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The General and I are battling some awesome flu symptoms and my resolution for the next couple of days is to not puke my guts out with some crazy stomach virus. My uncle Pete sounded like someone was murdering him from the inside out the day we left Sedalia and headed back to Minneapolis and I really wish to not replicate that.
Neither does Riley.
When we were visiting Missouri in October (you know, for a high school football game and a Chili Cookoff), I left my good/favorite glasses at my parents’ house. I didn’t have them mail them, because I had another pair at home. My other pair of glasses, while equally as stylish, were just not cutting the mustard for me, so I only ended up wearing half the time, which obviously developed muchos headaches.
In the two months between my visits to Missouri, I probably should have just ordered some new eyeglasses, but that would have taken initiative that I just didn’t have (outside of work, of course) over the past couple of months. I probably could have gotten them in time to make sure the different holiday frames that Zenni Optical offers were applicable to the Yuletide season. I could have rocked any of these styles:
Now that I have my favorite red and black frames back and I know I can always rely on those, it might be time to order some new ones. I do love the idea of spending $8.95 on a pair of frames I found online and not having to deal with the crazy sales people at other places I’ve purchased glasses where they’ve asked me if I’ve wanted 5,201 different kinds of protective coating on my lenses. Plus, all the money I save ordering frames online can go right into our glass jar full of Vegas funds.
The last five days in Sedalia, my mornings went like this: wake up on my own around 7:30. Try to go back to sleep a little bit more. Never happened. Wake up and go downstairs. Take Riley out, usually wearing no shoes and a t-shirt (optional pants). Go back inside. Have Grandma’s chocolate pie for breakfast. Get dressed. Take Riley out again and walk across the street to visit Grandma and Grandpa. Drive a golf cart to my uncle’s horse pasture and drive back while he leads one of the horses next to the golf cart. Eat some cookies for second breakfast. Continue on my day.
This morning, my morning went like this: wake up several times throughout the night because I was scared I’d sleep through my alarm. Stare at the new alarm clock The General got me for Christmas, because it projects the time on the wall/ceiling and I love it. Finally wake up. Try to find black socks. Apply hair product. Scrape the ice off my windshield. Shiver during my morning commute. Find myself behind a FARM VEHICLE. FOR THREE MILES OF MY FIVE MILE COMMUTE. (My commute goes from urban Minneapolis to downtown Minneapolis. I was very confused.) Delete 14,000 emails. (Not an exaggeration. I got a note from IT saying do it or die.)
If I could combine all of the things of my regular morning with a daily walk over to my grandparents’ house, it’d be kind of perfect.
It’s usually night like tonight, too.
Drive home from work where The Boy and I yammer away about homework, cleaning his room, a kid at school that’s kind of a jerk, and Minneapolis city curfews. The Boy does his math homework while we run to the store for paper towels, a prescription, and a winter scarf Riley can wear to his first visit to Santa on Saturday.
The three of us stand around in the kitchen. Well, The General cooks, I open things and taste test new recipes. The Boy, in his attempt at talking his way out of cleanup duty, tried to say he helped with dinner prep by “providing conversation”.
Dinner at the table, discussions about hot sauce and what size shoe The Boy’s dad wears. Then it’s off to bathe for The Kid and some program watching for the adults.
Now I’m in bed with little Thelma. The Kid has a Panic at the Disco CD on repeat while he sleeps. And The General and Riley are closing up shop downstairs before coming up to bed.
Nights like this have become my life and I don’t have a complaint in the world about it.
And if someone types Mrs. Piatt and coldcock into Google and finds this site, all my lifelong dreams will come true.
More to the point, had I ever called my 11th and 12th grade math teacher (Mrs. Piatt) by her first name, I can almost guarantee you should have thrown that overhead project in my general direction. She got mad enough when I tried to lie to her and tell her I didn’t have a middle name, so I can’t imagine what would have happened had I taken the liberty of calling her Linda. I don’t even think my 10th grade English teacher had a first name. Rumor around school was that she was reincarnated from a horse, or so she believed, so she probably didn’t need a first name.
The Kid and I were on the way home today and he started talking about school. I asked him who his favorite teachers were. He responded with Justin and Shane (not their real names) and I was like, “Wait, what?” And then I remembered that it’s 2011 and kids call their teachers by their first names! He did it last year, too. He called all of his teachers by their first name (at their request) with the exception of his hateful arts teacher and the two male teachers he had. Turns out, he’s been calling his teachers by their first name since first grade.
Is this the thing now? I mean, I have friends that are teachers, but they’re Mrs. This or Ms. That. Even my bestie from back in the day, who ended marrying into the last name Dick, had her students call her by her last name. Is it a big city thing? Newer teachers trying to be more liberal and friendly? What the heck is that all about?
I’m up past 10:00PM the night before the Twin Cities 3 Day starts. I haven’t been up this late the night before The 3 Day since 2004. Around this time for the past six years, I’d be trying to force myself to sleep knowing I had to be somewhere way before the sun came up the next morning, hoping to get a good night’s sleep before walking 60 miles or up and crewing for 15 hours straight each day.
Through The 3 Day, I’ve met hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people that have individually changed my life in some way or another. I’ve been dehydrated, had blisters the size of golf balls, needed IVs from urgent care, wore a walking cast for two months, had chafing in areas I don’t feel comfortable discussing publicly, shaved my head, broken traffic laws just to pick up tired walkers, had the police yell at me, drank so many energy drinks my pee was neon colored, and through it all have managed to raise over $15,000 to try to help find a cure for breast cancer. I’m okay with taking this year off. Sort of.
Keep an eye out on the 2011 Twin Cities 3-Day Pink Carpet. We’ll be updating it all weekend.
Seabreast, out.
A long time ago, The General showed me this video:
If you don’t want to watch the video, which is dripping (in a good way) with passion, then you can read the lyrics right here and it will give you an inkling of how beautiful the video is.
Then, I want you to read this article. If you haven’t read this, you should. I love it so much. There will be a quiz on this should The General and I ever have a daughter. I apologize to every adorable little girl that I’ve ever said “Look at you, so pretty!” the very first time I met them. You’re more than just pretty; you’re AWESOME.
It hit 100 again here today. That’s twice all summer. I’m not complaining too much, because it’s only happened twice. In Missouri, I think it’s happened 209 times in the past two months. Go ahead and do the math on that one.
Today, while at work, all I could think about was going swimming. I opted for running on the treadmill and riding the stationary bike for a while at the gym instead. And the entire time I was running, the only thing I could think about was how I spent the best summers of my life as a kid at a cabin my grandparents had near Warsaw, MO. Yes, that’s where this guy is from, who was arrested on having wanton waste of fish. (I can’t help it. I love that phrase.) We’d swim daily in a lake that was way too deep and we were way too unsupervised most of the time.
And that’s all I really want to do now. Except every time I think about it, I think of the massive snapping turtle that my LYLAS-BFF Angie and I saw one day while we were in the same lake. And ever since then, I haven’t exactly been chomping at the bit to go hog wild swimming in a lake. That may very well change if too many of these 100 degree days keep happening.
I walked outside yesterday morning, not at all ready to start the work week, but what are you going to do, right? I noticed my rear passenger side tire was low which meant a stop at the gas station for some free air was imminent. I got to the gas station and filled ‘er up. I noticed there was a little fraying action going on, but tried not to get too concerned. Handed off the air hose to the next person, hopped in my car and hoped to not have to change a tire on my way into work.
WELL, THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN.
Two blocks from Holiday, I heard a pop and air come gushing out. And because I’ve bent a rim (or two) before by not pulling over immediately, I yanked Danger (that’s my car) over to the side of the road before I even had a chance to look to see if anyone else was coming. Threw on the hazard lights and, yep, that sumbitch was flat. Flatter than flat.
This was the third tire I’ve managed to pop in some fashion since we bought the car in January 2010. I’m not sure if that just means I’m really efficient or if those were some cheap ass tires that my car came with. (Considering the dealership I bought the car from wouldn’t even fill up my gas tank when we bought it, I am not opposed to this being the answer.)
Nobody’s ever taught me how to change a tire. I’m pretty sure my dad still tries to pretend I’m “just a girl” and can’t do things like that. I tried to get him to show me how to change sparkplugs a couple of years ago, but he was talking to his dog instead of me. FYI: his dog is also a girl. (Dad, I love you, but c’mon. You need to teach me this stuff!!)
Popped off the hubcap, no problem at all. Learned my lesson last time about the lug nuts, so I threw the wrench on there and stomped on all five of them. Then came the part I can’t ever do – yanking the wheel off. I had my work clothes on, so throwing my body against it and yanking with all my body weight wasn’t an option. So I did the thing that I learned last time I popped a tire – I started hammering away on the wheel with the wrench and shoving it in all the little holes to try to pry it off. And guess what. It worked.
I’m quick and nimble with the wrench and it only took me about five minutes to get my trusty donut (who’s been in three different spots at this point) on and the blown out tire thrown into the back.
When I was finished, I gave oncoming traffic a one finger salute, told all of the people that drove by without helping me to fuck off, and headed into work. Only 20 minutes late.
Attention Ladies: Changing a tire is not hard. I promise. All of the things you need are in your car. You might get a little dirty, but that’s kinda hot.
Do you think those dirty five-dollar-no-hollar massage parlors would get in as much trouble if they referred to things as “successful conclusion” as opposed to “happy ending”? Microsoft Word seems to think so.
