Reflections from a water park

Lakeland and I went to a water park last week.  Just thought I'd share the following:

• There are 8,000 hardworking lifeguards constantly hyperventilating into their whistles, and there is not one kid in the place who could give two shits.  I'm serious.  Kids are oblivious to those chirping whistles as well as every single posted rule.  They effectively flip those lifeguards their mini middle fingers the moment before they dive into the slide upside down and face first (a highly illegal maneuver and oft broken water park rule, by my observation). 

• At least 50% of the moms I saw are replicas of my favorite U.S. Olympic beach volleyball team, Kerri Walsh and Misty May.  Bronzed.  Abs.  More abs.  Cute, round butts.  And lots of braided high ponytails with visors.  I contemplated this while leisurely chomping on an $8 cardboard bucket full of fries. 

• The wave pool.  Oh, the wave pool.  (In case you are unaware, a wave pool is a giant pool that intermittently turns into a violent tsunami before calming down to its original state.)  These pools contain a billion bodies just senselessly bouncing off one another.  They are so packed full of people in sustained motion that if you saw it from an airplane, it'd look like a giant, wildly colored beehive.  So the deal is, if you are responsible for a kid under 4 feet tall, you get delegated (by whistle) to the part of the wave pool that is two and a half feet deep.  Which is precisely the point where the waves break and absolutely crush the little kids to smithereens.  These poor, tiny people go from having the grandest time frolicking in calm, waist deep water, to half-drowning while taking severe beatings by all of the big kids that wash up with the waves.  Repeatedly.  Like...every 30 seconds.  I saw several kiddos get creamed by waves/big kids, scraping the joy right off their faces and onto the concrete bottom of the pool.  They'd pop up, bloody and screaming, reaching for the hands (perched on the shapely hips) of their professional volleyball player mothers. 

• And it's not hazardous for just the kids.  I was, at all times, poised in a defensive position...soft kneed, hands advanced, fingers splayed in anticipation of a takeout. When the waves stopped trying to murder the children, I found myself instantly relieved that my knees didn't get blown out by some errant kid flying through on a tube. 

• I swear, it's places like this where adult sensibility and reason fly right off the handle.  Water parks, theme parks, carnivals, zoos, funerals, airports...these are the places where parents go and Absolutely. Lose. Their. Shit.  I saw this dad, who I bet isn't a total disaster on most days, but on this day...he was a nightmare.  He had three boys with him, young teens maybe.  I didn't see what led him to throw his hands in the air and begin a tirade that would have made the father from "A Christmas Story" proud, but the dude had zero qualms about using seriously inappropriate language at a decibel level that couldn't be ignored.  Additionally, I saw several women who, while waiting (bare-footed in standing sludge) in a stagnant line at the concessions, tired children slung across their bodies, rip apart concession staff and/or equally uncomfortable and frustrated women.  I think the only thing that brought these people back to reality from basic survival mode was the warble of a dozen whistles.  So, as it turned out, all those lifeguards weren't wasting their breath.

Fish out of water...

We have a fish.  Her name is Not Norma.  She is the successor of our two previous fish (who "got dead", according to Lakeland), Norman and Not Norman.

Last time I cleaned her tank, Not Norma almost got dead too.

It was all so innocent when it began.  Catching her in a glass had never before presented an issue.  I mean, her tank is only a gallon and a half.  It's not like trying to catch a fish in an ocean with a sandbucket.

However, on this particular day, Not Norma was juking me like a professional athlete.  I chased her around and around, plunging the glass into her tank over and over.  I finally got tired of the cat and mouse chase, and that's when shit got real.

I got as agressive as one can get with a jelly jar in hand, and I aimed for the majority of her sleek, blue body.  And I caught her!  Well, most of her...

Maybe I clipped off part of her tail as I squished her frantic body between the glass and her tank.  I'm quite sure she doesn't need that whole billowy, beautiful tail just to float around in a gallon of water.

Once I got most of Not Norma safely into the glass, I cleaned and refilled her tank.  Well, actually I overfilled the tank.  There was not enough room to add both Not Norma and the water in which she was floating.

So I figured I'd just dump most of the glass full of water down the sink, being, you know, careful to keep her contained.  It would have all worked out perfectly, had she not propelled herself right out of the glass.  The next thing I knew, her little body was halfway down the drain.  Poor Not Norma's shocked little face, the only visible part of her, was looking up at me, fish lips opening and closing, silently demanding me to save her.

I had no choice but to grab her by her face with my thumb and pointer, lifting her from certain doom, and depositing her into a sparkly clean tank.

She zoomed around for a second, then swam (through her trajectory was a bit off, as she navigated the waters with her newly lopsided fins) to the side, and once there, stared me down with the meanest glare a fish can muster.

Lakeland watched this whole scene with equal parts delight and horror.  Then declared, "Mommy, I'm pretty sure Not Norma is pissed at you".

You try it.

I was browsing the internet this morning, and ran across an article titled "9 Tips to Look Slimmer in a Bathing Suit."  Not normally something I would click on, but for some reason, on this morning, reading a bunch of horse-shit seemed more appealing than another 10 minutes of coloring Hello Kitty books with Sharpies. 

I would add a link to the article if I could find it again, but I can't.  When I Googled* "9 Tips to Look Slimmer...", I got 90 zillion helpful cues on how to look skinny.  In a bathing suit.  In pictures.  Naked.  In a dress.  For a date.  During the holidays.  At work.  While vacationing. 

It's so easy, too!  Please don't worry about diet and exercise...it's all so much less complicated than that.  Really.  It's as simple as throwing your hair in a ponytail.

All you have to do is jut out your chin, open your eyes really wide, roll your shoulders back, but forward (yep, you heard me), stand up straight, wear heels, wear a solid color, and put your hair in a ponytail. Yes, girls.  A ponytail.  The key to looking thinner is all wrapped up in a hair-tie. 

Here are my results...obviously, I look natural and thin in the photo.  Not weird at all.  There is no way I'm about to kill someone's kittens. 

 

* I didn't actually "Google" it.  Seth switched our search engine to something called "DuckDuckGo", which he says doesn't track us the way Google searches do.  I think he's full of shit. 

Hey honey, I broke the disposal.

Seth and I have an on-going rift about the garbage disposal.

I discovered one day, as I threw mushroom caps into the sink for disposal, that he doesn't think we should actually be using this appliance.  I turned around from the stove to find him shoveling the scraps into his hands to throw in the garbage.

Me:  What are you doing?
S:  I'm throwing these away. 
Me:  They can just go down the disposal...?
S:  Some stuff is way too fibrous to go down the disposal.
Me (with a snicker and a pre-eyeroll look on my face):  Too fibrous? 
S (immediately on the defense):  Yeah.  I'm just trying to prevent wear and tear.  You know what?  Let's just both mind our own business with regards to the disposal.  And not talk about this anymore.
Me (voice dripping with sarcasm):  Yep. You're right.  Those mushrooms are WAY too fibrous to go down the disposal.  And you know what?  Let's prevent wear and tear on the washer and dryer too.  We can just start going to the laundry mat.  Also, we should probably stop using the toaster, the coffee maker, the toilets, and the computer...might as well save them too.  Cool?
S:  You are the worst.

And with that, we agreed to stop talking about our own disposal preferences.  I used it (for normal stuff, like egg shells, carrot and potato shavings, the occasional scrape of a plate...) and Seth didn't.  

After we had the "too fibrous" discussion, I felt weird every time I turned on the disposal, like Seth was quietly cursing me.  It's not like I could hear him over that satisfying chop, gurgle and whir.  So in the evenings, to avoid what I was sure was Seth's disapproval, I would just flip it on and off real quick, then figure the rest could wait until he went to work in the morning.  Until one morning, when I flipped the switch and nothing happened but a low, humming sound.  "Shit!" I thought.  "Shit! Shit! Shit!"  Now I would have to tell Seth it was broken, at which point his overuse argument would come in very handy.  

I could not let that happen. Obviously.  So I quickly found my resolve and decided I would fix it before Seth ever found out it was broken.  I summoned my neighbor Jenny, handed her a beer, swore her to secrecy, and then we got to work discussing our knowledge of disposals.  We had none.  But two college graduates could figure this out, right?  Surely my degree in economics would be helpful, and Jenny, being a brilliant high school English teacher, could rely on her own prowess. 

Jenny and I took turns, bravely plunging wrist deep into the bowels of the sink, which everybody knows is the worst idea ever, obliterating the number one rule of fixing disposals.  We found three noodles and a piece of an egg shell.  Perplexed, we each cracked another beer, and while I Googled "Fix the Disposal so My Husband Doesn't Win this Fight", Jenny cleared out the stuff underneath the sink.  

We tried EVERYTHING.  We tried to turn the blades from beneath with every size of Allen Wrench available to us, we checked the fuse box, we punched the reset button.  No matter what we did, the blades did not budge.  They had quite literally grinded to a halt, like every woman's digestive system while on vacation...zero movement, no hope of evacuation.  

We gave up before Seth came home and caught us with our hands down the disposal, but I still wasn't ready for a full on admission.  Fortunately for me, his non-use meant that I had time to keep up the charade of a fully functioning garbage disposal until it better suited me to tell him.  

Which I've decided is...right now.  Hey honey, I broke the disposal.  

But don't you worry.  I already fixed it.  While you were at work, I dabbled in the profession of plumbing, and I totally nailed it.  I'm the best appliance repair-woman you've ever married, and don't you forget it.

SAME CAR!

We play a game in my family called "Same Car!"  It goes like this:

• If we see our same car (a Honda Element), we yell out "SAME CAR!" and if it's the same color as ours (black), we yell either "SAME CAR! DOUBLE!" or "SAME-SAME CAR!"
• If we see a car like my mom's (LL calls her "Nama"), we yell "NAMA CAR!"
• Then there are the occasional other vehicles thrown in... "Toddfather Car!", "Miss Jenny's Car!", "Jack and Will Car!"

Whoever yells first, wins. And we keep score of how many cars we identify.  Every day. Because this is a family of fierce competitors.  Just last night while playing UNO, Lakeland laid a draw two on her dad and said "Boom. I am JACKING fools."  (I realize and appreciate that this type of expression is inappropriate for a three year old. Unless we're playing cards. She's allowed to talk shit while playing cards, and she follows this rule fairly well.) We pretty much turn anything that can be remotely competitive into a competition.

Anyway, back to "SAME CAR!" There are dire consequences if you misidentify a car.  They involve dropping and doing push-ups, wherever you may be at the time of your blunder. For instance, while walking to the car from the grocery store, I busted out "Nama Car!" and was immediately called on the carpet for my error.  But I play by the rules, and so I set down my items right there in the parking lot and did 3.5 push-ups. LL was as delighted to see me pay up as she was to have corrected me. 

The other night, Seth (a.k.a. Best. Dad. Ever.) mentioned that he'd like us to take Lakeland on a special trip.  To a car dealership.  So she can yell out "SAME CAR" or "NAMA CAR" 80 thousand times. Which would make her, and all of us really, so very happy.  I think we are going to take her for her birthday. 

Technology ruined everything this morning...

Prior to 9am this morning, I got to watch a new episode of "People Acting Like Assholes" and here's your recap, in case you missed it:

Act 1: People on Their Smartphones While Driving

Seriously.  Stop. Doing. This. A young woman nearly rammed into a fellow driver this morning not once, but twice because she just couldn't be bothered to stay in her own lane.  When I pulled up next to her at a red light, guess what she was doing?

You are not behind the wheel of a feather.  You are behind the wheel of two tons of steel, rubber and glass.  You could kill someone. Put your phone in the back seat if you have to, but please, please...stop the madness. 

Act 2:  Parents Teaching Children to be Robots Instead of People

As he was walking his son into preschool this morning, I heard a dad say: "I'm sorry I put the wrong movie in the car this morning. Which movie did you want to watch?"  "Peter Pan!" whined the tiny Mr. Roboto.

Really? OK, number one:  I'm pretty sure that choosing the "wrong movie" does not warrant an apology from a parent to a preschooler.  Save your sorry's for real parenting failures.  And number two: Does your kid need to watch TV for the 15 minutes it takes to get to school?  Here's a novel idea.  You could use that time while both you and your child are strapped down in the same place at the same time, with no other distractions except your Smartphone, to speak to one another.  This is the perfect time to ask your kid questions, to teach them something new, or to sing stupid songs together.  If you don't want to talk to your kid, I get it.  I do.  So hand them a book.  Or some crayons.  There is enough technology in their world already.   

Normal People Stuff

LL's first day of school.

Ever since Lakeland started preschool, there have been:  

A.  A bunch of snow days and 2 hour delays.  As of this writing, she's been in school for a grand total of 22 hours.

B.  A bunch of people that have asked me what I'm doing with myself now that I have all of this newfound free time.

This got me thinking.  What have I been doing with all of this free time?  And I figured out I've just been doing normal people stuff.  The following are 5 things I've done in my 14 hours of free time.  (Figure on 1/2 hour driving to and from school each day because I refuse to make her a late person even though lateness is my natural tendency, and because I am terrified of being late to pick her up.)

1.  This. Right here. Blogging. Boom.

2.  Dishes and laundry.  Without interruptions.  Holy. Shit. I am the Flo-Jo of chores.

3.  Watching "The League", which you really can't watch with a kid around, even a sleeping kid, because it's so horribly and hilariously offensive.  And yes, I realize I'm 4 years late discovering the show...I keep excitedly asking people "Hey!  Have you ever watched 'The League?"  And they're all, "Yeah.  I've watched it.  All. FOUR. Seasons." (Seriously though, if you haven't watched it...so funny.)

I heart you, Terry Gross.

4. (To culturally balance out #3) Listening to NPR.  Like, actually listening and gaining information and finding myself engaged and entertained.  I forgot how much I love Terry Gross.

5. There is no #5.  It's only been 14 hours, people!