Nice Shirt.

Husbands and wives fight.  Whether it be about finances or kids, we all occasionally blow our tops.

My husband and I are no exception, but the typical hot button topics are rarely the problem.  As a general rule, we agree on finances and despite our often unconventional parenting techniques, our kids seem to be surviving, so why fight about it?

However, none of that means we don't find reasons to let off a little steam from time to time. Our issues are just a bit more, um, stupid?  And unfortunately, we don't always keep them within the confines of the privacy of our home...ie; the notoriously public "Worship Your God Fight of 2003."  Long story.

That's right.  Some of our fights are worthy of going down in history with a name.  Which brings us to today....

For starters, it was a highly charged weekend right off the bat.  Friday night ended with me feeling rejected and him feeling confused.  In an attempt to save the weekend from certain disaster, we scheduled an impromptu date night Saturday and had a heart to heart talk over dinner. (Please bear with me as I get embarrassingly transparent with you for a minute.)  I explained that I'm an extremely insecure (almost) 41 year old mother of 4 that desperately craves the ability to still turn my husband's head.  Know what I mean?

Fast forward to this morning.  I anxiously pulled out the outfit I'd secretly shopped for last week.  The big guns.  The bling.  The clothes I painstakingly chose with the help of a friend for the sole purpose of popping my husband's eyes out of his head.  The super-tight-butt-lifting-miracle-jeans and the pink and black sequined top, all made complete by uncomfortably huge hoop earrings with shimmery balls.

I was practically giddy when he walked into the bathroom and saw me.  Nothing.  I sat across from him in the living room to eat my cereal.  Nothing.  We had a conversation about apples.  Nothing, nothing, nothing...because he hates it and I look fat and he just doesn't want to tell me, right?

I texted my friend and she suggested that I casually fish for a compliment to get his attention.  Ok.  So I blurted out in a loud and hyperventilating voice, "Do you like this outfit that I bought to wear for you or not because the longer you go without saying anything, the closer I get to changing clothes!"  Boom.  His look indicated that might not have come out as casually as I'd hoped.

But instead of reassuring me about my outfit, he responded, "Well, you haven't noticed my new shirt that I'm wearing, either!"  (Um, dude...that's the free t-shirt we got for running a 5k last week.  My deepest apologies for the insensitive oversight.)

The van was completely silent all the way to church.  We sat as far away from each other as possible on the tiny pew we share, still not speaking.  And then it happened.  Someone complimented him on his shirt.  My blood almost literally boiled within my veins.  A few minutes later, someone told me my shirt was cute and my husband and I shared a smug glare.  Then it happened again.  Someone else mentioned his shirt.  Oh, this is not happening.  And that began the "Shirt vs. Shirt Battle of 2012", where members of our congregation became unwitting participants.

None of this makes me proud and I'm already anticipating the spiritual beating that Joyce Meyer has waiting for me this week.  But it happened and someone may as well get a laugh out of it...or at least feel the need to pray for us. We're fine with either.

Things finally came to a rolling boil when we were leaving the church and he upped the ante by complimenting someone on how nice they looked.  Oh no he di'int!...and then 5 minutes later, he spilled coffee down the front of his shirt.

I win.  *snap*

We Tri'd.

Once again, hanging out with people in their 20's led people in their 40's down a new and painful path.  This time it was a Triathlon.  At the time, it didn't sound like that big a deal.  You swim.  You bike.  You run.  Cool.  Sign us up.  And that began the Triathlon experience for myself, my husband and our son.

So for those of you who are considering this adventure, let me fill you in on what they don't tell you...

1.  Training is crucial.  We each took different approaches.  I googled and strictly followed a Triathlon training schedule that included timed bike rides, runs, lap swims, open water swims, weight lifting and rigorous combinations of each on different days. Then I researched an eating schedule for the 3 days leading up to the race and increased my carbs and salt.

My husband worked equally hard, but did his own random thing.  Sometimes he would join me. Like the day I was scheduled to do an open swim on an overcast and 65 degree day in choppy water.  We stood there on the empty beach in our bathing suits and goggles while he lectured me on the difference between "Dedicated" and "Stupidity."  He ate what he wanted and became a regular popper of B12 supplements. 

Z's approach was this:  Take a total of 4 bike rides, do exactly 1 open swim, spend the day before the race at an amusement park, get a total of 4 hours sleep the night before, eat an entire pack of graham crackers for breakfast, show up for the race and hope for the best.  The joys of being 18. 

2.  Be prepared to spend money.  You expect the entrance fee because that comes with the territory.  But what they don't tell you is that a new bike and running shoes will start to look like a necessity and before you know it, a Footlocker employee is giving you permission to try out the shoes by running through the mall and suddenly people are confusing you with a criminal fleeing the scene in stolen shoes.  True story.

3.  Prepare to face your secret demons.  When you register online you'll be asked to rank yourself by age or weight.  Quite the dilemma.  I either had to claim and publicly advertise that I was almost 41 or that I'm 4 pounds within eligibility to be classified as an "Athena."  That's code for "over 150 lbs."  For those of you math wizards, you now know my weight.  That's okay, because for this race, I tapped into my inner Athens goddess of warfare and proudly claimed the Athena that I am....then they went and posted my age anyway.  Gee, thanks. 

4.  You will look ridiculous the day of the race.  Not only will you be required to walk a lengthy distance through a huge crowd wearing only your bathing suit, but swim caps are mandatory.  Good luck to those of us who rely on our hair to take the focus off our problem areas around the waist line.  I can only hope that my full eye make-up took the focus off the fact that I looked like a pear shaped alien.  Oh and did I mention the mandatory bike helmets?  Nobody looks good in a bike helmet, especially when you factor in that I accidentally wore mine backward during the race, because I'm just that cool.  Now picture my husband losing balance on his bike and running his head through some low hanging tree branches and I imagine we made quite the impression.  But Z pulled off the super-cool look by rocking out a shark bike helmet complete with fin.  Why didn't I think of that?

5.  Maybe most importantly, you need to be warned about this:  regardless of how full your bladder is, your body will refuse to let you urinate while you're swimming a race.  So either arrive early enough to visit the port-a-john or be ready to do a slow breast stroke in the middle and push like you're giving birth.  Don't judge, people.  You know as well as I do, my bladder would have released halfway through my bike course.  Nobody needs that.   It's not like swim pee is a new concept these days.  I mean, if it's good enough for Ryan Lochte, it's good enough for me.

6.  Finally, PMS will do you no good here.  I was ready to use that to my advantage...ya know, allow my rage to push me harder.  But when you find yourself surrounded by a group of the sweetest, kindest, most supportive and encouraging people you'll ever meet, not only will you resist the urge to throw an elbow, but you'll even feel slightly bad for the people coming up behind your slow breast stroke....

What's an empty nest?

I became pregnant with C when Z was 13, A was 11 and K was 8, so the question I repeatedly heard was, "Surprise?"

Naturally, 5 years later when Z graduated from High School and C is entering into Kindergarten, the question all Summer has been, "How will you handle your empty nest?"

I didn't know the answer because I couldn't imagine the situation.

It was pretty emotional at Open House when C looked too tiny sitting behind her large desk while her brother and sisters gathered around her for pictures.  That emotion hit me again when I looked across the room to see Z patiently explaining how she'll hang her things in her locker while she looked up at him and hung on his every word.  And again today when all 3 girls posed wearing their backpacks in the driveway before school.

Wednesday was the 1st day for everyone except the Kindergarteners and since A is doing the Post Secondary Classes (part time High School / part time College), she gets out of High School at 11am.  So Wednesday afternoon, the kick-off to my empty nest, I had 3 of our 4 children home and 2 of them were fighting.  Same thing yesterday.

What is this "empty nest" you speak of?!?

Today is C's big day.  The parents were invited to bring their child to their classroom to "say goodbye" and then stop and have some coffee and a cry if needed in the Butterfly Cafe, named for the pictures of the butterflies the kids colored during the orientation meeting on Wednesday.  A very sweet sentiment, but why in the he** would I do that to myself?!?  I don't need to cry!  I want to cry, but why give in to that?  I will not choose to focus on the part of me that's sad instead of the part of me that just watched my glowing-with-excitement 5 year old skip out the front door with a cheerful goodbye and a promise to tell me everything that happens today!  This day is about her, not me.

It's 9am.  Z is at work, the girls are at school and I've never heard the house this quiet.  So this is what an empty nest is like.  I drank my coffee and did my Beth Moore workbook in complete silence.  The house is clean and I haven't had to break up any fights.  This empty nest thing might not be such a bad thing.

But the reality is, this empty nest is quite temporary.  God in all of his infinite mercy allowed me a full day of massage clients to keep me busy.  A will be rolling back in here at 11am, the men of the family will be home by 3 and our younger girls will climb off the bus at 3:45.  Today, my nest is hoppin with activity, which makes this new transition much easier to handle.

That, and at Open House I spoke with the teacher and volunteered to spend this newly acquired spare time of mine in C's class..."We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but I'm going to be the room mother."

Train-ing

Several things coincided in my life recently.  1.  I started training for a Mini-Triathlon at the end of this month.  2.  My new Beth Moore workbook arrived.  3.  I took a Personality / Spiritual Gift profile test.  I have no idea what one has to do with the other, but God took over from there.  I'll share parts of my journey when / if God leads me. 

One thing is very clear.  I'm in training.  Spiritually, Mentally and Physically.  I have repeatedly felt Him say, "I made you free.  Now let's make you strong."

I don't know where we're going, but I trust Him and find myself growing more and more excited.  My Beth Moore book has been feeding right into that excitement.  The study is on Esther.  The theme last week; For Such a Time as This.  The lesson; Everything about us is under God's ordained and appointed time.  From our birth to our death and everything in between.

God is never surprised.

Armed with the comforting knowledge that God is in control, I left the house to do my bike workout and almost got hit by a train.  God might not be surprised, but I got the crap scared out of me.

I broke just about every rule in the book.  I had music blaring through ear buds in both ears.  I was attempting to time my ride on country roads, which caused me to forget little details like traffic...and trains.  Finally, having never encountered a train during my workouts before, I got too comfortable and assumed the coast was always clear.

I approached the tracks and noticed a woman on the other side mowing her grass look up at me with a scared look on her face.  As my front tire crossed over the first track, I sat up on my bike, removed my ear bud and looked to the right....and found myself staring at an approaching train while the driver pulled the horn.

They say your life will flash before your eyes.  I didn't see my life.  All I saw was train.  I pedaled across the tracks, the train sped by behind me and I dropped to the grass and sobbed.  How could I be so unaware of a threat the size of a train?!?

There's an obvious lesson here that I needed reminded of:  "Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong." 
~1 Corinthians 16:13.

God has a plan for us and we need to be alert spiritually, mentally and physically because there's an enemy much bigger than a train who would love nothing more than to derail us.
(Pun intended.) 

*I would be remiss not to point out Beth Moore's role in the whole train debacle.  If you're going to make a point of telling someone that God knows the day you're going to die, at least make it clear that it might even be today.  Geesh.



 

Lord of the Flies

A cookout we hosted last Friday apparently coincided with "National Fly Hatching Day" and by the time everyone arrived, at least 4,000 flies had taken camp on our deck.

By the time everyone left, at least 400 had made their way into our house.

A majority of my week has been spent trying to get rid of these pests.  Through the help of Google and Pinterest, I've tried nearly everything ranging from bowls of water to Tupperware lids coated in honey and brown sugar strategically placed around the house.  The dogs drank the water and the flies enjoyed their sweet treat before flying off to another room.

The most effective method so far has been slowly and quietly lurking through the house, armed with a rolled up coloring book, until I spot one.  Then I hover silently, with bated breath, while I wait for the magic moment....the moment when the fly lets down his guard and begins rubbing his front feet together and BAM!!!  followed by a "GOT HIM!!" and then continue on my hunt.

This goes on periodically throughout the day and I go to bed feeling like I've made a significant dent in our fly population, only to wake up the next morning to discover that they either came back from the dead, called in out of town relatives or hatched a whole new set of offspring overnight. 

Last night I finally broke down and bought a box of classy fly paper.  The kind that look like old rolls of film dangling from the ceiling.  The check out lady said, "Careful not to catch your hair in one of those" and I thought to myself, Do I look like an idiot? 

First thing this morning, I caught my hair in one of those.  And so far, that, along with carpet fuzz and dog fur (don't ask) are the only things those blasted traps have caught while the flies continue to mock me.

The phrase Dropping Like Flies keeps going through my head and taunting me.  What is causing those flies to drop and how do I get my hands on it!?!? 

I need your help!  The person who gives me the secret to dropping these flies will win a shout out on my blog.

Oh come on, you know that's tempting.

Nice Ace

When my 20-something year old friend asked us to play on their sand volleyball team, my 40 year old flattered ego answered yes before my body had a chance to speak up.

All doubt was removed when she told me their team name, and a false sense of confidence convinced me that she wouldn't ask me to wear a shirt that said "Nice Aces" if it didn't apply.

In a hard-core-athlete sad mid-life-crisis kinda way, I started preparing.  Every run on the treadmill, every weight lifted and every stomach crunch was with sand volleyball in mind.  I starved myself of carbs for a week and I traveled to Kohls stores both near and far to find the perfect pair of shorts to flatter my boldly advertised "nice ace" scripted across my chest.

Most importantly, I refreshed my memory with a little research by watching the beach volleyball scene from the movie Top Gun.  Because let's be clear.  It's all about the background music, choreographed flex of the muscles, slow motion high fives and just the right amount of sweat.  This isn't sand volleyball, people.  This is art.  And I was ready.

Saturday was the day.  With the help of Map Quest, we arrived at the destination....an Ostrich Farm.  WTH?  What I found even more baffling was the lack of ostrich on their self-proclaimed farm.  None.  Just what appeared to be a large carport, 2 port-a-potties, 4 sand volleyball courts and approximately 100 pick-up trucks full of beer coolers, surrounded by tents and lawn chairs with people passing around a jug of liquid "apple pie" that my husband warned me wasn't really apple pie.  A lesson he learned after I inadvertently ate a plate of jello shots and showed up drunk to a church picnic. 

But they had the background music.  It wasn't Kenny Loggins.  It was better.  It's like they took a copy of my iPod playlist.  Songs by Justin Timberlake, Ludacris and Florida to name a few.  Songs that convince you that you not only run fast, but that you look super cool while you're running fast.  And they were blasting from the speakers all day long.

Nine hours later, we walked away with 3rd place, which I consider a victory.  I think the sexy music helped.  Our opponents might have been distracted by the stunt plane that was practicing aerial maneuvers above our heads and/or the longer we played, the more drunk they got.  Or maybe, just maybe, they underestimated the skill of a team that included not only 40 year old Top Gun wannabes, but a couple of fierce pregnant women, too.

But watch out.  Because next year, some of us will have given birth and the rest of us will have mastered the all important volleyball-on-the-fingertip-spin...and then you're going down.

Consider me shocked

Fact #1:  Electrocution is my second biggest fear next to Rabies.
Fact #2:  If something hurts bad enough and long enough, I'm willing to try anything to make it go away.

The pain in my left hip is the by-product of a woman who takes up running at the age of 39.  It now serves as a daily reminder that I'm on the downhill slope to 41. 

Will the pain go away if I stop running?  Yes.
Will I stop running?  No.

That leaves me few options.  I've seen a Chiropractor, but that was a temporary fix and the pain returned.  If I could get a massage every day, it would eventually go away, but who can afford that?  Although I am a Massage Therapist, unfortunately I'm unable to contort myself to properly reach the problem.  So I've been living on muscle relaxers, ice, heat and stretching treatments.  Those bring relief, but it doesn't make it GO AWAY.

Desperation sent me to our neighbor's house this week to borrow her TENS machine.  Short for, Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator.  Code for, Electrotherapy.  Or in other words....electrocute my own ass.  Sign me up.

I knew one of two things.  My husband would either want nothing to do with this process or worse, he'd want too much to do with this process.  So I waited until he left the house to hook myself up.  I lay on our bed and stuck the 4 large round electrodes to the top of my left butt cheek where the pain originates.  Then I lay holding the control box and praying what I was sure would be my final prayer before electrifying myself straight to meet my maker face to face.

I might know what it feels like to be on death row now.

With the turn of the knobs, and a panicked scream, electrical currents started pulsing into my butt.  Not entirely unpleasant.  So I cranked it up, yelled "Son of a ____" and cranked it back down.  Turns out, it can be unpleasant.

I left it on for about an hour and took it off when paranoia of long term twitching, drooling and/or lack of bladder control entered my mind.

There was only one noticeable side-effect that was discovered shortly after crawling into bed with my husband when he said, "Crap!  Your butt just burned my fingers!"

Cool.  I've always wanted a hot butt....

*This just in:  Do NOT pee with electrodes attached to your ass.  One stray splash and your teeth will chatter for 8 whole seconds.
Knowledge is power, people.