Larry attempts to annoy me while watching the women's Olympic figure skating freestyle program:

Me: How can people say figure skating's not a sport?

Larry: Well, why do you think it's a sport?

Me: Wait. Why do you think it's NOT a sport?

Larry: Well, for one thing, there's no ball.

Me: Oh, nice, so what about skiing? Skiing is not a sport?

Larry: Skiing is most definitely a sport.

Me: (Waiting to hear more)

Larry: Although, you are right. There is no ball in skiing.

Me: (Waiting to hear more)

Larry: But there is speed!

Me: Speed equals sport?

Larry: Yes. Speed and balls.

Me: So the fact that figure skating requires tremendous skill, training and athleticism ... that counts for nothing?

Larry: Well, I mean, you throw around the term athleticism, but really, figure skating is just dancing.

Me: Right.

Larry: But on skates! Which I'm sure is really hard!

Me: Right.

Larry: Honey, no one ever said dancing on skates isn't hard.

Our new receptionist seems nice. And, judging from her emails, she's very straightforward. This comes as a huge disappointment to me. Our last receptionist provided only the bare minimum of information in her all-employee emails, always omitting at least one critical detail, so each one was like a fun riddle you got to solve.

She'd write: "ALL EMPLOYEES: There's some leftover Kung Pow Chicken sitting on my desk."

Or "ALL EMPLOYEES: Someone reported a light out in the hall by the fourth floor bathrooms. They are aware of it."

Or "ALL EMPLOYEES: They will be testing our emergency sprinkler system on Thursday morning at ten. Sorry for any inconvenience."

For someone like me, who thrives on edge-of-your-seat excitement, those were good times.

In true Olympic spirit, Gus has taken up competitive whining. He puts in a minimum three hours practice each day, in the race for toddler gold. Rigid-body, “you can’t lift me” tantrums are also part of the picture, along with severe abuse of the words NO, MINE, and EHHHHHHHHHH. He can’t just get himself trapped between the couch and the side table and be happy that at least he doesn’t have to work for a living. He has to be all “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” until I rescue him. And then if he can’t find, say, his train, it’s “Traiiiiiiiiiiiiin? Traiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin? Traiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin? Traiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing? Traiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing?” in the loudest, most cringe inducing yowl, until you find the train or beg the vice president to fire several rounds of birdshot into your chest.

You want him to wear a bib? 
Ha! 
Sit in his highchair? 
Double ha.
Take his medicine? 
You’re a crack head, and everybody knows it.

Unless, of course … he just feels like being pleasant.

And this has been known to happen. Of course there’s absolutely no telling WHY it happens. Or WHEN it’s going to happen. Or HOW you can make it happen again. It’s the $5 bill you find on the street: a lucky get, and way more exciting than it should be.

And did I mention he throws things? Like forks. And ukuleles.

But then he’s cute. Like a monkey throwing fistfuls of poop at zoo visitors, he’s so joyous in his badness sometimes that I have to hide behind the furniture and laugh. He eats at least half of his spinach salad before feeding the rest to the dog. He says please and thank you at all the appropriate moments. And if you say, “Who loves Mommy?” he hoists his little fist in the air and says, “I DO!”

Larry, who studied these sorts of things in school, has instructed me to ignore the bad behavior and reinforce the good. “Remember, you’re the boss,” he tells me. But there are times when my child’s shrill defiance is too bloodcurdling to bear, and I find myself covering my ears and chanting “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

In the back of my mind, I watch the instant replay. “Ooh, right there! There’s where I lost it. And did I really stick my tongue out at him? Is that it? Am I disqualified?”

If only it were that easy.

For some reason, despite my bumbling performance and utter lack of finesse, my team keeps welcoming me back into these treacherous winter games.

And with no other moms in the race, I suppose victory is the only option. 

So, I was introduced to a woman via phone yesterday. She and I were discussing some pieces of business, and I had some questions for her, and she had some questions for me, and blah blah blah, and then, very suddenly, the talk turned from the projects at hand to the subject of motherhood.

She just shifted gears out of the blue and said, "So, I hear you're having a baby."

And because this was apropos of absolutely nothing, I actually had to stop and think for a minute, "Excuse me? What? Oh. Baby. Right. Why yes! I am!" You see, for much of the day I forget that I am pregnant. Which is why it is a happy coincidence that I no longer keep a fifth of gin in my desk drawer.

Anyway.

So, she asks me if I'm having a baby, and I say yes, and she says "is it your first?" and I say "No, it's my second." And she asks if I have a boy or a girl, and I say boy, and she says, "me too."

She has two boys.

And because I'm not a super smooth phone conversationalist and I didn't know what else to say (and I've never met this person) I just said the first boring thing that popped in my head.

I said, "Aren't boys great?"

And she said, "Yeah."

And I dorkily added, "They sure love their moms."

And she screamed, "AND THEIR PENISES!!!!"

Allrightythen.



And, I sort of laughed and waited for her to move on.

But she did not want to move on!

No sir, she did not!

She wanted to talk more about the boys and their loving of their penises.

And this is when she proceeded to tell me about how her boys are never happier than when they're snuggled up beside her on the couch, watching tv with their hands down their pants.

"They love it!" she howled.

"Wow!"

"Oh yeah!" she said. "Nothing better in their world."

"That's ... heh. Yeah."

"Yeah."

So, I think we're going to be good friends, this woman and I.

Don't you?

Setting: Borders Books. Larry and Gus are browsing the shelves. Gus is wearing his bright orange jacket.

Woman Shopper (to Gus): "My, that is a very bright orange coat you have on!"

Larry: "Yeah, that's so the Vice President doesn't shoot him."

--SCENE--