Turkey Trot

You may or may not know that I have a natural aversion to running. My husband and I spend good weather days walking our 5-mile block.

This past August, he asked me if I wanted to try jogging it. Feeling up to the dare, I took off, made it 4 minutes and doubled over with a pain in my side and sudden urge to vomit. BUT, I made it 4 minutes longer than I thought I would.

The following day, my competitive streak kicked in and I decided to slow down my pace and make it further than the day before. That progressed day by day until I could make it around our entire block. Not that I'm fast, mind you, as evidenced by the day the 20 Buzzards circled my head just waiting for me to keel over. (Okay, I get it. I'm slow and you're hungry. You don't have to be so rude about it.) Not to mention my almost 40 year old bladder that requires a bathroom break or 2 along the way. Thank goodness for cornfields.

Fast forward to September when I heard about a local 5K for charity being held on Thanksgiving Day. I signed us both up and he began "training" me around our block. Methods that included heckling with the occasional cat call, butt slap and inappropriate suggestion. He's quite effective.

When the weather got too cold to run our block, we went our separate "training" ways. He worked out at the gym and I stuck with my very old but very dependable treadmill at home. He came home with impressive progress reports. His speed, his distance and calories burned. Since the console on "old dependable" went out long ago, I had nothing to report except that I could run through 2 Joyce Meyer sermons without diving off the side and/or throwing up. His philosophy: "Knowledge is Power." My philosophy: "Ignorance is Bliss."

I tried to sound confident, but deep inside I was paranoid that I was going to fail. Then he really freaked me out when he asked me if I had my IPod loaded for the race. I said, "But how will I hear you talk to me?" He said, "Oh, you want me to stay back with you?" (Nice, Chuckles.)

That brings us to Thanksgiving morning. The weather was perfect. Clear, sunny and cool. We stood amidst the hundreds of people waiting to start. Some were dressed like turkeys and one man was dressed from head-to-toe in camouflage. Note to self: Stay behind the creepy hunter.

My husband stood there confidently stretching while I stood praying for a cornfield to relieve myself. The race began. The pack, including my husband, crushed around me and quickly passed.

When it seemed everyone had found their niche, I surveyed my position. I looked behind me to realize that I was the leader of the group of 60 year old walkers. And when I looked in front of me, I was right behind the stay-at-home-mom-power-walking-duo, complete with Lycra jump suits and super cool arm bands that held their IPods. If you followed the chord to my IPod, it would lead you through the neck of my over sized sweatshirt and straight into my sports bra.

And out of nowhere, I heard a little kid say, "Excuse me" and I turned around to see a boy on a scooter trying to pass me....and I started wishing I'd thought to bring a scooter.

I had a choice. I could either panic and give up or just do what I knew I could do and forget everyone else. I didn't have Joyce Meyer, but I had the next best thing: My IPod full of motivating songs like Sexy Back, Ridin Dirty and I'm Sexy and I Know It. Songs that make me forget I'm an almost 40 year old mom and songs that give me hope that I too could wear a Lycra jump suit and even pole dance if given the chance. I found my comfort zone and took off, slowing down only for Bohemian Rhapsody. (I have a killer air-guitar solo in the middle.)

At the halfway point, I caught up to my husband, who said between gasps of breath, "Hey! There you are. I've been waiting for you." (Nice try Chuckles.) I patted his butt and moved on past him. Shortly after that, I passed the kid walking while his dad carried his scooter. (Not so tough without your scooter, huh?) On the final stretch, when I was ready for it to end, the perfectly timed song, My Chick Bad started in my ears. That's the song that makes me wonder if I might look good doing cool choreography on a dance floor.

Anyhoo, it had the desired effect and I sprinted over the finish line....9 minutes before my husband. But this was for charity, people, so let's not make it about who beat who. (I was 9 minutes faster. I was 9 minutes faster. I was 9 minutes faster.)

And for the record, next year, the speed-walking-housewives are going down.

You can't make this stuff up, people.

DISCLAIMER: The Amish driver and his horse both survived. (If that doesn't get your attention, nothing will.)

Regular readers of my blog and Facebook are well aware that I have a bit of a, shall we say, tumultuous relationship with our Amish neighbors. Maybe tumultuous isn't the right word. Bizarre would probably be more accurate.

Most of my encounters with the Amish involve their ill-timed trips past our house to find me cursing our weedwacker while wearing various outfits, all of which would be considered inappropriate by Amish standard.

Lately, on more than one occasion, I've come face to face with a particular horse and driver in an odd game of "Chicken" as I'm jogging along the road and he's in my path heading my way. Either he recognizes me and I scare him or he's extremely polite, because each time, he kindly takes a wide path around me. We say hello to each other as I pray he doesn't recognize me without my weedwacker....or in my husband's boxer shorts.

Fast forward to this morning. In a rare occurrence, I was fully clothed and standing at my front door waiting for my Massage Client. Along came my new Amish friend and I was inwardly congratulating myself for not causing him alarm or inconvenience as he passed by our house.

But then out of the blue, a car sped past our house and the Amish wagon literally disintegrated before my eyes and the driver flew into the air and barely missed landing on the car that hit him. That was followed by a semi coming up behind, slamming on his brakes and screeching to a stop behind what used to be the Amish wagon, and a car behind the semi slammed to a stop having no idea what just happened in front of her.

I burst into tears and ran outside scared to death of what I was going to see when I rounded the semi. But before I made it, the Amish horse came tearing around the back of the semi dragging a wheel and other pieces of it's wagon behind him and he was being chased by the Amish driver. Thankful that he was ok, I yelled for the girl in the car to call 911 and joined the Amish man in pursuit of his horse around our front yard.

So when my client pulled into the driveway, that's exactly what she was witnessing. Welcome to our home. We call this "Wednesday" around here.

He caught his horse and tied him to the tree in our front yard and we struck up a conversation. I said, "Are you ok?" And he said, "Are you the woman who runs?" (I was so thankful that my weedwacker wasn't mentioned. I think we just bonded.)

He said he was fine but predicted he'd be sore in the morning. I refrained from offering up my services as a Licensed Massage Therapist, fearing I might do some damage to our blossoming friendship if I invited him to come to my house and let me rub his back free of charge. He was freaked out enough already.

With a horse tied to my tree, pieces of buggy scattered everywhere and the sound of sirens heading our way, I excused myself to greet my client and explained to my new friend that I'd be inside if anyone needed to talk to me. I walked inside amazed at how miraculous it is that he and his horse are both fine and I'm so thankful.

Just before I began her massage, I texted Z about what just happened, then turned off my phone.

Little did I know, that at that exact time, Z was at school in a Texting & Driving Simulator to teach the kids firsthand how little it takes to get distracted. He was instructed to text while he drove.

So when my text came through, he went ahead and read it.....and then he jerked the simulator wheel, hit a simulated guy on a bike and skidded into a simulated telephone pole and yelled "Holy Crap!!"

Lesson learned. Don't text and drive. Glad I could help.

I cheer, therefore I am.

Is 39 too young for a midlife crisis? Well, technically, I'm on the slippery slope to 40 and sliding faster every day.

The midlife crisis thought first crossed my mind last month, when I willingly paid extra money at an amusement park for the opportunity to allow 2 strangers to strap my husband and me into a giant ball attached to bungee chords and then proceeded to allow them to fling us 300 ft into the air together.

That spontaneous lack of judgement prompted us to update our Will.

Shortly after that, I took up jogging. And very shortly after that, I ended up in Urgent Care with a pulled ligament in my foot.

Then last week, I received an email informing me that my High School was in search of alumni cheerleaders who were interested in dancing at the Homecoming Game this past Friday. I bolted to my closet. The desk chair was still swiveling when I returned with my old uniform. I was thrilled when the skirt zipped up the back and the sweater fit too. Not exactly as it used to fit, mind you. Once you factor in that I've birthed 4 children and my boobs used to sit about a foot higher than they do now, you understand the odd way the sweater hangs these days. What once was up, will come down. It's a fact of life.

When Zac came home from school, he found me cleaning the house in my Cheerleading uniform. He stopped. Stared. Said, "Oh gosh." And walked away without asking.

Only my daughters seemed completely enthralled with my sudden obsession with high kicks and even higher pony tails. They followed me around the house asking lots of questions and comparing jumps. Then we sat around and talked about boys and used the words "Like" "Totally" and "Awesome." And then I taught them to combine them...."Like totally awesome." (My girls and I are pretty tight.)

Zac kept quiet on the topic of my Cheerleading AND he refused to spot me on a round-off-back-handspring, doubting my ability to do it without paralyzing myself. Dude, It's probably like riding a bike. What could go wrong?

Ron, on the other hand, spent last week with the look on his face seen on kids in a candy store. Enough said.

Thursday night I had Cheerleading practice. (I can't even type that without twirling my hair and craving a piece of bubble gum to pop and smack.) There were about 10 "real" cheerleaders and 5 of those suffering from sudden identity crisis. I was one of the 10.

We reviewed 2 routines. The first was The Fight Song. No problem. Our High School fight song is the same tune as Ohio States. Therefore, I've spent every Saturday for the past 21 years dancing that routine every time the Buckeyes score. My husband can attest to that.

The second routine was to a song called Chief Mac. I remembered bits and pieces. (More bits than pieces.) But I was too embarrassed to speak up and figured YouTube would come to my rescue. No such luck.

I spent all day Friday imagining the horror that was about to happen that night in front of hundreds of people. I was gonna go out on that field and totally rock The Fight Song, only to turn around and look like a stroke victim during Chief Mac as I lay on the field in the fetal position crying in a puddle of my own drool. (You've entered The Drama Zone.)

To top it off, on the way to the game my husband broke some big news to me. "It's The Game of the Week! Channel 2 News is gonna be there!" That was followed by him stopping me from diving out of the side of our moving vehicle while the kids screamed.

But we got there early and I spent some quality one on one Chief Mac tutoring time with a cheerleader....whose eyes were coated in the most beautiful gold glitter eye shadow I've ever seen and I spent half the time wishing I'd known that existed. But I digress.

We took the field, in the cold pelting rain, and I was at home. The band started playing, I closed my eyes and I danced. And I couldn't stop grinning.

And in case you all are wondering if I was wearing my uniform, the answer is no. Despite the fact that I kept it in pristine condition and that it still fit, once the tiny detail that I no longer own the tights that cover my underwear emerged, that became a deal breaker. Picky picky.

I'm currently on the hunt for a black warm-up suit with gold lettering. Because next year, I'm gonna match the Cheerleaders. Complete with a thick coat of glittery gold eye shadow.

In the meantime, I'll move on to my next midlife crisis activity.
I signed my husband and I up to run a 5k on Thanksgiving Day.

Would anyone like to break that news to him for me?

Homecoming Round II

In case you've forgotten Homecoming Round I, our daughter was voted to be the Homecoming Court's Freshman Attendant last year and big drama ensued with "The Queen Mother" over my daughter's dress and the ridiculous tradition that the Queen holds the power to not only choose the court's dresses, but apparently should also get to choose exactly where the dress is purchased and how much the parents pay. I cried bullcrap, found the exact same dress on Amazon, paid $66 rather than $200, apparently "broke tradition" and may or may not have ruined Homecoming 2010 by doing so.

But let's move on before I get mad.

Our son is a Senior this year. A few weeks ago, I asked him if there was any chance he could be voted Homecoming King. He said there was no way, because in the history of this school, tradition indicates that it always goes to a football player. Tradition also states that the King chooses the guy escorts. Therefore, as tradition goes, the Homecoming Court consists solely of football players. My son played golf. Not football.

But as you know, traditions are made to be broken.

My son was voted Homecoming King. That probably happened because he's a great kid, he's funny, entertaining, nice to everyone, has amazing school spirit and a level of confidence that encourages acts of individuality, not to mention his dark black eyes, long eyelashes and a smile that lights up a room....but hey, I'm his Momma.

Oooooorrrrrr, it might have had something to do with saying "Balls" in his Vice President election speech at the County wide National Honor Society banquet last Spring, causing a scandal like no other that rocked the school, led to threats of a dismissal hearing and subsequently ended with a Facebook fan page, media coverage, his NHS probation, 2 NHS advisers quitting, his new found fame, legendary status and nickname...."Balls."

Drama seems to find us wherever we go.

Whichever the case may be, he was voted King. So he picked his court. The Golf Team and a band member. And drama ensued. Whatever.

In the midst of the drama, I came to a realization. "I'm The King Mother!" And I felt the warm glow of power take over.

So last Wednesday, when the Principal called me into his office to discuss my son bringing his yo yo to school, I had to fight the urge to remind him that my son is The King and I'm The King Mother, therefore, we don't have time to be bothered with yo yo nonsense.....

But instead, I apologized and promised him that Z wouldn't bring his yo yo to school anymore. Choose your battles, people.

To top off this amazing experience for our family, this year's (beautiful & amazing) Queen (and her awesome family) chose our 4 year old daughter to be the Homecoming Princess and it still completely melts my heart.

Homecoming Round II was a huge success. The kids in that school had the courage to step out from under "tradition" and vote for who they wanted to be King, regardless of what sport he played.

My son had the courage to pave a new path by choosing a court of kids who may not have gotten the opportunity otherwise, proving that if you don't like a tradition, it's up to you to change it!

As for me, I'm still enjoying my reign as King Mother.
Complete with tiara.

Don't worry. The power hasn't gone to my head at all. (Buahahahahahahaha!)

Sleeping in a van down by the river....

We spent our weekend at Family Church Camp. When things barely go smoothly in the safety of our own home, they go about as you'd expect when we go camping out in the wild....or in this case, our van.

This year the tents were filled to capacity. My in-laws were in one tent. Our girls were in the 2nd tent with both of our dogs. And Z and Nick were in the 3rd tent. That left my husband and I sleeping in our van, propped on cushions from our patio furniture, hatch wide open, with our box fan hanging on bungee cords blowing in on us, beside the comforting glow of the fluorescent blue light of the bug zapper. It's a redneck camper, people. And it was working out just fine until Chuckles got the bright idea to spray bug repellent through the fan in an attempt to coat our "camper" to keep mosquitoes away. That might not have been such a horrible idea if he'd done that before I lay down or if he'd even given me a heads-up of what he was planning so I could at least close my eyes. Enter marital dispute #1 of the weekend.

We awoke Saturday morning covered in a thin layer of dead moths. Nice. But things were looking up by the afternoon when we were having a blast at the lake. Paddle boats, a water trampoline and a water slide are just a few of the fun activities. But the big hit every year is the giant "Blob" in the middle of the lake. Basically, it's a huge mattress of air at the base of a platform. Person #1 sits on the end of the mattress. Person #2 jumps from the platform onto the other end of the mattress and bounces person #1 into the water. Sounds fun, right? Well, not if person #2 outweighs person #1 by 150 pounds. Which brings me to marital dispute #2....

Someone, who shall remain anonymous but his first name is George, bullied me into allowing my husband to blob me. His bullying was disguised as "encouragement" with phrases like, "It's only water" and he even went so far as to loan me his life vest for "full coverage" against back smackers.

I listened carefully to all the lifeguards instructions: Lean forward, keep your head up, keep your legs down, stay straight as a pencil and drop feet first into the water. Got it. I was a gymnast. I was a cheerleader. I pride myself on having control of my own body. So I nervously sat on the end of the blob and listened as my husband loudly counted to 3.

Here are the things the lifeguard should have told me: Between the sound of him yelling 3 and the time he actually lands on the blob will be an eternity of dead silence as your mind suddenly grasps the possibility of your own untimely death. The silence will be suddenly broken with a loud "POOF" that sounds like you've been shot. You'll then be catapulted into the air where your mind will go numb, your body will take on movements of it's own and you'll lose all control of your bodily functions. Finally, and most importantly, keep your eyes and mouth closed to avoid hitting the water face first with your eyes bulging and your mouth wide open in a silent and useless scream.

I smell a lawsuit.

The good news is, the remnants of bug spray was immediately washed from my eyes. The bad news is, I think I swallowed a fish, my inner thigh is severely bruised, my eye became slightly discolored and my marriage is suddenly on the rocks.....all in under 30 seconds.

We survived to see Sunday morning when the only eventful thing that happened was that we couldn't find our dog, Axel. Our family spent the next several minutes loudly calling her name. "Axel! Axel! Axel!" And she came back. As we packed up to go home, a friend from a nearby camper approached us with a question...."Did you guys really name your dog Asshole?"

Welcome to church camp.

V.B.S (Vacation Bible Scammers)

We spent this past week at our church for Vacation Bible School. When my husband and I sign up to help each year, we're automatically given Nursery detail. We're in charge of children under the age of two.

Basically, we're assigned to the least impressionable age group. I'm not offended. I'm actually relieved that our church knows us so well.

Factor in my husband's care-free child-like approach to nursery duty which includes eating 5 animal cookies per each 1 he hands out and his habit of falling asleep in the middle of the floor while kids smear him with half chewed before mentioned animal cookies.

Now combine that with my PMS and you've created the perfect storm.

VBS started on Monday. By Tuesday we were researching marriage counselors.

So Tuesday evening as we made our way to the nursery and an older couple rushed past us to the information desk making wild gestures with their hands, my husband and I had opposite reactions. Mine was to keep walking. His was to see how quickly he could insert himself into the situation.....and then drag me along for the ride.

As I made my way past the table I heard him excitedly say, "My wife knows Sign Language!" (Crap. Be careful what you tell people.) Granted, I used to know Sign Language. But when you don't regularly use it, you get rusty. I'm certainly in no condition to be anyone's translator.

I turned around expecting to help this couple register their child for VBS and the man began slowly spelling with his fingers....E.M.E.R.S.O.N. "Got it. Your child's name is Emerson." He shook his head no and spelled it again. "Emerson." More frantic head shaking. Dude, I might be rusty, but you're spelling out Emerson and I'm PMS'ing so for the sake of my husband's personal safety for getting me involved in this train wreck, start saying something that makes sense.

He grabbed a pen and paper and wrote Emergency.

Let's note what we know so far. Two people rush into a church and they're both deaf. One of them misspells Emergency in his own language. That's 2 red flags in the mind of me the signing cynic.

So when he wrote that his mom is in the hospital in Toledo and he needs $20 for gas to get there, I mentally checked out. As I was saying, "No" I turned to see my husband pulling $7 out of his pocket. (Oh, good grief. And immediately a few hand gestures for my husband came to mind.)

The guy snatched it out of his hand and looked around to see if there were any other takers. Nope. Shocker. He was eventually led to one of our ministers, whose wife, it just so happened, had been recently warned of the fake deaf couple scam and he handled it appropriately.

Opposites attract. It's true. My husband will believe what you tell him. I probably won't. My husband takes anything at face value. I'll do research. My husband could win a social reality game show like Big Brother or Survivor. I would become the all-time hated contestant who everyone wants to physically harm after the first episode.

But somehow it works. We survived to the end of the week of Bible School and walked out of there last night still happily married.....me with gradually balancing hormones and him crusted with dried cracker slime and seven less dollars in his pocket, but still married.

(A friend, who shall remain nameless but whose initials are G.D recently requested that I occasionally include some "useful information" on my blog.....So, this is for you, G.D: Long John Silvers is offering a special: 8 piece family meal with one side and 12 hush puppies for $10....all served in a super-cool giant cardboard treasure chest with paper plates for your convenience. Extra crispies are no charge.)

What happens in da family, stays in da family.

Every family has their crazy stories that are labeled "Confidential." Under no circumstances are these stories to be spoken of in public.

Our family is no different, with exception of one thing. I have a blog.

And some stories are too good to file away.

If you're familiar with my blog, you know that most of my Top Secret stories involve everyone else in my family. (Well, except for my 4th of July entry from last year when I ate 3 plates of jello jigglers that turned out to be jello shots and I showed up drunk to the church picnic. Whatever.)

But in the interest of fairness, (and threats from my family), I feel the need to share with you what happened in this house this morning.

We're preparing for a garage sale next weekend and everyone is busy going through their things they've outgrown. K showed up in my bedroom and asked, "Can I sell this?" There in her hand hung my 21 year old Prom Dress. And as any woman knows, you can't be in a room with an old sentimental dress and not try it on.

Boosted by my recent weight loss and a fresh pair of Spanx, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the dress. When the zipper reached my butt region, we heard a little rip and she gasped. In my best "no big deal" voice, I explained that I just needed to put it over my head.

I got my beautiful strapless gown into place and I was one zip up my back away from running outside to surprise my husband who was my Prom date when I originally wore this dress. I excitedly told K to zip me up and then I stood there impatiently waiting. Five minutes and lots of panting and gasping later she said, "I'm not strong enough!" Good grief. It's just a zipper. What's the problem?

I ran upstairs and recruited A to help us out. Ten minutes and more grunting and A says, "Can you suck in?" (What the heck does she think I've been doing?!) I said, "I AM sucking in!!" She said, "Can you suck in your upper back?" (How in the h*** do you suck in upper back fat?) Finally, she said "We need Z's help." (Yes. Because this situation isn't quite humiliating enough.)

Enter the 17 year old boy who took one look at me and said, "Why?" So in the sweetest "mom voice" I could muster I said, "BECAUSE THIS FITS ME, D*** it!!!"

Three kids and ten minutes later, the zipper made it's way to the top. Just as Z yelled, "She's in!!" the zipper ripped from the bottom and left a gaping hole in the middle of my back. The teenagers burst out laughing and ran from the room, but K stuck around to comfort me as I stared at myself in the full length mirror. She patted my back and said, "It would have been fine if you hadn't breathed."

I'll keep that in mind next time.