Still have 2 1/2 more days of work before I'm on Christmas vacation and I'm already giving my job the middle finger.
Oh, and could this be a sweet sore throat creeping its way into my body?
Would make sense, seeing as my entire body is achy and throwing in the towel.
Holy crabby pants - I have ZERO tolerance for anything at this point.
I wonder if there's a documented inverse relationship between the number of days until Christmas and one's level of anxiety/stress/frustration.
As in, one decreases as the other increases?
All I want to do is sleep.
And crap. I can't seem to stop crapping.
Gosh help me for the next 56 hours.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Here's a Thought to Ponder
I was reading in Chicago magazine about a playwright who's last three projects have been about physical beauty and its meaning to people.
He talked about an experience in which he was waiting to hear a band at Lalapalooza this summer, and he began asking the women around him:
"How would you you feel if you overheard your husband/boyfriend saying the he loved you so much, but your face was just average?"
I know - weird right?
But I thought about it.
It's an interesting question - because you would think that most woman would say that they really just want to be loved above all else, so being considered average-looking would be secondary.
Oh no, my friends.
Most of the woman responded that they would be devastated and a comment like that would be a "dealbreaker," while most of the men were seemingly ambivalent.
And me?
Listen, I'll tell you right off - I'd wanna leap off my second story ledge if my husband thought I was average looking.
Now, let's get something straight. I think I am - on my very best day - average looking.
And that's with makeup on.
And I accept that. In fact, average might be generous. I usually go with "non-descript."
But no matter how ugly I think I personally am, I fully expect my husband to think I am the most beautiful person he ever saw.
Even first thing in the morning.
When I still have those eye crusties.
And hair in four different directions.
In a white wife beater and his old boxer briefs.
If my husband thought of me as anything less than beautiful, I would be really hurt. I admit it.
So I asked my husband - what would he think if he heard that?
Cheese: I don't think I'd care all that much. Guys in general don't. They really just wanna know that they are in the same stadium as a good looking guy, but otherwise they don't put much worth in that.
Me: Really? Because no kidding - I would destroy me.
Cheese: I guess I would much rather to prefer that you respected me, saw me as a good man and a good provider.
Me: I prefer that you think I'm hot.
Shit man, even writing that I feel so shallow.
Come on ladies - I can't be the only one like this, right? I mean, I love that my husband thinks I am funny and smart, but I really love that he thinks I'm hot.
And when we walk into a room, I like him to think that he just brought the most beautiful girl to the party, and that his his friends think that too - that they're not just like, "Oh Cheese is here! And look, he brought his really smart wife with him!"
Because let's be honest - I don't care of his guy friends don't chat me up about Freudian psychology or Bowenian theory over beers - but I might wonder what's wrong if they aren't checking out my sweet rack or watching me walk to the bathroom.
So does that make me shallow? That I care about looks like that?
That is all almost laughable coming from me - me, the Queen of Gym Clothes who has a allergy to hair brushes and wears baseball hats to her office to meet with her supervisees. It was only a few months ago that my sister ridiculed me when she asked me for facial cleanser, I handed her a bar of Dial soap.
What I am trying to say is that I don't work hard trying to make myself (or keep myself) beautiful. I would rather spend time being comfortable that putting on tight clothes or trying to be fashionable. I open my makeup bag twice a year. I don't like to put much of an effort forth at this whole beautiful thing. Maybe that's why - as a general rule of thumb - I don't ever consider myself pretty, much less beautiful.
But yet - I still want my husband to think I am.
That under my uniform of hoodies and running capri tights, and beyond this raggedy ponytail, and aside from my facial hair, he truly believes he landed himself the crown jewel.
So what would you think if you overheard your partner calling you "average looking?"
He talked about an experience in which he was waiting to hear a band at Lalapalooza this summer, and he began asking the women around him:
"How would you you feel if you overheard your husband/boyfriend saying the he loved you so much, but your face was just average?"
I know - weird right?
But I thought about it.
It's an interesting question - because you would think that most woman would say that they really just want to be loved above all else, so being considered average-looking would be secondary.
Oh no, my friends.
Most of the woman responded that they would be devastated and a comment like that would be a "dealbreaker," while most of the men were seemingly ambivalent.
And me?
Listen, I'll tell you right off - I'd wanna leap off my second story ledge if my husband thought I was average looking.
Now, let's get something straight. I think I am - on my very best day - average looking.
And that's with makeup on.
And I accept that. In fact, average might be generous. I usually go with "non-descript."
But no matter how ugly I think I personally am, I fully expect my husband to think I am the most beautiful person he ever saw.
Even first thing in the morning.
When I still have those eye crusties.
And hair in four different directions.
In a white wife beater and his old boxer briefs.
If my husband thought of me as anything less than beautiful, I would be really hurt. I admit it.
So I asked my husband - what would he think if he heard that?
Cheese: I don't think I'd care all that much. Guys in general don't. They really just wanna know that they are in the same stadium as a good looking guy, but otherwise they don't put much worth in that.
Me: Really? Because no kidding - I would destroy me.
Cheese: I guess I would much rather to prefer that you respected me, saw me as a good man and a good provider.
Me: I prefer that you think I'm hot.
Shit man, even writing that I feel so shallow.
Come on ladies - I can't be the only one like this, right? I mean, I love that my husband thinks I am funny and smart, but I really love that he thinks I'm hot.
And when we walk into a room, I like him to think that he just brought the most beautiful girl to the party, and that his his friends think that too - that they're not just like, "Oh Cheese is here! And look, he brought his really smart wife with him!"
Because let's be honest - I don't care of his guy friends don't chat me up about Freudian psychology or Bowenian theory over beers - but I might wonder what's wrong if they aren't checking out my sweet rack or watching me walk to the bathroom.
So does that make me shallow? That I care about looks like that?
That is all almost laughable coming from me - me, the Queen of Gym Clothes who has a allergy to hair brushes and wears baseball hats to her office to meet with her supervisees. It was only a few months ago that my sister ridiculed me when she asked me for facial cleanser, I handed her a bar of Dial soap.
What I am trying to say is that I don't work hard trying to make myself (or keep myself) beautiful. I would rather spend time being comfortable that putting on tight clothes or trying to be fashionable. I open my makeup bag twice a year. I don't like to put much of an effort forth at this whole beautiful thing. Maybe that's why - as a general rule of thumb - I don't ever consider myself pretty, much less beautiful.
But yet - I still want my husband to think I am.
That under my uniform of hoodies and running capri tights, and beyond this raggedy ponytail, and aside from my facial hair, he truly believes he landed himself the crown jewel.
So what would you think if you overheard your partner calling you "average looking?"
Monday, December 13, 2010
Vanity Sizing
Nice thing about Christmas shopping is that, when it's all done, you can justify buying yourself a thing or two.
In my case, I wandered into the female apparel store with a gift card from a previous birthday.
Genius! I can get myself a gift without having to spend any more real money!
I quickly tried on a bunch of sale dresses (I love a good dress but hate the ordeal of stripping all my Midwest winter layers), and settled on one little sexy number (well, MY version of sexy, which means it wasn't running tights from Target). And the price was RIGHT ON! I'll take it!
I tried on the second dress - a longer, maxi type dress that was super hot.
Only problem was...it was a touch too big. Needed to be a bit smaller in the empire-type waist.
I put all my regular clothes back on (jeans, hoodie and ball cap), stepped outside of the changing stall, and peered around the corner to see if I could just run to the rack and snatch it quick.
"Can I help you with anything?" asks the tiny are-you-even-legal-working-age pixie from behind me.
"Uh yeah. I was just going to grab a different size for this dress," says I, feeling like Buddy the Elf lumbering around a workshop filled with Santa's helpers.
"Oh, I can get that for you. What size do you need?" offers the pixie, so tiny and petite she makes Tinkerbell look like Brian Urlacher.
"Um sure. I need a size (one size smaller than what I was holding)."
And that's when it happened.
Fucking pixie gave me the Manhattan once over.
THE MANHATTAN ONCE OVER!!!!
THEN, as if dropping the last chunk of coal into a stocking filled with elephant turds, she adds:
"Really?"
Bitch, what?
Hell NO I didn't just see this child check me out and then question my size!
In my head I responded, "You minuscule lady-child! What the hell was that?!?! What size do I need, you ask? I need size I'm-an-Ironman-who-spends-as-much-time-working-my-ass-off-in-the-gym-daily-as-you-do-applying-your-pancake-makeup. It's a specialty size-do you carry it? I'm not fucking Shrek for crying out loud! Not all small people have to walk around with their boobies hanging out their tops and jeans so tight you are begging for a yeast infection (see also: yourself). Who do you think you are with your "Really?" You, who's biggest life goal is to organize the shoe section before closing so you can rush home to your Camaro-driving-former-football-captain-now-stoner townie boyfriend, pay his rent, and cook his dinner, all with the promise of a ring and a wedding THAT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Now go flutter your wings over to that rack and get me my dress, or I will slap that blond right off yo' head."
To her face I said, "Yes, thank you so much."
*smile*
Merry Christmas and God Bless Us Everyone!
In my case, I wandered into the female apparel store with a gift card from a previous birthday.
Genius! I can get myself a gift without having to spend any more real money!
I quickly tried on a bunch of sale dresses (I love a good dress but hate the ordeal of stripping all my Midwest winter layers), and settled on one little sexy number (well, MY version of sexy, which means it wasn't running tights from Target). And the price was RIGHT ON! I'll take it!
I tried on the second dress - a longer, maxi type dress that was super hot.
Only problem was...it was a touch too big. Needed to be a bit smaller in the empire-type waist.
I put all my regular clothes back on (jeans, hoodie and ball cap), stepped outside of the changing stall, and peered around the corner to see if I could just run to the rack and snatch it quick.
"Can I help you with anything?" asks the tiny are-you-even-legal-working-age pixie from behind me.
"Uh yeah. I was just going to grab a different size for this dress," says I, feeling like Buddy the Elf lumbering around a workshop filled with Santa's helpers.
"Oh, I can get that for you. What size do you need?" offers the pixie, so tiny and petite she makes Tinkerbell look like Brian Urlacher.
"Um sure. I need a size (one size smaller than what I was holding)."
And that's when it happened.
Fucking pixie gave me the Manhattan once over.
THE MANHATTAN ONCE OVER!!!!
THEN, as if dropping the last chunk of coal into a stocking filled with elephant turds, she adds:
"Really?"
Bitch, what?
Hell NO I didn't just see this child check me out and then question my size!
In my head I responded, "You minuscule lady-child! What the hell was that?!?! What size do I need, you ask? I need size I'm-an-Ironman-who-spends-as-much-time-working-my-ass-off-in-the-gym-daily-as-you-do-applying-your-pancake-makeup. It's a specialty size-do you carry it? I'm not fucking Shrek for crying out loud! Not all small people have to walk around with their boobies hanging out their tops and jeans so tight you are begging for a yeast infection (see also: yourself). Who do you think you are with your "Really?" You, who's biggest life goal is to organize the shoe section before closing so you can rush home to your Camaro-driving-former-football-captain-now-stoner townie boyfriend, pay his rent, and cook his dinner, all with the promise of a ring and a wedding THAT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Now go flutter your wings over to that rack and get me my dress, or I will slap that blond right off yo' head."
To her face I said, "Yes, thank you so much."
*smile*
Merry Christmas and God Bless Us Everyone!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Complete Randomness
I Got A Fever for TS
Okay, I've got a confession.
I've been carrying this around with me for a while, and it wasn't until I was at the gym the other day that it really kinda took over - and I decided I needed to come clean.
And once I say it, I may forever look different in your eyes.
But I can't pretend it's not part of me anymore.
So here goes.
*Sharp inhale*
I like Taylor Swift.
I know! I know!
*crumples into a ball on the floor, pounding it with fists*
Trust me - I've read all the same musical criticisms of her - her lyrics are childish, she can't sing, she's too sweet, yada, yada, yada.
But it's for all these reason that I find myself loving her.
I mean, I have a 10-year old niece. She's got pictures of the Swiftness on her walls. But she also requested the song "Disco Stick" by Lady Gaga to be played at my wedding (declined).
I would MUCH rather my niece to be bopping around her room listening to the Swiftness bubbly singing about wearing tee-shirts and gyms shoes and flowers on front porches and Romeo and Juliet scenarios than to be harping about taking rides on disco sticks, love not being fun if it isn't rough, smoking cigarettes, and whathaveyou.
(Side not: Is it me or is the word "whathaveyou" one of the top ten signs you have become your parents? Also joining it on the list is the question, "How do parents let their daughter leave the house in that outfit?" and anything about the weather).
And I don't care that her song lyrics sound like they were written by me at age 10 - in fact, that's part of the draw. They are sweet, and for me - they bring me back to the days when I did believe in Prince Charming, and better lifes, and growing up.
In fact, I am pretty sure that Switfy doesn't actually write her songs like she says (this, by the way, is a long-standing argument between my "Team Taylor-Swift-is Hawt-Piece-of-Ass" husband who believes she does, and my "Team Taylor-Swift-is-a-Phony-Fraud" brother-in-law, who doesn't). Frankly, I don't really care if her songs are written by her or a 40-year-old single woman with questionable personal hygeine wearing a howling wolf tee-shirt while watching "Eclipse" on repeat and singing to her Robert Patterson posters while dancing with her cats.
But I digress.
I like that she has a somewhat sweet image (she makes heart signs with her hands!), she is usually fully dressed when out in public and she hasn't yet been caught making out with bongs a la Miley Cyrus.
In fact, here is the most recent addition to my playlist. This was the song that gave me my moment of clarity:
See? Who can't relate to a childhood experience in which they were bullied? I can - in fact, I still remember the names and comments of my bullies. But I like the song because it's also really hopeful. Yeah, the lyrics are simple and cheesy, and the music isn't exactly Beethoven, but who cares? I like belting it out at the top of my lungs in the car.
And I would far prefer my niece value Swifttastic and her "Little House on the Prairie" frocks:
than Miley Cyrus's 18th birthday leather get-up:
Or Katy Perry with fireworks shooting out of her boobies.
And sure - in a few years she may find herself living the life of a coked-out whore that's been used, abused and spit out by the industry, wandering the streets of downtown Nashville and playing her guitar in front of Joe's Crab Shack for spare change, wondering what the hell happened to her life.
But in the meantime, I rather fancy her happy little bouncy songs.
Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who?
And for today's edition of "WTF," I offer this:
I know - you're speechless. Did ya watch to the end to see those two college guys really getting into the granny action? Now this is the REAL Cougar Town. Gertrude's showing all the other young college bitches how to bring the boys to the yard.
I imagine the only thing more humiliating to her grandkids is her choice in footwear.
Is This, Like, an NFL Version of "The Beiber?"
Dear Tom Brady:
Ummmm...no.
I'm not talking about your smokin' hot wife whose body makes me weep for the unfairness of genetics.
This beef's about what's happening up there on top of your head.
Did you lose a bet? Is Giselle forcing you to play out some weird warrior/caveman dude fetish?
Missing ye ol' college days, perhaps?
Whatever. I don't care.
Just get yourself to a barber, k?
It's so bad it's actually making your wife less attractive, and that's the true crime here.
You're welcome.
Love,
Me
Okay, I've got a confession.
I've been carrying this around with me for a while, and it wasn't until I was at the gym the other day that it really kinda took over - and I decided I needed to come clean.
And once I say it, I may forever look different in your eyes.
But I can't pretend it's not part of me anymore.
So here goes.
*Sharp inhale*
I like Taylor Swift.
I know! I know!
*crumples into a ball on the floor, pounding it with fists*
Trust me - I've read all the same musical criticisms of her - her lyrics are childish, she can't sing, she's too sweet, yada, yada, yada.
But it's for all these reason that I find myself loving her.
I mean, I have a 10-year old niece. She's got pictures of the Swiftness on her walls. But she also requested the song "Disco Stick" by Lady Gaga to be played at my wedding (declined).
I would MUCH rather my niece to be bopping around her room listening to the Swiftness bubbly singing about wearing tee-shirts and gyms shoes and flowers on front porches and Romeo and Juliet scenarios than to be harping about taking rides on disco sticks, love not being fun if it isn't rough, smoking cigarettes, and whathaveyou.
(Side not: Is it me or is the word "whathaveyou" one of the top ten signs you have become your parents? Also joining it on the list is the question, "How do parents let their daughter leave the house in that outfit?" and anything about the weather).
And I don't care that her song lyrics sound like they were written by me at age 10 - in fact, that's part of the draw. They are sweet, and for me - they bring me back to the days when I did believe in Prince Charming, and better lifes, and growing up.
In fact, I am pretty sure that Switfy doesn't actually write her songs like she says (this, by the way, is a long-standing argument between my "Team Taylor-Swift-is Hawt-Piece-of-Ass" husband who believes she does, and my "Team Taylor-Swift-is-a-Phony-Fraud" brother-in-law, who doesn't). Frankly, I don't really care if her songs are written by her or a 40-year-old single woman with questionable personal hygeine wearing a howling wolf tee-shirt while watching "Eclipse" on repeat and singing to her Robert Patterson posters while dancing with her cats.
But I digress.
I like that she has a somewhat sweet image (she makes heart signs with her hands!), she is usually fully dressed when out in public and she hasn't yet been caught making out with bongs a la Miley Cyrus.
In fact, here is the most recent addition to my playlist. This was the song that gave me my moment of clarity:
See? Who can't relate to a childhood experience in which they were bullied? I can - in fact, I still remember the names and comments of my bullies. But I like the song because it's also really hopeful. Yeah, the lyrics are simple and cheesy, and the music isn't exactly Beethoven, but who cares? I like belting it out at the top of my lungs in the car.
And I would far prefer my niece value Swifttastic and her "Little House on the Prairie" frocks:
than Miley Cyrus's 18th birthday leather get-up:
Or Katy Perry with fireworks shooting out of her boobies.
And sure - in a few years she may find herself living the life of a coked-out whore that's been used, abused and spit out by the industry, wandering the streets of downtown Nashville and playing her guitar in front of Joe's Crab Shack for spare change, wondering what the hell happened to her life.
But in the meantime, I rather fancy her happy little bouncy songs.
Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who?
And for today's edition of "WTF," I offer this:
I know - you're speechless. Did ya watch to the end to see those two college guys really getting into the granny action? Now this is the REAL Cougar Town. Gertrude's showing all the other young college bitches how to bring the boys to the yard.
I imagine the only thing more humiliating to her grandkids is her choice in footwear.
Is This, Like, an NFL Version of "The Beiber?"
Dear Tom Brady:
Ummmm...no.
I'm not talking about your smokin' hot wife whose body makes me weep for the unfairness of genetics.
This beef's about what's happening up there on top of your head.
Did you lose a bet? Is Giselle forcing you to play out some weird warrior/caveman dude fetish?
Missing ye ol' college days, perhaps?
Whatever. I don't care.
Just get yourself to a barber, k?
It's so bad it's actually making your wife less attractive, and that's the true crime here.
You're welcome.
Love,
Me
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Tennessee 2010
This past weekend, a long overdue trip down south (well, south for this Chicago gal), was made to see my younger brother Nolan, his wife Jenny, and sweet face baby Brody.
The last time I saw my brother and his family was in June, when Brody was just about four months old. I've been saying I wanted to go down and see them and chill out in Tennessee (which I love), but I let work get in the way for the last several months.
Finally, completely burned out from my job and really missing my brother, I pulled the trigger on a long weekend trip.
I got into town late Thursday, and on Friday was given the honor of taking care of baby Brody all day while Jenny and Nolan went to work.
I was ecstatic at the idea that I got to spend so much uninterrupted time getting to know my nephew.
But I'm not sure Brody was entirely on board with this plan:
"Hey Brody, this is your aunt Megan."
Hey girl. Yeah you. Wanna share a milkie?
Yes. Yes you are.
Our attempt at Christmas card photo. Don't worry - no babies were harmed in the process.
See? He loved it. Well, until he didn't.
Santa's little helper and his momma.
Love you guys - counting down the days until I get to smooch on the face again.
The last time I saw my brother and his family was in June, when Brody was just about four months old. I've been saying I wanted to go down and see them and chill out in Tennessee (which I love), but I let work get in the way for the last several months.
Finally, completely burned out from my job and really missing my brother, I pulled the trigger on a long weekend trip.
I got into town late Thursday, and on Friday was given the honor of taking care of baby Brody all day while Jenny and Nolan went to work.
I was ecstatic at the idea that I got to spend so much uninterrupted time getting to know my nephew.
But I'm not sure Brody was entirely on board with this plan:
"Hey Brody, this is your aunt Megan."
"And she's going to take care of you today."
We made the best of it though. We ate some Goldfish, we had some milkies, we tried to change a diaper. But when he wouldn't lay still for me to get the saturated diaper off, I was sort of stumped.
So I gave him a bath.
In the middle of the day.
I guess this is sort of weird thing to do, but hey - he didn't seem to mind. Well, at least until he wanted out, and then screamed because I think he was cold.
But we got him dressed - a small miracle on my end, because I can barely manage to get out of my pjs each day and most days don't bother until I go to the gym at the end of the day. Don't hate though - that little benefit of my job is balanced out by the body-beating stress and emotional exhaustion of my line of work.
After a nap for Brody and shower time for me, we hit the local social scene.
Club Wal-Mart.
Holla!
I really just wanted to get out of the house, and didn't know where the nearest park was, so I opted for the next closest form of amusement we Chicagoans aren't normally privy to - fantastic savings at Wal-Mart.
And in true Megan's-an-Idiot form, I couldn't get his other shoe on so I was like, "Eff it, let's go."
And no, there is absolutely NOTHING weird about walking around Wal-Mart in Tennessee.
With beer in the cart.
And a one-shoed baby.
At noon.
On a weekday.
(seriously though - the beer was for beer bread I was going to make - I swear.)
Check out the pimp lean - "Heeeeey girl! Love the playa, hate the game!"
I am also mildly ashamed that I was 20 minutes into our 30 minute shopping expedition when I noticed Brody tugging on the strap - only to realize I needed to actually strap him in. I guess that explains the forward lean he had going on. I thought he was just really intrigued by the pattern of floor tile.
But of course, it wasn't all fun and Wal-Mart games. Someone took a header into the fireplace and landed himself a black eye.
Oh boy.
My brother and I were on our way home from hunting when Jenny called to tell us about the eye. Shit, I fet horrible. I told them both when they got home from work that he had fallen, but I didn't see a scratch at the time so I thought maybe he had just scared himself - turns out, he was actually hurt. Talk about feeling like an asshat. All these hours of childcare under my belt and Brody has to get the first injury on my watch.
And yeah - you read the first sentence of that last paragraph right - Nolan took me HUNTING.
Nolan started hunting last year, but he bow-and-arrow hunts. I actually think this is pretty cool, because I think that take a lot of skill and seems like a bit of a fairer fight.
But he also uses a gun, which he was using on this particular outing. He was really excited to bring this once-vegan city girl into the thicket to catch herself some deer.
In the end, I was more or less the "company." We didn't get a deer that morning, but I did learn a ton about hunting, things to look for, migration factors, and all sorts of odds and ends when one is out catching deer. I am not sure how I would have handled it if I was actually confronted with taking down my would-be-dinner, but I never had to find out.
Me having a Sarah Palin moment (cue the eye rolling and judgment of my liberal friends and family - hey, unless your vegan, the meat you eat comes from somewhere)
But seriously though - I think the pink really softens things up, yeah?
The rest of the weekend was spent more or less lolly-gagging around, eating bad food and doing no physical activity at all (which I paid for when I can home and tried to do a semi-long run on Monday - gawd, I felt like I had four butt cheeks jumping up and down and trying to escape my tights).
But overall I really had a blast. I love getting out of Chicago, spending time in Tennessee, and letting Brody get to know his Chicago kin. It sometimes makes me sad that he may never know us as well as my sweet nephews Nolan and Aiden, or precious baby Ford, but I hope that in the coming years, there will be more than twice-yearly visits.
I really enjoyed my new experiences with my brother as well. I have never really had a chance to spend time with him in the absence of all the other family, so that was cool. I am grateful that he introduced me to something I knew nothing about, as I really value the learning aspect of "living off the land." I'm proud of him and the life he has he established down there.
And just in case you aren't totally convinced of the cuteness of sweet face Brody, I will leave you with some more delicious evidence.
He's killing me with that face!
Dancing with daddy to 50 cent.
Hey girl. Yeah you. Wanna share a milkie?
Yes. Yes you are.
Our attempt at Christmas card photo. Don't worry - no babies were harmed in the process.
See? He loved it. Well, until he didn't. 
Santa's little helper and his momma.
Love you guys - counting down the days until I get to smooch on the face again.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
For Anyone Who Has Ever Lost Faith
Why does it seem like I've been starting all these blog posts with, "Yeah, so it's been a while...?"
Oh - I guess it's because when I finally dust off my little corner of the blogoshpere, it usually HAS been a while.
In my last post, there were all sorts of little goodies - a new niece, cute nephews, good things happening all around.
And then, just a few days following that post, life dealt a blow that threw my family back into the reality of "Nothing is ever a given."
Most of you who read this are also on Facebook, so certainly I don't have to delve too much into the events. Suffice it to say that my husband's nephew "K" - his sister's son - was killed on a Thursday afternoon leaving school. He was hit by a car. He was 7.
As with most traumatic events, I remember every second of the initial news as it traveled from Kansas back to Chicago via a phone call from the hospital chaplain: the immediate uncertainty (at first all we were told was that there was an accident and "it's really bad"), the news of death moments later, and scramble to pack, the rush to get in the car, the swiftness in which we drove straight out of town.
In hindsight, it all took about 25 minutes, though the following 9 hours drive was likely the longest of my husband's life. We arrived at his sister's house at 330am, and didn't leave until the following Wednesday.
What happened in between those days were by far the most emotionally excruciating days of my life. I've experienced death - most notably when my dad died - but never like this, never so senselessly, and never so deep. The grief I saw and felt is still something I have not been able to put into words.
In the midst of all of this, I was still trying to train for a marathon. Even writing that right now - that I was even thinking of anything else during that timee- seems ridiculous. And honestly, I really wasn't thinking about the marathon.
But what did happen was that, while in Kansas during those days, I turned to running to get some relief - to take time away from the house, to zone out, to escape from the otherwise inability to stop crying every five minutes. I had a 19-miler on the schedule that weekend, and I knew that wasn't going to happen on roads I have often visited but never ran on. But I managed two 9-milers on the treadmill. Those were miles that I was able to literally stare at the wall, empty my mind and just sweat. I wasn't completely separated from the event though - I did have a moment when I just stopped and started crying unprovoked, and then there was the moment when I looked up at the t.v. and the news story of the accident and K's picture was staring back at me.
Almost immediately after we returned to Chicago, we returned to Kansas - this time for a wedding that was planned in far advance of the accident, but structured as a long weekend for family visiting.
Eventually, I managed to get in my long runs - two 18-milers and a 20-miler. And despite my sporadic training in the final few weeks, these long runs post-accident felt almost effortless. Well, as effortless as possible when you're running 20 miles.
Weird, right? Yeah, that's what I thought. What was the key ingredient? What was I doing right? What was my secret weapon?
In those final weeks, I started to believe that I had a little something "extra" now on my side.
So with that long-ass intro, let's fast-forward to my final race of an otherwise-successful season - the Chicago Marathon.
The Good
Let me save you the suspense.
I PR'd but a handful of minutes, but didn't hit my goal time. I trained for a 4:20, but put in a 4:31. Yikes.
Beyond that, I LOVED LOVED LOVED this experience - the city as seen through the eyes of a marathoner is like no other. I spent 34 years of my life on these streets, but yet with a number strapped to my waist, I fell in love with it all over again.
In the days leading up, people were freaking out over the weather. In the end, it was definitely warm, but I liked it. It didn't contribute to me not hitting my time.
The Bad
However, for the last few months, I have had an increasingly problematic pain in my abdomen – it could be a cyst, my husband thinks it’s a hernia. Who knows – but the longer the runs lately, the worse the pain (and yes, I do have a doctor's appointment, but it's not until November - spectacular).
I knew it would impact Sunday, but I didn’t know how. It seems to flare up after four miles, and hangs on for the duration.
For the first 13 miles, I struggled with some stiffness in my legs and hips, but by mile 13, my focus was on the exploding pain in my abdomen. About every 20 steps, it felt like a firework went off and radiated down my leg.
I was working hard to focus on the 1.5 million spectators that make this race what it is, and it did help for the first half, but by 14, I was in full blown distress. Although I was refusing to walk under any circumstance, I was fairly certain “it” would eventually burst, and wondered how they would get ahold of Cheese if I was found on the side of the road.
By the turn at 15, I started crying.
I knew I would never outright quit, but I just struggled to keep moving forward with the pain. Something, I felt, had to give.
The Faith
But then I had my first “sign.”
I ran past the police academy, over which hung a banner with the pictures of fallen police officers, and a statement that read, “These officers and over 500 other have died in the line of duty. They will be watching over you today to ensure your safe journey to the finish.”
And one of the men was a picture of my father’s close friend.
I ran right under the picture, and filled my head with images of him, my dad, and with my nephew K, who I had taken to “talking” with over the last few months and longer runs.
As I approached 16, I was having an outright conversation with K.
Pain started to dissipate.
And then – it happened.
In the split second my family came off the train at 17, I was running past them. One second later and they would have missed me. But in that miracle second, I heard Ellen scream my name and saw her wave that green noodle.
How did that happen? Literally one second later and we wouldn't have met up.
I took a second to pity myself from the pain, but then everyone started telling me how great I looked (lie) and how awesome I was doing (lie) and even though I knew it probably wasn’t true, I made myself believe it. And I loved them for every second they traveled on those trains to find me in the midst of a sea of runners and spectators. I loved them for standing in the heat, for screaming like mad, and for being so proud of me in the moments when I was so very not proud of myself.
I said my goodbyes, took a step, and took note immediately.
The pain was gone.
Steps later I saw my best friend Anne-Marie – she too grabbed her 1-year-old and traveled across the city on the crazy trains and in the heat to see me – even though it was only for a few seconds. I stopped hugged her, kissed her son, high fived her husband and her say, “I am so proud of you.” And that was all I needed.
I was off. Pain still minimized.
And let me pause here to say how awesome my support crew is - my husband puts up with this lunacy (even though I know he must cringe everytime I say, "I really want to sign up for..."), my sister who lugged around a 7-week old child on her chest for six hours on a Sunday morning just to cheer me on, and my other sister who gave me a massive bag of candy (gone two days later) and trekked around in the heat waving a big green noodle for me to see from blocks away. I also received a number of awesome notes, emails and texts from friends and family in the day leading up to the race that really were awesome.
Getting back to the race - I don’t know really what happened, but from 17 through 26, I was a new person. I ran steady, and with purpose. I knew I was never going to actually quit, but I just didn’t know how I was going to do it through the pain. But I did.
Miles 18-20, I again spent time talking to K, thanking him for watching over me, for keeping me safe and for keeping me moving towards the finish. I kept hearing his voice in my head, “You crazy girl.” I eventually started to repeat it over and over, like a mantra.
By Chinatown, I actually felt pretty okay. I knew my legs were a little tired, but I also knew my family was around the corner at 23. And they were – again, we found each other within seconds of them getting to the spot. Just a few steps sooner or later and we would have missed each other.
Someone was watching out for me.
I stopped again to talk with them(I don’t know why I did this twice – I never do this in races so I guess I must have just needed it this time), and then took off – and I felt like I was flying. I am sure my times don’t reflect that, but I felt it, and that’s what matter.
I rounded the corner to head up Michigan – that last 2 mile straightaway – and I felt like I had wings. I sung out loud, waved to people calling my name, and just kept running. I knew where the mile signs were, and just keep pushing forward.
The further north I got, the more crazy the spectators got – I don’t ever remember them being so numerous and loud! I slapped high-fives, and continued to sing. And once I hit the “1 Mile Left” sign, I said what I’ve been saying at the 1-mile marker for every long run for the last two months-
“Okay K – time to take me home.”
And home we went.
Now, I've finished a lot of races in the years I've been doing these sports. I've finished ugly, I've finished destroyed, I've finished balls out, literally covered in my own blood, sweat and tears.
But in all these years, I've never finished as strong as I finished those 26.2 miles - especially after feeling like my insides were exploding halfway through.
What happened? Good nutrition? Good weather? Increased squats?
A miracle?
I don't go to church, I don't follow a specific religion, and I've even lost a little faith since K's death because honestly, it feels like a punishment from a Power I can't control and I can't rationalize.
But I do believe that we are watched over, I do believe that K was with me Sunday, and I do believe that he is with his family all the time. I don't have science to explain this belief, but that's what makes it a belief - I just, quite simply, believe it.
And yes, K probably has a fuller agenda of things to do in Heaven other than watch his lunatic aunt run a race. But maybe he needed to be amused that day, and maybe he thought I might need help. Maybe he knows that his uncle silently grieves for him with every breath he takes, and he thought he could use some celebration.
I don't know the answer. Maybe you all think I am a lunatic at this point, and want to just chalk up my good race to strong training -whatever.
But when someone leaves your life suddenly and violently, you want to hold onto them. With K, my grip on him has been strongest when I often feel strongest - when I run.
I chose to remember him in this way.
I chose to take him with me.
And I chose to have faith.
Oh - I guess it's because when I finally dust off my little corner of the blogoshpere, it usually HAS been a while.
In my last post, there were all sorts of little goodies - a new niece, cute nephews, good things happening all around.
And then, just a few days following that post, life dealt a blow that threw my family back into the reality of "Nothing is ever a given."
Most of you who read this are also on Facebook, so certainly I don't have to delve too much into the events. Suffice it to say that my husband's nephew "K" - his sister's son - was killed on a Thursday afternoon leaving school. He was hit by a car. He was 7.
As with most traumatic events, I remember every second of the initial news as it traveled from Kansas back to Chicago via a phone call from the hospital chaplain: the immediate uncertainty (at first all we were told was that there was an accident and "it's really bad"), the news of death moments later, and scramble to pack, the rush to get in the car, the swiftness in which we drove straight out of town.
In hindsight, it all took about 25 minutes, though the following 9 hours drive was likely the longest of my husband's life. We arrived at his sister's house at 330am, and didn't leave until the following Wednesday.
What happened in between those days were by far the most emotionally excruciating days of my life. I've experienced death - most notably when my dad died - but never like this, never so senselessly, and never so deep. The grief I saw and felt is still something I have not been able to put into words.
In the midst of all of this, I was still trying to train for a marathon. Even writing that right now - that I was even thinking of anything else during that timee- seems ridiculous. And honestly, I really wasn't thinking about the marathon.
But what did happen was that, while in Kansas during those days, I turned to running to get some relief - to take time away from the house, to zone out, to escape from the otherwise inability to stop crying every five minutes. I had a 19-miler on the schedule that weekend, and I knew that wasn't going to happen on roads I have often visited but never ran on. But I managed two 9-milers on the treadmill. Those were miles that I was able to literally stare at the wall, empty my mind and just sweat. I wasn't completely separated from the event though - I did have a moment when I just stopped and started crying unprovoked, and then there was the moment when I looked up at the t.v. and the news story of the accident and K's picture was staring back at me.
Almost immediately after we returned to Chicago, we returned to Kansas - this time for a wedding that was planned in far advance of the accident, but structured as a long weekend for family visiting.
Eventually, I managed to get in my long runs - two 18-milers and a 20-miler. And despite my sporadic training in the final few weeks, these long runs post-accident felt almost effortless. Well, as effortless as possible when you're running 20 miles.
Weird, right? Yeah, that's what I thought. What was the key ingredient? What was I doing right? What was my secret weapon?
In those final weeks, I started to believe that I had a little something "extra" now on my side.
So with that long-ass intro, let's fast-forward to my final race of an otherwise-successful season - the Chicago Marathon.
The Good
Let me save you the suspense.
I PR'd but a handful of minutes, but didn't hit my goal time. I trained for a 4:20, but put in a 4:31. Yikes.
Beyond that, I LOVED LOVED LOVED this experience - the city as seen through the eyes of a marathoner is like no other. I spent 34 years of my life on these streets, but yet with a number strapped to my waist, I fell in love with it all over again.
In the days leading up, people were freaking out over the weather. In the end, it was definitely warm, but I liked it. It didn't contribute to me not hitting my time.
The Bad
However, for the last few months, I have had an increasingly problematic pain in my abdomen – it could be a cyst, my husband thinks it’s a hernia. Who knows – but the longer the runs lately, the worse the pain (and yes, I do have a doctor's appointment, but it's not until November - spectacular).
I knew it would impact Sunday, but I didn’t know how. It seems to flare up after four miles, and hangs on for the duration.
For the first 13 miles, I struggled with some stiffness in my legs and hips, but by mile 13, my focus was on the exploding pain in my abdomen. About every 20 steps, it felt like a firework went off and radiated down my leg.
I was working hard to focus on the 1.5 million spectators that make this race what it is, and it did help for the first half, but by 14, I was in full blown distress. Although I was refusing to walk under any circumstance, I was fairly certain “it” would eventually burst, and wondered how they would get ahold of Cheese if I was found on the side of the road.
By the turn at 15, I started crying.
I knew I would never outright quit, but I just struggled to keep moving forward with the pain. Something, I felt, had to give.
The Faith
But then I had my first “sign.”
I ran past the police academy, over which hung a banner with the pictures of fallen police officers, and a statement that read, “These officers and over 500 other have died in the line of duty. They will be watching over you today to ensure your safe journey to the finish.”
And one of the men was a picture of my father’s close friend.
I ran right under the picture, and filled my head with images of him, my dad, and with my nephew K, who I had taken to “talking” with over the last few months and longer runs.
As I approached 16, I was having an outright conversation with K.
Pain started to dissipate.
And then – it happened.
In the split second my family came off the train at 17, I was running past them. One second later and they would have missed me. But in that miracle second, I heard Ellen scream my name and saw her wave that green noodle.
How did that happen? Literally one second later and we wouldn't have met up.
I took a second to pity myself from the pain, but then everyone started telling me how great I looked (lie) and how awesome I was doing (lie) and even though I knew it probably wasn’t true, I made myself believe it. And I loved them for every second they traveled on those trains to find me in the midst of a sea of runners and spectators. I loved them for standing in the heat, for screaming like mad, and for being so proud of me in the moments when I was so very not proud of myself.
I said my goodbyes, took a step, and took note immediately.
The pain was gone.
Steps later I saw my best friend Anne-Marie – she too grabbed her 1-year-old and traveled across the city on the crazy trains and in the heat to see me – even though it was only for a few seconds. I stopped hugged her, kissed her son, high fived her husband and her say, “I am so proud of you.” And that was all I needed.
I was off. Pain still minimized.
And let me pause here to say how awesome my support crew is - my husband puts up with this lunacy (even though I know he must cringe everytime I say, "I really want to sign up for..."), my sister who lugged around a 7-week old child on her chest for six hours on a Sunday morning just to cheer me on, and my other sister who gave me a massive bag of candy (gone two days later) and trekked around in the heat waving a big green noodle for me to see from blocks away. I also received a number of awesome notes, emails and texts from friends and family in the day leading up to the race that really were awesome.
Getting back to the race - I don’t know really what happened, but from 17 through 26, I was a new person. I ran steady, and with purpose. I knew I was never going to actually quit, but I just didn’t know how I was going to do it through the pain. But I did.
Miles 18-20, I again spent time talking to K, thanking him for watching over me, for keeping me safe and for keeping me moving towards the finish. I kept hearing his voice in my head, “You crazy girl.” I eventually started to repeat it over and over, like a mantra.
By Chinatown, I actually felt pretty okay. I knew my legs were a little tired, but I also knew my family was around the corner at 23. And they were – again, we found each other within seconds of them getting to the spot. Just a few steps sooner or later and we would have missed each other.
Someone was watching out for me.
I stopped again to talk with them(I don’t know why I did this twice – I never do this in races so I guess I must have just needed it this time), and then took off – and I felt like I was flying. I am sure my times don’t reflect that, but I felt it, and that’s what matter.
I rounded the corner to head up Michigan – that last 2 mile straightaway – and I felt like I had wings. I sung out loud, waved to people calling my name, and just kept running. I knew where the mile signs were, and just keep pushing forward.
The further north I got, the more crazy the spectators got – I don’t ever remember them being so numerous and loud! I slapped high-fives, and continued to sing. And once I hit the “1 Mile Left” sign, I said what I’ve been saying at the 1-mile marker for every long run for the last two months-
“Okay K – time to take me home.”
And home we went.
Now, I've finished a lot of races in the years I've been doing these sports. I've finished ugly, I've finished destroyed, I've finished balls out, literally covered in my own blood, sweat and tears.
But in all these years, I've never finished as strong as I finished those 26.2 miles - especially after feeling like my insides were exploding halfway through.
What happened? Good nutrition? Good weather? Increased squats?
A miracle?
I don't go to church, I don't follow a specific religion, and I've even lost a little faith since K's death because honestly, it feels like a punishment from a Power I can't control and I can't rationalize.
But I do believe that we are watched over, I do believe that K was with me Sunday, and I do believe that he is with his family all the time. I don't have science to explain this belief, but that's what makes it a belief - I just, quite simply, believe it.
And yes, K probably has a fuller agenda of things to do in Heaven other than watch his lunatic aunt run a race. But maybe he needed to be amused that day, and maybe he thought I might need help. Maybe he knows that his uncle silently grieves for him with every breath he takes, and he thought he could use some celebration.
I don't know the answer. Maybe you all think I am a lunatic at this point, and want to just chalk up my good race to strong training -whatever.
But when someone leaves your life suddenly and violently, you want to hold onto them. With K, my grip on him has been strongest when I often feel strongest - when I run.
I chose to remember him in this way.
I chose to take him with me.
And I chose to have faith.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
As My World Turns
Okay kiddos, buckle in, because this is a Costco-size post.
See, I've been pretty neglectful of ye ole blog as of late - I'm working like a dog, trying to marathon train (how the heck did I ever find time to train for Ironman?!), and fit in all sorts of family events.
But I've been steadily photo documenting many of these events in the last few weeks, and since I don't when I'll post again, I figured I get all ambitious and whatnot and do it all in this one post.
So here goes....
While my nephew Brody hangs in Tennessee and we don't get to see him all that much, my brother keeps us in the loop thanks to camera phones -
Don't you just want to eat his little face up?!?!
(learning how to sit!)
MAWHA!!!! (that's kisses auntie M style)
A NEW RUNNER IN THE FAMILY
Way back a few months ago, my sister Ellen decided that she wanted to see what all this running fuss was about, and signed up for a half-marathon in September. She asked me if I could help her train (YES!!!!). Halfway through, she decided she wanted to bump up the race to the late July Rock and Roll marathon her in Chicago. We kicked up training a bit, and when the race rolled around, she was ready to go.
Pasta dinner at my house - guess who was recently weened off the breastfeeding?
Lookin' all sessy with her pals.
Needless to say, I was super pumped. Ellen made it clear ahead of time that she was not going to let herself walk, no matter what happened. She didn't really set a time goal, and instead just wanted to complete the distance. AND SHE KILLED IT!! I ran with her the last couple of miles and was so proud to be by her side as she complete this race - right before she hit the last uphill, I got really teary and thought I was going to lose it, but managed to pull it together - it's kinda hard to run when you got the tears in your throat. I was just so happy for her, and for how she hung through all the training - heat, humidity, and two kids in a stoller - to cross that finish line.
It was a very proud day!
FORD FRANCIS
And then, on August 23, we were blessed by this precious little girl, Ford Francis.
Does someone have baby fever? Methinks so...
Proud aunt
Pucker up, buttercup!
I now am the proud aunt of three amazingly gorgous nephews and a niece!! I am finally comfortable enough to actually hold her without feeling like I will drop her. She is super tiny, and a total blend of her parents features. We all love her like mad!
HAIR
Okay - if you know me on Facebook, you know we had a bit of a catastrophe here yesterday.
See, I had this school reunion tonight which I was really on the fence about. I couldn't decide if I wanted to go or not, so yesterday I thought, "Well, if I do go, I should probably try to get my hair cut." It's been a while, my bangs were in my eyes, and the length of it went down to my boobies.
So I went to my lady who has done a good job the last few times, and said, "Listen, nothing drastic, I just want you to trim two inches off the bottom, clean it up a bit."
The next thing I know, I was staring in the mirror at someone with shoulder-length hair.
Well, at least shoulder-length in the front.
Ignore my sour face in this - I know its hard but try to stay focused on the dead animal on my head. And let's remember that, two hours before, my hair fell down to my tatas.
And while it's all business in the front...
It's a party in the back!!
Oh hell yeah - I got me a Lady Mullet!
Can't really see it that well? Here's another -
I know - ridiculous right? Like, what the fuck is that? I mean, it's a like a solid 4-5 inch difference - who the hell cuts hair that way?!?!
I thought I was crazy, perhaps overreacting a bit, until Cheese came home and I made him look.
Eyes wide, mouth hung open, he finally stammers, "What happened to your hair?" (from the guy who has probably never once noticed a haircut of mine). "Why are there, like, levels? That doesn't even make sense."
Ya think?
And then he adds, "You know what that looks like? It looks like when that Sally kid from 'Mad Men' cut her hair in the last episode."
Really? Because "Sally" is 10, and took a Fiskers to her locks in the bathoom out of spite for her whore father, while I actually paid money to have this...this...butchering.
Personally, I thought it looked like I belonged on the hood of a car in a Whitesnake video-
Fuck.Me.
And the worst part is that it barely fits into a ponytail so until it grows about a bit, I am forced to walk around looking like a cast-off from a Prince video.
Guess I'll have to wait until the next 20-year reunion to catch up with old classmates....
See, I've been pretty neglectful of ye ole blog as of late - I'm working like a dog, trying to marathon train (how the heck did I ever find time to train for Ironman?!), and fit in all sorts of family events.
But I've been steadily photo documenting many of these events in the last few weeks, and since I don't when I'll post again, I figured I get all ambitious and whatnot and do it all in this one post.
So here goes....
While my nephew Brody hangs in Tennessee and we don't get to see him all that much, my brother keeps us in the loop thanks to camera phones -
Don't you just want to eat his little face up?!?!
(learning how to sit!)
MAWHA!!!! (that's kisses auntie M style)
A NEW RUNNER IN THE FAMILY
Way back a few months ago, my sister Ellen decided that she wanted to see what all this running fuss was about, and signed up for a half-marathon in September. She asked me if I could help her train (YES!!!!). Halfway through, she decided she wanted to bump up the race to the late July Rock and Roll marathon her in Chicago. We kicked up training a bit, and when the race rolled around, she was ready to go.
Pasta dinner at my house - guess who was recently weened off the breastfeeding?
Lookin' all sessy with her pals.
Needless to say, I was super pumped. Ellen made it clear ahead of time that she was not going to let herself walk, no matter what happened. She didn't really set a time goal, and instead just wanted to complete the distance. AND SHE KILLED IT!! I ran with her the last couple of miles and was so proud to be by her side as she complete this race - right before she hit the last uphill, I got really teary and thought I was going to lose it, but managed to pull it together - it's kinda hard to run when you got the tears in your throat. I was just so happy for her, and for how she hung through all the training - heat, humidity, and two kids in a stoller - to cross that finish line.
It was a very proud day!
FORD FRANCIS
And then, on August 23, we were blessed by this precious little girl, Ford Francis.
Does someone have baby fever? Methinks so...
Proud aunt
Pucker up, buttercup!
I now am the proud aunt of three amazingly gorgous nephews and a niece!! I am finally comfortable enough to actually hold her without feeling like I will drop her. She is super tiny, and a total blend of her parents features. We all love her like mad!
HAIR
Okay - if you know me on Facebook, you know we had a bit of a catastrophe here yesterday.
See, I had this school reunion tonight which I was really on the fence about. I couldn't decide if I wanted to go or not, so yesterday I thought, "Well, if I do go, I should probably try to get my hair cut." It's been a while, my bangs were in my eyes, and the length of it went down to my boobies.
So I went to my lady who has done a good job the last few times, and said, "Listen, nothing drastic, I just want you to trim two inches off the bottom, clean it up a bit."
The next thing I know, I was staring in the mirror at someone with shoulder-length hair.
Well, at least shoulder-length in the front.
Ignore my sour face in this - I know its hard but try to stay focused on the dead animal on my head. And let's remember that, two hours before, my hair fell down to my tatas.
And while it's all business in the front...
It's a party in the back!!
Oh hell yeah - I got me a Lady Mullet!
Can't really see it that well? Here's another -
I know - ridiculous right? Like, what the fuck is that? I mean, it's a like a solid 4-5 inch difference - who the hell cuts hair that way?!?!
I thought I was crazy, perhaps overreacting a bit, until Cheese came home and I made him look.
Eyes wide, mouth hung open, he finally stammers, "What happened to your hair?" (from the guy who has probably never once noticed a haircut of mine). "Why are there, like, levels? That doesn't even make sense."
Ya think?
And then he adds, "You know what that looks like? It looks like when that Sally kid from 'Mad Men' cut her hair in the last episode."
Really? Because "Sally" is 10, and took a Fiskers to her locks in the bathoom out of spite for her whore father, while I actually paid money to have this...this...butchering.
Personally, I thought it looked like I belonged on the hood of a car in a Whitesnake video-
Fuck.Me.
And the worst part is that it barely fits into a ponytail so until it grows about a bit, I am forced to walk around looking like a cast-off from a Prince video.
Guess I'll have to wait until the next 20-year reunion to catch up with old classmates....
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