Yard, We Will Conquer Thee!

I’ve mentioned before (do you remember that post? Just in case you forgot, oh dear and loyal reader, click here) that David and I are attempting to throw a landscaping coup: get rid of the old leader, Dictator Daylily McWeedsalot, and establish a new, kindler, gentler establishment for the asesthetic betterment of our family. As I may have also previously implied, this endeavor is sort of like deciding to go hot air-ballooning only to realize once you’re already up in the air that a) you’re terrified of heights, b) if you fall, there’s nothing but a desert full of hard sand and prickly cactus waiting to ruin your fun, and c) it’s a much better idea if somebody else captains the large pocket of hot air that keeps you alive and just allows you to enjoy the view.  Which is how it went for us when we did go ballooning many moons ago, but that’s not we’re talking about today. No, today we’re giddy about… …gardening! If the past few weeks are any indication, it looks like our summer’s…

Honey, You’re 18: Thighs Don’t Matter

David had to meet up with some work people tonight, so after dinner (take-out, because it’s Saturday and because I just didn’t feel like it), I took SK and the Mighty Quinn to get some ice cream.  We were sitting on a bench when I noticed two high school girls giggling by the shop’s front window. My eye caught them because one girl was wearing a “Seniors 2011” shirt, and I was trying to figure out which high school she attended, and the other had her skirt hiked so far up her torso that at first I thought it was a second shirt. (Now, you know that skirt wasn’t that high before she left her parents at the house…I hope.) As I watched, another small herd of girls approached them. They must’ve been friends, but this is the coversation that played out in front of us: Girl A, approaching:  “Stop looking at my thighs! You’re looking at my thighs!” Girl B, texting: “Yeah, I’m looking at your thighs!” Girl A, laughing: “Stop looking at my thighs…

Going (Health) Clubbing

Before I had children (ah. How many times do parents utter sentences that start with that phrase?) I drove to the gym–I’m sorry, we’re supposed to call it a health club, I think because it offers nutrition advice and pedicures–almost every day after school, and most Saturdays could find me huffing and puffing at a BodyPump or BodyAttack class (do you love how the classes all have “Body” in front of them? I think it’s to scare you into knowing they’re going to kick not just your rear end, but your whole danged self, around the room for 60 minutes). I looked forward to the group classes–the competition to be faster, get stronger, jump higher–and it relieved stress better than a couple of dirty vodka martinis at happy hour. I liked that I could run up the stairs at work without gasping for air at the top. I took some pride in moving heavy boxes around my classroom without having to ask a dude for help. And I didn’t mind that the backs of my arms didn’t do…