Lake life

Since I moved out to the country (or as Riley says it: crunchy), life seems different out here. I live in a neighborhood so it's not total seclusion but it's close enough. Far away. Peaceful and quiet. The only traffic I hear comes from the lake (this morning it was hot air balloons). There's a reason people retire here.

Driving 10 minutes to the nearest town is now called "Going to town" and we try to consolidate our trips. Life is different out here.

Now that I'm a country girl (for a about 2 months), I HATE going to town.

Drinks?
No thanks.

Shopping?
Nah.

Coffee?
Meh.

Yes, even for coffee.

Once you find your happy place, why would you leave? It makes no sense.

If only I could bring my work to me.

#lakelife

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Wakeboarding… boarding the wake

My back. My knee. My hamstrings. My shoulders. My sinuses. 

I am a wakeboarder.

When Donnie came home with a new wakeboard. I was not surprised. It’s how Donnie works. I say I want to wakeboard, eventually, I will get a wakeboard. It’s just good husbanding. 

Naturally, I had to be the first one to try it.

After watching literally minutes of YouTube training videos, I was more than ready to rock that wake!

Donnie manned the jet ski while I boarded the wakeboard. 

He gunned it and I ignored my screaming back while I held on with all my strength and popped up. First try (but I’m pretty sure I made it WAY harder than it was supposed to be). I squatted my back leg as I surfed over the water behind the jet ski.

One time round the lake and my back leg was ON FIRE. I shifted around. I’m not sure how much shifting to do because I didn’t want to face plant into the water (as my coworker kindly warned me). Finally, I had to. I straightened my back leg. 

AGGGGHHHH! BOOM!

I tumbled around as the lake water irrigated my sinuses. 

Thumbs up! I gave Donnie as water poured out my nose.

“It was fun until I fell! Let’s go again. But don’t let me fall.”

I am a wakeboarder.

Addiction

I’m an addict.

There I said it. That’s the first step, right? Admitting it? Well I admit it. Shamefully.

I can’t stop buying plants. I can’t stop deadheading, pruning and digging. I can’t. 

I thought I was done buying plants this year when I got 2 giant Crape Myrtles to flank my front sidewalk. There. Beautiful. Half off. And I’m done. 

It’s too hot to keep planting anyway. All that’s left at the nurseries are scraggly, half-dead close out plants. I’m done. My garden is almost full. It looks nice. I’ll maintain and won’t plant another thing until next year. Well. Maybe I’ll pull some perennials out of my pots and put those in the ground. There. Done. I did get these free succulents. I’ll put those in pots inside. There, that looks super classy. Now, I’m done. What else could there be. I’m done.

Lowe’s has 75% off all plants on Sunday?! What!?  I won’t go. I don’t need anything? Why would I go? It’s probably all dead stuff I don’t need to try to revive anyway. I’m avoiding Lowe’s. 

This morning I went to Lowes and bought 20 more plants for $30! Guess I better get to planting. If you think about it, I’m doing something good for the earth by planting more plants. My house looks nicer. I’ll get a nice tan. It’s hard work, which is fulfilling. This is a good thing. It’s not a problem… just one more plant.

 I can stop anytime I want.

I’m not an addict.

My kids are the only ones not in sports

The last time I went to a sporting event to watch one of my kids was in May. It feels like an eternity. I see all my friends going to baseball and soccer games and I can’t help but worry that my kids are being left behind.

It’s not like we’re doing nothing.

We’re fishing. We’re nature walking. We’re swimming. We’re jet skiing. We’re tubing. We’re outside, spending time together.

But still. I sit there and scroll through Facebook to see all my friends at sporting events. I text my friends to come over and hang out. “Can’t. Have another late game.” Should I be a late game?

When I was growing up, there weren’t sports until fourth or fifth grade. There was no worry that we’d miss out or not be very good because we didn’t start sports in the womb like Brazilians do. Donnie started basketball in 4th or 5th. I started volleyball in 5th and we both played D1 sports. But… times, they are a-changing.

There’s a theory (Jerry Seinfeld?) that it takes 10 years to master something. So… if we start our kids in competitive sports at age 4, they’ll be ready to rule the high school and prime for a full ride when they graduate, right? Maybe. I’m sure that many hours focusing on one thing could really make a person an expert. But. At what point does expert level peak and passion start to drop? Does passion always drop?

I’ve seen very talented kids quit sports when high school is done or worse before they even get to high school. Burn out. I’m afraid of that.

I want my kids to grow up playing sports but I also want them to enjoy their unstructured “I’m bored” childhood. I think it’s good for them. So I’m going to continue to take the approach that we’ll do sports, but we won’t over-do sports. And, if my kid wants to be a 6’7″ Metaphysicist, then so be it. (I say this through gritted teeth).

So yeah, my kids didn’t do any sports this summer. No practices, no tournaments and no camps. Will they be behind in skills? Probably. Will they eventually catch up? Maybe. All I know is that when I see them out fishing and tumbling down a grassy hill, giggling all the way, I know we made the right decision.

All I know is that when I see them out fishing together or tumbling down a grassy hill, giggling all the way, I know we made the right decision.

Uterus Garden

My uterus fell out.

I can’t go to work with my uterus out. What will people think? Besides, I wouldn’t be able to get any work done.

Round and round thoughts like these circled in my head…. and then I woke up.

I didn’t lead with the fact that this was a dream because that’s usually when people walk away, zone out or log off (can you still log off? Is that even a thing anymore?).

This is not the typical underwear at work, falling off the side of a cliff or teeth falling out. It was incredibly specific and real. 

So naturally, I had to poll the women at work. “Um. Yes. Girls, what does it mean if your uterus falls out? Er, um, in a dream?”

One: Pregnancy

Two: Happy that you’re not having anymore kids. So happy that you don’t want your uterus anymore.

Three: OMG. LMAO.

Four: The internet says dreams about your uterus could mean you’re working on something creative.

Me: Like my garden?!

Four: Yes! That’s it!

And that’s how my garden got its name: Uterus Garden.

A pact with the wasps

I have a problem.

We moved into our new lakehouse without realizing that a family already occupied the house. A family of wasps.

Wasps scare the bejesus out of me. I’ve been stung by a wasp once. I was 14 and I’ll remember is that it’s the stuff of nightmares. The plan since then has been to avoid wasps altogether. Don’t go in their house and they won’t come in my house. We won’t be meeting for tea, we won’t swap recipes and neither of us will be getting hurt.

So here I am, unknowingly breaking the pact I made with waspkind all those years ago. I did it. I did it to myself. And now, one of us has to go. I called the Bug Guy, or Master of the Creepy Crawlies, as I imagine him when I make the appointment. He came to my house and told me that I needn’t fear and my pact should hold firm because these are mud dauber wasps. “They’re not aggressive. They actually eat spiders. They won’t hurt you,” he promised.

After weighing the fear-pounds of spiders vs. wasps, I begrudgingly let him leave without spilling any wasp blood on my newly planted hostas.

These are good wasps.

These are good wasps.

These are good wasps.

I said repeatedly as I grabbed my hedge trimmers.

These are good wasps.

These are good wasps.

These are good wasps.

I plugged in the trimmer and readied the stance to clean up miles of boxwoods in front of my house. Then it began.

Bzzzzz!

Gah! What the-!? I smack my own face.

I look around. Nothing.

BZZZZZ!

AGHH! I jump and run across the lawn. Ok. That was a wasp.

After 5 minutes of repeatedly telling myself that “These are good wasps. They won’t hurt me.” I went back to the bushes and got back to work.Then left and right the wasps began dive bombing

As soon as I turned on the trimmer, they came out. Left, then right, then left again. The wasps were dive bombing me! I’m hopping and dancing across the lawn in a hibbity-jibbity manner as I try to get the bushes done.

My 8-year-old yelled that they won’t hurt me and I can only hope the neighbors don’t think I’m having some sort of seizure, what with all the spasming and neck wrenching.

I finally finish trimming the hedges. It looks like Edward Scissorhands first sculpture, maybe before he actually got good and was just hacking at foliage with his razor-blade fingers. But… the job is done. I guess.

Now the wasps have a less overgrown place to raise their wasp babies and peace between Danielle and waspkind has been restored… until next time.

I don’t ask for much

I don’t ask for much. Just 15 minutes alone with a sandwich at a house by a lake.

When Donnie moved us out of our first home to downsize, I told him, “I’m never moving again, unless…. it’s to a house on a lake (half-joking) and we hire movers (totally serious).”

So when he switched jobs again and almost simultaneously found a house on a lake, I wasn’t sure how to react. Too good to be true. All I needed was 15 minutes and a sandwich and all my dreams would come true.

So put in an offer, it was accepted and all we had to do is sell our house, in two weeks before we left for our family vacation. That’s totally, completely, and in no way stressful at all (looks into xanax). 

We’ve been in this house for about a week and a half now and it still feels like a really long vacation. It wasn’t until I folded laundry this afternoon that it finally started feeling like home. We’ll probably be living out of boxes for the next five months or so but… at least we’ll be doing it while looking out at a beautiful lake. 

Now, to get me that sandwich.