I don't cry myself to sleep, but I do laugh myself awake.

I have a reoccuring nightmare that just so happened to reoccur last night.  It's dark out and I'm driving down O Street in Lincoln (why?)  My eyes suddenly become so heavy that I can't open them.  My feet are heavy.  And my arms.  My everything.  I suddenly weigh a ton except I'm still the same size; just compacted.  I can't take my foot off of the gas pedal because it's too heavy and I know I'm going to wreck soon; can't believe I haven't already.  It takes all the strength I have to get my right hand off of the steering wheel and in last night's dream, something new happens.  My hand swipes the radio tuner as it crashes to the console.  The radio turns on and there is a text-to-landline message that my brother sent me years ago (in real life, not dream life).  I'm still terrified and blinded and now bracing my heavy self as much as I possibly can for the light pole or semi truck that I must be about to crash into.  And loud as can be, clear as a bell, there's the operator's voice: "You are a dorky ruh-tard."  And even though I know I'm about to be in an incredible amount of pain and maybe even leave this world for good, I can't help but laugh.  Then the sound of my own real-life laughter wakes me up.  That was strange.  I usually wake up right as I hear screeching brakes and loud, scary noises. 

I can't help but think that no matter what I do now, those are really the words I will hear when I'm dying.  "You are a dorky ruh-tard."  Great.  And just in case you've never received a text-to-landline message, send yourself one.  Anything you send, the operator sounds out in an extremely hilarious way. 

Running, pedophiles and birthdays, oh my!

Still running...still sweating...still trying to breathe.  It has gone from tough to easier to tougher.  Except that's not the right word for it.  Bored fits better.  Yeah, I'm getting bored.  In the habit.  But trek on, I will.  Not only because I have broadcasted to the world that I am now 'a runner' but also because if you break it down, I'd be a loser to quit.  A quitter who lost.  There are twenty-four hours in the day.  I run for only thirty minutes.  There are forty-eight sets of thirty minutes' in the day, so I only run for 1/48th of a day and only every other day.  And I'm really complaining about boredom?  Shut up.  Okay.

And someday, I shall look just like this when I run:

Unfortunately, right now, I look like this:



Moving on...it's HOT.  So hot that I now have something to blame all of my mishaps on.  Two days ago, I entered my vehicle and the thermometer read 105.  105!!!  I had to stop and fill up on gas, which is always a pain but a much heightened pain when it's so filthy hot outside.  I swiped my card before pumping and "Card Read Error".  What the...?  So I swiped it again and "Card Read Error."  Third times a charm, right?  "Card Read Error."  I looked down at my card to inspect it and that's when I realized that I was swiping my driver's license.  Just then, the Coca-Cola semi driver parked adjacent to me passed by me, laughed and said, "You're wearing two different shoes."  This, believe it or not, was on purpose.  They were the first two I pulled out of the shoe bucket and I just didn't feel like searching for their mates. 

On the bright side of things, the kids have been barely arguing at all this week because due to the sweltering heat, they just don't have the energy.  Instead, they have learned that by working together, they can come up with a way to convince me that the only place in the world we need to be is at the swimming pool.  I won't tell them that I totally agree.  If they knew this, my house wouldn't be clean.  And here's an interesting fact (okay, opinion): Much to my own surprise, the Lincoln pool crowd is much more shady and creepy than the Beatrice pool crowd.  In Beatrice, it's mostly kids that have been dropped off by their parents, a few babysitters and a few moms like me who have nothing better to do than get a free back massage from the water jets in the pool.  In Lincoln, there were still mostly kids, but also too many adult men for my liking.  And too many of them there by themselves.  No kids.  No wives.  Just creepy men, making casual conversation with young girls.  I pointed one of them out to my children and told them to steer clear of him.  Kyler pointed and said, "THAT MAN WITH THE WHITE SUNGLASSES?  WHY DO YOU THINK HE'S CREEPY?  HE LOOKS NICE."  Yeah, I used caps to show how loud he said it...but here's the thing:  the man left.  He got right out of the pool and walked through the exit door, looking suspicious and paranoid.  I doubt it was just hurt feelings.  If somebody pointed to me and said something like that, I would question it.  And Kyler was right, he didn't look creepy.  It was his behavior that tipped me off.  I'm sure this isn't all Lincoln pools, but the pool I was at and on the day I was there only confirms my constant suspicion that pedophiles will go anywhere publicly that they are allowed to be around children.  This is one of the reasons I don't attend church.  Who said that?  How did we even get onto this subject?  Oh yeah, the HEAT.  Darn that heat.  And just to stick up for myself...yeah, maaaaybe that guy wasn't a pedophile, but I'd rather be suspicious and wrong than...well, unsuspicious and right.  Also, I will be taking my kids to the swimming pool and keeping a constant watch on them until they are at least thirty years old.

In other news, Kenny has a birthday tomorrow and he was horrified to learn of his new age.  It always cracks me up and amazes me how he doesn't know how old he is.  Last month, just before my birthday, he asked how old I was going to be.  I said, "Thirty."  He said, "Huh, I didn't know we were the same age.  Always thought I was older."  I told him, "You are."  The smile faded from his face and he asked, "How old am I?"  So if you know Kenny, please wish him a happy thirty-SECOND birthday tomorrow.  Or thirtieth; maybe he'll really think he's frozen in time.  It must be rough, aging two years in only one day.  Poor guy.

Butter is better.

Life's not always beautiful.  I've had my up's and down's; we all have.  But right now life's great.  Sure, I worry about the upcoming winter.  Those long and dark days are depressing.  Even more so when it's freezing out.  But today it's sunny and we can go swimming and things are just so good that it almost hurts.  One day at a time.  That's the way to live.  And one funny at a time.  One "thing".  Our "thing" for today is butter.  You heard right.


All those years ago, when I first met Kenny and I heard him say the word 'better', it came out sounding more like 'butter'.  I just assumed I heard wrong.  But then it happened again, so I asked, "Did you just say butter?"  He replied, "No, I said butter," and looked at me like he didn't understand my question correctly.  So I said, "Do you mean better?"  Again with the misunderstanding look, he said, "Yeah, that's what I said.  Butter." 

It's been twelve years, four months and twenty-seven days since that conversation.  Over all of that time, he has still never pronounced the word 'better' correctly.  I don't even know why, but it drives me absolutely nuts in the same way as when his brother pronounces 'nuclear' as 'nook-you-ler'.  I'm starting to think they do it on purpose.


So, this morning...   

Kenny likes to sometimes make fun of controlling men by acting like one (and I'm serious, he really is just acting like one).  This morning, he told me, "Woman, you butter be makin' me some coffee, NOW!"  (And to prove even further that he is not a d-bag in disguise, I'll tell you that he didn't even want coffee...he was getting ready to go to sleep).  Anyway, my great and uncreative response was, "Right away, Kunny!" 


Oh, he got it.  I bet I've said at least a million times, "BET.  TERRRR." right after he said butter, so he definitely knew that I was making fun of him.  He just stood and looked at me with a gleam of hurt in his eyes and didn't say a word.  Then, he excused himself to the bedroom to go to sleep.  As he walked away, I said, "Good night, Kunny!  I mean, honey!" 


Let's see how long I can keep this up before driving him insane.  There's nothing butter than giving somebody a taste of their own medicine.

Work-From-Home Woes

I wake up early every morning and predict that this day will be perfect.  I sit down at my desk, log into my computer and dive headfirst into my respectable work day.  People are always telling me that it must be so very wonderful to work from home, though rarely am I asked if this is actually true.  In fact, I can't recall a single time in the history of me that anybody's asked.

Hey, Amanda, what's it really like to work from home?

Well, I'll tell you.  (And thanks for asking).

When the roads are covered in ice, I am thankful for my job.  When the snow comes down in drifts and covers my entire car, I am thankful for my job.  When my children are sick and cannot go to school, I am thankful for my job.  When I see my dogs happily frolicking throughout the house all day long, rather than being locked up miserably inside of heir kennels, I am thankful for my job.

But on some days...well, a lot of days...okay, MOST days, something like this is usually going on right behind me:

And a picture does no justice.  The sound of the three of them attacking each other with pillows is not exactly peaceful.  And they don't quit.  Ever.

Today, while so luckily working from home, Kenny decided to teach Mae how to fight.  Not for any specific reason; "just in case".  I had returned to my desk after a bathroom break and was unaware of what was going on.  Seeing Mae, just feet away from me, twisting Kenny's arm around with all of her might while his face turns a dark shade of red is actually not a rarity at all.  I sat down and readied myself for more work.  Just then, Kenny started yelling, "NOW FEED ME MY OWN HAND!!  FEED ME MY OWN HAND!!"  And when Mae did just that, he screamed like a little girl.  This caused partial (and perhaps permanent) loss of hearing in my left ear.

The thought of refurbishing the little house in our back yard and converting it into an office has crossed my mind more than a time or two.  Heck, I'd even take one of the sheds.  Or a box.  A large box would do. 

What's really impressive is not that I work from home...but that I actually get any amount of work done.

Good Apple.

As I sat busily working, Kyler pulled a chair up next to me and sat down in it, barely visible under the pile of books on his lap.  I gave him a curious look and he said, "You don't have to do anything.  Just listen."  He then started skimming through the books and telling me interesting-to-him facts about a very large variety of animals, ranging from dinosaurs to sloths to something called a 'kinkajou.' 

This is a kinkajou.  I want one.

Kyler tries to keep me up to date on everything he knows and likes.  I believe that his ultimate goal is to one day have a full and educated conversation with me.  He has done this before with sports.  He would rattle off random statistics seemingly day and night and he never failed to give me a breakdown of the rules before each game, even using words and terms that I could understand.  His sports-talk dream was obliterated at my nephew's football game when I yelled at the "umpire" for making a bad call.  What really is the difference between an umpire and a referee?  And how am I supposed to keep track of such petty information while also trying to juggle the difference between defense and offense?

So, no more sports for me.  Now it's pandas and starfish.  Except on this particular day, Kyler decided to take it a step further.  He pulled out his yellow plastic box of National Geographic life-sized maps and began pointing out to me where these different animals lived.  He had them strewn out all over the floor and I, still trying to work, mind you, was becoming slightly panicky over all of this new information.  Sensing this, Kyler told me to calm down and he ran into his room.  I could hear him making a mess while looking for something.  He finally came back with his globe.  Bless my son for knowing that the maps were too much for my brain to handle.  This was much simpler and by keeping one finger on the USA at all times, I was able to calmly listen and learn. 

As always, I am shockingly impressed at Kyler's knowledge.  It doesn't take a genius (or a snail) to figure out that this apple fell very close to the Kenny-tree.  As Kyler would go through his never-ending stacks of reading material and choose a certain creature to teach me about, he would read its description, then set the book down and tell me everything he knew that wasn't in the book.  And there was a lot.  And I know it was all true because he doesn't have the capacity to make things up

What happened to imagination?

Summer vacation is flying by quickly.  It is mid-June and the kids have spent their time playing video games and swimming.  This is really about all they have done.  Realizing this, I told them they need to think of something new to do each day and then actually do it.  I sent them to bed and told them to think about it as they fell asleep.

The very next morning, they seemed to be having way too much fun eating breakfast.  The laughter was steady and I heard Kyler say, “This is SO fun!”  I couldn’t see what was so fun about eating cereal, but as long as they were happy, I was happy.  Then, I remembered what we had talked about the night before and asked, “So, did either of you think of something new to do today?”

In unison, “Yep!”

Surprised, I said, “That’s great…what is it?”

Kyler answered for the duo, “We’re eating our cereal with forks instead of spoons!”

That is NOT what I had in mind.

Then Mae said, much too excitedly, “Hey, Kyler, tomorrow let’s eat our cereal on PLATES!”

Feeling philosophical. Please stop me...

Our weekdays are good but our weekends are heaven.  I am lucky and I know it.  Life is one very big menagerie of choices which shape our daily routines.  Decisions made in seconds; consequences that last years.  Let's buy a house.  Let's have a baby.  Let's have another baby.  All decisions I've made in my life and it has turned out very well for me, but it really boggles my mind to think about.  I mean really think about. 


Meeting Kenny almost never happened and that was a pretty big and important few minutes of my life.  And what if it hadn't happened?  I would be living under a bridge in a box right now.  Okay, maybe not, but I certainly wouldn't be where I am and that's the only place that I want to be.


I have often heard people saying they are afraid of the future and miss the past.  I must have been born with something connected wrong because I am ecstatic about the future and the past is like an old worn-out record that maybe I once loved, but now I can't figure out why.  I don't wanna be where I've already been.  I don't want to live where I've lived or be an age that I've already grown out of.  Honest as honest can be, I can't wait to be an old lady because old ladies who carry flasks and wear muu muu's are hilarious.  And I will be an old lady.  I hope.  This is why I quit smoking and started running and I don't drink so much anymore.  I want to still be "all there in the head" when I'm ninety.   What's unfortunate is that Kenny still smokes like a chimney and never exercises.  I have tried everything but it's got to be his decision.  Threatening to put firecrackers in his cigarettes and promising to marry somebody that doesn't smoke one week after he dies have done nothing in my favor.  In fact, he's been searching for the firecrackers ever since so that he can light them off (Kenny turns into a wide-eyed, very excited little kid on Independence Day) and he wants to know who I have in mind to marry so he can beat them up. 

To sum things up (as if this was an orderly story with an actual point), my best words of wisdom for today are: Feeling good feels good.  I hope your life's split-second decisons give you as much bliss as mine have. 

Next up: Week 6

This is getting easier.  I hardly even feel like I'm dying anymore.  And I have finally made friends with the rabbit who likes to jump out in front of me.  Either that or he was murdered by one or both of my dogs.  Either way, he leaves me alone now. 

According to an online forum (which I'm sure is completely accurate), only ten percent of participants make it through week four before quitting.  If I can't be a part of 'The One Percent', I suppose 'The Top Ten Percent of C25K' is next best.  In the grand scheme of things, which is really better?  Money or health?  And I feel like I'm just starting.  My ribs no longer ache and I think I have hawked up the last of the post-smoking phlegm in my system.  I know that word is disgusting, but it's the only word that truly describes what comes out of a person after smoking for fifteen years. 

I'm embarrassed to say that it took me five weeks to do this, but yesterday, Mae and I finally walked around the running trail and trimmed the trees so the limbs no longer slap me in the face.  And just recently, hedge apples have been falling from a couple of the trees right onto the path, thus making it a quite dangerous place to run.  In one area, I was having to duck and jump at the same time.  While I now have a safer running track, I no longer look like a ninja.  The bad with the good; always.

Three weeks ago, I vowed to invest in some sort of mobile music device, but I have yet to do so.  I keep telling myself that at least I have the songs of the birds every morning, but it's always kind of the same tune and really difficult to sing along with.  This morning, I caught myself singing the theme song to the Snickers commercial.  You know the Snickers commercial?  "There's a hunger inside me..."  I know I shouldn't run when I'm hungry, but the only other alternative is side-pains.  I deem those much worse.

Also, something I have learned:  Sweat from exercise does not stink.  "Body odor" comes from emotional sweat, such as nervousness.  This is where the saying, "I can smell fear" comes from.  So next time you smell your stinky self, just calm down.  I'm sure it's as simple as that.

So here we go, embarking on Week Six.  This is good.  This is fun.  This is good fun.   

Dog gone dog.

In the middle of the night (in fact, I think it was just on the brink of midnight), Kenny carelessly threw open the bedroom door and turned on the light.  He made me aware of his dire need for a flashlight and a knife.  I displayed much confusion and emotion at being awoken so rudely.  Yes,  I know that I am an adult and midnight is not really that late, but I foolishly arise at 3:50 in the am so I can drink much coffee, run and work overtime. 

By the time I reluctantly pulled out of my comatose state, Kenny was exiting the room, wielding a small sword and an oversized spotlight, saying something about, "Artie might have been attacked by a coyote..."

Artie is our dog.  I, of course, jumped out of bed to ask a whole bunch of unimportant questions.  What I figured out between our bedroom door and the back door was that Kenny had let the dogs out to relieve themselves, but only one dog came back in.  I knew immediately that he was jumping to conclusions.  This is not the first time.  In fact, every time an animal isn't clawing at our back door within one minute of being let outside, Kenny deems them lost, attacked or dead.  He has no patience.  (Of course, there was that one time that our cat was let out and ended up lost, then attacked, then dead...so I suppose maybe he's still traumatized by that). 

I watched through the window as Kenny walked all the way down to, then around, the pond.  I could see the light going every which way.  After so many minutes of this, he returned through the back door.  As we headed toward the front door, hoping for more luck in the front yard, we saw this:

And the way Artie was looking at us; both ears were pointing straight up in the air and he knew something was happening that was concerning and he really wanted to help us, but he just couldn't figure out why these humans of his were rushing outside into the scary, dark night.  What could they possibly be looking for?

Within minutes, Kenny was laughing at his mistake.  I, now wide awake, did not find it nearly as funny.

Volunteer Fun.

A couple of months ago, Kyler and Mae returned home from school.  Each of them held out a half-slip of paper and said, "Fill it out!"  These papers were requests for summer volunteers at the retirement home.  I asked them if this was really something they would enjoy doing and without giving it much thought, they beamed, "YES!!" 

I volunteered one single day of my youth at a retirement home and I will be honest with you: I did NOT enjoy it.  And this may sound brutal, but I directly associate retirement homes with boredom.  Though, I didn't tell the kids this.  I simply signed them up and told them that there is no option to quit; they must endure one day each week of the entire summer at the retirement home.  I assumed much whining and complaining would ensue over the subject in the upcoming weeks.

Week 1:  I dropped the kids off.  Kyler knew exactly where to go since he is an 'old kid' and they got to make monthly visits during school.  I left.  When I picked them up later that afternoon, they told me they weren't ready to leave.  I practically had to drag them out of there.  On the drive home, I asked if they wanted to go swimming (which just so happens to be their most favorite thing to do in the whole entire world) and Kyler said, "Sure, but can we go back to the retirement home after we're done?"

Week 2:  Both kids insisted on going early.  They were the first ones there on Week 1, where they learned that the early birds get put on wake-up duty.  This did not sound like something that I'd ever, ever, ever want to do, so I had to inquire.  They both told me that it's funny to wake old people up and then they get to push them to the bingo hall in their wheelchairs.  I simply cannot believe that my children are trusted enough to push anybody in a wheelchair, but I suppose there were no reports of drag races or slamming anyone into a wall (yet) so...okay.  When I picked them up, they ignored me for as long as possible, savoring each additional moment they got to stay.  On the ride home, Mae told me that she just loves it there and then shared her plans to move directly into the retirement home upon receiving her high school diploma.

Today will be Week 3 and I am quite interested to see what they have to say.  Either retirment homes have changed since I was a kid, or my children are just very much unlike me.  Both kids have birthdays coming up.  Kyler wants only money.  I asked Mae what she would like and she told me she had been thinking about it for a while.  "I want either an ipad or a wheelchair."  She was serious. 

The kids used to call me Dad. Who is this 'Mom' they speak of?

I feel that I am losing my pants-wearing status of the family.  Most recently, Kenny has been doing all of the man-jobs, leaving me to wonder what it is that I’m suppose to do.  He mows the lawn.  He does almost all of the household repairs.  He even cleans the gutters.  Occasionally, the kids let me cook for them and once every month I get to read the meter.  This is what my life has become. 

I decided to build the kids a tree house back in the woods just to prove that I could do it.  I pulled out the wheelbarrow and it had a flat tire.  I went to air it up and got so excited about the two-story tree house I was building up in my mind that I mis-stepped and tripped over the wheelbarrow.  I landed on my own leg.  Pain is more painful the older you get; that much I know for sure. 

I limped my way through airing up the tire then gimped it back down to the pile of boards behind our shed.  I began filling the barrow with the straightest boards I could find.  On the fourth one, my attention again drifted to the magnificent house I was about to create and somehow or other, I smacked myself across the face with a two by four.  My left-face was throbbing, but I was not giving up just yet.

Once the wheelbarrow was loaded as full as I could get it, I began to push.  But I filled it too full and could barely move it.  And I had about a quarter-mile of rough terrain to get through.  I made it maybe a quarter-block before sweat was pouring down my face and my forehead-veins were popping out.  Then and there, I abandoned my tree house dreams to return to the air conditioned house to lie on the couch.

When Kenny got home from work, he asked what I had done today.  I told him, “I aired up the tire on the wheelbarrow.”

He was quite proud of me.

I guess being ‘Mom’ isn’t so bad after all.