Biggy swears that I did not so much give birth to Georgia as that I divided myself in two, split into two versions of myself, each of whom can be called Tangia (pronounced Tonja). This morning we chatted briefly on the phone:
G: Greg's sick too?
T: Yeah, but of course he's sicker than I am. So I have to take care of him.
G: Of course.
T: This morning, he said, "I CAN'T miss work," and I said, "Sure, the WHOLE company is going to crumble if you're out one day. You are THAT important." He couldn't even sit up to take his Nyquil.
G: You know what I hate?
T: Where should I start?
G: No, I mean what I hate right now--what I'm thinking about.
T: You have to take a shower.
T: God, I hate showers. Nobody except you understands the whole getting wet thing.
T: The best part of taking a shower is drying off.
G: Exactly. And the worst thing ever is if I have to dry off immediately and get dressed. I need to sit for at least half an hour in my towel.
T: Because you can't really get dry. No matter how many times I wipe the back of my arms with a towel, they're still wet.
G: And under the boobs.
T: And under my ass cheeks. But yours haven't fallen yet.
G: Something to look forward to.
T: It's not just showers, either. I always think I want to take a long hot bath, and then I get in, and I immediately think, "Ew, it's wet. I need to dry off." I think I have a cat soul.
G: Or a Chihuahua soul.
T: But Fay always wants to get in the tub with me.
G: Until she does get in. Then she wants back out.
T: That's so true! She's just like us.
G: Anyway, I've GOT to go take a shower and get ready for work.
T: Thank god I don't have to take a shower today, because I'm sick.
G: Love you.
T: Love you too. We'll talk later.
For his birthday, back in April, we gave Jack tickets for this month's U2 concert. Since then, he's learned An Cat Dubh in Gaelic and cleared up all the mondegreens in Mysterious Ways. He's been fielding calls from Cash Cab and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, because somewhere, on the Secret List for Bono trivia, his name is first for Phone-A-Friend.
Unfortunately, in order to attend the show last Tuesday, my son had to miss one of his 5.5 weekly drumline rehearsals. No matter that for four marching seasons he has endured July/August heat that would melt Victoria Beckham's face; regardless of the fact that in all that time he's missed--maybe--three practices, and those because he was too sick to hold a drumstick; no credit for making us plan our family vacations around band camp and grapefruit sales: Jack needed to be taught a lesson.
"You let your fellow band-mates down," scolded the band director, who wouldn't know The Joshua Tree from a Christmas tree. "You impeded the progress of the drill." And so he suspended Jack for a week, banning him from the next four practices and an away game.
Jack hates everything about away games: the way they eat up his Friday nights; how he has to help load the equipment truck; the fact he has to ride in the puke-vinyl-smelling buses. To make matters better, instead of marching in circles Monday through Thursday, he gets to stay home and watch House reruns. The worst thing about it is I'm making him keep an eye on Lola after school instead of sending her to ASP.
It''ll save me about 30 bucks.