Wednesday, March 6, 2013

TRIFLES

• Yesterday in yoga, just before final breathing, Jim mouthed “I hate you” at me in the mirror. I smiled. I love sharing Bikram yoga with my peeps, but it’s always a little brutal in the beginning. Hell, I’ve taken five-hundred-some-odd classes at my studio and it’s still brutal. Just today, for example, I found myself on my knees during the second set of triangle. I was hunched over and sweat trickled off my nose to puddle on the recycled tire floor. So I moved my head a little this way and that and dripped my sweat into a smiley face. 

• My whistling skills suck. I want to be able to execute one of those ear drum-splitting whistles like my dad can, but no matter how I’ve tried, I can’t make my mouth do whatever it is that it needs to do in order to whistle so loud that I could hail the dogs from a hundred yards.

• I wish ours was a world wherein pounding donut holes for breakfast every day wouldn’t leave us fat and lethargic.

Recovering alcoholics are badasses. If you’re a recovering alcoholic—or however you like to label it—you should tell me. But I may be so wonderstruck that you find I've transitioned into communicating via awkward reverent whispers when in your presence. In my entire life I’ve never had a single sip of alcohol, but I’m pretty sure that busting through an addiction to kick the sauce is really effing hard.

• If you want to see something that verges on incredible, catch my standing bow-pulling pose on a good day. When I’m on, that posture makes me look like a miracle on one leg. The left leg. Because my right side is a catastrophe.

• Out in the foyer during testimony meeting on Sunday, Jim taught his kids and me how to make popsicle stick bombs. He showed us how to configure the popsicle-less sticks into a sturdy triangle. Once made, you chuck the thing at a wall frisbee-style, and, upon impact, it'll break apart and send sticks every which way. I'm 30-years-old—[insert self-pitying weeping here]—and I still need irreverence to make church bearable. 

• Add popsicle to the list of words I can’t seem to spell right on my first go.

I am not enough human for Sophie. She needs more than one. No, she doesn’t need me to get her a dog friend. She just needs to spend less time alone. And the time that she spends with her human needs to be more hands-on. I take my Soph responsibilities seriously, and I’m feeling pretty crappy about how crappy her life is. She seems bummed a lot. But since I unabashedly engage in anthropomorphism, there’s at least a fair-to-middling chance that I’m projecting that. Nevertheless, single puppy-parenting is ruff. (I kill me.)

• Park moms tell birth stories. I know this because my sisters have told me so. I have no experience in that arena—a thing for which I am honestly grateful—so I have to take their word for it. An arena in which I do have experience: being divorced. Did you know that divorced people tell break-up stories like park moms go on about their spawn’s journey through The Tunnel of Life? ’Tis true. And it’s especially true if the divorcé’s marriage was slaughtered via adultery. If you give them the opening, people sure do like telling their stories.

• I enjoyed a lunch date with my friends Holly and Nic a few days ago. As our meal was winding down, the conversation led Nic to comment that breasts are one of science’s greatest marvels. And then he wondered if his saying that might end up on my blog.

6 comments:

Winder said...

Have you heard the rabid whistle? It is fantastic!

Megan Romo said...

You're kidding me. She can do that too? Good grief.

Sue said...

Women who are way past childbearing, and not divorced, talk about messed up kids and try to figure out why they employed the Tunnel of Life in the first place, and why, after all the stress of parenting, are still married.

Megan Romo said...

So what are you now if no longer a park mom? A lunch mom? Where do you get your lamentations taken care of?

rabidrunner said...

Women who do tax returns talk about how messed up Wisconsin is. And the Winder is right, I can whistle. It's one of the few secretish things I hold dear--next to the fact that I've been arrested twice.

tom lindsey said...

Science Nic? Leave augmentation to the strippers and embrace Nature's A.