Where's my time!?

Every body has something that gets them through the day.

Mine is my watch. Yes, my watch. I depend on that thing like nothing else. I could leave my purse at home and be okay, but without my watch, I am lost. My day is thrown into chaos and confusion if I don't have my timepiece strapped to my arm. I tend to go through watches like crazy because I am so danged rough on them. This is why I buy cheap watches. They get banged up, muddied, soaked, slobbered on (not by me, by the horses, silly!) and basically abused daily. I break watch bands, scratch the face and can turn a nice leather band into a stinking strip of sweat-soaked, dirt encrusted grossness during the summer.

Last night my el cheapo watch died. It screamed for a while, which was rather disconcerting, and subsequently got tossed out onto the deck because we couldn't figure out how to turn off the high-pitched alarm. Then it died. Of course it was too late to run back to the bargain discount store for a replacement so I spent the evening glancing at my wrist, hopeful those comforting numbers would be staring back at me, sad and confused when all I found was flesh and a freckle or two.

I spent the morning in a panic and rushing everywhere. I had no watch to keep me on track, keep me moving, remind me that I have 20 minutes before I have to walk out the door. Remind me not to linger too long while feeding the horses even though all I wanted to do was breathe in their horsey scent and bury my face in their long, fuzzy winter coats while scritching the itchy spots.

The drive to work was discombobulating. Yes, there is a clock in my truck. But I don't trust it. I trust only the watch. Who cares if they read exactly the same time...I trust the watch. The truck clock could be traitorous.

I know my afternoon workout is going to leave me stressed. Not because I plan extra time on the treadmill, but because I NEED to know exactly how long I've been lifting weights for each set. My watch tells me how long I've been pumping iron. I time it. Yes, there is a clock at the gym, several, in fact, but I need to know, down to the second, how long I've been working a particular muscle group. I'm weird that way.

Right now all I want to do is run out and buy another watch. But I'm afraid I might not have enough time. Or I might spend too much time choosing a replacement. But how would I know? I don't have a watch.

A bit OCD? Maybe.

Why I go to work

This week at home has proven one thing to me: I could never be a stay-at-home mom.

No, it's not because the kids are driving me crazy. They do that whether I'm working or not. It's a given. If you have kids, you're crazy. Ask any mom.

I think I would fall into some serious kind of sloth-dom if I didn't have to get up and get dressed to go to work every day. It has been SO easy to just wake up, whenever, get dressed, whenever, do, whatever, whenever, and not feel pressured at all. I've made dinner ONCE this entire week. Once. The rest of the nights, it's been, whatever. Cereal, fruit, sandwiches. Whatever.

I would be the kind of stay-at-home-mom who lets her kids eat ice cream and cake and pizza for breakfast and get dressed, whenever. I don't think I'd even require baths regularly, just when they became particularly rank.

I know my laundry would build up to mountainous proportions and the kitchen would never be clean.

This intense heat has forced us to pretty much stay inside for the week, despite my plans for getting out and visiting the zoo and the beach and the woods and doing some picnicking and hiking during my week off. No. We sat inside and watched TV and played on the computer while the floors screamed to be scrubbed and the dishes grew funky in the sink.

I languished. I lolled about. I thought "Hmm...I should get something done today." And then did nothing but play with Unruly and slip into whatever role her little mind thought up for me. The kids pretty much did the same thing.

But you know what? I think I needed the languishing and lolling. I've never, ever done that. Ever. My brain turned off for a week, I let things kind of fall to the wayside (something I NEVER do!), and I'm coming to the end of this week feeling refreshed, relaxed and rested. Something I haven't felt in umm...a long, long time.

Three more days and I guess I'll have to turn the brain back on and set the alarm clock once again.

Adventures at the Y

Most days I love going to the gym. It's a great way to piss away nearly two hours of my (work) day. There is usually a good crowd of dedicated sweaty people at the gym doing what you do at the gym: Exercising. And I get to listen to my music really loud, which I don't get to do very often at all.

However, there is a particularly irritating subset who seem to believe the gym is also their own personal socializing zone. Talk talk talk. Giggle giggle giggle. Flirt flirt flirt. It's not a gym to them, it's a glorified chat room. They are usually quite young, and, judging from their tiny hineys, they probably really don't NEED to go to the gym. They just do. Probably so they can make fat, middle-aged moms like me even more self-conscious about the not-quite tight butt, cellulite thighs and jiggly underarms. Thanks girls! Appreciate it. Really.

What really irks me, what REALLY gets me fuming, is when they decide they are going to get on machines next to each other, and just stand there. Or sit there, depending on the machine, and proceed to talk as if no one else exists. Hello? People trying to lose the flab here, girls. Move along. I don't want to hear your sordid little stories. Well, I do, but not while I'm trying to get a good sweat on. Go get a capucchino or something.

Of course, you can't say anything to them or they glare at you, roll their eyes and go right back to yakking.

Hmmm....a lot like talking to Wild! JOY!

What else irritates me? Let me count the ways:
• The woman who never wears panties. She rides the stationary bike WITHOUT PANTIES people. Gross. How do I know this? Because we arrive at the same time and I see her change in the locker room.
• The dude who grunts like a pig when he lifts weights. And sometimes, when the weight is particularly taxing, he farts and grunts. Pleasant.
• The hair tribble that has been caught in the shower drain for about a month now. I think it's breeding.
• For some reason the showers smelled like pee today. That's just not right. People. Toilets. Use them.
• All the rude weight lifters who refuse to swab up their nasty sweat from benches and handles.
• Does anyone really follow the 30 minute rule for cardio machines? I'm thinking not.
• The little group of women in a yoga class who made me feel so inadequate I won't be going back to that class.

It's a good thing I enjoy working out, or I might never go back.

However, if I had an experience on the treadmill like Casey, I'd go to the gym every. single. day. Maybe twice a day. And find it somewhere in my heart to forgive those really irritating girls who talk to much. And maybe even the guy who farts.

I could ALMOST be his mom

But he's legal. Right? Eighteen is legal. So I feel a little less icky about this particular movie star crush. And he is just so CUTE! Cuter than Daniel Radcliffe every day of the week.

I can't wait to see the latest Harry Potter movie, but I'm a little bit afraid to go TOO soon after opening. It's kind of dorky for a grown woman and a mom to admit she likes Harry Potter and adores Rupert Grint. But, I'll get over it. I think I can handle being classified as genuine dork material for one evening.

Hey, I'm allowed to wish I was 18 again, right? It's a whole lot like wishing my butt was smaller or my thighs less cellulite-y...I can wish ALL I want but I know it will never come true. Dammit.

Oh, the things you find

Way back when, a long, long time ago, before kids and a husband, I actually kept my car clean. Wash. Wax. Vacuum. Windex. Armor All. The works every week. It smelled good, it looked good. There wasn't anything weird growing under the seats and everything was neatly stashed where I could find it. I even alphabetized my CDs at one time.

I've had my current car for seven years now and I think I've washed it maybe four times. And I can count on less than one hand how many times I've actually scrubbed the interior. There is hay and straw covering the bottom of my trunk and it's been there going on six years now. You'd think I'd get tired of hauling hay into the house on the bottom of grocery bags and vacuum the stuff up. Instead, I tossed a few floor mats over the hay and called it good. Can you say L.A.Z.Y.?

I couldn't stand it any more. I was tired of listening to the empty soda cans bang against the empty bottles with every turn, every stop. When I got lost in East St. Louis and couldn't find my area map among the coloring books, pictures, socks and fast food bags, I knew something had to be done. For those unfamiliar with this area, East St. Louis is considered the Murder Capital of the U.S. Seriously. There are more murders there, per capita, than anywhere else in the U.S. Not a good place to be lost, trust me. Plus, there was a funny smell coming from under the passenger seat and it seemed to be getting worse.

So, once I found my way out of East St. Louis, I found the nearest car wash and began emptying the interior. Wanna know what I found? Do ya, huh? Do ya? Don't worry, I'm going to share!

Ready? Here ya go!
A baggie of something liquid. Not sure what it was at one time but it had chunks and seemed to be becoming a brand-new life form.
An apple that had mummified. Ever see those Apple Head Dolls? It looked a whole lot like that.
A baggie containing funny looking raisins. I'm pretty sure the raisins had begun life in the baggie as grapes.
Smashed Kix and Cheerios everywhere.
A shoe.
A mismatched pair of socks.
A pair of Unruly's Dora the Explorer panties. (What the heck?)
Six coloring books.
A colorful wax blob that had once been a box of Crayons.
An empty oil container. That had spilled. On the carpet. Ever try to clean up spilled motor oil? Can't be done.
A wrench.
Three reporter's notebooks and a bevy of pens.
Two romance novels.
A few newspapers.
Eight empty water bottles and two empty Dr. Pepper cans.
I won't admit to any empty McDonald's or Dairy Queen bags.
My metro east map. With melted crayon goo obscuring a goodly portion of the region.
A few unopened bills. (Oops!)
A fish hook and bobber. Again, what the heck?
A handful of pony tail bands. Guess I don't need those any more.
A bottle of sunscreen.

Hmmm....I guess I should clean the thing out more often.

Geronimo! *glug glug glug*

I have never been accused of being graceful. In fact, my mom used to tell me I walked more like a duck than a human. I frequently run into things, smacking body parts against immoveable objects or tripping over nothing. I knock things over and off the counter and drop items constantly. I can't have a nice white work shirt because after two hours a variety of spilled items mark it as a wear-at-home only shirt.

Last night I performed the ultimate act of clumsiness. Or was it just another not-paying-attention-to-my-surroundings incident?

I fell into the pool. That's right. Walked right into the darn thing while I was watching Hubby and Wild put up the fourth wall of the new Chateau de Plume. Wasn't even paying attention to where my feet were landing until I stepped, and there was nothing there but air. Of course, at that point it was too late to retract the misstep and over the edge I went, arms flailing, a pathetic little yell squeaking out of me. And then, I was in the drink, In my yoga pants, muddy tennis shoes and t-shirt. Not exactly the best outfit to wear to take a dip into the pool, by the way. I wasn't going to go swimming, either, I was just dumping dead bugs out of the skimmer and picking up a few things Unruly left lying next to the edge.

And my family? Uh huh. You guessed it. I thought they were all going to fall over laughing at me. Okay, not just laughing, howling. They were howling at me. You'd think it was the most hysterical thing they've ever seen in their entire lives.

And to top it all off, Unruly got into her swimsuit and "played" mom all evening. "Look! I'm MOM! and she makes a huge production of stepping off the edge into the pool, squealing and waving her arms in nearly perfect imitation of Mommy the Klutz.

Green with envy

I love and admire my mother. She's a pretty amazing woman and is quite inspiring, even though she is on the other side of the country. I hope I grow up to be just like her, which is a far cry from how I felt about her 15 years ago when I was in the midst of snotty teenage-dom and she was trying really hard not to throttle me for my insolence and eye-rolling.

Now, she is the kind of mother who offers wise advice without judgment (at least not to my face!) and we can talk as friends instead of constantly arguing. It's very nice. Everyone should be as lucky as I am to have a fabulous mom. It probably helps that I'm not a smart-ass teenager anymore, either.

My mom is one cool chick. She's a snow bunny. An avid camper. A cowpoke. A barrel racer. A veterinarian. An awesome nana. An adventurer and wanderer. One day she'll call and tell me she's now a surfer, too. See, how cool is that?

Except, I'm terribly jealous. She's like those parents who buy all new furniture and a boat when the last kid moves out and you know they were just counting down the days when their lives could begin again after the kid-rearin' was done. I mean, I'm happy for my mom, I know she's squeezing every single drop you can possibly get out of life, but I'm jealous. Bright green with envy and jealousy.

Because you see, out west, they have mountains and lakes and oceans and big trees:


And she gets to ride her horse and camp in those mountains, every weekend.


I mean, who couldn't feel like they are in heaven every day in these places? And she gets to see them ALL THE TIME.


You'd be jealous too, if the only places YOU had to ride your horse looked more like this:


Yeah, I thought so.

Fire, fire, burning higher

I almost proved Hubby right. I nearly burned down the woods while I was burning off some brush and briars at the edge of the woods. It's far easier(and MUCH more fun!) to just set the unsightly crap on fire and let it go. Fire clears everything in its path.

Boy, does it ever! This sucker went up, fast, turning everything in its path into a smoldering mass of blackness and scaring the living crap out of me in the process. Ever hear a fire just take off? From one flickering little leaf to a blazing inferno in 10 seconds flat. It makes this huge "WHOOSH!" sound and feels like it's sucking every last bit of oxygen out of the surrounding atmosphere. For a moment I stood there dumbstruck, admiring the flames and asking myself "Oh hell...what did I just do?" I had no idea it would catch so fast! I've been trying to burn off one of the pastures since last fall and I practically have to keep feeding it handfuls of dried grass and doses of gas just to keep it going. I figured this brush would be just about the same...everything has been SO wet lately.

Apparently, not quite wet enough.

When the fire at the edge of the woods went "WHOOSH!" the only thing I could think was "If I can just get this side stopped, the creek and the drainage ditch will stop the rest. It's a little bigger than I wanted to burn, but, hey, it needs done, too." A little bigger is about an acre, maybe two. Not a small area and all wooded with plenty of dry underbrush to keep the fire gods busy.

Of course Unruly is running back and forth near the house yelling at me "Are you trying to KILL US MOMMY? ARE YOU!?" I sent her to grab a bucket of water and she brought back the dog's water bowl with maybe a half cup of water in it. It didn't do much to quell the flaming beast, but hey, it was a start. I managed to get a couple of buckets of water on the worst side and put the fire out before attacking the other sides with a shovel and rake.

Yes, I contained the darn thing, finally, but not before I wondered how the hell I was going to explain to Hubby that his admonition of "Yeah, famous last words," to my assurance "Don't worry honey, it will be fine, it's not going anywhere," before I started burning almost came to fruition.

I knew he wouldn't let me live it down, I knew I'd have to listen to his "I told you so's" on an almost endless track.

I was right. He told me so. Over and over. But at least I didn't burn down the WHOLE woods. Just a little bit. Next time, I'll bring the fire extinguisher.

Cheat, Cheat, Cheat

I have a confession.

I've been cheating on you guys. I have. I feel terrible about it. Well, not really, but I felt the need to say it anyway. I have another blog ya'll, and I get paid to put forth my wisdom into the big, bad Blogsphere. I promise not to abandon you and leave you wandering all alone around here, because I love it here. The other one just pays the bills.

If you get a chance, hop on over to Instructions Not Included and let me know what you think! But you better come back here, too, because I like you.