Running, with dogs.

So, got up early the other morning to get my run in. I’ll be honest, I’ve been slacking. The dark mornings are not very motivating. And, I’ve had a cold. Not feeling great and certainly not well enough to run. At least very well.

Got a puppy this summer. Her sole purpose (other than snuggles) is to be my running partner. She’s a Border Collie. She needs a job. She has great ‘eye’. This means that she doesn’t just look at you, she looks into you. Her face and eyes are black and even though she’s as sweet as pie, if she thinks you’re a threat to me, she doesn’t look friendly. And when the hair on her back goes up, you should probably cross the street. I have no fear running in the morning or evening with her – she sees everything.

Running Buddy.

I’ve had this cold, it lingers. Puppy was restless. Hadn’t had a run in four days. 

The alarm went off at 5:30. The dog pack jumped up. Well, some of them. Yes, it’s true. We have four dogs. 

One senior, two small dogs and the border collie. And, yes, I know it’s too many. But, the senior is three paws into the grave so it’s just a matter of time until we’ve got three dogs. Which is actually much more manageable and honestly, the perfect number for our house. Senior rolled over and refused to get up. The young three ran out to do their business. I let them back in when I went to the kitchen to have my pre-run toast with peanut butter. Small, spoiled girl dog went back to bed. Small boy dog sat there. With sad eyes. He clearly wanted to go run too.

Here’s the thing. He’s a hypoallergenic hybrid. He wasn’t cheap. He was flown cross-country. He’s the sweetest funniest little guy. And he has an adorable face. His legs, well, his legs are, to put it mildly, jacked up. He’s bow-legged. And his left foot is turned so far it almost looks like it’s on backward. Running is not for him. He needs a trip to the doggie version of Shriners hospital. He needs some Forest Gump braces on his legs. But, he looked so sad. And, well, if he wants to run, who am I to shatter his dreams?

For a 20-pound bow legged dog, the dude can pull. Border Collie runs on a gentle leader – goes around her nose. She doesn’t pull at all. Trots right along side. Gentle leader rules. So, I figure, I’ll put him in the gentle leader. 

Put Border Collie in a regular leash. She looks slightly offended that he’s using her collar and lead. We head outside. Turn on my running app and snap the leader on his face. 

And then all hell broke loose.

You’ve seen those fishing shows where they hook some giant shark or something and it runs to the end of the line and then throws itself in the air while trying to kill the person who hooked it. I’d have been less scared if a shark was on the end of this leash. It was quite a show.

I stopped and readjusted the lead. He calmed down and trotted along for a half block or so. Then had another utter meltdown.

Running app is not pleased with my distance or pace.

Stopped again. Adjusted.

Things were going better. He was right behind me - that seemed to work for a few blocks. He wasn't pulling at all.

And then, (the 'and then' is always the best part, you know?) the leash tightened behind me. I kept going, he's got to learn at some point. I stopped under a street light and glanced back. It took a moment to realize what was happening. He, with his desire to get the leader off his face, was hopping down the sidewalk on his back feet while desperately trying to push the leader off with his front paws. He was a small dog possessed. 

The readjustment, jog, readjust continued on. Until he won. At about mile 2. 

What was supposed to be seven miles, adjusted to five because of the cold ended up being 2.76. 

I didn't get my miles. Border Collie didn't get her miles. Spoiled boy dog slept for two days.

There's a winner in there somewhere.

What? These legs are fine!

Old?

At some point, I'm not sure exactly when it happened, I became old. I think. I'm 39. That doesn't seem old, really. Right? Oprah says 40 is the new 30 and if Oprah says it, it must be true. So. I'm young. Yes?

I don't really feel old, per se. Well, I feel old the morning after.

Went to Costco today after work, kid pick up, cleaned out the fridge, made dinner, went for a run (5M), watched cartoons with the kids (Phineaus and Ferb are making a title sequence!).

In bed at 9:30. On a Friday. Exhausted. Now, in my defense, that is a lot of stuff. But a few years ago I would have done that stuff, met up with some friends and stayed out late. Would have crawled into bed giggling and smelling (reeking) of bourbon.

All I could think about tonight was how I need to get up early and have a big list of stuff to get done this weekend and how it's better to go to bed early than be miserable and tired for days...

Perhaps that's a sign of maturity? Mature sounds better than old. Except when I hear about 'mature men' on dating sites - then that's code for 'old'. Just like houses listed with 'easy freeway access' equals 'under an overpass'.

I did spend an hour watching cartoons today so that should count for something. And, I'll watch some in the morning. It'll be Saturday after all. Looney Tunes is on.

Maybe I'm just tired.

Scars and Gravel, Gravel and Scars

I've been the victim of attempted murder on more than one occasion. Mostly by people who claim they love me. And/or are related to me...

He doesn't look like a killer. But, that's what they always say.

In this particular case, I was horribly disfigured. It's a miracle I even leave the house. Because, my brother.

One afternoon we were unsupervised. It was cloudy. I had my pink and white jacket on. I'm guessing it was spring, probably right before my fourth birthday.

Remember, I'm a small town girl...

Out in front of Tyke's store there is a flat spot next to the road. The fertilizer companies would bring big tanks and stage them there - now, to keep people from killing themselves or others with the chemicals, they were up high with a ladder hanging down. If you were a fertilizer man, you had a ladder that connected to this and you could get up there. If you were a kid, you saw a challenge.

The challenge: ride your bike under the ladders. And not die. Or, more importantly, don't kill your passenger. Your much younger passenger.

'Hey Stace, you want to go on a ride?'

'Yeah!' Big brother fun times!

'Okay, do you know what duck means?'

'Yeah.' Geez, I'm almost four, but I'm not an idiot.

And so, trusting him with my little tiny human life, I got on the back of his bike. Or, more likely, he put me up there.

We were moving so fast! So fun!

So stupid and trusting.

'Okay Stace, you ready? When I say duck, you duck.'

'Ready!'

'Okay, Duck!'

'WHERE?!' I looked to the sky, searching for the duck. Or better yet, ducks. Ducks are fun.

Now, there's a sound. A distinct sound. It's the sound of aluminum hitting your skull. Followed by the more dull sound of your tiny body slamming onto the gravel. And, you see Jesus for a second or two. Then, well, then, you taste blood. That has trickled all the way down from your forehead.

In his defense, he did freak out at the sight of me. My sister looked a little disappointed. From what I could see. Through the blood.

So we walked to get help. Can't go home with a face like that. We were stupid, but not that stupid.

I hope that everyone has an Aunt Nancy in their life. An Aunt Nancy will save your bacon - numerous times. Most of them will involve an injury and blood. Sometimes stitches too. With the added benefits of a cookie to make you feel better after. In the least, she'll clean you up and carry you up the road to your mothers house. Better to walk in blood free. Lest we get ourselves killed.

And now, I have a scar on my forehead and an almost paralyzing fear of being hit in the face. As I age and wrinkle, the scar gets deeper and deeper.

I'll get it fixed at some point. And send him the bill.

Somehow able to laugh with the hideous scar.

Music and Time

So, here's the thing. I don't really know what years things happened in. As in the number. I just know songs. We grew up with music. Both the parents listened to a lot of music. There are songs that I hear that instantly take me back to a specific time. Often to an extremely vivid memory.

Most of my friends knew my 'dad'. They didn't really know he wasn't my biological father. He was at the things. All the things. The games, the prom, the stuff. That dude held his breath for a lot of soccer games. I got scored on anyway. But, he felt it too.

I remember my stepsister, who is as close to me as any blood relative, see me hug a man just before my sisters wedding...

"Who is that guy?"

"Um, that's my dad."

It as awkward for everyone. But, especially as we'd lived in the same house for a number of years and she had no idea what the other half of my DNA looked like.

He and I weren't close. Which is a bummer; I've heard he was a pretty fun guy.

And then, well, he died. Years after that, but still kind of youngish. 62. Just before my 31st birthday. Don't think that I haven't thought about being halfway through. A lot. I plan on living a lot longer than 62 years. But, I do whatever I want. No regrets. Just in case. Because, hell, it could all go boom tomorrow.

What's the whole reason for this ramble... and how the heck does it tie back to music? Well, stick with me...

Dad moved to Olympia in the early '80's. We went for a week or so. I have no idea how long we were there. But, he had this new channel. MTV. Music Television.

COOLEST. THING. EVER.

It was the summer  of '84. There are a number of songs that I can equate to that summer. Cars, Corey Hart... But, really, it was Huey Lewis. And the News.

'If This Is It' must have played 10 times a day that summer. You all remember the video. The family searching for the perfect place on the beach while hauling around a ton of stuff... as Huey is trying to call a girl. On a pay phone.

Went to see Huey the other night. Live. Felt like 1984. Except I drove myself there and had a couple beers. And Huey is 65. Other than that. It was just like being eight.

Took me back. Made me think about that summer. My dad. That was the last time I really spent with him. When I was eight. Saw him for a night two years later. And, for a few minutes at graduation and my sisters wedding. He was at my brothers wedding too. But, at that point I was pretty much pissed off. I marinated in anger for about 15 years, after all. I called the hospital when he had the first heart attack. Sent flowers. I wasn't a total ass. Just mostly.

Refused to go to the viewing. Sat there stunned at the funeral.

Lot of regrets there. Can't be fixed. Packing up the lessons learned. Vow to do better myself.

For now, I've got Huey, Corey and the Cars and that summer in 1984.

6th Grader?

Somehow there are some milestones that stick out more than others... For instance, I'm a little blown away that I have a sixth grader. Sixth grade. I started a new school for sixth grade - probably why it sticks out so much in my mind.

Kindergarten. So far away.

Anyway, the boy. Headed off to sixth grade in a couple days. I think I'm slightly in shock that I have a kid old enough for sixth grade. Might be easier if he was a really smart 8 year old that was going into sixth grade. Sixth grade. Sixth grade. It's just ringing in my ears. But he's the correct age and everything.

He's a tween. Which I think is code for asshole. But, they can't say asshole on television. So, it's tween. All in all, he's a pretty good kid. Any time I complain, my friends say, 'oh, but he's such a good kid'. Really? Because if he rolls his eyes at me one more time, I'm going to punch him in the head. Maybe. Probably not. Well, not a chance. I'd like to think that the look I give is enough. But those eyes keep on rolling.

Sixth grade is where things start to happen. Girls call. Or text. Or, I don't know. I really have no idea what happens these days. 'These days'. Because I'm suddenly old and out of touch with a tween. Who hates the clothes I buy and rides in the front seat and reaches over and changes the radio station. Holy hell.

So, anyway... he's headed off to sixth grade. I'll be white knuckling through the whole thing. And, really I don't have a lot for advice other than, 'most of the stuff you're going to run into is really stupid and will have no impact on your life'. Except in that moment, when it's the worst thing ever. EVER.

I'm pretty sure that's my job though. Just keep him going. Give terrible advice. Hold my tongue when I want to snap. Let him change the radio station. Show up. Be present. Even when some times I'm just pretending and have no earthly idea of what he's talking about.

Because the years are ticking away. There aren't many left. Six years from sixth grade... well, that's heading out the door.

Jesus.

I need a drink.

Teeth!

The tooth fairy assigned to our neighborhood is at best lazy, or at worst, has early onset dementia. She often forgets to drop by, is often without quarters and generally disorganized. She's even had to hide teeth in the cup holder on the treadmill - more than once - in an early morning panic.

Gappy.

So, this morning when I got a call from the boy that the girl had lost a fang (his words, not mine)... I mentally filed it away.


Don't forget the tooth fairy. Don't forget the tooth fairy.


Trouble is, he called me just as I was walking into a meeting. File instantly archived.

When I got home this afternoon the kitchen was a little bit of a disaster. Plates out, cereal spilled on the table, the usual summer day untidiness that I'm finding lately. Loaded the dishwasher, started it, we ate dinner... typical night.

Until about 9:30. When the girl, hysterical, screamed, "Where did the glass go that was right here?"

"You mean your milk cup? It's on the table."

"NO. The water glass that was right here!" Tears are now coming, she can hardly get the words out.

"There's a water glass in the living room on the coffee table. Is that it? I think someone is tired."

"I DON'T WANT WATER! My tooth was in it. RIGHT HERE!" She slams her little hand down on the counter.

Oh, shit. 

I quickly run over to the sink to see if it somehow survived the kitchen clean up.

She's now sobbing at the thought of the tooth having been washed down the drain. I assure her that the tooth fairy can find it in the drain. As long as she doesn't have a glass of wine later.

And then, light bulb.

FOUND!

Here's the thing. I don't like to waste water. When I come upon a water glass on the counter with a bit of water in it, I pour it into the dog bowl. They drink out of the toilet so I'm pretty sure they're okay with backwash.

And, there it was, resting on the the bottom of the water bowl. Tooth!

Tears are gone, smile is back, "It's so good that one of the dogs didn't swallow it, the tooth fairy would have had to fly into the dog!"

Yep, that forgetful bitch would have had to fly into a dog...

Summertime and the livin’ is easy…

I love summer. Love. Love. Love. Although not my favorite season, fall wins there. Chilly in the morning, warm in the afternoon, orange leaves and pumpkin flavored everything.

But, back to summer.

Until I was 11, I lived in either Eastern Washington or Northern Idaho. Close to the sun. Where I used to be very tan and blonde; I am now pasty and “blonde”.

I achieved this fantastical tan through the over-usage of Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil. Because, I was eight. And it smelled good.

Spent a lot of time on the Snake River. A lot of time. I can still hear it. There is a sound, distinct. Drop under the water, just cover your ears. The muffled sound of laughing and playing in the water and behind that, the hum of boat engines. It’s meditative.

We’d head to the river, Hells Gate State Park, when we lived in Idaho. When we lived in Washington, we walked out the front door. Hells Gate was nicer. It cost a dollar per car to get in. Relatively early in the morning. To get a good spot. Spread out the blanket. Green plaid. Start the process of blowing up the air mattresses.

Break out the snacks: Sour Cream and Onion chips, soda pop, light beer (mom only!) and oreos. The beer and oreo thing has stuck with me. If you haven’t tried it, you’re missing out. Truly.

It would be hot. Often 100 degrees or more, it was Hells Gate, after all. You’d run from the grass to the water to try to not burn your feet on the sand. That run got longer as the river receded later in the summer.

Start at the top of the swimming area, float to the end. Flip over and do it again. Again and again. Jump in. Dive. Somersaults. Handstands. You need to have an even base burn. You should be absolutely red, blistered is even better, by the end of the day. You’ll be miserable and unable to sleep for a few nights and then you’ll peel. And peel. And peel.

But then, well, you’ll be a perfect golden brown. Repeat each Saturday or Sunday - after church of course. And as you’ve completed the task of the base burn, you don’t burn again all summer. Just a deeper and deeper tan. Which translates into some amazing sun damage as an adult.

My children have no idea what this is like. The 80’s seem like another planet now. They’ve never been in the sun without massive quantities of sunscreen. Nor have they ever been encouraged to work on their base burn. In turn, neither one is as comfortable in the water as I was. Probably due to the distance from Western Oregon to the Snake River. And, my fear of damaging their perfect innocent skin.

They do know about beer and oreos though. Because I'm raising them right.