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Thirtysomething

Remember the 80's TV show called Thirtysomething? I was in high school in its heyday, and I remember finding the problems of the characters very foreign. I had no concept of that life.

I was seven when my mother turned thirty. She had her kids young. I vividly remember wondering if I would live to the ripe old age of thirty. It seemed questionable - to an seven-year-old, thirty is about the same as ninety - anything in the "ty's" meant false teeth and broken hips.

And now here I am as a bona fide thirtysomething. It's a strange decade. You're not quite "young" and you're not quite "middle-aged" and you have to find a happy medium with fashion and hairstyles. I've never been caught up with age as a number, but when I turned 35 last year I said to John:

"I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'm 35 - that's halfway to 40!"

To which he replied; "No, Karen, it's halfway to 70."

Thanks for that, John m'dear.

My point, and I do have one (/Ellen), is that my attention span apparently died at twenty-nine. I simply cannot stay focused on one task. I usually average five tasks going on simultaneously with none of them being done particularly well. Why just twenty minutes ago I left this blog post to investigate loud thumps emitting from the family room. My children are on Spring Break and before you start congratulating me for getting through the week, let me clarify that NEXT WEEK is the official break. They tacked on yesterday and today for parent-teacher conferences. Our conferences were yesterday, which means today is break city. Speaking of breaks . . .

The loud thumps were coming from their feet hitting the floor (right above my head, mind you) when they stuck the landings of couch backflips. Although there are four suitable arm rests for couch backflips, (OK, two are on the chair, but let's not get technical) they decided to cram together onto one arm rest, resulting, naturally, in a wild landing that brought Karl's feet squarely onto Emma's person. Emma has forgiveness issues with her brother. She's been accidentally injured enough times to completely discount the possibility of accidents. She lashes out like a rabid dog, which either results in Karl wailing in pain or, if she wasn't rabid enough, him retaliating and them BOTH wailing in pain.

In this case, she was the victor, so by the time I arrived on the scene, she was strutting her way around the room, fists still clenched, and Karl was moaning in agony, for effect.

I had a stern talking-to with Emma and sent her to her room. I told Karl he had the "gym" to himself until the timer went off. All I had to do was set the timer and return to my blog post, but instead . . .

Upon setting the timer I was bothered by the disarray in the kitchen. I put the breakfast bowls in the sink, threw away the remains of the Frosted Mini-Wheats box that we'd cut apart to get the order form for the remote-control robot that I'd promised Karl if he had good behavior at school this week. (He did, but we're one UPC code short, so we have to hit the grocery store) The newspaper needed to go into the recycle bin, which is when I realized that it is recycling day, so I took the bins to the street. Upon coming back in through the front door I noticed my travel iron and hair dryer still sitting where they didn't belong so I just popped upstairs for a second to put them away. Upstairs I noticed quite a pile of laundry building up and was just about to tackle a load when I remembered my blog post.

*sigh*

So now I'm back, but because I sent Emma to her room, Karl is W.P.M. (Without Play Mate) which means that he's sauntered into my office about ten times in the last ten minutes to tell me something important. He apparently gave up couch backflips in favor of the living room clubhouse that they constructed yesterday. He posted the rules and wanted to make sure I understood them. Here are the rules:

  1. No stealing I.D.'s (They make I.D.'s for each member. So far the members include Karl, Emma and Daddy. I was given a Visitor's Pass because I couldn't guess the password. John supposedly guessed the password, so he was given full membership. Upon investigation, however, Emma let slip that they had TOLD John the password. Karl explained, though, that it was because of Daddy's "bravery and courage" which I, apparently, do not possess.)
  2. Don't attach things to I.D'.s (OK, this is a rule completely because of me. Yesterday I was given my Visitor's Pass and had the creative idea to hang it from my belt loop using a chain. That way I wouldn't lose it! I thought it was brilliant, but the kids were not happy that I had poked a hole in the pass and was not able to drop it into the box to gain entrance. Also, I totally forgot that I had it hanging off my pants until John noticed it AFTER parent-teacher conferences. *sigh*)
  3. No Littering on Club Grounds. (Not sure what the origin of this rule is, but this is totally the way that Karl thinks and speaks. When he couldn't find his library book during our trip he told Gram "Don't worry. If we can't find it we'll just write a note to the librarian and pay a nominal fee." Yes. That's exactly what he said. Nominal Fee!)
  4. No Pets Allowed. (We don't have pets, but whatever.)
  5. Feel free to use the restroom at open hours. The Spring Break guarantee is from when I wake up to 5 pm. After Spring Break, hours may vary.

Psssst, hey Karl - here's a hint - after Spring Break, the clubhouse will be destroyed! Bwaaaa haaaa haaaa! (Evil maniacal head-thrown-back laugh)

And that's what's going on around here. I'd type more, but I think I killed everyone with the last post (sorry about that) and I really need to rally the troops for our Chuck E. Cheese lunch date. John suggested that I pack my Advil. He's very considerate, that guy.

I have an hour before our outing, which should give me plenty of time to partially complete six other chores before walking out the door! Tra-la-la!

Merry Friday!

TPBQOTD ("Bye Bye Boys!"  "Have fun storming the castle!"  "Think it will work?"  "It would take a miracle."  "Bbbbbye!")

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