Thoroughly Jostled

Yes, I'm back. I am willing to own up to the selfishness of journaling. But in the overall sweep of Kate's selfishness, it's small potatoes. And, as Nikki commented, everyone who blogs understands the need for this selfishness. Others selfishly watch TV or prune their Bonsais. I selfishly blog.


Check out the dark circles under this kid's eyes! The Girl Scout snowshoe weekend at Camp Trefoil was cancelled because we had a snowstorm. (I know! We wouldn't want any little girls to get...what? Snowed on?) The troop leader called to tell me that she was going to have the girls sleep over at her house in an attempt to salvage the weekend. Sara did not sleep at all. Here is what she told me after she get home, tearful and overtired, snapped at her brother and collapsed, sobbing, onto her bed:

"Shannon snored all night, and Caitlin wouldn't stop texting, and Mo was being meeeeeeaaaaan [sob-surge]! And I couldn't stand the snoring and neither could Jessie so we went to sleep in Mo's room but there are too many stuffed animals and Jessie kicks and Mo's parakeets were making little noises and Caitlin had her period and she wanted to go home and..."

HOW many days ago was I extolling the virtues of the twelve-year-old girl?

Before the meltdown though, the girls, temporarily recharged by pancakes, walked over to Bywater Park for some sledding. The troop leader called me and I tossed our sleds in the truck and went over to join them.

This was the main attraction: entertainment provided by watching others go down it and going down it 0urselves ("UHuhUHuhUHuhUHuhUHuhUH..."). Well, I was the only grown-up who did it (remember Dad's credo: DAZZLE the children!), and I had a great time, but I was reminded an hour or so later that I still have a deep-tissue booty bruise going. My booty would like to be treated with a little more respect.


This picture shows Sara going down on her tummy, which I did not do. I have been trying to ignore the fact that Leftie has been bugging me for a couple of weeks. Blah. I haven't been to see Dr. Perfect for about nine months. Now that the days of stitch-picking and scissors-wielding are over, I rather look forward to seeing him. At least before the appointment, Dr. Perfect always makes me think about sex. Ladies, if you saw him, you would understand this. The fantasy continues as he breezes in with his blinding smile and drawls, "HelLO there, Mizz Kate!" Then he always glances at my feet. I am a "hands" person; he seems to be a "feet" person. Invariably, he will comment on my cute boots in the winter; my toenail color in the summer. But just as I'm musing, "I wonder if he has a foot-feti..." I am jarred from my reverie.

Doc: [rubbing hands together to warm them] OK, let's have a feel over here. [ramming three not-that-warm fingers into my armpit and digging around energetically]

Kate: Erk! Ack!

Doc, pausing in his excavations: Does that hurt?

Kate: You're jabbing your fingers into my armpit. It's just a little disconcerting. This is my disconcerted "erk".

Doc laughs and rams his thumb up between Leftie and my rib cage, poking as he goes.

Kate: Aigh!

Doc: Was that your disconcerted "aigh"?

Kate: [high, breathy] No, that hurts.

By the time he has finished and breezed back out again, I am disillusioned about our romantic/erotic potential. Who wants a guy who can't even get past second base? I'll be good for another nine months.