I’ve been watching the Olympics some this week… LOVE ’em. Mostly, I love when the USA Olympians defy the odds and bring home a medal… and then I get all verklempt-like. For example, when the US gymnastic team won… I blubbered like a 4-year-old whose trike got kicked in the ditch… that was amidst fist pumps and some really embarrassing woo hooing… yes, I get into my TV time. Then I got to thinking how I’d be as an Olympian… as a comparison:
Olympic Gymnast: Jumps 20 feet in the air, defies all laws of physics, does 10 backflips, slays a dragon, comes back down and lands perfectly on the balance beam while fireworks go off in the background.
Whitney the Olympian: Falls on face whilst trying to put pants on.
Close enough? But they gave me a 9.7 score on the graceful pants-falling trick… for totes sure!
I’ve also been watching some swimming and diving competitions. A few things that skeeve me out… so, the swimmer person wins the race and then he/she dunks his/her face into the nastified water (chlorine doesn’t work… are you kidding me right now), drinks some up in his/her mouth and then spits it back into the water! Um… hello… there’s my little friend named Cryptosporidium… and his brother named Giardia… oh, and the overbearing cuzzin, E. coli… throw some Shigella in there and a tad of norovirus and then call me in the morning. Nastified! And then, I was also reading some article about what Michael Phelps ingests when he’s training… and it’s something like 8,000 to 12,000 calories and boy has 0.000000002% body fat, a six-pack and arm muscles. For serious!?!?!? That is just not fair! Maybe he needs to make a workout video… because I’d buy it… just so I could get a 6-pack whilst eating like a bear entering hibernation phase. Oh, Olympians… take me into your people. I need to bask in your greatness… kick my buttocks into gear!
Meanwhile… today is Madre’s Birthday… and not only did she turn 1 year younger, she is also once again celebrating said birthday amongst the dust and dirt of the wilderness at girl’s camp. I’d say I’m totes jealous of her, but I’m absolutely the opposite of that word. Camping is never my forte… but especially on one’s birthday. THE NERVE!
So, Madre… tonight when you’re getting into your sleeping bag after you’ve turned 1 year younger, do me a favor… light a candle (keep it away from the bug spray… I repeat.. away from the bug spray), close your eyes, click your heals together and say over and over… There’s No Place like the Ritz Carlton… There’s No Place like the Ritz Carlton. Then, climb in your sleeping bag, go to sleep, and in the morning you’ll still be in a sleeping bag in the wilderness… but imagine all them good dreams you’d have about the Ritz… for serious! I love you, momma. Even if sometimes we clash and sometimes you want to ring my neck and sometimes you might want to bash me in the head with a chill pill club. I hope you have a fabulous birthday!
Question of the Day: Have you been watching the Olympics? What is your favorite event?