Why exercise is hazardous to your (mental) health.

I had a couple of bills to mail, and since I have some weird phobia involving the mailman and stacks and stacks of undelivered mail in his basement, I always drop my mail in an official mailbox. The closest one to my house, that I know of, is a couple miles away downtown. Normally I would just drive there, or more likely drop my mail as I drove through town on my way to somewhere else. But since I've lately decided that perhaps sitting on the couch typing doesn't really count as exercise, I thought I would propel myself to the post office under my own steam. I was planning to ride my bike, but the cat was howling at the door to go for a walk, so I loaded him up in the cat stroller and off we went. Now, I like taking walks. But mostly I walk around the neighborhood. And while I might see one or two random people in their yard who say 'hey' and I say 'hey,' that's about it. But today, going downtown was a little different. Even with dulcet tones of Syntax, Mellencamp, Nickle Creek and Lady GaGa in my ear, I wasn't completely distracted from the world around me. What a shame.

First of all, leaving my house at 5 pm, I completely forgot that less than a block away at the park I would be confronted with football practice. Pee wee football no less. So a bunch of little boys and one girl (I know, I met her at the park the other day when she came over to pet and hold and hug Tiger in her pink shorts before heading off in her cleats to run drills with the boys) are swarming all over the park in red and white football gear, full pads and helmets, the works. In 85 degree heat with like 200% humidity. And it goes on for two hours (I know, because Genie was chatting up some football mom the other night at the park) ... TWO hours. And some of these kids look like can barely run with the helmets on. They look barely old enough to run and chew gum at the same time without falling over, much less run laps on a field in full-on football regalia. And I'm not really sure why they were all wearing helmets and pads anyway. Is it really necessary to do some sort of cross-step sideways shuffle around the park? In case, you what? Trip over your own feet and fall on your butt? There were no butt pads. Oh sorry, they're being conditioned. (Because they are Pavlov's dogs. They also salivate at the sound of a bell. And stick their hands out for altoids when they hear the Windows chime.) Because 11-year-olds are so out of shape. And there is so much running in football. For like, five seconds at a time, until they leap into some dog pile seemingly randomly, and the ref blows the whistle. You know what they are being conditioned to do? Be better sheep. Listen to the (fatass) coach (eating something undefinable while watching these kids sweat like pigs) without a second thought, spend hours standing around in the enormous gear, and not complain about the heat and discomfort. Because it's fun, see? I pretty much stared at the whole buttafiasco the whole time I was strolling by. What the hell is this? Texas? It reminded me of how disgusted I was by Friday Night Ligths (the movie, not the tv show ... I love the tv show because there's less football and more Kyle Chandler ... I love Kyle Chandler, have since Homefront ... oh, sorry.) Anyway, I'm probably the only one thinking that pee wee football looks more like punishment than play, but whatever. I thought the same thing 8 or 9 years ago when my little cousin was playing as an 8-year-old. I mean, I played soccer as a kid. Practice wasn't any kind of 2 hours a day, every day, a month before school started. Practice was Wednesdays. And consisted of kicking a ball through some cones while Kim Cruise's dad made sure no one ran away, and occasionally lined us up for some drills. The only specialized gear was shin guards. And if you forgot them, you could still practice. I know it sounds like a relaxed affair. But that's because WE WERE 8! I remember playing football, too (I threw a pretty mean spiral for a 10-year-old girl, thanks Dad) ... at intermurals after school, with flags. No helmets. And if Aaron whatever-his-last-name-was got a little over-excited and tackled you, you just punched him in whatever body part you could land a punch on. Mr. Pease blew his whistle and yelled at everyone and then we all went back to our spots. Unprofessional? Sure. Maybe because we weren't professionals, we were kids. I don't know, call me crazy, but sometimes it's nice for kids to just have fun and learn to salivate at the bell later. Like at work.

So this is what I was pondering as I passed the park, and through the rest of neighborhood, and past the ponds, and down the hill past the town hall building, and waiting for what seemed like hours for the WALK sign to appear at the traffic light, and crossing the river, and walking past another park, even as I crossed one street just to get the crosswalk so that I could cross back to the side I was orginally on (I didn't want to jaywalk and set a bad example for Tiger, after all,) and well, basically until I arrived at yet another park next to my destination, the post office. Well, really just the mailboxes. Anyway, at that point I was beginning to wonder if this whole thing had been a good idea. I did almost get run over, after all. By a teenage ubergeek on his bike, who apparently thought not only is it okay to ride your bike on the sidewalk, but to ride your bike smackass in the middle of the sidewalk. And I don't even know what he was doing on that side of the road. The comic book nerd store is on the other side of the street. Also, I was hot and sweaty. And my chest felt kinda tight ... but that was just because of sports bra I was wearing. Still, I was uncomfortable. And then the cat starts bitching at me. Not because he's hot or tired of being in the stroller. Not even because he wants me to let him out to run around the streets (street) of downtown Oswego (which is actually quite a cute little downtown ... walking through it almost feels like I'm walking through some out-of-the-way city neighborhood ... for about 5 steps anyway.) Nope, the cat is bitching because no one has stopped to talk to him or pet him or give him any sort of attention. It makes him surly.

Surly cat or not, I still had to walk home. It seemed uneventful enough. I mean, I did see a guy in front of the Tap House Grill use his cigarette to light another guy's cigarette which seemed overly dramatic, but whatever. And then when I was crossing the river, I saw a guy who's head seemed entirely too small for the rest of him. And oh yeah, I'm pretty sure there's a body in the middle of the river. Or a cardboard box. Or a body. Either way, there's wasn't anything I could do about it. So I just moved on and stood at the big intersection, waiting for the stupid WALK sign again. The guy with the small head showed up. Except it really wasn't so much that his head was small, but that his clothes were huge. Banger-wanna be in whitebreadville ... cute. Then some chick on a bike shows up. BikeGirl wasn't interested in waiting for any signs so she took off across the street. So WhiteBanger and I took the opportunity. Apparently this was funny, so he turned and smiled when we got to the other side. And then said, "Hey, do you know anyone who wants some Beagle puppies? We've got six that we're selling real cheap." Beagle puppies, huh? I told him should go hawk them at football practice. He didn't seem interested, shockingly enough. So we went our separate ways. It was certainly the weirdest exchange I've had on a street corner since ... yeah, never mind. Tiger was even more put out at that point. BeagleBoy talked to me and not him? RUDE. Anyway, the pint-sized linebackers were still at it when I passed the park again ... still conditioning, no point it doing anything that resembles playing a game. The coach might have to get out of the barcolounger he's moved onto the field for that sort of thing.

Back on my own street, I did what I usually do, inspect the neighbor's landscaping. Mine needs some help, so when I'm staring at their houses, I'm totally just looking at the plants, not trying to look in their windows or anything. Mostly because I already did that and there's never anything to see. Anyway, I filed away a few stolen ideas ... one involving a row of Rose-of-Sharon bushes out by the front fence that might actually like to use. And one that I don't want to use. Ever. A few houses down they've obviously recently redone the beds around the house. They look nice and neat; I quite like it. Except for the corner where, for some inexplicable reason, there is a black metal plant stand, the likes of which you might in someone's kitchen by the window. Only this is outside, and features not one, but two, fake plants in baskets. Why? Everything else in that planting bed is ... you know, a plant. So why not put a plant there? I mean, I'll admit that I put fake flowers in the big planters and hanging baskets on my porch, but that's only because the real ones die too easily in a covered area. But why the display of fake greenery in the middle of the front yard? Mind-bottling. So I went home to my 69 degree house where I realized how gross and sweaty I was, sucked down a giant glass of lemonade and, consequently, felt like puking.

And that is why exercise, such as it was, is hazardous. You just end up disgusted, confused, sweaty, and pukey. On the plus side, I now know where to go if I want some Beagle puppies. And at least there wasn't a treadmill or an ellipse or anything that could be described as 'cardio' involved. Although at least when you run on your treadmill, weirdos on street corners don't ask you if you want to buy a puppy. Maybe I should get a treadmill.

Holy Crap, I don't remember how to do this ...

Hello world ... or the four people I will pester until they read this blog,

Okay, so it's been a while. I've been busy. Moving sucks. If I could ever get this house straightened up, I could take some pictures and show you what I've been busy with, but at the moment it still looks like a tornado hit. Which is, apparently, different from pornado. Huh, who knew?

So anyhoo, I pretty much forgot this blog even existed until yesterday when two fortuitous things happened. One was the Psych premiere and the other was stumbling onto a gem of a blog here on blogspot. And I thought to myself, Hey, I've got blogspot account. And I should write a blog about Psych. So there you go. But apparently I stopped here on the way.

So here's little bit of what I've been up to since I last bothered to post anything here. Um ... well ... nothing interesting, really. But here's some of the boring. So a day or two after my last blog, I finally managed, on attempt #3 to complete the closing on this house that I currently live in. No one worry about the blizzard. I like driving 5, 6 hours in the blinding snow. Which is good because that's what I proceeded to for the next 2 and half months while I traveled repeatedly from Peoria to Oswego to supervise replacing the carpet, and adding the upstairs laundry hook-up, etc. And oh yeah, the hours and hours and hours that I spent more or less single-handedly painting just about every room in the house. Okay, I had help with a few of the walls, but still ... it was lot of 18-24 hours straight of painting, just to fall asleep to my Early Edition DVDs while lying on a pile of air mattresses. It's glamorous, I know. So suck it.

Turns out I only thought I was having fun then. Nothing compares to the joys of moving. I mean, the moving 'crew' turned out to be on middle-aged dude and all the teenage boys he could rustle up. Consequently, they swarmed all over the house, randomly toting thinks out to the truck, and naturally, unloaded the truck in the same careful fashion. Which is why I found boxes marked living room in the basement and kitchen tools stored in the garage. Kitchen, garage, close enough, right? Yeah, I thought so. Now, I had a month between when I moved in and when I started my ill-fated baby-sitting gig, but yet nothing got done. Well, that's not entirely true. Boxes were unpacked, curtains were hung, furniture was built, rooms were rearranged. But it just didn't quite come together. And the 60 hours or more that I was out of house (coupled with the hours in the house consisting of nothing but sitting like a drugged and addled slouth on the couch, barely coherent) meant I didn't get anything done, either.

Which is how, in August, going on five months later that the house is still a disaster. But hey, I did manage to paint most of the rooms I didn't get to before and I painted the fence and the front porch and planted a couple of things. And I did have to go to another closing somewhere along the way. See, I've been busy. Busy logging in some excellent hours in front of the tv and here on the internet, anyway. So it's not like it's been a totally loss. And I only have one more room to paint ... and like 5 1/2 to straighten up and organize ... ooh, so close. And, oh yeah, I'm supposed to be finding a job, too. Ehn, more on that next time. Maybe.