Oops. "Therapist." Sorry. My bad.
Got your note the other day, stuffed in the E-man's cubby. It was startlingly similar to the one you left two years ago regarding my daughter, Tootie.
You don't remember?
Alrighty then -- a refresher:
"We recommend your child receive both an evaluation and early-intervention therapy that will better prepare him/her for kindergarten."
Or something like that.
You cited some examples of how Tootie -- and now the E-man -- mispronounced words and "spoke softly."
And then there was a leeeennnnngthy paragraph about how most insurances companies will fully cover said intervention. And then another paragraph about how your company, "Thera***" will come to my child's day care once a week to "help" my JUST-TURNED-TWO-YEAR-OlD learn how to say "snack," rather than "nack."
(Actually, speech goddess, I've been trying to eliminate that word entirely from his apparently too-miniscule vocabulary, but whatever...
How to put this delicately?
Stay the hell away from my child. (That's "hae-ull." With the required drawl.) Just in case you didn't understand me the first time. I realize we here talk funny.
I'll have you know, the E-man talks like every other toddler his age. And just because four (yep, FOUR) other mothers of children in my kid's class have fallen prey to your scam doesn't mean I'm about to offer up my little lamb.
Dearie, I'm a bitchy reporter. You know, skeptical. Jaded. Sarcastic.
Did I ask you to test my son? Or my daughter, for that matter?
Nope, you just showed up at the day care, as you do every six months, and attempted to freak out me and a bunch of other easily guilted working parents.
Forget it, lady. I'm onto you. My son substitues a 'P' for 'F.' (Which means if he were as cantankerous as I am, he would have told you to "Puck off," but he hasn't yet, thankfully, picked up his mommy's bad words.)
Yeah, he talks "softly" when in the presence of strangers, particularly suspect "therapists" but we can understand him just fine.
And hey, I didn't master my "THs" until ... ummm ... age 5. Today, there's no sign of any (speech) impediment.
Please, leave the toddler set alone. They have no need of your ... services.
Sincerely,
Caffy
Oh, P.S. I showed Hubs your note. You know, just to ensure my cynicism hasn't shot into hyperdrive.
He read until reaching the paragraph about insurance, then tossed it on the table.
"What a scam," he said. "Throw it away."
Readers: Make sure you wander over to Musing Mama. Still the same, fabulous content, but we've got a new look.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
Sometimes my job rocks
In 1953, a woman in England was engaged to a man she adored. And then, one afternoon, she was attacked and raped. Three months later, she found out she was pregnant. Her mother was horrified, and demanded that this woman give up her baby. When she was seven months along, the woman's parents sent her a home for pregnant girls in London, so none of their friends or neighbors would know. She had the baby, then returned to the home as arrangements for the adoption were made. In the photo below, the woman is holding her 6-week-old girl. A week or so later, she gave the baby up for adoption. The transfer took place in an English tea room. Can you imagine, being forced to give up your child six weeks after coming home from the hospital? I can't.
Before you judge, remember this was 1950s England, when "disgraceful" pregnanices were hidden. And bear in mind, this woman still lived with her parents. She was very much under their influence.
This week, mother and daughter were reunited. I'd already spent a couple of weeks talking to the woman about what happened all those years ago. And then I was there, when the two saw each other for the first time.
And it was one of those moments when I was so glad to be doing what I do.
Before you judge, remember this was 1950s England, when "disgraceful" pregnanices were hidden. And bear in mind, this woman still lived with her parents. She was very much under their influence.
This week, mother and daughter were reunited. I'd already spent a couple of weeks talking to the woman about what happened all those years ago. And then I was there, when the two saw each other for the first time.
And it was one of those moments when I was so glad to be doing what I do.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Why I hate child support...
...and the calculations behind it. (Here, it's based solely on the father's income and applies only to the children of the divorce. Children from any future marriages are not factored in.)
... Because on the very night I'm trying to figure out how (and when) we can afford to buy some spring/summer clothes for Tootie, Hubs comes back from his ex-wife's house talking — no, let's make that "gushing" — about Stepson's new Wii system.
... Because for the first two years of our marriage, when the ex arrived every other weekend, she always had a list for Hubs of all the "extra" expenses, which usually totaled, on average, about $150 to $200. That's $300 to $400 a month ON TOP OF child support.
... Because she always left with a check.
... Because when I got pregnant, even though Hubs always paid several hundred dollars a month MORE than required by state law in child support — not just the "extras" but also one-half of day care and, later, after-school care — the ex sued him for additional money.
... Because while I worry each month about how we will afford new shoes or clothes or day care-related expenses or birthdays, holidays, etc... etc... for the kids, his ex is putting in an in-ground pool, ordering custom-made furniture or re-doing their house (for the millionth time) or installing a tikki bar out back.
... Because I never knew what debt was — or how scary it is — until I married a divorced father.
... Because a divorced mom knows for sure she'll get xxx number of dollars each month whereas a woman married to a divorced dad shuffles and repriortizes and puts off purchases because she has to work with what is left.
... Because most states don't recognize fathers as parents with the same rights as mothers.
... Because even though we can't afford to buy a new washing machine, even after the repairman told us our current one was an ancient piece of shit that can't be fixed and it frequently attacks the dryer like some rabid beast, the ex-wife and her hubs are tooling around in their travel trailer or on his fully loaded Honda motorcycle.
... Because my glasses are 6 years old, but I can't yet justify new ones, because Hubs needs new glasses and contacts, because I still owe the dentist a hunk of money, because Tootie still needs to go to the dentist, because there are so many things, big and little, and plumbing issues and on and on and on that we've put off buying for months, but to HER it's no big deal to just zip out and buy a fucking Wii. Or a shiny red, fully loaded Camaro convertible.
... Because I remember the look on Hubs face when she pulled up in that car. Shortly after suing him for more money.
... Because I've skipped birthday parties and other social functions when we didn't have the money for presents or food contributions. But god forbid that stepson doesn't get a car by the day he turns 16 (in June). Oh, and by the way, can we chip in for half of his insurance?
(Um... excuse me ex, but when you and Hubs sold your house, is it not correct that you walked away with $30,000 and he received $1,500 per your divorce decree? I know it is because I've read it. I also read the document Hubs' attorney made him sign saying she had advised him against such an unfair split. As always, however, he gave in to you. For the kids. So hey, why not consider your profit on that little number Hubs' insurance contribution? Sounds like a good idea to me.
...Because it's fucking unfair. Because child support laws make it near impossible for a man to remarry or have additional children. A woman, however, gets the child support, a new spouse and his salary, and whatever income she earns.
...Because in order for things to be truly equitable, I would have to divorce my husband. Because then Hubs' paycheck would be divided among ALL FOUR KIDS.
... Because my brother-in-law raised four kids without a dime of child support from his ex-wife. Because the only thing we ever hear about are "deadbeat dads" when really, the mothers are equal offenders. C'mon, are we still employing 1950s thinking here? Geez. If you're going to pursue the fathers, then -- HELLO?! -- go after the mothers too. Because a lot of them don't pay either.
... Because Hubs is a great dad who has given and given and given. And because of the guilt he feels when he can't provide the same things for the second set of kids.
Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. Yeah, I'm pissed. And yeah, the fucking Wii was the fucking last straw.
I hate the greediness, unfairness and resentment that the current system breeds. I hate the stupid, gender-specific child support laws. I hate that my kids will always get the leftovers. If there are any leftovers. And yeah, it makes me resentful and yeah, I'm probably a horrible stepmother for feeling so resentful. I hate feeling like such a bitch because my stepkids are great, and I don't want to see them deprived of anything, but goddammit it pains me to see my own kids go without necessities while the other household gets a Wii the minute they hit the market.
But tra-la-fucking-la, life goes fucking on, and I'll just have to re-budget — again — this month, and try not to turn into a raging maniac as stepson's birthday approaches and the ex starts calling about a car.
I posted this last night, after drinking much wine at a girlfriend's house and having yet another freakout session over finances. Then I reconsidered and took it down. But hey, what the hell. I'm re-posting and people can think I'm horrible. Cuz this is life as a stepmom, folks, and it isn't always easy. And there's a helluva a lot of room for resentment.
... Because on the very night I'm trying to figure out how (and when) we can afford to buy some spring/summer clothes for Tootie, Hubs comes back from his ex-wife's house talking — no, let's make that "gushing" — about Stepson's new Wii system.
... Because for the first two years of our marriage, when the ex arrived every other weekend, she always had a list for Hubs of all the "extra" expenses, which usually totaled, on average, about $150 to $200. That's $300 to $400 a month ON TOP OF child support.
... Because she always left with a check.
... Because when I got pregnant, even though Hubs always paid several hundred dollars a month MORE than required by state law in child support — not just the "extras" but also one-half of day care and, later, after-school care — the ex sued him for additional money.
... Because while I worry each month about how we will afford new shoes or clothes or day care-related expenses or birthdays, holidays, etc... etc... for the kids, his ex is putting in an in-ground pool, ordering custom-made furniture or re-doing their house (for the millionth time) or installing a tikki bar out back.
... Because I never knew what debt was — or how scary it is — until I married a divorced father.
... Because a divorced mom knows for sure she'll get xxx number of dollars each month whereas a woman married to a divorced dad shuffles and repriortizes and puts off purchases because she has to work with what is left.
... Because most states don't recognize fathers as parents with the same rights as mothers.
... Because even though we can't afford to buy a new washing machine, even after the repairman told us our current one was an ancient piece of shit that can't be fixed and it frequently attacks the dryer like some rabid beast, the ex-wife and her hubs are tooling around in their travel trailer or on his fully loaded Honda motorcycle.
... Because my glasses are 6 years old, but I can't yet justify new ones, because Hubs needs new glasses and contacts, because I still owe the dentist a hunk of money, because Tootie still needs to go to the dentist, because there are so many things, big and little, and plumbing issues and on and on and on that we've put off buying for months, but to HER it's no big deal to just zip out and buy a fucking Wii. Or a shiny red, fully loaded Camaro convertible.
... Because I remember the look on Hubs face when she pulled up in that car. Shortly after suing him for more money.
... Because I've skipped birthday parties and other social functions when we didn't have the money for presents or food contributions. But god forbid that stepson doesn't get a car by the day he turns 16 (in June). Oh, and by the way, can we chip in for half of his insurance?
(Um... excuse me ex, but when you and Hubs sold your house, is it not correct that you walked away with $30,000 and he received $1,500 per your divorce decree? I know it is because I've read it. I also read the document Hubs' attorney made him sign saying she had advised him against such an unfair split. As always, however, he gave in to you. For the kids. So hey, why not consider your profit on that little number Hubs' insurance contribution? Sounds like a good idea to me.
...Because it's fucking unfair. Because child support laws make it near impossible for a man to remarry or have additional children. A woman, however, gets the child support, a new spouse and his salary, and whatever income she earns.
...Because in order for things to be truly equitable, I would have to divorce my husband. Because then Hubs' paycheck would be divided among ALL FOUR KIDS.
... Because my brother-in-law raised four kids without a dime of child support from his ex-wife. Because the only thing we ever hear about are "deadbeat dads" when really, the mothers are equal offenders. C'mon, are we still employing 1950s thinking here? Geez. If you're going to pursue the fathers, then -- HELLO?! -- go after the mothers too. Because a lot of them don't pay either.
... Because Hubs is a great dad who has given and given and given. And because of the guilt he feels when he can't provide the same things for the second set of kids.
Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. Yeah, I'm pissed. And yeah, the fucking Wii was the fucking last straw.
I hate the greediness, unfairness and resentment that the current system breeds. I hate the stupid, gender-specific child support laws. I hate that my kids will always get the leftovers. If there are any leftovers. And yeah, it makes me resentful and yeah, I'm probably a horrible stepmother for feeling so resentful. I hate feeling like such a bitch because my stepkids are great, and I don't want to see them deprived of anything, but goddammit it pains me to see my own kids go without necessities while the other household gets a Wii the minute they hit the market.
But tra-la-fucking-la, life goes fucking on, and I'll just have to re-budget — again — this month, and try not to turn into a raging maniac as stepson's birthday approaches and the ex starts calling about a car.
I posted this last night, after drinking much wine at a girlfriend's house and having yet another freakout session over finances. Then I reconsidered and took it down. But hey, what the hell. I'm re-posting and people can think I'm horrible. Cuz this is life as a stepmom, folks, and it isn't always easy. And there's a helluva a lot of room for resentment.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Camping — with my mini-me
Given my own predisposition for inflicting stupid, embarrassing injuries upon myself, I don't know why I'm so surprised.
But really, after this weekend's string of E-man-related disasters, I'm wondering how I will get through the boy's toddlerhood without
A.) Breaking out into chronic, stress-induced hives
B.) Collapsing from a stress-related coronary
C.) Calling 911 on a regular basis, just to make sure I get a prompt answer from a competent operator
We camped here for 2 1/2 days.
In that time, the E-man:
Fell down the steps of my parents' travel trailer onto a concrete pad
Fell down the rock stairs leading to our tent
Fell, backward, into the fire pit — thankfully at a time when no flames were present
Bonked his wee head on a piece of playground equipment
Choked on a piece of lemon rind at the lodge's restaurant, prompting his mother to leap from her chair, shrieking, "He's choking! Do something!" while turning small son upside-down and administering the requisite shoulder-blade whacks as the other diners looked on in horror/disdain/bewilderment.
Clearly, he's following my path, one that has led (repeatedly) to numerous, ridiculous trips to the ER or doctor's office.
I can only hope he encounters no stepping stones along the way. (The offending stones have, BTW, been removed.)
But really, after this weekend's string of E-man-related disasters, I'm wondering how I will get through the boy's toddlerhood without
A.) Breaking out into chronic, stress-induced hives
B.) Collapsing from a stress-related coronary
C.) Calling 911 on a regular basis, just to make sure I get a prompt answer from a competent operator
We camped here for 2 1/2 days.
In that time, the E-man:
Fell down the steps of my parents' travel trailer onto a concrete pad
Fell down the rock stairs leading to our tent
Fell, backward, into the fire pit — thankfully at a time when no flames were present
Bonked his wee head on a piece of playground equipment
Choked on a piece of lemon rind at the lodge's restaurant, prompting his mother to leap from her chair, shrieking, "He's choking! Do something!" while turning small son upside-down and administering the requisite shoulder-blade whacks as the other diners looked on in horror/disdain/bewilderment.
Clearly, he's following my path, one that has led (repeatedly) to numerous, ridiculous trips to the ER or doctor's office.
I can only hope he encounters no stepping stones along the way. (The offending stones have, BTW, been removed.)
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Hubs' influence...
...is evident in this photo.
Look closely, and you'll understand my dismay.
Observe the exposed belly, the blank stare directed toward the television, the way in which, even though he is eating a sandwich, the E-man is reluctant to put down his beer -- I mean, binky.
It's only a matter of time before Hubs hauls him out to the woods to kill his first deer.
Most of the McHubs hunt. And so do their offspring.
How big a deal is it? Well, I seem to recall one deer season spent in strife because Hubs engaged in a battle with my stepson's stepfather (got that?) over who would be present when my stepson made his first kill. Weekend after weekend, they argued over who would drive Stepson down to the southern part of the state, each man determined to be The One.
In case you were curious -- Hubs won.
Camo is the height of fashion for Hubs and his clan. Except for his youngest brother, who was so traumatized by his first kill that he never ventured into the woods again.
Oh, what happened? Well -- let's call him B. -- when B. was just a young sprout, he caved into pressure from his brothers, went into the woods, shot a deer and when he discovered it wasn't yet dead, he pulled a box cutter from his pocket (always handy because of his job at a Piggly Wiggly grocery) straddled the deer and tried to finish the job manually.
Apparently, the end result was so gruesome, B. vowed to never hunt again.
So how do I counter the Hubs effect? A daily recounting of Uncle B.'s Day of Great Shame? (narrated by Uncle B for optimal effect)
Or maybe nightly readings from the works of David Sedaris?
Look closely, and you'll understand my dismay.
Observe the exposed belly, the blank stare directed toward the television, the way in which, even though he is eating a sandwich, the E-man is reluctant to put down his beer -- I mean, binky.
It's only a matter of time before Hubs hauls him out to the woods to kill his first deer.
Most of the McHubs hunt. And so do their offspring.
How big a deal is it? Well, I seem to recall one deer season spent in strife because Hubs engaged in a battle with my stepson's stepfather (got that?) over who would be present when my stepson made his first kill. Weekend after weekend, they argued over who would drive Stepson down to the southern part of the state, each man determined to be The One.
In case you were curious -- Hubs won.
Camo is the height of fashion for Hubs and his clan. Except for his youngest brother, who was so traumatized by his first kill that he never ventured into the woods again.
Oh, what happened? Well -- let's call him B. -- when B. was just a young sprout, he caved into pressure from his brothers, went into the woods, shot a deer and when he discovered it wasn't yet dead, he pulled a box cutter from his pocket (always handy because of his job at a Piggly Wiggly grocery) straddled the deer and tried to finish the job manually.
Apparently, the end result was so gruesome, B. vowed to never hunt again.
So how do I counter the Hubs effect? A daily recounting of Uncle B.'s Day of Great Shame? (narrated by Uncle B for optimal effect)
Or maybe nightly readings from the works of David Sedaris?
Or I suppose I could add Bambi to the children's list of approved movies. That did it for me.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Better than garlic
So aside from the dog, the other long-standing point of contention in our home is:
The Onion.
Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn't slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.
Our biggest argument ever -- and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils -- was over chicken spaghetti and whether "his side" of the casserole dish contained onions.
It's frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that's when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.
I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.
If I'm not in the mood, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I'd say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)
So with Hubs, I don't plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.
It's a beautiful arrangement, really. I'm not rejecting him. No, he's rejecting me.
Brilliant!
Still, the man loves me. How do I know?
When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.
Its name?
Vidalia.
The Onion.
Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn't slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.
Our biggest argument ever -- and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils -- was over chicken spaghetti and whether "his side" of the casserole dish contained onions.
It's frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that's when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.
I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.
If I'm not in the mood, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I'd say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)
So with Hubs, I don't plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.
It's a beautiful arrangement, really. I'm not rejecting him. No, he's rejecting me.
Brilliant!
Still, the man loves me. How do I know?
When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.
Its name?
Vidalia.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Yeah, I know.
It's pink.
Really effing pink.
I was bored...
... and enveloped in a warm, fuzzy Benedryl (equally pink) haze...
... and it was either this or a change in hair color.
Really effing pink.
I was bored...
... and enveloped in a warm, fuzzy Benedryl (equally pink) haze...
... and it was either this or a change in hair color.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
In keeping with my shallow tendencies...
... even as my fellow mama bloggers out there are posting nicely written tributes to Kurt Vonnegut, I'm prepared to blather on about Mika — the reincarnation of at least one (or two, or hell, maybe three -- well, shit, OK, four) college boyfriends.
He exhibits all the traits I found so desirable at that time:
1. Musical talent
2. Sexual ambiguity (unavailability is such a turn-on)
3. A mop of to-die-for curls
4. Creativity (Examples: His website, the whole cartoon approach and oh, yeah — his video (see below), which I made Hubs watch while I carried on in an appropriately smitten manner.
5. The drown-in-me eyes, the mouth ... oh the mouth .. and the dancing, the vocal range, the faux grimace, made possible by those flexible lips ...
Ahem. Sorry. Hubs is removing the computer (with its bookmarked Mika video) from the room while I compose myself.
He exhibits all the traits I found so desirable at that time:
1. Musical talent
2. Sexual ambiguity (unavailability is such a turn-on)
3. A mop of to-die-for curls
4. Creativity (Examples: His website, the whole cartoon approach and oh, yeah — his video (see below), which I made Hubs watch while I carried on in an appropriately smitten manner.
5. The drown-in-me eyes, the mouth ... oh the mouth .. and the dancing, the vocal range, the faux grimace, made possible by those flexible lips ...
Ahem. Sorry. Hubs is removing the computer (with its bookmarked Mika video) from the room while I compose myself.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Hubs. vs The Dog
Perhaps it was their first encounter that set the tone.
We had just started dating, and Hubs was intent on getting some action. Unfortunately, so was Molly, who, at some point, leaped onto the bed. Being a bit preoccupied at the time, I didn't notice.
Only weeks later -- at a PARTY, in front of all our friends -- did Hubs finally mention that my dog had tried to molest him.
Still, he was a good sport. (OK, he wasn't THAT accomodating, people. Poor phrasing on my part.) I'm just saying -- he was willing to overlook the incident, labeling it a lone instance of aberrant behavior.
Until I moved in with him and Molly started humping his bed pillows.
Hubs freaked. The dog's private parts, after all, had touched the place on which he laid his head.
Once he stopped hyperventilating, however, Hubs experienced a flash of man-genius. He would build a bed! One too high for Molly to leap upon! Yes!
So he used his Mighty Man Powers to construct a VERY BIG BED -- a bed that I spent the next month toppling out of every time I got up to pee in the middle of the night.
Hubs was so proud, so pleased, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that Molly had learned how to scramble up onto the bed. Or that she was still doing the wild thing with his bedding.
One morning, however, he caught her in mid-hump. From then on, he stashed his pillows on a closet shelf before leaving for work each morning.
Over the years, similar battles ensued, one involving a chair favored by both Hubs and the dog; another involving Hubs' prized deer antlers, which, apparently, the dog rather fancied. As a snack.
Alpha Hubs vs the Alpha Dog.
And hmmm... who to root for?
We have, here, the Hubs, a rather attractive guy, I must admit.
(And just look at what cute children his genes have helped produce! Sorry. Bragging rights. I'm done.)
But now look below, at the adorable, furry creature with whom I've had the longest relationship. E-V-E-R. Such a patient loyal dog, especially given some of the boyfriends she had to tolerate before Hubs and his irresistible manhood came along.
In recent years, we've learned to compromise, the Hubs and I. There are now limits as to which furniture may be occupied by the dog, although arthritis in one hip has left her unable to climb the bed these days.
I think.
A few weeks ago, I found a suspiciously scrunched-up pillow on Hubs' side of the bed.
But I'm not telling.
We had just started dating, and Hubs was intent on getting some action. Unfortunately, so was Molly, who, at some point, leaped onto the bed. Being a bit preoccupied at the time, I didn't notice.
Only weeks later -- at a PARTY, in front of all our friends -- did Hubs finally mention that my dog had tried to molest him.
Still, he was a good sport. (OK, he wasn't THAT accomodating, people. Poor phrasing on my part.) I'm just saying -- he was willing to overlook the incident, labeling it a lone instance of aberrant behavior.
Until I moved in with him and Molly started humping his bed pillows.
Hubs freaked. The dog's private parts, after all, had touched the place on which he laid his head.
Once he stopped hyperventilating, however, Hubs experienced a flash of man-genius. He would build a bed! One too high for Molly to leap upon! Yes!
So he used his Mighty Man Powers to construct a VERY BIG BED -- a bed that I spent the next month toppling out of every time I got up to pee in the middle of the night.
Hubs was so proud, so pleased, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that Molly had learned how to scramble up onto the bed. Or that she was still doing the wild thing with his bedding.
One morning, however, he caught her in mid-hump. From then on, he stashed his pillows on a closet shelf before leaving for work each morning.
Over the years, similar battles ensued, one involving a chair favored by both Hubs and the dog; another involving Hubs' prized deer antlers, which, apparently, the dog rather fancied. As a snack.
Alpha Hubs vs the Alpha Dog.
And hmmm... who to root for?
We have, here, the Hubs, a rather attractive guy, I must admit.
(And just look at what cute children his genes have helped produce! Sorry. Bragging rights. I'm done.)
But now look below, at the adorable, furry creature with whom I've had the longest relationship. E-V-E-R. Such a patient loyal dog, especially given some of the boyfriends she had to tolerate before Hubs and his irresistible manhood came along.
In recent years, we've learned to compromise, the Hubs and I. There are now limits as to which furniture may be occupied by the dog, although arthritis in one hip has left her unable to climb the bed these days.
I think.
A few weeks ago, I found a suspiciously scrunched-up pillow on Hubs' side of the bed.
But I'm not telling.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
I call her Perfect Linda.
She's my brother-in-law's wife.
Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.
If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.
But let me continue --
She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.
Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?
No?
Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.
Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.
But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.
And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.
Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.
If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.
But let me continue --
She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.
Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?
No?
Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.
Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.
But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.
And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.
Friday, April 06, 2007
If only they could bottle it
A few weeks ago, my friend C. walked into the newsroom and told me she'd just been at the day care, visiting her daughter, and had spotted the E-man running across the playground — arms spread, face aglow, laughing.
"He just looked so ... joyful," she said.
Pause.
"I looked at him and wondered, 'Have I EVER felt that happy?'"
Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
I think the same thing every day.
Not that I begrudge my little boy his ever-present euphoria. But God, I want me some of that.
Where the hell did he get the happy gene? It didn't come from me (on meds) or his dad (should be) (kidding, kidding, Hubs is the ((relatively)) normal one in our marriage, aside from his sponge and old-things obssessions.
But just look at the E-man in this pic from his first Halloween. Have you ever seen a kid this damn happy when he's got a freaking pumpkin stem sprouting from his head?
"He just looked so ... joyful," she said.
Pause.
"I looked at him and wondered, 'Have I EVER felt that happy?'"
Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
I think the same thing every day.
Not that I begrudge my little boy his ever-present euphoria. But God, I want me some of that.
Where the hell did he get the happy gene? It didn't come from me (on meds) or his dad (should be) (kidding, kidding, Hubs is the ((relatively)) normal one in our marriage, aside from his sponge and old-things obssessions.
But just look at the E-man in this pic from his first Halloween. Have you ever seen a kid this damn happy when he's got a freaking pumpkin stem sprouting from his head?
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The Sponge
No, not that one.
I refer to the kitchen variety -- that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.
Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.
Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less ... discerning ... ?
Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.
I hate the sponge, so much so that I can't bear to watch him do the dishes.
Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he's using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.
Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.
"Hey, where's my sponge?" Hubs will inquire indignantly.
I point to the trash can.
"Why?" he asks plaintively. "Why?"
Because I can't stand the texture -- slimey, squishy. Because I can't stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don't you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you're at it?
But I just stick with, "It was gross. So I pitched it."
And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.
But he continues to stock up on sponges.
And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper. Same damn, icky thing.
I refer to the kitchen variety -- that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.
Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.
Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less ... discerning ... ?
Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.
I hate the sponge, so much so that I can't bear to watch him do the dishes.
Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he's using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.
Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.
"Hey, where's my sponge?" Hubs will inquire indignantly.
I point to the trash can.
"Why?" he asks plaintively. "Why?"
Because I can't stand the texture -- slimey, squishy. Because I can't stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don't you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you're at it?
But I just stick with, "It was gross. So I pitched it."
And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.
But he continues to stock up on sponges.
And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper. Same damn, icky thing.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Why I'm certain...
...my stepson will not be getting any action at our house, even when he and his girlfriend are cuddled up on a mattress in the E-man's darkened room.
Exhibit A: The stepmother, who trots in and out with several stacks of folded clothes, unaware until the third trip -- due to the dimness -- that two teenagers are not only present, but in the midst of gazing adoringly into one another's hormone-misted eyes.
Exhibt B: E-man, who is leaping up and down on the mattress, mere inches from the entwined teenage feet, yelling delightedly, "Zhump! Zhump!"
Exhibit C: Tootie, who runs in and out of the room with a half-slip and a plastic tiara on her head, announcing, "I'm a princess ghost. Look, T. Boo!"
Nope, no worries about S-E-X in our house.
Well, except for Hubs, who's always worrying that he -- Hubs, that is -- won't get any.
Like, ever.
(Insert evil cackle of weary mama/failure-of-a-sexpot wife here.)
Exhibit A: The stepmother, who trots in and out with several stacks of folded clothes, unaware until the third trip -- due to the dimness -- that two teenagers are not only present, but in the midst of gazing adoringly into one another's hormone-misted eyes.
Exhibt B: E-man, who is leaping up and down on the mattress, mere inches from the entwined teenage feet, yelling delightedly, "Zhump! Zhump!"
Exhibit C: Tootie, who runs in and out of the room with a half-slip and a plastic tiara on her head, announcing, "I'm a princess ghost. Look, T. Boo!"
Nope, no worries about S-E-X in our house.
Well, except for Hubs, who's always worrying that he -- Hubs, that is -- won't get any.
Like, ever.
(Insert evil cackle of weary mama/failure-of-a-sexpot wife here.)
Monday, April 02, 2007
Tagged...
... by Colleen via Musing Mama to describe a "Real Mom."
Kristin started this, and I highly recommend not only a visit to her site, but also Mominatrix, which I started reading after Angela emailed this column to me.
So here goes —
Real Moms:
Have been reading the same damn book — 30 minutes at a time — for the past two months.
Subscribe to parenting magazines but either never find the time to read them, or, if they do, prefer to make fun of the stupid Pollyanna people featured in all the stories and ads rather than follow any of the insipid advice offered by these podlings.
Wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because they can't remember whether they remembered to buy a card and present for Teacher Appreciation Day.
Never run out of creative excuses to avoid sex, not because they find their husbands unattractive, but because they're simply too tired. (And still trying to finish that book.)
Never finish the laundry.
Kristin started this, and I highly recommend not only a visit to her site, but also Mominatrix, which I started reading after Angela emailed this column to me.
So here goes —
Real Moms:
Have been reading the same damn book — 30 minutes at a time — for the past two months.
Subscribe to parenting magazines but either never find the time to read them, or, if they do, prefer to make fun of the stupid Pollyanna people featured in all the stories and ads rather than follow any of the insipid advice offered by these podlings.
Wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because they can't remember whether they remembered to buy a card and present for Teacher Appreciation Day.
Never run out of creative excuses to avoid sex, not because they find their husbands unattractive, but because they're simply too tired. (And still trying to finish that book.)
Never finish the laundry.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Take a walk through our newsroom
Listen to the reporters' conversations. You'll understand why I'll never be fit to work in any other environment:
"... and so for the next 24 hours, you have to pee in this bucket ..."
"... caught trying to steal a sheep from the zoo ... said he thought it was his mother..."
"OH NO!" [Thud, thud, thud] "I just wrote this email about how I was worried I might be pregnant and that I forgot to take my anti-depressant this morning and then accidentally sent it to one of my sources..."
" ... he used Dippity-Do for WHAT?!"
"... So should I send another email apologizing for that first email about the anti-depressants?"
" ... used a garbage can to steal that sheep from the petting zoo ... no, the sheep wasn't injured ..."
" ... guy said the strippers beat him too hard during a birthday spanking ..."
[Religion editor walks by, pauses at a reporter's computer screen and notices a man wearing a thong.]
"What website are you on?"
"Go Fug Yourself."
[Editor looks hurt.]
"... Um ... OK."
"... and so for the next 24 hours, you have to pee in this bucket ..."
"... caught trying to steal a sheep from the zoo ... said he thought it was his mother..."
"OH NO!" [Thud, thud, thud] "I just wrote this email about how I was worried I might be pregnant and that I forgot to take my anti-depressant this morning and then accidentally sent it to one of my sources..."
" ... he used Dippity-Do for WHAT?!"
"... So should I send another email apologizing for that first email about the anti-depressants?"
" ... used a garbage can to steal that sheep from the petting zoo ... no, the sheep wasn't injured ..."
" ... guy said the strippers beat him too hard during a birthday spanking ..."
[Religion editor walks by, pauses at a reporter's computer screen and notices a man wearing a thong.]
"What website are you on?"
"Go Fug Yourself."
[Editor looks hurt.]
"... Um ... OK."
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Normally, this time of year...
...we'd be planning our annual trip to Big Bend.
We got married there April 29, 2001, and try to make it back for each anniversary.
This year, however, we'll be celebrating here, with plans to head down to Big Bend in September.
Already, I'm anticipating the trip, in spite of last year's series of truck-related disasters.
I mean look at this --
That was taken from the Lost Mine Trail, one of my favorite hikes at the park.
Most nights, we camp. Always, however, we begin and end each trip with a stay at the Gage Hotel. Here's a shot from our last night there, taken in the bar.
You would assume, looking at the photos from most of our trips, that I'm vacationing alone, as Hubs rarely appears in any pictures. I would offer one that reveals his ever-so-pale legs, but since mine (equally white, and also stubbly after three nights of camping), are also visible, I'm keeping it to myself.
We got married there April 29, 2001, and try to make it back for each anniversary.
This year, however, we'll be celebrating here, with plans to head down to Big Bend in September.
Already, I'm anticipating the trip, in spite of last year's series of truck-related disasters.
I mean look at this --
That was taken from the Lost Mine Trail, one of my favorite hikes at the park.
Most nights, we camp. Always, however, we begin and end each trip with a stay at the Gage Hotel. Here's a shot from our last night there, taken in the bar.
You would assume, looking at the photos from most of our trips, that I'm vacationing alone, as Hubs rarely appears in any pictures. I would offer one that reveals his ever-so-pale legs, but since mine (equally white, and also stubbly after three nights of camping), are also visible, I'm keeping it to myself.
Monday, March 26, 2007
In the old days...
...I would have been holding someone's hair out of the way as she puked into a toilet only a third of the way into the party.
Now, I'm wiping a 4-year-old's butt only a third of the way into the party after she did something very scary in the hostess' sole bathroom.
In the old days, I would have been climbing a fence and leaping into the swimming pool at an apartment complex at, say, 2 a.m. (Said apartment complex would not have been home to any of my friends, just one that happened to boast a pool.)
Now, at the same party that has an unusable, smelly bathroom, I'm watching the bottoms of my son's feet vanish through the doggie door as he climbs, in and out, in and out, never pausing until he comes face-to-face with the beagle who has a legitimate need for the doggie door.
In the old days, I would have awakened at 7:30 a.m. and called Girlfriend A in the midst of hangover paranoia to ask whether I really did what Girlfriend B, who called in the midst of her own hangover paranoia, says I did.
Now, I'm thinking I should apologize to a girlfriend for the fact that one of her beagles ate sidewalk chalk during her party because my children left the chalk laying on the patio -- or, sigh ... did they deliberately FEED it to the dog?
Now, I'm wiping a 4-year-old's butt only a third of the way into the party after she did something very scary in the hostess' sole bathroom.
In the old days, I would have been climbing a fence and leaping into the swimming pool at an apartment complex at, say, 2 a.m. (Said apartment complex would not have been home to any of my friends, just one that happened to boast a pool.)
Now, at the same party that has an unusable, smelly bathroom, I'm watching the bottoms of my son's feet vanish through the doggie door as he climbs, in and out, in and out, never pausing until he comes face-to-face with the beagle who has a legitimate need for the doggie door.
In the old days, I would have awakened at 7:30 a.m. and called Girlfriend A in the midst of hangover paranoia to ask whether I really did what Girlfriend B, who called in the midst of her own hangover paranoia, says I did.
Now, I'm thinking I should apologize to a girlfriend for the fact that one of her beagles ate sidewalk chalk during her party because my children left the chalk laying on the patio -- or, sigh ... did they deliberately FEED it to the dog?
Friday, March 23, 2007
The sisters
Look at C. and Tootie sitting in the daffodils of Wye Mountain.
Would you think, even for a second, that they have different mothers? No, you wouldn't, not even if you met them in person -- because in both cases, the Hubs' genetic imprint is readily apparent, right down to the freckles on each of their little noses. Not so with the maternal contributions. (The only thing that marks Tootie as mine are the middle two toes on each foot, which, like mine, are slightly webbed.)
Now the boys -- they're a whole different story. T. looks like his mom. And you can certainly see me when you look at the E-man.
Some days, however, I have to recheck Tootie's toes, just to make sure I didn't imagine that whole nine months and birthing scene.
Would you think, even for a second, that they have different mothers? No, you wouldn't, not even if you met them in person -- because in both cases, the Hubs' genetic imprint is readily apparent, right down to the freckles on each of their little noses. Not so with the maternal contributions. (The only thing that marks Tootie as mine are the middle two toes on each foot, which, like mine, are slightly webbed.)
Now the boys -- they're a whole different story. T. looks like his mom. And you can certainly see me when you look at the E-man.
Some days, however, I have to recheck Tootie's toes, just to make sure I didn't imagine that whole nine months and birthing scene.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
A torn ... what ...???
Apparently I have a tear in my ... labrum? ... (which is so not what I thought the doctor said at first) and some fluid and some sort of something-or-other wrong with a bicep tendon ... or something.
I have a tendency to not hear what a doctor is saying because a.) I'm trying not to be too grossed out by his graphic explanation of whatever I've managed to do to myself and b.) I'm already thinking of my next question, which likely stems from something I Googled.
When Molly was just a few years old, she ripped a toenail lengthwise. The vet gave her something to sedate her, but it didn't take effect immediately. So he muzzled her and started cutting. I felt a little woozy during the process, but it wasn't until I was writing the check that I thought I might pass out. Naturally, that's when the sedative finally kicked in and Molly oozed to the floor. I wanted to ask for whatever they gave her, but figured a woman seeking drugs from her dog's vet might appear ... well, desperate. So I lugged my 50-pound dog out to the car and sat there with my head between my knees.
Yesterday, I actually considered -- in the midst of a fully loaded panic attack -- asking the doctor if he could just not talk about the injury itself and maybe use very general terms to describe what needed to be done, like, "exercises" or "minor surgery." No descriptions of torn cartilage, please.
Thankfully, he thinks the shoulder will heal on its own.
I have vowed to keep wearing the flip-flops. But those stepping stones? I've asked Hubs to remove them.
I have a tendency to not hear what a doctor is saying because a.) I'm trying not to be too grossed out by his graphic explanation of whatever I've managed to do to myself and b.) I'm already thinking of my next question, which likely stems from something I Googled.
When Molly was just a few years old, she ripped a toenail lengthwise. The vet gave her something to sedate her, but it didn't take effect immediately. So he muzzled her and started cutting. I felt a little woozy during the process, but it wasn't until I was writing the check that I thought I might pass out. Naturally, that's when the sedative finally kicked in and Molly oozed to the floor. I wanted to ask for whatever they gave her, but figured a woman seeking drugs from her dog's vet might appear ... well, desperate. So I lugged my 50-pound dog out to the car and sat there with my head between my knees.
Yesterday, I actually considered -- in the midst of a fully loaded panic attack -- asking the doctor if he could just not talk about the injury itself and maybe use very general terms to describe what needed to be done, like, "exercises" or "minor surgery." No descriptions of torn cartilage, please.
Thankfully, he thinks the shoulder will heal on its own.
I have vowed to keep wearing the flip-flops. But those stepping stones? I've asked Hubs to remove them.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Evolution (de-?) of a klutz
Life as a clumsy person is difficult, especially when you're forced to explain to the doctor how, as you were dashing from your car to the house, your flip-flop caught on the edge of a stepping stone, catapulting you into the air before you landed on your belly, arms extended.
I have injured a shoulder before (due to a poorly executed foward roll in a college self-defense class), but really, I don't remember the kind of holy-hell pain I experienced yesterday afternoon, this time in the opposite shoulder.
I bawled and cussed as I hobbled into the house. A glimpse out of the dining room window revealed that E-man, contentedly eating a Happy Meal cheeseburger in the car, had totally missed the spectacle of his airborne mother.
These things always happen to me -- never a normal or understandable sort of accident.
(Ever bonk yourself in the middle of the forehead with a pair of pliers while trying to zip up a pair of skin-tight jeans in high school? Yeah, me neither.)
As for that shoulder injury in college...
We had been instructed to disable our "attackers" and then roll away from them. (Someone, please tell me why, after knocking a gun out of the bad guy's hand, you would somersault across the pavement? Wouldn't you just run like hell?)
That time, after causing a bit of a scene in my class, I ended up in a sling on the very first day of my internship at the Dallas Business Journal.
That time, when I discovered I couldn't put on a bra, I just didn't wear one. Oh, 21-year-old breasts, how I miss you... This time, I've had to ask Rick to deal with the bra (and soooo not in the context or setting he would prefer), or I've had to awkwardly fasten it myself in the front before sliding it around, one-handed, into the proper, hoisting position.)
Am awaiting the verdict as to what I've done to myself this time. Last time, it was a partially separated shoulder.
My final exam for the self-defense course involved warding off three "attackers' in a dimly lit gym. These guys, then, would be the ones to determine my grade.
The instructor told them to go easy on me. I, however, was caught up in the moment, eager to prove that I'm not a one-woman disaster. But as I whirled around to administer a fake kick, I accidently nailed one of the guys in a particularly vulnerable area.
Gasping, he fell to floor.
He beckoned the instructor over, then motioned limply toward me.
"Give her an A," he wheezed. "Just give her an A."
I have injured a shoulder before (due to a poorly executed foward roll in a college self-defense class), but really, I don't remember the kind of holy-hell pain I experienced yesterday afternoon, this time in the opposite shoulder.
I bawled and cussed as I hobbled into the house. A glimpse out of the dining room window revealed that E-man, contentedly eating a Happy Meal cheeseburger in the car, had totally missed the spectacle of his airborne mother.
These things always happen to me -- never a normal or understandable sort of accident.
(Ever bonk yourself in the middle of the forehead with a pair of pliers while trying to zip up a pair of skin-tight jeans in high school? Yeah, me neither.)
As for that shoulder injury in college...
We had been instructed to disable our "attackers" and then roll away from them. (Someone, please tell me why, after knocking a gun out of the bad guy's hand, you would somersault across the pavement? Wouldn't you just run like hell?)
That time, after causing a bit of a scene in my class, I ended up in a sling on the very first day of my internship at the Dallas Business Journal.
That time, when I discovered I couldn't put on a bra, I just didn't wear one. Oh, 21-year-old breasts, how I miss you... This time, I've had to ask Rick to deal with the bra (and soooo not in the context or setting he would prefer), or I've had to awkwardly fasten it myself in the front before sliding it around, one-handed, into the proper, hoisting position.)
Am awaiting the verdict as to what I've done to myself this time. Last time, it was a partially separated shoulder.
My final exam for the self-defense course involved warding off three "attackers' in a dimly lit gym. These guys, then, would be the ones to determine my grade.
The instructor told them to go easy on me. I, however, was caught up in the moment, eager to prove that I'm not a one-woman disaster. But as I whirled around to administer a fake kick, I accidently nailed one of the guys in a particularly vulnerable area.
Gasping, he fell to floor.
He beckoned the instructor over, then motioned limply toward me.
"Give her an A," he wheezed. "Just give her an A."
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