IF THE SHOE FITS...

Remember my flood of fashion faux pas?  How about those mortifying moments?  Have you forgotten the Floss Fiasco, the schmutz on my shorts, and the mane mess?  I am the first to admit that I am not a fashionista.  When presented with the Sparkly Butt Challenge, it took me a year to meet the deadline, and when I did, nobody else was blinging their bums.  The last challenge I was issued involved buying boots.  It has been two years, but I have finally found success.

I had been investigating the Internet, searching cyberspace for the perfect pair.  I am particular about buying bovine boots and I was insistent about them being black, with a bit of definition of the back of the boot, the heel.  I finally found some fantastic footwear.  The new boots arrived just in time for my return to work, dressed as Cruella Deville.

I loved the boots from the moment I opened the box.  The left boot fit as if it were made for me.  The right boot, well, fit as if it were made for someone with a skinnier foot.  I figured it was because my right foot is my bigger foot.  There was no way I was sending those boots back.  Maybe they would expand with wear, I thought.  If necessary, I would even take them to the shoe man down the street to get stretched.

I wore the boots with pants tucked in one day, and with a skirt the next.  I felt like a new me. Never mind that I hadn't been to work for six weeks and I should have felt that way, I attributed my hip outlook on life to my new boots.  The day I went to the Museum of Glass to watch famous glassblower Dale Chihuly, I felt so artsy in my boots and skirt that I spent a ridiculous amount of time in the museum bathroom, trying to take a picture of myself rocking my outfit.  Due to my inexperience at selfies, the best picture was blurry. [Upon reflection, I realize that I have spent a good portion of my life playing at one thing or another in bathrooms, see my admission here.]

Even with all of the action my boots were getting, that right boot remained considerably more snug than the left boot.  One day there was even some extra residue on my sock when I pulled my foot out of the boot, and I thought that it was leather crumbs caused by the friction of my Smartwool sock inside the tight boot.  I figured a few more outings in these bad boys would fix that problem.

Last Monday morning I was deeply engulfed in my morning routine.  I had saved my contact lens insertion for last so that I could read important documents, like the lunch menu and the weather forecast, with ease.  As I was bending down to zip my boot, I noticed something light-colored and wrinkled in my boot.  My first thought was that it had been so tight that I was somehow folding the leather down into the foot compartment.  I leaned further down for a closer look and to smooth out the wrinkled leather.  LO AND BEHOLD!  I reached in and pulled out the cardboard insert!  I felt like Little Jack Horner, but a lot less messy.

Aunque la mona se vista de seda, mona se queda.
Dress a monkey as you will, it remains a monkey still.
                                                           

TAKIN' CARE OF BUSINESS

I know I am not the only busy person in the world.  Today made my head spin.  Stop reading right now, Dear Reader, if you are not up to wading through my combination Pity Party and Victory Dance (to the tune of my theme song, "Takin' Care of Business", as you already know).

5:45 a.m. Hit SNOOZE to stop the guy on the radio talking about when he found out his mom was really his sister.
5:55 a.m. Turned off the alarm before it came on again.  Jumped out of bed after having a premonition of how busy the day would be.  Fed the cats.
6:05 a.m. Threw ingredients into the Crock Pot (it is #3, if you are wondering which of my five I used) for tonight's dinner.
6:15 a.m. Barely escaped falling into the chest freezer while digging out hamburger for tomorrow's Rock the Crock event at work.
6:20 a.m. Wrote myself a note to take out the garbage and prepare the Crock to Rock.
6:22 a.m. Made Girl9's breakfast.  Toaster waffle with peanut butter and syrup.  Breakfast of a champion, and in my estimation, should be what every 4th grader dreams of for breakfast.  My opinion seems to be only that - my opinion.
6:25 a.m. Made my lunch. Hummus and turkey on diet bread.  An apple.  Lunch of a dieter.  Threw in that bag of M & Ms that has been calling me ever since it mysteriously opened itself.
6:35 a.m. Packed a basketball gear bag for Girl9.  Shorts, shirt, shoes.
6:40 - 7:00 Met my own basic needs, including showering, dressing, eating a bagel and slurping the sweet nectar of life, in the form of instant orange cappuccino.
7:05 Grabbed my lunch, my voter's ballot, another child's coat to be reunited with its owner, and reminded Girl9 to snag her basketball bag, backpack and wear a coat with a hood, as she would be walking to her school from my work.  Hoods are necessary to combat precipitation in our climate.
7:18 Arrived at work.  Mailed my ballot.  Unlocked the door for two boys to do some work on a project in my classroom.
7:20 Wrote a note to allow Girl9 to be picked up at school by someone different from the norm.
7:45 Escorted a parade of small children to my classroom to await departure to their own school.
8:15 Greeted my first class.  They greeted me with complaints about their late work not earning full credit.  Upon inquiry, discovered that boys who worked in the classroom before school did not really do any work.
8:20 Sent small children to walk to their own school.
8:20 - 11:10.  Taught large children while enduring complaints about grades and amount of homework.  Gave quizzes to three classes.  Corrected them throughout the day.
11:10 Supervised a boy working on his project in my classroom.  Let us call him Logan.  This was supposed to be my lunch time.
11:40 Wolfed down hummus sandwich and sucked up more nectar of life.
11:45 - 12:45 Attended a training meeting.  Was called out at one time to clarify how Girl9 was getting home.
12:45 - 2:00 Attended a team meeting.
2:00 - 2:45 Recorded grades in grade book.  Picked up scissors, tape and string from the floor where Lunchtime Logan had left them.
2:45 - 2:50 Walked to Girl9's school.
3:05 Attended Girl9's teacher conference.
3:30 Attended another conference for Girl9.
4:00 Returned to my own workplace, lugging a large bag of fundraising items sold by Girl9.
4:05 Attended a union meeting.  Ate a bunch of those M & Ms previously mentioned.
5:15 Picked up Girl9 from basketball practice.
5:30 Arrived home.  Threw rice in rice cooker.  Fed the cats. Brought in a load of firewood.  Started a new load of laundry. Read note.  Took out garbage.  Thawed meat for tomorrow's Rock the Crock.  Cooked meat for said event.  Dished up dinner and ate it.  Encouraged Girl9 to practice the piano and requested backup on laundry duty.  Girl9 was kind enough to fold a load of clothes.
7:00 Wrote a worksheet for tomorrow's class.
8:30 Cleaned up kitchen.  Collected ingredients to make tomorrow's Rock the Crock at the crack of dawn.  Fed wood stove.
9:00 Fell asleep while watching TV.

R.I.P.

If you are hoping for a laugh today, you shall have to look elsewhere.  Please come back another day for a chuckle or two.

Class of 1983, I sat with you today.  The last time we were all in one place was June, 1983, at our high school graduation ceremony.  We sat on folding chairs on the football field.  A light breeze whiffed our tassels.  Today we sat indoors on plastic chairs with a flag-covered wooden casket before us.  Those who could not be here held us close in their thoughts with heavy hearts.  Today we mourned the loss of our childhood friend.

We came to show our love and respect for Jeff and his family, but we also came to support each other.  In the days before this, we have been lighting up Facebook, as well as the phone lines, consoling and comforting one another, checking on each other, sharing our memories.  Today we held hands, hugged, and shared Kleenexes.  Those who could make the trip, both physically and emotionally, witnessed a wonderful tribute to our classmate.

I have never before attended a funeral with so much pomp.  There were firefighters from at least three districts in their dress blues.  At the beginning and again at the end of the service, all uniformed firefighters were required to go outside and form a line along the route the casket took between the fire truck and the door to the building.  There was an honor guard, the members of which took turns standing at the casket.  The honor guard also ceremoniously folded the flag that was draped over the casket and presented it to Jeff's mother.  There were bagpipers who played while the casket was being brought in by the honor guard, and they played Amazing Grace while the casket was being taken out.  The firefighters' rituals were fascinating, and I wished that I knew more about them.  It was a beautiful ceremony.

Jeff's brother-in-law showed a video that he had created using photographs and scrapbook pages, and set to music.  We saw Jeff as a baby, we saw the Jeff that was our school mate, and we saw Jeff as the man he had become.  So many of those younger pictures of Jeff made it all seem like yesterday.  Basketball games, dances, parties - when did that time fly by?

Several people spoke about Jeff.  We can all agree that he had a wonderful smile and a kind heart.  We learned how dedicated he was to his profession.  His generosity knew no bounds - we heard how he emptied his entire wallet to a family who lost everything in a fire.  No matter who it was, everyone had a funny tale to tell us that reminded us of the boy we knew: he could belch the alphabet, he always wore two pairs of socks, he loved to play with fire, he could defy the rules of food preservation and eat anything with no fear of unpleasant consequences.

Class of 1983, I sat with you today.  You helped me become who I am now, and I hope I had a teeny part in helping you become who you are.  We are not the same group who sat on the football field in June of 1983. We are five fewer.

THE HOT MESS

This is not table talk.  It really is not fodder for any decent conversation.  Please do not try to start up some small talk with a stranger on the bus with this story, and do not try to impress your in-laws with this information.

Girl9 and I were living the dream, growling, "VACATION, BABY!" at each other and taking a small road trip to the north.  We managed to cram in swimming on a lake, a wedding, a party, a birthday party, and the Big Ferris Wheel all in three days.  We kept up our strength by eating at every opportunity.  If there was no opportunity, we secretly snacked.

We had taken the Light Rail to the big city with our family and had our fun.  In this context, "had our fun" means that some of us rode the Biggest Ferris Wheel on Earth while others trembled under it and gawked, and then we trotted to Red Robin and drank scores of lemonade.  We took the train back to where the cars were parked, but as we neared the station, it became obvious that before driving all the way home (to play in a soccer game), we should make use of the public restroom at the Light Rail station.  If you are eating, please stop reading immediately.   Do not read any further to find out if we got off the train, or if we stepped in gum (that happened earlier to one of us, and the gum was BLUE), or if we made friends with the little kids across the aisle.  Stop.  Right.  Now.

I knew that there was no way I could last through the 64 miles back to our house, so Girl9 and I burst out of the train, galloped down the steps (actually she bounded down the escalator) and race walked to the ladies' room, trying hard not to run over any old people.  Ladies' room is really not an accurate name for what we found, as the atmosphere was certainly not refined and the occupant was definitely not well-spoken.  We opened the door and entered a cloud of smoke.  I am not being euphemistic here, it was a haze of cigarette smoke.  The one stall was occupied.  Girl9 bent down to check the occupant's feet.  If you are of the female persuasion, you understand this.  I cannot explain why it is important to do this, but it is.  Girl9 later reported that the red-toenail-painted feet were in "bejeweled flip flop sandals".  This is only important because later she was able to identify the culprit.  Please push your small children away from the computer if they are reading over your shoulder.

Girl9 and I, having four X-chromosomes between us, have had plenty of bathroom experience and we settled ourselves for a short wait, standing properly out of the way of the entry door, and with pleasant expressions on our faces.  It was difficult to keep my eyes from popping out when I heard the first expletive from the inside of the stall.  Girl9 and I made eye contact, but standard etiquette dictated that we say nothing aloud.  My back straightened and my ears perked up when the next profanities were promulgated, but that was after hearing a multitude of toilet paper being unwound and torn, perhaps even shredded (I didn't have a visual at that point).  After the toilet had been flushed several times in a row, more oaths had been uttered, and enough ribbons of toilet paper were rent to make a mummy, I grabbed Girl9's hand and dragged her out.  I assured her that I had a backup plan.  No pun intended.

We were scurrying toward the parking lot, I in the lead with Girl9 plodding behind me, looking longingly back toward the station, when she said, "She's gone!  There she is!  She's out!"  Knowing that she had previously made note of the feet inside the stall, I did an about face and we hustled back to that bathroom as if a swarm of bees were chasing us.  Flinging open the door, we came to a halt.  Two little girls blocked the doorway and sadly informed us that the bathroom "needed cleaning".

Girl9 was brave enough, or perhaps desperate enough, to venture inside.  Pushing through the fog of smoke that lingered, she discovered the cause of the cursing, as well as the hot mess that remained as evidence.  She reported that the single silver toilet was filled to the brim with toilet paper, and that any visible water was brownish yellow.  There were toilet seat covers strewn all over the floor and enough toilet paper to supply a small family covered the ground.  There was no mummy in sight.

Most Readers know what we did next, but there are a few of you who are asking, "Well?  Did you get to use the bathroom?"  Naive Reader, we would not have attempted to use that facility even if we had been wearing HazMat suits!  I had a back up plan.  After all, we were on VACATION, BABY!

MAGIC HOUSE

I live in a Magic House.  The term was first coined when I was explaining the benefits of a wireless router to a a semi-interested party.  I am not the best person to be leading a technical discussion, but I can make up some good analogies on the fly.  In my explanation of the Magic House I was coming up with pretty good arguments in favor of having wi-fi in one's house.  In fact, as I was convincing the rest of the family, I was getting kind of jealous that they were all going to be so modern and high-tech.  It was about five months later when I brought an iPad home and realized that indeed, my house was magic.  I had wi-fi and did not even know it.  That is what a tekkie I am.

The term Magic House has a broader meaning for me these days.  You, Devoted Reader, know how I am lacking in the housework department.  There is something deeply satisfactory about programming my dishwasher to turn on in the middle of the night.  I go to bed with dirty dishes and wake up with clean dishes.  I do not have to listen to the gurgle of the dishwasher, nor do I have to vie for the hot water.  I do not even have to wash the dishes!  It is Pure Magic. 

Equally magical is the ability to program the oven to come on at a certain time and at a particular temperature.  Girl8 was thrilled to come home to a baked potato on several soccer game nights.  I was delighted to have prepared a spud without officially being at home.  It is akin to dumping bits and bobs in the crock pot and coming home to a full meal deal.

The crock pot cannot be ignored in this salute to modern technology.  Chopping a few onions and peppers in the morning and dumping in some frozen chicken and salsa pays off in spades when a person comes home to the wonderful aroma of dinner.  Not any dinner, but a spread comparable to having a cook from a foreign land working all day in the kitchen.

Coming home to a dark house is no treat.  Coming home to a house with lit candles in the window is nothing less than, well, homey.  It is as if a little butler scurried around the house in preparation for my arrival.  In these modern times, there are battery operated, fake candles that will come on automatically.  They are made of wax and they are even scented. Amazing!  Additionally, my house will be lit up like a church the next time the power goes out.  Magic!

Now, if the woodbox could fill itself, that would be Ultimate Magic.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

I used to be the person who raced to work in the morning, trying to be one of the first ones to get to school.  I stayed at work well after my work day was done, helping students and staff until dinner time.  That was before I had a life.  Or a Girl.  One of my favorite memories is when the Sophomore class made personalized Valentine cookies in the school kitchen.  I learned how to use the giant mixer, which was a delight to me.  We were there late in the evening, mixing dough, rolling out cookies, cutting them with a giant cookie cutter, and decorating them with the custom messages.  It was loads of fun.  I still look at that mixer with nostalgic feelings.  Anyway, back in the day, I was overly devoted to my job.

Now that I have GirlNearly9, things are entirely different.  Her schedule has always determined my schedule.  My arrival to work has been dictated by the babysitter's arrival in the early years, and later by the time that the daycare opened in the morning.  My departure from work was dependent on what time the babysitter wanted to leave, and then by the time that Girl5-6-7-8 got out of school.  I freely admit that my arrival and departure times occasionally do not meet my high standards of being on time.  In fact, there have been many days when I grumpily announced, "We're late!", and stomped out the back door.

There is a wide variety of factors that influence our morning departure.  One day, unbeknownst to me, Girl7 didn't finish her milk.  She put the cup in the refrigerator, trying her hand at being responsible.  On the way out the door, I opened the fridge to get my lunch.  The cup of milk, which had been precariously perched inside, tipped out and spilled all over the kitchen floor.  There were a few days when Girl8 realized that she hadn't done her homework the day before, so she decided to utilize all of her morning time, forgoing eating, getting dressed, or brushing her hair.  Hairdos play a large part of the morning routine, and there have been several days when the right hairdo did not present itself in a timely fashion.  There were a couple of third grade meltdowns which took some time to diffuse with hugs and quiet talk.  I shocked myself a number of times when I heard myself shouting, "Stop reading!  We have to go!!"  Do not be quick to blame, Accusatory Reader, for it isn't always GirlNearly9's fault.  There have been days when I had to turn around, as we were en route to school, because I forgot to take my pill.  There have been days when I hit snooze three too many times, and I jumped out of bed because I realized that we were supposed to be leaving in fifteen minutes.

Today's morning was not unusual because it had its typical drama, but it was a first in our house.  GirlNearly9 slumped out of the bathroom, holding a flower for her hair and wiping a tear off of her cheek.  She explained that she had tried, unsuccessfully, to put the flower in her hair.  Then she tried to employ a small barrette.  The clip slipped out of her hand and fell down the sink drain (I have pulled the drain plugs out because they are ugly.  A foolish decision, in hindsight.).  She was crying because a) she couldn't fix her hair, and b) she had lost the barrette down the drain.  I wanted to cry because a) I am scared to death of plumbing and the bad results if I screw up, and b) we were going to be late because of this new drama.  I shined the flashlight down the drain and could see the glint of the barrette.  Reassuring GirlNearly9 that I could fix this (I had my fingers crossed behind my back), I told her not to run any water in the sink until I remedied the situation when we got home.

All day I thought about how I could get that barrette out of the drain without tearing apart the pipes.  I kept coming back to a tool that my dad used to have, called "Long Finger" which was a long, skinny tool with retractable grabbers.  I wished I had one of those, but magnetic.  I thought I had used one when I dropped the oil cap down into the engine of my car when I was pregnant (another day that I was late to work, actually, and I cried - not because I was late but because I was not going to get to go to IKEA later if my car were out of commission), but I couldn't find it.  I finally hit on the solution in one of GirlNearly9's toys:  a set of magnets from the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona.  They are marvelously strong, skinny cylindrical magnets that connect end-to-end.  I hooked about five together, then dangled them down the drain.  They immediately snapped up the hair clip, and I emerged from the bathroom, triumphantly singing my theme song, "Takin' Care of Business".

I am feeling pretty confident about being on time for the next few weeks.  Not because I have solved every problem known to man, but because we are on VACATION, BABY! (virtual high-five)

STYLIN'

Being the loyal reader that you are, you have closely studied all of that Sparkly Butt Jeans drama that I have written about (the famous SB Challenge, the hazards of SB jeans, my near failure at the challenge, and finally, thankfully, the last installment.  Or so you thought.).  You were rightfully relieved when I had worn out my nibs writing about sparkly butts.  You never wanted me to pen about pompis ever again, no more writing about rears, addressing asses or drafting derrieres.  However, Alert Reader, you know that the date of The Event is approaching.

The Event where it all began.  The first challenge was issued after attending the Event, and since then, another gauntlet has been flung in my direction.  I remind you of the Boots Bet.  Just when I thought I was All That, and then I looked around the room and realized I needed boots to be All That.  I already know, sadly, that this year when I wear my SB jeans and some tricked out black boots from Holland, that I will not be All That.  It is a new year, people, and style doesn't wait around for me to borrow boots from my mom.

I have been nervously checking the fashion magazines in the grocery store checkout lines.  What will the new fashion be?  I have been closely monitoring my young friends on Facebook to see what it is they spend their mad money on, and I have stalked them on Pinterest to find out what it is that they covet.  For a long time, I thought that Tom's were a brand of jeans.  Thankfully I did not have the opportunity to make a fool of myself before discovering that they are really those shoes everyone wore in Spain in the '80's.  I was not impressed with espadrilles twenty five years ago, either.

I fear that the Spring's poor weather is stifling the natural development of mode.  I do not believe that true fashion includes fleece lined slippers, ballet flats or yoga pants (please hold your comments about my yoga pants - that was my TRAVEL attire, Snarky Reader).  I have been waiting in limbo, waiting for nice weather to prime the pump of style and vogue.  Sunshine has not accompanied the arrival of Spring.  Besides turning the heaters up another notch, I am vacillating between down jackets and light sweaters, corduroy pants and pastel capris, all the time knowing that none of these has a place in the current trend.  The only things I am sure of is that my jeans are still sparkly and I lost the bet.

TRIFECTA

If you have not yet read Floss Fiasco and Redemption, in that order, you must stop here.  Do not pass Go and do not collect $200.  Click on the links and get those posts fresh in your memory before you venture any further.

Girl8.83 and I were on another adventure last week.  Not surprisingly, it took us over the Pass and through Cle Elum.  Observant Reader, you have got to know what is coming next.  First the issue with the floss, next that whole thing with the yoga pants.  I had another shot at looking AND smelling like a rose, and I could not pass it up.  It is said that the Third Time is a Charm.

I mentally checked myself over.  Early in the day, I had not yet worked up a sweat driving across the state.  I was having a good hair day, I had brushed my teeth before leaving the house, and my clothes were still relatively clean.  I knew I could pull it off this time.  I gave Girl8.83 a cursory glance.  She was presentable, in a road trip kid way.  We pulled into the familiar gravel parking lot.  Outside the front door, I eyed my reflection and once more checked my socks.  They matched.  Brushing some lint from my jacket, I took a deep breath and marched in, Girl8.83 trailing behind me.

The hostess directed us to a new table, far from the previous sites of misfortune.  I found this to be encouraging.  I decided that since we were on Spring Break, Baby!, I should split with tradition and order something different from my regular diet.  I was seriously contemplating the Chicken Fried Steak until the Cottage Burger was served to the cowboy two booths down from us.  It smelled like Heaven.  Deciding to live a little and, barely able to keep myself from drooling, I ordered fries with it.

When my lunch arrived, I was more than delighted.  I could not remember the last time I had eaten a hamburger and fries.  I dripped some ketchup on my plate and prepared to dig in to the best meal in recent memory.  Brandishing my napkin with a theatrical flourish, it slipped out of my hand and fluttered to the floor.  I uttered a "TSK!" of disgust at my clumsiness while I reclined to get a better view under the table.  Spotting it, I tilted to the side.  The table was awfully close and I could not see. My hand was groping blindly with no success.  I had no wish to sweep the floor with my fingertips before diving into my highly anticipated meal.  I leaned forward more in an effort to expand the radius of my exploration.  I was concentrating so hard on what was happening under the table that I failed to recognize my destiny speeding towards me.  It was actually the table with which my nose collided that brought me back to the reality above ground.  I snapped up to a more socially acceptable position and furtively glanced around, hoping that there were no witnesses.

Girl8.83 began to giggle.  "Stop it!", I hissed at her, not wanting to attract the attention of the cowboy, who was enjoying the last bites of his Cottage Burger.  I had déjà vu and not in a good way.  Girl8.83 could hardly contain herself.  Unable to use her words because of her stifled giggles, all she could do was point.  At me.  At my hair.  Yes, Clairvoyant Reader, my hair had dipped into the ketchup while I was conducting the search and rescue operation under the table.

There really is not anything else to say about this.  I have already bared my soul, poured out my former humiliations that occurred at this very same spot.  It is like my own personal Bermuda Triangle.  The only thing left to shout is, "SPRING BREAK, BABY!"

SPRING BREAK, BABY!

Spring break was a long time coming this year.  State testing, parent conferences, ineligible athletes and long days led up to the early-release day that launched us in to the anticipated vacation.  Unfortunately, it began with Girl8.75 saying, "I wanna go home and lie down on the couch!"  I was dismayed because, not only did I not get the traditional high five and shout of, "SPRING BREAK, BABY!", but generally the afore-mentioned statement is a precursor to a sickness of monumental proportions.  This time was no different.  We went home and Girl8.75 writhed and moaned on the couch while I did my taxes.  Suddenly she was pointing with one hand, the other covering her mouth.  I felt like Timmy interpreting for Lassie.  "What do you see out there?"  I motioned outside.  Her squeal was cranked up a notch and the hand waved fervently.  "OH!"  I suddenly understood.  "You need to throw up!"  I dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a pan, which was delivered in the nick of time.  This, Empathetic Reader, is how Spring break began.  The sun was shining for the first time in months, birds were singing, and I was tending to Girl8.75 and her pan.  There were no high fives for me.

The next day was also a beautiful, sunny day.  Girl8.75 was feeling considerably better.  I knew this because when we got in the car, she announced happily, "Hey!  I found my chocolate bar!"  Before I could caution her to not tempt fate or her sensitive stomach, she inhaled it.  We spent the day outside, coming in only to eat a lunch consisting of peanut butter and apple, and tuna fish sandwiches.  The menu was Girl8.75's idea.  That night, after chicken strips and fries, we attended a local showing of The Sound of Music.  As we sat in the old theater and admired the newly restored organ, the old light fixtures and the ornate walls, it struck me that we were finally on vacation.  I nudged Girl8.75 and stood up, pulling her up with me.  I roared, "SPRING BREAK, BABY!" and we gave each other a big high five.  The rest of the audience applauded with approval.

We were lucky enough to have tickets to a show in Seattle.  We spent a day at Seattle Center, riding the monorail and eating more than our fair share of fries, cheesecake on a stick, and blue cotton candy.  Besides the show, we witnessed the usual city drama, which included panhandlers jumping out of bushes as well as a girl, holding a dog on a leash, shouting in the door of the men's bathroom, "I am so disappointed!"  and stalking away, sobbing.  We made another pass through that hallway and she was there again, this time hollering, "I am so mad at you right now!"  There was no response from the men's bathroom.  After a day of wonderful sights and tastes, we headed home.  Getting on I-5, we drove through a tunnel, which always reminds me of a bathroom with its shiny tiles.  I rolled the window down, held the horn down for an eternity and yelled at the top of my lungs, "SPRING BREAK, BABY!"

Girl8.75 and I were invited to lunch at a Thai restaurant.  After a wonderful meal of Noodles Delight, laughter and friendship, we exited to the parking lot to say our goodbyes.  Satisfied to the brim, Girl8.75 and I got in the car.  I backed out of my parking spot and paused.  I revved the motor.  Squealing my tires out of that lot, followed by a trail of smoke, I yelled, "SPRING BREAK, BABY!"  Girl8.75 was not impressed.

Spring break may be upon us, but soccer practice continues like clockwork.  Girl8.75 ran and played and joked with her friends while I walked the perimeter of the soccer field around and around, doing penance for my Thai lunch.  I was feeling so happy that we had successfully done something fun each and every day, making the most of our vacation thus far.  Once practice was over, Girl8.75 cheerfully waved goodbye to her friends as we got into the car.  As we sped out of the parking lot, our car sprayed gravel in a rooster tail behind us as we both shouted out our windows, "SPRING BREAK, BABY!"  I think she is getting the hang of it.

REDEMPTION

Loyal Reader, if you have not read Floss Fiasco yet, you must read that post first in order to fully appreciate what I am going to reveal next.

Recently, Girl8.5 and I embarked on another adventure to the East.  I have not been able to stop thinking about how I shamed myself, my family, and my dentist when I sailed through Cle Elem's Cottage Cafe last summer.  I have been eager to redeem myself at said establishment, proving that I truly do have good dental hygiene habits and am an all-around, good person.

As we got closer to the Cottage Cafe, I dreamed of how I would proudly beam at every customer at the pie counter as I sashayed out of the bathroom.  Although I wasn't wearing my highly touted travel skirt of the summer road trip, I would still be able to glide past the booths in my comfortable yoga pants.  Hopefully no one would notice that I had dripped a little bit of sandwich goop on them at lunch time.  My pearly whites would practically blind my new admirers, and that fated day would be erased from their minds.  I could not wait to eat dinner.

Negotiating our car, Frida, through the potholes in the gravel parking lot, I felt up to the challenge of clean eating, with no pepper residue.  I ordered a salad, knowing that a spinach leaf covering three front teeth was a potential disaster.  As I was packing dental floss in my purse, I was confident that nothing could stop me from being the Most Memorable Customer.  In a good way, of course.

Girl8.5 and I thoroughly enjoyed our meals, exchanging pleasantries and not staring overtly at the other diners.  After paying, we made our customary trek to the rest room.  Girl8.5 was pleased that the toilet was not automatic.  I reviewed my teeth in the chipped mirror and was pleased to note that I was clean as a whistle.  I swiped some floss through the obvious places just for good measure.  I fluffed my hair and prepared to make my most glamorous exit.  I impatiently waited for Girl8.5 to wash her hands.  As soon as she was reaching for the paper towels, I headed to the door, eager for redemption.

"Mama!", Girl8.5 hissed.

"Come on!", I urged.

"Mama!  Stop!",  Girl8.5 commanded.

I turned impatiently to her.

"You have something on your pants!"

I froze.  "WHAT?!"

She went behind me and carried out a brief inspection of my yoga pants.  No pun there, Delighted Reader.  She poked at my backside.  "What IS that?"

I put my hand to the offending area.  It felt strangely sticky.  I stood on my tiptoes and tried to get a good view in the chipped mirror of my derriere.  "What IS that?", I echoed.  The sticky area was accompanied by a dark spot.  I grabbed at a paper towel and got it wet.  Swabbing the tacky area was a terrible technique.  The brown paper towel shredded with each swipe, leaving little shards of paper towel lint stuck to my yoga pants.  With each damp dash, the dismaying discoloration deepened.  With each pasty pat, more particles were planted to my posterior.

I squeaked in horror.  "I must have sat in something in that booth!"  Brushing the paper pieces was a pointless gesture, as it only served to roll them up into bigger bits, still stuck to my bottom.  The more I fussed, the bigger the fiasco became.

My new dream title, Most Memorable Customer, was quickly developing a new meaning.  Short of climbing out of the nonexistent bathroom window, the only way out was my previously planned parade route.  What I had imagined to be my runway had instantly become my walk of shame.

I considered my exit options.  I could gallop to the door, although that had the likely possibility of attracting more attention than necessary.  I could walk sedately to the door with my hands awkwardly behind my back, in an attempt to cover the crumbs.  On further thought, this seemed as if it would also invite unwanted interest.  In the end, I tried to walk out as normally as possible.  I suspect I was walking like Groucho Marx, knees bent a little too much and taking extra large steps.  All I cared about was getting out the door and into the dark parking lot.  I tried smiling in every which way, to at least prove my good dental hygiene habits.  In hindsight, I probably looked like a grinning bobble head, but at the time I was thinking that I could distract scrutiny from the back.

Did I redeem myself, Snickering Reader?  I fear not.  All I did was create a bigger challenge for the next road trip.

WORK HARDER, NOT SMARTER

There has been an emphasis in the workplace to work smarter, not harder.  Streamline tasks, delegate, ask for help, collaborate - these are all ideas to get a job done without killing one's self.  There is nothing wrong with this idea.  Indeed, stressing over a job affects one's job performance and is harmful to one's health.  However, there is an area of life where working harder is definitely important.  That area is the gym.

In my former life (read between the lines:  before Girl8.5), I was a gym rat.  I went to the gym at least 5 times a week.  I met my workout partner at 5 a.m. and we lifted weights.  The gym is a different scene at 5 a.m.  There are no girls with spray tans, perfectly coiffed hair, tight pants and halter tops.  There are no fellows with just the right amount of sweat on their brows, spray tans and tight pants.  There may be some in halter tops.  If you venture in at o'dark thirty, you will see a bunch of ordinary people with bed-head, flannel shirts over rumply t-shirts, and baggy sweats.  There is no flirty chit-chat, just grunts of "mornin'" as people pass by.  Morning people are a different breed of cat.  It is all about getting the job done - put in your hour and get out.  It was the best feeling in the world to walk out of the gym at 6 o'clock and know that "exercise" could be checked off of the To Do List for the day.

Since Girl8.5 appeared on the scene, I have been unable to be a gym rat.  I have opted for other options, such as brisk walking in the forest, doing a home-made circuit with weights and a yoga ball, and belly dance class.  I have had the most success with the Wii.  Like all things, I got away from it for a while, but I am trying to embrace it once again.  I have been recently playing around with the yoga and the strength training options.  

The other day, I was searching for an exercise that was not going to tax me to the limit.  I was not thinking of my work harder, not smarter motto in the workout department.  I saw a picture of a lady sitting down, and it was called "Vertical Arm Stand", and of course I was all over it.  The lady was sitting down!  This was definitely for me.

Unfortunately, the name "Vertical Arm Stand" and the accompanying picture were rather misleading.  Instead of sitting in a chair with my arm in the air and burning a million calories with a smile on my face, I stood with my arm pointing straight up to the sky.  When the trainer gave the command (whistle, word, bell - I can't even remember because I am so scarred from what happened next), I had to lie down on the floor as fast as I could, my arm still directed straight up through all of my contortions.  As soon as I was prone on the floor, I had to get right back up again, all the while with my arm standing up like a flagpole, with the Wii remote clutched in my hand like the flag.  The idea was to make this struggling down and lurching up motion as smooth and fluid as possible.  Reader, I caution you not to smirk too soon - first you have to try this!  One repetition is not adequate to pass judgment, you have to do it six times with your right arm straight up in the air, and then six times with your left arm straight up in the air.  After all of the blood has drained out of your arms, you will feel exhilarated. The next day, you will ache all over.  Even your fat will hurt.  Isn't that the goal of all of your workouts - to make your fat hurt?  It is certainly one of the results of working harder, not smarter.

NOW, THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT!

Attentive Reader, I know that you think that my opinions have been distorted by watching grade school sports for the past five years.  Nevertheless, I am sticking my neck out and saying that tonight I attended The Most Entertaining Basketball Game ever.  I should qualify that by reminding you that although I played basketball for only a year as a teenager (my coach ate maple bars while sitting on a folding chair, I could only take so much), I have taught at a high school since the previous millennium, and both my brother and sister played hoops for years.  I am not a newcomer to the hippodrome.

Tonight's game was a great battle on the court, but the real diversion was in the audience, beginning with the fellow on the top row who brought his own steel drum set.  I had not realized he was there until a time out, when he began to tap out his tattoo on the four drums.  It was not until the next time out, when he played the same pulse, that it became apparent that he only knew one rhythm.  As I write this, that same pattern is tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tapping through my brain.

About the third time that the Drummer Boy expressed his enthusiasm for the game, a girl in the section below me stood up, faced him, circled her fist in the air and shouted, "One More!  Uh-huh!?"  The Drummer Boy obliged her demand with his cadence.  She pumped her fist in the air several times, smiled to herself, nodded sharply, and then directed her attention to the court.

It was hard not to stare at her, as she was wearing a black tank top, which exposed her tattooed arms, as well as a lot of other information.  She was blessed with what we call in the vernacular, a lot of "junk in the trunk", and this was covered with some rather snug yoga pants, which also left little to the imagination.  In her hand she gripped a paper cup filled with, what Girl8.5 later informed me, was root beer.

At first it was difficult to determine for which team she was cheering, but since she was under my close surveillance, I discerned that she was rooting for the home team.  The point guard seemed to be receiving the majority of her encouragement, which included shouts of, "D up on him!",  "That's it!", and, "Yeah, baby!"  Each shout was accompanied by jumping up and down in the bleachers, waving arms in the air, or arms straight out and up, as if accepting a gift from the gods.  When the other team was shooting a free throw, several times she burst out with, "We win!  Period!" and punctuated that declaration with more sharp nods.

Although watching the Cheerleader was the best entertainment I had had for a long time, even more fun was watching the little boy who was sitting with his mother in front of the Cheerleader, and a little to the left.  After a particularly vociferous outburst, the little boy slowly turned around to look at the Cheerleader.  His big, round eyes stared at her as if she were from another planet.  Then he looked back even further and his eyes met mine.  We stared at each other for a moment of understanding, and then we both returned our scrutiny to the Cheerleader.

From then on, the game did not hold my attention nearly as much as the people in the crowd in front of me.  It was tough to decide who was more fun to watch, the Cheerleader or Boy (in) Wonder.  Add in to the mix the Drummer Boy, who sounded like a woodpecker behind us, and it was a wild time in the stands.  At one exciting point in the game, the Cheerleader stood up to shout.  Boy Wonder's head tipped back to get the full view of what the Cheerleader was up to.  When she sat down, his little head followed her down.  His head was like a bobble head as she stood up and down, and she was oblivious to the small boy gaping in front of her.  Every once in a while, Boy Wonder would turn back to me, and we would exchange our knowing looks.

You are wondering what could possibly happen to top all of that excitement.  Not much, let me tell you.  However, there was some incredible static going on with Girl8.5's hair, and as she sat forward on her seat (for those watching the game, it was a nail-biter), her waist-long hair reached straight out behind her to the plastic seat back.  When I noticed it, I absent-mindedly swiped it down her back.  As soon as my hand was done with the swipe, her hair was back to sticking straight out behind her.  She turned her head to see what it was I wanted, and her hair spread its tentacles all over my mom and her jacket.  It had a mind of its own.

At about that time, the Cheerleader stood up and faced Drummer Boy in the back corner.  She held her index finger in the air and her voice cut through the crowd effortlessly.  "One time?!"  Drummer Boy performed the request. The Cheerleader smiled and nodded quickly.  Boy Wonder glanced at me.  I smiled him.  I looked at Girl8.5 and her hair, which was still parallel to the floor.  I smiled to myself.  I love basketball!