Friday, June 18, 2010

Two stories that seem completely unrelated until you realize they both are good examples of my social ineptitude.

Last week I attended my 25th HS Class Reunion, which sounds so official that I capitalized it, but really, it was 6 people at the tavern around the corner from my house. (My high school? Not so big.) Also - because the other 30 people in my class were busy last weekend, we're having another reunion in August. Huge schools with hundreds of kids only need one, but we're special. Not special like short bus special, just special like, oh forget it.

Anyway, while I was there I was talking to someone that the last time I talked to her I was wearing two pairs of scrunchy socks, Esprit overalls, plaid Keds and a blueberry-scented Swatch Watch. She's got 4 kids, the oldest of which is 14. And female. And she home schools them, so they're always at home. When she told me this, I laughed and said, "Wow - that must be fun - having a teenaged girl in the house all the time...I'm so glad I have boys."  (This is called SMALL TALK. People do it when they have nothing real in common other than where they went to high school.) She looked at me as if I WAS STILLwearing two pairs of scrunchy socks, Esprit overalls, plaid Keds and a blueberry-scented Swatch Watch and said, "Well, I LOVE my daughters."

And that is when I went to talk to someone else.

Two days later, a friend, we'll call her Professor Barbie, because, well...she's a professor, called and told me about an unfortunate experience she'd just had with her daughter. Seems a bunch of moms and a bunch of 7 year old girls were all at a house having their Mother-Daughter Book Club, and afterwards, the homeowner's sweet labradoodle bolted out and decided that under a moving car would be a fun place to play. Sadly, very sadly, the Mother-Daughter in the moving car didn't realize the doggy did that, and the labradoodle - named Charlotte - was killed. In front of the entire Mother-Daughter Book Club.

And again, I said, "Wow - I am so glad I have sons."

Only this time I said it very very quietly, and only in my head. Because regardless of what you've heard, I do actually learn.

What I said out loud was, "And that, right there, is why I will never join a book group." 

PS - RIP Charlotte. She really was a lovely creature, even if she did have poor depth perception.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

In which I determine he is normal afterall.

The giant middle schooler is in the throes of his summer schedule, which is, while relaxing and fun, waaay harder than his school schedule.

By way of illustration:

School Schedule
6:45   Wake up. Take long shower. Eat big breakfast.
7:45   Go to school. Schlump through hallways. Eat lunch. Slouch in polystyrene molded chairs.
2:45   Come home. Eat.
4:00   Some type of sports practice.
6:00   Eat.
9:00   Sleep. Dream. About eating.

Summer Schedule
6:30 Wake up. Throw on swimsuit, still damp from yesterday.
7:00  Two hour swim team practice
9:00  Assist tennis coach teaching 5-6 year olds for two hours
11:00 Finally eat.
12:00 Golf Practice or Golf Tournament.
3:00 Mow lawns.
5:00 Baseball.
7:00 Eat.
10:00 Watch "Whose Line is it Anyway" until your parents make you go to bed.

Because he has suddenly realized that both a) mirrors and b) girls exist, he has also added to his summer schedule Working Out. Which means, if he has a few seconds before, between or after any given activity, he is doing pull-ups, sit-ups, jumping rope, Wii Fit, or running.

Last night, after two episodes of "Whose Line is it Anyway" we finally made him go to bed at 11, because we were too tired to watch anymore. On the way up the stairs, he did calf raises, and I had to yell at him to stop jumping rope before bed. I believe my exact words were, "Dude. At bedtime, we try to relax, and sloooow our heartrates, so get your ass in bed before Mommy breaks your legs I love you goodnight."

As I fell gratefully into bed, I pondered the energy of youth. Was I EVER this active?  (The answer is a resounding NO.) I mean, really. This kid is frickin' super-human to do this much stuff on very little sleep. Maybe he's got a ginormous heart like Lance Armstrong. Maybe he's a future Olympian. Tomorrow, I shall have his VO2 Max tested, and I will plan his future! I should check in to Wheaties endorsements now so that I'm ready.

And then, this morning, while I was finding him a dry towel and he readied himself for swim team, this happened.   (Please pardon the photo quality - Big Dude took it with an iPhone and the sunrise is a little blinding.)

On the left, Giant middle schooler. Completely passed out after having been awake for like, 6 minutes. Exactly like he used to pass out in his highchair, sitting up and mid-bite. On the right, loyal bulldog, apparently so tired from his excruciating bulldog summer regimen that he fell asleep sitting up as well.

Looks like everyone's normal afterall. Although I am going to look into a Wheaties endorsement for the bulldog. Dude's got hops.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Brad Pitt is probably too exhausted to shave.

First of all - 50 followers with nary a giveaway! Thanks, you guys!  I am truly humbled that fives of you exist willing to tolerate me. I've been a little swoony over it, feeling sorta popular and everything. Apparently, word has gotten out that I'm all cool now, because suddenly this is in my inbox:

Mmhm, That's right. Angelina wants ME to join Facebook AND be her friend. Well, I'm sorry, Little Miss Thang, but homewreckers piss me off. You're just going to have to depend on your gaggle of children and Jennifer Aniston's husband* to keep you company. Maybe Octomom would like to be your friend.  *Yeah, I know. It was years ago and Jennifer's over it. I'm not.

So I delete her invitation,  move on happily with my life, work a little, eat a little cereal, throw in a load of laundry and come back to the inbox to find this:

Really? Aren't the Beatles kind of broken up right now?  Oh, and also? GEEZ. Angelina, leave me alone, dude.  There's something to be said for being persistent, but seriously. It's sort of overkill.  Okay, I get it. You like me. Understandable. I make a mean lasagna, my beer fridge is always full, I know a sh'load of Helen Keller jokes. Basically, I'm fun at parties. True dat. But I do not want to be your friend, Ange.

Is it that you think I'd be a good babysitter? I do live close to some good restaurants you and Brad might want to drop in on. that's it. You've heard my husband shaves his head, so you're thinking we've got a razor sturdy enough for whatever the hell it is growing on Brad's face. Well, sorry. I'd prefer to not subject any of our appliances to your husband's dreadlocked beard-thingy. Even the dogs' Furminator is off-limits, sister. And don't even think about dulling the weed-wacker, I need it for the yard.

I bet Brad didn't even like you in the first place, but you just kept emailing him until he gave in. Well it won't work with me, Ms. Needy Needington. I've got standards. And 50 other friends. So there.


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