Excuses, Excuses

I thought I had heard them all. Last night, one of my students called in to say that he would be absent that evening because he was fixing his accordion. That's new.

When Crickets Talk

Is it a sign of madness? That the crickets are talking to me? Maybe as long as I don't answeer back, I'm still OK.

Lately, they have been saying, "Do you want some Gatorade? Gatorade? Some Gatorade?"

No, not really. Could we talk about something else?

Last night, I couldn't sleep, and they would not stop gloating: "Kate's awake. Kate's awake. Keeping Kate awake. Awake. Kate's awake."

Do you hear things when you listen to crickets, or is it just me? I suspect it might be.

What do they say to you (you f***ing nut-case)?

Straitjacket

I am in the midst of a power-struggle with my new running bra.

I don't like it much. I have been wearing one of those "smash-'em-flat" running bras for 20 years, so maybe I am just being inflexible; but Dr. Perfect was very specific about the sort of bra I have to have if I want to start running again. No smashing the art installation he has created on my chest, please.

I went to Gart's, found this Valkyrie-style thing he wants me to wear, and took it into the changing room. My range of motion is still not quite recovered, and the bra has a bizarre design. Anyway, I ended up trapped in it, writhing like a fish on a hook with my arms pinned straight up in the air . Where the hell was Simon?! I whisper-yelled for him, but he was out of earshot. I was in a lather and about to cry with frustration when a woman whipped open the changing-room door, causing me to shriek like a...girl. "OH, MY GOD, I AM SO SORRY!" she gasped, goggling at my compromised position and Frankenstein torso. Damn! She was gone again before I could ask her to GET ME OUT OF THIS THING.

It really wasn't fair to be mad at Si. He was innocently wandering in the camping section and was confused when I emerged, pink and sweating, with Medusa-like hair and a homicidal expression. Poor guy. How could he know that I had not only exhausted myself getting the bra off, but the added exertion of whapping the bra-from-hell on the floor of the changing room about 15 times, in a rage.

I've moved on from this experience, which is why it really seemed unfair to be similarly stuck this afternoon. I am getting a little better at disentangling myself, but not much. I was just home from a workout, writhing and sweating my way out of the straitjacket when Sara came barging into my room without knocking to complain about something Nathan had done. Right behind her was her little friend, J., who froze in horror at my bare, scar-covered boobs. "Can't you see I'm busy fighting with my bra? Get out!"

No Clue

There. Mystery solved! It was Mrs. Peacock in the Ballroom with a knife. Can we just stop playing this endless, boring game? Nate had no daycare yesterday, so I stayed home with him. He loves this game. I would rather break rocks than play Clue. I would rather wake up with a pounding hangover. I would rather spend two hours looking for a minute error in a vast spreadsheet. I would rather sit in an ER waiting room, all day, with nothing to read. I would rather wear sand-filled tennies.

He Needs Dreadlocks

Simon bought seven-year-old Nathan a Real Salt Lake team jersey yesterday. I came home from evening class to find Nate asleep with it clutched in his little fist. As soon as he woke up this morning, he looked at me conspiratorially and said, "I got something really special yesterday." "Oh, yeah? What?" "I'm not going to show you, yet. Go wait for me in the kitchen." He came out wearing the jersey, so I called him Kyle Beckerman (Real Salt Lake's team captain). His ears turned pink.

Here's the real Kyle Beckerman.

As you can see, Nathan has a way to go. But he now has the shirt. That's a start. He is thinking that the hair would be the sensible next step. He is a bit shaggy at the moment; and he likes to mess it up in the privacy of his room, hoping it will form dreadlocks, a la Beckerman. If only we weren't going to Wisconsin to visit Grandma and Grandpa in a couple of days. Grandma isn't a big fan of dreads.

Sara just had to burst his bubble tonight. "You better start brushing your hair again, you know." "What for?" "If your hair looks like that when we get to Wisconsin, Grandma is going to...DEAL with it." "Deal with it?" "She's gonna take you to the Style-Mar. You'll get a lady hair-cut and she'll make you sit in one of those chairs that puts the plastic container over your head."

Mommy Dearest, Episode XXII

OK, blog buddies with kids, let's take a poll.

I make a luscious pitcher of iced tea. I brew it, using a blend of chai and regular tea; then leave it out to cool overnight; then put it in the fridge so it is waiting for me after a long day at work.

Do my 10- and 7 -year-old children get to drink it? I tried to tell them that this was MOM's SPECIAL TREAT. "Don't worry, Mommy. We'll make more!" Uh-huh.

They drink it all and when I get there, the pitcher is empty.

Am I obligated to share my iced tea with my offspring?

Put a File In a Cake...

Dear Utah State Office of Education,

I just want you to know that I'm going to die soon. I'll die of bureaucracy overload while you rend your clothes and wail. You'll feel bad after I'm gone.

You'll stand at my grave and cry to the wind, "Kate! I know now why Raquel Hornedo came mysteriously un-scheduled from your evening class. I can't believe I didn't listen when you came to me for help. I will make it my life-long mission to discover why you get an "ERROR" message every time you try to enter Pilar's long term goal on the goals page." But you'll get no answer. I hope that torments you.

This is why I can't blog! I can't read my friends' blogs. I'm being oppressed. This is a cry for help! Come and free me. I'll give up adult education and become a pet psychic instead.