Every day, we have a morning meeting, and we all do a lightning share. But sometimes a kid will also want to share something special that happened to them or something they’re looking forward to.
Today, Kevin, coming into the classroom: I have something to share at meeting today, Amy.
Valerie, earnestly: Is it about corn dogs?
Today we did dead-lifts. I got a new Personal Record at 183 pounds. I might have been able to do more, but we ran out of time, and it was probably a good thing because my form was getting stanky.
The WOD was a ridiculous Amish endeavor. Not a barn-raising, but close. Two rounds, with two minutes rest in between, of
Rx, shmarrex. Fuck if I was carrying a 52-pound kettle bell. I usually ask Coach Dave how I should scale the weight for the WOD…and then subtract another 15% when he’s not looking. But Dave wasn’t around, so I picked up a 30-pounder and walked outside.
The sledgehammer swings were awkward as hell, especially with my left hand forward. You have to choke up on the hammer with one hand in order to pick it up but then when you’re swinging it down, your choked-up hand slides down to meet your other. I can’t even write about clearly, much less do it. The coach was all, “The point is NOT to let gravity bring the hammer down! Put some force behind it!” And I was all, “I’m a beginner!” But a few times I caught a rhythm. (As a matter of fact, if you were in downtown Durham this evening and heard a beautiful bell-buoy-like bonging song, that was us. You’re welcome.)
I was way behind the others after the first set of swings, and there were a bunch of kettle bells just sitting there. I didn’t know where I put mine, so I grabbed a pretty silver one and farmer-walked away with it. I picked up the same one for round 2.
The second heat of people started doing the WOD while I was finishing. (Which is actually good because, when there aren’t two heats, it’s usually just me, still doing labored box jumps or something, while everyone else has their car keys in hand but stands around yelling, “Go Amy!” until I’m done.) I finished today’s WOD in thirteen minutes and something, dead last as usual.
When I was done, I looked at the kettle bell I had carried more closely. Carved on the side, it said “24 kilograms”. “Hm,” I thought, “that’s about…let’s see…multiply by 2.2…carry the 1…that’s 52 pounds! Fifty-two pounds! That was Rx. I just did a workout of the day as prescribed.”
So you know what? Other people did it better and faster and prettier than I did. (Indeed, Sandy Gray Niceface was over there swinging the sledgehammer one-handed. He looked like a caveman. A very attractive caveman.)
But I got an Rx by my name on the board. Woot!
Why, that would be
That I cooked. As my 21-month-old niece would say, deeYISHus!
Now, do those two foods go together in the gastronomic sense?
I know not. I care not.
And did this dinner give me the toots?
Yes. Yes, it did.
But whatever, y’all. I’m cooking! Turns out, all you have to do is get a recipe and do the things in the recipe. That’s it. (Were it that simple with finding a boyfriend!)
Another thing I’m learning: you folks who cook things, you wipe down your stoves every day, don’t you? Every day. That part sucks.
You were such a brave soldier at the hospital today. It was clear you were scared, but you let them poke you and stretch you and rotate you, with little but a quiver now and again. You even gave the veterinary student a dainty kiss on the chin when she was done with her examination.
You’ll have your surgery next week. The radiographs indicated that you’ve been working on this injury for a lot longer than I thought you had. Growing a bunch of bone around the knee to protect it! I had no idea you were working so hard. Well, that bone is going to need to be shaved down and the cruciate repaired. I hope it’s not too painful and you recover quickly and, in a few months, I can let you off-leash again. In the meantime, you may be feeling really resentful toward me, but know that I’m feeling even more guilty about it.
I would do anything for you, Violet. You know I’m very careful with my money. I don’t buy shit I don’t need, I don’t carry a balance on my Visa, and I don’t do debt. But between today’s visit ($317), the surgery ($2,800-3,200), and future follow-ups ($?), it’s going to be expensive. I’ve just taken out a $4,100 line of credit, which the vet school folks think should cover it (knock wood).
And I want you to know, I’d gladly pay double that, triple that, I don’t care, because you’re my baby.
Here’s a dainty kiss for you: mwah!
Love,
Amy
I want you to know some things.
I want you to know you have an appointment this morning at the NC State vet school. They’re going to take a look at your wonky knee, which Dr. Purcell thinks you’ve torn. I’m sorry you’ve had to limp around on it for so long, but this was the first appointment they had, and I didn’t think I could afford the orthopedic vet in private practice in Cary.
(I kind of hoped, between when I made the appointment a month ago and now, that it would work itself out like all the rest of your creakiness. But no, the limp has persisted. You won’t even jump up into the car. It’s a good thing I’ve been going to CrossFit so I can squat-clean you into the Outback when I need to.)
I want you to know that this injury is my fault. I saw you walking gingerly on that leg before Christmas. I should’ve kept you on the leash. But scampering up Swift’s hill is one of the great joys of your life, and watching you scamper, well, that’s one of the great joys of mine.
Most likely, the vet school folks are going to say you need surgery so, most likely, you’re going to have surgery. I know you’re not even four yet and Mom said they might not even put you fully under, so it’s highly unlikely that anything bad will happen to you.
But I want you to know I’m fucking terrified that you’re not going to wake up from the anesthesia or there will be a complication. What does that even mean, a complication? I guess a complication makes things more complicated, more difficult, and I can live with that, as long as it doesn’t make you dead.
I’m having a difficult time right now. Work is hard. There are great changes afoot in my life. You and Redford are the only thing that keep me sane sometimes. Your needs are so predictable, so simple: food, water, play-dates, walks, and belly-rubs. My needs are so complex: I need my students to be compliant but not robots. I need to feed my body but not too much. I need a mate, but I don’t know how to find him.
So you’re going to be fine. For me. There will be no complications. Because—and I really want you to know this—I love you so, so much.
Do you hear me, Violet? Don’t die today, OK?
Love,
Amy
I’m kind of a sweaty monster.
I always have been. When I get hot…which is often, because of the…you know, the extry insulation…because I’m a little bit of a chubster…
Anyhow, when I exercise or get nervous or even just experience a day in Durham between March 1 and December 1, beads of sweat pop out on my upper lip and my forehead develops a sheen and pretty soon I’ve got pit-stains the size of pancakes. Shortly thereafter I’m on the train to Stankonia.
I should say, I used to get pit-stains. And I used to visit Stankonia.
You see, I tried all the different underarm products:
So about two years ago, I did some research. On the interwebz. Which is magical in its offerings. And I found
How does it work? Remember how that lady died in Goldfinger?
That was baloney—you can’t die from asphyxiation if you can still get air in through your mouth and/or nose…where air usually goes—but you can block pores by painting the skin, or in my case, spraying a little ethyl alcohol cocktail on it.
The negative: (1) It’s one million dollars a bottle. (2) If you spray it on before your underarms are completely dry, it’ll itch like crazy. And (3) it, like many antiperspirants, is chock-full of aluminum, and I hear that when they autopsy Alzheimer’s patients’ brains, they’re just lousy with the stuff.
So basically I’m spraying Alzheimer’s directly into my armpits.
But, hey, no pit-stains! No stank!
*Just so we’re clear, I’m pro-Latino dudes. I nearly married one. But many of them really like their Old Spice**.
**Just so we’re clear, I’m also pro-Old Spice. I like a man who smells good. Just not bathed in it so that the inside of my nostrils feel all burny.
The other day I looked out onto the deck to see
Which wouldn’t be weird, except the bottom of that window is three feet off the ground.
I moved closer, wondering if my dog had developed superpowers, and realized
I love that little bastard.
Salad (farmer’s market lettuce, olive oil, balsamic, mustard, and raw garlic):
Sauteed mushrooms:
Omelet:
I followed the recipe and everything.
But to make up for it, looky here:
From raw almonds.
That I roasted.
And then made
into
almond
butter.
(This is funnier if you imagine me saying it in a sing-songy, victorious voice.)
I get my Laura Ingalls Wilder badge, now, right?
