I can’t believe that the Olympics are going to be wrapping up here in a few days. They have played, pretty much non-stop at our house, unless you count that time the boy and Hubs deviated from the games, to watch Finding Big Foot on Sunday night. I tried to watch it with them, until they not-so-very-politely asked me to just go ahead and LEAVE. THE. ROOM.
Apparently, the male soul can only take so much ridicule over a group of adults who probably live in their parents’ basements and spend ridiculous sums of money on night vision goggles and energy-sustaining, protein-heavy granola bars to get them through the nights of staying awake for hours in the woods, exclaiming, “Did you hear THAT? How about THAT? Did you hear it now?”
(“What about now?”)
(“That was DEFINITELY a ‘squatch.”)
(“Oh, man! Did we get that scream on tape?”)
Last night, I went on a little outing with some girlfriends, and listen: I talked nonstop. I talked so much, I probably used two weeks’ worth of words, and when I caught my breath, I had to say, “Well. I guess I’ve dominated all the conversation, but it’s just so good to be in the presence of REAL, LIVE GIRLS, when I’ve spent all week speaking to a toddler!”
(“Did you poop?”)
(“Who stomped on these Ritz crackers?”)
(“Get off the dining room table!”)
(“Why is there a tractor in my shower?”)
(“Quit climbing the refrigerator doors!”)
(“Don’t spit your macaroni all over the table!”)
Anyway. Our girls’ night out was a soothing balm to the soul, and then I came home to find Hubs flopped on the sofa, watching couples’ figure skating. Of course, I joined him, because I do like to judge the twizzles and the graceful leaps. And then Hubs declared, “I don’t know why men sign up to do this. This is a complete waste of a perfectly good ice rink, where someone could be playing hockey.”
Hubs and I discussed all manner of skating routines, and I said, “So basically… what you’re saying… is that you’d never skate with me like this on the ice?” To this, he replied, “I can’t even move my arms like that man can. I don’t have it in me to twirl my arms above my head and twizzle my heart out at the same time. I’m just too manly.”
Honestly, I had no idea Hubs felt this way, what with all his declarations of, “This would be so much more interesting, if she had a hockey stick and took a whack at him every single time he leaps.”
I guess my aspirations of becoming an Olympian athlete in four years will not take place in couples’ figure skating.
My partner would never survive me swinging a stick in an effort to chop his legs off at the knees.
I can feel that I’m rambling.
Sister and Cousin H came over this morning for enormous mugs of piping hot chai tea and Goldfish crackers, which is exactly how Queen Elizabeth likes things served up at the palace.
(“Howard, do bring in the tea, and don’t forget the Goldfish crackers. You can put them on the sterling silver tray, and I’ll take it in the gold room.”)
The most amazing thing is this: At some point during snack time, Thing 2 and Little H sat down together on a chair, and neither Sister nor I forced them to be there. Plus, neither one of them shoved the other one off of the chair, and they just had a few moments of, “Look at us. We can be angelic together,” as I witnessed my toddler keep his hands to himself.
Of course I snapped pictures, because KODAK MOMENT, Y’ALL!
I have to go judge the luge or the bobsledding or the long ski jumping that makes me want to vomit with all that SUSPENDED-IN-THE-AIR kind of hang time.
Good night. Sleep tight. And pleasant dreams to you.