“Those crazy pranksters!”

That was my first thought when I saw the swimsuit Conor Dwyer wore for his Olympic gold-medal moment: the men’s 4×200 free relay.

Here’s how I justified the ONLY reason he would choose that particular suit it in my mind:

Michael Phelps: Hey, Conor, me and Ryan have a special present for you.

Ricky Berens: Yeah, Conor, you’re new to the team and we wanted to welcome you with a cool gift.

Conor Dwyer: Awesome, guys, a white jammer! I know just when I’ll wear it. Gee whiz, fellas, you’re the best!

Yikes.

Thankfully, (in the episode of Punk’d playing out in my head) Ryan Lochte had pity on poor Conor and recommended he wear a Speedo under it. Of course, he didn’t recommend a white one. That would have spoiled ALL the fun.

But I have to wonder. Conor’s been swimming for at least a couple of years, right? I mean, wearing a white swim suit without appropriate lining is like, well, you just know, right? (just ask Hungary’s Daniel Gyurta who pulled it off swimmingly)

Anyway, the guys pulled it out for gold (er, um, I mean…wait, let me start over)

Anyway, the guys showed us what they’ve got (damnit…I can do this)

Anyway, the guys won the gold.

‘Nuff said.

Prior to July 27, 2012, I had a decent workout regimin in place. I was able to squeeze in about 800 yards in the pool in roughly 30 minutes. My goal was to get back to the 4000 yards I could do a couple of years ago when I was swimming an hour every day. I was well on my way to reaching that goal when the Olympics happened.

I spent most of Saturday planted on my couch watching sports I didn’t even know were Olympic sports. I got up occasionally to sweep the floor (counts as aerobic exercise) or lug the laundry up and down the stairs (weight training), so I didn’t feel too bad about missing my morning swim (thank you late night Opening Ceremonies).

Sunday was a complete loss in the physical fitness arena. I wore my pajamas all day and become one with the couch. My only exercise was to go to the kitchen during commercials or “news breaks” (boring!) to get food. And I made some pretty unfortunate food choices. Klondike bars, Doritos, brownies, Butterfingers… You get the idea.

I did get my blood pumping watching the Men’s 100 meter relay. Not because of their swimsuits (sicko!), but because I was coaching them from my couch: KICK! KICK! KICK! Okay, good turn, come on! GO! GO! GO! Alas, Ryan Lochte couldn’t hear me clearly telling him to kick harder and the guys took second. But Silver aint too shabby and at least none of our men were sporting tramp stamp tattoos. (Please note, French men’s team: lower back tattoos are NOT en vogue)

All that excitement late in the evening wore me out. I slept late on Monday and did not get to the pool. So, while I am, on one hand, inspired by the athletes physical abilities and healthy bodies, I am too caught up in the games to eat right and exercise. Irony? Or maybe I’m just pathetic.

Water Polo is NOT for Sissies

As I was watching today’s Olympic game coverage, the USA Men’s Water Polo team played the Serbian team. I have to admit, the headgear worn by both teams (and I’m going to assume all water polo teams involved in these Olympic games) was a bit distracting.

Seriously, it’s hard to focus on the game action when all the men are wearing what appear to be Hannah Andersson pilot caps my kids wore as babies. I think it was the perfectly tied bows under their chins.

Yes, that was definitely it. The bows.

Finally, around the end of the third quarter, all the comments had been exhausted and I was able to watch the game without begging them to please take them off if they weren’t actually in the water (that plea fell on deaf ears) or wondering why-oh-why they have to tie them in bows. The synchronized swimmers have caps with loops or Velcro that keep them firmly on their heads. Perhaps I should send the water polo team a picture. I even found water polo caps with loop closures online. So what gives?

So, after I blurred out the players’ heads, I realized that water polo is a physically grueling sport. Did you know they have to tread water the whole time? And they only have 30 seconds to make a goal before having to high-tail it to the other end of the pool? That’s hardcore. Oh, in case you’re wondering, of course the US won!

Yep, water polo is not for sissies. And, hey, at least the US team didn’t have a total “uniform” fail.

I love my daughter. She’s got a unique perspective on life and she’s completely unfiltered with her observations and desires, which is a nice way of saying she’s a weird one.

Today she told us — yes, all of us in earshot — that she wanted an ankle mustache.

An ankle mustache.

Your mouth just dropped open and you probably tilted your head to one side. I know this because it’s the reaction from everyone in the room when she said the words “ankle mustache.”

I also know you’re wondering what the hell an ankle mustache is.

It’s where I would shave my legs except for a thin line around my ankle.

An ankle mustache.

Um, Maddi, why would you want an, um, ankle mustache?

So I can pet it.

An ankle mustache. So she can pet it.

At least she’s stopped asking for a kitten.

Necessity really is the Mother of Invention in the kitchen

Not the kind of book you might expect me to write; a book about my kids, my dogs, or MacGyver. I’m gonna write a cook book.

I’m still working on the perfect title, but here are some ideas:

Crap I Found in my Pantry and Turned Into Dinner

Crap I Found in my Fridge and Turned Into Dinner

Crap I Found in my Pantry That I Put WITH the Crap I Found in my Fridge and Turned Into Dinner

Hmmm…I may have to write sequels.

Wait! NO! I GOT IT!

Desperate Dinners

That’s PERFECT! (by the way, I just put that under copyright, so don’t even try to steal it)

My cookbook, Desperate Dinners ©, will be crammed full of tasty, quick, easy pantry-purging meals that will satisfy extraordinarily picky teenagers and a husband who’ll eat anything to make you happy.

The inspiration for my new venture stemmed from my 21 years of poor planning. I know people who actually go to the grocery store WITH A LIST. Not only is it organized by aisle, it’s comprised of products they actually intend to use. I love that concept. Not enough to fully embrace it and learn the art of meal planning, but I sure do admire my BFFs who can pull it off week after week.

My romps to the grocery store typically take place AFTER one of my Desperate Dinner © nights when I have rendered the pantry and/or fridge completely devoid of anything edible. Maybe I’ll write a book called Desperate Grocery Shopping (also just copyrighted, thank you), too. It could be a prequel or a sequel, depending on how you look at it.

So, Desperate Dinners are the result of poor planning and nearly barren shelves. But as School House Rock alluded to, “Necessity is the Mother of Invention.,” and, by gum, some of my most desperate dinners were my best!

Until I get my act together, however, and actually compile the recipes in some sort of book, I’m going to do my darndest to document them here. That way, when my kids say, “Hey, that was actually pretty good. You should make it again.” I won’t have to look at them with a frozen, horrified stare realizing I have no idea what ingredients I used to make it. (I have literally rummaged through the garbage before looking for the empty cans that might have gone into that night’s recipe.)

Here’s to Desperate Dinners with a nod to Mother Necessity. “Mother Necessity With her good intentions, Where would this country be Without her inventions?”

Confidence

One of my main goals as a parent is to instill confidence in my children. If they’ve got confidence in themselves, they’ll make good choices (most of the time), try new things, and basically be happy.

When Andrew was in the 1st grade, he wanted to get his ears pierced. We lived in Las Vegas so this wasn’t a completely out-of-left-field request; lots of older kids had their ears pierced in Vegas. But not too many 1st graders.

He asked me to take him to get his ears pierced just about every day for three months and I told him “no.” When he started wearing his little sisters stick-on earrings, I decided it was time for a conversation.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do? I mean, Andrew, this is permanent.”

“I’m sure.”

I tried to talk him out of it telling him I wasn’t going to pay for him to get his ears pierced.

“My birthday’s coming up. I’ll use my birthday money.”

CURSE YOU, BIRTHDAY MONEY!

So I relented. Sort of.

His birthday was on a weekday and he had to go to school the next day, which I thought I could use to my advantage. So I took him to get his ears pierced at the girliest place I could think of: Claire’s, the fluffy pink tween-heaven stuffed with all things shiny and glittery.

Oh, how clever I was! One look at the pink glow emanating from the door and he was sure to turn around.

Oh, how wrong I was! He trotted up to the counter, told the clerk he wanted to get his ears pierced. I waited for the clerk to give a shrill giggle and tell him how cute he was (tee hee) as any typical Claire’s girl emporium employee would do. Instead, Greg, the manager, was manning the counter. Literally. It was a guy!

“Awesome, dude!” cheered Greg, whose own ears were adorned with bright CZ studs.

Yeah, awesome, Greg.

Andrew handed over his birthday money and the deed was done.

I wasn’t going to give up, though. When we got in the car, I said, “You know, Andrew, it’s not too late. You have to go to school tomorrow. If you want to take them out, no one will know.”

“No. That’s okay.”

One last ditch effort: “But, Andrew, really, no other boys in your class have their ears pierced. What will your friends say?”

“I don’t care. I’m just really happy right now.”

I’ll never forget those words from an 8-year-old: “I don’t care. I’m just really happy right now.”

I don’t think I’ll ever have that much confidence.

Andrew’s ears are still pierced. He got new earrings last month for his 16th birthday.

Yesterday, Andrew posted this status update on his Facebook page: “damn im gonna do something good with my life… besides everything else i’ve done… some that will really stand out i can just feel it”

What can I say? I believe him.

Birthdays are great for two things: cake with killer homemade frosting and jaunts down memory lane. In our house there’s a two-week period, beginning May 21 and ending May 29, where our cake and frosting quota exceeds the recommended yearly intake and jaunts become full-fledged treks.

On the 21st we celebrate Andrew’s birthday. He turned 16 this year despite his repeated attempts not to “make to your next birthday.” Andrew leads with his head – literally. By the time he was four, he had acquired four sets of stitches in his head: one above each eyebrow, one in his lower lip (which had been punctured by his teeth at 18 months), and one in the back of his head. He’s the kid who always has a band aid somewhere.

May 25th is Asher’s day. Asher, not to be outdone by his older brother, also makes valiant attempts at not showing up on his birthday every year. Not because he’s prone to knocking himself out like Andrew, though; he’s got legitimate health issues. We’ve actually celebrated his birthday in the hospital more than once. But, come to think of it, Asher’s also that kid who always has a band aid somewhere. Wait a minute…

Then there’s Madeline. Oh, dear, sweet Madeline. Her birthday is on the 29th, wrapping up the two-week-long festival of cake. Madeline who still rules her brothers threatening to shave off Andrew’s left eyebrow if he didn’t get out of bed so she could stop at Krispy Kreme on the way to school to bring donuts to her class to celebrate her birthday. (Of course he got up, do you have to ask?) Madeline who, upon looking at herself in the mirror the morning of her birthday, said, “I’m still short,” as if she fully expected to grow overnight. Madeline, age 14, who wore a “Happy Birthday” tiara to school “Just in case I forget it’s my birthday.”

Happy birthday, babies! I’m proud of each of you for making it one more year.

Oh, but I’m also proud of my oldest, Alex, who was gracious enough NOT to be born in May, thus easing the strain on my pocket book at least a little bit. He’s kinda my favorite for that.

Imagine this situation:

You’re Bonnie, a bad mama-jama criminal. You’re driving a truck with expired tags. You’re not a smart mama-jama, remember, you’re a bad mama-jama.

The cops notice your expired tags and pull you over. But wait! You’ve got a warrant out for your arrest. What do you do? You can’t go back to the slammer! Remember, Baby? You still owe her some ciggies! Make a run for it, Bonnie! DO IT!

You bolt out of the truck and hop the fence of the nearest house. You’re free!

Not quite. You’re running, you’re running, you’re running… What’s that noise?

You hear barking. Loud barking. Really loud, really deep barking. And it’s getting closer. You’re still running but you turn around just in time to see… to see… WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?

That would be Thor, my 190 pound Great Dane. Oh, and Maxi another 90 pounds and lab/boxer muscle coming after you at full speed.

Suddenly you find yourself pressed against the fence screaming at the top of your voice: “HELP! PLEASE, OFFICER, HELP! IT’S GONNA EAT ME!”

So much for a clean getaway, Bonnie. Two officers and a pair of handcuffs later and you’re safe and sound in the back of the patrol car. What are you going to tell Baby?