Yes, he was just that side of snotty, but I still have a major crush on Bode Miller. I just wish he'd been a little friendlier to Tom Brokaw. How can you sass TOM BROKAW? Oh well. Now that his skiing career is pfft, maybe he can just come here and give me massages while I instruct him in niceness.
We're watching the closing ceremony, or at least we thought we were - it is, in fact, the last few minutes of the 50k cross-country ski race. All those little skiers bobbing up and down at the starting line were a hoot - they reminded me of the really fast level of Whack-a-Mole. This is why I will probably never be asked to sportscast for NBC.
I'm kind of sad that the Olympics are over. I'm ready to return to my regularly scheduled programming and all, but I liked the whole meeting-of-the-world thing we had going. I agree with whoever it was that said that the US team was scandalously un-teamlike, though. It's like Johnny Weir was the only one telling the truth: each athlete seemed to be looking for his or her own glory, and they were each there to represent themselves. I was a little ashamed. But there were some sweeties in there - now that it's all over, I'm waiting for Joey Cheek to come home (he's from here) so I can fix him up with my sister.
I am not sad, however, to lose the commercial where the SUVs honk the Olympic march. Now every time I hear that song in my head, it's being played on a Chevy Armada or whatever that thing is. GOD, is that annoying.
The ceremony rolls, and the Italian skier is getting the gold from his sister. Let the waterworks commence...
Today, while nannying:
Kid 1: I got an Easy-Bake Oven for my birthday last week. Last week I turned five, and five is old enough for an Easy-Bake Oven. And I am five.
Me: Squeeee! Easy-Bake!
Turns out that this particular EBO came with - get this - E.L. Fudge cookie mix. Ordinarily I don't buy E.L. Fudge cookies, but making them myself seemed extra super hot, and so mid-conversation, I start salivating.
Kid 1: But we can't make those today. Not today and maybe not ever.
This after her mother specifically said we could make something using the EBO and its many mixes, which one would only assume included E.L. Fudge and his happy little friends, whose heads I am, at this point, mentally picking from my teeth.
Kid 1: These cookies? They have trans fats. Trans fats will make you a chubbo.
Me: [complete, utter, stunned silence]
Kid 2, piping up from in front of Dora the Explorer, because she's three, and that's what three-year-olds watch: Trans fats are almost as bad as NUTRA-SWEET.
Me: [gargly death sounds]
I got food-schooled by preschoolers. It's just been that kind of day.
Yeah, so I don't usually delve into the uber-serious around here, but this is freaking hilarious (in reference to this Linda Hirshman article that got the internet's panties in a twist a while ago - this link is a PDF because the article was printed in the NYT and I refuse to play nicely with the NYT because they make you register):
"One gets the impression that, when describing a woman who declined to be interviewed because she was baking pies with her daughters, Linda is mere seconds away from puking bile. First you're baking pies, then you're cooking a pot roast, and the next thing you know, John Q. Patriarchy and all of his poker buddies are pinching your ass while you scrub the Roasting Pan of Submission.
I wish this woman could get a glimpse of my life. Not ONLY am I underemployed, but I wash my husband's underdrawers with neither protest nor careful examination of gender roles (I prefer to use Tide). Oh, and I change 90% of the diapers, too. And fold them into origami shapes when I'm done (The Sailboat... of Poop. The Crane... of Poop). And, apart from when The Lotus Blossom... of Poop bursts open all over the beige carpet, I'M HAPPY. The mere thought of it is enough to make Linda's head explode like Andrea Dworkin's at a Vivid Video shoot."
THE LOTUS BLOSSOM OF POOP! I think I've died.
* Please note that I am not necessarily responding to the Hirshman article - some things just don't rile me that much - just pointing out a damn hilarious fellow mamablogita. We ain't havin' no debates up in here.
We went to Smithfield yesterday, a town whose claim to fame is the Ava Gardner Museum, where I will certainly go if I find myself completely nuts. But in Smithfield, lo, there are bargains to be had! The Carolina Premium Outlets are also there, (although they did not warrant a green highway sign like ol' Ava did) and oh boy did we shop.
I even bought clothes for myself, something I don't do unless I have to be somewhere where spots on one's bosom and holes in one's jeans are generally frowned upon. The good news - and by good I mean DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION good - is that I've gone down a size even from pre-pregnancy, despite the best efforts of my mom and her endless supply of pie.* **
* My sister, in one of her endless schemes to lose weight and firm up her already invisible ass, decided we needed to buy Dance Dance Revolution, since we have a PS2. It never actually happened, but we've started referring to things as DDR good, as something that encourages asstastic exercise while playing video games must be the best thing ever.
** My mom, as I may have told you, refers to herself as the Source of All Things Good, a title that would be irritating if it weren't completely true. She's always bringing home some little piece of lovely, and lately it seems that the lovelies all end in -pie, as in "chocolate caramel" and "mocha raspberry." Like, since Christmas. The fact that I've lost weight is just a testament to how wild and crazy my nanny kids are, and how much I have to chase them.
Anyway. So shopping was great, and today we're exercising yet another outlet, in that Rob is working his creative self by painting trim in the living room, and I'm finally finishing Norah's down comforter cover. The pink fleece backing is MAGICAL, I tell you. She gets on there and rolls around, which makes her giggle until she snorts. She's also working on pulling herself up, and if she tips over onto the fleece part, she doesn't get nearly as freaked out.
Life here is good, despite the wintry mix falling from the sky. How's you?
Things I am not:
Shot by Dick Cheney (OH MY GOD did you laugh?)
Things I am:
Mother of a sick baby, who has now been sick for almost two weeks, and yet the pediatrician says it's just a cold. I'll give her "just a cold" at 3 a.m. when the screaming won't end and my dearly beloved Valentine of a husband says, "Hey, I have to work tomorrow, will you go get her?"
[HEY. DEARLY BELOVED VALENTINE. SO DO I.]
Owner of a scandalously good new haircut, thanks to the Aveda Institute in Chapel Hill. Beauty school haircuts rock - they're closely supervised by well-trained teachers, not to mention the fact that the student doing the cutting reeeeally wants to pass, so each hair is cut individually and treated with the attention and love of a transplanted kidney. Also, it's an Aveda thing, so there are aromatherapy massages and mini-facials included with each hair service. And it was $17! Talk about a bright spot in the weeks of snot and hacking.
Cleaning machine who has managed to reorganize an entire house, mostly because the kitchen got ripped to pieces while someone was working on the cabinets. I just didn't want to put 427 pounds of junk we didn't use back in the nice sparkly whiteness of the cabinets, so I sorted and trashed and then went clinically insane and did the rest of the house too. Should anyone need 14 extension cords (I am so not kidding) I know where you can find them.
Really, really, tired. But I'm back, so don't worry - ain't nobody shot around here except my sleep schedule.