Soccer Mom

So, today my girls had soccer practice. They're involved in a Parks and Rec team, a very low-key activity with the main goal being for the children to have fun. And really, that's about all I've seen so far - not much skill-building going on there. I tend to think like my friend Annie, who recently shared her Curmudgeonly Considerations on a similar topic. They really aren't learning many soccer skills, such as how to actually make your foot come into contact with the ball. At least they're having fun.

But tonight, the soccer coach decided that at the end of practice, the children should play a scrimmage against their parents. In her words, she thought it would be "fun". Well I don't necessarily agree with her definition of fun, because in my estimation, it would be more in the category of torture. I hate playing sports. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I am deeply tormented by memories of any attempt at playing sports throughout my life. I had extremely bad experiences of gym class from the earliest elementary years all the way through 8th grade. You have no idea how heartily I rejoiced once I finished Jr. High and I was no longer required to participate in Physical Education.

The year 1976 was an Olympic year, so our gym teacher thought it would be "educational" to set up gymnastics equipment. I really have no memory of any of the other equipment besides the rings. For some idiot reason, the rings were suspended about 20 feet off the ground. OK, so it was probably not quite that high, but I was in Kindergarten so I was only about 3 feet tall and everything looked really high to me. We had to climb up on a small platform to reach the rings. The platform was high enough to scare me, but then my teacher had to hoist me up on the rings and make me do a somersault. And I'm sure I was visibly terrified because I knew at any moment I was going to plummet back to earth with an ungraceful splat. However, the teacher made me do it anyway. You know I could probably go back and sue that gym teacher for all the emotional distress that he or she caused me, if I could remember his or her name.

In about 2nd grade, Ms. PE teacher had the brilliant idea to teach us basketball, and by teaching I mean she simply said "Play." So, I had no stinkin' clue how to dribble a ball or what responsibilities that players in different positions had. We just had to play, and it appeared to me that everyone else knew what they were doing except me. So, when we had basketball days in gym class, I would conveniently excuse myself to go to the bathroom until gym was over. I think my teacher eventually caught on, but it still never occurred to her to actually teach us some darn basketball skills.

In 5th grade, I tried to sprain my ankle during dogdeball season. I would run really fast down the gravel road and purposely step in the potholes. I used to deliberately irritate my older brother so he would inflict some kind of brotherly agony upon me, and then I would shout, "go for the ankle!" I once had to get a plantar wart removed, and I asked the doctor to write a note excusing me from PE for the rest of the year. He didn't. I even tried climbing up on our gigantic console TV set and jumping off. But it was all for naught, as I was still forced to participate in the misery of team sports.

Even in college, a friendly game of volleyball with my dearest friends would throw me into a panic. I could usually hit a volleyball with some degree of consistency as long as I was not involved in an actual game. But if the ball ever came to me during a game, I was either
completely immobile, or I was flailing around like an injured animal. And then of course, I would say some dumb thing like "the sun was in my eyes," or sometimes I would choose the simpler option which was to feign death.

Suffice it to say, I have never had any desire to participate in team sports, even for "fun". Because although it may be "fun" to some people, I'd rather have one of my limbs severed.

Please According Directions

Today is my hubby's birthday. He is just a big kid, so it's pretty easy to find a gift to make him happy. I bought him an authentic action remote control helicopter. It's not every day that you find funny material to write about in an owner's manual, but oh, my heavens! I busted a gut laughing at some of these instructions that came with the helicopter. They were obviously written and translated by someone who did not have a firm grasp on the English language. (Not trying to be culturally insensitive here: When I was in the Philippines, I used to get confused about the Filipino phrase for "Good afternoon", and instead, greet people by calling them a beautiful Japanese woman.) I just found these quite humorous.

Here are a few excerpts from the manual, which I took directly from the manual:

Please according to the manual's order to proceeding operation.

Turn on the transmitter power, the state indicator light begin to slowly twinkling.

Please choose to fly in an indoor roomily place.

Please make sure that ambiences before fly.

The fanner and air-condition cannot blowing to airplane.

The helicopter will take off difficulty or the height of fly is not enough when with weak batteries.

Do not make the helicopter crashing or serious strike from upper air.

Never throw batteries in a fire, to avoid unexpected danger.

Use a screwdriver to loosen screws on the battery case in anti-clockwise.

Finally, accompanying a picture of an adaptor that (obviously?) doesn't come with the helicopter, here is the caption: Adaptor, moreover purchase.

I hope you laugh today!

The Fat Lady

I'm fat.

I'm really tired of being fat. I'm actually tired of trying to lose weight. Usually, I only get to the thinking stage of trying to lose weight - you know the exhausting work of planning meals, planning shopping lists, filling the house with healthy food, planning an exercise routine. All that planning makes me want some serious chocolate.

And I can't stand having clothes that don't fit comfortably. I'm thinking of trading in my entire wardrobe for a collection of stylish muumuus.

So, I'm at a crossroads in my life. Maybe it would be OK to just stick with being the fat lady. I've been fat for a good chunk of my life (no pun intended), and I think it suits me. My husband doesn't mind. He's 100% serious when he says he wouldn't want to be married to a Skinny Minnie - there's nothing to hold on to. But he does want me to feel good about myself. Most people enjoy a jovial fat lady, don't they? You know, like your great aunt Margie who hugs you and you get lost in her rolls? I mean, it's kind of like a big comfy pillow, right?

I have been called fat most of my life, even before I was fat. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. My brother used to call me "Jenni-fats". It only took me about 34 therapy sessions to get over that.

A kid in elementary school told me I was "pleasantly plump." I mean, seriously, was that supposed to be a compliment?

If I look back at my high school pictures, I would die for the body I had back then - why didn't I appreciate it when I had it?

There was the tiny, slender mom of a kid in my preschool class who came up to me and cheerfully asked "Oh, are you pregnant?" Obviously, she was the only woman in the universe who hadn't gotten the memo stating, "NEVER ask a woman if she is pregnant, even if she looks like she's about to give birth to a water buffalo. You WAIT until she tells you she is pregnant." (And, no, I was not pregnant at the time.)

And then there was my children's friend who came over and told me, "Mrs. Y. You're chubby." To which I responded, "Oh really?" And she continued, "Yes, my mommy told me it wasn't nice to say you're fat." Yeah, punk - go back and tell your mommy that "chubby" isn't exactly an upgrade.

You know it's hard being only 5 feet tall. There is absolutely no place for any extra fat to hide. Although people feign astonishment IF I ever tell them my actual weight. . . . and then they say something polite like, "Well, you carry it well."

Well that's enough musing about fatness. Time for bed. See you all in my dreams.

I'll be the one wearing a muumuu.

Redecorating

It seems there are various substances appearing in inappropriate places these days. I'm getting mildly irritated by them. There's the red (non-washable) marker on the bathroom door, in which the culprit incriminated himself by writing "Evan", along with a gigantic swirly circle. I just scrubbed peanut butter off the couch. There are at least 2 colors of marker in the carpet, which I'm hoping will fade with the Oxy-Deep treatment. I found a foul-smelling smear on the door-frame of a bedroom upstairs - quite repulsive and I made sure to sanitize it and myself several times. There are masses of disgusting junk stuck to the walls in the children's rooms - I don't even want to know. Moon-sand in the school room carpet. A giant wad of dried glue in the rug in the girls' room. Gobs of gum stuck down inside the couch. And because it's spring, mud, mud everywhere!

Oh believe me, I could go on, but you get the picture.

We DO have rules in this house: No eating anywhere except the dining room, no chewing gum in the house, Art supplies in the school room only, take your shoes off as soon as you come into the house. Are the rules obeyed? Obviously not. But it's hard to prosecute after the fact, when each child vehemently asserts his or her innocence.

I have some "Honey-do's" for my hubby to do while he's laid off, as well as some projects I'd like us to tackle together. We're going to redecorate the girls room via paint and a new loft bed to conserve floor space. I also have other paint projects I would like to get done by the end of summer.

But as I sit here and type, my arthritic shoulder is throbbing from all the recent scrubbing action. I have to ask myself: Is the redecorating worth it?

Death By Chocolate

Whenever I start thinking about exercise and getting in shape, I start craving chocolate. Quality Dairy Death By Chocolate is, hands down, THE BEST ice cream on the planet; and since QD is only a Mid-Michigan chain, I'd say about 99% of the planet is missing out. This is the most dangerous thing to have in my home. I could eat enough of the stuff that I could eventually experience literal death by chocolate. But I've got to have a regular dose of the stuff to keep me happy.

When I decide it's time to make a change in my eating habits, I have to get the tempting food out of the house. Which is why I polished off the ice cream. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only woman who has ever had this line of thinking: "I'll just finish off this pan of brownies so it doesn't tempt me any more."

Why does healthy eating have to be so hard??? Why can't Death by Chocolate be a food group? I do actually enjoy healthy foods. I'm just kind of fickle. I don't stick to my resolutions very easily when chocolate shows up on the scene.

My motto about healthy eating goes something like this:

"Inside of me is a thin woman struggling to get out. But I can usually subdue her with chocolate."

Financial Advice

My husband and I met with our financial advisor today. It was not a pretty picture. At our last meeting, he vowed to analyze our data and he would show us where we could possibly save money. And if we had extra money left at the end of each month, he would advise us on how to use it to reach our financial goals. Here's what it looks like:

At the end of every month, we have $0.42 left.

If we invest that $0.42 wisely, we can expect to have enough for retirement by the year 2276. The bad news is that we'll be dead. If we want to retire at a reasonable age, say 92, then we will actually have to find a way to have more money left over at the end of each month. While neither of those options seems feasible, I'd have to say the third option has merit. He suggested we immediately sell all that we have and purchase one one-room shack on a few acres of land. We should have enough left over to buy a horse, a cow, and a few chickens. I will learn to weave and knit, and Al will learn to hunt. The children will learn to make candles. We will grow all our own food. We will be entirely self-sufficient.

The only thing I can't figure out is how we're going to afford our high-speed internet.

Michigan, the Bipolar State

I've been in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for the past week visiting my parents and other assorted relatives. One day, the temperatures reached well into the 70's, which is quite unseasonable for April. My children, claiming they were going to die of heat exhaustion, demanded that I do something drastic. So I found one pair of pants that each of them had brought and I cut them off into shorts.

That was on Friday.


On Monday, good old Michigan had quite a mood change as we woke up to accumulating snow on the ground. Now, for the most part, I really enjoy the snow, as long as falls between the months of November and February. I was especially peeved by the snow as Monday was the designated day to make the 425-mile trek back to the Lower Peninsula.

Luckily (?), the snow changed to rain about halfway through the UP. But it was accompanied by fierce winds as we approached the Straits of Mackinac. Normally, I have no fear about driving over the Mighty Mac (the Mackinac Bridge, for you non-Michiganders, which spans a "narrow" 5 miles between Lake Michigan and Lake Huron to connect the Upper and Lower Peninsulas of Michigan). Mac and I have known each other for over 20 years and he hasn't let me down yet. (no pun intended. . . unless you thought that was clever; in that case, I meant it.)


The only other time I can remember being afraid of crossing the Mackinac Bridge was in the early 1990's. It was the end of Thanksgiving Weekend and I was driving back to MSU with some college friends. There were near blizzard conditions with heavy snow and intense winds. After waiting in a rather long line to cross the bridge, we were informed that the bridge was closing for the night. In addition to the whipping snow, there were 80 mph gusts of wind on land, and significantly faster gusts over water. A woman had her car slammed against the guard rails of the bridge, which prompted the bridge closure. There was thunder and lightning, which is a rarity with snow. It was surreal. I was thinking apocalypse. Most of the power was out throughout St. Ignace, the town on the north end of the bridge. Darkened hotels were filling up fast, and gas stations quickly sold out of flashlights. When I got out of the car, the wind literally pushed me across the icy parking lot. It was a miracle that we got a hotel room, but I can't even remember how we found our way through the halls to our room. I do remember we slept with our coats on, and I had a real fear that the winds were going to tear the roof off the hotel.

I'm very glad that the wind wasn't quite that fierce during this particular trip. But it was windy enough that all vehicles were escorted by the Bridge Authority. And there also happened to be construction on the bridge, which meant 2 lanes were closed.. . . .and I had to drive over my least favorite section of the bridge - the steel grates where you can actually feel the updrafts from the wind buffeting your car. Oh, the joys of living in Michigan.

But made it home in one piece. I'm thankful for the trip over all.

But most of all, I'm thankful to be reunited with high-speed internet access.