The good news is that Sugar Daddy decided to bring Princess Zurg home with him last night. The really good news is that PZ did enjoy Girls’ Camp, but she did not enjoy it too much, so when faced with the prospect of going home a day early, she was okay with it. Apparently there is more of her mother in her than any of us would like to believe. I remember spending that one day at Girls’ Camp last year and round about 9 p.m. thinking, “I can’t believe anyone does this for a whole week.” Seriously, longest day of my life. OF MY LIFE. And I’ve spent the better part a day giving birth without anesthesia before, so I think I’m telling you something here. I’m telling you that I really hate fun. With a vengeance!
SD was not merely stuck with kitchen duty, he was stuck with 14-hour shifts of kitchen duty! Maybe even 16-hour shifts–I couldn’t tell. That’s what they do to the menfolk at the Girls’ Camp. The ladies working in the kitchen only do, like, eight-hour shifts, but the men are in there from dawn to whenever. They have to cook for 240 people, so that’s a lot of work. I said I wouldn’t mind it, and I don’t think I would, but all that standing would probably get to me. Anyway, that is how the gender equity rolls in Girls’ Camp, for those of you who expressed concern. I don’t think SD actually minded being in the kitchen–aside from having no time to read books and shoot guns–but he was pretty tired when he got home, and probably looking forward to going back to his cushy Corporate Satan Job.
While PZ did enjoy Girls’ Camp, she was also exhausted by the end of the first day. SD told me he was speaking with PZ at breakfast Tuesday morning, and all the girls in the cafeteria started doing their ritual shouting/chanting/singing/jumping up on tables thing, and PZ said, “I don’t know how they have this much energy in the morning.” The more I see of Girls’ Camp and the more I hear of it, the less I second-guess my decision not to go any of the years I was a teenager. Not that I have ever once in my life second-guessed my decision not to go to Girls’ Camp. I’m just telling you, the validation feels good.
[Note: I have a lot of Mormon lady friends who love Girls’ Camp and loved it as teenagers and had wonderful experiences there. I’m not saying it isn’t fun–quite the opposite. I’m telling you something about myself. Something that we all should already know, but of which I never tire of reminding us. I am the world’s biggest fuddy-duddy. My husband spent a good deal of the early years of our marriage trying to get me to admit that, but it has since evolved into a perverse fuddy-duddy pride, which he did not anticipate and which, I daresay, he resents. But that’s another story.]
I was brushing PZ’s hair last night and asked her what her favorite part of camp was, and she sighed impatiently and said, “I don’t know!” (Typical teenage response, but she’s had that teenage exasperation thing down her whole life. PMS, too. We think she may be gifted.) So I asked her to just name one of the good things, and she still said, “I don’t know.” She said there were goods and bad, which is exactly what she said last year. Then she said that the cafeteria wasn’t quite as noisy as it was last year, which was good. Maybe that was her favorite thing. Then she said that she got them to stop singing the song that she hated for the remainder of the day, and that was a personal victory, so maybe that was her favorite thing. I don’t know. The song they sing that she hates is “Mormon Boy,” and it’s sung to the tune of…whatever tune “Five Green Speckled Frogs” is sung to, and it goes like this:
I know (or have?) a Mormon boy,
He is my pride and joy…
…uh, something something
degrading cliches about women, blah blah…
Oh, how I love my Mormon boy!
Anyway, I think you get the flavor of why she might hate it. (And also why I might support her hatred.) They sing it a lot at Girls’ Camp, along with other silly songs that don’t make one quite so embarrassed to be in this socio-religious demographic. And they sing it at the top of their lungs in the cafeteria, when they’re not shouting and jumping up on tables and flexing their muscles. (Teenage girls are silly.) Unfortunately, I forgot where I was going with telling you about this song. Maybe I just wanted to add some color to the story. Whatever, I’m going to get back to…me!
I’m still sick, although I slept better last night than I did Monday night. I didn’t take any Nyquil. I used cough syrup and ibuprofen. I woke up every couple hours and coughed for about 45 minutes and went back to sleep for another couple hours. I won’t go into any more detail than that, even though I could. I have a lot of extremely descriptive phrases sitting here in my brain, waiting for the opportunity to be used, but I’m not so illness-addled that I think you care to read about what my cough-cold thing is like. You’ve had cough-cold things yourself, most likely, and would just as soon not re-live the grossness factor. That’s what I’m guessing. And no, I’m not just saying that because words are failing me. Words are not failing me; nay, but common courtesy and a minimal amount of class doth restrain me. Suffice it to say that I’m perfectly capable of breathing through my nose. All my congestion is in my chest and my ears and that area between my nose and my throat. I’m not happy. I’m drinking some herbal tea, which is gross, but that’s just what I do when I’m sick. I drink herbal tea because I’ve lost my will to live.
My husband, incidentally, loves herbal teas. I don’t understand this part of him. But I have nothing else to say about that.
At about 2 a.m. this morning, I was up and coughing and I became extremely aware of my expanding girth. Since giving birth to Girlfriend in 2005, I’ve noticed that the figure didn’t just bounce back this time, and yeah, maybe that girlish figure is gone for good. I noticed my waist wasn’t as small as it used to be, and actually, now that I really look at it, my waist is more or less gone. I had been considering that an unfortunate consequence of middle age, but last night, at about 2 a.m., I was simply overcome by how much flesh really has deposited in that area in the last five years. Am I obese? No. In fact, according to the celebrated BMI chart, I am within the “normal” weight range for my height. But that’s not the point. The point is that I look down and I see a belly that looks very much like I just had a baby. Like, yesterday. It’s not acceptable. You know the old Special K commercial, “If you can pinch more than an inch, have some Special K (or something like that)”? I am beyond “pinching” anything. We’re not talking inches anymore, but fistfuls. How long has this been going on? Probably since 2005, but I’ve been in denial until just now. I thought, “You know, it’s only ten, maybe fifteen pounds. And it’s not like people have to see me naked (except for my husband, who doesn’t seem to mind too much–insert lascivious heh heh heh here). So maybe I’ll lose it eventually, maybe not–meanwhile, let’s have doughnuts.” Well, really, I don’t eat doughnuts that often, but I did bake all those cakes this year, and I posted pictures of them, too, so you know I’m not on the South Beach diet here. But out of nowhere, at 2 a.m. this morning whilst coughing up a lung, all I could think was, “I can’t believe how fat I’ve gotten.”
Why, you might wonder, if Madhousewife is so sick, is she suddenly so worried about getting fat (or rather, already being fat, and possibly getting fatter)? I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense to me either, but I suspect it is because I am completely devoid of energy and it feels like I’m never going to stop coughing and swallowing is never going to stop hurting, and so it’s not like I can do anything about being fat while I’m this sick, and that is very frustrating. Well, technically I did cough so hard yesterday that I threw up, but I didn’t throw up that much because it was just a gag reflex thing, and yes, that other thing I said earlier about common courtesy and restraint–that’s over, sorry. The fact remains: coughing so hard you throw up is a) unpleasant and b) not a weight-loss plan. So I feel trapped in this body that feels miserable and, according to my own eyeballs, looks miserable. It was just too much for me to handle at 2 a.m. That’s all I’m saying.
In other news, I got my glasses yesterday. They don’t seem quite as flattering as they did when I picked the frames out and paid through the nose for them ten days ago, but looking like death warmed over probably isn’t helping matters. At least my face isn’t getting fat. Just old. They’re good glasses, though, i.e. I can see out of them. I can see out of them so well that I may start wearing them all the time–unless I start seeing more fat with them, in which case, I will probably wear them just for reading and junk. I should be wearing them right now, actually, but they’re all the way in the other room, and also, I’m done for now. Gentle readers, adieu.