Sundays with Stretchy Pants

I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving for lots of reasons, but my number one happy reason is because, after it’s all over, then I can stop screaming obscenities at my car radio every time I inadvertently come across one of the stations that plays all Christmas music, all the time. It started on November 1st and I’m too lazy to re-set my pre-sets, so I keep stumbling upon effing Christmas music. Since the day after Halloween. It’s not right. And I will stab somebody. I know I should be thinking about effing Christmas. I know I have to buy people stuff. I know, I know, I know. I don’t need stupid songs to remind me. Kids Know Stuff is backfiring for me because, while I’m getting good gift ideas for my kids, my kids already have the stuff because they had to review it. I should’ve thought this through a little better. It works out well for you, though, because you could win a bunch of cool DVDs from my kids. You’re so selfish. I would try to win them, too, but my kids already have them. I can’t even re-wrap them for Christmas because that might be a touch meaner than usual.

This Thanksgiving, I’ll be running the Turkey Trot 5-miler for the 3rd year in a row. This year is different, though, because Mechelle won’t be here (boo!), and my husband is running it with me (yay!) Bryan is a natural sprinter; he does not “try to kill himself” by running more than a few miles at a time at super-sonic speed. The one time he tried to run with me, he had to shorten up his stride so much in order to stay slow that he got injured. I’m slow and short, with no competitive edge, enabling me to run long(ish) distances without ever having a heart attack. He’s fast, tall, competitive, and generally has ants in his pants, so it’s hard for him to pace himself. This should be interesting. The best part is, I don’t have to use my endorphins as energy for cooking Thanksgiving dinner because Kristen is doing that! Isn’t she sweet? That means I’ll be able to use that energy high for things like drinking. And pouring drinks. Should be fun. Also, Kristen’s husband and son are running with Bryan and me. I hope they remember to wait for me when it’s over. And I hope Bryan doesn’t weep because he doesn’t come in first. The last time he ran races regularly, he usually came in first and colleges watched him and sent him letters promising money to him for the pleasure of enjoying his long, lean legs and his powerful stride. Or something like that. That’s him winning. *sigh*

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I’ve been listening to the Smothers Brothers on my runs lately. They give new meaning to the phrase “fun run.” I love them. I giggle. And I love running in the fall. When it’s cold enough that you need gloves at first, but then you can take them off after a little while? That’s the best time of year. And my forehead sweat has stopped blinding me by pouring into my eyes. Thank you, cool weather.  In the summer, if I forget to make a little barrier with various petroleum-based products then I go blind with my drippy, drippy sweat. Have you ever tried to dry your eyes with a tech shirt? It’s not comfy. It’s supposed to wick sweat away, but I guess that doesn’t mean you can use it for a towel.

Ok, so I’m pimping Kids Know Stuff again because we’re going to be doing lots of giveaways over the next couple of months and I love you guys and I want you to win some stuff so you don’t have to buy stuff for the holidays. We’re running a two-fer right now even! Dawn made the site all gorgeous. Thanks Dawn! (Dawn from Open Book Strategies, not Dawn from This Woman’s Work. Wait, maybe they’re the same person. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen them in the same room together even though I’m good friends with both of them. And they both have the same last name. Weird. Must look into that.) Anyway, go look at what Dawn can do. And then bow to her.

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I forgot to write in my 7 weird things post that the very weirdest thing is that my armpits never smell like B.O. For real. I sweat like a mother effer, but when I come back from running Bryan can stick his nose right in my swweaty arm pit and it still smells like soap. (That’s really a weird thing about him, though, don’t you think?) In the winter, I don’t wear deoderant. That’s all.

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Too Tight Ponytail Girl tagged me with the 7 weird things meme. This lead to a conversation with Bryan that went something like this:

Me: I’m supposed to blog about 7 weird things about me. Any ideas?

Him: Yeah, you always blah, blah, blah

Me: I don’t do that!

Him: Yes, you do. How about blah, blah, blah

Me: That’s not weird!

Him: Yes, it is. How about this one: Blah, blah, blah

Me: I do not always do that. And if I did, it wouldn’t be considered weird. You don’t know what weird is! Go to bed and leave me to my blog.

So, here’s what I came up with on my own:
1. I eat Reese’s peanut butter eggs by eating the chocolate off the sides and top first, then eating the egg-shaped peanut butter. I have no such compulsion with the regular peanut butter cups.

2. I used to see ghosts when I was little. One time, one of them threw a Hungry, Hungry Hippos marble at me when I was singing and dancing to a John Lennon song in my room. They came in through my brother’s demon rock posters in his room, I’m sure of it. And as a teenager I would hear breathing like somebody was right next to me in my bed. I would hold my breath and still hear it. It was super freaky.

3. Every night, I fall asleep lying on my back reading a book. I wake up when my grip relaxes on the book and it tips forward and hits me in the face. Then, I quick turn the light off and go back to sleep in order to avoid things like I mentioned in #2. If I don’t fall asleep fast enough, I read some more. And sometimes I still wake up to my bed shaking just the tiniest bit.

4. I’m afraid of the dark. (surprise)

5. I talk in my sleep. Bryan used to try to wake me up to tell me I’m asleep, but I would get really mad and wake myself up shouting, “I. AM. NOT. SLEEPING!” and then I would go, “nevermind,” like Gilda Radner’s Emily Litella.

6. I do not like animals.

7. On a normal day, I get up early, run, and get my day going, but when I have an appointment or something out of the ordinary that I really have to do, I procrastinate. I get up later, run later, sit in front of the computer longer, and just generally dilly-dally. I don’t know why.

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Maya was crying really hard last night because she wants to be a baby again, “Yena and Yiberty were nice to me when I yas a baaaayyyybeeeeee!” *sob* I’m going to stop letting her watch home videos. Or, I should make her watch recent home videos where it appears that Lena and Liberty are much nicer to her than they are in real life. She doesn’t quite understand that I learned from my sister to turn the video camera off before all hell breaks loose. That way, when the kids are grown and they have complaints I can say, “Let’s go to the tape!” and they won’t be able to prove anything. For the record, Lena and Liberty are plenty nice to her as it is. I’m not really sure what that was all about last night, but I’m sure there’s some 4 1/2 year old thing going on. It did come on the heels of a park day where Maya played with some friends for about 2 hours without ever checking in with me. Or, maybe it’s because I suggested she could wipe her own butt from time to time. I don’t know. Anyway, we cuddled and cuddled and looked at her baby book while she pointed to all the things that she misses about being a baby. These things include, but are not limited to: being born, having Daddy cut her umbilical cord, floating in the midwife’s lovely herbal bath, being dressed in her first outfit, being carried in a sling, wearing a diaper, eating pureed carrots, and of course nursing. She also mentioned with contempt that nobody ever helps her get dressed. I resisted the urge to point out that the only time she ever allowed me to help her get dressed was when her brain was more comparable to a slug’s. Once she found out that she had control over her own arms and legs, if I so much as came into the room where she was getting dressed, she would screech at me in such a way that there was no mistaking that if I tried to help her, she would find a way to kill me. So we cuddled, she slept in my bed (as usual, but without first falling asleep in the bedroom that she shares with her sisters), I rubbed her back, and I didn’t point out all of the things she can do now that she’s big because it seemed like she needed to vent and it didn’t seem like I would be able to convince her that it’s better to be big because, really, it probably isn’t. *sigh*

Lena and Liberty also had a little flash of, “Hey, why don’t you mother us better?” yesterday. Thursday was homeschool gym day and I look at homeschool gym as a class, not a spectator event, so I don’t go into the loud, loud, poorly lit gym to watch. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t just because I like to talk to my friends out in the halls. It’s also because it’s a class. I don’t watch them do their beading class. Or pottery. Or art. I was informed yesterday at dinner that this is unjust and will not be tolerated any longer. Fine. Fine! I said it was fine. I will watch homeschool gym (sporadically) from now on, I promise.

No matter, I’m still riding high on the wave of pride induced by the fact that after gym yesterday, Lena and Liberty were looking through a box of freebies that another homeschool mom brought in for all of us to go through. There were some books and a bunch of VHS tapes, but Lena and Liberty both grabbed for the Monty Python and the Holy Grail tape. In my family, we enjoy this kind of thing, so seeing them fight over that tape was akin to the pride I feel when I’m told they look like me. They watched that movie once a long time ago and they remembered the black night saying “It’s just a flesh wound,” after losing his arms, and the fact that everybody’s running around pretending to ride horses. I’m pretty sure a little tear fell from eye when I overheard their reminiscing. Watching it this time, though, was a whole new thing for them because they couldn’t read the first time they watched it. The opening credits had them rolling with laughter. “A moose once bit my sister,” hahahahahaha! Again, I say *sigh*

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I like tv that gots killin’ in it and whatnot, and when I watch it on AMC, I can feel like a smarty.

AMC is showing re-runs of season 1 of Breaking Bad and it is the best show on tv right now. Maybe second best next to a show Dawn introduced us to: Randy Jackson’s America’s Best Dance Crew (careful with that link, depending on what ad MTV is running, it could be NSFW, unless you work at Hooters).

Don’t judge my tv tastes by the fact that I like a show on MTV. Breaking Bad is good, I swear. I’ve only seen 1.3 episodes, but it has the dad from Malcolm in the Middle in it playing a boring science teacher with inoperable lung cancer who decides to cook and sell meth (I don’t know why because I didn’t see the entire pilot. I’m sure he has a good reason.) It’s an excellent show all on its own, but I think picturing my own high school science teacher cooking meth and very clumsily handling a gun makes it that much more entertaining.

My science teacher was, like most nerds, a bit socially awkward. His face was expressionless. Always. His speaking voice was expressionless. Always. And his lectures were boring as the day is long. Always. There was no Bill Nye the Science Guy at CHS. Nerds are one thing, but boring nerds? Come on. Mr. Reer looked like Wolf Blitzer, only even uglier with a constant stream of halitosis-ized spittle on his lips and facial hair. Disgusting. His breath and slobber were so bad and made such an impression on me that I just gagged a little bit when I typed that. During one class, when a smart-ass kid thought he would be funny by offering him a Tic Tac, Mr. Reer said in the flattest affect you have ever heard, “Why would I want a Tic Tac? That would ruin my bad breath,” and then he stood there waiting for an answer. The kid was like, “uh, yeah, I guess you’re right,” and slinked away in shame, never to be heard from again. Somehow, Mr. Reer (what an unfortunate name for a teacher) tricked somebody into marrying him and they had a son who was around my age. I remember just looking at that kid and being absolutely fascinated by the fact that he had this dad with this terrible condition and wondering things like, do they talk about the halitosis at the dinner table? When Mr. Reer would read bedtime stories, would he wear a mask if the boy just couldn’t handle the smell? Does his wife just not care about the smell or do they never, ever kiss? Does Mr. Reer get sad about his breath? I mean, 5 feet away, in normal conversational tones, his breath was like a brick wall. I think I’m trying to say that he had bad breath. And he was boring. I don’t know why his home life still fascinates me to such a degree, but when I watch Breaking Bad I find myself hoping, really hoping that Mr. Reer had some sort of secret life like Bryan Cranston’s character. And maybe that secret life was so exhausting and all-consuming that he couldn’t bring himself to brush his teeth, let alone show a hint of emotion during the school day. Poor disgusting Mr. Reer. I hope he was the mastermind behind Saginaw County’s big gypsum weed scare in the 80s. (I couldn’t find any news clips about that, but I seem to remember our local anchors leading with, “Kids is gettin’ high from the weeds in the ditch!”)

Anyway, Breaking Bad on AMC. Good show. Some killing. Some recreational drug use. Some nerd stuff, but not the boring kind. Very educational.

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I don’t know. Maybe that’s what I get for running on my own. Maybe my stretchy pants were too tight (undoubtedly too tight; it’s been a long winter). Maybe I asked for it. All I know is I was running on the trail, enjoying an episode of Radio Lab when I heard the gentle rhythmic clink, clink, clink of dog tags coming up behind me on my right. Many runners who run with dogs will pass my slow ass on the right so they can keep their dog’s feet on the cushy grass instead of the paved trail. That is what I thought was happening, so I didn’t bother to look behind me. And then I felt a not-so-gentle pressure in my bottom area. While experiencing a mini heart attack, I looked back to see a leashless dog trying to get to know me in a very direct way. As his owner passed me on the left, she gave me a nice little, “Oh, he’s friendly.” Um, no shit? I can tell by the way he has his nose buried in my bum. That does not excuse him. I very rarely like to be surprised in that area. Very rarely. And I can’t think of a single scenario where I would like to be surprised in that area while running. He’s friendly? Well, that’s good to know. Then put your stupid friendly dog on a leash so that a not-so-friendly runner doesn’t have to kick him or, at the very least, blog about him. He might have caught me off guard this morning. All I could do was mutter a little under my breath, but I won’t be so vulnerable next time. I’m taking back the morning. It’s my body and I will run where I want without worrying about being victimized by random dogs. I don’t know what I’ll do next time because I’m too much of a pansy to actually abuse the abuser, but I might cuss at him or something. I swear to God I’ll cuss.

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Bryan screwed the front license plate on our cars. Did you hear me? Do you know what that means? He paid $2.50 for the proper screws and he screwed our Ohio license plates onto the front of my mini van and his falling-apart-type beater thing. We’ve been living in Ohio for 3 years now. We came from Michigan, land of the single, back-end only license plate. Apparently, there is no point in having one on the front and one on the back when there isn’t any money in the state budget for highway patrol.

So we’ve been driving around with our front license plate tucked on our dashboard for 3 years. Last year, Bryan was issued a $40 ticket for this very infraction, yet he still couldn’t bring himself to permanently attach the license plates. This type of to-do list inaction is so against his character as a man that even he, King Literal, Head of the Knights of the Anti-Allegorical Order, could see the symbolism. As Bo Schembechler, rest His soul (yes, that’s a capital “H”) would say, he’s a Michigan Man. He loves that when he looks at his veins, they’re running blue. And he tries to never actually bleed because, well, the blood is scarlet. Nothing makes him more annoyed than Buckeye fever. That’s hard when you live in Columbus. Attaching the license plates? That’s some permanent stuff.

This move was supposed to be temporary. It was a way to get out of the shit-hole AT&T customer service job that he had been in for 6 years. A voluntary transfer to a better department in a city that we were bred to hate. My dad said, “Columbus? I raised you better than that! Divorce him!” Not really, but close. Indeed, I never would’ve agreed to a permanent move. We lived in our hometown of Chesaning, near both of our families in a house that we transformed from a run-down hovel into a gorgeous historic home fit for Chesaning’s now-defunct Parade of Homes. Move? MOVE? “I never would’ve married somebody who was going to move me away from my family,” said I, Queen Co-Dependent, Head Lady in Charge of Seeking Approval from Extended Family At All Costs. Ouch.

Then we moved. I was ready to look at this as temporary to get him out of that job, and just do what I could to get by for a couple of years and then move back home. But Columbus, she’s a seductress. She found many, many ways to my heart. Usually food is the only way to my heart, and she definitely has that covered, but let’s just take homeschooling as another for instance.

Homeschooling is a huge part of our lives and in Chesaning, we were a very lonely minority. I had no idea how lonely until we moved here. Homeschooling Community, you had me at hello. The Homeschool Gym, Homeschool classes that are offered at art galleries, science museums, recreation centers, the zoo, the metro parks, and anywhere you want them. Seriously, you just call places and say, “we want a homeschool class/tour,” and they fall all over themselves to make it happen. The roller skating rink? Some homeschooler called up and said, “We be homeschoolers and we desire to trade cash for services. But the cash shall be of an amount that is less than what they who are not homeschoolers pay.” And the roller rink (and the ice skating rink, btw) said, “Let it be written. Let it be so.” Support for homeschooling instead of blank stares and defensiveness? I. Had. No. Idea.

Oh, and there are fun people here, too. We like you guys.

**Oh my, you should feel how my blood pressure went up and my pulse quickened and my brain screamed, “Don’t talk about how much you love your Ohio friends! The people in Michigan are going to think you don’t like them anymore! What if they call you and yell at you for making new friends? Omigod, you are going to be abandoned!”**

That reminds me, one more thing we love about Columbus is the many options for psychotherapy.

It’s ok. It’s really ok. It’s hard to come out, but we’re doing it…

We love Columbus: The people, the stuff to do, the stuff to eat, the therapists. Not the buckeyes. We’ll never love the buckeyes. But we have 2 license plates on our vehicles now and, dammit, it feels good.

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When I’m supposed to be studying for an exam, I usually wander around youtube for, like, 2 hours. This is what I found tonight while avoiding my statistics studies. It won’t be funny if you haven’t heard David Sedaris read any of his stories on NPR (yes I’m white), but it is so spot-on. Kristen knows that when I’m running, I’m often listening to something like that on my iPod (super white), which is why I run with a mouth-hanging-open smile on my face and it’s also why I don’t even notice her on the trail until she’s almost on top of me, waving her arms like an air traffic controller. You know, the ones on the tarmac, not the ones in the tower. I’m definitely going to study now. Or not.

David Sedaris Delivers a Pizza

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I didn’t run this morning because it’s pouring out there and I’m just not up for a soak today. No big deal, though, I don’t need running as an anti-depressant on this fine day because my to-do list says it’s Liberty’s homeschool art class day, which means I get to sit in a coffee shop with other homeschool moms for, like, an hour and fifteen minutes. Wheeeee! That’s cool, but next on my list, with a priority level of A2 (only slightly less important than voting which is written 3rd, but prioritized at A1): Wash lettuce. What in the hell kind of life do I have where I need to write “wash lettuce” on my to-do list? And now I’m depressed. I guess it would have been better if I hadn’t written it in my planner and had it staring at me and acting all urgent and important like I don’t have other more important things going on. I know I wrote it down because it is something that, if I don’t do it this morning, by the time I’m making lunch, I’ll feel too busy to do it and then we’ll all eat ice cream or something like that. I don’t write all the little household things I have to do all day long on the list, and now I know why. I can be in denial if I don’t write things like “laundry” and “toilets” and “feed the children again and again and again” and “fill up the little black holes of need with motherly love and affection until you have nothing left for yourself and you’re just an empty shell of a person who once lived, but no longer lives, and keep filling even though you realize that it will never be enough and whatever ruin they come to in life will be blamed on you for not giving them enough of you no matter how much you gave, because they are mother effin’ black holes of need.” That would be ridiculous. The lines are too small.

*sigh* I have to go wash the lettuce now.

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