Getting taken for a ride

Today we picked up new bikes for the girls. We ended up buying two from Wal-Mart, the seventh circle of hell on a rainy Memorial Day, and I really struggled with our choices. The only bikes that the girls really liked (and truly fit on) were a Bratz and a Hannah Montana bike.

Insert heavy sigh here.

My kids don't have Bratz dolls. We don't buy into the Hannah Montana craze. I refuse to spend my money on dolls that look like prostitutes and I won't play into the machine that is Hannah Montana/High School Musical or whatever else is popular this week. I'm a mean mom and a marketing executive's worst nightmare.

So what's a mean mom and a marketing executive's worst nightmare to do when she finally caves and makes the dreaded purchase? She removes all the stickers off of the bikes of course! Take that you evil doers, you corrupter of children and depleters of college funds!

I still feel dirty, though.

And Abby came tumbling after

Today the family took a bike ride south along the river, pedaling our bikes on top of the levy that serves as one of the many bike trails that are in Madison county. Most of these trails parallel state highways.

Abby and I rode together ahead of Jim and Emily (those slowpokes!). I rode closest to the road, and Abby was riding in the middle of the divided trail. We went from having a fantastic time as a family, out on a lovely Sunday afternoon, to a state of perpetual terror as my youngest daughter suddenly found herself off the trail, careening down a steep hill towards a gravel path and a chain link fence. There she was, screaming bloody murder down the hill as I jumped off of my bike, running down after her. "Abby, FALL! ABBY FALL!" Just before she hit the gravel path she fell, a tangle of braids, arms and legs and tires and pedals. She was terrified and in tears. I pulled the bike off of her and was amazed to find that she didn't have a scratch on her. Abby was very lucky that she didn't hurt herself (despite the rendering above Abby was wearing a bike helmet). She was a brave bug and rode her bike back to the car.

When she got home she drew the experience. The cloud says, "I bit the dust". Abby's yelling, "Ahhhhh!" As I am running after her (you can see a leg bent in the drawing) I'm yelling "Bug!" although "Abby FALL!" is what I actually said (the liberties some artists take!). There are other bicyclists in the picture at the top of the trail; a family had come upon us just after I reached Abby and had offered assistance.

Abby's no worse for wear after this afternoon's adventure. But I shudder to think what might have happened if she and I were on opposite sides; her closest to the road and high above the highway and had lost control of her bike then. I only get so far into that dark thought before my mind shuts out the image and retreats back to what actually happened.
We are very lucky, indeed.

*The color on Abby's drawing has been adjusted somewhat to bring out some of the detail in it*

Where the hell did March go?

So much for my "return to blogging". Anyway, March was overrated. Everything and nothing happened. And it's hard to cover all of that.

Did I tell you that I swore off fast food for a year? (Of course not!) I can't recall the exact date but I made the oath in the first part of March--I think. The only exception to the "no fast food" rule is if I find myself in a pickle (between a sesame seed bun...I kid) and have to eat at a FFR then the exception is that I can eat there only if I eat a salad. Eating at a proper restaurant doesn't count as FF either but that doesn't mean that going overboard is authorized. Because it's not.

Why all the fuss? Two guesses.

And I have to start exercising again. Because again... two guesses. And short's weather is around the corner. Gotta tone up those legs!

Slumber Party Hell

To say that my Abigail's slumber party bombed last night is something of an understatement. This came as a complete and utter shock, considering that when I wrote about Emily's slumber party for her 7th birthday a year and a half ago I had expected the worst and was pleasantly surprised that the house didn't crash down around my ears. I followed the basic premise of the previous party: stand back and let the kids take the lead.

That was the mistake that ended in the Worst Slumber Party Experience On Record. Apparently, Spooky Stories don't always sit well with a group of 7 year old girls--not even the one who told the story.

Abigal, sufficiently creeped out by this Scary Story, ended up in my lap crying. She told me then that she wished she never had a slumber party. I spent time calming her down and Abby finally fell asleep, spending the next hour completely oblivious of the drama unfolding around her. Tucked in their sleeping bags the other girls worked themselves into a hysterical frenzy over this Scary Story and came downstairs and announced that they wanted to go home.

ALL OF THEM.

This is how, at ten thirty at night, I came to be dialing all of these girls' parents, telling them that a crisis had arisen and that their child wanted to come home. In between phone calls one of the girls repeated over and over, "I want my mommy!" ("She's on her way honey") "This house it haunted!" ("The house is not haunted") "I want to go home NOW!" (I can arrange that) and "I never want to come back here EVER AGAIN!" (I can arrange that, too. Trust me.)

My daughter, shafted by time and circumstance in having a proper party on her actual birthday, had no idea that her long awaited slumber party was dissolving around her. She would wake up wondering why only one girl remained out of the original five--incidentally the same girl who told the Scary Story in the first place (I couldn't reach her granddad).

Abby took the news this morning in stride but I can't help feeling that I've somehow let her down because her party wasn't a success. How do I make this experience up to her?

@#$%!

Massaging monologue

Yesterday I had a day spa experience. I walked out of that building with my brows waxed, hair cut and styled (if you consider a two inch tall bump at the back of my head a style then I was all over it), face suitably scrubbed and "aroma-therapied", fingers and toes properly painted, and my body massaged for one full hour.
I had a hard time relaxing for my massage though. There I was, laying on what I can safely describe as something akin to a hydraulic lift with a sheet covering me and my head lifted on a stack of folded towels. The lights were dimmed. Soft music was playing behind me, trying to lull me into a state of relaxation. Colleen started at my feet and worked her way up, massaging me with warm oil in a very rhythmic, precise fashion. And instead of allowing myself to drift off into a state of perpetual bliss my mind decided to go on full alert and take notes.
I should have had my toes done first.
It's a good thing I shaved this morning.
Make a note to apologize for my bony tibias.
Make a note to apologize for there being more of me to massage lately.
Jim should really have this done.
Ow! Ah!
Wow, that hurts.
Wha?! Thank GOD I shaved this morning!
Hey! They really do that karate chop thing!
I didn't expect to get my ass massaged today.
Karate ass chopping, the next Extreme Sport.
Ooooh, work that knot out.
There's another one.
I wonder if she's going to tell me where I carry all of my tension.
"I hope you enjoyed your massage today, Elizabeth", Colleen said to me in her smooth, relaxed voice. It had been an hour already?
My mind was on overdrive but at least my body felt pretty damned good.

Flush! Wash!

What ever do I say after being away for so long? The last thing I want to do is give a play by play of the drama over the last month and a half so I'll spare you the gory details and simply say, "Hello there".

That's not to imply that everything is coming up roses and life is just hunky dory. It's not. But, as the title of this entry implies, I'm going to flush all the "bad" away and wash my hands clean. I'll also be keeping my fingers crossed that the toilet doesn't back up.

What's that smell?