Thursday, December 8, 2011


Let's get this out of the way first - Baby still not here.

Not going to launch into the drama of the last few weeks, but suffice to say, we are still waiting...

And waiting...

And growing....

And by growing, I mean me getting fatter. The kid? Eh, not so much. Still a bit on the small side.

I'm now one day short of 39 weeks.

Or by my count, two solid months of zero physical activity, peppered with on-and-off-and-on (again) bedrest. One moment the kid's head is all but hanging out and we are bags-packed-and-headed-to-the-hospital, and the next he/she has crawled right back up and nestled into the apparently-welcoming envionment of my womb, with talk turned to being in this for the long haul.

You can imagine how thrilled this makes me.

Yeah, I am a straight peach to deal with at this point.

In fact, I was trying to post pictures of my baby shower (coincidently held the exact day I hit nine months so you can get the full impact of my ginormously swollen body and face) for this post, but iPhone is being a bitch and not letting me transfers pics.

Or something.

Who cares.

I can't be bothered to figure it out, so I have to wait until my husband wakes up to do it for me.

Just like he now has to do everything for me: tie my shoes, cook my food, pull me off the couch (and out of the car),and deal with my bed-rattling snoring.

And endless complaining. Oh, it is endless.

I have ZERO patience for literally anything at this point (including work - it's like I am bothered when people call me during the day and I have to problems-solve some issue, gosh-forbid it breaks up my naptime), as my kid's foot has been stuck in my right rib for about five days, and I haven't sleep adequately in about two months.

Have I mentioned that my belly button (like my kid) can't decide what it wants to do, so it hasn't quite popped out, yet it isn't a regular in-ie anymore. No, my belly button looks like a clay-mation volcano, second only in nastiness to my cartoonish, National Geographic situation going on with my boobs.

Sit with that image for a minute if you can.

So in the absence of anything more entertaining (like those fucking pictures), here's a little something I learned this past week:

Eat too many Oreos and you risk not taking a crap for three days.

You're welcome.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Keep on Keepin' On

First – no baby yet. Seems that after his/her unsuccessful run towards the border, he/she had second thoughts and crawled right back up into my lady bits.

And proceeded to kick out my belly button.

So there’s that.

Don’t know how many more of these no-baby posts I’ll have before…well, before I have this baby. This might be it. So on to my final not-a-mom-yet thoughts.

What a Difference a Week Can Make
Talk about growth!!

Week 34 - Saturday

Week 35 - Saturday

Seven days, and my belly feels like it doubled in size. I know at this point the baby is packing on some pounds, so that might sort of explain it - but wow. Needless to say, Big Mama over here has DEFINITELY noticed a difference - from my sleep, to how I sit and walk, to even driving a car. Imagine my surprise at how difficult it is to click a seatbelt. True story.

Truth Serum
Did you watch The Office this week? About how everyone was telling Pam how great and radiant she looked as a pregnant lady, but then Dwight was honest and basically told her she looked like crap?


But seriously, you know what I won’t miss?

This double chin.

Actually, it’s not so much a double chin as it is a complete loss of chin, and instead it looks like my mouth just turns right into a big long neck.

I look like that little kid from that movie "Gummo."

How does that even happen? That’s not mentioned ANYWHERE in my baby books.

Real conversation:
Me: Ugh. This apartment is crazy hot. Like, oven-hot.
Husband: No, no it’s not. It must be your newfound fatness.

(In related news, being pregnant makes you sweat…EVERYWHERE)

(Also, before you freak at my husband, it was a joke - even I laughed. He doesn't think I am fat, and probably would be okay if I stayed at this weight even after this kid comes out. He tells me all the time how I've never looked more beautiful as I do now and I know he really believes that.)

Speaking of….
Fuck you, inner thighs.

Fuck you and the chronic swamp ass you create.

The closer I get to meeting my little buddy, the more anxious I have become. My husband has a good handle on the excitement part – but me? I’m a mess of nerves. A bloated, tearful, hungry mess of nerves. There’s not one aspect of this that I am not afraid of. And that’s the painful, honest truth.

Did I mention hungry?

I know this will change, but right now – it is what it is.

Now, I Don't Mean to Complain, But...
I am astounded at how little people give a shit about basic courtesy when you're pregnant.

See me and my basketball belly walking in a crosswalk while you wait at a Stop sign? Feel free to honk impatiently, or fuck it - just blow through the sign completely. Who cares, right?

In a grocery store and need to get by me? Sorry my big fat pregnant self is hoggin up the isle, but just go right on ahead and actually use your cart to push me to the side to get through without so much as an "excuse me."

See me right behind you entering a store? Eh, don't bother holding a door - my belly may be big but my chubby little hands work just fine!

What's crazy is that - in all three of the aforementioned scenarios - it would still be a violation of basic common courtesy even if I wasn't pregnant. But you would think that people would actually maybe make a slight better effort seeing me with my enormous front-self. Hellz no. People just don't give a shit.

And while I'm ranting - can someone please explain to me where the courtesy wave has gone? You know, the one you should get when you let a driver into your lane, even if they waited until the last minute or are driving like a super a-hole? They should give you a little, "Hey man, thanks for the favor" wave, right?

Well, either they've outlawed those here in Illinois, or people simply are just so entitled these days they don't feel the need to acknowledge a pleasentry.

Go ahead and discuss because I need to pause and take my third shower of the day – this hobo BO isn’t going to clean itself.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Dry Run

Wow – this was quite a week. I’ve kind of avoided posting these details on the Facebook, so this will likely read like one big sterile update.

Side note: Speaking of Facebook, that girl that was preggo and posted literally ten times a day about her progress and who is my own personal marker against how I judge my own sharing habits? Yeah, apparently posting about the mucus plug wasn’t enough – she honored us with a post about her explosive diarrhea. No.Fucking.Shit. ON HER STATUS UPDATE. Now, one might have in fact defriended this lunatic at this point, but not me – me and my abnormal fascination with oversharing wackos against whom I both rage and obsess. And yes, in case you’re wondering (you’re probably not) but she did in fact post throughout her delivery – all the way up to the point where she was 10 centimeters dilated and pushing. Why did she put down the phone, you ask ? (you likely didn’t) Because the doctor actually had to tell her to.


Why do I let it work me up so? Seriously. It would be so much easier to hit “remove,” but I don’t. I have no one to blame but myself.

And her. I blame her.

Okay, so getting back to the fact that I didn’t post on Facebook, I did want to say thanks to people that sensed something was up and inquired – I was so not trying to blow it off. I just wanted to wait until I could put it here and avoid being THAT girl.

So Monday was just about as typical as any other day. Since I was already on limited movement and couldn’t do my typical Monday drive out to the cornfields for my weekly meeting (it’s about 79 miles away, so the doctor and my husband said no more at this point – too far away if anything happens), I was working from home.

At 1100am, I threw on some flipflops and sweats and I went to my doctor’s appointment, not thinking much of anything. I didn’t even bother to shut down my work computer because I knew – thought – I would be back in about an hour.

But an hour later, I was on my way to Labor and Delivery.

Turns out that, while the tests results from that pre-term labor test were negative (meaning I was likely going to make it Week 34 without going into labor), my body had in fact started the process anyways. I was dilated, effaced and contracting (all of which are labor code words for “Get the catcher’s mitt ready – batter’s up!), and with enough progress from the previous week that I was being sent to Labor and Delivery to be hooked up to monitor the actual contractions and assess what was happening.

In addition, because my body already started to prepare and pre-term labor was the concern, I was given steroids for the baby’s lungs – with the way my body was progressing, even if we stopped the labor, there was still a chance the baby would come too early (anytime in the next two weeks), and the steroids were to boost the lung development.

The rest of the day kind of drew out – contractions slowed, I got my first round of steroid shots, and watched the Chiefs football game with my husband from the hospital room.

Contractions kicked back in fierce the next morning, but there was no decernable change to my cervix since the day before, so they let me go home.

Where I am now trapped. Indefinitely. Well, at least til this kiddo comes out.

And believe me – my family and especially my husband are hawk-eyeing me to make sure that I don’t get very far from my couch. My job has been extremely awesome in divvying up my responsibilities to lessen my stress (although truth be told its weird seeing other people do my job – makes me feel a bit dispensable but oh well) and I’ve been doing what I can to keep up with my supervisees.

Today marks Week 34, and what we consider the gateway to the Green Zone. This is a big marker because once I got to Week 34, they won’t try to stop the labor again. I guess that Week 34 also represents a big turn in terms of lung development, and the baby has a strong chance of being okay – which is why they wouldn’t stop anything from happening from tomorrow on.

So for the next few days (weeks?), I am ever so vigilant of water breaking, timing my ongoing contractions and all that good stuff. I have another doctor’s appointment Monday (if I make it that point), but this time I have my bags packed, a phone tree ready, and more sense of calm than this past Monday’s chaos.

As for the baby, he/she is getting big, although not as big as expected. At 32 weeks, I was only measuring at about 30 weeks, so right about now the kiddo is about 4 pounds-ish (hopefully). But I feel confident that the pizza/bread stick binge last night will help round the little bambino out. And if that didn’t do the trick, surely the candy/cookie gorge of this afternoon will do the trick.

I’ve missed running and fitness more than ever lately, but I am sure that mass anxiety that these last few weeks have brought might have something to do with that. And I won’t even get into the moment I was going through closet last night and stumbled across a dress I wore just one year ago, simultaneously marveling at how tiny it was and tearing up at the current state of affairs.


Having a baby is hard, yo.

Now back to the couch.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

And Now to the Other End of the Spectrum

So I had planned to do a super awesome post on my sister's first marathon (GO Ellen!!!), but I am short on time at the moment because this week of work SUXXXXXX. So unfortunately that post will have to wait until this work week eventually spits me back out come Friday.

So I went to the doctor about two weeks ago (I started going every two weeks at this point so they can make sure little Baby D isn't falling out the chute too early,) and as it turns out...he kinda was.

Well, hold on - let me reign in my overdramatics here for a second.

The baby isn't actually falling out of my lady bits. I guess what's happening is that (men, turn away....TURN AWAY!!! No? Well, consider yourselves warned) my cervix was getting itself all ready a tad (10 weeks) early. So not only was I taken completely off running, but I am completely off any sort of activity. I imagine I would be on "bed rest" if I wasn't a psychologist who's job consisted of a lot of sitting.

(Side note: And who knew sitting was so effing boring and leads to the most hellacious swollen feet?!?! Not this fatty.)

As that appointment, my doctor said she "would like to see [me] get another a month under [my] belt."

A MONTH?!?!?!

As in - 4 weeks? As in, this baby might come at 34 weeks?!?!

This momma ain't ready, yo.

I mean, we haven't even had a shower (it was planned for early December - cue look of shock from my doctor), and we haven't taken any baby-is-coming classes (cue second look of shock). Needless to say, I spent the weekend pretty much laid-up on the couch, kept company by my insane anxiety that I was cooking this baby all wrong and he/she was going some out all scrawny and headed straight to the incubator.

And trust me, anxiety and guilt does not a good combo make - especially during Halloween season, when there are far to many "fun size" Twix and peanut butter cups for my own good.

Shit - I should be ashamed for that pouting I do on the scale at the doctor's office - I have no one to blame but myself.

And the baby.

The baby really makes me do it.

Still attached to the umbilical cord, but already a sugar addict.

Definitely my kid.

So we went back to the doctor yesterday, and the doctor talked me off the ledge a little - things aren't necessarily any better, and I began having (I think) contractions this past weekend, so she took a test that would help us determine/rule out pre-term labor. I was supposed to get the result tonight, but screwed up and called to late. I'll get on that tomorrow.

We did, however, discuss my birth plan at the appointment yesterday. It went a lil'
somethin' like this:

Doctor: I usually tell people not to get too attached to their birth plan.
Me: Oh, well mine's pretty simple. Step 1: Gimme the drugs. Step 2: Take the baby out.
Doctor: *blank stare*
Me: I'm a two-stepper. I like it simple.

(P.S. If you're one of those "natural" birthers - more power to you, but I'm not interested. I've already had the lecture from a lady I used to supervise about how I should try to push through the pain sans drugs because the experience of feeling the contractions and every inch of the birth process is unforgettable. Oh yeah, I bet it is *sarcasm* But here's the thing - I'll surely have many hours of feeling the contractions pre-push, and then the baby comes out, which is actually the part I prefer to remember, so I don't really mind being numbed up for the middle part, you know?)

I should also mention that this discussion of my in-depth birth plan was followed by my doctor telling us a story about a woman who ate her own placenta afterwards.



Thank gosh she was as repulsed as me but this idea, because if she was actually advocating this for me, I'd be trolling Craig's List for a new doctor instead of posting about the ridiculousness of organ-eating.


So that's where we are at - no running, minimal moving, candy-binging, couch-surfing - ahhh, it sounds like so much fun until it isn't.

But the good news? This kid is CRAZY active - almost all day, everyday. Makes me so happy to feel him/her just rolling around in there, tickling my ribs with his/her toes (okay, well maybe that doesn't feel awesome, but it's still amazing that it's even happening, right?!?!) And I love it when my husband talks to him/her through my enormous belly. It's really sweet, and one of the best parts of this experience.

Have I mentioned how awesome my husband is? No? Well he is. I don't know how I would have made this far without him. It makes me speechless to think that this amazing human being is the father of my child. Any given moment throughout my day, I catch myself fantasizing about watching him walking hand-in-hand down the street with our little dude/dudette.


Another few weeks and we will be parents.

Despite these minor bumps, life is really, really good.

Okay, off to do some more work so I can actually get a few hours of sleep tonight.

Later, yo.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

And She Races!

On September 24, 2011, we celebrated the life of my husband's nephew, K, who was killed last year after being struck by a car leaving school. Over the last year, my sister-in-law's friend worked tirelessly to organize a 5k/10k race in the memory of K, with all the proceeds to be donated to a scholarship fund set up in his name, and to be distributed to a high school senior through the year 2021 (when Cheese's nephew would have graduated high school).

Almost as if K put in a special request to the Big Guy, the day was incredibly beautiful. slightly brisk, with a brilliant blue sky and minimal wind. We gathered early to get settled, visit with the 1000+ people registered for the race, watch the 1-mile children's race, and get ready to sweat in the memory of K.

Me, Cheese, and his family.

(His hand is not actually on my butt - turns out, my ass has widened to the point of being unrecognizable - thanks pregnancy!)

At the start - Cheese is in front of me (126), and I am slightly behind, in white sunglasses, looking down as I cross the mat.

I ended up running with another runner who was 17 weeks pregnant,and who later commented like three times, "That was the slowest 5k I ever ran!" I wasn't sure if that was an insult to me or not, but I am pretty sure that no one forced her to stay with me the whole run. AND I am also pretty sure that I heard her weezing over that last hill, right around the time that her ability to verbally communicate me ceased. So I guess if you choose to run a 5k with a chick that's 7-months pregnant, well, then, you probably have to get over the fact that you're not going to win the darn thing.

Me. in the white glasses to the left. Yeah, I was tugging my shorts out of my thighs. Apparently the thighs got super hungry during the race and decided to eat them (Joys of Pregnancy #211).

So here I am, coming up the finish line, bring it in at 31:50 (not too shabby for a chick who is sporting an extra 30+ pounds and a human in her stomach). And I really did try to race it as much as possible - I was able to maintain a conversation the whole time, but I was also pushing my limits a bit because I felt like - hey - if I am doing this in the name of K, then I need to try to do my best. And at 7-months preggo, a 31:50 was pretty darn close to my best.



Bringing it home strong!

Me and Cheese later that night at an appreciation dinner for the volunteers.

The following day, my husband participated in a golf tourney in K's memory, which was also incredibly well-supported. The weekend was wrapped up with me and Cheese, laying on the floor of my sister-in-law's living room with the rest of the family, reflecting on the awesomeness of the weekend, and laughing until I peed my pants. Over four days, there was not a single moment absent of love and appreciation. In the last year, I have been incredibly amazed to see how strong Cheese's family has been through this tragedy. It's nothing short of an honor to be consider part of this family.

So here's to another 10 years of celebrating K's life. May they be just as wonderful as this weekend.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Third (as in trimesters and number of fudgicles consumed tonight)

Ah, yes. Time keeps just ticking away.

How far I've come from counting my weeks off by training blocks towards a race, to counting my weeks off by fetal development towards a little bambino. A life once organized around four week-blocks of swim, bikes and runs in progressively growing hours/miles, to a life now organized around trimesters in a progressively growing belly, hips, boobies and butt.

And so it goes.

At most recent count, I am days away from being seven months. I see that my last post had me at 6 1/2 months, so I guess my posting is getting a little more regular, right?

And since I don't have a picture of what I look like at this moment (which you wouldn't want to see anyways, because I look like a massive slob sitting here in a lounger busting out of a race shirt from a race done exactly one year ago and boxer shorts with an elastic waistband at it's breaking point), I will post a picture of what I looked like at the last post at 6 1/2 months.

(p.s. I know this goes against everything I have said previously about posting belly pics, but I feel these are not completely offensive - oh, and ignore my messy bed in the background - I don't make it when my husband is on the road, which he has been for a month):

The clothing version (taken the morning of Ironman Madison):

The "going to the gym" version (taken the day before Ironman Madison):

I can't completely account for why the one picture makes the bump looks smaller, despite the fact they were taken only 24 hours apart, but oh well. Some mornings I wake up and the little guy looks small, and some days - like the gym day - I wake up and it looks ENORMOUS.

Speaking of the gym, here's the skinny on the fitness at (now) almost seven months.

So remember how I mentioned I was training with my sister for the marathon? Well, that was awesome, and I loved it, but my doctor put the kabash on that last week. Specifically, she said I need to knock it off with the 10-milers, and that really anything over 5-6 is pushing it. I think part of the reason is that the baby is pretty low, and really pushing against my pelvis, so (if I'm being honest) it's actually starting to hurt a little.

I wasn't all that surprised or even disappointed to hear it because my last long run was 11 with my sister, and I could have sworn I heard little Baby D screaming, "Momma, no more! Please stop or I'll fall out!"

And I did five on Sunday while sherpa-ing my sister's 20-miler and it felt fine. So five miles it is for the time being.

And next up on the running schedule is a race! This weekend I am going to Kansas for the 5k/10k memorial race for Cheese's nephew who was killed last year at this time. Saturday is the race, and Sunday is a big golf outing (which I will not be participating in, but rather will be supporting everyone in my fancy new maternity jeans and wedge sandals, thankyouverymuch). I probably won't "race" the race, but rather will just try to do my best and enjoy the day with the family. Shoo, I'm happy to just slap a race number on and see an actual finish line. Holla!

Speaking of Cheese - have I mentioned I haven't seen my husband in a month? Yikes. Won't he be surprised to come home to a newly rounded out wife! Lemme tell you - not like he can really do anything for me, but it kinda sucks having him gone for most of this pregnancy. It's just...hard. I miss him like mad and I know it sucks for him too.

And you know what I look forward to most when he comes home? Well, besides someone to actually cook me dinner so I can stop going to Chipotle all the time? Seeing his face when he feels his kid punch and kick his way out of my belly. And when he sees my belly jump around because the kid is rolling around and stretching his muscles. I know how much it makes me smile, so I can only imagine what Cheese's smile will be like. I am proud to be carrying this man's child. Proud, I tell ya.

So, I have a lot more to talk about, but I my bladder is SCREAMING and I need another fudgicle, so I will wrap it up for tonight.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Where I Was

That morning, I was just a waitress working the breakfast shift at a quirky little restaurant in the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago. I was in graduate school at the time, and my biggest concern was making my rent that month – seemed like I was forever living penny to penny that year.

I remember it was a bit slow that morning. But that slowness ended the moment the head chef emerged from the kitchen to tell us a radio report said a plane hit the World Trade Center. I remember standing by the juice bar, wondering what to do with the news. It seemed like just another moment later he reemerged to tell us a second plane hit, and that the word “terrorism” was being used.

I mad-dashed to my phone to call my then-boyfriend, who worked for a local paper – surely he would know what was happening. He confirmed the chef’s reports, but said they were trying to find a tv to figure it out. He would call back.

And he did – when the first tower fell.

Over the course of the next few hours, time was both stopped and blurred. Me and my coworkers struggled to get whatever information we could, and grabbed onto the snippets of information coming from the radio and updates from my boyfriend. But it was hard to make sense of it all. The restaurant stood empty as people undoubtedly were glued in front of their tvs at home.

By noon, however, the place was packed – downtown Chicago was evacuated, and thousands of office dwellers were sent home, many of whom stopped in to grab a bite, share a story, and just feel a connection to total strangers who shared their same fear and anxiety.

In between taking sandwich orders, I hovered close to tables, trying to eavesdrop on conversations to get any information I could about what was happening. As I filled coffee cups, I ached to go home, to see the news, to witness myself what was happening. Being in the restaurant for those first few hours of the worst attack this country has ever seen sort of kept me at an arm’s distance from the horror of what was unfolding out East, and I needed to understand it myself. Simply hearing about was just too much to believe.

When I finally made it home around 330, I turned on the television in my Wrigleyville apartment. Alone and sitting on the couch, I froze at what I saw. I sat still like that for - heck, who knows how long – truly unable to wrap my mind around what my eyes were seeing. Nothing I heard during that day could prepare me for the images I now watched. Even typing this now, it’s hard to push back the tears – I still see it all – blow by blow – in my mind’s eye.

I left the house only twice in the next several days – once to go home and sit with my dad at my family’s home just to be around some comfort and cry, and then once to go to my internship, where I worked with adolescents substance abusers who were looking to us to explain things we ourselves didn’t understand.

Within 12 hours, news had reached me that the younger sister of a close high school friend was missing – she was in the second tower that was hit. And for however surreal those first 12 hours were, the next several days – with this news – knocked me down. This girl – whose house I spent many a night in, and who I drove to school for several years - was fresh out of college, literally brilliant and beautiful and recently employed at a financial firm in New York. She had called her mom after the first tower was hit to say she was okay, and that she was being evacuated. And that was the last time her voice was ever heard.

On subsequent television broadcast of Ground Zero, news cameras often showed the walls of photos of missing persons, and several times this girl’s face appeared on my screen, almost like a yearbook photo, but…not. About a year later, my father received a commemorative 9-11 book, which we had on our coffee table, and there she was again – peering out at me from the pages of this book.

Ten years later, and the images of that day – the feelings, the video, the pictures – still bring tears to my eyes. No matter where I am or what I am doing, I stop and reflect when I see those images. I can't turn away - I won't turn away. In some ways, I may still be trying to understand the enormity of it all - the loss, the devestation, the horror, the grief. I used to think that, like any type of grief, this would eventually get better – and to some degree, it has. But then there are the days when a photo or some video footage can make it feel as raw as it did ten years ago. And every time I choke up, I am surprised at how much it still impacts me.

Perhaps that’s my mind’s way of never forgetting. And that’s fine with me.

Upon reflection yesterday, I also realized something else about that day – prior to it, I was blissfully ignorant of the world outside of the United States. I was proud of my country and thought that others viewed us as the pinnacle of strength and success. While I knew we certainly have our own issues within this country, it never occurred to me that people not only didn’t like us, but hated us. Hated us enough to kill thousands of us. Yeah, I know that sounds stupid, but up to that point, at my age of 25, when would I have ever seen anything that would give me that idea? I would be hard pressed to tell you a time I heard the word “terrorist” prior to that day, much less be able to identify a credible terrorist threat to this country. My ignorance was corrected that day.

I’ve heard a couple times over the last few years, and especially as we neared the 10th anniversary, that we just need to get over this – that we, as a country, just need to move on. And to some degree, I think our country has moved forward – we’ve returned to daily life, we’ve returned to jobs, attended ball games, held elections, stimulated the economy – we haven’t let the terrorists stall or destroy us.

But it disheartens me when I hear things like my 11-year old niece ask the family during a card game at Christmas “What is 9-11?” and then tell us that she has never learned about it in school. This stuns me. It stuns me because, yes, while our country needs to move forward, I don’t think we should ever forget, or we should bury the events from future generations. While so much horror happened that day, it is a part of our country’s history now. Moreover, however bad it was, it was also the one time in my lifetime that I recall our country being completely united. I’ve never witnessed so much country pride as I did in the months following 9-11.

I know we all have our stories, our response to “Where were you that day?” and these are just a few of mine. They are my memories, and they will always be my memories that I hope I never forget. Parts of me will forever be different - especially the part that woke up to the reality of the world around us, and the part that took on a new sense of pride in being an American and all that it means. And I know there is so much more to say - the aftermath, the war, the war heros, the lives lost, the recovery - but I'll leave it at my memories of that specific day.

As Rodney Atkins sings, “We may not always get it all right, but there’s no place else I’d rather live my life – in America.”

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Thoughts To Distract From The Fact That, Under Other Circumstances, I Would Be Doing Ironman Madison This Weekend

1.It’s probably a good thing that "Rescue Me" is ending the series. I hate saying that, but shit – the wheels done fell off that wagon about two seasons ago. I adored this series, especially because I watched it off of dvd while I rode my bike on a trainer all winter in prep for IM AZ and feel a special connection to it. But it’s not the same. It’s not funny – it’s just kinda silly. Of course, I say this as I am about to watch the series finale, and, when coupled with my raging hormones, will probably bawl my eyes out. ‘Cause that’s how my mood swings these days.

2.Speaking of raging hormones – holy effing maternity meltdown tonight. It started at Gap Maternity (where I was lured into thinking it held the treasures of cute maternity jeans – spoiler alert – it didn’t). For the first time in my 6 ½ months, I tried on maternity clothes that were not hand-me-downs from my sister’s closet. Long story short - it didn’t go well. Looking at myself in the mirror in my bedroom is not the same ballgame as checking out the new, rounder M in the three-way mirror of the Gap. Couple that with the last few weeks of noticing how – in general – I just look different, older, balder, chalkier and ugly – and I lost it. In a way that you just can’t come back from to resume happy shopping. It’s not a fat versus skinny thing – it’s a getting-older-frumpier-in-need-of-a-haricut-and-makeover-and-holy-shit-nice-eye-bags-and-double-chin thing.

3.I think I have finally spanned the spectrum of pregnancy experiences. From the uber sick to the super tired, and now into the “holy-shit-where-did-this-energy-come-from-did-someone-slip-me-meth?” I can barely wind down enough to go to sleep at night, I can’t read enough books, and I want to run all the time. And when I start running, I don’t want to stop. And my mind starts thinking crazy thoughts like “I could do a half-marathon!” and I need to be talked off of that ledge. Right? Right?!?!?

4.Speaking of running, I have been helping my sister Ellen prepare for her first marathon. I’ve been meeting her on the weekends to keep her company on long runs. Now, I don’t do all of the miles – like, if she has 14, I meet her halfway and do 7, or if she has 10, I can do that – but nothing quite yet over 10. This past weekend, she had 18 – so I did the middle 11-ish (was supposed to be 10 but I slightly miscalculated). Now you can see why the idea of a half-marathon doesn’t seem so crazy, right? Again, right?!?!?

5.I feel I need to qualify the last two points with this: I don’t mention this running stuff because I need/want people to tell me all sorts of validating things. In my last post, I mentioned that girl who always posts the blow-by-blow of her pregnancy on Facebook because she needs people to tell her how awesome she is that she kept running up to her third trimester, yada yada

(Side bar #1 - man,can I just reiterate how much she bugs that SHIT out of me – seriously, how many more half-nekkid growing belly pics or videos of her baby moving around in her belly do I need to see? Dang, I get that you’re excited, but come one – it’s the Internets - how about emailing that shit to your family instead of posting it for the world to see? No offense but the LAST thing I am going to do is post half-nakkid pics or belly videos on Facebook so that shady kid I sat next to in the second grade and who tortured me with his wet boogers and haven’t’ heard from since until he Friended me and who may or may not be an ex-con can see. Uh, no thanks.)

Now where was I? Oh right. For the record, I haven’t maintained my running for bragging rights or praise – I run so I can feel like I’m not a big fat slob, and so the mountain I will need to climb comes January isn’t so, well, enormous. And I write it here because this is like my journal, and that’s what you do in a journal – keep track of the good (running and poptarts) and the bad (body image and celulite). So that’s that.

(Side bar #2 - My above rant about Facebook posting does not apply to those that have documented their pregnancies on their blogs - which I read, enjoy and benefit from - especially posts from active triathlete bloggers who post about workout clothes tips and how to survive these crazy thoughts triggered by this 9-month mess. Yeah, I know - it's a double standard that I have no problem with blog posts but I get annoyed by the Facebook girl. And maybe it's not really about the Facebook posts at all, but more about that girl herself and all her annoyingness. Or maybe I just appreciate the stories/tips as opposed to the status updates. Or maybe I'm just a bitch. Yeah, that might be it.)

6.Speaking of body image, at my niece’s birthday party the other day, my mom told me that she is now convinced I am having a boy. When I asked her why, she stated, “Because when I had a boy, my ass got big like that too.” And in case I wasn’t sure what she was referring to, she pointed to my ass, and held out her hands about two feet wide. Just for a visual perspective. Fuck it - I ate the cake anyways.

7.Speaking of baby, mine’s still growing. Like I mentioned, I am 6 ½ months (although according to my husband and his mad mathmatic skills, I’m 5 months – hmmm…guess when the baby pops out a month ahead of his personal schedule, I’ll feign surprise). Kicking like a maniac, trying to punch out my belly button. And although we have opted not to find out, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if a baby girl doesn't fall out of my lady bits in the next few months.

8.Totally unrelated - I’m always surprised when I watch a Sex in the City that I haven’t seen before. Especially the super early ones in which Carrie actually looks at and talks to the camera. That’s weird – I’m glad they stopped that.

9.Getting back to point 6, this pregnancy is a big mind fuck – especially for chicks like me who have a history of screwy eating and body-image issues. I didn’t realize how much I think or worry about my weight and appearance until last week, when I saw a friend for the first time in a while, and I spent way too much time lamenting about my new – ahem – proportions. Man, I sounded so shallow – and even said that a time or two. I am embarrassed that I care so much. I am keeping my fingers crossed that all this shit will become insignificant once this kid arrives – because that’s what everyone keeps telling me. I wonder if this kid realizes how much pressure she's under - what with all the responsibility of giving me a new personality and world view. Shoo - and she probably thinks all she needs to do is look cute and drink some boobie milk. Dear Baby: This is your wake up call. Momma needs a new perspective.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Eating My Words (and everything else)

I swear I'll lay off the preggo posts soon, but right now, it's sort of all consuming. I mean, I don't think I am THAT girl that talks nonstop about the miracle of pregnancy, telling every cashier at the grocery/Target/Costco I'm knocked up and "validate me! validate me!" But yet it's still is a part of just about everything I do - considering I have this big round thing hanging off my body that prevents me from wearing anything resembling normal clothes and being able to put on socks.

But I felt I needed to say this - everything I always swore I would do/be as a pregnant broad is the exact opposite that I am.

Example #1:
"I don't understand how women just use pregnancy as a time to let themselves go and just eat themselves silly. I'll never do that - if I don't eat garbage now, I most certainly won't do it when I'm growing a baby."


Example #2:
"I don't know why women freak out about gaining weight when they get pregnant - YOU'RE PREGNANT! Of course you're going to put on a few pounds - there's a human inside of you!"

FUCK YOU, CLOSET. I hate you with all your stupid normal clothes. Go ahead, mock me. Mock me with your cute summer dresses, you sweet skirts, even your running shorts that I actually once needed to tie using the drawstrings. And don't EVEN LOOK AT ME, SCALE-AT-THE-DOCTOR'S-OFFICE. I see you and your smirking side eye, quietly judging as this nurse keeps moving that top marker higher..higher...I hate both of you. Leave me alone.

Example #3:
"Why are pregnant women always complaining? You're pregnant, did you not know you would be sick/fat/tired/uncomfortable?"

Husband (any given day): Hey babe. How was (hesitant pause because he knows what's coming) your day?
Me: Oh, you mean aside from the fact that my back is killing and I couldn't sleep? Or the fact that the the insomnia had me up at 3:30am? Or that I'm still sick? Or that I'm fucking fat and I hate myself for eating an entire bag of Reeces Pieces? Or wait - did I tell you about the fact that these headaches are destroying my ability to get any sort of work done? Which one? Take your pick."
Husband: Nevermind.

Ah yes, I am sure there are more examples of why I am the world's biggest hypocrite, but that's enough for now. I think that's enough self-shame for one night. Oh, and look at that - just as I am ending this post, Baby D starts kicking up a storm. I guess that's a pretty good note to end on!

Monday, July 25, 2011

Having a Moment

You know what I am most looking foward to when I go on maternity leave?

Not doing my FUCKING JOB for six weeks.


That is all.

Back to work.

Sunday, July 17, 2011


Just for the record, this current posting lapse actually wasn’t my fault. My POS computer ka-plut again four weeks ago (for the second time). Sadly, this also coincided with my husband’s 3-week business trip, so I have been sans computer for the last four weeks.

Nonetheless, I have managed to keep track of some thoughts, just haven’t been able to actually get around to posting.

Here goes:

1. Its always interesting to share the good new with someone, and then have them respond with a story about their wife’s stillbirth at 6 months. Not that I'm judging (because holy crap that would be devastating), it's just somewhat sobering when you are expecting a "congrats!"

2. Still sick, but been running though. By the end of week 13, I was like, “Eff you, Sick. You’re my bitch now.” So of course it only made sense to sign up for a 10k two days post-proclamation. And for those of you thinking, “Well 6 miles isn’t that far” – tell that to my non-running-for-three-months legs, my newly rounded-out hips, and a flappy (yes, flappy) ass. They would beg to differ.

(Me and my sweet face niece Ford, whose mommy pushed her in a stroller for the race. I'm fueled by prenatal vitamins, Ford is fueling on my phone protector. The protector probably tastes better.)

3. Turns out Fatigue was a fashionably late to the party. Showed up at week 14, and was like, “Where’s the keg, yo?” I was like, “It’s under the pillow and comforter, yo.”

4. Then it was Insomnia’s turn. Showed up at Week 16. At 330 am. Every night. It’s been awesome. But the sunny side is that I get a lot of work done at 4am (which is good given the Sick likes to stop in around dinner time and stay for the night, preventing ANY sort of anything getting done, except some serious couch surfing), and learned that some really interesting (read: smelly weirdos) go to the gym at this insanely stupid hour.

So as it stands, I am officially 18 weeks pregnant. The morning-noon-night sickness decided to hang around looking for a free meal, so I finally went back on prescription nausea meds this past week. I avoided this as long as possible – trying out every single other recommendation given to me (except acupuncture) with little overall success.

I am up more pounds than probably normal at this point, but the good news is that is seems mostly be in my obscenely large knockers (well, good news for the husband), and I have forced myself back to the gym at least four times weekly. No matter how sick I feel before hand, going for a treadmill incline walk or 5k run seems to make it slightly better.

I will be honest – the shallow part of me gets really self-conscious at the gym in my now-tight shorts and my minute-slower-per-mile pace that I hide under a towel, and I find myself resisting the urge to stand in the middle of the gym and scream, “This isn’t what I really look like! I swear I am fit! I’m just pregnant! I swear! I was an Ironman, for crying out loud!! Stop judging my cellulite!” But then reality kicks in and I try to remind myself that no matter how much my body is revolting against me (see also: leakage and a double chin), it’s all for a good cause.

As in – a baby.

(Trust me, it's under there - about four people have asked me to post "belly pics" to Facebook, but I'm sorry, I can't get past standing half-nekkid in a bra and taking awkward pictures of my large self. I have a "friend" on FB who does this every month, and it kinda weirds me out - no offense to anyone reading that has done this during their own pregnancy. Just a personal preference. If you're a lady with kids, you know what it looks like. If you're a man with kids, you've seen your wife's. Mine looks probably about the same.)

Oh, and one last thing – seeing as I have been super sick for so long and my husband is mostly gone all the time, I’ve taken to texting him photos of what our baby might look like:

You are what you eat, right?

Oh my poor poor husband - getting a text of a piece of toast is a far cry from the texts he got during the early dating days when he was on the road for weeks at a time and had a tan, lean, fit girlfriend (that would be me).

Then again, there’s high likelihood I will be birthing a wedge of cheddar cheese with a watermelon head. Or if my kid's a 12-pounder like my husband was at birth, maybe it will just FEEL like a watermelon.

And with enough TMI to make a horse vomit, I'm out.

Sunday, June 5, 2011


A funny thing happened on the way to Ironman Madison:

Turns out I hit a “bump” in the road.

Yeah, it is what you think. This ol’ girl is knocked up.

Say "hi" to Baby D! See, he's waving!

(side note: depending on the quality of the picture, you might notice a weird rash-like thing on my belly. just sunburn peel. still gross though. apologies.)

To say it was a surprise to see that the second little pink line on the pee stick is a slight understatement.

Thoughts upon finding out I was pregnant:

1.Huh. So THAT’S why my boobs look like that. Owww.
2.No period for nine months!!!
3.Well, shit. If I knew my last day of beer drinking was upon me, I most certainly wouldn’t have spent it drinking a Tecate at my sister’s house.
4.How on earth is my big-ass mouth going to keep this a secret from my sisters? (hint: I didn’t)
5.So much for the all-you-can-eat sushi I was promised two days ago in exchange for babysitting my niece. Rain check.
6.Good thing the new leggings I bought were size large…you know…planning ahead….
7.*gurgle* PUKE.
8.At what point will my belly interfere with the aero position?
9.Oh speaking of…wonder if I can finangle a new bike out of this…did someone say "push present?"

Thoughts SINCE being pregnant

1.No seriously – what’s up with the gas?
2.The boobs will NOT be tamed. Wowza.
3.Speaking of which, what gives with the permanent party hats?
9.Pregnancy hormones are a total bitch. On a related note, so am I.
10.Metallic taste in mouth? Check. Blech.
11.Dear everyone who keeps asking me “are you sure you should still be running/biking/swimming while your pregnant?” – The answer is YES. Now stop asking. (*side note – this halted to a screeching stop when the sickness kicked in at week 5 – and holy shit did it kick in.)

A couple quick notes:
1.I am 12 weeks (and change).
2.I am due December 18th.
3.We are choosing not to find out the sex.

Here’s the thing – I haven’t been able to say anything about this bambino to anyone outside of my family since we found out (and we found out EARLY – like, at four weeks). We had some scares up front so we wanted to be extra careful. I begged Cheese to tell my sisters within a day or two after finding it out, then we caved and told the family about a week or so later.

I have purposely stayed away from the blog as well – I didn’t really know what to say. For the first few weeks, I was focused on continuing my Ironman training at least until we made it through the first trimester and my Ironman was officially postponed (spoiler alert: it’s postponed), but it felt kind of weird to talk about it knowing that it might not happen.

Needless to say, I am brimming with all sort of gore that I haven’t been able to really talk about. So strap yourselves in for a long post.

First and foremost, I can’t talk about being preggo without talking about the “sickness.”


Now, I don’t want to be one of those complaining whiney knocked-up bitches who moans about all her aches and pains, but shit man - the sickness is nothing to mess with. Forget working out or training after week five – I could barely manage to get out of bed some mornings. With the exception of my 8-week half-marathon, I have been pretty much couch-ridden. And it SUCKS.

(side note: I have a picture of that sad, sad half-marathon, but I am waiting for my husband to email it to me and he's busy yapping like a school girl in the other room with his friends about his new "daddy" status. Next post.)

I tried to describe it to my husband like this: you know when you have and all you want to do is sleep and throw up, but you can’t really throw up so you are just left with this horrifying nausea that keeps your ass planted on the couch, begging for Gatorade and greasy cheeseburger? Yeah, that’s close, IF IT WERE MAGNIFIED BY A BAZILLION.

No problem laying off the coffee – the mere smell of it has me dry heaving. I was too sick to even notice the caffine withdrawals. Shoo – coffee was the only good thing about waking up in the morning. Now all I have to look forward to is stomach bile. And toast.

I was on the tea for a few days, but even that had to take a back seat to just plain old water, which I had to choke down. And when you go from drinking a gallon of water a day to choking down two cups (at best), let me tell you – its does WONDERS for your bowel movements.

Oh and speaking of bowel movements, pregnancy flatulence is like a bad joke. I can’t take a shit, but man if I can’t smoke ‘em out of a room!

Here’s a fun discovery – despite my need/inability to regurgitate a years supply of bagels and toast, I can’t tear myself away from the Food Channel. Anything savory, fried or MEAT has me clawing at the screen like a damn jungle animal. It’s weird – I can’t eat, but I crave just about type of junk food imaginable. Buffalo wings? Lemme at ‘em!! Quesadillas? Never in my life until now! Bacon and sausage links? Only if you smear ‘em in syrup and wrap ‘em up in a pancake!

Needless to say, this aforementioned discovery has been one of the upsides – to my husband. Imagine his surprise the day I was so sick I had to take off work, only to turn to him at noon and say, “Let’s go get a hot dog.” Why so surprised? Because it’s been 20 years since I had a hotdog. And where there’s hotdogs, there’s fries. Glorious, glorious French fries.

The sickness drives my daily…everything. Mood, work schedule, and mostly food choices. Sadly, the food – regardless of what it is – only makes the sickness better in the short-term. But about 10 minutes later, it comes back, dry heaves and all.

Thus it goes without saying that in my ill-fated attempts to subdue the sickness, I have made some minor indiscretions in my eating (see also: potato chips and Chipotle). Over the last six weeks, I have fallen into a pattern of literally just eating everything I have a taste for – because actually having a taste for anything has become so rare, I give into it no matter what it is. Twizzlers, donut holes, countless fresh bagels, cheesy potatoes – whatever. Couple that with not having even basic stamina to ride my trainer for an hour, and this ol’ girl is GROWIN’.

Now, I know you are all going to say the requisite “But you’re growing a baby! Of course you’re going to gain weight!” And I know you are going to say that because I’m no stranger to easing my preggo sisters/friends pain with that line. I get it. It’s the miracle of life.

And believe it or not I accept that weight is inevitable. I do. You grow a baby, you gain weight. But my issue right now is that the weight I am gaining is not yet baby weight – its food baby weight. And that’s tough.

And it doesn’t help me when I feel my thighs rub together. Or when my pants – even the stretchy ones – don’t fit. Or when I have to start buying floaty dresses – after two months. Or when I feel my belly rolls over the top of my elastic waist band.

Holy shit – I just said elastic waist band.


So while I should be in the midst of Ironman training, watching all those cellulitey winter pounds melt away, I am stuck on my couch, stuffing carbs into my cheeks, licking the Dorito cheese off my fingers, getting soft, and growing out of my clothes.

My husband will attest to at least two pretty severe meltdowns because of the sickness – and I can’t imagine how much it sucked for him to be on the roads for six of the first 10 weeks, and just hearing me wail over the phone about the how miserable I was and how many hours I was just laying in bed being sick. But because he is without question the best man in the world (and I landed him so yay me!), after some particularly bad few days, he sent me a surprise massage!

And in addition to one incredible husband, I also had a supportive family who – despite the fact that I probably wasn’t so supportive to them during their first several weeks of sickness, as my sister Ellen likes to remind me – have been very nice and helpful, including lying to me about my weight gain.

So yeah – it’s already shaping up to be a spectacular nine months. If you have never been pregnant, I truly can’t explain how utterly horrible the sickness is. It’s debilitating. They say that the sickness goes away for 80% of women after week 12, and since I am posting this on week 12, here’s to hoping the next time you hear from me, I’m all running shoes-and-round-belly.

But that all aside, I have to say how blessed we are. I know that sounds cheesy and whatnot, but we weren't all too sure that type of thing was going to happen for us. Now that it has, we haven't come down from the clouds. As much as I bag on the sickness, it doesn't detract from the sheer and utter happiness that has gripped this house for the last three months.

So brace yourself - the coming months will surely be filled with all sort of tales of fitness, baby bumps, leaky nipples and mucus plugs.

And it will be GLORIOUS.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

A Big One is Coming

Yeah, I know - I've disappeared again.

And with good reason.

And this brief post probably won't even make up for it (especially to my brother who reads this blog during his morning crap), but trust me - I got one all typed up and ready to go that's going to make it real clear why I've been so silent.

Yes, things they are a'brewin' over here in the Procrastination world.

My plan is to post it next Saturday - June 5. By that time, all the loose ends will be tied up and it will be ready to go.

So if anyone still actually checks this blog, please hang in there with me - and check back in about a week and a half.

And I assure you, things will become a lot more regular around my little corner of the blogpsphere.

Friday, February 25, 2011

In Which I Grow Up

A couple posts ago, I referred to Robert Pattinson as “Robert Patterson.” Whatever. You say tomato, I say tamato. The “Twilight” guy was who I was referring to.

Ah shit, man - I can’t be bothered with the insignificant details of pop culture these days.


Because I’ve got an IRONMAN to train for!

Yeah – I does.

I am participating in Ironman Madison 2011.

But I have to be honest - I wasn’t completely sold on the idea.

Well, wait – let me start from the beginning.

See, for the last two years since my first Ironman, I have wanted to do another one. In 2009, I got married on the same day as IM Madison, so that eliminated that year, as well as the following year (because I wasn’t present on-site to sign up – you know, honeymoon in Hawaii and all…) So that bring us to the possibly of 2011.

But a funny thing happened as the last few years went by. The idea of doing another one slowly, slowly started to look…less appealing.

Instead, the idea of starting a family has been at the forefront of my mind. I think especially after the loss of K this past September, the idea of having our own family seemed to be the most important. And honestly, life isn’t about Ironman. Life is about family - and for me and Cheese, it’s about having our own.

But yet…augh!

So this year (2010), I volunteered at the finish line – hoping that unconvinced self would be, well, convinced.

And I watched all the blood, sweat, tears, muscle cramps, dehydration, and all other forms of bodily fluids come across, and honestly, I was even less convinced that this was something I wanted to put my body through again.

I went to bed that night, mulling the decision, and not convinced.

I stood in that line the morning of registration, and still wasn’t convinced.

I walked up to the table to register, slapped down my credit card, and still wasn’t convinced.

And within five minutes, I walked away with a deposit slip for $600, and thought, “Well, now you’re screwed.”

Since that time, I have waffled – and when my sister brings up the issue of having kids at every family dinner lately, it’s hard not to just throw in the (really expensive) Ironman towel and let my ovaries take over.

And Ironman aside, let’s be honest. My uterus isn’t Benjamin Button. The shit’s not getting younger as the rest of me gets older. No, sadly, the fact of the matter is that this body is getting o.l.d.

So with my withering uterus and half-a-heart (okay fine – throw in my utter disdain for swimming, a freezing winter, and ice cold pool), I have really struggled with getting my head in the game.

But at the same time, I kept up a good running base, have ridden the trainer regularly, and am pretty ready to jump into the training full force when it actually officially begins (end of April).

Part of me looks forward to the structure and sorts of good stuff that come with training – total exhaustion at days end, the smell of chlorine on my skin regardless of showering, having a legitimate excuse to wear gym clothes 24/7, and the insatiable appetite that requires nothing short of a feedbag attached to my face just to stand upright.

But then again, part of me doesn’t – the part that loves triathlon and running and fitness but finally sees that there are more important things in life than racing. After so many years of loving my own space and time and disposable income, I feel like it’s time to be less selfish and more – gasp –family oriented.

I mean – I actually FEEL it. Not because someone or society tells me I need to, but because I actually want the next phase of my life. After all these years of swearing I wasn’t going to have kids, I actually can now admit that I want them.

It’s taken me 34 years to say that out loud.

So this means that when it comes to being an adult, I have finally arrived?

Maybe. And that’s not to say that when I’m standing behind screaming kids at the Costco, I don’t second guess all of this. But if I have learned anything in my self-anointed role as World’s Best Aunt, it’s that the good far outweighs the bad. I mean, yeah – these little people are going to scream and whine and make green doody shits up their back that will make you want to just leave them on the changing table and walk right out the door and into the nearest saloon. Ha – and don’t even think of ever sleeping past 8am again!

But the honest-to-god greatest thrill for me is making my 6-month old niece laugh and scrunch her nose up, or having my nephew crawl into my lap to play, or having my other nephew (albeit prompted by his momma) put his arms around my neck for a hug. And don’t even get me started on watching them actually physically and mentally grow from bitty babies, to toddling toddlers, to all-out little boys who run, and fall, and cry, and swing play swords, and make fire houses out of cardboard boxes. My hear swells at the thought of their potential for greatness. And I can only imagine what this feels like as a parent.

So I guess all of this is to say that I am signed up, but not without reservation. But when Training Week #1 officially rolls around, I will jump in.

And I will do so knowing that, once I cross that finish line, I can finally start the next phase on my life.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Yeah, I Said It

Since lately all my thoughts are experienced in short, ADD-bursts, this is how I will relay them to you:

Moments when it’s not exactly helpful to tell your wife you love her? When she’s on her hands and knees cleaning your piss and turd splatters off the toilet bowl. On her day off.

You Know You are Old When…
Well, it finally happened – I am, in fact, too old and too educated to watch MTV. *disclaimer: doesn’t apply to Jersey Shore*

And in case you’re wondering (you’re not – that’s cool – my feelings aren’t hurt) – they DO still play music on MTV. They just run at 2am when all the actual age-appropriate teens are taking a break from hating their parents, dressing inappropriately, and popping their pimples by sleeping, or stumbling in from a pre-weekend bar crawl/Burrito King binge in College Town, USA, while vaguely wondering if they have a quiz in History 101 in the morning. Which begs the question – what exactly am I doing up at this hour?

Things I Could Literally Not Care Less About
1. Charlie Sheen. Seriously, if the guy wants to hole up in his mansion, screw hookers and smoke crack until his lungs collapse, then who are we to judge? I say let him have at it, and then maybe – fingers crossed – "Two and a Half Men" will finally just go away.

2.Moral musing by Justin Bieber.

3.That show – “Who Do You Think You Are?” – that takes celebrities and traces their ancestry, and they get all “wow!” and weepy and whatnot. Listen, I’m gonna be really frank here – who actually gives a fuck about self-centered, narcissistic, world-revolves-around-me individuals walking down the path of self-discovery but who in reality are so far removed and out-of-touch from their real selves? And I don’t think they could have picked bigger a-holes to profile. It’s like the producers stepped back, took a look at Hollywood proper, and said, “Hmm, who are the least tolerable and most self-absorbed people in this town? Let’s cast ‘em in a show that is ALL ABOUT THEMSELVES!” Bitches, please. You know what would be much more enjoyable? Anything. No, I really mean anything. Like, I would rather have my pedicure lady slice up my toes to pull out ingrown nails and mercilessly bring me to painful tears as she scrubs the bottoms of my feet off with a sandpaper rock than sit through this. There are far bigger problems in the world than Sarah Jessica Parker finding out she’s related to Salem witches.

4. What Lindsey Lohan’s going to do next. So could major news sources stop broadcasting stories about her court issues, lip injections, and drug rehab? Again, definately more important things going on in the world...

5. People using the image of Hitler for political protest purposes. And this goes for both political sides – i.e., those protesting things like Obamacare, and those more recently protesting Gov. Walker’s union bill in Madison. I mean, really people – Hitler is responsible for the deaths of literally millions of people. DEATH. MILLIONS. Call me overly-sensitive, but trying to pass a bill that takes issue with collective bargaining hardly seems like a fair comparison to a man who put people in gas chambers and ovens. I'm sure someone's going to try to make the arguement that Hitler also opposed unions, but guess what? In my job, I have to deal with union bullshit/power grabs and all the bureucratic inefficiancy that would make your head explode, and I've since developed a distaste for them as well - does that make me Hitler-like too? So how about this – how ‘bout the only person we compare to Hitler is Hitler himself? Or how ‘bout we save his image for when we want to storm state capitals to protest actual literal mass genocide? Think about. Get back to me.

6. Homeless drug addicts with good voices who abandon their 9 kids and wife. I don’t celebrate your bad life decisions just because you sound good doing voiceovers for Kraft Cheese and Macaroni.

7. Chicago Mayoral Race – because four blocks separates my apartment and having to make an impossible decision between many evils.

8. Oh, and the political endorsements/television ads that come with it. I mean really – are you going to vote for someone just because the Chicago Tribune tells you to? Do you really believe that when Rahm so earnestly looks into the camera and tells you that “city government is not an employment agency,” he’s really going to be looking out for the best interests of the city once he sinks into the overstuffed leather chair behind the Mayor’s desk? If you do, then give me a call – I’ve got some really lucrative investment opportunities for you.

Thursday, January 13, 2011


1. I don’t find Robert Patterson at all attractive. He looks like his mouth stinks.

2. I like my sweets, but over Christmas discovered how many I can actually eat in one sitting – and it’s ASTOUNDING. It’s like my mind says, “NO!” But my belly says, “MORE!” Belly, you win.

3. At some point I need to organize my Ironman training – I am sans coach this time around, but have identified a plan to follow, am getting involved in Computrainer class, and doing some other stuff to keep me honest about my training. Of course, IM training also means getting in the pool. I guess holding my breath for the announcement that Ironman is now a duathlon is pointless, yeah?

4. I hate Facebook. I’m all but off it – at least when it comes to posting on my own status. I am actually kind of surprised that it’s still going strong, but apparently most of us are far bigger voyeurs and narcissists than we knew – myself included. I mean, come on – how much do we think other people give a shit about our lives that we feel a compulsion to post the minutia of our days? Half the time I don’t even care about my daily activities. Plus, it only encourages me to get involved in political conversations with people I either don’t know, don’t care about, or will never change their mind. So why madden myself? (in my defense, these have significantly decreased in the last 12 months really for no ohter reason than to maintain my sanity, and I've only jumped in the last few days when I feel people need to be called out on their hypocrisy, like I'm self-appointed Facebook Hypocrisy Police) Point is - it's not really fun anymore. I am trying to get more regular at blogging – that way, people can seek me out if they want, rather than me inundating their home page with what I ate for breakfast.

5. Lately some of my happiest moments have been in the aisles of Costco. Not sure what that’s about, but it might have something to do with the coupling of supersizing and good deals, and the Zen-like calm it brings. Plus, few other places exist where you can literally spend an entire Saturday consuming all three meals. For free. And then leave with a sectional couch.

6. I have my team holiday party tomorrow. We got too sidetracked before the holidays, so alas - holiday cheer in January. And I am all about giving our team a break to just chill and socialize and get out from behind their computers. But I am not really looking forward to it. Why? Well, most of you don’t know this (unless you are my husband) but I have extreme social anxiety. Like, to the point I even need to take a nap during family parties because socializing truly is that exhausting for me (weird, I know – my family reading this now is probably like “huh?”). Needless to say, work parties are tough for me. My anxiety usually leads to me over-sharing during small talk (awkward for everyone), sweating profusely (hence my almost-entirely black wardrobe), and standing around aimlessly when the people I supervise suddenly realize they probably shouldn’t be discussing their personal life with their sweaty, stammering supervisor.

In the end, I usually just resign myself the supervisors table, which is akin to the grandparents table at a Sweet 16 party - there only as a courtosy/formality, but pushed into the corner, out-of-the-loop, and wondering why the music is so loud and the skirts so short.