Rush goes back to jail

From the AP Wire: WEST PALM BEACH, Fla. (AP) -- Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office says Rush Limbaugh has been arrested on prescription fraud charges.

From my friend:
BryanZFresno: the fact that anyone listens to what comes slobbering its way out of his gob makes me quiver.

Operation: Covert Rabbit

Sunday, 16 April, 2006: 0800 hours PST.

The house is silent. The start of operations delayed due to middle-of-the-night sleep interruptions (coughing ten-year old, wee-weeing two-year old), I rouse myself by imagining the coffee pot has been set and the delicious brew awaits my glugging. Cruel, cruel hoax... No coffee awaits. Neither do I have a clean house nor a diligent butler named, "Samuel." Forced to clean the previous days grounds out of the filter, I set my java in motion and get down to Operation: Covert Rabbit.

Quietly (READ: When the reverberations of the apocalyptic art closet door-opening crash have died down), I rescue the 3 brightly-colored wicker baskets from the closet, where they have been patiently waiting-- still filled with last year's straggling Easter grass--beneath several boxes, gift bags, wrapping paper and the remains of Mission: San Diego. (Damn that never-ending project!!) I sneak back into headquarters (aka, my bedroom), somehow evading the ever-watchful gaze of the two-year old hallway sentry, and begin filling said baskets with all manner of goodies.

Fool of a procrastinator that I am, I find myself staring down the clock, stuffing plastic eggs and waiting for the sentry to begin her morning rounds. Only this year, the restock of plastic eggs I'd procurred are apparently the secret funny gag kind, the ones that never FREAKIN' CLOSE. The lids don't fit, some are bent or just plain crooked, and over half absolutely refuse to reattach with their mate. Additionally, in my effort to reduce the amount of sugar in my kids' baskets this year, I find that I have drastically under-stocked on jellybeans. There will only be just enough for the kids this year.

DAMN ME AND MY LOVE FOR JELLYBEANS!!!

0816 hours, the sentry has arisen and begun her steady call. "MOOOOMMMmmmYYY-- I AWAKE! I WAKE UP!!!!" I dash to settle sweet girl in front of the electronic babysitter before she alerts the rest of the household that the sun has risen. How I lucked into a late morning with her I will never know...

0817 hours, coffee in hand, I dash back headquarters, lock the door and scramble to get the rest of the shabby eggs closed. Gathering my freight together in my extra-fancy Target shopping bag, I hit the backyard with fury and a steady purpose: I have 1 minute to hide these eggs before the timekeep notices I have left her presence and comes looking for me. I run onto the lawn where -GAAAHHHH it's cold, I have no shoes and the dogs have left their own little eggs, if you will.

Moments later I am rushing about the yard-- still in my red, flannel doggie jammies which I have neatly accessorized with my black penny loafers (the only slip ons I had readily available)-- shovel in hand, scooping up the dog's Easter gifts.

Disposing of said gifts, 30 seconds remain in my egg planting quest. But what's this?? Joy, I tell you, pure JOY as I discover that the little eggs I so painstakingly filled have popped OPEN inside the bag, and I must refill each egg and manage to close the previously impossible closing ovum in the NEXT 26.2 SECONDS!

Let it be known that were Operation: Covert Rabbit an Olympic event, I'd be on the podium rocking out to the Star Spangled Banner.

I made it back into the house-- eggs in place, baskets concealed-- undetected. I even changed my clothes, put on sensible shoes, got the video camera ready and refilled my coffee-- all with time to spare.

MISSION: SUCCESS!

A good time had by all.

A note for T-man

Dear Trevor,

Thirteen years ago, almost on this very night, I laid in bed wondering, "Will this pregnancy ever *&%$@# end?!?" You see, I was young-- I'd just turned 23 and had graduated from college the summer before. I still thought the sun and the moon and all the stars rose and set and performed their magical dances all around me. It would be another few days before I realized that I wasn't entirely wrong: They were dancing around me, but just because they were waiting for you.

Being so young and self-obsorbed, I had no idea what the passage of time meant. In my mind's eye, my pregnancy would last about a month, maybe two, and after walking out of the womb and requesting a hot meal, you'd be off to kindergarten. There, you would leapfrog to the fourth grade mission project, graduate high school, make a quick pass at college and (finally!) get down to the business of supporting my early retirement-- all by the time I was 28.

On the second day of my pregnancy I realized, forget the Earth-- the only thing that turned that quickly was my stomach. It was a hard truth to face: Time moves at it's own pace. And so I would spend the next nine months fighting my own internal sense of urgency. Every day I longed for it to be the next day, just one day closer to seeing your beautiful face and your tiny hands, smelling your sweet baby smell and kissing your soft, baby-fine hair.

We never learned of your sex before your birth, but it didn't matter. I also knew by that second day that I would have a son. Those next nine months were filled with dreams of you, my blue-eyed, sunshine boy, dreams of us playing on a beach or reading a book... and every morning I would wake to find I was still absurdly pregnant.

In all my life I don't think I ever wanted anything quite so much as I wanted my children. And you, being the first, were the beginning of all the rest of my life. I was antsy for it to begin.

Those long, hot, Central Valley pregnancy days were filled with well wishes from friends and tiresome antecdotes from know-it-alls. "Just wait," they would say. "It's soooo harrrrd. Just wait until that baby can walk/talk/eat/play" and on they would go, as if trying to stamp out the flame of my excitement.

I rolled my eyes at them then, and I roll my eyes at them still. Your birth marked the beginning of the greatest adventure I have ever known, and the adventure just keeps getting better and better with every passing day.

On the eve of your birth I was hot, and tired, and like every pregnant woman before me, absolutely convinced that I was the only woman who had ever, in the history of the human race, been that fat and uncomfortable and so completely physically miserable. And still all I wanted was to see you and hold you and get on with the living of the rest of our lives.

Knowing now what didn't know then, I'm not sure how far off I was in my notion of time. Thirteen years have passed, and I can't believe that the little towheaded boy with the piercing blue eyes is now becoming a musky teenager with a deep voice, dark brown hair and a rapier-like wit. Where is my ruby-lipped infant and his tiny sighs? Where is my monster-slaying five-year old with the plastic sword and green elf hat? What happened to my snaggle-toothed eight-year old? My artistic ten-year old?

You see, in all my urgency for your arrival, I forgot to send out the little wishes for time to slow back down.

You are a treasure, sweet boy. A gift straight from the Universe, the brightest of blessings.

Happy almost 13th birthday.

All my love,

that lady.

Isn't it ironic?

Got this e-mail from a friend. Cracked me up. No idea who wrote it, but I do appreciate the irony.

________

What You Need To Believe To Be A Republican:

1. Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary Clinton.

2. Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's
daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him, and a bad guy when Bush
needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion.

3. Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is Communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of
international harmony.

4. The United States should get out of the United Nations, and our highest national priority is enforcing U.N.
resolutions against Iraq.

5. A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions
affecting all mankind without regulation.

6. The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops in speeches, while slashing veterans' benefits and
combat pay.

7. If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex.

8. A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our long-time allies, then demand their cooperation and money.

9. Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy, but providing health care to all Americans is socialism. HMOs and
insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart.

10. Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.

11. A president lying about an extramarital affair is a impeachable offense, but a president lying to enlist support for
a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.

12. Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages
and censoring the Internet.

13. The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's driving record is none of our business.

14. Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's an illness and
you need our prayers for your recovery.

15. Supporting "Executive Privilege" for every Republican ever born, who will be born or who might be born (in perpetuity.)

16. What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital national interest, but what Bush did in the '80s is irrelevant.

17. Support for hunters who shoot their friends and blame them for wearing orange vests similar to those worn by the quail.


Week end miles total: 114

Sleepy pizza face

Sleepy pizza face
Originally uploaded by girlm0nkey.

Here's me!

I've moved, I've gotten a new name.

After reading over past posts, I realized that my blog had morphed a bit *away* from being about triathlon training, and *toward* training of in other areas: potty, ettiquette, life in general.

girl, because I am one.

monkey, in reference to what I do for a living, what I call my children, me in general.

You stay classy, blog reader. Thanks for stopping by.

Notes from my first swim lesson

Instructor: So you do triathlons and you don't know how to freestyle?
ME: No.
Instructor: What do you do?
ME: I sorta sputter and sink.
Instructor: I meant what stroke.
ME: I do the breast stroke...I think.
Instructor: (pause) You.. I ... uhmm... are you serious?
ME: Yeah...

(I'm in the water now)
Instructor: How long have you been doing triathlons?
ME: Just this past year.
(I take my swim cap and attempt to put it on my head but it gets stuck, covering just the top of my head. I feel like a Conehead. My bun and most of my head straggling out of the bottom)
Instructor: Let me show you how to put this on.
(I try to remove the swimcap and remove half the hair on my head in the process. I hand it to the instructor.)
See this part? This is the front. You were putting it on side-to-side.
(I swallow pang of embarrassment as I realize I'd been wearing my little swim hat backwards for the last year.)
You grab here, and stick it to your forehead. I will pull it over.
(SWONK! My eyebrows, along with everything else, are pulled tightly inside the cap. In one fell swoop, I have become a Kojak twin with a surprised look on my face. Botox couldn't get my eyebrows looking this good.)

(Later, after demonstrating my breast stroke)
Instructor: Yeah. So that's what you've been doing in a triathlon?
ME: Yeah.
Instructor: Okay. Well, that's uhh... Let me put it this way: The breast stroke is more... (does aerial impression of something completely different)
ME: So I was more doing "the frog" then.
Instructor: Okay, sure-- we'll go with that.

Strange days

I went to bed last night at 9:30 and had a dream about those Dutch wooden shoes.

Vivid, detailed dreams.

They haunt me.

No joke: It's April

Seriously. Another whole month has passed, and I stare with incredulity at the calendar, wondering a) when did March get shorter than February; b) did I just sleep through March, and c) what the hell--I actually sleep?

Other realizations:

I don't know at what point it was that I ceased caring about the state of my dispicable home, but I have completely reached that point. I actually allowed someone into my home when there was a sink filled with dirty dishes and baskets (note the plural) of clean wash sitting on my coffee table, waiting to be folded (and where they had been waiting for some 2 days now). I would have put the laundry on the couch, but it was already cluttered with newspaper and plushie toys.

I will not describe the state of my floors, but I will mention that I blame some of it on my dog. What kind of lazy dog leaves crumbs on the floors? Seriously.

My bathroom is often where I potty train my daughter. She is now a sleep-only diaper wearer, which is really bittersweet. I mean, I love the $30 extra bucks per month, but kinda dread the fact that she pees every 20 minutes. And now the potty is a bedtime-avoidance trick. She'll announce she needs to make a visit, and then announce while sitting that she needs to make it a longer visit, and then, some 20 minutes later when no actual "movement" has taken place (if you catch my drift), she banishes me from the room in a sudden burst of need for privacy.

When I peek back in she is sneakily loading the toilet with paper.

To go to an earlier point about the state of my dispicable home, wet toilet paper is really clingy.

So that's my house. The finer points, anyway. Whenever friends ask what I want for my birthday/holiday gifts, I always mention a visit from a cleaning service. Nobody thinks I'm serious.

Now it's a challenge. Come on over for coffee. I dare ya.

__________________
Miles
Weekend total: 48