'Tis the season to have hot flashes, fa-la-la-la-la, La-open-a-freakin'-window!
JAO will be wearing a t-shirt, a button-down and his suit jacket and still put on his long, wool coat and gloves. Meanwhile, I am driving the kids to school in a tank top and bare feet. I suffer through the drive in the stifling heat because their little hormonal systems have yet to undergo the assault mine has, and then as soon as they jump out of the car, I roll down the window and stick my arm out into the wind trying to direct more of the cold air onto my overheated torso.
I really miss wearing turtlenecks and cute sweaters. Okay, so I wouldn’t wear a cute sweater now anyway because my extra body bulk would only look even more bulky, but still. I have figured out that scarves are the way to go. I can wrap one around my neck when I am a bit chilly and still be able to easily yank it from my steaming body when I start to over-heat.
I know everyone is complaining right now about how cold it is her in the South. And I agree that if it is going to be this cold, we should at least have some snow. But, there is nothing as refreshing to a hot-flasher as strolling out to the mail box in shorts and a t-shirt when it is 25 degrees outside.
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I could wear a camisole, a sweater and a scarf and be quite comfortable. Now, just thinking about that makes me want to open the freezer and sit inside.
Worried that I might have developed some exotic ailment that affects only the body’s ability to regulate its temperature -- like some South American reptilian disease or something -- I had the doctor run a complete blood work analysis on me last year. Sadly, the lab said there was nothing exotic about me at all.
At first I attributed it to just one other way having children has wrecked my poor body. However, I do know women who suffer from this and have not birthed any kids. So, now I’ll just blame Eve. She’s the eternal fall-gal for any weird body thing that women must endure but from which men are unjustly exempt.
Too bad I can’t develop some magic, rapid weight-loss disease.
Wait...I think that’s called cancer.
Never mind. I’ll just stick with the hot flashes.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
It's What All the Kids Are Doing
Well, it was bound to happen. Every time I drive my kids to school wearing my pajamas and no make-up, I think, “Gee, I hope I don’t miss carpool or else I’ll have to walk inside in my p.j.’s.” And, you know how some mornings you just wake up looking better than others? Well, this was not one of those mornings.
Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.
At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.
I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.
Tra-la-la.
Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.
I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.
They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”
What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?
So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”
Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”
Silence.
“Guys?”
The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.
“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”
Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”
I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.
(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)
Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.
L informed me, “We made up a new game.”
“What is it called?”
Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”
L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”
Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”
“There are no rules.”
“Well, how do you know who wins?”
“We’re all winners, Mom.”
“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”
He protested, “But it’s my turn!”
“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”
And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.
Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.
At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.
I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.
Tra-la-la.
Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.
I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.
They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”
What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?
So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”
Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”
Silence.
“Guys?”
The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.
“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”
Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”
I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.
(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)
Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.
L informed me, “We made up a new game.”
“What is it called?”
Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”
L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”
Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”
“There are no rules.”
“Well, how do you know who wins?”
“We’re all winners, Mom.”
“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”
He protested, “But it’s my turn!”
“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”
And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.
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