I have an email account with Yahoo! (picture dudes from Ricola commercial blowing their horns). Supposedly, Yahoo! has a filter for spam. But, upon opening my email account, I am updated about a White House meeting; receive an urgent notification about something that requires my SSN, birth date, waist size, and my first born; congratulated on winning $1000; told I can find the love of my life (apparently my current husband isn’t cutting it); am questioned about my 5-year-old being delayed or okay by someone who has never met my 5-year-old; and am told about the spiraling violence in Darfur.
This doesn’t even begin to describe the news I actually signed up to hear, like the latest Jennings Sandal (apparently it’s so sensational it needs to be capitalized) from Michael Kors, 25% off at MLB.com (I wonder if that includes 25% off A-Rod), 30% off at Ann Taylor, 40% off at the Gap, and a big sale and new items from Tommy Bahama. Not to mention all of those Facebook updates. Oh, and occasionally an actual email from an actual friend.
I’m not sure exactly what this tells me about my life. Do I shop too much? (Maybe, but it’s all relative.) Do I need more friends who email? (Probably.)
I’ve had this account since I left college umpteen years ago (we won’t discuss timelines here, it’s the general principle of the thing). So, giving it up might be hard. I hate it when I have to change someone’s email address in my contact list. And, what happens to said list? Does it go away, can you take it with you? Does it transfer like a telephone number?
What I do know is that 1. If Yahoo!’s spam filter actually works, I don’t even want to know what it’s filtering, and 2. How am I ever going to get that novel written when I have to read about all of this stuff and then subsequently write about it?
You might think I’m allowing it to rule my life instead of me ruling my time. You might think that I’m just procrastinating about writing that novel. This is where I would tell you that You can go take a flying leap, off a high bridge. I’m not procrastinating. What I’m doing is babbling. So I think I’ll stop.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Diary of a Wimpy Mom
Boot Camp: round 2, week 2
Drill Sergeant surprised us when we got there this morning (just a tad late). It was Brownie’s turn to drive and she was late picking everyone up, then we had to park a mile away because Blondie had run over everyone’s mats last week in her “I don’t know what a break is” style of driving.
So, after we all drop off our stuff and join everyone else on the run, he started filling us in on what all we were going to do today and then let us know that he brought donuts and milk. I was all, “Sweet, thanks. That was really nice of you to bring us breakfast.” Yeah, not so fast.
Um, let me just tell you that the donuts that you and I are thinking about right now are not the same kind of donuts that Mr. Drill Sergeant is thinking about. Oh no, not those yummy Round Rock donuts covered in that rich secret ingredient, or those deliciously filled with whatever-your-heart-desires Shipley donuts. No, no, the donuts he was talking about are black and rubber, one might call them tires. We had to flip them over all the way down the field. And that milk in the cooler. Well, that was just 10 lb dumbbells that we had to get out to do walking lunges and bicep curls while changing hands under our legs as we went. Brownie quipped, “Well, I’m lactose intolerant.” Yeah, me too, and when good ole Drill Sergeant wasn’t looking, I was rolling my donut.
That, plus some weird contorted ab killing work and more running (done several times over and over) pretty much constituted our workout for the morning, which totally beat our last workout with some sort of overturned soccer goal that we had to push down the field.
Oh my goodness, that thing was hard work. Ours kept getting stuck in these divots in the grass. We all had to break into groups of 4. Hey, look, we’re already a group of 4! Two of us get on the tall side of this soccer goal (I think Drill Sergeant is just trying to come up with new ways to torture us) so we can push, and two get on the short side so they can pull. Well, I soon found out that if you’re pulling, and the thing gets stuck, your toes end up getting run over. That doesn’t do anything for my pedicure. In fact, I think Drill Sergeant owes me a pedicure for messing up my last one. Anyway, the first time we do this, plus some push-ups while balancing on a soccer ball (the man has a thing for soccer) and running in place parallel to the ground while balanced on a soccer ball (again with the soccer – the man has balls on the brain), etc. we come in dead last. Of course, we are the only all-girl team. But, who’s your momma? We’re apparently the only ones with stamina, because we ended up kicking everyone’s butt and winning in the end. So there.
So, Brownie is hooked up on when local eateries have free stuff. This morning, Whataburger was offering a free breakfast sandwich. What a great way for us fabulous moms to finish off our morning workout. Brownie was trying to be nice and told Drill Sergeant about this and he said that he can’t have that – whatever, dude! So, we pile in the car and head to Whataburger. We’re there at 6:45 a.m. Well, guess what, the free stuff didn’t start until 7. Whataburger wanted us to wait another 15 minutes. That was so not happening. Drill Sergeant foiled us again. Something tells me he has an in with these places and has already bribed them not to sell to those Round Rock housewives. That’s Drill Sergeant’s new name for us, like when he’s yelling at us, “Don’t let those young ones beat you.” Seriously? I think he just called us old. Then to the “young ones” he says, “Those Round Rock housewives are gaining on you fast, you better get on the hop!” Well, hop on this Mr. Drill Sergeant man.
Drill Sergeant surprised us when we got there this morning (just a tad late). It was Brownie’s turn to drive and she was late picking everyone up, then we had to park a mile away because Blondie had run over everyone’s mats last week in her “I don’t know what a break is” style of driving.
So, after we all drop off our stuff and join everyone else on the run, he started filling us in on what all we were going to do today and then let us know that he brought donuts and milk. I was all, “Sweet, thanks. That was really nice of you to bring us breakfast.” Yeah, not so fast.
Um, let me just tell you that the donuts that you and I are thinking about right now are not the same kind of donuts that Mr. Drill Sergeant is thinking about. Oh no, not those yummy Round Rock donuts covered in that rich secret ingredient, or those deliciously filled with whatever-your-heart-desires Shipley donuts. No, no, the donuts he was talking about are black and rubber, one might call them tires. We had to flip them over all the way down the field. And that milk in the cooler. Well, that was just 10 lb dumbbells that we had to get out to do walking lunges and bicep curls while changing hands under our legs as we went. Brownie quipped, “Well, I’m lactose intolerant.” Yeah, me too, and when good ole Drill Sergeant wasn’t looking, I was rolling my donut.
That, plus some weird contorted ab killing work and more running (done several times over and over) pretty much constituted our workout for the morning, which totally beat our last workout with some sort of overturned soccer goal that we had to push down the field.
Oh my goodness, that thing was hard work. Ours kept getting stuck in these divots in the grass. We all had to break into groups of 4. Hey, look, we’re already a group of 4! Two of us get on the tall side of this soccer goal (I think Drill Sergeant is just trying to come up with new ways to torture us) so we can push, and two get on the short side so they can pull. Well, I soon found out that if you’re pulling, and the thing gets stuck, your toes end up getting run over. That doesn’t do anything for my pedicure. In fact, I think Drill Sergeant owes me a pedicure for messing up my last one. Anyway, the first time we do this, plus some push-ups while balancing on a soccer ball (the man has a thing for soccer) and running in place parallel to the ground while balanced on a soccer ball (again with the soccer – the man has balls on the brain), etc. we come in dead last. Of course, we are the only all-girl team. But, who’s your momma? We’re apparently the only ones with stamina, because we ended up kicking everyone’s butt and winning in the end. So there.
So, Brownie is hooked up on when local eateries have free stuff. This morning, Whataburger was offering a free breakfast sandwich. What a great way for us fabulous moms to finish off our morning workout. Brownie was trying to be nice and told Drill Sergeant about this and he said that he can’t have that – whatever, dude! So, we pile in the car and head to Whataburger. We’re there at 6:45 a.m. Well, guess what, the free stuff didn’t start until 7. Whataburger wanted us to wait another 15 minutes. That was so not happening. Drill Sergeant foiled us again. Something tells me he has an in with these places and has already bribed them not to sell to those Round Rock housewives. That’s Drill Sergeant’s new name for us, like when he’s yelling at us, “Don’t let those young ones beat you.” Seriously? I think he just called us old. Then to the “young ones” he says, “Those Round Rock housewives are gaining on you fast, you better get on the hop!” Well, hop on this Mr. Drill Sergeant man.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Mean boys
While driving in torrential rain to help a friend buy jewelry, we're listening to the radio and this song comes on and I'm sorta listening. Trent says, "THEY SAID THE 'S' WORD MOMMY!!!"
Um, what 'S' word are you referring to honey? (I'm thinking, Oh, S***, have I really been so negligent?)
"You know the S word!"
It's okay honey you can say it and you won't get in trouble. I just didn't hear it.
Radio plays: "According to you, I'm stupid, I'm useless.."
Ohhhhh, THAT 's' word. "Yes, honey that isn't a very good word."
He says, "A boy is saying those things about her."
Uh, huh.
He says, "Only mean boys says those kind of things to girls. Nice boys don't do that."
I say, "That's right honey, only mean boys say that, you sweet little boy."
Hopefully, he'll remember that when I tell him to pick up his room.
Um, what 'S' word are you referring to honey? (I'm thinking, Oh, S***, have I really been so negligent?)
"You know the S word!"
It's okay honey you can say it and you won't get in trouble. I just didn't hear it.
Radio plays: "According to you, I'm stupid, I'm useless.."
Ohhhhh, THAT 's' word. "Yes, honey that isn't a very good word."
He says, "A boy is saying those things about her."
Uh, huh.
He says, "Only mean boys says those kind of things to girls. Nice boys don't do that."
I say, "That's right honey, only mean boys say that, you sweet little boy."
Hopefully, he'll remember that when I tell him to pick up his room.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Diary of a Wimpy Mom
Boot Camp, round 2
What kind of sadistic twit schedules boot camp at 5:30 in the morning during the summer? I mean seriously. I finally have two kids that are fairly self-sufficient and don’t require constant, vigilant, direct attention. I’m in this special, wonderful time of life when I don’t have to work and my kids can fend for themselves. So, what gives?
I guess in their infinite wisdom, they decided that boot camp at 6 o’clock in the evening during the summer was going to be too hot. Or maybe this is just another form of torture. Because I’m getting too old to stay up til 11 or midnight having a good time with my peeps and then get up at 4:45. So, something is gonna have to give after a few days of this boot camp. And, I’ll give you wild guess which one is gonna get the boot.
When the girls picked up my pieces and put me back together after the last boot camp, they must have missed some because I had actually lost inches and some weight. Sweet. And, I wasn’t even trying. Imagine what would have happened if I had dieted (so not a chance), ran (yeah, right), and tried harder (hey, I did try). So, here we go for another round of torture courtesy of Drill Sergeant.
Blondie, Brownie and I recruited a fourth for this round of boot camp, which only starts at some ungodly hour of the middle of the night. We’ll call her Sucker.
So, while the stars were still out and every sane person still asleep, Blondie picked up the three of us to make sure we all actually go. Without Blondie’s taxi service, I’m pretty sure I would have said some off color word when my alarm went off at 4:45 this morning, shut it off and gone back to sleep. Instead, when my alarm went off this morning, I said some off color word, laid there for a moment considering how crappy my friends are for making me get up at this horrific hour, and crawled out of bed to get ready.
Because in my stupid little brain, I didn’t want to let them down when they got to my house and still be asleep in bed. Most likely, given Blondie's history, she would’ve laid on the horn at 5:15 until she had woken up everyone in the neighborhood. Let me just start by telling you that we do not live in a neighborhood where you honk your horn at any hour, much less in the middle of the night. That would make one ugly mess. I can just imagine, the police would’ve received several calls and since they have absolutely nothing to do in our safe town, about 10 cars would’ve shown up all bearing the individual police officer's name, I would’ve received at least a ticket or two, then the HOA would’ve been notified and I’m sure I would’ve gotten some sort of fine on top of that. But, that wouldn’t be the good part. Blondie has a mouth on her. She would’ve said something uppity to those police officers, probably about where they could put their sticks and gotten hauled off to jail. Then the HOA would issue her a fine and then our hubbies wouldn’t allow us to play together any more.
Hey, that would get me out of boot camp. Maybe I’ll try it and see how it all goes down. After all, I know a good attorney who can get Blondie out of jail.
What kind of sadistic twit schedules boot camp at 5:30 in the morning during the summer? I mean seriously. I finally have two kids that are fairly self-sufficient and don’t require constant, vigilant, direct attention. I’m in this special, wonderful time of life when I don’t have to work and my kids can fend for themselves. So, what gives?
I guess in their infinite wisdom, they decided that boot camp at 6 o’clock in the evening during the summer was going to be too hot. Or maybe this is just another form of torture. Because I’m getting too old to stay up til 11 or midnight having a good time with my peeps and then get up at 4:45. So, something is gonna have to give after a few days of this boot camp. And, I’ll give you wild guess which one is gonna get the boot.
When the girls picked up my pieces and put me back together after the last boot camp, they must have missed some because I had actually lost inches and some weight. Sweet. And, I wasn’t even trying. Imagine what would have happened if I had dieted (so not a chance), ran (yeah, right), and tried harder (hey, I did try). So, here we go for another round of torture courtesy of Drill Sergeant.
Blondie, Brownie and I recruited a fourth for this round of boot camp, which only starts at some ungodly hour of the middle of the night. We’ll call her Sucker.
So, while the stars were still out and every sane person still asleep, Blondie picked up the three of us to make sure we all actually go. Without Blondie’s taxi service, I’m pretty sure I would have said some off color word when my alarm went off at 4:45 this morning, shut it off and gone back to sleep. Instead, when my alarm went off this morning, I said some off color word, laid there for a moment considering how crappy my friends are for making me get up at this horrific hour, and crawled out of bed to get ready.
Because in my stupid little brain, I didn’t want to let them down when they got to my house and still be asleep in bed. Most likely, given Blondie's history, she would’ve laid on the horn at 5:15 until she had woken up everyone in the neighborhood. Let me just start by telling you that we do not live in a neighborhood where you honk your horn at any hour, much less in the middle of the night. That would make one ugly mess. I can just imagine, the police would’ve received several calls and since they have absolutely nothing to do in our safe town, about 10 cars would’ve shown up all bearing the individual police officer's name, I would’ve received at least a ticket or two, then the HOA would’ve been notified and I’m sure I would’ve gotten some sort of fine on top of that. But, that wouldn’t be the good part. Blondie has a mouth on her. She would’ve said something uppity to those police officers, probably about where they could put their sticks and gotten hauled off to jail. Then the HOA would issue her a fine and then our hubbies wouldn’t allow us to play together any more.
Hey, that would get me out of boot camp. Maybe I’ll try it and see how it all goes down. After all, I know a good attorney who can get Blondie out of jail.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Diary of a Wimpy Mom
We wanted to give you all an update about Wimpy Mom, a.k.a. Tweedle Dum. You see, she would have been posting regular updates, but she started losing body parts at each boot camp.
We've tried collecting them all, and we think we can put her back together again (a la Humpty Dumpty). So, we'll give it a shot when we get back from Mexico. Wish us luck!
Cheers,
Blondie and Brownie
We've tried collecting them all, and we think we can put her back together again (a la Humpty Dumpty). So, we'll give it a shot when we get back from Mexico. Wish us luck!
Cheers,
Blondie and Brownie
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