In This World, There Are Winners And Losers. And There Are Also Ironing Tragedies.

I have decided that my arch-nemesis is a pair of size 8-slim cargo shorts from Gap Kids.  They lured me in from the store’s grand display in the mall a couple of months ago.  They were folded up in a pile of shorts that was fanned out to look like a veritable spectrum of bottom options filled with pockets.  And those pockets convinced us that we would be able to cart every manner of twig, rock, iPod, granola bar wrapper and stray Lego brick with us wherever we went.  We already had a few different pairs of cargo shorts, but the pockets on THIS STYLE proved our undoing.  We fell victim to them, as we envisioned ourselves toting around our usual pocket accessories, TIMES NINE.

Times nine, people!

And low!  This pair of cargo shorts looked sharp!  They’re the color of wet concrete, and the boy looked like he needed to be on the cover of GQ magazine while he had them on that first time.  He filled the pockets with more items than I thought was physically possible, and we felt like we were functionally rocking the fashion industry.  His pockets could have worked as carry-on luggage for any major airline.

And then I washed those cargo shorts.

And today I ironed them, for the second time.

It’s because they come out of the dryer in a ball the size of a ripe orange.  The pockets are so snarled, the Cuisinart mixer could not have created any more of a masterpiece.  And spending the better part of my morning being a slave to the iron, as I attempted, over and over, to refold the pockets in all the right places, so that I could steam them into place, was the straw that almost put me into an early grave with an eternal grimace on my face.  Surely Ma Ingalls never had it that rough with HER old-time iron.

Dear Gap Kids,

This particular pair of cargo shorts is not user-friendly.  I feel like you lied to me, while you enticed me into buying them by making your display in the store all fancy.  I would rather hold the iron against my own arm for thirty seconds than spend all morning trying to bully those pockets back into something other than a thunderously perplexing labyrinth of fabric.  Strike one, Gap Kids.  Strike one.  I’m watching you now.

Sincerely,

Jedi Mama

And if THAT isn’t enough, I lost a Words With Friends game yesterday by 148 points.

One hundred.  Plus forty-eight. And I was on the wrong end of that number.

I think that’s what you call a LANDSLIDE loss.  It’s because when your friendly opponent plays the word JINGLES on a triple word square, and then follows that up by playing the word FOXY on a double word square, you feel like your oxygen hose has been stomped on, and you don’t stand a chance in a dark spot of surviving the inevitable mudslide that is your WWF destiny there.

Oh, I put up a good fight.  I went down kicking and screaming and thrashing for all I was worth.  I had a Q and a U (which was nothing short of a miracle when I landed that U to accompany that Q), and I diligently battled to get them placed strategically on my iPhone’s playing board, but by the time I had spelled out QUITS, I was ready to take it on as my game motto and throw in the towel.  It’s because the only option for my QUITS was a straight down shot that had absolutely zero tiles worth extra points for your words and letters.  And QUITS on a naked area of the board can’t hold a flickering candle to the propane-powered blowtorch that is JINGLES on a triple word square.

No matter.

I brushed it off, and I re-challenged.  I have a new attitude and a whole new game face, and I’m pretty sure things are going to work out brilliantly for me in this next game.

Thankfully, the Bats were definitely a JINGLES-on-a-triple-word-square sort of team last night, as they rocked the ballfield and blew out the lightbulbs on the scoreboard with their points.  The boy hit two singles last night, and he had three RBIs and a bright-red Gatorade mustache.

And look!  Look who got a haircut!

(Sadly, it wasn’t the boy, but Kellen is about twenty-one pounds lighter now!)

None of the boys even recognized him when he showed up to the game.  Let’s look at a BEFORE snapshot, shall we?

Hubs and I keep telling the boy, “Oh!  EVERYONE has cut their hair now!  NO ONE has the long hippie look these days!  Don’t you want to visit a pair of flashing scissors now?”

The boy simply told us, “I’m not a conformist.”  He uses big words, because he’s a senior citizen.

Well then.

Way to go, Bats!  We’re proud of all y’all…the ones with long hair and the ones with short hair!  That was one well-played game last night.

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