Another One of Those Times Where I've Burned Off More Than a Few Calories Laughing

Eddie and I were driving home Wednesday evening, just about to turn into the driveway, when I look at my gas gauge and make a proud declaration:

"I got gas on my way home from work."

You see, I HATE getting gas. I HATE stopping for anything when I'm driving. I am usually running late whenever I leave wherever I' m coming from to get wherever I'm going. Not only do I hate to stop, I don't have time to stop. I'm not stopping. This never-leave-on-time habit (attitude) I've developed, I know, is not a healthy one as it often necessitates that I speed.

I've tried to leave early, early enough to have some spare time when I arrive. That time doesn't exist if you don't leave early ENOUGH. How early is that? You could keep pushing your departure time back and back until all of a sudden you've left TOO early. I'm not into too early. I don't like it. When you're too early, what do you have to do? WAIT. What is waiting? It's stopping. That's what it is. Stopping. I HATE stopping. I want to do, go, be, get, walk, run, act.

I suppose it could be a control issue. Being late (or almost late) is all on my terms. Being early is having to contort myself to fit someone else's schedule. Or maybe I'm just late. I haven't decided.

Pointing out to my husband that I have gotten gas that day is code for begging for praise for doing something that I shouldn't need praise for doing. He usually abides and offers a "That's good, Sparky." or an "Excellent.", but not this time. This time his response was an unusual:

"Aw."

I did a double take. I didn't understand what he didn't understand. Then it registered. In his boy world, I had gotten gas on my way home from work. Uncomfortable, stinky gas, not expensive, stinky gas. When we both realized what had happened, I got my affirmation and we both got a great laugh. I love stopping to laugh with my husband. He rocks.

Really.

Overheard:

Her: Why do men like boobs?

Him: Maybe it has something to do with sports. After all, they are soft, round balls. And you can squeeze them.

Admissions of Guilt

1. I took 4 when I should have taken 1.

2. Yesterday on the drive home from work, I was totally speeding and rocking out to Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive." I had Big Hair Attitude.

3. I ordered more hangers. They came in today.

Cody's Routine

6:30-7:00am: Rustle and bustle about in the bed until he gets himself kicked out.

7:10am: Says goodbye to ktm leaving for work; Eddie walks him.

8:25am: Says goodbye to Eddie leaving for work.

8:26-11:29am: Nap.

11:30am: Greet Eddie coming home for lunch.

11:35-12:15pm: Beg for Eddie's lunch / Play outside.

12:25pm: Says goodbye to Eddie going back to work.

12:26-4:37pm: Nap.

4:38pm: Greet Eddie coming home from work.

5:10pm: Bark loudly at the mailman until he vanishes from sight.

5:11pm: Continue barking loudly at what WAS the mail man, just in case he's hiding from immediate view.

5:30pm: Greet ktm as she comes home from work.

5:31-5:45pm: Begs ktm to walk him.

5:46-6:00pm: ktm walks him.

6:01pm: Gets and eats a Greenie for being a "good boy" on his evening walk.

6:05pm: Begs for whatever is being cooked/heated up for dinner.

6:30-7:30pm: Begs while ktm and Eddie eat dinner.

7:31pm: Begins growling at either ktm or Eddie to relinquish whatever is left on their plates or in their bowls because they obviously no longer want it.

7:40pm: Watches hopelessly as the left-over food is put away.

7:45pm: Sleeps on the couch (in the middle) with ktm and Eddie and will growl if interrupted.

9:00pm: Begins to eat dinner.

9:15pm: Play time. Presents any of his toys for a game of tug of war/catch in the living room. Any hints of being ignored are met with a persistence that remains unmatched.

10:30pm: Bed Time.

10:31-10:40pm: Hunts for the "perfect spot" underneath the covers, making sure to take over just enough of both sides of the bed so he's forcibly removed from aforementioned "perfect spot."

10:50pm: Sleep.

Somewhere between 11:00pm-5:00am: Gets up and steals whatever food has been left on the coffee table, drinks some water and comes back to bed.

6:30am: The rustling begins again.

I Saw, I Ordered, I Became One Of THEM

This picture is evidence that I have ordered and received my Huggable Hangers. This is not the result of sitting up on a sleepless night transfixed and mesmerized by infomercials. (Although that does happen on occasion.) I resist the urge to order just anything that I think could improve our daily lives. We DO NOT own The Little Giant, the Ab Roller, the Magic Bullet, the Power Juicer or any Winsor Pilates tapes. To date I have only ordered a shredder and some dryer lint brush thingy (to prevent house fires with my new lint-free dryer).

However.

The impact of an actual closet organizational system on one's life cannot be denied. This kind of product is any neat freak's realization of a twisted wet dream. All the hangers are the same size, the same color, and the clothes hang the same distance from the rod. I can now hang 14 sweaters in the same space that 7 hung before. Living in a home that was built way back when people apparently had NO CLOTHES (my closets are small), these are an incredible space-saver. That logic makes it easier to justify this purchase. My husband goes along with this gleefully because I do the laundry and the ironing. If I want new hangers, he knows good enough to nod and smile and get out of the way.

See. This is my closet - on neato steriods.




Tell me you don't want them.

The Big Game

This past Tuesday night I went to my first ever high school basketball game. "How can this be?" you ask? I went to a high school where they didn't have such things. No basketball, no football, no baseball. We had a Chess team though. Really. I went to a performing arts/magnet high school where those three sports were considered distractions to our academic pursuits.

One of our friends is a teacher and a coach at a local high school. From what I understand, his team is consistently the underdog. This year they made it into the playoffs so Eddie and I wanted to take the time to support him and his team by going to the big game.

When the night of the game rolled around, I was a bit nervous. I was going back to high school. It was like I was about to travel through time. It didn't matter that it wasn't my high school or that I wouldn't know a soul except for the coach and his wife. It mattered that I was going to a place where I assumed I wouldn't fit in. As we strolled towards the gym from the parking lot, I felt like I was in some kind of high school movie. There were cheerleaders in uniform congregating near the back of a truck filled with fans. They were chanting a team cheer and playing high intensity music. I held Eddie's hand and let him guide me, like a tourist in Times Square, so I could look around without worry of bumping into anyone or hitting my nose on a tree.

When we got into the gym everything was so real. This was a real high school. I couldn't get over it; I couldn't take it in fast enough. There was a concession stand, (nachos!) players in uniform, parents dressed in team colors, photographers, loud music and mascots. I loved it.

[Reading these paragraphs back to myself, it certainly

seems as though I was raised with the Amish or in

some communist country. I assure you, my high school

life was far less interesting than those.]

We sat with the coach's wife and the team videographer. They just happen to sit in the opposing team's fan section. This is so she can sit behind her husband and the videographer has a perch with the best view. Eddie and I wanted to experience the experience, and in an effort do that we could rationalize concessions. For me, that means nachos. I was able to resist the giant pickle, but it was a close call. When we returned to our seats, it was evident that we were in the parent section. I immediately deemed this the most interesting - sitting in the visiting parents section. I couldn't wait to see how these people reacted to the game. Bring on the stereotypes!

I didn't know they would actually show their faces. For the first quarter, I was concentrating more on my nachos in an effort to leave the game without wearing most of them. My parent-watching wasn't in full swing until the second quarter, but the way-too-into-the-game-grandmother showed her colors early on. She could whistle. Not the "put your lips together and blow" whistle, but the ear-drum piercing, want to throw your drink at her head, two finger in the mouth, spawn from decibel hell. Of course, she sat directly to the right of us.

On our left was dad-of-the-star-of-the-opposing-team. The other kids on his son's team could do no right. I knew it was dad-of-the-star-of-the-opposing-team when he stood up and yelled, "What? Are you STUPID? THROW THE BALL! You're a high school player. You should know better than that crap! Give Tyler the ball!" He almost hit the coach's wife with his elbow as he stood abruptly, putting his hands on his hips in consternation. He didn't look like he was having much fun.

In the end, our team lost on a bunch of sucker fouls (me and the lingo!) and only a few points. As we were leaving, we passed some tearful cheerleaders planting their faces into the chests of strong men and the room where our friend, the coach was helping to console his players. I was a little sad too. It would've been nice to see the underdog win.

My role in the high school movie ended as I walked out into the same parking lot, weaving through weary fans, tightly holding the hand of the man I searched for back in Amish country. We'll both be going back to high school next season to root for our friend and our team.