The Treadmill Epiphany

I asked for a gym membership for my thirtieth birthday.

That was in October and I have been working out fairly regularly ever since.

I have made definite progress. I am currently down fifteen pounds and am finding myself in better and better shape.

When I first started working out, I could barely last fifteen minutes on the elliptical machine. Now I can easily do forty-five minutes at a decent pace.

A few nights ago, I was on the elliptical machine doing my regular workout, when I made the following observations.

Fat people tend to work out on elliptical machines.

Thin people tend to work out on treadmills.

Fat people tend to work out on machines.

Thin people tend to work out with free weights.

At least, this appears to be a general rule at the gym I frequent.

“Interesting,” I note to myself.

“Perhaps, I should change my approach,” I think.

“Perhaps THIS is the reason that I’m STILL fat. . . .”

Simple enough.

On Monday, with great enthusiasm and anticipation, I skipped into gym, strapped on my Shuffle, hopped up on the treadmill and just started running . . . .

After about five minutes into my workout, I had a sudden and completely unexpected epiphany . . .

I now know EXACTLY why fat people tend to work out on elliptical machines!**

(**A brief footnote . . .

The Rambling Housewife ran for exactly one and a half miles, and then died. Well, not literally died, because as you can see, she is still typing this, right here. But. Almost. Died.

Seriously.)

Grounded

We REALLY need a vacation.

The Silent Husband and I love to travel.

We used go to fun and exotic places in our former life.

We went places like . . . .

This . . ..

And did exciting things like this . . .

And relaxing things like . . . .

This . . . .

But somehow, since the birth of the Tractor, we haven’t managed to get away. Even going out to dinner alone, is a rare occasion these days.

Since the kids are so young, we are both well aware of the fact that it will be a while, before we can take a much needed trip.

This has been a constant point of discussion in The Silent-Rambling household.

The Silent Husband suggested an ingenious solution to this problem.

“We should just pretend like we’re tourists, where ever we, go,” he says. “Then maybe we’ll feel like we’re on vacation, all the time.”

“Perfect.” I say. “Let’s do it.”

Saturday Night brought the The Silent-In-laws to our house for the night, which could only mean one thing.

The Husband and The Housewife are going out!

We choose an exquisite Mexican Restaurant across town that we have never been to. The atmosphere is enticing and the crowd is lively.

With our new approach, I can’t help but notice that I’m taking much more in, than I typically would. I notice every minute detail of our mini-excursion. The glow of the tree-lined courtyard filled with buzzing people and heavy, summer night air. The festive songs of the mariachis that serenade table after endless table almost make me feel like dancing. The perfectly mixed strawberry and lime margaritas garnished with tiny, snips of fresh flowers are irresistible.

“I think we’re onto something,” I say to the Silent Husband.

“Pretending like we’re tourists, almost makes me feel like we really are . . .”

We take some pictures, a requisite tourist activity.

The typical . . .”We’re stupid tourists, look-at-us, pose . . .” facing our camera towards ourselves, squeezing our heads together and snapping at a rapid-fire pace.

The essential, “Look how big my drink is pose . . . .,” tilting my obnoxiously huge Margarita towards the camera lens for a quick capture of my beautiful,frozen beverage.

(Those pictures should be inserted HERE.)

But just like REAL tourists, my memory card fails at precisely the right moment.

And as the bottomless margaritas flow and the humid, summer night air rests snuggly, on our shoulders, I can’t help but notice that I feel much more like a tourist than I have in a really long time.

“It’s all in the attitude,” I say to the Silent Husband and smile.

“We can be tourists, anywhere,” he echoes back.

And with two nods of agreement, our new realization is in fact confirmed . . . .

When the waiter presents us the bill, we feel more like REAL tourists than we ever have before . . . .

Just like REAL tourists . . . .

We spent a ridiculous amount of money in an absurdly, small amount of time . . .

(Note to self . . . .

Perhaps the Silent Husband and I should keep our feet planted firmly on the ground . . . .

And rooted deeply in reality . . . . . )

Apples to Oranges

(Today’s post was written for and inspired by the Ukraine Mom over at Pocket Lint.)

Child prodigies are weird, maladjusted, and socially inept.

There, I said it.

And even if they aren’t . . .I’ll just keep making myself believe that.

You see them all of the time on television, just rubbing it in our faces . . . .

Show-offs.

And the parents who parade them around are nothing short of obnoxious, in my opinion . . .

They’re all the same . . .

Blabbering on and on, about how they have NEVER taught them a thing . . .

“I don’t know how it happened. . . .” they all say. . . .

“They were just born that way.”

Recently, on the Today Show, I saw a seventeen month old who could read.

I was truly mesmerized by her talents.

As a former teacher, these sorts of amazing skills tend to catch my attention.

But, my eighteen month still old rips pages out of books and chews on them . . . .

Then, there was the two and a half year old on Oprah who could identify all of the previous Presidents of the United States in perfect, sequential, order.

Quite an impressive feat, indeed.

But, my three year old doesn’t even know what a president is . . .

And even if he did, I can assure you he’d think the garbage man is way cooler. . . .

And of course, there are the art prodigies who are selling 100,000 dollar paintings by the time they are five .

Certainly, I am impressed that they create masterpieces with perfect, form, balance and perspective.

But, to be completely honest, my kids still scribble on the walls and eat crayons.

So FREAKIN’ WHAT!!!

Your kid’s got nothin’ on mine, I assure you.

My kids . . . . .ARE CLEARLY much cuter!!!

And if you want to know the truth . . .

I don’t know how it happened . . ..

They were just born that way!

Mother’s Day 2008

Just me and my boys . . .

It’s Not 1890 Anymore?

I am not typically a gadget person.

The Silent Husband wishes that I would be.

I hold him back when it comes to acquiring the latest gadgets.

To me, many gadgets, are unnecessary wastes of money, that will ultimately clutter up our house.

We still watch television on a 25-inch screen, that was manufactured in the early 90’s. We don’t have a DVR nor do we own a Tivo.

I honestly believe that I am the last blogger alive who does all blogging from a REALLY, old, desktop computer.

*GASP*

That’s right. The Rambling Housewife doesn’t even own a laptop.

I don’t own a Blackberry nor I-Phone.

Rather, I tote around a really archaic, larger than most, cell phone. That is, when I actually remember to carry it, and in the rare event that I actually remember to charge it.

Despite all of my technological short-comings, The Silent Husband still loves to buy me gadgets.

There was one birthday that I received a modem. (gift-wrapped and everything–a 58.8, People–Those were the days)

One Christmas brought me a shiny, new, computer monitor.

Another recent Christmas netted me an I-POD that I loved. But after I finally figured out how to work the darn thing, it was ripped-off out of my car.

So you wouldn’t expect me to be this excited about my latest gadget gift . .. .

But I am . . .

(Thanks, Silent Husband)

THE I-POD SHUFFLE!!!!

It’s exactly what my workouts have been lacking.

Now I can strap this tiny, silver, beauty to my arm and run until I collapse–(or 2 miles, whichever comes first . . .)

I’ve only had my Shuffle a day and am shocked to discover what I have been missing. . . .

How did I ever workout without it?

Almost makes me wonder what else I’m missing out on . . .

Almost . . .

But not quite.

Sick Day

I had a 24 hour stomach bug .

I just realized something . ..

Stay at Home Mom’s don’t get sick days.

Something seems wrong about the following phrase . . .

“Please just don’t hurt each other, while Mommy is throwing up, o.k. Tractor?”

I had to call the Silent Husband to come home.

The Silent Husband does get sick days.

Thank. God.

Telling It Like it Is

I am generally a polite person.

Being polite is the right thing to do and I appreciate politeness in other people.

Occasionally, I feel the urge to be otherwise.

As most of you know, I have a writing job now. It is nothing prestigious, I assure you. It involves fairly basic writing skills and the ability to string together a few coherent paragraphs.

That, I can do.

I have never claimed to be an outstanding writer. But I do feel that I have said, writing skills.

Professional writing involves criticism. It makes your writing better and is necessary. But occasionally . . . .

It just pisses you off.

I received the following critique from the client yesterday on an article that had already been approved by my editor.

“Rewrite. Other than paragraph 3, is completely off topic. Paragraph 5 is a mystery. How in the world is that germane to this article?”

I quickly typed a knee-jerk, response in my head.

“Dear Jerk,

Your feedback sucks and you annoy me. I hate the word germane, so don’t use it. How in the hell am I supposed to know what you intend for your vague and poorly written titles? It would help if you didn’t rip them off from similar websites.

And if you had half a brain, you could see that paragraph 5 is an elaboration to the topic, and therefore completely germane. (My God, I hate that word.)

By the way, your website sucks.

Thanks for nothing.

Idiot.

Sincerely,

The Rambling Housewife”

I then quickly opened my Outlook and typed out my real response.

With careful thought, consideration, and precisely chosen words, I wanted to express my sincere feelings. It pays to be honest after all, and stay true to oneself. I didn’t want my politeness to stand in the way of my honesty.

And though it can be tough . . .

Sometimes you just have to tell it like it is!

Here is my actual response.

“Dear client,

“Thank you so much for your feedback. Upon rereading the article, I completely see your points. I will rewrite this article accordingly.

Sincerely,

The Rambling Housewife”

**How pathetic

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

**UPDATE**

Because I’m sure you are dying to know . . .

I completely rewrote the entire article . ..I think there must be something to that whole, “biting the hand that feeds you,” thing.

And because I’m sure you will all lose sleep over it . . .

Paragraph 5 is now entirely germane!

His Mother’s Son

Enjoying every meal as if it were his last!

The Med Clinic

Both boys are sick.

The Tractor woke up with a fever on Friday night. By Sunday, The Choo-Choo was at 104.

We went to the Med Clinic. On a Sunday afternoon, there is nowhere else to go but the ER.

I’m not sure which provides the better experience.

There is something about this MedClinic that feels particularly dirty. I’m not sure if it is the huge vat of beat-up toys in the corner that I am convinced are infected with Ebola, or the 1980’s style, mauve-colored, metal, mini-blinds that eerily hang from ceiling to floor.

Both give me the creeps.

There is an over-sized, circular, clock on the wall that is exactly two hours and forty-three minutes off and a few extraneous common, house plants to round out the waiting room decor.

Then there is the token, bitter receptionist, who hates her job and is obviously pissed off to be working on a Sunday afternoon. She greets us with a monotoned, “Who’s the Patient?” “Fill out these two forms,” as she shoves two clipboards in our direction.

We wait.

Patiently.

And not so patiently.

The boredom sets in.

The Choo-Choo begins knocking on door to the entry of the examining rooms.

He knocks. He laughs. He knocks. He laughs. He knocks. He laughs.

He’s got a 104 degree fever and this makes him happy. I think it’s cute.

The bitter receptionist does not.

“Ma’am!” She snaps. “Could you please stop him from knocking?”

“We have patients here, you know. . . “

“Yes,” I know,” I say and smile as I walk over to redirect him from the door.

“He’s one of them .. . .”

Coming Out

I think I’m a closet environmentalist.

Maybe.

What is it about the color, “Green” that makes me so incredibly happy these days?

Guess it’s a sign that The Rambling Housewife is finally growing up. . .

The Silent Husband built me this compost box. . .

And my heart went, “pitter-patter . . . .”

Not bad, if I do say so myself . . .

It’s enormous . . .

Almost big enough to hold all of the weeds in my yard.

Certainly big enough to attract all of the flies in the state!

I was definitely impressed with his work! Aren’t you??

The Rambling Housewife bought these bags at the grocery store.

And my heart went “pitter-patter . . .”

They’re just “Green” bags . . .

But I love them.

No more plastic-bag guilt . . .

Gets me all sort of, giddy inside!

The city dropped of this recycle bin at my house.

And my heart went, “pitter-patter . . .”

This thing is as big as the our city-provided trashcan.

The entire Rambling-Silent Family could fit inside of it. We could recycle us, if we ever felt the need to do so!

Gives me that warm and fuzzy feeling . . .

What is it about the color “Green,” that’s turning me on?

If I didn’t know better . . .

I might believe that I have some sort of an environmental conscious!