The Butterfly Effect of a Marching Band

The windows and patio door are open and I'm listening to the sounds of a high school marching band as I type this post.  That has absolutely nothing to do with the topic today, but it just put a smile on my face to imagine my children possibly growing up to participate and then I was thinking about when I was in marching band in middle school and high school and then I was thinking about the uniform we had to wear when we marched in the Memorial Day parade and how they were made in the year 1942 out of 100% wool so they were hotter than all get-out so we would sweat our ever loving heads off as we tromped past the cemetery playing a mediocre version of "God Bless America" and then I was thinking about how I really really wanted to be first chair flute because I simply had to be the best at everything because I was a compulsive over-achiever but I just plain didn't stand a chance up against Beth Theuch (Theusch?) who was the best at everything including being an absolute smartie pants because she went off to California for college and I think has become a molecular biologist or bio geneticist or something ridiculously smart like that and then I was on Facebook trying to look up Beth but realized I didn't know her married name because I'm pretty sure she got married so my moment of hearing the marching band blew up into a twenty minute time suck that culminated in my writing the longest run on sentence in recent memory for your reading displeasure.

In completely unrelated news, I caught Micah dumping out the leftover coffee this afternoon so my 2:00 cuppa was sabotaged because I'm too lazy cheap busy to make more.

Ok, we're focusing now.  No more nonsense about flutes.

Seriously, for how hard I worked on the blasted thing I doubt I could even summon a coherent note out of one if someone shoved it in my hands right now.  And there is absolutely no way I would have a prayer if someone told me to "play a D-sharp."  Is that even a real note?  Did I seriously go to high school this long ago that the things that were so important to me then are now nothing more than phantom D-sharps?

And now I'm thinking about the time I got the boy I had a crush on to go out with me by leaving a ginormous bag of Skittles in his locker.  We made out while watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail and then he dumped me for a gymnast.  I had the last laugh though because my senior year I taught myself to do the splits and ended up making the poms squad, although that boy had already graduated and gone off to pilot school in Florida so I guess it didn't really matter. 

 You'll never leave me for a gymnast, right son?  (Curious George has some pull though.)

Would you believe that I sat down to write this post about a pretty legitimate epiphany I had while in the worship service at church on Sunday?  I can hardly believe I actually got to SIT DOWN to write this post within minutes of putting the boys down to bed!  I said "Catch ya later laundry!" and "Dishes?  We don't need no stinking dishes!" and pretty much decided to blow off all the domestic duties I should be doing because my husband is in China so really, I don't have anyone to impress.  I do have a couple dear girlfriends coming over within the next day, but they both already know I'm a slob, so it's all good.  Oh, and my mom is coming to babysit, but she gets bored when the kids are sleeping and usually cleans my house for me.  So blogging sounded like the better option.

I'm pretty sure if I attempted to do the splits right now, I'd have to call an ambulance.

It's Hard to Compete with a Gymnast,
Sarah