Monday, March 25, 2013

Sunday Best

I never know if I should call Sunday the first or last day of the week. It's kind of like aces - are they high or low? And do you have to determine before the day starts? Because it seems like that could be a game changer. Last day of the week implies a certain finality and adds pressure. "Oh, I'd better clean out the fridge because it's the last day of the week and the lettuce will sense it that I didn't use it three days ago like I planned and wilt if I don't make a salad right away." While treating it as the first day creates a fresh start, but a different kind of pressure. One that involves preparation like meal plans and making sure you have enough wine and clean underwear to get your family through the week.

Our Sundays always start off the same. Fighting to get Shooter into anything besides jeans or pajamas and heading off to church as a family. However unlike traditional observation of the day, ours is hardly one of rest.

Mr. T and I are currently both training for half-marathons, two weeks apart. This isn't an unusual occurrence - it's our third time trying to coordinate schedules, which typically isn't an issue except for our long Sunday runs when we can each be gone for a couple hours. During my first half-marathon cycle, I was the only one training and I had a regular running partner that I met at 7:30 on Saturday mornings. That was also my first winter running, when I was still all "Oh man, running is the best! I don't care that it's still dark and -17. This is incredible!" Also known as the period when my brain was too fuzzy from lack of sleep to accurately process how ridiculous it was. But I know better now. These days, I am not entirely sure the promise of cheap pinot grigio would lure me out of bed before the first light streaks across the sky . Therefore during the winter months, we do our long runs on Sunday after church.

In the past couple months, I've been running with a new partner. It's possible I'm a bit of a running hussy. Or as Mr. T so delicately put it: "You'll give it up to anyone who shows you any kind of running affection. Two gels and you'll fartlek with anyone." Touche.

Our challenge of late has been attending church, getting home in time for me to eat and drive the 20 minutes to my route to meet my partner and then get home in time for Mr. T to head out for his run, while still leaving enough time in the evening for important things like grocery shopping, end-of-the-week crantinis and the newest episode of Revenge. Oh, and feeding and bathing the children. Of course.

 Yesterday seemed to highlight the gong show delicate balancing act perfectly.

12:15: Still at church. Mr. T gives me a warning look to stop talking and get in the car.
12:35: Finally make it to the car and am greeted by the shrieks of an overenthusiastic three-year and nap-deprived (almost) one-year-old.
12:45:Nurse Duder with one arm and check the weather on my phone with the other hand to determine how many layers are needed.
1 p.m.: Feeding session completed. Commence frantic search for crops, tank top and two matching running socks in the clean laundry. Which doesn't sound so complicated if you ever bother to fold your clean laundry and don't have four baskets of it to go through. I wish I was exaggerating.



1:05: Abandon the hope of matching socks and grab any two that are not made of cotton and will wick away melting snow that seeps into my shoes.
1:10: Toss my hair in a messy ponytail, use my daughter's flowered clips to pin back my bangs and throw a packet of instant oatmeal into the microwave while trying to get dressed and gather the various accessories required, including Road ID, sunglasses and iPod in the two minutes in takes for the oatmeal to heat.
1:25: Climb into vehicle after kissing both kids and a husband goodbye
1:28: Put on Garmin Forerunner and shove bites of banana into my mouth at first red light while keeping one hand on the wheel and trying not to forget to keep one foot on the brake.
1:34: Stuck at another red light waiting for a train. Take the opportunity to inhale container of oatmeal and craisins I brought along.
1:37: Still waiting for the train. Earwarmer, chapstick, hand lotion and a quick swig of water from my fuel belt to wash down the oatmeal caught in my throat. Say a silent prayer of thanks I had the foresight to apply Body Glide for inner thigh chafing before I left the house.
1:41: Curse the train and text running partner to let her know I'm running late.
1:49: Made it! Begin 16k run and bemoan sore hip flexors five minutes into it.

I have considered the various scenarios that would make this entire process less of a hassle. But those would require a modicum of effective time management which I no longer include under the "Organizational Skills" section of my resume for this exact reason. One day I will learn to prepare ahead of time. One day Mr. T and I will be able to run at the same time and have the kids bike along next to us, or be able to leave them at home without contemplating if the dog can be considered reasonable adult supervision. One day I'll look like Jessica Alba after two ki...Ha! I couldn't keep a straight face long enough to get that out.

Until then, something will just have to give. Like post-sermon socializing. Or bathing the kids.

Monday, March 18, 2013

The Hole

I don't even want to know what kind of search results the title of this post is going to yield. Some lonely guy in Romania is going to be searching for something supremely sketchy and be mighty disappointed when he sees this photo of Shia LeBeouf.

 From the movie "Holes." Yeah, I know you get it.

So is the guy searching for any combination of the words "hole" and "the beef."

Well now that I've seen to the business of sentencing my week-old blog to the dregs of the web, I can move on to more important things, like my inability to endure human interaction this past week.The last time I felt like this, I was in my third trimester and and out running Saturday errands when I found myself taking a bit too much joy in keeping an asshat tailgater pinned in behind me and the slow guy next to me. It was at that point I realized that I was a giant sack of crazy and should seriously consider solitary confinement for the duration of my pregnancy.

According to very reliable sources (or Wikipedia), solitary confinement (also known as "the hole") is a "special form of imprisonment in which a prisoner is isolated from any human contact" and is implemented when one is " considered dangerous to oneself or to others." What I hear them saying is that it's quiet, kid-free and involves limited communication with people who piss me off ( Loosely defined as the kind of people who create demand for a One Direction pop-up store, scheduled to open soon at Chinook Centre. I can't even). Is there a waiting list to get into this lockdown mode? Because I'd like to submit my name for consideration.

My indignation was sparked last week when someone asked if I was expecting baby number three. Granted I was wearing an unflattering top and have terrible posture, but let me offer this word of advice: do not ask women this question unless you're sure. Like, really sure. As one friend put it, "Go ahead and politely inquire if a baby's arm is dangling out of there." Later that same morning at Costco, as I waited in line to pay for a bag of coffee that weighed the same as my son at birth, an employee approached to ask if I'd lost my membership card. She held up the card in question and, despite the crappy quality of the thumbnail-size black-and-white in the corner, it took me all of two seconds to identify that a) it was not by card and b) the woman who it DID belong to was at least 10 years older than me. So in the span of two hours I have now been called old AND fat. And people wonder why most days I "joke" about unscrewing the cap on a fresh bottle of wine when the clock strikes noon.

So if I'm indeed "considered danger to others," there should be a caveat somewhere that provides allowance when dealing with the mind-numbing stupidity of others. Unless of course being locked-up means I can take an interrupted nap. In which case, just let me know where to sign on the written confession.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

In the beginning...

Once upon a time I decided to start a blog. And then I failed to update it on a regular basis so it kind of just faded from memory. My memory that is. It's floating around in cyberspace somewhere I'm sure. Lesson #1: The internet never forgets. Kim Kardashian and her second trimester peplum pants would best remember that.

I've tried a few times over the years to reignite the idea, but then important stuff came up. Like The Cosby Show marathons on TVTropolis and saving my oldest child from her own sense of self-destruction.

I can't make any farfetched promises, like that I'll update this every other day or that I'll post one great craft to do with your kids each week. Which is just as well because I have an attention span of roughly three minutes and 16 seconds for anything involving a glue gun, glitter or foam sheets. I will promise that I'll just try to share whatever place I'm at at the given time. Which six times out of 10, will likely involve liquid motivation containing 11% inspiration that was crafted somewhere in South America or Kelowna.Cheers!