ridiculous

The wicked cold has settled upon us once again and since yesterday I got called in to sub, quelching yet another opportunity to head to the grocery store.  No worries!  We still have 3 rolls of toilet paper, a quart of milk, half a loaf of bread and coffee.  I figured this morning I'd bundle up, brave the subzero temperatures and head to the store.

An hour ago the school secretary called.  Mr. G's in her office, coughing and hacking and miserable.  Plans thwarted once more.  I tucked him into bed, poured some cough syrup into a spoon and said to him, "Listen you little germ-infested weasel..."

He looked at me and said, "I'm not German."

On a happy note, I'm enjoying one of my favorite winter time activities: kicking the huge chunks of snow free from the wheel wells on the Momvan.  That is so satisfying.

It's Friday and we've bid farewell to Hillary Clinton and Liz Lemon in the same week.   My heart breaks for those kids in Alabama who watched their bus driver get shot--what a hero--and that poor boy trapped in a bunker with a madman.  Heavy times.

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mom's got balls

Because we're a sporting people at Chez Green Girl, there are always lots of balls at my house.  Today I want to brag about my new ball.  Not the fancy, black tie type.

Not bowling, though you are an exceptionally fine ball, Jan.

I'm not even referring to the king of balls at this house.

Nope, I'm talking about one of these:

Fun fact:  I've never tried to impale my new fitness ball with a scissors nor have I sat on it wearing a swimsuit and tennis shoes because who wears shoes in the house? 

I've been reading about core fitness and how some people use these instead of chairs to do desk work because balancing on them strengthens their core.  Evidently there are tons of strength building exercise one can do while balanced on a big-ass ball, push ups, sit ups, and so forth.  While at Target last week I saw the fitness balls on sale for $15 and figured that was cheap enough to give one a whirl.  The ball I bought is almost the same height as my desk chair and Team Testosterone thinks it's the cat's ass that mama has a big-ass ball in the library.

Not sure if my abs are sore from sitting on the big ball for a couple days now while working on the computer or from all the nasty stance work we're doing in the dojo, but there's a certain roly kind of fun to be had in using a ball instead of a desk chair.  But if abs of steel is the price I have to pay for rolling and bouncing in place while I type this, I'm willing to make that concession.  I find that if I brace my feet and legs against the base of the ball, I sit up a little taller, too, so my posture might benefit from this lifestyle change.  The only disadvantage is never finding my new ball-chair in the same spot after I get up to answer the phone or refill my coffee.


Spill it, reader.  What fitness fad have you bought in to?

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green girl promises

I know.  I have a Halloween header on my blog right now.  A freaky zombie/skeleton/ghoul hanging out with a gorgeous homegrown pumpkin.  It looks cool.  It looked real cool a couple months ago.  But yes, I realize that the expiration date on that image is past. 

Here's my dilemma:  when I started this blog, I almost always posted an image with my green Wellington boots.  Well, boots go on the ground and that kind of limits (in my limited imagination) the possibilities.  People have made it clear that they've come to expect the boots, but I'm honestly having a tough time staging the boots with any kind of Christmas theme.  Truly, it's beginning to stress me out.

Last night I even walked around trying a few things.  I propped the boots by the fireplace and hung a few decorations from the tops.  STUPID.  I wrapped the boots with Christmas lights and plugged them in.  DUMB.  I leaned the boots against a wall and brought a wreath to the floor.  RIDICULOUS.  Because who puts a wreath on a floor?  They get hung on a wall, duh.  Then there was a situation involving a Santa hat on the boots which really took the cake for lame.  When Team Testosterone asked what on earth I was doing, they got involved and things spiraled downhill pretty fast.

So.  I'm working on it.  Fantastic, crappy or corny, there WILL be a new header by midnight tonight.  And then we can turn our efforts to more substantial issues, like resolving the fiscal cliff or developing resealable and easy to open graham cracker packaging.  Heck, we might even tackle Saltine cracker packaging while we're at it.  Just as soon as I can get this wise man out of my boot.

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hunting

Sleep paralysis, eh?  Thus sayeth the internets and Web MD.  The weird thing is, I have the symptoms, but none of the causes.  We'll chalk this dysfunction up to metabolic or hormonal change, which is akin to blaming the government for problems, right?  Another vague, all-encompassing cause of things. 

Here's more than you need to know about my metabolism:  it's pretty high as a general rule.  I eat enormous amounts of food, yet my weight only fluctuates about 5 pounds once a month when I bloat n' flow.  I've been a hot flash my entire life--feeling excessively cold is a sure sign I'm sick or getting sick.  I get so overheated when I sleep that waking up sweaty happens to me all the time.  I keep expecting that "change" to start happening, but so far the only signs of aging on this old body are external--some grey hair and deeper lines on my face.  For now, I'm ruling out hormones, too.  The only big change around these parts is the weather--from cold to colder as we settle into winter.   My hunt for a cause of my sleep paralysis comes up empty, as does my hunt for a cure, namely "treat sleep disorders."  Um, isn't sleep paralysis a sleep disorder?  That's like saying "If thirsty, cure thirst."  Not terribly detailed or helpful.

Speaking of hunting for a cure, the heat in our bedroom isn't working and there's a crew of guys in my basement as I type this trying to get to the bottom of things.  In March we had a new boiler installed.  For some reason "Zone 3" gets no hot water.  Our freezing cold bedroom is heavenly--to me and only me.  No joke:  we put extra blankets on only one side of the bed during the winter, and it's not my side. How many men does it take to fix a radiant heat system?  So far we're up to four...

And speaking of hunting, this weekend gun season opens and Mr. B is old enough to join his big brother and dad out in the woods.  To say he's excited is an understatement.  Since his trip to Fleet Farm last week, he's been trying on his new blaze orange duds almost every day.  That kid is JACKED UP to get in the woods.  He told his dad last night, "Only four more days until I'm a man."  Later Mr. D asked me, "He knows he doesn't get to shoot anything yet, right?" 

While three go sit in the woods and carry out the grand Wisconsin tradition of deer hunting, I'm left back at the ranch with Mr. G (too young) and Jax (terrified of guns) (plus, you don't take a dog deer hunting).  It'll only be a couple years and then Mr. G will join the hunt.  Then I'll have to hunt for something to do while I'm all alone.  But this year I'll stay busy ferrying Mr. G to baseball and basketball, which is fine by me.  I've never had any desire to join the hunting party.  I don't object to it, deer are prolific around here, and when prepared properly, delicious with a side of potatoes.  It's just that I can think of about 723 other things I'd rather do in my free time and sitting in the cold woods propped up against a tree isn't one of them.  Yet, that would cool me off and help me sleep well, wouldn't it?

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holding pattern

Things are brewing here--and I'm not talking about coffee.  We've got one week left of summer break and then everything changes.

It's weird to sit in this holding pattern, but there you have it.  No sense in starting new projects or routines when things are about to change.   We killed some time at a water park in the Dells. The boys are mad for this giant wave pool and we're all tall enough to go on the roller coasters and go-carts now.  Plus, people watching at a Wisconsin water park is pretty entertaining.  The thing that struck me most last week was how less than 20% of the population had any discernible muscle tone.  I'm not talking about people's weight, I'm talking about the pure flabbiness of so many arms and legs, on bodies large and small.  It got me thinking that people's diet habits are less of an issue than their lack of exercise.  You'll find great amounts of evidence of our sedentary society at a water park.

Mr. D and I went to a lovely wedding reception and visited with old friends.  We even cut a rug on the dance floor because we're too damn old to care what the young kids think and we're too young to remain seated at the tables sipping decaf.  The decorations were inspired and earthy, including these wonderful coasters made out of cut tree branches.  That had to be the best party favor I've ever scored at a wedding.  And we also heard the best maid of honor speech ever, the bride's twin sister delivered a hilarious and brilliant toast with magnificent comic timing and an accent so broad you could have mistaken her for a Yooper.  No kidding.

I've cleaned out a closet or two, organized years 1994-1999 in the photo albums and picked a pile of tomatoes and a peck of peppers (unpickled).   I've read 3 books and started a 4th.  I'm refereeing fights between bored brothers and flat out of patience with their lack of imagination.  It's an antsy feeling, knowing the bigger things I'd like to be doing but waiting until school starts.  Spill it, reader.  Anyone else get the jitters during the final weeks of summer vacation?

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wetland mitgation program, or one whopping big project with monster-sized trucks

I mentioned the racket this summer.  It's an industrial-sized project happening behind our property.  About 60 acres of former cropland are being turned into wetlands to replace about 17 acres of wetland being turned into an improved highway and a Cabela's.  Yes, the irony of turning protected wetlands into a big box store catering to outdoorsmen does not escape me, either.

 Lots of big trucks are parked on our property every night.  The cab doors are unlocked.  We trespass.  Well, not technically, as the trucks are on our property...

 This huge bridge was built over the creek to let those big trucks pass.

Huge piles of dirt form a ring around the perimeter of the field.  Why?  For what purpose?
Climbing, of course.

This one gives you some small sense of the scale of this project.  It's massive.

 
Eerily so.

All day long the big trucks push, dig, dump and transport that dirt around. 

And sometimes those big trucks bring in piles of rocks, too.

And they leave big tracks.

It's an official work site, as evidenced by this plywood covered by permits, rules and other important documents.

And it's all hidden far back on this service road that we share with our neighbors.

Big trucks on our prairie.

 Little Mr. G by a big truck.

 Mr. T illustrating how much dirt a digger can hold.

I snuck up on the workers from the edge of the woods and took some pictures, too.

That's what goes on back there.  All day.  Every day.  From seven in the morning until five at night.

Back and forth.

It's so weird to see all this space empty when it's usually planted with corn every year.  I'll keep you posted as this develops.

From what I understand, they're going to dig some kind of pond and plant a berm with native species.  Judging by the scope of this job, I imagine it'll take a little while.  I've never seen a wetlands get restored before, and certainly never seen 60 acres go from cropland to wetland.  It's easy to imagine how our back forty will benefit from an adjacent 60 acres of wildlife habitat.  It's tougher to imagine how that restoration actually happens.  But that, my friends, is our tax dollars hard at work in the Badger State.

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bucket list item: roller derby

I never watched a roller derby growing up. In fact, they weren't even on the periphery of my horizon until about 5 years ago and I cannot recall when or where or how I first heard of it. But the idea of a bunch of women getting down with their bad-ass-roller-skating-shoving-racing selves naturally appealed to my gentle Downton Abbey viewing/baroque music listening/Jane Austen reading sensibilities. The thought lingered: I need to go watch a roller derby.

You know how life rolls--dentist appointments, Boy Scout meetings, church night, karate classes, book club meeting--we keep that schedule so full anymore that there's barely a free night for spontaneous TV viewing or attending random civic events. That all changes this year. I'm navigating the time/space continuum more thoughtfully, leaving room in my schedule to DO MORE STUFF. Stuff I've never done before, like going to see a roller derby.

I know the local derby women practice at a sports complex about 10 minutes away from my house. I've seen them there--larger than life in their tattered tights and punked out hair. While skimming the newspaper last week, I read that the Fox Cityz Foxz (roller derby folks seem inordinately fond of invented spelling--part of the whole "rebel" thing they've got going) had their season opener at that location Saturday night. A night wide open on my calendar.

My last-minute query to girlfriends either ignored or denied, I was left with two choices: attend alone or bring my sons. And why hadn't I thought to bring my boys to a women's sporting event? I hung my feminist head in shame. Of course they would come along--Mr. G had perked up when I mentioned slushies and popcorn.

Whenever you're out of your element--as I was at the roller derby--your senses are heightened. I knew one person there--the guy who runs the sports complex--he's a baseball guy who goes way back with Mr. D. He greeted me right away but from that point on, my boys and I were on our own.

The woman ahead of us handed me an extra ticket, so I wound up paying for only one person's admission--a fortuitous beginning. We held out our hands for the skull-and-crossbones stamp and passed through the gates.

It was a mixed crowd. The biker crowd showed up, leather and patches declaring their various alliances. The hipster crowd was out in force. There were families, old people, young people, men, women, granola-crunching types, beer-swilling types. One woman sat on the sidelines in her wheelchair, a sign taped on the back proclaiming "I raised a Socio SMASH"--the proud mother of a skater, no doubt.

We passed a series of booths--a silent auction, a bake sale, even a kid's corner with coloring pages. Take away the skulls & leather, crazy hair, tattoo parlor sponsorships and Planned Parenthood booth and I could have been walking through any church picnic or community festival. (Although those church ladies do rock some crazy hair...)

We perched on the bleachers and took in the scene. Four teams would compete, the skaters rolled around the rink and the sidelines in ripped tights and inked arms. There were cheerleaders, referees and team managers. My learning curve was steep--I had to figure out that each "bout" lasts 40 minutes, a "grand slam" is worth 4 points, the bigger skaters are usually "blockers" and the faster skaters are generally "jammers." It was a lot to take in. I wished I was there with someone experienced, I had so many questions.

The event kicked off with a horrible electric guitar rendition of The Star Spangled Banner. Then the first bout got under way. The gregarious announcer kept talking while the women raced around the track, knocking/shoving/falling/sliding past us. The stand-out skaters became evident: Tootsie Rollher, Derrieress, Killer Doom Kitty, and Socio Smash. Fun fact: roller derby names are registered, so only ONE skater in the entire world of roller derbies has her very own unique name.

The scoring was confusing, for the longest time the score was a patriotic 17-76. In the second half I had a better sense of who to watch and began to ascertain the skill and technique required to score. It seemed crucial that a jammer stay low while moving through the blockers and the blockers definitely have a tough job, blocking out their opponent's jammer while facilitating the path for their own.

At the game's end, people rose from their seats and I watched them line up along the circumference of the track. The tradition appeared to be for both teams to skate around the track and high-five all of the supporters, friends and family from both teams. Hands down the coolest finish to any sporting event I've ever seen.

The boys and I left after one bout, though I'd have liked to stay for the second. A smart mom knows her boys' limit for estrogen-loaded fun.

What did I gain from this experience?
1. I found something truly entertaining and fun--I will go watch another match. In fact, their next home bout is on my birthday...
2. Next time I go, I'm bringing other grown ups.
3. I rediscovered my long-ago-buried rebel self at this event. While I have no plans to get inked anytime soon, I'm inspired to sharpen my edge. I used to be a girl who wore long underwear as leggings beneath a skirt and leather jacket. Where did she go? It's time to find what's left of her.
4. For my karate form I've decided to use a piece by The Donnas. Because chick-power rules.

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reset to fabulous

Yesterday I emptied my library. Well, I left the books on the shelves and a few ginormous pieces of furniture (I'm talking to you, piano, you albatross around my neck) in place, but Jan the bowling ball, piles of papers, stacks of books, chairs, even my beautiful rug got moved out.

When we built our house, the room that I call "my library" was originally a formal dining room with a doorway to the kitchen. I read and write more than I host diner parties, so we kept a solid wall of cupboards between the kitchen and this room and Mr. D's friend custom built an entire wall of bookshelves for me. It's a glorious room, really. The walls are a deep red, the carpet forest green. The three windows are super-deep, just 6 inches from the floor, and look out onto the front porch of our house.

It's sacred space. Only my things (and a few of Mr. D's) are allowed here--music boxes from my childhood, Wedgwood plates, my dainty and fragile belongings--and of course, my books.

Because it's sacred space, it's also where projects go--safe from Nerf bullets and racing boys, protected from curious fingers and crumbs. Photos that need albums, gifts that need wrapping, pictures that need framing, papers that need tending. The piles have grown, so have the stacks of books.

Nine years ago I shelved my collection on my bookshelves, but nine years of acquiring new titles meant a space crunch. Because I used to work in a library, I organized my book according to Dewey's System, business and biography don't get shelved with fiction. Duh.

And I got a piano (because I'm not terribly bright sometimes), a desk and a chair. As the stuff encroached on my space, my mind felt cluttered and the distractions mounted.

Obviously things had gotten out of hand and there's only one way to tackle that kind of a problem. I emptied the room and reset it yesterday. Mind you, I'm not finished yet, but Big Decisions were made. The rug has been rolled up and will get stored in the basement for now. The piano was granted clemency. For now. A basket of gift tags and ribbons got moved to the closet where gift wrap gets stored. The book collection got shifted to make room for new titles and to accommodate nine years of growth and acquisition. Fiction has an entire 5 shelf section to itself, unread books are not on a separate shelf and no longer teetering in piles beside the piano. The tchotckes and knick-knacks that had no sentimental value to me got boxed up for the thrift shop--as well as some books I had no stomach to keep. I divested myself of two old laptops, children's art projects and several piles of random junk, like half-empty bottles of hand lotion and dried up pens.

The top of the piano is cleared off and looks tidy. The bookshelves make sense. The corners are empty of clutter and cobwebs (and a half-sucked throat lozenge). My mind feels at peace even though I've still got a few stacks of papers to sort/toss/file/deal with. I needed the serenity and clarity that comes from space and order.

It's been annoying me that all this junk piled up in my room, but it was my own fault for letting it get out of hand. I determine what I keep and if I want less crap in my life, well, it's up to me to let it go. (Yes, piano, you should feel nervous. Relax, Jan, you get to stay.)

Spill it, reader. What space in your life have you totally cleared out and reset lately?

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from swelter to sweater

I wore flannel jammies to bed last night.
I have a blister from wearing shoes for the past few days instead of going barefoot.
The windows are shut.
My hair smells like bonfire smoke
Team Testosterone has begun harvesting pumpkins.
I've worn long sleeves for 3 days straight.
And socks. SOCKS.

In happy news, I passed a display of this in the grocery store over the weekend:



Sweet holy Moses! A mini keg of ale! A keglet! Proof that God loves us, am I right?
See, you can't buy a case or a 12-pack of good beer around here. You're stuck buying 6-packs or 4-packs of the good stuff. This means I'm always having to lug home good beer (okay, not always having, that makes me sound like I've got a problem...) and when I forget to grab some for myself (which happens quite often, actually), I'm stuck drinking lemonade and wishing I had some ale. Imagine, drawing a fresh pint on demand whenever you wish it.
It's the little things.

Spill it, reader. What nifty little thing have you come across lately?

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