Running and The Cat

The day before Thanksgiving….What a good day!

I am looking forward to the holiday weekend.  Our home will be filled with kids and grandkids and even a parent or two.  I love to cook so I’ll be doing what I love as soon as I get finished working this morning.

I have not written about running in a while so today is about running.  We had a cold snap that has lasted a couple of weeks and it has been freezing and below every morning.  The first day it was below freezing, it took me a little while to get out the door for my morning run.  I have clothes for running in that kind of weather, but they were all packed away and I had to dig them out.  I can cover my entire body except my face.

I could cover my face, I have before.  The problem is my face leaks when I run.  My eyes leak battery acid and my nose leaks snot.  When I try to wear a warm face mask, it ends up freezing due to the snot. Frozen snot ice on the face is not warm at all.  I’m better off just toughing it out.

I’m sure my neighbors are reminded that I’m nuts as they see me out in the mornings walking my laps and running out on the highway.  One morning a lady told me she admired me for being so dedicated.  I told her not to admire me, I was not really dedicated, I am addicted.  I don’t want to not run.  I can’t not run.  If the opportunity is there, I’m going to do it.  No admiration necessary.

I had shaved a minute off my one mile time with the Chi posture in running.  However, the Chi posture takes a little more effort on my body’s part and I was fizzling out before I finished my 3 miles.  I have backed off my pace a bit these last two weeks to build my endurance.  I am still completing my 3 miles in 30 -31 minutes, which is a great improvement over my times 6 months ago.  I want to complete a 5K in 28 minutes.  My all time record for an offical 5K is 27:32 and that was almost 10 years ago.

I am a short person, I have a BMI that is too high, so I know I will never be a 6 minute miler.  That is just fine with me, I am not competing with anyone other than myself.  My goal of 28 minutes is fine with me and it will required pushing on my part. 

I have also kept up with my circuit training as prescribed by the personal painer, Josh.  I have an area set up in my garage for my workout and I’ve been doing it at least twice a week, sometimes 3 times a week.  You’d think I would weigh less than 100 pounds by now, but the chocolate and ice cream sabotage offset the calories burned with exercise.

This morning I did my circuit training.  I was laying on my exercise mat cussing Josh the trainer completing my bazillion crunches with weights in each hand while legs are raised when I heard crunching just under the SUV beside me.  I looked over and almost dropped the weights on my head.  The damn cat had a huge mole and was enjoying a feast of bloody guts and bones.  GGGRRROOSSSSSSSSSS!

I know that is what damn cats are supposed to do, but this one is getting ridiculous.  Every day, without fail, there are small headless animals left on our steps.  He is a meticulous killer.  He leaves his mark.  He puts the headless bodies on the welcome mat, like it is a serving mat of some sort.  He puts the heads on the steps.  Sometimes there is more than one body and more than one head.  We can play the match game – match the head to the body.

He eventually eats the body, leaving the internal organs he doesn’t like on the garage floor.  His favorite snack is squirrel and he does not eat the tails.  After my discovery this morning, I put the weights down and noticed two bushy squirrel tails beside the box with my resistence bands in it. 

No small animal or bird is safe.  He has brought in and feasted on squirrels, moles, a rat, snakes and mice.  If there is no water in the bird bath, he gets in it and waits patiently.  Up until last month, we saw a victim maybe once a month or so.  This everyday killing spree is new for the damn cat and for us.  We have learned to watch our step coming in and out of the house as we know if we step on something, it is going to be an aminal head.  We have to be extra careful when letting the damn cat in the house.  He has been known to sneak in quickly with his lunch in his mouth. 

So the damn cat has nothing to do with running.  To read more about the damn cat, check out his G-rated blog, www.thronemonkey.blogspot.com.  And whatever you do, don’t encourage him.

Size Matters

This post does not need a warning.  Yes, it is about size and it is specifically about my dear husband.  Get your mind out of the gutter!  Other than an occasional cuss word every now and then, this is G rated post and has nothing to do with your inappropriate assumptions.

When I met my husband 8 years ago, he lived in 2 bedroom cedar sided farm house that looked just like a log cabin.  It was on a slight hill, just 1/10 mile off the gravel road.  The house had a porch across the entire front.  The house was small and modest and I thought it was charming.  The inside had 4 main rooms, a bathroom and a utility room with the washer and dryer and a desk.  The front room was open with the kitchen on the left side, a counter/breakfast bar separating it from the living room area.  There were 2 bedrooms and another room he used as a dining room just off the kitchen.   He lived alone and had his young son every other weekend and I thought the house was the perfect size for the inhabitants.

The longer we dated, the more comfortable and familiar we became and soon the day came that I crossed that line in sand from just someone he was dating to full fledged girlfriend.  Yes, I cooked dinner for him IN HIS KITCHEN.  With his stuff.  Before this monumental leap into his kitchen, I had never so much as opened his refrigerator. He had grilled steaks for us at his house, but he did all the work, I was the guest.  My first venture into his kitchen was a surprise.

Considering he lived alone most of the time, what I found did not reconcile in my mind.  He had a hodge podge of dishes and cooking necessities, which is what I expected for a bachelor, but what didn’t compute was the size of everything in his cabinets.  His smallest pan was a 6 quart stew pot.  His spatula was so big I couldn’t get it under the meat in the skillet, which was about 16 inches wide and so heavy I couldn’t safely lift it with one arm.

In the fridge, I found bulk sized condiments.  There was a 64 ounce bottle of ketchup that had expired 2 years previously.  I did not realize you could buy mustard in gallon jugs either nor did I realize any one person would really need that much mustard at one time.

As time went on and our relationship progressed to the point that I entered the utility room, I discovered something else odd.  He had a 128 ounce bottle of Tide.  On the shelves where he kept his extra stuff, he had 10 large bottles of prell, a case of toilet paper and approximately 24 bars of dial soap.  I considered these items for moment and decided that since he worked so much and he lived so far out in the country, he doesn’t go to Walmart that often so when he goes, he stocks up.  Maybe he just goes once a year or something?

We continued dating and we crossed another relationship milestone.  I was preparing dinner for us and I asked him to stop and pick up salad dressing that he likes on his way to my house.  He walked in with a one gallon bottle of thousand island dressing.  One gallon.  I am not sure exactly how long it would take an avid salad eater with a uncontrolled thousand island habit to consume that much dressing, but I’m guessing months, if not years.

I let that one slide, perhaps I was blind in love and didn’t want to think about this particular oddity in my boyfriend.  We dated 3 years and during those years, any time I sent him to the store to pick up something, I got the industrial size.  So I just stopped sending him to the store.

Then we married.  We packed up all the stuff in my house and his house and moved it to our house.  Digging through a bachelor’s 7 years of “stuff” was quite the adventure.  I soon realized that my new husband had the biggest of everything he owned.  Bigger is best.

I believe the man was born in the wrong state.  He must be a Texan on the inside.

I have grown accustomed to this quirk of his.  I asked for a wok one year for my birthday, just a normal wok to prepare meals for the two of us.  I got a wok the size of a large laundry basket made of some kind of heavy metal.  I can’t lift it unless I use both hands and get some leverage with my elbows.  He bought a supersized laptop for himself that is so large there is not a computer bag made that will hold it.  It, too, is so heavy no one wants to carry it around so we don’t care that it doesn’t have a bag.

I’ve sent him to the store for a small jar of pickles….got a gallon in the fridge now.  Maybe he thinks it is economical to buy in bulk, you say.  It is not economical when you don’t consume it and throw it out after the expiration date.

Last Friday it turned bitterly cold here.  We had a family crisis that necessitated spending time at the children’s hospital with our 2 year old grandson after an accident which left him with a broken elbow.  We both got home that evening around 5.  I had not been home to prepare dinner and still needed to make the weekly trip to the grocery store.  He went with me.

I mentioned that it would be a good night for a pot of chili.  That got him started.  He wanted to cook chili for us.  I admit, I don’t allow him to cook.  Oh, he can cook the meat on the grill, and honestly he is damned good at it.  But he is not allowed to use the kitchen to cook meals for us.  He offers, or he used to, but he got tired of me saying no.  I am the chili cooker in our family.  I won the church chili cook off last year.  I cook the chili Big Boy – not you.  But I decided to stop being a control freak about the kitchen and said fine.  Make us a pot of chili.

He was like a kid in the candy store!  He detoured our buggy in the food section and began throwing in everything he wanted for his special chili.  Five pounds of ground beef.  Fifteen cans of various beans – no two alike.  Tomato sauce.  Chili powder.  He was excited!

We got home and unloaded our loot.  I sat at the kitchen table reading the paper while he prepared the chili.  His plan was to put it in the crock pot for the night so it would be ready on Saturday.

He pulled out the 18 inch wide and 3 inch deep skillet that weighs 10 pounds.  He put his extra large industrial pack of hamburger meat in it.  The meat was in a big mound, spilling over the sides of the massive skillet.  I said nothing.  He pulled out another of his skillets, one with 4 inch deep sides, and put some of the meat in it.  He opened his 15 cans of various beans and put them in our largest (3 gallon) crock pot.  When all the beans were in the crock pot and he added the tomato sauce, the crock pot was full.  There was no room for the seasonings or meat.

No problem for this Texan-wannabe!  He pulled out our 2nd largest crockpot (2.0 gallon) and divided the chili into 2 crockpots.

We were not and are not expecting company until next week.  Just the 2 of us and 5 gallons of chili.  The man clearly thinks size matters and big is best.  What started out as a wish for a pot of chili turned into this:

We had chili for lunch and dinner Saturday.  We had chili for dinner Sunday night.  I had chili, either in a bowl or on a taco salad 3 days this week.  I took 1.5 quarts of chili to his son and his family.  There is probably another 1.5 quarts in our freezer.  Unless we have a big crowd coming over, he is not allowed to make another pot of chili.

Self Control

Mrs. Cravitz waited for us at the top of the stairs at church this morning. She tries to kid around, but I know behind her feeble attempts at humor, her true feelings are not funny. She pursed her lips, raised her nose and asked, “Are you going to start sleeping on the street? I saw that bed out on the street and thought we were all going to sleep on it.” haha.

There are numerous things I pride myself on and  in the top ten is my self control. I have an mean, evil, wicked person that lives inside me and she has sharp wit and an acid tongue. She thinks fast and takes no prisoners, she kills everyone with her double sided sword tongue. I am proud to say that after wrestling with the mean, evil, wicked person that lives inside me for decades, I learned to control her in most cases. Sometimes she just screams in my head to be heard and I have to clench my teeth to keep her sarcastic mean comments from coming out of my mouth.

I wasn’t always in control of the mean, evil, wicked person who lives inside me. I have been in trouble many times because she took over in a situation and I had no self restraint to stop her. She has spewed words that have ended any attempt at mending broken relationships, she has said things that have hurt my mother’s feelings to the point of tears and she was pretty hard on my kids when they were growing up. She has caused me much embarrassment on the job and has sabotaged my work on many occasions.

Over the years, as I have matured, I realized that this mean, evil wicked person that lives inside me needs to shut the hell up. It is not acceptable to “give people what they deserve” if you want to continue to have a relationship. There is no acceptable reason to just mouth off and be mean just because you’re quick witted. No one likes a smartass.

I appear to others as a much nicer person now that the mean, evil wicked person who lives inside me does not get to talk often. Oh, sometimes a situation is so bad she MUST speak to clear out the bullshit and get everyone moving forward, but those times are true emergencies and not every day occurrences.

When Mrs. Cravitz asked her snarky question this morning, the mean, evil, wicked person who lives inside me immediately had answers for her:

• Yes, Mrs. Cravitz. That bed is actually for Mr. Cravitz. When he gets tired of sleeping with you and your holier than thou self, he can get some rest down the road.
• Oh, its not for sleeping! We put it out there for all the teenagers who live on our street and just can’t wait to get to a secluded field for their date.
• Actually, Mrs. Cravitz, we got in a terrible fight while you were gone. I threw all my husband’s things out on the curb – you know – kicked him to the curb. He loaded most of it in his truck to move and didn’t have room for his bed.
• Bed? What bed? There’s no bed in front of our house. You must be seeing things.
• No it is not for general use, Mrs. Cravitz. You and Mr. Cravitz need to use your own bed in your own house and spare the neighbors any trauma.
• Why are you asking me what we do in bed right here in the middle of our church? Have you no respect for the Good Word, Mrs. Cravitz?
• Well, Mrs. Cravitz, seeing how you and Mr. Cravitz enjoy looking in our windows whenever possible, we thought we put the bed out there so you can be comfortable doing so.

Thankfully, I had the mean, evil wicked person who lives inside me under control this morning. She has been after Mrs. Cravitz for a long time and I fear for Mrs. Cravitz. One day I am going to be tired, worn out, sick, intoxicated or just in a foul mood and I will not be able to control the mean, evil, wicked person who lived inside me. And Mrs. Cravitz will lose.

White Trash with Money

I didn’t come up that title by myself, but I love the statement.

Don’t be fooled by my appearance, where I live or what I drive.  I am a white trash at heart.  There are many accepted definitions of white trash, I am not the nasty version of white trash.  My version of white trash is someone who has been in extremely poor, used bad language and worked in factories.  I could write a novella on why I am a nice white trash at heart.  I know what is important and what is not.  The outward signs of “uppity” and “higher up” is not what is important.  What is in your heart is what’s important.  You don’t have to have money or a Harvard vocabulary to be a nice person with perspective on life.

A cool thing about knowing yourself and being confident in who you are is that you don’t have to put on airs.  I don’t pretend to be something or someone I’m not.  I go to walmart and the bank in ratty clothes and no makeup.  I call bullshit when I see it sometimes and that doesn’t always win friends.

Much to my husband’s shock, I bought tickets to see the ultimate and proud-of-it white trash group, Confederate Railroad a few years ago.  Don’t be offended by the name, confederate is not a hate word and this band of country boys do not use hate in their wonderfully down to Earth music.

The group did a few new songs at this concert and one of those songs was “White Trash with Money.”  I don’t remember all the words, just the message.  What a wonderful song!  I should find it on iTunes and add it to my collection.

Over the years since that I heard that song, I have thought “white trash with money” many times.  I always think of “white trash with money” as it describes me.  Not that I have “money”.  Having “money” is a relative concept.  I suppose if you make $5.00 an hour and you work hard and barely scrape by, a windfall of $1000 on a lottery ticket is “money”.  When I compare what I have now to what I didn’t have several years ago, I believe I have “money.”  Although to many people who considered themselves “monied” I probably don’t have any.  It doesn’t matter really, I am very happy with what I have and even though it may not be much, for the purpose of this post, let’s pretend I am white trash with money.  And because I am white trash at heart, I tend to horrify those around me.

In 1993 I separated from my now ex husband.  I moved out and I needed a few furnishings for the rented double wide I moved myself and two children into.  That included mattresses and box springs.  I was without “money” at the time.  I bought the bedding from the Salvation Army.  Yes I did and shut up.  It was either that or sleep on the hard floor.  When you don’t have “money” you learn to accept and be thankful for what you CAN do. I vacuumed and cleaned the mattresses the best I could and bought vinyl zip up mattress covers for them.  One of those sets has followed me throughout the years and ended up on the bed in our guest room upstairs.

The bed was uncomfortable and everyone who slept on it complained.  My daughter ended up sleeping on the couch rather than suffer on the uncomfy bed.  I knew it was time to do something about the old mattress and box springs.  Box spring is really not an accurate description.  It is really just a wood box.  No springs are involved.  I did some re arranging, painting and redecorating upstairs and I bought a new mattress and box springs to replace the Salvation Army furnishings.  All is well except we had a mattress and box springs to dispose.

We live in “town” which means we have public services.  We can put shit like that on our curb and within 2 weeks or so, a nice city truck will come around and haul it off.  Because the truck only runs every 2 weeks and no one really knows the schedule, I have been reluctant to put the trash on the curb.  There have been good reasons not to have a mattress in our yard over the past 2 months.  We were expecting company, it was Halloween, etc.  Then I would forget about it.  The old mattress and springs were upstairs in the hall.  We are having company Thanksgiving weekend, so I felt it was past time to put the mattress on the curb.

I mentioned to my neighbor, Gladys Cravitz, that I had stuff to put on the curb and she shamed me.  She told me not to put it out until I knew it was time for the truck to come around.  She was clearly disturbed that there might be trash on the street she graced with her residence.  My husband was also opposed to the mattress on the curb and actually said we would look like rednecks.

These uppity attitudes about disposing of trash made me determined not only to haul the mattress and box springs to the curb RIGHT IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE, but to find other large items to put out there with them. I settled on the ugly green recliner in the shed.

The ugly green recliner has been in the shed since last November when we replaced it with a sofa in our living room.  It had to replaced because (1) it was broken thanks to my son’s 300 pound linebacker buddy in high school and (2) at some point the damn cat coughed up a liquid hairball on it and I didn’t notice until said liquid hairball petrified into the fabric.  Nothing, not even the pressure washer, could get that petrified shit off the ugly green recliner.

It’s been in the shed for a year for the same reason the mattress and box springs have been in the hall upstairs.  Dear Hubby does not want to “trash up” our yard by putting them on the curb.  I offered the option of loading them up and taking them to the dump, but he was not willing to put forth the effort, so to the curb it was.

Plus, we pay DAMN GOOD taxes to live in the city and have these services.  Let’s use ‘em.

We hauled the mattress, box springs and ugly green recliner with petrified cat puke on it to the curb in the rain Wednesday night.  Husband bitched the rest of the night about how trashy we looked.  Mrs. Cravitz, I’m sure, called all the neighbors to talk bad about us.

I am not bothered by the furniture on the curb.  I think it’s kinda cute.  When I pull out of the driveway and have to look around the ugly green recliner with petrified cat puke on it, I smile on the inside.  Because of the uppity attitudes of those around me, I feel a bit satisfied that my white trashness is being expressed in such a public way.

Today is Saturday and the city truck has not made the rounds to pick up curb garbage yet.  However, I am sad to report the ugly green recliner with petrified cat puke on it has been stolen.  Yes, it is very sad.  It was missing yesterday morning.  However, the mattress and box springs are still there.  I guess my daughter was right about how bad that mattress was.  Someone actually thought an ugly green recliner that was not only BROKE but had petrified cat puke on it was a damn good find, yet the mattress and box springs were not worth a second look.

I will miss the mattress and box springs when it leaves.  I may need to find something else to piss off my neighbors put on the curb when they are gone.

Blow it out your $#@

Only because I have grandchildren and grandmas should not cuss in titles….Blow it out your ass…

Pet peeves are those little things that annoy you, get on your nerves a bit, things you’d rather not have to experience. But what do you call it when it goes beyond that? What do you call it when it flat out pisses you off?

Because I’m not sure what to call this level 4 pet peeve, we’ll just call it a peeve for the purpose of this rant, however, just know it goes beyond a slight annoyance for me.

Imagine yourself out for a leisurely stroll, or a fast paced fitness walk Maybe you’re out for a jog, run or bike ride. Imagine that you completely understand that vehicles are bigger and stronger than you and even if YOU have the right of way, you know that any confrontation involving you and the vehicle will result in a huge loss for YOU. For this reason, you do not tempt fate or the vehicles by crossing the white line marking the edge of the road, you stay on the sidewalk or in the gutter if one is available. You don’t cross the street, even when the pedestrian light is green because you know that even if you have the right of way, you will still be just as dead if you are hit by a car.

So you are out in the fresh air getting a little exercise. You are mindful of the traffic around you and you keep yourself safe. You are thinking about things, whether it be your next blog post or the argument you will start with your spouse later. You are in thought and you are enjoying your exercise.

From out of nowhere, behind you, a car/truck horn starts blaring so loudly you think you’re going deaf but you don’t have time to go deaf because that loud horn RIGHT BEHIND YOU is a vehicle warning you that you are about to be RUN OVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My “pet peeve, level 4″ is for drivers to blow their horn at me while I’m running/walking/biking. Since many of these pranksters like to do it from behind the unsuspecting runner, it sends the adrenaline into heart attack inducing rushes. The fight or flight reflex takes over and many of us will take the ditch when a blaring horn comes out of nowhere behind us. There is no time to turn around and see neighbor Jim waving and smiling at us from behind the wheel.

It is dangerous to most runners to be surprise attacked while we are out on the sidewalks or on the legal shoudler of the road designated as “Bike Trails” by the highway department. Yes, I have every right to be on those shoulders, they are marked as such.

This has always been a pet peeve, level 4, for me.

Ten years ago I lived in a very small town. I had several 3 mile routes through my little town and one of my favorites was a route that took me out of the city limits to a narrow farm road that skirted the city limits. This little road had the name Lover’s Lane for as long as I can remember. It made a 1.5 mile half loop that included  a mile of flat road lined by tall trees on both sides. The rest of the route was steep hills and the road ended at the town cemetery. I would make the turn around at the cemetery and run back to complete my 3 miles. I loved that route, it was peaceful and pretty, especially in the fall when the leaves were vibrant in orange and red colors. I seldom met a car on Lover’s Lane and when I had my dog, I would let her off her leash to run free on this route.

I was aware that Lover’s Lane was used on occasion by lovers, hence the name, Lover’s Lane. There were fields accessible from Lover’s Lane  by turning into the trees and finding the cut through. I was also aware that drug deals, although rare, had been rumored to take place on Lover’s Lane after dark. Lover’s Lane did not have houses on the longest flat section of road, just at the ends. The best part of the route was secluded.

I only ran that route when I could run during the day. Since there were no street lights, it was impossible at night. I am mindful of my personal safety at all times when I run, so running Lover’s Lane without light or without my dog was just not an option. Not that my dog was much protection, but that’s another post.

One Saturday I was running Lover’s Lane. I had just entered the one mile stretch of flat, tree lined, secluded section of the route – my favorite part. I saw a car coming toward me. I called my dog back to me and put her on her leash. I kept running. The car sounded like it was speeding up. Yes, it was. The car was coming toward me and going faster and faster. I slowed my pace and moved over to the 6 inch wide gravel shoulder. As the car approached, it moved over to that side of the road to the very edge as if it was aiming for me. I began to panic. I couldn’t see who or what was in the car and as it drew closer, the horn started blowing. The car was reeling toward me, horn blaring and I was honestly scared shitless. I pulled my dog closer, stopped running and got into the weed filled ditch hoping the car would not run off the road to kill me.

As the car passed me, the driver looked at me and she was laughing and waving. It was a teenage girl that I knew very well. She went to my church, I had been her Sunday School teacher. I knew her father.  They lived around the corner from me. She was friends with my son, who was in high school at the time. I knew her well enough to know that she was not trying to scare or intimidate me, she was just “joking around”. But I was damn livid.

It took me several minutes to calm down. My run was over, I turned around and walked back home. I was fuming mad. I knew I was too mad to address the issue at that time so I waited. Later that day, I strolled over to the girl’s house and knocked on the door. I spoke to her dad, Fred, and as nice as I could be, I tattled on her. I think I did a good job hiding my anger. I told him I knew she was playing with me, but unfortunately I didn’t know it was her until I was pretty sure I was going to be killed. He understood completely, and unlike many parents of this decade, he said he would take care of it and he did.

The next day there was a knock on the door. It was the girl. She apologized and you know what? She meant it. She seemed remorseful and she said she didn’t realize she scared me.  She didn’t mean to.

My husband enjoys picking on people, which is another pet peeve for yet another post. There are two neighbors, both females in their 60’s, that walk together almost every afternoon. These are neighbors we know and socialize with frequently. One evening they were walking and had just passed our house when my husband was pulling in the driveway. He took a moment to drive right up behind them and start blowing the horn. It scared both of them so bad that they jumped off the road. My husband thought it was freaking hysterical. I didn’t speak to him for 3 days after I chewed him out for it.

If you see someone you know out walking/running/biking, for god’s sake, don’t blow your horn. If you are really so damned friendly that you can’t pass them without letting them know you are in the area, roll your window down and wait until you are where they can SEE YOU and then shout hello.

Our friend Bob has been chewed out by me on several occasions for being nice and friendly and blowing his horn when he sees me out running. He stopped years ago after I threatened him with bodily harm if he did it again. Now he slows down and rolls his window down, and depending upon traffic, he will ride beside me and talk. He did this one time while my husband was a good distance ahead of me. I solicited Bob to drive up behind my husband and lay on the horn and not stop until he jumped into the ditch. Bob obliged. My husband was not amused. I was.

So why this rant today?
I went out in the cold, damp fog this morning for my 3 mile run to town and back. As I was running along, thinking about a report that is due today, safely on the edge of the highway on the designated BIKE ROUTE, in my safety vest, a semi truck coming up from behind me waited until he was right on my ass to lay on the air horn. Idiot. Once I could catch my breath I shouted, “blow it out your ass” which is the appropriate response for grandmas and Sunday School teachers who have just been run off the road by a semi truck.

Working at Home

I enjoy an unusual career. I travel most of the time, except right now when our company is trying to cut costs and asked us not to travel. When I’m not in exotic places like Tulsa and Cleveland, I work from a nice office in an upstairs bedroom of my home.

The part of the job where I travel has its good parts and bad parts. I am a social person and I love meeting with my clients, going through marketing and strategic plans, taking them to lunch and just building relationships. When I am on the road, I find things to do in the evening. I love to window shop, so a mall is always a good place to visit. I absolutely love bookstores, so if Barnes and Noble or Borders is around, that is where I’ll be. I visit new places and experience new things when I travel and that is the good part. We won’t talk about the bad part, which is about 90% air travel.

There are many advantages to having a home office. I have flexibility in my schedule. If I need to take off for an hour for a doctor’s appointment, there is no snarky coworker logging my absence. I can start work early or a bit later and work as long as I need to. If I need to leave the office by 4 pm to get somewhere, again, no one is running to the boss complaining that I left early.

I don’t have to listen to the chatter, gum snapping, farting, cussing, personal crises, loud obnoxious voices, slamming of doors, fire drills, pouting, and bitching of coworkers in close quarters. Nope. My office is quiet unless the damn cat gets in and purrs too loud. I can eat at my desk unabashedly. I light a fragrant candle. I listen to the radio when I want. I can put a cake in the oven during working hours if I need to.

There is an advantage people comment on often: I don’t have to get dressed. No, I really don’t. Nor do I have to wear makeup or wash my hair.

My daily routine is to run in the mornings. After my run or other workout, I shower and get ready for the work day. If I don’t have any plans to leave the house, I don’t fix my hair, I don’t wear make up and I wear what my friends and I call “doodoo pants.” It’s a long story, but doodoo pants are those ratty sweatpants you wouldn’t wear to take the garbage out, much less actually be seen wearing.

This works for me. It doesn’t work well for my husband, but he can get over it. I enjoy being a slouch during the day. I have also convinced myself it is good for me. First, my face needs a break from makeup. I color my hair, so less washing means the color lasts longer. Think of the money I’m saving by not using my makeup and shampoo a few days a week.

The down side is that I found it is true: how you look affects how you feel. When I am slouchy, I feel a little less enthusiastic than I do when I’m all dressed up. I feel more confident when I’m inmy work clothes – which are suits – and I am dressed the part of a professional.

Over the years, I have realized that my personal performance and my confidence in my job is higher when I am dressed the part. I’ve put myself on a plan to get dressed (in clothes other than doodoo pants) on workdays. I felt like it was a waste of time and makeup. So I slouch at work.

Today is example of why slouching in the home office can be bad for you. I did my circuit training workout this morning and a 25 minute walk. I have no where to go today except the grocery store for milk. So I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and I did not put on makeup. I have on doodoo pants, but those can be changed for a trip to the store. My day is set.

Then my husband called. He left some really important things (his homework and books) at the local Chamber of Commerce office after a meeting last night. He must have them back, he has algebra class tomorrow (his is finishing his degree, go husband!). He called the Chamber office and they have his papers and books up front and I just have to run by and get them.

ARGH ARGH ARGH.

I will not walk into the Chamber of Commerce looking like the slouch I am today. Which means my options were to be really mean and tell my husband I would not retrieve his stuff or to suck it up, put on decent clothes a bit of makeup AND do something with my hair and help him out.

Dammit.

As wonderful as it might seem to work from home, there are days it is a pain in the ass.

Home Cooking

I am enjoying being at home.  Right now, I am supposed to be on a flight to Omaha.  Because I have a glamorous job!  But instead I’m in my office, getting caught up on paperwork and such.  Banks are closed today, which gives me a day of almost no phone calls or emails.

I ran this morning.  I started a tracking spreadsheet of my exercise just because I wanted to.  I have asked/hinted for a new fangled GPS heart rate monitor thing for runners for Christmas.  I know I could do better if I would just DO IT.  I’m counting on the heart rate monitor to be my drill sargeant and tell me to speed my ass up. 

My hypochondria is bothering me again.  It has been several weeks since I’ve had to battle the usually-always-present backache.  It has returned.  I made myself agree to seeing the doctor this week.  I think it is all muscle related, such as I’m not stretching out enough, my hamstrings are tight and pulling on my back, I’m not stretching out the ass muscles, etc.  Muscle issues can be fixed by yoga and stretching out diligently after exercise.

But being a chronic hypochondriac, I can’t be too careful.  What if it is a bulging disc and I’m making it bulge more by running and stretching?  What if the bulging disc has a sharp edge and it starts slicing through my spinal cord?  Double yikes! So I am going to my family doc, who will refer me to somewhere else to get it checked out. 

Since it is getting close to Thanksgiving and I’m home, I am hankering to be Betty Crocker.  I want to try new recipes and cook really good things to eat.  Problem with that is my ever expanding self does not need all that really good stuff to eat.  My husband suggested cooking really good stuff and giving it to other people.  I could do that….maybe…as long as it wasn’t chocolate.

Time Pieces

Happy Monday!

We survived the weekend with the highlight being the birthday party.  It was a well attended party for a 4 year old that was not well stocked for the guests.  The parents held the party during the standard “dinner hour” so a meal was expected.  They managed to get 8 medium pizzas and 16 2-liter sodas.  We were all lucky to get one piece of pizza each during the marathon event.  But there was plenty to drink.

The Big Event I am waiting on is still….pending.  I talked with the Big Event Planner and she assures me all is well in Big Event land but the timing is slowing down a bit.  So be patient.  I’m trying.

I am a simple girl and I like simple things.  Thus my favorite watch brand is Timex.  I am very picky about watches, which makes me difficult to buy a nice expensive watch for as a gift.  I want a plain black band (or white for summer) not a bracelet style band.  I do not want Roman numerals or little dots where the numbers are supposed to be.  I want my numbers, people!  I either want my numbers and hands to glow in the dark or I want an indiglow dial.  And most importantly, I want my watch to tick. 

The watch of my choice was my watch as a child.  I remember the nights I spent with my grandparents on the farm.  There was no air conditioning so in the summer the windows were open.  I could hear the wind blowing in the cottonwood trees that shaded their house.  I could hear the horns of tug boats coming down the river occassionally.  I could hear my uncle snoring in the other room.  And I could hear my watch ticking.

I slept in my watch and I would lay in a position so that my watch was close to my ear.  The rhythmic ticking of my watch was soothing.  I would fall asleep to the ticking of my watch. 

All my life I have had a ticking clock somewhere near my bedroom.  Most people don’t notice the quiet ticking of a small wall clock.  But I can hear it and it soothes me. We have a wall clock on our bathroom wall that we can see from our bed.  My husband thinks I put it in that exact spot so I could see it, but it is really there so I can hear it.  It is a soft ticking and he is unaware of it.  I hear it clearly every night. It is soothing.

Why talk about watches?  Mine is not working properly.  It has a new battery yet it stops when I take it off.  I need a new watch and since my tastes are fairly simple, that shouldn’t be a big deal.  This watch came from Walmart several years ago and cost $20.  So why would I have a problem replacing it?  I only live 6 miles from the supercenter.  The problem lies with electronics.  It seems the makers of watches believe that everyone wants digital or fancy watches with cartoon caricatures for numbers.  I’m wondering if indiglow is still availalbe or is it obsolete like 8 track tapes.

Speaking of watches and transitioning into clocks.  I love clocks!  If I were an active collector of something, it would be clocks.  I have a real coo coo clock, however, I am afriad to put it on the wall.  It fell off the wall a few years ago and because no one makes real coo coo clocks anymore, it took 6 months for the clock fixer to find the parts.  He said if it busted again, my beloved clock was doomed.  So I have it packed away for its own protection.

My next big vacation dream is to visit Prague and stand in front of the Astronomic Clock for hours and stare.  I read on a website this week the Astronomic Clock is the envy of Europe.  I want to visit that clock.

When we were in London this year, we were within a reasonable walking distance of Big Ben.  I have pictures.  Probably over 100 just of Big Ben during different times of the day.  i just love clocks. 

Does my fascination of clocks an outward expression of some psychological condition?  We should ask my husband who at times believes he is Dr. Phil smart about those kinds of things.  Maybe I love clocks because I have lots of time, or maybe I want to capture time.  Could it be that my time is running out or am I just in the nick of time?  There must be something…couldn’t be that I just like clocks, now could it?

Prickly, Anxious and Dreading

Prickly

I seem to be prickly this week.  I have no reason to be prickly.  I bought a whole lime and I have been enjoying it.  I also went to the fabulous place where heavenly items are sold and bought big, fat, juicy honeycrisp apples, blackberries and raspberries.  I have prepared dinner all this week and I have exercised every morning.  I feel good about taking care of myself, no prickly provocation there.

My damn cat has decided to be Hunter of the Year.  I finally got the mole head and intestines cleaned of the bottom step coming in the kitchen on Sunday.  That evening he brought another small animal to his new table and had a feast.  The guts, tail and little head are still on the step as I have been neglected in cleaning it off.  Last night I thought I should clean it off, I’d hate to be embarassed if someone important came to my house and stepped a squirrel head trying to walk up my steps.  I got the broom and my gloves to clean off Cat Victim #2 and the damn cat was enjoying his big fresh rat on his new table.  Damn cat. I’ll clean it up later.

The election is over and that is a good thing as I am tired of the robocalls and negative crap that is everywhere.  It’s done, let’s move forward.

Anxious

I am awaiting something BIG in my circle of life and I am impatient.  This is almost like waiting for my daughter to go into labor.  The difference is we knew without a doubt that she would eventually go into labor.  This BIG thing is supposed to happen, but there is a slight possibility it will not.  I am on pins and needles waiting for IT to happen.  Sorry, can’t tell you too much right now, more to follow…

Off subject

My hypochondria has been bothering me lately.  I am still having trouble with my pine cone ankle.  I wake up in the night with pine cone ankle pain and it feels like the ankle is locked up.  It doesn’t bother me through the day while I am walking and running and going on with the business of life.  Maybe my hypochondria is aggravated by sleeping.

Dreading

Let me tell you about two birthday parties we attended last year. 

The first one was held on a nice Sunday afternoon at the church gym.  The birthday boy turned 3.  The party included various adults and just a few children.  The party was from 4-6 pm, which necessitated the serving of “dinner” food.  The birthday boy has alleged food issues and is restricted by his momma to a diet of chicken nuggets, bologna, fish sticks, french fries and an off-brand barbecue potato chip that is hard to find.  He can only drink apple juice.  When it was time to serve the “dinner” food, all the kids and adults lined up.  Our “dinner” food choices were chicken nuggets, fish sticks, off-brand barbecue potato chips, the end.  T

The next birthday party was held the following week and the birthday boy turned 2.  We were told the party would be from 5-7.  We arrived at 5 and no one was at the appointed place.  At 5:15 the birthday boy’s parents arrived and started setting things up for the party.  The “meal” that night consisted of hot dogs inadvertently charred by a George Foreman grill, potato chips, buns, a bottle of ketchup, cupcakes and 6 varieties of soft drinks.  To add to our delight, they ran out of burnt hot dogs before everyone got through the line. 

Needless to say, I do not look forward to these particular sets of parents hosting mandatory family birthday parties.  However, it is time for another.  The birthday girl will turn 4 and her party is Saturday.  I was told last week the party would be from 4-6 at a public building.  I thought this was brillant!  The parents would not have to provide a “meal” and we could just have cake.  My husband and I could have dinner afterward and I would not have to eat charred hot dogs or off-brand barbecue potato chips. 

My elation was short lived as we were notified last night the party time had been moved to 5:30 to 7:30.  We offered to assist with the meal – could we bring something? Cook something? Go buy something?  Our offer was met with “Well, we might think about maybe trying to get some pizza or something.”

I am sure there will be at least 20 adults and 10-15 kids at this party, which is right smack dab in the middle of “dinner time.” 

I plan to pack a sandwich in my purse.