There are activities that are obviously, CLEARLY age appropriate and then there are ones that are not. For example, a 10-year-old should never drive a car. A 64-year-old shouldn’t give birth. A 93-year-old shouldn’t walk unaided. Those are obvious.

There’s about a 20 year period of life, however, where everything becomes gray. When I turned 30, the number sounded shocking to me. My husband helped me ride it out by planning the second coolest surprise birthday party ever. The coolest was my 40th, but that’s not part of this blog. At any rate, I wasn’t upset by a number and in my mind I was still 19. I still felt 19. I was still pretty fit. My ears had not begun to fail me. I was living the dream. Somewhere between then and now, I got old. Older, fluffier, stiffer, a WHOLE lot deafer, and went up a size or SO in clothing. Even so, in my mind, I still almost feel 19. I can at least remember feeling 19. And often, I base my activity choices on the fact that I can still remember feeling 19. My memories are young and fit.

Another factor in my decision making is my competitive edge. I was never a champion at anything, but I was just good enough to not embarrass myself and to act quite a bit more obnoxious than my skill set could uphold.

So, when my friend, Baron Wetty, rolled up next to me in the roller rink the other night and said, “Hey, when racing starts, I’ll race you,” I was forced by my very nature to say, “yes.” It was, to a 41 year old, the equivalent of a triple dog dare.

I feel like I need to step back for just a second and address the fact that I was even skating in the first place. It isn’t my joy in life. Skating is for 12 year olds, give or take 5 years. But every Monday night, my little Christian college has a contract with a local skating rink and it is closed to the public. Only Florida College people are there. But man, are they there. There are a lot of people skating at these things. I skate mostly because I have to. Mama’s Boy and Beloved wouldn’t tolerate the evening as well if I were not on wheels.

I do the whole thing. I hokey pokey, as awkward as it is. I cha cha slide…on skates. You cannot imagine how bad that looks. No, I mean it. Try to picture it. You can’t. If you ever watched Seinfeld and if you ever saw the episode where Elaine Benis dancing, then put roller skates on her and you’ll get close.

I can’t dance.

But I can skate. Reasonably well.

So I said yes to the racing challenge.

Once the “yes” was out of my mouth, I got nervous. Just the word “race” alone indicates a pants-wetting possibility. But that’s not where this story ends. Sorry if that disappoints you.

The next thing I knew, I was standing in a sea of young girls, with two whistle-blowing skate refs ready to call the races. How did I get here?

• My first concern was that I was grotesquely out of place in this grouping of females.
• My second concern was that we were instructed to sit. Sitting meant quite possibly never getting back up, falling upon the attempt to get back up, or exposing some skin that definitely ought not be exposed.
• My third concern became the race. Was Baron fast? Could I beat her? How does one get set on a “starting block” at a roller rink? Is “Roller Rink” a phrase people still use or is that totally 1976?

Some young girls raced. As I watched each race go by, I was more and more convinced that we were morons. Finally, it was our turn: the race for 35-42 year old ladies.

When we got up to the starting line, I actually had no idea what to do with my feet. They were slipping around like I was strapped to a couple of greased pigs. I looked at Baron. She was turned at an angle and ready to go. At this point, I was pretty convinced I was going to lose. And then the whistle blew.

What unfolded during this race, I will leave for you to watch. In case you don’t know either of us too well, I am the one with the big, white man calves. Baron will be the one flailing. Wait. Did I give it away? Also, the Informinator will be the high cackler you can hear as the video closes. I’m sorry the video is so far away. I have another copy coming that highlights the flailing a little better.

Upon watching this pitiful, pitiful exhibition, you might think to yourself that falling is definitely the awkward piece here. I would agree. However, it is also excessively awkward to race around a rink by yourself, shouting like you just won the Spanish-American War. And that is what I did. You could have heard a pin drop in there. Hey, look, everyone! A too-old person is skating alone, whooping and hollering like she’s in a cattle roping contest.

Yeah.

There was no real winner there.

Oh, who am I kidding? I won. Bigtime.

Got myself a free freezer pop out of that deal.  And a firmer picture in my mind that I am not as young as I used to be.

I had six kids today. So in the interest of reducing chaos and causing disease, I took them to McDonalds with the Play Place. On a day when I bought 30 minutes of sleep with pop tarts, McDonalds seems to fit the theme. I’m not proud of this. You can scoff quietly to yourself. I do have a backyard garden. There’s just nothing alive in it right now.

At any rate, we all got happy meals because it’s $1.99 day.  And then the kids ran off to climb in the tubes. I was watching them and spacing just a little. It apparently doesn’t pay to look away from your table in a spacy way, because when I looked back over, there was a squatty toddler eating one of our happy meals.

It was a strange moment.

“Hey!” I said. That’s all I said. It’s all I could think to say. His mother was at the next table, engrossed in her smart phone. I do mean ENGROSSED. She never looked up. Her older kids were watching the younger ones. Or not.

I guess that’s what you get when you go to McDonalds.

When I got home, I forced all six kids into some role of cleaning the chicken coop. This was way, WAY more disgusting than eating a stranger’s happy meal. Honestly. Chickens. I had no idea…not one…what I was getting into. Did I think they were going to take showers and cuddle with me? Did I really believe my kids would remain interested in them after 90 minutes and help me take care of them?

What I would actually have is a new task that no one would help me with. I’d have poop, pecking roosters, and maggots. Yes, maggots.

Ick.

So I decided to google how to keep a coop clean. I figure I’d let some experienced chicken farmers help me out. So I began my research.

I read. And I read. And my eyes grew large. And then squinty. And I kept reading.
Finally, I stopped. Because it became apparent that, not only do I not keep a quality chicken coop, I don’t even know the correct vocabulary to discuss keeping a quality chicken coop. Manure box? I don’t have one of those. Laying mash? What is that?

Here’s a quote from one site:

My hens always have plenty of fresh water and quality laying mash. I supplement with greens, fruits, and vegetables every day for treats. Any uneaten treats also go into the compost bin. Chickens love their protein, as much as their grain. Do not be alarmed if your chickens eat a mouse, small lizard, grasshopper, snail, worm…these are also perfectly natural foods for chickens.

She gives her chickens treats. Her chickens have a manure box and laying mash and fresh bedding in their nesting boxes. My chickens have the ground. And the thing they sleep in. And that other thing.

Ground and things. And no treats.

I think I need to find a more remedial website.  Or just get my eggs at the store like other posers.

I did make the kids help me do things all wrong, though. And somehow, for today, that makes it all right.

That is the dumbest title for a blog, ever. But I am not going to change it. Instead, I may try to make a limerick out of it later, if time permits.

It is raining here. Not the kind of rain you let your kids play in. Not the spring showers poetic kind of rain. This is the kind of rain that kills old ladies and fledgling plants. This is the kind of rain that wakes up children and lures bugs indoors.

This is crazy rain. Pounding rain.

I knew last night that SnugglePants would never make it through the night without coming down to me. She’s been in a strange sleep pattern anyway, waking up at 3something each night. This, I do not prefer. But it is very difficult to be mad at her when she is whimpering and scared and begging you for help right there at eye level. At 1:30 a.m., she came for me and dragged me out of bed. I walked her back up to her room. After the whole go-back-to-sleep song and dance that we do, I noticed a sizable roach on the ceiling, oh…about a foot from Beloved, who sleeps on the top bunk. This was not ideal. My choices were very limited. Run for Todd? No. No time for that. Our room is like 6 miles from the kids room. By then the roach could be anywhere or in Beloved’s bed. No. Not running for Todd. Paper towel execution? Not so much. I don’t like the paper towel method of murder. It just leaves too many nooks and crannies. Too many things can go wrong with that one. Bug spray? Nope. Too toxic for Beloved and who even knows where it is at 1:30 in the morning?

There was only one way to do this.
A book. Waiter style. Kung fu strength.
I got a thin, but large, hardback book off their book shelf and climbed the ladder into Beloved’s bed. This killed me to do, because (1) I was about to be really close to a bug, and (2) I was about to have 2 wakeful children instead of just one.  I moved Beloved aside, which of course awakened her. She was very cool about the roach thing. Surprisingly so. Chalk that one up to sleepy, I guess.  Like a fancy Disney waiter, I raised up my book and

SMASH.

Done.

It was a beautiful thing to behold. I was a bug ninja. Of course, we were all wide awake now.

Beloved went back to sleep rather quickly. Not so with the other child. I ended up falling asleep in the girls’ recliner, just to be a presence in the room with the little one. I woke up at 3:45 a.m. with a crick in my neck and went back to bed.

The rain pounded all night. I do mean pounded. It was relentless. I’ve been in Florida all my life and haven’t seen much like this, I can tell you. It looks like the last day on earth when you look out and see thick sheets of rain being blow about by the forces.  Apparently the tornado sirens were going off at the university while we were on our way to church.  I did think more than once that maybe we shouldn’t be out in it. At one point, AG leaned in to me as he watched the storm outside the church windows, and said, “Why are we here??”

Well, we went because we wanted to and I wasn’t sorry we did. The lesson tonight was amazing. Very inspiring and uplifting and I felt changed by it. So inspired and changed that AG talked us into Dunkin Donuts after church. Yeah, that’s what you should go do in the middle of a tropical storm.

The good news is I haven’t eaten any and we still have plenty left for breakfast.

And then, after all the short order cooking and getting ready for bed, I felt it necessary to walk out into the storm to deal with…the chickens. I know. It’s almost boring now, isn’t it? Maybe we should get a mountain lion and splash things up a bit. They were all in a tizzy. Hungry. Freaked out. A little more tender than usual. So tender that I thought about cooking one up.

But I’m not yet the chicken ninja and it was raining really, really hard. So, I did what I needed to do with efficiency and speed, wearing a trash bag for rain gear. And I went back in.

And I’m not going back out until Friday.

Sometimes I find my own idiocy rather enigmatic. I can’t always put into words why I’m an idiot.

Tonight, however, it is clear. I will share, because I know my being an idiot is the only real draw to this blog.

It occurred to me at 11 p.m., just a few minutes ago, that I hadn’t fed or watered the chickens today. It also occurred to me that they had appeared hungry.  In retrospect, I wonder why I chose to care.

I was sitting in the brown chair watching the Miami Heat spank that other team (not gonna pretend to care) like bad pet goats. I knew I had to go feed the dirty beasts. I was wearing pajamas. None of that was going to change. I just needed shoes. So I rolled up my pajama pants to my knees and put on my turquoise Keens. No sense in going into the coop with a bad sense of fashion. Just my appearance alone was going to demand their respect.

Like any smart idiot farm girl, I got myself a high powered flashlight and went out into the night, forming my plan in my head as I walked. I would turn on the lights to the pole barn. I would go into the coop and use the food in the red tupperware. I would quickly feed both sets of chickens, check their water, and get out.

The lights on the pole barn definitely made things less scary. It took the ax murderer element out of things. But it added the scary big spider element and I had to take a detour from my plans to go grab the spider killer. I am much braver in fights against spiders now that I know they make aerosol cans of toxic spider killer. I win every time. Even against this bad boy.

OK. Back to the chickens. I went into the coop where I stupidly left my red tupperware and stopped dead in my tracks. The little boogers had gotten the container open and had made a huge mess. It looked like a crime scene. Apparently they were NOT underfed today. They fed themselves like kings and then pooped like this was their last day on earth. Guess who will get to deal with that? Me again.

“You little stinkers,” I said to them. “Look what you’ve done.” All four of the big ones looked very guilty. Trust me. They did. This was a cartoonesque moment for me. They totally hate me. They totally know what they’re doing.  But then there were the little guys, inside a bunny hutch in the coop. They weren’t privy to the thieving going on just outside their cage. And they were still hungry.

So I got some food, cleaned the water containers out inside the house (normally I do this in the garden using a hose, but the garden was the most frightening place on earth tonight), and washed my hands both literally and metaphorically.

Many mistakes were made in this process. They are as follows:

1. Forgetting the chickens early in the day when sunshine was my ally.
2. Remembering at 11 that the chickens were hungry.
3. Caring at all that I forgot and then remembered.
4. Getting up to do something about the caring and the remembering and forgetting.
5. Turning on the porch light, thus inviting every fly and scary bug in the county to come to a party at my back door, where my face was.
6. Leaving the extra stored food in the actual coop (pretty sure this was an oversight, not a conscious decision).
7. Traipsing through my downstairs with chicken water bottles, wearing the Keens that have just walked in a chicken coop. Yes, there were souvenirs.

It’s done now. I will leave you with this.  I have at times heard the “Cost of Eggs” conversation between people who’ve never met an actual chicken. Eggs cost so much. Why does it cost $2.59 for a dozen? How do they get them so white? Should I buy organic? But eggs cost so much.

If you think you are paying too much for eggs, you are not.

You are not paying NEAR ENOUGH FOR EGGS.

That is all.

I thought about not writing this morning, because, truthfully, I’m way out of things to say. My life is not that interesting. The rooster has only attacked his own kind this week. He has left me alone. And I’ve given you every boring last detail about running in a field. Really. I’m actually sorry about that. Sorry for you. From me.

But it’s a beautiful morning. Gorgeous. And since there are a whole bunch of city people out there, I can share my quiet rural morning and then skulk away.

I am sitting on my porch, reclined with a laptop in my lap. I awoke to a blanket of thick storm clouds over the whole area. The only break in it looks to be over Lakeland. Unfortunately, that area is right in front of where my eyeballs want to look, so I am squinting right now. Squinting is not ideal when you are 3 days from your most recent Diet Mtn. Dew. The kids are inside, but continue to pop their heads out the front door to ask for some morning ice cream. I keep saying no, but they are wearing me down. I haven’t had caffeine. They are preying on my weakness. Right this second, the breeze is my only companion. And the leaves of the sycamore trees are shimmering like each one of them is posing with jazz hands. They seem to know some weather is coming.

Oh, wait. That’s Lord of the Rings.

Also, I have a house plant that has been in my possession since June 9. It is still alive.

BooYAH.

Day One of Operation Disappear was a success. Well, you can’t measure the success in any new muscles or a massive loss of fat cells. But I am measuring it in having met my goals.

I had to talk to Beloved pretty convincingly to get her to try out her bike. She was finally willing at 7 tonight. After 30 hard minutes, she did it. It was awkward. It wasn’t pretty in any way. But she did it. She stayed up on her own. Tomorrow should give us something to build on.

I ran this morning. I waved to an actual neighbor. I’m glad I couldn’t see the look on her face, because again…people do not jog out here. She was walking her dog, which is perfectly acceptable in the country. After 2 laps around, I saw a little dog in the next door field. He looked like Bolt. For some reason, it didn’t occur to me that small Bolt-like dogs can sail through barbed wire fences. But they can. And he did. And suddenly I was being chased by a barky, ridiculous little country dog in my own field. At one point, I stopped and turned to face him. All I could think to do was swipe at him backhanded like I was brushing crumbs off a table. I didn’t want to yell at him, because his owner was in the field he SHOULD have been in. The whole thing was very ugly. It is precisely what one can expect if one takes up running out here.

This afternoon Mama’s Boy and I biked the jogging path. That was nice.

I haven’t had a Diet Mtn Dew since Sunday. I don’t have any tremors, but I sure do miss it. I have a mild headache that I dearly hope doesn’t become severe. Dr. Oz says you are supposed to acknowledge the pain and shout things like “Bring on the Pain!” I did that on the way to Publix tonight. It came out sounding a bit more like “Please go easy on me….”

I can do this.

It’s practically already done.

Ha.

Today I went to clean house for a man who is 88 and very interesting. He’s the best. He keeps his house cleaner than I keep mine, so I’m not sure why he keeps me around, but whatever. I guess. I always come away from seeing him feeling like I’ve gained a whole lot more than he has.

Today I had gained.
Weight, that is.

The last time I cleaned was about 2.5 weeks ago, at which point Beloved was with me, “helping.” She talked me into stepping onto his scale. I didn’t want to do it. But in my mind, I thought, “Well, this could be good. I’ll weight ONLY when I’m here and I’ll work hard on fitness between cleanings.”

Today it was time to weigh in again. I still didn’t want to. In my head, the worst case scenario was maintenance.

I saw that needle go up to a number that about freaked me out. How in the world did I gain 5 pounds in 2 weeks? ON A DIET. I know. It’s like I’m storing nuts for the winter. And the nuts weigh a pound each.

Only I’m not. And there’s no such thing as winter here.

I am storing something, though. 24 pounds of it.

I realize that there are people who think 24 pounds is not a big deal. For people who want to lose more than that, I might seem silly or disrespectful right now. I know this isn’t the worst problem ever. However, in the last 4 years, I have become the worst dressed person in central FL. The only person worse than me is Underwear Boy and he apparently doesn’t own clothes. So, in ways, I am worse.

So, I’ve been turning this one over in my big brain. I’ve come up with a few things:

1. The gym is not happening for me between now and the end of August. It’s too far away and I have too many people in tow. So I can forget this one.
2. No one thing is going to eliminate the 24 pounds. I can’t exercise to death. I can’t starve myself.
3. I’m going to need a combo pack effect here. Abstaining from desserts? Probably pretty important right now. Drinking water? Yes, definitely. Dropping diet drinks? A must. Liposuction? Well, d-uh. OF course.
4. My plans are usually very insane and intense and ultimately quite stupid. I do not understand or practice moderation. Either I am chewing 1000 calories a day in Super Bubble, or I am fasting. Neither is good right now.
5. So I need to work with what I’ve got. I have a big field. I have children who want to play. And I have HEALTHY OPTIONS.  I will never accomplish this by making weird cold turkey statements. I will take small steps and consistent steps and see where that gets me.

THE PLAN

I WILL drink 4 bottles of water a day.
I WILL NOT drink more that 1 diet soda a day. The eventual goal is dropping it altogether. And I will no longer buy 12 packs.
I WILL exercise 30 minutes, 5 times a week. The field is my location. Running and biking are my activities.
I WILL TRY for 1300 calories a day.
I WILL write down what I eat.

Tomorrow I need to buy bananas. And spend at least 15 minutes helping Beloved ride her bike. And since Todd doesn’t have to leave for work early, I get to sneak in a breakfast run.

This is the beginning.
Of something.
I’m hoping it is NOT the beginning of gaining 5 more pounds.

Exercise is a funny thing. I mean funny peculiar, not funny ha ha. Although I have seen about 8 cases in my life of it being funny ha ha. But mostly it is peculiar. To some, exercise is a great release of stress and a passion. For some, it is the last thing on earth they would ever choose to do and they have it on their to-do list right above “Die.” Some people do it for the joy of it, but don’t need the fitness part so much. Some desperately need the fitness, but hate it. Some need it and like it. Some need it and hate it.

Wow. That was like a bad twirly ride that I couldn’t get off of.

At any rate, I am a person that mostly loves to exercise–under the right circumstances. For instance, I do NOT love running with a double jog stroller and the contents therein. I love running. Alone. With an iPod. But hand me a double jogger with 60 pounds of “can we go home now?” and all the joy is gone. I love biking. I even love biking with one child in a bike seat directly behind me. I do NOT love biking with a double bike trailer. See above reasons. Also there are traffic hazards wrapped up in this one. I do NOT love getting up at 5:30 a.m. for exercise of any type. I do not love exercising at 10 p.m. So when my planets do not align and I have children who need me, I have to do the exercise the non-ideal way.

Top Ten Ways to Make Exercise Fun if You Hate Exercising:

1. Pump up the jam and dance. Dance, people. Dance. Dancing for 30 minutes burns approximately 200 calories. And if your “JAM” includes Justin Bieber and you invite your preschool wackadoodles into the dance party, you can also do some pretty worthwhile bonding.
2. Make it a contest. Race somebody. Time yourself at something.
3. Run around the house as you do your chores. Be BRISK.
4. Vigorously reorganize your pantry.  If it’s gonna burn any calories, you should move like a ninja. I have tried this one unsuccessfully. It was a fail for my fitness AND for the pantry.
5. Scalp a trail around the perimeter of a 5 acre field and run it.  Your neighbors will wonder what in the world you are doing and why you don’t have better things to do. Most of them will have embraced a non-fit lifestyle. Not that I know. Not that I can judge. Not that I am dying to know why Underwear Boy never puts on clothes.
6. Play soccer with an 11 year old. Be prepared to suck wind. A lot.
7. Walk the perimeter trail with a 5 year old. It should burn calories to mentally keep up with her conversation patterns. But it doesn’t.

I can’t come up with 3 more. I need help.

So, the redneck fitness thing is no joke. I have weight to lose. I have GOT to lose it. More on that in the next post…

Something amazing happened last night. Something that hasn’t happened in at least 2 weeks.

Neither girl woke up. No one called for me. No one came down the stairs.

It was perfect.

There was only one blemish and it was caused by me.

If I could go back and do last night differently, I might rethink my decision to drink a Pepsi Max at 10 p..m.  It didn’t hinder my falling asleep, but it was the child getting me up 3 times in the night.

Also, I don’t like Pepsi Max. You should at least like the thing that plagues you.

I am formulating my Redneck Fitness Plan. Pepsi Max will not figure in to the new lifestyle.

If Glade made Bacon flavored plug-in air fresheners, would you buy them?
I would.

CBS now has a show called Dogs in the City. I mean it. I just saw the commercial. Dogs in the City, people. Set your DVRs. Right now. Stop reading and go set your DVR for Dogs in the City. You do NOT want to miss the episode with the white dog in that city. I think his owner walks him.

They are running out of ideas. Love in the Wild? I’d like to say Jenny McCarthy has seen better days, but she hasn’t. This is the best she can do.

I want to pitch a few ideas to them from out here in the country. They are obviously desperate, so I think I have a reasonable chance of getting one of these picked up:

• Hot, sweaty kids with dirty fingernails
• Chickens Plan a Coup.
• Coup vs. Coop – Kuntry Spelling Bees
• Redneck Fitness – Getting Fit with nothing but a field and some buckets
• Watching Cletus – (daily binocular glimpses into the long haired dude’s life who makes smokers and welds things)
• Kuntry Jogging Adventures – Send city lady running in the country and watch what happens. Something would. Every time. From pit bulls, to actual pits, this one has promise.
• Bye Bye Roosters
• Breaking the Mower – creative ways to destroy machines and never mow the lawn.

You can pitch your own ideas if you want, but you KNOW you’d watch some of those. If those don’t interest you, there’s always Dogs in the City. If you are reading this blog, your standards can’t be THAT high.

Actually, I have developed a weird History Channel Obsession. I like the show Mountain Men. It follows three tough dudes that live off the grid. Marty spends the winters in the middle of nowhere in Alaska. He’s an idiot, because it’s typically 50 below where he is. 50 below! That’s 50 below ZERO. I’d actually die, rather immediately, if it got 50 below 70. Tom lives in Montana and has grizzlies that come on his property. That would be a horrible way to go. And Eustace lives in Cherokee, NC. He’s just cool. And his name is Eustace.

I keep thinking of ideas for reality shows. I’ll be at this all night.