Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Graduation Day

I finished physical therapy today.

I first injured my knee 133 days ago and, if I had known then that I would be rehabbing my knee well into November, I would have spontaneously combusted.

There's something to be said for not knowing the future.

Tomorrow, on my first day as a physical therapy graduate, I will run a 10k with my sister. Who is a physical therapist and will probably ask me how my knee is but that's beyond the point.

I was strangely sad as I dropped into my PT clinic one last time this afternoon. I was dropping off a gift for my physical therapist and another for the clinic's staff to share because that's what I do and, as I drove away, it felt like the end of something and it made me sad. Physical therapy has gotten to be quite the routine the last 10 weeks. (Do anything three times a week, 10 weeks at a time and it will start to feel familiar no matter how much you loathe it.)

If I'm being perfectly honest: I'm nervous about life after physical therapy. I'm nervous about landing right back in physical therapy. What if I slip during the race tomorrow and I tear that ligament again? What if it happens next week at my soccer game? Or on a patch of ice in my driveway? I don't know that I have it in me to start over again.

But, then again, I don't know that I'll have to.

And constantly worrying about an injury helps ward it off, I'm pretty sure.

So I'm all set.

More than all set. Hyper-paranoid all set.

Monday, November 24, 2014


This is one of my favorite weeks of the entire year. I'm not even pretending to be productive. I took two hours off of work this afternoon to get my hair cut and colored. Tomorrow is a normal workday; I'm going to make an appearance for just a few hours on Wednesday and I am taking Friday off.

I need ample time to be thankful. 

I love Thanksgiving. I love the food, I love the premise of the holiday, I love that it only requires a few days of preparation rather than a whole month of running around and shopping and decorating and madness.

And I love Pie Night.

Pie Night is also the biggest bar night of the year. Or that's what I hear. I've never been to the bar on the night before Thanksgiving because I'm too busy baking pies. 

On the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, my mom and dad's house turns into a loud pie factory. 

The process of making pies isn't so loud, but our pie makers are. 

The pie makers include: my sister, Meg, and me and our mom and several of our cousins (the attendees vary from year to year but my cousins Emma and Liz never miss) and whatever friends decide to drop by. We always eat nachos for dinner. There's usually a dance party in the kitchen. We always stay up too late. And we never really care that we do.

Meg and I run a 10k on Thanksgiving morning every year that starts far too early. She complains every year. She suggests that we run it every year. 

When we're done running, we order up a true Detroit delicacy to take home for breakfast: coney dogs. 

So much tradition before we even get to the meal and the family and the thankfulness. 

It's a good week. 

If you celebrate, what's your favorite part of Thanksgiving?

If you don't celebrate: you should have a piece of pie on Thursday anyway. 

You can never go wrong with pie. 

Friday, November 21, 2014


...because that's how this week is going. Fast.

It was one of those workweeks where you're juggling and juggling and drinking coffee and checking your schedule every 20 minutes because you're probably forgetting something and juggling and more juggling.

Also the week has been crazy because I made it crazy. I can't help myself sometimes. Sure, I'll sub for your team's 11:15 pm Thursday night soccer game after playing hockey on Tuesday night and two soccer games on Wednesday night. What else would I be doing? Sleeping? Please. (I would totally be sleeping.)

I finally bought a kitchen table.

I also got a Christmas tree. Which I am strangely excited about. Is that what happens when you're a homeowner? Or is this a symptom of your 30s? Because I have never had a desire to decorate for Christmas before.

I brought dinner to Lucy and Chet's house on Wednesday night. Their boys are so sweet and wild.

Listened to Serial. Thought it was the saddest episode yet.

Continued to ignore the Facebook message from Mom's friend's son.

Still thinking about that dog. Or another dog, if that one has found a home.

Finished a book. Made chili. Meant to paint my nails but never got around to it. Invited a friend to our annual Pie Night. Scheduled an appointment to get my hair cut.

And now: I am off to Chicago for the weekend. Mom, Meg and I are taking Grandma and Grandpa for a quick visit to see family and attend my cousin's daughter's first birthday party. I expect that I will return home with many stories. About Grandpa. About Aunt Louise and Uncle Ed. And, if I'm lucky, about how the weekend went much better than I expected.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


My sister, Meg, got a dog 18 months ago. He is sweet and cute and well behaved and her best friend. She is obsessed with him.

A few weeks ago, she agreed to foster a dog from the same rescue. She is cute and sweet and a little less well behaved.

That sweet and cute but mischievous dog got me thinking about getting a dog of my own. I have always insisted that I'm not home enough for a dog. Now that I live two miles from work, I am out of excuses.

Meg's sweet and cute but mischievous dog found a new family.

And then Lucy sends me the information for a sweet and cute and old dog.

Every time I look at her picture, I want to cry a little. She's 10 and her owner has to give her up because he's moving into a nursing home. Senior dogs have a hard time getting adopted because, well, they're old and that brings me to the real reason that I keep holding off on getting a dog.

Because dogs die.

(This is where my mother would remind me that people die, too. And we wonder about my relationship issues!)

I barely survived when my childhood pets died. Let alone my own dog. One that I would potentially only have for a couple of years. And going through it all by myself.   

Maybe when you cry just thinking about getting a dog it's a sign that you're not ready to get a dog.

Monday, November 17, 2014

November 16

Both of my mom's sisters are Type 1 diabetics.

Aunt Marie, my mom's youngest sister, died of complications from diabetes five years ago yesterday. I visited my mom and my grandparents. My mom seemed quietly sad about the anniversary of her sister's death. My grandma came right out and said "this is the day our Marie died."

My mom gently reminded her that it was also the day that Aunt Marie just showed up at my mom and dad's house. Meg and Mom and I were there. Aunt Marie brought her dog. We went shopping. Grandma came over and we had dinner together. My aunt teased my grandmother about apple dumplings, chiefly that my grandma had made a batch just for my dad when she really wanted a batch of her own.

I am often thankful for that day. That I know that Aunt Marie spent her last day with her mom and her sister and happy. She was happy that day.

It's hard, pulling up all of those memories. It's hard, sometimes, remembering.

It gets a little easier every year. We talk about the good parts about that day. The trail mix we ate as we drove home from shopping, maybe. The way Aunt Marie teased grandma.

I got through the day. We all got through the day.

I checked Facebook just before getting to bed. I found out that a high school classmate had died. I immediately knew why. She has been sick since we were in elementary school. Type 1 diabetes.

Of all of the days in a year to die.

Fuck November 16.

Fuck diabetes. 

Saturday, November 15, 2014

A decade

10 years ago, I was drowning.

I remember that feeling so clearly. 10 years ago, I was fresh out of college. 10 years ago, I was lost.

10 years ago, I balanced my laptop on my knees – it was one of those cold, rainy November days that seep under your skin, one of those days where you can’t get warm – and I sat in the office at my mom and dad's house and I started this blog.

10 years ago.

I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know what I was doing. I was lost. I was trying to write my way out of the woods.

I still don't know where I'm going. I still don't know what I'm doing. I'm still lost. I'm still trying to write my way out of the woods.

I'm still writing.

I'm still writing.

I don't plan on stopping.

This is who I am.

This is what I do.

Nearly a year ago, I read Ann Patchett's This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage; I have been saving this passage from it ever since.

I saved it because I knew.

I knew that I was on the verge of blogging for a decade.

2,848 posts.

10 years.

And I knew that I wouldn't have the proper words to express what that means to me.

My apologies to Ann Patchett.

This blog is the way I've learned to see my life.

Friday, November 14, 2014

My feet are cold

Look at these pants.

If I am at work and I'm not in a dress or a skirt, I am wearing some variation of these pants.

They are flattering on me. And they're comfortable. And they're washable. (I can get quite dirty at work.) And I don't have to get them tailored.
I wear my pants with heels or with flats, depending on what I'm doing or who I'm meeting with or what else I'm wearing or the current status of whatever soccer injury I'm nursing.

But now it's November. I live in Michigan. My feet are cold.

Buying a pair of booties makes the most sense. They're trendy but not ridiculous and my feet could be cozy and warm this winter.

Except this is how I look in booties.

Like a dumbbell.

Okay, so pretend that I don't have a top half for a minute. Because we're just talking waist down. 

I have a booty. And, wearing a pair of booties, makes me really big at the top and really big at the bottom.

Trust me when I say it isn't cute. I tried. I honestly tried. I tried hard to make the booties work because my feet are cold. Booties look ridiculous on me.

I don't know what to wear on my feet. (Do I just go with boots? I feel like every outfit with boots looks so similar because it's An Outfit With Boots.)

My feet are cold. It's only November.

Maybe I just need to give up and buy different pants.
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