Okay, that's a lie. It bugs me when people say they don't have time to do something. I hear it a lot about reading, as if I read a lot because all I do is sit on my butt and eat bonbons and read. What this phrase actually translates to is this is low on my list of priorities and I am not willing to give up doing something that I actually enjoy to make time for this activity.
Which is pretty much how I feel about exercising but with an extra glob of guilt thrown in. Because that bonbon thing? Partly true. I love chocolate and bacon and red meat and pretty much anything made with lard or sugar or cheese.
I spent about six weeks this summer where I went to the YMCA at least twice a week. Then Mo-mo got sick, then I got lazy, and then I got a job.
Batman and I went to the gym last night for the first time in an embarrassingly long time.
Conversation on the car trip there
Me: Maybe I could work out before work. You know, wake up at five a.m. and head straight to the office from there.
Batman: Are you joking?
Me: Okay, I know, that's pretty improbable. How about if I started taking speed?
Batman: Good idea. I've heard that drugs are a healthy alternative to exercise and good diet.
Me: I think D.A.R.E. would disagree with you. I suppose that isn't the best idea either. Dammit! Why does hard work have to be so hard?
Conversation on the car trip back
Me: So the elliptical I was using was insane. It had way too many buttons and kind of looked like an AT-AT. I kept fiddling with the buttons hoping that I would find the laser cannons.
Batman: You probably weren't going fast enough to keep them charged.
Me: That's one way to encourage exercise.
Batman: Every time you hit your distance goal you could taze one person.
Me: I would taze anyone skinnier than me.
Batman: Good prioritizing.
Me: I think I would first taze women who wear heavy layers of make-up while working out. Then the guys who stare at themselves soulfully in the mirror while they lift weights. Then anyone who makes audible grunting noises. Then anyone who can actually do those crazy upside down sit-ups.
Batman: ...you've thought about this a lot, haven't you?
Me: For every person you judge, you burn 50 extra calories through spite. It's a well known fact.
I never went through the teenage stage of shoplifting and petty theft. I never stole cosmetics, clothes, or alcohol. Unlike my younger brother, I have never stole a shark's head or a variety of flags from different countries (but that is a story for another time.)
In college, I studied abroad in Western Australia for six months. One of the first things I did when I got there was locate the closest libraries. I have to have a constant supply of novels and fiction to remain sane and happy.
Besides the nearby public library, my dorm had a tiny little library room. These books were cast-offs, uncatalogued and unattended. You checked them out on the honors system by removing the index card from the back and leaving it in a box by the door.
Before I left Australia, I stole about seven novels. I barely felt a twinge of guilt. In their place, I left behind the books I had accumulated in the six months. It was more than a fair trade. I gave some best sellers in wonderful condition and took away books that had been last checked out over twelve years ago (according to the index card tucked in the cover.)
One of the problems was that books are heavy. And I carried them all with me in my backpack. So in order to made room for the souvenirs and knick-knacks of three weeks of traveling, I decided to turn the books into gifts for strangers.
It wasn't difficult. Every time I finished a book, I found a clever hiding spot where someone might spot the book. I hoped that each one would be picked up, brought home, read, and loved.
I left one at a train station in Adelaide, nearby the PacMan machine that I played for an hour while I waited for my train to leave. Another I placed on a park bench near the Sydney Opera House. I left them in Fiji hostels, where I imagined tourists picking them up and bringing them to along to a new home, on the other side of Australia, in New Zealand, in Great Britain. The last novel I left in the LAX airport, wondering if someone would marvel at the "PROPERTY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF WESTERN AUSTRALIA" stamp and realize how far the book had traveled.
I judged my reading habits well. I had only one book left over at the end of my journey, the one I chose just in case I needed something that would take me awhile to get through. I actually still have it and I still haven't read it. It's Shogun by James Clavell.
I have never stolen anything since then, books or anything else.
Today Mo-mo and I went to the waterpark. We sat in the shallow baby area, playing with her rubber ducky.
A seven year old girl started staring at us and inching closer and closer. Eventually she was sitting right next to us. She kept staring intently at me until she burst out with, "You look like my brother's girlfriend's friend's violin teacher!"
Thanks?
Later, when Mo-mo and I were tubing through the lazy river, she passed us in an inner-tube and cackled in a very good evil villain voice, "SO WE MEET AGAIN!"
I almost stole her and took her home with me just to hear what she'd say next, but I figured Batman wouldn't approve.
2) Maybe Batman could enter! He's pretty creative.
3) Batman can't enter. He's in the midst of law school finals and there is no way he'd feel up to writing it.
4) Maybe I'll ghost write for him!
write write write write write write
5) Awwwwww crap. I can't enter this. Batman is going to be a lawyer and he could be disbarred for this sort of thing. grumble grumble responsibility grumble being a grown-up grumble grumble
Would you like to read my columns written in the persona of my husband? Sure you do. I actually used a lot of his own commentary and ideas to create them. I wrote three columns but the third one was kind of lame so I'm ripping it up and eating it to destroy all the evidence of its existence.
The Exorcism of Mo-mo Grace
There comes a point in every man’s life where he becomes convinced that his daughter is possessed.
For me, the first time was when my daughter, Mo-Mo, was six weeks old. She took her normal bottle of milk and kept fussing as if she were still hungry. As she was finishing her second bottle, she burped and transformed from my sweet, sleepy baby into a projectile-puking banshee. I think her head must have spun completely around. She managed to shoot milk in a 3-foot radius around her.
It was epic, as in steam-clean-the-carpet-afterwards epic. It was also over quickly, leaving only the memory and the faint smell of old milk.
We are currently battling the Teething Demon. If it were up to me, she would go through life with the four teeth she already has. My easygoing little girl has turned into a fussy drool-monster. We combat this phase with teething rings, baby Tylenol, and wet washcloths—we have not yet had to call in an old priest and a young priest.
As I look ahead, I know that there will be times when I no longer recognize my baby girl. When she hits her terrible twos and learns to word “no.” When she no longer thinks that balancing things on my head is the height of humor (trust me, this bit is wildly popular with the six months through two years old demographic). When she fearlessly walks away from me and into the classroom for the first time.
I don’t even want to think about the dreaded Puberty Demon. During the entire period from age thirteen to eighteen, somehow I will transform into the meanest and least cool person in the world. There will be fights about curfew, clothing, make-up, and dare I say? Fights about boys. I get a headache by just typing the words.
Tylenol and toys are no match against this formidable beastie called Puberty. There is no known cure for this affliction except for time—and even then, they can never become a little girl again.
In comparison, this Teething Demon doesn’t sound half bad.
Sharp Edges
It’s amazing how fast your world can change. Yesterday our house was cozy, comfortable and inviting. Today it’s a death trap, filled with sharp edges, choking hazards, and dangerously unstable furniture.
What has changed since yesterday? My daughter has begun to walk.
I suppose “walk” is a bit of an exaggeration. She pulled herself up to standing position. But I can already see the determined look in her eyes as she reaches forward for things just out of her reach: the remote control, a can of soda.
It doesn’t help that my wife reads all of the newspaper articles about freak accidents. She’s normally a level-headed person but this whole mommy thing brings out a streak of paranoia. I admit it, I’m effected too: I’d like nothing more than to wrap either my daughter or our entire house in bubble wrap.
For example, take the rocking chair and ottoman that we purchased before Mo-mo was born. Before, it was where we rocked her to sleep, read her stories, sang her lullabies, and calmed her when she was crying. Now it’s a gliding smasher of tiny fingers, an unstable surface to make her fall.
We’ve done minimal child-proofing so far, instead choosing create a baby-friendly zone in the middle of our living room. Of course, Mo-mo would much rather play with the rocking chair, pull on my X-box cables, play drums on the trashcan, and generally touch with every single thing in our house that is either dangerous or unsanitary. I follow her around in the perpetual state of heart failure, telling her “no” and redirecting her to less scary but less interesting objects.
Standing up by herself is a small step in her development. It will lead to more small steps, then big steps, then running. And as much as I wish I could, I can’t cushion the entire world for her. I won’t be there to catch her every time she falls.
Today, holding onto the coffee table. Tomorrow, she’ll conquer the world. Somehow we’ll both survive.
Me: Yeah, you know--homeless guys with sticks and bindles. It's kind of strange that kids dress up like hobos for Halloween. "Look ma, I'm impoverished!"
(awkward silence)
Me: I think Mo-mo's next word should be hobo.
Batman: So that would make the words she knows....mama, dada, hi, duck and....hobo?
Me: But we'd have to teach it so that she'd say it angrily. So that it would seem like she's calling people hobos. When she doesn't get what she wants she'd yell out, "HOBO!"
(awkward silence as I contemplate how to do this.)
Me: I know! Instead of saying "no", we'll say "hobo" from now on. That way she'll start shaking her head and saying "hobo". But we have to start now. And we have to be consistent.
