Maybe it's just me, but I think the Solitaire game on my computer really, really hates me. It led me on a merry dance when we first bought this computer, letting me win time and time again. And just when I thought I was really hot snot, I hit the brick wall. It won't let me get past a winning percentage of 14%. Occasionally, when I lose too many times in a row, it dangles a few winning games in front of me so that I never actually drop to 13%, but as soon as I try to smash through the glass ceiling, WHAP goes the Solitaire god and smacks me firmly in the 14% range. I have spoken with a few people and found that they, too, hit the 14% limit and are stopped cold.
Why would Windows do this? What did I ever do to it?
At first I thought I was just missing some important factor in the game, until I played a few games where there was literally no chance to win. I mean NO chance. I ran through the entire deck on the first run and there was nothing to play. I got a zero score. It's happened now about 4 times or so.
So this ticks me off for a couple of reasons. First, if we paid this amount of money for a new computer, by golly there ought to be a way to win the game. I might lose due to head-thumping stupidity, but there should always - ALWAYS - be a way to win, no matter how hard. Those zero-score games were a real eye opener. Second, it tells me that some manipulative, power-hungry computer geek is getting back at the world for never asking him to the prom by creating a tiny cube in which Solitaire players exist like blind mice, bumping into the walls. And that's just mean. My family has gotten used to me sitting at the desk, playing a few games, and muttering every few minutes, "This game hates me." SM tries to lure me to play another game, but now it's personal. I refuse to give up. Especially since once I played a game that the computer said I lost, but if I didn't believe it I was more than welcome to go back and try to win anyway, SUCKER (okay, so I made up the terminology - the sentiment was the same). I was so mad at losing what appeared to be a promising game that I didn't take the computer's word for it, and I kept playing. I WON. HA!!! Take that, you plastic pile of junk.
So, let's go back to this idea that it is literally impossible to push past a 14% win ratio. I've got this feeling that if I were on a deserted island (that miraculously had electricity - just go with the flow here) and I had 30 or so years to play Solitaire, there would be no "Aha!" moment when I would discover the magic secrets and win 100% of the time. I would just sit there like a bump on a log, playing the same stupid game a million times in a row. I would never, ever evolve into a higher being. (Of course, if I had electricity and chose to fritter it away on Solitaire, then I suppose I deserved whatever amoeba-like classification I got, huh?)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Beach Day #3
I have just a small update today. Yesterday at the beach tired us all out so much we decided to take a break and explore the town some. We figured we'd take the kids to a park, let them play on playground equipment, maybe take a walk alongside the pretty marsh next door afterwards. Depending on how the kids felt after that, we thought we might possibly see a local serpentarium that we'd heard a lot of good things about. So we went to the park, walked up to the playground, and were stopped by a couple who had just left because, they said, there was a wild raccoon on the grounds. Well. That stopped me cold. Cute though they may be on television, in real life I will not come near a raccoon, nor let my family get near one. Just too many risks, what with that pesky rabies thing, know what I mean? And even if they're not rabid they can still shred you to pieces if they don't take a shine to you. So we searched high and low all around the playground area - didn't see anything - and then SM walked a few yards up a bike path, and there it was. The bandit himself. I shoo'd both kids as far away as we could get without actually falling into the road, and SM tried scaring the thing away. Well, now we both know, although we didn't at the time, that that's just a dumb idea. This raccoon got within four feet of SM before they both realized that that's not really what either one of them wanted, and they went to their separate corners. Luckily, it was not rabid, just hungry and way too used to people for anyone's own good, but it's just not something you want confirmed the hard way. So - get this, I actually said this, didn't realize how funny it sounded - "This is dangerous, let's just go to the Serpentarium instead." SM gave me this double glance, like, "You're weird sometimes." So we went.
Another way I'm weird: I don't mind snakes. I mean, I wouldn't want to sit in a bathtub full of them or anything, but generally speaking, I'm okay as long as we each keep a respectful distance from each other. Non-venomous snakes that are very used to people, like those at a zoo class or a talk at this Serpentarium, I don't even mind touching. Now, spiders are a whole 'nuther story. I don't do spiders, no siree, not one bit. But I'm okay with snakes. So we went in this place. I'm not going to keep calling it the Serpentarium because that's hard to type, so let's just use a nickname. The S. How about that? So we went to the S. They were doing a live demonstration, led by a very knowlegable and personable herpetologist. Another big word. The H lady. She discussed various venomous and non-venomous snakes, with live examples. One corn snake with a sense of humor wound himself around her ponytail, through the back vents on her safari vest (hanging down directly over her butt crack and then from side to side, poking out by her elbow), and generally making a nuisance of himself. After the talk was over, the H lady pulled out a rat snake (highly prized by farmers, we were told) and let us touch him. His name was Buster. The H lady showed us how he likes to have his throat scratched and rubbed, just like a cat. You could actually see Buster turning this way and that - "a little more to the right, please" - and it gave him personality. We liked Buster. After the demonstration, we went to see the other residents of the S place. We saw some juvenile alligators getting fed - not very exciting, but cute - and then we saw their parents. Holy cow. This were big freaking creatures. The alligator at the zoo back home never, ever moves. I don't think I've even seen him blink. Well, these guys move. One bumped into another one, causing the bumpee to give this almighty cough/growl/woof that made me and Sophie jump out of our skins. It was a gutteral, primal sound and it made us oh, so glad for the nice big fence between them and us. I think another alligator further down sneezed, if alligators do such things, but Sophie said it was something else, like a yawn that ended with a big impressive jaw snap. We didn't see it so we don't know for sure. But it made us jumpy as cats in a room full of rocking chairs, so we moved on. There were a couple of islands surrounded by big walls, and inside were trees just dripping with snakes. I know a few of you probably have to leave the room to throw up, so I'll just hang out here and wait for you to come back. IF you come back.
*****
Back now? Good? Everybody still here? Okay. No more snakes. There were a couple of giant alligator snapping turtles and an iguana, and a kick-butt gift shop. There were indoor exhibits of venomous non-legged creaturs (I said I wouldn't talk about them again) and a fossil room showing giant shark teeth from way before Nixon. A good time was had by all. Thus endeth the day.
Another way I'm weird: I don't mind snakes. I mean, I wouldn't want to sit in a bathtub full of them or anything, but generally speaking, I'm okay as long as we each keep a respectful distance from each other. Non-venomous snakes that are very used to people, like those at a zoo class or a talk at this Serpentarium, I don't even mind touching. Now, spiders are a whole 'nuther story. I don't do spiders, no siree, not one bit. But I'm okay with snakes. So we went in this place. I'm not going to keep calling it the Serpentarium because that's hard to type, so let's just use a nickname. The S. How about that? So we went to the S. They were doing a live demonstration, led by a very knowlegable and personable herpetologist. Another big word. The H lady. She discussed various venomous and non-venomous snakes, with live examples. One corn snake with a sense of humor wound himself around her ponytail, through the back vents on her safari vest (hanging down directly over her butt crack and then from side to side, poking out by her elbow), and generally making a nuisance of himself. After the talk was over, the H lady pulled out a rat snake (highly prized by farmers, we were told) and let us touch him. His name was Buster. The H lady showed us how he likes to have his throat scratched and rubbed, just like a cat. You could actually see Buster turning this way and that - "a little more to the right, please" - and it gave him personality. We liked Buster. After the demonstration, we went to see the other residents of the S place. We saw some juvenile alligators getting fed - not very exciting, but cute - and then we saw their parents. Holy cow. This were big freaking creatures. The alligator at the zoo back home never, ever moves. I don't think I've even seen him blink. Well, these guys move. One bumped into another one, causing the bumpee to give this almighty cough/growl/woof that made me and Sophie jump out of our skins. It was a gutteral, primal sound and it made us oh, so glad for the nice big fence between them and us. I think another alligator further down sneezed, if alligators do such things, but Sophie said it was something else, like a yawn that ended with a big impressive jaw snap. We didn't see it so we don't know for sure. But it made us jumpy as cats in a room full of rocking chairs, so we moved on. There were a couple of islands surrounded by big walls, and inside were trees just dripping with snakes. I know a few of you probably have to leave the room to throw up, so I'll just hang out here and wait for you to come back. IF you come back.
*****
Back now? Good? Everybody still here? Okay. No more snakes. There were a couple of giant alligator snapping turtles and an iguana, and a kick-butt gift shop. There were indoor exhibits of venomous non-legged creaturs (I said I wouldn't talk about them again) and a fossil room showing giant shark teeth from way before Nixon. A good time was had by all. Thus endeth the day.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Welcome To The Beach
We are finally taking the first week-long family vacation in 13 years. We are going to the beach. Now I can make that bathing suit character-building experience worthwhile.
We got here around 6 pm. From 5 pm onwards, every 2 miles, Sam said, "Are we at the beach yet? I love the beach, I can't wait to get to the beach, IS THAT THE BEACH??????" (pointing to a lake/creek/retention pond). We got to the causeway, the lone sign of civilization in a very flat, plain marsh, and excitedly told Sam, "Look! Just on the other side of those trees is the beach!" We didn't realize it was another 20 miles. So we shot ourselves in the foot. And then the storm broke over us. It was like a tropical depression just *whap* landed on us, with high winds, horizontal rain, and so forth. We started to wonder a) if we'd ever get there and b) if we did, would the beach be completely gone when we did. So we finally pulled up to the beach house. I got out, opened my umbrella, and watched it instantly turn inside out in the gale force winds. I grabbed a kid and hustled whoever it was up the steps and on the porch, trusting that SM would get the other child. And we entered nirvana.
You're hot and sticky and your bum is numb from a 3-hour drive (complete with two wrong turns that take you into Neverland). You are tired, your eyes itch, it's 96 degrees outside, you have a 3-yak train worth of stuff in the car trunk that needs to be hauled up 48 steps, and the second you get out of the car both kids start jumping up and down and begging to leave everything in the car and go out onto the beach RIGHT NOW. Your glasses fogged up a long time ago and you realize that whimpering sound you hear is coming from you. So you haul your tired, self-pitying self up the stairs and walk into...AIR CONDITIONING. That's the first glorious surprise. We're staying with my sister and her family, as well as my parents. They'd gotten here ahead of us and not only turned on the air, but also gotten dinner started and put out the toilet paper. What else could a vacationer want? So we stumbled into the lovely, spacious, cool house almost weeping with gratitude.
The wind and rain continued to howl and beat the house outside, but inside we were cozy and dehumidifying with ease, putting our clothes and toiletries away, making up the beds, and helping with dinner. After we ate and cleaned up, the kids could take it no longer and threatened to self-destruct if we did not take them out onto a beach, any beach, this second. So out came the watershoes, and off we went. Sam skipped joyfully ahead, unable to contain his excitement. Sophie was long gone with her cousins and my parents. Sam's been to the beach only once before, last year, so he had quite a treat coming, and he knew it. This was like Christmas for him. We crested the dune's boardwalk and beheld Sam streaking towards the water like a roadrunner, screaming his fool head off and laughing maniacally. Showing no fear, he flung himself into the water, lost his footing, and went face down. He bounced up, shook himself like a dog, ran from the waves, turned around, and went straight back in again. He did this for about an hour without stopping, and we kept having to stop him from going out too far. Seems we have a surfer dude in the family! Sophie skipped around the waves and went hunting for seashells with her cousins. The boardwalk we used comes out between two jetties that are pretty close together, so we went trooping over the rocks looking for sealife in the pools. By this time the sun was setting, so we turned to watch it. The sky held that incredible combination of colors of gold and pink and a flaming salmon rose, which were reflected on the wet sand, making it look iridescent. Seagulls were crossing the sky and the wind was whipping our hair against our faces. The crashing waves felt like my very lifeblood in my veins. I felt I could stay there forever. When we came back, it was dusk, and I sat on an Adirondack chair on the screen porch, feeling a sea wind that no ceiling fan could duplicate. I'm going to go back out when it gets dark. (No, I won't go swimming. I've seen Jaws. I am a believer.) I've seen the beach at night only once and it was one of those rare moments in my life where I felt like I could really touch God, it was that beautiful, that awesome, that profound. It's where I feel at peace. For some people, it's the mountains. For others, say, out West. For me, it's the beach. And it doesn't even matter what season it is or what time of day it is. I even love the beach in the rain. It's inspiring no matter what. (Well, except for that whole hurricane season thing. I could do without that.) So anyway, this is my first day of vacation, and I have to say it's pretty satisfying so far. More later.
We got here around 6 pm. From 5 pm onwards, every 2 miles, Sam said, "Are we at the beach yet? I love the beach, I can't wait to get to the beach, IS THAT THE BEACH??????" (pointing to a lake/creek/retention pond). We got to the causeway, the lone sign of civilization in a very flat, plain marsh, and excitedly told Sam, "Look! Just on the other side of those trees is the beach!" We didn't realize it was another 20 miles. So we shot ourselves in the foot. And then the storm broke over us. It was like a tropical depression just *whap* landed on us, with high winds, horizontal rain, and so forth. We started to wonder a) if we'd ever get there and b) if we did, would the beach be completely gone when we did. So we finally pulled up to the beach house. I got out, opened my umbrella, and watched it instantly turn inside out in the gale force winds. I grabbed a kid and hustled whoever it was up the steps and on the porch, trusting that SM would get the other child. And we entered nirvana.
You're hot and sticky and your bum is numb from a 3-hour drive (complete with two wrong turns that take you into Neverland). You are tired, your eyes itch, it's 96 degrees outside, you have a 3-yak train worth of stuff in the car trunk that needs to be hauled up 48 steps, and the second you get out of the car both kids start jumping up and down and begging to leave everything in the car and go out onto the beach RIGHT NOW. Your glasses fogged up a long time ago and you realize that whimpering sound you hear is coming from you. So you haul your tired, self-pitying self up the stairs and walk into...AIR CONDITIONING. That's the first glorious surprise. We're staying with my sister and her family, as well as my parents. They'd gotten here ahead of us and not only turned on the air, but also gotten dinner started and put out the toilet paper. What else could a vacationer want? So we stumbled into the lovely, spacious, cool house almost weeping with gratitude.
The wind and rain continued to howl and beat the house outside, but inside we were cozy and dehumidifying with ease, putting our clothes and toiletries away, making up the beds, and helping with dinner. After we ate and cleaned up, the kids could take it no longer and threatened to self-destruct if we did not take them out onto a beach, any beach, this second. So out came the watershoes, and off we went. Sam skipped joyfully ahead, unable to contain his excitement. Sophie was long gone with her cousins and my parents. Sam's been to the beach only once before, last year, so he had quite a treat coming, and he knew it. This was like Christmas for him. We crested the dune's boardwalk and beheld Sam streaking towards the water like a roadrunner, screaming his fool head off and laughing maniacally. Showing no fear, he flung himself into the water, lost his footing, and went face down. He bounced up, shook himself like a dog, ran from the waves, turned around, and went straight back in again. He did this for about an hour without stopping, and we kept having to stop him from going out too far. Seems we have a surfer dude in the family! Sophie skipped around the waves and went hunting for seashells with her cousins. The boardwalk we used comes out between two jetties that are pretty close together, so we went trooping over the rocks looking for sealife in the pools. By this time the sun was setting, so we turned to watch it. The sky held that incredible combination of colors of gold and pink and a flaming salmon rose, which were reflected on the wet sand, making it look iridescent. Seagulls were crossing the sky and the wind was whipping our hair against our faces. The crashing waves felt like my very lifeblood in my veins. I felt I could stay there forever. When we came back, it was dusk, and I sat on an Adirondack chair on the screen porch, feeling a sea wind that no ceiling fan could duplicate. I'm going to go back out when it gets dark. (No, I won't go swimming. I've seen Jaws. I am a believer.) I've seen the beach at night only once and it was one of those rare moments in my life where I felt like I could really touch God, it was that beautiful, that awesome, that profound. It's where I feel at peace. For some people, it's the mountains. For others, say, out West. For me, it's the beach. And it doesn't even matter what season it is or what time of day it is. I even love the beach in the rain. It's inspiring no matter what. (Well, except for that whole hurricane season thing. I could do without that.) So anyway, this is my first day of vacation, and I have to say it's pretty satisfying so far. More later.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Bathing Suit Tragedies Part II
This is an update to yesterday's blog, which ended with the desperate search for the meaning of life - or at least for my two girls rattling around in a bathing suit bust the size of Arkansas. I took the kids to Target to hunt down a decent bathing suit. I'll tell ya right now, it didn't happen in Target. You'd think after forty-some odd years I'd know this by now, but it seems that when bathing suits first hit the stores EVERYONE takes a day or two off work and trolls through the racks, looking for the Right Suit, much the same way a plague of locusts shear down fields of grain, leaving a sad stalk or two swinging brokenly in the wind . Every place I tried for bathing suits, the sales ladies said the same thing: "What we have left is on that tiny rack there in the corner." Well. Thanks for nothing. So we're at Target, right? Right. And I looked through the pitiful stock that was left. There was only one suit that came even close to my size, and it was completely black. There was also only one coverup in my size, and it was also all black. Yuck, yuck, and double yuck. But, I thought, "What the heck, let's try it" and took them into the fitting room. (What an ironic name for a room that shows 360 degrees of something NOT fitting....) The kids fought over who got to sit on the one little stool in the corner while I huffed and puffed and stretched the suit over me. As various parts of my body began to lose circulation, I realized that this was one of those control-type suits. The black is meant to complement the red body parts that contain all your blood, while covering up your trunk that is now dead white from lack of blood. So I'm standing there, starting to feel woozy, and I pull on the coverup. "Dadgum, I look like Nanny McPhee," I thought. No way can I wear this in front of my whole family for an entire week. I couldn't even wear it for five minutes without seeing little bursts of light in front of my eyes. I extricated myself from the suit like a snake trying to shed its skin - it wasn't pretty - breathed for a few minutes, re-dressed, and left Target (but not before Sam managed to lose his blankie SOMEWHERE, making us do two laps around Target looking for it - it was in the pharmacy department).
So, that brings us to last night. I decided to try Kohl's, on a friend's suggestion. I walked in and was cheered by the sight of umpteen racks just full of bathing suits. I asked where the plus-sized suits were and was told (say it with me, now): "What we have left is on that tiny rack in the corner." No way. I roamed around, searching for misplaced suits, and came to the sick realization that there were, in fact, only a handful left that might - MIGHT - work. SM and the kids came in to offer moral support. It did lift my spirits briefly, seeing Sam put bikini bottoms upside down on his head so that he could look through the leg holes, but the great problem of the universe was still upon me: finding a decent suit. Lord, help. There were no one-piece suits that worked, so I rummaged until I found a mini-skirt bottom and a tank top. There was also one cover-up left that I thought might do the trick, and it even matched the bathing suit pieces, so I pulled it out, too. I went to the dressing room, offering a prayer to the patron saint of bathing suit shoppers, whoever that might be, telling God the whole time that if He'd just let this one suit fit all right I'd swear off ice cream mules and Cheetos for life. I pulled on the skirt - it fit. Holy flippin' cow. It fit. Trembling, I pulled on the tank top. IT FIT. I lifted my eyes to look in the mirror. Oh. My. Goodness. It looked cute!!!!! And the bust wasn't 14 sizes too big!!! Now to complete the trifecta. I put on the coverup, a cute little shift with bronze rings attaching from the straps to the bodice. It slid right over me, right to the bottom of the mini-skirt. Thank you, thank you, thank you. SM and the kids were too far away for me to holler and get them to come look, so with shaking hands and glad heart I stripped, re-dressed, and emerged from the dressing room with a triumphant smile. I'm not sure, but there may have been angels blowing trumpets over my head as I walked out. You know that thought you have when you get a boyfriend? "There. Now I'm like other girls. I belong to The Club." And when you get married? "There. Now I belong to The Club." And when you have kids: "HOW DO I GET OUT OF THE CLUB???" No, no, just kidding. It's The Club, all over again, isn't it? And then the true cherry on top of it all: "I HAVE A NEW BATHING SUIT, IT FITS, AND IT'S PRETTY. I BELONG TO THE CLUB!"
So, that brings us to last night. I decided to try Kohl's, on a friend's suggestion. I walked in and was cheered by the sight of umpteen racks just full of bathing suits. I asked where the plus-sized suits were and was told (say it with me, now): "What we have left is on that tiny rack in the corner." No way. I roamed around, searching for misplaced suits, and came to the sick realization that there were, in fact, only a handful left that might - MIGHT - work. SM and the kids came in to offer moral support. It did lift my spirits briefly, seeing Sam put bikini bottoms upside down on his head so that he could look through the leg holes, but the great problem of the universe was still upon me: finding a decent suit. Lord, help. There were no one-piece suits that worked, so I rummaged until I found a mini-skirt bottom and a tank top. There was also one cover-up left that I thought might do the trick, and it even matched the bathing suit pieces, so I pulled it out, too. I went to the dressing room, offering a prayer to the patron saint of bathing suit shoppers, whoever that might be, telling God the whole time that if He'd just let this one suit fit all right I'd swear off ice cream mules and Cheetos for life. I pulled on the skirt - it fit. Holy flippin' cow. It fit. Trembling, I pulled on the tank top. IT FIT. I lifted my eyes to look in the mirror. Oh. My. Goodness. It looked cute!!!!! And the bust wasn't 14 sizes too big!!! Now to complete the trifecta. I put on the coverup, a cute little shift with bronze rings attaching from the straps to the bodice. It slid right over me, right to the bottom of the mini-skirt. Thank you, thank you, thank you. SM and the kids were too far away for me to holler and get them to come look, so with shaking hands and glad heart I stripped, re-dressed, and emerged from the dressing room with a triumphant smile. I'm not sure, but there may have been angels blowing trumpets over my head as I walked out. You know that thought you have when you get a boyfriend? "There. Now I'm like other girls. I belong to The Club." And when you get married? "There. Now I belong to The Club." And when you have kids: "HOW DO I GET OUT OF THE CLUB???" No, no, just kidding. It's The Club, all over again, isn't it? And then the true cherry on top of it all: "I HAVE A NEW BATHING SUIT, IT FITS, AND IT'S PRETTY. I BELONG TO THE CLUB!"
Thursday, June 3, 2010
How Much Can You Get In YOUR Bra?
Oh, where to start, where to start. I haven't written in a while because I was waiting for a good subject to sink my teeth into. Yes, I just ended a sentence with a preposition. I pay taxes, I'll end any sentence I want with a preposition. Deal with it. So anyway, I had a couple of potential candidates. First, I was reading the Sunday paper recently and had a howling good time over the "Weddings and Engagements" section. SM watched in fascination as I counted bridesmaids and compared honeymoon destinations to home locations. "Fourteen!" I crowed, after reviewing all the bridal entries. "This chick had fourteen female attendants!! Who does that??? How did they all fit on the stage?" Because of course for nearly every female attendant, there is a male attendant. Throw in the officiant and the bridal couple, and the stage qualifies for its own zip code. My other favorite is checking out the honeymoon destination. Mr. and Mrs. Buck Backwoods go to Myrtle Beach or Gatlinburg. Dr. and Mrs. Arthur "Pinky" Wilberforce-Middleton IV go to South Africa and swing by Mozambique on the way home. And yes, they are usually the ones who have so many attendants. And yes, most of the attendants have double-barrelled names like Carnegie-DeBeers, Beamer-Waterford, Muffington-Uppington, and so forth. It's really very entertaining to read. Then there is occasionally the couple who SHOULD have gone to Myrtle Beach or Gatlinburg but blew most of their budget on a really big trip. "The couple will go to Buckingham Palace for their honeymoon and will reside in Podunkville, USA." What a come-down. OK, so all of this is good fun, but really, is there anything more to say about it? So I didn't write the blog about it.
Then there was T-ball practice the other night. We signed Sam up for his first ever T-ball league, which started this past Tuesday night. I wanted to be sure that Sam's team was the one for ankle-biters who'd never held a baseball in their lives, so I was relieved so see the average height of his teammates was about halfway up to my hips. These were little kids. Good. This would be a great experience for him. Since it was raining, we held an informational meeting under the picnic shelter and got to review the lineup before leaving for the night. First question from the coach was whether we wanted the kids to play in shorts or baseball pants. Well, it was morbidly hot and humid, what with the rain, and summer was only going to get hotter, so SM and I piped up, "SHORTS!" All the other parents turned and looked at us, and in the nicest way possible, overrode us with 1001 reasons why the boys should wear baseball pants. One couple even held up their little boy like a pageant queen for all of us newbies to observe the correct T-ball attire. Oops. Didn't think about that whole "sliding" thing. Then there was the glove. We'd been told that each boy needed to bring his own glove. I thought it was called a mitt. I'd always heard about "baseball mitts", so SM and I both went around calling it a mitt. We were stiffly informed that "it's a glove, not a mitt." Well. We're not doing very well, are we? The final straw came when we perused the lineup. Most of the kids looked like Sam: little boys in T-shirts, shorts, cute tennis shoes, wearing slightly confused expression as they milled around, holding their gloves up in the air because they didn't know what else to do with them. Then there were the ringers. They came with their own bat bags. They looked serious. I felt certain they were really short 15-year olds and they would cream all the kindergarteners. So basically we failed the first night and in a few weeks Sam will walk 12 feet in front of us and refuse to acknowlege us until we all get in the car for the ride home. Again, not much to write about, right? Right.
So now we come to today.
God spoke to me today. And I covered my ears and said, "LALALALALALA" trying to tune Him out, because I didn't like what he was saying.
We're going to the beach next week. I haven't bought a new bathing suit since my honeymoon (Cocoa Beach, 7 attendants including flower girl, thank you very much) so I went online and ordered one from Lands' End. It arrived and I tried it on this morning. Bottom fit. Stomach fit. Straps fit. Bust...oh, my.
If you don't want TMI, turn your computer off right now. Otherwise, keep reading.
The bottom of the bust line came halfway down my stomach. The bust itself billowed 'round the girls. I stared in the mirror. It was like a car wreck - I was horrified but I couldn't take my eyes off it. Sophie wandered in and stopped, mesmerized. I turned to her and we just looked at each other. I don't know why, but most designers assume that if you're a big woman, you also have a big bust. NOT TRUE. My girls are little. They are completely disproportionate to the rest of me. Well, OK, they fit my ears - I have little ears -, but they're way out of proportion to everything else on me. They could have wandered around in this bathing suit like camels in the desert. This bathing suit was meant to fit a triple D, easily. I looked down in the bust, which was kind of folding in pessimistically, and was seized by a wild desire to figure out just how much could get in there, what it would take to fill this puppy up. Sophie helped me, grabbing items off my vanity and helping me stuff them in there. I got in two big prescription bottles, my cosmetic bag, and a book before I stopped. If I'd rearranged things I could have also gotten in a small silver picture frame, but I didn't want to get poked. Plus I had to stop so that I could slap Sophie on the back and get her breathing again. She was laughing that hard. She hadn't had that much fun in ages. Needless to say, I will be returning the suit. This is when God spoke to me: "My child, if thou would loseth a hundred pounds, thy boobs would fit thy body."
So now, on the first day of school's summer vacation, when everybody will be out getting vacation stuff, I will take two children and go shopping for a new bathing suit. Oh. Joy.
Now THAT'S worth writing about.
Then there was T-ball practice the other night. We signed Sam up for his first ever T-ball league, which started this past Tuesday night. I wanted to be sure that Sam's team was the one for ankle-biters who'd never held a baseball in their lives, so I was relieved so see the average height of his teammates was about halfway up to my hips. These were little kids. Good. This would be a great experience for him. Since it was raining, we held an informational meeting under the picnic shelter and got to review the lineup before leaving for the night. First question from the coach was whether we wanted the kids to play in shorts or baseball pants. Well, it was morbidly hot and humid, what with the rain, and summer was only going to get hotter, so SM and I piped up, "SHORTS!" All the other parents turned and looked at us, and in the nicest way possible, overrode us with 1001 reasons why the boys should wear baseball pants. One couple even held up their little boy like a pageant queen for all of us newbies to observe the correct T-ball attire. Oops. Didn't think about that whole "sliding" thing. Then there was the glove. We'd been told that each boy needed to bring his own glove. I thought it was called a mitt. I'd always heard about "baseball mitts", so SM and I both went around calling it a mitt. We were stiffly informed that "it's a glove, not a mitt." Well. We're not doing very well, are we? The final straw came when we perused the lineup. Most of the kids looked like Sam: little boys in T-shirts, shorts, cute tennis shoes, wearing slightly confused expression as they milled around, holding their gloves up in the air because they didn't know what else to do with them. Then there were the ringers. They came with their own bat bags. They looked serious. I felt certain they were really short 15-year olds and they would cream all the kindergarteners. So basically we failed the first night and in a few weeks Sam will walk 12 feet in front of us and refuse to acknowlege us until we all get in the car for the ride home. Again, not much to write about, right? Right.
So now we come to today.
God spoke to me today. And I covered my ears and said, "LALALALALALA" trying to tune Him out, because I didn't like what he was saying.
We're going to the beach next week. I haven't bought a new bathing suit since my honeymoon (Cocoa Beach, 7 attendants including flower girl, thank you very much) so I went online and ordered one from Lands' End. It arrived and I tried it on this morning. Bottom fit. Stomach fit. Straps fit. Bust...oh, my.
If you don't want TMI, turn your computer off right now. Otherwise, keep reading.
The bottom of the bust line came halfway down my stomach. The bust itself billowed 'round the girls. I stared in the mirror. It was like a car wreck - I was horrified but I couldn't take my eyes off it. Sophie wandered in and stopped, mesmerized. I turned to her and we just looked at each other. I don't know why, but most designers assume that if you're a big woman, you also have a big bust. NOT TRUE. My girls are little. They are completely disproportionate to the rest of me. Well, OK, they fit my ears - I have little ears -, but they're way out of proportion to everything else on me. They could have wandered around in this bathing suit like camels in the desert. This bathing suit was meant to fit a triple D, easily. I looked down in the bust, which was kind of folding in pessimistically, and was seized by a wild desire to figure out just how much could get in there, what it would take to fill this puppy up. Sophie helped me, grabbing items off my vanity and helping me stuff them in there. I got in two big prescription bottles, my cosmetic bag, and a book before I stopped. If I'd rearranged things I could have also gotten in a small silver picture frame, but I didn't want to get poked. Plus I had to stop so that I could slap Sophie on the back and get her breathing again. She was laughing that hard. She hadn't had that much fun in ages. Needless to say, I will be returning the suit. This is when God spoke to me: "My child, if thou would loseth a hundred pounds, thy boobs would fit thy body."
So now, on the first day of school's summer vacation, when everybody will be out getting vacation stuff, I will take two children and go shopping for a new bathing suit. Oh. Joy.
Now THAT'S worth writing about.
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