Olympics

Chris is a big fan of the Olympics. I even caught him watching table tennis. Table tennis, really? Like in Forrest Gump? Ping pong? How do you get into a sport like that? At an olympic level? Apparently speed walking is also an Olympic sport. Weird, huh? My friend Erin's mom should totally start training, she's a kickass speed walker. Anyway. I, too, was enjoying the Olympics, table tennis and all, until the other night when beach volleyball was on.

Let me tell you two things about beach volleyball:

1. The chicks wear tight white bikinis and look completely awesome.

2. The guys wear shorts and tank tops. And you can't tell if they look completely awesome or not. I mean, seeing as how they are athletes (just as the ping pong players are) they probably look completely awesome, but you can't tell because of the tank tops.

Let me tell you two things about the previous two things:

1. Watching hot chicks jump around in tight white bikinis is NOT a good past-time if you are 9 months pregnant and as big, or quite possibly bigger than, a cow. Even the cheesecake won't make it seem any better.

2. It would be a much better deal for everyone involved if the men were wearing less clothing. I'm not saying they, too, should be in tight white bikinis, but I wouldn't argue with them losing the tank tops. It would put things on an even keel. At least in my house.

Another interesting fact I learned about the Olympics is that for some reason, athletes seem to be convinced that they won't get caught using steroids. I read an article saying that some shooter was disqualified for using steroids (just what we need, a guy with a gun using 'roids) as well as a gymnast. The gymnast was in last place prior to being disqualified. I'm thinking those steroids probably didn't do her any good. And, while I'm on the topic of gymnastics, I'll jump on the "The Chinese are Cheaters" bandwagon. I understand that gymnasts look way younger than they are; my younger sister was an elite gymnast so I know about these things. BUT, really? That one girl looks 12. Which would put her, in gymnast years, about about 14.5 years old. I'm not buying it.

Now I will go back to watching a true sport: swimming. Where the men show much more skin than the women. And, just for the record, Michael Phelps' diet makes mine look wimpy. In case you were wondering.

Traumatizing my child.

Well, I think I have recovered emotionally to the point where I can write about my traumatizing experience. Or, to be more exact, Babypants' traumatizing experience. It started with a haircut. A simple trim to help minimize the mullet. It ended with a panic attack.

Daddypants and I decided that the birthday girl deserved a special haircut at Snip-Its, a kids-only salon. We had heard great things about it, complete with lollipops and prizes. Perfect. What's not to like about candy and presents? Well, apparently gay men are not to like. Our stylist took "she's a little shy, it might take her a couple minutes to warm up" as "please attack my ridiculously shy child while shrieking at her." Total meltdown ensued. Screaming. Clinging. Panicking. "Mommy no mommy no!" The works. So, thank you for traumatizing my child. She is going to never let anyone near her hair again. I guess she might some day learn that gay men are a girl's best friend when it comes to hair, but until then, we'll stick to Mom's Salon.

After getting the screamer calmed down, we headed over to Claire's because Babypants was still convinced "pretty ears" where going to be much nicer than a quick trim. Who knew that a two year old would be right about this? The girls let her hold a teddy, pick out her colors, draw with the marker, and play with bracelets. Yes, she cried when they actually put the earrings in, but the pain was quickly forgotten when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. While I got care instructions and did a quick search for Disney Princess bracelets, BP pranced around the store in search of every single mirror, just so she could admire herself. She was rather pleased with herself, as was I. I might have tortured my child by getting her hair cut, but, much like the Great Cat Swap, she was easily distracted. Now I just had to find a way to tell my husband what I had done. And prepare myself to find a good divorce lawyer.

I decided that the easiest way to break it to him would be for him to see how ecstatic his daughter was about her "pretty ears" and then hope against all odds that he wouldn't murder or divorce me. A quick call to his office got us a parking lot meeting. I think his first instinct was murder, but luckily he has a little more of a level head than I do. He told BP how pretty she looked (I must admit, as a totally and completely non-biased party, that she did look absolutely adorable), exclaimed over new new Princess bracelets, and gave me the obligatory "it's fine, Jess" before sprinting back to the office. I'm sure his stress ball got quite the workout.

Haircut: semi-check. Still needs to be repaired a bit.

Ears: check. She shows everyone she meets.

Husband: check. Still coming home after work. I think.