I'm Just Not That Into Me

Hello, blogosphere. Believe it or not, here I am.

I'm having a hell of a time getting this blog back into action on a regular basis, but I've at least figured out the reason. The reason is that I am possibly the most boring human being on the planet. Seriously. I can prove it.

Let's take a look at Exhibit A: The routine. My day-to-day life over the past few weeks has fallen into a fairly predictable routine. Who am I kidding? I meant to say over the past few months. Let's call it a year. But the past few weeks are a pretty good example. Here's what it looks like:

• Up at 5 a.m.-ish to run/work out
• Wake up Tornadoes around 6:00. Enter the hellish vortex of getting them packed up and out the door to school. Or, right now, camp.
• Go to work. Work.
• Leave work 5 p.m.-ish. Collect Tornadoes. Enter the hellish vortex of getting them fed/bathed/whatever the hell else happens to be on the agenda of things-that-must-be-done before tomorrow, plus maybe fold a little laundry and wash a few dishes.
• Go to bed. Alone. Sleep.

zzzzzz...oh, I forgot to mention that occasionally I am too tired to wake up at 5 a.m.-ish, so I skip the run and sleep until 6. This is called "variety". I try not to do it too often because I at least have the wherewithal to not want the running/working out to become the "variety" part of the equation. If I'm going to be the most boring human being on the planet, I'm at least going to be in shape.

I've left out all of the "fillers" that you already know about - the gymnastics practices, softball practices, meets, games, school functions - because they are all on a bit of a hiatus at the moment, this being summertime. It's kind of a shame. Because without them, frankly, I have no life to speak of.

Which brings me to Exhibit B, further proof that I am completely boring: I am jealous of my children, who get to go to camp every day and do super fun stuff. I actually feel pangs of jealousy. First, let's consider Third Grader. Third Grader is all about the acting this summer. She is currently in the middle of a two-week session at a local theater, and her performance is Thursday night. She spends our drives to and from camp practicing her lines and songs and working on her accent (it's a Western this session), and it thrills me. I want to go to theater camp! Then there's Fifth Grader, who is currently attending Adventure Camp. Yesterday she went hiking, today she went kayaking, and tomorrow she's going mountain biking. She spends our rides to camp in a state of happy anticipation and our rides home in a state of happy exhaustion. I want to go to Adventure Camp!

And while they are at camp, I am at work. Working. Don't get me wrong: I'm still loving the new workplace. (How much longer do I get to call it "the new workplace", do you think?) It's challenging and rewarding in many ways - so much so that I am currently in the middle of three different books, and two of them are work-related. And I don't mind that, because I love what I do and want to get even better at it. But I'm not much of a "one thing at a time" gal. Work is lovely, and it's nice to be able to pay for all these super fun camps. But Mama needs a little stimulation. A little fun. A little spice.

So here's the thing. Next week, the Tornadoes are going to the Camp of Camps: a week long, super-turbo gymnastics camp several hours away from home. They're pumped; I'm freaking out a little bit. Without my vicarious lives to live, I will have to find some other ways to amuse myself, and possibly not completely torment Boyfriend in the process with my Tornado-missing whininess. I am open to suggestions.

The Silence Is Deafening

I got this letter in the mail a few weeks ago informing me that I shouldn't use my oven anymore. Apparently, there have been seventy-two incidents of ovens just like mine catching on fire from overheating wires. I generally get around to opening my mail once dinner is cooking. ..so this letter made for a rather tense waiting game while the steak tips finished broiling. Of course, I could have taken the steak tips out and thrown them on the grill, but I didn't. I let the potentially combustible oven finish its job and then we ate our dinner uneventfully, like always. No fire.

It took me another several days to get around to calling the 800 number on the letter to schedule my "free repair service", but I did eventually call. And today is the day they are coming. Sometime today. Between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. So I'm sitting here. Waiting.

"Free" is a relative term, you know. They may not charge me actual money to come out here into the middle of nowhere and fix my defective oven, but they are holding me captive. Can't go to work. Don't have access to work from home yet. No point in getting dressed for work yet, because I could be the last call of the day. Can't lay around in my pj's all day, either, because they might miraculously show up on the early side of that time window, and then I would be released back to my regularly scheduled life.

The girls are at school, so there's nobody here to scold or feed or drive places. Everyone else I know is at work already. House is pretty clean already, thanks to the genius of the "extra allowance" chore list I created for the Tornadoes last weekend. I know, it's highly controversial to pay your children to help around the house. They should do their share, blah blah blah...you know what? I don't want to do all the laundry myself, and they want to make a little money. It's a win win.

So there's not much to do while I wait but sit here and drink coffee, look at celebrity mug shots online, and get in touch with my inner hypochondriac. I have developed this little swollen gland under my chin. It doesn't exactly hurt, but I'm super aware of it. Probably because I have touched it about once every ninety seconds since Wednesday night when I first noticed it. I have already checked my symptoms on the Internet - I have only one symptom, this freaky little swollen gland - and it appears I may either have an infection of some sort, or the mumps, or something totally disastrous and unmentionable. Of course, my inner hypochondriac has focused exclusively on that last possibility. I am only an occasional hypochondriac, thank heavens. And while I know the sensible thing to do here is to just give my doctor a call and run it by him, I already know he's going to want me to come in. And I CAN'T come in. I'm waiting for my free service call.

Now, to distract myself from the vision of starring in my own medical emergency, I'm going to go read up on a little Hollywood gossip. And maybe call my doctor.

Softball and Big Girl Bikes

Since I last appeared in the blogosphere, that's pretty much the sum total of what has captured my attention. Whether I liked it or not.

We'll start with softball. I might be in love with softball. Well, love's a bit strong a term...but compared to listening to the same floor routine music seventy-two consecutive times, when it is applicable to your own child's efforts exactly once, softball is pretty much orgasmic. Don't get me wrong: a competition is a competition, and watching gymnastics meets definitely has its moments of intensity. But those moments typically consist of hoping you are not about to watch your daughter fall on her head and become paralyzed and then have to live with the guilt of allowing her to perform completely unnatural maneuvers off of a six inch wide beam set off the ground at the height of her tiny shoulders. In gymnastics, you cheer while you fear. And you pretty much don't really give a crap about watching anybody else's kid as this would merely take up energy you might need to help lift your daughter's stretcher into the ambulance. (Oh, I'm just kidding. I watch those other kids. AND I care.) (That is, unless your kid is up before mine, in which case I'm too busy internally hyperventilating to pay attention.)

Softball, on the other hand, is just a blast all the way around. Every batter, every pitcher, every play, every call by the umpire, it's all cause for rowdiness. (Although we, the parents, have been warned about rowdiness toward the umpire. Apparently, we're supposed to set an example.) It helps that Third Grader is on a successful team this year, with a coach who lives and breathes the game and a bunch of girls who really want to win AND have fun. And it's outdoors. And there's french fries. That's not really a good thing, but I'm enjoying them all the same. And I never, never fear that Third Grader is about to become paralyzed.

Which brings me to the next major attention sucker of the past week: the girls got new bikes. It was so, so overdue. It's embarrassing how overdue it was. Somehow I have allowed my daughters to continue riding their same Toys R Us-issue bicycles - Third Grader on the one that they both learned to ride on, Fifth Grader's barely a notch bigger than that - with the seats hoisted as high as they would go and the pedals practically falling off. I am truly ashamed. The worst part of it is that neither of them has ever said a word to me about it. It didn't really register with me as to how absurd the bike situation had become until I saw them coasting down the driveway earlier this spring and thought to myself, "Where did they get those little clown bikes?" It REALLY registered with me as I watched them tool around the parking lot at the bike shop, trying out appropriately-sized bicycles with multiple speeds and gears. "Holy crap, I suck" was about all I could think. So, many hundreds of dollars later, we brought home their beautiful new bicycles. And every night since we've gotten them, they both get giddy when we pull into the garage. They immediately have to take their bikes outside, even if it's for five minutes in drizzling rain, and then they are at peace.

It's now possible that there's a bicycle in my own future. I haven't been on one since junior high. People say picking anything back up is "like riding a bike"...does that apply to actually riding a bike, you think?

The School Year: An Assessment

So it's June now - the time of year when school winds down, wraps up, and then goes away for a few short months - and I am officially shoulder deep in the process of organizing the summer for the Tornadoes. Organizing the summer pretty much consists of signing them up for camp. Camp after camp after camp after camp.

At this point, I have things pretty well lined up for them. I've left a few weeks open in case they actually want to loll about with me, at least a little bit. Now that I have that beastly project under control, with just four weeks of school remaining (three really, since the last week is basically a wash), I can turn my attention to other matters. Other matters like considering just how well this waning school year has served us all. Was it successful? Did we learn what we needed to learn?

My overall evaluation of the year can be summed up in one word: Unimpressive. Not a stellar experience at all. The Tornadoes, personally and individually, can consider their careers as Third and Fifth Graders a rousing success. Really, best efforts made and noted by all...given what they had to work with, which was a real disappointment. It's like someone let all the air out of the whole faculty this year. The whole "no homework in the fifth grade" thing that I thought was such a sweet deal at first? What a freaking crappy idea that turned out to be. Do you know what happens when you tell a fifth grade girl that she is essentially not ever going to have homework, and then, on a rare occasion, you send her home with a math paper to complete? Fits of tears, people. Throwing of own bodies onto the floor. Not pretty, especially when actually doing the math paper ends up taking about six minutes. I'm not sure what the logic was behind this - if it was supposed to allow the kids to free their minds after school, or perhaps the teachers just didn't feel like grading homework this year - but it's a really, really bad idea.

And really, everything else that has bummed me out about the year can be traced back to one change, which was the replacement of the school librarian. Yep. The librarian. Forget the fact that we had a new principal this year. Please. This is the third principal in five years. It's the school where principals go right before they retire and open their own handyman businesses. The glue, the force behind the whole operation, was the librarian, people. She did EVERYTHING. And she left this year because, why? Because, I believe, they pushed her just a little too far. Because on top of running the sixth grade culture fair, on top of running Invention Convention, on top of directing the chorus, on top of leading reading enrichment, on top of keeping all of the parents actually informed on a weekly basis about what the *&(!@! was going on down at that school, and, oh yeah, also being the librarian, they wanted her to take on even more, and I'm just guessing here, probably without any appropriate and highly deserved pay increase.

And so what were we left with when she left us? An Invention Convention where my own Third Grader made the most fantastic invention ever (really, it was the marketing) and it didn't matter, because the whole thing was "unofficial" and "just for the experience"; a chorus that does a bang-up job of standing in a line and holding black folders, but failed to memorize their songs and, oh, to SING SO YOU COULD HEAR THEM. I'm pretty sure the whole Culture Fair thing didn't even happen - but I don't actually know, because without the librarian, there's no weekly newsletter, and without a weekly newsletter I have no *^%#$! clue what's going on. Which is why Fifth Grader missed out on the babysitting course. And also why Third Grader ended up spending five winter afternoons learning how to knit when she could have been learning how to snowboard, because nobody bothered to tell the parents that all the other sporting alternatives to snowboarding had been taken away this year in favor of things like compass reading and knitting. The good news: she now knits like a pro. The bad news: not planning on taking any family knitting vacations anytime soon.

I can see that I've gotten a little worked up. Sorry. It's just, you know, I am basically living in this itsy bitsy, commerce free, hole-in-the-woods town for one reason and one reason only, that being the historically exceptional quality of the hole-in-the-woods elementary school. You take that away from me and I'm just living unreasonably far away from a decent cup of coffee for no reason at all. Things need to improve. Pronto.

You know, all of this thinking about the quality of the school system got me thinking about something else. Once upon a time, I was twenty something, and kid less, and - I remember this part distinctly - exactly the kind of girl who rolled her eyes and left the room when she found herself listening to young mothers fervently discussing the quality of school systems. So, yeah. Sorry about the eye rolling.

And rock on, librarians!

And The Band Played On

We have just returned home from Fifth Grader's Springtime Musical Spectacular. And it did not disappoint.

When I say that it did not disappoint, I don't mean that it was a night of awe-inspiring performances. What we had on our hands tonight was a riot of first- and second- year pupils of various musical instruments, with a mostly unvarying lack of control over said instruments. We had our standard program of secular musical selections that I have never heard of before - with goofy (and, I suspect, made up) song titles, like "Tyrannosaurus Rocks" - but which, if you close your eyes and strain your ears and maybe stand on just your left foot with your head upside down, sound a little like other, more familiar musical numbers, but off key and with irregular tempos. In other words, we had your standard public-school-music-program-quality spring concert.

What we did not have on tonight's program was a slew of pained adolescent grade-specific singing. The grade-specific singing is always the absolute worst part of these concerts, because...well, just think back to your own grade school music class days. Did you ever actually enjoy singing "Eating Goober Peas" on a stage in front of all of your classmates' parents? You did? I went to private school and we didn't even have a music program, so I'm not speaking from first-hand experience or anything. But I do remember attending a friend's concert, somewhere around the fourth grade, at her public school where I sat with her parents and listened to her class sing...well, "Eating Goober Peas". I don't so much remember it, actually, as bear the mental scar of the experience. So, kids singing on command and actually enjoying it - not so much.

As I said, we skipped that part tonight. The principal made an executive decision to showcase only the instrumental programs and the chorus this time based on the kids' total lack of enthusiasm for even opening their mouths and pretending to sing at the holiday concert a few months back. This was probably intended to teach a lesson to someone, and it did: skipping the part where the kids are supposed to sing, but really don't, takes about forty-five minutes off the program. Lesson learned.

A second lesson is that apparently, when you tell Band Instructor (oh, Band Instructor) that you have eliminated an entire swath of wasted time from the lineup, he takes this as his cue to throw in a few extra numbers for the band. You know what? That's fine with me. Let the man indulge. Are those new glasses he's wearing? He's doing a wonderful job.

If you need a third lesson, here it is. If you take your eyes of the entire fifth grade class for four months, when you next see them all together again? They look like ninth graders. Woah. There's a whole lot of growing up going on around here. Not so sure I like that.

Oh, it wasn't really all that bad. The band kids are actually all pretty enthusiastic and eager to please Band Instructor. I think even Fifth Grader has practiced more than usual lately in preparation for tonight. And the chorus? I could almost hear them! They might have sounded pretty good, to be honest. And they did a great job of holding those black folders. Maybe the song where they had to snap and clap, while holding their black folders, wasn't completely thought out. But hey. Lessons for next time.

Pathetic. Beyond Pathetic. What Comes After Beyond Pathetic?

I'm going to write this post under the assumption that I have let far, far too much time pass since the last one, and that nobody at all is even bothering to check my blog's vital signs anymore, because why bother? Just to come up empty again? Just to discover that the disappointing void of information on the life and times of moi, Fifth Grader, and Third Grader just continues on into the nothingness, with no signal that I might ever say another word about any of it, ever?

I don't blame you, blogosphere, if you have given up on me. Not one bit. I hope that you haven't, but hey. What can be done?

The truth of the matter is that plenty of stuff has happened over the past few weeks - would you like a summary? Let's see, there was Third Grader's acting performance at the end of April vacation. Certainly blogworthy. There's the whole past month of softball practices, softball games, and all things generally softball-related that have made available a whole array of possible posts. There was our three and a half hour drive to Lake George, New York a few weekends back for Gymnastics Regional Championships, plus ensuing hotel experiences in the company of an entire gymnastics team and its doting parents, plus the three and a half hour drive home at the end of the whole debacle. (The hour I spent poolside in deep conversation with Jane Fonda Wannabe herself would have been tasty material. Indeed.)

There was the day that Fifth Grader and her female classmates had to watch "The Movie". You know the one. Oh, and Mother's Day. Mother's Day would have been a great post. And then there's Miami. Yeah, I just got back from Miami. Yesterday, actually. Miami over Memorial Day weekend is a week's worth of posts, easy...and will I write extensively about Miami over Memorial Day weekend? Will I take the time to paint a detailed picture of a loving couple, trying to get away from it all for a few days in a sunny location, finding themselves unsuspectingly stuck in the middle of the annual South Beach Hip Hop Festival? Are you curious about how that went? Because I have stories...oh yes, I do. But will I tell them to you?

Honestly, I'm going to say I probably won't. Because let's face it: I spent seven months enthralling you with my parental observations during gymnastics meet season and then completely BLEW OFF the chance to post about Regionals.

All I can say is: if you happen to see my mojo lying around somewhere, please let me know. 'Cause I'd really, really like it back.

Miami is, of course, still fresh in my mind. It could happen. But it ain't happening tonight. This is all I can muster tonight - this laundry list of prime material that I have allowed to lay, wasted and unused, at my fingertips - before I bid you good night, blogosphere, so I can chase those girls into bed.

If I'm Posting, It Must Be Monday

I don't know what it is right now, but the only day of the week that I seem to have the mental capacity to write is Mondays. Probably has something to do with my deep, internal struggle to balance my business career self, as it returns to the office, with my artistically longing self, which seems to be getting completely lost in the shuffle.

Either that, or I'm getting enough sleep on the weekends and thus can form coherent thoughts again.

I don't know that I really did get all that much sleep this weekend, actually. But I had a damn good time. It was freakishly hot out. Fifth Grader accepted back-to-back birthday party invites on Saturday, leaving Third Grader and I to devise a plan of activity for ourselves. So mini golf it was! There's not much in the entertainment world that can compare to whacking golf balls through shrunken covered bridges and teeny, tiny barns while the scorching sun beats down on your ever-so-pale arms and neck. I got myself a most interesting looking patchy sunburn, and Third Grader's freckles joyfully resurfaced after a long winter hibernation. Love those freckles. On her. My own popped back up as well, but they are decidedly less cute now then they were at nine years old.

Anyway, once we wrapped up the back nine we headed indoors to the arcade for a bit. This is the part where my elfin little girl thought she would show me a thing or two. "Mama, how about this game?" she innocently asked as she sidled up to Dance Dance Revolution. I confess I tried to squirm my way out of her challenge, not really wanting to totally humiliate myself in front of whomever happened to be around. But she would have NONE of that. So? I whooped her little butt instead. That's right, little lady! Mama still knows where it's at! Mama's got some moves! Mama...totally lost Third Grader's interest when I didn't let her win.

After shuttling Fifth Grader from party #1 to party #2, we still weren't quite ready to cash it in, so we capped our Saturday with a little girl time. Pedicures, manicures, a little shopping, a little TGIFridays. We're a couple of wild ones, aren't we? Out on the town on a Saturday night until 9:30! Woo!

Sunday, also a scorcher, involved fetching Fifth Grader, taking Third Grader to softball practice, and watching Boyfriend paint my garage. Definitely not my idea of how to have a good time on a hot Sunday, that whole garage painting thing. And yet, words cannot describe the look of pride in his eyes at the sight of his completed project: a clean, clutter free, whitewalled garage with a painted floor. I'm positive that I did not sufficiently gush over his handiwork, and for that I must compensate. He also fixed my broken garage door, which did make me feel all gushy because I hate large broken things that I have no hope of fixing on my own. Plus I got a little excited this morning when I saw the painted garage with fresh, next day eyes. So I definitely owe Boyfriend some gushing.

Here we are now, back at Monday again. It's vacation week for the Tornadoes. Third Grader is perched on my bed at the moment, script in hand, trying to memorize her lines for this week's acting camp production. Fifth Grader just darted in to inform me she is going to practice her flute until DWTS starts. I think someone forgot to tell them they're on vacation. Personally, I would love to skip DWTS and go to bed. This is not likely to be allowed, so I will end here for now and go reserve my corner of the couch.