Gauntlet-Tossing Monkey Toes!

Anyone live near Myrtle Beach?  I'll meetcha at the starting line on October 21st!

I have officially tossed my hat in the ring for my first half-marathon.  That’s right.   

Thirteen-point-one.  

When I saw the date a couple months ago, I knew it was on like donkey kong. It holds a bit of meaning for me.  More than a bit. 

I spent a couple hours the other day plotting and planning my big 'ole 20-week training plan.  I've scoured the interwebz and found oodles and oodles of training plans, free and not so free.  Some are far too speed-leaning for me.  Others are much too slow.  And still others cost 30 bucks for something I can do myself. 

So.  Yoga every day.  Weights on Monday and Friday.  Easy 5K on Tuesdays.  Long run/walk 40/10 on Wednesdays (run 0.4 mile/walk 0.1 mile).  Long run on Saturday.   But I'm thinking of switching the long run to Friday since Saturday will be cutting in to my kayaking time.

Father's Day Virtual Run is on June 17th

Red Cross Run for the Red 5K is on August 4th. 

Humane Society Dog Jog and 5K Race is on September 8th. 

And BAM!  The race opens with "knights" from Medieval Times on horseback with trumpets.   Because Myrtle Beach really is that fucking cool.  

Which is why we will become permanent residents of Horry County and the City of Myrtle Beach in approximately 18 months.  And so begins our retirement party for the next forever.  

Because we really are that awesome.

Ah!  The big AC update!  It has come to pass that our compressor is functioning properly, and all we need is an evaporator coil and several hundred dollars worth of freon.... all told $1768.40.   It's funny, though, the awkward looks you get when you don't seem to consider it as much of an emergency as the repair guy thinks you should.  They seem to feed off of the "do whatever you have to do, just fix my AC" attitude.   I have a serious problem connecting the dots from air conditioning to emergency.   We'll get it fixed when I fucking say so.   It's not enough of a necessity that I cannot take time to get another opinion.  To consider my options.  To ask someone else.  To get it done on my timeline, not theirs.  Because that is just the way shit works.  You gotta problem with it?  Take it up with my kids.  They'll beat you senseless and have you begging to kiss my ring in 5 minutes flat.  They's my posse, see.

Hey!  You wanna see the part of my body that I hate the most?

That's right.  My muthafawkin' monkey toes.  These damndable things have gotten in my way since the first day I ever teetered on them.  They are ALWAYS getting caught in shit, bumping into things, slamming onto things, crumpling under things, tangling up in things, popping and throbbing and smashing and squishing and just generally being a pain in my ASS.  You see that flickted second toe on my left foot?  Yeah.  That was from kicking a soda machine barefoot when I was 10 years old. 

Toes are stupid.

So.  To recap.  Half-marathon on October 21st.  AC isn't catastrophic but still a minor annoyance.   And toes are dumb.

Oh, and my elder boy is currently crafting a letter he is planning to send to Stephen King whereby he is "throwing down the gauntlet" and challenging him to a short story contest.  He is hoping the homeschooling schtick and uncompromising audacity will win him a few points in the "please don't laugh at me and throw this away" category.

We shall see. 

And I'm serious about the half-marathon.  If any of you jack-in-the-boxes live within driving distance, put your fucking shoes on and run with me.  C'mon!  It's only 13 miles!

They Come In Threes

May 26, 2012

That's what Sarge says, at least. 

Bad things, that is. 

Two of them are blog unmentionables that involve two tummies and two Big Macs.  Draw your own conclusions.

Number three.

Oh..... numero tres. 

Le air conditioner.  Jesssss...... oh, jess.  Le air conditioner.  On the first 90-degree day of the year, indeed. 

We've actually had trouble with the damn thing since the day we moved in.  Our house was new construction when we bought it '05, so everything was brand spankin' new.  But the god-forsaken AC has NEVER worked right.  We tried several times to get it fixed while it was under warranty.  They never found anything wrong. 

But something is wrong when your brand new AC won't cool the house any lower than 78 degrees.  And something is dead wrong when your little 1600 sq. foot house comes with a $300 electric bill.  Yeah.  Dead serious. 

I've had someone out here looking at it at least once a year.  Every year.  They'd maybe find a tiny leak or some such insignificant thing.  They'd charge me.  Nothing ever changed. 

Sarge and I went paddling this morning.  On our way back home, Jake calls. 

"Hey mom, uhhh.... it's 85 degrees in here."

"Shit.  Okay.  We're on the way home."

It's fucking Saturday.  Memorial Day weekend.  And I am on the phone with whichever AC guy will pick up the phone first. 

$97 just to drive out here. 

$99 to tell me what is wrong.  He quit checking for leaks after finding 4 or 5.  FOUR OR FIVE LEAKS... in various places.  The compressor had overheated.  We're still waiting for it to cool down, crossing our fingers and praying to every god and goddess ever invented that it will reset and turn back on. 

Something about an "evap coil replacement"..... and $400 worth of freon..... $1768.40 total.....

IF the compressor resets and comes back on....... that's still up in the air. 

Ouch.

I wonder how much I can get for my kids' kidneys?  I mean, I'd sell my kidney, but that sounds like it would hurt.  

Poor Sarge is sitting on the living room floor fighting with the mega-industrial sized window AC we just picked up from Lowe's.

Because, you see......(and this is just a sweet little kick in the teeth)..... but becoming overheated can cause multiple sclerosis to flare. 

Yeah. 

Bad things come in threes. 

But the good news is that good things are infinite. 

Like the cheesecake I had today.   Three whole pieces!! 

And the Star Wars marathon on the Spike Channel!!

We would have to fix the AC anyway before we can put the house up for sale and move to the beach!!

(Looking around for more good things).....

I'm gonna buy a Jolly Roger flag and stick it on my kayak!!

Ummm......

We're gonna get up in the morning and go paddling again before I have to work!!

Ummm.......

 

<------- THIS!

My fuckawesome new T-shirt!! 

This totally AMAZING little product that fixed a hole in the toe of my Vibrams so now I don't have to spend $60 on brand new pair, which is already awesome that I can buy the kids' sizes which are only $60 instead of the $100 adult sizes, but now I don't have to buy them at all because of SHOE GOOOOOO!!!

The End.

Ooh! Ooh! Stuff To Show You!

May 24, 2012

You didn't think I was done talking about how much of a badass I am, did you?  Oh hell no.  Now with 300% MORE PROOF!

You see that face?  That is the face of a badass bitch running on a sprained ankle.  You see that other face?  Oh God.  I married that, didn't I?

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I'm bummed they didn't get an awesome shot of Sarge jumping.  In every pic they took, he is always watching me.  Do you blame him?

 ____________________________________________________

I was small enough to duck under the barbed wire instead of having to crawl on my hands and knees, which is why I am not covered in mud.  

____________________________________________________

 

What's this you say?  This here doesn't look like Warrior Dash business!  THIS... is what Sarge and I will be doing this weekend.  And next weekend.  And probably the weekend after that.  We're considering super cheesy "his and hers" names for them.  

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And lastly.  It is with much consideration and significant housekeeping that I have decided to come out of the anonymous blogging closet and open up my fancy writin' blog.  I write fancy stuff here.  I sound different.  You might not recognize me.  You might be bored.  Click here to find out. 

Mayhem!

May 20, 2012

(Sorry, I photoshopped my raging headlights so you could focus more on our pure awesomeness rather than my erect nipples.  I'm not saying my nipples are not worthy of your focus, but 'time and place' right?)

It has been proven.  The human fight-or-flight response can last HOURS after initial onset.

My ankle looks like hell.  It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.  But between the 1/2 mile mark and the time I woke up this morning, it was the ankle of the muthafawkin' Terminator.

I pretty much knew I was screwed when I woke up yesterday.  Didn't matter.  It wasn't like the hamstring, which physically prevented me from performing the movements required to make a human body run.  It just hurt like monkey nuts every time I put weight on it.  But I could still run.  I figured, either adrenaline would make it go away eventually or it would just continue to hurt.  Either reality would not stop me from running and finishing. In a respectable time.  Aside a group of other relatively fit-looking people (as opposed to that group of time-wasters who sign up for shit like this and then walk the whole thing).   And I accomplished that, I think.  The longest time in my division was 2 hours 12 minutes which, the way I see it, is only possible if you ain't got no legs.  Poor girl with no legs!

Sarge and my time was 1:09:44.  I'm certainly not ashamed of that.  When you figure in the length of the actual course (3.08 mi normally takes me about 30 minutes), the 14 obstacles, the bottlenecks on the track where you get stuck behind walkers you can't pass, waiting at obstacles for people in front of you, and the fact that I did it on a fucking sprained ankle, I figure an hour and 9 minutes pretty much rocks.  Not ashamed, not even a little.

The fastest finisher yesterday did it in 25 minutes.  Oh gawd, really?  Yeah.  Well, Sarge and I explained it away fairly easily.  Clearly, that inhuman race-tard was in the first heat of the day, and obviously stayed in first place during the whole 3 miles in order to get to each obstacle first and while it was still in pristine condition.  Duh!  In that case, even the girl with no legs could do it in 25 minutes!  Right?  Am I right or am I right?  I know, right?!

The "fucking sprained ankle" part up there was your cue to be amazed by my physical prowess and mental discipline, by the way.  Just in case you didn't catch that part.  I mean, I know Sarge has MS and all that nonsense, but did you read that??  SPRAINED ANKLE!  Helloooo?

What can I say?  You should do this.  All of you.  Everyone.  Should do this.  It is the most fun I have had since the last time I had fun!  Which was probably a few days ago!!  Exclamation points rock!!!

But seriously.  We didn't train for this.  Not at all.  Not even a little.  The only "training" was my usual running and yoga.  All that upper body strength I thought I didn't have?  Holy shit!  It was just ooooooozing outta me like snot on a 3-year-old.  I climbed high stuff with ropes and junk!  I pulled myself up on floating things in freezing water too deep for me to touch!

For a minute there, I actually reconsidered the notion that I rendered myself a completely useless human being during a zombie apocalypse when I got my tubes tied because the only thing I would have been good for was propagation of the species.  Now I can climb stuff!  That's important, right?  I can run on a sprained ankle!  That will keep me alive for at least a few extra minutes.  I can slide down a huge, grown-up sized Slip-n-Slide!  Oh, who am I kidding.  If grown-up sized Slip-n-Slides don't trump maximizing your Roth IRA contributions on your "shit that is super important" list, then you are a completely useless human being and should be exterminated.  You can quote me on that.

So, what have I learned this weekend?

Climbing stuff is AWESOME!

If you keep running on your sprained ankle for long enough, it will stop hurting and magically go away, despite what that quack doctor told you!

Dumbass people sign up for this shit and walk the whole thing.

Sarge and I are superhuman and look smoking hot covered in mud.

If you decide to plunge yourself into a body of water without a shred of hesitation or forethought, be warned that the likelihood of it teetering on the brink of freezing and too deep for you to touch ANYWHERE is close to about 90%.

I will be picking mud boogers out of my nose for at least another week.

The vanilla bean cheesecake at TGI Friday's is officially the most magical thing I have ever put in my mouth (Sorry Sarge).  

Adult-sized Slip-n-Slides are the pinnacle of human engineering achievement and should be made available and accessible to all of humanity.  For it is in adult-sized Slip-n-Slides that we shall find our true nirvana. 

You can quote me on that.

Why me, Lawd? Why ME??

May 18, 2012

Fucking seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  

What the ever-lovin' fuckety fuck is this shit all about?!

I have no FUCKING clue what I did.  One minute, I was prancing along, doin' laundry, doin' mom shit, telling Jake to back the fuck off the french dips because I really don't feel like making that for dinner... then telling Jake to shut the fuck up because he was whining about french dips.... you know, the regular shit, right? 

And then out of no where, I take another step, just a regular step, no different from any other ambulatory cycle, and I noticed.  Hmm.... that doesn't really feel normal.  But no big deal, I'm old, right?  That shit happens. 

So, I'm going along, more mom shit, more prancing, lalala.. and I reach down and touch it.  And I was like, Umm.  Ouch.

So, then I look at it, right?  And this is what I see. 

So again, I ask you.  WHAT THE FUCKETY FUCK?

It's cool, though.  It's cool.  Warriors don't pus out.  I'm not there to win.  I'm there to finish.  I've got my Ace wrap, my bag-o-peas, and my Tylenol 3.  The Warrior Dash is paid for.  The hotel room is paid for.  And the only way I will be pussing out is if someone has to physically restrain me and remove me from the course. 

So. 

Fuck all y'all. 

Peace out!

Happy Forgot-The-Pill Day!

May 13, 2012

It is Mother's Day.  For all of you uninitiated.   Or non-American.  Or sans-children.  Or otherwise just don't-give-a-shits. 

For the most part, I classify myself as a "Just-Don't-Give-A-Shit."  I'm probably the president of the JDGAS. 

That's it!  I'm making a new club.  The JDGAS!  I'm the president.  I'm also the president of the FYAOA. 

The Fuck You Association of America. 

And the KMASOFUB.

The Kiss My Ass Society of Fucked Up Bitches. 

Now I'm just making shit up because I'm bored. 

So anyway.  I forgot what I was going to write. 

Oh right!  So.  Sarge and I are doing the Warrior Dash this Saturday!!  It's pretty much gonna ROCK.  We even got a swanky hotel room for the night.  Only because I waited too long and all the other hotels were sold out.  But dude, I'm not complaining about the swank.  The hot tub is going to be sweet like candaaaaaay after 3 miles of falling on my face and catching myself on fire.

Did I mention I am a nonsmoker?  Yeah.  For a whole month, I think.  No cheating.  It's true!  I feel the same and all.  Although I have noticed that running seems even more fun than usual lately.  Not sure if its all the extra oxygen or maybe I'm ovulating.  Everything kind of seems like Mr. Rodgers is shitting rainbows when your body is begging you to procreate. 

Sarge is the bomb, by the way.  I mean, seriously.  He's like a rock star.  Except when he was poking me with a cattle prod in the kitchen a couple hours ago.  He was all like, You need my help making dinner?  Don't you think you should use another egg or two?  You sure that's enough zucchini?  I think we need more rice, you want me to make some?  Is dinner almost ready?

He excused himself to take a shower.  After the whole "Please don't kill me" kiss.  You know the one. 

So anyway.  I still haven't called my mom.  Because I'm pretty much a skankmonkey bitch who has forgotten to call her mommy.  I shall remedy that forthwith.   FORTHWITH, I SAY!

I was looking for a cute mommy picture to put here.  But I couldn't find one.  Because back when my kids were wee little, I used to be fat.  Like, really fat.  And I refused to stand in front of a camera.  So, I kind of don't exist before somewheres around 2008. 

But I found this picture.  And if this shit doesn't melt your heart, you are a heartless alien donkey dick from the planet IFuckingHateStuff. 

Shed a tear, my lovelies, for 19-year-old Sarge and 1-week-old Jake.   This made me a mother. 

Well.  Okay.  That and sex.  Lots and lots of sex. 

Kind Offer

May 12, 2012

Dearest hungary mother-

Send me your daughters.

The pretties and sweets. 

Soft ones and tender.

Tasty and plump and meek.

I shall chop return them forthwith!

Ripe for serving service.

Love,

E. Bathory

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Trifextra Weekend Challenge- "Your challenge is to write anything you want, in whichever form you please, so long as your response is exactly 33 words and includes the word "mother."

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Revelations From Register 8

May 11, 2012

While Jake was busy running up and down the aisles yelling, "Stranger danger!  Stranger danger!"

And while Andrew was busy texting me
"Where iz u?"
"I can't find u!"
"I still can't find u!"
"I thought u sed u wuz in the bread!"
"I can't see u!!"

I uncovered a rather profound truth as I stood in line at the cash register today.  And I feel it is my duty as a citizen of this world to share this with you.  It was quite enlightening, albeit sad.  You see, I have discovered that humanity will never achieve world peace.  

Never. 

Why? 

Well. 

It's quite upsetting, actually.

Why we will never be able to experience zen on a global scale. 

It is because her ass is busy eating it.  

Sorry. 

As Boys Go

May 9, 2012

I am sure you all have gotten your daily fill of my annoying banter about my eldest worm.  But what some of you may not have heard much about is my baby chile.

Andrew.  Oh, my sweet little baby Andrew.

Andrew is 15 years old.  He's taaaaalllll......!  Even taller than Jake!

But he weighs not much more than I do.  He's been tryina bulk up, though.  He does his morning pushups.

Andrew is his own man.  He sees the world through hazel eyes, like his big brother.  But with a mind that grew from morning glories, a brilliant soft blanket of beautiful.  Much unlike Jake, whose mind grew from climbing, weaving honeysuckle whose sweetness must be delicately teased from his depths.

Andrew has read one-third of every book in a varied and quite respectable library of titles.  The first one-third of a book he ever read was Carrie (which is also, interestingly enough, the first novel I ever read).  But once the gross period part was over, he got bored.  I am so bursting with pride that he is about to finish, any day now, all 3 thirds of a book.  And despite his cool veneer, he is proud, too.  

Andrew learned to read by playing World of Warcraft.  And being the homeschooling mom that I am, when you find what works, you fucking use that shit like a filthy whore. 

In addition to that, he also learned the concepts of microeconomics through WoW.

He learned the intricacies of human relationships and working in teams by playing Call of Duty.

He also learned how to bully noobz by playing Call of Duty. 

Unlike Jake, Andrew is a BRILLIANT money saver.  While most kids his age spend it as soon as they get it, Andrew has an uncanny ability to let it sit and simmer in his bank account with nary a shred of impatience, until he has saved for exactly what he wants.

Andrew LOVES doing chores.  When he washes the dishes, he lovingly whispers sweet nothings to each plate, folds the dish towel into cute animal shapes, and leaves a mint on the counter just for his momma.

Everything I wrote after the word "Andrew" in the previous paragraph is a bald-faced lie.  

Andrew is the strong, silent type.  He speaks when the moment is right.  When he has the words he needs.  Which usually means things like,

"Mooooooooom!!!  Tell Jake to get outta my room!!!!"

and

"Jake!  You are so GAY!  Get outta my roooooom!"

and

"Okay guys, stay behind me.  I'll sweep the house.  Watch out for noobz and campers!"

and 

"Maybe is a baby who needs to be loved until it says YES!"

Andrew also needs a bit of help to wake up in the morning.   My day usually gets quite fun during these times.

Sometimes, I burst into his bedroom and do disco lights with the light switch.

Other times, I'll suck his precious, long hair into the vacuum cleaner hose.

And still other times, such as today, I will perform an improv broadway musical which includes standing and spinning around in his desk chair, dancing, jumping from his bed to his desk to the floor to the chair and back to his bed, choreographed jazz hands, and singing about how excellent my day will be once he is awake, the marvelous sun in the magnificent sky, getting his brilliant little wicked mind all cranked up, some totally unrelated stanza about ice cream, and how the half-naked chick in the poster above his bed REALLY, REALLY wants him to wake up. 

It's pretty much the highlight of my whole day.

Andrew is my favorite baby chile in the whole wide world.  I used to rock him to sleep every night.  When he'd fall asleep on the couch, I picked him up and carried him to his bed until he got so big that I couldn't anymore.

Jake was never a snuggler.  He always wanted to do it by his ownself.  

Andrew was a snuggler.  I think he'd probably still sit on my lap if he wasn't twice my size.

But just like his brother, Andrew loves his dad.   It is an almost palpable sense of pride, a feeling, from just the way they both look at him, a hero in a million different ways.  To hear Andrew talk about his dad is to hear him tell the story of the man he wants to be. 

Andrew's heart is tender.  Soft and strong.  And every time he smiles, he wears the sun all over his face. 

His sense of humor sizzles.  He tells a joke with a poker face, and he'll let you stew on it forever.  His irony might hit you a week later, standing in front of the hot dog buns in the grocery store, and you'll fall over laughing spontaneously.  He'll never crack a smile.

He knows himself, much like his brother.  He knows his strengths, and he knows his weaknesses.

As Jake barrels through life like a steam engine, Andrew stands under the ceiling fan spinning in the opposite direction because it's just a fucking awesome thing to do. 

It's a strange thing, you know.  When I see this child, the baby child.  I birthed him, rocked him, snuggled him, sung to him, and now he stands in front of me with his sunshine smile and summer eyes.

Yet now, he is big enough to pick me up with one arm, and remove my entire self from in front of the refrigerator so that he can snatch the last ice cream sandwich. 

Yep.  That is Andrew.

Yeahwrite.me #56

Can I Annoy You?

For just a moment, perchance?  

He mostly writes short stories, and kicks a significant amount of ass in so doing.  But this is the first time I have seen him write poetry.  And I must say, I am floored.

He is more than brilliant.  

Oozing with slimy talent and heart.  

He is my boy.  

Take a moment, if your day allows.  

And go read the spawn of my uterus's spawn of his imagination.  

He doesn't need me to pimp him out.  His writing stands on its own.  

But I am doing it anyway.  Because I am his mother.  And I love him more than gravy.  

Even more than chocolate gravy.  

My boy writes here Spawns of My Imagination: The Conscious

Sharing Is Caring!

May 7, 2012

*WARNING!*

The following image might be disturbing to some pathetically weak individuals, specifically those who shit gold coins, have porcelain lovely complexions, and were voted "prom queen" in 12th grade.  

Don't ever fucking say I didn't warn your silly ass.  

This is my zit.  It has been bothering me for a week.  A whole fucking week.  Sarge tried to pop it two days ago.  Yes.  That's right, fuckers.  We pop each others' zits.  What the FUCK do you think two people who have been married for 18 years do?   It's sort of like one of those monkey grooming videos on Nat Geo.  Although it does sort of creep me out when he watches me shave.  Mainly because the frosted glass on the shower door makes him look less like him and more like some vague, nameless peeping tom with a shaving fetish. 

Regardless. 

Damnit.  I've been saying that word far too much lately. 

Regardless.

DAMNIT.

Okay.  So.  I am open to suggestions.  Of course, I could always leave it alone, but where's the fun in that?  There needs to be some sort of deep sense of gratification that comes with a good squeeze.  You know?  Please tell me you know.  Because if I'm the only one who knows, then I just totally embarrassed myself.  

Boring people would probably tell me to use a warm washcloth and whatever, blah, blah, blah. 

That's why they're called boring people. 

Should I name it?  I mean, it could sort of pass for a parasitic twin, yes?  I could name it Evil Aimee!  It could be like that movie Total Recall!  That slimy Kuato character that lives in that one guy's stomach!

^^ Evil Aimee!! ^^

I love that movie, by the way.  I'm probably the only girl who does.  The 3-tittied chick was the best!

Regardless. 

DAMNIT!

So anyway.  Evil Aimee's gotta go.  I mean, if it actually imparted soul-awakening wisdom in perfectly crafted proverbs that would be one thing.  But it's just kind of sitting there.... just.... being gross, you know?  

Anyway.  Sorry if I ruined your lunch.  

Evil Aimee just wanted to say hey.  You know..... soooo.....

Say Cheeesooooww!!!

El cinco de Mayo, 2012

Me and Jake at 7:30 this morning.  

He wouldn't smile, so I punched him in the kidneys.

*The End*

Stranger Things Than Me

May 3, 2012

Chapter 3 is taunting me.
Silly cursor breaks my stride.
I'm writing everything, everywhere, except what I should be writing.
My noggin threatens mutiny.
My main character is trapped, bleeding out on an empty bus.
And I cannot help her.
Because.  Well.  Apparently.  I'm busy pretending to be a not-writer.
It's not my fault.  It's my maddening synesthesia, of which word narcolepsy is a symptom.
You know, word narcolepsy.  Only a true synesthestic would know.
Read the word 'blue.'  Zzzzz......
Read the word 'luftwaffe.' Zzzz.....
Read the word 'juicy.' Zzzz......
Word narcolepsy.
It's as good an excuse as any. 


I just took one of those naps.

Not the one you wish you hadn't taken.
When you wake up jarringly, feeling as though you just spent 45 minutes in a sauna with an anvil on your head.
The one that snuck up on you.  That you never should have taken.
And then you spend the next 3 hours trying to quell your overwhelming "nap guilt."
Because you never take naps.
Naps are for lazy people.
You're not lazy.

No.  It wasn't one of those naps.

It was one of the other naps.
You aren't necessarily tired, just relaxed.
Things are all in their place.  The dog is snoring behind the recliner.
The air conditioner is set 2 or 3 degrees lower than your electric bill would like, but it will be your little secret.
And the ceiling fan is on.  Even better.
Your legs are tangled all around your favorite blankie, the one that has cold spots in all the right places.
Your feet are tucked in between the couch cushions.
Boy chirrens are quietly setting something on fire..... snorting crack ....... prank calling 911 ..... reading Shakespeare. 
And slowly, ever so slightly, every 45 seconds or so, you push the volume button on the remote control down once.... down once.... down twice.... fan blows your hair.... you rub a cold spot on your blankie..... and life just gets really, really juicy.  Slow.  Light.  Steady.  Juicy.   Zzzz......
Your body temperature settles into that perfect place between sunshine and shade.  Nothing is forced.  Thoughts are on autopilot. 
Nothing really matters, the pokes that are usually poking, the edges that usually rub, the snaps that are usually hanging around your ears just waiting to catch you off guard.
They don't matter.
Eyes close.
You are there, but not.
Your breath is a primal reflex.  
Gravity cradles.
Until.
UNTIL.....

A gigantic, hairy-legged boy chile lumbers through the front door.  Because nothing about gigantic, hairy-legged boy chirren is graceful.
And he says, "So... uhhh... hey, Mom.  Yeah.... I was just wunderin'.... ya know.... what you were planning on cookin for dinner?"
And then it suddenly hits you.
Like a perfect bolt of lightening striking that one guy that fucked with you in 10th grade.
And you realize.  
I am sooooo not cooking dinner tonight. 

P.S.-  Luftwaffe!

Zzzz.........