![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Three things.
1.) I just spent the last hour in the backyard playing catch with my nine year-old*. He's a pretty amazing athlete, especially considering his parents are not just liberal arts, but theatre performance majors. Ethan was catching the ball effortlessly, his feet unmoving, just snagging it backhanded from wherever I threw it. He even made a few jumping catches. Meanwhile, I'm huffing and puffing and flinching, sweating like a maniac an catching about a quarter of what he throws to me. It frustrated me because he was throwing short; the ball would hit the ground about a foot and a half before it got to me. So being the stupid girl I am, I say:
Carrie. Throw it harder, E. Come on, you can do it!
Ethan. (gives me a look) I know I can, Mom, but I don't want to hurt you.
Carrie. (looks over the top of sunglasses and glares at progeny) Just throw the darn** ball, Ethan."
He shrugs and fires a couple off, and I'm flinching like CRAZY now because I'm essentially afraid of the ball.(With good reason, as it turns out. I'm gonna have nasty bruises this afternoon.)
In short, my nine year-old owned me at catch. *sigh*
2.) I redid my livejournal layout! (All by myself! *puffs up*) Some of the pink is a little too Pepto Bismol, but I'll fix it. I saved my old one, too, 'cause I loved it. But I'd had it for about a year, so it was time for a change.
3.) I got some mail this week that pissed me off and horrified me at the same time. One of the funeral homes in town sent me a brochure soliciting my business for their services. What the hell. I'm thirty-six. Do they know something I don't? I do not want to go shopping for coffins,*** thankyouverymuch. I digress; Schooler-Gordon funeral home; keep your glossy pictures of final resting places to YOURSELF.
*He's the kid in the icon
**Language censored for the ears of said kid.
***Or in my case, urns, because I've got this irrational fear of being buried alive.
1.) I just spent the last hour in the backyard playing catch with my nine year-old*. He's a pretty amazing athlete, especially considering his parents are not just liberal arts, but theatre performance majors. Ethan was catching the ball effortlessly, his feet unmoving, just snagging it backhanded from wherever I threw it. He even made a few jumping catches. Meanwhile, I'm huffing and puffing and flinching, sweating like a maniac an catching about a quarter of what he throws to me. It frustrated me because he was throwing short; the ball would hit the ground about a foot and a half before it got to me. So being the stupid girl I am, I say:
Carrie. Throw it harder, E. Come on, you can do it!
Ethan. (gives me a look) I know I can, Mom, but I don't want to hurt you.
Carrie. (looks over the top of sunglasses and glares at progeny) Just throw the darn** ball, Ethan."
He shrugs and fires a couple off, and I'm flinching like CRAZY now because I'm essentially afraid of the ball.(With good reason, as it turns out. I'm gonna have nasty bruises this afternoon.)
In short, my nine year-old owned me at catch. *sigh*
2.) I redid my livejournal layout! (All by myself! *puffs up*) Some of the pink is a little too Pepto Bismol, but I'll fix it. I saved my old one, too, 'cause I loved it. But I'd had it for about a year, so it was time for a change.
3.) I got some mail this week that pissed me off and horrified me at the same time. One of the funeral homes in town sent me a brochure soliciting my business for their services. What the hell. I'm thirty-six. Do they know something I don't? I do not want to go shopping for coffins,*** thankyouverymuch. I digress; Schooler-Gordon funeral home; keep your glossy pictures of final resting places to YOURSELF.
*He's the kid in the icon
**Language censored for the ears of said kid.
***Or in my case, urns, because I've got this irrational fear of being buried alive.
Tags:
