Tag: funny stuff

Taking It Slow

This past week-end, I was alone. 
All alone.
Just me and my thought from Thursday night until Sunday afternoon. 

I know, right?!

And just how did I pull off this feat of unparalled awesomeness? It involved planetary alignment, a boiling cauldron filled with eye of newt and the tears of unicorn.  Oh, and bacon because. . .duh.  But, that’s not really the point. 

The point is, I had all of this free time and wanted to make the best use of it.  Usually, when I’ve been gifted with an empty house, I whirl around cleaning the kitchen and stripping the beds, while simultaneously changing out one set of seasonal clothes for another, defrosting the freezer and dust-busting the car.  Then I fill up my social calender to the point of double booking myself, as well as squeeze in a manicure, a trip to Starbucks, and of course, the gym.  My days of solitude pass, I haven’t done nearly half of what I’ve set out to do, and I’m more tired than before everyone cleared out. 

Not this time, though.  Oh, no.  I got hip to my downfall and decided early on that I wasn’t going to succumb to the trap of busyness.  I chose a few things to do and that was it. I wanted to clean up my office and the playroom.   I wanted to hang out with my buddy and her hubby at an Oyster and Wine Fest in Afton.  I wanted to binge-watch homeland while eating Chipotle. There were more things that I wanted to do, of course, but by picking only a handful and doing them thoughtfully and slowly, I enjoyed myself much more. 

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I’m trying to carry this concept over into my everyday life, not just these pockets of alone time. I think the whole family might be better served if I’m a little bit slower.  Ever since my accident, I have tried to take my time with things.  I definitely go back and close the pantry door if it hasn’t closed all the way or I’ll take my make up bag out of the drawer, re-arrange a few things and then put it back in when I see how I’ve shoved it in there.  These are baby steps, but they’re worth making.

As a result, I’m keenly aware when someone around me is going full tilt through their daily routine.  Case in point, this lady at the Y.  Now, let me preface this by saying, I was observing this.  I’m not a locker room peeper.  This lady was letting it all hang out and was using the locker next to mine, so I couldn’t not see it.  I feel like it was fated that she behaved that way so I could share it with you. . .because I’m a giver.  You’re welcome.

I had just finished my workout and was getting my shower stuff out of my locker when I noticed this woman come up next to me.  She was wearing her bathing suit and goggles, sopping wet.  And she was barefoot (blerg).  You know how I feel about no shoes in the locker room. 

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Anyway, I’m taking out my stuff and this lady is spinning her locker combination like she’s trying to crack a safe.  When it opens, she wrenches it off and tosses open the door — bang!  then starts pulling out her stuff, tossing it over her shoulder without a care as to where it lands – fwip! fwip! fwip! 

I know there are a limited number of shower stalls, but they were all empty.  No need to race me over there! Besides, barefeet and wet linoleum are a nasty combo.  I take care of my toilette and head back to my little piece of locker room real estate.  She is hot on my heels, this electric blue microfiber towel slung over her shoulder.  Hello! Soaking wet, totally naked, not using the towel, standing right next to me. 

She pulls out this enormous, Jolly Green Giant green Le Sac and heaves it onto the community bench — thwump!

She starts digging around in it and whips out her underwear – fwoosh! 

Puts them on — snap!

Puts on her bra – thwap!

Keep in mind, she has not used the towel, at least not that I’ve observed, so her first layer of clothes is wet.  Okay . . .

She takes the towel and proceeds to wrap her hair in it – twist, twist, twist! 
Then she rubs her head so vigorously, in what I can only assume to be the most thorough towel dry of all time, that I’m actually shocked when the hair is still on her head and not in the towel.

She drops the towel on the bench – splat!

She grabs some lotion out of that big bag and  slaps it onto her legs and arms – slap! slap! slap!

Back into the bag and out come her clothes into which she literally fights her way into. 

This isn’t a woman who needs to lay across the bed in order to zip up her jeans.  I think she was in such a rush, she couldn’t get into her clothes fast enough. Still, she was abusing herself in order to do it.  Her face was flushed.  She was breathing bovine style out of her nose. Her mouth was set in such a hard line, her lips were white.  Once she got herself dressed, she grabbed one of the ocmmunity hair dryers like she was going to choke it into operation and proceeded to claw at her hair as she dried it.  King Tut has more pliable hands than she did during that hair care routine. 

And then there’s me.  I dried the spaces between my toes, behind my ears and everywhere in between.  I applied my lotion and put my unmentionables on without leaving welts on my extremities. I put my pants on one leg at a time, then my shirt, and then I pulled out my iPad and took notes on what I had just witnessed.

What?

There was no way I was going to capture the intensity of what I had just seen if I waited until I got home.  And, in keeping with my personal challenge to take it slow, I wrote complete sentences AND spell-checked instead of just banging off snippets of observations. Made for a richer re-telling, don’t you think?

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IN: ON: November 11, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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From the Archives: Nightmare on My Street

Back by popular demand, the best ever Halloween Post!
Photos of the girls costumes are forthcoming!
Happy Halloween, weenies!

 *Originally published October 2010*

So, since I’ve hung up my P90X bands, I’ve started running in the mornings.  My running partner and I have yet to work out a system beyond late night texting to let one another know whether or not it’ll be pairs or singles.  Unfortunately, this particular morning, I missed the text and waited like a weirdo in front of her house for 10 minutes before setting off on my own.  When the newspaper delivery person rode through and chucked the paper at the house, she gave me a wide walk before hustling double time back to her car.  What can I say? I’m a menace in my Nikes and my head scarf.

Of course, I know that a single female running in the dark is a bad idea. I’m by no means invincible, but seriously? It’s 5:50 in the morning. I strongly doubt that any ne’er do wells have set their alarm clocks to leap out of the bushes at me as I trot through a residential neighborhood.  Besides, I’m really stubborn and if I’ve gotten up, gotten dressed, and gone outside, I’m going running.

So, I start my route, sticking to well lit streets and pretty even terrain.  There was a little haze burning off from the streets since the air was warm and the ground was cool from the previous nights rain.    The sky was dark, tinged with pink around the edges and the autumn were leaves sticking to the ground like post-its reminding me that fall is indeed here (you like the image I’m setting up here, don’t you?).  

I like to run in the middle of the street so that I can keep an eye out for people, dogs, and other neighborhood flotsam and jetsam.  Even in daylight hours, I play this game with myself where I mentally call out the make and model of the car I’m approaching so that if, God forbid, someone throws open a car door and makes a grab at me, I’ll at least know what kind of trunk I’m being stuffed into. 

I’m moving right along, not quite race pace, but steady just the same. I don’t have my iPod with me, I’m just listening to my own breath and the throbbing of my blood in my veins.  As I’m going, I keep hearing this “thwup, thwup, thwup,” behind me.  I slow up a bit looking behind me, immediately thinking, “No, dummy! Turning around slows you down. Didn’t you see ‘Scream’?”  I cast a quick, furtive glance over my shoulder.  Nothing.  My heart starts pumping a little faster, my strides become a little quicker, and my brain calls roll for all the whack-a-doos it can name — Michael Meyers, Freddie Kruger, Chuckie. . .

But the thing is, no one was there.

I think all the Halloween paraphernalia placed on neighborhood lawns is getting to me.  I keep moving, but again, I hear, “thwup, thwup, thwup.”  It’s coming at some odd intervals and now, I’m really starting to freak out.   Maybe I should pick up the pace a bit. I could see one of the ROTC units from ODU up a head doing their 5 miles.  If I hurry, I can catch up with the stragglers and use them for cover. Maybe trip one of them, sacrifice the youth for my own survival.  I kick it up a bit.

Thwup, thwup, thwup. 

Short of stopping dead in my tracks and turning in a circle à la Jennifer Love Hewitt in “I Know What You Did Last Summer”, I pump my legs a little harder, mentally recalculate the shortest distance between where I am and the house.  I bee-line it for the front door.

Thwup, thwup thwup.

I’m headed home, all but in a dead sprint when I realize that yes, I’m being followed, but not by someone. It’s something. It’s something far more scary than a man with a hook for a hand or a hockey mask over his face.

It was my own backside.

A sweat-induced booty clapping chasing me down the street.

I’ll probably have nightmares about this for the rest of my life. 

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IN: ON: October 31, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Chicken Out

I am all over the place. I purposefully left the house to go work at the library so that I wouldn’t be distracted and yet, I still haven’t gotten anything done.  I mean, nothing that’s truly measureable.

I have answered emails. I’ve edited photos. I’ve made notes on this book on photographic lighting I’m trying to read, but it is SO boring. I need to get my hands on some lights and manipulate them.  Trying to do it through book work is just not getting it done.  I’ve got appointments set up from here to next Tuesday. I’m trying to build a website and then because I have no idea what the difference is between CSS, HTML and re-directing subdomains to main host servers.  I’m kind of making things up as I go along on the hosting sites that I use since they boast how user friendly they are.  Just don’t ask me how to do something twice. I reached out to someone who does website design, but hell if I know if I’m being taken for a ride. I just want to say, “Look, take this piece here and put it with that piece there like this!” I’m a tactile person. I want to reach into the computer and manipulate the pages so they do what I want.  I’m actually considering getting some index cards to represent each page and doing a little interactive skit with this designer so that they get what I’m talking about.  I don’t have the technical language to explain it.  It’s embarrassing. I sound like English is not at all my first language. There’s a lot of “uhhhh” and “wait, what did you call that?” going on.  Thankfully, the designer is patient (or there are major dolla, dolla, bills y’all that are to be had when this is all said and done). 

Anyway, I’m at the library, trying to put projects together. I’ve been marinating on a few ideas and there are never enough hours in the day to get things done.  I finally got around to taking some photos of Viv the other — first time in a long time, I know. 

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The good news was that I remembered how to use the camera.  The bad news was I only had about 20 minutes to get a few snaps off before we had to move onto the next thing — dinner, homework, bath, hair, bed. 

The phrase “Running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off,” keeps popping up in my brain.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a chicken without a head — I mean, still feathered and in one piece, like on a farm, just minus the head.  I thought you were supposed to wring a chickens’ neck.  I guess you could hack the head off with a swift blow of a hatchet like you’re Ned Stark or something.  My mom used to tell me this story of how she could remember watching her grandmother pluck a chicken for dinner.  I was like, “Okay, how old are you, really?”  My mother and her great-grandmother’s chicken skills actually came in handy several months ago when I mistakenly purchased some kosher chicken for a recipe.

Let me back this up by saying, all I wanted when I went grocery shopping was a whole chicken, cut up in pieces. I wanted to fry up some chicken for the Hubs, do a real Southern inspired meal.  I wanted a whole chicken, preferably one that I didn’t have to separate myself.  In the refrigerator case at the store, you’ve got your Purdue brand, your Nature’s Promise, your Giant Food and so on.  The whole chickens are either a) whole or b) in pieces but only 6 pieces.  I’m not math wizard, but I’m pretty sure with a chicken, you get 2 wings, 2 thighs, 2 breasts, and 2 legs.  2+2+2+2 is 4, right? Right.  Something was missing — usually the thighs — from the 6-packs.  Well, dang it! I wanted a whole chicken. This was getting ridiculous. I continue to cruise the aisle and I see this brand that I have never seen before — Empire Kosher. I’m not knocking them, I’m just giving you a head’s up.  Empire, thank heavens, has a whole chicken cut into 8 pieces.  All 8 pieces!  So I toss it in the cart, get the rest of my accoutrements and am on my merry way.

Comes time for dinner. . . .
I open the Empire Kosher package, take the pieces out and start to rinse them off.  The first piece has a string like thing on it that I try to brush off while running it under some water.  Nothing falls to the wayside.  So, I turn off the faucet, pat the piece dry and try to pinch whatever is off the skin of the chicken.  I pinch it, tug it and I shit you not,

a whole freakin’ feather comes out!!
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I know!  I know what you’re saying, “But Hilary with One L! You’re dealing with a chicken! Chickens have feathers!”  Yes, they do, but all chickens that I’ve ever dealt with heretofore have been devoid of feathers. All of them.  Naked.  Naked chickens.  Feathery chickens? I can’t abide that. 

So, after I placed the chicken back in the sink, I called my mom and gave her the rundown on what had transpired.  Her response?

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Suffice it to say, there wasn’t much I could do put pluck the chicken pieces and get on with my life.  Mom instructed me on the easiest and best way to de-feather the chicken.  Which is what I did, because that’s how I roll.  But, I will tell you that I didn’t eat any of that chicken when I served it up for dinner.  Truly, there wasn’t anything wrong with it, but me and that chicken has been a little to intimate for me to just tie a napkin ’round my neck and throw down.  Freakin’ feathers.  Blerg!

*sigh* now I’m hungry. . .

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IN: ON: October 1, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Get That Lady a Towel

I go to the Y at least four times a week.  I am for five, but I too, am just a mere mortal.  I have been doing my time on the elliptical, pumping a few weights, and doing a few planks.  I hit the pool twice a week and have really enjoyed the work that goes into propelling myself down and back in the lane.    Not to break my own arm patting myself on the back, but I’m pretty proud of myself for taking the lessons and being committed to suiting up fairly regularly.   Swimming has been really good for me, both physically and mentally.

What hasn’t been good for me, however, is the ladies locker room.  I’ve talked about this before, several times, in fact, but it bears repeating. 

Given my propensity towards less than stellar body image, it’s a surprise that I’m pretty cavalier when it comes to the locker rooms and showers at the gym.  Honestly, I don’t really think about it. I’m there to hose off, dry off and get on with my day.  There just happen to be a motley crue of women of varying ethnictities, ages, and body types walking around like they’re in their own private homes. At our last gym, the showers were in fact communal showers. It was a large room, dotted with shower heads.  There were two stalls with doors towards the entrance, but the cleanliness of those was debatable.  For the most part, ladies came into the shower, showered up and went to get dressed.  At my current gym, there are shower stalls, but instead of a door, there is a billowy curtain that you can drag across.  In my mind, this curtain is more for decoration because 1) none of them close all the way, 2) anyone walking by — either to or from the pool via the locker room proper — causes a breeze that pushes the curtain onto your showering body or away from its purpose of shielding your showering body. 

I definitely exercise some modesty and decorum when it comes to dressing, undressing and entering/exiting the showers.  In the communal shower, I never, never, never engaged someone in conversation and if repeatedly chatted up by someone, I looked in their eyes, keeping my answers brief and to the point.

The locker room at my current gym is very reminiscent of dorm life, what with the number of people coming in and out, the hair dryers buzzing in the background and so on.  Most ladies wrap a towel around themselves, grab their toilette gear and shower up.  There are a few that go totally “bucket nekkid”, and hey, good for them.  After inadvertently casting my eyes upon a woman so wrinkled, I wanted to run up to her with a hot iron, I quickly learned to focus my eyes on where the ceiling meets the wall or the wall meets the floor.

The showers are clean, though you will see random wads of hair on the floor and just yesterday, I did see enough hair stuck to the wall of the shower stall, it looked like a trompe l’oeil.   It’s definitely not my shower at home, so I’m super careful not to lean up against any walls or curtains.  And I absolutely, positively wear some shower shoes. I’ve got a pair of flip flops that I keep in my gym bag for this express purpose.  They are gym shower shoes. That’s it. And I wear them every.single.time.  No shoes? Not likely, since they stay in the bag, but in the off chance that they weren’t there, well then, sorry, John Q. Public. You’re going have to deal with my funk until I can get home.

Sadly, I am in the minority when it comes to this particular matter.  Scads of women roll through that place barefoot. 
On top of that, some of the older ladies leave the curtain open so they can continue their conversations while scrubbing up (and down. and parts in between).  I don’t want to see your version of Royal Dancer as you try to get your bar of Dial between your first and second toes.

In the locker room, there’s tile floor in the “wet areas” (toilets, shower, pool area) and there’s carpet in the “dry areas” (lockers, ingress and egress, hair dryer stations). Both the wet and dry areas are clean, but not so clean that I’d pad around with nothing protecting my feet.  *shudder*.  Again, I’m in the minority here. 

Who knows what kind of germ-fest is going on around there. Sure, you want to wash all parts possible in the shower.  So, balance on one flip flopped foot and scrub the other. Switch. Repeat as necessary. What’s the point of scrubbing your feet, and then walking out across the tiles and floor barefoot? You’re just picking that junk right back up (and maybe a few other things, too).

*blech* and don’t even get me started about dropping the soap or, God forbid, your towel on the floor.

Yesterday, several women and I were finishing up our toilette, jostling for space on the benches that run in front of the lockers.  The seniors water fitness class had just let out and about a dozen blue-hairs came in various states of undress.  I’m pretty sure one woman just left the pool, stripped down in front of the swimsuit water extractor machine to wring out her suit and then strolled on over to her locker.  She had her hair twisted up in a towel and save that, she was naked.  I know, we’re in the locker room, but she was all Lady Godiva up in that camp and there were too many of us for her to be taking up real estate for that foolishness.  She must have felt a little cramped herself, because she pulled a stunt that sent ladies, young and old, careening to the corners of the room.

She opened her locker and as she twisted the lock, she let her bathing suit slip from her fingers.  Then she BENT OVER AT THE WAIST (hello, she’s naked) to pick it up. 

I am now blind in one eye and I can’t see out the other. 

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IN: ON: May 22, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Hurts So Good

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When it comes to working out, I’ve been advised by my doctor not to do any exercises that force me to pull up on the top of my foot and potentially cause more damage to my tendons.  Basically, don’t insert your foot into anything that has a strap across the top (peace out, spinning!).  I’ve been practically living on the elliptical machine since I’d been given clearance to work out, but it was getting boring.  I kept seeing people working themselves into a lather on the stair climbers.  The gym has 4 brand-new ones that are in constant use.  I figured if one ever opened up, I’d give it a go.

Let me tell you, that stair climber is no joke!  I set a personal goal of 30 minute or 300 calories, whichever came first. By the end of the first song on my work-out mix, I had talked myself down to 3 minutes, which was the duration of the next song!  Seriously, I tried slowing down the pace, but that was making me snag my foot on the lip of the next step.  Not wanting to faceplant and then bodysurf down the treads, I upped the pace, but my arms were the ones getting the workout, since I was holding on for dear life.  The woman next to me started to alternate walking up the stairs in a traditional manner, then walking up the stairs leading with her left foot in a side step, then rotating and leading with her right foot.  I was waiting to see if she was going to do it backwards, but she must have been fearing the faceplant/bodysurf combo and changed her mind.

I will say, I was in a flop sweat almost immediately and that, to me, is always a good judge of how well and how hard I’ve work out.  So, I decided to keep the stair climber in the mix.  It’s been a few weeks, and I’m getting bored again.  I haven’t been back to kettlebells, I doubt I’ll go back to the studio.  When the weather gets warmer, I’ll swing my own bells like I was doing before.  In the interim, I’m looking for something else to work multiple muscle groups at once.  I tried doing one of those barre classes; there was a Groupon for three classes for the price of one.  It was a good deal, but I ended up losing money because I had to hire a sitter to keep the wee one so I could go to class.  Not cost effective.  Plus, we’re already paying for a gym that has childcare; I needed to find something else.

I was chatting with a friend of mine who had done both kettlebell and barre with me.  She mentioned how she took up swimming after a serious injury. Swimming. . .interesting.

Now, I do know how to swim. I was never one of those girls growing up who was afraid of getting her hair wet and never learned. I did take lessons. We belonged to the community pool and I fought long and hard to pass the requisite levels so I could move from kiddie pool, to mid pool, to full access.  There was a badge system in place – yellow, purple, and red.  You had to wear your badge on your suit and the lifeguards were eagle eyed about it.  If you were a yellow badge in the deep end? Forget it! Automatic whistle blow and swim of shame to shallower waters.  So, I worked hard to get that red badge for all access. I can remember treading water like my life depended on it.  Actually, it did; I’d just swum across the length of the pool after diving in.  If I couldn’t keep my head up, it was going to be back to purple badge-dom.

Fast forward to college. I took scuba diving as my phys ed. requirement.  Not a lot of “our kind of people” in that class, let me tell you.  Our dives were limited to the pool in Kinesiology building, but it was still a great experience.  Somewhere along the way, I retained enough information to keep myself safe in the water.

After the girls were of an age, I wanted them to be good swimmers, too.  It’s not about being an Olympian, though that would be nice (I’m sure there are lots of scholarships for Black swimmers). It’s not about flipping around in the pool during the summer and playing Marco Polo with your friends.   It’s a a life skill that they need to have, plain and simple.  So, summer after summer, I signed them up for lessons.  You can imagine how that went.

We’re at the point where I’ll ask them what they plan to do if they go to a pool party and everyone else is in the water.  Mo’s response, “I’ll read a book on the side.”

Oy.

Well, after some thought, I realized, I need to lead by example.  My godmother had never learned how to swim and after she retired, at age 65, she learned.  Started from scratch with lessons.  So, I followed her lead. I signed myself up for some lessons and had my first one yesterday.  The thing is, I can swim.  I can keep myself afloat, I can get to the edge. I’m not going to win any races, and I’m not going to win any prizes for gracefulness, but I can do it.  I just want to do it better.  My instructor says I have a good basis; I need to fine tune some things, but the foundation is there.

Today, I am aching in places I haven’t thought about since anatomy class (gracilis, anyone?).  But it’s good, it’s very good.  I ran into my instructor on the way to the car as I was leaving the gym today and introduced her to Mo, who is home with me on Spring Break.   As we were buckling up, Mo was incredulous that I was taking swimming lessons.  I reminded her that we’ll be able to go to the pool this summer and swim together, to which she replied, “I’m just going to sit on the side and read a book.”

This kid. . .

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IN: ON: March 14, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Overheard

My kids are pretty funny. 

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They come by it honestly, I suppose. I mean, I’m the funniest person that I know. I kid. No, really, I am pretty funny.  Well, sometimes, but never when I intend to be. But whatever.

Anyway, the girls and I spend quite a bit of time in the car going to and fro, fro and to school, gymnastics, the always dreaded Kumon and the like.  When Vivi burst onto the scene we had to do some creative configuring in the car to accommodate everyone and their carseat.  Mo was already in a booster, and upgraded (that’s debatable) to a spot in the very back of the car.  Co kept her five-point harness and first officer position behind the passenger seat, while V took prime real estate behind the driver.

This arrangement worked out well for a while, until Mo and Co realized having a conversation was really impossible. Mo would lean forward to ask Co a question. Co was so ensconced in her carseat, all she could do was flail her arms and legs as she fruitlessly tried to turn her head in response.  Quite a bit of shouting, “What did you say?” took place.  Add to the fact that dear, sweet Co was all thumbs when it came to buckling up her car seat, no matter how many times I  implored dear, sweet Morgan to help her. I found myself doing Gabby Douglas type contortions to reach round and snap her in because inevitably, she would wait until I was all buckled up to announce, “I’m having a problem with my car seat”, or simply grunt, grunt, grunt in frustration that she couldn’t make the clasps close across her little bird chest.

Yes, I know that I could have (and probably should have) just gone around to the side of the car to check on her before I got in my own seat, but that would be the smart, and practical thing to do. Besides, she’s got a Montessori, “I-can-do-it-myself” mentality and who am I to get in the way of progress.  And of course, if I had done that, well, then I wouldn’t have anything to talk about now, would I?

*full disclaimer* I make sure that my children are properly secured in their seats before operating an automobile.

Anyway, the seating was less than ideal. Eventually, Co made weight (finally), which meant she could move to a booster.  Woo-woo!  Talk about a graduation day; I flipped the seats around and now, Mo and Co were seat mates once again.  Catching them in the rear view mirror was like watching a Waldorf and Statler reunion, albeit a modern day version starring two elementary aged Black children, but I digress.  It’s the dialogue that has got me shaking my head.

For instance, over the week-end, they had watched My Little Pony on the Hub (yes, I let my kids watch TV. Probably more than I should, but hey, sometimes, I like to pee without an audience). The next day on the way to school, I was informed that I would be taking Rainbow Dash and Prance-a-lot  to the Pretty Pony Academy in – – -wait for it – – – Canterlot. Oy. I don’t watch MLP, so I don’t know if this is made up or not, but whatever.  On the ride, every time we passed some landmark they knew, Rainbow Dash, or maybe it was Prance-a-Lot, would exclaim, “Oh look, pony sister! Only a few more miles until Pony Academy in Canterlot. I’m so excited, I’m tossing my mane!”

Seriously.

This said in all serious and with accents, mind you.  I mean, not like British or French accents, but the type of voices little girls do when they are trying to convey gravity and maturity. For my girls, that’s something akin to a Southern Belle impersonation in a high register.

Fast forward to after school the other day.  Mo and Co settled into the backseat, passing snacks between them and plotting what they wanted to play once they got home.

Mo: Well, we could play Monster High. I could be Clawdeen Wolf and you could be my sister, Howleen.

Co: No, we did that last time we played Monster High. Let’s play Mermaid Splash palace and put the sprinkler in the backyard.

*and here’s where I had to stop that little seed from taking root.  Sure, it’s 70 degrees outside, but it is January, after all. *

Mo: Let’s play princesses!  What princess are you going to be? But wait, Co, you have to pick one of the brave princesses, like Merida or Pocahontas or  something.  NOT one of the “Help! Help!” princesses.

^^ That right there was a proud mommy moment!

Later on, I reminded the girls that whatever they decided to play and wherever they decided to play, they would have to clean it up when they were done.

“Yes, Mommy,” came the monotone response.  Then there was a pause followed by this little gem.

Co: I don’t have to clean my room because I never play in there. tra-la-la-la-la.

Okay, she didn’t really say tea-la-la-la-la, but she might as well have! I mean, that was too much.  If that’s her thought process at 5? Oy, are we in for it.

During the Super Bowl last night, Mo tossed up the following tidbits:

(during Alicia Keys singing of the National Anthem) “Take that, Beyonce!”

(when they showed a picture of Colin Kaepernick on TV) “Wait, is he Persian?!” — I’ll admit, I haven’t followed the 49ers since I would play Tecmo Bowl on the Nintendo and hit Jerry Rice high and tight for the Hail Mary touchdown pass.  First time I’ve seen the 49ers on TV all season, so I asked the Hubs, “Is he Persian?” and who knew? Mo had been listening the whole time.

(during a commercial for the Beyonce Half-Time Show) slapping her own forehead “Ugh! She’s SO dramatic! I can’t take all her drama!”

Let me clarify all the shade that Mo is tossing towards Bey.  She’s overheard me talking about how I’m just OBed (over-Beyonced).  The chick is everywhere.  I’m not detracting from her abilities as an entertainer.  She’s the consummate performer. I listen to her music when it comes on the radio. I workout to her songs on my iPod.  HOWEVER, I’m tired of seeing her all over the place. Like Taylor Swift. And Lena Dunham. Ugh, don’t even get me started on those two.  It’s like that scene in Mean Girls when Gretchen keeps trying to make “fetch” happen.

In this, case however, it’s happened. The world domination of Beyonce has happened.  I get it. Stop beating me about the head with it! I’m liable to get a concussion.

Better not say that too loudly.  Somebody’s bound to repeat it.

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IN: ON: February 4, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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You Got Some Explainin’ to Do

I was driving the girls home from school the other day, listening to them talk about what had happened over the course of the morning and early afternoon.  Their chatter was pretty mindless, filled with descriptions of who reigned supreme on the monkey bars, who got called out during Comments, Questions, and Concerns, and why some parts of their lunch continue to remain uneaten (see: I do not like “crasty” sandwiches).

As we looped through the neighborhoods back to our own house, somehow their conversation turned to Vivi, what she had been doing, how cute she was, and oh, by the way, how’d she come out of your tummy anyway, Mom?

Mo, the current know-it-all in the bunch, volunteered to set Co straight.  “See,  what happens is that Mom goes to the doctor and they just cut her open and pull the baby out. “

Mo knows that she was born via C-section, but when we talk about her birth story, I know I didn’t use words like “cut” and “pull”.  Mo likes to rile her sister up.  This time, it didn’t work.  Whereas Mo is my more cerebral child, Co is my comedian.  Her take on how they were born?

And I quote: “Mom just pooped us out! Bwhahahahaha!”  I think she likes saying “poop”.

Far be it from me to allow either of those pearls of wisdom to be perpetuated on the playground.  We ended up having a rather in depth anatomy lesson and birthing story on the way home.  Oh, how to begin?  Well, since they weren’t interested in the beginning, we could skip to the end.  They knew the baby was “in my tummy”, so I wanted to make sure that whatever I said was truthful and accurate.  I was completely making it up as I went along, but I think it worked.  You decide.

Me: Okay, so you know how men and women have different body parts? Well, a woman has a muscle in her body called a uterus.

Co: Do I have a uterus?

Me: Are you a woman?

Co: No, I’m a kid.

Me: massive eye roll. Yes, but you are a young woman. A girl. A female. Not a boy, right? So you have lady parts.  And one of the lady parts is a uterus.

Mo: Mom?

Me: Yes?

Mo:  Can you please tell the story?

Me: Yes, dear.  Alright, so you’re with me so far about the uterus, right?

silence, so I take that as a green light and push forward. 

Me: Okay, so a woman has a uterus.  The uterus is like a house that the baby lives in as it grows.  That’s why a woman’s middle gets big as the baby grows.  It looks like it’s her stomach, but it’s really the uterus.  Your stomach is where your food goes.

Co: When do you poop it out? *giggles*

Me: You don’t poop it out.  What happens is. . .well, okay, so you know how I said that the uterus is like a house?

M & C: Yes. . .

Me: And when you are ready to leave the house, how do you come out?

Co: Through a door!

Me: Right, so the vagina *ugh, please don’t let them repeat this on the playground, please don’t let them repeat this on the playground* is like a door that the baby goes through in order to be born.

*and here’s where I die a thousand tiny deaths*

Mo: But. . it’s so SMALL!!

Me: I know, but it’s a muscle like the uterus and it stretches so the baby can come out.  And, if you’re lucky, it’ll snap back when it’s all over!

(image)

Mo: So when do they cut it open?

Me: Well, sometimes the baby can’t fit through the door or the baby is trying to come through the door the wrong way. Sometimes a doctor has to help the baby come out by making an incision to –

Co: What’s a in-siss-on?

Me & Mo: A cut.

Me: But an incision is more precise and it’s a medical procedure..

Mo: Mom, the baby.

Me: Yeah, I know.  So, going back to the house and door. What if you were trying to get out of the house and all the doors were locked? How would you get out?

Mo: Through a window!

Co: Out the screen porch! Or I’d wait for you to come home and open the door.

Me: Let’s go with window.  The incision the doctor makes is a different way, like using the window instead of the door, to take the baby out. Okay?

M & C: Okay.

Me: Okay. . .who wants a snack?

And end scene.  Whew!  I suppose I should be thankful they weren’t asking me how she got in there, right?  I need to have another house, door, window analogy at the ready. Like, the uterus is a rental property the baby leases for nine months? Not rent to own, or anything. It’s like a timeshare? Oy. . .I got some work to do.

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IN: ON: December 3, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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