Heart Healthy

“There is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up.” 
― John Holmes

So today, my son and I stopped at a convenience store on the way to his baseball practice.  He wanted to pick up a Gatorade.

We pulled into a parking space and he immediately got out of the car and started to head toward the door.

And because I'm, well, me, it took me a few seconds longer.  

Two people were sitting at a table outside the front door.  They had bags next to them that appeared to hold all of their posessions.  

It's no shocker to anyone that this is a frequent occurrence in Southern California.  

As I  closed the door to the car and hurried to join my son, the woman said something to him.

I couldn't hear her words.  

But I saw my son. 

Without hesitation, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, opened it, extracted some bills, and handed them to the woman.  

Summer jobs are hard to come by for teenagers in SoCal.  My kid has been earning money by helping his friend's dad with landscaping.  He's been getting up early, spending hours in the hot sun, digging trenches, picking rock, and planting flowers.  It's hard, dirty, exhausting manual labor.   

I heard her say, "God bless you."  

I heard the man with her ask him a question about his baseball uniform.  My son chatted briefly with the man about baseball and then said goodbye. I smiled at the couple, and he and I entered the store

I have never been more in awe of or inspired by the man this kid is turning out to be than I was in that moment.  

Because in that moment I realized that if he never rinses out his cereal bowl or takes out the trash without being reminded, or always keeps his clothes jumbled up in a laundry basket on the floor in his bedroom, it won't matter.

He's got a well-exercised, healthy heart that will serve humanity for a long time.

The Difference Between Boys and Girls

Running has become somewhat of a family affair at my house.  And lest I doubt whether or not there is an innate difference between boys and girls...



What running with my daughter looks like.

What running with my son looks like.

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And while we're on the subject of kids and differences--

Nelly and I stopped at a convenience store for a drink after a baseball game the other day.  

"Insane thirst" and "urgent need to find a restroom" are introducing me to all sorts of areas I might not otherwise see here in LaLa Land.

Let's just say that this particular location upon which we stumbled is probably best frequented during daylight hours. 

Anyway, while we were inside, this man kept hovering around us.  He wasn't threatening, or rude exactly, but he just felt a little "close."  

And I noticed that I kept positioning myself in such a way that my 5' 9", "completely ripped" sixteen-going-on-seventeen, son was between me and the hovering man.

Hello?!?!

When did THAT happen?  

I swear that if  we had entered that convenience store just yesterday, I would have scooped up my little red-headed four-year-old in my arms--physically placing myself between my son and the stranger.

And before everyone  the three of you who read this get crazy thinking that I'm a horrible person, please know that had that guy pulled a knife or a gun, you wouldn't believe the mad Ninja skills I'd summon to get between him and my kid.  

It's just gone by too. stinking. fast.  Them being little and stuff.

I love them.  My teenagers and adult children.  They are the coolest people on the planet.  And I feel blessed every day to get to be their mom.

But sometimes I really miss the kids that they were.

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In completely unrelated news--

I think our kitty might have been bitten by a radioactive spider.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

I am not a dog person.

I am neither comfortable with this truth, nor am I one-hundred percent resigned to it.

The "me" that lives in my mind has an adorable, perfectly behaved chocolate colored "doodle" of some kind curled up sweetly at my feet as I write this.  She was also free, completely house trained at six weeks,  doesn't chew, never gets on the furniture, only needs to go to the bathroom once a day, and she never smells like dog.  

See.  It totally makes sense why this scenario only exists in my mind.

We've owned dogs in the past.  And we're bad at it.

I'm the kind of person who still--even after over nineteen years of parenting--thinks that potty training was one of the top 10 ... 5 ... 3 worst things I've ever had to deal with as a mother.   

I did manage to hang in there with it for my four sweet little people who called me "Mommy" and gave me hugs and kisses and told me they'd never grow up and always love me best.

But I cannot hang in there with it for a dog.  I just can't.  So eventually I give up, send the dog outside to live, and periodically send the children out to put bricks in the holes under the fence where it digs to escape.

And their smell.  I just can't do it.  When I pick up a pet, I want it to smell good. Every time.  Not just within the first 30 seconds of having it groomed.  

But despite  these things, I still think I should be a dog person.  I see people's dogs and I want them.  I've convinced myself that if I just find the PERFECT dog, I'll become a dog person.

So I spend a significant amount of time on places like Petfinder and Craigslist and Doodle breeder sites.  And I drive Better Half to drink by emailing and texting him links to potential perfect dog candidates all day long.  

He's so awesome about it, though.  He says we'll discuss it.  He lovingly shows me our backyard--beautifully landscaped without an inch of grass anywhere.  And the pool.  And he reminds me that I think it's gross when people's dogs swim in their pools.  And that our pool guy might not find us so wonderful to work for if he has to clean dog hair out of a pool filter all the time.  He reminds me that it's not fun to HAVE to be outside with a dog at 6 am, even if the median temperature where we live is 70 degrees.  He sweetly reminds me that we spend hours.  HOURS.  away on weekends for baseball games, swim meets, and the like.  He wonders aloud what the cost of boarding an dog would be in SoCal for two weeks when we "vacation" to Kansas.  (Probably close to what it cost for he and I to go to London for 7 days a few years ago.)  He declares emphatically that if we get a dog, he's not taking care of it.

So this Father's Day, I gave him the best gift ever.

I waved the white flag of surrender.  I promised him that I would stay off of Petfinder, Craigslist, and the like, and I would stop asking for a dog.  I even wrote this down in his Father's Day card and signed my name to it and everything.

I am not a dog person.  There.  I said it.

But in the interest of being true to myself...

I AM a cat person.

Cats fit my personality.  I admire their independence. It doesn't creep me out to see them curled up on a couch or a bed.  I love that you just have to show them where the litter box is and you're done. I love that the SkyMall catalog advertises a system by which you can teach your cat to use your toilet to go to the bathroom.  I also think that there are very few things that would be more disgusting than walking in the bathroom and finding cat poo in your toilet, but I still think it's wicked-awesome that you can even teach a cat to use the toilet.  Dogs just don't have the necessary skills.

Anyhow... Better Half was just so happy that the Craigslist link that showed up in his email a week ago Saturday wasn't a dog (or a huge wrought-iron chandelier for him to install in the dining room with no directions), that he said "Yes...as long as I never have to scoop the litter box."  to her:

Of course this kitty had a catch.

 I had to pay someone a $20 "re-homing fee" for her.  I'm certain that my Kansas friends are laughing and groaning as they read this.  Specifically my Kansas friend who has a litter or two of kittens every year at her house that she gives away For. FREE.

And it gets better.  It's not like I paid someone twenty bucks because some mama kitty chose to have her babies on her owner's $250 leather coat and that poor lady needs some cash for the dry-cleaner's.  Or because she had to be bottle-fed, or because she's already had her her first set of shots, is de-wormed, and her current owners just want to recoup a little bit of the cash they put into her..   Nope.  Apparently she was a stray who followed someone home.  And that person thought she'd make an easy $20--SoCal-style.  With a "re-homing" fee.

I don't care.  Too much.  She's darling.  And I love her.

I don't have to walk her at 6am.

When I bury my nose in her fur she smells delicious.

She "devours" books.

She matches the furniture.

She has great "taste."  

Her favorite hangout--on top of my stack of Eating Well magazines.

This is her favorite toy.  And I'm happy to spend hours reading books while holding the end of the stick playing with her.

And the kids like her.  

We named her Calypso.  

And I'm happy.  As a cat person.

Dear MapMyRun:

I'm breaking up with you.

I know.  We've been together for four years.  During that time we've logged a decent amount of miles and burned a fair number of calories.

Our relationship has helped keep me sane during the ups and downs of my self-diagnosed life as a Drama Queen and part-time Narcissist.  Together we have tackled things I never thought were possible.  Like half-marathons, raising teenagers, midlife, marriage, and  moving to an entirely new state.

And I take total responsibility for my part in our demise.

I know that you were hurt when the Hal Higgdon Training App and I worked on that project last winter.  But I told you it was just business.  And I apologized for neglecting you.  Multiple times.  And I ended it with Hal and committed to putting you first.

I've even sat by patiently through several of your beyond frustrating "updates"--which I can only guess are the iPhone App equivalent of a bad dye job and a red sports car.

I swear, I look at you and I don't even see the same app that I fell in love with four years ago.

But I was willing to keep trying for the sake of all we've had together.

And then today happened.

The ultimate betrayal.

How could you cheat me out of an entire mile (up HILL, I might add) during our run this morning?  And try to cover it up by telling me it took me 18 minutes to run my first one?

To play on my insecurities like that--that my workout is never going to end...I'm getting nowhere...I'm never going to run a mile in under 8 minutes and 30 seconds...well.

It was the sign I needed to realize that it just isn't going to work between us any more.  We want different things.

I will always remember you fondly.  And I wish you all the best.

I have high hopes of someday finding an app that I can spend the rest of my life with.

Until then...

I noticed that Better Half's snazzy Garmin Running Watch has been gathering dust on the dresser for months.

Perhaps I'll see if it wants to join me for an easy two-miler.

Just as friends.

XOXO,

Casey