Race Day!

This weekend I completed my first triathlon: a 1300 yard swim (downstream), 12 mile bike ride and 3.1 mile run. I did great in the swim and was the second woman out of the water in my heat. I actually ran to the transition site like a real triathlete. I pulled my wet suit off like a pro. This is cake! Then came the bike. Mountain bikes with knobby tires are not known for speed. Mountain bikes with 37-year-old novices are really not known for speed. I could gain on people on the hills but when it came to the downhill portion I was blown out of the water (so to speak). Then back to the transition area. The bike rack was full. A kindly gentleman who already finished his race took my bike for me and hung it up (yes - cheating slightly but hey I was hardly in the front of pack). Finally the run. I actually passed four people on the run. Four really really slow people but four people nonetheless. Of course a thirteen-year-old blew by me. Because of course they do that to you, to mortify you - your age is written in big black permanent marker on your calf. My age is still there today - after a shower and a trip to the pool with the kids. Three seven. I might as well have the word “dork” penciled in next to it and other things like “weekend warrior” and “holy cats am I sore today!”

At any rate I finished the race and under two hours to boot. Then hubbie and I went to look at road bikes. Because in my next race I want to have a road bike. Yes you heard me. My next race. When? Where? I do not know. I may be getting older but I’m not going down without a fight. This exercise has done me a world of good. My heart is loving it. Now if I can just find two-grand worth of change in the couch cushions...

Its 2:30 in the afternoon. I am tired. We went to a four-year-old birthday. We washed two of three dogs. Now I want to clean the kitchen, scrub the floors, wash down the chairs and tables and scour the pots and pans. I moved three chairs to the living room, cleaned them then saw my computer. I sat down and that was it. Fatigue. Always so much to do. So many self-made obligations. Planter beds to build. Things to write. Rooms to clean. Shots to get. Note to self - go get your allergy shots - today! Oh yes and go to the bank. But what do I really want to do? Nap. A nap would be wonderful. It would be perfection. But now I'm getting up. I'm going to gather my banking, stop for an iced latte and get my "pokes" over with. Then maybe I'll tackle the kitchen or the yard. Or, maybe, just maybe, I'll sit down for real and simply do nothing.

Danger, Danger

She’s over on the side of the house. The side next to the empty lot where the tall grasses grow. She wants to plant a vegetable garden. She’s already built one raised bed. But before it can be put into place she needs to pull weeds. She’s not technically pulling - she’s hoeing: goring the weeds at their roots and mercilessly ripping them from their homes. The hoe is working wonders. For the past week she had been picking the weeds by hand, one-by-one. Only weeds multiply, like a herd of rabbits; for every weed plucked three grow. Today she’s cleared nearly half the side yard. I’m nearly as smart as other primates, she thinks, me use tools.

But the hoe wasn’t entirely her idea. She had help. You see a cougar was spotted in the neighborhood sprightly chasing a deer through a neighbor’s yard. The hoe, therefore, serves two purposes - weeding and protection. Because, of course, it is dusk. As the world sinks into darkness and the wind whisks cool air over the junipers the temperature becomes once again bearable. A time to weed and a time to hunt. She has the cougar to thank for the hoe.

She is wary as she demolishes the undergrowth. She glances at the tall grasses dancing in the distance. Is it just the breeze? It occurs to her she has on the wrong outfit. Sweats with the word Juicy across the ass might be more appropriate. One tasty steak, right here, bending over for your perusal. Probably not quite the purpose of the pants but not really so far off mark.

And the little dog. The one barking in the driveway. He should have hors d’oeuvre branded on his side. A nice little start to the meal. Goes well with a fine chianti.

There is a cat in the empty lot. She can’t be seen but her whereabouts are easily determined by echolocation. A pair of blue jays flank her every move screaming four letter twitters in her direction. The cat seeks shelter with the woman and the two of them are dive bombed by the birds.

The cat, now safe, plops herself next to the empty lot for a bath. Hmmm, the woman thinks, Emmie didn’t get the memo. No one told her about the cougar; she could predator and prey. The cat glances casually at the birds and continues her grooming.

The woman begins to think of all the possible dangers: lightening, an errant car, a freak accident involving a hoe and a carotid artery. There are many many ways to die. It’d be nice not to know, to be unaware, to plop down in front of fear and take a bath. Because chances are nothing will happen. The worry would be for naught. And then one would be well-groomed and ready for the next adventure.

The woman surveys her plot of land. More than half the weeds are gone. I’ll take the danger, decides the woman, because without the danger I wouldn’t have grabbed the hoe. And without the hoe I'd still have weeds. And besides, if not for danger what would there be to blog about? Yes, everything is just as it should be. Just as it is.

Falling down on the blog

Hello blog. How are you? I'm sorry I've not been around. I've been busy. We took a little vacation. And the kids are out of school.

We also have swim lessons Monday thru Thursday. We spend a good three hours at the pool. Then we come home and complain about how bored we are. So so bored. There is absolutely and totally nothing to do. We are tired and grumpy and hungry and no we don't want to eat anything in the house and no we don't want to clean our rooms and no we DO NOT WANT TO READ A BOOK!

And then, of course, there is the little matter of employment. We remain employed. We should not complain. We are lucky to have jobs. Many others are not so fortunate. We should be effervescent - Hi Ho, Hi Ho! And yet it is difficult to feel perky when the alarm starts blaring on a holiday morning. Yes, yes. Woe is me. And yes I see that. Of course I know what it is. A tiny violin. Yes, I get it. Ha, ha. Such wit. Really you astound me.

Oh and though I've also been negligent in recording it, I'm still training for a triathlon. It takes place two weeks from today. Will I be ready? I sure hope so. I need to put on my wet suit and jump in the river. I'll have to swim around the teenie boppers floating on their rafts; string bikinis struggling to cover their adolescent flesh. Hopefully these lacksidazical youth won't bludgen me thinking Nessie has come to America.

So, dear blog, you've been ignored as has flickr. I am an equal opportunity ignorer. Don't take it personally. I'll be back soon. I promise.

All my love, Me

Last week we found ourselves in Southern California on a whirlwind trip to visit friends and relatives (we stem from the land of excessively skinny and overly tan - or as the natives call it Huntington Beach). With my son’s twelfth birthday approaching we decided to squeeze Disneyland into our plans. Our three had never been to the park and I was dreaming of a magical adventure that would profoundly affect the children for the rest of their lives.

And yes, I do watch too much television. But I also grew up going to Disneyland and have fond memories of the park. In my mind Disney is the quintessential childhood experience: lines to be sure but characters and rides and bigger than life lollypops and mouse ears and adventure and oh so much fun.

But Disneyland during a heat wave on the first weekend after school gets out? Not so much fun. Not so much at all.

We started on a small ride - Snow White’s Adventure something. I’m rethinking the whole fairy tale concept. I know Grimm’s tales are, well, grim. And growing up Disney I know they follow the same grim model; mother dies, evil befalls and then, finally, happily ever after.

However this ride did not do a good job of demonstrating the happily ever after and the baby, at 4 1/2, left terrified bawling about witches and monsters. The older kids, being so much more worldly, exited bored to tears. (Insert eye roll, a few this is stupid and a few what a baby remarks between the older set).

Okay - on to something a bit more benign but no more mature - flying Dumbos. The line took forty-five minutes (longer than the ten claimed by the sign out front). It was 95 degrees outside. We would have passed out from heat stroke had my husband and son opted out and gone for sodas. I was ready to strangle the morons who were on this ride without children. What were they thinking? This is about the kids damnit! The kids!

Finally it was our turn. The girls and I piled into the ride and they loved it. But the ride was short and the baby had a melt down when told we could not stay in our seats for another turn.

Next? Tea cups! They had a blissfully short line in the shade to boot. The kids and I whirled and twirled while the hubbie took photos. By this time the baby seemed to understand that rides had to be exited at completion - i.e. no tears. Hip hip hooray! Things were picking up!

We were feeling good. We were feeling brave. We took on the Matterhorn. The baby was tall enough to ride and got to sit snuggled in Daddy’s lap. It was dark, it was cool, it was fast. The boy loved it. Finally - something for him. The girls - hated it, completely and totally hated it. Yes, yes things were going swimmingly.

We bypassed the 1 1/2 hour wait for Nemo and moved on to Space Mountain but there was no way no how the girls were going on that. Not after what we did to them on the Matterhorn. So the girls and I left the boys and went back to the carousel. Yippy skippy!

We were hot. We were tired. We were crabby. We did not enjoy the hot, tired and crabby attendant at the carousel. Aren’t these people paid to smile?

After the carousel bribes were definitely in order - a set of lovely princess/mouse ear headbands. At least the woman in the air-conditioned shop was Disney friendly.

After meeting the boys we decided we were done. We wanted, no we needed to go back to the beach. Middle daughter had a complete breakdown not because we were leaving but because she had four dollars not yet spent.

So like all good parents of children having tantrums we took her to a candy shop, took her picture, generally teased her with threats of internet fame then bought her four dollars of candy. She made an exceptionally good purchase - a large jaw breaker which she is still working on nearly a week later. Her dentist will thank me for the additional revenue. She was once again happy. Whoo (insert wiping of the brow).

Rejuvenated we braved one final ride - the Pirates of the Carribean. The big kids and I went while daddy sat out with terrified baby. She wanted nothing to do with pirates. The ride was lovely and cool and wet and totally redone since I last rode it twenty-five years ago.

Then we left. Entrance to Disneyland $310.00, Mouse Ears, beverages and candy $60.00, four hours in the Southern California heat in the name of family fun - priceless.

The moral of this tale? Go to Disneyland on a Wednesday in February. Trust me.

Ah, Young Love...

My youngest daughter has taken quite a liking to my son's friends. She has several little crushes on these "older" boys. One of the boys, Davis, recently sang in a school choir concert. The baby was enamored. Her sister, who is eight, helped her to compose a poem to Davis; perfect fodder for homecoming dates. We will, without a doubt, mortify our children during their teenage years.

Happy Love Thursday!

He’s singing. Over there with the mariachi band. He knows all the words. He’s clapping along cigarette hanging from his mouth, balanced in his lips, filling the void of missing teeth.

His family sits next to me. A daughter, perhaps, and son-in-law. They’re speaking Spanish excluding their young son; the strange third generation child who knows only English. The child wants his mother’s attention. He poking her, butting in, “Is it a mar-eee-ah-chee?” he demands, “Is it? Is that what it’s called?” The parents continue talking ignoring the child’s interjections.

Me? I’ve forgotten a book and am passing the time between order and food delivery watching this family. I’m also watching hoards of people meander along the river walk.

The river is murky. It is concrete. Man made waterfalls cascade down and tropical plants line the walk. I’m sure the landscaping intent is genuine but it doesn’t feel natural. I feel like I’m in a zoo; a passable facsimile of the real deal.

It is hot. Not as hot as the streets above but hot nonetheless. Most tourists sweat and wipe their brow. Humidity, heat and a herd of people do not make for comfortable skin.

I, too, am being watched. Intent pigeons eye me greedily waiting for my attention to wane. My chips are in jeopardy. I assume my margarita is safe, at least from the avian population.

My food arrives, chicken mole enchiladas. There’s too much cheese and the chicken is dry. But the sauce is good.

Suddenly two ginormous boobs bounce my way. Too bad my husband isn’t here, I think, he’d appreciate those. I feel slightly homesick. Then slightly sick. I’m alone and I’m a boob watcher. But who could help it? They were huge.

I am full. I did not eat my rice and beans. The singer has returned. He engages me in conversation, typical questions; Where are you from? What brings you to town? He is clearly bilingual. I wish I spoke Spanish.

Then he surprises me. Caught off guard I don’t immediately answer. He repeats his question, “You done with that? Mind if I have it?” He wants my rice and beans. I hand them over to the embarrassment of the younger set and disgust of the waitress. I was done after all. The food was going to go to waste.

I stand to leave and merge into the herd of people along the path. I’m seeking refuge in the air-conditioned hotel. “Goodbye,” he hollers after me as I walk away, “Welcome to San Antonio!”