The Hierarchy

The girls and I plodded down the hill to the park, keeping our eyes on a cacophony of bodies splayed over, in and around the play structure. It was covered with writhing school children practicing every wrong way to use the facility. I looked over at Shelby's gaping mouth and then snapped my own shut. "Auugghhhhhh!" It's origin was a group of mothers huddled on the lawn together, heads tossed back in laughter, hands wildly waving in animation, noisily chatting all at once. This was their weekly after school play date. I watched this clique of seasoned moms like an awkward freshman gazing at the popular senior circle in envy. Their shirts were pressed, their hair done, the look of refreshed calm across their powdered faces after their 6 hour school day was spent at the yoga studio, followed by a blissful afternoon in their baby contraption free living room reading adult literature and painting their nails. Oh, to be them! Am I drooling? Oh, no that's Ana. Crap, a wet spot on the crotch of my jeans. Perfect. Well, for now I'm wrestling too tight tights, tying shoes, catching spit up and wiping asses. Someday, I too will graduate.


The Sharpest Tool

Stupid things I've done lately:

Channeled my inner kid and slid down the 3 story tube slide at Del Mar Park...I waved to my kids, tucked my arms and flew down the chute. It was awesome! Until I reached the end at mach speed, cleared the slide and landed flat on my back in the dirt. Rough landing in white sweatshirt.

Packed up the kids in the car to run errands, ran back in the house to grab the last of my supplies and clipped a nasty hang nail in the process. Somewhere between the bank and the park I noticed my hang nail. I clipped the wrong finger.

Bought some fabulous oil cloth at the local fabric store and a swath of peuce green material intended for a table runner for tonight's dinner party. I arrived home to decorate with my newest purchases only to recall my fabric being last seen on the hood of my car. Oh S$@! I loaded the girls back in the car and screeched around town madly searching the gutters for a pile of green and white fabric. I banged on the owner's CLOSED sign and begged for her to open up with news of a recovered package to no avail. I turned down the corners of my mouth, cranked up some Indigo Girls and wailed all the way home.

There have been signs of intellectual life in there, too. Take this moment for example, right now, while I'm typing to you, BOTH kids are napping! At the same time! For the second day in a row.


Dirt and Dress Slacks

I was plodding away on the treadmill at the gym this morning when a thought occurred to me. The human race has worked so hard to develop technology that eliminates physical labor. The pioneers of this country spent their lives working out for survival, for travel, for food. I looked around at all these people running in place, like hamsters on the wheel, and pictured them sitting at their cubicles in front of a computer. Wouldn't it be funny if gym exercise emulated historical daily routines? You know, you roll in to the gym for your 10 minute cardio warm-up, which is a pen full of chickens to chase around for tonight's main course. Then you swing an axe for 10 minutes, chopping wood while simultaneously strengthening your core and working your hamstrings. I'd love to see that lady with all the makeup and the fake boobs drag her mule and plow through the dirt for "Power Pull Class". So all these people come to the gym to workout so they don't crease their starched shirts and pressed slacks. I suppose I'm one of them, sitting at the computer after an hour at the gym (in my pants suit and heels, of course).


Garage Sale Gripes

I jingled the quarters in my pocket and surveyed the progress of our Sunday garage sale. We had sold a lot of stuff, most of which was our neighbor's, not ours. Tim and Marisa were moving their three young kids to Colorado in a few weeks and I had offered our garage sale if "they had a few things to get rid of". We sat alone with our junk this morning for two hours, until Tim stopped by with two wagons piled high, assuring us our luck would change. "Just wait, guys, you'll be flooded with people soon enough," he laughed, "Hey, John, mind if I borrow your truck to get the last our stuff?" WHAT??? Oh yeah, it really was an entire truckload of silk flower swags and baby contraptions and Tim didn't hang around to see it sell. John and I spent the next 8 hours peddling crap, most of which was not ours, to a trickle of passersby. $63.75. That's what we had to show for our day after we handed Tim his fifty bucks. We didn't collect commission, and Tim didn't offer to pay us for spending our day selling his junk while he washed his cars and took the family to lunch. We loaded the garage sale remains (and Tim's) into John's truck for Goodwill. Shelby surveyed the heap of junk and exclaimed, "Holy Crap!" John and I exchanged glances, and then looked down at our three year old. "What?" she says, innocently shrugging her shoulders, "I just said holy crap. It's okay. I didn't say holy shit."