My Dance With Mother Nature

And walking has become rather an adventure. And an obsession.

If I can't get to the State Park, I take to the high school track. If the track is closed for some dumb school event (What? I'm a tax payer! I own this place!) I have a neighborhood loop that gets the job done. If there is a soaking rain, I manage a few miles on the treadmill, albeit swearing like a sailor the entire time. Even a great playlist on my iPod won't cure the sheer boredom that comes from running in place. And does nothing to clear my head of murderous thoughts, if that is the case.

I have had many an adventure along the trails.

I have helped a lady rescue a cat living in a tree after having been dumped there by a family. (You need a license to fish but anyone can own a cat. Some people are just born assholes.) The fishermen and local park dwellers were feeding and caring for her, but she was too scared most of the time to come out of a tree that extended over the creek, where she perched herself, fortunately with a significant amount of fat, in the crotch of the tree. I worried myself sick the night there was a storm with gale-force winds imagining her clinging to the branches for dear life and wondering where her People were. Hil and I made frequent trips to feed and brush her, give her fresh water and dose her with flea treatment. She purred and rubbed her face on our hands each time in appreciation. She's since been taken in by the couple that lives in the whimsical, moss-covered purple cottage by the park gates. They call her Momma. She'll come to the window to see us if we tap on the glass.

I have ventured onto the creek beach to take a photo only to inadvertently step on a snake who turned out to be just as unhappy about it as I was. That line our mothers tell us about it being more afraid of you? Total crap. I screamed my head off and went into a flop sweat. It hissed and picked a fight. Then I ran like a girl. (Yes, ran. Breaking my own rules. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Grossly underperforming sports bra be damned.)

I have found that if you do have to walk in the soaking rain, because perhaps you are at a point in the woods where you are just as far in as you are out and turning back does not help, a State Park provided doggy doo bag will protect your precious iPhone from the elements while you dodge lightning bolts and falling trees. And I have found that the next day, when your good sneaks are still drying (and smelling putrid) and you have to wear those gimmicky sneaks with the curved bottoms that women across America were convinced would tone all of our butts and we'd all be prancing around with Jennifer Aniston's ass in no time, that is not the day to go for broke and attain your first eleven mile day on the hills and trails. Unless you have a masseuse on stand-by.

I have seen turkey vultures, fawns, ground hogs, bullfrogs, chipmunks, blue herons, woodpeckers, and an occasional fox on my adventures, most of which have been kind enough to pose for pictures, some of which have been brave enough to come close enough to touch, and all of which have been fascinating to see alive and in their own element as opposed to on the BBC Earth channel. Did you know how big woodpeckers are? No wonder you can hear them pecking for miles. Bigger than a breadbox, I assure you.

I have learned that a frog taking refuge in a public restroom can be a very scary thing when you are vulnerably seated on the throne. I have learned that a port-o-potty in the woods remains fit for public use for less than one full calendar day. I can't explain how things get the way they do. Bears have a better option.

But nothing beats the kook I met just recently who scared the bejeezus out of me. Even more so than the snake.

Walk Like an Egyptian (With Big Boobs)

I walk. I walk a lot. At first not every day. And then every day. And then more each and every day. I become the Forest Gump of walking.

And I learn a lot. Mostly about myself. Like when I dwell on a topic for 4 miles and get so immersed in thought that I have no idea where I've been for the last hour. It's then that I learn a couple of things.  The power of concentration. How to use the GPS feature on my phone. And, just how much I have to really, really think about.

And I learn other cool things. Like where all the port-o-potties are in the State Park, and where, deeply hidden in the woods, are the actual public restrooms, with running water and toilet paper and real live cleaning people who maintain toilet paper and paper towel levels and keep the joint smelling more like an actual restroom instead of a pot to piss in.

And I learn that walking, though good for the soul, and admittedly good for the body, and capable of working a body into a good, full on sweat, is not the most efficient way to burn a calorie. Even moving at an admirable pace and keeping between 13 and 14 minutes per mile, it still takes half the damn day to get in any really meaningful workout. Think of the time I'd save if I were running at 6 miles an hour?

But I am not a runner. And for more than one reason.

First, I'll say what no runner likes to hear: I hate running. Avoid it at all costs.  (I thought everyone did really, but I have friends that claim to love it. WTF?) If the building were on fire, I might only reach the level of briskly walking to safety.

And there is no bra on God's green Earth that I am confident would contain m'Ladies securely and reliably enough to sufficiently control the swinging, jiggling, bouncing and otherwise bad behavior m'Ladies would surely engage in if I were to endeavor to run.

And even if there were, I'd still decline the invitation for such fun. Because I am not built for it (putting the issue with m'Ladies aside for just a moment). My feet have the tensile strength of a piece of dry linguini, and are similarly brittle. I have had more stress fractures than most people have had a common cold and do not want any more, especially at this age. Watching a colleague with a stress fracture go wheeling about the office for three months on what could most charitably be described as a shopping cart with a knee rest opened my eyes to the risks of injuries to those who are no longe r20-something, even if we try hard to fool everyone.

So for now, thank you, I'll walk.

On The Road Again

So my job searching activities tie up no more than two hours a day, all in.

My lawn had at one point consumed most of a week but is on a maintenance plan that only drives me to distraction a few hours a week.

Keeping the house from looking and smelling like Grey Gardens is an ongoing chore but I have managed to get my reluctant, grousing children to help, if not voluntarily, by force.

Which leaves me with all the time in the world to whip my ass into kickboxer's shape. Most people would love to have the time. I am not so sure I am grateful.

I am not joining a gym. I am not taking a fitness class. I've purchased no workout videos. I am not buying any equipment to sit idly between the  treadmill and the kitty litter box in a room only the cats dare venture into.

No. I walk.

The truth of the matter is that I have always walked. For a lot of reasons. To stay in shape. To think and make decisions. To clear my head of murderous thoughts. Yes, walking has always kept me on the right side of the locked doors to the loony bin. And when I was getting divorced, walking kept me on the right side of the prison bars. I quite literally walked until I felt like I could go home and not murder Lars. Either out of exhaustion or indifference.

Scott and I would walk for hours on weekend together. On the beach. On the boardwalk. On a road connecting a bunch of marshy islands near his home. And when we were at my house, I'd ask him to join me on the trails in the State Park near my home. The exercise, the nature. It was all good for us.

And when Scott vaporized without a trace in the Fall, I had taken to the track and the trails again. For many reasons.

I had so much nervous energy I could not sleep. I went out to walk to exhaustion.

And since I'd not slept, I'd gotten sick. I needed to rebuild my strength. Walking would do that without actually killing me first.

And I wanted to get in great shape. Dating shape. I was already thin. And getting thinner. I had Scott to thank for that. I am a good one to drop and easy 5 pounds at the first sign of trouble, and his unique variety of trouble was loaded for bear. I was suddenly super skinny but not necessarily looking good. Nobody likes a skinny flabby chick. I needed to tighten all the nuts and bolts and eliminate all rattling and jiggling.

And now, when I needed time to think about my job and sort out some other pieces of my life, I took to the track and trails again.

I downloaded an app on my phone that tracks miles and calories and speed and a whole lot of other nifty motivating little things.

I bought new cross training shoes and began a daily habit of walking. And walking far.

Weed Whacko

Does anyone else have to mow their patio? How about the sidewalk? Any mowing going on there?

I have the world's largest privately held collection of chemical-resistant, nuclear-strength, fast-growing, rampantly aggressive weeds in the little slice of heaven I call my yard.

Forget for a moment that I had actual trees growing in my gutters last year. Scott, in a final act of kindness before defecting, climbed onto the roof and cleared them all. I will sell the house before I do any such thing myself.

My patio is merely stone squares all placed in an orderly fashion to form a flat surface. And evidently a fertile breeding ground for all manner of weeds and trees which grow in nice neat rows from between the cracks. They greet me each morning, defiantly waving to me, daring me to try to get rid of them.

And the cracks between the sidewalk and along the curbs? Rampant space-age bio-dome farms of indestructible weeds that grow up to my thigh.

And my lovely neighbors with the big fence? A few years ago they got the bright idea to plant Morning Glory. Presumably to hide the fact that they'd erected an uncommonly ugly fence to surround their little fortress. And whatever nuclear waste was dumped in my yard back in the day has given the Morning Glory super human strength and magic powers.

I know, I know. Morning Glory only live for a year. Not in this case. The seeds that have been dropped all over my yard and shrubs have started new and more determined growth for each of the last eight years, and the predatory, choking vines have taken over all of the mature plantings in my yard, killing many of them (and in an ironic twist of Fate, killing off most of the dreaded Deadly Night Shade that had been the crowd favorite before) and blanketing every surface with twisting, spiraling, clinging vines that cheerfully bloom as they squeeze the life from everything they touch.

So now, every time I mow the lawn, I also have to rescue the holly trees, and the Shamrock hollies, and the peonies, and everything else, from certain death by raking high up into their limbs and pulling down as much vine as I can, yanking it to a point where I can reach it, and then using all of my arm strength and body weight, tug-o-warring with it until it let's go of its prey. I want to scream. I also want to set fire to the yard of the neighbor who planted it to adorn their otherwise ugly fence.

So I have made peace with the weed whacker and have done my neighbors a solid a few times this year by whacking the s*** out of all the unwanted guests in my yard. I have put on the goggles and long pants to protect my child-sized shins from flying shrapnel, and have attacked the little bastards. I have hated every minute of it, but it is darkly satisfying to see them flying to bits.

But they keep coming back. Thankfully, so does my sanity.

The Longest Yard

And then of course, there is my yard.

Or rather, my labor camp. The endless, thankless, sweatshop of a responsibility that never relents in its quest to wear me down to a calloused, blistered, sunburned, exhausted little nub.

The shape of the yard is irregular, which makes for creative mowing on the best of days. There is no orderly back and forth with right angles and straight lines. No, mine is a pie-wedge shaped corner, surrounded in part by hedges and trees, made more "interesting" by sloping hills, and steeply-graded drops, uneven terrain, patches of dirt, predatory weeds and oddly-placed plantings between which a standard mower can not be forcibly jammed.

I also have a behemoth hedge that grows several feet a week, that protrudes out over the sidewalk to scrape the arms and gouge eyeballs of passing school children, and which matures at an alarming rate, so that cutting it back requires a hedge trimmer, a saw, a tree saw, and a chain saw. All of which scare me just a little.

When Lars and I had bought the house, (the house with two addresses because it has a street on both sides) the yard had been open and exposed on all sides. Our only neighbor erected a 6 foot fence separating the properties (Thank God for small miracles; their property sometimes looks like the set of Sanford and Son).  But we needed a little more separation from the world. We could have gotten a permit for a fence, but Lars and I wanted to take a greener measure and plant a hedge.

I wanted more of an impression of privacy ---- something that suggested that our yard was not the one to cut through, or let your dog take a crap on, or to sit in at night and drink your underage, contraband beer, even though the little clump of trees at the point on the end of the property was an ideal place to do so. Lars had other ideas. He wanted a hedge that provided actual privacy. A hedge so tall and dense I could sit in Pat's sandbox stark naked. A hedge that could be seen from the moon like the Great Wall of China.

He insisted. I caved. I had a four month old and was newly pregnant. I had bigger fish to fry than to argue needlessly over the merits of a privet versus a Chinese Elm hedge.

Should have made a Federal case out of it. Because now, I do have the Great Wall of China to maintain, and it stands 4 feet above my head in places, and I can barely lift the chainsaw let alone use it properly. And I have a strange fear that I will hack off a limb one day, and because the hedge provides such privacy, no one would find me but the squirrels.

And we haven't even begun to talk about the weeds.

To Clean Or Not To Clean

You'd have thought I'd asked for a kidney.

"It's summer!"

"We're OFF!"

"We'll never see our friends if we are always working like slaves!"

Really? Tell me about always working. Try having an actual job (OK, now might not be the best time to be making this argument...) and cleaning the entire house, and cooking everyday, and keeping two kids alive, not to mention two seriously ungrateful cats!

I tell them I am sticking to my guns. They can win or they can lose. And lose big. Because if they don't do these things, and I have to, not only do they not get paid, they have to wait around for me to finish doing them before we go out and have fun, or I drive them to see the friends they could barely tolerate during the school year but now must see everyday or cease to breathe.

Hil's wheels are churning. Somehow she can spin this to her advantage. Do Pat's chores. Collect his dough.

Pat is considering his options. He is wondering if I'd give him money even if he did nothing, simply to  give him the means and a reason to turn off the video games and leave the house.

They look over their lists. You'd have thought they included things like taxidermy and sewage treatment. Would it kill Hil to have to swish a little bleach around in the toilet once a week? Will Pat turn to stone for having to empty and refill the kitty litter boxes on deadline for trash day?

Perhaps.

"Eeewww. I'm not doing that. Pat poops in that toilet," argues Hil, who is well aware of our one-bathroom house situation.

"So do you," I say. "And I have always cleaned it. And let's be honest. No one but me seems to be even remotely concerned with accuracy."

Pat is not grossed out, though smells are rarely a boy's worst problem. "But Mooooooooooommmmm!" There's TWO kitty litters! And one of them is aaaaaaallllll the way upstairs."

"How about I move it into your room? Will that make it more convenient?"

We have a philosophical difference of opinion regarding bed making.

"Why make the bed? We just get back in and mess it up later."

And my favorite, "Dad doesn't make his bed."

I'd like to argue that Dad grew up in squalor and slept on a couch purchased from the Salvation Army for the first 8 years of his life and couldn't properly make a bed if his soul's salvation depended upon it. But I don't. "Beds get made or you don't get paid. And if I get to them first, there's no excuse. Better make them while they're still warm."

We are only a few items into the list.  It's going to be a long meal.

Hazel, Alice, and Mr. French

I begin with my house.

Let's just say for the record that being out of the house all day at work and at school makes it a whole lot easier to keep one's house neat and orderly, not to mention squeaky clean, and free of smeary fingerprints, stray wrappers, used drinking glasses, blobs of goo in unexpected places, clogged drains and bathrooms that look and smell like Port-O-Potties.

I try to engage the kids for help.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

I find it bizarre and unnatural to get out of bed and walk away from the disheveled sheets. My children evidently did not get that gene. They got the genes that bears have. Get, up, scratch, and go eat. Worry about sleeping accommodations when it's time to hibernate.

This is something I do not feel needs to be placed on a To Do List. But my children apparently lack the basic ability to look around a room and identify situations that need to be rectified. My kids will look around a room and so long as nothing is irretrievably broken and lying in smithereens on the carpet, and nothing is actively burning (smoldering does not count), they will not be able to identify a single thing that needs to be done.  Their eyes do not see the pile of Jolly Rancher wrappers covering the end table. Or the collection of soda cans and glasses, in various stages of emptiness, crowding flat surfaces across the room. They do not see the sneakers, flip flops, boots and backpacks randomly strewn like a minefield throughout the first floor while the hooks designated for the backpacks and the space reserved for shoes without feet remain untouched by human hands. (I also don't see them and trip at least a half dozen times a week.) They draw little smiley faces in the dust on the table, never once thinking, "Hmmmmm, that shouldn't be there..." They sometimes, when feeling especially industrious, manage to transport a cereal bowl, or pizza plate, or an ice cream bowl into the kitchen, but rarely will the item be rinsed, or relieved of its uneaten contents. And it would take a chorus of angels to inspire them to place any of these things into the gaping dishwasher next to the sink where they typically have been laid to rest.

So I set up a system. I have a list of items - exactly two - for each child to accomplish each day, plus a daily task of bed making and making sure all of their possessions have found homes.

A perfect score will be worth a certain amount of allowance. Anything left undone results in a debit from the amount. Additional chores result in a bonus.

I type the list and print it in multiples. And I sit down for dinner that night and present it to my Not So Merry Maids.

Game on.