Category Archives: Fitness

Monday Morning Fiasco – Mommy Tragedies

I’ll preface this post with two caveats – 1. I will share way too much information; 2. Said information might be pertain to barfing and lady business.

Monday wasn’t any more rushed than usual: wake up to small child yelling, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy;” go get kid, take him downstairs, make coffee as quickly as possible while simultaneously emptying the dishwasher, packing his snack bag and fending off four hungry golden retrievers and a Snoot dog.

This is a Snoot dog (and kid #2)

This is a Snoot dog (and kid #2)

Wife comes downstairs with kid #2, start making scrambled eggs for kid #2 and set up high chair while wife feeds starving animals. After we get through the business of breakfast and coffee, my wife walks dogs, feeds chickens, and checks horses, while I change poopy diapers (bathing if necessary), get small children dressed, get myself dressed, and make sure my gym bag is packed with bra, panties, clothing, brush, etc. You will recall from my Bra-less at the Gym post that I often forget such things.

So, now I’ve remembered the kid’s backpack, we’re in the car, we’re on time and we’re headed out of the farm gates. Courtland is really into going fast now that he has discovered the four wheeler (and yes, please, go ahead and judge me for letting him ride on it already – he’s a kid who lives on a farm. He will likely also drive a vehicle by the time he’s 10. Whatever.). So, I move a little quick around a few turns to give the illusion of going fast, but we’re stuck behind a worky looking van (ladder on top) so we’re not moving very quickly. Our morning drive to school takes anywhere from 25 minutes on a really, really awesome no traffic day to 45 minutes on a really really suck ass traffic day. We only live 17 miles from town but our roads are loopy, one-laned and often filled with tractors and other slow moving farm accoutrement.

Finally we arrive at the highway and we are making great time. We go past two construction sites that he LOVES because they’re filled with “diggers!” and “dump trucks!” and “ment mixers!” We are still talking about the diggers and dump trucks and ment mixers as we head into the really loopy part of this road which is, by the way, not more than 3 miles from school. As we round the last bend, halfway through saying, “Mommy,” he just lets the puke rip, right over the pacifier and onto the car seat, the middle seat, and the Tiger Woobie. Faaaaaaaaantastic.

Of course, he is completely distraught and I immediately pull over into a gravel lot just before you come to the main stoplight before you turn towards the high school. You can imagine that this little stop is a busy one. So I get out, get him out of his carseat, place him on the ground next to it and begin the search for paper towels, tissues, dog towels, whatever I can find to start cleaning him up. I find a skiphop bag from when he was probably 6 months old and thankfully it has an old pack of wipes in it. How did I manage to remove every single towel and his change of clothes from my car? How? Oh right, I was cleaning it out and those were deemed non-essentials. Right.

The ‘older then Jesus’ wipes actually have some moisture left in them and I proceed to clean the kid up all the while reassuring him that it’s ok – “we’ll change your clothes at school, we have an extra carseat, Tiger Woobie is all clean”, etc. Luckily we did have an extra carseat (facing the opposite way, but that’s not important) and he could easily be deposited there after cleaning him up while I cleaned the rest of the car and his stuff. Here’s the f*****g awesome part though. As I lean over the extra carseat while unlatching it to turn it to face forward, I realize that I forgot to put in a tampon before I left home. F*****G GREAT. 

Well, here I am with just a few wipes left (please, please, please say I have had the foresight to put a tampon in my gym bag. Please.). I quickly relatch the seat and get him in it, buckled, and ready to go. He’s finally stopped crying – miraculously I have remained calm and just continued to reassure him so apparently those mushy parenting books are sort of right. Who knew?

“It’s OK, honey, Mommy’s just going to use a few wipes to clean herself up and then we’re going to get moving again. Hang in there.” I move to the front of the car after closing the other back door and get in. I score a tampon from my gym bag

High five.

HOOF*****GRAY! It’s probably from 5 periods ago, but who gives a rat’s ass? And, YES, I do what I have to do and ignore the traffic and the open blinds in the townhouses next to me. I DO NOT CARE.

Though we are making a left turn out of the lot into the busy street, we somehow manage to get out super fast and we’re on our way to school again, having lost only about 10 minutes. Wow, Mommy. Not bad. Considering.

Change of clothes at school and I’m off to the gym. Yay, Monday.

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The Texas Chronicles – “Howdy Neighbor” & “Pigs Gone Wild”

morning run

My morning run, pre-smoke and dead things.

Howdy Neighbor

Oh hey there, new Texan neighbor. Welcome to the hood boonies. Thanks for making the ultra-cool decision to burn massive debris piles of newly felled trees (from all your lovely meadow making) on this super dry and windy morning. As I looped back toward home and turned into the breeze, it made my morning run extra special. Even more so than the already ridiculous hotness and carcass-littered backroad already had.

Signed, Your coughing gagging snotty-nosed slow-running sissy pants neighbor.

 

Pigs Gone Wild

So the other day as Christie and I were en route to a luncheon at a friend’s house we passed by a field where some new owners had decided to create a pig wallow. They’ve ingeniously re-used old shipping containers (turned upside down with large openings cut through) as covered homes for the little piggies. I thought they were all adorable. Christie notices entirely different things than I do. Her reaction: “What a complete mess those pigs have made of that beautiful field. Note to self.” OK, so I guess a couple weeks ago when we asked Courtland if he wanted pigs and he was all “Yes, please,” and big grins – we can scratch that. Hopefully the two-year-old won’t remember whether we said pigs or chickens. We already have chickens, so we’re covered.

At any rate, this whole pig observation triggered my recall of an article I’d read a few weeks back in our recent issue of the Oxford American. So, this is my recap of the piece on wild boar hunting in Texas. And I want you to know that I’m doing this without even so much as glancing at the article before I write this because I didn’t have that luxury in the car during my recap for Christie and I want to see how ridiculous my memory truly is.

So, this guy, a hunter who has learned to hunt with Native American attitude (thank the Great Spirit, only kill when necessary, use everything), is invited to go to Texas and “hunt wild boar,” but basically the invitation is more like “Come on down, grab an automatic weapon and kill you some wild hogs, son.”  At first it sounds really off-putting, right? But he gets down there and the local yokel is talking about the crazy Russian Boars who were introduced to the area years ago and how they’ve intermingled with the local pig population to create some super-charged neo-hybrid freaky-deaky pigs. These said interbred pigs are apparently running amok, tearing up crops and fields, eating livestock and stealing small children in the night (OK, I made that bit up). Basically, they’re wreaking all sorts of havoc in this large rural area. All in a day’s boaring – hee hee.

So, after hearing all this and seeing some damage these psycho pigs are doing, this writer guy is all, “Lemme at ‘em!” So he takes this automatic assault gun thingy (though I do read Garden & Gun, I know very little about actual guns, but I’m quite certain that this one was big, scary, and should probably be used only by trained military) and hauls off with this local yokel in his truck into the woods. They do some hunting, but mainly they are shooting and killing – even taking out sows and piglets. I know we’re not supposed to feel sad about it because of all the aforementioned havoc, but here I am a month later still thinking about this little piglet running and squealing with delight one moment and then riddled with AK-47 bullets the next. Doesn’t seem fair.

Christie asks me what the point of my story is and I have to admit, other than it really sticking with me, I don’t have a clue where I was headed in vomiting my interpretation of the piece.

But I’ll share it with you. Here’s the link to the story because I am 100% sure that my recap is completely riddled with musings based on incorrect facts that my crap memory generated. And, the bottom line is, it was a good piece because I’m still thinking about it.

 

Training Swim Becomes Exploratory Dive: An Exercise in Identifying Weird Crap Floating in the Pool

So this morning as I swam laps at the gym I had so many things floating around in my head. For example: Why does the pool heater break on my morning to swim? If you don’t have wifi where does one go for Skype interviews? Why do my dogs always always always shake in the downstairs hallway that is filled with white wainscoting? Why can’t I fool my nine month old with pretend remotes? And then as I focused a little more through my anti-fog goggles, I realized that I actually had many things floating around my head. Well, maybe closer to the bottom, but still, I mean a lap pool is only four feet deep, right? So there I am, staring at the bottom as I swim along, investigating the depths for unidentifiable flotsam and jetsam (Jackie Cousteau, look out). I began with the discovery of an ace bandage clip. How does an ace bandage clip get into the gym swimming pool? Who the hell wears an ace bandage in the pool – THE LAP POOL, not the old lady water aerobics pool or the little person pee pee pool, or even the hot tub (which is allegedly the cool tub today). No. No. This little gem of a treasure was just lying there on the bottom, tossed to the side of the lane marker, lonely, probably wishing it was still attached to the complete moron who wore the ace bandage in the lap pool. I will say this – at least it was a component of an ace bandage and not a fluttering plastic band-aid with someone’s DNA imprinted into the gauze bit.

The rest of what I came across was mostly commonplace in club pools, but that doesn’t really make the experience any more the pleasant. There was the dark lint ball, likely an amalgamation of many different items that had been swirling around in there for some time. Also, this morning was a white lint ball, not so much a lint ball I guess, more of a tumbleweed/sea anemone looking thing. It sat at the end of the pool, on the bottom of course, and just swished gently each time I kick-turned to head back to the other end. After about 500 meters it seemed to float away toward the other lane. I wrote this down in my imaginary dive log.

I have saved my most favorite gym item found floating in a pool for last. Perhaps the most commonly found object, but definitely the one most likely to make me vomit, is the lone hair. Typically dark in color (easier to see), it lobs along, this way and that, moving like a snake without purpose, without intent. Though I am certain that its intent is to get as close as possible to me. I’m the person you see swimming laps who all of a sudden stops in mid-stride and makes a commotion to try to move quickly away from a certain spot in the lane. I am battling the lone hair. I’ll do anything to make sure it doesn’t graze me. If I may digress for just a moment…the only thing worse than the lone hair is a cluster or group of hairs, either in the pool or out of the pool. You can usually find a cluster right where you have to walk, either after you’ve taken your deck shoes off or just before you are able to put them on. Although, I suppose the worst place for me to find the cluster is in the shower area. GAG. GAG. GAG. You have no idea how hard I have to work to keep from vomiting. If only people would grab an extra crappy gym towel and take it into the shower and clean up their hair after they finish, my life would be SO much cleaner and less vomity.

But I digress.

I finished out my 1800 meters, shook the icky off as I climbed out of the pool, grabbed my gear, went to put on my deck shoes (no hair here, thankfully) and walked toward the locker room where I glided quickly over the tile and drain on my way to the shower area. There were a few stray hairs here and there, but more importantly, only one or two in the actual shower. I gagged my way through, cleaned up after myself and thanked heaven that I had another whole week between me and the lap pool again.

Bra-less at the Gym…on SWIM DAY. Seriously?

Full disclosure: I will talk about boobs and babies in this post. If that grosses you out, leave now.

You know what’s helpful after a long swim at the gym and quick shower? A bra. A bra would be a helpful item to include in the gym bag, and also socks, especially when one has already thought to include the tallest boots one owns. First, though, let me address the bra. I have had a child and I breastfed that child. Before I had a baby, I had rather large boobs and after I had the baby and breastfed for eight and half months I now have very large and droopy boobs. My boobs no longer have any meat – they are deflated blobs of flab. I cannot stress enough how strongly I feel about wearing a bra. My girls are NEVER allowed out of the house without a bra. Hell, they aren’t even allowed out of my bedroom most days without a bra to give them some sort of definition and hold them up above my belly button. So this morning when I found myself without a bra and not even lucky enough to have this occur on my regular workout day, I was naturally horrified. It seriously took a full five minutes to come around to the idea that I would have to put my slightly damp (thank, God, for centrifugal dryers) bathing suit back on in order to run errands and work for a few hours at my Panera office. So there you have it – a bra and socks would have been helpful today as I sit in my semi-damp suit rocking my sticky stinky feet.