I am patient, really

My husband says I have the patience of a gnat needing a crack fix.

I think that's a bit harsh.

Just because I hate lines, slow walkers, tedious meetings and long stories, does not mean I'm impatient.

Anyway, we're watching "Ace of Cakes" tonight. (Awesome Food Network show about Duff and his buddies who make beautiful, fun cakes in Baltimore) One woman is applying all these long, thin, delicate strips of colored fondant (icing) to this King Tut (historical figure) cake. It looks excruciatingly exact. I started feeling anxious just watching her.

I would absolutely never have the patience for that type of task. I know this because I once attempted a Christmas craft project. I made stockings for me, Jeff and Sassy. It was a simple project. Take two pieces of felt, cut out a pattern, sew the two pieces together, use glitter glue to write the person/canine's name, sew on three Christmas buttons and a felt tree, sew a strip of white felt to the top of stocking and sew a ribbon on top. It looked so cute in the magazine.

I did mine first, in case I messed up. It was easy, but slow, so slow. My stocking was perfect. Then I moved on to Sassy's, I decided to skip the buttons and the ribbon. I was totally sick of the project at this point. It seemed like I'd been working for days (it was really just a couple of hours). Then, I started on Jeff's. I decided I would just sew the felt together and write his name in glitter glue.

I've never been so glad to "finish" a project. I presented the stockings to Jeff who wondered why his was a bit simpler. I said I didn't want it to look to girly. (Good one, right?)

Jeff drags those stupid stockings out every Christmas, and some unsuspecting guest always asks when I'm going to finish Jeff's.

TV all the time

Thank goodness the Olympics are over, I thought Sunday night. I needed to get my evenings back.

This weekend I was glued to the TV. I ate in front of the TV, shouted at the TV, fell asleep with the TV. I was obsessed!

During the week I was no better. I'd been coming home from work, plopping down on the couch and watching TV until it was time for bed. Oh, and I snacked on chips, popcorn and cookies. I was not so obsessed with my health.

Tonight, I arrived home from work with my whole evening clear. Oh the possibilities. I could take a walk, workout, read magazines, cook, the possibilities were endless.

What did I do? Plopped down on the couch an watched TV, of course. What sort of quality entertainment sucked me in? Well, there was a Lifetime movie "The Bad Son" about a, you guessed it, bad son who kills his girlfriends. His mom, a civilian cop, helps him cover his tracks. And now "Platinum Weddings" is on WE. I love that show. Where do these people get their money? Who spends $150,000 on flowers? Where do these flowers grow? Mars? I can't help but become absorbed in each episode.

Oh, got to go, the groom is about ride an elephant into the wedding ceremony to greet his bride. She'll be wearing three dresses, of course.

Rain, rain go away

Fay is not my friend.

Though she may not have made an appearance herself in Columbus, she sent her good buddies wind, rain and gloominess.

Jeff and I were pretty much stuck in the house all weekend except for a quick trip to brunch and the grocery store this morning. When the rain slowed to a sprinkle for about an hour in the late morning, we made our escape.

Of course, all of Columbus decided to follow us.

The lines at IHOP and Waffle House were unbelievable. We popped into O'Charley's and found a crowd of well-dressed churchgoers waiting. Luckily, getting a table for two was no problem. I always feel a bit funny wearing jeans and T-shirts while other diners are wearing skirts and suits, but we're eating at family-friendly chain restaurants for goodness sakes. I don't want to slide into a sticky booth wearing a dress.

After brunch, we went to Publix where we encountered tons of other shoppers. The rain seemed to make everyone a bit slower and grumpier than usual. We finally make our way to the checkout. We have 12 items. Two too many for the quick lane. We get stuck behind a family with 312 items. And they write a check.

On the drive back to the house, the rain started again.

Cheers to birthdays and big dreams

I entered into my thirty-second year with trepidation. Am I where I thought I'd be at age 32?

Maybe not.

When I was a teenager, I didn't dream about backyard swimming pools, family barbecues and acres of land. I had dreams about wearing power suits and drinking martinis in my New York City penthouse. This was probably due to watching too many episodes of the "The Jeffersons" and "Moonlighting."

As a girl growing up in a mid-size Indiana town, life in the big city seemed pretty glamorous.

I guess as a 32-year-old woman living in Georgia, it still seems pretty glamorous.

And while my life might not look the way I thought it would, the last couple of years have been pretty good.

Maybe I've traded the New York City penthouse for a Georgia lake house, and maybe I wear capris and cute tops instead of power suits, but I still drink martinis. And I still have big dreams.

I guess you could say I'm movin' on up.

Diving for bronze

The best dive of the night didn't come from the Water Cube and it didn't belong to Ruolin Chen. Sure, she did a text-book perfect final dive that landed her a gold medal. But that was child's play. Literally, since she's 16. (or younger, I'm still struggling to figure out that Chinese age-calculation thing.)

No, the most memorable dive came from the rain-soaked track at the Bird's Nest and belonged David Neville. The 400-meter runner wanted the bronze medal so badly, he dived across the finish line. This was no lean. Neville actually jumped up and threw himself forward to land face-down in third place.

He's lucky he wasn't hurt. The paramedics seemed to think so, too. They rushed onto the track with a stretcher only to be turned away by a smiling Neville still sprawled across several lanes.

I'm not sure I've seen anyone want a gold medal as much as Neville wanted that bronze. Without that gutsy (and painful) move Neville wouldn't have medaled and the US wouldn't have swept the race.

I guess dives aren't just for pools.

It's anyone's race

Everyone loves a winner. Micheal Phelps has made us smile since the Olympics began. It's impossible to watch him swim, um win, and not feel some American pride.

But long after the flame goes out and the athletes return to their families, a few images will remain in our minds. They won't all be joyful.

Sometimes it's the losers that you remember. The pain-stricken faces that haunt you. The tear-filled eyes that break your heart.

Like Lolo Jones.

The 100-meter hurdler looked like she would easily go home with a gold medal. Fast out of the blocks. Clearing hurdles so gracefully that it appeared effortless. Ahead at the 50-meter mark. Certain to win at the 75-meter mark. Then she hit the second-to-last hurdle with her back foot. She struggled to stay upright. Somehow she cleared the final hurdle. Her momentum was gone. Others raced by. She stumbled across the finish line in seventh.

It was an awful moment to watch. It was an awful moment to live.

Jones crouched over on her knees pounding the track and staring in disbelief at monitors replaying the race.

Jones leaning against a cement wall, head back, eyes shut, face contorted in a painful grimace.

Poor Lolo Jones.

But where there's a loser, there's a winner. In this race, on this day, that winner is Dawn Harper.

We can smile again. Harper is an American.

Get in shape, girl

I feel lazy.

Today I went to work, exercised for 50 minutes and watched the Olympics.

Michael Phelps swam something like 100 miles and won more gold medals than anyone else ever has.

All in a day's work, I suppose.

Watching the Olympics always makes me want to get off the couch and learn a new sport.

As a little girl, I remember watching gymnastics on TV and tumbling in the living room at home. My sister and I would beg our parents to judge our somersaults and cartwheels. Poor mom.

Once mom bought a Get in Shape Girl rhythmic gymnastics kit. Anne and I had many gymnastics meets that year. We also got tangled in our ribbons and fell down a lot. It must have been hard for mom to judge the meet when she was laughing so hard. She seemed to have fun coming up with new awards like most graceful fall and best ribbon knot.

After one particularly competitive meet Anne I discovered we could hit each other with those ribbons. Mom went from judge to referee and the Get in Shape Girl kit was tucked away in a closet.

It was back to somersaults for us. Maybe I should try a few now. That would probably make me feel less lazy. My mom's not here, but maybe my husband will be the judge. In fact I'm sure he would judge me if I started doing somersaults in my living room.

Faux birthdays

My parents live in Indiana. My sister and I are both in Georgia. It's about a 9-hour drive from my house to mom and dad's.

Most of the time, the distance doesn't seem as far as it is. With phone calls and e-mails, we chat more than some families who live in the same town. But there are some occasions when the distance is really troubling.

My mom's 60th birthday is coming up in less than a month, and neither my sister nor I will be able to make it home for the big day. She and my father will be in school (both are college teachers) so they won't be able to come down to Georgia either.

Missing a milestone birthday sucks. My sister and I wondered if there was a way to make it less awful. Would a faux birthday be fun or goofy? We decided to find out.

My parents came down for a visit last weekend and we had a surprise party for mom. We had a princess theme. It seemed fitting for an almost 60-year-old. We wore funny hats, ate a chocolate brownie cake, snacked on Cheese Puffs and popcorn (mom favorites), blew bubbles, played silly games and made lots of noise.

It was fun. And it was goofy. And maybe it would have been better on the actual birth date, but there wasn't anything faux about the party.

Lie with the dogs

There's a chance I'll be sleeping on the bathroom floor tonight. No, I didn't have too many cocktails. And no, I don't have the flu.

What I have is a thunder problem. Well, to be exact, Alley has a thunder problem.

Alley is a 50-pound German Shepard mix with the bark of a police dog and the piercing look of a mom when her teenager misses curfew. She growls at strangers and chases away wildlife. But when she hears thunder, her whole body shakes as she whimpers and pants. Oh, and she stands on me. I can be sound asleep in my comfy bed and Alley will stand on my stomach and drool on my face until I awaken.

She will not be comforted. No amount of petting, cuddling or treat-eating will distract Alley from the terrible storm brewing outside. The only way to console her is to move to the bathroom. Since the bathroom is in the center of the house and has no windows, Alley can't see lightening or hear thunder. I imagine in Alley Land if she can't see it it doesn't exist. Unfortunately, she needs to have her mommy (me) and her canine sister Sassy with her in the bathroom. I think she feels like she's protecting us from the storm by taking us to this safe room. Sassy doesn't mind. She and Alley will curl up on the bathroom rug and fall into a deep slumber.

It's not so easy for me. The bathroom floor is cold and hard and there's not much room for a pillow or blanket. I eventually fall asleep, but I wake up with an awful headache, a pain in my neck and a sore back.

Maybe I will have a cocktail (or three). After all, I'm going to have a headache tomorrow anyway.

Glitter glue, paper dolls and sisters

There was a time when my sister and I couldn't get along for five minutes. My parents would send us to Anne's bedroom with one book of paper dolls that we were supposed to share. Sharing was never really my thing. We were sent to Anne's room because Anne wasn't allowed in my room. I remember using multiple tubes of glitter glue to create "Keep out Anne" signs that I would proudly hang on my bedroom door. Hey, I never said I was a nice kid.

The paperdoll project was never successful. I would tear out the delicate dolls and clothes and give Anne any reject pieces. I would deem her family the retarded family on the block, and I would deem my family the wealthy, smart, helpful and generous family. It would take about 30 seconds for Anne to figure out that this was not fun and to start shouting "mom." This caused me to pounce on Anne and beat on her to get her to shut up. The dolls and clothes would crumple and rip beneath our flailing limbs.

Mom would run into the room only to find two disheveled girls and another destroyed set of paper dolls. Anne never did tell on me. She'd wipe away her tears and when mom asked what happened, she'd respond with "nothing."

Now my sister and I spend countless hours on the phone chatting about reality TV and taking silly quizzes on Facebook. We still have completely different personalities, but that doesn't cause us to fight anymore, at least not as much.

Sole support

I love shoes, but my feet don't.

Shoes with high heels, pointy toes and ankle straps might look amazing, but ouch. With cute shoes, I usually know what I'm getting into. After all, shoes that pinch my toes in the two minutes it takes to try them on at the store are likely to be downright painful on their first night out.

Sometimes, though, I'm surprised. A pair of shoelace-free sneakers that look comfortable and (dare I say) sensible have turned out to be deceiving. It looks like I could run a marathon in these shoes, but my arch starts hurting before I've walked a block. Still, this is the pair that I reach for whenever I need a pair of cute walking shoes.

The husband regards these sneakers with more disdain than my stilettos. I must confess that the stilettos I only wear out to dinner while the sneakers I wear when I'll be doing a lot of walking. "Why don't you wear your running shoes?" the husband innocently asks on such occasions.

Um, hello, those are for running. And they have those ugly laces. Arg.

When I informed the husband that I would be wearing my cute sneakers to Six Flags (well, he asked) he decided it was time to take action. He bought me a pair of arch-protecting socks. They worked. After walking for 12 hours on hard pavement, my feet were fine.

I guess you could say my husband is my solemate.

Not enough boys

My family planning (or lack thereof) has brought frustration to many of my relatives. Being almost 32 and married for eight years, I can understand why the older family members would be getting antsy, but I had no idea what an adverse effect my childless state was having on the younger generation.

This weekend, my nephew (at the wise age of 6) told me I should be pregnant by now. He informed me that there are too many girls in the family. After all, he only has two boy cousins and about a million girl cousins. Apparently, this is something I can -- and should -- fix immediately. He would like the baby to be born his age (not baby age, because they don't do anything). The boy should also like sports and Spider Man and hate girls.

Seems reasonable, huh.

Mean Aunt Dawn

The temperature is hovering near 105. The liquids are limited because it's Six Flags and prices are high. I'm hot, sticky, sweaty, grumpy and tired.

My sister in law turns toward me with a smile, "you don't mind watching the kids while we ride the Goliath, do you?" I look up as I take a bite of my frozen lemonade treat. I'm about to laugh when I see her and her husband run hand-in-hand as fast as they can toward the ride. Actually, they're just running. They don't care where they're going. The need a few minutes. A few kid-free minutes in the hot Georgia sun. I look at my husband. My panic is visible. I can see it. He can see it. The kids can certainly see it.

I swallow the frozen lemonade. They deserve this time, I think. How long can one ride take? I can handle this. I'll be fine.

"Um, what should we do?" I ask the kids. I'm greeted with silence. The husband has disappeared. The kids, who were laughing and smiling just seconds ago, are now whispering and staring at me. I have a flash-back to my babysitting days where four kids managed to actually tie me to a chair while we were watching a video. Time to establish some boundaries, I decide. I dump the frozen lemonade into the nearest trash can (must be a good role model) and stare back at the kids.

"Well, I guess we'll just sit here and wait" I tell the kids in my most authoritative, adult voice. The kids stare back with a glint of respect just as the husband pops up and says "bumper cars." The kids share a loud "Woo-hoo" before running (yes, running) toward the husband.

"Don't run," I say, as the group takes off. We get in line. The kids are fine. They're answering my questions and being polite until the husband decides to sit on the top rail of the bars that surround us in the line. Immediately all the children hoist themselves onto the rail. I give the husband my mean stare. He's confused. This look is usually reserved for wearing dirty shoes in the living room, forgetting to take out the trash and failing to place a used dish in the sink. He shrugs his shoulders and flicks the ponytail of his nearest niece.

Thus begins my half-hour of "Don't kick your sister." "No standing on the rails." "Don't punch your brother." "Be nice." "Do you want a time-out?" and the generic "Stop it."

And, yes, I did go there. "If you don't keep your hands and feet to yourself, we will get out this line right now," I threaten. Of course, there is no way I'm getting out of that line. I quickly realize I can have a few gripe-free seconds if I don't hop into a bumper car. Let the husband face the wrath of three kids. I'll hold the two superman capes, one extra large plastic drink container and whatever else won't fit in the tiny cars. I'll proudly stand at the exit to this "ride" and take photos.

We're up. The husband runs to his car. The kids run to their cars. I'm running too, toward the exit sign. I duck under the chain marking the end of the track and stand against the wall. I wave at the kids. They stare back at me. They're unsure of what to do now that bumping me isn't an option. I point to the husband. Hit him, I sign. Smiles. The race begins. The husband is sneaky. He may have an advantage, being the only person on the track with a driver's license. He drives fast. He causes accidents, but he never gets tangled up in one. He laughs and drives. I wish I was in a car. I wish I could bump him. The kids try. They try hard. It's futile. The ride is over. The kids come running. The husband comes running. "Did you see me," they ask?

"Yes," I say, "and look who else I see, mom and dad," the kids race toward their parents. "Don't run," I say, one last time.

The husband puts an arm around me. "Did you see me out there," he asks? He's grinning as if he's w0n the Indy 500. I suggest we skip the milk and get a frozen lemonade instead. The parents talk about their two rides on Goliath. The kids brag about their driving skills. One kid hits another kid. "Stop it," says the mom.

I say nothing as I take a bite of frozen lemonade. It's a good day to be an aunt.