Tennessee 2010

This past weekend, a long overdue trip down south (well, south for this Chicago gal), was made to see my younger brother Nolan, his wife Jenny, and sweet face baby Brody.

The last time I saw my brother and his family was in June, when Brody was just about four months old. I've been saying I wanted to go down and see them and chill out in Tennessee (which I love), but I let work get in the way for the last several months.

Finally, completely burned out from my job and really missing my brother, I pulled the trigger on a long weekend trip.

I got into town late Thursday, and on Friday was given the honor of taking care of baby Brody all day while Jenny and Nolan went to work.

I was ecstatic at the idea that I got to spend so much uninterrupted time getting to know my nephew.

But I'm not sure Brody was entirely on board with this plan:

"Hey Brody, this is your aunt Megan."

"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.

As My World Turns

Okay kiddos, buckle in, because this is a Costco-size post.

See, I've been pretty neglectful of ye ole blog as of late - I'm working like a dog, trying to marathon train (how the heck did I ever find time to train for Ironman?!), and fit in all sorts of family events.

But I've been steadily photo documenting many of these events in the last few weeks, and since I don't when I'll post again, I figured I get all ambitious and whatnot and do it all in this one post.

So here goes....

While my nephew Brody hangs in Tennessee and we don't get to see him all that much, my brother keeps us in the loop thanks to camera phones -

Don't you just want to eat his little face up?!?!




(learning how to sit!)


MAWHA!!!! (that's kisses auntie M style)


A NEW RUNNER IN THE FAMILY
Way back a few months ago, my sister Ellen decided that she wanted to see what all this running fuss was about, and signed up for a half-marathon in September. She asked me if I could help her train (YES!!!!). Halfway through, she decided she wanted to bump up the race to the late July Rock and Roll marathon her in Chicago. We kicked up training a bit, and when the race rolled around, she was ready to go.


Pasta dinner at my house - guess who was recently weened off the breastfeeding?


Lookin' all sessy with her pals.















Needless to say, I was super pumped. Ellen made it clear ahead of time that she was not going to let herself walk, no matter what happened. She didn't really set a time goal, and instead just wanted to complete the distance. AND SHE KILLED IT!! I ran with her the last couple of miles and was so proud to be by her side as she complete this race - right before she hit the last uphill, I got really teary and thought I was going to lose it, but managed to pull it together - it's kinda hard to run when you got the tears in your throat. I was just so happy for her, and for how she hung through all the training - heat, humidity, and two kids in a stoller - to cross that finish line.

It was a very proud day!


FORD FRANCIS
And then, on August 23, we were blessed by this precious little girl, Ford Francis.






Does someone have baby fever? Methinks so...






Proud aunt






Pucker up, buttercup!

I now am the proud aunt of three amazingly gorgous nephews and a niece!! I am finally comfortable enough to actually hold her without feeling like I will drop her. She is super tiny, and a total blend of her parents features. We all love her like mad!

HAIR
Okay - if you know me on Facebook, you know we had a bit of a catastrophe here yesterday.

See, I had this school reunion tonight which I was really on the fence about. I couldn't decide if I wanted to go or not, so yesterday I thought, "Well, if I do go, I should probably try to get my hair cut." It's been a while, my bangs were in my eyes, and the length of it went down to my boobies.

So I went to my lady who has done a good job the last few times, and said, "Listen, nothing drastic, I just want you to trim two inches off the bottom, clean it up a bit."

The next thing I know, I was staring in the mirror at someone with shoulder-length hair.

Well, at least shoulder-length in the front.

Ignore my sour face in this - I know its hard but try to stay focused on the dead animal on my head. And let's remember that, two hours before, my hair fell down to my tatas.

And while it's all business in the front...


It's a party in the back!!

Oh hell yeah - I got me a Lady Mullet!

Can't really see it that well? Here's another -

I know - ridiculous right? Like, what the fuck is that? I mean, it's a like a solid 4-5 inch difference - who the hell cuts hair that way?!?!

I thought I was crazy, perhaps overreacting a bit, until Cheese came home and I made him look.

Eyes wide, mouth hung open, he finally stammers, "What happened to your hair?" (from the guy who has probably never once noticed a haircut of mine). "Why are there, like, levels? That doesn't even make sense."

Ya think?

And then he adds, "You know what that looks like? It looks like when that Sally kid from 'Mad Men' cut her hair in the last episode."

Really? Because "Sally" is 10, and took a Fiskers to her locks in the bathoom out of spite for her whore father, while I actually paid money to have this...this...butchering.

Personally, I thought it looked like I belonged on the hood of a car in a Whitesnake video-



Fuck.Me.

And the worst part is that it barely fits into a ponytail so until it grows about a bit, I am forced to walk around looking like a cast-off from a Prince video.

Guess I'll have to wait until the next 20-year reunion to catch up with old classmates....

How's Marathon Training Going, You Ask?

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...

My Attempt at Not Being Blog Lazy

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.