.

And, once again; Jana thanks me for letting her take them.

While shopping, I hit Sam’s Club to replenish my stock of essentials. Essentials in this case being Fuze slenderizing drink, fresh blueberries, Fiber One bars and marinated artichoke hearts in the gallon-sized jar (two of which Hugh went through in the last six weeks, alone, hence the need for replenishment).

Next, I went to Target to pick up a bottle of Bumble & Bumble styling lotion since I got a haircut on Thursday and was in need of something to remind my hair that its job is to flip up all cutesy rather than laying down like an unattractive rug upon my head. We are working on it, my hair and I.

Once I was finished in neighboring city, Hugh and I ventured to the grand opening of a sporting goods store in City Where I Used to Work. The Man-Cub was in need of new baseball cleats, a glove and, um…a new cup for his athletic supporter. Apparently, Penis Jr. has outgrown the pee-wee sized cup and was in need of a youth size. Sniffle, my baby is growing up.

Anywaaay, while we were in the sporting goods, Hugh also decided that the team cannot live for one more minute without a pitching target thingie so, he bought that too. And, since we were there and everything was on sale and we are apparently made out of money; I bought another pair of New Balance trainers (Cute Foot Doctor recommended that brand for the plantar fasciitis, no news yet on whether the extra bone in my foot concurs), a new sports bra and I seriously considered buying a punching bag but Hugh reminded me that the garage isn’t quite ready for that yet so, I demurred.

What we didn’t buy were softball cleats and a glove for The Girl, who will be playing softball this summer and, if you wonder why, please check out paragraph four, sentence two of this document. We did, however, return to the sporting goods on Sunday with The Girl in tow so that she could choose her own, lest you think we favor one child over another.

And, before I forget to mention it; I got to watch Friday night's season premiere of Battlestar Galactica with nothing to come between me and Apollo save for a good glass of Merlot.

It was a very nice weekend.

And, at this point, I realize that I might just have to set up and dedicate a shrine to Jana.

All hail Jana!

Every God Damn Year

We have the same conversation every January:

Hugh: I’m going to start on the taxes early this year.

Chelle: That would be great.

Hugh: Yeah. So, I'm going to keep all our receipts in files so I won't have to sort through them again.

Chelle: Stellar idea, dear.

Hugh: Yeah. That will make it easier and less disorganized and shit.

Chelle: Indeed.

And, where do we find ourselves on April 4th, a mere eleven days from deadline?






Every. God. Damn. Year.

My Ass, My Ass, My Ass Is On Fire!

That’ll teach me to exercise as if I’m in shape or something. Also, are you starting to sense a theme in my entries? My appologies.

So,I totally lost my shit with the Girl this morning. She flat out lied to me about having made her bed and cleaned her room when she had most certainly NOT.

And, not only did she lie to me, but she closed her bedroom door to hide the fact because, obviously, I am too stupid to OPEN a door.

She didn't even have the good grace to act ashamed when I caught her. In fact, she seemed to think that being on Spring Break is a completely reasonable and acceptable excuse for living in a sty. Which it is not.

Anyway, I went a little Joan Crawford on her. Minus the wire hangers, of course.

As I mentioned above, I am very sore from yesterday’s workout. Luckily, however the soreness is in all the right places, namely my ass, the backs of my legs, my shoulders, biceps and stomach. My knees are blessedly free from any pain so, apparently, the noises they were making during the torture session workout were not of the “we are being ruined forever” variety.

Good to know, as I plan to work out again tonight, creating even more misery and soreness.

I’m not entirely certain that the soreness in my body isn’t somehow related to the short fuse connecting to my temper so, you know; The Girl might want to reconsider her stance on a Spring Break cleaning strike.

Oh. My. God. My. Legs. Hurt.

I recently added a new fitness DVD to my vast collection; a DVD starring one Miss Jillian Michaels, star of television's The Biggest Loser. Now, I know what you’re thinking, Jillian is a bitch and, you would be right. But, she bitches out of love people. She wants nothing more than for you to reach your full potential! And, if totally kicking your ass into a quivering mass of jelly-like substance is what it takes for you to achieve your fitness goals, well then, she’s there for you.

A lot of my previous DVDs have been by Kathy Smith and, I must say, the differences in her style versus Jillian’s are, um…profound.

Kathy is like a little ray of sunshine in your day. She encourages you to strive for your best while maintaining a positive and cheerful outlook. Just think! You’ll be peaceful! You’ll be centered! Rainbows! Unicorns!

Jillian, on the other hand, well, there is the whole bitch thing. I think she might just strangle the unicorn and throw his ass over the rainbow if he got in the way of your daily beat-down. Of course, she would do it in the most loving way possible, after all; it’s for your own good.

Anyway. I am sticking with the program because I need a change from my ordinary routine and, really; I like a good bitch.

My thighs thank you, Jillian.

You rotten She Devil.

Well, This Is Unexpected

April Fools! Ha! Got you, didn’t I?

Well, probably not my Dad who looked at that picture and said “What is that?” or my Mom who thought to herself, “Oh, I don't think so; her tubes were cut, torched and eulogized back in 1998 after the Man-Cub crawled from her womb."

And Hugh's first thought? "Hot damn! Medical malpractice suit! Score!"

Ordinarily, I don't do the whole April Fools thing because, just between you and me, I think it is stupid. Seriously, I just don't get it and, frankly, I am too bored to Google what the hell it's all about, anyway. Plus, if I were going to get into it; I would pull something far more creative and twisted than a fake pregnancy.

What about you guys? Do you embrace the bullshit? Any cool April Fools tricks you enjoy playing on your unsuspecting friends and family?

Oooh, better yet; ever been burned by an especially diabolical April Fools joke? Share! It would be nice to have something to add to my practical joke arsenal, just in case I ever change my whole "this is a ridiculous and bogus holiday" stance.

Which isn't likely. After all, I am going to be sooo busy with the twins.

What? I didn't mention that it was twins?

Ha! Got you again!