How many 5-year-olds could you take on in a fight? I took the test and I could take down 15 of the little rugrats. Check it out:
http://www.howmanyfiveyearoldscouldyoutakeinafight.com/
Be brutal. They'll fight dirty if given the chance.
I've seen it all.
While waiting for the incredibly inept pharmacy assistant to train the excrutiatingly slow cashier how to download and print a digital passport photo for me, I passed the time by watching shoppers amble up and down the aisles at Walgreens. Entertaining me while comparing prices for a variety of cold medicines was a woman clad in sweatpants and a real fur coat.
It was real, I'm telling you. The luxurious pelts swayed gently as their owner squatted to look at the ingredients in Tylenol Cold & Flu.
I'm not big on fur anyway, although I wouldn't harrass anyone and I certainly wouldn't waste a perfectly good bucket of red paint by tossing it at a hapless flu victim, but I did turn down my mother when she tried to pass on her mink coat to me. It's just not cold enough here, I reasoned. Plus, I don't know a single person my age who wears furs. Wearing one would really make me feel out of place. And I'd never mix and match it with a worn pair of sweat pants.
But who am I to make fashion judgements. I have been known to throw on my purple sweats, a pink shirt, and my husband's oversized red coat. Not exactly color-wheel friendly.
When I finally got my passport photo handed to me, I looked like I just got out of rehab. Perfect.
It made national headlines: our mayor put the entire city on a diet. Our family, without his prompting, had already decided to cut out the junk we'd been grazing on throughout December, substituting fruit and low-fat snacks.
Everyone is starting to get cranky.
I bought a bag of chocolate chips over the weekend and have been doling them out -- one chip at a time -- after dinner.
"It's not worth it," SO protested, eyeballing the tiny nub of chocolate. I made a motion to put it back in the bag. He stopped me by popping it in his mouth.
"Let it melt and you'll get a satisfying taste of chocolate."
"I'd find the whole bag satisfying," he retorted.
When my back is turned, I find the kids raiding the fridge, desperate for something that isn't healthy. They want that bag of chocolate chips.
I've hidden it, but it won't be long until they find it and finish it up. Their willpower is waning in the wake of grapes, yogurt and energy bars.
We are the 15th fattest city in the country. I know this is true. When I'm shopping at Target or one of the grocery stores, I inevitably see people wedged into those motorized grocery carts. These people aren't handicapped. They are just extremely obese. In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw someone in one of those things who had some kind of physical challenge, other than carrying around way too many pounds.
I really hate those motorized carts. They always block the aisles when I'm trying to load up on bags of chocolate chips.
New Year's Eve has never been a big celebration in our family. Growing up evangelical, santimonious, and holy, we rather looked down on those revellers who needed alcohol to get high. We were already high on Jesus -- what more did one need? So we always stayed in, watched a little Dick Clark on TV, then went to bed.
For one, I don't like being cold. The idea of getting out in 20 degree temperatures, with the added benefit of a cutting Oklahoma wind, just doesn't appeal to me. A couple of my very young friends drove down to Dallas to go to a bar they like. So while I salute their energy and enthusiasm, I kept to the time-honored tradition of warm pajamas, a can of bean dip, and Dick Clark (bless his heart, still soldiering on despite a stroke.) Weakened by endless commercials, we cheered feebly when the newly refurbished Times Square ball (it's eco-friendly!) came down to usher in the New Year.
SO and I toasted with a glass of bitter, dry champagne, while the boys drank their sparkling cider. I eyeballed my flute glasses nervously when they insisted on clinking them together.
"Cheers!"
Lego begged to try a sip of alcohol.
I, of course, refused.
"There's alcoholism in your genes. One sip, mister, and you could be in for at least 36 years of hard core addicition, a couple of divorces, loss of a limb, and the repossession of your home." Lego rolled his eyes, a typical response to my overly-imaginative ramblings, then staggered into the kitchen, perfectly imitating a drunken man. That kid can act, I'm telling you.
The next day, Sport checked the calendar.
"Is it 2008?"
"All year."
He sighed. "I really miss 2007."
