Where's My Cape?

Feeling stoopid

I don't know, but lately, I've had multiple occasions to feel slow.

For one, I just learned that Pluto is no longer a planet. I learned this since Girl was reciting the EIGHT planets in her Dr. Seuss planets book and The Husband goes, "Do you remember when Pluto was a planet?" Um, dude. When did that happen?

I was immediately transported to 5th grade where I made a science project with paper mache planets and THERE WERE 9.

The Husband informed me that Pluto was no longer considered a planet and this happened years ago. "Don't you listen to the news?"

Clearly, that would be a no.

Okay, maybe I did hear that but because it carried a valence of 0 for me, it never registered. I mean, I'm not exactly sure what was going on in my life when the breaking news broke, but chances are if I was with with child or post-child, it just went in one ear and out the other. Or if I was sleep-deprived from medical training, that could be another reason. Was it around 9/11? There must be a good reason.

It's kind of embarassing learning things from a 4-year old's books.

Anyway, I also found myself at a homeowner's association meeting recently with a room full of mostly strangers (this is for our old house which we're renting out), and saying things that must have marked me for an idiot. I swear. I said at least 2 things which reflected poor math skillz and florid misinterpretation that after I realized my errors, made me feel EXTREMELY vapid. I mean, I said things involving such math mishandling, no one would have believed I have an advanced degree.

I feel kind of silly about that.

It all goes to show that you remember what is salient and important to your everyday existence, things you need to know, which apparently for me, do not include astronomy or arithmetic.

Golden Hip-hop for Seniors

Every time I watch So You Think You Can Dance, I have this strong urge to take hip-hop lessons. I mean, wouldn't it be fun? Then, I start thinking about this 30-something Asian woman in a room with mirrors, looking at a bunch of teens with shorts with the waistbands rolled down, laughing at me trying to bust a move, and I have second thoughts.

Is there a hip-hop dance class for adults only?  For olddddd adults (No young, hip people in their 20s allowed)? For those who have lost all sense of rhythm and decency?  Maybe called "Hip-hop for the Un-hip?" "No Judgment Hip-Hop?" "What Goes on In This Room Stays in This Room Hip-Hop?" "Golden Hip-hop for Seniors?" Maybe we could all dance around with paper bags on our heads with eye holes so we could really let loose. (Although, that might be a bit too nightmare-stimulating.) Maybe there are distance-ed programs where I can just get lessons online and not scare innocent bystanders and small children. Holy crap - this is such a great idea for a business.

But, there is something to be said about taking a real class in a mirrored room--I miss it. I took dance classes for years. I remember, in high school, that there were super-old adults in my class. Women  with lots of makeup and boy, did they look old. Now looking back, I think they were probably, like, 20. If there had been someone my age now, it would have been a running Poligrip joke. Also, I'm pretty sure I'm not physically able now to do the leaps and straddle jumps required in that class without incurring permanent disability.

Yet, truth be told, I would love to be an awesome hip-hop dancer! Just like I would love to be an awesome singer and an awesome artist! 

(These are closet ambitions that might be never realized without some kind of major change-up in my neural fibers. Like lightning. Or a spinal cord transplant.)

I wrote on Momicillin the other day about the current state of my dancing. The current sad state. And it's totally true about my serious hip-hop attempts behind closed doors: absolutely terror-producing.

But, it doesn't stop me from trying. And dreaming. Of one day, being able to take a hip-hop class in the most dignified, non-mortifying way.

Maybe when I retire.

Theme song

Ally McBeal had a theme song.Sure, she was a bit odd and emotionally unstable (and the dancing baby was more annoying than Carrot Top and Kathy Griffin combined *shudder*), but that idea of having a theme song really resonated with me. (Speaking of Ally McBeal, I saw some dude in a suit rolling around the sidewalks of DC today perched atop one of those people-mover things that look like motorized tinker-toy contraptions. Do you know what I'm talking about? Those big-wheeled people-movers! And, he wasn't a police officer or anything, just some random business suit guy! In a neighborhood where you could probably get mugged just for perching atop one of those things!)

Back to theme songs. Not favorite songs. But songs that seem to be cheering you on through some kind of challenge in your life. Or seem to capture the feeling of now.  Everytime you hear it, you think, THIS IS MY FREAKING THEME SONG. It makes you feel good, strong, and maybe a little invincible. You want to play it very loud.

When we were dealing with the whole *ordeal* of The Husband's potential Iraq deployment, my theme song was "Stronger" by Kanye West. I guess it wasn't about the exact meaning of the lyrics *ahem* but at least the tone and the chorus made me sit a little straighter in my car and stop crying for 2 minutes, 35 seconds. (You know I was preggers then, right? It was not a good scene.)

Earlier this summer? My theme song...having trouble admitting this...was..."The Climb"...by, yesshutupIknowthisislame, Miley Cyrus. I may have been the only person over the age of 14  11 to like this song, but it seriously captured what I was going through at the time. *covering my ears and singing* (No, I did not watch the movie.)

Now, I think it's "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas.

I can't be the only one with a theme song...oh yeah, me and Ally. It's good company I keep.

Rocking the summer scarf

 

Yes. I succumbed. (But I never did parachute pants, banana clips, big shirts with leggings, ankle zip jeans, grunge plaid, lingerie-as-clothing, rubber bracelets, baby-doll dresses, cargo capris, terry tube top dresses, metallic flats, spandex, body suits, ghetto loungewear, sweater shrugs, ponchos, or leather pants*)

*total lies.

But I draw the line at high-waisted jeans.

Mortification x 5

*Warning: embarassing story ahead. Please do not continue reading if we are related or know each other professionally. It would just be too awkward. Complete strangers: enjoy!

It was a Monday morning. Of course it was. The day of the week that most heart attacks happen and the collective world groans with the promise of a full work week (probably not coincidental). Today, I was bringing in my van to the body shop to fix the damage another, less observant car, inflicted when it merged in a space that was already being occupied (by me). I was not in the greatest of moods since all of this rigamarole was NOT what I wanted to be doing this Monday morning, KWIM?

I got to body shop, handed over my keys, and waited until the friendly Enterprise agent (we'll pick you up) picked me up. She was probably in her late 20s, early 30s and we made small talk during the short ride to the Enterprise office.

When we got there, we walked into the office and it was pretty bustling for Monday mid-morning. She walked around the counter to help me with my rental directly. I was feeling young and casual - my hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was wearing a tank top, cropped army green pants, and flip-flops. In contrast to the middle-aged man at the counter next to me, who was wearing a business suit. I bet they assumed I was a student. I usually get that when I dress like this.

It was all standard fare until the woman helping me asked to see my driver's license.

Oh, sure, I said, grabbing my wallet from my purse. I opened it up and started furiously digging through my cards. Credit cards. Business cards. Driver's License! Duh! Of course I need my driver's license to rent a car. Where's my driver's license???

I started to sweat.

I noted, in my peripheral vision, the man next to me was now looking down at the counter by me. Probably thinks I'm a total idiot to not be able to find my driver's license.

I put my wallet down and started to claw randomly through my giant purse - driver's license! Crap! 

Business man still looking down, and up at me. What the hell, man! Mind your own business!

It started to dawn on me that I took out my driver's license the other night to bring with me in my small, cute going-out purse. I probably never transferred it back.

Crap! OH Crap!

I started to say something to the agent when I noticed that she was ALSO looking down at the counter by me. Intently. What?

I looked down.

There, on the counter, next to the mess of my open wallet was like 5 freaking condom packages that apparently had fallen out in my searching excitement. (Don't ask me why I was carrying them in my wallet. Just. Not now. I assure you, It was unusual.) 

Dyyyyyy-ing silently.

I looked up at the man next to me, who was indeed staring right at this lovely display of -what- sexual prowess? deviancy? desperation? - and then up at the Enterprise agent who was wearing a smirk of some kind.

HOLY Mortification.

*nervous laugh*

I scooped them up quickly and threw them into my purse, and went back to talk about my driver's license being in the other purse and OMG inside I was dyyyyy-ing.

Very unfortunate turn of events.

Of course, they wouldn't let me rent the car without a driver's license, even if I swore on my 5 condoms that I knew exactly where it was sitting in my house.

So, to make my day all that better, I got to a) get another ride back to the body shop; b) take back my van to drive all the way home; c) drive back to the body shop; d) get picked up by the SAME WOMAN who now thinks I'm like this loose perv; e) go back to the office where EVERYONE knows about me now. Cool.

On my ride back with the Enterprise woman, I tried to smooth over some of the supreme awkwardness I felt by mentioning that I was a mother with two kids. Somehow, that made me feel better knowing that she didn't think I was just this loose single perv carrying around excessive numbers of condoms on a daily basis, or worse, a lady of the night.

We made some small talk again and then, this time at the counter, I produced my driver's license. She asked me what car I normally drive as she was looking through their available cars, probably to get me a car as similar as possible.

The car? None other than the red Hyundai Accent I wrote so lovingly about over a month ago.

When I drive a minivan.

Tell me that was not punishment for being uncouth.

The Resurrection

Just this morning, I looked out the back window at our squorpse pool, trying to assess how much worse it was after yesterday's rain (and mentally broke a brick on my knee).

Let me first say that 364 days out of the year I am weirded out by the fact that my parents read this blog regularly, and casually mention topics-that-which-I-have-only-mentioned-via-blog. Whenever this happens, a little part inside me dies. I'd rather not know, you know? Today, however, I came home from work to find that my dad, who had arrived for the weekend, was already plotting ways to resolve our nast-o-pool. Blog = Cha Ching! Prayers answered!

He had already shaken the pool back and forth enough to cause at least 10% of the brown swill to spill out before I even got home.

Next thing I knew, he got together with JP and they both lifted up the side of the pool and FLIPPED IT OVER. Buh Bye 1,000 leaves. Buh Bye brown swill. Buh Bye squrrel juice. My troubles all draining away.

Of course, the consequence of being upside down for eternity, through snow, rain, and wind, meant a certain amount of mud and muck on the pool.

Mud and muck I can deal with. Squorpse juice not so much.

So, I'm sorry, Camp Hack-it-to-Bits. The pool lives on!

Now, who wants to come over for the first swim of the summer season?

Don't worry, we at least removed the squorpse

The way I left it last time,I made it sound like something definitive was going to happen with regards to The Upside Down Kiddie Pool That Killed a Squirrel. The sad fact is, it remains, overturned, filled deeper and deeper with brown swill since we last talked (it rained since then).

We had guests over Saturday and at one point, I caught our friend looking out the back window at the disgraceful sight, answering questions from his 4-year old about why it looked the way it did. Kind of embarrassing to overhear words such as "brown water"and "I don't know" in that context.

On Sunday, I decided a) something must be done about the pool NOW and b) since it was the BOTTOM that was polluted with dead squirrel juice, there was really nothing actually wrong with the business end of the pool. Yes, the BOTTOM of the pool is ruined for life, and I wouldn't go touching it or anything like that, but the flip side, the actual pool vessel was perfectly fine. I would NOT approve just slashing it to bits with a knife which seems to be JP's solution to everything.

Waste not, want not.

Since I was keeping an eye on the kids, I set up a barricade of deck chairs to prevent the small dependent people from getting splashed with death water. I again tried to kick the pool, in hopes to spill enough swill that I could lighten the load.

In vain.

Soon, both kids escaped my ill-fortified makeshift barricade and came to inspect.

Jolie gave the pool a few of her kicks, and powerful as her legs are, the water didn't stir.

I tried to pick up the side of the pool but DAMN that thing was heavy. No dice.

Physics, I thought to myself, I need physics! What I needed was a freaking lever system. Fulcrums! I would outsmart this pool beast!

I found a long stick nearby and jammed it underneath the closest side of the pool, trying to wedge up the side to dump some water out. Curses! It was not working. Maybe something larger, like a shovel.

The doughnut of death

WTF, Mama???

By this point, JL seemed dangerously enamored with the pool and I feared he would stick a body part inside the thing or launch something that we didn't want to throw away in a red biohazard bag into the middle of it.

So, still, the pool sits, waiting to take the life of another small woodland animal. Any ideas that doesn't involve me touching that thing with something other than a 10-foot pole? (I am NOT bailing out that water with a pail, I can tell you that much.)  Anyone want to come over and take care of it for me? I'll make you dinner.

Hey! Come back here! What did I say? Help!

Be careful of what you mock

JP and I have shared many a laugh over those ridiculous Snuggie infomercials. You know, the blanket with armholes. Because you need a blanket with armholes. All those images of people wearing the blanket with armholes looked absolutely freaking ridiculous. There's no dignity. No dignity at all. EspecialIy when they showed those tools taking their freak show on the road, wearing the blankets with armholes to a sporting event. In public. That's not begging for a beating or anything. Noooooo.

 "Who would buy one of those?"

I don't know. But I'll tell you who would buy four: my parents.

Two for them. Two for us.

Which means that Snuggie is IN THE HOUSE.

On my legs right now, in fact. But, I refuse to put my arms in the holes. Not happening. Okay. Maybe just once. But I didn't like it.

Inertia has dire consequences

Remember our inflatable backyard kiddie pool? The one that provided countless hours of joy this past summer?

Well, summer became fall and fall became winter and, unbelieveably, the pool did not deflate and put itself away in the garage. (I know. The nerve.)

I've been mentioning to JP that we really need to do something about the pool, still upside-down in our backyard after its last legitimate use for drainage. I've been especially grossed out by the mini-pool that has developed on top, filled with brown swill, leaves, and lord knows what else. JP laughs when I mention "we" because he is so quick to assume I mean "you", but I was indignant at the thought that I needed a man to do clearly man's work. What's the big deal?  I can do it, no sweat. He thought we should just take a knife to it and drag it out to the curb on trash day; it wasn't worth it for 20 bucks. Yet, I was sure we could revive it, bleach it, and use it again eventually. (And the economy!)

So, yesterday, during balmy 50s degree weather, I attempted to lift up the side to turn it over. Mmm. Didn't budge. Wow. That was a lot of swill. Heavy swill. I kicked it a few times to no avail. I decided to regroup and plan my next move in my Pool Resurrection Plan. Plus I was watching JL toddle around at the time and didn't want him to be potentially doused in death water.

Then, I get this email from JP today:

By the way, I think we have a new inflatable backyard pool in our future. If the water smells like something died in there, well...

(Squorpse has been removed)

 

New kiddie pool it is.