Friday, July 31, 2009
Words, Words, Words from a Golden Retriever
"To lead a good life, must have curiosity...even if sometimes the mystery in the bushes turns out to be skunk."
--Trixie Koontz, golden retriever and author of Life is Good: Lessons in Joyful Living
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Smell of Obsession
July is Tour de France Month in our house. The Tour de France lasts twenty-three days and involves several thousand miles of bicycling, mostly in France, by skinny dudes with really huge thighs.
I generally enjoy eavesdropping on the coverage, which is on the stupidly named Versus network. This year, however, the abundance of commercials for male enhancement and baldness products sort of put me off. Still, I never tire of Bob Roll saying “Tour DAY France” with a hick American twang for the 4,000th time, and I have been in love with Phil Liggett’s positively adorable English accent ever since he said that one competitor needed “to open his suitcase of courage.”
Have you ever noticed that Brits can say the oddest things and still sound so erudite?
Cycling, however, is just one third of George’s obsession: triathlon. Swim. Bike. Run. A shocking number of crazy people carry triathlon to its extreme and compete in Ironman races, which consist of a 2.4 mile swim, 112-mile bike ride, and 26.2-mile run. In forty-six days, we’ll be in Madison, Wisconsin, and I will be cheering George to (hopefully) his third Ironman finish.
He is the crazy one. Not I. I’ll be on the sidelines happily hoarse from cheering for sweaty, exhausted racers stumbling across the finish line to the sound of "John/Jane Doe, you are an IRONMAN."
There’s a Starbucks half a block from the finish line. Heaven above, I love Madison.
Training for a 140.6-mile race takes, as you can imagine, a lot of work and time. It also takes a lot of gear and specialized clothing. Generally speaking, the gear doesn’t bother me, especially now that George keeps his bikes in the garage instead of the living room. And yes, I used the plural bikes because he has four.
I cope with the dozen or so recharging cords for various data-collection devices (heart rate monitors, GPS systems, and such) without losing my cool. George tells me, “It’s all about the data.” I get that.
I don’t freak when inner tubes and CO2 cartridges and empty sport gel wrappers and sweaty do-rags litter my dining room table.
I say nothing when I walk into the garage and find a $4,000 bicycle, stinking of lubricant, leaning against my car. I just breathe through my mouth and gently move the bike to lean against HIS car.
When I got sick of him draping his tri suits and jogging shorts over the bathroom door, I showed my support by hanging hooks in our bedroom. He uses the hooks…sometimes.
I also tolerate seventeen pairs of running shoes (yes, I counted) scattered around our bedroom, and when he tells me he needs a new pair of $160 running shoes, I say, “Order what you need.”
But I draw the line at the smell of neoprene in my bedroom.
Last year, at Ironman Wisconsin, George started the race in a wetsuit that looked like a badly butchered whale skin. Holes, repaired with rubber cement, marred the smooth neoprene. Next to the other racers, he looked a bit shabby. Okay, a lot shabby. I felt bad, especially since I’m the Minister of Finance in the Raihala Republic and had cut the budget for the new wetsuit purchase last year, asking him to eek out one more race in his old Orca wetsuit. I truly had no idea it was in such bad shape.
This year, we saved to replace the Orca, and he ordered a 2XU wetsuit on sale for $400. Woohoo! He opened the box while I was away from the house. When I returned, I kept getting whiffs of something stinky and wondered what child brought tar into my house and where on earth he'd found it. I finally realized it was the smell of a wetsuit and thought, “I just can’t take this!” But I held my peace. The man was excited with his new purchase, and I know how tragic it is to have someone rain on my own acquisitive party.
Later that night, George carried the wetsuit upstairs, and I said, “I don’t want that stinky thing in my bedroom.”
He replied, shocked, “But I love the smell of fresh neoprene! It smells like…racing.” Then, with a beatific expression on his face, he buried his nose in the wetsuit and sniffed. Loudly.
The wetsuit has been draped over the glider rocker in our bedroom for a week now. The stink is terrible. Fortunately, I now sleep in Jack’s bed (I read in bed while George falls asleep and then move…he snores), but I still don’t want that thing stinking up my bedroom. Problem is, I can’t decide where to put it.
Our closet is out of the question. My clothes will stink, and I’ll smell neoprene everywhere I go.
The basement currently resembles Berlin in 1945, and I KNOW George won’t allow his precious neoprene to descend into a chaos firmly under the dictatorship of a nine-year-old with a huge imagination and love of costume play. I can’t wrest back control of the dungeon until the budding theater major is back in school on August 25, which is 27 days away. But I'm not counting.
The only solution that makes sense is putting the wetsuit into a Rubbermaid storage bin. I could get one that slides under the bed, nice and safe and contained. Best of all, I might possibly be able to sell this idea to Mr. Obsession.
Or maybe he just wants me to lay the thing in the bed when I leave each night so he can cuddle it.
Nah. Even he’s not that crazy.
At least, I don’t think so.
I generally enjoy eavesdropping on the coverage, which is on the stupidly named Versus network. This year, however, the abundance of commercials for male enhancement and baldness products sort of put me off. Still, I never tire of Bob Roll saying “Tour DAY France” with a hick American twang for the 4,000th time, and I have been in love with Phil Liggett’s positively adorable English accent ever since he said that one competitor needed “to open his suitcase of courage.”
Have you ever noticed that Brits can say the oddest things and still sound so erudite?
Cycling, however, is just one third of George’s obsession: triathlon. Swim. Bike. Run. A shocking number of crazy people carry triathlon to its extreme and compete in Ironman races, which consist of a 2.4 mile swim, 112-mile bike ride, and 26.2-mile run. In forty-six days, we’ll be in Madison, Wisconsin, and I will be cheering George to (hopefully) his third Ironman finish.
He is the crazy one. Not I. I’ll be on the sidelines happily hoarse from cheering for sweaty, exhausted racers stumbling across the finish line to the sound of "John/Jane Doe, you are an IRONMAN."
There’s a Starbucks half a block from the finish line. Heaven above, I love Madison.
Training for a 140.6-mile race takes, as you can imagine, a lot of work and time. It also takes a lot of gear and specialized clothing. Generally speaking, the gear doesn’t bother me, especially now that George keeps his bikes in the garage instead of the living room. And yes, I used the plural bikes because he has four.
I cope with the dozen or so recharging cords for various data-collection devices (heart rate monitors, GPS systems, and such) without losing my cool. George tells me, “It’s all about the data.” I get that.
I don’t freak when inner tubes and CO2 cartridges and empty sport gel wrappers and sweaty do-rags litter my dining room table.
I say nothing when I walk into the garage and find a $4,000 bicycle, stinking of lubricant, leaning against my car. I just breathe through my mouth and gently move the bike to lean against HIS car.
When I got sick of him draping his tri suits and jogging shorts over the bathroom door, I showed my support by hanging hooks in our bedroom. He uses the hooks…sometimes.
I also tolerate seventeen pairs of running shoes (yes, I counted) scattered around our bedroom, and when he tells me he needs a new pair of $160 running shoes, I say, “Order what you need.”
But I draw the line at the smell of neoprene in my bedroom.
Last year, at Ironman Wisconsin, George started the race in a wetsuit that looked like a badly butchered whale skin. Holes, repaired with rubber cement, marred the smooth neoprene. Next to the other racers, he looked a bit shabby. Okay, a lot shabby. I felt bad, especially since I’m the Minister of Finance in the Raihala Republic and had cut the budget for the new wetsuit purchase last year, asking him to eek out one more race in his old Orca wetsuit. I truly had no idea it was in such bad shape.
This year, we saved to replace the Orca, and he ordered a 2XU wetsuit on sale for $400. Woohoo! He opened the box while I was away from the house. When I returned, I kept getting whiffs of something stinky and wondered what child brought tar into my house and where on earth he'd found it. I finally realized it was the smell of a wetsuit and thought, “I just can’t take this!” But I held my peace. The man was excited with his new purchase, and I know how tragic it is to have someone rain on my own acquisitive party.
Later that night, George carried the wetsuit upstairs, and I said, “I don’t want that stinky thing in my bedroom.”
He replied, shocked, “But I love the smell of fresh neoprene! It smells like…racing.” Then, with a beatific expression on his face, he buried his nose in the wetsuit and sniffed. Loudly.
The wetsuit has been draped over the glider rocker in our bedroom for a week now. The stink is terrible. Fortunately, I now sleep in Jack’s bed (I read in bed while George falls asleep and then move…he snores), but I still don’t want that thing stinking up my bedroom. Problem is, I can’t decide where to put it.
Our closet is out of the question. My clothes will stink, and I’ll smell neoprene everywhere I go.
The basement currently resembles Berlin in 1945, and I KNOW George won’t allow his precious neoprene to descend into a chaos firmly under the dictatorship of a nine-year-old with a huge imagination and love of costume play. I can’t wrest back control of the dungeon until the budding theater major is back in school on August 25, which is 27 days away. But I'm not counting.
The only solution that makes sense is putting the wetsuit into a Rubbermaid storage bin. I could get one that slides under the bed, nice and safe and contained. Best of all, I might possibly be able to sell this idea to Mr. Obsession.
Or maybe he just wants me to lay the thing in the bed when I leave each night so he can cuddle it.
Nah. Even he’s not that crazy.
At least, I don’t think so.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Gratitude Journal #7
Introducing my new nephew at about 20 weeks:
Today, I am grateful for my sister's pregnancy and that it has been healthy for her and for little Grady, who is due in November. What a wonderful blessing he is!
What are you grateful for?
Today, I am grateful for my sister's pregnancy and that it has been healthy for her and for little Grady, who is due in November. What a wonderful blessing he is!
What are you grateful for?
Friday, July 24, 2009
Words, Words, Words: Pioneer Woman
"Always look on the bright side of life. Sometimes it's the only thing between you and the loony bin."
Pioneer Woman
I couldn't agree more.
Pioneer Woman
I couldn't agree more.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Offensive to the Eye
Readers who know me personally know that high fashion isn’t, shall we say, my thing. I buy most of my clothes on sale after season from Land’s End, LL Bean, and Eddie Bauer, with the occasional visit to JC Penney thrown in to shake things up a bit. When I bother to read the fashion articles in Shape Magazine, I usually spit my mocha on the pages in shock at the prices. Does anyone really pay $1,200 for a skirt? Do you know how many rubber stamps $1,200 will buy? Seriously, where are people’s priorities?
But I digress.
As you can imagine, pajamas are not high on my list of priorities. Early in our marriage, I bought cheap and sexy nightwear, the purpose of which had little to do with sleep or comfort. Then, a few years before my first pregnancy, I purchased two inexpensive, silky nightgowns identical in every way except color: one was dark purple and the other dark green. These perfect, simple, slip-style nighties were slippery and allowed me to roll over in bed without taking covers with me: a critical trait in nightwear for a girl sleeping with a dude who regularly accuses her of being a blanket thief.
The gowns struck that perfect balance between sexy and comfortable, and the fake silk had powers of endurance real silk could never duplicate. They didn’t start showing signs of wear until about two years ago, when the green one developed a hole in one seam of the strap. I kept wearing it. What’s a little hole, anyway?
After all, the only people who see me in my nightgowns are my children, who do not care what I wear, and George, who has seen me naked in all states of non-pregnancy and pregnancy. He even saw parts of me I hope never to see myself when he carelessly glanced over the drape during my emergency C-section after the doctor started cutting. Ew.
When I recently reminded him of this, he said, “Huh. I don’t remember.” I’m not sure if I’m grateful or insulted that my guts are so forgettable.
Once you’ve had a baby, your body changes. If you haven’t gestated, perhaps you don’t know the gravitational consequences of incubating life. Ask your partner to kiss your perky breasts good-bye because post-incubation ta-tas will sag. There’s even a fun little song about this:
Do your boobs hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?
If you answered yes to these questions, you’re probably a mom.
My boobs now hang low, leaving me with the conclusion that trying to recapture my lost perkiness with sexy lingerie is a waste of good stamp money and also sort of pathetic.
In winter, my house contains a climate of frigidity that can best be described as arctic. My darling husband, a.k.a. The Finlander, delights in setting our thermostat at 64 degrees. You read that right. It’s not a typo. I really do mean SIXTY-FOUR DEGREES.
I’m breaking out in goosebumps just thinking about it.
Our friend PJ, upon hearing this little factoid of life in the Raihala household, looked George in the eye and said, “That’s inhuman!” He’s right. Finlanders aren’t human. They are really polar bears enchanted to look like humans.
This frigid atmosphere necessitates a certain level of creativity in the sleepwear department. Silky slips slide pleasingly under the covers but are not warm. Flannel jammies, on the other hand, keep a body warm but adhere to the sheets and make me feel trapped in my own bed. I have a couple of robes, but they have bulky sleeves that make it impossible to stamp while wearing them…and I stamp at night after everyone is in bed.
Whatever is a girl to do?
Layer, of course. My nighttime ensemble last winter consisted of a 12-year-old silky slip under mismatched fleece pajamas topped by a fleece jacket. Oh, let’s not forget the fuzzy pink slippers. The silky slip hung out from under the fleece top and jacket like a long peplum because, you know, tucking it would cause unsightly bulges. I would strip down to nothing but the slip right before crawling into bed and under eight layers of fleece blankets.
I wish I had a picture of this highly versatile ensemble. You, however, are grateful I do not.
One night, George eyed my hobo outfit and said, “That get-up is offensive to the eye.”
I replied, “Bite me.” After all, it's his fault my fingernails are purple all winter; he must accept the consequences.
But then I started thinking my approach to sleepwear probably was a bit, well, cheap and lazy. Perhaps, even though George has seen my forgettable guts and my unforgettable whale-like pregnant self, I should put a bit more effort into my appearance at night.
I delayed until summer, just to show George that he isn’t the boss of me, and then I did what every self-respecting stamper does who would rather buy stamps than clothes: I went to Target. I found a cute little two-piece knit pajama set—very soft and a bit slippery—and a summer-weight robe with no cuffs on the sleeves. The jammies are periwinkle blue and the robe is white, so they coordinate nicely. It’s not exactly sexy, with my boobs hanging low, but it is cute and coordinated and definitely not offensive to the eye.
This winter, I’m going to buy warm—and coordinated—fleece pajamas and a short silky chemise top. That way, I can strip down to the chemise just before crawling into the sheets but still be warm while doing my late-night stamping.
It’s the least I can do to avoid offending my husband’s eye.
The very least.
But I digress.
As you can imagine, pajamas are not high on my list of priorities. Early in our marriage, I bought cheap and sexy nightwear, the purpose of which had little to do with sleep or comfort. Then, a few years before my first pregnancy, I purchased two inexpensive, silky nightgowns identical in every way except color: one was dark purple and the other dark green. These perfect, simple, slip-style nighties were slippery and allowed me to roll over in bed without taking covers with me: a critical trait in nightwear for a girl sleeping with a dude who regularly accuses her of being a blanket thief.
The gowns struck that perfect balance between sexy and comfortable, and the fake silk had powers of endurance real silk could never duplicate. They didn’t start showing signs of wear until about two years ago, when the green one developed a hole in one seam of the strap. I kept wearing it. What’s a little hole, anyway?
After all, the only people who see me in my nightgowns are my children, who do not care what I wear, and George, who has seen me naked in all states of non-pregnancy and pregnancy. He even saw parts of me I hope never to see myself when he carelessly glanced over the drape during my emergency C-section after the doctor started cutting. Ew.
When I recently reminded him of this, he said, “Huh. I don’t remember.” I’m not sure if I’m grateful or insulted that my guts are so forgettable.
Once you’ve had a baby, your body changes. If you haven’t gestated, perhaps you don’t know the gravitational consequences of incubating life. Ask your partner to kiss your perky breasts good-bye because post-incubation ta-tas will sag. There’s even a fun little song about this:
Do your boobs hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?
If you answered yes to these questions, you’re probably a mom.
My boobs now hang low, leaving me with the conclusion that trying to recapture my lost perkiness with sexy lingerie is a waste of good stamp money and also sort of pathetic.
In winter, my house contains a climate of frigidity that can best be described as arctic. My darling husband, a.k.a. The Finlander, delights in setting our thermostat at 64 degrees. You read that right. It’s not a typo. I really do mean SIXTY-FOUR DEGREES.
I’m breaking out in goosebumps just thinking about it.
Our friend PJ, upon hearing this little factoid of life in the Raihala household, looked George in the eye and said, “That’s inhuman!” He’s right. Finlanders aren’t human. They are really polar bears enchanted to look like humans.
This frigid atmosphere necessitates a certain level of creativity in the sleepwear department. Silky slips slide pleasingly under the covers but are not warm. Flannel jammies, on the other hand, keep a body warm but adhere to the sheets and make me feel trapped in my own bed. I have a couple of robes, but they have bulky sleeves that make it impossible to stamp while wearing them…and I stamp at night after everyone is in bed.
Whatever is a girl to do?
Layer, of course. My nighttime ensemble last winter consisted of a 12-year-old silky slip under mismatched fleece pajamas topped by a fleece jacket. Oh, let’s not forget the fuzzy pink slippers. The silky slip hung out from under the fleece top and jacket like a long peplum because, you know, tucking it would cause unsightly bulges. I would strip down to nothing but the slip right before crawling into bed and under eight layers of fleece blankets.
I wish I had a picture of this highly versatile ensemble. You, however, are grateful I do not.
One night, George eyed my hobo outfit and said, “That get-up is offensive to the eye.”
I replied, “Bite me.” After all, it's his fault my fingernails are purple all winter; he must accept the consequences.
But then I started thinking my approach to sleepwear probably was a bit, well, cheap and lazy. Perhaps, even though George has seen my forgettable guts and my unforgettable whale-like pregnant self, I should put a bit more effort into my appearance at night.
I delayed until summer, just to show George that he isn’t the boss of me, and then I did what every self-respecting stamper does who would rather buy stamps than clothes: I went to Target. I found a cute little two-piece knit pajama set—very soft and a bit slippery—and a summer-weight robe with no cuffs on the sleeves. The jammies are periwinkle blue and the robe is white, so they coordinate nicely. It’s not exactly sexy, with my boobs hanging low, but it is cute and coordinated and definitely not offensive to the eye.
This winter, I’m going to buy warm—and coordinated—fleece pajamas and a short silky chemise top. That way, I can strip down to the chemise just before crawling into the sheets but still be warm while doing my late-night stamping.
It’s the least I can do to avoid offending my husband’s eye.
The very least.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Gratitude Journal #6
Today I am grateful for this, the 72nd post, and the one-year anniversary of Questioning my Intelligence. Yay, me! If you've not read how it all started, click here. But please answer Monday's question first:
What are you grateful for today?
What are you grateful for today?
Friday, July 17, 2009
Words, Words, Words from Mary Oliver
Last week, I received an email from my good friend Betsy Hall with a link to a poem by Mary Oliver which eloquently expresses our very human longing for connection in the world and our gratitude when we find it, however fleetingly.
If you feel so inclined, click the link, read the poem, and come back to the comments here to share your impression of Oliver's words.
The Place I Want to Get Back to
by Mary Oliver
What comes to my mind when I think of the peaceful connectedness of Oliver's poem is feeling my babies move inside me. I don't literally want to go back to that place (yikes!), but the memory of my babies moving definitely takes me to that house called Gratitude.
If you feel so inclined, click the link, read the poem, and come back to the comments here to share your impression of Oliver's words.
The Place I Want to Get Back to
by Mary Oliver
What comes to my mind when I think of the peaceful connectedness of Oliver's poem is feeling my babies move inside me. I don't literally want to go back to that place (yikes!), but the memory of my babies moving definitely takes me to that house called Gratitude.
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