After a little wildlife book browsing at the library, Girl had an afternoon filled with jaguars. She decided that she was going to “put on a show” (a normal occurrence in our household) with the star being a Jaguar that looks an awful lot like her. She pressed me for jaguar color ideas, eventually agreeing on my suggestion of black. Head-scratching, brainstorming, and completely emptying her drawers, she came back with a black skirt and a white T-shirt on. Confused, I pressed for answers:

“Um, I thought you were a black jaguar. Why not wear your black T-shirt?”

Obviously beyond frustrated with my lack of fashion sense, she answered, “Because Mom. That wouldn’t look very good. This shirt looks great!”

To complete her jaguar transformation, she drew a picture directing me to the part of the house where her good-looking jaguar-self was putting on the show. Notice the white shirt, black skirt, and the color-coordinated directional arrow.

It’s a good thing she’s not a zookeeper. The zoo would have a runway for sure.

I’m a sucker for songs that sound like they should be in the end credits of great 80′s movies. This is one. The video makes it even better.

After years of music collecting/listening, the musical tastes of this family have started to diverge. I’ll post another time about why I think that’s happening, but I can honestly say, my taste for great 80′s music can be directly attributed to our vinyl collection. Synth music on vinyl just has a delicious contradiction to it – digital music playing on analog equipment – that I just can’t get enough of it. Dylan is keeping an eye out for signs of me shaving the sides of my head and wearing fabric net fingerless gloves.

Boy is really into mimicking adult speech. It is mind-bogglingly cute. We tried to video tape some for everyone to behold, but I became the weak link. Instead of having him repeat Shakespeare, Bob Dylan lyrics, Supreme Court Rulings or some other cool-to-hear-from-a-toddler-type-things, what pops into my head?

Whoomp, There It Is!

It’s something I haven’t heard in AGES. But it’s one of those songs, if you were alive and over the age of 12 in 1993, that was hard-wired into your muscle fibers to be recalled at the most inopportune moments. The “Who Let the Dogs Out” of it’s time.

So now that I’ve absolved myself of any responsibility, proving the existence of this song in my psyche was out of my control, this is what we’re left with.

I guess if my parents had done something similar in my childhood, there would be footage of a toddler-me repeating “Looks Like We Made It” By Barry Manilow.

Once upon a time there were 3 bears, Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear. One day they went on a walk while their porridge cooled. There was a little girl who broke up the party. She saw porridge. She ate porridge. “Ouch! This porridge is too hot! Boo Hoo!” “This porridge is too cold!” “Whoo! This porridge is just right!” She wanted to have a rest in their chairs. “This one is too hard.” “This one is too soft.” “This one is too rapty.” Then the baby bear chair was just right. SNAP! It broke to bits. So she tried the beds. She tried the big bed, it was too hard. She tried the medium bed, it was too bouncy. She tried the Baby Bear’s ed, it was just right. Back came the 3 bears. They walked right in. “Somebody’s been eating my porridge!” said the Papa Bear. “Someone’s been eating my porridge!” said the Mama Bear. “Someone’s been eating my porridge, and it’s all gone!” said the Baby Bear. “Someone’s been sitting in my chair!” said the Papa Bear. “Someone’s been sitting in my chair!” said the Mama Bear. “Someone’s been sitting in my chair and it broke to bits! Wah, wah!” said the Baby Bear. “Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed!” said the Papa Bear. “Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed!” said the Mama Bear. Baby Bear said, “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed! Look! Look! Look!” He woke up Goldilocks. She broke up the party! She scooted out of there! Don’t you just love that story?

I’ve never failed a class in school. Ever. I did get a D+ in Accounting 210, but blame can be placed at the feet of a rather fun-loving boyfriend that coaxed me away from homework. I ended up marrying him, so it can be said that I didn’t have full control of my faculties at the time. Is there an insanity plea when they pull up our college transcripts on Judgment Day?

Failure doesn’t come often for me. I’m not saying that everything I touch is a victory of the highest order, but I’ve developed quite the skill at flat-out avoiding things that I think I’ll fail at. I either set realistic goals, or don’t push myself and live in a constant state of status quo, but either way, failing is not on the agenda. It happened to me last month, and I’m still trying to shake it.

I started working out with someone. They were of the “love to run” variety. Running was their passion, their release, their way to challenge themselves. I found running utterly revolting. I dreaded P.E. simply because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to meet the minimum for the Timed Run. If I didn’t meet the minimum, I was a failure, so I tried my best to avoid the classes. When I did have to do the run, I’d get myself so worked up about it my worry would propel me across the finish line seconds under the requirement. But not without blood in my mouth and tears running down my face. My father, brother, and my roommate through most of college loved running. Because of this constant exposure to something I vehemently despise, and maybe a deep-down feeling that I might be wrong about the act, I’ve purchased many pairs of running shoes. They always seem to end up as stylish lawn-mowing attire.

Until this friend who found a particularly gullible day and talked me into signing up for a half-marathon. The financial commitment was heavy (meaning more than zero), so that was my initial push. I started running simply because I had paid a registration fee for an over-priced T-shirt. After a few weeks though, it seemed an insurmountable task. There was no way I was going to run 13 miles unless my lifeless corpse was dragged behind a pickup truck. I kept going though. The uninterrupted hour without children was golden, even if I was puffing and sweating to death. Slowly it got easier. I was going to do this! I wasn’t going to fail! This is going to be cake! Then I pushed myself too far. Illness came, my training stopped, then injury. In a flash the entire thing was over. No marathon. Utter failure. There is nothing worse than owning an over-priced T-shirt for a race you never ran. It’s like cotton-poly, screen-printed shame.

I’ve over-analyzed this whole experience. It went the gamut: I bit off more than I could chew. I’m getting too old for this. I’m not a runner. I’m an idiot. I wallowed for weeks, and the day of the race, I ignored the media coverage of the event, drove out thoughts of the race with loud music and deep-fried potatoes. But my husband, the one who helped me to a D+ in accounting, he said it best. So what? Do it next year. Just don’t hurt yourself.

I took accounting over again, so why not buy another T-shirt next year?