If homeownership has taught me nothing else, it’s that the work is never done. You fix or replace one thing, only to find another waiting in its place. Or, updating one item leads you to realize just how terrible others are. Example? Our kitchen.
You may recall our summertime painting extravaganza, what with the laborious hours with paintbrush in hand, new handles and hinges and other varied tasks. You may also recall that we painted our cabinets off-white, which looked quite terrible against our already-terrible white laminate countertops and cream-colored walls. It was a major fashion faux pas if I’ve ever seen one in a kitchen.
Fast forward four months and a lovely sight greets me as I make my oatmeal each morning. It’s pure heaven. I love the brown walls, yummy grayish-brown Formica countertops and the fact that everything no longer clashes. The journey to Wednesday’s new addition wasn’t easy, but it was totally worth it.
Adam and I spent Tuesday evening unscrewing and removing the old counters, which was much, much harder than we had ever dreamed. You see, the genius who installed our kitchen cabinets put in the cabinet bases, attached the counters with countless screws and THEN finished out the sides of the cabinets. What this meant for us was it was impossible to remove the countertops, which were firmly attached to the cabinet bases and inaccessible from the outside. After some cussing and head scratching, we realized that surgery was our only option. With Adam’s jigsaw in hand and my fingers in my ears, we began cutting holes in the countertops to access the screws below. It was ALMOST comical, mostly because it was impossible to find the screws by blindly feeling along the splinter-encrusted boards. This is how I developed my newest nickname, “The Screw Whisperer” due to my uncanny ability to locate each of the many, many screws by hand.
After that hour-long ordeal, my next favorite task was up: hauling out the 20-foot slab of laminate to the garage. I’m just as strong as I look, so there were a lot of “breaks” involved in moving the counters less than 5 yards into the garage. There’s nothing stranger than a kitchen without a sink and countertops. I spent the rest of the evening catching myself before I threw a half-empty glass of water into the hole where a sink once resided or putting my cell phone on a counter that doesn’t exist. Really, I’m a huge fan of change. Huge.
I dreamt of horrible countertop-related disasters that night, only to be awoken by “The Call” to arrange for the district’s 2-hour delay due to the incredibly icy roads. School was eventually cancelled entirely, and Adam and I spent roughly 15 minutes that morning staring at the ceiling and trading possible horror stories.
“What if the truck with our countertops crashes and they’re ruined?”
“What if we have to live with no sink for a month?”
“What if they forgot a piece and have to drive back to Columbus?”
Also, what if we’re extremely paranoid? Everything went off without a hitch, and the counters were installed in roughly an hour’s time. My favorite part was watching them fuse the two pieces together with a contraption that appeared to be from a mad scientist. There were numerous paddles, wires and gauges that created an incredibly seamless joining of two separate pieces; very impressive.
After wiping the counters off at least four times to rid them of the dust that had set up shop, I stood back and was amazed…at how terrible the walls look.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Have you seen my motivation??
Winter does crazy things to me. It makes me feel like there are at least 23,849,732 things I’d rather do than run or submit to exercise of any kind. It’s almost as though winter has completely stifled my will to be anything but a couch potato. Then again, knowing my fate is running on a spinning belt in the basement may have something to do with it.
The summer me would shake her finger at the winter me, what with my affinity for the couch, sweat pants and snuggly socks instead of technical tees, merry outdoor jaunts and stretchy running tights. All I want to do is snack on roasted almonds while watching a mindless reality show; where’s the crime in that?
Last year, we dropped our moderately-priced memberships to the YMCA and instead invested in home exercise equipment and a treadmill. We’ll work out at home, we said while the sun wasn’t setting at 5 PM and snow was just a distant memory. Now, I drive home in the dark and despite Rudi’s whines at the sight of my running shoes, I begrudgingly head to the basement to submit to a 45-minute spin on the treadmill if the mood hits me. If I said it hasn’t gotten old, I’d be a big ol’ liar.
Exercise is a funny thing; it seems like an awful task until you get started. Memories of how good it makes you feel and look come flooding back almost immediately, causing you to wonder why you avoided it in the first place. It’s the getting there that becomes the difficult part, especially when it means heading below ground to your home’s basement.
Living in a locale where sidewalks are non-existent and the speed limit is 55 MPH also tends to cramp my style in the winter months. I mean, when it’s dark and snowy outside, I place a priority on my life rather than how muscular my calves will look in my fab new shoes at this year’s Christmas party. When desperation gets the best of me, I throw on my reflective vest, pack up the dog and we drive “into town” where they have technological advances like street lights and sidewalks. What in tarnation are them fancy things?!?
Truthfully, when the conditions are just right, running in the cool winter’s night is a spectacular outing. The Christmas lights are glowing, the air is nice and crisp and we have the well-lit sidewalks to ourselves. My sweet Rudi dog also proves to be an excellent navigator on these trips, ensuring both she and I avoid patches of ice with the greatest of ease. We operate like a well-oiled machine, watching carefully for cars and leaping after squirrels and cats when they cross our path. Nothing compares, however, to our daily jaunts in the warmer months that keep us both in the greatest of shape.
So, for now we’ll daydream about how nice a springtime run will feel from the couch while watching the Hills. Care for a roasted almond?
The summer me would shake her finger at the winter me, what with my affinity for the couch, sweat pants and snuggly socks instead of technical tees, merry outdoor jaunts and stretchy running tights. All I want to do is snack on roasted almonds while watching a mindless reality show; where’s the crime in that?
Last year, we dropped our moderately-priced memberships to the YMCA and instead invested in home exercise equipment and a treadmill. We’ll work out at home, we said while the sun wasn’t setting at 5 PM and snow was just a distant memory. Now, I drive home in the dark and despite Rudi’s whines at the sight of my running shoes, I begrudgingly head to the basement to submit to a 45-minute spin on the treadmill if the mood hits me. If I said it hasn’t gotten old, I’d be a big ol’ liar.
Exercise is a funny thing; it seems like an awful task until you get started. Memories of how good it makes you feel and look come flooding back almost immediately, causing you to wonder why you avoided it in the first place. It’s the getting there that becomes the difficult part, especially when it means heading below ground to your home’s basement.
Living in a locale where sidewalks are non-existent and the speed limit is 55 MPH also tends to cramp my style in the winter months. I mean, when it’s dark and snowy outside, I place a priority on my life rather than how muscular my calves will look in my fab new shoes at this year’s Christmas party. When desperation gets the best of me, I throw on my reflective vest, pack up the dog and we drive “into town” where they have technological advances like street lights and sidewalks. What in tarnation are them fancy things?!?
Truthfully, when the conditions are just right, running in the cool winter’s night is a spectacular outing. The Christmas lights are glowing, the air is nice and crisp and we have the well-lit sidewalks to ourselves. My sweet Rudi dog also proves to be an excellent navigator on these trips, ensuring both she and I avoid patches of ice with the greatest of ease. We operate like a well-oiled machine, watching carefully for cars and leaping after squirrels and cats when they cross our path. Nothing compares, however, to our daily jaunts in the warmer months that keep us both in the greatest of shape.
So, for now we’ll daydream about how nice a springtime run will feel from the couch while watching the Hills. Care for a roasted almond?
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Ouch
Have you ever noticed how hard it is to recall exactly how painful something was? You of course remember that it hurt, but the precise feeling of pain is quickly forgotten with the passage of time. Maybe you were just being a big baby and it really didn’t hurt THAT much. When it does return, though, it all comes flooding back to you like the day it first began. Any memory that involves pain is not quickly forgotten.
I am convinced that this is why women give birth to more than one child, why people get tattoos and why I insist on “running through” an injury that is desperately stabbing my body parts for the attention it rightfully deserves. Last Saturday, Adam and I ran a 10K (6.2 miles) in a nearby village and memories of the pain I was once in came flooding back to me.
The funny thing is, I remembered being in this exact same pain—I just couldn’t place the pain in a specific time or location. Injury amnesia, perhaps? It took 12 hours of laying on the couch with various bags of frozen vegetables strapped to my outer knee for 20 minute intervals before I had my much-anticipated “ah-ha moment.” Adam and I both ran a half marathon in May in Indianapolis, which is where this all began. While moseying along the streets of downtown Indy, I made a regrettable rookie mistake.
I was caught up in the moment and instead of focusing on where I was going, I settled intently on being irritated that I was surrounded by runners whose pace was slower than my own. As my frustration grew, my left foot landed on a loose piece of pavement, skewing my leg in an unnatural position and irritating the heck out of my IT band. The IT band is a large bunch of muscle fibers that run from your hip flexors down to your calves. They cross over the bone on the outside of your knee, and when irritated and injured, begin to rub against the bone, creating an intense stabbing pain on the outside of the knee. This began during mile 5 of the 12.1-mile race back in May. I spent the remainder hobble-running and pretending I was not in intense amounts of pain, which I actually was.
After all was said and done, I nursed the injury with frozen veggies, stretched and rested, which seemed to do the trick. Fast forward to Sunday and mile 4 of the 6.2-mile race. The aching, stabbing pain slowly resurfaced and I began mentally assessing the situation. I quickly realized I was making excellent time (8:30 miles) and could easily finish the race in less than 50 minutes if I revved my engines a bit. Revving only made things worse, much worse, and I shifted by focus to simply continuing to move as I was passed by people twice my age and some man speed walking. He was taunting me with his stupid speed walking that far outshone my feeble attempts at running. I was not going to walk, I told myself. I could do anything else but walk.
Since I had established that walking was not an option, I cried instead. The last half mile, I winced, screamed and sobbed underneath my oversized movie star sunglasses until I passed the finish line in just under an hour’s time. As I struggled to stop crying like a hyperventalating15 year-old who was just dumped by her boyfriend, I realized what an idiot I was. In my painful rage, I’d managed to convince myself that finishing a measly 10K in under 60 minutes was more important than preventing further injury to an already painful injury. What was more important, I wondered: finishing a 10K in less than 60 minutes OR being able to run for the rest of my life?
Once my competitive spirit had died down, the answer was painfully obvious—literally. It’s so easy to get caught up in a single moment and to tell yourself that this is the most important goal you’ve set for yourself and not achieving it would be disastrous. Really? A 10K is the most important thing I had going for me that day? No, not really, but it was easy to tell myself that while watching a person pass me WALKING. He may have been walking quickly, but he was still walking. That hurts the old ego, no matter how you spin it.
Besides, when did I become so tough? I am a humongous baby. I cry bloody murder over paper cuts, stubbed toes and anything else that reaches my tremendously low pain threshold, yet somehow I convinced myself to power through pain that made me cry (which I rarely do, also)? I need to make up my mind on this whole being a baby thing.
I am convinced that this is why women give birth to more than one child, why people get tattoos and why I insist on “running through” an injury that is desperately stabbing my body parts for the attention it rightfully deserves. Last Saturday, Adam and I ran a 10K (6.2 miles) in a nearby village and memories of the pain I was once in came flooding back to me.
The funny thing is, I remembered being in this exact same pain—I just couldn’t place the pain in a specific time or location. Injury amnesia, perhaps? It took 12 hours of laying on the couch with various bags of frozen vegetables strapped to my outer knee for 20 minute intervals before I had my much-anticipated “ah-ha moment.” Adam and I both ran a half marathon in May in Indianapolis, which is where this all began. While moseying along the streets of downtown Indy, I made a regrettable rookie mistake.
I was caught up in the moment and instead of focusing on where I was going, I settled intently on being irritated that I was surrounded by runners whose pace was slower than my own. As my frustration grew, my left foot landed on a loose piece of pavement, skewing my leg in an unnatural position and irritating the heck out of my IT band. The IT band is a large bunch of muscle fibers that run from your hip flexors down to your calves. They cross over the bone on the outside of your knee, and when irritated and injured, begin to rub against the bone, creating an intense stabbing pain on the outside of the knee. This began during mile 5 of the 12.1-mile race back in May. I spent the remainder hobble-running and pretending I was not in intense amounts of pain, which I actually was.
After all was said and done, I nursed the injury with frozen veggies, stretched and rested, which seemed to do the trick. Fast forward to Sunday and mile 4 of the 6.2-mile race. The aching, stabbing pain slowly resurfaced and I began mentally assessing the situation. I quickly realized I was making excellent time (8:30 miles) and could easily finish the race in less than 50 minutes if I revved my engines a bit. Revving only made things worse, much worse, and I shifted by focus to simply continuing to move as I was passed by people twice my age and some man speed walking. He was taunting me with his stupid speed walking that far outshone my feeble attempts at running. I was not going to walk, I told myself. I could do anything else but walk.
Since I had established that walking was not an option, I cried instead. The last half mile, I winced, screamed and sobbed underneath my oversized movie star sunglasses until I passed the finish line in just under an hour’s time. As I struggled to stop crying like a hyperventalating15 year-old who was just dumped by her boyfriend, I realized what an idiot I was. In my painful rage, I’d managed to convince myself that finishing a measly 10K in under 60 minutes was more important than preventing further injury to an already painful injury. What was more important, I wondered: finishing a 10K in less than 60 minutes OR being able to run for the rest of my life?
Once my competitive spirit had died down, the answer was painfully obvious—literally. It’s so easy to get caught up in a single moment and to tell yourself that this is the most important goal you’ve set for yourself and not achieving it would be disastrous. Really? A 10K is the most important thing I had going for me that day? No, not really, but it was easy to tell myself that while watching a person pass me WALKING. He may have been walking quickly, but he was still walking. That hurts the old ego, no matter how you spin it.
Besides, when did I become so tough? I am a humongous baby. I cry bloody murder over paper cuts, stubbed toes and anything else that reaches my tremendously low pain threshold, yet somehow I convinced myself to power through pain that made me cry (which I rarely do, also)? I need to make up my mind on this whole being a baby thing.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A death in the family
It’s no secret that I love fashion and all it encompasses—clothing, accessories, purses, and shoes; I love it all. I live for expressing myself through dress, mixing tried and true favorites with the latest trends. Fashion, to me, is art. I nearly cried this morning when I realized a member of my trusted fashion arsenal had come down with a terminal illness and would not be with us much longer.
It’s always sad when your favorite anything begins to show its age. I shudder when my favorite wool sweater begins to pill uncontrollably or my favorite white tee starts to turn an embarrassing shade of yellow. My fear is that a replacement for this ‘perfect’ item will never be found and nothing can ever compare to the relationship this ideal article and I once had. Our glory days, as they are called, have ended.
While t-shirts and sweaters can easily be replaced by newer models with minimal impact, some wardrobe staples can prove to be truly irreplaceable. A pair of jeans, regardless of your size or body shape, is hard to find. Even we skinny girls struggle to find denim to accentuate our lack of curves and bony butts. This is why I snatch up a perfectly fitting pair without question, because I intuitively know I will regret my horrid decision if I do not. Oddly, some of my favorite and best-fitting jeans are the least expensive pairs I have snatched up at fine retailers like Target and Forever 21.
My most favorite and comfortable pair, purchased my junior year of college from one such store, is beginning to show its age from the excessive wear and love I have heaped upon it. If it was a college football player, it would be red shirted for the coming season and will hopefully return after some intense physical therapy. Deep down, like a veteran coach, I know things will never be the same. (Editors note: I cannot believe I am using sports analogies in reference to clothing. My husband is really starting to rub off on me.)
I liken a pair of jeans to the way we look at our grandparents or children—in our eyes, they will always be just as we imagine them from our fondest memories. We look past what the hands of time have done and see them just as we remembered—perfect and untouched. My beloved jeans are no different. I consciously choose to look past the ever-thinning knees, frayed seams, mangled hems, and see the denim beauties just as they were back in ‘03. They have always fit like a dream, with their dreamy cotton blend with just a kiss of stretch that somehow manages to make it look like I actually have a butt. They are perfect with a cute pair of ballet flats, my old New Balance sneakers or a sky-high heel. I have dressed them up, dressed them down and thrown them in the wash more times than I can count. The jeans and I have been through a lot.
Every article of clothing you own contains memories. Sometimes, I imagine myself touching an article of clothing and magically being whisked away to all the moments it remembers and the stories it has to tell. For every article I own, I always remember when I purchased it, whether I splurged on an, “I deserve this” piece or snatched up something truly fab on clearance. I can clearly recall every article of clothing worn during the defining moments of my life. I’ll always remember the beautiful blue backless dress I wore to prom, the old maroon t-shirt Adam was wearing when we met, the LBD that always looks good—they were there with me through the ups and downs of it all. These are the moments of your life, and clothing is always there to guide you through them. Think about it—how many times do you change before leaving for work each morning? And how many times do you look in your closet and whine, “I have nothing to wear!” And, of course, how many times do you call friends to ask them what they’re wearing to an event in the hopes that if you look like an idiot, at least you’ll look like idiots together? As for me, the answers are: at least five, twice a week and more often than I’d like to admit.
Some people have a photographic memory. I have a fashion memory. I can tell you what I wore to just about any event in my life. I can even tell you who saw what outfit and when, in the hopes that I will avoid wearing it twice in a short span of time. I can even tell you what YOU were wearing to those same events and if you are wearing something new, I will probably notice that, too. I am not judging, I am just obsessively observant.
Some day, my jeans will become unwearable and I will have to permanently retire them from the starting lineup. That will be a sad day and I will have an incredibly hard time letting go, this I know for sure. Some other hot, young, fresh pair of jeans will step in to replace them and they will become yesterday’s news. They may leave me, but I will not forget the moments we shared. Saying goodbye is always so hard.
It’s always sad when your favorite anything begins to show its age. I shudder when my favorite wool sweater begins to pill uncontrollably or my favorite white tee starts to turn an embarrassing shade of yellow. My fear is that a replacement for this ‘perfect’ item will never be found and nothing can ever compare to the relationship this ideal article and I once had. Our glory days, as they are called, have ended.
While t-shirts and sweaters can easily be replaced by newer models with minimal impact, some wardrobe staples can prove to be truly irreplaceable. A pair of jeans, regardless of your size or body shape, is hard to find. Even we skinny girls struggle to find denim to accentuate our lack of curves and bony butts. This is why I snatch up a perfectly fitting pair without question, because I intuitively know I will regret my horrid decision if I do not. Oddly, some of my favorite and best-fitting jeans are the least expensive pairs I have snatched up at fine retailers like Target and Forever 21.
My most favorite and comfortable pair, purchased my junior year of college from one such store, is beginning to show its age from the excessive wear and love I have heaped upon it. If it was a college football player, it would be red shirted for the coming season and will hopefully return after some intense physical therapy. Deep down, like a veteran coach, I know things will never be the same. (Editors note: I cannot believe I am using sports analogies in reference to clothing. My husband is really starting to rub off on me.)
I liken a pair of jeans to the way we look at our grandparents or children—in our eyes, they will always be just as we imagine them from our fondest memories. We look past what the hands of time have done and see them just as we remembered—perfect and untouched. My beloved jeans are no different. I consciously choose to look past the ever-thinning knees, frayed seams, mangled hems, and see the denim beauties just as they were back in ‘03. They have always fit like a dream, with their dreamy cotton blend with just a kiss of stretch that somehow manages to make it look like I actually have a butt. They are perfect with a cute pair of ballet flats, my old New Balance sneakers or a sky-high heel. I have dressed them up, dressed them down and thrown them in the wash more times than I can count. The jeans and I have been through a lot.
Every article of clothing you own contains memories. Sometimes, I imagine myself touching an article of clothing and magically being whisked away to all the moments it remembers and the stories it has to tell. For every article I own, I always remember when I purchased it, whether I splurged on an, “I deserve this” piece or snatched up something truly fab on clearance. I can clearly recall every article of clothing worn during the defining moments of my life. I’ll always remember the beautiful blue backless dress I wore to prom, the old maroon t-shirt Adam was wearing when we met, the LBD that always looks good—they were there with me through the ups and downs of it all. These are the moments of your life, and clothing is always there to guide you through them. Think about it—how many times do you change before leaving for work each morning? And how many times do you look in your closet and whine, “I have nothing to wear!” And, of course, how many times do you call friends to ask them what they’re wearing to an event in the hopes that if you look like an idiot, at least you’ll look like idiots together? As for me, the answers are: at least five, twice a week and more often than I’d like to admit.
Some people have a photographic memory. I have a fashion memory. I can tell you what I wore to just about any event in my life. I can even tell you who saw what outfit and when, in the hopes that I will avoid wearing it twice in a short span of time. I can even tell you what YOU were wearing to those same events and if you are wearing something new, I will probably notice that, too. I am not judging, I am just obsessively observant.
Some day, my jeans will become unwearable and I will have to permanently retire them from the starting lineup. That will be a sad day and I will have an incredibly hard time letting go, this I know for sure. Some other hot, young, fresh pair of jeans will step in to replace them and they will become yesterday’s news. They may leave me, but I will not forget the moments we shared. Saying goodbye is always so hard.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Cruising
I do not enjoy driving. I have never enjoyed driving and I probably never will. It’s not that I’m a bad driver (although Adam wouldn’t agree) I’m just entirely too uptight to find enjoyment in the driving experience.
Other than rolling down the windows on a nice day and listening to awesome music, one of the only things I enjoy while driving is cruise control. To me, it is one of the world’s best inventions. What is cooler than getting in your car, hitting a button and only having to worry about steering and staying on the road? Instead of three tasks, you are instantly upgraded to being required to perform just two. Your brain and foot get a brief rest from juggling these items and you can relax and enjoy the ride.
Cruise control, however, is not without its faults. It quickly falls down the “best invention ever” list when some jerk in front of you slows down and refuses to get over and then you have to hit the brake and the process of setting cruise control starts all over again. It is not a perfect system by any means, which makes it awesome about 40% of the time.
Its near-perfection comes with moving the concept of cruise control to another task, allowing it to run its course without interruption. My favorite occasion to throw on the cruise control is while running. As a creature of habit, I run and walk the same four or five paths day in and day out. This is something I never tire of—ever. I am thrilled to take the same roads, see the same sights and nestle in the comfort of familiarity that the same path provides. My feet know the way—they have been here before. I throw on the cruise and let my brain drift to whatever bothers, intrigues or ails me at the moment.
Some of my best work and my most profound thoughts are the product of a cruise-control induced run. I consider ideas and mull over plans I do not have time to contemplate when I’m juggling the multiple tasks of daily life. There is nothing else to consider during this time—it is just me and the road. Skipping a run or foregoing a walk with the dog always comes back to bite me, no matter what I tell myself from a comfortable spot on the couch. I’m calmer, more focused and much more pleasant to be around after I’ve given myself 30 minutes of time to exercise my mind and body. The same goes with the dog—she is a different pooch without our evening runs to calm her.
My exclusive use of “running cruise control” often offends people I know who think I’ve chosen to ignore them while I’m out for a run. Truth is, I gave up a long time ago on attempting to identify those who wave, honk or yell from vehicles going 35 miles an hour. More often than not, they have already passed by the time I realize who they actually are, which really defeats the purpose of being friendly. Or, I automatically wave, only to realize that I do not know the old creepy person I just warmly greeted. So, for the sake of being consistent, I just ignore everyone who passes in a car. I go off into my own little world, a place where I can’t hear car honks or random things screamed by teenagers. My own personal cruise control drowns it all out.
When my cruise control cannot drown out aches and pains of a trying event, such as the triathlon Adam and I completed on Sunday, I resort to what I call my “crazy phrase.” I chant this mantra repeatedly, like a crazy person, until the event is over. I held out as long as I could, but finally resorted to my crazy phrase as my body began to rebel against the 4-miler I ran after completing a 3-mile canoe and 15 mile bike ride on Sunday. I think every occasion deserves a new phrase—the half marathon crazy phrase is “Pain is temporary.” The triathlon, though, required a different vibe—“You’re almost there,” because, well, you are.
Other than rolling down the windows on a nice day and listening to awesome music, one of the only things I enjoy while driving is cruise control. To me, it is one of the world’s best inventions. What is cooler than getting in your car, hitting a button and only having to worry about steering and staying on the road? Instead of three tasks, you are instantly upgraded to being required to perform just two. Your brain and foot get a brief rest from juggling these items and you can relax and enjoy the ride.
Cruise control, however, is not without its faults. It quickly falls down the “best invention ever” list when some jerk in front of you slows down and refuses to get over and then you have to hit the brake and the process of setting cruise control starts all over again. It is not a perfect system by any means, which makes it awesome about 40% of the time.
Its near-perfection comes with moving the concept of cruise control to another task, allowing it to run its course without interruption. My favorite occasion to throw on the cruise control is while running. As a creature of habit, I run and walk the same four or five paths day in and day out. This is something I never tire of—ever. I am thrilled to take the same roads, see the same sights and nestle in the comfort of familiarity that the same path provides. My feet know the way—they have been here before. I throw on the cruise and let my brain drift to whatever bothers, intrigues or ails me at the moment.
Some of my best work and my most profound thoughts are the product of a cruise-control induced run. I consider ideas and mull over plans I do not have time to contemplate when I’m juggling the multiple tasks of daily life. There is nothing else to consider during this time—it is just me and the road. Skipping a run or foregoing a walk with the dog always comes back to bite me, no matter what I tell myself from a comfortable spot on the couch. I’m calmer, more focused and much more pleasant to be around after I’ve given myself 30 minutes of time to exercise my mind and body. The same goes with the dog—she is a different pooch without our evening runs to calm her.
My exclusive use of “running cruise control” often offends people I know who think I’ve chosen to ignore them while I’m out for a run. Truth is, I gave up a long time ago on attempting to identify those who wave, honk or yell from vehicles going 35 miles an hour. More often than not, they have already passed by the time I realize who they actually are, which really defeats the purpose of being friendly. Or, I automatically wave, only to realize that I do not know the old creepy person I just warmly greeted. So, for the sake of being consistent, I just ignore everyone who passes in a car. I go off into my own little world, a place where I can’t hear car honks or random things screamed by teenagers. My own personal cruise control drowns it all out.
When my cruise control cannot drown out aches and pains of a trying event, such as the triathlon Adam and I completed on Sunday, I resort to what I call my “crazy phrase.” I chant this mantra repeatedly, like a crazy person, until the event is over. I held out as long as I could, but finally resorted to my crazy phrase as my body began to rebel against the 4-miler I ran after completing a 3-mile canoe and 15 mile bike ride on Sunday. I think every occasion deserves a new phrase—the half marathon crazy phrase is “Pain is temporary.” The triathlon, though, required a different vibe—“You’re almost there,” because, well, you are.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Everything I know, I learned from my dog
A while back, there was an e-mail going around on this subject. After scouring the 955 items in my deleted items folder, I am unable to locate it so I’ve attempted to recreate it instead. The more time I spend around my dog, the more I realize how true the concept really is. In no particular order, here is what my Rudi has taught me.
Unconditional love: No matter how many times I yell or get upset at my dog, she loves me just as much before the yelling as she did before. In fact, she goes out of her way to love me MORE afterwards, perhaps to make up for the wrongdoings that transpired beforehand.
Boredom now, regret later: She knows she is not supposed to chew on Adam’s hats, wallet, shoes, batteries and the remote control, but boredom often gets the best of my Rudi dog. As soon as I walk in the door after her run-in with any of the afore mentioned objects, Rudi attempts to get her body as close to the floor as possible. It’s either an attempt to hide or blend in the with the carpet (considering it’s covered in her hair, that’s not too much of a stretch). She knows it’s wrong, but it just tasted so good at the time.
Sharing is caring: No matter what I’m eating or where I’m eating it, Rudi knows there is some noshing going on, and she wants in on the action. I could be eating moldy spinach and Rudi would sit patiently, hoping I drop a strand or two so she can have some, too. She once ate an entire turkey sandwich left unattended, which really throws my idea of ‘sharing’ out the window.
The best toys in life are cheap: Rudi’s favorite toys are the following: old towels tied in a knot, old t-shirts tied in a knot and empty boxes. I have purchased nice, expensive toys and she has absolutely no interest in them. Those costly things are for the birds, she would rather have the good stuff. By “good stuff” I mean cheap hand-me-downs that were headed for the garbage.
The two most exciting things in life: Going on a walk and coming home. Rudi is completely and utterly inconsolable when she thinks she is going on a walk—it’s insane. As soon as I have my shoes on and walk toward the door, she knows what’s about to happen. She physically cannot sit still, cannot stop whining and acts like she’s going to die if she doesn’t go outside right now. Once we’re outside, it’s as if nothing ever happened. The arrival home of Adam or I is probably the second most exciting occurrence, filled with excitement and plenty of incessant jumping.
Always kiss me goodnight: Rudi usually won’t go to sleep until she has received a good night kiss from Adam. When Adam says, “Rudi, kiss,” she knows it’s time to hit the hay. She usually sits patiently by his side of the bed until she’s gotten her kiss, then moseys over to her bed at the end of our bed and drifts off to sleep. Of course, not before letting out a long sigh like she has had a long day at the office.
Nothing beats a good nap: Dogs sleep and nap—a lot. They seem to have no problem resting, lounging and being comfortable in general. It renews them and gives them the energy to chew on the remote control when you leave.
Work hard, play hard: After a long day of napping, Rudi grabs her old towel tied in a knot and is ready for some quality tug-of-war. If you aren’t interested in playing, that’s just too bad. She will whine, bark and make this annoying whistle through her nostrils until you give in to her will. And you will give in. If that doesn’t work, she’ll run frenzied, figure-8 circles around the dining room and coffee table until she’s panting uncontrollably. This is what we like to call “psycho dog.”
Be wary of loud noises and bright lights: Rudi loves everything except the vacuum cleaner. Her ears perk up when the vacuum rolls out of the closet and she stares skeptically at the vacuum as it draws closer. She vigilantly sits until her tolerance is reached and the vacuum is 2 feet from her body and then runs to the opposite side of the room as if being chased.
Unconditional love: No matter how many times I yell or get upset at my dog, she loves me just as much before the yelling as she did before. In fact, she goes out of her way to love me MORE afterwards, perhaps to make up for the wrongdoings that transpired beforehand.
Boredom now, regret later: She knows she is not supposed to chew on Adam’s hats, wallet, shoes, batteries and the remote control, but boredom often gets the best of my Rudi dog. As soon as I walk in the door after her run-in with any of the afore mentioned objects, Rudi attempts to get her body as close to the floor as possible. It’s either an attempt to hide or blend in the with the carpet (considering it’s covered in her hair, that’s not too much of a stretch). She knows it’s wrong, but it just tasted so good at the time.
Sharing is caring: No matter what I’m eating or where I’m eating it, Rudi knows there is some noshing going on, and she wants in on the action. I could be eating moldy spinach and Rudi would sit patiently, hoping I drop a strand or two so she can have some, too. She once ate an entire turkey sandwich left unattended, which really throws my idea of ‘sharing’ out the window.
The best toys in life are cheap: Rudi’s favorite toys are the following: old towels tied in a knot, old t-shirts tied in a knot and empty boxes. I have purchased nice, expensive toys and she has absolutely no interest in them. Those costly things are for the birds, she would rather have the good stuff. By “good stuff” I mean cheap hand-me-downs that were headed for the garbage.
The two most exciting things in life: Going on a walk and coming home. Rudi is completely and utterly inconsolable when she thinks she is going on a walk—it’s insane. As soon as I have my shoes on and walk toward the door, she knows what’s about to happen. She physically cannot sit still, cannot stop whining and acts like she’s going to die if she doesn’t go outside right now. Once we’re outside, it’s as if nothing ever happened. The arrival home of Adam or I is probably the second most exciting occurrence, filled with excitement and plenty of incessant jumping.
Always kiss me goodnight: Rudi usually won’t go to sleep until she has received a good night kiss from Adam. When Adam says, “Rudi, kiss,” she knows it’s time to hit the hay. She usually sits patiently by his side of the bed until she’s gotten her kiss, then moseys over to her bed at the end of our bed and drifts off to sleep. Of course, not before letting out a long sigh like she has had a long day at the office.
Nothing beats a good nap: Dogs sleep and nap—a lot. They seem to have no problem resting, lounging and being comfortable in general. It renews them and gives them the energy to chew on the remote control when you leave.
Work hard, play hard: After a long day of napping, Rudi grabs her old towel tied in a knot and is ready for some quality tug-of-war. If you aren’t interested in playing, that’s just too bad. She will whine, bark and make this annoying whistle through her nostrils until you give in to her will. And you will give in. If that doesn’t work, she’ll run frenzied, figure-8 circles around the dining room and coffee table until she’s panting uncontrollably. This is what we like to call “psycho dog.”
Be wary of loud noises and bright lights: Rudi loves everything except the vacuum cleaner. Her ears perk up when the vacuum rolls out of the closet and she stares skeptically at the vacuum as it draws closer. She vigilantly sits until her tolerance is reached and the vacuum is 2 feet from her body and then runs to the opposite side of the room as if being chased.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Grow old along with me…
Friday, August 15 marked the 25th anniversary of my birth. In my family, birthdays are a big deal. Everyone gathers for a celebration that is complete with a meal of the birthday person’s choosing, a cake and a shower of gifts from family members. While some people feel that their birthday is a day where it’s “all about me,” I tend to take the stance that my birthday is the one day of the year where I can pretty much do whatever I want. Why? Because it’s my birthday, that’s why.
Last Friday was no exception to my hard and fast rule. On Thursday, everyone in the office received an e-mail announcing Friday as “Hawaiian shirt and flip flop day,” in celebration of the last Friday before school began. I immediately realized that while I do own flip-flops, I do not, nor will I ever, own a Hawaiian shirt. I once owned a blue tank top with white Hawaiian-like flowers on it, but that made its journey to Goodwill years ago. So, when I awoke on my birthday, I wore an incredibly un-Hawaiian outfit of jeans, a gray sweater a black blazer and black loafers. Take that, conventional wisdom!
Upon arriving to the office, I was wished a happy birthday and chastised for my lack of hideous floral attire. I was asked how old I was and immediately criticized for my incredible youth, which apparently nauseated those who work with me. One co-worker even threatened to put gum in my hair after I said, “Twenty-five feels old.” Other kinder, gentler co-workers made apple pie with crumbles on top and sticky buns. I had a big slice of pie followed by a warm sticky bun, which is completely out of character for me. Normally I’d have a big slice of nothing and a warm nothing and proceed to cut up my apple at the sink. Then, I’d hear something like, “Look at you, little Miss willpower/skinny/healthnut!” or “That’s why you look like THAT and I look like THIS.” Once, someone watched me prepare my fruit and said, “So that’s your secret!” I responded that eating fruit instead of a 300-calorie doughnut really isn’t a “secret”—I’d call it a choice instead. I could go on, but I won’t bore you with the details of being 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter than all of your co-workers.
After spending the rest of the morning in a sugar-induced coma, Adam treated me to lunch where I ordered my old faithful, a grilled chicken salad. He gave me my birthday gift, a lovely bracelet. It was too big for my small, child-like wrists, but very beautiful and thoughtful nonetheless. Perhaps if I ate more apple pie and sticky buns this wouldn’t be a problem!
We were dismissed from work early in celebration of the last Friday before school began (we’re hard-pressed for something to celebrate around here) and I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up a few essentials. Upon arriving home, I placed my bags on the kitchen counter and headed over to let Rudi out of her cage. When I turned back toward the kitchen, something looked odd—out of place, even. Could it be? Like a bright, white light shining from heaven, my eyes rested upon the most beautiful sight. It was…
Last Friday was no exception to my hard and fast rule. On Thursday, everyone in the office received an e-mail announcing Friday as “Hawaiian shirt and flip flop day,” in celebration of the last Friday before school began. I immediately realized that while I do own flip-flops, I do not, nor will I ever, own a Hawaiian shirt. I once owned a blue tank top with white Hawaiian-like flowers on it, but that made its journey to Goodwill years ago. So, when I awoke on my birthday, I wore an incredibly un-Hawaiian outfit of jeans, a gray sweater a black blazer and black loafers. Take that, conventional wisdom!
Upon arriving to the office, I was wished a happy birthday and chastised for my lack of hideous floral attire. I was asked how old I was and immediately criticized for my incredible youth, which apparently nauseated those who work with me. One co-worker even threatened to put gum in my hair after I said, “Twenty-five feels old.” Other kinder, gentler co-workers made apple pie with crumbles on top and sticky buns. I had a big slice of pie followed by a warm sticky bun, which is completely out of character for me. Normally I’d have a big slice of nothing and a warm nothing and proceed to cut up my apple at the sink. Then, I’d hear something like, “Look at you, little Miss willpower/skinny/healthnut!” or “That’s why you look like THAT and I look like THIS.” Once, someone watched me prepare my fruit and said, “So that’s your secret!” I responded that eating fruit instead of a 300-calorie doughnut really isn’t a “secret”—I’d call it a choice instead. I could go on, but I won’t bore you with the details of being 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter than all of your co-workers.
After spending the rest of the morning in a sugar-induced coma, Adam treated me to lunch where I ordered my old faithful, a grilled chicken salad. He gave me my birthday gift, a lovely bracelet. It was too big for my small, child-like wrists, but very beautiful and thoughtful nonetheless. Perhaps if I ate more apple pie and sticky buns this wouldn’t be a problem!
We were dismissed from work early in celebration of the last Friday before school began (we’re hard-pressed for something to celebrate around here) and I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up a few essentials. Upon arriving home, I placed my bags on the kitchen counter and headed over to let Rudi out of her cage. When I turned back toward the kitchen, something looked odd—out of place, even. Could it be? Like a bright, white light shining from heaven, my eyes rested upon the most beautiful sight. It was…
a NEW OVEN! I immediately began laughing hysterically (my normal reaction when I’m not sure how else to react to a situation) and began lovingly inspecting and caressing the new addition to our family. It was almost as though Adam knew how much I hated the old oven!
I picked up the phone and called Adam, who was at a football scrimmage. The conversation went something like this:
Adam: “Hello?”
Me: “Uh, hello! New oven!!”
Adam: “Oh, yeah. You noticed?”
Like somehow I would miss that the crusty bane of my existence was no longer a fixture in our home. The new oven was so gorgeous, what with its smooth, flat top, white exterior and brand name that was recognizable. My favorite part of this story is the reaction the Home Depot guy had when hauling off the old oven. Adam told me he had many questions, like:
“Whoa. Does this thing still work?”
“Your house isn’t old enough to have an oven like this in it. Where did this thing come from?”
I only wish I could have been there to provide crisp, witty responses such as:
“Unfortunately, yes. We’ve tried to kill it, bribe it and destroy it, but it refuses to die.”
“We aren’t sure Home Depot guy, but I’m pretty sure the bowels of Hell.”
The irony of all of this is that my dear husband is the one who does all the cooking at our house—my morning oatmeal and egg white omelets are as close as I get to ‘cooking.’ My main concern is how good it looks and how easy it is to clean—check and check. I rest peacefully at night knowing that the Caloric is now rusting away in a dump somewhere, the place it should have gone years ago.
After I finished admiring the oven, I headed outside for a long, relaxing run—a birthday gift to myself. It was on this run that I got to thinking about birthdays and how great this one was. Was this the best birthday ever? Nah, I thought with a smile. I have a feeling that the best is yet to be.
I picked up the phone and called Adam, who was at a football scrimmage. The conversation went something like this:
Adam: “Hello?”
Me: “Uh, hello! New oven!!”
Adam: “Oh, yeah. You noticed?”
Like somehow I would miss that the crusty bane of my existence was no longer a fixture in our home. The new oven was so gorgeous, what with its smooth, flat top, white exterior and brand name that was recognizable. My favorite part of this story is the reaction the Home Depot guy had when hauling off the old oven. Adam told me he had many questions, like:
“Whoa. Does this thing still work?”
“Your house isn’t old enough to have an oven like this in it. Where did this thing come from?”
I only wish I could have been there to provide crisp, witty responses such as:
“Unfortunately, yes. We’ve tried to kill it, bribe it and destroy it, but it refuses to die.”
“We aren’t sure Home Depot guy, but I’m pretty sure the bowels of Hell.”
The irony of all of this is that my dear husband is the one who does all the cooking at our house—my morning oatmeal and egg white omelets are as close as I get to ‘cooking.’ My main concern is how good it looks and how easy it is to clean—check and check. I rest peacefully at night knowing that the Caloric is now rusting away in a dump somewhere, the place it should have gone years ago.
After I finished admiring the oven, I headed outside for a long, relaxing run—a birthday gift to myself. It was on this run that I got to thinking about birthdays and how great this one was. Was this the best birthday ever? Nah, I thought with a smile. I have a feeling that the best is yet to be.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Country Roads
We’ve lived in our house for nearly a year, and I’ve officially been away from Cincinnati for two years. I’m often asked if I miss living in the city and if it’s been an adjustment to live in a rural area. Yes and yes is usually my answer.
Moving away from the only city you have ever known is difficult, regardless of where you are going. Going from an urban area to a rural area is even more of a transition. However, the change, as changes often are, was not as bad as I had envisioned a few years ago. I pictured terrible withdrawal symptoms and a feeling of being lost in a maze of cornfields.
Some days, it felt like I was living light years away, while others were not so bad. There was quite a bit to become accustomed to: lack of shopping, lack of entertainment options, farming equipment on the road, a new job and preparing to get married.
My true enjoyment of country living did not come until we purchased our home. After living in apartments, we were ready to have a place of our own. “The question” was one we discussed at length: Do we want to live in the country or in town? My dear husband is a farm boy and I, as you are aware, am a city girl. Strangely, neither of us had a strong opinion either way. We reserved ourselves to one of my favorite concepts: what is meant to be will find a way.
We found what was meant to be in a country setting. We did not seek out either locale with gusto, but rather the locale seemed to choose us. Much like finding the right man or a wedding dress, we knew immediately it was the one. Once that slice of heaven was ours, we moved in and began to make it our own. For me, there was much to learn. I have never, in my life, had up close encounters with sump pumps, water softeners, wells, septic and propane tanks and skunks. I can now say I have been successfully acquainted with all of the above.
One of Adam’s aunts refers to me as “Uptown Emily.” It is hard to feel like a city girl when there is a cornfield behind my house. A field of corn has become something that I love, as strange as it may seem. There is something fascinating about the way of life paired with country living. One thing Adam and I could both agree on is our love of privacy and some seclusion. In our search for homes, we found many beautiful specimens that were quickly tainted after walking into the backyard. From the back deck, the back of at least 5 homes were visible: not my idea of home. These homes were quickly crossed off the list.
I may be a city girl, but growing up there was a beautiful, lush wooded area and full-blown farm located behind my parent’s house. This provided a colorful backdrop as a child, and numerous memorable debacles along the way. The farm behind my parent’s house was complete with cattle, a pig, a golden retriever named Zero and some chickens. The cows would mosey up to the back fence to chew on the grass clippings after dad emptied the contents of the mower and before the fence was replaced, they once moseyed into the yard and ate my mother’s flowers. A chicken once became caught under the fence as well and there was a pig that chased my brother when he went exploring into the woods. As much as it may sound like I too grew up on a farm, it is important to note that a chain link fence separated us from the farm then; now there is no fence separating us from the farm and country life. We’re surrounded.
I still carry that love of seclusion with me today, and country living has begun to slowly seep into my blood. I can’t imagine being anywhere else but here. I am very social, but I secretly treasure not having an obligation to make small talk with neighbors. I can go about my business, pulling weeds and watering the flowers without a child or neighbor to pester me or discuss the weather.
If you sit quietly enough, you can begin to appreciate the nuances that accompany rural living. I never miss an opportunity to stare up at the sky each night, taking in every star I can see, and you really can see them all. I love to sit on the back deck and take in the sounds of silence, sometimes accompanied by a lone goat or horse sound. I have no choice but to slow down and take my time, something I rarely do in my day-to-day existence. I often joke about living in the country, but the truth is that deep down I have fallen in love.
Over time, I have begun to embrace the country by taking baby steps. I planted a vegetable garden, I spend hours mowing the lawn and I have gotten over the shock of not having sidewalks when I take the dog for a walk.
There are still days I sorely miss the access to shopping and having numerous dining options, that I cannot deny. These necessities slowly fade away over time, and if times become desperate, they are only a 45-minute drive away. Now, if only we could find a way to grow our own gasoline…
Moving away from the only city you have ever known is difficult, regardless of where you are going. Going from an urban area to a rural area is even more of a transition. However, the change, as changes often are, was not as bad as I had envisioned a few years ago. I pictured terrible withdrawal symptoms and a feeling of being lost in a maze of cornfields.
Some days, it felt like I was living light years away, while others were not so bad. There was quite a bit to become accustomed to: lack of shopping, lack of entertainment options, farming equipment on the road, a new job and preparing to get married.
My true enjoyment of country living did not come until we purchased our home. After living in apartments, we were ready to have a place of our own. “The question” was one we discussed at length: Do we want to live in the country or in town? My dear husband is a farm boy and I, as you are aware, am a city girl. Strangely, neither of us had a strong opinion either way. We reserved ourselves to one of my favorite concepts: what is meant to be will find a way.
We found what was meant to be in a country setting. We did not seek out either locale with gusto, but rather the locale seemed to choose us. Much like finding the right man or a wedding dress, we knew immediately it was the one. Once that slice of heaven was ours, we moved in and began to make it our own. For me, there was much to learn. I have never, in my life, had up close encounters with sump pumps, water softeners, wells, septic and propane tanks and skunks. I can now say I have been successfully acquainted with all of the above.
One of Adam’s aunts refers to me as “Uptown Emily.” It is hard to feel like a city girl when there is a cornfield behind my house. A field of corn has become something that I love, as strange as it may seem. There is something fascinating about the way of life paired with country living. One thing Adam and I could both agree on is our love of privacy and some seclusion. In our search for homes, we found many beautiful specimens that were quickly tainted after walking into the backyard. From the back deck, the back of at least 5 homes were visible: not my idea of home. These homes were quickly crossed off the list.
I may be a city girl, but growing up there was a beautiful, lush wooded area and full-blown farm located behind my parent’s house. This provided a colorful backdrop as a child, and numerous memorable debacles along the way. The farm behind my parent’s house was complete with cattle, a pig, a golden retriever named Zero and some chickens. The cows would mosey up to the back fence to chew on the grass clippings after dad emptied the contents of the mower and before the fence was replaced, they once moseyed into the yard and ate my mother’s flowers. A chicken once became caught under the fence as well and there was a pig that chased my brother when he went exploring into the woods. As much as it may sound like I too grew up on a farm, it is important to note that a chain link fence separated us from the farm then; now there is no fence separating us from the farm and country life. We’re surrounded.
I still carry that love of seclusion with me today, and country living has begun to slowly seep into my blood. I can’t imagine being anywhere else but here. I am very social, but I secretly treasure not having an obligation to make small talk with neighbors. I can go about my business, pulling weeds and watering the flowers without a child or neighbor to pester me or discuss the weather.
If you sit quietly enough, you can begin to appreciate the nuances that accompany rural living. I never miss an opportunity to stare up at the sky each night, taking in every star I can see, and you really can see them all. I love to sit on the back deck and take in the sounds of silence, sometimes accompanied by a lone goat or horse sound. I have no choice but to slow down and take my time, something I rarely do in my day-to-day existence. I often joke about living in the country, but the truth is that deep down I have fallen in love.
Over time, I have begun to embrace the country by taking baby steps. I planted a vegetable garden, I spend hours mowing the lawn and I have gotten over the shock of not having sidewalks when I take the dog for a walk.
There are still days I sorely miss the access to shopping and having numerous dining options, that I cannot deny. These necessities slowly fade away over time, and if times become desperate, they are only a 45-minute drive away. Now, if only we could find a way to grow our own gasoline…
Sunday, August 10, 2008
I'm the worst
In case you are wondering, oh 5 people who read my blog, I have not given up nor have I disappeared into thin air. I’m still here, chasing away skunks and raging against the dog hair machine known as Rudi.
I have, however, been incredibly busy. My social butterfly husband and I were invited to nine, yes NINE, weddings this summer. Six of the nine were held in consecutive weekends and three of those consecutive weeks involved Adam wearing a tuxedo in the bridal party. There has not been much spare time for blog writing nor toilet cleaning. We have two more weddings in August and then we are finished until next summer’s bonanza begins in June. I welcome this hiatus with open arms.
Aside from spending large quantities of cash on tuxedo rentals, wedding gifts and hotel rooms, I have managed to conquer a project close to my heart. It seems to be close to my now aching lower back, too. It’s a little thing I like to call Cabinet Project ’08. This project, like many we have tackled in the past year, was much more complicated in reality than in concept. I’m on the cusp of reaching the light at the end of the tunnel, though I will admit it was a long and painful journey to the tunnel’s end.
As I colorfully described in a previous post, the past year has entailed a mental battle on my love/hate relationship with our oak kitchen cabinets. They were high quality, but they simply were not my style. I’m not a “really grainy late 80’s early 90’s oak kitchen cabinets and white laminate countertops” kind of girl. I might live in the country, but the country does not live in my house. It would probably smell like skunks if it did. I’m fairly picky and frankly quite choosy, and the cabinets weren’t cutting it for me. After living in their presence for a year, it was time to say goodbye. I submitted my 5 vacation days and began purchasing the necessary supplies to create my dreamy new kitchen.
The project began to rear its difficult head when I started Sunday evening with removing all of the doors. Seems easy, simple even. Then, I began counting and realized that our kitchen has 29 doors and 11 drawers. It took roughly 2 hours to remove every door, each door hinge and every handle. I had a serious talk with my hands afterwards, and they decided not to fall into the dark depths of carpel tunnel.
While I lugged each of the doors into the garage for a proper sanding, priming and some cussing, Adam spent some good bonding time with the air nailer and miter saw to add new trim to the tops and bottoms, affix panels of bead board to the sides and finish out the cabinet bottoms with sheets of oak. We spent roughly 4 days time on this portion of the project before moving on to door painting (3 coats on each side) and later to painting the cabinet boxes (2 coats of paint, 3 coats of polyurethane). I’m pretty sure I’ve never worked this hard on anything in my life. I can’t think of an occasion where I willingly worked 10 hour days for 7 days straight to achieve a goal.
Though it’s only been a few weeks since we completed our large undertaking, I’ve already begun to forget what the cabinets looked like before. I sometimes catch myself staring lovingly at the “new” cabinets, taking in their non-oak color.
Fast forward 3 weeks, and we’re just now getting around to putting the cabinet doors and drawer fronts on, after a slight debacle with the hinges. But imagine my frustration when I came the following realization: the freshly painted cabinets are the same color as the walls in our large kitchen/dining/living combo room. You know, the one that is over 400 square feet and we once referred to as “the room that will be a pain in the butt to paint someday.” One great project deserves another, right?
I have, however, been incredibly busy. My social butterfly husband and I were invited to nine, yes NINE, weddings this summer. Six of the nine were held in consecutive weekends and three of those consecutive weeks involved Adam wearing a tuxedo in the bridal party. There has not been much spare time for blog writing nor toilet cleaning. We have two more weddings in August and then we are finished until next summer’s bonanza begins in June. I welcome this hiatus with open arms.
Aside from spending large quantities of cash on tuxedo rentals, wedding gifts and hotel rooms, I have managed to conquer a project close to my heart. It seems to be close to my now aching lower back, too. It’s a little thing I like to call Cabinet Project ’08. This project, like many we have tackled in the past year, was much more complicated in reality than in concept. I’m on the cusp of reaching the light at the end of the tunnel, though I will admit it was a long and painful journey to the tunnel’s end.
As I colorfully described in a previous post, the past year has entailed a mental battle on my love/hate relationship with our oak kitchen cabinets. They were high quality, but they simply were not my style. I’m not a “really grainy late 80’s early 90’s oak kitchen cabinets and white laminate countertops” kind of girl. I might live in the country, but the country does not live in my house. It would probably smell like skunks if it did. I’m fairly picky and frankly quite choosy, and the cabinets weren’t cutting it for me. After living in their presence for a year, it was time to say goodbye. I submitted my 5 vacation days and began purchasing the necessary supplies to create my dreamy new kitchen.
The project began to rear its difficult head when I started Sunday evening with removing all of the doors. Seems easy, simple even. Then, I began counting and realized that our kitchen has 29 doors and 11 drawers. It took roughly 2 hours to remove every door, each door hinge and every handle. I had a serious talk with my hands afterwards, and they decided not to fall into the dark depths of carpel tunnel.
While I lugged each of the doors into the garage for a proper sanding, priming and some cussing, Adam spent some good bonding time with the air nailer and miter saw to add new trim to the tops and bottoms, affix panels of bead board to the sides and finish out the cabinet bottoms with sheets of oak. We spent roughly 4 days time on this portion of the project before moving on to door painting (3 coats on each side) and later to painting the cabinet boxes (2 coats of paint, 3 coats of polyurethane). I’m pretty sure I’ve never worked this hard on anything in my life. I can’t think of an occasion where I willingly worked 10 hour days for 7 days straight to achieve a goal.
Though it’s only been a few weeks since we completed our large undertaking, I’ve already begun to forget what the cabinets looked like before. I sometimes catch myself staring lovingly at the “new” cabinets, taking in their non-oak color.
Fast forward 3 weeks, and we’re just now getting around to putting the cabinet doors and drawer fronts on, after a slight debacle with the hinges. But imagine my frustration when I came the following realization: the freshly painted cabinets are the same color as the walls in our large kitchen/dining/living combo room. You know, the one that is over 400 square feet and we once referred to as “the room that will be a pain in the butt to paint someday.” One great project deserves another, right?
Monday, July 7, 2008
Can't you smell that smell?
Have you ever noticed how paranoid you get when you catch a whiff of an offensive odor? You ask others if they smell it too, sticking your nose into the air with deep breaths like a dog. Where is it coming from? It is not me, is it? You smell, that, don’t you? You are even willing to press your nose and face against surfaces possibly containing the odor, just to sooth your paranoia. Finding the smell calms you shortly, until you realize that you have to do something about it. Oh, it’s __________! How in the world are we going to get rid of THAT?
Our house stinks. Literally. Despite having carpeting that is no more than 4 years old and being showered with squirts of de-stinker and being steam cleaned, it still stinks. There is no taming the stink beast, no matter how hard we try. I cover it with Febreeze, only to have it rear its ugly head hours later.
Our stink is no ordinary stink: it is cat urine. I do not have a cat. I do not want a cat, and I want the smell of cat pee to leave. I have turned to Google for the solution to this pesky stench issue, yielding much advice that is not consistent in any fashion. Pour vinegar and water on it; douse it with a miracle cleaner that is $50 a bottle; cover it with hydrogen peroxide; seal it in with Kilz primer and my favorite, set the house on fire. I suppose lighting anything on fire could solve your problems, but there is no need to get extreme.
The cats that once occupied our house have used the floor of many rooms in our home as their personal litter box, which often makes me feel like the stench is chasing me throughout the house. It’s upstairs, it’s downstairs, it taunts me in the laundry room and when I’m lying in my bed at night. Tearing up the carpet has revealed an extreme situation: pee is one hard working substance. It has bypassed the carpet and padding entirely and headed straight for the subfloor. You know that thing that holds your home together and protects the floor beams from the onslaught of my stiletto heels? Yeah, THAT subfloor.
Upstairs, the solution was obvious.
Step one: rip up gross wood layer on top of subfloor.
Step two: replace grossness with not gross wood.
Step three: paint walls and remove baseboards.
Step four: pat yourself on the back.
Downstairs, unfortunately, was another story. It seems ripping up the subfloor would be a much harder task, as there is only one layer and that layer is connected in a tongue in groove pattern. In non-construction terms: there is not enough time to rip it up and reinstall in one day’s time. ARG.
This, my dears, is where my new BFF comes to the rescue: Zinsser B-I-N pigmented shellac. It’s paint on steroids, will stick to anything it touches, and seals out all sorts of offensive stains and odors for an eternity. I located the offensive areas with my sniffer and covered them with BIN, never to hear from them again (I hope). New carpet arrived last week in each of our bedrooms and so far, I have enjoyed my stink-free life. Well, except for any time I walk towards the laundry room.
Also, I realize why the carpet place wanted an additional $1.50 per square foot to move furniture, take up and dispose of the old stinky carpeting. It’s because they don’t want to do it. I don’t either, but someone had to do it. So, I spent much of the last week on the floor with a box cutter in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other, cursing at the carpet and tackless strip, both of which were soaked with urine. On the bright side, I now have some cool-looking blisters on my hands. At least I have that going for me, right? Right??
Our house stinks. Literally. Despite having carpeting that is no more than 4 years old and being showered with squirts of de-stinker and being steam cleaned, it still stinks. There is no taming the stink beast, no matter how hard we try. I cover it with Febreeze, only to have it rear its ugly head hours later.
Our stink is no ordinary stink: it is cat urine. I do not have a cat. I do not want a cat, and I want the smell of cat pee to leave. I have turned to Google for the solution to this pesky stench issue, yielding much advice that is not consistent in any fashion. Pour vinegar and water on it; douse it with a miracle cleaner that is $50 a bottle; cover it with hydrogen peroxide; seal it in with Kilz primer and my favorite, set the house on fire. I suppose lighting anything on fire could solve your problems, but there is no need to get extreme.
The cats that once occupied our house have used the floor of many rooms in our home as their personal litter box, which often makes me feel like the stench is chasing me throughout the house. It’s upstairs, it’s downstairs, it taunts me in the laundry room and when I’m lying in my bed at night. Tearing up the carpet has revealed an extreme situation: pee is one hard working substance. It has bypassed the carpet and padding entirely and headed straight for the subfloor. You know that thing that holds your home together and protects the floor beams from the onslaught of my stiletto heels? Yeah, THAT subfloor.
Upstairs, the solution was obvious.
Step one: rip up gross wood layer on top of subfloor.
Step two: replace grossness with not gross wood.
Step three: paint walls and remove baseboards.
Step four: pat yourself on the back.
Downstairs, unfortunately, was another story. It seems ripping up the subfloor would be a much harder task, as there is only one layer and that layer is connected in a tongue in groove pattern. In non-construction terms: there is not enough time to rip it up and reinstall in one day’s time. ARG.
This, my dears, is where my new BFF comes to the rescue: Zinsser B-I-N pigmented shellac. It’s paint on steroids, will stick to anything it touches, and seals out all sorts of offensive stains and odors for an eternity. I located the offensive areas with my sniffer and covered them with BIN, never to hear from them again (I hope). New carpet arrived last week in each of our bedrooms and so far, I have enjoyed my stink-free life. Well, except for any time I walk towards the laundry room.
Also, I realize why the carpet place wanted an additional $1.50 per square foot to move furniture, take up and dispose of the old stinky carpeting. It’s because they don’t want to do it. I don’t either, but someone had to do it. So, I spent much of the last week on the floor with a box cutter in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other, cursing at the carpet and tackless strip, both of which were soaked with urine. On the bright side, I now have some cool-looking blisters on my hands. At least I have that going for me, right? Right??
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Can I borrow your backscratcher?
Do you ever have a nagging itch in the center of your back, just out of the reach of your hand? It’s enough to drive you crazy. You claw at your back desperately with your hands, nearly pulling your arm out the socket in an attempt to bring your nails close enough for relief, only to fuel the fires of frustration. You twist and turn your back, rub it against the back of your chair or desperately grasp for a pen just to relieve yourself of the annoyance. Eventually, it finds its long-awaited scratch or just goes away out of its own accord.
But what if it can’t be scratched? What is a person to do when the itch’s nagging presence turns into obsession, and you begin taking desperate measures for some sanity? You begin slathering with pricy lotions and creams, picking up various tools hoping they chase your aggravation away. Something that seemingly started so innocently has graduated into an ordeal.
People of the world: meet my itch. It’s name is Oak Kitchen Cabinets. The itch began in August, when we moved into our house. It was like the cabinets were taunting me, what with their deep wood grain and intense love for the 90’s and brass hardware. Sure, they match the rest of the house with its oak trim and beautiful 6-panel solid doors, but I can’t help but feel like they’re trapped in a time warp. Back in the day, I’m sure they loved Beverly Hills 90210, New Kids on the Block and Pound Puppies. I loved those things too, cabinets! Really, they were great. But, I’ve moved on since then and changed my preference while you still reminisce about wearing a side pony tail and those shirts that changed color with the heat of your body.
Deep down, I am my father’s daughter. I have a great appreciation for beautiful, solid wood, and am intrigued by the story an old piece of furniture has to tell. I have many memories of the hours my dad spent stripping layers of paint from antique furniture in our garage, bringing out the beautiful grain in old pieces of history that made our house a home. He just has that knack for seeing through the layers of paint and grime to the potential that lies underneath.
Now, with that being said, I have respectfully come to the conclusion that there is no potential to be discovered underneath the layers of paint I am prepared to slap upon my oak cabinets. Part of me appreciates their beauty and feels fortunate to have such numerous and well-constructed real wood cabinetry in my home. I know others aren’t as lucky and would consider killing for cabinets like mine. But, I’m a greedy little homeowner.
I have a tendency to get an idea and without careful planning or thought, dive right into the project without looking back. Recent stints with projects gone awry and the process of repainting the freshly painted have made me a bit skittish. This project is different. I have spent months poring over design websites, photos, paint swatches and step-by-step instructions on numerous websites. Although I feel I am prepared for the mess and mountains of work ahead, the itch has begun to interrogate me.
For an itch, it sure does ask a lot of questions. Sooo, have you decided on a theme for this kitchen of yours? English Cottage? French Country? Tuscan? Roosters are nice, but how many roosters is too many roosters? What if you pick the wrong shade of white? Maybe white is too “white.” Perhaps ivory or butter cream would be better. The rest of the house is oak, maybe you should just keep it the way it is, that way everything will match. What if you mess it up and spend the rest of your life hating it and yourself for what you’ve done?
But what if it can’t be scratched? What is a person to do when the itch’s nagging presence turns into obsession, and you begin taking desperate measures for some sanity? You begin slathering with pricy lotions and creams, picking up various tools hoping they chase your aggravation away. Something that seemingly started so innocently has graduated into an ordeal.
People of the world: meet my itch. It’s name is Oak Kitchen Cabinets. The itch began in August, when we moved into our house. It was like the cabinets were taunting me, what with their deep wood grain and intense love for the 90’s and brass hardware. Sure, they match the rest of the house with its oak trim and beautiful 6-panel solid doors, but I can’t help but feel like they’re trapped in a time warp. Back in the day, I’m sure they loved Beverly Hills 90210, New Kids on the Block and Pound Puppies. I loved those things too, cabinets! Really, they were great. But, I’ve moved on since then and changed my preference while you still reminisce about wearing a side pony tail and those shirts that changed color with the heat of your body.
Deep down, I am my father’s daughter. I have a great appreciation for beautiful, solid wood, and am intrigued by the story an old piece of furniture has to tell. I have many memories of the hours my dad spent stripping layers of paint from antique furniture in our garage, bringing out the beautiful grain in old pieces of history that made our house a home. He just has that knack for seeing through the layers of paint and grime to the potential that lies underneath.
Now, with that being said, I have respectfully come to the conclusion that there is no potential to be discovered underneath the layers of paint I am prepared to slap upon my oak cabinets. Part of me appreciates their beauty and feels fortunate to have such numerous and well-constructed real wood cabinetry in my home. I know others aren’t as lucky and would consider killing for cabinets like mine. But, I’m a greedy little homeowner.
I have a tendency to get an idea and without careful planning or thought, dive right into the project without looking back. Recent stints with projects gone awry and the process of repainting the freshly painted have made me a bit skittish. This project is different. I have spent months poring over design websites, photos, paint swatches and step-by-step instructions on numerous websites. Although I feel I am prepared for the mess and mountains of work ahead, the itch has begun to interrogate me.
For an itch, it sure does ask a lot of questions. Sooo, have you decided on a theme for this kitchen of yours? English Cottage? French Country? Tuscan? Roosters are nice, but how many roosters is too many roosters? What if you pick the wrong shade of white? Maybe white is too “white.” Perhaps ivory or butter cream would be better. The rest of the house is oak, maybe you should just keep it the way it is, that way everything will match. What if you mess it up and spend the rest of your life hating it and yourself for what you’ve done?
Allow me to answer the incessant questioning churning through my head. My aim is for a hint of French Country and Tuscan, if that is possible. The perfect number of roosters in a kitchen is somewhere between one and three. Four is pushing your luck. I don’t plan on picking the wrong shade of white (who does?) but white IS too white when everything else is adorned in oak. Ivory or butter cream would be perfect, topped with a coat of deep brown glaze. If I mess it up and hate it, I’ll just have to spend the remainder of my days living with my horrible decision, now won’t I??
When we moved in, I hated the cabinets. Wait a year, I told myself—then do something with them. Maybe they will grow on you, I chimed hopefully. Nothing has grown, except my disdain. In one month, I will dedicate an entire week of my life to this project. My seven vacation days have been approved; it is just a matter of time before the journey to painted cabinets begins.
I feel like embarking on this cabinet painting project is like preparing for major surgery. I’m nervous, I don’t know what to expect but I know there will be some pain involved. I keep telling myself things like, “You are ready for this! Think of all the research and time you have invested!” and “Think how great they will look when you’re done!” and “Well, you’re using up 7 freaking vacation days for this little project of yours, so you’d better know what you’re doing and be ready, because so help me I will be really upset with you if you screw this one up.”
I also anticipate that painting the cabinets will only intensify my deep-seeded hatred for the oven, horrible white laminate countertops and the terrible fluorescent light fixture, none of which do anything for the appeal of food. Almost everything I eat has dog hair on it anyway, so the idea of it being appealing is probably a moot point.
On an unrelated topic, I discovered one of the downsides of living in the country last week. A large skunk was hit by a car and its dead carcass was located right at the end of our driveway. The wind blew its lifetime supply of stink into the house for a day before I just couldn’t take it anymore. I held my breath, swallowed my instinct to be grossed out, grabbed a board, and headed down the driveway. Smell and fly population intensifying as I drew closer, I told myself to pretend I was playing shuffleboard. I took my stance, looked both ways across the street and pushed that rotting carcass across the road with a few strokes of my scrap wood. It still stinks, but at least I don’t have to stare at the turkey buzzard-picked rotting flesh every time I pull out of the driveway.
When we moved in, I hated the cabinets. Wait a year, I told myself—then do something with them. Maybe they will grow on you, I chimed hopefully. Nothing has grown, except my disdain. In one month, I will dedicate an entire week of my life to this project. My seven vacation days have been approved; it is just a matter of time before the journey to painted cabinets begins.
I feel like embarking on this cabinet painting project is like preparing for major surgery. I’m nervous, I don’t know what to expect but I know there will be some pain involved. I keep telling myself things like, “You are ready for this! Think of all the research and time you have invested!” and “Think how great they will look when you’re done!” and “Well, you’re using up 7 freaking vacation days for this little project of yours, so you’d better know what you’re doing and be ready, because so help me I will be really upset with you if you screw this one up.”
I also anticipate that painting the cabinets will only intensify my deep-seeded hatred for the oven, horrible white laminate countertops and the terrible fluorescent light fixture, none of which do anything for the appeal of food. Almost everything I eat has dog hair on it anyway, so the idea of it being appealing is probably a moot point.
On an unrelated topic, I discovered one of the downsides of living in the country last week. A large skunk was hit by a car and its dead carcass was located right at the end of our driveway. The wind blew its lifetime supply of stink into the house for a day before I just couldn’t take it anymore. I held my breath, swallowed my instinct to be grossed out, grabbed a board, and headed down the driveway. Smell and fly population intensifying as I drew closer, I told myself to pretend I was playing shuffleboard. I took my stance, looked both ways across the street and pushed that rotting carcass across the road with a few strokes of my scrap wood. It still stinks, but at least I don’t have to stare at the turkey buzzard-picked rotting flesh every time I pull out of the driveway.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Why won't you die?
Have you ever noticed that the things that go wrong or break in your house are never the ones that you WANT to break or die? The important and necessary things seem to go haywire while the old, crusty and annoying things are cockroaches, somehow managing to live for a week without their heads, dying only from lack of water. It’s true, look it up.
I hate, with a passion, my oven. It is old, crusty, and really, just plain ugly. Aesthetically, it stands out like a sore thumb with its bisque and black color scheme among the white appliances. Its grease-gathering pans were probably black to begin with, but are now permanently crusted with singed food particles from 1992-present. Cleaning them is futile and has been attempted, unsuccessfully.
I hate, with a passion, my oven. It is old, crusty, and really, just plain ugly. Aesthetically, it stands out like a sore thumb with its bisque and black color scheme among the white appliances. Its grease-gathering pans were probably black to begin with, but are now permanently crusted with singed food particles from 1992-present. Cleaning them is futile and has been attempted, unsuccessfully.
Right out of the gate, the oven and I got off to a bad start for a petty reason. It has a stupid name--Caloric. Much like those beloved automobiles someone decided to name Yugo, Gremlin and Lancer, the terrible name is doing nothing for its already terrible image. Is it supposed to be the verb form of the word “calorie?”
“Hey, would you like a brownie, still warm from the oven?”
“No thanks, I’m watching my Caloric intake.”
“I think you just offended my oven.”
Also the word “Caloric” is a little to close for comfort to the term “Colonic.” I see very bad things on the horizon when we start confusing oven brands for the process of cleaning out your colon with water. Then, there's the fact that it claims to be a part of the "Prestige Series," which I can only surmise is the oven's attempt at sarcasm.
Then, there is the fact that it is ugly and does not match anything. Have I mentioned how ugly it is? It’s a creamy-cool mix of bisque and black and has this weird clear and striped motif going on where the knobs are located. There’s a splash of what is supposed to look like stainless steel on top, which really accents the hand-cranked timer that probably stopped working in 2001, the year I graduated from high school.
As if that wasn’t enough, it’s also missing a rack. If the oven were a person, that would be the equivalent of missing a front tooth. Oh, and if you’d like to turn on the light to see how well your cookies are rising without opening the door to let out the heat encased inside, you can just forget it. Now you’re asking for more than the Caloric is willing to supply, you greedy proprietor of baked goods! Lights and their coordinating outside switches are for sissies! When I was your age, we didn’t have ovens with lights and somehow I turned out all right, didn’t I?
But wait, there’s more! This, my dear reader, is what I like to call the pies de resistance--- the pot drawer. You know that drawer under the oven to store items that previously cluttered your overstuffed cabinets, providing both convenience and storage? Behold the Caloric’s drawer! It’s a drip tray with crumbs and a French fry from the Stone Age! Also, it’s incredibly embarrassing. That is why we always keep it in the closed position.
Why, you ask, have I not cleaned this thing out since moving in to our home almost a year ago? Me, the anal cleaner who requires objects to stay in their proper places? It’s a little thing I like to call defiant refusal. In my mind, not cleaning or appreciating the oven might make it give up sooner. I wipe off the top, but that is about it. Sure, you are good enough to cook my food, but you don’t deserve to be cleaned or appreciated in any other way. This, oven, is why you should just give up, pack up your crumb drawer and hit the road. Don’t let the door hit you on your heating elements on the way out.
I’ve even tried to make the oven look better, or even give it some sort of semblance of fitting in with everything else. My placement of pretty salt and pepper shakers and a stainless steel spoon rest would tie it in with everything else, I said to myself. You can put a nice suit on a bum, but he’s still a bum.
I’ve tried to make a case for investing in a new oven, but it’s hard to argue my case when the thing works so darn well. The Caloric quickly cooks my oatmeal for me every morning without fail. Each of its four completely functional burners boils water quickly, it cooks things evenly and the door even closes completely. Other than my refusal to clean the infamous drawer of crumbs, it’s a perfectly operating hideously ugly oven.
I’m thinking perhaps we could work out a barter system. I’ll see your crumb-infested drawer and trade you for a one-way ticket to anywhere in the world. Where do you want to go? Hawaii? Belize? The U.S. Virgin Islands? Consider it done. Heck, I’ll even buy you two seats because you obviously aren’t thin enough to fit in one. Perhaps a closer look at your own Calorics is a good idea. Desperation, thy name is unfair trade.
The other day, Adam and I were talking about something food-related and he said, “If we ever get a new oven…” I suddenly became light headed and almost fainted on the dog. IF?!? IF we decide to replace that THING living in the kitchen that has far outstayed its welcome in our otherwise nice and orderly home? I think an attitude adjustment is in order, Mister.
A simple Google search has revealed that the Caloric brand is still in existence, creating sturdy, moderately priced ovens for the great people of the world who have no style sense. The brand was purchased by Amana some time ago, but still operates under its same awesome name. It’s a relief to know that when Caloric sold out to The Man, they kept true to themselves and negotiated the ability to keep their tried and true name trusted probably by landlords and renters everywhere and whoever built our house in 1992.
As I write this, I just know the Caloric and our 16 year-old water heater are working out a suicide pact to die simultaneously to really stick it to me. Then, at the last minute, the oven will back out, change its mind, and live for another 10 years in crumb-filled bliss. As long as 9 of those years are in a landfill, that’s fine by me.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Two Hydrogens, one Oxygen
On Friday, we received a significant amount of rain in a very short period, leaving most of the area with standing water. Our basement was no exception. Water poured through our basement windows that day, leaving the carpet-covered floor with standing water. I turned up the dehumidifier, hoping it would solve the problem, but quickly realized it was to no avail when the musty smell of stagnant water permeated my nostrils yesterday. As Adam and were on our hands and knees last night ripping up the waterlogged indoor /outdoor carpet, it struck me how just a little bit of water could cause so much stink and damage.
Water is a truly amazing thing. Of the four elements in existence, water seems to be the one with the most significantly overriding “two-faced” qualities. Certainly, fire can be just as, if not more, destructive. But water? Water can destroy things in an instant, yet it also creates such poignant, beautiful memories in our lives. Water knows how to make a decision. It cannot be stopped.
Without water, your body could only survive a few days—a week would be considered miraculous. Without food, you could sustain yourself for about a month. Heck, you can even live without air for a full 3 minutes. I would not suggest testing that, though.
At least half of your body is—you guessed it—water. Your brain alone is 70% H20. You need water for your body to function, to clean you and to revive you after a hot day where it’s lost from your pores as sweat. There is no cost to acquire water and with the touch of your hand, it flows from faucets in your home. Yet, we pay money to buy water pre-packaged in bottles that we are now told cannot be reused. It has been tucked neatly away in most everything you eat, absorbed into your body without notice.
Think of all the memories you have that involve water. The swimming lessons you took as a child, learning strokes and spending days on end at the local pool with your friends in the hot summer sun. You jumped off the diving board in a cannonball, competing over who had the biggest splash. You paid a visit to the salty ocean and lazily snoozed on the beach to the calming sounds of waves lapping on the sandy shore. You grabbed the garden hose to fill up your squirt gun in the midst of a water fight with your brother. You filled balloons with H20 to drop on an unsuspecting victim. Water cooled you down after a hot summer day, and froze on the sidewalk you slipped on that winter morning. Your heart raced as your car began to slide on the black ice covering the roadway, as you pumped your breaks and tried to recall whether you were supposed to turn into or out of the ensuing skid.
Water cleanses you each day, breathing new life and moisture into your once dirty skin. It washes away your troubles and cares for just a moment before you return to the hustle and bustle of your busy life. It has no calories, no preservatives, no sugar, no cholesterol, no fat, no nothing. It flies swiftly down the drain, is treated by the city and comes right back to you as quickly as it left. It sits patiently in your toilet bowl, waiting for you each day without question.
Water falls from the sky, damaging all it touches in excess or creating a significant deficit in its non-existence. Without it, meteorology and the art of prediction would be a dying art. The art of fire fighting would be nearly futile.
Water giveth, and then it taketh away. It kills, scares, injures and maims many, all while sustaining so many more. It strikes fear into our hearts, which ironically are 75% water. Without precaution, education or practice within it, serious consequences ensue. It’s as beautiful and peaceful as it is ugly and horrendous.
Water sits stagnant, a breeding ground for mosquitoes in your backyard and seeps into your basement, ruining the most prized of your possessions. Left unattended, it grows into hairy mold on the rafters. Water probably choked you once, scared you more times that you can count, yet you never dream of ending your torrid love affair. As much as water hurts you, irritates you or even destroys you, you still come back for more.
Think about all of this the next time you go to a restaurant and when prompted for what you would like to drink, you say, “I’ll just have water.”
Water is a truly amazing thing. Of the four elements in existence, water seems to be the one with the most significantly overriding “two-faced” qualities. Certainly, fire can be just as, if not more, destructive. But water? Water can destroy things in an instant, yet it also creates such poignant, beautiful memories in our lives. Water knows how to make a decision. It cannot be stopped.
Without water, your body could only survive a few days—a week would be considered miraculous. Without food, you could sustain yourself for about a month. Heck, you can even live without air for a full 3 minutes. I would not suggest testing that, though.
At least half of your body is—you guessed it—water. Your brain alone is 70% H20. You need water for your body to function, to clean you and to revive you after a hot day where it’s lost from your pores as sweat. There is no cost to acquire water and with the touch of your hand, it flows from faucets in your home. Yet, we pay money to buy water pre-packaged in bottles that we are now told cannot be reused. It has been tucked neatly away in most everything you eat, absorbed into your body without notice.
Think of all the memories you have that involve water. The swimming lessons you took as a child, learning strokes and spending days on end at the local pool with your friends in the hot summer sun. You jumped off the diving board in a cannonball, competing over who had the biggest splash. You paid a visit to the salty ocean and lazily snoozed on the beach to the calming sounds of waves lapping on the sandy shore. You grabbed the garden hose to fill up your squirt gun in the midst of a water fight with your brother. You filled balloons with H20 to drop on an unsuspecting victim. Water cooled you down after a hot summer day, and froze on the sidewalk you slipped on that winter morning. Your heart raced as your car began to slide on the black ice covering the roadway, as you pumped your breaks and tried to recall whether you were supposed to turn into or out of the ensuing skid.
Water cleanses you each day, breathing new life and moisture into your once dirty skin. It washes away your troubles and cares for just a moment before you return to the hustle and bustle of your busy life. It has no calories, no preservatives, no sugar, no cholesterol, no fat, no nothing. It flies swiftly down the drain, is treated by the city and comes right back to you as quickly as it left. It sits patiently in your toilet bowl, waiting for you each day without question.
Water falls from the sky, damaging all it touches in excess or creating a significant deficit in its non-existence. Without it, meteorology and the art of prediction would be a dying art. The art of fire fighting would be nearly futile.
Water giveth, and then it taketh away. It kills, scares, injures and maims many, all while sustaining so many more. It strikes fear into our hearts, which ironically are 75% water. Without precaution, education or practice within it, serious consequences ensue. It’s as beautiful and peaceful as it is ugly and horrendous.
Water sits stagnant, a breeding ground for mosquitoes in your backyard and seeps into your basement, ruining the most prized of your possessions. Left unattended, it grows into hairy mold on the rafters. Water probably choked you once, scared you more times that you can count, yet you never dream of ending your torrid love affair. As much as water hurts you, irritates you or even destroys you, you still come back for more.
Think about all of this the next time you go to a restaurant and when prompted for what you would like to drink, you say, “I’ll just have water.”
Saturday, June 7, 2008
What I've learned...so far
August will mark 1 year of home ownership for Adam & I. I used to think I knew a lot--sometimes I even thought I knew everything. I'm slowing learning I don't. Owning a house has showed me that I know a whole bunch of jack squat. Most days I feel that someone has pressed fast forward on our capacity for learning how to do things, and most of them seem to be the hard way. So, in no particular order, here is the wisdom I am prepared to dispense:
- One year in home ownership is the equivalent of 1 month in real time. I now know how people can live in the same house all their adult lives, as I'm pretty sure someone turned on the hyperspeed last year and I haven't figure out how it slow it down.
- Something is always dirty and needs your attention. Especially if you just cleaned it last week.
- You are never finished. Ever. Start one project, get distracted by another, add another to the pile and before you know it your bathroom is down to the studs and there's a hole in the ceiling.
- Something will always go wrong. Things won't go nearly as smoothly in real life as they do in that head of yours. Oh, and the thing you think is easy is at least 5 times harder than it looks.
- People do weird things. Laminate flooring screwed into the wall for decoration, a dog themed bathroom and a screen door in the basement? Yes, and they all seemed like a good idea to someone.
- Paint is the world's greatest invention. It's cheap, easy to apply and it changes everything. But, when you pick the wrong color you'll have to start over again and crying is very possible.
- Dogs make it dirtier. If it doesn't shed all over the house, it will invariably poop or barf in the house and eat things you love. It's inevitable, and completely unavoidable so don't even argue with me.
- Spackle and caulk fix everything. Seriously, they do.
- You're going to be sore tomorrow. Whatever your project is, chances are you are moving in weird ways that you don't during the week when you're sitting at your desk. Your body will be pissed at you.
- There's no I in team. As much as I think I know about the house, Adam always knows more or has thought of something that never occured to me.
- Lots of Benjamins are necessary. $30 here, $250 there and before you know it, you need a home equity loan.
- Patience and TV breaks and needed for sanity purposes. 'Nuff said.
- Cat pee should be a weapon of mass destruction. It's foul, disgusting and soaks into everything it touches. It's impossible to get rid of and makes your throat burns. If it's touched that thing, you need to throw that thing away and THEN the smell will be gone.
I'm sure I know more, but the paint fumes have caused me to forget everything else. Have I convinced you to never own a home?
Monday, June 2, 2008
Tired, sweaty and burnt
While Adam was off on his adventure to the Appalacian Mountains, I took it upon myself to give myself jobs and tasks to complete. Why would myself do that to myself? I haven't any idea.
First, I assigned myself to mow the backyard. The grass was long and dog poop was a plenty. After hitting the fence a few times and realizing that the mower automatically shuts off when you get up from the seat (something about safety??) the process went somewhat well. Then, I ordered myself to clear the flower bed in the backyard that was overgrown with weeds, add top soil and plant a vegetable garden of tomatoes, onions, hot peppers and something that is either okra or green peppers.
After permitting myself a short break for H2O, I commanded myself to apply deck wash to the tired and thirsty deck, followed by applying 2 gallons worth of deck stain/sealer on the railings alone. Then, I told myself to shut up because I was tired and needed a break. Also, I was angry at myself for failing to put adequate sunscreen on my back, which was now really red and looked like I was wearing a pale, 
skin colored sports bra. Ugh.
skin colored sports bra. Ugh.After an adequate night's sleep, I gave in to myself and finished staining the deck, which took a total of 4 gallons to complete. The deck, much like a whiny and thirsty/hungry child wasn't satisfied with one coat and required a second to achieve the "not thirsty and warped wood" look. I'm happy with the results, though my back isn't happy that I strained it by being hunched over for hours to paint the deck by hand with a small brush. Did I mention I like doing things the hard way? But hey, having a well-moisturized wood surface to sit on and enjoy the blazing hot summer weather is totally worth it. We have to sit directly on the deck though, because we don't have any furniture to go on the deck. I'm told I need to either lower my standards or my price range because a $1,200 patio set is a bit on the "excessive side." Sigh.
Wonder what potentially painful and back-breaking job myself will think up next?
Monday, May 26, 2008
We come together 'cause opposites attract
That's a horrible Paula Abdul song reference, I know.
Adam leaves tomorrow to hike the Appalachian trail for 4 days and I can't help but think about how that's something I would never do, or even think about doing. He's going with a group of friends to hike 40 miles in the mountains, with no cell phone service and no shower or bathing/bathroom facilities of any kind along the way. No toilet paper? No hair products? No shower?? No. Everything he needs will be stored neatly in a large backpack, including food and shelter, squarely strapped to his back. I joked today at his sister's graduation party that the only way I'd partake in an outing like this one would be with a gun pointed to my head, or if my option was to hike or jump off a cliff.
I'm a true type A extrovert. I'm not 'one with nature' unless gardening or mowing the lawn counts. I wear inappropriate outfits and shoes to nearly every place I go--except for work. I love shoes, purses, the color pink and talking. I don't care if I'm uncomfortable, as long as I look cute. I like organization, cleanliness and planning ahead to complete tasks before their due date. I'm a creature of habit, and don't read directions. I get frustrated easily, am impatient and once I get an idea in my head, I'm all for it. I want what I want, and I don't want to wait for it. I talk without thinking, make decisions based on my heart instead of my head and am a true city girl at heart--even though I see a corn field when I look out my back window.
My husband, on the other hand, is a type B introvert. He loves nature, clipping coupons and saving money. He loves driving a tractor, obscure beer, building things and sensible clothing. He wears things until they fall apart and places comfort before fashion. He's a born procrastinator and cleans only when the clutter becomes out of control. He reads and follows all directions and isn't afraid to try something new. He's incredibly patient, even tempered and thinks everything through before tackling a project. He loves and understands sports, stops to smell the roses and lay on the grass to watch the stars.
You could say we're opposites, but you could also say we make up for one another's faults--or better yet, we offer a perfect balance to one another. When getting married in the Catholic church, you must go through the Pre Cana process. This essentially means you take personality and compatibility tests and learn how to work together, blah blah. While I don't feel I learned anything I didn't already know, I was struck by the results of our compatibility test. We scored on opposite ends of the spectrum in several areas, especially in respect to our personalities. We approach situations differently, plan and just think differently when it comes to the decisions we make. We were told to remember this when our personalities clash, and to keep in mind that the other was coming from another direction in their thought process. It wasn't bad, we were told.
For anything to work successfully, a balance must be achieved. The scales of justice, the yin and the yang and those tasty cookies that are half chocolate and half white icing. It's impossible to be like someone in all aspects of life, and really, things would get boring pretty darn quickly. The emotional can't function without the rational, and the lavish spender would go broke without the penny pincher, as much as the big spender hates to admit they can't go to the grocery without a fist full of coupons.
On an episode of Oprah recently there was a guest was on talking about marriage and divorce. Someone important, I really don't remember. What I do remember is something that really moved me--he said that marriage is not just about the bond between two people, the hope of living a life together or even raising a family together. Deep down in its core, marriage is about righting the wrongs in your life and the faults and pain of childhood. You chose your mate because they fulfill something in you that is missing, something that was once a painful void. They seem so unlike you because they have to be; they couldn't fill in the gaps otherwise.
On a side note, did you know that dogs can get pink eye? My dog has pink eye. Here I was, being all crazy and thinking that rampant diarrhea was bad. Here's hoping humans can't catch her nasty conjunctivitis.
Adam leaves tomorrow to hike the Appalachian trail for 4 days and I can't help but think about how that's something I would never do, or even think about doing. He's going with a group of friends to hike 40 miles in the mountains, with no cell phone service and no shower or bathing/bathroom facilities of any kind along the way. No toilet paper? No hair products? No shower?? No. Everything he needs will be stored neatly in a large backpack, including food and shelter, squarely strapped to his back. I joked today at his sister's graduation party that the only way I'd partake in an outing like this one would be with a gun pointed to my head, or if my option was to hike or jump off a cliff.
I'm a true type A extrovert. I'm not 'one with nature' unless gardening or mowing the lawn counts. I wear inappropriate outfits and shoes to nearly every place I go--except for work. I love shoes, purses, the color pink and talking. I don't care if I'm uncomfortable, as long as I look cute. I like organization, cleanliness and planning ahead to complete tasks before their due date. I'm a creature of habit, and don't read directions. I get frustrated easily, am impatient and once I get an idea in my head, I'm all for it. I want what I want, and I don't want to wait for it. I talk without thinking, make decisions based on my heart instead of my head and am a true city girl at heart--even though I see a corn field when I look out my back window.
My husband, on the other hand, is a type B introvert. He loves nature, clipping coupons and saving money. He loves driving a tractor, obscure beer, building things and sensible clothing. He wears things until they fall apart and places comfort before fashion. He's a born procrastinator and cleans only when the clutter becomes out of control. He reads and follows all directions and isn't afraid to try something new. He's incredibly patient, even tempered and thinks everything through before tackling a project. He loves and understands sports, stops to smell the roses and lay on the grass to watch the stars.
You could say we're opposites, but you could also say we make up for one another's faults--or better yet, we offer a perfect balance to one another. When getting married in the Catholic church, you must go through the Pre Cana process. This essentially means you take personality and compatibility tests and learn how to work together, blah blah. While I don't feel I learned anything I didn't already know, I was struck by the results of our compatibility test. We scored on opposite ends of the spectrum in several areas, especially in respect to our personalities. We approach situations differently, plan and just think differently when it comes to the decisions we make. We were told to remember this when our personalities clash, and to keep in mind that the other was coming from another direction in their thought process. It wasn't bad, we were told.
For anything to work successfully, a balance must be achieved. The scales of justice, the yin and the yang and those tasty cookies that are half chocolate and half white icing. It's impossible to be like someone in all aspects of life, and really, things would get boring pretty darn quickly. The emotional can't function without the rational, and the lavish spender would go broke without the penny pincher, as much as the big spender hates to admit they can't go to the grocery without a fist full of coupons.
On an episode of Oprah recently there was a guest was on talking about marriage and divorce. Someone important, I really don't remember. What I do remember is something that really moved me--he said that marriage is not just about the bond between two people, the hope of living a life together or even raising a family together. Deep down in its core, marriage is about righting the wrongs in your life and the faults and pain of childhood. You chose your mate because they fulfill something in you that is missing, something that was once a painful void. They seem so unlike you because they have to be; they couldn't fill in the gaps otherwise.
On a side note, did you know that dogs can get pink eye? My dog has pink eye. Here I was, being all crazy and thinking that rampant diarrhea was bad. Here's hoping humans can't catch her nasty conjunctivitis.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Love/Hate
Have you seen any New Balance shoe commercials lately? I have DVR and therefore don't watch many commercials, but I love their new campaign. They tackle a topic that is close to my heart, and bring up an obvious but necessary point: the balance between love and hate when it comes to running. Here's the voiceover from my favorite:
"You are in a relationship with running. A love/hate relationship. Running kicks you out of a warm, soft bed and into a cold, hard world. Running calls you at all hours of the night. Running gets up at the crack of dawn, and keeps you at practice long after play has left the building. Every day with running is a question of your commitment, and running is not afraid to ask. Yes, my friend, it is a complex and torrid affair. It is a constant balance, a balance between joy and pain, work and play, a balance between love and hate."
Great advertising like this one gets me to thinking, and not just about running. It makes me think about all the things in our lives that we have love/hate relationships with. The idea of a hating and loving something at the same time is an overriding theme in many facets of life: work, owning a home, a dog or even having children. You love what you get out of these things, the fulfillment it brings you to establish relationships, feel loved and gain a sense of accomplishment. But, there are the times when these things may feel like burdens or as though they're holding you back from something. Doubt creeps in when you think of all the things you are "missing out on" because of your decisions. You begin to question your choices or feel buyer's remorse when things start to get hard or painful. Did you make the right choice? Is now the right time? How will I know?
Truth is, there will always be a downside to everything we do. There will always be moments of doubt, times of pain and even struggles through uncertainty. This doesn't make it wrong, it makes it worth it. Without the work, the results just aren't the same. Nothing worth having ever comes without hard work. Nothing. Don't question yourself until it's all over, when you've forgotten how painful or hard it was and can see how far you've come with the fresh eyes of experience.
One of my favorite lines, especially at work, is, "Hindsight is always 20/20." You can always look back at what you've done and find faults, times when you could've tried harder, pushed yourself and done it right. But without that experience and near-failure, where would you be? More importantly, take a look at that end result and ask, was it worth it?
Well, was it?
P.S. After using an entire bottle of a carpet cleaner called "Kids and Pets Heavy-Duty" there is still a large stain on the carpet in one of our bedrooms from our little angel, Rudi. Oh, and those baby bunnies died last week and I picked them up with gloved hands and laid them to rest (threw them) in the field behind our house. My sheer lack of regard for this loss makes me question my passing over into the darkside of people who live in the country and are at one with the "circle of life." And in case you're wondering, yes, Rudi is worth it. :0)
"You are in a relationship with running. A love/hate relationship. Running kicks you out of a warm, soft bed and into a cold, hard world. Running calls you at all hours of the night. Running gets up at the crack of dawn, and keeps you at practice long after play has left the building. Every day with running is a question of your commitment, and running is not afraid to ask. Yes, my friend, it is a complex and torrid affair. It is a constant balance, a balance between joy and pain, work and play, a balance between love and hate."
Great advertising like this one gets me to thinking, and not just about running. It makes me think about all the things in our lives that we have love/hate relationships with. The idea of a hating and loving something at the same time is an overriding theme in many facets of life: work, owning a home, a dog or even having children. You love what you get out of these things, the fulfillment it brings you to establish relationships, feel loved and gain a sense of accomplishment. But, there are the times when these things may feel like burdens or as though they're holding you back from something. Doubt creeps in when you think of all the things you are "missing out on" because of your decisions. You begin to question your choices or feel buyer's remorse when things start to get hard or painful. Did you make the right choice? Is now the right time? How will I know?
Truth is, there will always be a downside to everything we do. There will always be moments of doubt, times of pain and even struggles through uncertainty. This doesn't make it wrong, it makes it worth it. Without the work, the results just aren't the same. Nothing worth having ever comes without hard work. Nothing. Don't question yourself until it's all over, when you've forgotten how painful or hard it was and can see how far you've come with the fresh eyes of experience.
One of my favorite lines, especially at work, is, "Hindsight is always 20/20." You can always look back at what you've done and find faults, times when you could've tried harder, pushed yourself and done it right. But without that experience and near-failure, where would you be? More importantly, take a look at that end result and ask, was it worth it?
Well, was it?
P.S. After using an entire bottle of a carpet cleaner called "Kids and Pets Heavy-Duty" there is still a large stain on the carpet in one of our bedrooms from our little angel, Rudi. Oh, and those baby bunnies died last week and I picked them up with gloved hands and laid them to rest (threw them) in the field behind our house. My sheer lack of regard for this loss makes me question my passing over into the darkside of people who live in the country and are at one with the "circle of life." And in case you're wondering, yes, Rudi is worth it. :0)
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
An ode to my dog
Our dog, Rudi, has done everything in her power these past few days to irritate me. She pooped in the house yesterday (diarrhea, mind you), broke the horizontal blinds in two windows trying to 'get out' during the pooping incident, tried to eat baby bunnies from a nest in the backyard and subsequently got salmonella AND pin worm from what the vet called "rodent droppings." I can only deduce that the small, defenseless baby bunnies had a hand in this. The trip to the vet? A mere $100.29 and lots of pills I have to shove down her throat three times a day, every day for the next week. She really enjoys THAT.
Additionally, she woke Adam and I up last night every two hours, like clockwork, so she could go outside to the bathroom. That's funny, I thought I had a full-grown dog, not a newborn child.
On the flip side, the week where she is high atop my hate list and I have to put on rubber gloves and hold my breath to scoop her poop off the carpet, I am reminded of all the other weeks where she's not. Where she's really quite perfect. Adam reminded me today that all these things she's done are basic instincts and the other 358 days of the year, she deserves a "#1 Dog" t-shirt. He's right.
Considering her background, Rudi has every right not to be such a wonderful dog. We aren't sure exactly where her life began, we don't know her birthday, and we don't know what breed she is. I'd put my money on black lab/ shepherd, if it matters. All we know is that one of Adam's roommates, Vonde, has an uncle who's a priest in an area of Dayton called Salem. It isn't exactly the nicest area of town, one you wouldn't want to venture the streets alone at night. It was here, in that priest's garage, that someone dumped Rudi. The priest called Vonde to see if he and his roommates would like the puppy--and we all went to see her. Everyone knows you don't just "go see a puppy" you look, fall in love and then bring it home. That was in January of 2005. She wasn't more than 4 or 5 weeks old at the time.
That was exactly how it happened. The other roommates said it couldn't be "their" dog, so it became Adam's. It lived in a college apartment for 4 months and then packed up her bags as graduation from college drew near. Adam found a job in Sidney, moved, and Rudi was left at his parent's house. It was there that she grew up for two years, raising havoc, eating rose bushes, pulling laundry down from the clothesline and digging up dead animals. She got in a few fights along the way, busting open her nose and splitting her ear, the earlier of which was repaired.
After Adam and I got married, she got a heavy-duty bath and came to live with us. She was well-mannered, obedient and potty-trained (still is, save the recent incident) and it was obvious from the start that she loved us. Her primary goal in life is to be in the same place as us at every moment. If we're leaving, she wants to come, too. Oh, and if you don't mind rolling down the window so she can stick her head out, that would be great, thanks. If we're staying, she wants to sit by us and get a scratch behind the ear. It's the simple things, really. Nothing excites her more than a running shoe being slipped on a foot, because it usually means a run outside is soon to follow.
She jumps on those who enter our house, barks at strangers and doesn't like strange men. I don't either. Everything I own is covered in mounds of black dog hair, no matter how many times I vacuum the carpet or grab the lint roller. Sometimes, I make food and while I'm eating it, I find myself with a hair in my mouth. OK, so maybe she's not perfect. But, I'll keep her. For now at least. Talk to me next week.
Additionally, she woke Adam and I up last night every two hours, like clockwork, so she could go outside to the bathroom. That's funny, I thought I had a full-grown dog, not a newborn child.
On the flip side, the week where she is high atop my hate list and I have to put on rubber gloves and hold my breath to scoop her poop off the carpet, I am reminded of all the other weeks where she's not. Where she's really quite perfect. Adam reminded me today that all these things she's done are basic instincts and the other 358 days of the year, she deserves a "#1 Dog" t-shirt. He's right.
Considering her background, Rudi has every right not to be such a wonderful dog. We aren't sure exactly where her life began, we don't know her birthday, and we don't know what breed she is. I'd put my money on black lab/ shepherd, if it matters. All we know is that one of Adam's roommates, Vonde, has an uncle who's a priest in an area of Dayton called Salem. It isn't exactly the nicest area of town, one you wouldn't want to venture the streets alone at night. It was here, in that priest's garage, that someone dumped Rudi. The priest called Vonde to see if he and his roommates would like the puppy--and we all went to see her. Everyone knows you don't just "go see a puppy" you look, fall in love and then bring it home. That was in January of 2005. She wasn't more than 4 or 5 weeks old at the time.
That was exactly how it happened. The other roommates said it couldn't be "their" dog, so it became Adam's. It lived in a college apartment for 4 months and then packed up her bags as graduation from college drew near. Adam found a job in Sidney, moved, and Rudi was left at his parent's house. It was there that she grew up for two years, raising havoc, eating rose bushes, pulling laundry down from the clothesline and digging up dead animals. She got in a few fights along the way, busting open her nose and splitting her ear, the earlier of which was repaired.
After Adam and I got married, she got a heavy-duty bath and came to live with us. She was well-mannered, obedient and potty-trained (still is, save the recent incident) and it was obvious from the start that she loved us. Her primary goal in life is to be in the same place as us at every moment. If we're leaving, she wants to come, too. Oh, and if you don't mind rolling down the window so she can stick her head out, that would be great, thanks. If we're staying, she wants to sit by us and get a scratch behind the ear. It's the simple things, really. Nothing excites her more than a running shoe being slipped on a foot, because it usually means a run outside is soon to follow.
She jumps on those who enter our house, barks at strangers and doesn't like strange men. I don't either. Everything I own is covered in mounds of black dog hair, no matter how many times I vacuum the carpet or grab the lint roller. Sometimes, I make food and while I'm eating it, I find myself with a hair in my mouth. OK, so maybe she's not perfect. But, I'll keep her. For now at least. Talk to me next week.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Why I run
Yesterday morning, I ran 13.1 miles in the Indy 500 Mini. It's a time like that when you have some time (2 hours, 20 minutes) to reflect on the events that led to such a day. Mostly my thoughts were occupied with the repeating of the phrase, "Pain is temporary" but it also occured to me that I really don't remember why I started running in the first place.
As a child, I was never one to commit to any sort of athletic event for longer than a year or two, if that. There was my excitement over cheerleading that lasted a few classes, then my stint in softball in seventh grade and my enthusiasm for volleyball in eighth grade among other sports that I wasn't good at and just gave up on. Just ask my mother. She claims I gave up softball because I had to concentrate on the game rather than socializing. While this may be partially true, I think I just got bored and realized I wasn't athletic--I was just really skinny.
Aside from dabbling here and there, I was never really excited about any athletic pursuits until college. I have a fond memory of leaving Manresa (freshmen orientation at XU) and Kristin Hoff, who lived on my floor in Husman, asking me if I was a runner. I thought it was a strange question, and she followed it up (after I said 'no') by saying, "Well, you look like a runner." Keep in mind that at the time, poor Kristin was covered in head-to-toe rug burns from falling off a treadmill while running on it. At any rate, something clicked with me and I realized that if I looked the part, I might as well play it, too.
Running is a process, and it takes time to turn into an enjoyable event, as opposed to something you only do to escape danger. It can be a pain in many parts of your body, spark dogs to chase after you and people to yell offensive things from their cars as they pass by. Despite being incredibly hard on your body, running has transformed my body like nothing else could, and provided therapy like nothing else will.
You see, running isn't just running--it's more than that. It's an addiction, it's a reason to get out of bed in the morning and a method of fueling life. It provides a sense of accomplishment, regardless of the pain it instills. Either you're a runner, or you're a spectator--you love it or you hate it. There's no in-between, no gray area; you let it fulfill you or you find another way to further yourself.
Running has toughened me, and has taught me to gain strength from life's little victories. I listen to what my body tells me, but only after the run is over. I wave to every runner and walker I pass, and gain inspiration along the way. Each stride behind me prepares me for every step in front of me, even after the run is over. There's a sense of pride in knowing that if nothing else can protect me, my legs will swiftly take me away.
Running isn't for everyone, I get that. As human beings, we strive to find something that gives us joy in our lives, whether it be a healthy outlet or one that isn't especially good for us. My only hope is that your joy feels as good as mine.
From a New Balance ad in my Runner's World magazine:
"Your friends don't understand what you see in RUNNING.
They just see how RUNNING drags you home early from the best parties.
And how it kicks you to the curb the next morning
before the crack of dawn.
They just see the missed lunches, curious stares
and constant mind games.
And if they don't see the other stuff by now,
odds are they never will."
As a child, I was never one to commit to any sort of athletic event for longer than a year or two, if that. There was my excitement over cheerleading that lasted a few classes, then my stint in softball in seventh grade and my enthusiasm for volleyball in eighth grade among other sports that I wasn't good at and just gave up on. Just ask my mother. She claims I gave up softball because I had to concentrate on the game rather than socializing. While this may be partially true, I think I just got bored and realized I wasn't athletic--I was just really skinny.
Aside from dabbling here and there, I was never really excited about any athletic pursuits until college. I have a fond memory of leaving Manresa (freshmen orientation at XU) and Kristin Hoff, who lived on my floor in Husman, asking me if I was a runner. I thought it was a strange question, and she followed it up (after I said 'no') by saying, "Well, you look like a runner." Keep in mind that at the time, poor Kristin was covered in head-to-toe rug burns from falling off a treadmill while running on it. At any rate, something clicked with me and I realized that if I looked the part, I might as well play it, too.
Running is a process, and it takes time to turn into an enjoyable event, as opposed to something you only do to escape danger. It can be a pain in many parts of your body, spark dogs to chase after you and people to yell offensive things from their cars as they pass by. Despite being incredibly hard on your body, running has transformed my body like nothing else could, and provided therapy like nothing else will.
You see, running isn't just running--it's more than that. It's an addiction, it's a reason to get out of bed in the morning and a method of fueling life. It provides a sense of accomplishment, regardless of the pain it instills. Either you're a runner, or you're a spectator--you love it or you hate it. There's no in-between, no gray area; you let it fulfill you or you find another way to further yourself.
Running has toughened me, and has taught me to gain strength from life's little victories. I listen to what my body tells me, but only after the run is over. I wave to every runner and walker I pass, and gain inspiration along the way. Each stride behind me prepares me for every step in front of me, even after the run is over. There's a sense of pride in knowing that if nothing else can protect me, my legs will swiftly take me away.
Running isn't for everyone, I get that. As human beings, we strive to find something that gives us joy in our lives, whether it be a healthy outlet or one that isn't especially good for us. My only hope is that your joy feels as good as mine.
From a New Balance ad in my Runner's World magazine:
"Your friends don't understand what you see in RUNNING.
They just see how RUNNING drags you home early from the best parties.
And how it kicks you to the curb the next morning
before the crack of dawn.
They just see the missed lunches, curious stares
and constant mind games.
And if they don't see the other stuff by now,
odds are they never will."
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Archenesis
As a kid, dandelions were awesome. What could possibly be cooler than a weed that has a bright yellow flower and those white fuzzy things, that you could blow into the wind? The obvious answer: there are ALOT of things that are much, much cooler.
If I have to be judged by others on a superficial basis, I hope I am judged by the following criteria, in this order:
1. How cool my clothes are
2. How far I can run
3. My yard
Dandelions are really getting in the way of my upstanding status on the third item. If you would have asked me last year, "Do you have a nemesis or archenemy?" I would answer with one word, and one word alone: THISTLES.
If you haven't had the pleasure, thistles are hardy weeds with sharp spines, deep roots and a serious attitude problem. Our garden was overtaken by these when we moved in, which means I spend many long hours in the garden, pulling them by hand and filling many yard waste bags with their rotting carcasses. It was terrible, and I grew to hate the spiny, unaturally hardy mutant weeds so much that I began to feel nothing could be worse than their existance.
When the spring season finally arrived, I realized that while thistles are painful to glove-less hands and annoying, dandelions just make the yard look like I've given up. Today was the day I would prove that I didn't give up, as I donned my faded Xavier t-shirt, pink sweat pants and a 1.33 gallon jug of weed-b-gone, I was going to show those dandelions who is the boss of whom.
It started off well, spraying into the wind and pelting those enemy weeds with my poison. Then, like a light from heaven, I had an epiphany. I looked left, I looked right. What did I see?
If I have to be judged by others on a superficial basis, I hope I am judged by the following criteria, in this order:
1. How cool my clothes are
2. How far I can run
3. My yard
Dandelions are really getting in the way of my upstanding status on the third item. If you would have asked me last year, "Do you have a nemesis or archenemy?" I would answer with one word, and one word alone: THISTLES.
If you haven't had the pleasure, thistles are hardy weeds with sharp spines, deep roots and a serious attitude problem. Our garden was overtaken by these when we moved in, which means I spend many long hours in the garden, pulling them by hand and filling many yard waste bags with their rotting carcasses. It was terrible, and I grew to hate the spiny, unaturally hardy mutant weeds so much that I began to feel nothing could be worse than their existance.When the spring season finally arrived, I realized that while thistles are painful to glove-less hands and annoying, dandelions just make the yard look like I've given up. Today was the day I would prove that I didn't give up, as I donned my faded Xavier t-shirt, pink sweat pants and a 1.33 gallon jug of weed-b-gone, I was going to show those dandelions who is the boss of whom.
It started off well, spraying into the wind and pelting those enemy weeds with my poison. Then, like a light from heaven, I had an epiphany. I looked left, I looked right. What did I see?
It seems, flying in the face of conventional wisdom, our neighbors are actually growing crops of dandelions in their yards. Has there been a change to the term "cash crop" that I'm not aware of?!? I'm not one to give up, but I give up. There's always next year, right?
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Projects: the glue that holds Spring together
Spring is upon us, which reminds me of how different life is when you're a homeowner. I remember the days of wishing I could paint the walls "any color I want" but never thinking through the intensity of the painting process. Then again, I am the one who painted my bedroom twice in a 2-month span.Being a homeowner means that at any given moment, there's alway something around the house that could use your attention. I find myself saying crazy things like, "I wish I didn't have to [insert social event/committment here] because I'd really like to [insert project involving the pulling or weeds or sanding and painting of wood] !" Though, it is important to remember the difference between projects--not all are created equal.
First, there are projects that must be done, like clockwork, whether you like it or not. Items in this category include vacuuming twice weekly to rid your carpet of the rediculous amounts of dog hair gathered there, as referenced by our little angel, Rudi,
dusting, cleaning toilets and mowing the lawn. Also, cleaning all items that are dog hair magnets, like countertops and hardwood floors. On a side note, I have yet to figure out how our dog still has any hair left, what with the insane amounts of hair falling out off her body and all. Too bad I haven't mastered the art of knitting; we'd all have dog hair sweaters and matching scarves by now.
Then, there's the projects that are forced upon you, like when your insurance company informs you that you have 30 days to put a new roof on your house or your policy will be dropped, much like a large sack of potatoes.
Finally, my favorite projects would be the ones that you put upon yourself. Part of you thinks you can do it in a day or two, and perhaps a small part enjoys the self-torture. None the less, these are the projects that take the longest, what with only having to answer to yourself and all. Items in this category include ripping your bathroom down to the studs, (yes, that is what one of our bathrooms looks like currently) putting up drywall in the garage and thinking a small hand shovel is enough to pull out a deeply-rooted shrub. I will only take credit for the last project, as will my sore lower back and muddy shoes. Stump grinder, anyone?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go buy a larger shovel and some asprin.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
And so it begins
Hey, remember when I had my Livejournal? Wasn't that fun, interesting and stimulating to your mind? Well, that thing died a long time ago, but I've decided to continue the tradition with a blog instead. I also may have borrowed the idea from my brother who recently started a blog about the recent addition to his family. Either way, here I am.
I'm just a born and raised city girl living in the cornfields of Ohio, living the dream. Dream that consists of cornfields, skunk smells and a pack of deer living in a fenced pen across the street. Why do deer live in a fenced pen? I don't know, but that's what the binoculars we got for Christmas are for. Some would say Cincinnati isn't the "city" persay, but it might as well be NYC when you live in rural farm country. I don't make it back to visit as often as I'd like, so this is a way for you to stalk me without actually stalking me.
So, sit back, relax and enjoy the adventures of life in the country. For now, I leave you with the awesome view of the sunset from our front porch.
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