Why I Can't Afford Not to Buy a Mac

You know those commercials for PCs? The ones that show ordinary people who need computers. They say what their requirements are and then they go into Best Buy and shop for a computer. The Mac always looks tempting, but it's out of their price range, so they buy a PC and walk out happy. They are especially happy when someone hands them a wad of cash, reimbursing them for their PC purchase.
When we started out with computers, about 1994, we bought a Mac. Then about five years later, we bought another -- an iMac that was blue. It was big and took up a lot of the desk, but I was so glad that it didn't have one of those crazy PC towers. Sometime in the 2000s, my boys started lobbying for a PC so they could play games. Well, games were not a high priority for me, but I did want a laptop so I could take my computer out of the house and away from children. I bought my first laptop about 5 years ago. It was a black Compaq and cost around $1500. It did what I needed it to for a few years then it died, taking many of my digital photos with it. I had a new hard drive put in for a few hundred dollars but it didn't run well, so I bought a small compact silver Compaq Presario. It lasted a year and half or two years and then the motor started making a strange noise. I kept backing it up and sure enough, one day, it wouldn't start. Again, I had a new hard drive put in and it works like a glorified word processor. Not to worry though, I'd taken the plunge at Circuit City as it was going out of business. I bought a Toshiba PC in late November, spending only about $900 on it, plus the $199 for Microsoft Office. And now, only six months later, I am unable to turn on my shiny blue Toshiba. I'm only in a mild panic, since summer quarter started today and all of my prompts and lesson plans are on that computer. Not to mention, Quicken, which keeps track of how much money we have in our accounts, all of our digital photos, my previous novel Trail Mix and my current novel The Summer of France, and a list of agents I've sent query letters to. I'm in a bit of denial that it has given up the ghost. Everytime I turn it on, I expect that this time it will boot up. No... maybe this time... No.
So, I'm contemplating whether to contact Toshiba. I know Circit City has gone under, much like the computer. Then it hit me. The company I really need to contact is Apple. I'll tell them my story, how I ended up spending $5000 on three laptops in five years. How I could have spent that money on a reliable Mac that would have lasted five years. And if I'd wanted to upgrade, I could have sold the used Mac for some good money. I could point out that if I'd bought a Mac, I'd have all of my children's photos and I would currently sound like a more persuasive teacher than the woman who hems and haws, trying to remember what was on that lesson plan.
Then, maybe Apple will send me to Apple store to pick out a sleek laptop and when I walk out case in hand, they'll reimburse me the money, just like on the PC commercials where those suckers are buying a PC, not realizing they'll be back at the store within two years to buy another, then another, then another.

Sensations From Our Run

After a night of heavy rain and lightning flashes across the sky, we met at the lake at 6:30. Well, some of us were there at 6:30. Noreen was delayed by a rainbow. "A backward rainbow," she called it because it was in the west when usually they're in the east, but I pointed out that what was the east to her was west to somebody farther east.
The temperature was in the 60s so it should have been pleasant, but the air already felt thick. The first few miles are always the worst. My nose is stuffed up and my legs feel like they are slogging along the path. We run beside the traffic before we turn and go under an overpass. Then we run along the river. Today it was brown and muddy. It looked like it wasn't moving, until we'd pass a spot with rapids and see it bubbling with froth.
I couldn't begin to recreate the conversations that keep us moving. Something about muscles and mothers-in-law and fishing and fathers and ex-mothers-in-law. Our stories are all over the place. Maybe they're only there to distract us from the number of times our feet hit the pavement.
We made the turn at 3.75 miles to head back and Noreen shared a "shot block" with me. It's like a gummy, thick and gooey, sticking to my teeth. "I can't run again until I get this all off my teeth," I protested, chugging water to wash it down.
Noreen and I ran a bit ahead, I think it was the energy from the shots. As we neared the lake, my phone, which was in Noreen's backpack, rang. Spencer was preparing to leave for basketball camp and trying to locate the last few items he needed. I answered his questions and debated whether to run the next two miles or to just go home and help gather things. Earl called and made it sound like everything was under control so I kept going.
Things get fuzzy here. A big focus of our conversations is asserting our wishes. Being women, we talk about doing what other people want us to do, so we all try to encourage each other to follow our own paths. As we ran past the parking lot, Pam strongly urged me to go home to get Spencer to camp. I was tempted. But, he was only going to be gone for three days, and these women changed their plans to run with me on Friday. I kept going those extra two miles.
We saw three goldfinches flit above the tall plants beside the trail. Their backs and bellies shone bright yellow in the morning air. Tiny bunnies hopped into the underbrush, hiding beneath leaves.
When I got home, I tasted salt at the edges of my mouth and felt that burned, raw feeling on my butt where the shorts had rubbed. Long runs can be painful, but they can also be the most fulfilling part of the day, sometimes the week. A couple hours with my friends, sharing accidental run-ins with nature.

Tidbits From My Reading Life

I've only read the first few pages of this book, but already it strikes me as incredibly true. Entre Nous by Debra Ollivier begins by trying to figure out the secret that makes French women so enviable, successful, indomitable. One adjective doesn't seem to cover it all.
One secret is that French women love sensual pleasure. The feel of smooth pebbles running through the hands. The smell of lavender wafting through the air. The taste of a subtle spice. The sound of a violin with its achingly high notes. The sight of a sky so blue it makes the eyes water. Maybe the reason they wear those silk scarves is because it feels so soft, like a caress whenever they move. So lesson number one from French women: experience everything around us.
Okay, here's something that French women have that I definitely missed out on: discretion. Ollivier says everything they do is deliberate and thought out. I am the queen of output control issues. I've just recently been able to stop embarrassing myself at every outing. No, I take that back. Just yesterday at a swim meet I made a snide remark about a high school boy who is always "injured" and I looked up to see his father there. I continue in my role as least discreet.
Next comes self confidence. French women don't second guess what they wear, who they go out with, their haridos. They seem to have supreme confidence in their choices. Maybe that's because they actually think about them before they jump into them. I'm sure I'll learn a lot from this book. But maybe I should read it in small doses so I don't get depressed about my lack of Frenchness.
Another French book, well, it was written in French and translated, is The Elegance of The Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. It's a little existential for me but I love the scene where the landlady and the cleaning woman get together for tea. Both of them are deep thinkers but must hide their intelligence from their "betters." When they have tea, they always make coffee, but not to drink. They just like the smell. So they make coffee and enjoy the aroma while they sip tea. It seems somehow decadent, doesn't it? What would our Puritan anscestors say? Waste not, want not. But is it a waste, if they enjoy the scent? Maybe we just need to widen our focus on allowing ourselves to enjoy more of those sensual pleasures.

Like a Magnet

Interesting that today in the Chris Brown-Rihanna case, the judge warned that the two of them must stay 50 yards away from each other. It seems normal that the judge would tell Brown, who was arrested on Feb. 8 for hitting his then-girlfriend before the Grammies, but the judge also took the time to explain to Rihanna that it's a two- way street. She needs to stay away from him. It's as if the judge wants to save this young woman from her worst inclinations, as if she knows that we women seem to repeat our mistakes over and over.
I have a friend who is repeating her mistakes. Sometimes we women follow the pattern so closely that it's eerie. She was married to a man who treated her badly. Oh, nothing like being beaten, but belittlement was a constant state. She had children and focused on raising them. She's a great mom. Then, when she stepped into the community and out of her mother role, she was wooed with words. A man enjoyed spending time with her. A man found her attractive. He found her interesting. She didn't cheat, but she realized that life had more to offer. She knew she had to give her daughter a better role model than a woman who was cowed and subdued by a husband.
Within months of her divorce, she married another man, a man whose sole purpose in life was to make her happy. Before long, she was living with constant criticism. She couldn't do anything right. The house wasn't clean enough. Her children from the first marriage were too disrespectful. The hammer of condemnation hit over and over again. Enter another man, a man, who though far away, offers her support and admiration.
"I'm in a really good place with my life right now," she says, and believes it. Maybe that's the scary part. She thinks that's true.
I don't lecture. I was a chubby teenager and I didn't need anyone to point it out to me. I knew it. Deep down, she knows. But denial is sometimes a comforting place to rest. Maybe today is good and maybe it will stretch into weeks of good or months of good. And I'm happy for her. And when it's bad, I won't say, "I told you so." I'll want to protect her. I'll listen.
But I'll be tempted to remind her that this isn't a dress rehearsal. This is it. Our only chance and we need to live with joy while we have the chance.

Clutter

While Grace was gone, I decided to clean her room. I know, I know. First, she should be responsible for cleaning her own room. Second, I shouldn't mess with her stuff. But there were piles of clothes and bags and notebooks and papers. My friend Sheila said, "I always loved it when I would go to camp and my mom cleaned my room."
I remember always hoping a fairy godmother would clean my room, but she never showed. So, I started with the floor. The floor of Grace's room is rarely seen. When she comes home, she throws her book bag, her swim bag, her lifeguard bag on the floor in front of her closet door. I was going to concentrate on the floor until I saw the older cat go into Grace's closet. I opened the door and saw him peeing (more like dripping) on the pile of clothes there. The cat went to the vet for a urinary tract infection and I switched my focus to the closet. I picked up every item of clothing, vacuumed and scrubbed the wood floor, organized the shoes. Found a place for her backpack and other bags on the shelf along the top. As I cleaned, I found $1.80 in quarters and dimes, along with a dollar bill folded into a tiny triangle. Spencer had carried out some trash for me and run things up and down the stairs. He was going to Panera to hang out with friends so I gave him the $2.80 I'd found so far.
It took me three days of hard labor to get this room in shape. I threw out two bags of trash, mostly papers, and organized all of her "keepsakes" into bins that are easily retrievable. I pulled a crushed gift bag from under her bed and looked through it. I found two birthday cards with a $25 Panera gift card and a $20 bill. Her birthday was in January. I put the cash in her money drawer, but I was sweating and decided the gift card was buying dinner for us.
Her bed, which was mine when I was a girl, but it had a canopy while now it is a mere four-poster, was listing at one end. We took off the mattress and boxspring so Earl could reinforce the frame. OMG! You should have seen everything that was under there. Some normal things, like her sewing basket and a bin with her American Girl doll wardrobes, but also trash and bags and boxes.
Tucker was excited by the booty I had found so far and was willing to help. He picked up a small festive Christmas box and opened it. Christmas cookies! Gag! I'd found her Halloween candy in the closet on a shelf, so I guess the next thing to look for would be Valentine candy.
It took more than a day to clean out from under the bed and vacuum so Earl could fix the frame. Then we replaced the mattress and boxsprings and put on the freshly washed bedskirt, mattress pad, sheets and quilt.
I still had the hard surfaces, her bedside table, dresser, bookshelf and desk. Grace refuses to throw away anything. This year, when Spencer was taking government she would consult her notes whenever he had a question. So I filled a bin with school notes. Another bin is full of her drawing and writing notebooks. This emptied up a lot of space on her bookshelf for actual books which previously inhabited the floor.
Finally, I moved on to her desk. I found many of the applications to college swim teams that had been sent by coaches. I organized those in a folder and put them at the front of her file folders. I found more birthday cards, including a $20 check from my parents, again from January.
So Grace was up $40, and we had a nice dinner at Panera, and her room is clean. For now. I know it won't last, but maybe in July when we have to clear out the desk and fit a twin bed into her room for the French girl who is coming, there won't be as much clutter to clear out.

Boy Weirdness

With Grace gone this week, it's just me, my husband, the two boys and the two male cats. Way too much testosterone in the house, except for the cats who are actually "its" now, but they are always weird.
Tucker will fight with me about everything, as if that is his goal in life. I took him to guitar lessons the other night. It's about 1 1/2 miles from home, but since he has to carry a guitar, I drive him and read a book while I wait. He wanted to stop by Taco Bell on the way home, but at 6, when his lesson is supposed to begin, he was still running around the house gathering things. He needed to grab his money for Taco Bell. I said no we had to leave. Argue, argue, argue. In the car, he continues to harangue me about why I wouldn't let him go get the money. We get to guitar lessons and I said he could just walk home because I didn't feel like waiting for him after he was so rude.
"Then I'm not getting out of the car," he said. "I'm not going to guitar. I don't want to walk home."
Aaaaargh! We were 10 minutes into the lesson and he hadn't gotten out of the car yet. I ended up driving him home, but there was no Taco Bell in his future.
Then yesterday, my husband who works very hard at home and at work, was frustrated by Tucker's constant presence on the couch in front of the television. My parents visited last week and introduced him to the Game Show Network. It's his new favorite channel -- Family Feud, Match Game, $10,000 Pyramid. "Get your clothes that are on the dryer put away," my husband said before leaving for work in the afternoon.
I sent Tucker to put away clothes when I was getting Spencer from work. This morning, I discovered piles of clothes still on the dryer. I woke Tucker at 8.
"Go get your clothes put away!"
"Wait, wait. There were two piles and I put away my pile," he said, working on a technicality that made perfect sense in his 13-year-old brain.
"But your clothes were in the other pile too. Go put them away."
Sometimes when my husband and I fold shorts or boxers, we might inadvertently put Tucker's in Spencer's pile and vice versa. Tucker figured he could benefit from other's mistakes. Maybe he'll make a good lawyer if he lives that long because I might strangle him before then.
Spencer has been working a lot of hours as a lifeguard. He comes home with strange stories, like the boy the other kids call "Pepperoni Nipples." One day when it was raining and he was in the lifeguard chair, a mother came over and asked if she could have the umbrella from the chair. He was taken aback that an adult would ask for the umbrella when he was stranded in the chair and would be exposed. He suggested she go stand under an overhang. But when he got home, he asked just to make sure the adult was the one in the wrong instead of him.
Yesterday he was lifeguarding again. A family with four kids under five were at the pool. The little girl went down the slide that ends in the diving well and began to scream when she hit the water. She couldn't swim. Spencer jumped in the water to save her. Afterward, he had to fill out paperwork, which is standard when they have to "make a save." He asked the mother how to spell the girl's name and "she seemed really annoyed," he said. Maybe because that was the second kid from that family a lifeguard had to save that day. He is definitely learning a lot about the adult world while working as a lifeguard.
But, sometimes their boy weirdness takes a good turn. Tucker had watched The Cake Boss on TLC and wanted to bake a cake yesterday morning. So, after swim team, he found a recipe from the Joy of Baking for a white cake. I helped him get the batter in the cake pans before I ran off to get Spencer to work and then to a meeting at the College. When I returned home, I turned the first cake onto a plate while he made a buttercream frosting. We talked about how to ice a cake and what was causing all those crumbs under his knife. I put the excess frosting in a plastic sandwich bag and we added red food coloring. I slit the tip of the bag and he decorated. He started going for a smiley face then changed it to the Pringles man. I'm not certain I've ever noticed what the Pringles man looks like. Then he decided the Pringles man was a teenager and had zits, so he added red dots all over the cake, which makes it a little less appetizing. But it turned out delicious.
"Now we can eat cake and watch the Game Show Network," he declared.
And we did.

Ecstasy and Ivory

This morning, like most, my guys are all sleeping. My husband, my two sons. My daughter is off in the Bahamas, and I have the luxury of reflecting on my girl time. That's what I have every Saturday morning when I gather with my friends and we run. We laugh, probably more than we run. Words tumble over each other as we all share our week, our emotions, our lives.
This is a picture of all of us when we attempted a hiking trip. It wasn't as successful as our runs are, as far as accomplishing the hike, but it was definitely successful in allowing us to spend time together.
Any problem or joy I have, I can take to the trail and know my friends will commiserate or rejoice with me.
The run yesterday (8.5 miles)involved a couple stops to remove pebbles from shoes (Najah), a bra flash that was probably seen by a dozen cars travelling along the nearby highway (Noreen), and an insistence that we make it all the way to the halfway point before we slowed and drank some water (Pam). Well, and the sprint at the end (me). I just think it is wrong to run 8.5 miles and not be breathing hard at the end. We run slow enough the whole way that we can talk and laugh. If we pushed ourselves to run faster, we could finish sooner, but who wants to leave friends sooner? So we run slow and talk, but at the end, we've started sprinting. My friends complain about it, but I notice they do it anyway.
The end of our run yesterday included a lap around the lake because we needed another mile. So we turned off the paved trail and took to the dusty path that goes 1.2 miles along the serene lake. As we turned the corner to reach the deck, Picabo and I crossed a grassy strip to run on the paved trail. Najah and Noreen stayed on the path. The incline (hill) at the end loomed ahead of Pam and me while the lake path stayed more level.
"I think this is where the sprint starts," Pam said.
I started lengthening my stride, feeling my thigh muscles stretch out. I felt powerful. After I reached the top of the hill, I let gravity keep pulling me down the incline and Pam continued to sprint, passing me. I ran until we both stopped beside the deck. Noreen and Najah joined us.
"That was so cool," Noreen said. She didn't have the energy to sprint, but Najah's stride lengthened and she began to sprint. Noreen felt Najah's energy pull her along. We were all breathing a little heavy as we returned to our cars.
After last week's near injury for me, my friends had discussed what they would do if I couldn't run.
"If I were injured, I'd bring my bike and ride along," Noreen said.
Pam said the conversation last week was, if Paulita can only walk, we'll walk. If she can only stand, we'll get together and stand. I guess it's really not about the run at all. It's about the friends. But luckily, we could all run yesterday.
Saturday's run included spotting a deer with an extremely long tail (could it have been a dog?), incredibly ADD conversations that were always caught up in diversions before they returned to the point (sorry Naj!), and a surprise reunion with one of our old running buddies (Yikes! A toad! said Richard as he leapt into the air like a male ballerina). We laughed at everything and nothing.
I love my running friends. They keep me sane.

Hidden Treasures

It started with a crash. Maybe a year ago. I think Grace was in the living room when the framed picture fell from the wall above the fireplace. The glass shattered and I stood, accusatory, with my hands on my hips. Who knocked it down? Was it the cat? Was it the kids? Turned out, the wall was slightly soft and the picture hanger had just come loose, taking with it the heavy picture.
We had lived in the house less than a year, so Earl called the man who had renovated it. He hadn't touched the wall over the fireplace, he said, but he offered to come help tear it down, see what was back there. Instead, we opted to merely set a painting on the mantle and lean it against the wall. But, as the year passed, we saw signs of water damage around the molding. Water was coming in the chimney.
We had the "brick doctor" grind out the mortar and shore up the chimney.
Earl wanted to tear out the wall but I urged him to wait until my parents' visit ended. They left yesterday and today he dug into the wall.
I vacated to the front porch, expecting lots of drywall dust. I still had three classes of papers to grade and then I needed to record grades by today's deadline. The occasional curse word drifted out the window.
He pulled two layers of drywall off. Wallpaper remained on one of the drywall sections. Then he started in on the plaster that had been applied directly to the brick chimney. The drywall and plaster weren't crumbly and dusty, instead, they were wet and came off in big chunks. He threw them into plastic trash bins and pulled off the next section.
"Look at this huge hole," he called at one point. A hole in the brick. He reached his hand in. "I think this is the chimney."
Did a hole in the chimney mean that the smoke wasn't going up? But there had been drywall there. I wasn't sure. I went back to grading papers; he kept ripping down wall.
He concentrated on one side of the wall, believing the other side to not be as bad.
"I was wrong," he called, as he began pulling out clumps of wet wall.
Then "Shit. Ants!" He jumped from the ladder and went out the back door, for bug spray I assumed. I stood in front of the gray mantle and heard a sound like pop foaming, just little bubbles bursting. It was the ants falling from the wall to the debris on the mantle.The cats stood, heads poised, watching the wall, unsure what to think.
I grabbed a plastic trash bag while I waited for Earl. He came back with a red can of ant spray and drenched the wall. The ants froze in place. The smell of bug spray mixed with the scent of mold and old people's house, filling the living room.
Earl kept at it for awhile, using a chisel to pry off sections of concrete or plaster to the brick chimney. The hole in the bricks started at the place where a metal encased electric wire began.
"I can't figure out," he started. Then, like a light going on, he said, "Sconces. They gouged holes in the brick and inserted an electric wire to put sconces over the fireplace."
I saw the neighbor climb from his car and I hailed him. I knew that Earl needed a man to show this mess.
"What'd you find?" the neighbor asked. "Better not be treasure."
"Oh, don't you worry," I assured him.
When Earl was finished, we had two huge, heavy trash cans of debris that previously formed a soft wall. We had a brick wall over the fireplace with a hole an electrical wire, no molding and concrete patches.
Still, somehow, the pink of the brick chimney shows promise. If the brick doctor can fix the holes and somehow match the mortar to the bricks,make it look a little neater and less jumbled, it might turn out to be a hidden treasure after all.
Picture by artisanpainting.biz/images/exposed_brick.jpg

Travelling

I'm feeling a little anxious about my daughter's trip tomorrow. I have full confidence she'll be safe, but something feels empty knowing she's growing up and travelling without me.
She is going with Science Club and a great teacher Mr. W. to the Bahamas. No, you don't need to picture night clubs and alcohol and slinky dresses. Instead, she's packed a mask and snorkel, fins (always attractive) and lots of bug spray. Twenty-eight students from her school are going to this rather primitive island to study Tropical Ecology and they'll earn college credit while they're there.
This is the kind of thing Grace thrives on. She loves animals and studying their habitats. As long as she doesn't run into any snakes, she'll be fine. I picture her slightly sunburned sitting in the common room sharing her notes in the evening, tired but happy.
As much as I complain about my kids, it feels very satisfying to see them branch out. It's taken 17 years for her to practice flying from the nest and returning. I have full confidence she'll succeed, but suddenly I feel like maybe I'm not ready for her to go. That must be why they call it empty nest syndrome.
I have another year with her here at home. I hope I remember to enjoy it. I'm sure this trip will be a nice nudge, reminding me how quick the time spins away.

Riches Galore

Sometimes people think about, if I won the lottery, or if I were rich, I would... People have all kinds of different answers. I'd shop at Whole Foods or I'd buy all the books I want. Some people want designer clothes and others want huge mansions.
Well,for me, I'll know I've made it when I can buy sufficient raspberries to satisfy myself and the kids. During raspberry season in June and September, I limit myself to buying two pints and I carefully separate them into bowls. We sprinkle them with sugar and pour some milk on them and eat them for dessert or breakfast. I usually pay $2 to $3 per pint, so that's $4 to $6 for a small bowl for each of us. Luckily, my husband is not a raspberrry fan so we don't have to share with him.
This week though, my ship came in. No, I didn't win the lottery or sell a book, but there must be a bumper raspberry crop because they were only $1 a pint at Kroger. I stocked up. Then I went back and stocked up again. Last night, preparing for the arrival of my parents, along with my brother and his family today, I bought some raspberries to mix with cantaloupe for a fruit salad. I love the contrast of the red berry against the melon. And Grace is making chocolate mousse and requested some raspberries as garnish along with the whipping cream.
Of course, now I'd better go get started on the shish-kebabs, chicken or steak with tomatoes, zuchinni, summer squash, peppers, onions and red potatoes.
And maybe I'll make one more trip to the store for more raspberries before the sale ends tomorrow. This week, I'm rich!

Aborted Run

Well, the mileage on today's run is a little shaky, but according to the Gmaps Pedometer (which refuses to recognize the bike trail so counts the road mileage)that is how far we went before I felt that jab on top of my foot.
"Go on without me," I called to my running friends. "I've got something in my shoe."
I bent over, swiping my finger under my sock. It felt like a thorn had worked its way under. Nothing. I ran a few more steps. There it was again. A jab.
I sat down on the bike trail, untied my shoes and peeled off the sock. I turned the sock inside out. Nothing. I put it back on and noticed a red spot on top of my foot. Maybe my shoes were too tight. I loosened the tie over the part of my foot next to the ankle and ran a few steps again. Weird!
It seriously felt like something was jabbing me and was that just a little twinge going down that tendon toward my toe. We were almost at the turn around, so my running friends were rounding the corner and coming back toward me. I had just managed to get warmed up in my shorts and short-sleeved shirt in the brisk morning air. Walking was making me cool and that pain in my foot persisted.
I explained my dilemma, Pam took my shoe and relaced it, advising me not to wear it so tight. "Let's walk some," she suggested.
After only a few steps, I felt a twang. That's the word my running partner Stephanie had used. A twang. Something definitely feels wrong.
Now the old me would have toughed it out and run back to the lake, twang or no twang. But the new me wants to avoid injuries, especially now that those size 10s are fitting comfortably.
"I don't think I should go," I said.
Funny, because as I walked up to my friends, they had been in the process of saying that at this point, at the halfway mark, you get back to the beginning even if you have to crawl. Here I was saying, nope. Not gonna make it.
"Did you bring your cell phone?" I asked Najah. I thought I could call Earl who was dropping Grace at the SAT at 7:45. Nope, no phone.
Noreen suggested I wait while they run back and then someone would come pick me up. Then Najah turned to me with her big eyes wide. "You need someone to wait with you, don't you?"
I know she was only pretending she didn't want to run so I wouldn't be alone, which I appreciate, but I hate that she ruined her own run.
As we walked toward the parking lot, searching for some sun to wait, a couple ran by and said the time was 7:38. We sat and talked, chill bumps covering our legs.
Najah pulled her long sleeved shirt over her legs. We talked about scars and kids and teachers.
We walked toward the road, wondering what time it was and how long it would take them to run back to the car before Noreen came to retrieve us. We watched people walk in and out of the coffee shop and regretted that we didn't run with money.
We watched people drive up and park so they could go on walks and runs. We thought about asking if we could borrow a blanket or even just a dog to snuggle with. No one even spoke to us as we waited.
When Noreen arrived (YEA!) we climbed in the car and that twang was still there.
I don't regret the run, though on this gorgeous day with the clearest sky ever and the mist rising off the lake. I only regret that I didn't make it back to the lake.

Teenage Influence a la francais

I didn't run this morning because I was up at 5:30 working on a French essay. Oh, you didn't know I was studying French? That's because I'm not.
I was helping my daughter with her French essay. I'm pretty rusty in French. I can make myself understood, but the writing and getting all of those le and la and de and des in the correct place is a little sketchy for me. I sent the essay to my friend Clare, who teaches French, last night without even reading it through. The glance at the essay haunted me through the night and called me to the computer early. She had used conditional tense when she should have used future tense. We worked for over an hour on the essay, but it still has many mistakes. I discovered later that the email to Clare had bounced back.
After I dropped the kids off at school, I drove to the library to return some overdue books and thought I'd run when I got back home. That's when I got the urgent text message. "Email project to Mr. Hecker asap. Can't find flash drive."
The flash drive held the powerpoint project on the book SeaBiscuit that she finished at 10 last night. I'd reminded her twice to get the flashdrive before we left the house.
If I hadn't gone to the library, I would have been on a run without my phone when she texted. As it was, I was across town, driving home from the library and she would have to wait until I got home to send it.
I didn't run after I sent the essay because a heavy fatigue had settled on my shoulders. I unloaded the dishwasher and made a cup of tea, ready to read the newspaper when the chimney guy walked up the back sidewalk and said he would start putting up scaffolding.

I suppose people are tired of reading complaints about my children. Truthfully, I'm tired of complaining.
I let the whining children ruin my morning. They kept me from a run that would have helped my mood and my health. I need to be responsible for myself and rise above their squabbles. That's why I'm going out the door now for a run.
Oh, did I mention I confiscated Tucker's phone this morning too. I'll save that for another post. Or maybe I'll just let it go while I'm running rather than boring you all.

Tough Love is Hard

None of my friends are answering their phones, so I turn to my blog hoping to assuage my guilt, my mother guilt.
This morning, as most mornings, quite a bit of complaining and yelling happens at my house as we get ready to go out the door. And that's just me. I used to say that the best part about homeschooling was not having to be anywhere first thing in the morning. I still believe that's true.
So, we're almost at the end of the year and this issue has been building up for awhile. Spencer stays up late working on homework or watching the NBA playoffs and he is difficult to wake up. He usually needs a couple of wake up calls. Sometimes I'll wake him up, go feed the cats, come back again. He always says, "Just a sec."
And my response frequently is, "we don't have a sec."
When he's being especially manipulative, he'll say "Why don't you lie down here with me just for a minute?" I know, at 15, he isn't that interested in snuggling with his mom. He just wants more sleep.
This morning I was still yelling to his room at 7:15. "Spencer, are you up?" I'd get a moan. Finally, I watched until he trudged from his room to the bathroom. Much nudging and yelling followed as I tried to get him to move along. I warned Grace that we might be leaving late at the rate things were going. I promised her we'd leave at 7:50. The first bell rings at 7:55 and the late bell is 8.
And, for those of you who know that we live seven-tenths of a mile from school, Grace is still in a walking boot because of the tendonitis in her ankle. So I told the boys we were leaving at 7:50. I gave warnings at 4 minutes and 2 minutes. Spencer was spreading butter on his second English muffin when I picked up my purse and walked out the door. The other kids were already in the car.
As I put the car in reverse and pulled out of the garage, I expected to see Spencer with his backpack dangling from an arm come running through the back door. I watched the garage door close and paused in the alley, looking at the door. Nothing.
I drove to school, dropping Tucker at the middle school. Next Grace clomped off into the doors of the high school.
Should I go back and get him? No. I should let him ride his bike to school and be tardy. I forced myself to go get a coffee at Caribou Coffee. Then I became worried that Spence might be clueless enough not to notice we were gone and just hang out at home, wondering why no one was leaving for school. I called home and woke up my husband. He called out a few times. Noted that Spencer's lunch was still on the counter and said he must be gone.
As I left Caribou, I drove down the main street and saw Spencer there walking at 8:05.He leaned slightly forward with the weight of his heavy backpack. He was nearly to school.
I raised a hand. He saw me and returned the raised hand. Not a waving hand, just an acknowledgement.
Maybe he'll get a lunch detention for being late to school, or maybe he hasn't been tardy this quarter and he'll breeze through the rest of the school year without another tardy. I'm sure he has put it behind him as he nears second period.
I still feel a gnawing of guilt.

Body Image

Let's face it. Most American women have poor body image, and, although I like to consider myself above that, as I've gotten older, I've been struggling with it.
Going to dance class this spring has reinforced the fact that I am no longer the slightly chubby, but healthy woman who can ignore her weight. I hate even walking in the door. My reflection in the doorway of Dance Plus Ballroom is bigger than my reflection in any other doorway -- my house, Macy's, work. I look huge as I walk toward the door.
Once inside, the room is lined with mirrors. The first week I wore a casual outfit and was shocked to see how bad it looked on me. I was obese! I've worn each of my favorite outfits only to vow I'd never wear each again after seeing myself in those mirrors. I convinced myself the mirrors must be distorting my image so this week, I managed to stand next to another woman. I compared how she looked in real life to how she looked in the mirror. She wasn't distorted. She looked the same both places. So what's going on?

Maybe my body image is the opposite of what most women have. Maybe I haven't dealt with the way I really look. In high school, I thought I was fat. I remember the counselor/driving teacher Mr. Vandergriff who frequently told me that Paulita was supposed to mean little Paul. I distinctly remember myself in size 5 skirts. When I forgot a pair of jeans to change into after band, someone suggested that Tracey had an extra pair. "I'll never fit into her jeans," I insisted. But I did and we've been friends since.
I did gain weight and bulk up in college. I can still picture myself in the bright green tights and leotard I wore to do Jane Fonda aerobics -- the album. My weight slid up and down after that. One of the first things I understood in French was when a member of the family I was staying with was talking about me. Someone said I must enjoy the French food because I was heavy. The host family assured them I had arrived that way. No wonder I saw myself as fat.
The problem was in my mid-20s, when I stopped thinking about food and weight, and my scale settled on 118, where it returned after each baby, I still considered myself fat. I was wearing size 4 or size 6 jeans but thought I was chubby. What is that all about? Why couldn't I enjoy being thin? Why did I still need to be critical?
Raising a daughter, I always focused on being healthy. We didn't talk about dieting, but I regularly hit the running trail, as much for the emotional reward as the physical one. Over the past few years, injuries like the torn ACL and the stress fracture have prevented me from running as much. That must be when those extra pounds snuck on. And now they act like a vicious cycle, making me tired when I do run. No wonder, I'm dragging around the equivalent of a five-year-old in addition to the weight I was before. I complain of feeling fatigue. My lungs are fine, my leg muscles are fine, but a sense of "I can't possibly run anymore" overtakes me. I'm fighting that feeling now as I slog through my morning runs. Some of them are beautiful and some of them are like wrestling a two-year-old into a car seat.
So, I need to face the mirror and admit I have gained weight. I need to get out of bed every morning and run. I'm trying to follow the marathon training schedule, even though I don't plan to run the marathon. The training should help me get my body under control.

And, I need to admit that dieting only makes me crazy and crave foods. So I have to allow myself to eat what I want in moderation and increase my exercise. I tried to buy larger shorts that will be more comfortable but I still run into the difficulty of shorts that fit in the thighs and hips but are too big around the waist.
I'll keep looking and hope that soon the size 10s will be comfortable again. My goal, and everyone should have one, is to be a comfortable size 8 by the time the Columbus Marathon rolls around. I plan to stand on the sidelines and cheer for my friends while showing off some newly muscled thighs. Now about those varicose veins. Oh, never mind. No one is perfect.

Tolerance and other dangers in Kentucky

I drove to Lexington on Thursday morning, leaving the house before anyone else was awake, so I could be at the hospital when my 91-year-old grandmother had her pacemaker batteries replaced. Nana is a slip of a thing now with pale blue eyes and see-through skin. I saw her briefly before she went into the procedure and then spent an hour talking with my 70-year-old aunt. It took only a fraction of that hour for me to remember how much I hate the fact that everything in their lives revolves around God.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a church-going Catholic (okay, I missed the ascension service Thursday, but overall). This is a different kind of obsession with God. Every conversation about any person requires a discussion about this person's religious background and how they had or hadn't been saved, what age they'd been saved, whether they had backslid...
My aunt started one conversation with the fact that she really approved of homeschooling. I homeschooled my kids until last year. For me though, it was about the learning rather than the avoidance of other people's ideas.
"In schools today," my aunt dropped her voice and leaned forward, "they're teaching tolerance!"
I couldn't hold in the little burble of laughter, which probably sounded something like, "hah!"
"My kids hopefully learned as much tolerance from me at home as they would in school," I said.
"But have you heard about that new hate law? Soon it's going to be legal to beat up Christians."
I hadn't followed the law, but I didn't think that was the direction it was going.
"I think it's going to be an extra crime to hurt people because of their beliefs," I tried to explain.
"But it will be illegal for Christians to even speak out."
"No, no. I'm pretty sure it won't affect freedom of speech," I said, while I tried desperately to steer the conversation away to safer topics, like vegetables.

The rest of the afternoon was just a walk through minefields while I tried to say the right things without getting dragged into criticisms of my cousin (too fat), my former sister-in-law (never signed love on the cards until after the divorce), my own parents (too busy with their own lives to help take care of their mother). I'm lucky I was there to avoid the criticism that would have come my way.
So I skipped out early, claiming the three-hour drive made my departure a necessity. As I approached Cincinnati, I called my best friend from high school. She met me at a Panera not too far from the highway and I spewed all of my impatience with my relatives in a three-hour catch up session. Thank God for friends. But when was the last time she went to church? I'll need to check before I visit my relatives in Kentucky again.

Benadryl & Sudafed & Crutches, Oh my

My friend Angela thinks she really wants a baby. I try to update her on life with my kids as birth control incentive.
Yesterday, two of my kids were at the doctors. One with an indeterminate rash and the other with mystery pains in her ankle. My husband took Tuck to the doctor because I was working. Contact dermatitis, like poison ivy. Look, it's not poison ivy. I am a pro at recognizing the blisters once they're on the skin. I just can't recognize the plant to stay out of it.
Tuck has these big red welts on the back of his neck and the underside of his arms. But I wasn't there to argue, so he got a cortizone cream prescription and a quart of Haagen Dazs ice cream. He also is taking Benadryl (store brand!) and it upset his stomach, so the pharmacist suggested ginger ale and crackers before he takes it.This rash is paying big sugar dividends.
Grace had been on two Aleve each morning and night for the pain in her shin/ankle. The sports med doctor at Children's Hospital put her in a knee-high boot and told her to stay off it. Not stay off it like using the crutches to get to the pool and then swimming, but stay off it. I don't say it, but am I thinking what about the personal training, what about the week at the University of Louisville Swim Camp? Yes. What will happen to this summer's swim season. Maybe a nice division three college will suit her just fine.
Then last night that little nagging cough of Grace's turned into a full-blown head cold. She was up blowing her nose and coughing. I took her some Sudafed (store brand!). When I got back from my run she was already up and in the shower getting ready for school.
Are you going? I asked.
"I've got a choir concert tonight and if I don't go they won't let me sing."
If she doesn't sing, her grade drops.
"Go back to bed for awhile. I'm taking Spencer in later," I told her.
And Spencer, well he got up in his Ohio State sleep pants, ate a bowl of cereal and a cereal bar and settled into the armchair to finish an essay he should have written last night.
Even when they can feed and dress themselves, they continue to be full time jobs. Most of the time I enjoy their company, but the times that I don't (obnoxious 13-year-old) there's no escaping.
You sure you want kids, Angela?

Model Child

Since my friend Sheila, who apparently never plans to blog again, has not written about the excitement in her family, I'm co-opting her story. Maybe this will convince her to tell the story in her own words.
Her 16-year-old daughter is about six-feet tall, all arms and legs and swingy caramel-colored hair. She was on a school trip, in an airport in Colorado when a woman approached her and asked who her teacher was. The woman left a business card with the teacher and requested that it go to the girl's parents. She represented a modeling agency! I know! Every girl's dream is to be discovered in some out of the way place by a modeling agency who wants to make her a star. And apparently, this may be happening to Sheila's daughter.
Since Sheila was out of town at the time, the teacher gave the card to her husband, who considered throwing it away. But he didn't! He looked up the agency on the web, he called and talked to the owner.
Next week, they are going to a large midwestern city for a photo shoot.
Oh, I hope Sheila wants me to serve as her translator when they go to Paris for fashion week!

Big Footprints

After my tough day with my teenagers (see previous post), I was on the lookout for some magic to repair our relationship. That magic came in the form of an email from the moms' list -- a group of mothers in our small town who send out tips and events, and ask for help when they need it. This email said the elephant walk would be that afternoon.
When the circus comes to town, the train parks in our small town then the elephants and horses walk along the road over the highway to the stadium where they camp during the performance.
Eureka!
My husband and I stopped by the convenience store and bought Yoohoos for the kids. I went to the middle school; he went to the high school to take kids out.
"Will they want to go?" we had wondered beforehand.
Maybe not the youngest, we thought. He is still close enough to the age to worry that it is a little kid thing. The others are past that. .
Sure enough, after I took Tucker out of class, he asked where we were going and begged off. "We're watching Remember the Titans in class." Aaah. My education dollars at work. I shrugged. He didn't realize how much we needed family time.
The other kids jumped in the car as if they'd just achieved a jail break.
They popped open their Yoohoos as we drove down to the circus road. We parked and I saw an aquaintance pushing a stroller along the street.
"Will we be able to see the elephants from here?" I called
"They went almost an hour early," she replied. "We missed them too."
Earl, not one to be outsmarted by elephants, drove over to the stadium. We fled the car like circus clowns and milled around the fence, admiring the elephants who were bathing after their hot walk.
"We're the only older kids here," my son pointed out as little heads bonked into his knees.
We watched the elephants and meandered past the cages with the tigers, most of them sleeping. Hmmm. Wonder why they didn't get to walk?
We spotted some miniature ponies and a sleek palamino. The sound of a roar made us jump and then we debated whether it was one of the cats or the elephants. If we lived a little closer, maybe we could the roars and squeals through our windows at night while we sleep, dreaming of life on the African plain.

Just Keep Running

This morning I walked into the 40-degree weather wearing running shorts and a jacket. When I got from the back door to the alley, I started to run. I kept running until I felt sure I could come home and love my kids. That was it. My goal that I kept repeating in my head: Run until you love your kids.
I went to bed angry last night. I had yelled at the kids and smacked my hand against the black granite countertop. I don't yell often, so when I do the kids get a kind of stunned look on their faces.
I guess it was building up and I don't think it has anything to do with the fact that I received a couple of "Happy Mother's Day" comments from the kids, one about 5 p.m. when the 13-year-old called from a friend's house after he remembered it was mother's day, and a very sweet card from my husband. I have long since abandoned Mother's Day as a holiday.
But on Monday, after I came home from working and had a headache behind my eyes, I drove my middle child to tennis and sat in the sun reading a book and waiting to watch him play. He hasn't played tennis before so he had about one good shot for every 25 bad ones, but everybody starts somewhere. He was, of course, mad at himself about his awkward tennis abilities and when I dropped him to pick up the youngest, he apologized. "Sorry."
Sorry? About tennis? Come on. That's not important.
The 13-year-old climbed in the car with his guitar and I dropped him at his lesson. I ran home, defrosted the hamburgers and threw them on the grill.

My daughter, her bedroom door closed with music escaping beneath, was supposed to be going to work out with her personal trainer. This is her first month working with a personal trainer and it's kind of an experiment to see if she can build up enough muscle to swim with a division 1 college when she graduates next year. And, for our family, it's a pretty big financial commitment. I don't want to throw that in her face, but I do expect her to take it seriously.
So, when she was still in her room at 6:21 and she needed to be working out at the gym at 6:30, I nudged her along. "Why can't you get there on time? You're supposed to stretch before you start working out."
"I got this," she assured me.
When I returned with the 13-year-old, who was pestering me to sign his volunteer-hour sheet because he hadn't gotten it signed when he worked at the YMCA, I served dinner to the boys. The 13-year-old is just sullen and complaining most of the time. He answers me in grunts unless he is arguing to get his way with something.
The 15-year-old was reading. I know that's a good thing, but he had homework. He finally started it and took breaks to watch Dancing With the Stars before I realized, at 9 p.m. that he was filling out his government review sheet, which meant he had a test today. He wasn't anywhere near ready to study for the test. My daughter was working on a paper that was due today and had probably spent the afternoon on Facebook rather than working on it.
"Why are you so mad?" My son asked innocently. That's when I slapped the counter and said I was tired of him doing his school work "half-assed."
"You wanted to go to school. You're responsible for getting the work done and getting good grades."
His interim report this quarter was the lowest it has ever been with a C in one class. If he's trying, that's one thing, but if he's reading and playing video games and gets started on his homework at 9, that's another.
Then I turned on my daughter. "And it's ridiculous to think you can go to workouts late every week and then convince us to pay for swim camp."
I finished unloading the dishwasher in silence and cleared off the table where my daughter had eaten after she got home. I got ready for bed and closed the door behind me. No good night to the boys or Grace. No kiss on the cheek with an "I love you."
I know they aren't doing drugs or having sex or stealing from the local drugstore. They're basically good kids, just not stepping up to the plate without constant nagging.
When Grace printed out her paper, she came in and kissed me goodnight. And that was it.
Until this morning when I woke up, did my usual debate about whether to go for a run. That same headache was pulsing behind my eyes. I wondered if it could be high blood pressure. Maybe I'd run out onto the street and collapse. But I put on my shoes and plugged in my iPod and started to run. That's when the idea hit me, just keep running, until you can go home and love your kids again.

Prom Expenses

I saw a cartoon in the newspaper this morning that had a woman peering in a baby carriage then asking the parents if they've started saving for her prom yet. It reminded me how fortunate I am that I have a daughter who seems to have been born with a budget planner in her head.
Her prom was last week and the $80 dress was the biggest expense. It was on sale 25 percent off.
The boutonniere for her date was $12 from the local florist.
The night before the prom she and her girlfriends got together and soaked their feet in the tub, giving each other pedicures and manicures.
We splurged on an updo -- first time she's ever done that, but again that wasn't unreasonable at $45 from the girl who usually cuts her hair.

What are you guys going to do about dinner? I had asked, fearing an expensive restaurant.
"We're having a pot luck at Angela's," she told me.
"What about cars?" Again I pictured rented limousines.
"Oh, I think Robert, Kyle and Rosa are all driving."
So that was it.
A dress, a flower and a boutonniere. She came home an exhausted girl who had scattered glitter everywhere. But I thought she looked beautiful.