August 24, 2007

Weekly Wrapup: Stings, Soccer, Supper, Sexy

It was our anniversary, but Bill and I didn’t see each other until 7:45 p.m. at Open House in Mrs. L’s Advanced Math class. At that point I had already met with both third-grade teachers and Bill had gone to Social Studies, English and Science, so we were worn out after a day of work and school. Our kisses were weary, though heartfelt.

Bill and I are hoping to go out of town this weekend for a little celebration, if the kids don’t prevent our getaway. Drew got stung by the World’s Most Venomous Yellowjacket while he and Porter were playing in the fort they made out of tree limbs. At first it didn’t look like much and we applied ice and Benadyl, but this morning his entire foot was swollen something wicked.

It isn’t streaky, though, so I’m assuming that this is not an injury that will put our vacation in danger, like stitches and lice have in the past.

Speaking of Wicked, I was astounded to discover that someone has created a dance-mix version of “Defying Gravity,” and we’re working out to it in Jazzercise. Honestly, will I walk in one day and warm up to Grizabella singing, “MMM-mem–mem-Memory, all alone in the mm-mmoon-mmoonlight, moonlight?” That seems to be where this exercise is headed.

Lots of you wrote in to rescue me from absolute cluelessness about soccer. Many confessed that although you’ve been on the sidelines for years, you’ve never figured out the rule, which made me feel better. Others advised renting “Bend It Like Beckham” where the rule is explained in one scene using condiments.

BusyMom provided the most helpful succinct comment: [The rule] “keeps people from lurking at the goal to receive a pass.” I can totally picture players lurking about, and see why that would be scary and thus illegal.

But the best explanation of all came from Christian, who put it into terms all women can understand, (with one small exception):

Sorry in advance for this, but the classic “offside explanation for women” runs like this:

“You’re in a shoe shop, second in the queue for the till. Behind the shop assistant on the till is a pair of shoes which you have seen and which you must have.

The female shopper in front of you has seen them also and is eyeing them with desire. Both of you have forgotten your purses.

It would be rude to push in front of the first woman if you had no money to pay for the shoes.

The shop assistant remains at the till waiting.

Your friend is trying on another pair of shoes at the back of the shop and sees your dilemma.

She prepares to throw her purse to you.

If she does so, you can catch the purse, then walk round the other shopper and buy the shoes!

At a pinch she could throw the purse ahead of the other shopper and “whilst it is in flight” you could nip around the other shopper, catch the purse and buy the shoes!

BUT, you must always remember that until the purse has “actually been thrown”, it would be plain wrong for you to be in front of the other shopper and you would be OFFSIDE!”

My only quarrel with this explanation is that it seems highly unlikely that any woman would forget her purse when going shoe shopping, but it’s still a hell of an example.

Finally, y’all are talking a big game about loving the weekly meal plan, but the true test will come in a week’s time when you write to review recipes, and share pictures of successful or unsuccessful dishes or children delightedly cleaning their plates.

Ack: Drew left for school complaining of a stomachache. I think he just needs to go #2 but we’re going to hit the road QUICK so that our romantic rendezvous becomes a reality!

August 21, 2007

Happy Anniversary: Your Son Is An Ass

Today is our anniversary.  Bill and I are going to celebrate sometime, but not tonight because we have Open House (2 parents, 3 classrooms to visit) and Finn’s soccer practice.  We’re trying to fit dinner, homework and baths in there, too.

This morning Bill left me a note on the counter that sent shivers up my spine.

Honey:

Happy anniversary!  The bathroom tub leaked all night.  It’s a big leak and filled up the whole tub.  I wasn’t able to fix it (I know that surprises you!)

Your Hunk Of Love,

Bill

I managed the morning routine with the boys.  With pre-teen Finn, I never know if I’m going to wake up to solicitous, shoulder-massaging Finn or a barbarian.  This morning it was the latter. 

I walked into the den to find Drew sobbing on the sofa.  I went to the kitchen where Porter was eating a stack of waffles.  He explained the reason for the weeping with anchorman-like precision.

Drew couldn’t read Bill’s note because it was in cursive. Finn refused to read it to him and snarled, “You need to learn to be a better reader if you’re going to survive third grade.” 

Next Finn held the tortillas hostage and wouldn’t allow Drew to eat one for breakfast, saying, “I might need these to cook something important.”   

I poured coffee for me and some for Porter, read Drew the note, handed him a tortilla, then called Finn in for a stern lecture on the value of brothers and not acting like a turd. 

I resigned myself to being late for work again, and called the plumber, making sure to tell the company to tell him to call for directions.  While I got dressed, the phone rang; the (male) plumber was lost.

As I was walking out the door, the tree service drove up to cut down some dead trees and limbs.

I made it to work and sent Bill an email in response:

Happy Anniversary, honey!

The leak is fixed.  Who knew a small metal washer cost $132? 

The tree men are going at it.

Your oldest son was an asshole this morning.  Can you please talk to him?  Call me for details.

I’ll handle the two 3rd grade teachers tonight at Open House and you do 6th grade.

Maybe I’ll see you there!

Love You Tons,

Anne

Who says life isn’t romantic after kids come along?

August 14, 2007

Bow Chicka Wow Wow

Hell.  The the Axe effect has struck our house again, but this time the outcome was worse, thanks to my big mouth.

Last Friday I was running errands with the boys, and as Finn and I strolled across the CVS parking lot together I heard him singing “Bow chicka wow wow” under his breath.  I bought sunscreen and Finn bought some body spray after I nixed his request for back-to-school cologne.

He grooved to the “Bow chicka wow wow” again as we walked into the eye doctor’s office to get his contacts checked.  And again on our way into Publix.

I don’t know what that song makes you think of, but I imagine naked bodies undulating in a hazy 1970’s style den with green shag carpeting.

“Finn, where did you hear that?” I finally asked him, worried that he’d been over at a friend’s house watching all sorts of naughty things.

“On an Axe commercial,” he said nonchalantly, kicking a rock across the asphalt as we walked.  “You should see it.  There’s this girl wheeling an old lady in the grocery store, and she sees this guy, and she, like, hurls the wheelchair and starts dancing around and stuff near the boy because she likes his body spray.  It’s hilarious.”

He laughed while I fumed.   As soon as we got back into the minivan I peeked in the CVS bag at his body spray.  It was Axe phoenix scent.  Unfortunately, I’d momentarily forgotten that some toiletries specifically marketed to boys are not rated G or even PG.  He’d been sucked in by  the Axe commercials again while I wasn’t paying attention.

Once we got home, I pulled him into my room for a quick chat.

“Finn, you’ve got to get a new tune,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because that “Bow chicka wow wow” music is how you describe the cheesy songs they play in pornos,” I whispered.

“What’s a porno?” he whispered back.

Damn.  I couldn’t believe he didn’t already know what a porno was and I was the one who’d brought it up.  Please come here often for parenting tips, or at least to learn what not to do when attempting to raise boys.

Anyway, having raised the issue, I was determined to see it through.

“Well, Finn- -and this is not information that you should share with your brothers or your friends–”porno” is short for “pornographic” which is a kind of movie that is poorly written, with stilted dialogue, to the extent there is any dialogue, and a weak plot, to the extent there is any plot, because the main focus of the movie is naked people making googly eyes and so on and so forth.”

“Googly eyes like you and Daddy sometimes make at the dinner table, or googly eyes like where you’re trying to make a baby?”

“Both,” I said.  “And the movies have terrible music, and the way people describe the music in a pornographic film is “bow chicka wow wow.”

“No way,” Finn said.

“It’s true,” I confirmed.  “So sing something else, dude.  I don’t need everyone in the Tiny Kingdom thinking you sit around watching pornos all day.”

July 11, 2007

Finn Chases A Dream

Finn is almost as obsessed with triathlons as Bill is. He’s done several kids’ triathlons, and he’s participated in adult-distance races as part of a relay team. One of my friends’ daughters, Allie, does the swim, Finn bikes, and another boy handles the run.

Allie is a wildcat. She has big blue eyes and knows no fear. She got her braces off a couple of months ago.

Allie swims all year. Watching her in the water is surreal– when she climbs out you expect her to have a mermaid tail or at least webbed feet, but she doesn’t sport anything unusual except her name written in cursive on the butt of her swimsuit. She doesn’t even train for the biking and running segments of the races, but she’s such a fantastic athlete that she routinely places first in her age group and well ahead of most of the girls and boys anywhere near her age, including Finn.

He doesn’t seem to mind. When he finished a minute behind her at a race last weekend, a man asked him if she had started ahead of him.

“Yes sir, Allie starts ahead of me and stays ahead of me,” Finn said. “I look at that name on the back of her suit the whole race.”

There’s a popular race coming up next month that we’ve done the past several years. We go up with other racing families and one of my favorite parts of the weekend is that we stay in one of the teensy floating houseboats tethered to a dock near the race site. We call them “boatels” and I’m worried that this will be the last year our whole family can stay in just one, as we really had to cram the boys’ limbs into their allotted spaces last year to make sleeping space for everyone. It’s thrilling to sleep on the water, feeling the waves gently lift and drop, even if your brother’s toes are in your face.

While the twins and I are looking forward to the boatel, Bill and Finn are concentrating on the race. In fact, they’ve been focusing on it more than usual ever since Allie announced that she was going to do the entire triathlon by herself this year. That’s a 600 yard swim, 16 mile bike and a 3 mile run to finish it off.

The gauntlet was laid, and Finn held a press conference at dinner last week to throw his hat in the ring as well. Bill promptly abandoned his plan to run and signed up as Finn’s coach, drawing up a punishing schedule of swimming, biking, running, and weightlifting to get Finn ready for the event.

Much to my surprise, Finn’s been religious about following the schedule. At night I hear him panting in his room, followed by the THUDS of his new barbells falling to the floor after a particularly grueling set of reps. If I wander by at precisely the right moment, I might catch a glimpse of him admiring his biceps in the mirror.

He’s growing up.

Which raises the issue of his true motivation for the race. I can see he’s chasing a dream. I just don’t know whether it’s a goal or a girl.

June 15, 2007

The Wheelbarrow of Love

Until yesterday, you would have been justified in calling us white trash.  We’d had a green wheelbarrow full of rocks and weeds sitting in the corner of our driveway for at least a year, visible to everyone who drove by.  Pieces of industrial plastic were embedded under the rocks and protruded awkwardly from the sides.  The wheelbarrow had been there so long that it had created its own biosphere, and despite the drought affecting the rest of the state, gangly weeds grew from the top of it, lording it over the crisp brown azaleas nearby.

It wasn’t that we were unaware that the wheelbarrow was enormously repulsive.  Last summer we left it out by the street for the garbage men to pick up, to no avail.  They ignored it for a few weeks and then stuck a sign on it that said “This isn’t trash or garbage.”  We took that to mean they wouldn’t be handling it and with difficulty we managed to nudge in into the corner where it sat, undisturbed, for months.

At Christmas I wanted to string the wheelbarrow and weeds with tiny white lights, but Bill said we had enough lights already and decorating weeds was not in the plans.  He was just plain wrong about that, because you can never have too many white twinkly lights at Christmas, but in the interests of marital harmony I held off.

One day while he and the boys were playing basketball in the driveway, Bill went running for the ball and tripped over the wheelbarrow and came inside cussing.

“What the hell do we have to do to get rid of that damn wheelbarrow?” he asked.

I didn’t have any idea.

“If someone could come up with a way to get that thing out of here, I’d be the happiest man in the world,” he said, and he went back outside to finish the basketball game.

Bill’s not a hard man to buy gifts for.  He loves for other people to buy him clothes, and he swims, bikes, and runs, so there’s always some kind of equipment he wants that will make him more aerodynamic while he does his thing.

But this year while I was mulling over Father’s Day, the wheelbarrow caught my eye just as one of those 1-800-GOT-JUNK trucks rode by.

You know how we wonder where customer service has gone?  I found it.  It’s riding around in those trucks.

The truck showed up about thirty minutes after I called, and two nice men loaded up the wheelbarrow.  That didn’t meet the minimum load of $100, so I had them collect some rusty paint cans and three tombstone-size concrete slabs that came with the back yard when we bought the house.

I got to talking with the driver, and he said they’ll pick up pretty much anything, and it doesn’t have to be accessible– they’ll climb around in your attic or basement and get junk out for you.

I was going to wait until Father’s Day and put a bow on the empty space in the driveway where the wheelbarrow had been, but Bill got home from work and freaked out in his own way, which is to say he smiled and asked where the wheelbarrow had gone.

I just told him “Happy Father’s Day’ and gave him a big smooch and then we made googly eyes at each other and then….

Well, I’ll just say I’ve never gotten hot and bothered over a wheelbarrow before.