The Crazy Lady Stays Alive

In the middle of the week, in the middle of the day, I was in such need of endorphins, I went out for a run.

And it was indeed beauteous.

Photo by L McWilliams

The crisp crunch of rice crispy treat-like leaves in day-glow colors, the bright sun, the invigorating air, it was all wonderful, just what I needed.

I forgot about the hunters.

About half-way through my run, mile 2.5, I came upon this sign:

Since it is now officially hunting season, a run through these woods is fraught. Fraught with freedom, fraught with natural beauty, true that. It's also fraught with hunting folk that may or may not notice I am a human and thus, non-huntable according to law.

This sign says people should wear hunter's orange as a precaution. 

I look down at myself.  I am wearing not one scintilla of orange. I am wearing grey, black and white.

Like a white-tailed deer.

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I decide:

1. I will run, wee, wee, wee, all the way back to my car.

2. I will sing while running because deer do not sing.

I take off, singing loudly enough, I reason, to alert people. Possibly I am alerting them to a crazy lady singing by herself in the woods, but no matter. The crazy lady stays alive.

I imagine hunters whispering in the woods:

Shhhh....Henry, I hear something.

Oscar, I hear it too.

Wait...it sounds familiar. I can't place it.

Me, too. I know this call. Is it a yellow-bellied warbler?

I don't know. Does a yellow-bellied warbler sound like ABBA?

Hmmmmmm....you are right, that's no warbler. That's "Dancing Queen."

Here is the new hunter's orange shirt I will now wear when I feel the need to take a gamble and run in the woods, which is never:

That was my fastest 2.5 mile run ever, a personal best of sorts.

UPDATE:
Just a few weeks later I found this article from the dailyGrafton how a recent jogger on the same trail was not so lucky and got injured from buckshot.

Hunter's orange is the new black, apparently.

Ketchup Is A Condiment, Not My Friend

Photo by L McWilliams

That I can "friend" my ketchup is confusing and even jarring. Ketchup is a condiment, not a friend. I consume ketchup in a way that is neither reciprocal nor friendly. Nonetheless, I see from the label that I can follow my ketchup brand on Facebook.

Facebook has been called many things, like a huge waste of time (said Betty White hilariously on "Saturday Night Live"), a piece of marketing genius, this generation's pet rock. After a bit of experimentation, I declared Facebook not for me. I'll take my email, my iphriend and my blog. I am too old for the web 2.0 wizardry.

Then I went on Twitter.

I thought Twitter users simply answered the question of What Are You Doing Now?

My life is not interesting enough to tweet that kind of information. I cut grapes for the kids at breakfast. I get dressed, cut some grapes for snack. Throw in a load of laundry, contemplate existential questions like "Is ketchup my friend?" and cut some grapes for lunch.

I certainly don't want to read anybody's grape-cutting Tweets. I don't necessarily care to get up-to-the-minute updates on some starlet's latest failed drug test or Mel Gibson's most recent rant.

My hand was forced. As per class instructions, I opened up a Twitter account. I browsed through feeds. Whatever.

But oh, there is McSweeney's. I love that online magazine. That's pretty cool. Oh wait, National Public Radio has an account? Awesome, I'll follow that one, too.

Then I found a running list of the Best Tweets of the Day and included was the Dalai Lama's tweet, "An authentic attitude of compassion doesn't change, even faced with another person's negative behavior."

The Dalai Lama tweets.

It was just what I needed. Because the Queen Bee of the neighborhood let her dog poop on the sidewalk and she talks around me, still, after 5 years of living in the same neighborhood. I needed a refresher on why compassionate thinking is worthwhile. If Twitter is good enough for the Dalai Lama then surely it is good enough for me.

Now, instead of existential questions around ketchup, I have Twitter on the brain: If I tweet on Twitter, does that make me a twat? Or just a twit? If I can't understand Twitterspeak, am I a twidiot? Am I twilliterate?

Questions to be answered on another day, I suppose.

You Tell Me

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They might have told us that timing and delivery are key.

When my husband and I were first engaged, close friends revealed a tactic that helped diffuse their squabbles. When presented with an annoyance of the marital variety, one would say to the other, “Who cares?” Seemingly, the tension then dissolved, highlighting how trivial some issues can be.

We were relative newbies to coupledom and vulnerable to well-meaning advice-givers. We wanted that elixir, the mysterious superglue that keeps partners together no matter what.

One early morning, getting out of bed and blindly treading to the bathroom in the darkness, I tripped on a large speed bump in the bedroom. I stumbled, stubbed my toe, my ankle turned in at an angle it shouldn’t. Cursing and then opening my eyes fully now rudely ripped from the twilight of just waking up, I saw the speed bump was discarded shoes, dirty clothes and socks from the day before, a common occurrence we had discussed previously. I oh so delicately crafted my request with a loud, “Could you pick up your shi** please!?”

From underneath the safety of warm blankets and a bed a few steps away, a muffled voice said, “Who cares?”

There was a pause. I blinked and then gathered a large breath, like that behemoth monster face in "The Mummy" who blew up that tremendous windstorm…

This incident taught us some things. For one, it affirmed that I am humorless in the morning. I might have been more receptive after a few cups of coffee. Also, we learned that this little catchall phrase didn’t work for us. Because obviously I CARE THAT’S WHY I AM SAYING SOMETHING. SHITHEAD.

I think of this incident now when I browse the parenting magazines that stand at attention at the gym and when I hear couples “experts” on He Said/She Said segments on the “Today Show.” “A woman really wants…,” says one. “What men hear is…,” counters the other. Who are these people anyway?

Ten years into our marriage, Hubby or I will now sometimes say, “Who cares?” but only in jest. “Who cares?” is our nuptial hot sauce, to be used sparingly, with forethought. I’d like to report that Hubby now puts his clothes in the hamper but alas, that would be an untruth. I’d like to say that I can let little things slide in the wee hours before my coffee, but nay.

I’d like to say that I can let things slide period. I’m a work in progress, too.

That friendly couple with the marital advice? They got divorced a few years ago.

"The Mummy" trailer, circa 1999:

Acting On Impulse

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I have an impulse on the deserted playground. A lunge, left hand, right hand, foot, foot, stick the landing, finish. A cartwheel.

Tulip bulbs and crocuses stay buried in their muddy holds, they know better than to rise above just because the sun is shining. The bright sunlight fooled me into thinking we could spend time outside, though the wind and temperature reminiscent of March now convince me of otherwise.

We have come to this playground for a little uninterrupted family time, hiding out from phone calls, email and folding laundry. Dates, medicines, factoids and prognosis statistics pop to the forefront of my attention, almost to say, “Don’t forget about me! Wait, and me! Don’t forget about me!”

The day before, Hubby and I scheduled his thyroid removal operation, after weeks of inconclusive tests and biopsies, consultations with doctors and late night Google searches.

Back at the playground, Hubby is now pushing Youngest Daughter, the four year-old Princess Golden Curls, on the swings. Her calls of, “Higher! Higher, Daddy!” sound across the playground while Eldest Daughter climbs up and slides down the winding, yellow plastic slide. 

I have an impulse though I haven’t done a cartwheel in years. But the muscle trace is practically hard-wired. In the days when I was a cartwheeling girl in love with Wonder Woman and Judy Blume books, I was also an avid gymnast and on my hands as much as I was on my feet.

A lunge, left hand, right hand, foot, foot, stick the landing, finish.

“Wow!”

The kids are impressed. This is a rarity.

“Do it again!”

I am cool, another rarity.

I pop out another cartwheel, this one better than the last.

Before I know it, we three are doing cartwheels and handstands, shirts untucked and slipping towards our chins with each tip. We are laughing, our hands and fingers cold from the barely thawed ground. Some landings are harder than others; Eldest Daughter favors the flat back landing with a chin-banging thud. Youngest Daughter’s feet flit off the ground, little donkey kicks and lands on her knees.

I want to be this mother, somebody fun and present, not preoccupied with worry, stern with obligation. If this is how my children remember me on this day on this barren playground then I have succeeded.