A few days after writing that last post, I went over to read Suburban Bliss, and damned if Melissa didn't rag on Spring in almost exactly the same way. Which makes me look like a big ol' copy cat, but I swear it was completely and bizarrely unrelated, like that time in college when my friend L and I started calling things "peachy" because we thought it was funny, and not a week later, Letterman started saying "peachy" to much positive audience response. Hrm.
I bought a little bistro table for the front porch, which is good because it means at least I can work outside and feel slightly less like some 40-year old guy living in his parents' basement.
My kids are darling so why do I get so frustrated with them? I have let the morning meditation slide, and I need not to do. I'm not getting enough exercise, either. I kinda all around suck right now, to be honest. Oh well.
I did, however, start a vegetable garden, with help from the Chica and Mr Chica. In a month, I'll be able to plant lovely plants, and maybe even help them grow. How groovy would that be?
The Boy has decided to grow his hair out long. I am fine with it, and his father said fine as well, but it'll be interesting to see if his dad can really go the distance. This is a guy who has his hair cut every 2 weeks. Maybe it won't bug him if it's somebody else's head, though. I did tell the Boy that if he wants it long, he needs to take care of it--wash it and brush it, etc., and let me just tell you, we're talking about the Bedhead King here.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Spring is a bitch
I'm not kidding. Look at her, the hussy. First she gets you all excited with the blue skies and the warm weather and all the little flowers coming out, and then, wham. It's all winter storm warnings and nasty nasty wind and chapped lips.
Spring: the cock-tease of the seasons.
But whatever, I can deal with that type.
It's official: My metabolism is a piece of shit. Both kids are playing soccer this season, and so yes! I am the ubiquitous Soccer Mom. Except in a crap-for-all Honda with stickers all over the windows and a pair of jeans that really need to see the inside of a washer, rather than a shiny minivan and something velour with something written across the ass. I'm like the Poor Man's Soccer Mom. With liberal leanings. Groovy. But the question is this: How is it that the kids play their soccer games, run around playing with the other kids during each other's game, play for .5 to 1 hour in the playgrounds after each game, play in the park after lunch, play with the neighbors when we get home, and I'm the one who is falling asleep on my feet by 7pm? Crap, no wonder I'm a tub.
This post brought to you by the number 5 and the colon (:), nature's all-around punctuation.
As much as I would like to continue this stream of consciousness, I must go make waffles and get the kids dressed and hie us to the chosen place of worship so that my daughter can pretend to sing but in actuality pull her dress over her head and twirl around. And so I can buy them donuts and drink bad coffee while I chat with the other parents. Because that, my friends, is what being a good Methodist is all about. Thank God.
Smoochies,
PK
Spring: the cock-tease of the seasons.
But whatever, I can deal with that type.
It's official: My metabolism is a piece of shit. Both kids are playing soccer this season, and so yes! I am the ubiquitous Soccer Mom. Except in a crap-for-all Honda with stickers all over the windows and a pair of jeans that really need to see the inside of a washer, rather than a shiny minivan and something velour with something written across the ass. I'm like the Poor Man's Soccer Mom. With liberal leanings. Groovy. But the question is this: How is it that the kids play their soccer games, run around playing with the other kids during each other's game, play for .5 to 1 hour in the playgrounds after each game, play in the park after lunch, play with the neighbors when we get home, and I'm the one who is falling asleep on my feet by 7pm? Crap, no wonder I'm a tub.
This post brought to you by the number 5 and the colon (:), nature's all-around punctuation.
As much as I would like to continue this stream of consciousness, I must go make waffles and get the kids dressed and hie us to the chosen place of worship so that my daughter can pretend to sing but in actuality pull her dress over her head and twirl around. And so I can buy them donuts and drink bad coffee while I chat with the other parents. Because that, my friends, is what being a good Methodist is all about. Thank God.
Smoochies,
PK
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Good egg
Happy celebration of birth and renewal--spring, Passover, Easter, pick your poison.
"The Easter bunny isn't real," the Boy said tonight, "Everybody knows that Santa and the Easter bunny and all that is just your parents."
"Who on earth told you THAT?" I asked, in my best non-plussed voice. "What a crazy thing to say."
"Oh," he said, "Jim and I have been talking about it all week." And then later, lying in bed, he bemoaned the fact that he couldn't fall asleep. "If I don't fall asleep, the Easter bunny won't come!" "I thought the Easter bunny wasn't real," I said. "Oh, no!" he yelped, "I just said that because I wanted Jim to think I was cool! I DO believe in him! What if he doesn't come because of what I said!!??"
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm sure he'll still come. But if you want things to happen, you have to believe that they will."
It went by so fast, that age of unprotesting belief. But I'll play along for another year. The thing about my Boy is, even when he was very young, he could see through things. I think that's one reason he rarely has nightmares or is bothered or scared by books or movies (not that I let him watch "Night of the Living Dead" or anything, but he has read and seen Harry Potter 1-4, and liked them a lot but never got freaked out by the scary parts). He's a good sport, so I don't think he'll mind. I had a regular meltdown when I finally realized the jig was up--accused my mother of lying to me my whole life, oh the agony. I have the feeling the Boy will just shrug his shoulders, confirm the fact that he'll still get chocolate, and move on.
But I'll miss him when he goes.
"The Easter bunny isn't real," the Boy said tonight, "Everybody knows that Santa and the Easter bunny and all that is just your parents."
"Who on earth told you THAT?" I asked, in my best non-plussed voice. "What a crazy thing to say."
"Oh," he said, "Jim and I have been talking about it all week." And then later, lying in bed, he bemoaned the fact that he couldn't fall asleep. "If I don't fall asleep, the Easter bunny won't come!" "I thought the Easter bunny wasn't real," I said. "Oh, no!" he yelped, "I just said that because I wanted Jim to think I was cool! I DO believe in him! What if he doesn't come because of what I said!!??"
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm sure he'll still come. But if you want things to happen, you have to believe that they will."
It went by so fast, that age of unprotesting belief. But I'll play along for another year. The thing about my Boy is, even when he was very young, he could see through things. I think that's one reason he rarely has nightmares or is bothered or scared by books or movies (not that I let him watch "Night of the Living Dead" or anything, but he has read and seen Harry Potter 1-4, and liked them a lot but never got freaked out by the scary parts). He's a good sport, so I don't think he'll mind. I had a regular meltdown when I finally realized the jig was up--accused my mother of lying to me my whole life, oh the agony. I have the feeling the Boy will just shrug his shoulders, confirm the fact that he'll still get chocolate, and move on.
But I'll miss him when he goes.
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