The Gravity Must be a Bit Screwy Over There...

The Chief and I have shared living space for over twenty years now and I fear I shall never enlighten him regarding the difference between in the laundry basket and next to the laundry basket.

The difference between in the laundry basket and next to the laundry basket is, in actual, three-dimensional, Euclidean space, about six inches, possibly less.

In The Chief's own little world, however, that distance might as well be 20 light years. The socks, the boxers, the T-shirts, never seem to make it in the laundry basket. The man would have me believe that it is not that he is deliberately dropping his clothes a mere six inches from the laundry basket, oh no. He would have me believe that he begins putting his clothes in the basket with the best of intentions, but no matter how hard he hurls the socks, no matter how carefully he takes aim, they simply will not go in the laundry basket. There must be--and I quote--"something screwy with the gravity over in that corner of the room."

He would also have me believe that a man who can find his way into the bathroom, perform his nightly ablutions, get ready for bed, and find his way into bed amongst the various canines who may or may not be stretched out on the floor or curled up on the bed in the dark cannot get his clothing in the laundry basket, which has occupied the very same space for as long as we have lived in this house.

Now, I have ventured into that corner of the room many a time, let me tell you, both to deposit my own dirties in the laundry basket, and to scoop up the pile of clothes that have been left next to the laundry basket, and near as I can tell, there is absolutely nothing wrong with gravity in that part of the room.

Neither of the children, both of whom are considerably younger (and possibly brighter) than The Chief has any difficulty with this concept (although their grasp of the difference between in the dishwasher and on the dishwasher is tenuous at best, but we'll save that one for another time). Their laundry baskets are always full of dirty clothes, and aside from the occasional sock that escapes the heap, I rarely find any laundry on their floors. (Clothing that has been worn by Little Mouse for about 6.5 seconds before being flung off and hurled to the floor because it is not exactly right and then left there is an entirely different story, and we will not speak of it here lest I completely lose it.)

After twenty years, I guess I am mostly resigned to my fate, and to put it into perspective, there are a lot worse jobs out there than scooping a pile of dirty clothes off the floor and depositing them in the laundry basket every morning. But hell, I thought when I married him that he would at least be trainable!

First Day of School

I put my first baby on the high school bus this morning. He's not even a high school student yet...he's taking an advanced math class at the high school and then being bussed back to the middle school for the rest of the day. Judging from the kids I saw at the 8th Grade Back to School Event a couple of weeks ago, he's just about the shortest kid in the 8th grade...I am hoping he manages all right on the bus with all those big kids...

I put my second baby on the middle school bus this morning. She is just starting 6th grade and is very excited to finally be in middle school (she even traded her beloved leggings for jeans when we went shopping for school clothes!), and to be one of the 60 or so kids selected to be in the International Baccalaureate Middle Years Program. But this year she will have to deal with the whole locker/switching class periods/changing for gym/more homework stuff. Being in the IB program, she has an extra class--Spanish, and she's got band on top of that, so I'm hoping she hasn't bitten off more than she can chew.

Last year's first day of school was a lot easier--both kids were going back to familiar schools...this year, I was feeling a bit teary as I walked away from the bus stop. Well...from Little Mouse's bus stop, anyway. The Barrister insisted I wait down the block (I can't see the bus from the house, and I like to get an idea of exactly when it's coming so I can send him out the door with only seconds to spare on those really cold winter days).

I was thinking about spending the day relaxing, messing around with some knitting, doing a bit of work on the journal workshop (class starts October 1, so I need to get moving). But I'm probably going to spend the day wandering around here wondering what to do with myself and worrying about my babies!

Get That Woman Off The Dance Floor!

My knee is acting up.

Not that I'm looking for sympathy, mind you. Oh, no, I brought this on myself, playing DDR (Dance Dance Revolution) barefoot with my kids for the last couple of weeks. I guess 40-something women who still have a few pounds to lose shouldn't be mucking with that stuff.

But hell, t'was only five years ago I was tearing up the dance floors at some of the more fashionable night clubs at Mall of America every other weekend...with my hip-hugging, butt-crack-displaying, ultra-tight-with-the-funky-see-through-rivets-down-the-sides, oh-so-fashionable blue jeans. And heels, even!

Five years ago. That's not really that long.

Bloody hell, I'm not ready to get old yet. Bind up the knee, pop some ibuprofen, order up a properly padded dance pad upon which I can wear my ultra-supportive sneakers, and fire up the Playstation, folks, this old gal's not ready for the glue factory yet! Not without a fight, that is. The Barrister better watch out. His high score is in real danger now...

Writing Prompt: When I was a kid, I thought that when I grew up I would be this solemn, serious person with all this wisdom. Imagine my surprise to find that I don't feel a whole lot different at 42 than I did at 19! My mother confirms that she doesn't feel a whole lot different at 68 than she did at 19, other than those annoying aches and pains. The people I know who have truly aged gracefully have remained young at heart. Whatever your true age, what things do you do that make you feel young at heart?

Feminine Trials

I hate bra shopping. I really do.

I haven't been bra shopping in an age. Not since I put on all that weight with the Depakote. Now that I'm well along the way towards losing that weight, I've noticed that there's a certain amount of...sagging...going on. Some of this may be due to the weight loss, and some due to my hitting forty a couple of years ago. But whatever the reason, things (two of them, to be precise) are definitely going south, and so (heavy sigh), it's time for a new bra.

I can hardly wait to find out what's "in." What some flaming fashion designer in Paris--who probably doesn't even own a pair of breasts--thinks they should look like. Last time I went bra shopping I had a terrible time finding something that didn't make me look like I had a couple of weapons of mass destruction strapped to my chest.

What's wrong with a plain old white, cotton, comfy bra? Seems like these days everything's either

• padded (don't need any padding, thanks, got enough of my own),
• push-up (if they get pushed up I'm going to have breathing difficulties, thank you)
• covered with lace (it must be men who design bras with lace, secure in the knowledge that they will never have to suffer the torture of wearing one),
• shot through with enough hardware to set off airport metal detectors,
• fluorescent enough to show through all but thickest of winter coats, or
• made of some horrid modern fabric that requires dry cleaning or other delicate handling (if I can't just chuck it in the washing machine, I'm not buying it!).

So it's off to the department store today to try on a bunch of fluorescent, padded, push-up, lacy, underwire instruments of torture, and choose the one that is (a) comfortable enough to wear for more than five minutes and (b) doesn't make me look like a glow-in-the-dark nuclear missile silo.

Oh...and I wouldn't mind feeling somewhat attractive in it, too, if that's not too much to ask.

Sometimes I envy Gladys. The Chief finds her alluring no matter what she wears.