Month: April 2017

Genocide at the Water Park

Folks, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but every spring, babies are murdered by the millions at pools around the country. No one is even discussing this horrific occurrence. Why aren’t people fighting for their right to develop legs!?

That’s right. I’m talking about tadpole murder.

Last Thursday, my kids had no school. It’s prime water park clean-up time, so I took them over and let them run around and catch tadpoles while I got some work done. The pool was being drained, so when they asked to take the tadpoles home, I filled a cup with as many as I could scoop in. We currently have 30-something tadpoles living in a tote on our back patio. I feel like the dentist in Finding Nemo–We found these little guys, swimming around in a gunky pool. And we SAVED them!

Well, my kids did. I just gave them a new home.

I had to!!! They were going to be sucked through a giant hose and end up in a sewer! Or worse!!!

Yesterday, I discovered the “worse.”

As I brushed and scrubbed dried leaves up from the empty pool, I uncovered the horror. The Kermits that will never be. It was pretty sad.

AND THEN IT GOT WORSE!!!

How could it possibly get worse, I’m sure you’re all thinking. I came across a puddle full of the lucky little tadpoles, who fate managed to save. Except, of course that the puddle was rapidly evaporating, and they were going to suffer the fate of their friends (who, by the way, basically MELTED into the pool surface. They will require a good amount of pressure washing to remove). I struggled with the dilemma: do I attempt to save more tadpoles, or do I just let them be sacrificed to the Aquatics Gods?

By the end of my shift, no tadpoles had survived the horrific scene. I pictured frogs outside the fence, with their little picket signs, protesting for the fair treatment of their babies.

Of course, then I started thinking about lifeguard shirts. Obviously, right?! Well, yes, because only a few weeks ago, after my supervisor announced that they wanted to redesign the staff shirts, I went looking for ideas. I Googled, “Lifeguard Shirt.” As I was scrolling along, I stumbled upon a shirt with an image in the center of the cross that is usually found on lifeguard shirts. “Ooh fun, what is that a picture of…oh my gosh, that’s a fetus.” With a whole long list of what the “Life Guards” do. They probably won’t save you if you’re drowning, but they WILL let you know all about how they want to save the lives of all fetuses out there.  My eye roll at this discovery was so violent, I’m sure it was audible. Nothing says, “you are a human incubator” more than fighting for fetus rights, over women’s rights. I am much more heartbroken over the loss of these little tadpoles! Where’s the Pro-Amphibian-Rights group!?

Of course, I suppose you could put a tadpole in the center of a Lifeguard Cross, but honestly, people would probably think you were protecting the rights of sperm. “Making sure no man has to suffer the torment of a vasectomy. Save the Sperm.” No, that definitely does not belong on a shirt. I can just imagine every crusty white man in politics, wearing such a shirt and fighting for the wrong swimmers. WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE FOR THR TADPOLES!!!

Behind our house is an area Justin and I call “The Danger Zone.” It’s a giant fenced in area with multiple DANGER signs posted around it. And it floods every time it rains. The runoff from the neighborhood and surrounding areas is directed there. It rains, The Danger Zone becomes a giant pond, and then for as many nights as that pond chooses to stick around, frogs hang around looking for love. IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES!!! When I stand outside and say, “don’t do it, froggies!” Justin gives me weird looks. When I tell him someone should really hang a sign, warning the frogs that this area only temporarily becomes a pond, he asks, “what is wrong with you!?” It is not a good place to have babies. Unless you’re that frog who has decided she’s just not ready to have tadpoles of her own. Maybe The Danger Zone is more like an amphibious Planned Parenthood. 

No matter what the situation our mommy frog found herself in, we were more than happy to take these tadpoles home. Xander can’t wait for them to grow legs. I can’t wait for one of them to learn how to play the banjo so he can sing “The Rainbow Connection.” Obviously.

How Did I Pass Kindergarten!?

Working with a trainer this past month has taught me 2 things about myself: I have to learn how to run, and I can’t jump rope.

Excuse me what?!

While my kids were home on spring break, I was given the task of jumping rope during one of my at home workouts. It was the worst. 100 passes took me most of the day. How could an activity children do for fun, be so evil!? My heart was pounding, I was unbelievably sweaty. It was brutal. What a workout.

Last Tuesday, Terry the Tormentor brought jump rope back to our workout routine. 50 passes. Ok, Sam. Deep breath, you can do this…until I hit 20something and he shouts, “what?! What?! No no no. Stop. What are you doing!?” Everything wrong, that’s what. He asked if Justin had ever seen me jump rope. Um, NO! He’s never seen me pee either, and I’m ok with keeping both activities private from him, thank you!

Of course, with my poor jump roping skills, and my poor running technique, I was left wondering: how in the world did I ever graduate from Kindergarten!?

Before you start thinking too hard about what I’m doing wrong, I’ll tell you. I’m kick my feet up to my butt, bend my knees, swing my arms like wild windmills. Do I jump over the rope? Obviously. Can I do it multiple times in a row? Of course! Am I putting way too much effort into what everyone else makes look like a simple task? You have no idea.

I watched as the surrounding men in the gym subtly relocated away from my wildly swinging rope, with a look of fear and amazement in their eyes, as if to say, “what is she doing,” and “I don’t want to die.” I don’t blame them. I would move away from my awkwardly, wild swinging rope too! Nothing about what I do makes sense, and it all seems dangerous.

I can color in the lines, and I can write my name. Kindergarten PE: Fail.

Oh, My Butt!

Pregnancy and childbirth are magical things–that I’d like to think are wonderful memories from my past. Except…

Sciatica. It’s also a magical thing. Not the good, Harry Potter magic. More like, Voldermort’s dark arts. My scoliosis is partly to blame. That “cool trick” in my teens, where I used to pop my hip out is partly (probably a larger part. Oh, regrets) to blame. And those darling children I carried for 9 months, who assisted in the expanding of my hips. All lead to what I lovingly refer to as “numb-butt,” where my left leg is numb from just above my butt, to just above the back of my knee.

Numb like pins and needles, “my leg fell asleep and is waking up,” weird numb. Whatever, I’m used to it. Sometimes I don’t notice, or it’s not bad; sometimes it’s tingly!

And then sometimes my left hip HURTS, in the “take your breath away,” wincy face kind of way. And I mean my hip joint. All the way inside my thigh/butt, where it can’t be reached. But it says, “set me free, Sam! I don’t want to be attached to you anymore. I think we should break up.”

For nearly a week, my hip has been at that point. I did not for one second think about sciatica, because I’m oh so used to numb-butt being the issue. Do I stretch? Did I over-stretch? Is this one of those things that will eventually lead to my needing a hip replacement? Does my leg really want to break up with me?!

I walk around my house, randomly propping my foot up on tall objects. To stretch, obviously, but all I can hear in my head is Molly Shannon stating, “My name is Sally O’Mally and I am 50 years old.” The stretching helps, but where’s my spandex and cameltoe when I need it!?

My sister Alissa has been known to sometimes punch her butt while announcing, “sciatica!” Maybe this is the pain-in-the-butt she feels. Alissa is currently 8 1/2 months pregnant, so all I can say to her is, it’ll only get better. And by better I mean worse.

My name is not Sally O’Mally, and I’m only 34 years old. I like to stretch. A lot. Because, oh, my butt!

Technologically Challenged

Hey, so remember that time we took a trip to get a new phone? And I told him my number, and he said, “Samantha?” Then remember how I asked him not to finish setting it up, because I can’t trust myself with a new phone until I put a screen protector on it, and throw a case on it?

Let me back up. A few weeks ago, I dropped my phone. And cracked the screen. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I’m hopeless. Well, I decided it was time to just accept my fate and get a new phone.

Of course, I decided to order one from Amazon, to save myself all the weird fees, for whatever Verizon wants to add fees on for today. Phone arrives, I set it up. And then I spent an entire evening wondering why no one is responding to my texts.

That phone hated me. I spent an hour on the phone between Verizon and Apple. In the end, I shipped it back to the seller, for a refund. Yey.

Today, Justin suggested we just go to Verizon and get a new phone, so they could set it up for me. Until I decided I would wait. Because Cheesecake Factory was going to happen after Verizon (my inner fat girl was overjoyed at the excitement of chocolate peanut butter cheesecake action. Good thing I ran fast today).

We should go back even further.

Once upon a time, in 2009, we moved back to the states from Germany, and got new phone numbers. They ended in 68, and 69, with 68 being the main account number. Justin’s. Except that I have the mind of a teenager, and I made Justin take the 69 number, because I couldn’t be a mom and have that number! It’s dirty! Tee-hee. I’m turning red just explaining the reason I kept the main number.

So, remember when we went to get me a new phone, and we got home, and it was actually Justin’s phone? Yeah. And while I’m sure we could sort it out eventually (probably with a phone call or ANOTHER 30min drive to the store), I just went ahead and ordered me a new phone. New phones for everyone!

He’s super excited about his hot pink phone case, and the fact that MY thumbprint unlocks his phone too. I’m getting a lot of mileage out of saying, “hey, remember when I went and got a new phone, and then it was really your phone?!” Yeah, I’m hopeless.

Running Challenged

I say it every year. Running makes me sneeze. I have only been a “runner” for 3 years, and I say “runner,” because snails move faster than me. I’m pretty sure I walk faster than I run.

In previous years, even treadmill running made me sneeze. Weird, I know. This year, it’s exclusively when I run outside. Which makes sense–seasonal allergies in Kentucky are awful! Word on the street is this area is actually one of the worst for allergies. Of course, for anyone who has lived in Columbus, GA, where the world is covered in yellow pollen powder for a good chunk of spring, they will tell you it’s much worse there. That place made my face feel constantly swollen.

But there I go again.

So, it’s spring in Kentucky, and while I don’t appreciate all the sneezing that follows, I do appreciate being able to run outside without turning into a popsicle.

Also, this past week, Terry the Torturous (which would be my trainer’s Viking name) told me I run weird. My legs swing out to the sides? In my head, I’m picturing some slinky-limbed muppet, with limbs going everywhere. Because I’m sure that’s probably what it looks like. He then told me nothing I did looked natural. Running doesn’t feel natural! It feels like a torture technique, used to specifically make me feel out of shape. Can’t I just throw heavy things around?!

Terry is using his fabulous skills as a track coach and trying to assist in turning me into a runner. Like, a real life runner, not a goofy muppet whose limbs are going to get seriously tangled if I get going too fast. By the end of our “run” on Thursday he told me I looked like I actually knew what I was doing.

Of course then he used his ninja powers and appeared next to me yesterday while I was attempting to do everything he told me only 2 days prior. He was shaking his head and giving me the “I’m not mad–I’m just disappointed,” look.  I’m swinging my arms across my body, I guess? So, I am moments away from getting tangled in myself.

Once again today, I went out and ran, trying to put everything he’s been telling me into practice. I feel like something between a leaping gazelle and a muppet whose limbs are on the verge of getting tangled. But, I was faster on my first mile than I normally am. A 10 minute mile?! Did you think I was kidding when I said snails are faster?

My desire to continue to run is strongly tied to my stubbornness. I strongly dislike running, but I dislike NOT being able to do things much more. Justin tells me about his 8min mile “jog pace,” and I respond with a strong, “jog?! THAT is a sprint!” Our 5k date went like this: Justin ran it in 22:39, took a lap of the parking lot and then ran back to find me. I was about 27min in when he caught up and said, “I didn’t think you’d be this far back!” I threatened to twist his nipple off. Of course then he made me run to the end. “Stop looking at your watch, put your head down and just push through it.” I died. But not really. My time was 33:49. By the end of it all, Justin had run about a 7k. I was WORLDS sweatier, and much more out of breath.

This week, my kids are on spring break, so my goofy leaping gazelle muppet runs will be taking place evenings. If you see me, and I look confused, or as if I’m seriously concentrating, I am. Nothing about this “running” thing feels natural! But I refuse to give up!!! Maybe someday I will be able to make this looks natural.