Note: it's best to leave your phone, iPad, and/or any type of communication you might have with the outside world in your room. You do not want to be tempted to tweet/text/update your status in this kind of environment.
First, select an awesome hotel with a gorgeous lobby.
Make sure your room has a kickin' view at night.
After telling everyone you want to lay out by the "quiet pool" to read a book, completely cave and purchase lounge chairs at the Euro-trash day club and drink your weight in Ambhar tequila. Groove to the sounds of the resident DJ and take in the scene of those around you who are at least 15 years your junior. If you start to feel old, just keep drinking tequila.
Note: it's best to leave your phone, iPad, and/or any type of communication you might have with the outside world in your room. You do not want to be tempted to tweet/text/update your status in this kind of environment.
Do a little shopping. Accept the free champagne that the lovely clerks offer you. It makes shopping that much more fun.
Eat a completely unhealthy dinner. I mean, really. Go all out. Find whatever is on the menu and order the one thing you know your boot camp trainer would just die if they knew you had consumed. In our case, it was bread, cheese, and beer. Take photographic evidence of your tiny rebellion.
Do a little gambling, of course. Try to find the cheesiest slot machine you can find. As you can see below, we succeeded.
Accept all freebies the hotel offers you. After paying $18 a drink at the Euro-trash pool, free wine sounds like a pretty good deal.
And finally, acknowledge the fact that all good things have to come to an end, and drive the ten minutes - though a world away - back to your own residence in this crazy town. Profusely thank your childcare provider for allowing you 48 hours to feel like a normal adult again and placate the natives with giant pink lollipops. All is good in the world again.
Indiana Grandma rolled into town last night.
Which means if you are the Bear, life is pretty sweet right now.
And if you are Brian and I, it means you get a TWO-NIGHT stay-cation in a world-class hotel on the fabulous Las Vegas Strip. We plan to eat, drink, lay by the pool, and best of all...SLEEP IN! Ahhhh....I can't wait.
Let's hope these crazy kids stay out of trouble while we are gone.
Editor's Note: It's only taken two and a half years, but I am very pleased to announce a guest blogger for today: my husband! Brian was finally persuaded into writing an entry after a particularly memorable weekend event on Sunday. In an effort to allow me to recover from the half-marathon, he agreed to take Scotty to Boulder City for "Day Out with Thomas: Mystery on the Rails Tour 2012." Needless to say, the event was not what Brian hoped for. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!
Thomas and his Merchandising Friends
Hello blog readers. I’m pinch-hitting for my wife today because, a) she’s probably busy with Junior League stuff, b) if not (a), then she’s probably running, and c) unfortunately, she was unable to attend Day Out with Thomas with Scotty and I. I’m an attorney, so this probably won’t be as funny as the blog usually is, but the story itself is pretty amusing so hopefully I won’t screw it up.
Sunday started like most days. We woke up, ate cinnamon rolls, and then got dressed. But this Sunday was going to be different. I had come to learn that none other than Thomas the Train would be appearing in Boulder City with his good friend Sir Topham Hatt. To most people, this would be a non-event. Truthfully, I was even dreading the 45+ minute drive to Boulder City to see the stars of a pretty mind-numbing cartoon. However, when you are a two-year-old boy who loves anything pertaining to cars, trucks, trains, planes, helicopters, etc., seeing Thomas the Train and his cohorts is about as exciting as life gets. So, I plucked down the $20 per ticket for us (yep, they charged the boy full price for a ticket, which should have been my first clue as to what was going to come next), packed the kid up, and we made our way to Boulder City.
We arrived and parked about a mile away because Scotty wanted to take the shuttle down to see the trains. I realized almost immediately that this was a bad idea for when we were going to leave, but it was the kid’s day so I figured taking the shuttle would be fine. After meandering down to the train yard, I quickly realized that the good people at Southern Nevada Railways, who were very hospitable and pleasant, had been overrun by what appeared to be several tents full of Thomas the Train merchandise. OK, I understand. Thomas probably has some bills to pay on the Island of Sodor where he lives, but we’re really here for the ride and to see Thomas and Sir Topham Hatt.
We arrived well ahead of our scheduled departure time, so we initially walked around area with the older railway cars. All sarcasm aside, if you’re ever in Boulder City with a small boy and want to kill an hour or two, this is a pretty cool place to go. There were a lot of old rail cars, and Scotty thought all of this was pretty cool. OK, we’re off to a good start. Then, we got to the tents…
Let me preface this by repeating that my expectations were pretty low. I wasn’t expecting Disneyland. However, when we entered the first tent, someone gave us a “map” that we needed to get stamped in every tent to get a “surprise” at the end. Cool. I feel better about dropping $40+ now that I know that the boy is going to get a surprise.
After we got the map and our first stamp, we walked around. To my surprise, all that was in the first tent were five mini-train sets of Thomas and his friends. This seemed a little low-end at first, but I was sure things would get better. Scotty played with the train set for about three minutes until he got bored, and then we moved to tent #2.
The second tent consisted of a lot of hastily assembled folding chairs around a television showing a Thomas cartoon. The television was not even very large. Very few people were watching, so we just got our stamp and moved on. The next area was an activity/playground that consisted of some plastic golf clubs, a couple of bean-bag toss boards, and a bounce house that was sealed off because it was broken. Scotty had no real interest in any of that, which was also true of the other children since nobody was playing. Hmmmm. Oh well. We got our third stamp, so off to see Topham Hatt we went.
When we arrived at the photo area for Topham Hatt, he wasn’t there. Apparently, he was on break. This was OK, since it was time to get on the train anyway, but it was a little odd since we had walked by his photo area twice and not seen him. Oh well. Maybe he had a lot to do…
We boarded the train. Scotty’s friends Jackson and Alex were also on the train, so they caught up on what had happened since they all went to the park earlier in the week.
Scotty: I saw the bounce house and the bounce house was broken so we didn’t go on it and then we went to the train and now we’re on the train.
Jackson and Alex: (silently contemplating how to get a word in).
We were excited, because Thomas was going to give Scotty a sticker and then we were going to stop to pick up a special surprise. OK, so the event had been a little disappointing, but I was sure the train ride will make up for it.
Nope. We rode about seven minutes to the west, stopped, and then went seven minutes back to the east on the same track (Thomas is a plucky train who can also run in reverse…) to the train station. The “special surprise” was a Styrofoam diamond that looked like something Scotty, Jackson, and Alex might make at pre-school next year. And, then the ride was over. But, we got the sticker and only needed the gift shop stamp to get our surprise. Plus, there was still Topham Hatt to see.
We got off the train and got into line to see Topham Hatt. He was up there taking pictures, so we all got in line. I thought, “This looks pretty cool. Maybe I’ve been too hard on this event.” About 10 seconds after I thought that, Mr. Hatt took another break. We were told he’d be back in 30-40 minutes. I looked at the sign next to the area, and it said that he was there for pictures every hour, which meant that he would take 20-30 minutes of pictures, then take a 30-40 minute break from the taxing work he was doing standing next to children. Huh?! Really?! How do I get that job?! Jackson and Alex and their grandparents decided not to wait, so they left to get their stamps.
Now, Scotty and I were pretty perturbed (me more than him), but we still had to go to the gift shop anyway and get our stamp and surprise. I knew before we walked in that I was going to buy him a shirt (I’m kind of weak in that respect), but I was shocked to see that the entire tent was nothing but ridiculously overpriced Thomas toys and merchandise. Clearly, the goal was for them to get the kids to play with the trains in the first tent, watch the video in the second tent, and then come and buy all of the stuff in the third tent at about 100% markup from what you’d pay at any retailer. At this point, I was stunned. This was about as shameless of a money-grab as I have ever seen (and I’m an attorney). We got the shirt, got the stamp, and then went to get his “surprise.”
Well, low and behold, the “surprise” was a bag full of coupons and crap designed to get kids to buy more Thomas stuff. Plus, when they gave us the surprise, they took back Scotty’s map showing all the stamps he got. The boy was a little sad, but fortunately, I was able to placate him with fruit snacks. Their rationale was that they didn’t want kids coming back to get the “surprise” more than once. Really?! As if the bag it came in didn’t give it away already, was there that much concern that kids would scurry back 2-3 times for those extra 10% off Thomas toothbrush coupons? The 3 mega blocks that went really well with the $70 Thomas mega block box available for purchase in the gift shop?! If kids went back 10 times, I guess they could have built a small box with those multiples of 3 square blue blocks, but this was ridiculous.
After that, we still had to see the elusive Topham Hatt. So, we went back to the line, waited for him to come out from his break (where he presumably perfected cold fusion or cured some loathsome disease), and then finally got to get Scotty a picture. After 30 seconds of posing and waving, we were done. All that was left was to get back to the car and go home.
Oh yeah, you might remember that that boy wanted to take the shuttle. So, we went back to where we got dropped off and waited for the shuttle to come back. And waited. And waited. Finally, 15 minutes after we came over, a shuttle pulled up and the eager kids and parents, not knowing that they were about to enter a glorified commercial for overprice Thomas merchandise, got out. Unfortunately, so did the driver, who then matter-of-factly informed us that she was taking her lunch break and we’d have to wait for the next shuttle. Wow. And with that, she sauntered off to Taco Bell (quick aside, if you haven’t, give the Nacho Cheese Dorrito Tacos a try; very unique taste…), and we were left to wait for the next shuttle, which came 10 minutes later.
In the meantime, aside from eating another bag of fruit snacks and some almonds, the boy managed to step in gum, which was fascinating to him at first, and then a real headache for me as I had to run the shoe in dirt to get the gum off before we went home. Finally, we got on the shuttle, back in the car, and we drove home for lunch and naptime.
The cherry on top? When Kim came home and asked Scotty if he saw Thomas and Sir Topham Hatt, he said, “No. But Dada is going to take me for corn muffin!” It’s possible that I had mentioned that I’d take him out to dinner, and out of everything else that happened all morning, that was the only thing that stuck.
The take-home point of this story is that if you see that a Day Out with Thomas is coming to your town, a) don’t let your kid find out about it, b) do not, under any circumstances, go, unless you want to spend a lot of money on nothing, and c) make plans to be out of town that weekend, just in case your kid finds out from his/her friends that Thomas is coming.
Wow. It's over.
And the difference between the Summerlin Half-Marathon and the Zappos Half-Marathon in December? Two completely different races, with different outcomes, and different sentiments. It was like night and day.
Saturday went smashingly well. So well, I'm still grinning ear to ear. Considering my level of terror on Friday night as I watched the wind whip through the palm trees, I really thought the race was going to bring yet one more unmitigated disaster. I gave serious consideration to throwing myself down a flight of stairs (gently) and claiming an injury to get out of running. Brian was so concerned with my attitude that he dialed up every single cheesy sports movie clip with an inspirational speech to fire me up. I grimly watched "Miracle" and "Every Given Sunday" (as Brian encouraged me to "fight and die for that last inch") as I twisted my hands feverishly. Scotty, ever oblivious to the potential of losing his mother the next day, happily noshed on breadsticks and played with his monster trucks. So young, so naive. So lucky.
But all of my fears proved to be unfounded. Yes, there was a light rain as the race started early Saturday morning, but there was no wind. The crushing crowd of 44,000 from the December race was replaced with a ridiculously polite crowd of only 600. Tree-lined streets of Summerlin displaced the glaring neon from the Strip lights, and a soft blanket of grey covered the sky. It was cozy, familiar, and clean. Honestly, it felt like home-field advantage.
One of the most pervasive feelings from the December half-marathon was the profound sense of loneliness running a crowd so big. To top it off, I was literally surrounding by the weird (the blue man), the subverse (the barefoot guy), the sublime (the naked dude.) And while I occasionally will bemoan the snootiness and banality of Summerlin from time to time, I have to admit, it was refreshing to not be running surrounded by people draped in tutus and Christmas lights. Everyone looked normal, acted like runners, and even better - I knew some of them! I drove with my friend Andrea. We immediately ran into Jodi from Junior League, then Tonya and Reed from Boot Camp. As we all entered our corrals, I bumped into my friend Sandy's next door neighbor, Patty. It was like a meet-and-greet at 6:55am in the parking lot of the JW Marriott. And I was so thankful.
My only goal for this race was to have a better experience than December. I would say by 7:15, I had accomplished that. The lovely female voice on "Map My Run" came through as I hit mile 1 with a nice report: "You have completed one mile. Time: 9:22. Pace: 9:22" and I about jumped for joy. 9:22? Sweet! I slowed down, since I didn't want to burn out, but my legs felt sensational.
By mile 3, I discovered another friendly face: Greg from Boot Camp. It was his first-ever half-marathon and while we didn't talk to each other, we grinned brightly and waved. He and I ran by each other for several miles until mile 7 when the course went quickly downhill. And by downhill, I mean the best kind of downhill - the sloping kind. Mile 8 was amazing, and that Florence and the Machine song "Shake it Out" came on just as I looked at the low-hanging clouds over Red Rock. It was one of those "I am so happy to be alive and I feel so blessed" kind of moments - which, of course, made me start crying. But, as I have learned, there is no crying in running and I quickly choked back any emotion to focus on the task ahead.
Andrea found me at mile 9 and we ran together for two miles. She encouraged me to pass her, so I did, and at mile 11, I almost tripped over both feet when on the side of the road I noticed Krista and Jill, both fellow Boot Campers and my running partner from St. Patrick's Day, standing there with a giant sign, screaming for me. My name was even on their sign! It was honestly one of the nicest gestures of my life. I couldn't believe they had come to cheer us on.
From there, I don't remember the last 2.1 miles, I just remember crossing the finish line and running into the arms of both Boot Camp trainers (and seriously amazing athletes in their own right), Kerry and Reinier. I've never felt more supported. And - it gets better - out of nowhere, Brian and Scotty magically appeared. I actually got to have one of those "only-in-my-dreams" moment when I stood at the finish line with my medal on, kissing my child, hugging my husband, and grinning from ear to ear like an idiot.
I loved every minute of it.
My official time, posted today, was 2:12:38. It's not a great time if you are a serious runner, but for me, I am deliriously happy with it. It is a 21-minute improvement on my December time, and the door remains open for continued improvement.
With that, I feel like I shook that nasty monkey from the December marathon off my back for good. There was a lot of self-doubt going into this run, and I am so, so, so happy I was able to push past it.
At breakfast after the race, I regaled Brian with details from the race. In between bites and gulps, I told him with a wink, "You know...I still had energy left when I finished. I could have kept running. I could have gone -" long, dramatic pause "- farther."
Brian promptly buried his face in his hands.
Will I try for a full marathon? Not sure. But I'll keep you posted.
And yes, I plan to keep bringing my own water.
So much for blogging every day about the 1/2 marathon on Saturday.
Blogging, just like everything else, was preempted by other crap. I had the best of intentions of dedicating this week to the Summerlin half but life took over and squashed my plans. I had written out the entries in my head - My Lemur Diet, Out of the Darkness, and then today's entry, but instead of being transcribed onto my computer, it looks like they will live in my head for a little longer. Darn life. Actually, I should say, darn annual report, but only about 30% of my viewing audience would understand what that means.
(and I hope you 30% just uttered a collective groan on my behalf. I curse you, annual report!)
Anyways, I planned to write about why I run today, since in the days before any race (whether it's a half marathon or a 5K), I find myself asking, "Why am I doing this to myself?!" And trust me, that doubt runs deep. I didn't go out with friends on Wednesday night due to the race on Saturday. I've been eating like a lemur (oh, that would make so much more sense to you if I had been able to blog on Wednesday!) for two months now. Waking up at 5:30 and running in the dark is old hat by now (again, Thursday entry would have really expounded on this, complete with Keith Morrison's voice always in the back of my head as I run through the darkness and visualize my inevitable kidnapping...."She was a wife, a mother, and a new runner. Little did Kimberly know that the morning she set out to complete five miles, her life would take a dramatically different route...") and besides, the time change has literally allowed me to run with the sun. I feel a bit like an old vampire, waking up to a new day. It's delicious though blinding.
Vampires and Dateline NBC aside, running a sport for crazy people. That's what I've come up with. It does not make any sense unless it's the zombie apocalypse and you are running for food/medical supplies, or wolves are chasing you (zombie apocalypse not withstanding.) The idea of running 13.1 miles tomorrow makes me shiver, and it's not just because the HIGH is 55 (WTH???), complete with RAIN and HIGH WINDS (OMG I just threw up); it's because I really don't want to have a repeat of December's half-marathon disaster. (oh please please please don't let me need a medic).
Thankfully, our very smart and very experience running coach from last fall asked all of us on the team to write a little essay about why we run. Like a true dork, I loved this idea. Writing? Yes, please! So I typed up a few paragraphs for her and emailed it away. She responded and asked if she could share my essay with the rest of the team. I said sure, why not. I got a lot of really nice feedback, and as I started to have doubts about this Saturday's race, I re-read my email. What I wrote still stands true and I thought I would share it with you as well.
I cried when I wrote it and cried again reading it over. But it's how I feel and it gives me energy and motivation for tomorrow to go kick some serious half-marathon butt.
Per Melissa's instructions, here is the reason I am running the Vegas 1/2 marathon this year.
On May 6, 2011, my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer. He told me about the diagnosis on May 18. By May 26, they had determined that it had spread to his liver. He began chemo on June 6, and I flew out to see him on June 7. (My parents live in Indiana). My sister (who lives in MN) and I left on June 12 and on June 13, he was hospitalized. He died from liver failure on June 16. He was one week short of his 61st birthday.
My dad was a gentle, kind man who loved his family. He never hurt anyone, and to have him taken from us so early - and so quickly - absolutely destroyed me. I spent most of July crying. In August, I stopped crying and started running. I figured out that I couldn't cry if I was running, because it was impossible to breathe. So I ran as much as I could to stop crying.
In late August, a friend mentioned Boot Camp to me and I went to my first-ever Hill Day. It was the perfect distraction to my grief, since for the first time since my dad got sick, I didn't think about it. I had to concentrate 100% on not passing out/throwing up during the work out. The marathon team started in early September, and despite the fact I had never run more than 3 miles at a time, I winged it and signed up. I figured if Hill Day is a good distraction and running stops me from crying, than marathon training would be the best of both worlds.
So that's my reason for signing up for the marathon. I'm not doing it to honor my dad necessarily, since he was not a runner, but I'm doing it to give meaning to his life. I want to challenge myself and live my life to its fullest, something I realized after he passed.
See you at the finish line.
I gots 'em.
Let's start at the beginning; they've never been pretty. They are a ridiculously large size 10 for my meager height of only 5'6". My toes are more like fingers, with multiple, knobby knuckles (tuckles?). And the heels have been granted no favors, living in this dry, dry desert of ours. It's not uncommon for at least one heel to crack mid-July due to heat, dryness, and ill-fitting flip-flops.
So before running began, I was working with maybe a 3 out of 10, in terms of beauty. I can assure you, no one has ever told me I have pretty feet. But after a miserable pregnancy that pushed my dogs to a whooping size 10.5, shoe shopping is akin to going to the dentist. And I HATE the dentist.
Add running in, and well, we have a hot mess on our hands, just south of my ankles.
It all started after the St. Patrick's Day race. I had the bright idea to trim my toenails the night before the race, due to my serious phobia of losing a nail. Alas, I trimmed them too short. After 7.1 miles of of toe-slamming in the fronts of my shoes, I came home to find large, pink, fluid-filled blisters on the fronts of each toe. Gross and painful. And rather unsightly.
The St. Patrick's Day race produced more than a lot of ugly toes; it also spelled the death of my first-ever pair of real running shoes. They say you should put no more than 500 miles on a pair, and by mid-March, my shoes were ready to say good-bye. In addition to being caked in red mud, the mesh on the front was ripping and the support was no longer there. With a heavy heart, Brian and I dropped my shoes in the garbage in the laundry room and stood silent for a moment. It was a fitting end to a great pair of shoes.
I purchased another pair quickly, but my feet must have been swollen the day I bought them, since they were way too large for me. I only wore them three times, but each time, I literally felt like I was wearing over-sized clown shoes that shook with each step. Cue the trip back to the shoe store, and enter in pair of shoes #3.
(thankfully, most good running stores offer a 10- or 30-day money back/exchange guarantee with the purchase of new shoes. Thank you, Nice Man at Performance Footwear on the corner of Ft. Apache and Sahara Ave for being so patient with me, my feet, and my talkative child.)
The latest pair is a winner, except I decided to "cool-it-up" by purchasing a pair of what I thought were stealth black running socks. I imagined myself something of a ninja runner. After my eight-mile run two weeks ago, I realized my ninja socks had a faulty seam on the left foot, which pressed against my little toe for eight agonizing miles. Never one to admit defeat, I wore the socks again this past weekend for a 10.5 mile run, telling myself it was user error. If I just wiggle the seam around a little to the right, just jostled the sock to the left, and only ran on the inside part of my foot, the socks are not a problem.
So now the left side of my foot, starting with my baby toe, was mostly numb for two days afterwards. I did yet another run this morning (only five miles) with thicker socks, and there was no problem.
Stupid ninja socks.
However, I am still left with a swollen purple toe to match my toe-front pink blisters.
Let's not even get started on my lack-of a pedicure. And quite frankly, I'm not going to let anyone touch my feet until after the Summerlin half marathon, out of fear of another toe-saster-blister-gate incident.
I'm planning to wear open-toe sandals tomorrow night to a function, and at this point, I don't care what my feet look like. I could pretty-it up and say my ugly feet are like battle scars and I should show them off proudly, but let's face it, they are just simply ugly feet.
And I'm okay with that.
The Summerlin Half-Marathon is this Saturday, April 14th. In honor of the race, each blog entry this week will be dedicated to running. Happy reading!
I received a text from our baby-sitter on Wednesday afternoon. It read:
"Scott just put me in timeout. lol."
Seconds later, another text popped up:
[the length of her timeout, presumably]
Taking the bait, I wrote back, "What did you do???"
"We were chasing. I caught him, and made the toot noise with my mouth, so he put me in time-out for spitting."
She followed up with, "He made me say sorry afterwards. :)"
Damn. I can't wait to see what this kid does in preschool. I fear for his teacher already.
Editor's note: Do you have a bossy toddler in the house? May I recommend "The Boss Baby" by Marla Frazee. It was sent to me by my lovely friend Chai who knows a thing or two about opinionated children. Not surprisingly, it is one of Scotty's favorite reads these days. And no, I was not compensate in any way for this plug; it's just a really good book. And so darn appropriate.
...is the post office.
During rush hour.
It's dead quiet in there, and people line up like zombies clutching packages. Everyone looks disgruntled, everyone is irritated, and everyone is impatient.
So let's add a toddler to the mix, just to spice things up!
As I took my place in line with the other parcel-walkers, Scotty took it upon himself entertain the entire place. He was like a one-man comedy show.
"Mom. Mom! MOM! MOMMY! Look over there! Look! Do you see it?" [I shake my head no, I don't know what the hell he is talking about] "Oh! Big hummer! No, big truck! Oh wow! Mommy, look at the big truck! Say, 'big truck' Mom! Say it! SAY IT!"
Okay, that wasn't so bad. Just normal toddler talk.
Then he attempted to address the crowd.
"Mommy say last night - " ["last night" is a term he uses for everything from literally last night, to three months ago. We're working on time awareness.] " - 'No, Scotty! No! Put that down!' Then Mommy - " [he begins to shake his index finger violently] " - No! No! No! Bad Scotty! Scotty go to time-out! Scotty bad. Mommy bad. Bad Mommy! Mommy, say, 'Bad Mommy!'"
For the record, I have never, ever called my kid 'bad.' I have stated his behavior has been bad, but never him. Where he gets this, I have no idea.
I think he sensed he was losing the crowd, so he went with some potty humor.
"Poop is brown and pee is yellow! Oh, yes, pee is yellow. No touch poo-poo! Poo-poo is no touch. Da-da made poo-poo on the potty last night! Da-da sat on potty and said - " [insert grunting noises here] " - and then Da-da flushed the potty. Scotty made poo-poo on the potty last night too! Scotty get two marshmallows.Scotty good boy. SO GOOD."
It was at this point I stepped away from my child and stated, very loudly, to anyone who was listening (which was all 38 people in line),
"I do not know this child."
Does UPS offer an in-home pick-up service?
...is the sound of a toilet flushing when you are in another room.
For us, this happened yesterday. It was after lunch and I was washing dishes in the sink in the kitchen. The Bear had scampered off to get a few more minutes of truck-play in before nap time. I thought he was in the living room, but then I heard the toilet flush.
And I froze.
What exactly did he just flush?
A quick survey of my surroundings yielded this:
Engagement ring? Check.
Wedding ring? Check.
Car keys? Too high for him to reach - not a concern.
TV remote? Well, we'll figure that one out.
Teeny-tiny car? He has so many cars, there is no way I'd be able to determine if he had flushed one.
I needed to investigate.
I met a very smiley Bear in the bathroom moments later. With a giant grin, he exclaimed, "Froggie go in bubble tub!"
And my heart sank.
Froggie? Froggie got flushed? The same tiny blanket that I had just spent a week blogging about? The Froggie that I only bought one of, so if he did indeed get flushed, there is no way to replace Scotty's beloved lovey? And what is a plumber going to cost me?
Oh God Brian is going to kill me...
The inquisition started. "Did you flush Froggie?" "Yes! Yes I did!" "No, Scott - I'm asking you - did you put Froggie in the potty and flush him?" "Yes! Froggie go bubble tub! Froggie in potty!"
And with that, I plunged my glove-covered hand (thank you, dishwater) into the potty and began rooting around for Froggie.
Unless we have the greatest suction in a toilet known to man, Froggie was not in the nearby vicinity. Either he was already making friends in the sewage pipe (and I'm minutes away from the most expensive toilet repair in recent memory), or he was not flushed.
Once I removed my hand from the toilet (so disgusting, let me tell you), I did a quick lap of the house. Froggie was not in the family room, not in the living room, not outside on the patio, and did not appear to be in the bathroom. Finally, I found him smushed in a corner in the closet. Dry, unharmed, and non-flushed. Oh thank heavens.
Scotty grabbed for Froggie (once I had removed my gloves after disinfecting them) like the past five minutes had not happened. He marched over to the washing machine, pointed to it, and stated, "Froggie go in bubble tub! Froggie dirty!"
Ooooh. I get it. He wants to wash the frog, not flush him.
Needless to say, we'll be working on clarifying potentially disturbing messages prior to alerting Mom. 'Cause Lord knows I don't want to go sticking my arm into any more toilets.
Think of this as the epilogue to Bridget Jones' story. Well, mostly. Bridget marries the handsome lawyer, starts a blog while on bedrest, and decides marathon running sounds like fun. Hilarity ensues.