The bad news: I twisted my knee on the treadmill the other day. When it happened I thought: NOOOO! I have no time for a knee replacement! This is crap! But I think it’s okay, because it seems to be healing (I say this because I can still walk). And so I don’t think it will stop me from doing the April 30 5K I’m committed to.
The good news: I’m back at the gym regularly, after a 3 week break. And (more importantly) Miss Melissa has decided she’s a big fan of the gym daycare now. Possibly because someone donated them a large pink car she can pedal around the toddler area in, possibly because they now let her out of the toddler area to bang on their kid-friendly computers (just don’t give her a pen—she will write all over your computer screen, and did you know? Pen on computer screen does not come off). Either way, this cuts my driving time and gasoline bill in half. And that’s a win for me, AND for planet Earth.
Speaking of planet Earth, I’ve been researching local farms and farmers’ markets. My Netflix queue just sent me Food, Inc. Have you seen this movie? You will never eat again. And also, I now really wish I had a bigger backyard that got sunlight so I could grow my own garden. Since I didn’t know about evil mass food producers back in 2003 when we made the decision to buy a house with a 2 inch backyard that's shaded 24/7 by massive trees, I will have to make do for now by visiting farmers’ markets and doing things like picking my own strawberries.
I am shaking my fist at YOU, Monsanto!
Project Two: Social Butterfly.
I’ve made an executive decision to lay this project aside indefinitely for now, for the following reasons:
1-Free time. By the time I’ve worked a full day, hit the gym, cooked/cleaned up dinner, been coerced to endure my 4,000th watching of the episode in which Dora rescues the baby starfish, done bath and bedtime, caught up on facebook/email/rolled my eyes at the Negative Nellies on the news blog world, it’s 11 PM and I’m brain fried and energy empty.
2-Hormones. (TMI alert! TMI alert!) While I don’t actually have professional proof that I have bizarre and off kilter hormones, and I still can’t figure out if this is just a lingering side effect of pregnancy hormones (note to Wendy and Patresa: you are officially absolved for the next 2 years of all psychotic, weird, and unpredictable behaviors—40 weeks of growing a human + the down time your body needs to right itself from that crazy state...In fact, whenever someone says something like: “Now, if women just ran the world, there’d be world peace,” I always know I’m dealing with someone who’s never been pregnant. Never underestimate the power of progesterone to turn a nice, down-to-earth Dr. Jekyll gal into a foul-mouthed, rabid Mrs. Hyde), or if it’s this Mirena IUD I have (I can always tell when it’s releasing progesterone because I have brief, blinding urges to kill). But seriously. There are whole weeks I am just a terrible, anti-social, angry wart of a human being.
Certainly not someone who should be in charge of any kind of happy hour or thoughtful and sensitive book club.
Summer is coming, and I thought about maybe starting a group then because I’d have more time…but I have a handful of house improvement projects I need to deal with this summer, and I also don’t want to start something I can’t finish (which is making me so: “Ha!” As I type, because I actually do this all the time—start projects, get bored/distracted/disillusioned and then casually forget them). What I may do over the summer is take Wendy’s and Angie’s thoughtful comments from last time and do a “bring a friend!” barbecue/potluck and if it’s a big success and I get some dinner invitations in return, pat myself on the back and call it a day.
Project Three: Writing Rejection-palooza.
Over Spring Break, I wrote half of half a short story. I think that’s actually called a fourth, but I’m bad at math (one reason I now teach others to speak English real good). The End. (Of this project update.)
Here’s a brief and not scary but still important personal project I'd like to work on ‘til next time:
New Project: Kinder and Gentle Roadways.
Yesterday, I was driving Melissa to school. I was running late, and here in Atlanta you do NOT run late. Like, if you leave your house 3 minutes later than your usual time? This can make you late for work by a whole freakish 30 minutes.
For example, I have to be at work no later than 7:55. If I leave my house at 7:15, I can drop M off at daycare, swing by Starbucks, and STILL walk into my classroom with a good 10 minutes to spare. If I leave at 7:18, I’m already half an hour late and I’m tailgating other people, flipping the bird, and generally spending the entire drive saying things like, “Really, Ford Explorer? REALLY??” and “I know you see me right here, blue Toyota truck. Don’t EVEN try to shove your way in—back of the line!” and “Oh! My! God! Are you KIDDING ME!?”
Pre-Melissa, these moments were just one-sided conversations, their only purpose to let off steam so I didn’t become one of those stories you occasionally see on the 5 o’clock news about normally mild-mannered, sweet people who happen to snap in traffic one day and shoot somebody in the head.
Post-Melissa, I try hard to keep this in check. Except in situations someone does something really crazy and on mornings we leave at 7:18. Under duress, I totally forget she’s back there, and what happens usually sounds something like this:
ME: What the hell! Are you insane?! That’s right, License Plate 2MADSKILZ, I’m talking to you!
MELISSA: (in a very concerned voice) Mommy, what happened? What happened?
ME: Nothing, honey. Mommy’s just frustrated.
MELISSA: What happened Mommy?
ME: Cars are just crazy, sweetie. They’re just crazy.
MELISSA: (yelling) Cars! It! Not! Your! Turn! It! My! Mommy! Turn! You go cars! Get out! Of here!
ME: That’s right, Melissa! (I say, cringing, because (a) I’ve turned my child into a backseat driver and (b) I’ve turned my child into a backseat driver who’s not yet in possession of a real driver’s license and already suffers from road rage.)
Did I mention sometimes I also drop the F-bomb? The F-dash-dash-dash word. It comes out of my mouth and I'm usually under such stress don’t even know it’s being thrown into the atmosphere. Plus, I usually save this word for important moments, like when I ram my big toe into something or I’m in the car and there are clearly psychotic people driving around me.
Yesterday morning was an F-dash-dash-dash day. I only even knew the word had left my mouth a whole bunch of times when this little voice piped up from the back: “Buckin’ mommy? That car buckin’?”
Yes, honey. Buckin’! That car is totally buckin’. Buckin’ like a moe boe.
It’s only a matter of time before a concerned daycare teacher calls me in for a conference and gives me The Disapproving Teacher Look.
Thusly, my newest project is to curb the road rage. Be a more conscientious and considerate driver navigating around and amongst my fellow roadsters. Smile more, assume the best of others. Control the lingering effects of progesterone, something the FDA really ought do something about.
Until next time: Keep on treadmilling, twisted knee be damned. Continue to shake my fist at mass food producers while picking local-grown, organic, sustainable strawberries. Write another fourth to the fourth of the story I’ve begun. Stop being such a buckin’ moe boe towards my fellow humans.