*Please use your imagination and work with me on the 'picturing' part of this post as I have not yet figured out why my computer has no drawing program.*
I am on a quest. I desire toned, shapely legs and a firmer back end. I've given up on my stomach due to the gestating-induced diastasis of my last pregnancy, and my arms and upper back are already fairly well toned from picking up at least one toddler nearly every day for the last eight and a half years. So I'm left with this.
(picture a well-toned top half and flabby bottom half here)
This does not agree with the mental version of my body.
(picture Jessica Rabbit here)
In an effort to make reality conform to fantasy, I have begun a workout devised from the pages of a magazine focusing on "GLUTES!", several exercises I found online, and one that my husband suggested, which I have morphed into some sort of lower-body fitness routine, since I can afford neither gym nor personal trainer.
First, I have begun "power-walking" every other day. The reason I walk is that I cannot run. Well, I can sprint like a rabid kangaroo on meth if one of my kids is in danger but beyond that, I'm basically worthless when it comes to running. The bouncing motion wreaks havoc on that lovely aforementioned diastasis and frankly, it hurts my boobs even when they're tightly encased in a sports bra and puts me at risk for a severe butt injury, as it flaps along behind me, out of control. (More on butt injuries later.) So I walk as fast as I can without passing out, all the while clenching my butt cheeks, since that is also recommended to "engage" those muscle groups. Since I live in what has become quite possibly the hottest spot on Earth this year, the outdoor temp reaches 90+ at roughly 6 am each day; thus, I try to get this ordeal out of the way as early as possible.
On the days that I don't walk, I do this mish-mash of a routine that I've slapped together. First, a few stretches - down, up, over, under, across, and whatever other directions I can contort myself into. One of the stretches involves sitting with one ankle crossed over the other knee and leaning forward until you "feel the burn" in the backs of your legs and your lower butt. This is to help prevent butt injury. Let's stop right there.
Butt injury? Really? It is possible to injure your butt? Doing what, exactly? I admit I'm not the foremost authority on anatomical injuries (that would be my sister, the med student, or as my mother would call her, the GOOD child) but I am hard-pressed to come up with a way that the butt could sustain injury unless someone hit you there with something hard and sharp. I suppose if you clench your butt tight enough for long enough and try to long-jump in that position, you could possibly pull a muscle, so for safety's sake, just in case I should ever feel insane enough to attempt such a stunt, I keep doing this stretch and it's variations (lying on the floor and standing on one leg.)
Then I grab my girlie weights and do squats with them, which is supposed to tone my shoulders and butt and legs, all at once. This is billed as "the only butt exercise you'll ever need!" In two weeks, this exercise alone promises to provide me with broader shoulders and shapelier derriere, thus leading to something resembling an hourglass figure, or in my mind, Jessica Rabbit.
(picture me as Jessica Rabbit here)
Then I do one-legged bridges, something called seesaw moves, a sideways bicycle move, and a move obviously stolen from yoga and simply re-named for the purpose, a bird-dog. These promise to tone my butt, thighs, the backs of my legs, and strengthen my lower back muscles.
Then I do something suggested by my husband, "kick-backs," which seems to be something he must have learned at boot camp for JAGs, designed to make you want to sue someone.
I finish with that seventh-level-of-hell move called the Lunge. I call it the seventh level of hell because it is the seventh thing I do and by that point my legs are exhaused and sore and ready to collapse. If I did the squats last, they would be the seventh level of hell. It doesn't really matter, so I just do one first and the other last. I use my girlie weights for both, mostly so my arms don't flail all over the place.
I'm a week and half into this "routine." I haven't noticed any change yet, other than the constant burn in my thighs every time I move them. Nearly all these exercises require 15 reps per set, and 2-3 sets per workout; I've finally worked up to the 15 reps, but one set of each is all I've been able to manage. By the time I get to the seventh level of hell move, the muscles in my thighs and the backs of my legs are collapsing with each rep. I keep inspecting my backside for progress but so far have achieved no results. After another week, however, I should have killer sexy thighs rivaling those of fitness models; judging by the constant throbbing in them, something must be getting a workout.
My husband is coming home in two weeks for a few days and says he'll be the judge of my progress. I laugh in the face of progress. If he dares tell me I've made none, my killer sexy thighs will take. him. out.
KA-POW!
About Me
- Soonerchick
- I have a Bachelor's in Psychology, a Master's in Human Relations, and a Ph.D. in telling people what to do. I raise children, dogs, cats, and hermit crabs and cultivate crabgrass and pretty weeds. I am teaching myself to cook, not because I love to cook but because I love to eat. I love to travel, read, and take pictures; I also like to write, so you'll get to read a lot about all the aforementioned subjects plus about anything else I happen to feel like sharing with you. I'll take all your questions and may even give some back with answers if you're lucky and I'm feeling helpful (or bored.)
Friday, August 20, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Have you ever tried to rent out your house? I mean the actual house you are actually living in at the time, because you can't move out to ANOTHER house until you find a renter for your current one?
No?
It's a thrill and a half.
First, you go out and purchase FOR RENT signs to stick in your yard among all the dead grass from the incestuous, unrelenting Mojave Desert heat wave that has attacked this part of the state for OVER A MONTH. Then you staple-gun another one to your back fence since you live next to a "major" road. Then you thank God that your husband bought said staple gun last year to put up Christmas lights because were it not for that, you would be forced to resort to trying (and failing) to nail the damn thing up.
Then you go inside and take approximately 4,563 pictures from every concievable angle of the inside your house, and two from the outside. Then you narrow them down to 5 and post them, along with an alarmingly exciting and upbeat description of your house, to include every possible positive detail that anyone could ever hope to know about any kind of house-like structure, on a rental property website. Then you sit back and wait for the offers to come pouring in like oil into the gulf.
The first few days go well. No less than two people have heard about/seen your house and want to see it. So you move on to the next step, which is to immediately panic upon the realization that you have no application for them to fill out if indeed they are interested, because you have never been a landlord before and have no idea where to find such a form. You Google "rental forms" and hit upon 546 sites related to the subject, 544 of which require that you pay a registration fee to access their precious forms, which must have been drawn up by Donald Trump himself for the amount of the registration fee required to utilize them. You finally hit upon a site which boasts "FREE!" membership for 30 days, figure you won't need it for longer than 30 days, register, and print off a rental application.
Then you look around your house and realize that it is completely trashed and smells like the inside of a cat litterbox mixed with putrified used gym towels and sour milk, and your potential renters are coming in two hours.
At this point, if you're like me, you run around in circles screaming your fool head off at everyone and everything possible to hurry and help get this place cleaned up or we're all gonna die! Chaos ensues.
Then you realize that you do not want your children present for such an inquisition (which is what it feels like) but that you have failed to make necessary arrangements for childcare, so you run over to your neighbor's house and beg and plead her to keep them for you for a few minutes, looking all the while like a rabid squirrel on crack because in the midst of all this mayhem, you have forgotten to take a shower. She mercifully agrees, so you then dash home and use half a container of deodorant and brush your teeth and twist your hair back into a sloppy bun (because there's no time to brush it) and fumigate the house with the air freshener you bought over a year ago.
Then you sit and wait.
And wait.
After fifteen minutes go by, you finally call the people, who halfheartedly apologize and say they got lost. They'll be here in ten minutes. Ok, fine.
They show up, they walk around, they love it, they want it, they'll take it. Problem is, they want it, like, TODAY. No can do, my good people, I need a week to move and another to get the new carpet in, since I'm not foolish enough to install it while my children and cats and dogs are actually still LIVING on it.
They take the app and leave and you never hear from them again.
Repeat entire process three times.
Never hear back from anyone.
Get discouraged. Get tired of frantically deep-cleaning house every time someone wants to see it, which is apporximately every other day. Wear out neighbors' good will for watching your wild children free of charge for 30+ minutes at a time.
Finally someone calls back and wants to know how quickly they can move in. They sound serious, so you drive around to Home Depot and Lowe's with all your monkeys howling and careening off in various directions, to find out exactly how quickly they can get new carpet installed. Call husband, who now must put together a lease. Call potential renters back, who decide they need to think about it.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
Make appointments to show the house to more people, who never show up and don't bother to call to tell you this. So you call them back and leave barely-civil messages for them telling them how much you appreciate them and their cowardly actions, after you've busted your butt cleaning and cleaning and cleaning and farming your children out time after time, all for nothing.
Get bitter.
Decide you are never buying another house again for as long as you live because this is utter bullshit.
No?
It's a thrill and a half.
First, you go out and purchase FOR RENT signs to stick in your yard among all the dead grass from the incestuous, unrelenting Mojave Desert heat wave that has attacked this part of the state for OVER A MONTH. Then you staple-gun another one to your back fence since you live next to a "major" road. Then you thank God that your husband bought said staple gun last year to put up Christmas lights because were it not for that, you would be forced to resort to trying (and failing) to nail the damn thing up.
Then you go inside and take approximately 4,563 pictures from every concievable angle of the inside your house, and two from the outside. Then you narrow them down to 5 and post them, along with an alarmingly exciting and upbeat description of your house, to include every possible positive detail that anyone could ever hope to know about any kind of house-like structure, on a rental property website. Then you sit back and wait for the offers to come pouring in like oil into the gulf.
The first few days go well. No less than two people have heard about/seen your house and want to see it. So you move on to the next step, which is to immediately panic upon the realization that you have no application for them to fill out if indeed they are interested, because you have never been a landlord before and have no idea where to find such a form. You Google "rental forms" and hit upon 546 sites related to the subject, 544 of which require that you pay a registration fee to access their precious forms, which must have been drawn up by Donald Trump himself for the amount of the registration fee required to utilize them. You finally hit upon a site which boasts "FREE!" membership for 30 days, figure you won't need it for longer than 30 days, register, and print off a rental application.
Then you look around your house and realize that it is completely trashed and smells like the inside of a cat litterbox mixed with putrified used gym towels and sour milk, and your potential renters are coming in two hours.
At this point, if you're like me, you run around in circles screaming your fool head off at everyone and everything possible to hurry and help get this place cleaned up or we're all gonna die! Chaos ensues.
Then you realize that you do not want your children present for such an inquisition (which is what it feels like) but that you have failed to make necessary arrangements for childcare, so you run over to your neighbor's house and beg and plead her to keep them for you for a few minutes, looking all the while like a rabid squirrel on crack because in the midst of all this mayhem, you have forgotten to take a shower. She mercifully agrees, so you then dash home and use half a container of deodorant and brush your teeth and twist your hair back into a sloppy bun (because there's no time to brush it) and fumigate the house with the air freshener you bought over a year ago.
Then you sit and wait.
And wait.
After fifteen minutes go by, you finally call the people, who halfheartedly apologize and say they got lost. They'll be here in ten minutes. Ok, fine.
They show up, they walk around, they love it, they want it, they'll take it. Problem is, they want it, like, TODAY. No can do, my good people, I need a week to move and another to get the new carpet in, since I'm not foolish enough to install it while my children and cats and dogs are actually still LIVING on it.
They take the app and leave and you never hear from them again.
Repeat entire process three times.
Never hear back from anyone.
Get discouraged. Get tired of frantically deep-cleaning house every time someone wants to see it, which is apporximately every other day. Wear out neighbors' good will for watching your wild children free of charge for 30+ minutes at a time.
Finally someone calls back and wants to know how quickly they can move in. They sound serious, so you drive around to Home Depot and Lowe's with all your monkeys howling and careening off in various directions, to find out exactly how quickly they can get new carpet installed. Call husband, who now must put together a lease. Call potential renters back, who decide they need to think about it.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
Make appointments to show the house to more people, who never show up and don't bother to call to tell you this. So you call them back and leave barely-civil messages for them telling them how much you appreciate them and their cowardly actions, after you've busted your butt cleaning and cleaning and cleaning and farming your children out time after time, all for nothing.
Get bitter.
Decide you are never buying another house again for as long as you live because this is utter bullshit.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Sacrifice
These are words from Col. Steven A. Arrington:
"I will never say military spouses are better or worse than other spouses. But I will say there is a difference. And I will say that our country asks more of military spouses than is asked of other spouses. And I will say, without hesitation, that military spouses pay just as high a price for freedom as do their active-duty husbands or wives. Perhaps the price they pay is even higher. They do what they have to do, bound together not only by blood or friendship, but with a shared spirit whose origin is in the very essence of what love truly is. Dying in service to our country is not nearly as hard as loving someone who has died in service to our country, and having to live without them.
God bless our military spouses for all they freely give. And God bless America."
Sometimes I get overwhelmed with all I have to do, since I do everything by myself when my husband's gone. I wonder how other wives can handle everything with such grace when I feel like my head is going to explode if one more kid yells. And then I remember: they are not doing it alone. They have husbands who help, give them a break at the end of the day, or take the kids so the mom can have some time to herself or a night with friends once a week or month. They live near family who will take said kids overnight so Mommy and Daddy can have some grown-up time. They don't move every couple of years. Their kids stay in the same school system more than a few years at a time. They don't keep stacks of plastic tubs and cardboard boxes in their garages in preparation for perpetual relocation. They get to share graduations, birthdays, 4th of July fireworks, and goodnight kisses with their husbands all the time.
But they also don't get to see their husbands in uniform. Military uniform, which any woman knows is an immediate turn-on. Their kids don't have their dads' medals in their top dresser drawers. They don't know the joy of that 2 am phone call from a war zone overseas. Their wedding pictures show a man in a suit or tux, not full military dress. They don't get to cut their wedding cake with a saber. They don't share the instant bond with other military wives upon meeting them for the first time. And they don't know the supreme joy, the heart-racing excitement, and the relief that bubbles up into tears at seeing their husband come towards them, home from an overseas deployment.
Women who have friends that are military wives exclaim about tax-free shopping at the commissary and PX, free health care, and housing allowances. They don't understand that these are not "freebies"; they are "compensation," as Amy J. Fetzer's mother said. Compensation for your husband being shot at, compensation for all the missed holidays, birthdays, and events, compensation for the sacrifice of a "normal" life so that your husband may serve and protect this country while you do everything else.
I embrace, at least metaphorically, every military wife I meet. Because I know she has gone through it too, and maybe more than me. Rank or branch matters not; we all share the same sacrifice, the same frustrations, the same joys, the same heartaches. We've all held our husbands' dog tags in our palms, with the chain wrapped around our fingers, with tears in our eyes. This is our exclusive sisterhood, our sorority. Our dues are the sacrifice of precious time with our husbands; our community service is the help and support we give to each other; our parties are coming-home receptions and potluck suppers; our formal events are military balls and dinings-in. Our degrees, from the school of military life, are in concentrations such as single-parenting, home and car repair, peer counseling, time and resource management, red-tape navigation, and career adaptation. Patience and flexibility are not virtues here; they are required attributes. It is not an easy life; those who must be coddled and spoiled need not apply, and those who are don't last long. We wear only the rank of military spouse, each of us of equal importance and due equal respect.
Before I was married to my soldier, before I'd even met him or had any inkling that I would be a military wife myself, I attended an interment at Arlington National Cemetary. The deceased soldier was a family member whom I didn't really know that well, but the awe of the venue and ceremony did not escape me. I saw not only the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but also watched the changing of the guard. It is among the most somber moments I have ever born witness to. We've all see the pictures of the rows upon rows of tombstones, uniform in shape, size and color (we are all of the same importance in death), but to actually stand there and follow them with your eyes out to the horizon inspires a reverance like no other. I have been present at funerals of military servicemembers where taps are blown and the flag is ceremoniously presented to the widow or next of kin, but, at Arlington, to watch the horse-drawn caisson followed by the riderless horse with empty, backward-facing boots defies description. It is slow and measured, carried out with utmost dignity and respect, and agonizingly heartrending to watch. The riderless horse is the powerful image of the soldier who will never again return home; I cried, and still cry, for their widows, their children, their parents, their comrades, their friends. Life cut short but honorably served is the inescapable theme there, and you cannot help but draw your breath.
I am glad I was able to witness it all both while I was an adult and able to remember it, and before I met my soldier. I could not watch that procession now without breaking down into unabating sobs. I can't even watch war movies anymore without my husband's arms around me. He's inspired by them; I am terrified. Military wives cannot even watch news of war or attacks without inevitably turning silent. They are thinking one of two things: thank God that's not my husband or is my husband in that hell? (Of course, they might also be thinking is the husband of someone I know in that hell?)
My husband is stateside now, and those fears, for the moment, have abated. But there are those ladies for whom they are just beginning, or beginning again, and to them I send out my encouragement and support. We are all in this together.
"I will never say military spouses are better or worse than other spouses. But I will say there is a difference. And I will say that our country asks more of military spouses than is asked of other spouses. And I will say, without hesitation, that military spouses pay just as high a price for freedom as do their active-duty husbands or wives. Perhaps the price they pay is even higher. They do what they have to do, bound together not only by blood or friendship, but with a shared spirit whose origin is in the very essence of what love truly is. Dying in service to our country is not nearly as hard as loving someone who has died in service to our country, and having to live without them.
God bless our military spouses for all they freely give. And God bless America."
Sometimes I get overwhelmed with all I have to do, since I do everything by myself when my husband's gone. I wonder how other wives can handle everything with such grace when I feel like my head is going to explode if one more kid yells. And then I remember: they are not doing it alone. They have husbands who help, give them a break at the end of the day, or take the kids so the mom can have some time to herself or a night with friends once a week or month. They live near family who will take said kids overnight so Mommy and Daddy can have some grown-up time. They don't move every couple of years. Their kids stay in the same school system more than a few years at a time. They don't keep stacks of plastic tubs and cardboard boxes in their garages in preparation for perpetual relocation. They get to share graduations, birthdays, 4th of July fireworks, and goodnight kisses with their husbands all the time.
But they also don't get to see their husbands in uniform. Military uniform, which any woman knows is an immediate turn-on. Their kids don't have their dads' medals in their top dresser drawers. They don't know the joy of that 2 am phone call from a war zone overseas. Their wedding pictures show a man in a suit or tux, not full military dress. They don't get to cut their wedding cake with a saber. They don't share the instant bond with other military wives upon meeting them for the first time. And they don't know the supreme joy, the heart-racing excitement, and the relief that bubbles up into tears at seeing their husband come towards them, home from an overseas deployment.
Women who have friends that are military wives exclaim about tax-free shopping at the commissary and PX, free health care, and housing allowances. They don't understand that these are not "freebies"; they are "compensation," as Amy J. Fetzer's mother said. Compensation for your husband being shot at, compensation for all the missed holidays, birthdays, and events, compensation for the sacrifice of a "normal" life so that your husband may serve and protect this country while you do everything else.
I embrace, at least metaphorically, every military wife I meet. Because I know she has gone through it too, and maybe more than me. Rank or branch matters not; we all share the same sacrifice, the same frustrations, the same joys, the same heartaches. We've all held our husbands' dog tags in our palms, with the chain wrapped around our fingers, with tears in our eyes. This is our exclusive sisterhood, our sorority. Our dues are the sacrifice of precious time with our husbands; our community service is the help and support we give to each other; our parties are coming-home receptions and potluck suppers; our formal events are military balls and dinings-in. Our degrees, from the school of military life, are in concentrations such as single-parenting, home and car repair, peer counseling, time and resource management, red-tape navigation, and career adaptation. Patience and flexibility are not virtues here; they are required attributes. It is not an easy life; those who must be coddled and spoiled need not apply, and those who are don't last long. We wear only the rank of military spouse, each of us of equal importance and due equal respect.
Before I was married to my soldier, before I'd even met him or had any inkling that I would be a military wife myself, I attended an interment at Arlington National Cemetary. The deceased soldier was a family member whom I didn't really know that well, but the awe of the venue and ceremony did not escape me. I saw not only the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but also watched the changing of the guard. It is among the most somber moments I have ever born witness to. We've all see the pictures of the rows upon rows of tombstones, uniform in shape, size and color (we are all of the same importance in death), but to actually stand there and follow them with your eyes out to the horizon inspires a reverance like no other. I have been present at funerals of military servicemembers where taps are blown and the flag is ceremoniously presented to the widow or next of kin, but, at Arlington, to watch the horse-drawn caisson followed by the riderless horse with empty, backward-facing boots defies description. It is slow and measured, carried out with utmost dignity and respect, and agonizingly heartrending to watch. The riderless horse is the powerful image of the soldier who will never again return home; I cried, and still cry, for their widows, their children, their parents, their comrades, their friends. Life cut short but honorably served is the inescapable theme there, and you cannot help but draw your breath.
I am glad I was able to witness it all both while I was an adult and able to remember it, and before I met my soldier. I could not watch that procession now without breaking down into unabating sobs. I can't even watch war movies anymore without my husband's arms around me. He's inspired by them; I am terrified. Military wives cannot even watch news of war or attacks without inevitably turning silent. They are thinking one of two things: thank God that's not my husband or is my husband in that hell? (Of course, they might also be thinking is the husband of someone I know in that hell?)
My husband is stateside now, and those fears, for the moment, have abated. But there are those ladies for whom they are just beginning, or beginning again, and to them I send out my encouragement and support. We are all in this together.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Been awhile....
Wow. It's been over a month since I've written something on here last.
Let's see....what's happened? Well, my beloved Charlie died. He had FIV and feline leukemia, and was healthy as a horse (well, a healthy horse, that is) for the almost four years that I had him. Until a week before he died, that is. And then it went very quickly. My other cats, selfish and jealous creatures that they are, battled like...well, like cats, for the extra amount of attention that had previously been Charlie's. And being the sucker that I am, I over-indulged them to the point that they've started ignoring me again. Ingrates.
My husband moved out to Kentucky for his job, so I'm alone again. And not happy about it. What's it like to get to live with your husband? To eat dinner together every night? To sleep in the same bed all the time? Baseball season is especially cruel for me; I watch all these dads at practices and games coaching the boys, or just yelling at them from the sidelines, and I think, I wish my husband were here to do that. Eventually, and by that I mean sometime before he retires, we may get to live together.
Some people's goals include mountain climbing, losing weight, or traveling the globe. Mine is to live with my husband. I have simple dreams.
My middle son started t-ball. It's quite entertaining; I'd forgotten how cute the little ones can be. My oldest has been playing for several years now and the kids his age are getting competitive. For the little ones, though, it's all about how dramatic one can be while running, sliding, and catching the ball, (and if you can manage to fall down and lie on your back for a few minutes with your feet in the air and a play-dead expression on your face, it amps up the "fun" factor by about 90%), and the drinks and snacks afterwards are really the only reason they all show up anyway.
I have thrown away four kitchen garbage bags full of nothing but trash from my older sons' room. And when I say trash, I'm not talking about broken toys, games with lost pieces, or Easter basket grass. No, I mean literal trash: empty chip bags, candy and gum wrappers, cracker sleeves, tiny shreds of paper, ripped school papers, all manner of crumbs and petrified food, and so on. The food and food-packaging is what really blows my mind, since they are both fully aware of the threat of certain death that comes from taking food to their room. We actually had a lock on the pantry at one point; they broke it. Now, my boys are not obese or even teenagers; they are elementary-school-age boys who seriously eat twice as much as me when they're not even hungry. I am going broke just feeding and clothing them now; I cannot even imagine how dire the situation will be in five more years. I can, however, see the day in the not-too-distant future when our family will have to order the party-package-special when we have pizza for dinner; one for each boy (minimum), and one for my husband and I. I'm not sure I can afford the tip for that much food, let alone the food itself.
But I digress.
I have donated approximately 18,976 things to various charities while cleaning out and packing my house for the impending move, which, the way it's looking, could take another two months, along with the rest of my sanity and the only nerve I have left. The good news is that I have significantly reduced the amount of crap we are moving with us; this is important indeed, since we must stay under a weight requirement for the military to pay for this move. I have also given away/sold almost all of the large baby gear (car seat, stroller, swing), but I am steadfastly holding onto the crib and pack & play, since getting rid of everything is the most surefire way to find yourself unexpectedly pregnant. Believe me when I say that we are done procreating, but despite the finality of that statement, I am absolutely not going to tempt fate on this one. My rational excuses for holding onto the afore-mentioned items is that a. the crib converts into a headboard and footboard for a full-size bed, b. I might have a friend/relative over someday who needs a place to lay her sleeping baby down while visiting, and c. both store almost flat. Laugh if you must, but I am not getting rid of these two items. EVER.
I went to my mother's house for Easter, which both she and the boys loved. Eggs were dyed, hidden, and broken, and her weenie dog assisted the boys in all three endeavors. Much fun and mayhem was had.
I guess that's about it. I'll try to keep up with this on a more regular basis for the two of you that read it on a semi-regular basis.
Toodles for now,
Soonerchick
Let's see....what's happened? Well, my beloved Charlie died. He had FIV and feline leukemia, and was healthy as a horse (well, a healthy horse, that is) for the almost four years that I had him. Until a week before he died, that is. And then it went very quickly. My other cats, selfish and jealous creatures that they are, battled like...well, like cats, for the extra amount of attention that had previously been Charlie's. And being the sucker that I am, I over-indulged them to the point that they've started ignoring me again. Ingrates.
My husband moved out to Kentucky for his job, so I'm alone again. And not happy about it. What's it like to get to live with your husband? To eat dinner together every night? To sleep in the same bed all the time? Baseball season is especially cruel for me; I watch all these dads at practices and games coaching the boys, or just yelling at them from the sidelines, and I think, I wish my husband were here to do that. Eventually, and by that I mean sometime before he retires, we may get to live together.
Some people's goals include mountain climbing, losing weight, or traveling the globe. Mine is to live with my husband. I have simple dreams.
My middle son started t-ball. It's quite entertaining; I'd forgotten how cute the little ones can be. My oldest has been playing for several years now and the kids his age are getting competitive. For the little ones, though, it's all about how dramatic one can be while running, sliding, and catching the ball, (and if you can manage to fall down and lie on your back for a few minutes with your feet in the air and a play-dead expression on your face, it amps up the "fun" factor by about 90%), and the drinks and snacks afterwards are really the only reason they all show up anyway.
I have thrown away four kitchen garbage bags full of nothing but trash from my older sons' room. And when I say trash, I'm not talking about broken toys, games with lost pieces, or Easter basket grass. No, I mean literal trash: empty chip bags, candy and gum wrappers, cracker sleeves, tiny shreds of paper, ripped school papers, all manner of crumbs and petrified food, and so on. The food and food-packaging is what really blows my mind, since they are both fully aware of the threat of certain death that comes from taking food to their room. We actually had a lock on the pantry at one point; they broke it. Now, my boys are not obese or even teenagers; they are elementary-school-age boys who seriously eat twice as much as me when they're not even hungry. I am going broke just feeding and clothing them now; I cannot even imagine how dire the situation will be in five more years. I can, however, see the day in the not-too-distant future when our family will have to order the party-package-special when we have pizza for dinner; one for each boy (minimum), and one for my husband and I. I'm not sure I can afford the tip for that much food, let alone the food itself.
But I digress.
I have donated approximately 18,976 things to various charities while cleaning out and packing my house for the impending move, which, the way it's looking, could take another two months, along with the rest of my sanity and the only nerve I have left. The good news is that I have significantly reduced the amount of crap we are moving with us; this is important indeed, since we must stay under a weight requirement for the military to pay for this move. I have also given away/sold almost all of the large baby gear (car seat, stroller, swing), but I am steadfastly holding onto the crib and pack & play, since getting rid of everything is the most surefire way to find yourself unexpectedly pregnant. Believe me when I say that we are done procreating, but despite the finality of that statement, I am absolutely not going to tempt fate on this one. My rational excuses for holding onto the afore-mentioned items is that a. the crib converts into a headboard and footboard for a full-size bed, b. I might have a friend/relative over someday who needs a place to lay her sleeping baby down while visiting, and c. both store almost flat. Laugh if you must, but I am not getting rid of these two items. EVER.
I went to my mother's house for Easter, which both she and the boys loved. Eggs were dyed, hidden, and broken, and her weenie dog assisted the boys in all three endeavors. Much fun and mayhem was had.
I guess that's about it. I'll try to keep up with this on a more regular basis for the two of you that read it on a semi-regular basis.
Toodles for now,
Soonerchick
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Team USA
It's that time of year again. Well, that time of year, every four years, again.
Yes, folks, it's the time when I get all fired up and decide to become an Olympic athlete.
I get so inspired by these people, I want to be them. Well, not literally; I want to be myself, but do what they are doing. They make it look so easy that I'm nearly certain that with a few months of practice, I can become almost as good as they are, and earn myself a spot on Team USA at the next go-round.
The fact that I cannot run 100 yards without falling over in utter muscular fatigue means nothing. Absolutely nothing. Completely beside the point. If I want to be a speed skater or a ski cross skier, or a bobsledder, what's to stop me?
(I'll tell you though, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to be on the skeleton team. Because the likelihood that you will end up one is just too great.)
I do like watching the figure skaters, but it's not something I have really ever aspired to be. I'm tall, and they're not. It's pretty much that simple. So I just admire them and applaud.
Curling seems to be something I could handle; you don't have to be young, or short, or particularly limber, and while I seem to fit the demographic for women curlers, I'm not sure I could get too excited about participating. Even just watching it isn't very enthralling; I do understand the point of the sport and how it is played (thanks to a quick Google search), but I just plain don't really care. I need adrenaline, people!
Hence skiing, speed skating, and bobsledding. I am not a fan of slow. I cannot slow down, take it easy, be mild, or chill out. More, more, faster, faster! I have an inner speed demon that is simply begging -nay, howling- to be released. Impatience is my middle name. I don't like to wait on anything or anyone. I nearly have siezures when I'm near the middle or back of an airplane and have to wait on all the incompetent idiots in front of me to disembark before I can haul ass outta there. Not because I don't like planes, but because I don't like to wait. I don't care how long you take as long as you let me go by first. I get some kind of psychotic natural high from being first, the fastest, leaving everyone else in the dust. I'm sure there's a complex psychological explanation for this (maybe being the oldest child has something to do with it) but really, I just like to be fast.
But it's not just about being fast. Oh no, I have to be good, too. Artistically sound. Graceful, smooth, confident. I don't want to slide across the finish line on my side, legs flying and arms clutching at thin air. I want to swoosh in with arms held high, fists pumping in the air, the smile of victory gracing my visage.
Fast, however, is the key term here. Everything else is just details. Important details, to be sure, but details all the same.
As soon as I can decide on my sport, I'll start training. I've got four years, you know. Since, in my perfect physical condition (don't everyone hurt yourselves laughing), it should only take a few months, I've got some time. Might as well treat myself to a s'more while I assume the resting position in front of my tv to assess my future competition.
Gotta prep, you know.
Yes, folks, it's the time when I get all fired up and decide to become an Olympic athlete.
I get so inspired by these people, I want to be them. Well, not literally; I want to be myself, but do what they are doing. They make it look so easy that I'm nearly certain that with a few months of practice, I can become almost as good as they are, and earn myself a spot on Team USA at the next go-round.
The fact that I cannot run 100 yards without falling over in utter muscular fatigue means nothing. Absolutely nothing. Completely beside the point. If I want to be a speed skater or a ski cross skier, or a bobsledder, what's to stop me?
(I'll tell you though, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to be on the skeleton team. Because the likelihood that you will end up one is just too great.)
I do like watching the figure skaters, but it's not something I have really ever aspired to be. I'm tall, and they're not. It's pretty much that simple. So I just admire them and applaud.
Curling seems to be something I could handle; you don't have to be young, or short, or particularly limber, and while I seem to fit the demographic for women curlers, I'm not sure I could get too excited about participating. Even just watching it isn't very enthralling; I do understand the point of the sport and how it is played (thanks to a quick Google search), but I just plain don't really care. I need adrenaline, people!
Hence skiing, speed skating, and bobsledding. I am not a fan of slow. I cannot slow down, take it easy, be mild, or chill out. More, more, faster, faster! I have an inner speed demon that is simply begging -nay, howling- to be released. Impatience is my middle name. I don't like to wait on anything or anyone. I nearly have siezures when I'm near the middle or back of an airplane and have to wait on all the incompetent idiots in front of me to disembark before I can haul ass outta there. Not because I don't like planes, but because I don't like to wait. I don't care how long you take as long as you let me go by first. I get some kind of psychotic natural high from being first, the fastest, leaving everyone else in the dust. I'm sure there's a complex psychological explanation for this (maybe being the oldest child has something to do with it) but really, I just like to be fast.
But it's not just about being fast. Oh no, I have to be good, too. Artistically sound. Graceful, smooth, confident. I don't want to slide across the finish line on my side, legs flying and arms clutching at thin air. I want to swoosh in with arms held high, fists pumping in the air, the smile of victory gracing my visage.
Fast, however, is the key term here. Everything else is just details. Important details, to be sure, but details all the same.
As soon as I can decide on my sport, I'll start training. I've got four years, you know. Since, in my perfect physical condition (don't everyone hurt yourselves laughing), it should only take a few months, I've got some time. Might as well treat myself to a s'more while I assume the resting position in front of my tv to assess my future competition.
Gotta prep, you know.
Monday, February 15, 2010
"I don't know how you do it"
A lot of people have expressed pity for me over the past several years. Not because I'm drop-dead gorgeous and can't go to the grocery store without being ogled by men, adored by women, and mobbed by paparazzi, but because I'm an Army wife. By virtue of that, my husband is often gone. Sometimes it's for one day, sometimes it's for six weeks, sometimes thirteen months. But the point is, the task of getting myself and three little boys through each day falls to me, and me alone, more often than not. On any given day, we have school, sports, homework, three meals, snacks, some inevitable cartoon watching, laundry, dishes, various injuries, cat vomit, large smelly dogs, clogged toilets, dead batteries, bills to pay, missed deadlines, barely-made-it-by-the-skin-of-our-teeth deadlines, messes, hissy fits, and other such atrocities that take away from our joy. And I manage it all.
I know women who cannot plunge a toilet. Cannot comprehend the thought of taking a preschooler and a toddler to an entire season of the older brother's baseball games without their husband or other trusted child-watcher there to help. Cannot physically handle the sight of blood when their child's fingers get smashed at school and fingernails are ripped off. Cannot clean up vomit or poop. Have little or no idea how to pay bills or do their taxes. Have never stayed anywhere, even in their own homes, without another adult there just to make them feel safe. Assume the position of helplessness when their fence falls down or their basement floods or their car won't start or a spider crawls across the floor. Can't fathom moving more than 20 miles from their parents or their hometown.
These women say to me: "I don't know how you do it. I couldn't do it." (what they're really thinking is that I must be crazy.) And I never know how to respond to this. It's clear that they're trying to compliment me, no matter how left-handedly. But I always feel both insulted and disgusted instead. Insulted because they seem to be implying that, thank God, they have a husband who takes care of all their dirty work and bills and emergencies for them so they don't have to miss a lunch date or break a nail; disgusted because it seems to be that any wife, mother, or otherwise competent adult should be able to handle most of these situations anyway, without constantly relying on their husband or parents to do any heavy lifting that may be required. I have no patience for women who can't take care of themselves or their kids without daily assistance. These women whine and cry when their husbands leave for two or three days for a business trip, loudly wailing about how they can't handle all the stress of being left alone, "it's so lonely," "I just can't go 24 hours a day without a break for me," "he better make this up to me," and so on and so forth. These women make me wish there was a "How to handle common situations and take care of yourself in life" test that must be passed before you can be declared competent to have children or any other life form that must rely on you for assistance and care.
Yes, it is lonely. Heartbreakingly lonely. Crying-with-the-kids-when-you-see-them-crying lonely. Desperately lonely. Lonely enough to make you wonder just how much postage it would require for you to mail yourself to wherever he is at that moment. I know lonely, my dears. I start getting teary-eyed when my husband starts packing, and heaven help us all if the baby starts crying, because I'm crying right along with him. I call my friends and cry about how empty my bed is, how bare the bathroom counter looks, how quiet the house is without him. The first night (or day) is always the hardest. But after that, unless he's been gone several weeks or more at a time, (or 13 months), and you're lucky to hear from him once every couple of days, don't tell me about how lonely you are. Go clean something. It does wonders in the way of distraction. If your housekeeper has already shined the place (we should all be so blessed), go sort out your kids' Legos by color, shape, and size - or come to my house. I've got more than enough housework to keep you busy; you'll forget all about your loneliness while scrubbing my kitchen floor.
And a break for you? All right, granted, when you signed up for this mom gig, you probably didn't envision having sole responsibility for the little bundle(s) of joy all day, every day (and all night as well). And I admit that I take my breaks. I try to have at least several hours in a row at least one day out of the week when it's all about me; I can read a book, take a nap, take myself to lunch, watch tv not aimed for a target audience of ages 5 and under. And I do arrange for a babysitter now and then, usually when I'm going someplace where it's considered inappropriate for three little hooligans to run around creating mayhem and wreaking havoc, like at the ob/gyn's office, or a parent-teacher conference, or if my son's baseball game runs past the little ones' bedtimes, since I can't physically carry a sleeping toddler and preschooler at the same time, along with lawn chairs, all the way from the field to the car. Sometimes the wait in the dr's office is the only "me time" you may get that day, and my only advice is to bring along a book or magazine or your iphone and enjoy the relatively quiet time to yourself. I once brought my ipod to a late baseball game, plugged myself in, and paused it only when my son was at bat. I got a few condescending looks, to be sure, but that was the only "me time" I was going to get that week, and I was going to enjoy it. I wasn't there to watch the other parents' kids, anyway, so as long as I paid attention whenever my own son took center stage, I just couldn't work up any guilt. Yes, you may not get your weekly massage, you may miss your favorite soap operas (or grown-up tv altogether), and your friends may have to do without the blessing of your presence at your favorite lunch joint or book club, but surely your mama must have told you that life isn't a bed of roses all the time. If not, well, I'm here to tell you now.
He better make it up to you? Hand me my smelling salts, please, or I may break something.
Look, if he's out party-hearty-ing, or cheating on you, or abandoning you altogether for no justifiable reason, then yes, I would agree. But if he's genuinely working, fighting a war, rustling cattle or climbing all over an offshore rig, or the like, and would rather be home with you and the kids, then your demands just don't hold water with me, my dears. Some husbands won't make it up to you because they're scum; they don't notice all the hard work you're doing or the sacrifices you're making, and they wouldn't care even if they did. In that case, you may want to reconsider just why you're with this guy, anyway. But a decent husband will recognize that hard work and those sacrifices, (even if you have to point them out to him), and will do what he can make it up to you on his own, anyway, without your threats. I am on call 24/7 unless my husband is home or I'm visiting my mother; it's just my default state. I'm used to it. If I were to be resentful of it all the time, I would be miserable all the time. Are there times when I am resentful? Of course. When my husband went bowling or played volleyball or ogled, ahem, watched nearly-nude cheerleaders entertain him and his buddies during his off-duty hours while deployed, I will admit to a certain geyser or three of resentment. And there are definitely times when I feel overwhelmed beyond measure, taken for granted, and underappreciated. But when my husband presents me with spa days, diamond earrings, roses, date nights when he's home, and other things that show me he's listening to what I like and want, I positively radiate excitement. And when he spends time playing baseball with the boys, taking them fishing, teaching them strategy board games, waging Transformer battles, watching movies, playing blocks or trucks or Legos, or staying up with them until they fall asleep, I am reminded of what a great dad he is to them, which makes me love him all the more.
So here's what I say to those women who "don't know how I do it": I'm an Army wife. This is the life I chose, with my eyes open. I do it because that's what's required of me as a military wife. Sometimes it's blissful, sometimes it's heartbreaking, but isn't that life in general? So please, the next time you're astounded by how I manage it all, don't mutter "I don't know how you do it;" rather, thank me and my kids for the sacrifice of our time with our soldier while he's away, so that you can enjoy the freedoms and protection that you do. It's not just servicemembers who serve.
I know women who cannot plunge a toilet. Cannot comprehend the thought of taking a preschooler and a toddler to an entire season of the older brother's baseball games without their husband or other trusted child-watcher there to help. Cannot physically handle the sight of blood when their child's fingers get smashed at school and fingernails are ripped off. Cannot clean up vomit or poop. Have little or no idea how to pay bills or do their taxes. Have never stayed anywhere, even in their own homes, without another adult there just to make them feel safe. Assume the position of helplessness when their fence falls down or their basement floods or their car won't start or a spider crawls across the floor. Can't fathom moving more than 20 miles from their parents or their hometown.
These women say to me: "I don't know how you do it. I couldn't do it." (what they're really thinking is that I must be crazy.) And I never know how to respond to this. It's clear that they're trying to compliment me, no matter how left-handedly. But I always feel both insulted and disgusted instead. Insulted because they seem to be implying that, thank God, they have a husband who takes care of all their dirty work and bills and emergencies for them so they don't have to miss a lunch date or break a nail; disgusted because it seems to be that any wife, mother, or otherwise competent adult should be able to handle most of these situations anyway, without constantly relying on their husband or parents to do any heavy lifting that may be required. I have no patience for women who can't take care of themselves or their kids without daily assistance. These women whine and cry when their husbands leave for two or three days for a business trip, loudly wailing about how they can't handle all the stress of being left alone, "it's so lonely," "I just can't go 24 hours a day without a break for me," "he better make this up to me," and so on and so forth. These women make me wish there was a "How to handle common situations and take care of yourself in life" test that must be passed before you can be declared competent to have children or any other life form that must rely on you for assistance and care.
Yes, it is lonely. Heartbreakingly lonely. Crying-with-the-kids-when-you-see-them-crying lonely. Desperately lonely. Lonely enough to make you wonder just how much postage it would require for you to mail yourself to wherever he is at that moment. I know lonely, my dears. I start getting teary-eyed when my husband starts packing, and heaven help us all if the baby starts crying, because I'm crying right along with him. I call my friends and cry about how empty my bed is, how bare the bathroom counter looks, how quiet the house is without him. The first night (or day) is always the hardest. But after that, unless he's been gone several weeks or more at a time, (or 13 months), and you're lucky to hear from him once every couple of days, don't tell me about how lonely you are. Go clean something. It does wonders in the way of distraction. If your housekeeper has already shined the place (we should all be so blessed), go sort out your kids' Legos by color, shape, and size - or come to my house. I've got more than enough housework to keep you busy; you'll forget all about your loneliness while scrubbing my kitchen floor.
And a break for you? All right, granted, when you signed up for this mom gig, you probably didn't envision having sole responsibility for the little bundle(s) of joy all day, every day (and all night as well). And I admit that I take my breaks. I try to have at least several hours in a row at least one day out of the week when it's all about me; I can read a book, take a nap, take myself to lunch, watch tv not aimed for a target audience of ages 5 and under. And I do arrange for a babysitter now and then, usually when I'm going someplace where it's considered inappropriate for three little hooligans to run around creating mayhem and wreaking havoc, like at the ob/gyn's office, or a parent-teacher conference, or if my son's baseball game runs past the little ones' bedtimes, since I can't physically carry a sleeping toddler and preschooler at the same time, along with lawn chairs, all the way from the field to the car. Sometimes the wait in the dr's office is the only "me time" you may get that day, and my only advice is to bring along a book or magazine or your iphone and enjoy the relatively quiet time to yourself. I once brought my ipod to a late baseball game, plugged myself in, and paused it only when my son was at bat. I got a few condescending looks, to be sure, but that was the only "me time" I was going to get that week, and I was going to enjoy it. I wasn't there to watch the other parents' kids, anyway, so as long as I paid attention whenever my own son took center stage, I just couldn't work up any guilt. Yes, you may not get your weekly massage, you may miss your favorite soap operas (or grown-up tv altogether), and your friends may have to do without the blessing of your presence at your favorite lunch joint or book club, but surely your mama must have told you that life isn't a bed of roses all the time. If not, well, I'm here to tell you now.
He better make it up to you? Hand me my smelling salts, please, or I may break something.
Look, if he's out party-hearty-ing, or cheating on you, or abandoning you altogether for no justifiable reason, then yes, I would agree. But if he's genuinely working, fighting a war, rustling cattle or climbing all over an offshore rig, or the like, and would rather be home with you and the kids, then your demands just don't hold water with me, my dears. Some husbands won't make it up to you because they're scum; they don't notice all the hard work you're doing or the sacrifices you're making, and they wouldn't care even if they did. In that case, you may want to reconsider just why you're with this guy, anyway. But a decent husband will recognize that hard work and those sacrifices, (even if you have to point them out to him), and will do what he can make it up to you on his own, anyway, without your threats. I am on call 24/7 unless my husband is home or I'm visiting my mother; it's just my default state. I'm used to it. If I were to be resentful of it all the time, I would be miserable all the time. Are there times when I am resentful? Of course. When my husband went bowling or played volleyball or ogled, ahem, watched nearly-nude cheerleaders entertain him and his buddies during his off-duty hours while deployed, I will admit to a certain geyser or three of resentment. And there are definitely times when I feel overwhelmed beyond measure, taken for granted, and underappreciated. But when my husband presents me with spa days, diamond earrings, roses, date nights when he's home, and other things that show me he's listening to what I like and want, I positively radiate excitement. And when he spends time playing baseball with the boys, taking them fishing, teaching them strategy board games, waging Transformer battles, watching movies, playing blocks or trucks or Legos, or staying up with them until they fall asleep, I am reminded of what a great dad he is to them, which makes me love him all the more.
So here's what I say to those women who "don't know how I do it": I'm an Army wife. This is the life I chose, with my eyes open. I do it because that's what's required of me as a military wife. Sometimes it's blissful, sometimes it's heartbreaking, but isn't that life in general? So please, the next time you're astounded by how I manage it all, don't mutter "I don't know how you do it;" rather, thank me and my kids for the sacrifice of our time with our soldier while he's away, so that you can enjoy the freedoms and protection that you do. It's not just servicemembers who serve.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Back to Reality
Soldier Boy, the baby, and I just got back from a whirlwind of a weekend trip out to the west coast for an Army Family Event. It involved airplanes (which I love), places I have never eaten before (which turned out to be great), and reimbursement of all travel expenses (which simply cannot be beat).
To begin at the beginning, I love to go places. If I stay put for too long I get antsy and start itching to go, somewhere, anywhere, just to inject a little flav-ah into things. This can be accomplished by something as simple as a one-day excursion, even; I just have to get out and go. I am not a sedentary person. I've traveled by plane, train, and automobile, but my favorite by far is air travel. There's just something about airports, even just the thought of them, that gets my senses tingling. I become a rabbit, sitting up on its haunches, paws up in front of its chest, nose up in the air, sniffing maniacally: "airport? airplanes? going places?"
It's comical at best. Even luggage excites me.
And getting to go places with Soldier Boy is even better (!)
We took the baby with us because he's still in pull-ups and is the most labor-intensive of all the boys, but he's a veteran air traveler, so the only problem we had was desperately trying to keep track of all the tools in his Handy Manny toolbox that he insisted on bringing. Then we had a little issue with the incompetent morons at United Airlines (yes, I will name names here, don't think I won't) who apparently couldn't figure out how to actually open enough gates to allow their passengers to disembark, so we sat in the plane, ON THE GROUND, for more than 45 minutes, while they played spin the bottle to decide which of their 47 planes sitting on the tarmac would actually get to taxi to what was apparently their only manned gate. (Hint: it wasn't ours). We ended up missing our connecting flight by over an hour, were told we would automatically be re-booked on the next flight to that location, then were told that not only had they not re-booked us, but that the next flight was full, and that next flight after THAT wouldn't leave until 10:30 pm. And this was at 1:30 in the afternoon. Absolute madness. We ended up switching airlines, which meant we had to go down to baggage claim to get our checked bags, take a bus back to the other side of the airport to the terminal, go back through security, and wait another two hours to get on our new flight. I have a headache just thinking about it.
The hotel we stayed at the first night was, ahem, not quite up to par with what I consider Doubletree Hotel standards, and happened to be located smack in the middle of what was apparently the industrial district; our complimentary toiletries included two sets of earplugs (I kid you not) to help block the deafening noise from the train tracks two blocks away. We decided to switch hotels for the next night, but when we checked out, discovered we had been smacked with an "early check-out fee" of $50. After some ranting and raving on my part, they eventually agreed to drop the unjustifiable charge and we all went on our merry way to a Marriott property (which we prefer anyway), and spent a very pleasant night. On hold.
We had learned that there was a possibility of inclement weather at home the next day or so, and in light of Soldier Boy's mandatory travel for work on Monday, and the massive delay we experienced on the way TO our West-Coast Weekend, decided to try to move our return flight up in order to get home sooner. To do this, we had to call the travel agency (whom we're required to use for this type of travel) and request the change. Problem was, the entire Mid-west and East coast were getting pummeled by a winter storm that was (go figure) affecting air travel, and the agency was swamped with calls from everyone and their aunt's cousin's grandma's uncle trying to find a way out of that particular mess. We sat on hold for over two hours before anyone even picked up the line. Fortunately, we did actually reach a semi-competent individual who was able to accomodate us, and made it home, on time, with luggage complete and intact.
But other than that...
No, really, it was fun, I promise. We ate at In-N-Out Burger and Round Table Pizza, neither of which I'd ever had before, and both of which I loved. We ate at Panda Express, which we have here in OK, but which I'd never eaten at before either, and of whose Orange Chicken I immediately became a fan. We got upgraded on our rental car and ended up with a Sebring that smelled brand-spankin' new, and if you think that didn't make me happy beyond words, you'd best quit thinkin' now. I love new-car smell. And no, the air-freshener-new-car-scent doesn't cut it; it has to be actual new-car smell straight from the factory, ma'am. And it was.
Soldier Boy's question to me on our way home: "Was it worth it?"
Yessir, soldier. Yessir. I love going places, and most of all, with you. It makes me happy.
To begin at the beginning, I love to go places. If I stay put for too long I get antsy and start itching to go, somewhere, anywhere, just to inject a little flav-ah into things. This can be accomplished by something as simple as a one-day excursion, even; I just have to get out and go. I am not a sedentary person. I've traveled by plane, train, and automobile, but my favorite by far is air travel. There's just something about airports, even just the thought of them, that gets my senses tingling. I become a rabbit, sitting up on its haunches, paws up in front of its chest, nose up in the air, sniffing maniacally: "airport? airplanes? going places?"
It's comical at best. Even luggage excites me.
And getting to go places with Soldier Boy is even better (!)
We took the baby with us because he's still in pull-ups and is the most labor-intensive of all the boys, but he's a veteran air traveler, so the only problem we had was desperately trying to keep track of all the tools in his Handy Manny toolbox that he insisted on bringing. Then we had a little issue with the incompetent morons at United Airlines (yes, I will name names here, don't think I won't) who apparently couldn't figure out how to actually open enough gates to allow their passengers to disembark, so we sat in the plane, ON THE GROUND, for more than 45 minutes, while they played spin the bottle to decide which of their 47 planes sitting on the tarmac would actually get to taxi to what was apparently their only manned gate. (Hint: it wasn't ours). We ended up missing our connecting flight by over an hour, were told we would automatically be re-booked on the next flight to that location, then were told that not only had they not re-booked us, but that the next flight was full, and that next flight after THAT wouldn't leave until 10:30 pm. And this was at 1:30 in the afternoon. Absolute madness. We ended up switching airlines, which meant we had to go down to baggage claim to get our checked bags, take a bus back to the other side of the airport to the terminal, go back through security, and wait another two hours to get on our new flight. I have a headache just thinking about it.
The hotel we stayed at the first night was, ahem, not quite up to par with what I consider Doubletree Hotel standards, and happened to be located smack in the middle of what was apparently the industrial district; our complimentary toiletries included two sets of earplugs (I kid you not) to help block the deafening noise from the train tracks two blocks away. We decided to switch hotels for the next night, but when we checked out, discovered we had been smacked with an "early check-out fee" of $50. After some ranting and raving on my part, they eventually agreed to drop the unjustifiable charge and we all went on our merry way to a Marriott property (which we prefer anyway), and spent a very pleasant night. On hold.
We had learned that there was a possibility of inclement weather at home the next day or so, and in light of Soldier Boy's mandatory travel for work on Monday, and the massive delay we experienced on the way TO our West-Coast Weekend, decided to try to move our return flight up in order to get home sooner. To do this, we had to call the travel agency (whom we're required to use for this type of travel) and request the change. Problem was, the entire Mid-west and East coast were getting pummeled by a winter storm that was (go figure) affecting air travel, and the agency was swamped with calls from everyone and their aunt's cousin's grandma's uncle trying to find a way out of that particular mess. We sat on hold for over two hours before anyone even picked up the line. Fortunately, we did actually reach a semi-competent individual who was able to accomodate us, and made it home, on time, with luggage complete and intact.
But other than that...
No, really, it was fun, I promise. We ate at In-N-Out Burger and Round Table Pizza, neither of which I'd ever had before, and both of which I loved. We ate at Panda Express, which we have here in OK, but which I'd never eaten at before either, and of whose Orange Chicken I immediately became a fan. We got upgraded on our rental car and ended up with a Sebring that smelled brand-spankin' new, and if you think that didn't make me happy beyond words, you'd best quit thinkin' now. I love new-car smell. And no, the air-freshener-new-car-scent doesn't cut it; it has to be actual new-car smell straight from the factory, ma'am. And it was.
Soldier Boy's question to me on our way home: "Was it worth it?"
Yessir, soldier. Yessir. I love going places, and most of all, with you. It makes me happy.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Meet Charlie
This is Charlie. And he is every bit as big as he looks. Although he doesn't look very big in this picture. But I can promise you that he weighs more than my chocolate lab, and his belly actually sways from side to side when he walks.
A few things about Charlie:
Charlie is - ahem- hefty.
Charlie loves my baby. Loves him. He will wait for my baby to lie down, and will then lie down right beside him. He will follow him around the house and rub around his legs. This becomes problematic at times, as Charlie and my baby are approximately the same weight and my baby's legs just aren't quite long enough to step around the cat. You can guess the outcome.
Charlie belonged to someone else long before us. They left, left him behind, then tried to come back six months later and claim him. I told them not on my life. You abandon your animal, I adopt it, it's mine. Get lost, neglectful losers.
Charlie also developed a habit of sleeping on our bed while Soldier Boy was deployed for 13 months. This was not a problem at the time, but Soldier Boy, despite being a cat person, does not like them on his bed. So when he came home, Charlie took note and stayed off. (The other two cats didn't get the memo and have to be disgracefully escorted out every night.) However, Charlie is quite astute; when Soldier Boy left yesterday, he again took note. And this morning I woke up to a very large orange cat nestled up beside my feet.
He's quite charming, that Charlie. Even if he does weigh 5,682 pounds. And snores.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)