Project Procrastination

Super Fast

2012-01-27T17:15:00.000-08:00

Workouts:

Wednesday - nothing.

Why? Had a breakfast meeting with my boss, came home to a breast-feeding frenzied baby, followed immediately up with a visit from my mom. By the time it was all said and done, it was late, my husband wasn't feeling well, and I was pretty much on baby patrol. It was one of those days that I know I will have a lot of in the future (the ones where the baby takes over and it's easy to make excuses), and I just need to plan better (like staying awake after the 5am feeding and going to the gym, instead of getting another hour of sleep. This continues to be my daily goal, but I have yet to acheive it).

Thursday
Total cardio - 55 minutes
44:45 min run for 4 miles (not sure why this one was a touch slower than previously).
10 min WU/CD

Today (Friday)
Nothing - had an early work meeting on the far south side of Chicago, a sick husband and a child that only slept 2 hours. ALL NIGHT. And because of sick husband and the need to get out of our germ infested house, I spent the rest of the day at my mom's house. Got home around 530pm, but (not surprisingly) with a creeping illness that I suspect has something to do with my husband's. And because of said sick husband, there was no one to take care of the wee one so that I could squeeze in a morning workout - even if I had the energy.

Tomorrow:
I am planning a 5 miler. Since I am going to be on my own for the next week (possibly four) and getting in my runs will require extreme strategizing, I am taking FULL advantage of some free time to get it done tomorrow.

Despite the two off days, I still feel okay about the fact that at least I didn't juts lay around the house on the couch - I managed to get out and do stuff. Moreover, my eating has been very much under control (slips are minor and infrequent). So not all was lost...

I know this post sucks - reflects my current energy level. Perhaps I'll have some more wit tomorrow...

And For Today's Update...

2012-01-24T16:40:00.001-08:00

This seriously must be some sort of blogging record for me.

Today's Workout:
Total cardio: 62:30
Run: 44:30 for 4 miles, 3 min WU, 5 min CD
Elliptical: 10 min

Today I decided that my new goal is to run off my inner thighs. I HATE the way they rub together now, not to mention the lunch buffet they make out of my running shorts. It's like my shorts are on the losing end of a Hunger Hungry Hippo game. Nom, nom, nom.

At some point, likely Thursday, I am going to start doing more strength training in addition to the cardio. But after trying to integrate into those intial workouts with dreadfully painful results, I decided to lay off until my legs were a little most acclimated - and now I think it's time.

I still had a mindful of madness today, but it was a bit better. And wonders of wonders - so was the run. It definately makes me hopeful, as each run seems to be bring me back to normal. In addition, starting next week, I would like to reintroduce my legs to speedwork, and start working off some of those mile times.

And fitness aside, I have a totally random thought I want to share:

You know the downside of having an "easy" baby? I was SOOOOOOO looking forward to using a screaming inconsolable baby as payback for the regular raging LOUD 2AM parties my downstairs college student neighbors like to throw (they were EPIC during my pregnancy). Alas, it was not meant to be, as my child is far too sweet to use for such glorious revenge. Perhaps I will have to "accidently" drop a doody diaper on their back steps when I take out the garbage next time.

Oh, and speaking of the little porkchop:

Handsome little man:

Guess who got a swing (read: Baby Ambian)?

Why hello there...

Moving Right Along....

2012-01-23T16:52:00.000-08:00

No post yesterday - I was too exhausted to even look at the computer, much less make it to the gym (and weigh myself). I guess when you have a nursing newborn, you're just going to have those days when you can barely lift your head off the pillow. Yesterday was one of them. Eh, maybe it's an excuse, but I pretty much knew from the moment I woke up that it wasn't going to happen. That's how tired I was.

But today - still tired - I pulled it together and hit the gym.

Workout:
Total Cardio: 65 minutes
30 min-elliptical
32 min - run 3 miles (1 minute faster than yesterday! It's a slow climb but a climb nonetheless!)
3 min - warm-up/cool down

Every day, including today, it's getting better. Both sets felt good, and I actually felt like I could keep running. But since I promised everyone (read: husband and doctor) that I would take it easy, I stopped once I hit my planned 3, and then planned to try 4 tomorrow. And wonders never cease - I am actually looking foward to it!

Perhaps today's workout was good because there was a lot on my mind. Changes are afoot here at the Project - in a major life-as-we-know-it kind of way. As a result, I had to break some bad news to someone right before I went into the gym, and it was hard to take my mind off of the whole situation. Can't say much more about it all just yet, but once the pieces are in place, I'll put it out there for consumption.

Later.

Keeping My Word

2012-01-21T15:02:00.000-08:00

Today's Workout:

Total Cardio - 73 minutes
30 min - Bike (on trainer - first since March!)
43 min - Treadmill (Run 33 minutes for 3 miles, walk 10 min warm-up/cool down)

Weight:
TBD tomorrow

Thoughts:
Finally, a workout that I didn't want to cry about.

Granted, the trainer ride was primarily an easy spin (yeah, not hitting the speed and hill intervals just yet - but I still worked up a decent sweat), and the run is still minutes/mile off my pre-pregnancy time, but I don't care. I got 3 in, and I know I won't be as sore tomorrow as I was after last week's 3. So, all-in-all, progress.

But dang, this is a far longer road that I was anticipating. But I'm not getting down on that because I know my body is being used for so many things right now (like keeping my kid alive) that it's going to take a while for it get used to giving even more. It's just a huge wake-up call.

So on that short note, I'm out.

Plugging Away

2012-01-20T15:04:00.001-08:00

Accountability.

I can’t escape it.

It’s on blogs. It’s on status updates. It’s all around.

Mostly, I’ve seen it in regards to people’s New Year’s resolutions or the start of many a-training season and race goals. People coming clean about weight/eating issues, people calling themselves out when they half-ass workouts.

So as I embark on my own personal goals post-pregnancy, I have decided to hold my own self accountable - come clean about my own shortcomings or shame-based behaviors.

First, in regards to my fitness. I mentioned that I signed up for a half-marathon in May. Early May. So that means I need to be flushing all my excuses down the shame-toilet and hitting the gym daily. Right now, this does not happen. Why? Because after multiple all-night feedings, my mornings usually consist of handing the offspring to my husband, and either:

A) Going back to bed for a few extra hours or
B) Sitting on the couch, inhaling hot coffee, and staring blankly into the television (which sadly is usually on Kelly Ripa because I am too damn tired to change it after the early morning news ended prior to it) while I wait for said offspring to wake from his all-too-brief nap looking for his milkies.

The day then unfolds with a series of feedings, diaper changes, and quality time. The next thing I know, it’s 10pm, and I’ve managed to make excuses all day to avoid the gym.

I made it to the gym three times last week, and even got in a 3-mile run Sunday (which I then paid for with excrutiating muscle soreness for the next two days, courtosy of my 3-month hiatus from anything more physical than climbing the stairs to my 2-floor apartment, and that didn’t even happen everday. Shit, when I see it on paper, it hits me how lazy I got in those final months, bedrest or not.)

So I went back twice this week, and got in a 60-minute workout both times, which included 30 minutes on the elliptical and a 2-mile run with a warm-up and cool down. And it sucked the whole time. Both times.

No, seriously. Like, I finally felt a warm kinship to the contestants on the Biggest Loser during their first few weeks. Quite a change from where I was 10 months ago, when you would have found me sitting on my couch, calling them cry babies, and screaming at them for not respecting their amazing opportunity.

But I’ll go back. Again. And again. And then at some point, it won’t actually suck. As much.

So accountability goal #1 – post every workout, which includes doing something physical everyday – even if it means walking around the dang block. This way, I am forced to actually leave the house, move my body, and continue getting my fitness back so that I can actually tolerate myself. Oh, and also finish the race.

Next up – weight. Now, while I can’t actually bring myself to post the number of my current – ahem – situation, I will post the amount needed to lose, and the amount lost. So, at my doctor’s appointment Monday, I weighed in at a heafty…number. The number was 27 pounds over my normal weight (3 down from the initial 30, so some early progress?) So once a week, I will check in with my progress and post the amount lost that week – kind of like a poor man’s version of a Weight Watchers meeting. But without Jennifer Hudson singing empowering songs in the background as my own personal soundtrack.

And in order to do this, I will need to post more – even it’s just a numbers update, sans (questionably) witty commentary. Once daily - a workout post. Once weekly - a weight update.

Now that I’ve put that out there, I need to follow through. And this will be hard because I go back to work in a week, so I'll be fullt-ime mom and full-time psychologist again. But I want to do this for at least the next month, because I figure that will be enough time to actually get me back on track to the point I actually like being healthy again. Because right now, the only thing I really like is laying on the couch, streaming movies from Netflix, eating cheese puffs and cake frosting from a plastic jar while hanging with my kid and making funny faces to get him to smile (though not necessarily in that order – but wouldn’t it be shameful if I liked cheese puffs and cake frosting more than my kid? Shit, I’d need more than blog accountability – I’d need an intervention from child protective services. And a nutritionist).

And naturally I can’t end a post without a picture (or ten) of my offspring. Yeah, I’ve become THAT mom.
My husband calls this SuperBaby. That's his cape.

Morning after a long night. In my robe that I almost never take off. It's covered in spit-up but I don't care. Yeah, I've reached that point in new motherhood where I just don't give a shit anymore. Unless there is literally diareha on it (mine or his), I'll wear it as long as it's conducive to warmth and breastfeeding.

Daddy time.

And now, here's the picture I promised in the last post. The first is my son at about three weeks.

And this is me at about six months.

So now that we've clearly confirmed who the mother is, I'll get back to you when we find the dad.

So That's Where They Put the Gym!

2012-01-11T18:34:00.000-08:00

Wanted to first say that I appreciate all the well wishes and comments on the previous post. I usually try to respond to all email notifications of the comments, but for some reason when I hit reply lately, it just gives me that generic “no-reply blogger” email address. It only lets me respond to a handful of people, so I apologize if I can’t get to your email. But I really appreciate them.

To that end, there are a couple of things that I wanted to respond to from the comments:

1. In regards to breastfeeding – I too have come to walk around the house in my nursing bra and/or nothing at all – heck, it’s my house, and the nips need a breather, you know? Many a day you might see me lounging on the couch, dark circles under my eyes, baby passed out with the milk-drunks next to me, and a shirt nowhere to be found. Some days, especially the ones when he feeds every hour, it’s simply not worth the effort to keep putting it on and off. The only time this didn’t work was when my in-laws were in town for a week for Christmas. After all, we may be close, but we are not THAT close. The last thing any of us need is for my father-in-law to be making a midnight potty-run and see my big old milkers hanging out in the living room, baby on one end and half-asleep mama on the other.

2. You haven’t lived until you’ve literally sucked the snot out of your child’s nose. With your own mouth, yo.

3. I mentioned this in the previous post, but it’s worth reiterating – doody does fly. And airborne doodys are (ahem) messy. And stain.

4. Been living in my sweats for a while (post-pregnancy gift from my friend A, from Victoria’s Secret, size Large, and oh-so-comfortable). My husband thinks I’ve become one of those women who have just given up. Not true, I say. “Giving up” happens the day I ask for a minivan.

But the wonders of motherhood aside, I’d also like to proudly announce that I did make it to the gym – four weeks and one day since my stomach was cut open and my world changed with my new little man (although coupled with the previous few months of bedrest and inactivity, it’s felt like a year since I broke a sweat not related to my intake of French fries, pie or hot wings). I didn’t get medical clearance yet, but I was getting sick of sitting around complaining about how jiggly and heavy and I was, and needed to do something about it.

Also at the gym, I had the displeasure of stepping on a scale since a week before delivery. The way I figured it, I had gained somewhere around 45 pounds during pregnancy, and estimated that I had about 20 pounds of residual baby weight to lose. Turns out that it’s, uh, slightly more than 20 pounds. I mean, 20 pounds was bad enough, and I felt mentally prepared to deal with the scale’s reality, but nothing prepared me for the number that I actually saw.

So here goes my admission. My ground zero. My starting block. The largest weight hurdle I have ever had to overcome.

I am 30 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight.

To.The.Pound.

And yes, that’s with the baby OUTSIDE my body.

Granted, some of that might have to do with my cartoonishly large bosoms, but seriously – the rest of it is in my belly, ass, and thighs.

Possibly a few pounds in my neck and double chins.

Maybe a few in my elephant-ears upper arms.

Ugh. I’m gross. Just GROSS. I want to barf Pop Tarts just thinking about this mess I call my body.

But instead of crying (I save that for the 3am feedings), I sucked it up, mounted the elliptical, and pressed Start. I made it through 25 minutes, and oddly considered that a victory.

And then after that, I got on the treadmill. Can’t run just yet, but I jacked the incline and walked as long as I could before I could no longer tolerate the moldy stink coming from the man next to me. Which was 20 minutes.

And then I hit some quick weights.

And then my boobs were going to explode and I knew there was a one-month old about a mile away wondering where his lunch was, so I called it a day and headed home.

Overall, I feel good that I did it. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And considering I was ready to make yet another excuse this morning to NOT go, I consider it a win (and I had a REAL good one to skip yet again, be it that the previous night was our most challenging yet, with Baby D having a cold, difficulty breathing, and thus difficulty feeding. Cue a major crying episode – both mama and child – and 5am was a bit of shit show at our house.)

(Side note: I know I am making motherhood sound awful, but the truth is, minus a couple of rough moments, our kid is great. I need to give the little chubby pork chop some credit – he’s in this crazy unfamiliar, loud, and bright world filled with all sorts of confusion, and yet he seems to handle it like a champ. He’s gaining weight, getting long and even gives us a smile here and there. But who wants to hear about all the awesomeness when there are dirty diapers, erratic sleep, crying jags and gassy infants to wail about, right? Right.)

As for the fitness, I don’t have much time to be making any more excuses anyways – I registered for the Wisconsin half-marathon – to continue my streak of running that race every year – and it’s a mere five months away. I don’t anticipate a PR (which I had two years ago there), but I know I can finish if I get my training in order.

Plus, my ass needs a healthier goal than “how many times can you eat at Five Guys in six months time?” Shit, I PR'd that bitch back in pregnancy month 6.

And here' is what I have to show for that nutritional acheivement:

How I spent my New Years Eve.

First bath - success!

Tryin' to be all fancy and stuff. At least he knew to color-coordinate his outfit to with his soothie. He's smooth like that. And not at all like his hygeine-and-fashion-challenged mother.

Well, I think we know who he got his forehead from.

One month old in this picture. My son and his baby Buddha belly. This kid barely misses a meal, lemme tell ya.

Almost outgrown his bassinet in just four weeks. He'll be stepping it up to the crib soon!

The Arrival

2012-01-03T11:43:00.000-08:00

Turns out, if you wait long enough, the baby actually DOES come out.

Today is the three-week anniversary of my baby boy's birth, so there is a lot of catching up to do. Surely, I could have posted sooner, but I have been trying to take everyone's age-old advice of "when the baby sleeps, you sleep" so my days are pretty much feed the baby, clean poop, sleep. and when I am awake and functioning, I have tried to either leave the house (me and the baby have had two solo trips so far!), read work emails, or just chill with the baby in his few waking hours.

So what follows is basically how the little man came into our world. Be warned, in true PP form, it's pretty much as raw as it gets - I've never really been one to hold back, so why start now?

The action, I guess, started the day after the last post - Friday. That morning, after some concern, my doctor thought my water broke, so I was sent the hospital. Excited with bags packed, my husband and I set off, thinking this was out last day as non-parents.

Not so much - turns out the water in my jeans was likely due to poor bladder control - though I begged to differ, as I am accused of a lot of things, but pants-peeing is not one of them (at least not since the second grade).

Home we went.

Fast forward to Monday night - after a quick late afternoon nap, I woke to get ready for my doctor's appointment, which was at 6pm. As I put my leggings on, something splashed to the ground - was it my water? Sure looked like it, but after four times of being told I was in some form of labor and no baby actually came, I didn't want to get my hopes up. Moreover, the splash was neither the large "gush" or the constant trickle.

We got to the doctor's office, told them went happened, and the three tests they do to confirm water breakage were...inconclusive. Doctor did an ultrasound and determined that my amniotic fluid was again really low - down 4 cm in a week - so that was enough for her to order an inducement - even if my water didn't break, they would induce me because my fluid was too low at that point.

Off we went again to the hospital, where they subsequently confirmed my water DID break and my contractions were every 2-3 minutes (and obviously not painful by that point because I didn't know they were happening - but that would change).

Calls were made, and enter the excited family....

The rest went down like this:

They put me on meds to speed up contractions at 1030pm. Holy pain. Once they kicked in, I tried to beat it for as long as possible before asking for the pain meds at 230am. But to be fair, I also asked for the pain meds because they said they couldn't check my dilation until I has the epi. Epi in 230am, and that was last time I felt any sort of pain. AT ALL.

I actually slept for a few hours. The next thing I knew, the doctor came in at 7am, told me I was 8 cm dilated, and again at 8am, and told me I was fully dilated, and ready to start pushing. I was like, "Baby coming! Baby coming!"

Not so fast.

I proceeded to push for 3 1/2 hours. Yeah, you read that correctly. THREE AND A HALF HOURS. To put that in perspective, my sister's friend has a baby a few days ago and pushed for 14 minutes. Granted, pushing times vary dramatically, but 3 1/2 hours is tough. It doesn't hurt, but it is exhausting - so much so that by the end, I was taking quick naps between contractions (about 90 seconds in between each push session).

After that marathon stretch, it was determined that the baby was facing up - after they shifted him to face down, it was determined that my pelvis was too small to get him through. Our options? C-section or forceps.

This is where it got emotional - not in the "why me? my body failed me!" type way, but rather in the "we got so far, and still couldn't get him out" kind of way. It was here that I started to sob, with no one able to console me.

No way was I having my child yanked out using salad tongs, so C-section it was. Within minutes I was in the OR, which was so cold I was convulsing with shivers and sobbing while they set up, numbed me and cut me open. I felt nothing but my body being kind of yanked around (not painful, more like I could tell I was being tugged). The room was so cold my hands wouldn't stay still, and my sobbing made me a complete mess. And then, about 30 minutes after it all started, at 130pm on 12.13.2011, the doctor proclaimed:

"It's a BOY!"

My son, 7 pounds, 8 ounces, and 20 inches long.

Footprints

First family photo

So let me pause here and talk about this moment.

The proclamation was followed immediately by a large wailing cry from MY SON. I heard my husband - who sat to my left- gasp and cry, "It's a boy!" I felt an almost indescribable mix of relief (that it was over), shock (that it was a boy, because I spent 10 months convinced it was a girl), disbelief (ohmygosh I have a kid), and exhaustion. And cold. I was just so cold. I know it probably sounds weird that "joy" wasn't an immediate reaction, but in that moment, given everything that happened - and the fact that I didn't even see my child for several minutes, and didn't hold him for the first five-ish hours, it's not that unusual that there were some initial attachment issues.

Now,that's not to say I didn't feel any positive feelings - I did, but in a kind of what-just-happened-on-my-gosh-I-have-a-son kind of way. The real "love" switch got flipped some time later up in my room, when it was just me and him hanging out, and I felt this wave of emotion - joy, love - consume me. It's kind of weird to acknoweldge this out loud, especially since I always read about people fall in love immediately with their kid and all that - and for the last few weeks I wondered if something was wrong with me. But in hindsight, I know that there was just so much going on in those hours that, between the physical and emotional exhaustion of it all, I was just out of it, depleted to the point that it was hard to really take anything in.

The family meets Baby Boy D for the first time:

Aunt Devin

Check out my enormous face - I was swelled up like a blowfish, in part due to my hour-long sobbing fest and constant IV. I was swollen for about two weeks after this to unreal proportions. Anyway - this picture was taken while I was numb from rib cage down, more exhausted than I could imagine ever being, and convulsing with cold shivers (still) and unable to hold my child. I was able to use my hands to touch my belly, which was also stunningly swollen. My mouth was so dry I could barely talk (no fluids since about 8am). Here in the recovery room, they covered me with a space blanket type thing that they pumped hot air into so that I would warm up while also allowing me to eat ice chips, which seemed to, at least briefly, counteract the heat blanket. I was a mess. Took me about an hour to regulate. I couldn't even think straight.

Aunt Ellen, breaking Baby Boy D in with a Red Vine (she didn't really feed him this, just in case someone tries to contact the authorities).
Grandma
Literally hours old at this point.

Look how long he is!
One of the ultrasound photos we have is of the baby - at about 15 weeks - in this exact pose. We call it "the touchdown baby" pose. He loves being in this pose when he sleeps.

In his Christmas pjs - threatending Santa with a knuckle sandwich is he didn't get his presents on time.

So here I am, three weeks post-baby, and it's been quite a ride so far. Both me and my husband are on work leave (he goes back in two weeks, me at the end of January) so we've had a lot of "quality" time together. Some observations about these early stages of parenthood:

1. Your belly doesn't automatically disappear once the baby is out. Imagine my shock when I woke up the next morning and still looked 6 months pregnant. Not.Happy. This took about two weeks to go away, though I still have a jiggle belly, thanks to my almost-exclusive Oreo-and-RedVine-diet in that last month of pregnancy (and cake-for-breakfast holiday diet). Turns out my thighs still rub together as well. Su-weet.

2. It IS possible to projectile doody. Just ask my son. And his other favortie trick? The "fire hose." Yeah, it is what it sounds like. I think it's the sensation of the wet wipe that triggers a golden shower. Last night, during his birth announcement photo session, he was actually skilled enough to pee in his own face (and eyes). My kid's gifted. Trust it.

3. Breastfeeding? It's not natural OR easy. If I've had any issues, it's been this. And when your trying to breast feed, and your kid is struggling, it's REALLY emotional. I mean, you are soley responsbile for feeding your child so he survives, and when you can't do it, and it's 3am, and he won't latch, and your nipples are cracked and bleeding - well, let's just say epic meltdowns are bound to happen. And let's be honest, shall we? I'm not the most patient person in the world, and am also a bit of a obsessive perfectionist (understatement), so when I can't do something, I get a little nuts. The funny thing is is that - despite my own expectations and sense of failure - I must have been doing something right from the beginning, because he gained back both his birth weight and an extra pound in the first two weeks, which is really good. Knowing this, it's helped me to calm the eff down. Three weeks in and we are in a much better place. My kid's belly chub is evidence of this.

4. Speaking of BF - holy boobs. People weren't kidding when they said they would double in size when my milk comes in. Pregnancy blew them up, but BF has turned them into a completely different beast all together. That's all I have to say about that without giving my blog it's own warning label for explicit material.

5. Boob size ineviatbley leads me to think about returning to running, and how on earth I am going to start logging miles with these jugs bouncing around. I have no idea yet, and haven't gotten clearence anyways (given my C-section incision that still healing) but since I will continue to breast feed and thus the mild will be plentiful, I have to figure this out. Plus, BF makes you really tired, so getting back to the gym hasn't happened as I had hoped. I am aiming for sometime in the next few days, as we continue to get our schedule nailed down.

6. I'd say I have about 20 pounds of fat to get rid of at this point. Although I didn't get weighed at the last doctor's appointment (because I was in labor), best estimate for total pregnancy weight gain is about 45 pounds. Yeah, I know. Its about 10-15 more than the books say you should gain, but I was on and off bedrest for the last three months and pretty much stuck on the couch, so I guess I was bound to gain a bit more. And like I mentioned earlier, damn Oreos were the end of me. I swore I wouldn't be that girl, but here I am - 20 pounds of non-baby fat to run off. Superb.

So that should catch us up to speed on the last three weeks. I am hesitant to comment on the fact that our child is about as chill as they come, and for all intents and purposes, has been really...easy. We keep waiting for the other shoe to drop - for colic to set it, for brying jags that last all night to hit - but so far we have been really lucky. And I stress lucky, because I certainly have nothing to do with it - what with my lunatic temprement and all.

I am sure I will have some more Tales of Parenthood as we go on, and I'll squeeze them in between dodging poo rockets and being milked like a cow.

Later!

Salty

2011-12-08T04:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Keep on Keepin' On

2011-11-12T18:33:00.000-08:00

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?

I.Knew.It.

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.

Nerves
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.

Dry Run

2011-11-05T12:24:00.000-07:00

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.

AUGHHHHHHH!!!!!!

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.

Sigh.

Having a baby is hard, yo.

Now back to the couch.

And Now to the Other End of the Spectrum

2011-10-12T19:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Fuck.

No.

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.

*shudder*

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.

Sigh.

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.

And She Races!

2011-09-27T10:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Cheese

Cheese

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.

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

2011-09-20T17:09:00.002-07:00

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.

Where I Was

2011-09-10T17:41:00.000-07:00

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.”

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

2011-09-07T21:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Eating My Words (and everything else)

2011-08-01T19:53:00.000-07:00

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."

Reality:

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!"

Reality:
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?"

Reality:
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!

Having a Moment

2011-07-25T20:33:00.001-07:00

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

Not doing my FUCKING JOB for six weeks.

AUGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That is all.

Back to work.

Growing

2011-07-17T16:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Soooo.......

2011-06-05T20:10:00.000-07:00

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?
4.Nap.
5.Sick.
6.Nap.
7.Sick.
8.Nap.
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.”

Holy.mother.effer.

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 the.worst.hangover.of.your.life 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.

*despair*

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.

A Big One is Coming

2011-05-24T07:05:00.000-07:00

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.

In Which I Grow Up

2011-02-25T00:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Why?

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.

Yeah, I Said It

2011-02-19T12:23:00.000-08:00

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

Marriage
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.

Post-Holiday

2011-01-13T20:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Already in Trouble

2010-12-20T12:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Here's a Thought to Ponder

2010-12-17T19:43:00.001-08:00

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?"

Vanity Sizing

2010-12-13T19:52:00.000-08:00

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!

Complete Randomness

2010-12-10T23:30:00.000-08:00

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

Tennessee 2010

2010-12-07T18:20:00.000-08:00

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."

"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.

For Anyone Who Has Ever Lost Faith

2010-10-16T17:07:00.000-07:00

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.

As My World Turns

2010-08-28T13:14:00.000-07:00

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....

How's Marathon Training Going, You Ask?

2010-08-07T18:34:00.000-07:00

Well, maybe you didn't exactly ASK, but I've got a touch of the narcissism, so I'll tell ya anyway.

To summarize, I have my good days and I have my bad days. I am getting most of my runs in (as well as some biking), but some runs are excruciating, while some blissful. The dramatic inconsistency at this point is somewhat of a mystery, though.

For example - Two weeks ago, I had a 14-miler. Well, not so much a 14-miler as it was a 11-miler with a 3-mile death march at the end. In hindsight, I chalked it up to running four days in a row (which I never do), including a 7-mile speedworkout, a 5-miler and a 4-miler. So when I showed up for the 14-miler, it should have been no surprise that my legs were like, "Fuck you M. We out."

Then last week I have a 15-miler, and I could have run all day long. What's more, I came home, ran errands for my sister's pasta party, and then threw the actual party that night (she ran her first 1/2 marthon the next day - which I will detail on my next post....:). ANDDDDDD - I turned around the next day and ran the last handful of miles with her during the race.

I know, right?!?!?!

Before you ask, I'll answer - I have NO idea what's up with that, Willis.

But let's talk about that 15 miles, shall we?

For the most part, it was uneventful - oh, until the point when I realized my shorts slid down and I was running crack-out for god-knows how many miles.

Oh yeah.

Because of all the things runners want to see while running along the beautifully brilliantly blue-watered Chicago lakefront, M's ass crack surely ranks up there - according to Frommers, my crack ranks just higher the Chicago skyline at North Avenue Beach, but slightly lower than crew races in the Lincoln Park Lagoon.

I hear it's a quite a sight. Hard to tell when all I can see is an over-the-shoulder glance in the bathroom mirror.

So turns out, it was far hotter than it felt, and by the time I hit the turn-around at Buckingham Fountain, my shorts looked like I just went for a swim - they were dripping with sweat so bad, the dropletts were running down the back of my legs.

So I knew the outer parts of the shorts were a bit sagging, for sure, but it wasn't until I made it back to the North Avenue foot bridge that I reached back and discovered my...exposure. I spent the rest of the run (4 miles) yanking up the drawers to ensure my modesty (hey, I do have some...a little..okay none, but I could do without being arrested).

I blame it on the built-in undies. See, I wear those Nike shorts, and tend to flip the waisteband over itself because the shorts are a touch too big - thus sort of screwing with my perception of where the waistband is really laying on my body. I still felt the bloomer liners at the base of my butt cheeks, so I assumed things were all hanging tough, if you will.

Turns out things were definately hanging - but not quite so tough.

Too bad it took me until the last half-mile to realize I never tied the strings, which would have been an instant fix. Oh well. I was just grateful that I chose (for some odd reason) to run with a shirt that morning (and not just my sports bra, as I usually do in the extreme heat), so it helped stifle a could-be-major wardrobe malfuction.

So when I got back to the car, droopy drawers and all, I knew that I couldn't sit in the car as saturated as I was. I mean, my ride's not exactly p.i.m.p - yo - but even I have some standards.

So I searched the car and - Tah Dah!! This is what I came up with -

Yoga-mat-turned-seat-cover.

Sa-weet.

After assembling this get-up, I immediately called my husband and told him to erect our finest bedsheets over the window, defrost the squirrel from the freezer and pour his baby a glass of moonshine - hey, it you're going to be white trash, go big or go home, right?

Hee-Haw, ya'll!!

(obligatory self-portrait)

And then, 15 minutes later, I arrive home, and see this:

Is it weird to be sort of...proud? I mean, it's a sweat puddle, right? But I see a puddle of sweat in my yoga-mater-covered car seat, and I view it as a sign of my hard work. That's 15-miles of work pooling there in the driver's seat, no?

In hindsight, that might have been a little weird to take a picture of that.

What do you think, nephew Brody?

Hmmmm....methinks that's a look of judgment...from a guy who craps his own pants.

Let's check in with Cheese and nephew Aiden...thoughts? Am I weird?

Uh huh.

If I had a magic 8-ball, it would probably say, "All signs point to yes."

Oh well. Onward to the next run...

The Other End of the Phone Call

2010-07-20T19:32:00.001-07:00

Me: Hey dude, what's up?

My Brother Nolan: Not much. What's up with you?

Me: Nuthin'. Just driving home from a meeting, thought I'd call to say hi.

Nolan: Right on.

Me: How's Brody?

Nolan:*some sort of russling commotion* hang on a sec.

Me: K.

(Momentary Pause)

Nolan: Okay, sorry about that.

Me: What are you doing?

Nolan: Wiping my ass.

Me:

What?!? Wait, are you taking a shit while talking to me?

Nolan: Yeah.

Me: Do you always talk on your phone when you deficate?

Nolan: I do my best work in here. Hang on, gotta flush.

Me:

(Awkaward Pause)

Nolan: Okay, I'm back.

Me: Where ARE you?

Nolan: At lunch.

Me: Like, at a resturant? You were taking a shit...at a resturant...while talking to me on the phone?

Nolan: Yeah. They got chicken wings. *washes hands...I think*

Me: Is that music I hear in the background?

Nolan: Yeah. Everybody Wang Chung Tonight.

Me:

Of course.

Naturally.

Because anything else would be just weird.

"Warriors Eat Pirates and Shit Ninjas"

2010-06-20T17:47:00.001-07:00

Yeah, that about says it all.

So, whenever anyone asks me to do a different kind of race, I am almost always up for the challenge.

200-mile relay? Why not!

Time trial bike race? Sign me up!

Obstacle course 5k where you run through fire and crawl through mud?

Absolut-!

Wait - what?

Oh yeah - I was all on board for the "obstacle" part, but seems that when I was asked about this back on Easter, I must have been in a cheesecake/banana mousse coma and sort of missed the "jumping-over-fire" part.

When it was brought to my attention by Spie, it was too late. Money paid, deal on.

So without further ado, let me introduce you to the Warrior Dash.

The Warrior Dash is a 5k obstacle-course run. All of it is on trails and through wooded areas, and almost the whole thing consists of sloshing through mud.

I was told there were 12 obstacles, but I didn't count. And although I promised to take a disposable camera along, it's been a crazy weekend here at Chez Cheese, and I forgot.

We've got action pics of some of the obstacles, but for the rest, you'll have to deal with my often-tangential description.

The Warriors - Havilah (Ellen's sister-in-law), my brother-in-law Patrick, and me.

Me and the Preggo. A real warrior would have worn her Big Girl pants and hauled some ass through the mud pits. *shrugs* Guess we aren't all cut out for the horns.

Side note - what on Earth is Havi doing in the backgroud? We are supposed to EAT ninjas for lunch, not pose like one!

Sweet head gear. Once my fur lined panties arrives later this week, the REAL fun will begin, if you know what I mean.

*wink*

And if you don't know what I mean, it means you're my 11-year-old neice sneaking peeks at my blog, and you shouldn't be reading this adult material anyway. So get off before I call your mom.

Either that, or you're on a dry spell. But dont' worry. I used to have dry spells too. It'll pass.

Intimidation.

Anything look "off" in this picture? Nothing? Maybe it's just me...

All taped up, just in case. I had my orthodics in my shoes, which I wasn't about to part with, especially right in the middle of marathon training. Word on the street was that in the first (of two) mud pits, there were floating shoes from the poor souls that didn't think ahead to use duct tape.

Kissin' the guns.

Okay - so the gun that usually goes off is actually in the form of fire shooting out of two columns bookending the start line. We run underneath them, and dang, it's hot.

We run for about 1/2 mile, mostly over grass, with a few muddy hills and puddles thrown in. It's slippery, somewhat strecherous, and hard to keep the footing safe. First obstacle comes up, and we have to hurdle ourselves over a bunch of busted out cars in a busted-out-car graveyard.

Following that, we have to hurdle a bunch of walls - I basically run up, sit my fat stuff on the top, and toss my legs over. We rope climb up a muddle hills, army crawl through some large drainage piles, hurdle ourselves over a HUGE drainage pipe (that I actually slide right back down off of, and had to be boosted over with the help of a man behind me).

Enter first mud pit - I slid down a hill and right as I got to the bottom, I launched myself dive-style into the waist high mud water. I slopped through - feet getting stuck in the mud under the water, and then battled my way up the muddy incline at the other side. It was a joke trying to get footing.

It was right around here that I noticed everyone else walking.

Why?

Because trying to run soaking wet and covered in mud is like trying to run with ten pound weights on my ankles.

I got a couple of encouraging words from the walkers around me as I kept running.

I eventually rounded the corner to the open main field.

It's the hay stack climb.

I know it looks like I was sitting up there, but believe me you - I was not. I was stratagizing while trying not to tunble straight down on my face. Apparently it paid off too - Cheese told me that a couple people tried to run down (?!?!) and biffed on their faces.

Next up - the rope climb. Good thing I kissed the guns earlier - I really needed their help.

It was here that I also heard "GO IRONMEG!" coming from the crowd from none other than Iron Clyde!! Turns out his wife was running it and he was (perhaps for first time, Clyde?) being the spectator. Dude, it was AWESOME to hear that name be called out!

And down.....

After these two obstacles, there was a tire-hop where you have to one-foot hop through a mess of tires, like a football player - only these were filled with mud and staggered in a way that forced you to leap more than actually hop. This was then followed by a series (like 16 or so) up and down hills - all riddled with big roots and mud holes.

Ahh, and for the moment we've all been waiting for.

The fire jump and mud pit. In video!

(I am the one in the white visor and white tank)

And just in case you couldn't really see me (or concentrate over Cheese's screaming), here is a up-close picture of my brother-in-law.

Nice of him to bring a little Christamas to June with his chestnuts and an open fire. Just hauling the ol' boys over the heat...

Same goes for the final mud pit - here is Havi, so you can see just how low and deep you have to get into it.

Can anyone out there explain how my entire being is crusted over with mud except for this one little spot right there on the bottom of my shirt?!?!

Me and my ten-pound ankle weights.

Me and my War Paint.

Three Warriors

Hi Mom!

Me and Patrick

Puttin' a little (s)ass into it.

Well, as long as the mud made me sloppy, why shouldn't the beer?

Nom, nom, nom.

Real Warriors eat the grizzle.

Guess if you can't be one, marry one.

Final thoughts?

Do.This.Race.

It was plain old stupid fun. Wet, sloppy, muddy, fun.

Oh, and did I also mention stinky? Hell yeah, it smelled like a massive turd from the second we stepped off the shuttle through the last mud pit - real people turd, too. I mean, could a race be MORE tailored to the girl who is chronically a shoelace-distance away from crapping her pants? And oddly, it actually made it more fun - thinking I was swimming in turd.

Now if THAT'S not an endorsement, what is?

Kansas 70.3

2010-06-10T20:47:00.001-07:00

It's race report time.

As per usual, I will try to keep this brief, and loaded with pics.

So on June 6, I did the Kansas 70.3 . For those non-triathletes among us, it's a half-Ironman that consists of a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, and 13.1 mile run.

I picked Kansas because Cheese's family is out there and I figured - hey, kill two birds with one stone, right?

Also along for the ride was Spie, who most of you might know from past events such as MC200, and my recent trysts up to Wisconsin for my long rides on the weekends.

We left at about 5am Friday morning, drove for 10 hours (awesome), and finally arrived to 92 degree heat (98 with the stifling humidity). Guess who didn't exactly train for THOSE conditions?

That's right - THIS GIRL.

So almost as quick as we said hello to my in-laws, Spie and I threw on our running clothes and headed out the door. The goals? Shake out the 10-hour ride from our legs, get in a last workout before the race, and try to acclimate to the heat.

Lemme tell you - it was about as close to running inside the seventh ring of hell as I can imagine. My nipples literally melted off my tits. True story.

After 40-ish grueling minutes, Spie and I arrived back home, completely dehydrated, foaming around the mouth, and me covered in my own salt (as usual). Since I have taken to running in shorts and a sports bra (hell, dudes can get naked, a sports bra ain't nothin'), I was a little taken aback when I entered the in-laws home to find a room full of people.

Just staring.

At me.

And my sweaty half-nakiddnes.

Quick like a cat, I dried off, and the hug-hello-how-ya-doings commenced, followed by a BBQ of epic proportions.

Me and Spie, post run, full of grime.

As the evening came to a close, and me with a belly full of baked beans and homemade ice cream, we said our good nights and headed to bed.

Me and my man.

And although there are no pics to document the following day - which consisted of another round of melt-your-face-off-your-face heat - Spie and I spent most of it together, getting lost thanks to Tom-Tom (Dum-Dum), driving around rural back road Kansas, and finally checking into the race, where we found out the water temperature was 81 degrees.

HALLELUJAH!!!!!

My hate for the wetsuit knows no bounds, and with this news, I felt like, "Yeah, things are going to be juuuuust fine....."

And then?

Then we drove the bike course.

Panic ensued, possibly a few tears, lots of nervous laughter, and then - after much hydrating with lots of water - a brief lapse of incontinence (me) in the parking lot when both Spie and I realized we didn't pack out tire repair kits until about midnight.

Which brings us to.....Race Morning.

My Curb Crew. Does the shirt look familiar?

Wait - what? Who's this? It looks just like.....it is!!! Chrissie Wellington!!! Right her in the Land of OZ!!!!!!!

Wowza.

So, Chrissie was well on her way to setting a new Kansas record and breaking her own from last year by the time my sopping wet ass emerged from my swim.

I swam without the wetsuit, but in hindsight I should have just laid it out and floated on it like a dead man on a raft and would probably have posted a better time.

But I got out of the water, mostly unfazed, but yet totally stunned to look down at my watch as see: 47:45.

No seriously.

What the fuck?

I wasn't even tired or disoriented like usual. I just popped up, saw my time, and then noticed, "Yeah, I am pretty sure I am the only white cap in my group to be out here." To say I felt shame doesn't even cover it.

But let me pause here and relay the most glaring lesson I learned this race - In triathlon, you will always get the race you train for. There are no miracles, and there's no one to call in favors from come race morning. You either train, or you don't, and the race doesn't lie.

For me, I regularly chose the bike or a run over the pool, and here - in the form of a 47-minute swim - was the undeniable consequence of those choices. I didn't train well for the swim, so I wasn't going to do well. No complaining, no excuses. It is what it is. I am the only one to blame.

But I was ashamed nonetheless. It always sucks being towards the end of your swim heat.

In fact, the shame was so bad, it took about 10 miles into the bike for me to pull my head out of my ass and get right.

And the getting got right as soon as I saw my first bike split.

Shame erased. Game on.

(Side note: T1 was an astounding 2:32, which is UNHEARD of for me. In 2006, it was 6:56, for crying out loud, and in 2009 it was 4:38 - THANK GAWD someone finally told me that T1 didn't stand for "Time Out to Nap" Who knew?)

(Also note the lack of bike photos - it was impossible for spectators to be on the course so no pictures)

Pictures aside - this was BY FAR the toughest bike course I ever rode. Unrelenting hills, up and down the whole way - but having drove it the day before set me up well. I knew what to expect and when. No matter - it was still balls-ass hard.

So imagine my shock to finally pull back into the State Park, look down and see:

3:02.

And wait! What's this? I jump off my bike and can actually run it to the rack? Hold up! Is this a joke? Who is this Super Girl? It's ME!!!

PR on the hilliest bike course I've ever tackled!!

Eat shit, bad swim!

Now, I don't know about you, but by the time the bike is over, I am usually just relieved to have made it through without a crash or flat.

But yet here I was, relieved AND energetic!

Bring on the run!

(T2: 2:26 - again, this is crazy talk for me)

This was just before (or after) Mile 3.

Mile 5 - still running, refusing to stop, bladder filling, but smile on my face.

This picture is hella ugly, but at this exact moment, I was running past Cheese just about Mile 7 and saying, "I'm gonna break 6 hours!" (my previous PR was 6:32 in 2006). Those exact words - look, you can even see me forming the word "I'm" here.

Between Mile 7 and 9, some random dude caught up to me and starting chatting me up. I think he was trying to pace with me, and rust me - for the first time in my entire life or racing, I noticed that I wasn't the one trying to keep up. Hellz no, I was the one setting the pace! Runner Dude was on Mile 2, and we chatted a while. At this point, I pointed out Cheese and his family, waved, and marveled at how I hadn't yet stopped running.

Chattin' away...

Smiles, but in just a few short miles, they are going to start to fade.....Mile 11 to be exact.....

(Side note: In case you are gawking at my sweet boobs and wondering "Why do they look crinkly?" you're not alone. I ask that every morning myself. But here, it appears that I had a half-pack of Clif Bloks shoved down my shirt from the bike - easy acccess - and I clearly forgot about them.)

By Mile 11, I was struggling. I started making deals with myself. You know, things like, "Okay, run to the far light post and if you want to stop, then you can. But go at least to the far lamp post." This worked well and kept me going until right before Mile 12, when I walked for the first time - for about 60 seconds.

I picked it back up again, noticed my hip was super tight, but also noted that I had just over ten minutes to get through the last mile. I knew it would be tough because I was already slowing down, but I reminded myself of a research study I recently read about how exhaustion is only in the mind - that if needed, my mind could overcome the slowness of my legs, and I could pick it up.

So I did.

I came slow around bend, but then it felt as if my legs just took off.

Oh yeah.

Run time: 2:03.

Official time?

5:58.

And though it may only be two minutes - its still a SUB-6!!!!!

Oh, and uh...30 minutes off my previous PR.

No biggie.

*wink*

But wait- what's this?

Oh yeah - it's me. And my pal Chrissie. Just chillin' at the finish.

I mean, sure, some people call it stalking, but I know true friendship when I see it. And no, there is nothing weird about the fact that I stood five feet away from her for several minutes just watching her...watching...before I made my move...creeped up...nothing weird at all....

I don't know if you know this about me but...uh...I'm kind of a big deal

*shrugs*

So I don't know if I've even mentioned this but, Cheese's mom is a lip-kisser. Like, she goes in for the hug, then pulls back to look at me, and then without fail always goes in for the lip-kiss.

I learned this the hard way - she got me good the night of the engagement party, when I was drunkenly trying to change out of my dress into my pjs and she wandered into the room and gave me my 150th hug of the night and caught me straight pucker.

AW-KWARD.

And most of you know - I'm not even a hugging person, so a lip-kiss is far beyond anything that I consider remotely acceptable.

(side note: my own mom does this with Cheese - and she's even gone in for the lip-kiss on me. What's that about? Is this a generation thing? Have ladies over 50 been conditioned to lip-kiss, no matter how awkward?)

Anyhoo, I put this in because this is photo evidence of his mom pulling away from the intial hug and going in for the smacker, and you can see me do my now-infamous head-turn.

Me and Spie, post-hashing.

Me: "So everytime I tried to farmer blow, it just went clear across my cheek and I couldn't wipe it off."

Spie: "Yeah, you kinda got some right there - right by your lip. And frankly, it's freaking me out."

Me: "Where? Oh, right here (twisting tongue) Oh yeah, that's it. I think I got it."

The finishers!

Not to be deterred from my aformentioned head-turn-spurred-lip-kiss, here's the next family Christmas card, complete with Cheese's mom checking out my hot rack.

And let's be honest, shall we? Can you blame her?

Me and my man. A long hot day and good sunburn later, he graciously drove us home.

So my final thoughts are this:

While I am all-to-sure of why the swim sucked, I am not all that sure why everything else was spot-on. I have definately come into other races feeling far more prepared and stronger, but for some reason, it all clicked in this particular race.

Did I train differently? Better? Stronger? And if so, what specific workout helped most? I have so many questions like this because I clearly - finally - did something right, and I want to know what, so I can keep improving it.

I know I joked a lot about it, but it is so rare for me that I come out on the other end of one of these smiling and proud - more often than not, I feel humbled, sometimes ashamed, often frustrated - and that's WITH training. So this new feeling of pride is different - it's kinda nice.

And who knows - maybe the next race will blow monkey sacks. But right now, I am just going to allow myself to enjoy the experience of things clicking. It's been a while since I felt so happy and proud - time to enjoy it.

The end.

Bet They Didn't Account for Me in Their Business Plan

2010-05-23T20:35:00.000-07:00

Sweet Baby Jesus in a Manger.

Can someone please explain to me how I have lasted 33 years on this earth and only TODAY been to a Sweet Tomatoes?

Did you all know about this place?

Any of you?

And you never told me?

And you call yourselves my friends?

Dreadful.

Now, full disclosure – I probably have driven by this place a couple times in my life, but have paid no mind. Unless it’s pimped in the Biggest Loser, wrapped in wax paper, and comes with a medium drink and yogurt, I don’t do much fast food beyond Subway.

So when Cheese suggested we go to this unknown (to me) gem after we bought our first bike rack, I thought, “I don’t give a fuck – I’ve been training long for three straight days and in 90 degree heat today - just put some food in my fucking face before I eat yours off.”

Decision made. Off we went.

(Side Note: The new bike rack thing is a WHOLE ‘nother one of those life thrills that in my world is probably comparable to birthing a child – which is funny because my siblings post pictures of their kids on Facebook, and I post pictures of Ricky the Rack-y. Now, fingers crossed the fine upstanding citizens in my neighborhood don’t take a buzz saw to it tonight – here’s to hoping!)

Our new addition

So back to the Sweet Tomatoes….

One step through the door and it was like the mother ship calling me home.

A mother ship built with endless rows of food, fueled by free refills, and…

...wait for it….

FREE ICE CREAM.

*deep breathes deep breathes*

Now THIS is intense.

How so?

Cheese pointed out that I actually out-ate him.

And if you have ever sat to a meal with me, you can vouch for the fact that I am to food what Lindsey Lohan is to coke – a straight up whore of a Hoover. No plate unturned, no piece of lettuce uneaten.

In fact, it was hard to ignore the old lady who literally stared at me the entire time I ate. I mean, that old lady just STARED. She didn’t even try to hide it, like maybe sneak a pair of sunglasses on so I can’t see her eyes, or at least save the gawking for when my head was in the soup bowl. But no – ol’ girl went right on staring, and truth be told, I can’t blame her. If I were a betting lady, I would say that in her 180 years on this Earth, she likely has never seen something so appalling and shameless as me – all sunburned and sweaty, grabbing clumps of spinach and romaine and shoving it into my mouth, broccoli chucks flying everywhere, and garbanzo beans leaping off the table for fear of their certain death.

The busboy refused to collect our plates, the fear of me snatching off one of his fingers showing in his eyes.

I mean, picture this - I was at the tail end of many long hours and miles this weekend on foot and bike, and I found myself at dinnertime Sunday, quite literally in the middle of unending food. My will was already weak, my head throbbing, my stomach eating itself in hunger.

If God himself wrote a book called, “Recipes for Disaster,” there would be a picture of me and my shit-eatin’ grin on the cover, big old mixing bowl and spoon in hand, just stirring up the trouble.

There was really nothing anyone could have done to prevent what occurred in the Sweet Tomatoes.

Oh and fear not! I most certainly did not walk out empty handed….

Fuck yeah I pocketed an apple and an ice cream night cap.

There is no WAY I was going to walk out of that joint having consumed only one ice cream sundae-with-hot-fudge-caramel-topping. Come on now - It’s ice cream and its free –

I would’ve slapped my own face if I couldn’t squeeze a little more down my throat.

I can still taste the sweet creamy deliciousness of the frozen yogurt on my tongue as I write this.

Yeah, literally on my tongue – I just puked a little up just now.

Turns out that even though my mind doesn't have a limits, my stomach does. And it was three plates sooner than the mind could process.

So, now that I just realized I wrote two solid pages about nothing but my love for buffets, I should probably go take another shower. No, not that kind of shower– I mean, I love food but not THAT much.

It’s just still about 80 degrees and I’m sticky as a used GU packet.

That, and my food baby is about to be delivered, if ya know what I mean.

AND A LITTLE BONUS ADVICE
If people had told me that getting married guaranteed me a Nasty-Bug Killer at my beckon call, I would have hopped on this ship far sooner.

Especially since my town is infested with these horrific 6-inch long bugs with a bazillion legs that slither up the walls while I am innocently laying in bed trying to read. It’s like their surveying out the scene, just waiting for me to turn the lights off so they can burrow in my brain and have babies that will then destroy my frontal lobe.

Bastards.

But this is where fearless Cheese comes in. I scream, he shows up, I make him keep an eye on that brain-eater while I get a baseball mitt full of toilet paper, and then I supervise while he crunches it.

And I do have to supervise – once he pretended like he got it, but I saw it fall out of the toilet paper, and he still tried to convince me he got it. Until ten minutes later, when the little shit crawled right back up the wall.

Busted.

Moral of the story? Marriage is good.

Creep and Pee - Weird, That's Also The Name of My 80s Hair Band

2010-05-16T19:48:00.000-07:00

Survivor

Watched "Survivor" with the hubs tonight.

(I know -I too was shocked that this show is still on. Guess it must be watched by the same people who watch American Idol – yes, that includes you, Nolan).

I never watched beyond the first season, so I forgot how crazy all the alliance stuff is.

But the biggest observation I walked away with?

If you are a grown ass man with hair long enough to put in a slimy pony tail, you are creepy.

Don’t pass Go. Don’t collect $200. You are just creepy, and must go to Creepy Jail.

You are sentenced to bunk with Creepy Dude Who Wears Long Gold Chains and Creepy Dude That Winks at Inappropriate Moments. Don't drop the soap.

After making this observation to Cheese, however, he rewarded my keen sense of character with this:

“But they make for such passionate lovers.”

Like peas in a pod, we are.

A vomit-filled, scratch-your-skin-off-your-body-type pod.

Turtle Vindication
Got in my second to last long brick before the big Kansas 70.3 debut.

Oh, by the way - Have I mentioned that Cheese’s entire family (and some friends) will be spectating this beauty?

Seemed I forgot this might be a side-effect of doing a race in his home state.

No pressure, no pressure at all. Hopefully he can educate them about the acronym DFL while I’m out of the bike.

(Dead Fucking Last, for those outside the sports world)

Anyslowass, I had the weirdest experience.

I was so totally physically into it – felt great, felt strong, felt like I could turn around and do all four hours again.

But mentally, I was a sick, hot mess.

I mean, talk about Bad Attitude Sally.

In full disclosure, I believe PMS (yes men, it exists, its bad, so shut the eff up before I club you with my Super Absorbency Tampon) was part of this mood.

But then, it would sour even more every time (6) my effing water bottles hopped right out of the water cages onto the ground. And that doesn't even include the amount of time I spent reaching back mid-ride to make sure they were pushed down - so as NOT to jump the cages.

But EVERY.SINGLE.BUMP, I tell you.

Somewhere in the residential section of Highland Park, I was screaming at my bottle in the middle of the street, and then turning my verbal vengeance towards the cages themselves.

Like the true period-pending lunatic I am.

But the icing on the cake (no post is complete without a cake frosting mention) was when I finally found a bathroom after holding “it” for 30ish miles.

I damn near threw my bike down as I rushed into the park outhouse, yanked down my sweaty shorts and commenced “the hover.”

Mid-hover, however, I had the bright idea to also blow my endlessly runny nose – you know, to expedite time. Nose-blowing being oh-so-time-consuming that I couldn't be bothered with an extra two seconds to do it post-pee.

Oh, I didn’t mention that I was apparently time-trialing? Against myself? And the wind?

Turns out that when you hover, you have a little less “stream control.”

So all it took was one hard blow and Good Ol’ Meggy was riding home in urine-soaked pantaloons.

And socks.

I mean, why the hell did I bother to stop in the first place? I could have just kept pace and taken care of business on somewhere along Sheridan Road.

There’s really no moral of the story here. I would say, “lesson learned,” but I know myself, and there will surely be a next time.

My money’s on Kansas 70.3.

‘Cause I’m a crowd pleaser.

Kicking off Race Season - Wisconsin 1/2 Marathon

2010-05-01T15:43:00.000-07:00

I know, I almost forgot I did these silly little things called races too!

But alas, it’s true – I still run, bike and (sometimes) swim.

Thus, I have managed to drop what sparse duckets I have on a few races this season, and completed my first one of the season this morning – the Wisconsin half-marathon.

I ran this race last year, and they have a killer awesome course that I happened to PR on last year.

Sub 2, baby.

*golf claps*

So yeah, its kinda one of my favs.

So here we go again this year, and the race didn’t disappoint.

First off, Spie came out to cheer me on, which was AWESOME! Even after doing her long run this morning, she rode her bike all around the course – sadly, I has laser focus for most of the race, so I only caught her once!

So without going into a mile-by-mile replay, let’s hit the highlights:

Picture the scene:

Me - Deep in the corral with 30 seconds before the gun goes off.

My bowels - Moving.

Huh. Weird.

Because until that moment, all efforts to make a poopy had been unsuccessful.

As luck would have it, we get the final warning before the gun, and who decides to show up?

Mr. Turtle, just peeking his head.

And Neck.

Hell, the little bastard was waving to spectators as I crossed the Start.

Now, common sense would say, “Take a second to go to the bathroom BEFORE you cross the start line, because you cross, the clock starts.”

But the Panic Megan said, “Go go go!! Just hit the Porto-Potty at the first station ASAP!”

So off I went, managing to withhold a MAJOR running faux paus until Mile 1, where Scene 2 went down as follows:

BATHROOM!

NO!! THERE’S A LINE!!!

*FOOT TAP FOOT TAP FOOT TAP*

FINALLY!!!

COME ON POOP – HURRY UP!! STOP HANGING AND JUST FALL IN ALREADY!!!

PHEW!

NO TOLIET PAPER?!?!?!

WELL, LET’S HOPE IT WAS A CLEAN BREAK!

PANTS UP AND WE’RE OFF!

And over the rest of the course, I ran as fast and as smart as I possibly could – trying to make up those lost minutes, which I estimated to be about two minutes in total.

And since I forgot my watch (I apparently couldn't be bothered with small details at 3:45am), I had no idea how things were fairing for me, especially considering that only Miles 1 & 2 had clocks.

But no matter – I didn’t care. I actually liked running “naked” – mostly steady, with kicks here and there, and a slow down if needed (but never for long).

It was just me, and my mind, and my own self-motivating thoughts to push through the pain and the slowly creeping fatigue.

When I turned the corner to homestretch, I was pretty sure I had made up the Poop Time, and then some. I was confident that – yes – I put it all out there, and ran my race as best I could. No excuses – I gave it all that I had, I all that I trained for – and when I finished, I gave it every last gasping breath in my body.

But the clock told a different story.

I fell short of new PR.

By seconds.

Ten seconds to be exact.

I immediately felt the tears – stupid poop!! Next time I am going to let you just fall out of my shorts – to hell with the toilet!!

But then I saw Spie – and she was so happy, and so supportive, and so congratulatory that it was hard to stay down on myself.

My muscles were cramping, I felt like I was going to puke, and I then decided – yeah, you did everything you could do. Be proud of that. Be proud you about to vomit Roctane. Be proud that you ran until almost-collapse. Be proud.

And I am.

I mean, yeah, it’s hard not to go over and over and over every mile and say, “Well, I could have gotten my water faster at that stop” or “I could have gotten up that hill just a few seconds faster,” but I am trying not to do that. I did what I could in those moments. There are no excuses. I literally did what I could.

Shit happens – literally, sometimes. And like a recent blogger post that I have really taken to heart – no race will ever be perfect. But what you do whatever it takes to make it as good as possible.

And you never resort to excuses.

Not even excuses of the brown 2-minute variety.

So it is what it is – and what it IS is a motivator to kick things up a notch – it’s like Potential knocked on the door and said, “Hey, I'm your Potential. Pleased to meet you. Can I come in?”

And I am going to open it wide and welcome him with open arms. Because this race showed me tht I actually have potential.

Potential to actually be faster - not just envy it.

Potential to race smarter – and not complain about elements I can’t control.

Potential to actually see what my body is capable of – and not just wonder.

Potential to "race" - and not just simply "run" these events.

Potential to mentally conquer - or, like Liz says, "Adapt and Overcome" - because I am an athlete and that's just what athletes do.

So this race? This may not have been that perfect race, and I may not have reached the time I had hoped for, and I may not have acheived what I wanted.

But yet, I still got what I came for – and what I needed.

In the Studio

2010-04-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

And now, for your listening pleasure - sit back, relax, and enjoy the sweet, sweet musical stylings of my nephew, Nolan.

A true artist would never let a little boogie get in the way of his mad jam session.

However, the cup of Goldfish crackers he forgot about yesterday but just saw out of the corner of his eye towards the end there completely merits distraction.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, those crazy sick beatz are none other than the timeless classic, "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus.

All together now:

"Nodding my head like yeah/ Moving my hips like yeah"

Of Food and Stuff

2010-03-31T19:18:00.000-07:00

1.
Remember when we used to crimp our hair? Yeah, me too. That was the SHIT. Or when we wore like two or three Swatches at the same time? Makes me laugh at what we thought was cool. I wonder what we will laugh at 20 years from now. My money’s on skinny jeans.

2.
I can’t say for sure why, but I am always surprised when I see people rollerblading. But yet not as surprised as I was to see a lady running in leg warmers today.

3.
Man, how disappointed were you when you eagerly bit into a chocolate bunny on Easter, only to realize it was hallow – not solid? I WAS *shakes fist at Easter bunny*

4.
Not 100% sure what surprised me more – that I saw “Hot Tub Time Machine” in the theatres, that I liked it, or that I did this all without eating a single kernel of popcorn or candy. I’m gonna go with the lack of junk food because I can’t remember one other movie that I have ever gone to without eating either of these two things – and we go to the movies almost every week.

5.
Dear Brad:

That is all.
Love,
Jenn

6.
Conversation with my husband:
Me: Why are we on a diet again?
Him: Because when I look down, I want to see my wee-wee.
Me: Well, I can see mine when I look down. Can I open the ice cream now?

Speaking of diet, I should explain that the husband and myself are not so much on a diet, per se, as we are trying to clean up our eating. This means no junk in the house, meals are laden with veggies, and our snacks are of the orange carrot-y variety instead of greasy fried salty potato-y variety. In addition, we have re-evaluated our perception of "portion" and late-night snacking.

“We” call it a lifestyle change.

“I” call it my own private hell.

As a former eating disorder individual, my previous obsession with food is minuscule compared to the amount of time I now spend thinking about it. I mean, I’m taking pictures of cake frosting containers at the grocery store and posting them to Facebook, for crying out loud. Not to mention the fact that hardly a conversation goes by the words “chocolate chip” aren’t mentioned.

Them is not the behaviors of the sane.

However, this is also eye-opening. It is really making me aware of how much mindless eating I do during the day, and how much of an emotional eater I really am. I mean, every time I get a little frustrated or bored or depressed, I head to the kitchen while grumbling about how “starving” I am.

And I’m not. I’m not starving at all.

I’m being a little whiney bitch, is all.

Also interesting (at least to myself) was an article I read this week about a recent study that found high fat and sugary food have the same addictive qualities as cocaine.

Now, I’ve never tired cocaine, but after the true detox of this past week, I can attest to the fact that I am very likely addicted to the sugar. I sort of knew this before – or at least make jokes about it- but now I am fairly certain it’s true. The need for increased amounts to experience a high, the obsessive thoughts when I don’t have it, the desperate scrounging in far corners of the house for a hidden stash – I’m one mini-skirt and some blue eye shadow away from making some really bad decisions just to score a Snickers.

It’s hard not to get discouraged about the lack of visible progress, as well. Now, I’m smart enough to know that things like this take time, but I would think that this new improved eating, coupled with ramped up training, would deliver at least some preliminary results.

And I got nuthin’.

Nada.

A big fat donut hole.

Donut hole.

DONUT HOLE!!!!!!!

*crumbles to the ground weeping*
Deep……Sigh.

I better get hip bones sharp enough to slice turkey and clavicles I can hang laundry from out of all this.

And I know this will get easier. I mean, it’s sugar, for crying out loud. It’s not like it’s air or water.

Sweet, sweet buttercream frosted air and chocolate infused water….

My Attempt at Not Being Blog Lazy

2010-03-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

What The-?
Okay, I’ve mulled this over long enough that its time to throw it out there for public consumption:

I don't get Lady Gaga.

Is this just a sign of my age that I just don’t get her?

I don’t think so, because my 62-year old mother ADORES her. In fact, hang out on the south side of Chicago and chances are you’ll see Big Mar riding around in the Trailblazer, cigarette hanging out of her mouth while belting “Bad Romance” like it was an ode to single old broads everywhere.

(Sidenote: Please ignore the “Just Dance” track on my iPod – its not my fault it happens to be a good running song. Some things just defy explanation. Let’s be okay with that and get back to the bigger picture here.)

So what is it that I just don’t get?

Between the outrageous hair/outfits and the following of “Little Monsters,” I just don’t get it. And the more I think about it, the more I feel like my mother circa 25 years ago, when her little daughter M (age 8), was BEGGING for the new Madonna cassette tape while she wondered what the hell was so great about a trashy girl from New Jersey dressed in lace and whining about being a virgin and papas preaching.

Now THAT’S a flashback – how old am I anyways??! Better question – how the heck old is Madonna?!?!

So I guess I will just have to put Lady Gaga on my list of “Things I Don’t Get Because I Am Old or Just Uncool.”

And considering the size of that lsit, I’m gonna need some more paper.

Getcha Boots On, Sandy
Speaking of pop culture – what in holy hell is wrong with Jesse James?

Seriously.

You bag a chick like Sandra Bullock and even get her to marry you, and then you go whoring around with that Bombshell chick who’s covered form head to toe in ratty-ass tats, and reportedly a white supremacist?

I mean, did he have a lobotomy?

That’s the only thing that would explain why he did this, and expected it to be kept a secret.

*shakes head*

Ugh. I debated on whether or not to even put that picture up because personally I want to run naked through a scorching fire just to melt the dirty off everytime I look at it.

Which begs the question - how on Earth did Jesse James get naked and make the sexy times with her?!?!

Excuse me while I go bleach my eyes and brain N.O.W.

S.L.O.W.
Wanna know when three minutes is truly an eternity?

When those three minutes are the time it takes to brew that morning coffee.

GAWD.

Seeking Umbrella
So have I mentioned that it is literally raining babies around my head?

I’ve got three new nephews, one nephew/niece on the way, and all my friends have had or are currently pregnant with new babies.

Aiden and Nolan

Brody

Baby Sully On-The-Way

Me and Cheese are slowly becoming eeked out the social lives of once-babyless.

It is starting to make me wonder if they all know something I don’t, and if this is a train I need to reconsider boarding.

Of course, peer pressure is no reason to have a bambino. For a myriad of different reasons of which I will not disclose here, suffice it to say I am just not down with it yet.

Plus, I like my life right now. Yeah, I get it – its selfish. Nothing compares to the miracle of children, yada, yada.

But I’ll tell you something – being surrounded by baby-makers has taught me that not all is sunshine, rainbows and cute little baby clothes. It’s HARD – I don’t care who you are. And right now, I can’t comprehend uprooting life to take that on.

It's just such a tremendous responsibility of which I am just not capable now.

And besides, I don’t need yet another reason to sit around and binge eat cake frosting and corn chips.

Triathlon training is reason enough.

Not My Reality
And speaking of babies:

Does anyone believe that this lady had one just months ago?

My goodness.

I’ll tell ya what – you find a way for me to look like this post-pregnancy, and I’ll find a way to shoot out those little guys rapid-fire like a machine gun coochie.

T-Time
Oh, and speaking of - once again, triathlon season is upon us.

And now that the weather is mostly above Suck It degrees, I have taken my long runs back outside.

Nothing against the treadmill, which got me almost entirely through Ironman training, but I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs and I was just plain bored with the monotony of my iPod and the fact that I seem to uncannily time my runs during the Rick Sanchez timeslot on CNN –which my gym runs incessantly.

Seriously – would it kill ‘em to toss on Bravo for a few hours here and there?

In any case, I took my legs over to the lake these last few weeks.

My legs and my COMPRESSION TIGHTS.

That’s right – I bought into the fad.

And before I say anything else, we all know by now that I am truly not a new-gadget-type of girl. I am scrappy, plain and simple. I ride a four year old tri bike that is starting to rust and rattle all over, my riding shorts are also that old and all worn out at the crotch, and I can barely spell Garmin, much less plunk down the money to own or work one.

But I got compression tights, and boy oh boy do I love them.

Not only are they great for actually running and giving my ass the sports bra-like support it needs, recovering after a long run or a brick in them is genius.

After having them on a couple hours post long workout, I wake up in the morning feeling almost zero effects of the previous day’s smash fest.

I suspect I will wear the crap out of these until the are no longer compression but more like yoga pants, and the downside is that they cost a ton. And while I considered setting up a texting donation site a la Haiti to help fund my compression tights shortage, I figured I best hold off until I can pay my own way.

Either that, or just wait ‘til my birthday and drop LOTS of hints for my husband.

(Husband, if your reading this, that was hint #1).

Moral of the story?

Compression tights rule, and I hate being poor.

Feel Good Moment

2010-02-25T19:25:00.000-08:00

So it's hardly a secret that I have never really considered myself good looking. "Cute" would never be a word I would ever use to describe myself. I think that that my general features, coupled with increasing age and my daily attempts at athleticism, never really leave me feeling all that good about myself. Let's face - I have a really poor opinion of myself when it comes to how I look.

These last few weeks have been particularly hard, though. I guess I was just feeling kind of shitty all around ("bluesy," as I now describe), and then I saw some pictures of myself from my recent Florida trip - and I just sort of tumbled down this really steep and dangerous hole of low self-esteem.

And listen - I am certainly not saying any of this to get compliments in return - fact is, these thoughts are so commonplace for me at this point that no sweet, nice, kind words of support are really going to soften up the hard view I have of my physical appearance.

Today was slightly different though.

Today, I got my hair cut.

And as shallow as it may sound, I actually felt...well, not so ugly.

It was a new hair stylist (I took a HUGE chance at this one) and walked out feeling like, "Huh. This sort of worked out."

In fact, I even took pictures of myself. Like, just of myself and my hair - not of anything else.

And since these moments are so few and far between, I am going to document this hair cut, and then try to remember how good I felt today when I am having one of those "other" days.

Here is the "before" - taken this wekeend at a fundraiser - what you can't see sit hat my hair literally goes down to the middle of my back.

And here is the after:

And another:

Clearly, the big difference is the bangs. I have become ULTRA sensitive of late regarding the size of me head and forehead, and took the bangs leap. It paid off, IMO. In these pictures, they are swept to the side, but when brushed straight, they are really long and hang over my eyes (like this):

(Yeah, this isn't actually me with my imaginary baby, but you get the idea)

The other big difference is the length - it now falls just below my shoulders, and just feels so much better - so soft, so light, so healthy. Not heavy and hanging and weighing me down.

(Insert male eye-rolling)

Anyways, I am sharing this more for me than anything - taking advantage of that rare moment in which I feel, well, like a lady.

Because of course, my three-hour brick in the morning is going to beat any sort of "lady" right out of it.

Disney Recap Will Have To Wait

2010-02-24T17:01:00.000-08:00

Because I simply couldn't let this one pass without posting.

"Uh, mom? Yeeeeaaaaah...see, the thing is, I don't remember this being part of the 'Little Brother' contract I signed back in August. So howsabout you stop taking pictures, put down that cell phone, and get this half-nekkid child who's trying to style me as a contenstant in the 'Lil Leprechaun pageant off my back? Sigh. Makes me want for the good old days when he would just kick me in the head while I laid in the Boppy."

Morale of the story?

Time to start getting ready for St. Patrick's Day, or it may creep up and surprise you.

2010-02-17T12:42:00.001-08:00

If you know me on Facebook, odds are that you have already seen my mushy-mushy lovefest for the newest addition to the Project Procrastination family - Mr. Brody Banks McC--.

And if you don't know me on Facebook - why not? I mean, what are you waiting for? Some of my finest wit is demonstrated by those gosh-silly Status Updates. And by finest wit, I mean compelte lack of originality and senseless babbling. Surely you don't want to miss that.

Now, getting back to the main point of this delicious smooshies south of the Sears Tower.

Mr. Brody was born at 10:05pm, all the way down there by Nashville, Tennessee.

He is 25% Pure Sugar Sweetness, 25% Devilish Good Looks, and 50% Rough-Housing, Baseball Throwing, Football Passing BOY.

Brody is the son of this man (crap, I said "Man"), my brother Nolan. It wasn't that long ago when Nolan himself was a baby - and by baby, I mean the neighborhood terror who spent the first few years of his own life thinking his name was "Nolan NO!" Times certainly have changed.

Brody is partially named out his Momma's father (Banks), and partially after that creepy dude from MTV who's related to that Kardashian family. Naw, just kidding about that second part.

Jenny, my sister-in-law and proud mother, was a super-trooper who battled through the labor - girl, I don't know how on earth you did it, but THAT is impressive!

It makes me a little sad that Brody lives so far away, and I can't just pop over there to give him Auntie kisses the same way I can go over and smother Baby Nolan and Aiden. But I know that when I do get to meet him, he'll probably love me and beg his Momma and Papa to come and visit his crazy Chicago aunt.

It's amazing how my family is growing up, moving forward and ever-expanding. To see my siblings - all of whom came up under me - now having their own kids makes my head explode with love sometimes. Man, where is the time going?!?!

I am so proud of Jenny and Nolan, and I can't wait to meet my new nephew!

Mom, You Made the Blog!**

2010-02-08T14:56:00.000-08:00

(**My mom loves making the blog!)

So have I ever mentioned that I am Croatian?

Yeah, I know - the Irish name throws ya off, but one glance at my olive skin and it's pretty clear that there's a little bit o'somethin' else in this blood.

I get it from my mom - along with my pear-shaped body, oily-but-easily-tannable-skin, and struggle to maintain muscle tone.

Su-weet.

Anycellulitdimples, I was never really raised with any sort of emphasis on my cultural ethnic background. If I had any identity at all, it was as a Chicagoan and daughter of Bridgeport parents - one of which was a Chicago cop.

Come to think of it - neither of my parents was all that big on schooling us on the roots and branches of our family tree. I mean, I knew some basic stories about my grandparents, but when it comes to actual country and culture of origin, my knowledge amounts to "my dad's irish and my mom's croatian."

(By the way, this was always a treat in grammer school, where it was only cool to be Irish - and most kids were- and anything other than that was considered "weird." And since I was never one to want to stick out and hated when the kids made fun of me when I said the word "Croatian," I usually stuck to the Irish title.)

However, as I've aged, I have become increasingly interested in know more about where my mother's family came from (Croatia) and more about the culture itself - well, aside from my one-word knowledge of the Croatian translation for "shut up your mouth," which my mother's ingrained in us at an early age.

And which I still use with regularity.

So last week, when my brother-in-law told us he was taking my mom to Croatian festival, naturally I wanted to take part.

Turns out, this annual festival's 2010 theme was "Carnival," and it was encouraged to come in costume - of which I did not.

But Patrick made my mom and him costumes - toucans!

Because when you think of Croatia, the first thing you associate with it is toucans, is it not?

Getting ready

No toucan is complete without the head-gear.

And she's ready!!

If she turned her head to the side, you'd see she had a beak coming out the top of her forehead. Me, on the other hand - well, that's just my regular nose.

So two toucans walk into a bar....stop me if you heard it.....

Me and my costume-less date, ready to get our food on.

Toucans gotta eat too, right? Weird, but I had no idea swiss cheese, salami, and corned beef was a Croatian appetizer, but hey - what do I know?

Uh, Patrick?.....nevermind.

Ah, there we go - there's that beak!

Me and the moms.

So basically, we watched a REALLY long play that was spoken all in Croatian, and apparently was funny given the laughs of all the Croatian-speaking people around us (sorry, I didn't have any decent pics of this theatre production). And after what seemed like a really long time (and in my food-hunger-feed me world, two hours is LOOOOONG), we feasted on veggies, mostaccoli, and fried chicken.

Wait - what?!?!

Who knew fried chicken was a Croatian delicacy?

After dinner, dessert and some Croatian beers, Cheese and I had our fill of the evening so we packed it up and headed home.

Okay, I'm out of steam right now - that's my story - that's all I got.

Cupcake

2010-01-24T13:14:00.000-08:00

Last week at the grocery store, I bought a box of chocolate fudge cake mix and some butter cream frosting.

No reason in particular - I just seem to find myself wanting/needing to make the occasional cupcake without the proper ingredients, so I figured while I was there, I should buy in preparation for the next wave of domesticity.

'Cause like my menstruation, you never know when it's going to hit.

However, turns out you can't keep a jar of butter cream frosting in the house of a recovering/oft-slipping sugar addict.

Cupcake mix got put safely in the cabinet, while the jar of frosting was opened, tested, and placed in the fridge butter shelf for the occasional sugar hit.

I would only take about two finger fulls at at time - enough to quench that sugar shake at the end of each evening - the one that usually causes me to eat three ice bars in a row, hence prohibiting me from buying them anymore (ice cream bars and chocolate chips - bought again, with the intention of putting them in brownies, but in reality putting them only in my belly straight from the bag).

My goodness - what is it with me and baking ingredients?

But like any addict, the finger-fulls were no longer cutting it after a while, and I wanted more.

Like a spoonful.

Or two. Maybe three.

I eventually got about halfway through the jar, and finally decided - throw it out. Seriously, I can't be working out for two hours a day, and then blow it all of hydrogenated oil that taste deliciously and sinfully like butter cream.

So out it went. Right in the garbage with my dignity.

But for as much as I love butter cream frosting, I don't love it more than this little piece of deliciousness:

He told my sister he had a lunch date.

With his imaginary friends, Fou Fou and Kenea.

Forget the frosting - THAT'S real sweetness.

Mish Mosh

2010-01-23T13:25:00.000-08:00

Blood Sucker
I saw a grown ass man with a hickey at the gym today.

And by grown ass, I mean like 50.

Now, I’m no prude, but I always assumed that hickeys stopped being cool three weeks prior to ALWAYS.

Honestly, there is no workout THAT important that you have to risk public hickey humiliation to do.

I mean, grab a beer, hit the couch, and wait it out.

Because people like me are staring.

And judging.

Gross.

Dirty
Speaking of the gym, there seems to be a new trend.

Last year around this time, all the New Years Resolutioners who otherwise only pass by the gym on the way to the Olive Garden were sporting the denim-jeans-as-workout-attire trend.

Which makes sense, right? I mean, who doesn’t want to work up a good sweat in the ultra-unbreathable fabric of denim?

Feeling the burn as those soggy jeans hug the thighs like heavy-duty Seran Wrap.

Spectacular.

The year, however, seems to be the year of the Bare Feet.

Perhaps this is spawned by the newfound cult-forming book “Born to Run” (side note – I wouldn’t exactly know this, though, because truth be told it’s been on my Amazon.com wish list, but I’ve put myself on a book-buying diet this year until I make it through the stacks in my house - but people are raving).

And that’s cool – I get it. We athletes are all about the new – gadgets, training tools, concepts.

Trust me, I don’t embrace my “scrappy athlete” title willingly – if I weren’t so poor (don’t let the “doctor” title fool you – I still work in child welfare), I too would guinea-pig myself with all the new crap (including a Computrainer, hint, hint, wink, wink).

So I get the intrigue of trying out all the new stuff - or in this case, the new “concept.”

But if you are taking yourself to the gym – home of the nastiest, most evolved colonies of germs and disease, shouldn’t you at least try to get yourself a pair of those finger-shoes? You know, the ones that have a little space for each toe, as if to simulate bare feet?

Because seriously – if you want to run free as a 5-year-old along the lakefront path and risk glass, twigs, and pebbles – have at it. I support all sorts of athletic endeavors.

But if you want to go to my gym, put your sweaty, fungusy, hang-naily, toe-jammy, dirty ass feet all over the same equipment that I also use – well, now it’s personal.

I Stand Corrected
Completely un-athletic related, I saw a short clip of a recent American Idol tryout the other day. Apparently some guy has something to say about pants being on the ground, and I was the last one to know about it.

I admit my shock to discover that this show is still on the air.

I mean – really.

I know not ONE person that watches this crap.

So I thought to myself, “Self, surely there is nothing – not ONE single thing- in the world I care less about than American Idol.”

But then I found myself bombarded with “breaking” news that Simon Cowell was leaving the show. It was even on my local nightly news.

And – whoops! Whatdaya know?

There’s that one thing.

Reset

2010-01-05T18:17:00.000-08:00

As noted in the previous post, I decided to make a list of resolutions.

Oh I know – you are probably saying, “I NEVER make resolutions. They’re so silly!”

Well, true - and honestly I have never been one to make them, either.

But like I said in a previous post, I like the idea of a “Reset” button.

See, my list is comprised of things that I already do, I just want to do BETTER.

And frankly, I need goals.

So with that said, here they are – my life but BETTER.

My Resolutions:

1. Tell it like it is.
Fuck it. I am so sick of sugar-coating people’s self-denials and excuses. I am no longer supporting their delusions. Have a long history of not ever following through on ANYTHING, but rather digging in your bag of excuses to soften the blow of your failure? Don’t come see me, because I will call you out like a nun in Catholic school. It’s not a complete erasing of my empathy, but rather this new behavioral change will be reserved for those among us who are chronic bullshitters. I mean, someone has to say it, and I suspect the rest of the people in your life aren’t, or we wouldn’t be in the position, now would we?

2. Train better.
Speaking of being called out on denials – I’m calling myself out on this one. Yeah, I work out regularly. But I need to concentrate on doing more than just lollygagging for an hour on the bike in front of my tv. If there’s no sweat, it never happened.

Towards that end, I have become quite a fan of hill interverals on the treadmill and will start speed intervals as well. I figure since I am not doing a ton of distance stuff this season (and by distance stuff I mean full Ironman), I might as well try to quicken myself up and perhaps lose a pound or two in the process.

And like I mentioned, fear IS my greatest motivation. Sure, there’s fear of having a shitty race season or never getting better/faster/stronger – watching your race results stagnant while all your peers fly by with their Kona-bound dreams. But more importantly, there’s fear of looking like John Goodman’s more attractive-yet-just-as-fat-twin in my race photos. If I have to look at another picture of myself in my tri-suit looking like something processed in the Oscar Meyer factory, or glimpse my ass in a three-way mirror looking like I was beat with a bag of nickels, I will scream.

No mas, mi amigos. No mas.

It’s a new day.

3. Eat Better.
This anti-denial thing is becoming a theme, isn’t it?

This resolution should really read: eat less candy and cupcakes, you fatass. See, turns out that I actually eat pretty well – veggies, lean meats, fruits by the truckload.

But my reality is that these are usually sandwiched between peanut MnM’s, Spice Gum Drops, and brownies. And this has GOT to change.

I mean, there is no point working my ass off at the gym, then turning around and mowing a box of Mike n Ikes, right? What a waste. So I try to ask myself as I go for another cookie: “How many miles is this going to cost you?” Sometimes it helps, and sometimes the licorice bits win out. But sometimes is better than no times, right? And me being a lazy person, I don’t want to run any more miles than necessary, you know?

So my goal here is this – set aside crap-food craving until Sunday. If I want to still rot my face out with a super-size box of Dots, then I can have at it. But my hope is that I won’t, or that I will get to Sunday, and only be able to eat a few.

Mmmmm…Dots……

4. Be a Better Person
Okay, let me explain this. If left to myself, I would sit in my house all day, get my work done, and then just read, read, read. It’s the hermit-tendencies in me, I admit. And I think my mom would tell you that I have always been that way – I like to be by myself.

But it doesn’t work really well when you have family, friends, and a husband all demanding attention.

So rather than give in to my own self desires of solitary confinement (I love you Andy Dufraine), I will make a better effort at getting out, participating in life, and sharing my time with others. You know - get busy living (there you are again, Andy!)

And like it.

That said, under this resolution is the promise to give back – Cheese and I have talked about this a bit already. See, in high school, I was all about community service – perhaps it was Jesuit upbringing – but I did just about everything, including a out-of-state trip to rural Kentucky to build houses.

But as an adult, like a lot of stuff, community service just fell by the wayside – what with my busy schedule of Facebook stalking, Biggest Loser-watching, movie attending, and general life observing/bitching.

Now granted, I give a lot of money (“a lot” being relative to my income and the Joe Biden) to various causes and charities. But I have been a bit more selfish with my time, and that’s not cool.

So in becoming a better person, I will actively give back my time to a valuable cause. It’s about darn time.

5. Be a more patient person.
Wow, did this little flaw bubble to the surface this year. Now, to be fair, most people say that they don’t see this side of me, but I know it’s there and it bothers me. See, I always sort of border on the fence between “good psychologist” and “bat-shit-rip-your-head-off-type-crazy” on any given day. But I really noticed I has taken a sharp dive to the latter side of the yard this year, particularly as work started to pile up. The more cases we got, the more cases I began to take on, and the more families I had to see face-to-face.

And let me tell you – nothing boils my blood more than a selfish, dysfunctional parent who justifies child abuse by their own hands, or exposing their child to daily domestic violence because they don’t think the kids actually sees it.

Some days, it’s all I can do not to haul off and punch these people in their smug-ass faces. I know - not good for a psychologist to say. But it’s one thing to neutrally assess, analyze and treat this dysfunction (which I do very well, thankyouverymuch), and a whole ‘nother to be a human being with feelings and empathy for the kids.

So my vow is to really try to improve this patience thing by any means possible. I have no plan, and might just have to wing it.

I know – good luck, right?

So that about sums up my personal goals for this year. Basic, and nothing to obscenely hard, like climb Mt. Everest – which, BTW, I would NEVER do because I effing hate this cold weather.

And “try new things” didn’t make the list this year anyways.

But perhaps, if reminded, I will do a mid-year check to see my progress.

Here’s to hoping there is some.

Call It An After-Christmas Miracle

2010-01-04T15:12:00.001-08:00

Still working on the list of resolutions - procrastination what?

So in the meantime, here is my most current display of blatant narcissism (aside from the obvious blog that's all about me)...

A photo essay of....

Myself.

Of course it is.

These photos were taken from a 5k the day before my wedding (can you tell?) called the Lung Run. The run was to benefit lung cancer research, and since my dad died from it, I figured it was a nice way to have my dad present that weekend.

The visor was a gift from one of my favorite gals, Spie.

So enjoy me.

You're welcome.

What?!?! How did this little smooshie make it in here?! Okay, he can stay. Don't you just want to eat his face off? Yum.

Me and the Devs. Otherwise known as, "Boobs and Not."
MIL, Ellie, Smooshie, Devs, Me, Adrienne, new niece Kennedy, new aunt-in-law.

Must.Burn.Calories.For.Hawaii.Bikini.

Adrienne running me in....

"Haaaay bitches!"

Sweaty bride-to-be.

Obligatory sweaty armpit shot. Goodness, you'd think I ran 20 miles, not 3.1

Happy me.

Me and Ellie and Smooshie.

Gals.

Kennedy getting her nails done afterwards.

And that's it for now. Hopefully that Resolution post will be forthcoming....at some point...soon...in the future....

Hello Old Friend

2010-01-03T07:10:00.000-08:00

In honor of the new year 2010, I decided to break from my usually Facebook stalking and write a sinkin’ post.

No way does it have anything to do with the barrage of emails and texts from family members wondering about the lack of posting.

Nothing at all.

Or you, Angie F.

Naw, I kid, I kid – I need a little accountability when it comes to this thing nowadays, and I appreciate the "where in the world are you?" check-ins.

It's just that most of the time, I just don’t feel I have a ton to say anymore.

Well, at least not race/training wise - I'm fat and out of shape. That sums it up.

However, in regards to all stuff local/world/political, I usually have a mindful of stuff, espeically with the nonstop news/reading of the last few months.

But given the firestorm of last year, I haven't quite recovered from bashing and hence am keeping most of my thoughts in that regard to after-dinner conversations.

Interestingly, taking those topics off the table for this blog has been a hard decision to make too - after all, this is my blog, I should be able to say anything I want, no?

But there's too much emotion involved on both sides, and my thoughts were being massively misinterpreted all the time. I just got tired of having to justify my opinion, and later read comments by other people about me on other sites (yeah, I read those)that it just wasn't worth the anger and frustration.

Wait, hang on – I gotta poop.

Hey, it’s early morning (for me) and the coffee’s kicking in – give me a break.

…………..

……*flush*……..

Okay, I’m back.

Where was I?

Poop.

Right.

Quick relate side note here - I’ve developed this new (to me) habit of the bathroom.

I read in there now.

I know it’s not that weird because a lot of people do, but for me it is.

See, as someone who drinks a ton of water and already spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, I never quite understood the willful spending of additional minutes browsing some random magazine while trying to pinch one off.

I am generally a wait-til-the-very-last-second-it-falls-out-then-sprint-to-the-bathroom-and-drop-it-flush-wash-and-leave kinda gal.

But two things happened over the holidays to change all of this:

1. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I had at least four airplane trips, and hence lots of constipation, thus requiring me to spend extra time in the loo working for the pay-off.

2. I found both a Runner’s World and a Triathlete magazine I got at least two months back that I must have (gasp!) thrown into my nightstand reading pile and forgot about. Seeing as how the absolutely MUST get read, I decided I would pass my excruciating painful waste of minutes crapping by reading them.

And voila! A new habit is born.

So bowel movements aside, let’s give a run down of the last month since my absence:

.
.
.
Umm..
.
.
Work…..
.
.
Cheese’s recovering…
.
.
Two Christmas’s in Kansas…….
.
.
.
Yup, that about sums it up.

Can you see why I haven’t posted?

Basically between work, Cheese's arm, more work, and the holidays, I haven’t really had a ton to say. Life just…is.

Once I get my act together I am going to come up with a list of resolutions, though.

I used to not make any, and really I still don’t, but this year for some reason, I really like the idea of the “Reset” button. It’s been a good year in many respects (what with getting married and all), but I have also let some things slide, so I like the idea of kick starting some newer/better habits, you know?

So sit tight, and I promise I will power off that list in the next 24 hours.

And most likely from the bathroom.

Overheard at the County Jail

2009-12-02T15:37:00.000-08:00

While waiting to conduct an interview of my own at the county jail today, I sat and listened as a 40-something woman talked loudly into her cell phone to a child of approximately 10 years of age:

"Hey kiddo..yeah, it's grandma...listen baby, I need you to listen to grandma. Yes, I'm here at the jail. Your daddy saw the judge today, and the judge told your daddy he needs to go to the Bad Boy Jail...Yes, he has to go to the Bad Boy Jail. He has to go to Bad Boy Jail for 2 1/2 years.

(Pause)

No, no, it's not the judge's fault, it's your daddy's fault. Every time he hits someone, he breaks their bones, so now he has to go to Bad Boy Jail so he can learn to be good. He needs to learn to be good, or he is going to keep going to Bad Boy Jail.

(Pause)

Well, baby, I know that - your daddy may not be big, but he's stronger than he knows, so when he hits someone, it hurts. He hit your mom and shattered her eye socket, and he hit Uncle Kiko and broke his jaw, and then he hit that police officers.

(Pause)

Now sweetie, you're just going to come live with grandma, and we are going to live together for however long it takes. First for 2 1/2 years, and then forever, if we have to. You know that grandma loves yuo very much, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you.

(Pause)

No honey, they won't let you see your mommy either, but maybe someday when she gets her things together, you can see her too. Now, I need you to not talk to your sister and brother until I get home, and I'll be home at 5:30, and we'll all go out for pizza like we talked about.

(Pause)

I know, kiddo, but we'll get through this. I love you very much, and we will be fine. I love you. See you at 5:30."

(End call)

(Me, in head) Damn. That sucks. The violence, the incarcerated (now absent) father, dysfunctional mother - you wonder how much of that this kid witnessed.

I tried to imagine myself as that kid on the other end of the phone, being told concepts and words that no child should ever have to hear - jail, shattered eye socket, etc.

Sigh.

I don't know that kid on the other side of that phone call, and it's not yet a case for my Department, but I made a mental note of the family name in the event that the case does come down the line.

I know it doesn't sound "clinical" or anything, but - Fucking parents, man.

The Other Shoe

2009-11-27T19:35:00.000-08:00

It was one of those weekends that is so blissful, you take pause in a random moment just to remind yourself that, yes, this is your life.

I went to Tennessee to visit my brother and his wife.

They are expecting their first child, and my whole family flew down for the Sunday baby shower.

But Saturday was all about family time in their new house.

It's Jenny, all pregnant and hanging in the backyard.

My brother, showing off his new bow-and-arrow hunting skills. The natural athlete he is, he just started hunting (an idea very foreign to us city-folk) and off course is amazing.

He tried teaching my brother-in-law.

The rest of us were kickin' on the deck, hangin' with the Mayor and his lil' brother.

Even the Mayor needs a little Momma love sometimes.

"Here Uncle No-No. It's Miller time."

Momma Q and Aiden.

The Mayor

The boys.

Cookin' with Coo-Coo Nana. I have to brag, because The Mayor has been cooking with my mom and his mom since birth, and he is really quite good, and not even 3-years-old yet. Look at him crack that egg!

Of course, if he's playing in chocolate, he must be cooking with Auntie Megan!

Me, Ellie and Aiden off for a walk, just outside of Nolan's backyard.

And on the way back.

Its hard to convey how glorious that day was in just these few pictures (and more to follow). The weather, the family, the laughs - it all culminated with an early Thanksgiving dinner and a Mayor-inspired dance party that evening.

Even now, I chuckle when I think of the little dude "Nodding my head like Yeah/Moving my hips like Yeah" just as instructed by Miley Cyrus.

Funny though, how quickly things change.

Like in an instant.

Fast forward to Sunday morning - my phone jolting me out of a sleep. It was Cheese's number. I didn't want to wake everyone up, so I silenced it, and tried to scurry out of the bed and into the hallway to talk. The phone continued to ring - two more times.

When I answered, it was Cheese.

Telling me he just fell off a roof.

In Virginia.

Because my husband travels out-of-state and climbs on roofs for a career, this was the call I always suspected I would get, but I always hoped would elude me.

I found out what it felt like to have your world stop in an instant.

Long story short, he took a dive off roof while getting off a ladder, falling onto his right shoulder as he hit a wooden deck below. Of course, not before he fell through a patio table.

Instead of flying home to Chicago that night, I flew right to Virginia. I found Cheese in his hotel bed, discharged from the hospital with a shoulder the size of a small child.

The diagnosis - his humerus (upper arm bone that is round at the top to fit in the shoulder socket), broke right off at the ball. Thus, the ball-part of the bone was still in the socket, while the rest of the humerus was just....hanging.

His arm was completely disconnected from the rest of his skeleton.

Long story short - we saw a surgeon the following day, who encouraged us to go back to Chicago for surgery. We flew back the following day, saw an ortho at Rush, and got ourselves a surgery day for Monday (why not Friday, I don't know. Neither of us thought to ask).

As for how he is - in excruciating pain. The bone keeps hitting the part it broke away from, the muscles are spasming, the swelling is cartoonish, and his body has finally brought the bruising to the surface, and has turned his arm black.

In my moments when I cry in frustration for not being able to minimize his pain, I reprimand myself - reminding myself that it could have been worse - a broken skull, a broken back - the mind can wander around all the ways it could have been much worse.

But it wasn't, and he's still here.

He's home, with me, in our house.

He's here.

Foto Friday

2009-11-20T06:40:00.000-08:00

Glorious Friday!

Five days ago, your arrival seemed near impossible.

But alas, through my perserverence, you are finally here!!

And because I try to be a woman of my word, I am again attempting a Foto Friday, an idea stolen like a college freshman's virginity during football season from Fool.

Top spot goes to baby brother Nolan and his wife, as I make my way down to Tennessee tomorrow for the baby shower!!

Sure is weird to see the little kid that once refused to wipe his butt after taking poop because he claimed that "the shower takes care of it," now prepping to be a dad to a baby boy himself. Circle of life, my friends.

And what kind of blogger would I be if I didn't give a shout out to all those racing IMAZ this weekend? Of course, this race holds a special place in my heart, and it's always nice to flashback to that unforgettable weekend in Arizona last April 2008:

Ah, it never gets old, or at least to me.

You, on the other hand, likely have one finger hovering on the mouse, ready to right-click outta here if this post doesn't get more entertaining.

Foreshadowing: It doesn't.

So this might be the best time to wrap it up, wish the racers best of luck - A, I'm looking at you - and say YAY! to the spectators, some of who have traveled long ways to get there!

Enjoy your weekend!

A Little More Auntie Love

2009-11-15T07:15:00.000-08:00

So like any other childless aunt that dotes on her nephews, I am going to fill this post with pics of my little smooshies. Maybe at some point I'lll get back to actually writing content, but alas, my life is so blah compared to the sweetness of these boys.

Happy Sunday.

Foto Friday - Family Men

2009-11-13T21:55:00.000-08:00

Hello Bloggies!

Have we met?

I don't believe so, so let me formally introduce myself - My name is Aiden.

And M is my auntie.

You know M, right?

From what I can tell, she likes to poke fun at everyone, she is always eating my mommy's food, always smells a little like she just rolled out of bed, and sometimes she gets really nervous when my mommy puts me in her arms.

And what's up with her hair?

Anyways, she seems nice and all, but...um...hey - can I tell you something? Between you and me?

So far, she hasn't been a super great auntie.

I mean, she comes in, she swings my big brother No No around, gives him lots of kisses and love, and he loves it and they play fire trucks together. She even brings him donuts that my mommy makes her take back home because she says it's not good from her "baby weight."

Whatever that means.

But then, with me, she mostly just comes over to me in the swing, leans in close, and says right in my face, "How come he always sleeps when I come over?"

It sort of bothers me, especially since I am just starting to get this whole vision thing down. I mean, she already looks sort of funny from a distance, so it's not hard to imagine that super-up-close version with a little vision-distortion can freak a little man out, right?

Sigh. I just don't think she likes me so much.

And people, how could you not like THIS face?

Maybe with time she will come to appreciate my finer qualities - my non-fussiness, my ability to sleep long stretches, the general containment of my poopies to my diaper (which, for a newborn, is not small feat, people). And besides she seems to talk a lot about running and some bike thing, so maybe once I can move on my own, master that whole "crawling" thing, wipe my own butt, and develop coordination, maybe then she might come play with me.

But I guess until then, I guess I still have my brother:

Yeah, this ol' boy isn't all that bad - I mean, once he got past the fact that I wasn't leaving, he seems to have stopped torturing me, poking my eyes, and slapping my head.

Although he has taken to peeing on the floor in his bedroom since my arrival. I wonder what that means...

Well, it's time for my mid-mid-morning milkies, and my mom gets cranky when I get off schedule. See ya later!

Foto Friday

2009-10-30T13:52:00.000-07:00

In honor of Fool, who will be running the NYC 26.2 in celebration of her 26th birthday (man, we runners are a weird bunch), I stole her idea of Foto Friday, in part to:

1. Celebrate Fool
2. Celebrate Halloween
3. Celebrate my sister, who is in one of the Carolinas running a half-marthon down there!

That Ellen sure does crack me up! *insert FB "thumbs up"sign*

Devin standing upright at the Bi-Run-Yak, looking sporty.

And Devin laying on the ground a few weeks ago. Man, it never gets old, you know?

Oh, and holy crap I forgot to mention this!!

I am running the Hot Chocolate 15k on Sunday. Not so much for the race, but for the:

1. Windbreaker and fleece hat

2. The candy-landy-ding-dong at the end.

Word on the Wonka street is that its like the pot-o'-chocolate at the end.

So without further ado, I need to hunt down the largest loot bag (read: Hefty garbage bag) I can find.

Have a wonderful Halloween weekend, score a crapload of candy, and post lotsa pictures on Facebook for me to stalk on Monday as I recover from my race and sugar coma.

Is a Twix Too Much Too Ask For?

2009-10-29T10:01:00.000-07:00

Trade-Offs
When you become an adult, you can drink legally.

But when you are an adult, it’s no longer socially acceptable to dress up in costume, wander through the neighborhood after dark, and beg neighbors for candy.

Or at least that’s what the cops told me last Halloween.

Lesson learned.

*****************************************************************************

Unfair
Halloween is a big fat tease for adults.

And I’m not referring to the Halloween parties that are like a get-out-of-jail-free-card for dressing like a porn star and letting the muffin-tops of the world five-five each other in their sexy nurse/firefighter/bumble bee/referee outfits.

Or the fact that it’s like the one time of the year that adults exert their right to take advantage of the otherwise-innocent costumes of little kids by putting a big old smutty twist on them (Or at least publicly – I can’t account for what your all do behind the closed doors of your bedrooms on any given Wednesday night.)

awwww....

FAIL

sweet!

Is it me, or does she look like Holly Madison, from "The Girls Next Door?

cutie!!

now wait just.one.stinking.minute. what kind of bumble bee has a machine gun?!?!

(Side note - you never really see a sexy Hobo. Can a hobo even be sexy? I don’t quite know. Discuss.)

No, the unfairness I’m referring to the fact that my increasing age is taking a toll on my metabolism, thus making it more and more difficult for me to smother myself in the sugary deliciousness that lines the aisles of my local Target without simultaneously committing myself to several hours on the treadmill or extra ass-kicking my personal trainer.

That, and that fact that my apartment is surrounded by other houses just giving the Good Stuff out for FREE.

FREE CANDY.

And I think we can all agree that the only thing better than candy is FREE candy.

I guess I will just have to be okay with curling up on the couch with my bowl of salt-free and taste—free low fat microwave popcorn and a scary movie, while praying I don’t die in my race the following morning.

Or maybe I will pull the bumblebee outfit from the closet and force Cheese to wear it, while I yell, "Dance Bumble Bee, DANCE!"

Hey, a girl still needs to have fun even without free candy.

Everything I Have To Say....

2009-10-27T15:21:00.000-07:00

...is usually reserved for Facebook these days.

Hence, the dust bunnies on El Bloggo.

But since many of my recent communications with my family follow along the lines of, "Dude, are you dead, or did you just forget you have a blog?" I decided maybe it's time to check into my little space in the blogosphere.

So what follows is a mash up of some recent (okay, maybe kinda old) pictures that I have frankly been too spankin' lazy to post.

Welcome to Hawaii.
End of our first day. I seem to be contemplating either:

a. How small we humans are when compared to the massive world and ocean.

b. How lucky I am to be married to my man.

c. How on earth I plan to organize all those grill pans, fry pans, tupperware, dishes, flatware, and vases we received in out tiny apartment.

d. How to get my bowels to open up after a 9-hour flight.

Malasados. Known to us mortals as a big donut-like puff covered in sugar and served hotly fried. As my husband says, "They're stick-your-dick-in-it-good." I apparently preferred to just give myself a facial with them instead.
Guess the stress of leisure reading was simply too much for my mind to handle. Thus, I must rest. And tan.
Hands off ladies. He's a married man.
Mr. Merman.
"How come I can't see any fish? What? Oh, my face has to go IN the water."
Me in my Donna Reed/Mad Men 60s-style dress at dinner.

Oh, and my husband was there, too.
I had to burn off my two plates of luau pork somehow, and what better way of doing it than dancing on stage in front of hundreds of people we don't know, and having the moment captured by forcing the strange, old British man who has the misfortune of being seated next to me during a buffet take our picture.
As any bride will tell you, I didn't eat and barely had a drink for the entire duration of the wedding. So when it came cake time, you know I knocked over the flower girl and lept over tables to get to my slice - white cake with THICK layers of fudge and Bailey's Irish Cream, then smothered in buttercream.

I know, right?!?!

I'll pause while you go take an insulin shot.

(Pause)

So imagine my horror when I stood to talk to Cheese's sister and friend for a split second (for a conversation the revolved soley around the shape and quantity of my boobies/cleavage), and my cake was stripped out from underneath my nose. Needless to say, this Cake Whore complained about all the way until we got home from the honeymoon the following Monday.

But leave it to my honey to welcome me home from work on Tuesday with a mini-wedding cake, and a card that read, "Every bride should have her cake and eat it too."

From Cake Binge to Fitness - About two weeks later, I went on the Pumpkin Ride with my sister Devin and friend Mark. Look closely and you can see the remenents of the Second Wedding Cake stuck right there to my hips. Yeah, right...over...there.... Sure was nice of Devin to help me hide the plump with her bike.

Sweet girl.
So I repaid her by laughing and taking pictures when she fell off her bike.

Heck, I'm laughing even now as I look at this.

But she recovered well, yes?
Sweet reward.
No post is complete without some shout-out to my littlest nephew, Aiden.

It's okay to admit you just want to eat up his face.
Even when he gets caught red-handed making poopies.
And if her hair wasn't enough to give myself whiplash with my eye-rolling, we now have Ms. Suri in her heels.

Yeah, because that's what make sense in this world.

A 3-year-old in heels.

Nuthin' weird about that at aaaaaaall......

Hair

2009-10-08T17:04:00.000-07:00

I have long hair.

Sometimes I like to wear it curly.

Sometimes I like to wear it with a crown.

Sometimes I like to wear it with a lai.

Sometimes I like to wear it to a luau buffet.

But today I woke to find it in a dread up to my scalp.

This, I did not like.

After spending ten minutes in the shower coating it in Vasoline and conditioner, my dread would not budge.

Enter scissors.

Now the dread is dead.

But Suri's hair?

WTF?

Has Katie just completely given up?

P.S. Is it weird that I had a tag already for "Katie Holmes?"

Where in the World Am I? Part I

2009-10-06T06:48:00.001-07:00

SO between being sick for about a week now (still sick), and being swamped with both real work and private practice since coming home from the honeymoon, I have sort of fallen off the map for the last week. My energy is just zapped lately, so anything remotely related to posting just seems to enormous right now.

Despite this, I thought I would take a second to post some photos of some recent events (and eventually work my way back to the honeymoon and that stuff). And since I still don't feel great, it has to be done in parts - hence, Part I.

First up is Cheese's birthday. For as long as we have been together, he has wanted to go to Medieval Times - a dream born from the movie "Cable Guy."

And who am I to keep him from his dreams?

I have to admit - it was pretty fun. You really do get to eat with your hands, the foods not bad, and everyone that works is SUPER into their jobs that you can't NOT have fun. I was also worried that we would be the only adults there without children, but again - I was surprised. I mean, there were couples that even looked like they were on DATES.

Oh, and there's even a picture floating around on Cheese's FB page that has the four of us in COSTUMES.

Hellz yeah.

I did it.

It's been DUN.

So Happy Birthday to Cheese! You can cross that off your Bucket List!