Idiot, Sleazy Character: Alexander

Alexander works a funky schedule. He misses hockey sometimes. Thankfully, in the month since we, um, yeah, made a mistake, he’s missed hockey a lot.

And called me even less. Wheee! Had I cared, I would have been completely devastated! Hurray!

But I didn’t care, so his absence has been appreciated. He came and ran a practice for us a couple of weeks ago and, I kid you not, all I could do is stand there and think “OMG, we crushed it. I am the biggest fool ever,” for an entire hour.

We had a game on Sunday and the team went to eat after the game. I was sneaking out of the locker room when, of all people, Alexander’s mom was like “you’re coming to breakfast, right?”

“Ah, no. I think I’m just going to head home.”

“Why? Come with us! What’s your excuse?”

All I could do was stand in the middle of the room with my mouth hanging open. Speechless. I had perfectly good reasons to skip the team meal – I had already had two breakfasts, for example – and I just stood there.

And then I went to breakfast.

I walk into the restaurant – wearing a pair of running capris that put my backside on full display – and I hear “that is one FINE ass.” Alexander’s mom. I turn around. She’s laughing. He’s grinning like a bloody fool.

You see, I wore running capris to a game a couple of weeks ago and it apparently drew some attention. Now all my teammates can do is tease me about my fine booty. And refer to my pants as “booty capris.” And insist that I wear them to games because we played really well the day that I first broke out my capris.

Mom and Son laugh their way right into the restaurant, where f’ing Alexander slid into the booth beside me. Purposely squeezing in too far, so that his ass is practically on top of me. “Move over, Wifey,” he said. That’s what he called me throughout our epic Canadian weekend. Wifey. (We had joked about telling border patrol that we were married.)

We sat at a booth across from his mom and her best friend. And still. Damn. He is infuriating. I didn’t even want to look at him.

And he wanted to grab my leg.

And apologize for not running the St. Patrick’s Day race that we discussed running together like I showed up and was disappointed that he wasn’t there. (Me: “Um, I didn’t run it.” Him: “Ouch.”) Ouch? What about that hurt you? You didn’t show up to run, either. You didn't bother telling me that you weren't showing up to run, either.

And wonder why I wrote a haiku for everyone on the team but not for him.

He’s an idiot.

And he obviously sent me a text message as soon as he got home.

And at 1:00 am. A haiku. About my capris.

And at 11:00 on Monday morning. Another haiku. He thinks he’s clever.

I should just ignore him completely but I do not. I keep it friendly and harmless – mostly because I feel like being a huge bitch to him means that he wins and means that I care. I swear that I don’t. I don’t care.

On St. Patrick’s Day, he was tagged in a picture on Facebook with some girl. Some girl who he’s Facebook official with. Who he was Facebook official with before (but not long before, which makes it even creepier) anything ever happened between the two of us. I saw that picture. I saw their status. I thought he looked chubby. And I didn’t care.

He’s a sleazy character. One night was one night too many but thankfully it was only one night.

And now, the results

My blood work came back hunky-dory and sparkly clean.

I’m healthy.

Just a little skinnier.

And I need to get outside a touch more. (My vitamin D levels are a tiny bit low.)

While I’ll hold my breath just a little bit until my mother looks over the lab report – there has been an instance or two when she has caught things that my physicians have not – I am quite relieved.

The purchase of new pants had been my biggest worry about this whole weight loss situation until scary words like diabetes and hyperthyroidism were factored into the equation. Then I stopped caring about the way my pants fit so that I could put all of my energy into fretting about chronic diseases and quality of life.

I’m glad to get back to worrying about new dress pants.

Dwelling on: work, jobs, careers, etc.

In general, locker room talk is fluffy. Making fun of someone on the other team. Complaining about husbands. Showing off a new pair of shoes.

Sometimes we bitch about work. I like to tell funny stories of creepy men and odd reference requests.

We were sitting in the locker room when one of my teammates mentioned that her boss is looking to hire another person for their department. She had nothing but good things to say about the organization, her position, the benefits. “If you know of anyone who is qualified and looking, please send them my way!”

I asked her to forward me the job posting – that, while I didn’t know anyone who would fit the bill, I would ask my mom and my sister. They might know of someone who is looking.

I saw my mom on Friday morning and, as I was telling her about the job, I realized that it was probably a job that I could do. In a field – healthcare, research – that interests me. For a respectable organization. Using skills that I learned in graduate school. Where I wouldn’t have to work on the weekends in the evenings. And where I would probably make significantly more money. And have a lot more room for growth.

When I blurted it out – “oh, maybe I could do it” – I surprised myself. I didn’t realize that I was looking. I didn’t know that I wanted a change. But maybe I am. And maybe I do.

I like my job. I like where I am; I enjoy what I do. I am so very, very lucky to have this job. This job that 100+ applied for. In a system that is respected and supported by the community. If I want to stay this course – working with the general public – I am in the right place.

Fulfilling or not, enjoyable or not, in my field or study or not – looking at your career trajectory and realizing that you’re never going to make any money totally sucks.

Just considering this other job makes me feel like a failure. Just considering this job makes graduate school feel like a mistake. Just considering this job complicates one of my favorite unhealthy pastimes – passively keeping an eye on jobs that pop up around where The Coach is working. (I KNOW.)

Maybe I dip in my toes. Test the waters. Apply. See what it’s all about. Figure out if it’s really something that I want to do. Finding out about a job doesn’t mean that I will get the job. Getting the job doesn’t mean that I have to take the job.

I have to be honest with you guys – this business of being brave is exhausting.

The grand hair reveal

Hi from the bathroom at work!



Just a trim; kept it long.

I wasn't really quite ready for summer blond, but somehow that's what I got.

Thanks for all of the feedback, kids. Next up: you guys tell me what direction I should take my professional life.

Family Haiku Extravaganza

On Tuesday: I wrote my hockey team a haiku. Because sometimes a regular email doesn’t cut it.

On Wednesday: I tweeted a request for subjects to blog about. A family update? I can do a family update.

On Thursday: I wrote haiku about my family. That’s what we do here at So Midwestern: we bring things full circle.

Meg
Clinical student
Five months to her doctorate
Making me look bad

Mom
The family backbone
Fixing problems endlessly
Graceful and composed

Dad
He is who he is
Things are still slightly weird
But mostly normal

Cousin Paul
Bartender at night
Community college kid
Basement dweller still

Cousin Anna
Always moving fast
New boyfriend is a doctor
Gynecologist

Cousin Emma
Semester at sea
One year left of undergrad
Quiet on drama

Cousin Danielle
Acting hiatus
Yoga teacher training done
Planning her next move

Cousin Liz
In China for work
Her dog, driving me insane
Don't miss Fluff much either

Cousin Mara
Supposedly claimed
To be pleased with her daughter's
"Team" of caretakers

Cousin Evan
Four years my junior
Never held a real job
Daddy financed life

My Grandma the Troll
Seems like she has aged
Twenty years in a mere two
After Marie died

Grandpa
A doctor's nightmare
He has appointments scheduled
My poor mom, his nurse

Uncle Alan
Douche bag douche bag douche
I have not seen him in years
Uncle Arrogant

Hey, You, Kick Ass Readers
Ideas wanted
Submit your great suggestions
What to write about

'brarian problems

One of the biggest stressors in my life is my reading list.

Working in a library does not help this. Having a grandmother who was the proprietor of a bookstore does not help this. Having a best friend who is a voracious reader does not help this.

I was reading a book – fiction – and I walked by the shelf with the new nonfiction titles displayed on it and, oh, two of those looked really good. So I picked them up and I checked them out.

And then my mother came home from her vacation from California with the paperbacks that I had picked out for her. She handed them over to me and I took them home and they’re sitting on my nightstand and they are mocking me. MOCKING ME. Because I cannot get to them and they know. Those asshole paperbacks, they know.

Lucy’s mom read The Hunger Games and gave it to Lucy who read it, loved it and then gave me her copy. I gave it to my mom, who also enjoyed it, and when I reported this back to Lucy she said “now you have to read it! You have to! We’ll go on a date to see the movie with our moms!”

Which sounded great until she told me that the movie comes out last weekend.

Which means I really need to finish the book that I’m reading.

And that I should probably return one of those nonfiction books that I checked out.

And, immediately upon finishing The Hunger Games, I will have no choice but to dive into the title that the book club I’m leading is reading. Because it meets in just a couple of weeks. And it isn’t something that I’m particularly dying to read and therefore I have to force myself to read it and that probably means a slow plod through 292 (old and incredibly stinky) pages.

Oh, and a copy of The Art of Fielding just came back and I’ve been thinking about that book since last fall so obviously I snatched it up and checked it out.

Next thing to check out: ulcer medication.

You can’t possibly expect me to deal with this pressure without pharmaceuticals.

Some pictures and some stories

My friend Heather – who I have known since we were in Girl Scouts together in elementary school – had her first baby on Thursday.

Momma and Baby were at the hospital that’s just a few miles away from Mom and Dad’s house (the hospital that is so regularly incompetent that my mother absolutely refuses for us to go to under any circumstances, but that’s beyond the point), so I ran over for a quick visit on Friday before stopping by to see my family.

Like I was going to skip on a chance to snuggle a newborn.*

Heather looked great: happy, calm, proud. I’m thrilled for her.

Her baby girl is darling. Long and skinny and so sweet. I could have held her all day.

I absolutely could not resist the pull to buy that little darling a present. I had 10 minutes to spare between when I left work and when I needed to be at my doctor’s appointment. And you bet your ass I spent it sprinting into the mall, buying a gift and sprinting back to my car.

It was slightly risky – potentially being late for my appointment that I was specifically told to show up early to – but I was buying a present for a newborn girl. It wasn’t like it was going to take any effort to find something that I loved.

Which, of course, I did.



Adorable, no? Heather has a pool. And I have a thing for chubby bumblebees.

*Oh, you guys. This baby fever is becoming an enormous problem.



Lucy and I frosted St. Patrick’s Day cookies on Sunday afternoon.



I seriously cannot get enough new recipes or enough time to putter around in the kitchen. I am insatiable. And I'm getting it out of my system now, before summer comes around and everything feels hot and sticky and all I want to do is eat popsicles and spend every waking moment with The Coach.



I packed up my half of my cookies and brought them to my hockey teammates. They think that I’m the best. As they should.



Mom and I made a quick trip to Grandma's house over the weekend.

I checked out my Grandma's recipe drawer.



Which is different from her cookbook cabinet.

And now I know that I can blame this cooking/baking compulsion on genetics.



I went with Meg to a few of her team’s games this weekend. Meg is the lone young female in a position that is dominated by middle-aged men.

She walks up to the registration table to get a few things squared away from her team. Working the table is yet another middle-aged man.

“Players don’t need to sign in,” he tells Meg. “Only coaches.”

“Okay,” she says, reaching for a pen.

“Players. Don’t. Need. To. Sign. In.” He says again. This time, not so nice. “Coaches only.”

Meg treats the man to a dose of her signature Icy Stare of Death.

“I am the coach.”

Oops.



At a game earlier this year, a referee skated up to her team’s bench and shook the hands with both of her (middle-aged male) assistant coaches. Completely ignored her. The one who is actually in charge.

She always laughs about it later.

But she’s never so nice about it in the moment.

Can’t say that I blame her.