Noodle

Met with a personal trainer for a first appointment today.

A very sweet young man.

Oh, gracious.

I just called a college student a sweet young man.

Nice.

Anyway, we went through how to use the equipment and how much experience I had had exercising. I thought briefly about lying through my teeth and telling him that I was in training for a triathlon or something.

Instead I told him about the two times I fell off the tread mill.

He showed me all the equipment and I tried each machine on it's lowest setting. Each time he asked,

"Izzat good? Can ya feel it?"

Why, yes. I could.

But I was very brave.

I feel a little like a noodle.

Except for my arms.

I can't feel them at all.

Next time I may just make the appointment with the janitor and a spatula.

Just Jor Kicks

It's been a rather frisky day for the Norvell kids. We stopped by my husband's office and immediately JR laid down on the floor with her rear in the air. AJ (who insisted that he dress like a policeman today) walked right over and bounced up and down on her. This was followed by "carpet angels", a screaming romp, and then a full blown wrestling match. Then AJ had a blowout that would have made an elephant proud. So we had to go. On the way home JR stuffed two acorns up her nose.

Just for kicks.

But guess what?

They didn't fight with each other. Not once! A few lessons in "sober-mindedness", are in order.

But at least they are embarrassing me with fantastic attitudes.

Religion

Here I sit in religious obsession, now here's my confession

My heart is deceived

If it wasn't, my life would reflect it

Instead I dissect it

Like rocks through a sieve

God of hope

Throw me a rope, in this pit full of whitewash and vipers

For I have been wandering 'round

Worshipping words that should fall to the ground

Here I stand with my fear holding hands with my heart

And I cry so I won't have to start one thing

It's amazing that I can rebel

And yet no one can tell

At least that's what I'm hoping

God of truth

Make me like Ruth on this journey to glean from the harvest

I paint myself as a saint

Yet I am fearful to step on the field

Too consumed to take part in the yield

'Ere I stand,

'Ere I sit,

Here I die

Come for me soon

Un-waste this life that I lay before you

Bird Guts Etc.

In younger days, my sisters, the neighbor kids, and I would play in the woods behind our house. It was our world. All manner of things happened in the "rainbow forest", as I called it. My friend Todd Cornfield and I snuck back there to see where his brother had secretly booby trapped the trail. I went along because, well, I knew what boobies were, but I had never seen a trap for them. I was terribly disappointed.

Over humid summers and long winters I found my childhood in those woods. I overcame my fear of crawfish, caught catfish, tadpoles, frogs, and minnows. And then I watched them all die. I buried dead pets and other dead things, then I dug 'em up again. I lost baby dolls, started fires, and made toys out of sticks. I climbed trees, harvested cattails and "cotton plants" and built forts. I would talk for hours to imaginary friends, scare myself to death with my own imagination, and then run home.

It. Was. Fantastic.

I also used to sit under our bird feeder in the backyard and pray that I could be like St. Francis of Assisi. I wanted birds and animals to flock to me. I would wait for them to come. One time, a fat little sparrow began to pick at the ground two feet from where I was. My heart was racing. My plan had been to stick out my finger. The bird would hop onto it and begin to sing cheerfully, just like with Snow White. But it all happened too fast. I didn't know what to do. I panicked. I waved my arms and screamed at the top of my lungs, "BOOOO!".

The bird flapped furiously, squawked, and slammed right into our back window. He fell to the ground. Bird poop was everywhere. I assumed it was his guts. It was horrible. I started laughing. I felt so guilty, but I couldn't stop laughing. The bird hopped dizzily a few steps and then took off.

Then, I cried.

I bawled.

These days, I don't have aspirations to be a monk named Francis. Nor do I wish to be a warbley-voiced woman living with seven men. I like who I am. So it makes me kind of happy that I see a lot of myself in my daughter.

We don't live anywhere near woods. We don't have a place to build a fort, and there are no birds at our feeder. But I think there is potential for her to have a great childhood too. She shows promise. She can play for hours with her "scary" baby doll (yeah, she thinks one of them is scary). She can make a toy out of a stick and build a fort out of a blanket. She talks to animals (except bears), and the other day, she asked if a hamster was seafood.

I am pretty pumped.

It's gonna be great.

Spin Class

I went to the gym to take a spin class today.

I ended up in the Zumba class.

Just in case you don't know, Zumba is latin dancing disguised miserably as aerobics.

You can "mambo, mambo" your way to a toned core.

Three senior citizens were already doing their hip snaps and rolls when I came in.

The instructor was wearing a black sparkly top, parachute pants and make-up.

I was wearing my lucky tennis shoes from 1978, neon pink basketball shorts, and my husband's socks.

Everyone clapped, shimmied, stomped, and yelled "aaarrrrriba". Including me.

Intense stuff.

I think it was in the middle of hopping my way through the Rumba/Salsa when I discovered some things about myself.

1. my hips refuse to relinquish their stiff English heritage.
2. My arms are unusually long.
3 I. Want. Parachute. Pants

I hope I can find some before Zumba this Thursday. :-)

Ed

I am mortified at the junior high version of myself. I was fearless in my use of melodrama.

I. Was. Horrifying.

Edward Frisbee. First big crush. Sponsor of the singing group I traveled with one summer. I had to get his attention.

Had to.

But social skills were not my strong suite, so I resorted to other tactics. I got sick on the bus.

Not really sick. I just held my breath until my eyes bugged out and things got fuzzy. Then I stood up and staggered backwards. The effect was miraculous. I was immediately escorted to the front of the bus. I knew I would be. And that is where my Mr. Frisbee sat *sigh*.

I sat next to him, ready for Act 2.

When the bus stopped at our hotel, everyone tumbled out. Mr. Frisbee was always last. I stood a little shakily (I was nervous, it was my first performance). I moaned faintly, and pretended to PASS OUT. I landed right in Mr. Frisbee's arms. He picked me up and carried me into the hotel lobby. There was no turning back now so I made sure that my head hung over to one side and my mouth was open, just to make it convincing. He asked if I could walk to my room. I opened my eyes and said faintly "I think so". And stood up only to be overcome again. So he picked me up, brought me into the hotel room and laid me on the bed. I caught one of the lady chaperones rolling her eyes. I stayed in bed the rest of the evening.

Later on Mr. Frisbee brought me an Orange Crush.

Orange Crush?

Really?

Was he trying to make a joke? I didn't drink much of it. All of a sudden I couldn't stand the taste. Still can't stomach it . I think it tastes like how hard it is to grow up.

Middle of the Floor

I spend most of my time in the middle of our living room floor. I have two toddlers, and a lot can be done from this vantage point; change a diaper, play a game, dress a child, read, wipe snot, and so on. It is my point of reference, for now. And it is currently where I sit. Trying to figure out how to tell our kids how our dead goldfish, "Dolphin", came back to life.

It was a totally honest mistake. We have had Dolphin for over two years. Originally there were three orange feeder fish. Dolphin maimed, killed, and ate his bowl mates immediately after we arrived home. We were left with the 27 cent cannibal. From then on I couldn't get rid of him. I didn't change his water for weeks, nearly had a horrific accident involving the disposal, forgot to feed him, etc. Still, the little guy held on. Now, I eventually developed responsible habits. And my sympathetic husband bought a real tank from a garage sale. And thus we have lived. Until Dolphin ended up belly up in the tank this morning. I told the kids the sad news (after I finished crying - yes, crying, over the stupid fish) and when they wanted to see, there he was, alive and wiggling. My daughter looked at me.

"Well," I said, "he's not dead yet, but he IS dying". As if on cue, the fish did a loop-the-loop around the filter, chuckled, and ate a mouthful of food.

Now, part of me is glad Dolphin is hanging on, even though he is a liar.

Part of me is mad that the fish made a sucker out of me in front of the kids.

The rest of me is sorry I cried like a baby about a fish. My husband will never let me live it down.