Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Morose Sonofabitch

Thing is, I don't really always want to talk about it.

There's problems in them thar hills, and it sucks, and I'm sad, and I'm tired and I am angry and BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Nobody really wants to hear about all that anyway, so here's the thing.  The thing is this.  This here.

It doesn't really matter, anyway.

The kids still eat.

I still go to work.

Homework is attended to.

Church activities are attended.

Laundry is washed.  Folded.  Put away.

Prayers are said.

Sleep is... eventually.

So, really?  Not all that much is different.  He sleeps in the living room.  I sleep in my bed.  We occasionally nod at each other in passing.  Perhaps say hello.

But you know what still makes me smile?  Kittens doing the patty cake.

Happy Day.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Mother Fucking Rock Star

Look, y'all, there's a lot of bad stuff happening at Sarah's House and it's bullshit and unpleasent and bad, but it's important that I tell y'all about something good, so here goes.

Remember when I told you about the bridge race?  The one that was cancelled because of the mercy of the Baby Jesus Tropical Storm Lee?

It got rescheduled. 

I had still, you know, paid for it and all, so... I kind of still needed to run it.

Over this bridge (just to remind you):
(I believe this is looking toward the West Bank)

Anyway, so the race was rescheduled to October 9.  Almost two weeks ago, already.

At the start line, I was really dismayed to see the turnout.  There were probably only about 250 or 300 racers.  I figure, the fewer the racers, the more likely I am to be last*.

Additionally, I was freaking terrified, like to the point where my hands were shaking.  I had peppered the girl behind me on the shuttle bus** on the way over to the starting point, asking her about the route, whether to be scared, etc, but it didn't do much to calm my nerves.  I'm so flipping afraid of heights.

The first mile was almost completely flat ground, just getting to the bridge.  Then you start up and on-ramp, with a long, long, long, long, long but slow ascent.  It felt good, running uphill.  As I rounded a curve, I started to joke around with the other runners, including a SLIDELL XCOUNTRY GIRL as I passed her.  KABOOM.

And so it kept going up.  And up.  And up.

I swear, by the time I was actually on the bridge, all I could think of was that soon it would stop being an uphill route.  The lane for the runners was way wide and comfortable, and as long as I stayed far from the edge, I was okay.  There were three of those metal grate-type thingees that I had to run over, underneath which was the Mississippi.  That part was ridiculous.  I tried to kind of hop over them.

Finally flattened out right before the end of mile three.  And here's the thing:  Mile four was almost completely downhill.

I've never run uphill before, but also... I have never run downhill and Oh.  Glorious.  God, is that ever fun.

I rocked that part, probably doing that last mile in 8 or 9 minutes.

Total time was 58:00 (even numbers are fun) which is far from outstanding, but I do not care.  58 minutes to run over a 300 foot high bridge, mostly uphill, and come out smiling.  It was amazing.

I called T-Rex, my former running buddy, who has abandoned me for Les Mills***, to tell her about the event.

"Hello?" she said.


She agreed.

*I was not last.  I beat like, several people.  Maybe 50 or more.  Not really sure, they do not seem to be concerned about posting times online (effers.)  I definitely did beat the girl from the local high school cross country team, who, incidentally, did not know Beanie despite him having been on varsity last year.

**The shuttle bus was a defunct school bus, and careening up the on-ramp, over the far-right-hand lane of the bridge, and down again, was by far the scariest part of the whole day.

***Les Mills' name is way too similar to Les Miles.  Also, I'm jealous of people who get to belong to a gym.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Other Kids with their Pumped Up Kicks

Lemme tell you something.


If you are pissed off because your dad is a shitheel and you don't have the bad-ass shoes of the moment, don't be shooting.

(by the way, not that you care, but the version of "pumped up kicks" of my day were freaking KEDS.  not the coolest generation, us.)


This catchy-ass song makes you sing along because it's so groove, so much your jam, and then you suddenly realize that you are pretty much encouraging a school shooting.

Y'all.  No.

Just saying.

Damn, y'all kids be bugging.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Money-Spending Mama

I cut my hair.

I took some scissors to it, and cut away.  Took off about an inch and a half.  The reason is two-fold.  One, I stopped dying it about six months ago and it looks like hell, with this stripe across it, so I figured I could cut off some of the dyed part and get it closer to being all-one-color.  The other reason is, I'm sort of mad at my Husband, and this is a subtle way to let him know.

Aren't I a grown-up?

Ultimately, I did a pretty good job, actually.

Last weekend, the local big-ass catholic school (and church) had it's annual "fall food and fun festival."  As it is in my neighborhood, it was hard for me to tell the five year old baby that it wasn't available to him, so I got suckered into taking him up there on Friday night.  Please note, this festival isn't the kind of thing with like, ring toss and "fishing" games, cake walks, and stuff like that.  This was a freaking carnival, midway, bands playing, etc.

At a church.  In my neighborhood.

The baby rode like ten rides that all consisted of some kind of vehicle/animal into which you climb, strap on a seatbelt, and then go in circles.  Sometimes you also go up and down about two feet.

He had a big time.

Mama had a beer.  God love this state, this Louisiana, this place where it is absolutely normal to sell beer at a school carnival.  It would be weirt if they did not, and oh, lordy, am I ever glad they do not wish to be weird.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  On the walk home from the festival, the baby said, "dose girls scweam weawy woud.  It sounds wike this:  aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah"

He's right.  They do.  It does.  I love it here.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Bobette the builder

I built a house yesterday.  No, no, of course I didn't, not really - not single-handedly - but I put hammer to nail and did some house-building.  See, there's proof!

Damn, I'm cute.

Anyway, ahem.  Officially, these were my responsibilities:  1) write down numbers.  2) smile.  3) sing with the radio.  4) pull three staple things out of wooden trim work (see picture) three times.  4) use a jigsaw (!!!) and cut out windowsills from something called "Window Stool."  5) pound with your fist on said window sills to make them fit in the windows.

That is all.

Unlike last year, when I was forced to stand knee-deep in swamp mud, shooing away giant tarantula-esque spiders (that really did happen) and let muddy, heavy, horrible floor braces drip goo in my hair.

Last year Big Sucked.

This year was In-CRED-ible and I SUPER HEART LOVED IT!

I am a great builder-girl.

Even my shoes stayed clean.  Big smiley face!

Only other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this.  Look.  If you happen to know someone who is Big Mr. Know-It-All, and they tell you something that you blatantly know is untrue, and then you get PROOF that they were wrong, you are still screwed.  Because then you tell them the TRUTH and expect them to be all, "oh hey, I was wrong, wow," and instead they just go "Cool!" and you are left feeling like a dope who bothered with a whole I-Told-You-So thing and it didn't go your way.

Oh law.

I'm married to someone who knows a lot.  I'm just saying.

But I love him, and he loves his builder-girl.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Juliette Gordon Low

Remember the other week (or so) when I said that me and my guys were going to go tent-camping for one night?

We did that.  It was AWESOME.  We loved it.

Well, I loved it.  My big kid loved it.  My husband liked it, and my baby hated it.  But, I loved it.  That's what matters.

My husband, who had been off that day, had been strongly encouraged by some smart, amazing girl to go early and set up our campsite.  You know, before dark.

Unfortunately, he did not follow that advice, so the first hour was spent in a somewhat frantic setting-up of tents and fire pits and picnic tables lather.

Once all that was complete, and we were able to turn our cars' headlights off, we settled into the enjoyment of nature.  nature.

We poked sticks through hot dogs and ate hot dogs, and then we poked those sticks through marshmallows and ate marshmallows, except the baby, who announced that he was going to eat chips, and then he ate chips.

We drank root beer and juice boxes.

And then, my Husband noticed a fatty arbunkle raccoon hanging around under our picnic table, you know, where our feet were.  tee hee.  How cute.

So later on, after the neighbor-campers freaked out because they thought there was a wild hog in the brush (true story) (also true, mating raccoons sound like wild hogs) (also true, it is impossible to tell if raccoons are mating or fighting), and my husband went over to their site to help them fix their tent* and to convince them they could sleep in that tent, in that it was very, very unlikely that the noises were wild hogs, we settled in for the night.

The kids and I went to "bed" in our tents, enjoying the generally crickety camping sounds, while my Husband wasted our fire wood.  (When I asked him why - WHY? - he burnt up all our firewood, he at first said to keep the raccoons at bay but finally admitted, he just likes fire.)

And then, hey, howdy, Mr. Raccoon returned, prompting me to sing every word of Rocky Raccoon.

And then we all finally went to seleep, my husband included, and then - and then - there was this big THUMP.

My husband had helped himself to another rootbeer, you know, from the cooler, and so perhaps had not shut said cooler tight, and hey, look!  Rocky helped himself to our hotdogs, the little (but oh so cute) bastard!

(note:  this is not a picture of my actual raccoon, because I did NOT get this close to the feral little bastard.)
So my husband reached out the tent flap, and securely shut the top of the cooler, and we went back to sleep.



Little bastards.

We didn't get much sleep that night.

The next day was about a long run, a nature hike, time to play on the playgrounds, etc.  The only critters that day were a couple of very cute rat snakes.

Camping is amazing.  Raccoons are shifty little five-fingered bastards.

*My husband never was a boy scout, but oh glory, he should have been, in that he is the King of Being Helpful to People Who Have Broken Things.  He gave away some strings that go to our tent, in this process, which vexed me.  Just saying.  If you go camping - tent camping - you are responsible for your own gd tent and my husband should NOT jeopardize our waterproofiness so you can rest comfortably.  Dammit.