Oh no you DIDN'T!

I hate dealing with service people of any kind. This is because I am a woman and most service people are dudes. Dudes with severely diminished opinions of women.

Soon after we moved into what has become Chateau LeMar, we couldn't help but notice how what the inspector told us was just "normal wear (nervous twitch) and tear (nervous laugh)" was more like serious deterioration.

We forked over a ton of cash on really sexy things like Hardiplank and a roof and gutters. Ooh. La. La.

Every spring and summer, I take it upon myself to wash the windows. (I do windows. I love to do windows. It's more the result than the process, but part of it's the process, too. Clean. Freak.) I couldn't help but notice how the paint had started to peel away from our trim. Winter passed, another spring, and the more I scrubbed, the more it flaked.

I distinctly recall the painters haphazardly slopping paint on the trim in cool rainy weather, so I nervously called the contractor and asked what was going on. He assured me that no matter what, he guaranteed his work for five years, pretty much blowing off this Little Missy.

Four years later, and you can literally breathe and blow the paint off of the trim in long curling sheets should you walk close enough. Please don't.

Since the Hardiplank was primed when it was installed, I guess he got a little mixed up about the trim. So he just slopped paint over that, too, even though the trim was original.

I call upon Joel for situations like this where I'd have to interact with a gruff macho painter guy. So, Joel called. And we waited a couple of days. So I called. Gruff Macho Painter Guy appeared on my doorstep not ten minutes after I hung up. I just know he's thinking, "The little woman is home alone because her husband is the one out in the real world doing man's work. This'll be easy."

He was appalled that we thought his work was shoddy, even with the peeling paint shedding all over him as he inspected the trim.

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: "This woods all wet, see? Soaked. We can't do any kind of prep that'll cover that."

Me: "Um, it rained all night. The wood's bare from where the paint's peeled off. Rain makes bare wood wet," and I know this because it's in all the books I read.

He was astounded by the breadth of my meterological knowledge.

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: "Well, they sanded and oil-primed and did everything they were supposed to do," implying that my magic witchy woman voodoo powers must have just terrified paint into jumping off window trim.

Me: "I was watching your guys on the job, and they didn't do any prep. They just painted over what was already there."

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: "Well, you SHOULDA CALLED ME," talking down to me like the stupid little woman he's sure I am.

Me: "I did call you. You told me you guaranteed your work for five years. And now you're here."

Wow. Did he get all incredulous on me then. This chick is a SMART ASS, his favorite kind, obviously. He told me he'd "get back to me" in two weeks.

So, for now, we're the house on the block with the beautiful siding and the shabby windows.

"Sam, grab Momma an ice-cold Forty from the fridge, lemme pop out my teeth, and let's sit a spell on the front stoop. Fire up my corncob pipe, Ben, and bring Momma her chew, Elizabeth."

I've forbidden anything else from breaking down, falling apart or otherwise deteriorating for the foreseeable future. I've employed my super secret uterine powers to make it happen. Now if only I could command my estrogen to take the form of Sherwin-Williams Duration. That would impress Gruff Macho Painter Guy AND save him a trip back to the bowels of Hell!

I'm such a girl like that, willing her own body chemistry beyond it's purpose just to save a Gruff Macho Painter Guy a redo. Tee-hee-hee!!!!

Just do it

I ran a few weeks ago on a random Saturday night. All by myself, for no particular reason other than I can do so without barfing or passing out on the sidewalk. I just ran the one mile loop we ran for testing at Farrell's. It felt wonderful, and I think I just might do it again this weekend. It might even become some sort of a habit. I never understood why people smoke pot or snort cocaine, or for crying out loud, shoot up heroin.

Until now. I just get my euphoria the old-fashioned and perfectly legal way. It's good stuff.

Funny thing about all this fitness that I've earned over the past few months. I cross paths with lots of other fitness-seekers on the trails and sidewalks while running or biking. I see people in all stages of the game, from lanky runners who are probably training for marathons to women who just had a baby and are forcing themselves to make it up that hill. I think it's hard for all of us, no matter where we are. But you know what? I feel like I'm really and honestly enjoying my life now. We women, especially, seem to think that being tired and cranky is OK. The alternative would just pile on more obligations to a life that's already crowded with to-do's. But if I ever shed one ounce of light on your life (as if!), let it be this: get out there and live. Don't just exist. LIVE! For crying out loud, if Little Old Me can get myself to the gym six days a week, then even if you have only an itchy nagging feeling to do the same, SCRATCH THAT ITCH. I swear, it's the best thing you'll ever do for yourself.

I told Joel how I have a weird feeling of pity for people I see wading through life carrying around the burden of apathy disguised in obesity. And he totally got that because he feels the same way. Once you know how it feels to be strong and light on your feet and able to endure stretches of breathlessness, once you know how good it feels for your muscles to burn and ache and grow stronger, once you know you can accomplish something you never thought you'd ever be able to do, then you get it.

I've been working on my attitude since forever, so I can't tell you how interesting it is for me to compare myself now to myself, oh, say, ten years ago. Twenty. Where did that girl go?

And why didn't I get rid of her sooner?

She was annoying in her insecurity and sucked the energy out of everyone she met. She actually had a different voice, in an octave her Dad considered so unreal he dubbed it "Dog Whistle". She had love and support in spades, but never noticed it until she grew a pair.

(A pair of biceps, that is.)

I wasn't pretty enough, thin enough, smart enough, talented enough, focused enough, coordinated enough, worthy enough, motivated enough...sound familiar? I've heard it in some form or another not only from my whiny inner voice but from all of the women I've ever met in my life.

ENOUGH.

I believed for many years that everyone kept close tabs on my failures and successes. I thought the entire world would flop over when a zit sprouted on my chin.

(For being such a schlub, I guess I was a complete and total narcissist.)

Nobody gives a hoot about what we accomplish or neglect to do. We're all important, but none of us are *that* important. Who has time to keep score? Some people actually do wait for their nemeses to fail so they can relish in the moment, pump up their self-esteem. But those are the kinds of people that suck the life out of you.

The kind of person I used to be.

Ouch.

I keep going on and on and on about my new found fitness because it really did change my life. I swear. It's not a quick fix, and I'll always be a work in progress, but rarely is anything worthwhile easy to do.

I don't wanna hear "I can't do (insert activity here)" for one more solitary second.

I'm 36 years old, and I get whistled at when I go for a walk. I didn't notice it until Joel walked with me one night and pointed it out. (Since I had company, I left that crutch of an iPod and its highest volume setting at home.) It's embarrassing, but oddly gratifying after all these weeks of work. Even if the whistles do come from a gang of hormonal teenage boys, even if those teenage boys got a good talking-to from Mr. LeMar about their lack of manners and respect for women. And elders, since I'm, well, elder. But until I'm elderly (or maybe even after), I'll let myself appreciate those whistles just a little bit.

So drown out that nagging inner voice. Go out and fill your ears with a few of your own whistles.

A new Iowa Cubs fan

I hate baseball.

You sit in the hot sun for five hours or so, at the mercy of vendors hawking $8 bottles of water, surrounded by obnoxious old men sauced up on Budweiser, and the players scratch, spit and generally just hang out on the field before you not doing much of anything to capture my interest.

Fast forward to Sam's birthday this year, though.

Sam has recently become baseball's Number One Fan. Something clicked with him while playing for the HPBC U-7 Athletics this spring. He's obsessed with it. He has encyclopedic knowledge of the players in his burgeoning baseball card collection, and he even starts his day with "Sports Center".

So when Joel found information about birthday parties at Principal Park, we signed up faster than you can say "Babe Ruth".

Sam invited three four of his best little buddies. Everyone received a genuine Iowa Cubs cap, free reign of the jungle gym on the first base concourse, hot dogs, popcorn, soda, and Dairy Queen ice cream cake. Sam had his smiling grin displayed on the Jumbotron during the seventh inning stretch. And fireworks from the center field line topped it all off after the game.

One of Sam's buddies looked up at me as we were heading home and declared, "I will never forget this night for the rest of my life!"

Enough said.

Those people certainly know what they're doing. Did I mention I HATE baseball? Not anymore. After seeing the game through a true fan's eyes, I have an entirely new appreciation for the sport.