Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The S Is Silent
A random sampling of what's happening and not happening here.
I'm still losing weight. An hour on the elliptical each day absolves a multitude of sins including a supper consisting of one Sonic small chocolate malted inhaled on the fly between kid activities and a quarter bag of Brachs Candy Corn. Please note that I'm keeping track now. It's not a whole bag or even a half. That quarter is significant.
And most days, I'm still eating whole grain, beans, lean protein and wearing a somewhat surly, sugar deprived expression.
MathMan's job has changed some. He's stopped screaming in his sleep so that's nice.
Nathan and his baseball buddies have been doing things suggested by Tosh.0 involving Icy Hot. I'm convinced that hearing about group testosterone activities makes life worth living.
Sophie, who isn't the least bit interested in the typical tween definition of cool, is in both the middle school band and an active member of its Academic Team. Her siblings are worried that she's committing social suicide.
"Mom, don't let her do it." Comes the plea from Nate. He's afraid of being tainted with Nerdism by association.
"I hardly think that anyone willing to smear Icy Hot on his butt before running in a pack of fools around the ball field is an arbiter of good social sense," I bite out at him. He shakes his head and limps away.
"But, Mother, it's going to follow her," moans Chloe who had to endure her younger bother's near undoing of her perfect student legacy.
I cluck my tongue at her. "Seriously? You link arms with other girls and sing sorority songs and you think Sophie's on the wrong track?" I huff. "When I was in college, I would have thought you were a total loser. And so would all of my artsy fartsy punky friends."
MathMan hung with a crowd who mocked the Greek system by calling themselves the Pi Rhos. In between drinking beer straight from the pitcher and cleverly seducing him hours after I met him (slurring I'd do you in a second into his ear), I obtained clarification on his status vis a vis the Greek system. I may have been slutty, but I did not fuck frat boys. I had my standards.
But I digress. In fact, I rethink. Maybe if I'd married one of those frat boys, I wouldn't be Brokey McBrokenstein today. Nope. I'd have a nice alimony settlement, the condo, a plastic surgeon on speed dial, my half of the Country Club membership and a sporty little convertible. Damn it. Hoisted by my own reverse snobby petard. Pretty in Pink indeed.
Cripes. Where was I? Oh, right. Sophie. So she's on the Academic Team and those kids are kicking butt and rocking those team polo shirts. Yesterday I attended the meet and got a little frustrated and stabby (hence the comfort malted later). The person reading the questions and giving out correct answers when necessary was didn't know how to pronounce some key words like almondine. Yes I'm an elitist snob. So what? At least I didn't elbow my way over to the desk, rip the question sheets from the woman's hands and yell "For goodness sake, let someone who knows how to pronounce bas relief do this, okay?"
No, I just sat fidgeting in my seat, fantasizing about doing that and checking Twitter on my phone.
I think I've paralyzed myself again with too much information about the publishing world. Every time I pick up the manuscript to work on it, I get all itchy and nervous sweaty. As an antidote, I've been reading a lot. I've got two books I'm reading, one that I'm listening to the audio version of when I'm in the car and two in the queue to read. I scored Jonathan Franzen's Freedom at the library and put it on my To Read stack. The thing is so dang huge, though, so I picked the audio version up at the library and have decided to give it a listen because I'm such a slow reader, but a fast listener.
I'm enjoying the audio book of Water for Elephants so far except the parts narrated by the ninety-something Jacob Jankowski freak me out a little bit. That could have something to do with the fact that my birthday is hurtling toward me and I'm going to be half-way to ninety. When I consider how quickly this forty-five years has gone and then remember that as you age, time seems to go even more quickly (something to do with percentages), well, it sets my brain spinning. Plus it reminds me that I need to reiterate to my children that I would prefer to be taken to a field and shot and left to become part of the circle of life rather than put into a nursing home should I not be able to care for myself. I am not of the prolong my life at any cost crowd. Once my quality of life is gone, just end it. I'll leave a permission slip to placate the authorities.
Well, that took a rather macabre turn, didn't it? Sorry about that. Let's have a song and dance on out of here. Before you go, please tell us how's your Wednesday? What's new? What are you reading these days? Does my butt look smaller?