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Jason and I have just rolled in from a pre-weekend, pre-anniversary celebration, pre-summer vacation, mini-vacation to Fredericksburg, TX. We experienced a slap-yo-momma fun time!  As soon as we figure out how people actually afford to live there, we are packing our bags, bidding our farewells to this flatland and becoming permanent residents to the hill country.  My dilemma that I’m faced with now is whether I’m retiring to Fredericksburg, Tx or Anacortes, Washington.

Back in March, I started whining because spring break was coming and people were buzzing about great trips they were taking: to Vegas, the mountains, etc, etc.  and here I sat, so I booked us a couple of nights during the coolness of May and Jason’s “slow time” to visit this tourist attraction of a town.

Top 10 Reasons Why This Trip Was Perfect:
Reason #10—
 We did not see one, not one, I mean none, zero, zilch mosquitoes after we passed Aspermont, Tx.  It is unbelievable I know, I’m still pinching myself.

Reason #9—
We stayed in a fabulous little guesthouse.  Loved it! Loved it! Loved it!  It is all I need in life.

Reason #8—
Roosters!!  I don’t care what anybody says, I want one, don’t need it, but want it.

Reason #7—
The wind doesn’t blow 70 mph consistently.

Reason #6—
We loved using our fancy new GPS system.

Reason #5—
We ate at a bug infested roadside park for the first time in our married life on the way home, but had more laughs at that moment than we did all weekend.

Reason #4—
I discovered my life’s motto—— “Seize Tomorrow”

Reason #3—
I missed Field Day at my school, which involved races, water events, snow cones, sunburns, bug bites, sweaty armpits, and hyper, crazy, sugar induced children.  And if by chance my principal is reading, I’m wiping a tear right now.

Reason #2—
I went to LUCKENBACH, TX!!!!! Willie and Waylon stood me up, but the boys were there.  I’ve gotta write a separate post about this.

And the number one Reason This Trip Was Perfect…..

#1—It gave me something to blog about! 
And at least 3 more to come!!

Good night.

Happy Day After Mother’s Day.
I went to church and was fed breakfast by men.
Don’t let anyone tell you that childbirth is necessary to relish the perks of Mother’s Day.

I’ve discovered that Mother’s Day is an awkward day.  It’s a day that people tend to feel sorry for me because I’m childless. I sense pity vibes all around.  But please don’t feel sorry for me.  I’m a non-mother by choice.  And it will suit me fine to live without any lecture right now if you are hankering to give me one.  Please.  I’ve heard them all, “Whose going to take care of you when you’re old?”  “You’ll never truly know what love is” “Having kids is the greatest joy.”  “The pleasures outweigh the heartaches”  Blah, blah, blah.

Last year I was honored at church on Mother’s Day.  My niece secretly wrote a letter, not on her own accord, but because she was asked.  Then the pastor read it aloud without saying who it was addressed to, and I was called forced to the platform with Ashlynn.  I wasn’t the only one who was honored of course, and it was kind of fun to try to figure out for whom each letter was written.  Here’s my letter.  I have it hanging in my bedroom:

I’m definitely not an expert on trees.  All I really know is that I have a lot of them.  Messy ones at that.  Oak trees that love to shed tons of leaves and acorns.  Acorns of which I don’t pick up and sprout into more oak trees under a moist mound of dying leaves of which I didn’t pick up.  It’s a vicious cycle man.  One of which I realize I am in control if I’d choose to be.  But I don’t. 

Amongst all these oaks, I have two other trees, one is not a money tree and the other happens to be a pine.   A scraggly, measly, thin little pine. 

About one week ago, I completed a feat that made me feel like I can do anything.    My first (and last) half marathon!  I’m still recovering. My fingers are just now regaining strength to type about it.  It was an awesome experience, but not one that I’ll repeat.  People have asked me if it was fun.  And I have to answer honestly.  No, it was not fun.  It was hard.  It was grueling at times.  It was physically painful.  None of which I equate with F-U-N. 

I began this adventure wanting to push myself.  I doubted I could do it.  So I began, in my mind, believing that I would walk it.  Thirteen miles turns out to be a really long walk.  I suckered a couple of friends from work to do it with me, and we began our training.  None of us were runners.  Our training began slowly, running 30 seconds, and then walking until we recovered for up to 20 minutes.  As the days passed, our running increased.  For five months we trained, gradually increasing our miles.  We trained in wind that pushed against us and told us we couldn’t do it.  We trained in snow and in frigid temperatures that numbed our fingers and toes.  We bundled ourselves and perservered through long Sunday afternoons. 

A couple of months into it my knees began hurting me, so I backed off my running and increased walking.  I looked forward to the day of the half marathon, not to accomplish, but to get it over with.  To check it off my list.  I couldn’t quit, although there were times I wanted to throw up my hands and lie on the couch, eat chips and watch The Biggest Loser instead.  We had endured too much to quit.  I prayed for endurance, I prayed for healing, I prayed for perserverance, I prayed for Rapture.  Our group of runners posted scriptures on our running page for motivation or inspiration.  So while I was running, I would quote scripture knowing that I can do all things through Christ.

The day the marathon was upon us, I was as nervous as a little girl.  I had to talk to myself and tell myself that I’ve been running for 34 years.  It wasn’t anything new. 

The people of Oklahoma City were the best part of the race for me.  Not the runners, but the people who made it all happen.  The volunteers were there at 3 in the morning preparing for us.  They cheered us on all the way, passed out water and orange slices, told us thank you for running in memory of the OKC bombing, and cleaned up streets of trash and paper cups.  There were dancers on the sides of the street, bands, people in costume all asking us ‘How are you feeling’.  I wrote before about those bright neon green shirts that dared people to question our current state of being.  It turns out I managed to make it through the entire race without flipping anyone off.  One lady who was cheering on the side of the road and encouraging us at about mile 3 spoke into her microphone and said,”You people in the green shirts are everywhere.  You’re like a bunch of ants!” 

Seeing the finish line was both exciting and relieving.  When I laid eyes on that banner, I began to kick it into second gear.  I’m sure I wasn’t running fast, but it felt like I was flying.  It was a great feeling to cross the finish line knowing that I had done it.  I had completed it.  It was finished and I would never have to run again in my life.  I placed 5,863rd.  Eighty one percent of the racers finished ahead of me.  But I accomplished my first goal of simply finishing, and my second goal of finishing in under three hours.  Barely.

Most people were being handed their medal, but this lady, Polly Nichols, a survivor of the OKC bombing, took the time to put mine around my neck, like I was a true winner.  I told her thank you and teared up when she replied that she was honored to do it.  It was a tender moment for me.

And then I limped home and burned my running shoes.

Metaphorically speaking of course.

You stupid little mutt,
I want to kick your butt.

Your barking is incessant,
my mood is most unpleasant.

Twenty-four/seven you bark,
from sun-up to sun-dark.

And when I lay down to nap,
Sleep is eluded ’cause you yap.

If I could have one wish,
It’d be your voicebox in a dish.

A shock collar around your neck,
might be my best bet.

Sugar is good and honey is sweet,
I pray you’ll go play in the street.

Perhaps its cruel, but ’tis true,
I hope your doggie days are few.

And in dog Heaven you can croon,
by the light of the silvery moon.

With gates of pearl and bones to nibble,
 balls to chase and drool to dribble.

13.1: miles in a 1/2 marathon

4.5: days until the race (race!  Ha!)

298: times each day I look in the mirror and cuss myself out for signing up

5:  number of months we’ve been training

6:  pounds I’ve gained while running

7:  pounds really

1:  day I’ve trained when the temperature was above 40 degrees

112:  degrees it will probably be on the day of the marathon

20,999:  number of people that are going to trample me at the start line (I can only hope)

3: hours that I pray I can finish in

40:  mph the ambulance will drive to get me to the nearest hospital after I collapse across the finish line.

2: number of knees that will afterward need replacing

17:  blisters on each big toe

13:  years it will take me to recover

0: times I will ever run again unless being chased by a rabid dog

************

I picked up my marathon shirt the other day. 

I’m running with a very large group of fellow agile, vigorous marathoners from my hometown.

We’re all wearing the same shirt, so we can be noticed out of the 21,000 other runners.

It’s definately loud enough.

The Harvester is our little town’s mascot. 

The mighty Harvester who wields a fierce sickle or yo-yo or something.

Sorry.  Just looking at him makes me want to break out into song.

Ask me how I’m feelin’ and I’m supposed to say Harvester Good.

But only time will tell what may come out of my mouth on Sunday after about 8.4 miles into it.

After aches, pains, limps, cramps, sweating, wheezing, dehydrating, and puking, I’m supposed to say Harvester Good.

Wrong Answer.

I  hope I can refrain from flying the bird to all those questioning, happy spectators.

Jason suggested mine should say something else,
like….

“Because I’m stupid” 

or

“Because teaching school isn’t punishment enough” 

or maybe

“Because I really don’t need my knees”

but my favorite is

“Because I make limping look good”

But seriously y’all.

Will all the joking aside, this is rumored to be an awesome experience.

One that I will never forget. 

Maybe even cherish.

 And all the hard work, time, blood, sweat, and glucosomine chondroitin will be well worth it.

“There will be days when I don’t know if I can run a marathon. There will be a lifetime knowing that I have.”

See ya at the races,
Angel

I have a nasty habit.
It’s not as bad as picking scabs, slurping, or letting the dog lick my face after he just licked his boy parts however.
But some (my husband for one) may consider it pretty gross.

It’s sunflower seeds.  I love them.  I have a spit cup from The Rambling Road Trip Vacation Bible School I taught one year.  I hide it in a special place in my cabinet so no one inadvertently drinks out of it.  I eat them while I blog.  I eat them while I drive.  I eat them while I watch TV.  If I were a junkie, sunflower seeds would be my crack pipe.

I truly believe with every ounce of my being that eating sunflower seeds takes talent. 
It’s almost an art form.
None of that picking them up one by one, holding them between you finger and thumb as you gingerly crack them and then remove the seed.
No sirree bob.
You have to throw a handful in at a time, till your jaw poofs out, suck the salt, and spit out the shells.  If you can’t eat them this way, you have no business eating them at all.  You’ve got to eat them until the tip of your tongue is raw. 

Ever since my niece Ashlynn was a wee little one, she’s been eating sunflower seeds.  Of course in the beginning she wanted to just eat the whole entire thing, so I had to teach her.  I took great pride that she knew how to eat a sunflower seed unlike her sandbox peers.  She’s a one by one kind of sunflower kid, but she can crack them with the best of us.  Give her time, give her time.

One summer, when she was about four or five years old, I as driving around town with Ashlynn in the back seat.  I was snacking on some sunflower seeds when she asked for some.  Oh, I’m stingy with them.  I hate sharing them.  What junkie likes sharing her crack pipe?  But even more than that, I hate wasting them, and to hand them off to a little pip squeak is about the most wasteful thing I could do.  I only knew she’d spill them in between the car cushions.
 But being the loving, affectionate, sacrificial auntie that I am, I passed her a handful with a mere cringe.  Several minutes passed, and I heard the window in the back rolling down. 
“What are you doing?  Are you throwing out sunflower seeds?  Quit that!”  I shrieked, “Quit wasting my sunflower seeds!  Give them to me if you don’t want them!!”

I flopped my right hand back behind my head and held it there as she leaned forward and put sunflower seed after sunflower seed in my hand.  I popped them in my mouth, sucked off the salt, spit out the shells, chewed and swallowed them,  and then heard this wee little voice…..

“But Auntie………… they were in my butt.”

Apparently, she needed both hands to crack open her shells one by one, so she sat them between her legs on the car seat, and as I gassed it at the red lights, they shifted up the legs of her shorts, until she pulled them out and placed them one by one in my hand.

I might as well go let the dog lick my face.  It couldn’t be any worse could it?

The Texas Panhandle = Wind.

Crazy kind of wind.

Wind that makes you kind of crazy.

The kind of winds that you really can’t even fathom if you haven’t ever visited here in the Spring. 
Or the Winter. 
Or the Summer. 
Or the Fall.

It blows all year long.  Except when you want it to.

We consider 30 mph to be a slight breeze. 

I’ve lived here all my life and I really should be used to the wind by now.  But I’m getting cranky and irritable in my old age.

I find myself thinking of Lizzie Borden a lot lately.  Did you jump rope to her little sing-song when you were a small child? 

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!” Luke 24:5-6

Be Blessed,
Angel

I’m anxiously awaiting a heifer to calve.

I’ve called Jason several times to ask him if there is any progress.  I want to be there so badly.