Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

would you rather…

Life is full of choices and also full of contrast and opposite extremes. The ways we polarize ourselves as a society are endlessly fascinating to me, if a little exhausting at times. Democrat or Republican? Conservative or Liberal? Crispy or Grilled? Coffee or Tea? Which camp are you in? Who are you allowed to be friends with, and whose rants must you avoid for your own sense of calm and maybe the health of your relationships? As political season heats up, things will only get dicier.

Or at least more confusing. I think the VMA’s confirmed that much. Kanye was definitely joking, right?

Well, friends, tonight I am feeling particularly knitted to my people, especially well loved and wildly loving, so let’s explore some fun but perhaps less divisive territory.

Will you play along? Just tell me a few things. Would you rather…

… eat fried eggs or an omelette?

eggs

… have pizza delivered or make it yourself? What toppings?

… run on the treadmill or outside? Or, no thanks?

run shadow

… wear sweaters or tank tops?

… ball cap or cowboy hat?

hat

… play hostess or be a guest?

… read paper-and-ink books or electronic devices?

… fly to your destination or drive?

… vacation in the mountains or on a beach?

paradise

… renovate an old house or build a new one?

… have cats or dogs? Or llamas? Or, heaven forbid, a parrot?

… plant a new garden in virgin soil or give a face lift to an old, overgrown one?

… enjoy a bouquet of florist roses or wildflowers?

… bake cookies or brownies? Are you a milk dunker?

brownies

… Atari or Play Station 4?

… accomplish one errand per day or do them all at once?

… take off work for a three day weekend, on Friday or Monday?

… decorate for Halloween or Christmas?

… drive a classic car or an new, exotic one?

t a

… Three Stooges or Lewis Black for comedic entertainment? Or Mitch Hedburg?

Okay. Now spill your guts! Tell me everything you dare.

Variety is the Spice of Life, after all
XOXOXOXO

marathon monday: what’s your worst outfit?

One day last week I finished up a hectic afternoon of running errands by stopping at that one-mile loop track that’s sort of near the farm. I sprinted for three sweaty, desperate miles, making eye contact with nobody, then hurried back to my Jeep and made a beeline for home. Once there I kissed my husband, who was working on his Camaro and thankfully didn’t need a lot of eye contact, then made a second beeline to the shower and then my closet for fresh clothes. I’m not always in such a hurry to shed my running layers, but on this day my running layers were embarrassing.

I was wearing third-day, baggy yoga pants, full length ones with wide bottom legs that went swish-swash with every stride. Also the kind with a wide elastic flap at your hips that when flipped over reveals a super classy word, etched in sequins. Totally appropriate for a woman my age. Oh, but I tend to wear these pants wrong side out because I hate the way those sequins feel against the small of my back if that flap flips up. Which it often does. So, third-day, baggy, wrong-side-out yoga pants with bell bottoms that could start a campfire.

I was also wearing a lavender-colored stretch cotton pajama top, some ill-fitting Winnie the Pooh number from I cannot fathom what chapter of life (it looks like a maternity top but isn’t), and my husband’s athletic socks. Picture, if you will, the heel contour landing somewhere north of my ankle and near my calf muscle. Not that you could see that. On account of my super classy yoga pants.

I looked less like a runner and more like a person who had just awoken from a coma that had started long ago, while nursing a baby during a Britney Spears video.

My only semblance of normalcy was that pair of new blue and turquoise Brooks that still looked pretty fresh. Those shoes alone carried all the heavy burden of making me look like a legit runner at the track that day. Apparently I care about this now.

shoes

Why such shoddy attire? Because I hadn’t done laundry in several days. So all my workout gear was used up. Nor had I showered very recently.

These were facts of life because our septic tank was near capacity.

This was because Oklahoma has been enjoying a deluge of steady rainfall for weeks now.

Our water table is full. Our well is full. Our pond is full. And so, as things go, is our septic tank. Or at least it was last week, and I was exercising an abundance of caution. Trust me: not showering and not doing laundry is not my thing.

Anyway, the next time you see a badly dressed person at the running track, resist judgement and assume that he or she has a good reason for it. Things happen.

After all, color-coordinated spandex and witty racer back tees are for the drought.

The End.
XOXO

 

 

 

 

marathon monday: the pretzel story

I have in  my own head a million stories from the whole experience yesterday, but I realize most of them may only be interesting to me. What follows is a relatively short anecdote, something that happened around mile 20 maybe? And it pretty well exemplifies my marathon personality. Specifically, my level of awkwardness that I can’t even shake during a big event like this.

dorky runner

Keen on not drinking any more Powerade because it makes me feel weird in mah belly, I approached an aid station and accepted a plastic cup that from a distance seemed to be clear. I assumed it was water, my desired refreshment, and snagged the plastic cup with clumsy thank yous. A few yards away I realized it was actually filled with mini pretzels, which I also didn’t need in mah belly. Sooooo… did I just toss them? Nope. That would have been wasteful. I jogged back to the same aid station volunteer (why??) and tried to return the snack to him. He looked at me like I was off my rocker crazy and said, at least I think this is what he said, because I was listening to music by now, Shakira at that moment, “You don’t want them?” He was truly perplexed.

“No, thanks though! Thanks! I appreciate it but I thought it was water, you can have it back and give it to someone else who wants them.” I rattled the cup as if to demonstrate to the guy that water doesn’t make this sound, mmkay? And I was actually shouting those long, unnecessary sentences because, you know, Shakira. He took a very long time deciding to go ahead and accept it back from me, then there was an awkward moment of eye contact between us. Really weird vibe. I finally shouted again at the poor guy, “I didn’t touch them!” And ran off.

My god. I am embarrassed to be seen with myself.

The End.

how not to fight with your loving husband if you are tapering during PMS

Or, this could be titled, “how not to fight with your loving husband if you are experiencing PMS during your taper week.” However you look at it. Is a zebra back with white stripes, or white with black stripes?

Either way, for the second year in a row, I am tapering for the marathon during the exact days my body is, shall we say, waning toward its new moon? Yes, let’s say it like that. I am about to be depleted in every conceivable way (no pun intended) (not that we’re conceiving), and if I’m not careful things could get dicey on the home front. Normally during these few days I’m not a total nightmare, but I do cry easily at Geico commercials, and here is the general sum of my personality: I am highly suspect of all politeness, assuming it must be a fearful if silent comment on what a bad mood I’m in.

Seriously, if Handsome and I ever engage in marital battle, it is almost exclusively during those few days of PMS, and it is almost always because I was so fed up with him being so careful with my feelings.

side-eye-chloe-meme-generator-could-you-freaking-not-be-so-nice-712d5f

LOL. His wife is such a peach.

So, throw some bouncy legs and an anxious mind into the mix, and we have ourselves an interesting situation. Here’s my 5-step plan to keep the peace:

  1. Eat Healthfully. No last minute extreme dieting, but also no emotional binge eating to soothe my nerves. I’m gonna eat right, stay hydrated, and continue taking iron, vitamins, and if necessary, Midol. (“Do you mean the bitchy pills, Ray?”)
  2. Gentle Exercise. Since my running (the obvious stress buster) has to be slashed down to a bare minimum, I’ll spend the next ten days walking plenty, and I’ll do it outdoors for the best mood lifting results. I’ll also spend time with my favorite yoga videos.
  3. So much reading. I am up to my splintless (thank-you-baby-jesus) shins in really good books right now, and with all this spare time on my hands (what with the not running) I plan to zen out with great food for thought. One is Sydney Portier’s spiritual memoir. Another is a new release piece of fiction by Dean Koontz (haven’t read him since probably my twenties, got a sudden craving for his language). And then there’s our book club’s current selection, which is another memoir: this one is by a female photojournalist who spent most of her career in war-torn countries. Hhmm. Okay, so maybe I’ll save that last one for after the race. Book club is exactly one week following, anyway. Plenty of time later.
  4. Reality Check. I will remind myself as often as needed that this whole situation is completely voluntary and that it was me, not him, who volunteered for it. Moreover, that along the way he has been incredibly supportive of me and brags about me constantly for no reason, so I really have no right to make him pay an even higher price for my pent up adrenaline by fighting with him. No matter how many weird little moments of rub we may experience, I am resolved to not over-thinking a single word or facial expression.

    Among other sweet gestures, he makes sure my shoes are the bomb.
    Among other sweet gestures, he makes sure my shoes are the bomb.
  5. Fingers Crossed and Dark Chocolate in the Pantry Just in Case. Because you can’t be too careful.

 

I hope this is useful to at least one other woman out there who has such similar good fortune as me to taper during PMS. It is so awesome and I really hope this happens every time I run a marathon!! Can you hear me gritting my teeth as I say that?

Now share with us your own wisdom. Have you ever tapered at an already difficult time? How did you cope? Are you local and will you come rescue my sweet, wonderful husband?

The struggle.
It’s real.
XOXOXO

friday 5 at the farm: parrot life

Bobby Pacino, our blue and gold macaw, will be ten years old this spring. He was hatched somewhere in the United States and sold to us at a pet store in Oklahoma City when he was just a pup. Err, baby? Kitten? Chick. When he was just a chick. A small, quiet one.

The first few days he was home with us were a lot like having a newborn infant, especially with regard to feeding and bonding. It was actually a very sweet time.

Then the next solid, unrelenting decade was a lot like having a dysfunctional toddler, especially with regard to, well, pretty much everything. A loud, messy, screaming, demanding, attention seeking, affectionate and VERY smart, un-CANNILY smart, but also disruptive and destructive, toddler. It’s been a whirlwind. A loving whirlwind.

Surely I’ve acquainted you with him here and there on this blog, right?  I know I post photos of him to Instagram from time to time. Visitors to the dirt-and-hooves Lazy W cannot miss him. Pacino demands to not only meet but interact with everyone who enters the house or the yard, if it’s pretty weather and he’s outside in his big cage. Lots of our friends have become close with Pacino. Some are afraid of him. Others delight in ruffling his feathers. You know who you are. Pacino is a farm-ily member, and he is here to stay.

Yesterday I was reminded in myriad ways how different daily life can be when you live with a mature parrot. And friends, I use the word mature so loosely here I probably shouldn’t use it at all. But he is more or less of age; his personality is well formed; and he is vibrantly healthy and has full command of all his parrot faculties. He is a full time kinda guy. The thing is, he has spring fever or cabin fever or both, and this week he’s been telling me so.

pac 1

pac 2

pac 3

pac 4

“Hi, Mama. Gimme gimmee Kiiiiissss.”

 

So this installment of Friday 5 at the Farm is a cautionary tale for anyone who sees a parrot and thinks, “Oh how beautiful! He is magnificent! I wish IIIIIIII had a parrot!” Buyer beware, okay?

Five Things You Can’t Do When You Live With a Parrot

1. Talk on the phone. Pacino cannot stand to bear witness to what he perceives as a one-sided conversation. If he hears me talking, he naturally assumes I am talking to him. We are most of the time alone at the house together, after all. And if that phone conversation is filled with laughter, well, all the better. He joins in merrily and competes not quietly. The more I try to assert myself the worse it gets, and it seems I will never learn. So I rarely talk on the phone at all. I’ll chat with my best friend and my sister in law, like maybe once a month. Otherwise it’s just easier to text, seriously. The talking is just not worth the noise and drama on this end.

2. Watch yoga videos. Pacino especially likes female voices, and since most yoga videos are hosted by women I think that’s why he gets so riled up. But I literally have to sneak off to the furthest reaches of this house and close every door between us and play the video at low volume if I want any chance of watching and stretching in peace. Otherwise he screams and cries and attempts to opera sing at max volume the entire time. He wants to know this pretty yogi so much!! Not very Zen, you know? It really messes with my chakras and whatnot.

3. Eat anything all by yourself, especially things wrapped in cellophane. This is completely our fault, of course, because we have conditioned Pacino to accept all sorts of treats from us. But he now fully expects to share in any and all food that comes out of the kitchen, and it’s a problem.

4. Sweep the floor. This is ironic because Pacino’s indoor perch and his seed-scattering habits are the main reason we have to sweep the floor so many times per day. But he hates it. A lot. And he lets us know.

5. Kiss your husband. Birds are among the most territorial creatures I have ever encountered, and that is saying plenty. This glossy little blue Casanova is as jealous and needy as they come, so if Handsome and I feel like smooching, we have to do so at a safe distance or just accept the screaming and violent beak lunging that will inevitably follow.

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

There. If you can cope with these five lifestyle changes then you are one half step closer to maybe considering you might possibly be ready for parrot ownership.

And let’s clear that up while we’re at it, too: You don’t own your parrot. Your parrot owns YOU. That’s the way it works, man. No getting out of that. But if you love each other it’s totally worth it.

Happy Friday!! I am signing off to go grab my first 18 mile run of this season. Very excited. See you soon for talk of translating literature and pregnancy metaphors and freezer cooking ideas. Have the best Friday ever, ok?

“Hi! Are ya Happy?”
~Bobby Pacino
xoxoxoxo