Half Stupid

I have nothing to report, exercise-wise. I’ve spent the last two weeks painting and cleaning my surroundings, as well as Tom Sawyering any hapless friends, relatives or complete strangers dumb enough to wander into close proximity of my web . . .er, house. I’ve gained five pounds and little alarm bells are going off in my head, trying to warn me, put down that paintbrush and get yer shoes on. All this paintin’ may be helpin’ yer triceps, but it ain’t gone do nuthin’ to help you over them 26 miles, unless yer plannin’ on dragging yerself by one arm, that is.

My inner voice is apparently a toothless redneck.

My daughter, Cameryn, is ambidextrous. When she was a baby, she could throw food accurately enough to hit me in the eye from across the room, using either arm or both at the same time. She even timed it so that my eye was open when the food struck. When she was in first grade, Cameryn would write with her left hand, then switch whenever her hand got tired. Now, she writes with her left hand and plays tennis or throws with her right, but this is by choice. You could lop off one of her arms and she’d get over it in about a day and a half. Kiss and a band-aid.

This weekend, after spending about three thousand hours dabbing paint into tiny holes in the texture of my bathroom walls, I commented that my arm felt like somebody BIG had slug-bugged it.

"Use your other hand," Cameryn suggested, in a sensible voice.

"Some of us have a stupid hand," I advised. (I intended this to sound wise, but I think it might have come out a tad on the whiny side.) Kee-ids, I thought. I cain’t even wipe mah butt with mah lef’ hand.

"It’s not your hand that’s stupid," the fruit of my womb informed me. "It’s one half of your brain that’s actually stupid."

Then she laughed, like a . . . like a . . . multiple arm using . . . superior brain having . . . thinker of thoughts . . .well . . .

[cough]

You know what I’m getting at.