Golden Boy

It is a defining moment. It just is. Where were you when Ohno barely escaped the semi-finals only to come back and win the gold? I'll tell you where I was. I was on the couch screaming my head off.

I got so excited, I might have peed myself a little bit.

My beautiful Ohno with the beautiful thighs came out victorious! And now, all is right with the world.

The thing is that Chris had gotten the results of the race on the internet, while I prefer to watch it myself. So he knew ahead of time who was going to win, but he kept goading me on with things like, "Do you really think he'll win?"

I started getting nervous, but I kept the faith and sure enough, he did win. This just made my month. I love me some Ohno. Baby's got gold.

I'm so happy.

*sniff sniff*

Ari's Amazing Travels

It's always strange to hear what people think about your physical aspects. When I was little, I had blonde curly hair. My brother had straight blonde hair. For some reason, our hair both turned dark when we got older. To see him now, with his head buzzed, people have mistaken him for being mexican. Strange.

I have spoken to people in the past and when the conversation turned to roots, I have mentioned that my grandmother was born in Cuba.

"Yes! That's it! Cuba! I knew you had a little ethnicity in you!"

"... I meant Cuba, Illinois."

Illinois has to be the fakest state in the whole country. We have New Mexico, Paris, Cuba, Detroit and I think there's even a London in there somewhere. Someone should tell Illinois, stop trying to be everyone else!

But I digress. I'm not cuban. People just think I am. It would be cool if I were cuban, but I'm not. Sucks to be me. Now see, I have been to Miami. No one there really thinks I'm cuban at all. One or two people tried to speak to me in spanish, but that was about it. I don't speak spanish, so those were tricky conversations. I think I accidently told this guy I was a prostitute in spanish. He kept trying to hook up with me. It was weird. I tried to tell him that I'm not a prostitute, but yeah. Once guys get that thought in their head, they'll never let it go. He was all trying to hug me in the middle of the airport. Embarrassing, dude. I'm not a prostitute.

I have crazy travel stories. Seriously crazy. I'm not talking wild, adventurous crazy. I mean straight up dude-should-be-in-an-asylum crazy.

So I went to Miami to visit my uncle. Who lives in Tampa. Obviously, I have problems with booking flights that actually go where I intend to go. Tampa is like four hours away from Miami. I'm an idiot. So I had to take a greyhound up to Tampa. I was nineteen, traveling alone, by myself, in Miami at a friggin' greyhound terminal. Someone should have told me that the greyhound station tends to be the meeting place for all the loonies. I didn't know. Scary.

I sat down to read a book while I waited for the bus to come. Two hot guys were sitting to my left, being dorky, trying to get my attention. I ignored them. Then this big dude comes in the station and sits down. He doesn't buy a ticket, he just sits down like he's waiting. I ignored him too.

Now earlier, I had browsed through the selections of a vending machine, only to be shocked to find out they sold packages of bologna. In a vending machine. In Miami. At a greyhound station. What the fuck. So when big dude got up and went to said vending machine, I watched as he made his choice. He got the bologna. Dude bought the bologna!!! My jaw must have been seriously on the floor. One of the hot guys made an "ew" sound. I hid my face in my book to keep from busting out laughing.

I am not making this shit up. It happened. But wait, there's more.

I had a seriously long wait ahead of me. We're talking seven hours here. Like I said, I am horrible at planning travel arrangements. So I was in this bus station for the long haul. After awhile Big Dude left. Hot guys tried to talk to me, but after the airport prostitute incident, I was just not digging it. I just stared at them until they left me alone.

Eventually, Big Dude comes back. This was shortly before the bus was to arrive. He went up to the counter and demanded his ticket. The lady asked him if he'd bought one. He swore he did. She said she had no recollection of this purchase. He got pretty irate with her. Then he went and sat down. She asked him if he would like to buy a ticket and he responded that he was waiting for a bus.

"I know, but you have to buy a ticket first," she told him.

"I ALREADY BOUGHT A TICKET. JUST GIVE IT TO ME!"

This is the point where I hugged my suitcase close to me, edging myself as far away from the situation as possible. Hot Guys had the same idea and before I knew it, the three of us sat next to each other in awe and shock.

"Is he crazy?" Hot Guy one asked.

"This is insane," I replied.

"Someone needs to call the police," Hot Guy two said.

"I didn't even know you two spoke english," I replied.

Meanwhile, Big Dude took out the bologna. He opened it up (I am not making this up, I swear, this shit is too wild for my imagination) and placed the slices of bologna on his head. No one was really paying any attention to the ticket lady, but she was in the process of calling the police at this point.

"WHERE'S MY TICKET? I'M GETTING ON THAT BUS!"

He ranted, he raved, he paced back and forth.

"I bet you'll never visit Miami again, huh?" Hot Guy two said.

"Or at least not a Miami greyhound station," I whimpered.

Finally, the cops arrived, put him in handcuffs and took him off to jail. Or the looney bin, I'm unsure. All I know is that when I came back to Miami to go the airport, I chose the nicest looking guy in the station to sit next to. Ya know, in case the shit hit the fan again.

Honestly, I haven't been back down to Florida since then, but next month, I'll be making a return. I won't be going to Miami, nor will I be visiting any bus stations, but still... We'll see how this goes.

Bob the Builder ain't got nothing on me

I haven't been posting entries as much lately. So what have I been up to? Well, I have just gotten into the wonderful world that is scrapbooking. Man, this is addictive. Most of our pictures are on cds since we have a vast array of many different digital cameras. It's nice to get them printed out. It's even more fun to decorate them. It's almost like decorating a blog with backgrounds, borders and ... well, uh, pictures! So yeah, there's that.

The other thing I've been up to is getting Kade's room done. Now granted, that just took one Saturday, but still. I now know how to build a bunkbed. Want to know how? Ok, let me tell you.

Step 1: Buy the bunkbed, then run the reciept to husband so that he may pick it up on his way home from work.

Step 2: Wait patiently as the husband carries the bunkbed parts up the long staircase.

Step 3: Nod your head back and forth, shuffle your feet or swing your arms and hum while husband organizes all the bunkbed parts.

Step 4: Hand husband various pieces of wood when asked, then pretend to hold it while he drills the screw.

Step 5: Remind the husband to make sure the boards are straight BEFORE drilling when they are straight, then after he yells that he knows that, refuse to remind him when they aren't straight.

Step 6: Ask for a lunchbreak.

Step 7: Confuse him as to which side of the bunk has the ladder.

Step 8: Remind him how hungry you are.

Step 9: Direct him as he puts the top bunk on the bottom, then step in at the last minute and pretend you were helping him hold it the whole time.

Step 10: Stand back and admire your work. After all, you worked so so hard.

And that's how you build a bunkbed. Who knew it was so easy?!

My little guy

In an effort to not keep from screeching insanities at the top of my voice, I will refrain from blogging about the men's figure skating long programs of last night. (But I just want to say real quick, those weren't programs!!!! Those were jumps with breaks in between!! Plushenko won a gold for THAT!?!!?!)

Ok, I'm better now. On to happier things.

Kade got glasses. I think he looks mighty fine with these glasses. He's such a cutie. And here's the picture. You can clearly see why the Tooth Fairy just recently declared bankruptcy. Yes, she did. Kade took all her money.

I'm going to go feed him mashed potatos now.

One more thing, be patient with me. I am back and I will try to get to everyone's blog. I'm going to do ten a day, so I'll get to yours, I promise.

Rough Patch

All right, enough is enough. Valentine's Day is over, I think it's safe for me to return to the blog world. You've pitied yourself enough, Ari. Get your nose to the grindstone and get back to it. Plus, I missed you guys. Not being able to get my thoughts out each day means that I've suffered from an extremely short fuse lately. One might even say that I have been one nasty bitch. And I knew I would be, which is why I took a break. No use taking it out on everyone.

That is not to say that I am justified by any means. In fact, I can admit when I'm wrong. I'm not wrong often, mind you, but I can admit when I am. Perhaps I should apologize to my Chris, who has dealt with my mood swings and snappy remarks, but I'm not going to. The man is perfectly capable of handling me without my giving him further leverage. Besides, half the time, he brings that on himself.

No, I'd much rather apologize to my little guy. Now don't get me wrong, my little one can dish it right back to me, but still, sometimes I forget he's only seven.

On any given day, Kade gets up and does his morning routine. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he does well on his own. He can coordinate outfits to my satisfaction. But on Valentine's Day, for some strange reason, he came downstairs trying to wear a plaid shirt with jogging pants. Uh no. So I sent him back to his room to change. He was frustrated. He came down with three or four more obsurd outfits before I screeched at him to just get dressed, we were going to be late for school. This frustrated him more. So he and I went at it for a good two minutes, before he mashed on his shoes and stomped out the door.

As we got to school, I remembered what day it was, so I looked to the backseat. I wanted to wish him a good day, even though we just fought... but what came out was some nasty sarcastic snippy, "Have a nice Valentine's Day." Even I was shocked at the tone of my voice. Damn it, Ari. He looked straight at me and said, "I know."

Ouch.

I watched, miserably, as he ran off to play with his friends. To compound matters, when I got home, my Chris called to ask if I'd seen "it". Seen what? He told me to go to the living room. Oh fucking hell, I'm the meanest bitch in the world. There on the sofa were two Valentines, one from Chris and one from Kade. There was a stuffed monkey and a box of chocolates, all for me. I think I must have cried for an hour before I even attempted to open one of the Valentines. I wanted to rush to school and grab my little guy for a big hug right then and there, but I didn't. Instead, I grabbed a box of markers and set out to make Kade a Valentine from me.

I hate Valentine's Day, but I did it anyway.

The night before, Kade and I had sat up doing his Valentines for the class. I snuck one in for him from me. So when I went to pick him up from school, he gave me a hug and thanked me for the surprise Valentine in his bag. Then I presented him with the one I'd just made. Then I apologized for yelling at him and he apologized for yelling at me.

As it turned out, the reason he was wearing such a horrendous outfit was because his father had woken him up early to go set up the surprises for me. I love my Chris, but the man has no sense of fashion or coordination whatsoever. Kade was only wearing what Dad had picked out for him to wear.

And this is the point where, if this were a Dr. Seuss tale, my heart would have grown three sizes too big. He and I can fight with the best of them, but when he opened his bag and saw the surprise Valentine and treat I'd left for him, it made his day a little better. Thank goodness, I had the foresight to think of that.

I have to remember that it's not all about me. There are other people, too, that are going through it as well. When I took Kade home, I snuggled with him on the couch. He hugged me close and started to say the catchphrase that had always pulled me through in the past, "I know you miss ba--"

I stopped him this time.

"No, Kade. This time I missed YOU."

No one talks like that to Michelle

I'm coming off my little blogging break to take on a columnist from the Washington Post. (Hey, it's from the Post, how reliable and newsworthy are they, anyway?) I am actually sickened by this one columnist's antics. I realize that it's the Winter Olympics and people want gold medals. I realize that in a time like this, even the most kind-hearted, mild-mannered person can be turned into a nationalistic greedy fool who is all about the gold, gold, gold and not about the spirit of the athlete. Still, I have to say my piece, too.

Sally Jenkins wrote this article about Michelle Kwan. The bitch has the audacity to get satirical in there. She likens the energy it takes to stuff her face with cheetos and cappuccinos with all the years of hard work it took to get where Michelle is today. She wants to make fun of Michelle? Fine. But if she can dish it, she better be able to take it. Trust me, she's about to take it from me so hard, that someone in Alabama is about to mutter, "Squeal for me, piggie." Yeah, bitch, that's a Deliverance referance, you're about to get yours.

It sickens me that people have the audacity to say something like, "She's twenty-five, she's too old, make room for someone younger." Like a pedophile waiting at the fence for school to be over, all these fools can seem to think is that younger is better. This is exactly what is wrong with our society. We take our veterans, we throw them away in place of youth. The sad thing about this whole ordeal is that Michelle is only twenty-five!!! That's what's considered old these days? I don't remember anyone saying that to Katarina Witt when she came back in her thirties to compete for the Olympics. No one is saying that to Irene whateverhernameis, who is competing right alongside Michelle, even though she's two years older. For some reason, Michelle is singled out and picked on. Give the girl a break! She's had an amazing career. So what if she hasn't won gold at the Olympics. Let her have one last time to shine. She's worked hard for it. She's EARNED it. Let her go out with the grace only she can show. Because you can put as many Sarah Houghes, Sasha Cowens and Tara Lipinskis as you like, but none of them will ever be able to achieve the grace and beauty that is Michelle. The rest are awkward prepubescent ninnies in comparison. The only reason Sasha and Sarah were able to squeak by in the last Olympics was because Michelle fell. Yeah, there, I said it.

She fell and still got bronze. THAT is fucking talent.

To Sally Jenkins, who can't seem to write three sentences without referancing her ability to cram yet even more food in her mouth, I say, GET HELP. There are facilities out there that will be able to help you with your food disorder. Suck on that, Sally, since you seem to have such an oral fixation.

To Michelle, I say, don't listen to the naysayers out there. You don't have to win to be a winner with me, doll. Do your best, let your talent shine one last time. For as much talk as people seem to want to give, they're gonna miss you when you're gone. You've got something that is rare these days. You've got heart. Come on, girl, buck up and show them why you're there.

(And I have every faith that little Ms. Jenkins will have no clue what it means to have heart, as I am sure she is currently stuffing her face with manicotti to try and fill some void in her life. And that, Sally, is satire.)

So yeah, I just got pissed off over figure skating. You think that's bad? No one better say shit about Apolo. Or like Sally Jenkins after a burrito-eating contest, I will blow up from the toe up!