Sixty-one

Took the kids to see Finding Nemo today, loved it. We don't take them to the movies that often, and they think it's such a huge deal they're bouncing off the walls anyway, and the movie was so exciting I made them play soccer outside in the rain for an hour after we got home just to tire them out.

After dinner, both Mike and I ambled into the tv room at the same time but with different things on our minds: Basketball on his, the Tony Awards on mine.  We stared at each other for some time before I finally caved and went upstairs.  I might've gotten the smaller tv, but at least I was the bigger person.  I don't know much about the NY theater scene, but I wish I did and that's gotta count for something. My thoughts: The delicious Antonio Banderas and his disgusting rotten cabbage of a wife win for most bizzarrely  mis-matched couple in the universe. That's pretty much it.

I suffered a horrible humiliation as a parent this weekend when Finbar got sent home from the neighbors’ house for belting their two-year old.  Poor Lindsey, the mom, felt terrible about it and I was just mortified. These are the nicest, best neighbors ever and I really want them to like us.  Plus, Lindsey's husband, Jack, went to St. John’s and his room-mate (and still good friend, I should add,) was non other than my high school boyfriend. So I have the added worry of them telling him about it, ruining any fantasies I've always desperately hoped he was having about me.  "Why Katie, they probably don't talk about you at all, and your high school boyfriend doesn't even remember you," you might be thinking. Or perhaps, "Another letter from Katie. I hate her."

Either way, I can never leave the house again.

I don't have to do crunches for a week, my abs got the best workout in the world last night thanks to a Mr. Andrew Lloyd Webber.

My dad gave me, two sisters and one sister-in-law tix to see Starlight Express.  I don't remember the last time I laughed that hard.  (Oh wait, yes I do, Monday night when we rented The Real Cancun.)  And no, it's not a comedy. In fact, I'm not sure how to categorize it.

There are these girl trains who are really slutty, and these boy trains who are all bisexual. The boy trains are having a race, and the steam train is scared because he's not as openly gay as the diesel train. Which doesn't matter anyway, because the electric train has blown into town and let everyone know he's ac/dc, he can change his frequency, no one can resist the power of his rod. But then the diesel train answers the challenge by singing that no one pumps the rails better than he does.  Oh, and everyone's on roller skates.  So then the lead hot girl train is all confused because she doesn't know which of the boy trains she wants to hitch to her caboose.  During this number, the poor thing tripped and flashed her real caboose, which was covered only by a thong, to the audience and Mary Jeanne, who was giggling nonstop anyway, LOST IT.  She was literally sobbing.  I thought we were gonna get kicked out.  There's also an old, wise, black train, and he sings a song about being old and wise and he plays a harmonica.  Then the steam train sings about when you're a kid and you get awakened at night by the starlight express. What's that noise a-comin' in the night?  Starlight express, starlight express.  Ahhhhhhh, don't cry, Andrew Lloyd Webber, it's just the starlight express.  Ramming you in the ass.

Lights come up for intermission, and the woman in front of us says to ViAnne, "Is this the stupidest thing you've ever seen?"  Mary Jeanne's makeup was all over her face.  We didn't stick around to see how it ended.  I'm pretty sure it wasn't with the entire stage exploding, which would've been the only acceptable thing. 

Before the show, we ate at this hip and happening new restaurant that the paper gave a rave to, and paid  a hundred bucks for four drinks and a plate of oscar meyers on toothpicks. The hostess had on this very hip outfit though, so it must’ve been good.

I have to change Molly.

Sixty-three

Don't worry, just because I went and signed up for a triathalon doesn't mean I'm gonna turn into some gasbag who thinks everyone else is as interested in my training progress as I am.

So anyway, I was feeling pretty confident in the pool this morning, so confident that I decided to impress the old lady in the lane next to mine by attempting a 'flip-turn'.

When I came to, I was lying on the side of the pool and my head hurt so bad I wanted to spoon out my eyes and squirt aspercream into the sockets. The old lady was kneeling over me making clucking noises and offering me a towel for my bloody nose.  I said something about my goggles being too tight and staggered into the locker room, where I hid until I was sure she had left. 

The sad thing is, I feel better about the swim than I do about the run, for Pete's sake. Finally, after months of PT and rest, I can run a whopping nine minute mile without crying. I never thought I'd say it, but the run will be my weak link. That is, if I make it through the bike. Any fool can ride a bike, right? That's what I keep telling myself.  At least I'm not frightened while I ride anymore. 

At first, I was so unused to riding a fast bike, I would hit the brakes for no other reason than sheer terror. Finally getting a helmet that fits helps. I had to get a child sized one, and they don't come in a cool, aerodynamic shape. It looks like a giant marshmallow or fruit basket or something perched on my pin head. At least I scraped Sponge Bob off the side. I'm still slightly more Lloyd Christmas than Lance Armstrong. I'm hoping my sad helmet and old school bike (cages instead of toe clips, for the love!) will lower everyone's expectations. Plus, I've been riding on the actual course, which is riddled with potholes, while all those suburbanites are training on miles of smooth asphalt. By race day, my nerve endings will be so fried I'll have zero feeling left in my kiester, which will give me a distinct advantage. Right?

I gave my adult size helmet to Finny.  I have this 28 DAY COUNTDOWN workout sheet taped up in my kitchen.  I like to read it while I make cookies.

On to less important news, (why isn't navel gazing an Olympic event?) we've had some extremely severe weather here and we are the only people we know who have power  tonight.  We invited everyone over, but they all said no.  We did lose a tree, which blows, but pales in comparison to the Pivecs, who lost a tree, a deck, their driveway and their cat, which chewed on a live wire which was down in the yard and was quickly zapped to cat heaven.

Oh, and we did get some water in our basement. No biggie, though, we do not have an infestation of ants and/or centipedes. Bugs hate damp, dark places, so again, jillions of bugs are not currently living in my laundry pile.

And here's a ridiculous tidbit-- in order to keep our bedrooms sleepably cool, we have to have the air conditioning cranked so high you need a sweater downstairs and you can see your breath in the basement.  It's 150 degrees and muggy outside, and I have a space heater pointed at me right now. 

I'm going to bed.

Sixty-four

Yesterday, it was 80 degrees and not a cloud in the sky or a drop of humidity.  I was sitting in my back yard, where the grass looks like a  perfect green shag carpet, eating cherries while my laughing children chased eack other on the slip n slide. As I watched my two year old blowing soap bubbles in the sun, I thought to myself, "God, I'm bored."

Of course I didn't think that, but if I'd said what I really felt, like life didn't get much better than that, it would've sounded sappy and fake.  Then Meg and I went to the 6:00 pm church service at a neighboring parish, where we met up with the Minnetonka Hubbells. We sat in the front row.  The priest was disturbingly good looking, like Kevin Costner in Bull Durham.  Just as I was wondering if I was the only person who was noticing this, Heidi rolled up her program and whispered through it, "Can you say Thorn Birds?"

Jezebel.

I should be doing laundry or scrubbing toilets or catching up on my life in some productive way, now that the out of towners have mostly left, but here I sit.  As usual, we all had way too much fun, and as usual it was too short a visit.  It's amazing how a week of nut goodies and beer can unravel four months of  hard training.  You nurture and coax a certain level of performance out of your body as if it were a fragile orchid, only to see bat wings and love handles pop up like stubborn weeds.

Back in the day, I could stay out on an all night bender and still show up at the state meet and run a personal best….oh wait, I fell over after mile one.  I had the flu.

So, what would you rather have, Thad Wong's tongue down your throat or some dumb trophy!?  I think I'll needlepoint that on to a pillow.  But the kids had such a great time with their cousins, staying up way too late every night playing flashlight tag and never bathing. Meg is so completely over tired, she cries at the drop of a hat, but two or three early nights and she'll be cured.

She and Finny are at day camp this week, and she gets to learn horse back riding.  At camp orientation, Finny chunked an arrow right into the bull’s eye. He tried so hard to be cool and not look like he was ridiculously pumped about it, I wanted to squeeze the little cutie to bits.

Anyway, they boarded the bus at nine this morning, and he's never ridden one, which is probably why I'm not getting anything done-- I'm sort of half paralyzed with fear, hoping he made it there in one piece and will make it home again tonight.  My goal is to not call the camp and check on him, but who are we kidding, as soon as I go upstairs, that's exactly what I'm gonna do.

And I'll leave you with this to mull over-- my nutty uncle, one half of the nutty uncle duo from whom we bought this house, has been lately spotted standing outside our home with a pair of binocs in the middle of the night.  We've seen him because we were out late every night this week.  He's always been a night owl, but he claims he now needs the binoculars because he's losing his eyesight.  He said he likes to look at the planets.  I explained to him that they're not in my bathroom, especially not at two a.m. It's an insane situation that quite honestly, I'm just too tired to deal with right now. I think I'll just get a b.b. gun.

Sixty-five

I woke up feeling really bluey-blah today, no real reason, didn't sleep that well, whatever, garden-variety, mad at everybody kind of thing.  I grouched around for a few hours, but then, while eating my lunch, I came across a story about Playboy playmate Nikki Ziering in a back issue of US Weekly. (But I don't subscribe to US Weekly and I don't know why it was in my bathroom. I don't read in the bathroom, either, or go number two, ever. For God's sake, could we keep it clean, please? You're like a bunch of barn animals.)  On with the story.   Ms. Nikki may look like a delicate flower without a care in the world, but if I had just one tenth of her strength of spirit...... did you know she had to endure eight boob jobs to achieve her stunning figure?  Infections, bad doctors, silicone to replace the sagging saline ones, then of course she had to go from C's to D's, I mean what self-respecting stripper would get caught dead photographed with nothing more than C's pouring out of her top? And all in the face of father time to boot...........and did she ever give up? People, my Nikki doesn't know the meaning of those words. Come hell or high water, her ladies were going to salute in the presence of an officer. The story was accompanied by a photo of her standing next to a tree in a fetching bikini, (her, not the tree,) cradling her poor, abused bosoms and smiling through the pain.  And even after all her heartache, her near death experiences, her marriage to that ugly Art Garfunkle lookin' fella, why, she said she'd have done it all again. Talk about a wake up call. I guess I just consider her my sort of guardian angel, that's all.

Finbar had a t-ball game today.  He hit a home run.  He smacked a line drive into center field and ran the bases in full-on robot mode.  Arms and legs completely straight, chanting I. am. a. robot. I. am. a. robot. while his frantic coach yelled at him to RUNNNNNNN!! ( I think I mentioned before how his soccer season went, how he never paid much attention to the games even when he was on the field because he was too busy pretending he'd just been shot.)  He's seen the Rookie and Sandlot enough to know he's supposed to yell "YES!!" and pump his fist a lot, and he stands with his hands on his knees and says, "Hey, battabattabatta" even as the ball is rolling between his legs. I'm positive no one is having as much fun as he is.  And you just know he hears theme music in his head.

Six days to the triathalon.  The thing is, Roger Clyne is playing at the 400 bar the night before, and I have to go, since on my list of things to do before I die, licking him up one side and down the other is number seven. See how I'm laying the ground work for my excuses?

I have to go up and watch Queer Eye on tape.