I really found Fat Tire at the grocery store. For reals. It’s in the big bottle (couldn’t find a regular six or twelve pack) and they had two or three other New Belgium beers, too. The Fat Tire reads something like, “Georgia on my Ride. The first (legal) commemorative distribution of New Belgium beers in Georgia.”
Commemorative, my ass. . . I’m drinking that bitch.
I’m not sure, but i think that a gaunt, horse-faced church lady (using that term loosely) just told me that Tiller’s skirt is too short.
“You know, at elementary school, they say the acceptable length is knee-length.”
She is wearing a jean skirt. She is three. What the fuck?* Does my daughter look like a hooker, or what?
*And yes, there is just a smidge of lingering resentment over the fact that girls in high school must abide by the knee-length rule unless they are cheerleaders, in which case it is apparently acceptable for those who can do a back handspring and spirit fingers to wear a skirt so short they are showing their ass to the entire school.
I really picked back up on my workouts this week. I have been doing them for the last month or so, pretty consistently, but the last week, they have just been great. I had a wonderful run on Sunday morning in Chattanooga. (Pretty sure I could move there if they had decent public schools. There’s just something awesome about living next to a river and mountains.) I did a “faux tri” at the gym on Monday. Tuesday was a bike and run brick (and my biking felt not terrible.) Today, a half mile swim and 2 mile run. I guess it’s the endorphins making me feel tired and like i could still conquer the world.
Oh, did I not mention the Triathlon? I am doing a Triathlon on June 6th. I am pretty excited, feeling pretty ready. If you are reading this and have ever thought about doing one, you should bite the bullet and do a sprint one with me this summer. Especially if you live close by, as I would love to have a training partner sometimes.
You know you want to.
Rollie just walked in the house. I was bracing for “I’m hungry,” “Tiller destroyed your flowers!” or something along those lines. I was not prepared for:
“Mama, do you want me to show you how to do the Macarena? Gracie knows how to do the Macarena and she taught me.”
[Stifling a laugh.] “Uh, Yeah!”
He proceeds to do the Macarena, including the little hands on hips hipshake part, once in each direction.
North. South. East. West.
The look of concentration on his face was the best part. He even messed up once and grunted and made a face and started over again. I don’t think he even knows that there is music that goes with the dance.
And he will not. Ever.
We’re in Chattanooga. Mom, Lisa and I drove up yesterday afternoon. The drive up was uneventful, except for a portion near Dalton where we got the giggles over stories of things we have done or said while sleeping. The one that really got us was Todd’s nightmare about the ghost, where I awoke to him moaning. I thought he was dying. He was trying to scream in a nightmare. This also happened to me when camping with Scott Phillips one time; he dreamed a bear was attacking the tent. I awoke in the same tent to him thrashing around and screaming like a baby. I thought we were goners. There was also the time that Rollie was a newborn and Todd and I were sleep-deprived. I woke up to Todd sitting on the side of the bed, rocking the baby. I sat up, because it seemed weird. I looked down. No baby. He was half-awake, half dreaming that he had gotten up with Rollie and was rocking him. It was so freakin’ creepy. Now those stories make me laugh.
What doesn’t make me laugh? This. Talk about me having nightmares. . . .
I digress.
So, we got to Chattanooga, and checked in at The Read House. I Pricelined it, so there was a smidge of a chance that we would get a King instead of two doubles, which would have been . . . cozy. We lucked out. It’s pretty beautiful, and just reminds me of stories my mom and grandma told me growing up about dances and parties and events there. Mom was genuinely excited about coming home to Chattanooga and i could tell she was really excited about staying here, which made me feel good.
Lisa and i got settled in and Mom went out on her own to look around. Then lisa and i decided we needed a drink. We started walking and came across this church. We recognized it as the church my parents were married in:
So, then we walked down Broad Street and found Big River. They had beer. I like beer.
After dinner, we walked a ways, then took the shuttle. I shot this one of The Bijou Theater.
We made a little of a ruckus in the hallway at The Read House, too.
And then we were in bed by 10:30, because we are old as hell.
I was kind of stressed out today, trying to get out of town, but this makes it much, much better. I’m sure he won’t, but it would be nice if they fried this guy. If he did it, I’m okay with it hurting him, and I’m okay with his brains melting out his ears. I’m okay with all his family and friends crying about it on tv, too.
I know, I am black-hearted, I guess. But knowing there is one less waste of oxygen on the streets makes me feel better. Also impressed that Atlanta Police were actually able to do something about this.
“Mama, will you help me get an orange shirt?”
“Why?”
“I would like to go on the rocketship, and land on a cloud and then walk to the store.”
“Okay.”
Tiller just looks at me expectantly.
“So, what do you need the shirt for?”
“Because my brother said we could only go if we have orange shirts.”
“Well, let’s get you an orange shirt, shall we?”
I woke up to Todd nudging me and then resting his hand on my stomach. I hate that.
Me: “Is it my turn to get up?”
Todd: “Yes.”
Me: “Ten more minutes.”
Todd: “I’m going to stick my finger in your belly button. . .”
Me: “I’m going to punch you in the fucking face. And then the nuts.”
Todd: “I love you, too.”
Rollie and Tiller were acting up in the bathtub tonight. I got them out immediately (they usually get to play for a while) and Rollie stood shivering in his towel, lower lip quivering, and told me, “You don’t love me at all! You never loved me! You don’t have a red heart, you have a black heart!”
“Baby, where did you come up with that?”
“I don’t know, red is love and black is hate!” he yelled.
“I love you no matter what you do, and no matter how much i don’t love your behavior, Rollie,” i said, pulling the towel over his head like a hood and looking into his eyes. “Now go put on your PJs.”
Later, in his room, when he found out that he lost his bedtime story due to his behavior, he threw a tantrum. I told him to get into his bed. I said, “Night night, baby. I love you very much.”
Still angry with me, he pulled away from my kiss on his head and sputtered, “You have a . . a thousand, thousand black hearts!”
I struggled not to laugh or smile. Laughing at bad behavior is a parenting no-no. But in my blackest heart of hearts, I was so very bewitched by the poetry of my son telling me off.