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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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1:07 p.m. - 2010-03-01
Sorry to be such a droop. I remember when I used to be kind of funny, even when having a bad time I bitched about it in an amusing way. Winter's getting to me, I guess. Went to the gym. Did 40 minutes of weight training, but wasn't up for the treadmill. MIL was all, "That's okay! I'll go home and re-shingle the roof or something. A light day is probably good every few years, right?" Okay, slight exaggeration, but honestly when your 71 year old mother-in-law is always that eager and always that tough it gets wearisome. I suppose I should be grateful, if lil Miss Schwarzenegger hadn't been there waiting for me I definitely would have bagged going to the gym altogether. And that's how it starts, you blow off one day and it just gets easier and easier to keep blowing off until the idea of going to the gym at all is so guilt-ridden and has become so yucky in your mind that it's impossible to ever go again. So, thanks, MIL. I'll see you Thursday. Grumbling, unwilling, and about as excited about it as I would be going in for a root canal, but I'll be there. It's warmed up enough that the snow is starting to slide off the shattered trees and bowed down roofs in big ploppy glops. So that's good. What else? Mike took Wolf to the mall and my son came home with a new pair of sneakers. Big gaudy basketball sneakers endorsed by Shaq himself. Wolf also bought something that I can only call 'pants jewelry'. Not precisely a wallet chain, but like that in there's big heavy links with knobbly things that sort of look like jingle bells, except they don't make noise, and you wear it threaded through some of the belt loops and let most of the chain hang down in a big swoop of lumpy link-y 'silver'. So my kid took out of here this morning in his diarrhea-colored furry hoodie with the skull and crossbones on it, resplendent in humongus patent-leather basketball sneakers and his new thug-a-riffic pants jewelry. Whoo. I am such a proud mother. My kid is about as hip-hop as Wally Cox, but he's going to dress the part in his own wacky way. At least until he comes to terms with having the physique of a swizzle stick and his mom's pretty face. Of the two, it's the pretty face that's bothering him more. At least once a week we go through a wailing gender-identity crisis. "Owww whoo! I look like a GIRRRRRLLLL!!!!" Exit muttering child. Slouching off to his room to practice looking mean and dreaming of facial hair yet to come.
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