nennikers.com

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.

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.

It’s possible, my friends.

Oh, how I do love garage sales!

The kids and I stopped at a sale on Park Avenue that advertised craft items and yarn, yarn, yarn. I only saw a basket full of the chain store stuff, Lion Brand this, Red Heart that. Somewhat disappointed, I turned in another direction. And there it was. A basket full of The Good Stuff. I snagged a hank of Koigu Painter’s Palette in a lovely blend of aqua, blue and green for one measly dollar. Even better? A super huge hank of rainbow-dyed merino and two super huge hanks of pink variegated alpaca from local spinners. The labels attached to each displayed price tags of $17.50. But we were at a garage sale, so all four hanks of lovely wool deliciousness were $4. As in total.

I was a little shocked at the price, and the homeowner looked sickish green as I forked over my Washingtons, even admitting that she hated to sell it for one dollar considering how much she paid for it. But she had to cut back her stash, so there you go.

Sam found some old crochet patterns for sea creatures, all purchased for a mere quarter. He and I have this thing where he’ll design a creature and we’ll try to bring it to life. He drew a pattern for a thing he calls “Guy”, sewed it up, stuffed it and decorated it with permanent marker. It’s pretty darn cute! So he was a happy camper with those sea creatures. Now if I can only dust off my rusty crochet skills and make my child happy!

I already put them up into center-wound balls, and they’re ready to go become something. The Koigu will become something quite small, since I only have a little tiny hank of it. But the rainbow and pink yarn is in relative abundance, and E’s claimed the rainbow yarn for a pair of socks.

E asked that I teach her how to knit the socks, too. But it’s only the third week of summer vacation. I have to stretch out my patience until August, so we’ll see.

We also returned to the sale off Ingersoll where we hit pay dirt the previous day. The homeowner was rained out Friday, so she marked everything down 50%. She was so happy to see us that she gifted Elizabeth an unopened box of embroidered hankies. How nice was that? So, we bought more, including the buttons I eyed Friday. I also picked up some beautiful red and green tea towels for the kitchen and some vintage linen.

On the way home, along Ingersoll where the road narrows into the Waterbury neighborhood, I spotted a deer statue at the side of a house, nestled in between the hedges. I thought it was an odd place to put a statue, being so close to the street, but whatever. As we drove closer, the statue MOVED. It was a real live deer, munching the landscaping, not four feet from the car.

I know there is no such thing as a carnivorous deer, but they spook me nonetheless. I’m accustomed to sharing my neighborhood with squirrels, which are essentially bushy rats. But for some reason, the sight of a deer, as ubiquitous around here as the squirrels, freaks me out. If you ever come across a deer and get the opportunity to look one in the eye, it’s like they’re plotting to take over the world. Sure, they seem all sweet and innocent and Bambi-ish. Call me paranoid, but I think they’re plotting a coup.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Elizabeth and I were able to duck out for an hour this morning to hit two local sales. One was advertised as “Super Sweet” and was located South of Grand, which is a very interesting an eclectic neighborhood in Des Moines. It’s no Beaverdale, but it has potential for interesting items.

The “super sweet” sale must have run out of sweetness before we arrived. I did feel a pull from macrame owls, though, just like Dad used to make sans the fluffy bellies.

We tried our luck at one more sale just north of the first location. Eventhough we had a map, I’d be darned if I could find the house. Turned out to be on what could barely be considered a street, tucked behind the new Dahl’s on Ingersoll. I’m glad, though, that it was so hard to find because it was hardly picked over. Turns out the homeowner was running a sort of sample sale, and she had all kinds of goodies. I picked up three napkins rings, which I know sounds completely random. But they’re beaded, and I plan on taking them apart and using them somewhere else. Elizabeth discovered she has a thing for vintage hankies, so she picked out nine of them and plans on starting a collection. The homeowner had some examples of what she’s done with her collection, and I loved her table runner idea: basically, lay the hankies out on a muslin background close enough together to conceal the muslin. Then stitch with invisible thread close to the edge of the hanky onto the muslin. I never could bring myself to cut apart the few hankies I have in my possession; sometimes the borders are scalloped or trimmed in crochet or tatting that’s just too beautiful to rip apart.

I picked up a couple of bags of random trims, including a few VERY OLD pieces of spiderweb lace. Another cute find: crocheted edging with rick rack flower insertions. Very creative. I bypassed a bag of SWEET buttons (I’m such a button freak) because I only carry so much cash with me, (a) because I’m afraid I’ll misplace the real stuff, and (b) because plastic is so much easier to account than paper, being able to match a receipt with a method of payment. If garage sales ever start accepting plastic, I could buy all the things I never needed without having to hem and haw over which treasures to keep.

That would really annoy Joel!

This may disgust some of you, but on one of my trash adventures this spring I foraged for a Samsonite train case. It’s been sitting in the basement waiting for a purpose, so today it’s become Elizabeth’s collection case. It needed a VERY good scrubbing, but it looks rather nice now, and I like to imagine that it used to belong to a stewardess (yes, I said stewardess, as in old school flight attendant) who traveled the world with it. Joel says it probably belonged to some old lady. (Kiiljoy.) But it’s awfully cute and a great place to hold a little girl’s random treasures.

Elizabeth doesn’t have my love of history. Or at least she *thinks* she doesn’t. I think she really does.

She did ask me, though, on the way home if the hankies were clean, as in laundered after being used for their original purpose. Ew. So we’re going to soak, wash, and iron before we put them away.

I was almost excited to see a cloudy sky when I woke up today. That meant no sunshine had to be wasted in going to the movies! One of our local theaters is running a “Summer Stimulus” package where you can buy a ticket for $4. Add a small popcorn and a small drink for $1 each. You wind up saving about $47,000.06, as I figure it.

When did movies get so EXPENSIVE?

Anyhow, the kids and I went to see “Up” today.

I. loved. it.

One question, though: Is a person really supposed to cry as much as I did at what essentially is a cartoon?

Those Disney people have significant expertise in taking your heartstrings, wrapping them around your throat three times, and tugging the breath out of you. And it’s the little moments in the film that jerk the most tears. My favorite? When little Russell opines, “It’s the boring stuff you remember the most.” Trust me. That line will MURDER you. I’m crying while I type this now. I cried on the way home from the movie trying to explain to the kids why I was blubbering in the theater.

Seriously, Disney! Why must you torture me so? And why am I tingling in anticipation of when your “Up” movie becomes available on DVD so I may buy it and cry while I watch it in the comfort of my own home?

You people are good.

So, I walk into the gym Saturday morning for the 9:30 FIT class. My coach from the 10-week program is there, and he looks at me like, “What is the world are YOU doing here?” The room was rather empty, considering people were practically lined up out the door last week for the 7:30 class.

The instructor happened to be Randy, the gym leader. I should have known what I was in for at that moment, but I have yet to be frightened DURING a class. I’ve feared the unknown more than anything up to this point.

“Everyone grab a jumprope!” shouts Randy.

Yay. Jumprope. The last time I jumped rope at Farrell’s, I practically soiled my pants.

We started out easily enough with ten seconds on, ten seconds off. Then we gradually increased until we were jumping rope for five minutes straight. Five minutes may not seem like eternity, but when you’re jumping up and down and whipping a rope under your toes at the same time, you get a pretty good idea of what Hell must be like.

The kicker was that if you tangled the rope three times within the five minutes, you were done. And you got to do a plank. So, if you used up all your tangles within the first minute, like me, you got to plank it for four solid minutes. You really get in touch with your core that way, I tell you.

Then we moved on to push-ups. I’m pretty proud that I can do a single push-up these days, so I didn’t think this would be so bad. Until Randy passed out pairs of four-pound medicine balls. Push-ups with your hands on the medicine balls. On your toes.

I couldn’t feel my arms. That’s called muscle failure. I told them to move, and they ignored me.

Randy seemed to be proud of me, told me that was my goal. But I was still hallucinating from all the jumproping.

Then it was on to kickboxing. Jabs and crosses.

Randy comes over and says, “Your arms are still pretty tired, aren’t they? I’m sorry.”

He leaves, and a few seconds later returns to say, “You know I’m really NOT sorry, right?”

Yeah, I got that.

I’m still having a hard time moving my calves. I actually took a whirlpool bath when I woke up this morning I was so stiff and sore. I regained the use of my legs, and I fully intend on attending class tonight. I’m a glutton for punishment.

I have a very vain reason for my gluttony now, though. Warning: VERY VAIN! I took the kids swimming Friday afternoon. I wore my new Nike two-piece for the first time in public. I must say, Nike makes an excellent swimsuit. I feel like I’m all put away and decent. They employ some secret fiber in the suit that makes you feel all Gabrielle Reese, even if you aren’t. Anyway, remember how I marveled at the Two-Piece-Wearing-Pool-Moms last summer? Especially the older ones with more than one child in tow?

Well, it was ME getting the stares and sideways glances this time.

I felt pretty awkward. After all, they were probably just trying to protect their eyes from the glare off my stretch marks. But I do rock that two-piece. I’ve earned the right to say that after the past twelve weeks. Or, heck, even from just this past Saturday. ROCK ON!

I scrapped!

I’ve been cracking the genealogy lately, hoping to pull together more information for the LeMar Family Reunion this August. Joel’s cousins Linda and LuAnne have taken the reins and are planning the entire thing. The least I can do is contribute a little memory art, right?

I just met LuAnne last summer at, well, Linda’s house! Linda tries to bring us all together at least once a year, God bless her. LuAnne and her brother made the trip from out east and expressed their interest in the family tree. Woo! WOOOOOO! DING! DING! Every time someone tells me they want to learn more about their roots, I get all excited. It validates the hours I sometimes think I’ve wasted on research. What good is it if I’m the only one who cares? I’m thrilled more LeMars are joining the genealogy bandwagon.

LuAnne graciously mailed an envelope stuffed with copies of the family photos in her possession, including this one of her great-grandparents, Frank and Laura LeMar. I just adore Laura’s gloves. These are probably the fanciest clothes this young couple owned at the time, so it seems they went all out in the accessorizing, too. Oddly enough, Laura comes from a long line of Quakers from Indiana who migrated to Iowa in the mid-1800’s. I thought Quakers were modest, like the Amish? Or maybe I’m just confused. I know Quakers are pacifists, and that has nothing to do with whether or not they wear leather gloves.

Another thing I notice is Frank’s hands: look how HUGE they are! The LeMars are pretty tall people, so check out his legs, too…they drift off to the side of the photo. Maybe it’s why he’s seated, too, so as not to tower over his young wife?

Just when you think the Internet has clammed up and erased all goodness in people, you run across a site like Antique Pattern Library. If you’re anything like me and really into crafting and history, then you really need to check out this site. The gracious folks there have scanned and uploaded knitting, crocheting, tatting and other assorted needlework booklets from as far back as the 1840’s to the 1920’s. Really spectacular stuff!

View the catalog here.

Oh, and Elizabeth and I went to the Market Street Media Foundry on Saturday, as promised, and meandered through a very old and very rough building in search of art. We were not disappointed. The most unique items I saw were created by Chimes Design. She actually rescues discarded dishes and paints the most whimsical little designs on them. I especially liked the birdies. I love the idea of rescuing things (obviously), but all of those dishes I’ve ignored at Goodwill all these years have the potential to blossom into something totally new and beautiful. How cool is that?

You can find these and other designs at Chimes Designs Etsy shop. Absolutely charming!

Afterwards, I dragged poor Little E over to West End Architectural Salvage on 9th and Cherry downtown. It was on our way home, essentially, and I haven’t been there in a very long time. And I’d never visited The Basement. You wanna talk about creepy? I felt mixed feelings, surrounded by beautiful claw foot bathtubs, rusty tin ceiling tiles, and various other pieces and parts. I felt that at any moment Leatherface from Texas Chain Saw Massacre would jump out of one of the dark corners and seriously put an end to a lovely afternoon. We hoofed it back upstairs in short order. As we ran out the door, the owner asked us, “Did you find anything you didn’t need?” I thought that was quite clever. You, sir, will find my aura of terror in your basement!

E caught the crafting bug, so we had to rush home and work in the medium of her choice, polymer clay. I suck at polymer clay, even though I own nearly all of the requisite tools. We made a few beads, and I experimented with using my antique circus stamps to make charms out of a clay blend E created from purple and green that wound up brown. I played a little with painting, but I’m not feeling it yet.

Speaking of antique patterns and crafting and such, I need to scan and pimp out the darling baby book illustrated by Dulah Evans Krehbiel I purchased several weeks ago at Found Things. (And, no, it’s probably not OK to “pimp out” a baby book, but it sounds cooler when I say it like that.) I scanned it once already and started enhancing the scans in Photoshop. I came upon a perfect combination of Adjustment Layers and Blend Modes, but when I went to apply them to the next page I realized I’d just merged the layers, saved the file, and thus erased all of my steps. Way. To. Go. Sometimes, that “Save Often” adage works against you. Here’s to starting over!

As the days of leisurely perusing the morning paper surely wind down, I enjoyed this morning’s Iowa Life section my Des Moines Register. They featured a story about Market Street Media Foundry and their upcoming Market Day. I know Des Moines is a terribly creative place. It just has this vibe about it, hard to explain. Maybe it’s always been this way but I never noticed until I was interested in art myself. But I keep discovering new art and new artists just about every day lately.

And I think you’ll know where to find me on May 30 and every last Saturday of every month through late September.

I’m still organizing my craft acquisitions. I ripped apart the crib railings I picked up for the spindles. As I gave them one whack with my hammer, then one more, and saw the railings fall apart so easily, I thought, “Wow, glad I’m not a baby.” I have a whole bucket full of beautiful spindles now, both Jenny Lind and traditional.

I also ripped apart an old Kenmore sewing machine and an Underwood typewriter. Marvels of modern engineering, I have to say. Do you know how many pieces and parts I have now? Beautiful little bits and bobs of metal.

I collected more at Carousel Antique Mall in Story City on Sunday: interesting buttons, wooden casters to replace the missing ones on some of my trash day finds, a very old celluloid album (marked “perfect for collage”), a beat up “Cupid” candy tin, and a cute little aluminum kitchen helper to stow foil wrap, waxed paper and paper towels. I passed up a Remington typewriter, complete with cute workable typekeys and merely $25, but I really need to make things before I acquire any more parts.

Joel is tiling the old wet bar by the backdoor. He can be so funny, going with the flow more often than not, but being such a stickler for details in home improvement projects. Not that I mind! I just worry that the old wet bar is going to outshine the rest of the first floor and Joel will be assigned to resurface the entire kitchen.

The kids spent most of the weekend outdoors, which is a big deal for them. Mom and Dad are grateful for pleasant weather. Our neighbors have a trampoline, a treehouse and a zip line, so the kids spend most of their playtime begging to go next door while our Rainbow playset sits unnoticed out the family room window. It gets some play, just not as much as we thought it would. Joel and I were thinking like kids of the 80’s, back when iPods were about as conceivable as flying cars. It doesn’t take much to impress us. Unfortunately, kids just keep getting more and more sophisticated. And Joel and I keep sounding more and more like old fuddy-duddies, starting most sentences with, “Back in MY day…”.

If I hide this here, in the middle of this post, maybe it won’t be so noticeable. My FXB results. Yes, the ten weeks have come and gone. And, no, I didn’t win the big $1,000 cash prize.

(And, no, you don’t get to see the full-body before-and-after shots. I just don’t think it’s appropriate to splash my half-naked body over the Internet. Even though, had I won the $1,000 cash prize, my half-naked body would have been splashed over the Internet…)

About 70% of the people who started in March finished the program, so I feel pretty good being in that group. Here are my results:

So, no, I didn’t lose much weight. I’m cool with that. And you can say I didn’t lose much fat, either, but SOMETHING happened. I did get leaner. I had LOVE HANDLES! YIKES! I didn’t even realize it! Now I can see my belly button. I feel stronger. Joel marvels at my biceps. That run time? That’s for a one-mile run. Not fast, but I actually RAN the entire way for the final test. About halfway through I realized I felt somewhat euphoric and was telling myself I should do this more often. I know. CRAZY TALK!

I earned a blue attendance card for the year-long program (well, yeah, and I paid for it with something other than blood, sweat and tears, as in cold hard cash) and attended my first class as a 10-week graduate Monday night. I realized how far I’d come by helping the new group struggle through all the awkward movements we do in kickboxing and the endless push-ups and sit-ups and burnouts.

Joel encouraged me to take a week off and get back into it next Monday, but I couldn’t stay away. I need exercise now, much like I need food and water. I felt so blah yesterday, going back and forth about class, until I finally walked in and felt the glorious rush that comes with kicking and punching things.

I’m hooked.

See? I always knew my obsessive-compulsive nature would eventually reveal its practical side.