Rrrgh. Don't you hate it when you are finally getting into a solid exercise routine and something just comes along to knock you out of it? I have been quite the good girl for the last two weeks, wogging almost every morning (or doing a nice long walk on my days off) and all was going along swimmingly (strollingly?). Scarlett becomes the most lovely, mellow, contemplative baby in the stroller, and most days I've even been able to milk this rare mood--I've found if I shower as soon as we get back to the house, I can usually get 5-10 minutes scream-free! I've been gradually increasing my distance and the length of time I spend out, and have been feeling great. Runners Go Bragh!
Then (da da da dum) enter...the STUBBED TOE.
A stubbed toe is one of those frustrating ailments that garners you absolutely zero sympathy while being ridiculously painful. I got mine this morning by venturing recklessly through dangerous terrain I should have known to avoid...aka, my backyard, which as you saw from my previous post has become a war, I mean construction zone. (In good news, the veranda is looking AWESOME thanks to Two Daring Dads who weren't afraid to sweat and swallow sawdust on Father's Day--my dad and my husband. Pics soon!) There I was, carrying the Squidge out for a look-see at the progress, when BOOM went my toe into a piece of wood which had, I'm quite sure, not been there before. (My normal recourse in these situations, howling at my husband, was tragically not an option as this is one of his few Howl-free Holidays). It hurt at the time, but not really enough to slow me down. Over the course of the day, however, this injury has shown its true colors, which are black, blue, and puffy (okay, I know puffy is not a color, but it should be, don't you think?). Now, I am hobbling about like a gouty old lady.
Fudge. I have a sneaking suspicion this is going to mess with my morning exercise routine for awhile. Wish me luck that my dumb toe returns to normal proportions before I remember the joys of being a slug.
Okay, enough trying to eek out some meager rations of sympathy (it's not working anyway, is it?). I really should be lesson planning...tomorrow morning is coming much sooner than I'd like, and I'm not even slightly prepared. Sometime this week I will blog about the joys of teaching summer school to college fresh, fresh, FRESH-men--we're talking graduated high school Saturday, started my class Monday kind of fresh! Ah, how I love having impressionable young minds at my disposal. Kidding, kidding! Hope everyone's weekend was great.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Do the Veranda Pokey, and You Turn Yourself Around
Here are Squidge and I in the aftermath of the construction war which took place at my house this weekend, which involved three/two men, enough tools to sink a ship (or perhaps keep one from sinking), a stack of wood, and a veranda which just refused to get built! My mom and I watched Saturday and Sunday slowly slip away as "the boys" (Mario and my dad, and Brandon on Saturday) fillibustered over plans until a project that was SUPPOSED to take one weekend ended in, well, the state seen in the picture above. We started singing "The Veranda Pokey," which went a little something like this:
You put the lag screws in, you pull the lag screws out,
You put the lag screws in, and then you throw 'em on the ground,
You drive off to Home Depot and you buy yourself some more,
And THAT's what it's all about!
Now I have to deal with THIS mess until next weekend!
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Wogging, With Baggage
Ooooh. Life with my new Expedition jogging stroller (yes, not as cool as the Bob, but then in all fairness, I really don't deserve a Bob at this out-of-shape juncture in my life) is...well...rather achy. Good Girl Crystal (while slacking off on eating healthy, ssshhh!) has been out on wogs (jogs with some walking involved) almost every morning this week, and is feeling that burn! The one morning I stayed in was only because it was cold and windy and yucky, and I didn't think it was fair to subject Scarlett to the atmospheric cruelties of my quest for firmer flab.
And flabby I am. As I was telling a friend of mine recently, in my heart I am a distance runner. In my legs and back and lungs, however, I am a post-baby rocking-chair potato, and it's pretty hard to convince those delinquent parts that my heart has the right idea. But I am trying. I have discovered that my neighborhood, which I normally spend a large amount of time complaining about (one must cross the railroad tracks, pass a trailer park, and venture through a neighborhood of manufactured homes to reach my subdivision, and in most of the houses around me dwell at least twelve people with sixteen cars between them, at least one of which "bumps" home sometime after 10pm each night, and hardly anyone takes care of their lawns), actually has a lot of quiet streets with wide shoulders, perfect for wogging. And Squidge is being QUITE cooperative...so far, she just hangs onto the stroller sides all sweetly and quietly absorbs the world until she nods off! I keep waiting for THAT worm to turn, because generally my pretty little devil is just not quite that angelic.
I believe, if I listen to my heart (and ignore my lazy butt, which would really like to stay in bed longer in the mornings) that I can regain my former distance-running ability. Okay, maybe not, although it is still my dearest goal in life to run a marathon someday while I am still reasonably young. The one thing that is gone, however--at least for now--is the fabulous feeling of freedom one gets by strapping on a pair of shoes, hooking one's key to one's sports bra, and heading out the door. No tire patching kits or tubes, no carabiners or special shoes, no paddles and life vests needed. Some call running boring, but for me there have been years of my life where I did my clearest thinking running miles and miles, me and the road and maybe a good hip hop mix. Now, however, it's me, the road, the hip hop mix, the stroller, the Squidge, the flowered blanky, the crazy peacock, the pull-toy monkey, the sucky, the cell phone...
The great thing about the jogging stroller is that packing this crap along is virtually painless, with all its handy little pockets. In fact, the only baggage that's giving me pain is that which resides on my chest. Pain of the "Bewbies," as my friend Jenna calls them, is apparently a fact of post-pregnancy running, and something I've never had to deal with before, given my girls' historic predilection for the "more than a mouthful" camp. And, let's be honest, breastfeeding may have endowed me a LEETLE more, but my B cups (B- and B+, depending on the side) are still by no means traffic stoppers. Yet that doesn't stop them from aching like a mofo after the most innocent little wog. Owwwwwwwww!
The IDEAL jogging stroller, I'm thinking, would have some sort of boobage support extending from the handle...I can see it now! It's going to make me millions...no? Okay, fine. Back to the drawing board. In the meantime, no one hug me too hard!
And flabby I am. As I was telling a friend of mine recently, in my heart I am a distance runner. In my legs and back and lungs, however, I am a post-baby rocking-chair potato, and it's pretty hard to convince those delinquent parts that my heart has the right idea. But I am trying. I have discovered that my neighborhood, which I normally spend a large amount of time complaining about (one must cross the railroad tracks, pass a trailer park, and venture through a neighborhood of manufactured homes to reach my subdivision, and in most of the houses around me dwell at least twelve people with sixteen cars between them, at least one of which "bumps" home sometime after 10pm each night, and hardly anyone takes care of their lawns), actually has a lot of quiet streets with wide shoulders, perfect for wogging. And Squidge is being QUITE cooperative...so far, she just hangs onto the stroller sides all sweetly and quietly absorbs the world until she nods off! I keep waiting for THAT worm to turn, because generally my pretty little devil is just not quite that angelic.
I believe, if I listen to my heart (and ignore my lazy butt, which would really like to stay in bed longer in the mornings) that I can regain my former distance-running ability. Okay, maybe not, although it is still my dearest goal in life to run a marathon someday while I am still reasonably young. The one thing that is gone, however--at least for now--is the fabulous feeling of freedom one gets by strapping on a pair of shoes, hooking one's key to one's sports bra, and heading out the door. No tire patching kits or tubes, no carabiners or special shoes, no paddles and life vests needed. Some call running boring, but for me there have been years of my life where I did my clearest thinking running miles and miles, me and the road and maybe a good hip hop mix. Now, however, it's me, the road, the hip hop mix, the stroller, the Squidge, the flowered blanky, the crazy peacock, the pull-toy monkey, the sucky, the cell phone...
The great thing about the jogging stroller is that packing this crap along is virtually painless, with all its handy little pockets. In fact, the only baggage that's giving me pain is that which resides on my chest. Pain of the "Bewbies," as my friend Jenna calls them, is apparently a fact of post-pregnancy running, and something I've never had to deal with before, given my girls' historic predilection for the "more than a mouthful" camp. And, let's be honest, breastfeeding may have endowed me a LEETLE more, but my B cups (B- and B+, depending on the side) are still by no means traffic stoppers. Yet that doesn't stop them from aching like a mofo after the most innocent little wog. Owwwwwwwww!
The IDEAL jogging stroller, I'm thinking, would have some sort of boobage support extending from the handle...I can see it now! It's going to make me millions...no? Okay, fine. Back to the drawing board. In the meantime, no one hug me too hard!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Precious Gifts
From Mario:
A jogging stroller
Running clothes (hmm, wonder what he wants me to do!)
Cute Mary Jane Crocs
The greatest card ever (see post below)
An attempt at birthday lovin'
From my sister and Scott:
Pyrex dishes (much needed)
Promise of dinner and a movie, complete with baby-sitter (VERY much needed!)
From my mom and dad:
Half an iphone (email on the run, here I come!)
RX Crocs (I gotta admit it, I love me some Crocs)
Delicious Oregon berry conserves and jam (I'm looking forward to breakfast!)
A fantastic fresh seafood dinner
From my daughter:
Very, very, very early birthday wishes (beginning at 2:30 am, and continuing until well into the morning)
A nap that ended rather sooner than expected (use your imagination, but here's a hint: it corresponds to why the birthday lovin' was only an "attempt")
A gentle reminder that small portions are best (she kindly fussed and cried throughout dinner, preventing me from overindulging in above-mentioned seafood)
Plenty of drooly, barfy kisses, and big gummy baby grins!
Ahhh...nothing like a birthday, surrounded by those who love you best!
The Best Birthday Card Ever
Happy Birthday to Me! The big Two-Niner, whew. Only a year left until the Roaring Twenties are over! So far it's been a nice day, but the best thing in it by far was this awesome card my husband made for me! (I love how it looks like I'm hitting him with the rolling pin. Surely THAT was no accident!)
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