Something is terribly…terribly…wrong at our house.

Sissy practically skips off to do her geometry homework, her face wreathed in smiles.

See? Wrong. Way wrong.

Sometimes I’ll come across her facetiming her geometry bestie and they’re GIGGLING while working their way through homework.

What the what?!?

Supplements and complements to angles? High-larious!

Congruent polygons? What a gas!!

Direct and indirect proofs??! Nuthin’ better, num, num num!

Is this our brave new world? Is this the new world order?!  Has the earth shifted on its axis and highschool girls in the 21^st century really LIKE geometry??  Because back in the 20^th century, highschool girls hated the beshizzle out of it.  So much so that we had to spend our entire geometry class ignoring whatever nonsense was going on at the front of the room and instead talk about our perm-on-top-of-already-curly hair.  (This in turn got one of those olde timey chalkdust filled erasers whipped by the geometry teacher at our aforementioned curly hair.  That makes a girl hate geometry for more reasons than one.)  And geometry homework time?  Had to be spent weeping loudly at the kitchen table.  Yeah.  Way, WAY more crying over geometry back in the 20^th century.

Sissy’s geometry mystery prompted me to gaze deeply at her textbook (in case each problem was followed by a delicious chocolate treat or something which would explain my puzzlement away).

And this is what I found. (Here, I took a picture so you could see too.  Look close.)

Geometry for Enjoyment and Challenge.

Ah, yes. This DOES explain it all.  Here in the 21^st century highschool girls are doing geometry for enjoyment.  And challenge!

Back in the 20^th century, highschool girls were doing geometry for tears.  And Hell.

Sonny is an Urban Legend creator’s dream. And the latest Urban Legend he’s in for broke on is the Creepy Clown Craze sweeping the nation!

He suspects creepy clowns will be waiting for him in groups of three on the front porch when he gets home from school. Or perhaps lurking in our backyard, hidden in the shadow of a tree, just one…beckoning him to his death.  And if not in the backyard, then most certainly in his bedroom, probably right around four of the ayyy em.  He’ll most likely find two leaning over him just as he’s jolting himself out of a nightmare about two creepy clowns leaning over him.

So it’s no surprise as I’m driving him home from his flag football game tonight (down a very dark and tree lined street with minimal streetlights) that he says, “I always think I’m going to see clowns on this street.”

Yep. This would be the street where the clowns hang out and cause mayhem.  But ok.  I’m in for broke too because there’s no dissuading the kid from his clown obsession.  Here we go….

“Really, Buddy? Cuz that seems pretty nutso, donchathink!?  But we’ve had that talk already about the power of suggestion and the clown business.  So let’s have a different talk.  What would you want me to say to you if I DID spot a clown?  Would you want me to yell ‘LOOK OUT, THERE’S A CLOWN!!!!’”  And I shout so loud his arm kinda jerks and his water bottle goes flying.

He turns his head to me all startled, but serious and says, “No! Not like that!! I would want you to say it very calmly, real quiet.”

He’s still looking at me, so I look right back at him and say very quietly, “Don’t look now, but there’s a clown. Shhhhhhh.”

To which he replies, “Oh my gosh, MOM! REALLY??!?!!!”

We’re at a stop sign by this point and I’m still looking at him as he’s looking at me.  He clearly thinks – since we’re stopped right here on the street where the clowns lurk – that there’s a  clown peering into the passenger’s side window right…behind….him. So I smile a totally dumb smile, look into his eyes and say, “Yes.  I’m looking at the clown right now.”  And I keep smiling the dopey smile.

His face falls from fear into total annoyance. Clowns are no joking matter.  HIM as a clown is no joking matter.

Then I start singing:

Where ARE the clownnnnnns…

Send innnn the clownnnnnns….

Don’t botherrrrrrr they’re heeeeeeeere….

I was just in New Orleans, Louisiana. That place is fun.  Pretty wild, in fact.  And also exhausting. Especially that part where you have to walk down Bourbon Street with a plastic cup as tall as a yardstick, filled with piña colada.

So it’s a good thing that the airport in NOLA is an international one and you can fly back to the United States when you’re done with the piña colada.

But first you have to go through security at the airport. It looks and feels (and smells?) just like every other security, but the difference with the NOLA security is that it’s all just a big setup to get in a pretty girl’s pants.

Yes.

This is the exact truth.

Let me explain.

There I am, standing spread eagle in the security screening thingie that’s reminiscent of a revolving door, I’ve got my arms crossed in surrender above my head – just like in the helpful picture they post for you to stare at.

When I come out of the revolving door, the TSA agent asks me to step to the side. As I’m doing so, I look back over my shoulder to the screen that shows your big, round head, and all your supposed metal bits highlighted in yellow.  There on the screen is a yellow splotch the size of a softball.  At the top of my pants. In the back.

Wait! WHAT?!?  No, no, no!!!  There’s no metal in my pants RIGHT THERE!  Waitwaitwait.  No!  I swear to you, there’s no metal in my pants AT ALL!!  The yellow splotcher mcbob is broken.  Please, PLEASE, who would smuggle metal through airport security in the back of their pants?!? Not me!  NOT ME!!!

But because stuff that happens in New Orleans always seems like it’s one click away from going mediaeval on your a$$, I’m afraid to protest and cause a scene. Also?  It WILL seem like I’m trying to smuggle metal through security in the back of my pants in a “methinks she doth protest too much” sort of way.

…and then I’ll use the backs of my hands to smooth down and over that area. So shall we begin?…

While I’ve been flipping out in my head about my metal filled pants (that aren’t really filled with metal), the TSA agent has been describing how my strip search is gonna go down.

…it’s your right to a security screening in private if you prefer…

Actually? I prefer no screening.  NO SCREENING ATALL!!!  Can we arrange that?!

…if you decline that, I’ll need you to face away from me and open the waistband of your pants…

Ok, now we’ve veered into some weird “poopy diaper check” version of a cavity search and I decide that it’s not gonna happen this way without me piping up, “Listen. I want you to know that there’s no metal in my pants so I’m not sure why it showed up on the screen that way; I really, really think your screen is broken.”

…very good, Ma’am, now your waistband…

Wow. How many times has this TSA agent heard the “I don’t have metal in my pants” shtick?!  Not even a flicker of emotion.  Robot much?!

Resigning myself to the fact that there’s no fighting against automatons who want a sneak peek at the magic, I open my waistband before God and country. While standing in the security line.  At the New Orleans airport.

…Not your underwear, Ma’am. Just your jeans…

Ok. Can I please go away and die now?  Please??

But first, I have to submit to a full bum smoosh …with the backs of my hands, Ma’am… before being given the all clear and sent off to curl up and die/cry in a corner somewhere.

Tried to tell ya there wasn’t anything of YOUR concern in MY pants.  Showed ya too.

My amazing parting shot? “See!  I told you your screen was broken!  I really think you need to check into that.”

As I’m walking away, I hear the TSA agent say to the woman behind me, “Ma’am, please step to the side…”

Thank HEAVEN you can fly back to the United States from New Orleans when you’re done – because that place is exhausting.

I came home from a tennis match the other eve to find this loverly display out front of the house.

It’s Sissy’s old potty. We had to get it replaced with a new one because the one you see here just decided to stop working when summer break came to a close and Sissy gasp! started highschool! Gasp!

Did you catch that part about Sissy gasp! starting HIGHSCHOOL?!? Gasp!

Which is completely, completely weird and not even possible because she just started kindergarten like…last year.

Nonetheless, the potty went kablooey and freshman year was finally upon us. Hubby and I both took Sissy to the first day of highschool – Hubby driving, me sitting in the front passenger seat crying into my sunglasses while Sissy sat in the back asking her father if I was crying into my sunglasses.

Whereupon Hubby would give me the side eye, then swivel his eyes front again and say, “Nope.”

“Really? Are you SURE she’s not crying?!?  Is Mom CRYING??”

Side eye. Swivel front.  “Nope.”

Not sure what he was trying to do there other than protect my dignity and save Sissy some embarrassment because she hates it when I cry. But eventually she caught me sneaking another tissue and responded with, “She IS crying!  You ARE crying, Mom.  I KNEW it!!  Why did you lie to me!!!?”

Don’t involve me in this. I didn’t lie to you at all.

At which point the ride was almost over and I still hadn’t given my inspiring advice to her about how to have a successful highschool career.  So despite the tears, I launch into my, “Just be as kind and lovely as you always are.  Draw kind and lovely people to you.  You’re going to have so much fun, Sweetheart.  Work hard.  And don’t ever let anyone sit alone in the lunchroom on your watch.”  This last part trailed off into a high-pitched squeak and then weird laryngitis-like silence even though my mouth was still moving.  See? Very inspiring.

Then we were at school. Sissy’s bestie was standing out front waiting for her.  I jumped out of the car with Sissy, took completely non-embarrassing pictures of her and Bestie, hugged them both (again, completely non-embarrassingly) and they were off!  First day of gasp! highschool. Gasp!

I cried the whole way home and eventually gave myself a full-blown migraine with visual aura which I at first mistook for a detached retina due to excessive crying.

Well, that was fun. And we got a new potty out of it.

So now I pose to you a question:
Potty oh-vah?! Or potty just gettin’ stah-ted??!  

Whoop, whoop!

And see what I did there with the whole party potty thing?  Clever. So clever.

A tennis friend and I were recently talking before a tennis match about a second tennis friend who had slipped and hurt her knee and therefore was out for the rest of the season.

The version of the story I heard was that Tennis Friend #2 had slipped on some wet tile. Naturally I assumed she had been in the shower when the slip occurred, so when Tennis Friend #1 and I were catching up on that news, the conversation turned – as conversations about slippery tennis friends prior to tennis matches do – into a regular funniest-shower-slipping-stories-we’ve-ever-heard laugh riot.

Her story involved her sister and some screaming and thumping noises. By the time she got into the bathroom to see what had happened, her sister had a broken toe or tooth (I forget which) and she was all tangled up in the shower curtain, the rod of which she had completely ripped out of the wall.

That primed the pump a bit and we were laughing like loons by the time I trotted out my story involving my freshmen roommate. I was IN the shower with her at the time her slip happened so I bore witness to the whole shebang.

Hey! Hey, CREEP!  Creepy, creeper.  Eyes up here, ‘cause it wasn’t like THAT.  So before you go THERE with THAT, I’ll tell you that the showers in my freshman dorm consisted of like a 6 foot by 10 foot tiled room with four shower heads – two on each side of the wall.  That’s it.  No partitions.  No curtains.  Nuthin’ except a few inch lip which separated the showers from the rest of the bathroom.  I don’t think there was even a place to put your soap and shampoo since I remember a lot of crouching to grab stuff off the floor.  I also remember a lot of stretching and bending because there wasn’t any place to put your legs when you were shaving, except up on the wall.  Unless you chose to bend over to shave instead (with your backside strategically placed in the corner).  Gaah!  Talk about a total lack of privacy.  And in retrospect, there may even have been SIX shower heads – THREE on each side.  Grrrph.  That’s even worse.  Completely awful.  [Shudder.]  But six shower heads seems right because there was a lot of having to walk past what seemed like rows of naked women so that you could get to the shower head in the corner which had recently been vacated – excuse me, oops, sorry – because it’s not like you could ask everyone to “move down one” so that you could be closest to the escape hatch…er…lip.  Ugh, blaaaaach!!!

Ok, here we go.

But first, may I remind you that slipping in the shower is no laughing matter…

My roommate and I were in the shower. She finished before me and was carefully stepping over the lip of the shower when allofasudden she was lying sideways with her legs inside the shower and her upper torso bent up and over the lip outside the shower.  It was the funniest HowDoYouDo I’d ever seen.  And?  She was MAD.  Really, really pissed off.  So despite her, “Yeah, I’m sure that looked funny.  Go ahead and laugh.”  I got the sense she didn’t really want me to laugh.  So I stifled my giggles and tried to help her up.  But remember she’s naked and slippery.  And I’M naked and slippery.  It’s a lot like helping someone stand up who fell while ice skating: I’m worried she may drag me down with her.  Further, I don’t want to accidentally touch…anything…so I’m mostly just using my words to encourage her to get up.

Eventually she exits stage left even; limping and carrying her toiletries bucket while I spend the next ten minutes huddled under a stream of water, shoulders shaking trying to control the belly laughs that keep coming. This is no one’s cutest look.

Turns out frosh roomie had to go to the infirmary because she really bunged up her leg. There were crutches and everything.  To preserve everyone’s dignity we both told the rest of the girls on the hall that she got hit by a car in the crosswalk.

Now, carry on with your week-end. Try; try with all your might to get the visual of college girls in the shower out of your head.

By the way, it turns out Tennis Friend #2 didn’t even slip in the shower.  When Tennis Friend #1 and I were able to get ourselves under control from our hardy, har, har fest, we sought clarification from our team captain.  Tennis Friend #2’s knee injury had NOTHING to do with the shower.

So I’m not even sure why you brought the whole shower thing up.  Also?  Slipping in the shower is no laughing matter.

Super bummed the Olympics are coming to a close…

But ya know what should’ve come to a close way sooner?!?

All the nonsensical chatter by the male announcers when one of them-there l’il lady athletes was trying to win a medal after…gasp…having a baby!

That was the big topic of convo during Nicola Spirig Hug’s triathlon race. It was a long race, so lots of male t.v. announcer yakity yak yak.  Imagine the nerve: her trying to win a medal, after having a baby, after having already won a medal.  Sounds like that feat has been accomplished by very few women in Olympic history.

Weird that. But really, chick is an Olympic gold medal winner who then made it to another Olympic games.  Howz about we focus on that for a quick sec instead of making women like her sound like freakshows.

Also? I didn’t hear anyone talking about Michael Phelps in the  context of his parenthood.  Or that diver dude who won bronze with his toddler up in the stands.  Or that Marathoner Meb and his three daughters.

I may be over-the-top with this, but my thinking here is that guys talking about female Olympic athletes in the context of their motherhood is demeaning in lots of ways. So let’s knock that off ay-sap.

Ok, deep breath. Enough about male t.v. announcers.  Back to Nicola.  All’s well that ends well and she seemed pretty happy with her silver despite all the fellers who thought she should’ve felt otherwise.

An Olympic athlete? Gold medal winner??! Who then won a silver medal? Who’s also a MOTHER!??!

Rock on wit’ yer bad self, Girlfriend.

What really puzzles me though is how no one is making any sort of hoo-rah about Gwen Jorgensen being an ACCOUNTANT for heavens-to-Betsy!

Talk about nutso. Gals doing MATH?!  For a LIVING??!

Weird that. How was that allowed to slip through the system?!

But in my humble opinion, her whole gold medal winning backstory is even weirder.

Totes far-fetched if’n you ask me.

There she was. Sitting in a cubicle, doing math-y type activities when the USA Triathlon calls?!

Uh, hello, is Gwen Jorgensen there? Oh, this IS Gwen? Hiya.  How’s the math goin’??  Listen, this is USA Triathlon calling.  We want to sign you up for some triathlons and possibly a gold medal at some Olympics in the future.  You in?  You are??!  In which case, can we have your social security number. 

I mean, are women actually sitting in cubicles doing math for a living?

And are phone calls from USA Triathlon actually happening??

Because if so, you know what the.  Weirdest.  Thing of all is?? That USA Triathlon hasn’t called me yet.  Not that I do math for a living or anything.  So that must be the reason I haven’t gotten my call.  Yep, definitely the reason.  I’m also the mother of two.  So there’s that as well.  Oh, and I don’t do triathlons.  But pay that no never mind.

Bye, Olympics!  It’s been fun.  Sorry to see you go!!

Sonny & Hubby went to a fundraising walk across town this morning.

When they came back this afternoon, I asked Sonny how it went.

His reply? “I had the best breakfast burrito I ever had!”

Hmmm, ok. So no report on the actual walk? Because it seems like you should talk more about the walk than the breakfast burritos.  But something about this is starting to sound familiar: every time Sonny is involved in a walk, he tries to do everything else but the walk.

As Sonny finishes his comment, Hubby, who’s passing through the room says, “Yeah, and I asked him to get me one too. He was gone for ten minutes and then came back with a plastic snake.”

This is all sounding just about right for Sonny at a fundraising walk.

As Hubby continues on his way out of the room, Sonny turns to me, eyes glinting with excitement, “Mom! I won the snake in a fishing game!”

Yep, just exactly…totally…right.  Glad you had fun, Sweetie.

I flippin’ LOVE the Olympics. As a result, I’ve made my children LOVE the Olympics.  (Which only seems fair since I made them HATE skiing.  You’re welcome, kiddees.  Happy to help.  Mommy’s a helper.)

As a result of the love, the kids and I slogged through the opening ceremonies last night long after Hubby had gone up to bed.

And in order to keep the energy alive as we rolled closer to the Brazilian version of X-Y-Z countries, we had the brilliant idea to issue “awards” during the Parade of Nations. Some of the awards we awarded are as follows:

Oh, wait, but first, let me say that a grand total of none of us like the Dr. Seuss mobiles that accompanied the nations into the arena. Nope, none of us.  Those bikes with all the stuff sprouting off of them?  Too wacky for words.

Ok, so here goes:

• Best flag? Barbados. It’s a frickin’ trident. ‘Nuf said.
• Best shorts? Bermuda. Heheheh.
• Best hat? Burkina Faso.
• Best overall outfits? Burundi. Because any outfit that allows you to walk into an Olympic Stadium with a 6 foot walking stick PER PERSON?! RULES.
• Best outfit-that-looks-like-they-just-got-off-the-plane-for-a-nice-vacation-in-the-Cayman-Islands? The Cayman Islands.
• The “Oy vey, who’s still wearing white shoes nowadays?!” award goes to China. Pssst! China. Nude peep toes would’ve sufficed.
• Best jackets-that-look-like-a-pizzeria-sign? Croatia.
• Biggest team? U.S.A. U.S.A.
• Team voted most likely to wear Ralph Lauren blue blazers for the umpteenth year in a row? Also U.S.A.  Yes, USA won two awards.  We’re slightly biased.
• Opening Ceremony outfit voted to be most similar to a 90’s gala event/evening-dress outfit? Georgia.
• Most confusing yet similar names of several countries? Guinea, Equatorial Guinea and Papua New Guinea.
• Best flag bearer? Iran. Holding your country’s flag FROM A WHEELCHAIR while being an OLYMPIC ATHLETE?!? Word! And chick’s coming with me to the Hunger Games if the world goes there one day, sorry Katniss.
• Flag bearer’s hair which most closely matches their country’s flag? Jamaica.
• Best jacket? Nehru. Heheheh.
• Best Dab? (It’s a dance move, Mom.) Palau.
• Best Distressed Jeans? Portugal. But we think you folks should’ve dressed up more. USA wore blue blazers, afterall.
• Best Team? The Refugee Team. Worthy of the standing ‘O’ they received.

One award was given after that. I received it.  Not that I’m an Olympic athlete or anything.  Instead, I was voted “the most likely to fall asleep during the Olympic Opening Ceremonies, in spite of LOVING the Olympic Opening Ceremonies.”

A big thank you to all the little people who helped me get where I am today.

Last night…as I was falling asleep…somewhere offstage someone began playing the slide flute.

Ssssszeeerrrrrrup! Sssssssszzeeeeerup! 

You know the slide flute.

The slide flute makes it sound like clowns have been sent in and will shortly be doing zany hijinks in the center ring.

Ssssszzzeeerrrrrrup!

But the auditorium is dark and I can’t see crap. And other than the slide flute, it’s completely quiet.

Ssssszzzzeeerrrrrrup! Ssssssszeeeeerup! 

This is the dumbest show. Hubby and I seem to be the only people in the auditorium.

But when Hubby starts laughing, I think he must be able to see the clowns from where he is. Which is weird because you would need light to see anything in here.

So I turn to him to find out what’s so funny. And in the process I wake myself up just as the final slide flute noise floats past my face.

Sssszzzeeeeerup! It’s coming from my own nose.

God bless and gooooooooodNIGHT!

Gorgeous sunny Saturday in summer – and I come up from the basement where I was running on the treadmill.

Nah! No running outside when the weather’s like that!  What a stupid idea.  Running in the dim basement because that’s how I can also watch Below Decks Mediterranean while reading my Nook á la fois!

Can I get some snaps for using a French idiot in my blog?! Snap, snap, snap!

I DARE you to find another blog where they use French idiots to describe all the stuff they’re doing at the same time they’re running on the treadmill. Idiots. French idiots.  You know what’s funny?  Spell check keeps changing idiots to idiots.  I give up.  IDIOTS!  Nope.  Tried to slide it in there; it didn’t work.

When I come up from the basement, Sissy, who has probably 4 weeks of summer left before gulp! highschool, is sitting on the family room couch reading A Separate Peace by John Knowles.

She raises her sunflower face to me, all bewildered and says, “I don’t think there are any robots in this book. There can’t possibly be robots in this book.”

Oopsie. Tee hee hee.  I may have given her the impression that this coming-of-age book about boys in a boarding school during World War II had robots in it so as to encourage her to read the book sooner rather than later.  Because there’s nothing worse than spending the last week of summer vacay before highschool starts by hurriedly and panickedly reading a book you had all summer to read, especially when you could be spending the last week of summer buying all the cute highschool outfits you can find.  Can I get some snaps for THAT insight?!  Snap, snap, snap!

She then adds, “Can you tell me for real if this book has robots in it? Because I don’t really like robots and I was kinda bummed to think it had robots in it.”

No, Sweetie, there are no robots in A Separate Peace. That was just an example of me raisonne comme une casserole – another French idiot meaning “me demonstrating poor logic.”  Sonny?  He would’ve been all over robots.  Sissy?  Not so much, so my bad on that.

Idiot. IDIOT.

Gah!  Still no. I must use the word idiot in my blog a lot instead of the word idiot.

Oy, je donne ma langue au chat.

And yes, that’s another French idiot.  It means “I give up.”