It was early.
Dark early.
Time for spin.
This was the first Wednesday morning spin class at this location since an F2 tornado tore into parts of Madison and Morgan County last April.
For the entire hot, sweltering summer, membas of Madison Fitness have been striving to keep the fitness vibe alive at temporary digs while repairs were made to the building.
Looks better than ever.
I cannot tell you how nice it feels to ride in air-conditioning once again.
Here we are. Emily, Joe, Jim and yours truly.
In interest of journalistic integrity, I refused to photo-shop how the angle I’m sitting to get this picture makes my middle look like the center of a ice cream sandwich.
A melting one.
Curses. Wish I had seen this before buying three bags of creme-filled pumpkin candies yesterday.
That is not my middle.
Someone stole my middle and gave me their creme-filled-pumpkin-candy middle !!!
* * *
Merrily spinning along, Jim casually mentioned his plans for the weekend.
We all rejoiced. Especially after I learned it will be a small intimate ceremony.
That explains why I wasn’t invited.
Great to see some of the regulars back in the cool at dark-o-thirty.
The ever-buff Robert Pennington and his trainer, Mickey.
Obviously, neither feels the pull of creme-filled pumpkins.
* * *
It was super to have all the equipment back, minus a few exercise balls and slides, in the old location.
And it was great to see Arnold (pre-gross out Arnold) somehow survived the roof blowing off and was still on the wall.
Wait a minute. Something looks familiar.
My Abs!!!
* * *
Here’s wishing Jim and Carol the best of everything.
And we’ll be back spinning away next Wednesday morning.
Wonder how long it takes to burn off a bitty creme-filled pumpkin?
Last night Morgan County High School held a college information session for seniors and parents.
Good news is I remembered to be there.
That’s also the bad news.
But I pulled-on my big girl Romper Stompers and waded into the morass of college selection, admission testing, and counterfeiting bills smaller than 50 to somehow pay for all of this.
* * *
Pardon me, nice lady representing Georgia College. Could you e-mail the information to my mother? She’s terribly good at organizing things from weddings to cookie sheets.
I’m more of a student of life. I excel at parties, dancing and intramural sports.
Just ask her. She’ll confirm this.
* * *
Last night my college admission learning curve sky-rocketed.
I heard about specific schools in four breakout sessions (from 13 choices).
And I learned about a fabulous web site that can help even the most tremulous hiding-behind-her-mother’s-skirt mother — GA College 411.
It covers everything from financial aid, to finding a college and a career that’s a perfect match for your child.
There’s even a college planning timeline that starts in 7th grade. For seniors, it breaks down each month of this last year giving tips on what to do at each point in the process.
There are practice SAT and ACT questions.
They explain changes with the Hope Scholarship. A useful tool can pull up your student’s transcript and configure how their GPA stands with Hope.
So there is no excuse for not being on top of your game when it comes to helping a child apply to schools.
* * *
Even me.
Standing here with my Romper Stompers cinched up to my clavicle.
Any advice on how to navigate this process…in 6-inch plastic platforms?
Yesterday, Sunday — the SABBATH — I had work to do.
Deepest conflicts of my soul Number 1,893:
I spend the majority of my Sunday afternoons in front of the computer.
Those of you who work from home can relate. It’s wonderful for many reasons, but you never rinse out your coffee cup, shut down the computer, and tuck your chair under your very tidy desk (because the desk in my fantasy office on the 79th floor of glass and steel is so neat it doubles on weekends as an out-patient surgery table).
You never leave.
For some odd reason, it’s been on my heart that I have been a blatant violator of the Fourth Commandment.
This seems rather odd. But really, what isn't these days? (And for once. I have nothing to do with this typo.)
“Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God.”
Before no adultery and no murder. No work on Sunday.
Like most things in bible, it makes perfect sense.
All that work, rush, mothering, wifely-business 24/7 earns you is a spectacular view from a corner rubber-room at Bedlam.
* * *
Alas (though all psyched to honor the 4th Commandment), I worked yesterday…stepping over the contents from attic down the street that I still need to carry upstairs into our attic.
* * *
Deepest confession of my soul Number 592: Children are plants not moles.
They need to be out in the fresh air running free, getting sun-burnt and sweaty — not pale-faced and carpal-tunneled playing video games.
So Sunday, I slammed shut the television cabinet, opened the back door and said, “Be creative.”
* * *
They were quiet and I worked. And worked and worked and worked.
Then I began to worry because it was so quiet.
I went into my son’s room. Do you see the Christmas tree box pictured above? In his room, its contents were a blaze and the floor littered with bits of construction paper — castoffs from ornaments they were busily creating.
The only reason that tree won’t be up from now till December 25 is because they couldn’t find all the legs to make it stand.
* * *
See what happens when you break the Fourth Commandment?
* * *
What have your children done while you were so happy, working away because they were quiet? Too quiet.
I came into our bedroom Saturday afternoon and my husband was kneeling, folding and organizing my armoire.
He looked peevish.
(So I didn’t think it was Day 12 of the Love Dare Challenge.)
* * *
I planned to organize my clothes all week. This resulted in a pile of jumbled bathing suits, exercise gear, shirts, and shorts about three feet high in front of this particular piece.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
Some of you might think it doesn’t look that neat.
That’s because its contents have been under my control for the last 24 hours.
* * *
Yesterday my daughter came in our room and said, “Wow. What happened in here?”
I don’t know whether to feel relieved, humbled or neutered.
What woman can’t organize her underwear?
Me.
* * *
And it seems like there is a lot to organize.
Finding eight black bikini bottoms, he said, “I don’t know if this was because of different life stages, different fitness levels.”
I pointed to one and said I never wear that one because my rear hangs out.
“Then why the heck is it still in here?”
Okay. Fair point. (I paid a lot of money for it, that’s why.)
Then he said, “I found so much running gear it was like it was the athletic locker for the Nigerian women’s track team.”
What can I say? I’ve been running along time and I take care of my clothes when laundering. I just have trouble putting them away.
* * *
I do not like it when my husband gets in my drawers.
I do not like it in the rain, I do not like it on a train.
No, I do not like it Sam-I-am.
Does your significantly-organized other ever go through your closet?
Morgan County brought it last night.
My husband said, “I wanted to text Coach Malone and say that it was the best complete effort I’ve seen the team play.”
He was about to fall asleep on the bed for a nap when he said this. Coach Malone consider yourself texted.
The Game Story.
The offense played great. The defense played over-the-top great.
Our boys flew around the field hitting the boys in the white jerseys like I hit an open bag of corn chips after a harrowing drive back from Atlanta.
Here are a few just a mom with a blog highlights.
The cannon.
The ROTC brought Bulldog enthusiasm to new heights by wheeling a cannon onto the field.
Be forewarned, the cannon fires at every kickoff, touchdown and first down play. (Okay, not on first downs.) But it did seem like it was firing an awful lot — which is good thing.
I’ll get used it. (Though as a child at the University of Florida games they used to fire a cannon. I hated that thing so much I prayed that the Gators could win by field goals. Which wasn’t such a stretch in the 1970s.)
Love the cannon. May she ring out many times each game.
The Dog Pound.
Yes, the boys and girls painted red had lots to cheer about.
Twenty points. Twenty unanswered points. I hadn’t mentioned that yet. (Sorry.)
I interviewed Number 46 after the game and he said he was impressed with how the whole team played. Especially how the defense shut them down.
They put up a wall at Bill Corry Stadium.
Concessions.
Am very happy to confirm that once again Chick-Fil-A sandwiches are for sale for hungry Bulldogs. (Thanks Burns.)
And that drinks, whether water, Coke or Powerade are $2.
I know this because I bought lots of water.
And carried them back to friends in the stands – giving back most of all the change they were due. (Though a tip for the effort might have been nice.)
The Band.
Last night marked the debut of Jeffery Rowser as the Morgan County Marching Bulldogs Band Director.
Their performance was all Billy Joel. Perfect for me a child of the …well, let’s say I remember listening to him on Top 40 radio. Not the Classic Rock stations.
It was a flawless production. Though it took the observations of my brother-in-law (a master thespian) to point out the nuances.
I thought the pianos on the flags cool. It took his observation for me to realize their greater significance, as in Billy Joel — the Piano Man.
Just saying so you will get it right off next week.
Play of the Game.
There were so many to choose from. Journalistic integrity requires that I reveal this is the only one I caught with my camera.
Don’t think there was a more exciting play.
Nick Simmons’ run for a touchdown. From just a mom with a blog’s analysis, he looped way out on the right flank and out ran everyone for 82 yards.
Nick is Number 1 — he’s about to hit the 20 yard line in this picture.
Give him six!
It was hot.
With play on the field.
And sitting in the stands.
Even Morgan County’s finest made sure they stayed hydrated.
If you missed the excitement last night, be sure to call Susan Beasley (picture above) and join the Bulldog season ticket holders.
Next week Clarkston High from Atlanta’s Dekalb County travels to Morgan County.
The Mighty Angoras. I’m not sure, but their mascot might be a 1950s fluffy pink sweater.
What did you think of last night’s game?
Go Bulldogs!
Another work day begins at the Citizen.
The Morgan County Citizen is going to the dogs. Well, at least today, August 26th, National Dog Day.
Word on the street is that Kathryn Schiliro, Managing Editor of paper, declared today bring-your-dog-to-work-day in celebration of National Dog Day.
When I heard this stupendous news, I couldn’t bear to let my Tebow miss out on all the fun.
Though I decided to hibernate a while from my weekly newspaper column, I never miss a chance to see old friends at the paper.
And I never picked up my 2011 Georgia Press Association (GPA) award.
Hmm. It still says 2nd Place.
After the GPA refused to take any of my phone calls asking for a recount of the voting, I feared as much.
Looking at the document, a steady hand and a black Sharpie could fix their obvious mistake.
Kathryn brought her child Holden, a boxer/pit mix.
Kathryn never had experienced life with a dog before Holden and seems quite smitten calling him — the “love of her life.”
Andrea Gable, editor of another Main Street Communications publication, Lake Oconee Living, brought her beauty of a German Shepard, Gus.
A chance stop in Bainbridge, Georgia while travelling with her husband and two girls resulted in the addition of two new canine members to their clan. Gus and his sibling, a white Shepard, headed home in the car with her daughters. (My animal lover daughter would say that Andrea is a very nice mommy.)
Holden greets longtime Citizen staffer Monaray Powers.
I looked for the publisher, Patrick Yost, but he wasn’t in.
Katie Davis Walker was out on assignment, but Jack, her doberman, made Tebow feel right at home
.
Out in the parking, Mr. Yost pulled in empty handed after searching for hours for Doggie Bags. Alas, no perfect treat could be found.
(I guess this was due to all the hoopla surrounding National Dog Day.)
He assured me he felt horrible.
And promised send the entire staff with their canine friends to Atlantis in the Bahamas for a week long frolic in their unparalleled Dog Park and Beach Resort — scheduled to open December 2027.
So there it was.
The Dogs’ Day at the Citizen.
Have you ever taken your pet to work?
And like people knew about it…you weren’t hiding him in your purse or anything.
Open a can of green beans and faster than you can say “Jolly Green Giant,” I am transported to my grade school cafeteria.
Not only do I dip my steak in ketchup but eating (and sniffing) green beans from a can makes me happy.
I joined my daughter today for lunch.
Say "no" to the hand.
My daughter is tiring of being the subject for blog posts. Or so she protests.
Back in my day, you had to try everything on the plate and drink your milk.
I can’t drink milk. Never have, never will. (This provided lots of angst for me as child at lunch.)
If I didn’t drink most of the carton still ice cold from the chest, there was no way. If the lunch room monitor shook my carton and decided I needed to drink more of — at this point — warm milk…
Vomiteria.
I tried some of her pork and gravy.
This is the way I roll. Workout, clean out more of attic, come dusty and stinky to school for lunch.
A friend saw me at the Open House the other night said I looked pretty.
I think this was because I had showered.
After lunch, we headed to the Book Fair.
Jill Hill (who has an awesome blog) was dutifully volunteering and cheerfully ringing up sales.
While the brilliant writer and blogger Meg Ferrante was lifting the till while Jill’s back was turned.
Meg has a awesome annual blog during Advent. For those of us who love reading, she needs to think year-round or at least expand her blog by adding sacred liturgical favorites such as Lent and Halloween.
I love visiting my daughter for lunch.
I love chatting with her friends, waving at all my beautiful dutiful volunteering friends, and my daughter’s unabashed kiss goodbye.
What’s your canned green bean memory?
I’m going to get cleaned up.
Look forward to reading what made you vomit all over the mean girl. (If you had to vomit on someone, I hope it was the mean girl.)
This morning, I chose to walk this path.
To an attic in a house I haven’t lived for ten years.
Someone is moving in and doesn’t want my stuff taking up space.
Some people.
So I strode the teetering path and found many things I had completely forgotten.
Completely forgot modeling for this 38 Special album cover.
Can show Mom why I haven't entertained for the last 10 years. Who can hostess without a lace apron?
Completely unable to find the 2011-2012 Morgan County Primary School Handbook I received last week, I do have the 1998 Peachtree Road Methodist Preschool Handbook. (Excellent condition. I don't think it's been opened.)
My hair was that color...naturally? (How did she do that?)
I still have that coat hanging in my closet.
The dude I'm hugging above was hiding his "Sexiest Legs" under those acid-washed jeans.
Another stunner. Handmade Halloween costumes. By my hands. Wonder if Jake could fit his 6'1'' frame into this to trick-or-treat?
I found a small index card box with 3x5 cards where I had written a bible verse and the date. Here's the one for today's date 1996.
I have no memory of doing that. Did I memorize them? Why the date?
Who was this girl who made Halloween costumes, saved preschool handbooks and wrote bible verses on 3×5 cards. (And where did her lovely handwriting go?)
Alright, I still have a thing for 3×5 cards.
Writing bible verses and things on 3×5 cards seem to be the one common denominator between the girl in the attic and the woman at the keyboard.
And she’s still hugging the guy wearing the acid-washed jeans.
Have you cleaned out an attic lately? What did you find? Or re-find about yourself.
Image created by my daughter.
I spent yesterday in an oven.
No. That’s not right. It was more like there was an oven inside me turned to 400 degrees.
I asked my daughter to create an image of me burning up. I chose a winter picture to emphasize that I am never, ever hot in winter. (This looks stupid I now realize, but I’m not waking her up to do another pic.)
The rest is her design.
My only request was that she didn’t cover me with flames so that I was unrecognizable and have worms crawling from my eyeballs and smelly swirls of steaming poop hanging from my hair. (Which usually adorn these Doodle Pad creations.)
Though at certain points yesterday that was an apt description of how I felt.
I thought I was getting sick.
That wasn’t it.
I went into Atlanta for my Writer’s Group and sat for over 2 hours in an air-conditioned deep freeze and was fine.
Then I came home to a ransacked house.
Do you know how hard it is to give full, emergency cleaning effort when your skin feels like a cookie just taken out of a 350 degree oven? (But never cools off.)
Surely, I must be getting sick.
They are called Hot Flashes.
Not Hot Your-Body-Has-Turned-Into-Nuclear-Reactor.
I thought these things involved sweating. Which I would welcome at this point. Sweating would involve cooling off before meltdown.
Any advice?
* * *
GRAPHICS ADDENDUM
This is what daughter came up with this afternoon.
Since we share so much of life together, I’ll confide a lighter moment from the weekend with you.
My beautiful, engaging 10-year-old daughter dropped the F-bomb on me. KA**BOOM.
(Now if this is so horrifying that you will never invite her to play with your daughter or ever speak with me at the store, I completely fabricated this post out of the inexpensive Pottery Barn curtains hanging in my kitchen.)
* * *
Saturday morning.
I informed the children they needed to pick up sticks in the yard so our teen could mow.
This request was met with much G-rated complaining and gnashing of teeth.
I pulled them outside where they picked up one stick, sighed and pouted.
After 20 minutes of this, we managed to have a wagon full of twigs. We pulled them to the metal-fire thingy in the back of the house, so we could roast marshmallows that evening. (See, I’m a good mum.)
At this point, my daughter sat down and refused to go back to into the yard.
I gave her a reminder pat on her rear.
EXPLOSION.
RED-FACED and tears, “I’m not picking up anymore F-ING sticks.”
“WHAT did you say?”
Gray-faced, scared 10 year old, “I said ‘flippn’. I said ‘flippn’.”
I took away all her possessions and privileges, casting them as far as the east is from the west.
No electronics or television this weekend. No playing with friends for an entire week. No iPod Touch for the week.
I stopped there. And sent them back in the yard to pick up more sticks.
* * *
Talking later in evening with father, I asked her where she heard that word.
“You. You said it that day in the hall last summer.”
There was one day in early June I had a bitty temper tantrum of biblical portions because no one was listening to me or helping me around the house.
I might have used that particular word.
Why, do they have to remember everything you do wrong and forget all the times you wiped their tears and vomit-encrusted faces? The times you cleaned the same vomit off bedroom carpet while suppressing acid climbing up the back of your throat.
How for 48 hours after attending a Justin Bieber concert with them, your ears felt as if they were crammed with cotton balls as you sat at the bottom of a 12 foot deep pool.
The time you made gallon after gallon of lemonade (running to the store for more ice and mix) so they could keep making a profit on the street corner.
* * *
The only time I’ve ever heard my mother swear was singing “Hell, Hell to Hell with Georgia” during a football game. (For someone raised in Fitzgerald and Waycross, mother’s years studying interior design at the University of Florida really took.)
At seven, I came home from a friend’s house and used the word “fart” and couldn’t sit down for a week.
At 13, I told her to “Shut up” and had a bar of Ivory Soap crammed in my mouth.
* * *
I know chances are pretty good my daughter has heard that word from others sources besides her mother’s mouth. It’s almost in vogue with the overnight popularity of Go the Fu*k to Sleep. It makes it seem so cute, so funny.
It’s not cute and it’s not funny.
I’m pledging to expect proper language, words respectful in tone, subject and manner from all inhabitants of this house.
The one exception being the last Saturday in October.
Please tell me someone else has dealt with this?
