The Quickest Way To Forget Your Troubles Is To Help Someone Else With Theirs

Bright and early on the second day of the MS150 last year. Cool enough for arm warmers. Wearing our team jersey. Go Goons!

This week I am focused on only one thing. Five mornings from now, hubby and I will be waking up at 4 and driving up to the starting location for this year’s Colorado MS150 ride. I’m trying to get excited about it. I am. It’s just not working. It’s not the riding I mind. I’ve trained. At least, I’ve trained as much as I have the previous two years when I’ve also done the ride. So, I think I’m ready to go on that front. I might be a bit sore next Monday, but I think that endurance, muscle, and seat-time wise, I’m ready to go. What’s freaking me out is the heat. While the current forecast for this weekend does not show us at 100 either Saturday or Sunday, it does show us in the high 90s. I’m not happy.

Truth is, I am what I call a “fair weather” rider. That means, I won’t ride when it’s below 50 because I don’t own the gear to stay warm enough and I really don’t want to buy it. Why would I? I have winter sports. I ski and snowshoe. I don’t need a nose frostbitten from cycling in freezing temps to make me feel I can get out in the winter. If there’s a good chance of any sort of precipitation, you can count me out of riding. Call me a wimp, but I shower plenty. I don’t need to go ride in the rain for that. And I choose not to ride when the temperature exceeds 85. So, training in this high and dry heat has been unpleasant. As I look toward a predicted high of 99 for Sunday’s ride, I feel myself shriveling up.

I’m going to do it, though. Well…barring heat stroke, hospitalization, and heavy smoke from the fires I’m going to do it. Why? Because I can suffer through two days in extreme heat on my bike to help raise awareness about MS in our state. I know too many people and families affected by this disease not to. Years ago, when I started doing these long-distance, fundraising events, I realized something about myself. I whine too much for too little reason. I’m healthy. My family is healthy. We have all our needs met and then some. It feels good to take the focus off myself for a few minutes. It’s humbling. It reminds me that I’m part of something bigger than the microcosm that is our family. I’m connected to others. So, I’m going to put on my big girl panties, deal with the heat, and ride for Michelle, Gretchen, Amy, Suzanne, Brad, Stacey, and the other 9,000 people living with MS in Colorado.

If you find yourself compelled to push yourself with athletic events, look for ones that support a worthy cause. There are oodles of charities that run wonderful events that would love your help. Yes. You have to raise money or pay a higher entry fee. You can do it. It is possible. I’ve done it six times now. I’ve never missed my minimum fundraising goal. And, in the end, the payout you get from helping someone else while achieving a goal for yourself is nothing but a win-win.

 

Posted on by Me 3

Today’s First World Problem…Solved

Steve enjoying the solution to our first world problem.

It’s been hot. Ridiculously hot. Today’s mountain bike ride with hubby, undertaken at 10:30 a.m., was conducted in 91 degree heat. By 2 p.m. when we were driving to REI our car registered a balmy 102. Three days ago, we saw 104 degrees, just one degree shy of the highest ever recorded temperature in Denver. To make matters worse, the entire state is a tinderbox. Firefighters are currently battling thirteen wildfires, which is five more than they were battling this morning. The smoke hangs heavy in the air reminding us that not only is it hot but it’s flaming hot. I’m starting to wonder when Satan will drop in for a visit because Hell is feeling a little chilly by comparison.

Tonight we’d planned to go to a neighborhood concert in the park, but as 5 p.m. rolled around we realized there was no way we were sitting outside for two straight hours in the hot, hot heat. Instead, we came home and collapsed in the air-conditioned comfort of our house. Then, the seemingly impossible happened. There was cloud cover and a slight breeze. We ventured out into the backyard to sit on our lovely flagstone patio, a patio that we haven’t had much of an opportunity to enjoy yet this summer. As we sat at our wrought iron table in the shade of our Japanese maple tree, we were still mostly baking. While the sun had abated, the heat remained far too noticeably.

“How do people who live near the equator stand it?” I whined. “It’s summer. I’m supposed to be able to enjoy the nice weather. I’m supposed to be able to enjoy the yard we worked on during the spring. It’s too hot to sit out here. Next year I’m not going to bother gardening.”

“This sounds like a first world problem,” Steve replied, hoping to shut me up.

“Well…I need a solution to my first world problem. The folks in the Congo are used to this. I am not.”

“You can always go back into your air conditioned house,” he suggested. It was a delicately veiled attempt to get rid of me, though, and I was not going that easily.

“Wait a second. Wait just one second,” I perked up. “Didn’t your parents buy us that crazy misting fan years ago? Where is that thing?”

“It’s in the basement, I think,” he replied with interest.  “I’ll go look for it.”

A few minutes later Steve emerged with this enormous fan that his parents had bought us years ago. I balked when it had arrived, wondering when we would use such a thing and where we would store it when we weren’t using it. In fact, we’d only used it once, about four summers ago. The past several summers have been far too cool and wet to warrant its presence. Steve plugged it in, hooked it up to the hose, and voila! We were enjoying the wasteful luxury folks in Vegas and Phoenix know so well…a misted patio.

The misted patio, of course, needed happy hour drinks. We poured ourselves a couple cocktails, settled back into our chairs, and reveled in the comfort provided by our own personal patio saver. We spent a couple minutes discussing how fortunate we are to have first world problems and not third world problems. Our eleven year old, who had joined us briefly, inquired about the difference.

“Well, a first world problem is not being able to find the cord to charge your iPod. A third world problem is having the well in the town run dry,” I told him. “What happens if your well runs dry?”

“You die of thirst,” Joe answered.

“Right,” I said. “And what happens if you lose your iPod charger?” I asked him.

“You buy a new one,” he replied.

“Yep. You see the difference between the things we deal with and the things other people in this world struggle with?”

“Uh huh,” he said, thoughtfully, before departing for the frigid basement.

As we sat reflecting on how blessed we are to have only first world problems to deal with, I realized that the metal chair I was resting my flip-flopped feet on was a bit hard on my heels.

“I need a pillow for under my feet,” I told Steve, hoping he would take the hint.

“Looks like you have a new first world problem,” was his answer.

“Yes,” I said. “I need a new servant apparently. The old one is becoming more and more unreliable.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on by Me 2

The Difference Between A Rut And A Grave

My brand-new, 13 year old Kona mountain bike gets a rest while I hydrate.

“The only difference between a rut and a grave are the dimensions.”  ~Ellen Glasgow

I haven’t ridden my mountain bike on a singletrack trail in about seven years. This morning, in desperate need of exercise but short on time, I decided I would ride the six-mile, singletrack loop on the open space park behind our home. I used to be slightly more experienced at negotiating the rocks and bumps on a mountain bike trail. I used to have a bit more confidence about it too. Although I’ve ridden over 900 miles so far this year, these have been road bike or trainer miles. And those, as you can imagine, feel very different than mountain bike miles. This morning I might as well have been piloting a moon rover over the pitted surface of that hard, space rock. I felt lost.

All the time I’ve spent in the bike saddle this year kept me from becoming winded on the incline part of the ride today, but that’s the only thing my training prepared me for. I forgot how freaking bumpy the bike feels on a rocky path. I forgot how my hands get tired from the tighter grip I need to keep on the handlebars while negotiating the twists, turns, and obstacles along the way. I forgot the nerve that’s required when you see what lies a head of you. I forgot how your personal space is invaded by plants that brush you as you ride and remind you how narrow your path is. Aside from the two-wheeled mode of transport and the basic skill of balancing on a bike long enough to propel it forward, these sports seemed very far apart from each other this morning. If road biking is a cheetah (or, in my case, maybe a blind, three-legged cheetah), then mountain biking is a mountain goat (or in my case, a blind, three-legged mountain goat).

I had to rediscover some things on the ride, like that I’m not currently coordinated enough to ride and drink while on a singletrack trail. This is why it would have been worth it to pull my Camelback out of storage. But, the most important thing I remembered is that to be successful while mountain biking you have to trust yourself and your bike. You have to believe that the bike will carry you over the obstacles and that you will be able to control it when it does. The problem for me is that trust is not ever been something I’ve excelled at. I’m suspicious. I’m cautious. I’m a recovering control freak. I’ve been conditioned to eliminate the variables to create a smooth journey. But, mountain biking is not a smooth journey.

The more I thought about it on the much less tenuous descent toward home, the more I realized that I need to work toward becoming a better mountain biker because those skills are skills I need in my every day life. I need to trust. I need to believe. I need to push myself just a little bit further than I’m comfortable with because I can do it if I just try. You can only grow if you ask yourself to move beyond the grooves you’ve worn into your daily existence. Once you jump the boundary and veer ever-so-slightly off course, things change. You change.

I’m going to get myself some clipless pedals and fun mountain bike shoes and start pushing myself a bit more to ride that singletrack trail behind my house. Maybe if I do I’ll become confident enough to try other nearby trails and branch out. And, if I can do that, I’m fairly certain I will grow enough spine to try other new challenges as well. This morning, I felt lost while out on that six-mile loop. Sometimes, though, being lost can remind you how it feels to stop going through the motions and actually live.

Posted on by Me 2

I Love A Good Food Fight…Just Not This One

My green-eyed house cat eats his bowl of tuna.

“As a child, I was what is known as a ‘fussy eater.’ ‘Fussy eater’ is a euphemism for ‘big pain in the ass.'”  ~George Carlin

My kids are weird eaters. Some would say they are picky eaters, but they’re not. They’re just plain weird. Joe likes foods many kids eschew (that is, won’t chew), which is why he is weird. My oldest loves all kinds of fish, except for frozen fish sticks. He once ordered trout at a restaurant and ate the entire serving on his plate, including the fish skin. He will eat any vegetable. He loves milk but won’t touch fruit juice. As a rule, he’s a fairly healthy eater, although none of the foods on his plate can touch each other and he has to eat his meal one item at a time. Heaven forbid he get a piece of corn on the fork along with his chicken. Luke, on the other hand, is your typical kid. He love chicken nuggets, pizza, and peanut butter and jelly. To the best of my knowledge, he has never ingested and then actually digested any vegetable. Ever. He will only eat two fruits…bananas and applesauce. He will eat organic strawberry yogurt but you couldn’t pay him to touch an actual strawberry, and Luke will do nearly anything for money. They both love french bread, bacon, and brownies. Neither will eat lettuce, cheese, or ketchup. Today for lunch Joe ate a can of tuna. No. Really. A can of tuna. If I start turning the can opener, he comes running like the family cat. (Recently, though, he learned about mercury in fish so now he limits himself to one can of tuna per week.) Weird.

For a while when they were younger, I tried to force the food issue with Luke to get him to branch out. Due to his gag reflex and aversion to certain textures, though, all that usually got me was a handful of Luke puke. The more I pushed him to try new foods, the more resistant he became. So, I stopped. Our pediatrician, the sweetest older gentleman in the world, told me to let it be. He had overseen the health of over 15,000 children and he assured me the boys were growing along on a steady curve. They both had excellent muscle tone and healthy skin. They need calories and as long as they’re getting them and growing, there is no reason to be concerned.

I grew up in a house where if you didn’t like dinner, you went hungry. We ate what was served or else. That was how it worked. There are starving children in Africa, you know? This is why I took up the food fight initially with my kids. It was a power thing. My parents had carried out this battle with me and, out of familiarity, I fought with my own kids about food. Eventually I understood that the food fight I was waging with my kids was more about control than it was about food or health. When I let it go, I began to see a change. Since we decided to stop pestering them about their food choices, both boys have become more willing to try new things. Go figure.

My kids are not the first humans in the history of the world to be weird, fussy eaters. The Beaver wouldn’t eat Brussels sprouts. The brothers in the commercial never thought they’d get picky Mikey to eat a bowl Life cereal. In the holiday family classic, A Christmas Story, the mother told her son to show her how to “eat like the little piggies do” to coax him into eating his dinner. My father-in-law, who has traveled the world and eaten the cuisine, went through a phase as a boy when all he would eat was bread with cream and brown sugar. My awesome friend Tracy will not eat “vegetablows” (her term, not mine). And, let’s not forget the dude in the Dr. Seuss book who flat out refused to eat green eggs and ham. Yes. My kids can seem a bit high maintenance with their food aversions, but wherever we go we can usually find something they are willing to eat. While I know it bothers some people (like my entire family) that they’ve got their particular tastes, it no longer vexes me. Weird eating habits notwithstanding, my boys are great kids. I’m sure they’ll turn out just fine. They might not, however, eat your special green bean casserole at Thanksgiving.

Posted on by Me 3

The Night Red Cups Stopped Reminding Me Of Beer Pong

Red cups will never be the same for me.

(Author’s Note: The following is a true and cautionary tale. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent. Sorry, Hon.)

My husband is in all ways decent man. He has nary a character flaw to whine about, unless you count his nearly constant worry about his family. I’m blessed to have such a wonderfully good-natured spouse. I truly am. Let’s face it. He’d have to be to remain married to me for nearly 17 years. Still, there have been times that I have to wonder what in the holy hell is in his head.

I met my friend Lisa at Starbucks for coffee at 7 p.m. I didn’t get home until 10:10 because we’d lost track of the time. I pulled into the garage, exited my SUV, and walked up to the door. I turned the knob and realized hubby had locked the door.

Steve often locks the door from the house to the garage. It’s a pet peeve of mine. We have a home security system that we set religiously and a fearful dog with sharpish and pointed teeth and the will to use them. Beyond that, we have relatively little in our house that’s nice enough to be worth stealing. I know he’s just being cautious and protecting his family, but when he knows I’ll be home soon why on earth does he feel compelled to lock the door? Does he think someone’s going to come and abduct him? Sometimes I think it’s some sort of subconscious, passive-aggressive tactic to aggravate me since he’s normally so mild-mannered and accepting of my copious flaws. I have to wonder.

Anyway, I dig through my purse looking for my keys only to remember that I’ve left them on the kitchen counter because everyone was home for the evening and I wasn’t going to be out late. Crap. So, I knock on the door several times and wait for him to do what he usually does…approach to unlock it, uttering an apology I can hear through the door. I wait. I wait. No one is coming. He must be upstairs with the boys. So, I escalate my knocking by kicking the door very hard several times. I leave marks with my shoes. Certainly he will hear that, right? Nope. Are you kidding me? I open the garage door again figuring that he must be upstairs in the boys’ room, which is why he can’t hear me. I ring the doorbell on the front porch. Repeatedly. About a million times until I’m going to short the stupid thing out and start a fire. That will get their attention. Still, no one comes.

It’s at this point that I begin to realize that they’re probably asleep. It’s not unusual for Steve to go hang out in the boys’ room while they’re falling asleep. I figure the only chance I have of them hearing me is if I go around to the back of the house and call up to their open window. So, I do that. Not a peep. No lights turn on. No reply at all. I can’t yell for long because I’m trying not to let the neighbors know that my crazy husband has locked me out. From 10:10 to 11:10, fueled by annoyance, I knock, ring the doorbell, kick the doors, honk the car horn, try to open windows I can reach, yell up to the open window, and even throw rocks at it trying to get someone’s attention. Apparently, I’m invisible. A light bulb clicks in my brain. The fan must be on. When our whole house fan is on you couldn’t hear a 747 land in the bedroom. I’m screwed.

Finally, I go back to my car, close the garage door in resignation, and decide I might as well try to fall asleep in my car. What I discover is that a luxury SUV is not particularly luxurious when employed as a sleeping compartment. Around 1:30 a.m. I am still awake, sitting in my car, livid. I’ve had to pee three times, courtesy of a decaf grande skinny vanilla latte and a bottle of water I wished I had not ingested. That unladylike scenario involved a red Solo cup and a skill I learned very well while pregnant. Nothing like peeing in your own garage to make you feel like the family dog. Wait. The family dog was asleep inside the house while I was locked in the garage. Curious.

I considered going to a hotel, but knew that when hubby finally awoke he would probably notify the National Guard that I was missing. Besides, I had faith that sooner or later he would wake up and notice I was gone, right? He did not. Joe did. Joe woke up, walked into our bedroom to have me tuck him back into bed, noticed I was missing, and told his dad. Around 3:30 a.m. I heard the lock on the door to the garage unlock and saw the door open. Steve noticed my car was there and started to close the door again, presumably comforted because clearly I was home. I opened the car door and yelled to get his attention.

He looked like Bigfoot in headlights. He was in serious trouble. He appeared to be contemplating slamming and locking the door again to avoid the ugly situation. He apologized profusely, but I did not care. I was exhausted. I was angry. I was temporarily not speaking to him. I’d had to pee in a red cup. Beer pong was forever ruined for me.

Posted on by Me 3

My Kids Are Sucking The Brain Cells From My Skull

I’m devolving. In my next photo with other adults I’ll be putting rabbit ears behind someone’s head. Wait and see. It’ll happen.

Summer vacation is a mixed bag for me. It’s hard to give up my freedom when the little monkeys come home for the summer, but I do enjoy sleeping in and not making lunches and not stressing out with them over busywork school projects. Summers have become more of a blessing for me and less of a curse than they used to be. The boys are bigger and more independent. They amuse themselves and grab their own snacks. They play outside with friends for hours on end. There is far more freedom in my summers now than there used to be. I’m truly grateful for that.

Still, even with their absences from home, they’re still around many more hours now than they are during the school year. The decibel level in my house increases exponentially in summer. I had no idea I should expect this. One thing I heard before I had kids is that boys are not as talkative as girls. I can’t believe how misguided I was in believing that tall tale. My boys talk non-stop at me all day…and not always about the same things.

To exacerbate the situation, my sons aren’t talking to me non-stop about topics that interest me. We’re not spending hours together discussing alternative energy or world religions or cultural travel. They’re carrying on about their latest fixation, and I’m trying to stay plugged into what they’re saying because I’m supposed to be all zen and living in the moment. When the summer started, we were into Iron Man. From Iron Man, we went on to discover Thor and then Captain America. Of course, from there we were full on into The Avengers after seeing the movie. From the movie, we jumped to the cartoon series Avengers, which assaulted me for what seemed like years but was actually only about a week. After The Avengers, we springboarded right into the Fantastic Four, of course, before landing where we are now…smack dab in the middle of Skylanders. Yes. I am using the term “we” here because if they’re into it I get to be into it, whether I like it or not.

Today, the boys and I went out for a letterboxing hike. Letterboxing, for the uninitiated, is a hobby where you use written clues to find a treasure box. Inside the treasure box is a logbook so you can record your find and a rubber stamp so you can stamp the hider’s unique mark into your logbook. It’s a simple pastime the boys and I took on last year when I decided they needed to learn how to follow directions. (Don’t ask me how that’s going.) Anyway, we were hiking along in between two separate caches, and both boys were rambling simultaneously about equally mind-numbing topics. Joe was telling me the attributes of his Skylander characters while Luke was discussing inventions he thinks Tony Stark should create and market. At that precise moment I realized exactly why my ability to converse with adults has deteriorated to the point where I get the hives at the prospect of a cocktail party: my kids are sucking the brain cells out of my skull. One by one they are disappearing, vacuumed from my head by my Dyson-like children.

They were still chattering on like monkeys on four shots of espresso when I finally lost it.

“You boys are sucking the brain cells from my head. I’m going to need a drink by 3!”

This tirade caught their attention and for two complete seconds they stopped their spouting and looked at me. Then, Joe laughed and Luke raised his hand waited for me to acknowledge his intent to speak again. I shook my head.

I struggle as a parent to tune into what interests my boys. I don’t want them to think that I don’t care about their world. But, how many times a day can I honestly be expected to hear the words “hot lava” or “gunship” without wanting to hang myself? I know I chose this. I could work outside the home full-time, which would greatly decrease the number of hours a day I have to listen to them quiz each other over “Who would win? Thor and his hammer or four nuclear bombs?” If I were in an office, I could have adult conversations and perhaps then I wouldn’t notice my brain in the final stages of atrophy. But, then I remember that work is work, and I don’t like work. I’d much rather be hiking and then hitting Sonic before playing 18 holes of mini golf. I guess when I think about it that way, it’s really not such a bad trade off….a little mindless chattering in exchange for 7-day weekends. And, truthfully, how many brain cells do I need for mini golf, anyway?

 

Posted on by Me 7

Marking Your Territory

The victor and his spoils. Or is it the victor in his spoils? Either way…here is the victor.

My boys are usually the best of friends. For years, I’ve been amazed by their closeness and devotion to each other. Recently, though, I’ve noticed a decrease in their togetherness because some things they used to enjoy doing together they now realize they would rather do separately. One of these items is bathing. Their father and I were thrilled when they decided to stop sharing a bathtub because, quite frankly, they were getting way too old for it and we were a little tired of the bickering over who got “the deep end” and who was hogging the tub. What we discovered, however, is that their new love of privacy at bath time led to other issues, like who gets to shower first, who is taking too long, who used all the hot water, and who stole the clean towel.

Last night, after a long day at the pool followed by playing outside in the 100 degree heat, the boys unanimously decided they needed a bath. Not a joint bath, mind you. Two separate baths. Joe asked first, so he claimed first water rights. He filled the tub, got in, and began to relax. He was in the tub about fifteen minutes when an impatient Luke entered the bathroom and started pestering him to get out. I thought about intervening but decided instead to let them solve their own disagreement. Their bickering back and forth went on for about three minutes. Then I heard Luke take it up a notch.

“Get out, Joe,” he demanded.

“No. I haven’t been in here that long,” Joe replied.

“It’s my turn. Get out or I’m getting in.”

“It’s still my turn,” Joe argued.

“I’m getting in, then.” And, I heard the splash of Luke joining Joe in the tub.

For a few minutes, things were quiet. I was not thrilled they were in there together but, honestly, as long as they were quiet I didn’t see why I should rile them up. Then, just as quickly as the truce had been made, it was broken.

“Mom…Luke peed in the bathtub!” Joe exclaimed.

He did NOT just say what I think he said. I heard Joe climb from the tub. He ran down the hall to my room.

“What did you say?” was all I could muster.

“Luke peed in the tub. I had to get out,” Joe tattled.

I looked at him for a long, hard moment, standing there sopping wet in his towel, shooed out of his own bath. He looked so vulnerable that I nearly forgot that he had been egging his brother on, refusing to get out when his turn in the tub should have been over.

“Well, Joe, I’d like to be angry at him for you, but the truth is that you wouldn’t get out and he found a way to get you out. Next time maybe you won’t push him that way again.”

Joe looked at me, but didn’t bother to argue because he knew I was right. I knew he was no worse for the wear because he was wearing a half smile with his towel. I think he was secretly admiring Luke’s powerful negotiation skills. I did talk to Luke afterward to remind him that he probably could have found a less intrusive way to solve his problem. Luke has always been clever, if a bit devilish. He knows what he wants and can usually find a way to get it. As unorthodox as his tactics may be occasionally, I only wish I’d been as fearless with my young life as he is with his.

I suppose his behavior is not that extraordinary. From the dawn of time, men have found a way to appropriate things for themselves, their family, their faith, or their country. Men have plundered and pillaged and taken what they wanted by force. They have drawn up treaties and placed imaginary boundaries on a geographical landscape. Others have waged wars and coerced strangers into their beliefs. More orderly men filed paperwork and staked their claim. And some courageous men have even gone all the way to the moon and stuck their big, old flag in it. Luke’s behavior today was a childish prank tantamount to licking the last piece of cake to ensure no one else wants it. But, you’ve got to hand it to him. Quite Machiavellian, the ends justified the means and he got what he wanted. There truly is more than one way to skin a cat. You can always pee on it.

Posted on by Me 1

Head of the Vole Parole Board

Me and my catch of the day.

The boys were playing nicely in the basement with a couple of their friends, battling each other on the Skylanders Wii game. I was enjoying a few chaos-free moments alone. Suddenly, I heard Luke’s footsteps running up the stairs. You can always tell Luke’s steps because the kid hasn’t walked a day in his life. His first steps were at a run. I do not joke. I knew my peace and quiet were short-lived.

“Mom…you gotta come quick,” he panted, out of breath from his breakneck speed of life.

“Why?” I responded. I wasn’t ready to give up my stillness for just any old reason.

“There’s a mouse,” Luke replied.

That got my attention. In the ten years we’ve lived here, we’ve had no evidence of mice or voles in our actual domicile. I know many people in our neighborhood who’ve had rodent issues, but we haven’t. (Yes. I am knocking on wood right now.) I assume we’ve had no indoor rodent encounters because our dogs, left outside most of the time during the warm months, scare them off or…in the case of our last dog, Buddy…catch and eat them.

“A live mouse?”

“Yes. In the basement.”

“In the storage room?” I wondered out loud.

“No. Come quick. I’ll show you.”

Before I go any further, I must tell you that I am fairly rodent friendly. I’m not afraid of them. I’ve set a few traps in the garage when in winter I’ve noticed they’ve moved in, but for the most part the furry little critters and I exist somewhat well on a strict “if-I-don’t-see-you-then-you’re-not-a-problem” policy.

I got downstairs and could tell all four boys were staring out the window into the window well where, indeed, a fat, brown vole was hunkered down near the base of the corrugated metal that surrounds the area. I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not be setting traps indoors. A vole, for those of you who have not encountered one, is a field mouse with a short, stubby tail, partially hidden ears, and a stout body. Several times a year, a hapless, sight-impaired vole falls into one of our window wells. Most survive the fall. Some do not. Either way, it’s my job as Chief Rodent Officer to remove them.

I kicked off my flip-flops, put on closed-toe shoes, and grabbed my work gloves. I lifted the window well grate and climbed down the ladder five feet into the well. The little vole was trying desperately to appear invisible. Alas. He was not. I caught him on my first try but when I opened the gloves a fraction to show the boys that I had him, he slipped the noose and jumped behind me. I swung around and chased him back to where he was originally and recaptured him. I grasped him tightly in my hands so he would not escape this time and held him up to show hubby. Examining him carefully, I realized with amusement that he had his mouth wrapped around the thumb of my glove, presumably hoping to inflict pain on his captor. Silly mouse. Still, I felt for the little bugger so I made sure the dog was out of range and then I released him onto the river rock in our backyard. He promptly scampered under a nearby bush.

The voles, the dog, and I have a weird relationship that reminds me of the criminal justice system. Ruby, our border collie, is the law. Like border patrol, she chases the voles who are illegals in her jurisdiction. The voles, running from the law, careen in the direction of the house and fall into the window well. After time served in solitary, the parole board (aka me) releases them on their promise that they are rehabilitated and will not return. I like to imagine they run off with plans to at last escape the system and live on in peace. Yet, this cycle persists. Perhaps the voles, like many criminals, have become enmeshed in the system and feel comfortable there, which is why rather than leaving when they are freed they rush right back into familiar territory? Perhaps this explains their recidivism rate? Maybe there’s some sort of vole gang dynamics whereby they taunt each other into drawing the dog out in some sort of hazing ritual? I’m not sure. The only thing I know is that as long as a live vole is in my window well, I will forgive him his crime and set him free. I believe in second chances, even if Ruby does not.

Posted on by Me 3

It’s Not A Webby, But It’s As Close As I’ll Ever Get

If my kids gave me an award, I bet it would look an awful lot like this.

A couple days ago, a very kind fellow blogger who goes by memyselfandkids nominated my blog for a Word Press Blogging Award which, as far as I can tell, is simply a nice way to recognize someone who has written something that appealed to you. These kinds of awards pass around often on Word Press, so actually they’re something between a chain letter and a blog advertisment rather than a true award. Still, I was quite flattered that someone would share a link to my work on their blog. Maybe that’s because I don’t 100% believe that anyone reads what I write on livenowandzen.com, even though I put it out there. My blog is writing practice, a way to work out the plethora of information in my busy mind.

One of the things I was asked to do upon receiving this award was mention some personal things about myself that perhaps are unknown. Here they are:

1) In 2002, after a long-standing, bitter feud with my body, my gallbladder and I parted ways. My appendix followed suit in 2009. Apparently, my internal organs get the seven year itch.

2) I do not like root beer.

3) My favorite color is apple green.

4) I have hypermobile metacarpophalangeal joints. (I can bend my fingers back to form a 90-degree angle with my hand.)

5) The other day while on my way home from a walk I picked up a dead snake from the road where it had been squished and tossed it into an open field with my bare hands just to ensure it had a more private final resting spot. I believe in the dignity of life and death, even for snakes. (Yes. I did wash my hands immediately afterward.)

6) My Myers-Briggs personality type is INTJ.

7) If I’d won PowerBall yesterday, I’d be writing this from a luxury resort somewhere in the South Pacific today.

 

Because it’s only fair to share love, here are 9 places I’ve found something to relate to, contemplate, and enjoy:

1) memyselfandkids

2) ourboler

3) clotildajamcracker

4) raisingarealist

5) rcgale

6) candidconcourse

7) goalhabits

8) eternaldomnation

9) broadside

I’m going to keep on writing. Not because I expect any awards or am seeking some sort of fan base for my site, but because it’s one of the hardest things I do and still manage to love. Thanks for thinking of me, memyselfandkids. I appreciate the shout out.

Posted on by Me 3

It’s Not All Or Nothing…A Little Something Will Always Beat A Lot Of Nothing

Yesterday I wrote that we would be riding 80 miles today. Our bike team calls this particular route “The Flat 80,” presumably because there is only 1100 feet of elevation gain in a nearly 80-mile ride. We met at the appointed 6:45 a.m. time and were off on our bikes on schedule promptly at 7 a.m. The weather forecast was a mixed blessing. It was to be overcast and cool in the morning before warming up to 80; then the storm clouds would roll in. I so wanted to avoid getting stormed on, so I promised myself I would be fast today.

There were six of us biking together. I was the only female and I was, by far, the slowest. At first, it didn’t really bother me. But, as I rode along, I began thinking about something another teammate mentioned. Last week, when they had ridden 100 miles rather than just 80, there was a woman who rode with them who kept pace. Not only had she kept up with the guys, but she’d done it riding 100 miles rather than 80 miles in 90 degree temps. The more I thought about that, the more I wondered what was wrong with me. Why aren’t I faster? Am I that much worse of a rider than my teammates are? For a good 5-10 miles I stewed over this, my legs slowed even further by my own self-doubt.

After lunch, I had a surge of energy and started going a bit faster. I sensed the others had slowed a bit because I was in with the pack of riders for about 10 miles. I felt pretty good about it. The clouds were rolling in, and I wanted to avoid the lightning and rain so I did my best to keep pace. After our last stop at REI, 18 miles from our starting point, though, I got tired. Although I’ve put in over 800 miles on my bike so far this year, most of them were logged on my stationary trainer. This was only my third ride outside over 20 miles, and I hadn’t ridden over 40 miles yet this year. So, the push to get to 80 was definitely a stretch. Still, I knew I was capable of doing it.

I plugged along, playing the caboose the entire way. We managed to wait out the last of the storm as it passed by, but when we got back on our bikes I found that our long rest stop had taken its toll on me. I was D-O-N-E, and we still had about 8 miles to go. Those 8 miles contained most of the day’s hills, and the winds had picked up. I spent the last four miles swearing profusely, cursing Steve, and wanting to quit. My knees were getting sore. My tush had officially declared war on me. I wanted to be finished, but I wasn’t. Finally, I stopped whining long enough to pull on my big girl panties and get ‘er done.

I felt bad about the ride for the rest of the day. I was disappointed in myself for being the weakest link. Then, as I was going through the Facebook posts I missed today, I saw that a friend had completed his ultramarathon, nearly 51 miles of running. His post mentioned how painfully difficult it was and how he felt lucky he was able to finish it at all. In a million years I could NEVER run 50 miles. Heck. I can barely bring myself to do 3. An ultramarathon is a tremendous accomplishment. I was sad that my friend didn’t feel better about it. Then, I thought about my ride today. Why was I displeased with my performance? I’d done it. I rode 80 miles, my longest biking distance ever. Was I super fast? No. But, when it was over, I could still walk. I remembered a saying I saw a few months back: “No matter how slow you go, you’re lapping everyone on the couch.” It didn’t matter that I didn’t finish in a fantastic time. After all, it was an 80-mile ride, not an 80-mile race.

It’s funny how hard we are on ourselves sometimes. Rather than wasting energy being concerned about being too slow, I should have been cheering myself on for being out there at all. Along our ride, we passed a tandem bicycle. The woman on the back was blind. The smile on her face, though, was pure joy. She was free. I can’t get that image out of my head. She understands so much better than I do that the journey is what matters, not how fast we reach the finish line.

Posted on by Me