If you thought exercising in front of the kids when they were little was a Stephen King movie waiting to happen, you'll find that working out in front of teenagers is like hanging your handwashables out to dry across the information superhighway. If there’s not a video of your behind crouched in a downward dog position on YouTube before you’re done with the stretches, these kids think they’re not doing their job.
At least when the children were six, they would make entertaining attempts to do the exercises with me. Today they take pictures with their cell phones and compose humorous captions before texting them to distant relatives and global news sites.
And they’re not afraid to broadcast interesting body fat tidbits. When the kids were little they said things like, “Who is that lady on the video?” (That’s Richard Simmons, Sweetie.) Where did your belly button go? (It disappeared about the time I sent out the birth announcements.)
These days they say things like, “Is that a hula hoop or a belt?” Since I’m wedged into the thing like preteens in the front row of a Taylor Swift concert, I don’t have a clever answer ready. I’m more concerned with getting the plastic wedgie out from under my lung so I can breathe. Having a playground toy jammed through my ribcage like a pierced earring is not a good look for me. I know. I saw the "After" shots on the FAIL blog.
The last time I let my band of ruffians, er teenage citizens, in the house while I was doing my bellydance workout, I checked my FaceBook page later only to find out I’d been sponsored by Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig had ignored my friend request, and an anonymous poster left ten tips to a bikini-ready body written in a sarcastic font.
Then one day a host of fleshy cherubs in workout gear appeared before me on my 48 inch plasma screen. I thought it was The Biggest Loser, Angel Edition. “We saw you on You Tube and decided you needed some help. Seek out the promised land!”
That’s the day I packed up my workout gear and headed to my own turf. These days it’s kind of hard to do squats without flushing the toilet, or perform proper lunges without knocking the shower massage into nail-driver position, but I can exercise without the benefit of back seat drivers.
Now if I could just get the Tidy Bowl man to stop heckling me from the cheap seats.
Laugh
Showing posts with label angel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label angel. Show all posts
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Christmas Claws
I figure it’s time to take down the Christmas tree when the lights haven’t worked for two weeks, there’s a mysterious lump under the tree skirt that resembles petrified reindeer poop, and local landscapers offer to buy the pile of mulch in the corner of my living room.
I hate to take down the Christmas tree because as long as it is in the room, that corner is as close to decorated as it is any time during the year. I have teenage boys in the house. Once the tree is gone, that spot will automatically give way to a pile of cast off T shirts, sixteen pairs of old tennis shoes, and a large tabby cat. Actually, the cat may be lost somewhere in the maze of branches. I haven’t seen him since before the lights stopped working, but every now and then I can hear the angel on top purr. I think she's had a little too much catnip.
When the breeze of the ceiling fan caused a pile of pine needles the size of a sand dune to settle on the floor, the man who promised to love, honor, and teach the teenagers to drive crossed his arms and regarded the Christmas tree with raised eyebrows.
“It's gotta go.”
I came up beside him, licking the sprinkles off the last holiday cupcake. “It could be a Presidents Day tree. You could hang little pictures of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln on it.”
“The kind of pictures you find on small bills? What if I make it easy and just slip you a twenty?”
“What if I go to the mall and take out my New Year's anxieties on the clearance racks?”
“I don’t have enough presidents for that sort of stimulus package.”
“Well, how long does it take for wood to petrify?” I mused.
“Why do you ask?”
“Maybe we could leave it in the corner all year and pass it off as a sculpture.”
“If dead plants make great sculptures, we have an entire art museum around here.”
The man had a valid point. I’ve killed enough vegetation to decorate a dozen zombie weddings.
I reached for a drooping branch. "According to tradition, all of the decorations should be put away before the New Year starts.
A paw shot out of the center of the tree, snatched the marshmallow snowman off of my cupcake with one claw and disappeared without a sound. A pool of dry needles puddled on the carpet at my feet.
We stepped back a safe distance from the tree. "Let's leave it," I said handing him the tattered remains of the cupcake. "I think the ghost of Christmas past lives in there and he means business."
I hate to take down the Christmas tree because as long as it is in the room, that corner is as close to decorated as it is any time during the year. I have teenage boys in the house. Once the tree is gone, that spot will automatically give way to a pile of cast off T shirts, sixteen pairs of old tennis shoes, and a large tabby cat. Actually, the cat may be lost somewhere in the maze of branches. I haven’t seen him since before the lights stopped working, but every now and then I can hear the angel on top purr. I think she's had a little too much catnip.
When the breeze of the ceiling fan caused a pile of pine needles the size of a sand dune to settle on the floor, the man who promised to love, honor, and teach the teenagers to drive crossed his arms and regarded the Christmas tree with raised eyebrows.
“It's gotta go.”
I came up beside him, licking the sprinkles off the last holiday cupcake. “It could be a Presidents Day tree. You could hang little pictures of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln on it.”
“The kind of pictures you find on small bills? What if I make it easy and just slip you a twenty?”
“What if I go to the mall and take out my New Year's anxieties on the clearance racks?”
“I don’t have enough presidents for that sort of stimulus package.”
“Well, how long does it take for wood to petrify?” I mused.
“Why do you ask?”
“Maybe we could leave it in the corner all year and pass it off as a sculpture.”
“If dead plants make great sculptures, we have an entire art museum around here.”
The man had a valid point. I’ve killed enough vegetation to decorate a dozen zombie weddings.
I reached for a drooping branch. "According to tradition, all of the decorations should be put away before the New Year starts.
A paw shot out of the center of the tree, snatched the marshmallow snowman off of my cupcake with one claw and disappeared without a sound. A pool of dry needles puddled on the carpet at my feet.
We stepped back a safe distance from the tree. "Let's leave it," I said handing him the tattered remains of the cupcake. "I think the ghost of Christmas past lives in there and he means business."
Saturday, August 23, 2008
One Woman's Heart
When I wander through the house in the mornings, ricocheting gently from refrigerator to coffeemaker, sorting socks and lunch boxes, I often ponder esoteric subjects like what makes me a mom. Well, more often I’m thinking “How did I end up like this?” or “Am I really awake or am I dreaming there’s a catcher’s mitt in the microwave?” but eventually I drift on to headier stuff.
“Mom, are you mumbling to yourself again?” Son One is getting ready for work, hunting in the fridge for a can of carbonated caffeine. I reach deftly around the milk and pull a Coke out from behind the leftover Teriyaki chicken.
“Thanks Mom. Say, did you know you have one of those little yellow notes stuck to your ear?”
“What does it say?”
“Toilet Paper.”
“So that’s where the grocery list went. I thought my breath-easy strip slid off my nose during the night. But I couldn’t hear your Pop snoring, so it worked out pretty well.”
“By the way, Mom, have you seen my name tag?”
“It’s in the lint trap in the dryer. You left it in your pocket on laundry day again.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He finished his drink, crushed the can, and headed down the hall, belching the words to “We Are the Champions.”
So, what makes me a Mom? I can’t pose the question to the family, because they are adept at sarcastic replies that often involve words I have to Google to understand. On the other hand, there was the time they gave me the nifty short version of the sixth grade health speech on human reproduction. Who knew so many interesting words begin with the letter S? It was like Sesame Street meets Dr. Ruth.
“Funnies?” Son Number Two has entered the kitchen. Some people can’t live without caffeine; he can’t start his day without the comics. He’s been the family computer programmer since he was six, but he can’t head off to his 8:00 class at Community College without checking out Garfield’s quest for lasagna. I extract the morning newspaper from underneath a sleeping cat, and turn to the proper page with a flourish.
“Mmph,” he grunts.
“You’re welcome,” I answer, patting his head and deftly inserting a kitchen chair under his descending backside.
Somewhere between Shredded Wheat and shower time, I trip over the cats and find the lost student ID while picking Cheerios out of my cheek, exercise the dogs by forgetting to lock the door when the neighbor bicycles down the driveway, and manage to get everybody out the door without any lost essentials except my peace of mind.
As the last kid peels out of the driveway, laying down tire tracks that resemble Jacob’s ladder, I smile and wave. Later on I’ll find my coffee in the microwave, my keys in the door, and the hamburger thawing quietly on the dryer. But for now, everything’s good.
This Mom job may be tough, but the rewards are out of this world. And the five minutes of quiet when everybody leaves the house is worth the 20 year wait.
Just then, a horn sounds in the driveway, a series of staccato blasts that echo off the neighboring houses, loosens the fillings in my teeth, and wakes up every baby in the subdivision, not to mention old Mr. Sloth who naps on his front porch every morning until his teeth fall out and remind him to eat lunch.
“Mom! I need gas money!”
It figures. You’d think the one thing growing boys wouldn’t need Mom's help with would be getting gas.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Sometimes as parents we laugh to keep from crying, laugh until we cry, or just go ahead and cry. But we shouldn’t have to feel helpless when it comes to helping our children. Today I’m linking to a very special site, Simon’s Blog. Simon is an angel born too early, so early he probably still has his tiny wings hidden under tubes and blankets in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of a Denver hospital. But he’s a champ and a fighter, and takes the
attentions of doctors and nurses in stride with all the courage his 1 pound, 9 ounce body can hold. I want Simon's mom to have the chance to give up the last fiver in her wallet for a young man with a mop of unruly hair who needs gas to get to class. So check out Simon’s Blog, updated with the loving hands and heart of his Mom, Mysti. And if you can find it in your heart to help them out, it’ll be a personal favor to an angel.
“Mom, are you mumbling to yourself again?” Son One is getting ready for work, hunting in the fridge for a can of carbonated caffeine. I reach deftly around the milk and pull a Coke out from behind the leftover Teriyaki chicken.
“Thanks Mom. Say, did you know you have one of those little yellow notes stuck to your ear?”
“What does it say?”
“Toilet Paper.”
“So that’s where the grocery list went. I thought my breath-easy strip slid off my nose during the night. But I couldn’t hear your Pop snoring, so it worked out pretty well.”
“By the way, Mom, have you seen my name tag?”
“It’s in the lint trap in the dryer. You left it in your pocket on laundry day again.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He finished his drink, crushed the can, and headed down the hall, belching the words to “We Are the Champions.”
So, what makes me a Mom? I can’t pose the question to the family, because they are adept at sarcastic replies that often involve words I have to Google to understand. On the other hand, there was the time they gave me the nifty short version of the sixth grade health speech on human reproduction. Who knew so many interesting words begin with the letter S? It was like Sesame Street meets Dr. Ruth.
“Funnies?” Son Number Two has entered the kitchen. Some people can’t live without caffeine; he can’t start his day without the comics. He’s been the family computer programmer since he was six, but he can’t head off to his 8:00 class at Community College without checking out Garfield’s quest for lasagna. I extract the morning newspaper from underneath a sleeping cat, and turn to the proper page with a flourish.
“Mmph,” he grunts.
“You’re welcome,” I answer, patting his head and deftly inserting a kitchen chair under his descending backside.
Somewhere between Shredded Wheat and shower time, I trip over the cats and find the lost student ID while picking Cheerios out of my cheek, exercise the dogs by forgetting to lock the door when the neighbor bicycles down the driveway, and manage to get everybody out the door without any lost essentials except my peace of mind.
As the last kid peels out of the driveway, laying down tire tracks that resemble Jacob’s ladder, I smile and wave. Later on I’ll find my coffee in the microwave, my keys in the door, and the hamburger thawing quietly on the dryer. But for now, everything’s good.
This Mom job may be tough, but the rewards are out of this world. And the five minutes of quiet when everybody leaves the house is worth the 20 year wait.
Just then, a horn sounds in the driveway, a series of staccato blasts that echo off the neighboring houses, loosens the fillings in my teeth, and wakes up every baby in the subdivision, not to mention old Mr. Sloth who naps on his front porch every morning until his teeth fall out and remind him to eat lunch.
“Mom! I need gas money!”
It figures. You’d think the one thing growing boys wouldn’t need Mom's help with would be getting gas.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Sometimes as parents we laugh to keep from crying, laugh until we cry, or just go ahead and cry. But we shouldn’t have to feel helpless when it comes to helping our children. Today I’m linking to a very special site, Simon’s Blog. Simon is an angel born too early, so early he probably still has his tiny wings hidden under tubes and blankets in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of a Denver hospital. But he’s a champ and a fighter, and takes the
attentions of doctors and nurses in stride with all the courage his 1 pound, 9 ounce body can hold. I want Simon's mom to have the chance to give up the last fiver in her wallet for a young man with a mop of unruly hair who needs gas to get to class. So check out Simon’s Blog, updated with the loving hands and heart of his Mom, Mysti. And if you can find it in your heart to help them out, it’ll be a personal favor to an angel.
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