I get up at five every morning to write. I make a pot of coffee. I let the dog out. I let the dog back in. I let him back out. And then back in. There is something psychologically wrong with our dog. He’s incapable of living in the moment. Always wishing he were somewhere else. I’m like, NO, ACTUALLY, THE GRASS REALLY IS GREENER ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THAT DOOR. STAY OUT AND ENJOY. So then I finally get settled in at the computer, and then my coffee kicks in …
Larry once did a hilarious Cosmo Kramerish impression of what I sound like walking down the hall to the bathroom in the morning. It involved the scraping of desk chair legs, crazy clomping foot steps, a door slam, and the mad spin of the toilet paper roll. I was shocked when he did it, though, because I’d always thought of myself as really quiet and considerate. We live in an old house with creaky floor boards, and I've cultivated this weird morning courtesy walk, whereby I suck in my stomach and hunch my shoulders and lift my feet very high. Almost like I’m haunting my own house. Turns out it’s not that effective.
Not.
It is amazing that a human being can eat well, exercise fairly intensely, and still have an ass like a Shar-Pei. I keep staring at my thighs, like COME THE EFF ON. Are you kidding me? What is wrong with you guys? My cousin, Katie, who has approximately zero and a half percent body fat, would say it’s because I don’t lift weights. That if I lifted weights twice a week instead of running, I would burn more fat and be leaner and more muscular, but you know what? I’ve tried that. No good came of it. I think in order to build muscle, you have to have muscles to begin with, and I happen to have peppermint Tic-Tacs where my quads and biceps should be. Tic-Tacs in lard. I’ve become quite the Southern dish.
So, here we are. Monday morning. It’s also the first day of Teacher Appreciation Week at Gus’s school, which should give me plenty of opportunities to screw things up for my child.
Today is “FLOWERS!” day.
So I got to thinking, eighteen kids are going to bring that poor woman flowers? That sucks. Personally I hate flowers. Not conceptually ... but in practice. Flowers are way too much resposibility. Even worse? Plants. OH GOD I LOATHE PLANTS. Giving me a plant is like giving me an orphan to kill. So, because I choose to filter everything through my own personal lens, I gave Gus the option of drawing a picture of a flower for his teacher—which he thought was a good idea.
Now we just sit tight and wait for my strategy to backfire. (Mawwwm, all the kids brought real flowers and I just had this stupid picture and now she thinks I'm a stupid boy ...)
Or maybe I'll swing by Kroger and get her a plant after all.
Larry once did a hilarious Cosmo Kramerish impression of what I sound like walking down the hall to the bathroom in the morning. It involved the scraping of desk chair legs, crazy clomping foot steps, a door slam, and the mad spin of the toilet paper roll. I was shocked when he did it, though, because I’d always thought of myself as really quiet and considerate. We live in an old house with creaky floor boards, and I've cultivated this weird morning courtesy walk, whereby I suck in my stomach and hunch my shoulders and lift my feet very high. Almost like I’m haunting my own house. Turns out it’s not that effective.
So, the past week or so have been very full. We had a soccer game:
and Gus’s school art show, where this piece was displayed.
And then Friday night there was MY EVENING WITH DAVID SEDARIS! which I had the pleasure of reviewing for Her (and by "pleasure of reviewing" I mean "JOY! JOY! FREE TICKETS FOR ME! YES!") Oh how I love that little man. So funny and adorable, I do not understand why they don’t make a Sedaris doll to sell after the shows. I’m like, I have all your books; it is the autographed plush doll I lack. Can you picture it? A miniature stuffed David Sedaris wearing a pale pink necktie, sitting on my pillow jotting things down in his diary. Maybe someday.
And my running regimen, which kicks into high gear every spring, has (wait for it!) kicked into high gear this spring. By the end of winter, I’m content to run four miles and call it a day. Some winter days I’m content to strap a feedbag around my face and say WHAT? YOU EXPECT ME TO RUN WITH THIS FEEDBAG STRAPPED TO MY FACE? EVER HEARD OF FACIAL CHAFING? PLEASE. Come spring, though, anything less than six miles a day feels unacceptable to me. And on the weekends I’ve been doing longer runs of 8 to 11 miles. All of this, I must say, is having dramatic and positive effects on my body!Not.
It is amazing that a human being can eat well, exercise fairly intensely, and still have an ass like a Shar-Pei. I keep staring at my thighs, like COME THE EFF ON. Are you kidding me? What is wrong with you guys? My cousin, Katie, who has approximately zero and a half percent body fat, would say it’s because I don’t lift weights. That if I lifted weights twice a week instead of running, I would burn more fat and be leaner and more muscular, but you know what? I’ve tried that. No good came of it. I think in order to build muscle, you have to have muscles to begin with, and I happen to have peppermint Tic-Tacs where my quads and biceps should be. Tic-Tacs in lard. I’ve become quite the Southern dish.
So, here we are. Monday morning. It’s also the first day of Teacher Appreciation Week at Gus’s school, which should give me plenty of opportunities to screw things up for my child.
Today is “FLOWERS!” day.
So I got to thinking, eighteen kids are going to bring that poor woman flowers? That sucks. Personally I hate flowers. Not conceptually ... but in practice. Flowers are way too much resposibility. Even worse? Plants. OH GOD I LOATHE PLANTS. Giving me a plant is like giving me an orphan to kill. So, because I choose to filter everything through my own personal lens, I gave Gus the option of drawing a picture of a flower for his teacher—which he thought was a good idea.
Now we just sit tight and wait for my strategy to backfire. (Mawwwm, all the kids brought real flowers and I just had this stupid picture and now she thinks I'm a stupid boy ...)
Or maybe I'll swing by Kroger and get her a plant after all.
