Hot!

I'm posting a discussion question about teens and dress over at MidCenturyModernMoms today. Anyone with anything useful to say on the subject is urged to comment over there. Not that this topic is a thorn in my side, or anything...

Okay, this is my favorite editorial cartoon of the week. It sums up Hillary's non-concession speech better than I ever could. I haven't gotten to listen to the real concession speech yet. But I know how it ends.

It's in the 90's here for the next few days, with humidity over 90% and frequent dangerous thunderstorms threatening life and limb. We all know what that means, don't we? It means it is time for Larry to undertake extremely exhausting outdoor work, work that should not be attempted in this type of weather by mere middle-aged mortals, susceptible as we are to heatstroke and back injury.

So Larry is digging up our 400 square-foot backyard in order to construct a flagstone patio complete with cobblestone edging. That translates into 9 tons of stone dust and 1 ton of cobblestones. All needing to be trucked in by wheelbarrow from the parking lot out front.

At least I won't be tempted to tease him about his lack of a regular exercise routine for a while.

Of course, right after Larry began excavating, we were inundated by weather wet enough to make me consider googling "blueprints ark". The precipitation turned our half-dug yard into a muddy swimming pool which is apparently irresistible to various children belonging to me and to my neighbor. She wasn't too happy the day she had to wade into our mud pit to drag her 5-year-old twin boys out by their arms. I expect to see a For Sale sign in front of their house any day now.

You know, it just occurred to me that no one seems to last very long next door to us.

In an attempt to escape the heat and humidity (and the angry neighbors whose property values we are doing our best to destroy), I took my best friend to the mall yesterday to help her pick out maternity clothes. (We brought our teen daughters with us, for which favor they owe us undying love and adulation.) They wandered around while my friend and I spent an inordinate amount of time in Motherhood, attempting to find maternity clothing suitable for a woman who is not under 25 and stick-figure thin.

Is there any way to let clothing manufacturers know that there are expectant mothers who would like to have shirts that do not accentuate the rolls of fat down our sides? Is that too much to ask? This horrible trend of looking sexy and svelte during pregnancy started when I was pregnant with Susie over 3 years ago, and it shows no signs of abating. I remember weeping because I couldn't find a simple pair of elastic waist shorts with a belly panel (at that point, the maternity fashionistas had decided that I would be more comfortable in shorts that did not cover my belly at all) and an attractive, flowing shirt that would cover up (rather than show off) my middle-aged pregnant body.

So. We finally staggered out of there with 3 acceptable outfits (I do love spending other people's money), a bathing suit (another note to manufacturers: pregnant women need support in the bust area, fellas), and a couple of nursing bras (one more thing? If a woman is wearing a D or larger cup, anything less than 3 rows of hooks in the back of her bra is just a joke. Got that?). I had walked in there a teeny bit jealous of my pregnant friend; I left thanking my lucky stars that I didn't have to go through the humiliation of trying on every single piece of clothing in the store to find something that looked appropriate.

Since the clothing ordeal wasn't enough for me, I came home and decided it was a great day (hot! sunny! weekend!) for the kids and I to take a 5-gallon cooler of lemonade to our local bike trail and charge 50 cents a cup for some refreshment. Did I mention it was hot? And sunny? So hot and sunny, in fact, that there was hardly any business. The kids whiled away the time drinking up their potential profit, while I tried to knit on a sock (bamboo needles and humidity don't mix well) and worried about how many cups of lemonade Susie could hold before she would need the potty. I'm surprised one of the few people biking by didn't call the police and accuse me of child endangerment. It was that hot.

But the kids stuck it out, because they are too young and innocent to realize when their mother is being abusive. And they netted about 17 dollars, which made them feel like Rockefellers. So I guess risking death-by-broiling was worth it.

Have I mentioned it's hot?

Drive Me Crazy

Do I hate this woman, or what? Here I am gimping around, dragging one foot behind me like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, and she's 40 weeks pregnant and running marathons? Show-off. It only takes a few women like her to ruin pregnancy for the rest of us.

It was Larry's turn to take Theo on the road today. In fact, I think it is going to be his turn from now on. We'll settle for traditional gender role assignments here - I give birth to the kids, and Larry teaches them how to drive. That's fair, isn't it? And, you know, that Lamaze breathing that everyone learns at childbirth classes that doesn't do squat when you are actually in labor? It does come in useful when you are in the passenger seat and the "baby" is driving. I sure hope Larry paid attention to how to do it.

Well, it's time to set half the clocks in the house back and then get distracted and leave the others as is and be really, really mixed up when we get up tomorrow morning. Maybe we just shouldn't bother to change any of them until tomorrow. But then we'll get up in the morning and ask each other, "Did we set them back last night or not?" It isn't easy, living with early-onset dementia.

By the way, I have no idea what's going on with some of the comments on this blog - I just found this whole page of comments I must have missed, and I don't know how. So if you're thinking I was ignoring you, you're right - but I didn't mean to. And now I'm having a hard time typing while trying to listen to Garrison Keillor, so I have to go. I do have some of my priorities in order, you know. And listening to A Prairie Home Companion outranks goofing off in the blogosphere. Unfortunately, reading Curious George for the millionth time comes in dead last, which could explain why Rachel is still sitting on the couch waiting for me to read to her and tuck her in. Bad Mommy, bad!