So Midwestern

The right things

2012-01-27T00:12:00.000-05:00

At work this morning, I helped a woman fill out a job application. It isn't unusual for a patron to ask a question or two about an application; it is unusual to have to stand with them through the entire process.

But that's what I did.

I don't know what her specific disability is; I know that she does not have the ability to fill out job applications. "What do I put here?" She jabs her finger into the monitor and I lean in from where I am standing and I translate. "In that box, they're asking you to put how much you were paid."

It is every question on the application. She reads the words but she cannot comprehend. It's awful. It's awful and sad. How do you get a job if you can't fill out an application?

I've worked with her a few times before and it is always like this. Exhausting and awful and sad.

At work this afternoon, a door alarm was tripped. When I went to turn it off, an older woman was standing at it, cursing.

I turned off the alarm. And she tried another alarmed door and I realized that it was more than an accident. "What are you looking for?" When she spoke, I recognized her voice. I've seen her before. Her dementia seems quite acute.

I took her back to the floor. I know we needed her son - he's who brings her (and doesn't watch over her). She mistook my female coworker for her son. When I brought her back, he barely looked up from his computer screen.

After my hockey game tonight, I was leaving the rink. There was a boy - maybe 10 years old - standing in the vestibule. He offered to help me with the door. And then he asked me if I knew where the police station was.

"Just over there," I told him, pointing across the municipal complex.

I paused for a second. That second of hesitation. How involved do you get? Where do you draw the line?

I wasn't drawing a line. I was getting involved.

"Do you need to go over to the police station?"

He said that he did. That he needed to tell them something.

"Would you like me to drive you over there?" It's not a far walk, but it was dark and rainy. He said that he would.

I put my bag into my car. Thinking. Deciding. Probably not smart to put a strange child into my car, alone, even if he seems harmless.

"You know, buddy, you're not even going to fit into my car with all of this equipment. Maybe we should walk over there."

As soon as it came out of my mouth, that didn't seem like the right choice, either. It didn't seem right to be alone with the kid. It didn't seem safe for either of us.

I brought him back inside. A few teammates were still milling about.

I asked one of them to come with me. They all refused, assuming the worse. But they would stay with me and the boy, they said, while we waited for the police to come to us.

Which took suprisingly long, considering that the police station is practically in the same parking lot.

I called the police and I talked to them for a second and then I put the boy on the phone. He spoke with them for quite a while longer - I stepped away. He came back to me with my phone and he said that an officer was on his way. The boy stood at the door. My teammates didn't try talking to him or anything. Which seemed weird. Three of the four of them are mothers. But at least they waited. Even it it was for me and not for the poor child.

While we waited I took the boy over to the vending machine. In my head, I could picture him spending hours at the police station. "Let's get you a snack." I bought him Cheetos and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, which he stashed into what looked like his school bag.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said. He had a quiet voice but when he spoke, he sounded sure of himself. "That's very kind of you."

Finally, the officer came and we walked out to his squad car. I gave him my information and I was essentially dismissed. "We've got it from here."

I don't even know the boy's name.

But I still hope that he's okay. I still hope that he's getting the help that he needs.

Thursday thoughts

2012-01-26T12:27:00.002-05:00

Apologies to my hockey team, who will be suffering as a result of an unfortunate phenomenon in my life: everyone is on a diet. Everyone is on a diet and I saw this brownie recipe that I absolutely cannot get out of my head and sorry, teammates, but I’m bringing brownies to our game tonight. DEAL WITH IT.

***

Meg is going to South Carolina this weekend. Why is Meg going to South Carolina? Her wedding date. Remember him? He’s still around.

Around as in still in her life not around as in local because clearly he is not.

She’s been to South Carolina to visit him once. He came home for Thanksgiving and again for Christmas which (according to his cousin/my friend Maria) is a big deal because he usually only makes the trip for one of the holidays.

Here’s another big deal: he told Meg that his plan is to move back to our fair state by the end of 2012.

YAY FOR BOYS WHO DON’T STEAL MY SISTER FAR, FAR AWAY.

He’s a really nice kid. I saw him at Christmas and he’s just laidback and fun and didn’t seem to give two shits about walking into a house filled with our extended family on Christmas Eve. He hasn’t pulled any shady shenanigans – not that I’ve heard of, anyway – and Meg seems really happy. A+ for you, Wedding Date.

My grandma is predicting that Wedding Date will be the man who Meg marries. Because he seems malleable. That’s what she said. Malleable. I don’t think she meant it in an offensive way even though that word is kind of ugly, right? Maybe adaptable would be a better adjective, Grandma.

It’s somewhat hilarious that she pinned this trait on him – malleable – as there is no question that her daughters all wear the pants in their marriages. And that my mother and Aunt Louise absolutely trained up their husbands to be exactly who they needed them to be.

So perhaps Meg will carry on that tradition. Only time will tell.

***

This ol’ blog has been boring lately, right?

If there’s something you’re interested in that I haven’t been writing about, speak up. I am officially soliciting suggestions to haul my ass out of this rut.

***

Here is a life tip: don’t drink 32 ounces of water within an hour of going to bed.

***

I continue to feel uncertain about my job. I like it. I often wonder if the pace is fast enough for me. And I also wonder if my habits, motivations and fondness for Twitter are keeping me from demanding more and more and more and making it a role that requires me to be a superstar and work at that faster pace. Like, maybe I'm the problem.

This is a great place and I’m honestly so, so lucky to be here as opposed to some small operation with three employees and no security and a perpetually shrinking budget. And still – despite this being a much bigger system – there isn’t a lot of room for me to move. In terms of moving up, that is. My boss isn’t going anywhere. Not for a very, very long time.

I look into Ph.D. programs on occasion. And the second master’s degree I would need to make the collegiate leap.

At this point, I’m not convinced that either would be the answer to my problem as opposed to a costly, time-consuming delay of the inevitable realization that working sucks and will always suck and no amount of education is going to cushion me from that unfortunate reality.

I do not like being an adult.

My words have limitations

2012-01-25T07:27:00.000-05:00

It turns out that I’m a pretty decent cheerleader.

I text The Coach on his game days. Good luck tonight, darling! I’ll punch into my iPhone a few hours before game time, when I have a free minute at work or when I’m stopped at a traffic signal or when I happen to be thinking about him (which is frequently). Do a lot of winning! Or Kick so much ass! Or Be awesome! Or It’s a great day for a big win!

I want him to do well. And I want him to know that I want him to do well. Even though his success with his team keeps him a few thousand miles away. I want that success for him. Trophies and championship rings. All of the accolades.

As much as I want him here, I want him happy. He’s happy chasing his dreams. And his dreams – unfortunately – are currently housed with a team that is very far away.

I’ve found myself cheerleading more and more lately. It is nearing the end of the season. His team is waging quite the uphill battle. Each game is critical. There’s a lot of pressure. He’s feeling it.

And I am relentlessly optimistic.

It’s all I can be. I can’t change the results. I can’t be the difference between a win and a loss. This optimism? This cheerleading? It’s all I can do. You’ve got this. I tell him. It’s going to all work out in your favor in the end. You’ve worked hard and you deserve this. Just be your awesome self.

Last week he texted me at the conclusion of his game. He does this often, shooting me a quick update while he's wrapping up his post-game responsibilities. He gave me the score – advantage: bad guys in a close game that his team really needed to win – and then he wrote “I need a hug.”

Oh, if it were only that easy. If only I could give him the hug that he needs. If only I could sit in the stands and wear his team colors and yell for his team and see with my own eyes what instead he has to tell me about.

And so I rely on my words. On every inspirational phrase that has ever made an impact on me. Chin up. Eyes on the prize. Believe. So many words. So many different ways to say the same thing. To say you're great and I want you to excel. I've said it dozens of times, dozens of ways. But I still feel like I'm running out of ways to say it.

Maybe I need a motivational tutor. (Suggestions, anyone?) Or a book on giving motivational speeches.

Or maybe words just aren't enough.

Bigger and better

2012-01-24T11:41:00.004-05:00

I have lost a bit of weight recently.

It wasn’t intentional. I’m not exactly sure how much I lost. Maybe around five pounds? I have never really been one to weigh myself.

My pants were all starting to get a little big but I didn’t pay much attention to it. The Coach came home from Christmas and insisted that I was looking exceptionally fit. Which I promised wasn’t true, that I was the same girl he’d left in August.

But then I started thinking about it and, yeah, I guess maybe I did lose some weight. I’m buying dresses in stupidly small sizes. My jeans don’t fit. I exchanged every pair of pants I received for Christmas. I’ve been running a lot. And - when The Coach took his job and moved away - I wasn't doing much eating. I guess it makes a little bit of sense.

“You’re getting very thin,” my mother remarked to me a few weeks ago. We were all in the car – the whole damn family – after a meal out. “You’re going to lose your booty.”

Yes, my mother knows that my ass is my greatest, well, asset.

“We’ll have to suck some fat from Meg’s and inject it in you!”

“Gee, thanks, Mom.” Meg is sitting in the back seat with me and she is looking horrified but also a little amused. She’s shaking her head.

“MOTHER! OH MY GOD! MOM! ENOUGH!” My mom is brilliant and intuitive and our biggest cheerleader. And sometimes she says the wrong thing. Makes that cutting remark that you remember forever. (Maybe 6 or 7 years ago, she told Meg that her hair looked like dog’s hair and we still talk about it.) Maybe it’s just a mother/daughter thing. When Mom says it, you remember it. “MEG IS PERFECT JUST LIKE SHE IS!”

“What? Of course she is. But there’s no denying that Meg has a badonkadonk.”

My mom is awesome. And sometimes she just doesn’t think.

When Meg retold this story at the bachelorette party we were at last weekend, she threw in “and then Alyson – the best big sister ever – defended me.”

It was the least that I could do.

My hockey team played right before her hockey team on Sunday. After my game, I was in the bleachers watching her play. I pointed Meg out to a girl on my team – someone I don’t know particularly well – and she was like “she’s a lot bigger than you, huh?”

And she is. She’s just a bigger person. Not in a bad way. And I guess that, when you’re looking at it from a sports angle – it’s something that you’d make a comment about. But I never like when people point it out.

I have never discussed size with Meg. She’s four years younger than me but she’s been bigger than me – all around, just bigger (taller, broader shoulders, larger feet and, yes, more ass) – since her late elementary school years. And there is nothing wrong with Meg. She’s tall and she’s strong as hell. She’s built like the athlete that she is.

I hope it doesn’t bother her.

I hope it just seems like a given. How things are. Just like how it is a fact that she’s remarkably smarter than me. And a way, way better athlete. And has better hair.

Extremes

2012-01-23T13:49:00.003-05:00

I’ve lived with Liz for two months now and, in the last two months, one thing has become very apparent to me: there is absolutely no similarity to how we live our lives other than we do our laundry in the same washing machine and we both drink skim milk and have the same grandma.

I am aware that I am very go-go-go-go but living with Liz has really shined a light on how compulsively active I am. And what a homebody Liz tends to be.

Liz works her ass off. She works long hours for a big company in an important position. Her commute is an hour each way. And when she’s not at work, she is at home. She obviously likes to be at home. Because she never leaves. I’m not judging – I swear that I’m not judging – but it isn’t unusual for Liz to get home on a Friday night and settle in for the weekend and, other than a Sunday trip to the grocery store, not leave the house.

And that is c-c-c-c-c-c-crazy to me.

I can’t do that. I don’t have it in me.

Like, I look at Liz all stretched out on the couch on a Saturday afternoon and in my head I am like OMG HOW CAN YOU DO THAT JUST LAYING THERE AND NOT EVEN, LIKE, SIMULTANEOUSLY BALANCING YOUR CHECKBOOK OR KNITTING A HAT?

I woke up yesterday embracing the idea of a lazy Sunday morning. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. “This is what normal people do,” I told myself. I fixed a cup of tea and I crawled back into bed and I got right to business finishing the book that I was reading because I wanted to cross that goal off of my list. I wanted to accomplish that task. Before noon. And I also wanted to get all of my bills paid because I was sick of thinking of it and, goodness, that’s what a lazy Sunday is about, right? Getting things done? It’s called lazy because you’re still wearing your pajamas, yes?

Heaven forbid I actually relax. I certainly didn’t earn the right to relax. Oh, no. The weekend wasn't busy at all.

I worked all day on Friday. Immediately after work I went to visit Lucy and the baby. Immediately from Lucy’s house I went to a bachelorette party for one of Meg’s best friends – I just went to dinner, but I didn’t get home until after midnight. I collapsed into bed and not long after I fell asleep The Coach wakes me up to update me on his team’s game. I talked to him for quite a while (he was displeased with the results and venting accordingly) and didn’t get back to sleep until who knows when.

Up early on Saturday morning to cut up massive amounts of fruit and vegetables for Heather’s bridal shower. Clean up the enormous mess I made in the kitchen. Breakfast. Dress and tights and heels. Hair and makeup. Present wrapping. Coffee on my way out the door. To Heather’s shower a few hours early, helping her mom and sister set up. Then the baby shower. So many games. So many pictures. And then the cleaning up after the baby shower. Finally back home. I observe Liz sleeping on the couch. Decide to take a quick nap of my own (this is somewhat monumental) before going to the gym. Decide against the gym – cook dinner instead. Hang with Liz on the couch for all of 30 minutes. Talk to Meg on the phone. Read my book. Check the score of The Coach’s game. Get to bed just after midnight. Awakened by The Coach, updating me on his game. (I absolutely love when he does this because it makes me feel like so much more of a part of his life – even though it is thousands of miles away. And because it makes me quite sure that he knows that I care about what he is doing there and how he is doing there.)

So, no. Clearly I didn’t earn the right to just hang out on Sunday morning. Especially when Sunday evening featured a hockey game and a soccer game. Please. Productivity is where it is at.

Liz must think that I am completely insane.

Liz must also think that I am the best roommate ever. All I do at that house is sleep.

And not on the couch on a random Sunday afternoon, either.

I was going to blog today

2012-01-19T22:41:00.003-05:00

I was going to blog today because I like to blog on most days and I even had an idea of what I wanted to blog about. But then I was working - like, real working - and then my day was cut significantly short by an event that I had to attend. Which was actually okay. Minus the photographer who clearly took too many pictures featuring me. But let me pause here and thank the heavens for deciding that being allowed to be cute was a major goal of 2012. Because I was. Cute, I mean. Although my scarf was bulky and I wonder how it will photograph.

Like I said: I was going to blog today.

And the work event (where I looked cute) was off site and I didn't bring my directions and that was irritating. But my iPhone came through and I arrived without much trouble and was only a little annoyed with myself. Same goes for when I decided to consume the giant chocolate chip cookie at the reception even though it wasn't good and I was not hungry. A little annoyed.

And then I got in the car to go home and I was on the phone with my mom and I took a scenic tour of town. Well, it was probably a scenic tour and a half. I really got turned around. And I couldn't stop thinking about my sore legs and how much I wanted to be home long enough to actually, like, figure out how to get home.

I booted up the GPS - probably not until 10 minutes into my journey to lostness, which was stupid - and somehow get into the history and oh, hey. There's address to The Athlete's summer house.

THE ATHLETE. WHAT?

I obviously never turn on my GPS and yeah, that was a small punch in the throat.

So then I got home. Legs still sore. Thinking about The Athlete. I never think about The Athlete. (Which is good. He is, among other things, marrying someone else.)

And I ate cereal in the kitchen. Still wearing my coat and my potentially too bulky scarf. Legs still hurting.

And then I decided that I couldn't possibly blog today because I needed to get to sleep as soon as possible so that I could get away from myself as soon as possible.

I am annoying the hell out of myself.

Which is why I'm not going to blog today even though I had planned to blog today.

Wishing away days

2012-01-18T19:38:00.003-05:00

I was tending to my calendar this afternoon.

My calendar demands constant attention. I’m forever deleting out cancelled hockey games and adjusting the weekends that I’m scheduled to work and combing through the month to find a free evening where I can get together and gossip about my former coworkers with Maria.

Today, my attention was on February. I plugged in my work schedule – fresh from the hands of my boss – and I marveled at what a busy month it would be. Birthdays and hockey tournaments and soccer every Sunday night.

Februaries are like that for me. Short months packed so tight that they seem even shorter.

(If I can pull off a minor miracle, I would like to make February even more hectic/go by even faster with a three-day weekend turned into a quick visit to see The Coach and cheer on his team in a big game. But this would require both an invitation and possibly an intervention by the gods of air travel and I am counting on neither but, goodness, it's nice to dream.)

Looking ahead at next month – filled with colors and notes and obligations – was a relief.

I’m not sure that I should do it. Wishing away the days, I mean.

But I do.

And I have. Regularly. Since August – with the exception of three weeks in December when time could have passed slowly for once (but didn't, of course) – I have.

This February will pass quickly. The days will drop off effortlessly, I expect, and I will be left staring at March and the bitter, bitter end of The Coach’s season.

And I’ll have made it through.

Roadtrip of Weirdness

2012-01-17T10:08:00.001-05:00

My cousin Mara had her first baby at the beginning of November

She wasn’t in town for Thanksgiving or for Christmas. I hadn’t met the baby yet and I was feeling guilty. If I had popped out a kid, I think I would want Mara to come in town to meet the little darling, too.

I worked on Saturday, but due to Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I had two free days to make a quick trip to Chicago. Emma didn’t have school yesterday, either, and she decided to come along.

Here is the roadtrip in a nutshell:

5 hours on Sunday: spent driving to Chicago, Emma talking nonstop the entire way. I purposely had us leave early on Sunday morning because I thought that she would sleep the majority of the trip. WRONG.

10 minutes on Sunday: spent at Tim Horton’s. Because Tim Horton’s is the best.

5 minutes on Sunday: spent knocking on the door to Aunt Louise and Uncle Ed’s house before we realized that they weren’t home, even though we were arriving at the exact time we said we would be arriving.

40 minutes on Sunday: spent on a time-killing walk from Aunt Louise and Uncle Ed’s house, down to the lake, along the lakeshore for a spell and then back to their house.

1 hour on Sunday: spent on a quick shopping trip with Aunt Louise to her favorite spice store and her favorite stationary store, where I purchased several adorable greeting cards including this gem that went in the mail to The Coach today (his weekend featured a significant accomplishment that deserved a fun card to celebrate):

90 minutes on Sunday: spent with Mara, her husband and the baby. Like, that’s all. That’s all we saw of them.

0 minutes on Sunday: spent holding the baby. Mara never asked either me or Emma if we wanted to hold her and, like, don’t you do that? Don’t you ask? I mean, she’s the mom and I’ll respect whatever it is that she wants but I wanted to be like “LET ME HOLD THAT BABY I DIDN’T DRIVE ALL THIS WAY TO JUST LOOK AT HER.” But I thought better of it because if she didn’t mind me holding the baby she’d ask if I wanted to, right?* (My parents went to see the baby last week and my mom came home and said at least a hundred times “Mara was so sweet, saying ‘did you want to hold her?’ and ‘did you want to feed her?’ all the time.”)

5 hours on Monday: spent driving home.

90 minutes on Monday: of our drive home spent with Emma sleeping and therefore not talking my ear off and, goodness, it was nice to be left alone with my thoughts and my satellite radio.

30 minutes on Monday: spent napping on the couch at Mom and Dad’s house, after which I woke up and was SO FIRED UP about sacrificing two days on the Roadtrip of Weirdness.

40 minutes on Monday: spent on the treadmill, running off all of the pent-up energy I had about the Roadtrip of Weirdness.

So, that was pretty much it. My 30 hour roadtrip to Chicago. Kind of a waste. Made me a little (more) insane. Would have had more fun spending the weekend in, say, Toronto with a couple of awesome bloggers. But making the trip to Chicago was the right thing to do and for that I am glad that I went.

*I just realized how not brave of me this was and I probably should have opened my mouth in order to preserve the integrity of my 2012 resolution but, um, well...I didn’t.

Big day, big honor

2012-01-14T13:22:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was the brit milah for Lucy and Chet’s son.

I am not Jewish but I was raised in a community with a large Jewish population and two of my cousins have a Jewish father.

So, while I had never attended a brit before – and while I maybe kinda did a little bit of research beforehand just to make sure I wasn’t going to commit any huge faux pas by wearing black or bringing a gift – it wasn’t a huge mystery.

Lucy wasn’t raised Jewish, but she started the conversion process when she got pregnant. Chet isn’t particularly religious – I think I would describe him as more culturally Jewish than religiously so – but the covenant of circumcision is obviously important to him and to his family and to his religion. It was a special, proud day for Lucy and Chet and their families. I was so happy and so honored to attend. (And so thrilled to have another excuse to buy the baby more presents!)

It was a lovely event. Low key but celebratory and important. Quiet yet happy. Respectful yet fun.

The best part of the whole day might have been when Chet said – not to me, it was a snippet of a conversation that I overheard – how important it was to him and to Lucy that I was in attendance.

They are such a great couple. They are such a wonderful little family. I am so, so fortunate to be a part of their lives. Especially to the extent that I am. Where they want me at the hospital on the night of their son’s birth. And at the synagogue for his brit milah. It really is an honor beyond what I have words to express.

I marvel, sometimes, at how lucky I am. I had no business taking that advanced chemistry class in 10th grade and yet I did and it was over a Bunsen burner that I cemented a friendship that is so wonderful that I am not sure that I even deserve it.

355.5 days left in 2012

2012-01-12T12:10:00.003-05:00

I’m going to set my resolutions for this year a little differently from the way that I’ve done them in the past because I love ambitious, lofty, specific lists but I think that I need to approach 2012 with a few grand ideas. And a few specific goals to keep me honest.

#1 Be brave. This is it. This is my 2012.
There is so much that I want to do and want to see and want to experience and want to accomplish. I could spend the entire year making resolutions, pinpointing how I want to get better and establishing a plan and identifying benchmarks. I am good at that – the slow and deliberate plodding towards the finish line. And it works. Eventually, usually, generally it works.

I want to do it differently in 2012. I want to look my big goals right in the eye. I want to stop being afraid of everything. I want to dream my enormous, intimidating dreams and I want to grab them by the shirt collar and wrestle them to the ground because I have spent 29 years carefully tiptoeing around my life. Why am I afraid of my own life? Why am I scared to live the life of my dreams?

It’s 2012. I turn 30 in October. It’s time. Time to say something risky. Put myself out there. Make a decision without factoring in what others will think. Ask for help if help is needed. Be courageous. Be bold. Be brave.

#2 Stay in the kitchen. Why not? I like it there.
I’m carrying this resolution over from 2011. I’ll continue making something significant – a big meal or a tasty dessert or something for breakfast that isn’t Cheerios – in the kitchen once per week.

#3 Jump back on the water train. If you need me, I’ll be peeing.
This is also a carryover resolution from 2011. A resolution that I did a fine job at keeping up with through the first half of the year. Then I tanked. So I will try again. I’ll fill up my water bottles and keep a tally on my phone and hopefully this time my water consumption can be a habit rather than a hassle.

#4 Be pretty and be okay with it. Pointless guilt need not apply.
If I want to do my hair, I’m going to do my hair. If I feel like wearing makeup, I’m going to wear makeup. If I want to paint my nails, I’m going to paint my nails. I’m going to stop thinking about what everybody else thinks about my appearance, the time/effort/energy that I put (or don’t put) into my appearance. Because it doesn’t matter.

My family – my mother, more specifically – isn’t a group that particularly values appearance. My mom hardly wears makeup. Barely does a thing with her hair. And she doesn’t need to. She is beautiful and comfortable just as she is and I think that is awesome.

I, on the other hand, feel a little better about myself if I put time into my appearance. That means a smudge of blush on my cheeks if I’m running out to Target. That means sacrificing 20 minutes of sleep so that I can go to work with the perfect braid in my hair.

And I always feel guilty about it. That’s what needs to change in 2012.

The guilt comes from my mother, no doubt. (Doesn't it always? I hate to blame her.) She is always touching my hair when I’ve straightened it and asking “how long did this take you?” And I pull back and I am instantly annoyed and I feel vain and I want to swat her hand away because it’s my time, damnit, and if I want to spend my time making my hair cute so that I can feel cute what the hell does it matter?

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to anyone but me.

It is 2012 and it’s time to take that to heart. I’m going to be adorable when I feel like being adorable. I’m going to wear skirts and heels to work because I want to and because I can even though the other ladies wear nothing but slacks and sensible shoes. I’ll wear makeup when I feel like wearing makeup. I’ll straighten my hair when I want to straighten my hair and I won’t care who prefers it curly or who thinks that I would be better off sleeping in.

It’s just a place in my life where I can learn to be brave, I suppose. Brave to be the person I want to be and look how I want to look. But this has been bothering me for a while, this tug of how I should look and how much I should care. So the issue gets its own resolution. And a new eye shadow palette.

The following isn’t a list of resolutions. Just ideas.
More live music.
More outdoor runs.
More laughter.
Bigger ambitions.
More hugs.
Less coffee.
More road trips.
Fewer tears.
Get smarter.
Show love.
More green tea.
Eat better.
More fun.
Sleep longer.
Procrastinate less.
Blog better.
More making.
Less buying.
Try harder.
Aim higher.
Love more.
Live happier.
Ideas to make 2012 my 2012.

2011 In Books

2012-01-11T22:47:00.000-05:00

You know what helps you read a lot of books? Being surrounded by them.

I’m in a library 40 hours a week. I see a lot of books. I see a lot of books that I want to read. And while I will never be able to read them all, the endless parade of tempting books that passes in front of me keeps me on task and keeps me reading.

I read 27 books in 2011. I wrote down each title and hung the list on the refrigerator. I didn’t want to forget. And I liked to admire the growing list.

These are the books I read in 2011 in the order in which I read them:

Meeting Your Half-Orange by Amy Spencer

The Last Time I Saw You by Elizabeth Berg

Everything Lovely, Effortless, Safe by Jenny Hollowell

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

One Day by David Nicholls

Ape House by Sara Gruen

Half Baked: The Story of My Nerves, My Newborn, and How We Both Learned to Breathe by Alexa Stevenson

Loving Frank by Nancy Horan

Two Kisses for Maddy: A Memoir of Loss & Love by Matt Logelin

The History of Love: A Novel by Nicole Krauss

The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother by James McBride

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

The Pioneer Woman: Black Heels to Tractor Wheels: A Love Story by Ree Drummond

Commencement by J. Courtney Sullivan

Everything Is Going to Be Great: An Underfunded and Overexposed European Grand Tour by Rachel Shukert

Wetlands by Charlotte Roche

Vaclav and Lena by Haley Tanner

How the World Makes Love: And What It Taught a Jilted Groom by Franz Wisner

Everything Beautiful Began After by Simon Van Booy

American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld

A Man Without Words by Susan Schaller

Born on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant by Daniel Tammet

Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language by Eva Hoffman

The Train of Small Mercies by David Rowell

The Lost Girls: Three Friends. Four Continents. One Unconventional Detour Around the World. by Jennifer Baggett

Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand

Girls in White Dresses by Jennifer Close

Favorite: Vaclav & Lena by Haley Tanner
Made me laugh the hardest: Wetlands by Charlotte Roche
Made me think the hardest: Everything Beautiful Began After by Simon Van Booy
Took me longest to get through: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot
Book that I hesitate to admit that I read: Meeting Your Half-Orange by Amy Spencer
Theme of my 2011 reading list: Bloggers and other interesting nonfiction.

I have been keeping track of the books that I want to read - both fiction and nonfiction - on Pinterest. If you have something to suggest, I want to hear it; I am always looking to add more titles. And if you need something good to read? My goodness, just ask!

This is my new friend

2012-01-10T11:11:00.003-05:00

He's a cool little dude.

I am in love.

It wasn't all bad

2012-01-09T13:31:00.000-05:00

I have the impression that I gave the impression that The Coach's visit was disastrous.

It wasn't. There was so much of it that was perfect and awesome and fun. And there was a lot of anxiety. So much anxiety. I spent his entire visit glancing over my shoulder, fully aware of how quickly the time would pass. That part wasn't perfect. It wasn't awesome. It wasn't fun.

He's been gone for almost a week now. I'm over the part where I mourn his departure like a crazy person. I'm past those torturous first few days.

It's okay now. As okay as it is going to be. Okay enough that I can look back on his visit and appreciate it. Instead of feeling like I am having my arm sawed off with a meat cleaver.

The things that I most loved - the things that I most miss, the memories that are the best to look back on - are the little things. The little, stupid things that are nothing. That are not grand gestures or moments that stop your heart.

Silly and small. My giggling, unsuccessful attempts at cracking his back. Him persuading me - cold feet and all - to walk on it, instead.

When he sang me his team's fight song. The way he stood behind me as I packed him up a sandwich bag of Christmas cookies to eat on his drive home. The unassuming way he stated "I like spending time with you" as he crushed me, breathlessly, into his chest.

The slow unfurling of his personality. It wasn't like that last April, at the beginning of whatever it is that we are. Now, tiny pieces of himself slip out every time we're together. I collect them, turn them over in my head. Wonder. How many girls know that when he clenches his fists, his knuckles all crack loudly - like the knuckles of a retired boxer? Does he tell everyone about the fan of his team who gave him an awkward, drunken bear hug? Or about his ridiculous lunch habits? Is he equally apt to share the humble stories of people not knowing who he is and what he does as he is about telling the ones that make him sound like a very big deal?

How he always asks about my job. Always requests the crazy stories.

I took him around the house on his first visit here. "This is a great house," he proclaimed. "This is the type of house that a coach should live in."

Standing in the driveway just before climbing into his car, pointing towards where I stood on the front porch, whisper-yelling to the neighbors. "I'm sleeping with her!" I waved and smiled to the neighbors -- none of whom were actually around -- and we laughed at our own juvenile behavior.

The way he told me about a rare book he'd been trying to find for his dad for the last 10 years. His reaction when I found him a copy. The way he dismissed my suggestion that he was only over to pick up the beloved book, rather than to see me. How he teased me when I insisted he wash his hands before browsing it. “Look what you’re turning into,” he chuckled, “somebody who cares about how books are treated.” And then he washed his hands just as I had requested.

His eyes when he looked at me – he was stretched out on his back, I was sitting cross-legged at the foot of my bed – and his voice as he interrupted whatever it was that we were talking about. “You look so pretty right now.”

It was the way he said it. It was his eyes when he said it. The way he cocked his head. The way the words came out of his mouth -- a little shy, a little confident. A statement that was little and insignificant and it wasn’t. Like so many other pieces of our time together. Nothing but something.

Not so different from our relationship as a whole, now that I think of it.

No, really, I am my mother

2012-01-07T15:34:00.004-05:00

I seem to have gone slightly overboard.

Fruit. Brown sugar fruit dip. Pecan chocolate chunk brownies. Spinach manicotti. Tortilla soup.

I went to the hospital right after work -- stayed for about an hour and held that sweet boy the entire time -- and stopped at the grocery store on my way home.

As soon as I got home, every dormant domesticity gene in my body went into overdrive. I swear, one minute I was pre-heating the oven and the next thing I knew I looked at the clock and it was three hours later and I had, um, gone slightly crazy.

But at least I'll know that Lucy and Chet are eating well.

You can call me auntie

2012-01-06T09:50:00.000-05:00

I never work on Thursday nights, but I worked last night.

Serendipitously, I worked last night.

Lucy’s husband, Chet, called to tell me that they were at the hospital – getting ready to have a baby – and I had under an hour left in my workday and I was a mere 10 minutes away.

“You’re at work? Come to the hospital when you’re done! We’re going to have this baby in, oh, I think 20 minutes.”

And that is how I ended up at the hospital on the night that Lucy and Chet’s son was born, even though it had never been discussed or planned or even joked about. I never thought that Lucy would want me there, at the hospital, when she was in labor. But she did and so I went. Of course I went.

And of course that baby was not born in 20 minutes. He was not born at 8:40 pm, as Chet had predicted. He was born at 12:30 am and he is perfect.

The NYE I didn't know I wanted

2012-01-05T20:13:00.000-05:00

So, that dress I was contemplating for New Year’s Eve?

I didn’t wear it.

It was per the request of my hostess for the evening, my forever charming and fun very best friend – Lucy.

We scrapped plans for dinner. Invited everyone over to her house for appetizers and a lack of pretense. And made a suggested dress code: sweats and other comfortable loungewear.

It was perfect.

Lucy and Chet went out that afternoon and bought an Xbox Kinect. We rang in 2012 in their living room, playing ridiculous dancing games and eating too much and, in my case, wearing the most perfect pair of yoga pants ever created and an adorable purple Adidas quarter zip and sparkly eyeshadow because, hell, it was still New Year’s Eve.

I thought that I wanted to spend New Year’s Eve with The Coach and his friends. I thought I wanted to toddle around in a pair of sky high heels, one arm linked in his and the other carrying one of my more fabulous handbags, smiling at inside jokes that I didn’t understand, attempting to forge a kinship with all of the girls in the group. I thought that was how I wanted to begin 2012.

But it wasn’t and I didn’t even know it. I wanted to begin 2012 in a room with people who love me and who know my quirks and my flaws and my accomplishments. I wanted to begin 2012 with people would do absolutely anything for me – including be my partner for some ridiculous dance video game regardless of being enormously pregnant – for absolutely any reason.

I didn’t know that it was what I wanted for my New Year’s Eve and it is what I got and I am so brilliantly lucky.

2012 will be a good year.

After all, I started it out in my favorite pair of yoga pants.

I am my mother

2012-01-04T23:00:00.003-05:00

When she has leftover rice, my mom frequently makes it for breakfast.

She puts it in a saucepan and pours enough milk on top to cover the rice. She heats up the rice and milk super slowly - at least an hour - on the stove top at a low temperature.

The leftover rice, formerly crunchy and congealed together and generally gross - plumps right up in the milk.

Then you sprinkle the rice with cinnamon sugar.

And then you eat.

And then you are very, very happy.

When I saw that there was leftover rice in the refrigerator at Mom and Dad's (where I'm dogsitting), when I had enough time to properly heat my rice and milk, when I am in the midst of a week in which I need all of the comfort food that I can get: I couldn't resist.

Rice. Milk. Heat.

Sprinkled with lavender vanilla sugar.

And that bowl of heaven is, I am convinced, the reason that I made it through the entire day without crying. Without coming close to crying. Without checking my phone every five minutes. Without obsessing. With the ability to focus on my work. With a smile on my face that wasn't entirely fake.

Magic rice. Make it when you are sad. Feel happy.

Take a picture.

Preferably on an equally magic cutting board.

Regularly scheduled programming

2012-01-03T21:22:00.000-05:00

Right now I am sitting in bed, watching my Wolverines play in the Sugar Bowl. I envisioned this game starting a little (read: a LOT) better than this.

For the last hour I have been exchanging amusing text messages with Lucy. She's cheering me up about The Boy Who Shall Not Be Named; I am encouraging her little guy to be born tomorrow. Love her. And, my goodness, I am more than a little excited for that baby to be born. Love him, too.

When I got home from work I got in the bath with a book and didn't even consider going to the gym or to a yoga class and I don't feel even a little guilty about it.

Today I elected to give up on the brainy, science heavy non-fiction book that I had been trying to read for the last three weeks. I hate giving up on a book, but it just isn't happening for me. Not now. My head isn't in the right place. For anything but chick lit, anyway.

Yesterday I dragged Meg to the mall with me. (It wasn't a hard sell.) I had to exchange the pants that Aunt Annette got me for Christmas. Same cut, same store, same size that 90% of the slacks I wear to work are and they don't fit. The same way the majority of the pants that I wear to work haven't been fitting. I don't feel any lighter but my pants beg to differ. Didn't I just go through this? I hate shopping for pants.

Yesterday, Sunday, Saturday and Friday I didn't work. A fortunate schedule and the beauty of working in local government. So, so much better than the extra heavy schedule I used to work around the holidays. I could get used to this.

Tomorrow I'm going to give serious thought to my 2012 resolutions. I have ideas. I need to write them down. I need to execute.

For the next two days I'm staying at Mom and Dad's house. I'm watching the dogs; they're making a quick trip to Chicago to meet my cousin Mara's birthday.

Sometime soon, on this humble little blog, I need to review the books I read in 2011. I need to write a recap of my 2011 resolutions. I need to write about the holidays with my crazy family and New Year's Eve with my crazy friends. I need to catch up. I need to make up for three weeks of whiny drivel. (Am I missing anything else?)

Newsflash!

2012-01-02T21:09:00.003-05:00

This sucks.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming - with 99% less content about The Coach - very, very soon.

Happy New Year (in a few days)

2012-01-01T23:00:00.003-05:00

I was not thrilled to see 2011 go like I was thrilled to see the end of 2010.

I did not cry tears of relief at midnight. In fact, I missed midnight. But at 12:03 am, we threw up our hands and welcomed in a new year. At 12:05, a text message from The Coach. That wasn't enough but was enough and, oh my, with us it is always that way.

While I am sure that somewhere inside of me I have profound thoughts about the year that I had and big dreams about the year that I will have, it's going to be a couple of days until I can dig them up.

I am living hour by hour for the next few days. I have officially entered a tailspin -- a tailspin remarkably similar to the one I found myself in when The Coach left in August. I can't stop crying. I have been soaked by a typhoon of sadness; it's going to take me some time to dry off.

And then: watch out.

Washed clean and ready for a new year.

A year that will make me cry at midnight. Bittersweet tears. Sad that the best year of my life is coming to a close, happy for all that happened. Happy for all that I made happen.

It's all okay

2011-12-31T09:38:00.003-05:00

Today is just another day. Tonight is just another night.

I won't be with The Coach. It's okay.

* * *

I spent time with him yesterday. I was all set to go to yoga and get my head on straight and find my breath and just be. But if I'm just going to be, I'd rather just be when I am with him. Foolish or not.

And I woke up this morning with a sore hip so it's all the same.

"This is going to be the last time I see you before you go, isn't it?" I murmured into his chest, safely tucked beneath his arm.

No, no. He told me.

He doesn't leave until Tuesday.

In my head, I ticked off the complications. Bowl games, Lions games, hangovers, family time.

And I told him that I didn't believe him.

I think that he'll get busy. And he'll realize that it's easier not to see me one last time. To avoid that formal goodbye.

He won't make the time.

* * *

I won't be with The Coach tonight and it's okay. I'll be with people who love me more than he does. I'll be with friends who know me better than he ever will. I'll kiss Chet's best friend at midnight and maybe that's for the better. Just doing it because that's what you do. No emotion. No expectation.

2011 was the year of The Coach.

I am not banking on that being the case for 2012.

January

2011-12-30T08:56:00.003-05:00

January is nearly here. The Coach is nearly gone. Back to his coaching position, thousands of miles away. Back to the life that I have no part of.

I can't believe that I have to do this again. I can't believe that I have to say goodbye. Again.

I kept avoiding plugging my January work schedule into my calendar. I didn't want anything to do with January. With the end of his trip home. With day after day after day where I won't see him. Where we won't be in the same time zone.

And that first week. I'm already loathing that first week. I already want to spend it in bed, instead of getting up for work every morning and putting on makeup and a smile and generous layers of clothing. I'm always cold when I'm sad.

The inevitable end of The Coach's visit home is making it hard. Hard to be in the moment when I'm already halfway into next week. Hard to want to be around him when he's almost gone. Hard to flip the calendar to January.

Not a fashion blogger

2011-12-29T07:45:00.001-05:00

On my way home from work last night, I brainstormed about what dress I could wear on New Year's Eve*.

And somehow, on the 10 minute drive between work and home, I mistake myself for a fashion blogger. A fashion blogger who doesn't have a full-length mirror, among other things. Like fashion sense.

What I also am lacking is any shame.

But I do have a self-timer on my camera. What could possibly go wrong?

Hahahahaha.

So here is my attempt at a legitimate picture of the dress. I suppose you get a general idea of the shape.

And here is an unintentional (I swear) badonkadonk shot. Things you can see: zipper detail, the fabric (black wool, with metallic thread thingies) and a lot of ass.

And the front. If you're not too blinded by the white of my legs, check out my bracelet made of Aunt Marie's pearls. It is the only redeeming detail of this photo. (I cannot believe I am putting it on the internet.)

After a dozen pictures of this very, very high quality, I gave up.

What would have made sense: walking downstairs and asking Liz to take two quick pictures.

What I would have had trouble explaining: why I needed pictures of myself in a dress to post on the internet.

So, I did the next best thing. I grabbed my iPhone, marched into the bathroom and took more bad pictures.

Have I mentioned that I'm wearing my hair straight these days?

I had it blown out, actually, so it doesn't look exactly like that on a normal day. But close.

And there is a picture of the back of the dress in which you can see...nothing, really. Except those creme towels (which match the shower curtain) (both of which belong to Liz) that I really don't care for.

Back to the dress.

The point of this post was:
a. to prove what I nerd I really am. (Success? Success.)
b. to assure you all that I will not be morphing this into a fashion blog at any point in the near future
c. to gather your opinions on the dress.

So, the dress: too stuffy for New Year's Eve? (It's not like we're going to a hotel party where everyone else will be in sequins and I'll be in wool. And the length and the sparkles make it okay? Please confirm or deny.) What do I wear on my legs? (Black tights? Nylons? Bare legs that I generously slather in self-tanner for the next few days while hoping for a miracle?) Jewelry? Hair? A magical pop of color somewhere that isn't my legs? (I just can't do colored tights.)

I feel like it is possible to make this dress cute and New Year's Eve appropriate. And I am totally afraid that I'm going to do it wrong and look like I just left the library.

*Yep, I bitch about New Year's Eve and pick out a dress to wear all in the same day.

The Most Annoying Night of the Year

2011-12-28T14:46:00.000-05:00

Oh, New Year’s Eve. What a pain in the ass you are. What high expectations you bring. What a disappointing reality you never fail to become.

Why I never learn, I cannot quite describe. Every year, it is the same. We need to do something. What should we do? How special should it be? Does it require a new dress? A manicure? My flat iron, an hour in front of the mirror and a miracle?

Last year, Lucy and I were on the ball. I researched locations, restaurants, bars within close proximity of restaurants. We made a reservation. We were all set. And then one of the couples who were going out with us suddenly decided that they were no longer interested in going out where we had decided to go out. And for some reason unbeknownst to me, Lucy and I were considerate enough to completely redo our entire plans to accommodate their bullshit.

So, obviously this same couple is coming out with us again this year and obviously planning the night has fallen on me and Lucy and we haven’t done anything yet and it’s going to be a miracle if we can get a reservation for a largeish party so late in the game; we’ll probably end up at Taco Bell for dinner. Or maybe I’ll pull off a miracle and get us a reservation and then the Picky Twins won’t want to go there anyway.

I’m already annoyed.

I’d just rather go somewhere with The Coach.

Ideally, dinner with me, Lucy, The Coach and Chet. And then Lucy and Chet can go home (I cannot expect Lucy in her very, very pregnant state to stay out very late) and The Coach and I can go somewhere and do something or not go anywhere and not do anything.

That is a complete pipe dream.

I won’t be seeing The Coach on New Year’s Eve. I mean, it’s just not realistic. I don’t know his friends. His friends (I suspect) don’t know about me. He doesn’t know my friends. And he’s going to want to celebrate with his. I am 97% certain that I will be unable to convince him to do dinner with me and my friends – so that I can at least see him at some point that evening – and I think I just have to be cool with that. Will I invite him along anyway? I will. It doesn’t hurt to ask even though I will be disappointed.

That’s what New Year’s Eve is all about, anyway. Disappointment. Disappointment and overpriced drinks.

The bigger picture

2011-12-26T21:46:00.003-05:00

I remember what I was wearing.

I remember where I was standing.

One year ago tonight, The Coach sent me a text message.

One year later, we're here.

* * *

I haven't seen The Coach in the last handful of days and it's frustrating because I want to spend every second of every day with him while he's still here.

But that's just not how it is and I am trying - trying so damn hard - to look at the bigger picture. I haven't seen him because he has been with his family. Because he adores his family. Because he cherishes spending the holiday season with his family.

How could I possibly dog him for spending time with his family?

It is one of the many things that makes him so awesome. I wish I had a picture of his face when he talks about Christmas with his family. I wish I could bottle up his enthusiasm for my Christmas sugar cookies.

Despite not seeing him over the course of the holiday weekend, I heard from him. I heard from him at all the right times -- while he was watching his beloved Lions play on Christmas Eve. On Christmas morning. Just before he (and I) collapsed into bed after a long day of Christmas celebrations with our respective families. He was thinking about me. Letting me know that he was thinking about me. I'll take it.

* * *

I haven't bothered him about New Years Eve yet.

I just need to put it out there.

He doesn't do subtle. Every step forward we've made in the last week has been a result of me putting aside my natural inclinations to be sweet and agreeable and undemanding and nonconfrontational. It's been a result of me voicing what I want.

And what I want is to see him on New Years Eve.

And also to find out the great mystery of last week.

And also for my heart to not be absolutely broken when he leaves again. (I cried in my car today, just thinking about how hard it is going to be when he goes.)

First gift...

2011-12-24T08:30:00.004-05:00

...best gift?

I don't know how another Christmas present is going to top this.

Meg and I opened these matching bracelets yesterday -- a super, secret gift from Anna and Emma's dad.

(He didn't wannt to give them to us at Christmas, in front of our other cousins.)

He took Aunt Marie's pearls and had the necklace restrung into three bracelets: one for me, one for Meg and one for Emma. Anna has the orignal bracelet from the set.

I can't remember receiving a gift that made me cry. Until this one, of course. Happy tears and sad tears. Such a sweet, sweet gesture.

I love that it matches my sister and I love that it matches my couins-who-are-basically-my-sisters. I love that I will be able to carry a little of Aunt Marie around with me.

I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow - whether it is spent celebrating Christmas or not. I am so lucky to have such a wonderful group of people who read this silly little blog. You're all a pretty sweet gift, too.

So Midwestern, So in the Kitchen: the rest of 2011

2011-12-23T12:09:00.008-05:00

Slacker!

Not in the kitchen, actually.

Just the blogging.

Well, the blogging and the picture taking. You'll see.

First off, I would like to make an announcement: yesterday, I made doughnuts.

Lucy wanted doughnuts for her and Chet's Hanukkah party. She was all "well, I will find a recipe tonight, I guess, and make them when I get home from work. If you could just borrow your aunt's deep fryer..."

Oh hell no, Lucy. You are 412 weeks pregnant, working all day and having people to your house. There's no way in hell I was letting her make the doughnuts.

"How about I make the doughnuts? I mean, unless you're really attached to the idea of making them. I don't work on Thursday and, really, I wouldn't mind at all."

She acquiesced. As I knew that she would.

And then I had to figure out how to make doughnuts. Featuring hot oil (which scares the shit out of me) and yeast and rising and temperatures and other chemistry-like components (which also scares the shit out of me).

But, look! Look what I did, you guys!

Half of them I glazed, half of them I sprinkled with lavender vanilla sugar.

They tasted really good.

The recipe was from The Pioneer Woman.

And then there were the sugar cookies from last week:

So good.

Even though they weren't my mom's recipe and, yes, I still feel guilty for cheating on my mom's recipe.

Here is the recipe if you'd like to cheat on your mom's sugar cookie recipe, too.

Before I moved, I made this Tortellini Spinach Bake from a recipe I found on Pinterest.

Loved it. I find tortellini to be a delightful food. (Pasta. Cheese. You can't go wrong.) But I get bored with eating my tortellini with just marinara sauce, so this was a lovely alternative.

And that's the end of the food pictures I took. Three pictures in three months. I know you're impressed.

I did, however, continue to cook on a pretty regular basis and that's fancy enough of me that I'll share a bit of what I made.

Pantry Pasta for Two from The Pioneer Woman which was so easy and so yummy and so perfect for a cold weeknight in November.

Sugared Pecans in the crockpot, from a recipe I found on Pinterest. Seriously tasty, satisfying my sweet tooth and giving me a jolt of protein -- a critical component to my snacking habits.

Baked Pears with Raspberry Sauce for dessert at Lucy's house a few weeks ago. I'm usually not a big fan of pears, but she specifically asked me to bring fruit for dessert and I couldn't bring myself to chop up a pineapple and call it a day.

I made a few adjustments to this recipe - margarine instead of butter, leaving the cream out of the raspberry sauce - because we had meat with dinner and her husband keeps kinda-sorta kosher. But the chances made do difference. Well, I don't think that they did. I haven't made it any other way. But it still tasted good to me. The girl who doesn't like pears.

And then there was baked pumpkin pie oatmeal. Also found via Pinterest, also delicious. I made this recipe at least four times this fall. I love and adore oatmeal. I love and adore pumpkin. Such a magical, magical breakfast treat. Best straight out of the oven, but it reheats fairly well (I toss it in the microwave and pour a bit of milk on the top once it's been warmed up), too.

That is it, friends. Kitchen time was had but the reports are lacking.

Always room for improvement.

Yesterday's Mystery

2011-12-22T14:32:00.001-05:00

The Great Mystery of Wednesday is now The Great Mystery of Thursday and Beyond.

Saw him after work last night.

Had such a lovely time that I completely forgot to ask about the question he randomly texted me.

Was too busy in the moment. Too busy to be nosey about that afternoon's text messages. Too busy to fuss over every insecurity I have been marinating in for the last week.

Not so busy that I failed to observe his behavior. More tender. More spontaneous. More of that person that we all let out when we're really comfortable. Fearless -quirks and faults and opinions.

I am almost afraid that I am seeing exactly what I want to see. I hate to get my hopes up. It seems that he genuinely heard that sliver of conversation that I initiated. That something made sense. That something rang true. That we knocked down a wall.

Or two.

All over a pair of sweats

2011-12-21T23:11:00.000-05:00

Meg is hard to shop for in the sense that, far more often than not, the minute that she decides that she wants something – be it flashcards for her licensure exam or a new pair of heels – she buys it.

There is not a person in this world who I know better than I know Meg, so shopping for her is still fairly easy. All I have to do is come up with something that she’ll like and want before she knows that she likes and wants it.

On her last birthday, for example, I had a thought that went something like this: she likes soccer, she plays soccer, her soccer cleats are at least 4 years old, she likes Puma, she thoroughly enjoys bright and unexpected color combinations (especially on her shoes). And then I bought her a pair of teal and hot pink Puma cleats. And she thought they were fabulous.

My brainstorming for this Christmas went something like this: she likes sweats, she wears sweats to school, she is going into a profession in which sweats are acceptable, she likes hockey, she plays hockey, she coaches hockey. And then I went online and bought her the perfect pair of sweats from a hockey company. They cost way more than I would ever want to pay for a pair of sweats, but they were absolutely perfect for Meg. They even use skate laces as the ties. Love them.

Loved them.

Loved the idea of them, anyway, because I never received them.

Because yesterday, 10 days after placing the order, I get an email saying “oh, sorry. We’re actually out of stock?”

10 days? What? It took your company 10 days to get someone to look at your inventory and determine that, actually, there aren’t any mediums left.

I was so angry.

Because, at this point, Meg’s lengthy Christmas list has been stripped bare and I really didn’t want to go to the nearest sporting goods store and buy her a generic, lame and also somewhat overpriced pair of Under Armour sweats – which she would love, yes, but is completely lacking in originality.

And, as I have been a touch sensitive (read: batshit crazy) these last few weeks, I was a total mess. Completely without even the slightest decent idea. Too nervous to trust another online retailer. Makeup. Shoes. A fabulous dress that she doesn’t need but would really like. So many possibilities and I hated every single one of them.

In order to solve the problem, I pouted the rest of the afternoon. And then I called and ranted to my mom. And then I bitched to Lucy, who I had called for an entirely different reason.

And then I sucked it up, took a risk and went to the running store. Where I found what I believe is an acceptable alternative.

Then I picked up the last of my cousin Danielle’s gift, a few stocking stuffers for Mom and a package of hair ties.

And by the time I got home the world didn’t seem so bad.

What holiday stress?

I even turned on the Christmas tree.

Jumping to conclusions

2011-12-21T13:15:00.002-05:00

Nothing like a random exchange of text messages to make a girl very suspicious and nervous and weird and worried.

Him: Do you have a friend who lives (where The Coach coaches)?

Me: A friend from college.

Me: Are you just taking a poll?

Him: I don’t know. I’ll call you later.

Me: Ooooooookay.

Him: Hahahaha. No big deal.

Me: Fantastic.

Conclusions immediately jumped to as a result of 34 words exchanged over 2 minutes:
1. OMG SOMEONE TOLD HIM ABOUT MY BLOG*
2. OMG SOMETHING HORRIBLE HAPPENED
3. OMG SOMETHING HORRIBLE HAPPENED AND HE NEEDS HELP AND I AM NOT COMFORTABLE ASKING MY COLLEGE FRIEND TO DO IT BECAUSE, EVEN THOUGH WE PRODUCED SEVERAL AMAZING PROJECTS TOGETHER, WE ARE NOT THAT CLOSE
4. OMG HE WANTS ME TO SET HIM UP ON A DATE FOR SOMETHING
5. OMG IT COULD BE ANYTHING AND HE’S MAKING ME WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIT!

Who has a guess? Is it good? Is it bad? It is nothing?

*I assume/freak out about this regularly, with him and everyone else in my life. Start a conversation with “hey, I wanted to ask you about something” and I immediately mentally jump ahead in the conversation to “I found your blog on the vast interwebs.”

It’s going to happen eventually. (Maybe it already did.) Everything here is true and genuine and me. I might not be advertising it, I’m not embarrassed by it, either.

And it's hard to dance with the devil on your back

2011-12-20T09:26:00.005-05:00

I danced it out.

I was nearly ready for work. I was in the kitchen, making a very, very late breakfast of oatmeal while packing up a lunch to drag along to the office.

Feeling more than a little sick about how fast and unceremoniously things had fallen apart with The Coach, there wasn't a crumb of food in the house that looked appealing.

The television was on; I needed the company of the background noise.

And I needed - although I didn't know it at the time - some Florence + the Machine in my life.

Which is what I got. Florence + the Machine performing "Shake It Out" on The View.

I danced in the kitchen. I shook it out. I danced it out. I brushed away the tears as they dropped on my cheeks.

I ruined my makeup. My sore back screamed at me. The builders working across the street owe me several dollars in tips. But at the end of that song, I could breathe. I had air in my lungs.

I was alive. And I felt alive. Drama with The Coach had buried me, again. The Coach consumes me. When his actions make me feel sad, I become the personification of sad. But I danced out of it. I wrung out my heart.

I danced.

I let it go.

In the evening, I initiated the start of a hard conversation. A conversation that we needed to have. A conversation that is not complete.

He responded appropriately to the beginnings of that long overdue talk. It could get better. It could stay bad.

Whatever happens won't consume me. Not this time. Not anymore.

I'll shake it off. I'll dance it off.

It’s always darkest before the dawn.

Thinking, Deciding

2011-12-18T22:40:00.003-05:00

There are many, many good things that come from maintaining a blog for 7+ years.

The blogging benefit that I practice the most frequently is using my blog as my auxiliary memory. "When did I run that race?" Search the archives. "How long ago did I get in that huge fight with April?" Archives.

But the best thing about having this blog - and having it for so many years - is that I have somehow managed to get a lot of really great, really smart, really sweet, really honest, really genuine, really, really, really awesome people on Team Alyson.

Thank you all for your comments and your good thoughts and your emails and your honest opinions. Thanks for thinking of me. Thanks for caring.

This weekend with The Coach was as bad as it was at the end of last week. I am disoriented and I am frustrated and I am hurt. I have to do something - and that something may be a swift parting of the ways - because I can't keep this up. I cannot continue to feel this way. I'm exhausted. I don't want this hanging over my head at Christmas. I want to enjoy the holiday. I want this to be over. I want it not to hurt. I've made no decisions. I've formulated no plans. I'm tired and sad and maybe a little bit pathetic. I'm undecided on a plan of action and decided that there must be one. I'm sick of crying in my car. I'm done with hanging on to threads.

Something is going to change.

Something is going to change very soon.

Not possible, not realistic

2011-12-16T11:17:00.000-05:00

I am such a jackass.

What fantasy world was I living in when I was dreaming up what it would be like during The Coach’s visit? And why didn’t I get struck down by lightning for entertaining such stupidity? I am dumb.

This is not easy. I thought that it would be easy. I thought that this visit would be nothing but rainbows and unicorns and cotton candy. I was wrong.

I should have realized that upon The Coach’s arrival that I would immediately begin counting down to his departure. I should have known that every hour would feel critical. That every evening would mark the end of another day. That spending as much time as I wanted to spend with The Coach – enough time to make the last four months seem palatable in hindsight – was virtually impossible.

I have a job that I need to go to. He has work that needs to be done while he’s here. He has other commitments. I have other commitments. My house is 40 minutes away from where he’s staying. And we only have three weeks. And I want to spend every second of those three weeks with him. But it isn’t possible. It isn’t realistic.

I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not tagging along to his family outing to see The Christmas Carol. I’m not going to the bar to sit at his side and drink with a bunch of dudes he went to high school with. I am not his girlfriend. And as much as I want to drag him to the Hanukkah party I’m attending next week or to this weekend’s cookie baking extravaganza, that’s not what you do. That isn’t how it works. I’m not going to trick him into a relationship.

And please don’t get me started on New Year's Eve. Which is always a disappointment. But I would like to be disappointed with him. I would like to make out with him at midnight. I would like to include him in my (yet to be determined) plans. I would like him to include me in his (currently unknown) plans. But that’s an awkward dance. Should we? Shouldn’t we? Are we? Aren’t we?

I hate asking. Even if it is only in my head, I hate asking. I hate feeling needy and clingy. I hate reminding myself that not asking is guaranteeing that the answer is no. I hate leaving my comfort zone. I hate stirring up the courage. I hate the vulnerability. I hate knowing that it’s the only way.

Nothing is going to change in three weeks. He will leave and we will have the same blurry status that we had when he left in August. I’m really going to miss you and I’m making no promises. Because distance makes it hard to promise. If I’m being honest, I don’t think he likes me enough to even give it a try. So be it. It’s okay. It sucks, but it is okay. It’s real life.

Asking, Getting

2011-12-14T13:49:00.001-05:00

I am absolutely horrible at asking for what I want.

I am equally bad at going after what I want.

Such glaring personality traits, now that The Coach is home. When my heart is like “OMG, come over come over please please please come over and stay for a while and then come back over tomorrow and I want to bake you many cookies to show my affection” and my head is like “girl, you will sit here quietly until he is ready to see you because you know you’ll hear from him the minute he wants to see you and you will NOT go begging for his attention.”

I do not know how to find the balance between my head and my heart. So my head wins. Because it’s safer that way, you know? Even though I’m pretty sure nobody ever gained all that much by regularly refusing to put themselves out there for fear of pain and rejection. This ship likes the safety of the harbor. It’s comfortable here. And I'm so good at being lame.

Sharing and Sugar Cookies

2011-12-13T22:14:00.006-05:00

Whenever my friends who are fabulous and have moved far, far away from home come back for a visit, I'm always sympathetic to their crazy busy schedules. "Um, maybe we can meet for a super quick coffee after I'm done shopping with my mom and just before I go to my brother's surprise birthday party?"

I get it. You're only home for so long. Everyone wants to see you. I totally get it.

But I sort of forgot to take that into account when I was envisioning The Coach's three weeks at home. And never did I think for a second that he would have work to do, too. He does. He spent today recruiting.

And I spent my day -- oh, what the hell didn't I do? I might not have worked the last two days, but I wasn't just sitting around. Because, as you all know, it is physically impossible for me to sit down.

Today it was yoga. Christmas shopping. Some very serious experimentation with my freshly cut hair. The baking of a stupid huge quantity of sugar cookies for Saturday night's cookie decorating fiesta. (Which - without any further dicussion between us - Liz invited Emma to, saving me from drama/guilt/grief that I really, really didn't feel like dealing with.) In Liz's charming kitchen that has very poor lighting. (Truth: I feel like my mother when I bitch about a dim room.)

On the subject of sugar cookies: I used a recipe from Pinterest instead of using my mom's sugar cookie recipe and I feel SO GUILTY.

Guess who's back, back again

2011-12-12T22:51:00.003-05:00

It was what I expected. It was what I needed.

Except a little bit better than what I expected. And a little more than what I needed.

The Coach is home. For three weeks, he'll be here.

I don't feel like my heart is going to explode.

It isn't like my world has just started to turn again - it was revolving quite nicely when he was gone.

But he's here; I feel content. Quietly happy. Not overjoyed. Not as though a light was just turned on in a dim room. Just happy. Happy he's here. Happy for the next three weeks.

One day at a time.

Frustrating

2011-12-11T23:11:00.003-05:00

Emma is exhausting. I will be the first to admit that. She is loud, she's prone to being mean and harsh, she says the first thing that comes to her head no matter how offensive it is.

It's exhausting.

But I have come to expect it from her. And her mean words and her loud voice don't cut at me like they probably should. "Emma being Emma" is what I repeat to myself, regularly, when we're together. When her mean words catch me.

But Emma is my cousin and more like my sister. She may be in college, but my mother is still raising her. And she has been for quite some time.

Liz wants to have a cookie baking party this weekend. She and Meg came up with the idea. I rolled with it, offering to pre-bake our sugar cookies, inviting Lucy.

"That's the party Emma's going to?" My mom asked me this afternoon. Liz had asked Emma to teach her how to bake some of Aunt Marie's cookies a few weeks ago.

But I knew that Liz wasn't planning on inviting Emma.

And sort of said to my mom that Emma wasn't invited to this cookie party and my mom was wondering why because obviously Liz wanted to know how to bake those cookies (otherwise she wouldn't have asked) and I just played so dumb.

When I get home, I mention the whole thing to Liz and she's like "um, no" about Emma coming over. And then she's like "well, she can come but I have no problem telling her to leave my house if she gets drunk and obnoxious." Translation: I don't want her to come.

And Liz knows what Emma has been through. And, fuck, I thought she realized that Emma was essentially my sister and there are times when my mom calls and says "Emma's here" and I go over there. Because that's what I need to do. I need to be there for Emma.

And I'm sorry if she's annoying and I'm sorry if she's exhausting but she is sort of part of the package. She comes along with me and Meg. Even if sometimes we don't want her to.

It's not a big deal. It shouldn't be a big deal. But my feelings are hurt because I know that Emma's feelings would be hurt. And I don't want to turn this into an argument with Liz and, oh, it's just petty nonsense.

But somehow it cut me pretty deep.

I guess it's just because I know that, in this situation, I cannot win.

What is going on here?

2011-12-09T14:20:00.004-05:00

Weird week.

Quiet week. Busy week. Not an absurdly bad week. Not a remarkably outstanding week. Just a week.

The last quiet one before the holidays, I suspect.

I had hockey games on Tuesday and Thursday night, which decimated the only two evenings that I didn't spend at work. The two mornings I didn't work, Monday and Wednesday, were spent running seven miles and going to the dentist.

I was up until 2:30 am last night, giggling with Liz and her friend Denise. It was casual, unassuming girl time. That's what I'm going to like about living in that house. Stupidity, sweatpants and a cup of hot tea.

I'm not working today (hurray!) and so I took a new yoga class (100% chance that I'm 100% sore tomorrow) and ordered some gifts online (finally) and I'm getting my hair cut in a few hours. In the meantime, I'm scanning pictures like a fool for the photo book I'm putting together for my grandma's Christmas present.

I found this picture of me and Meg and I fell in love with it.

Because it seems to me that the photo was snapped just as I came up with a really, really great idea of something that I could talk Meg into doing. "Meg! Take off your diaper and streak naked through the house!"

I've been doing that our whole lives. Treating Meg as my personal clown. I think of the funny things for her to do, then I talk her into doing them.

I bitch about having to do all of the work for these photo books that we put together for Grandma - scanning, layout, sending email after email to my cousins begging that they email me one bloody picture - but it's actually great fun. I get such a huge kick out of the pictures: we're all so little and cute and we can drive cars and get married but nothing has changed all that much. Meg is still the clown. I am still pensive. Emma is still loud. Anna is still worrisome. Mara is still careful. Evan is still the token boy.

And I'm still the sucker who puts together a whole photo book for Grandma, wraps it and signs the card from all of us.

Like I said: not a remarkable week. Quiet. Weird in its quietness.

I don't have quiet weeks like this.

That's usually why I have something to blog about.

This week: you get nonsense. Nonsense and a picture of me at age 5.

Living with Liz

2011-12-07T22:19:00.000-05:00

We’re just a couple of weeks in, but living with Liz has been joyfully easy. Mostly because we’re rarely at home at the same time.

She works over an hour away – so she’s out of the house by the time that I’m up every morning. (Or she’s supposed to be, anyway. No matter how late she’s running, she’s gone by the time I’m out of the shower.) And because Liz works over an hour away, and oftentimes puts in long hours at the office, on the evenings that I am home, she typically doesn’t arrive until after dinnertime.

On the days that I leave work at a normal hour, I go home and take the dog out and fix myself supper. I change and go to the gym or go about whatever it is that I need to go about (last night it was making playlists in iTunes before leaving for an annoyingly late hockey game).

On days that I work late, by the time I get home she’s usually lounging around with the dog and sometimes her sister and sometimes a friend. I plop down on the couch next to her (and the dog and maybe a guest) for a few minutes of Real Housewives of Wherever while I eat dinner. Having not been bit by the Real Housewives bug, I usually abandon the show for a book/my laptop/my phone/a shower shortly after I’m finished with dinner.

Last night – when I left work at 5:00 and had a hockey game at 9:00 – I saw Liz for 20 minutes.

Tonight – when I’ll get home around 9:30 – I’ll see Liz for an hour or so.

In terms of living with someone who isn't your life partner, it's sort of the ideal situation. Not too much time together. Assures the dog gets let out on a regular basis. Both of our cars fit in the garage.

And I'm living in a brand new house and not paying the mortgage.

Haunted

2011-12-06T11:08:00.002-05:00

Other than posting a list of what I’ve read at the end of a year, I don’t normally use my blog to share what I’m reading.

But since starting The New York Times series Punched Out: The Life and Death of a Hockey Enforcer on Sunday morning, I have been haunted by it. I have had nightmares. I have to share it because I haven’t been able to shake it.

John Branch of The New York Times examined the life and the death of Derek Boogaard – an NHL player who made a name for himself as one of hockey’s greatest fighters. He died this spring, at the age of 28, of an overdose.

The story is tragic and the reporting is phenomenal. So much of it hits close to home for me – the concussions, the sport that is such a part of my life and the lives of so many I love.

If you have time, read it. Or watch the corresponding videos. You don’t have to be a sports fan to appreciate the series. Just a human.

Derek Boogaard: A Boy Learns to Brawl
By John Branch | The New York Times | December 3, 2011

Derek Boogaard: Blood on the Ice
By John Branch | The New York Times | December 4, 2011

Derek Boogaard: A Brain ‘Going Bad’
By John Branch | The New York Times | December 5, 2011

A lot like Christmas

2011-12-06T09:25:00.003-05:00

If I absolutely have to work today.

(And I absolutely have to work today.)

(But not next Monday or Tuesday! Wheeee!)

I suppose I can handle working from a desk with has a view like this.

As long as I don't have to deal with any crazies.

I'm in the mood for Christmas. Not for crazies.

Reminder: caring is not permitted

2011-12-04T16:05:00.002-05:00

The Coach will be home soon; I am busy reminding myself not to care.

He’ll be here for three weeks and it will fuck with my head. I will do best if I maintain low expectations.

If I find myself craving more than he can give, I end up like I was a few weeks ago. Furious. Devastated. Disappointed.

I’m not going to do that again.

And because I would rather have him in my life than not, it will be this way for now. With the awareness that this will not always be enough. But is incapable of developing into more. This is the final product. What you see is what you get.

Haven’t I always said that this has an expiration date?

It’s been a few months. And a few thousand miles.

Nothing has changed.

(Even though I convinced myself differently for a while.)

I shouldn’t write about work, yet I do

2011-12-02T15:49:00.000-05:00

I left work yesterday and nearly hit a homeless man who was riding his bike – swerving from the shoulder into the lane of traffic – alongside the road.
"What the hell, Bart?!" I shook my fist at the bicyclist. "Be careful!"
And, in that moment, I knew that I had become a true ‘brarian. I knew the name of the homeless man who I had nearly hit with my car.

...

My coworkers and I are all assigned different subject areas that are our responsibility. The subject areas are switched up once per year and this week we received our new assignments. Previously, I purchased computer/technology, religion, health, literary criticism, history, travel, fiction and classical CDs. Now I’m buying philosophy, language, cookbooks, sports, mysteries and the popular CDs. Yes, I will now spend my days selecting Taylor Swift’s newest release and the latest and greatest Mario Batali titles to be added to the ‘brary’s collection. It sounds cooler than it is.

...

I hate myself for wondering if I want to do this for the rest of my life. The environment that I am in, the coworkers that I have, my supervisor, my responsibilities, my expectations: it is all absolutely fine. I just, oh, I guess it’s just like everything in my life. I’m unsure.

December!

2011-12-01T12:01:00.001-05:00

Oh, December. How I have missed you.

Or, more accurately, how I have missed it being any month but the sucktastic month that was November.

I was very ready to turn the page on my calendar this morning. Itching to turn the page on my calendar. Relieved to finally turn that page. To put November behind me and start fresh.

This month is going to be better.

This month is going to be so much better.

This month will be busy. Just how I like it. Busy with soccer games (3) and hockey games (3). With work parties. With a yet-to-be-determined New Years Eve and shopping trips to find the perfect outfit to wear to my yet-to-be-determined New Years Eve. With spending time with my Lucy, who will be in her last full month of pregnancy and taking it easy per her doctor’s orders. With my incessant bitching about my lack of skill in present buying. Followed shortly thereafter by incessant bitching about my lack of skill in present wrapping.

This month will be busy with cookies. Many cookies. The baking of cookies. The decorating of cookies. The hosting of parties in which we bake and decorate cookies. The consumption of cookies for breakfast.

The Coach will be home for half of this month.

The first half of this month will be busy with refusing to let myself get too excited about the second half of this month. (Which is when The Coach will be home, obviously.) (Low expectations!)

I am going to teach myself how to make a mean hot toddy this month. Or some other drink that will make me warm and also drunk.

This month is going to be great.

This month is going to be spectacular.

This month will be a warm-up for 2012, which will be even more great and even more spectacular.

This month is only the beginning.

This again

2011-11-30T19:45:00.003-05:00

Lucy has been ordered by her doctor to take it easy. Not-on-bed-rest-but-almost-so-watch-yourself easy and I have been a bad, bad friend have haven’t been over to the house to sit on her couch and keep her company.

In my defense, I have been somewhat occupied with relocating and celebrating Thanksgiving. And she totally understands. (But I still feel AWFUL.) (We have plans for Saturday evening.)

I called to check up on my Lucy last night on my way to the gym. I gave her the quick rundown on anything that is everything: work, The Coach, my opinion on the weather and my holiday plans. And then I slipped in something about one of Colin’s friends – who we both thought was the biggest tool in the world – recently getting engaged. I was about to drop the “how can he find someone to marry if I can’t?” line when she butted in with “so, speaking of engagements.”

Colleen.

I saw Colleen at Lucy’s baby shower. I was busy but I was pleasant to her. I thought that she’d email me after the shower, saying something about how it was nice and how it was good to see me, but she didn’t and, oh, I don’t know why I ever expect that she’s going to act any way other than selfishly.

I just can’t quite give up on her. And I just set myself up for disappointment. Over and over and over.

So, Colleen calls Lucy and brings up her wedding*and how she just “can’t imagine” a wedding without me standing up in it.

Which is particularly interesting to me because:
a. she hasn’t called to ask me to be in the wedding
b. we’re not really friends anymore and we haven’t been for quite a long time
c. I’m not even sure they’re actually engaged**

Lucy said that she wanted to warn me that a phone call from Colleen was coming. But I think she was trying to soften me up a little bit, too. I heaved a heavy sigh as she wrapped up the story and Lucy said “Colleen does care about you.” And I know that. I know that her mental illness limits the ways in which she can be a friend, especially a friend in the way that I am a friend (and expect the same high standard of friendship in return).

I will be in that wedding if Colleen wants me to be in that wedding.

I will be in that wedding for the friend Colleen was three years ago. Not for the Colleen of today. I will be in that wedding for Lucy, because I will always stand by her side even if it requires me to wear a bridesmaid dress. I will be in that damn wedding because I believe that mental illness is a horrible thing and I know that part of the reason Colleen cannot be my friend is because of the mental illness. I will be in that wedding even though I believe that her mental illness is a small fraction of the reason Colleen has been a shitty friend.

I will be in that damn wedding if Colleen asks me to be in it.

But, to be perfectly honest: I doubt that she’ll have the balls to pick up the phone.

*supposedly they’ve set a date for sometime next June

**there was definitely no real proposal or no real ring – not to say that it doesn’t mean that they’re not planning on getting married, but sometimes she’s a little delusional and has a hard time distinguishing between what is happening in real life and what is happening in her head***

***for example, after Lucy’s baby shower, she was convinced that she was pregnant (she also imagined the symptoms of pregnancy immediately after Lucy herself got pregnant)

Freak Me Out 102

2011-11-29T14:41:00.002-05:00

Passed Freak Me Out 101? Sign up for Freak Me Out 102!

Ask me if I am bipolar.

As if it is:
a. your business
b. not a deeply personal question
c. appropriate to ask a virtual stranger
d. the reason that I refuse to interact with you

Creepy old men. Seriously. "That fine young thing isn't interested in me so clearly she has a MENTAL ILLNESS."

Knowing where I'm going

2011-11-29T12:19:00.001-05:00

I find adulthood to be overwhelming. I find it frustrating and confusing.

I am not good at being an adult.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway. That being an adult has not been easy for me and therefore will not be easy for me. Ever.

I tell myself that it will always be like this. That this is just how it is. That my whole life will be this whirlwind of decisions to make and mistakes to fix and tears to cry.

That any belief that the pieces will eventually fall into place – that there will be a time where I feel content and settled – is foolish. That I will always struggle. That I’ll always look at the lives of others – Lucy, who is so effortlessly happy, Liz, who knows what she wants and wrestles it into her clutches, Meg, who dreams big and achieves bigger – with a touch of envy.

I expect that I will always feel as unsettled as I do now. That I’ll always have this uncertainty – in my relationships, in my career, in my finances, in my future, in myself.

It’s a little sad, isn’t it? Pathetic, perhaps. Honest, however. At least I’m being honest.

And while I am being honest, I will admit this: I want to prove myself wrong.

I want to look around one day and observe a life that, while being far from perfect, feels like my own. Not like another transition. Not like a fight that I must win. Not a stage that must be tolerated.

I want to stop looking at the map long enough to pick up my head and appreciate the view.

I want to be content, not flawless.

I want to prove myself wrong.

I want to know where to start.

I try hard (and other randomness)

2011-11-27T22:03:00.005-05:00

I've been at Liz's house for a week now. All is well.

It was a hellacious time to be moving. I was overwhelmed by the move itself, coupled with the oh-so-slightly (read: enormously) overblown incident with The Coach, the holiday, coming right off of hosting Lucy's shower -- I'm still a little surprised that I only battled back constant tears and never had a full, hideous, sobbing meltdown.

It was just a constant Suckfest for a few days there, but I got through it. And now I'm past all of the unpleasantries of moving.

Mostly.

Okay, there are still a few boxes in my car.

Okay, it's not even my car, it's my mom's car. My car is still at the body shop from the accident I got in earlier this month.

(November's been a doozy, right?)

Quickest and Most Pointless Recap Ever:

Saturday - move

Sunday - work and soccer

Monday - work (late)

Tuesday - work and run 6 miles and socialize with Liz's family

Wednesday - work and Pie Night

Thursday - run 10k and Thanksgiving

Friday - eat my weight in leftovers, run 6 miles at the gym, meet Aviva for coffee, have dinner with Anna and Emma and Meg, go dancing with Anna and Emma and Meg

Saturday - work, arrive at home just in time to help Liz put the finishing touches on the cocktail party that she was hosting, socialize at cocktail party, help clean up after cocktail party ends at 2:30 am

Today - get up too early (8:00 am), finish the book I was reading, miss noon yoga class because one of Liz's friends has me blocked in the driveway and doesn't get over to move her car until too late, hang out with Meg and Mom, make a Trader Joe's trip, eat soup and watch a bit of TV with Liz

I'm looking for a quiet few weeks before getting completely entangled in the holidays. I just want to establish my routine here - get my feet under me - before I start spending every night I'm not at work pacing the mall in search of The Best Gift Ever.

Which will obviously happen because I have no idea what I'm buying or who I'm buying for or how I am going to pay for any of it.

And because I'm the worst shopper ever.

I have not stepped inside the mall, Target or any other fine retail establishment since well before Thanksgiving. I have exactly one Christmas gift purchased - something for my mother - which I did buy on Black Friday. From an Etsy seller. While wearing my pajamas.

So, the Christmas plan is to mostly not have a Christmas plan because I'd rather have a Real Life plan for a few weeks.

And then we're halfway through December and The Coach will be home for the holidays, I won't budget enough time for the shipping of online-purchased gifts, I'll get some great idea for a cookie exchange or other time-intensive holiday event that I won't be able to resist, I will wrestle with the idea of buying Christmas gifts for my coworkers, I'll have to stay up all night putting together the photo book and calendar that the grandkids like to get Grandma but I always do all of the work for, Liz will host a Christmas party, I'll fight the desire to bake 88 types of Christmas cookies, I won't know what to buy for my dad (I never do) and I will bitch and moan and whine about how bad I am at the holiday season.

And that is the damn truth.

I am bad at Christmas.

But I try hard.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-25T09:35:00.005-05:00

Pie Night was a rousing success.

I might have even worn a tutu during a portion of the night. And teetered on the edge of the tub to get a photo of it.

I'm pretty sure I set a new 10k personal record, too.

Plus my cousin, Mara, texted me this photo of her little turkey.

It was a pretty good day.

And I hope that yours was, too.

Puttin' on my pie pants

2011-11-23T09:47:00.000-05:00

Today is my favorite day.

Of the whole year, it is my favorite day.

Today is a day for tonight. Today is the day that I spend counting down to tonight.

Tonight is for yoga pants and coffee with Amarula. For 10 hour pop music playlists. For the Flip cam and the DSLR. Tonight is the night we make inside jokes and write on the Facebook walls of our accomplices (while they’re sitting in the same room). Tonight we cover every inch of my mother’s kitchen in flour.

Tonight is pie night.

Tonight is my favorite night of the year.

If you’ve been reading So Midwestern for a while, you know all about Pie Night. If you haven’t, let me sum up what the night before Thanksgiving is all about: pies. My mom, my sister, me and all of my female cousins. We bake pies. An unnecessarily large number of them, as Mom insists that we bake a pie for every two people who will be at Thanksgiving dinner.

Also because – I suspect – she doesn’t want the night to pass by too quickly.

Pie Night is a special night. It makes absolutely no sense – cramming 10 females into a single kitchen, singing Britney Spears and drinking wine while somehow managing to follow the recipes, trashing my mom’s kitchen before she hosts Thanksgiving dinner. It is a tradition that is nonsensical, but it is lasting. We had Pie Night four days after Aunt Marie’s funeral. We had Pie Night when Danielle’s bipolar disorder was crazy scary rampant. We have Pie Night because that’s what we do.

We’re wild and we’re silly and we’re casual. It’s tradition that doesn’t require planning other than much anticipation (there is significant Facebook fodder preceding this event) and a trip to the grocery store. There is no hanging of decorations or special protocol or mandatory attendance. It’s just...well, it’s Pie Night. The best night of the year.

Confession

2011-11-21T16:20:00.001-05:00

Guess what I did last night? Last night, which was my very first night as a tenant at Liz’s lovely house in her lovely, well-manicured neighborhood? I hit a parked car.

NO, I REALLY DID.

November sure has been kind to me.

I dropped by the house after work to pick up my soccer bag. I chatted with Liz and her friend, who were smoking on the front porch (sick) and then I hopped into my car – which is really my mom’s car, as mine is still at the body shop – backed out of the driveway and CRUNCH.

And that is how I killed a stranger’s tail light.

I wanted to throw a temper tantrum right there. That’s what I wanted to do. Instead, I marched over to the neighbor’s house (hey! I’m new to the neighborhood and I just broke your guest’s car!) and confessed to my idiocy and got on with it because if I was going to be a loser (and clearly I was), I could at least make it to my soccer game on time. (I did.)

Liz and her friend were really sweet about it and tried to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, which was kind and appreciated but not true. Obviously I hit the parked car with my car so, yeah. The blame falls to me.

Sure, there were factors working against me. It was one of those tiny pickup trucks that’s low to the ground and I couldn’t see the bed of it when I was backing up. Liz’s streets are unusually narrow and that was the first time I’d ever parked in the driveway. I’m used to my car, with the fancy beeping that alerts me when I’m about to plow into something. And the jackass did park his car in perfect alignment with the back of the driveway.

Still my fault.

Still the stupidest person alive.

20 days ago, I would have told you that I was a very good driver.

Time to reassess that belief.

Time to get my head out of my ass.

Time to figure out what the universe trying to tell me.

...other than to be a better driver.

But, seriously. It hasn’t even been three weeks from my accident. I don’t even have my car back from my accident. Can I do anything right?

Um, so, yeah

2011-11-20T22:35:00.003-05:00

I might have been slightly psychotic yesterday. Maybe jumping to a few conclusions that were somewhat cleared up with a bit of investigation (read: F'book stalking) and the enlightenment of rational thinking.

But I'm still going to lay low for a few days and give us a little bit of distance and see how this feels because, yes, the reason that I freaked out was not foolproof but the feeling is still there. It is this heavy, uneasy feeling that I can't shake and The Coach is basically doing nothing. Nothing to cause the problem. And nothing to make it go away.

He's home for three weeks in three weeks. I would hate to give up those three weeks with him just because I'm feeling insecure and unsteady. And, at the same time, I would hate to spend three weeks getting reattached to him if, when he goes, we end up where we are right now.

Where we were in September? Great. Where we were a month ago? Fine. But where we are today? It isn't good. It isn't sustainable.

Maybe I want more than I can expect for him to give.

Maybe he can give once I learn how to ask.

I don't want to give up on him - we're more than halfway through his season. I don't want to prolong the misery of expunging him from my life if that is how this ends.

Normally, I would proclaim that he's worth the risk. But after this weekend, I'm just not sure. I'm not sure about anything.

Over & Done

2011-11-19T08:23:00.001-05:00

Those godforsaken bobby pins are still on my nightstand.

The movers will be here in a few hours.

I'm not quite sure what to do with them.

Into my pocket, maybe. For safekeeping.

I think I'll need them. A reminder of my optimism and my hope.

Both of which The Coach shattered last night.

We're over. I haven't told him yet. But we're over.

Seven years

2011-11-18T13:12:00.001-05:00

This week marks seven years of blogging here at So Midwestern. I truly cannot believe that blogging has not yet run its course (although, admittedly, it is not the same) and that I am still here, typing away about every random-ass thing that happens to me, happens to interest me or happens to cross my mind.

Perhaps this blog is just a testament to how shallow I truly am. Seven years and still not bored by my favorite subject: myself.

One of the many aspects that I truly appreciate about putting seven years into this blog is that I have this neat little record of how I have changed.

Without my blog as a reference point, I would probably tell you that I haven’t changed much since graduating college. I haven’t experienced radical, significant, benchmark moments: becoming a homeowner, having a baby, moving to a different state, marriage, etc.

Except that I have. While I don’t have a diamond on my left ring finger and I’m not toting an infant around in balmy California weather, while my hair is still curly and strawberry blonde and I still wear my XO ring every day – I’m different in a lot of ways. A lot of good ways.

One of the best ways that I have changed, I was realizing just last night, is that I have learned to stand up for myself.

By nature, I am not an assertive person. I don’t like confrontation. I internalize. I smooth things over.

But sometime over the last seven years, I learned to stand up for myself. I learned to tell coworkers when they’ve stepped over the line in a way that is tactful, professional and assertive. I found it in myself to bitch out a cab driver in Africa. I learned to tell boys when their behavior is unacceptable. I mouthed off to a soccer referee so venomously that I was yellow carded. I maintained a voice – albeit often shaky and tearful – through last fall’s family drama.

And instead of always smoothing over problems – as is my first inclination to do – sometimes I’ll stir the pot if the pot needs stirring.

See: yesterday’s bitchy email from one of my hockey teammates.

(Basically, the situation was that our scorekeeper had fallen through – as had already happened a few times this season – and nobody was having any luck in finding a replacement. Not a big deal.)

I read it just after leaving an annoying staff meeting and my first reaction was to ignore her outburst, delete the email and talk shit about her to the rest of my teammates at the game that night.

But then I was like OH, HELL NO. YOU DO NOT TALK TO ME AND MY TEAMMATES THAT WAY. And I started furiously typing a response. Which I deleted. And proceeded to send a text to my closest friend on the team, begging her to talk me down from responding.

And then I responded anyway.

I have no tolerance for people who do not address others with respect. And I am so over keeping my mouth shut just to make the situation go away.

Seven years ago, I would not have sent that email.

Yesterday I did.

Change is good.

Moving week

2011-11-16T18:27:00.001-05:00

I’m ready to be done with this move.

That’s all this week has been. Emotions and packing.

The packing is, well, it’s packing. It’s packing and packing and packing and packing and – I swear, you guys, my kitchen is teeny tiny and I cannot explain the boxes upon boxes that have come from that space. And my cupboards? Not even bare yet.

I dropped things off at Liz’s house yesterday and took a good look at the closet in my room. The closet is going to be a problem: it is half the size of my current closet.

Panic.

Panic and the investment in some logical system for storing my clothes by season.

Panic and the investment in some logical system for storing my clothes by season and also an ingenious way to house all of my handbags.

But I do still think that this will be a good move for me. When I was at the house last night, Liz’s mom stopped in – just because – and one of Liz’s friends stopped by – again, just because – with her adorable daughter and, gosh, I forgot what being social on a random weeknight for no apparent reason felt like.

It felt really, really awesome.

And it felt like the first randomly social night of many. Liz’s house is perfect for sitting on the porch and laughing and drinking a glass of wine. Perfect for crowding around the kitchen table, gossiping and drinking coffee.

I’m thankful for the unexpected visitors at Liz’s house because it calmed me down. I am just filled with emotions this week and the feeling of calm? Not exactly prevalent.

My head and my heart are full of feelings and strangely devoid of words. I’ve backed myself into a corner that I can’t write my way out of and it is overwhelming. So many tears. I don’t even know what I’m crying about anymore.

What I’m not crying about is this move. This move which will be fine. Which will be more than fine. It will be good for me and good for my heart and good for my spirit and good for the mileage on my car. And maybe even good for my handbags, too. If I can find a place for them.

Success!

2011-11-14T09:31:00.002-05:00

Lucy's baby shower is in the books.

I thought it was nice. Lucy thought it was nice. And I don't care what anyone else thought about it. (But they thought it was nice, too.)

We made two different types of fondue. We had a salad. Cream puffs with ice cream and hot fudge for dessert.

Check out those fabulous fondue pots from the '70s! Let me tell you this, friends: wrangling up 8 fondue pots is not an easy task. Between me and my mom and Lucy and my aunts and my grandma, we managed to pull it off.

Lucy was awkward about presents, as expected. When all of the older ladies crowded around the presents, waiting for them to be opened, I had to announce that she wasn't opening anything because she's socially awkward. But I invited everyone to show off their gift to the group if they did so please and some did and some didn't and that seemed to work out just fine.

As we were boxing up decorations, I wondered aloud whose shower the decor would next make an appearance at.

"Hard to say," my mom replied.

She was probably secretly wishing that it would be mine.

I sort of was, too.

And the countdown begins

2011-11-12T17:38:00.003-05:00

When I came in to work this morning, my December schedule was waiting for me.

My schedule is pretty consistent – Monday through Thursday (two day shifts/two afternoons) – plus two Fridays, two Saturdays and one Sunday per month. When I get my schedule, what I’m really looking at are the weekends that I’m working and how it much it is going to cramp my social life. (Answer: a lot. Every damn month. Working on weekends sucks. End of story.)

I’ve been anxiously awaiting the December schedule.

The Coach will be home for three weeks of December – he’ll be back in less than a month! – and clearly I am interested in working as little as possible when he is home.

Success.

Of the 20some days that he’s home, I’m scheduled to work just 10. I’m only taking two vacation days. The rest is just, like, magic and luck and the beauty of working in local government and OMG what if we get in a huge fight before he arrives and we’re just unceremoniously over and done with and I’m getting excited about nothing?

Also: how many articles of clothing am I allowed to purchase prior to his arrival before I am officially labeled as ridiculous and shallow?

A broken heart

2011-11-10T16:34:00.005-05:00

I spent this afternoon at Grandma's house. We made the cream puffs for Lucy's baby shower.

She has a calendar hanging in her kitchen. I always look at it. Mostly because it generally features at least one picture of me.

This is November.

The 16th is the day my aunt died.

I cried on my drive home.

Nothing that felt like something (for a little while)

2011-11-09T19:05:00.002-05:00

The Coach woke up with a headache on Sunday morning. A headache that lasted the whole day.

I woke up with a headache on Sunday morning. A headache that lasted the whole day.

And that’s how we got on the topic of my epic concussion.

The concussion that I finally told you all about last month. Which I thought I hadn’t told you about because I just forgot but, after Sunday, I realized that the reason that it took me so long to blog about it was because I’m sort of weird about the whole incident.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m sort of weird in general.

The story spilled out of my mouth before I had a chance to think it through. All of a sudden, I’m telling him about the days of school that I missed and what it was like to feel endlessly hung over before I even knew what a hangover felt like. As I’m telling The Coach the story, my brain started screaming at me “WHY DOES HE NEED TO KNOW THIS?!”

And the conversation was no big deal. He was the appropriate amount of concerned and interested and engaged in what I was telling him. It was no different than most conversations that we have – be it me bitching about work or him recounting the details of his team’s last game or me gushing on and on and on about how wonderful it will be when he’s home for Christmas. (Which, by the way, is a mere month away.)

It was no different until the minute that we ended the conversation and my screaming brain continued to scream.

About how vulnerable I had just made myself.

About how The Coach would now think of me as nothing more than The Sick Kid.

About what a huge mistake it was to reveal that piece of my past to him, to illustrate so clearly how imperfect I am.

I felt weird about it for the rest of the night. I felt weird about it all day on Monday. I felt weird about it until I talked to him that night. And it was just like it always is. Except maybe a little more awesome because it was exactly like it always is. And therefore exactly how it should be.

Like one silly accident – a silly accident that happened more than 10 years ago – could possibly matter. And matter to a guy, at that.

Oh, the things that go on in my head.

Party time

2011-11-08T09:42:00.002-05:00

I might be having weird feelings about babies.

But I am not having weird feelings about baby showers.

Current project: the obsessive downloading of songs with baby in the title.

On tap for the rest of the week:

the making of cream puffs with Grandma
grating cheese until my arms fall off
93 trips to the grocery store
buying all of the baby goodies for our one and only game – a fun little number I like to call Guess How Much All of the Baby Shit in This Basket Costs
wrapping up favors
appeasing my mother’s every wish because the shower is at her house and she is the boss
creating clever signage so that I don’t have to tell 25 people where to put their gifts
and, most importantly: choosing a dress to wear so that I am the cutest hostess of all hostesses in the whole world.

I have Thursday and Friday off of work. Thank you, Veteran’s Day, for falling on such a convenient day. (And thank you, veterans, for serving our great country.)

I work on Saturday.

And Sunday is go time.

Hot damn, I do love me a party.

My jealousy is ugly

2011-11-07T18:54:00.001-05:00

My cousin Mara had her baby on Saturday. A little girl she named Claire, who has a head of dark, dark hair. I am excited to meet her.

You know who else is excited to meet her? My mom. My mom who danced – literally broke out into a bloody jig, I am not even exaggerating a little bit – when she heard the news.

And who cooed and petted the monitor when the first picture was emailed.

My mother has never been one to pressure me to get married or to have babies but, holy shit, that dance routine that she broke out in certainly felt like subliminal pressure. Not unlike when she coolly congratulated me on every college acceptance until my UM letter came in the mail – just before Thanksgiving (I was the first of my friends to hear back from my beloved UMich) – it was dinner and hugs and beaming, beaming pride. Mom never said it but it was pretty clear where she wanted me to go to college. Just like I am pretty sure I know what she would like: grandbabies.

News of Baby Claire’s arrival came on Saturday morning and by noon I was in a horrible, horrible mood. Cancelling prior plans to go out with Meg and my cousin Liz that night. Disinterest in the UM football game. (Watching would have only broken my heart even more.) Halfhearted trips to the mall and to the craft store. To buy supplies. For Lucy’s baby shower. Which is next Sunday.

How about everybody have a baby at the same time so that I can just jump into this pool of Life Failure rather than settling for dipping in my toes and testing the waters?

It’s nothing against anyone. Really, it isn’t. If it is time to have a baby: have a baby. I will be overjoyed for you. If not a little (okay, a lot) jealous. This just feels like my many, many turns as a bridesmaid all over again. Except that my ovaries are involved. Fucking ovaries. Ridiculously fucking sensitive ovaries.

I’ve always felt like I am so far behind my peers. It’s been like this since I was a kid – always the youngest in my class because of my late birthday, I was always waiting and watching as my friends achieved milestones long before I did. From learning my multiplication tables to growing out of kid-sized clothes to having that first legitimate boyfriend to the husband and the house and the babies. It always happens, eventually – and I guess I would like to believe that pattern will continue and I won’t be an old maid librarian and the weird single aunt to Meg’s kids – but I’m always the last.

I dislike last.

I dislike this envy.

I dislike myself for keeping score. For wanting to catch up. For treating life like it is a board game where the right roll of the dice or the right card at the top of the deck will turn things around. For seeing what I don’t have more clearly than I see what I do.

I'm a touch sensitive

2011-11-04T07:15:00.001-04:00

I wasn’t in a great place on Wednesday night.

And then I got an innocuous email from Colleen.

Hey!

Just wanted to rsvp for my mom and me.

Hope all is well!

And it totally set me off.

Yes, I was already a wreck. Yes, she meant absolutely nothing by the email. Yes, I’m being overly sensitive.

But I don’t care. It pissed me off and I’m going to be pissed off about it.*

Hope all is well? Bite me, Colleen. Darren is dead and if you were the friend who you used to be – the friend who hung out with me and Darren on many, many occasions – I would have called to tell you. Because that’s what you do with your closest friends: call them when you’re upset and when you’re scared and when you’re not quite sure how to feel. And I would have told you about my car accident. And my impending move. And about how hard it was when The Coach left. And all of the quirky things that my hyper new boss does.

All is not well, Colleen. And I wish that we were still friends so that I could tell you about it.

And thanks for asking if I needed any help with the shower, too. I really appreciate it.

*But I’m only allowed to be pissed off about it for the next week. Because the shower is a week from Sunday and I am just going to have to drop the grudge, put a smile on my face and get over myself. Awkward is most definitely not invited to the baby shower.

A daze and a crash

2011-11-03T09:18:00.002-04:00

I felt rubbed raw.

I dragged myself out of bed and packed up a few things. I drank a cup of tea and turned down the television and I blogged about Darren. And the best way that I can describe how I felt yesterday morning is by saying that I felt like I had been rubbed raw.

I was slow getting ready for work. I had errands to run before going to the office. And I kept trying and trying and trying to get out of the house and I just couldn't make myself move fast enough. Everything took twice as long as I expected.

I made mango sticky rice. Without even thinking about it, that's what I made. The same food that I ate for days and days after The Coach left. Comfort.

I ate it while I drove. I nursed a second cup of tea. My head was all over the place. I had a few bags of donations to drop off at the Salvation Army. And then I wanted to buy new ballet flats. I am forever in need of a new pair of ballet flats.

I turned left out of the Salvation Army parking lot, even though, unknowingly, I could turn right to get on the expressway, too.

I turned left and then I got into the left turn lane at the next intersection. There was a big semi-truck that got into the turn lane ahead of me. And I was in a daze. And I must have assumed that, if that big truck was going, that the left turn light had turned green.

But it had not. And I pulled out in front of a car. And got hit. And it was my fault.

I got a ticket. I got bailed out of my mess by my father, yet again. He works in the automotive industry (this is Detroit, after all) and he arranged for a tow truck and picked me up at the scene of the accident.

If I had to get into an accident. If my car had to be undriveable. I guess this was as good as it was going to get. He was on his way to the airport - off to a car show - and we continued on to the airport, where I dropped him off and took his car.

"You know, I'm really impressed," my father remarked one of the half-dozen times I talked to him on the phone in the 30 minutes between the accident and when he arrived. "Your mother or your sister would have called me crying."

I didn't cry. I wanted to cry. But I wanted to cry long, long before the crash. I had wanted to cry since getting out of bed that morning. Since learning about Darren the night before.

I arrived at work only 45 minutes late. Still in a daze. About Darren. About my accident. About the bruise on my knee and how much money this mistake would cost me and, ultimately, how fortunate I was that it was not worse.

Darren

2011-11-02T09:00:00.000-04:00

My work friend, Darren.

If you've been reading for a couple of years, you probably remember him.

We hung out a lot for a year or so. I had a crush on him. And then I didn't. But we were always friends.

And he got fired. Right around the same time that Ashley and The Coach left their jobs in the same office. But we stayed in touch. For a while. And he moved to another state and our conversations became less and less and less frequent.

I thought about calling him on his birthday this year - it was his 30th - and I didn't.

Ashley called yesterday to give me exceptionally horrible news.

Darren committed suicide.

And I find myself in one of those places when I detest the limitations of the written word because there isn't a word or a phrase in my vocabulary that I can say to sum up how absolutely awful and sad and heartbroken that I feel.

I hate mental illness. I hate what it did to Darren. I hate that Darren's family has lost a son. I hate that I didn't work harder to maintain our friendship. I hate that I never told Darren that I thought that - troubles or not - he was a good person and a good friend. I hate that I didn't pick up the damn phone on his birthday.

I hate that this is real and that I have to write an acknowledgement that it happened.

I hate it.

And somehow it is November

2011-11-01T11:50:00.002-04:00

November already.

Alarming, isn’t it? Although, flipping the page on my calendar today gave me a bit of a rush. I only do that once more until The Coach is home for a few weeks.

I am putting too much stock into his visit and I know it.

***

I remembered to say - and Tweet - rabbit, rabbit this morning. November is now guaranteed to be a good month. So I've got that going for me.

***

My cousin Anna was in town this weekend. I love when she is around. She – just like her sister, Emma – fits in with my nuclear family seamlessly. She feels like more like my sister than she feels like my cousin.

She was crying on Friday night. Breaking my heart. Her father is talking marriage and selling the house that he and Aunt Marie owned. He is moving on – quickly, it feels, though Aunt Marie has been dead for nearly two years – and Anna struggles with his pace. And my mom struggles with his pace. And my mom struggles with how Anna and Emma and her mother are struggling. And then I struggle, too. Because it is hard to watch. And because I miss Aunt Marie, too.

I am so thankful that my sweet cousins have my mother. I am so thankful that I have my mother.

***

I am so thankful that I have Lucy, too. Lucy who I can always count on to answer the phone at just the right time. Lucy who always asks the right questions. Lucy who knows all the background to all of the stories. I called her on my way home from work last night and we talked at a furious pace for my entire drive – about work and family and boys and moving and friends and we could have gone on for hours. I know that things will change when she has the baby but these phone calls? No. We will continue these phone calls. We need these phone calls more than we need dinners out or knitting dates or trips to the dog park.

On the subject of Lucy: her baby shower is in a little less than two weeks. I’m throwing her the shower. I bought her a gift off of her registry. But I sort of want to get her something else. Something that is maybe a little impractical or a little frivolous but undeniably special.

***

The number of scarves I own is stupid yet I want 29 more. At least.

***

Lately I’ve found myself jotting down every quote that I find poignant. And by jotting down, I mean making a note of it in my phone so that I can scroll through the dozens and dozens of quotes whenever I have the urge.

I love words. I love words that succinctly say what I feel but cannot voice.

Imprint

2011-10-31T12:55:00.000-04:00

I made my grand return to the soccer field last night.

Playing illegally on an over-30 team. The same over-30 team that I've been playing illegally with for a few years.

(The over-30 team that I am alarmingly close to being age-eligible to play on. OH THE HORROR.)

It was all just very standard soccer, albeit at a lower skill level than I would prefer.

Until the second half, when I got this beauty:

Look closely. Can you see the y-shaped imprint of the ball's seams?

I got DRILLED by the ball when standing maybe a foot away from the girl who kicked it.

It doesn't hurt. And just a bit of a sting when it happened. But how can you not fully appreciate having a soccer ball tattooed on the inside of your knee?

And, on a side note, do my legs not look like the skin of a plucked chicken? Gross.

Manly Moving Men: Cheap

2011-10-29T11:17:00.000-04:00

Dear Gods of Deal-of-the-Day Websites,

While I love scrolling through the deal-of-the-day emails that I receive every morning (usually when I’m stopped at traffic signals on my way to work), I don’t usually buy. There are only so many manicures and massages that a lowly librarian with a weakness for pricy travel needs.

But that extremely well-timed deal for movers? Less than a month out from my relocation?

Pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me.

Couple clicks. Few less funds on my debit card. Voila! Moving magic.

Now I don’t have to ask my parents for help.

Now I don’t have to hear my mom’s favorite moving-my-daughter-yet-again line: “Next time you move, darling, you need a boyfriend who has strong and helpful buddies.”

Thank you, almighty Gods of Deal-of-the-Day Websites, for enabling me to feel less like a single loser and more like an independent woman who needs a manicure and a massage.

Beautification

2011-10-27T14:54:00.001-04:00

I am having one of those days where I may or may not burst into tears at any second*, so we’re going to be employing the power of distraction

And talking about makeup.

Do some people have mothers who teach them how to wear makeup?

Because I did not. I had a mother who taught me how to sew. I had a mother who taught me to love reading. I had a mother who tutored me in the baking of cookies and the importance of education and the appeal of the classic and simple. But I did not have a mother who taught me how to apply makeup.

Or how to shave my legs.

Therefore, I consider it to be a minor miracle that my legs are not more scarred up and that I did not go through a phase where I was all blue eyeshadow and clumpy mascara and generally looked like a blind child prostitute.

When I was a freshman in high school, my grandma took me to the Clinique counter at the department store. She had worked in cosmetics at that very store for years and years and years. She let the ladies run wild. Powder and eyeshadow and mascara and blush and lipstick. Oh, how beautiful I felt on that random weekday afternoon when I just happened to be off of school and had soccer practice that night.

Grandma bought me blush and eyeshadow the day. Maybe powder, too. All I can ever remember wearing was the eyeshadow, a barely-there brown shade that you wouldn't notice if I applied it with a trowel.

Buying me makeup that was so subtle that you couldn't actually see it? Tricky, Grandma. Very tricky. (I have tucked this trickery away for use on my future daughters.)

When I was in college, I discovered the magic that is blush. I could go without mascara or eyeshadow or any lip color whatsoever. But blush and I? We're tight.

I would buy a best friends necklace for Benefit Dandelion. Or NARS Orgasm.

I still tend to lean towards the oh-wait-you-have-eye-makeup-on eye makeup which, while it keeps me from looking like I'm trolling for business when I stand on street corners, tends to feel pretty plain and pretty boring. Not that I want any of my makeup to be like HI, I'M WEARING MAKEUP but this is seriously minimal. Although I do always wear mascara (and am better off for it) and have recently figured out how to wear eyeliner and not look like I should be in a hair band.

And, when it comes to lip color, if it isn't a tinted lip balm then it probably isn't going on my face. Or, in a rare show of courage, it is going on my face for an average of 12 seconds. Until I furiously wipe it off while scolding myself for pretending to be a Real Grownup Lady.

I am not going to tell you how long into my life it took me to learn how to employ the magic that is a bobby pin. Or do anything with my hair that was not a ponytail. Just know that I was probably closer to 30 than I was to 20. And, by all means, feel free to laugh.

Just don't laugh at my eye makeup.

Or lack thereof.

*I was never like this until just before The Coach left. Now I cry, like, twice a week. Either his departure opened the floodgates to my soul or I am destined to be on an episode of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant on TLC.

Infinite possibility

2011-10-26T07:30:00.000-04:00

I picked up boxes from Liz on my way home from work on Monday.

(Unrelated: it took me a mere 15 minutes to get from my office to Liz's driveway. I am so excited about the shortened commute.)

Last night, after tackling the treadmill for an hour, I started packing. At this early stage in my move, I'm just boxing up the things that I can live without for the next three weeks.

And those items are largely the same items that I'll be storing in Liz's basement. She has a house full of all of the essentials. We won't need two rolling pins. We won't even need two blenders. (Unless we throw a margarita party. We should have a margarita party, right?)

So what I'm packing, I'm packing for the long haul. I'm packing up items that will stay in storage until -- well, I have no idea. Until they're no longer in storage.

Until I need them.

It's sort of fun, packing up these boxes with no clue as to when they'll be unpacked. Under what circumstances they'll be unpacked.

I don't know how long I will live with Liz. I don't know why I'll move out.

Liz could kick me out. I could be buying a house of my own. I could be relocating for a job. I could be moving in with a boy. I might just be sick of living with a roommate. Circumstances could be such that I am going to live with Mom and Dad. How can you know? How can you possibly know?

It's a fun part of life -- the infinite possibility that stretches before you. The unknown.

I like the taste of the endless possibilities. But I also wouldn't mind a little glimpse into the future.

Any psychics in the audience?

Vanish

2011-10-25T15:53:00.002-04:00

When I drive by Colin’s house, I still look to see what cars are in the driveway.

When I drive by Colin’s job, I still check the parking lot to see if he’s there.

When I played in the league that he runs last winter, every week was an exercise in holding my breath and holding my tongue. Hoping that he wasn’t there. Hoping that he wouldn’t see me. Hoping that I could get in and get out without a word passing between us.

“Hey there, Sunshine,” he said to me at one of the games. I wrote about it when it happened. It pissed me off. When I think about it now, it still pisses me off. Sunshine. It sounds cute until you know him. Until you spend years on and off and on again, observing all of his bullshit behaviors. Including substituting Sunshine for the name of any female whose name you don’t know.

My name? Is not Sunshine. He knows my damn name.

His name? As much as I would like to, I haven’t forgotten it, either.

Do you guys remember how it ended? When – just after his birthday and just before Christmas – he disappeared? He stopped calling and stopped texting and stopped emailing and, of course, never returned any of the sort from me.

I had been around for years at that point. Years. And instead of tell me that it was over. Or explain that he needed a little bit of space. Or have the guts to explain what was going on in his life. He just disappeared. As though he could slip out of my life unnoticed.

And it continues to haunt me.

It’s always the same fear. With every guy who has been in my life since Colin, it is always the same. I assume that they are cowards. That they couldn’t possibly ends things respectfully. That one day they will disappear. Without warning. Without explanation. Because I don’t deserve that courtesy. Because I’ll figure it out eventually.

I hate that.

Any time that The Coach is busy (he’s in the meaty part of his season now and he is quite in demand and my head knows this even though my heart oftentimes does not) – even if it is just for a few hours – I hold my breath. And every text message that sits at the top of my inbox, I assume is The Very Last One Ever until my phone chirps at the receipt of another, be it a minute or a day later.

And still I haven’t programmed The Coach's number into my phone. To spare myself the indignity of deleting it out after he disappears. Because don’t they all disappear?

The Coach isn’t Colin. They have nothing in common.

But I can't shake it. It has been years and I still can't shake it.

Bobby pins

2011-10-24T15:43:00.001-04:00

There is always a pile of books on my nightstand. Tissues and lip balm. The alarm clock that I never use. And two bobby pins that have been sitting there since August. Since the last day The Coach was over. We were talking – he in my bed while I stood beside it, absently pulling the bobby pins from my hair. I hooked them together before dropping them on the nightstand. And that is where they have remained.

I leave them there. Where I can see them every morning and every night. So I can remember that day when I tugged them from my hair and that man who watched as I did so.

Proof, in a way, that he was there. That we happened. That I am not living this entirely in my head. That the person on the other side of the phone is real.

I’ll leave them for four more weeks. I will remember for four more weeks.

And then I move.

I am excited – I really am – but I am nervous, too. About a lot of things. Nervous is part of my nature. What I am most nervous about, truthfully, is breaking the spell.

I am nervous that when The Coach comes back it won’t be the same. I will, physically, be in a new place. I’ll have a new bedspread. And those bobby pins will be tossed amongst all the others, no longer permitted to hold anything but my hair. Just another pair of bobby pins; purged of the memory.

When he comes back, there will be 17 weeks between us. 17 weeks since I dropped those bobby pins on my nightstand.

We’re more than halfway there. Mercifully, the time has passed quickly. Gratefully, I can say that we’re doing okay. Under the circumstances – complicated by every little thing that could possibly cause complications, it seems – we really are doing okay.

That’s all I want, really, when he comes home. For it to be 17 weeks and still okay. And 18 weeks. And 19 weeks.

When we reach 17 weeks - when he finally comes home - it will be 50 weeks since this all started. Nearly a year.

And I am attached.

My concussion

2011-10-20T10:20:00.003-04:00

Have any of you noticed the heavy coverage concussions have been getting from the news media lately? It seems like every time I turn around, somebody is reporting on head injuries in the NFL or NHL or youth sports.

Maybe it’s just me. I always have a hard time determining if what seems like a strong presence in the news is actually a strong presence or if it just seems that way because it is a topic that I am invested in.

I don’t believe I’ve ever written in depth about my Really Big Concussion. I’m sure that I’ve mentioned it – the time following that concussion was a pretty significant period and it certainly still factors into my life (mostly how nervous I get about headaches and the paranoia that follows any time I’m knocked in my head during my various sporting endeavors) – but considering how long I have been blogging (7 years as of next month, OMG) it is high time that I give my Really Big Concussion its due.

I was a junior in high school. I had just turned 16. I was playing in a soccer game. My friend Heather’s mom drove me to the game; my parents were in Toronto for the weekend. And I got hit in the head. It wasn’t in a fantastic or dramatic away. I didn’t bash my head against someone else’s. I didn’t collide with the goalpost. I was just standing too close when a girl from the other team drilled the ball. I turned my head to avoid taking the ball right on the nose and that was it. Concussion.

I went out of the game, but it was very briefly. I seem to recall that we didn’t have any substitutes – it was a Saturday afternoon during homecoming season and some of my teammates had missed the game to get beautified before their school’s dance. So I went back into the game.

That’s what you did then – when concussions weren’t the red flag that they are now. You went back into the game because why wouldn’t you? You’re not bleeding. There’s no visible bruising or swelling. And your team is short a player. Of course you’re going to go back into the game.

I have absolutely no idea if we won or if we lost.

I remember being back at the house that night, laying on the couch (Aunt Lynn was staying with me and Meg) and feeling pretty crappy but, I don’t know, not remarkably crappy. I was bitchy and a little out of sorts, but I wasn’t dizzy or vomiting or otherwise unable to function.

I don’t remember telling my parents about getting my bell rung. But it was just a day or two after they had returned from Toronto – I can’t recall, exactly – that my mom took me to my pediatrician. She diagnosed it as a concussion.

During the months following my concussion, I slept exceptional amounts. My alarm clock would go off in the morning and, soon after I got out of bed, I would know if I would be going to school. Some days I would be perfectly fine. And some days – a lot of days – I would tell Mom that I wasn’t going to school and go right back to sleep.

After sleeping the whole night, I would sleep away the whole day. I would get up around the time Meg got home from middle school.

What’s weird – and a testament to how well my parents handled the situation – is that I never felt like I was sick. Obviously, I knew that I didn’t feel well, but I didn’t feel like The Sick Kid. I wasn’t particularly worried. I just knew that some days I just couldn’t do it and I would go back to bed and sleep it away. I felt shitty sometimes but I wasn’t concerned. I didn’t worry.

I missed a ton of school. I would be interested to see how many days I missed, actually, but it definitely added up to at least a few weeks. My teachers each got a note about my condition, apparently. I didn’t know it at the time, but I saw it in my file before I graduated. Along with a note about when I was out of class after my uncle died. Weird.

I saw a neurologist and had an EEG and was prescribed some drugs – I remember being slightly shocked when my mom told me that one was an antipsychotic that was also used in the treatment of headaches.

But I stayed the same.

And my mom made me an appointment for a second opinion – some exceptionally fancy neurologist at UM who couldn’t see me for weeks – and I never went. Eventually, I stopped missing school. Eventually, the headaches went away. Eventually, I felt fine.

Since that time, I’ve had some close calls. I have had those collisions – on the soccer field, on the hockey rink – that have left me a little shaken and a lot scared. I love the sports, I love the activity, but I am genuinely afraid that it could happen again. And now, as an adult, I don’t have the luxury of taking endless days off to sleep away the post-concussion syndrome. It’s scary.

And so are all of the reports on how sports concussions are coming back to haunt the athletes who suffered them years and years ago. I read about all of the problems that former professional and collegiate hockey and football players have and it scares the hell out of me.

Not that there’s anything that can be done. Nothing that fear or doctor’s appointments or healthy doses of paranoia that come with every significant headache can cure.

It’s just something that I’m aware of. Always, always aware of. A piece of my past that may also be a piece of my future. There is no changing that.

Panic

2011-10-19T12:56:00.003-04:00

I just got to work and, when I got to my desk, I unzipped my tote bag and I noticed a very big gaping hole where my lunch bag usually sits.

I flew into a fit of rage, beyond pissed at myself for forgetting my lunch at home. A lunch, mind you, packed so at the very last minute that it threatened to make me late. (Because I had to stuff my morning off with the last few chapters of the book I’m reading for work, a trip to the gym, a run to the grocery store, the beginnings of a pot of soup and at least 20 minutes scrolling through Pinterest in a dreamlike state.)

The worst part about forgetting my lunch, I immediately determined, was that there is nowhere nearby where I can grab something that is both fast – I only have 30 minutes for lunch and I often don’t even take that – and edible.

Which made me even more pissed.

And then I remembered that I stopped in the lunch room on my way to my office, tucking my lunch safely away in the refrigerator before skipping off to work.

Which is pretty much illustrative of how my entire life is these days. PANIC! followed by the realization that I am freaking out for absolutely no reason. Again.

Jobs and love

2011-10-18T20:55:00.004-04:00

When Lucy called me on my birthday I casually mentioned the birthday wishes sent from Colleen. A generic text message. Exactly what I was expecting and therefore not the slightest bit disappointing.

But it enraged Lucy - who can take all of Colleen's crap but couldn't stand seeing her treat me so poorly - and she promptly called Colleen to chew her out.

Maybe that's where Lucy is a better person than I am. She is brave enough to call and yell and make her voice heard, rather than identify the pattern and announce the relationship irreparably broken and unworthy of any further attempts at mending.

Lucy called Colleen and pointed out how awful she had been. And Colleen heard her, amazingly. Or so it seems. We'll see if she keeps it up.

Lucy saw her over the weekend. For the first time since June.

At some point in their conversation, Colleen said that one of the reasons that she disappeared was because it was hard for her to be around me and Lucy, because we had what she didn't.

I had to have Lucy repeat the story twice. What? What is is that I have? Lucy's life - Lucy's life I can imagine envying, with her adoring husband and her good job and her adorable house and her well-behaved dog and her baby on the way.

But mine? Mine? It's been hours since I spoke with Lucy and I still don't understand it. I have a job. A decent job that I feel lukewarm about. She has someone who loves her. (Yeah, I think he's a loser but I'm not the one one in the relationship with him.)

I have a job. She's in love.

Let's just skip the part where I draw comparisons.

The Half Marathon Report

2011-10-17T13:58:00.001-04:00

I consider myself a reluctant runner but secretly I love it.

I loved this weekend.

I loved driving down to the expo with Meg and collecting our bib and our shirt and being all crowded in with hundreds and hundreds of other runners and seeing all of the vendors and feeling the excitement that rippled through the room. I loved stuffing myself with pasta. I loved Saturday night with Meg, sitting in her room at Mom and Dad’s and helping her pick out her racing outfit. I loved the quiet, early morning drive downtown. I loved standing at the starting line, waiting anxiously with my wave. I loved seeing all of the spectators cheering on their loved ones – the little kids with their signs for their mom? I loved them the most. They made me cry. I loved having a familiarity of the route that I didn’t have last year. I loved still having legs with a few miles remaining, being able to push it to the end. I loved how my playlist, set to shuffle, seemed to pull out the right songs at just the right time.

I loved crossing the finish line. I loved seeing Meg when she crossed the finish line. I loved being wrapped up in a runner’s high and that silly foil warming blanket.

I loved finding my parents and seeing their signs. (Meg got to see them when she ran by, but somehow I didn’t see them – and they didn’t see me.)

I loved the shower I took back at the hotel. The best shower of my life. And I loved the brunch that we had a few hours later, where Meg and I insisted on wearing our medals with our dresses because we do immature things like that just because we can.

I loved reading all of the inspirational stories in the paper this morning. I love that I am not unmanageably sore, just a little achy in a good sort of a way.

You know what I didn’t love? When Meg pulled up the race app and punched in our names and pulled up my time.

More than 7 minutes better than last year, yes. But 30 measly seconds: just 30 DAMN SECONDS over my goal.

That hurts.

It hurts in a way that has me looking up races and consulting my calendar. It hurts me so bad that I want to try again.

New Accessory

2011-10-16T13:25:00.001-04:00

Half marathon: done.

PR: achieved.

Up next: brunch.

Carbs, Pumas, Live Stats and This Girl

2011-10-15T14:22:00.000-04:00

Who has her bib number and race packet? This girl. Meg and I met in the afternoon (she didn’t have school, I didn’t have work) and made the trip downtown to pick up our race essentials. We also stopped at the hospital to pick up the disc of the ultrasound Meggie had on her collar bone earlier this week. Which was interesting. Being at a hospital right in the heart of the D. Very, very interesting.

Who is fashionably wearing black Pumas with her dress pants at work today? This girl. I will be the first to admit that it is a very, very attractive look. A look that I would avoid at all costs, except on the eve of a half marathon when all I want is a pair of fresh legs to run on in the morning.

Who is carb loading in preparation for her race tomorrow? This girl. How is this different from how I eat any other day? It’s not.

Who thinks that The Coach is the coolest dude around? This girl. The good weekend we had rolled into a good week and is rolling into another good weekend.

Who is totally, totally bummed because The Coach can’t come home for Thanksgiving? This girl. Enough said. I’d be hopping on a plane sometime in the next month if there was any way that I could, but my work schedule has already been set for November and I don’t feel established enough to beg for an amendment. Plus, I have a baby shower to throw, a move to make and a 10k to run. I’m just hoping the month goes by quickly. He’ll be back pretty early in December and it sucks but that’s just how it has to be.

Who is working instead of watching the UM/MSU football game but should be watching the UM/MSU football game? This girl. This girl should be on a couch – or maybe a barstool – somewhere, nervously cheering for her Wolverines while dressed from head to toe in maize and blue. And this girl should smarten up and start requesting really important game days off. Unprofessional? Please. What would you call obsessively checking the live stats all afternoon?

That’s what I thought.

And this working business is for the birds. I plan to give it up the minute David Beckham and I are married.

So Midwestern, So in the Kitchen: August & September

2011-10-14T12:12:00.005-04:00

This resolution, this resolution to make one big meal every week? August and September were rough. I blame The Coach.

But I wasn't completely out of the kitchen.

(Whether or not I was crying in the kitchen is another question entirely.)

So I might as well show you what I managed to cook.

Via some really, really awful pictures. Oh well.

Left - Broccoli, Tomato and Mozzarella Stromboli...that I made into calzones. When Meg and Mom were in California, I made these up for me and Dad. For some reason (and that reason is my lack of skill with dough of any kind) they morphed from stromboli to calzones. Whatev. Tasty? Yes. Beautiful. Nope. I found the recipe via the Everyday Food app I have on my iPhone. Plugged in a few things that were in the refrigerator and picked a recipe from a list. Technology is cool.

Middle - Coconut Rice with Mango: Not exactly mango sticky rice, but it tasted awfully good during a time when not much did.

Right - Baby Breakfast Quiches: I found this recipe on Pinterest and decided to go with it because I was really, really sick of what I was making for breakfast. (This happens to me sometimes.) These just are not beautiful little buggers, so I didn't even bother with a picture. (Sorry, person I stole the picture from.) They were pretty decent: I like a really high protein, easy breakfast and these fit the bill.

Left - Linguine with Tapenade, Tomatoes, and Arugula: wasn't awesome. Partially because I made it in a robotic daze after The Coach left. Partially because I used whole wheat noodles and they were just sort of clumpy and blah. It just was not all that fantastic. I expected more, as I always do from Everyday Food recipes.

Middle - Cupcakes: I threw these together in an hour before going over to Liz's house one night. Nothing special, really, except that, after frosting in buttercream, I dumped them into some colored sugar on hand and they looked sparkly. Here's a way to make a cupcake more appealing: make it purple and also sparkly.

Right - Coconut Chicken: another recipe I stumbled across on Pinterest. The picture sold me. Also the simplicity of the recipe. So, so easy. Quite delicious. I didn't make the dipping sauce; I cheated and got something suitable from the grocery store and it made me right happy and took practically no work which made me right happier. Then, I had ingredients left over and shrimp in my freezer so I made coconut shrimp one night, too. Equally as delicious.

And that, friends, is the story on my post-departure adventures in the kitchen.

I've been a cooking fool this month - and I'm trying to empty out my pantry via stuffing my face. There is definitely more to come.

Look at this dog

2011-10-13T07:03:00.001-04:00

I found this picture on my phone.

I love it.

I'm pretty sure I took it the weekend that The Coach left. It might have been the weekend after.

E spent both of them chillaxing with me on the couch and on the bed, keeping me company while I drowned my brain in books and horrible, horrible television programming.

This brown dog (and her yellow counterpart) is a sad girl's best friend.

Same ol' study skills

2011-10-12T10:36:00.003-04:00

I was selected to represent my building in this committee that is doing a pretty cool thing.

I know that’s vague.

Sorry.

In addition to being cool, it involves the entire community. The committee consists of a bunch of community representatives who come from a variety of backgrounds, and we’re making some decisions on some things.

Pretty sure that’s still vague.

Anyway.

Part of my involvement in the committee is reading three books. Big f’ing deal, right? Right. I had six weeks to read them, dating back to early September when I picked up the three paperbacks at one of our committee meetings.

At the time I received the books, I was in the middle of reading something else and I decided that I would finish the something else and then start on the books because I am not a person who enjoys reading multiple books at a time.

And now I definitely need to be through these books in 10 days and – it’s true, you guys – I’m halfway through the first one.

I don’t like being told what to read.

And then I don’t read it. Or I do, but it is just the slogging, painful read of my undergraduate years. Where I can be distracted by anything and everything and no excuse is too pathetic to keep me from reading.

Now I have 10 days to read three books. Well, two and a half books. Which wouldn’t be a problem if they were two and a half books that I wanted to read but, as we know, they really aren’t and WHY HAVE I NOT LEARNED?

Seriously. Now that I have, like, aged 10 years and finished graduate school and held several Big Girl Jobs, you think that I would be a little smarter than I was when I was 19 and suffering through English 229. And you would be wrong.

A family affair

2011-10-11T18:54:00.001-04:00

My mom and dad were always, always extremely supportive of my athletic endeavors. They supported Meg’s athletics with just as much enthusiasm. And then we graduated and they were over it.

When I finished playing high school soccer, they were through with watching me on the soccer pitch. When Meg dropped out of soccer after a year of playing in college, they were officially no longer soccer parents. When she finished college hockey, they were done with sitting in cold rinks.

We both still play soccer – on the same team – but we can rarely cajole them to our games. We’re both playing hockey and just believe me when I say that they aren’t champing at the bit to get to those games, either.

They’re pretty much over it. And I don’t blame them.

We both still ask, though. We invite them to watch us – together! United as sisters! – play soccer. And we invite them to our hockey games, too, but it’s much more likely that I’ll go to Meg’s game or she’ll go to mine than for either of our parents to show up at either of our games. And it’s perfectly fine. They put in their time as sports parents. And we don’t need an audience.

But we might still like one.

Occasionally.

Now, I would never expect my parents to come and watch our half marathon this weekend. It starts at 7:00 am. And what are they going to do? Stand on the side of the road for hours waiting to see us for 15 seconds? It sounds fun, right?

Wait. Maybe it does sound fun.

What if, the day before the race, you have lunch at your favorite restaurant? And then you check in to a posh downtown hotel. Maybe head down to the bar to watch the UM/MSU game (Go Blue!). Dinner reservations at one of the city's best restaurants at 7:45 pm.

And then, the next morning, all you have to do is roll out of bed and out on to the streets to watch your girls run.

Maybe meet them at the finish line. Maybe head back to your hotel and get another hour of sleep. Meet your girls back at your room, where they’ll shower (and bitch about how sore/tired they are) before you all head off to a fancy-schmancy brunch.

Combine it with the hotel and the dinner and the getaway aspect and watching a half marathon doesn’t sound half bad, does it?

That’s how I sold it to my mom, anyway, before booking the room and making the reservations. She gave the weekend to my dad as a birthday present.

And that’s how I tricked those suckers into watching me and Meg run the half marathon.

My birthday gift to my father will be a poster board and a marker. If he’s going to watch, he might as well make us a sign, too.

The typical Monday ramblefest

2011-10-10T14:09:00.001-04:00

Fact: Monday really sneaks up on you when you work on Saturday and Sunday. And Friday, too.

On a normal week, I am scheduled to work on either Friday or Saturday. I work one Sunday per month, too.

And I still sub, occasionally, at my old ‘brary job. Last week happened to be a week in which I was scheduled for a Friday/Sunday weekend, which sandwiched a Saturday that I had committed to subbing for a few hours.

Plus I watched Meg coach her team in a game on Friday night.

Plus I had my family birthday party on Saturday night.

Plus I ate a piece of German chocolate cake, a piece of caramel apple pie and a piece of strawberry rhubarb pie at my family birthday party. (I am training for a half marathon, after all.)

Plus I spent the night at Mom and Dad’s on Saturday night because my cousins Emma and Paige were spending the night. And also because I was there very late on account of Emma locking her keys in her car, which resulted in me having to call a locksmith friend of mine and my mother suggesting that I trade my, um, goods for his locksmith services. (Not necessary.) (I gave him a slice of caramel apple pie instead.)

Plus I went to the rink to watch Meg play last night.

Plus I was a maniac about creating the invitations for Lucy’s shower – which I’m actually really, really pleased with – complete with matching wraparound address labels because I am totally neurotic. That whole process was a casualty of the time I spend on the internet gazing at pretty things. As the whole baby shower will be, obviously.

Plus I had a really, really great weekend with The Coach. Which is sort of a strange statement to make, I know, because he was (unfortunately) not here, so just trust me when I say that some weekends (and some weeks and some days and some hours) are just better than others.

Hectic nature of the weekend considered, I suppose I shouldn’t have been all that shocked that I never found time to blog. And that I didn’t read a single page of the book I’m trying to plow through for work. Or that it took me nearly two hours to get up and really get going this morning.

The next six weeks – culminating with turning in the keys to my apartment and movin’ in with cousin Liz – are going to be crazy insane busy. And I am crazy insane excited. I do better at this pace. Especially with The Coach being gone. Fill up my calendar. No time to sleep = no time to weep.

Freak Me Out 101 – an easy A

2011-10-07T07:17:00.000-04:00

Were you looking to make me nervous? To be the subject of conversations that start with “hey, if I ever end up dead or missing...”? To be the reason that I want to pound my head against the desk on a regular basis?

Was that an enthusiastic yes? Well, do I have great news for you, creepster. It’s easy!

Be a regular at my job and be a creepy old man and wear a track suit every day and refer to me as your girlfriend (as in, “hey! There’s my girlfriend!”) even though I am not your girlfriend and have refused to give you my phone number (or take yours) each of the three times that you’ve offered it and you will freak me out. Say to me “hey, your birthday is coming up, right?” even though I have never told you when my birthday is and you will freak me out. Notice and comment when my hair is different and you will freak me out. Wave to me in the parking lot, show up every day (occasionally come twice in one afternoon) and ask me when I get off of work for the day. You’ll freak me out. And probably have me convinced that you're going to kill me.

Just don’t actually kill me, please. My to-do list is really long and I just do not have time for such foolishness.

Playing brave

2011-10-06T06:49:00.000-04:00

You know how The Coach came into my life and I knew that he would inevitably leave it and then, as expected, he did and I crumbled? It was pretty awful.

After a few weeks of moping, I picked myself up and I brushed myself off and I put on my best impression of a girl who could handle the situation that I was in. A girl who could see that he was chasing dreams and who could accept that our relationship was only temporary and a girl who could be strong and brave and realistic.

It wasn’t who I was; it is who I pretended to be.

We said our goodbyes 8 weeks ago. Just this week, I have started to feel like I have finally given up the act. I have finally abandoned putting on the brave face. I am finally in the place where I need to be – where I know that he is busy being important and doing great things and where I can be happy that he has such a wonderful opportunity instead of quietly, selfishly wishing that he was here with me. Here with me where he would be miserable and sad and not excelling at doing what he loves.

I was holding on so tight – to him and to us and to what I thought that we should be and to how often I thought that we should talk and to how sad I thought that I should feel. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t function. All I could do was hold on. All of my energy was focused on maintaining a steady, enduring grip. And on putting on my brave face.

Maybe two months was what I needed. Maybe 8 weeks is what it takes my heart to let go. Maybe this week is just a fluke – maybe Monday will come and my heart will hurt worse than it did on the day that he left town.

I hope not.

I rather like this new normal. Where he can be a part of my world instead of the object around which it revolves.

Spoiled Brat Birthday: v. 29

2011-10-05T06:48:00.001-04:00

Yes, yes I am so classy that I must recap that gifts that I received for my recent birthday.

So, Lucy went completely over the top and bought me a fabulous white leather Kate Spade tote. This isn’t the exact tote – I think the image is from an earlier collection – but it is awfully close. It has these fantastic compartments that hold a paperback just perfectly. What’s not to like about that?

My father has recently discovered that he works just a few minutes from Tiffany’s. He has also recently discovered that he, despite being a man, is fully capable of purchasing gifts for other people. (Up until the disaster that was his life last fall, my mom bought each and every gift with the exception of gifts for her, which Meg and I always picked out.)

As a result, I got this bracelet that matches the earrings that I got from Grandma for Christmas. Lovely.

Meg bought me this shirt. I really wanted it because I find it really, really funny.

It is a play on the other Ann Arbor shirts. The Ann Arbor shirts that are not really, really funny and aren’t worn by people who like Ann Arbor. (Jerks.)

Meggles also got me this Puma jersey. Probably because she couldn’t justify buying it for herself. It reminds us of our trip to Africa, and that makes us happy. It’s supposed to represent the red dirt that African soccer players get on their jerseys and shorts – so unlike the highly manicured fields that teams from other countries play on. It isn’t something that I’ll really ever wear, but I love it nonetheless.

And finally, new bedding. So excited about my new bedding. Fancy new bedding for my fancy new bedroom in my fancy new house that I’m sharing with my fancy cousin Liz. Pretty excited to upgrade from my current bedroom décor (which is just juvenile enough to irritate me) right as I’m moving in with Liz – so I can get everything all cute and adorable all at once.

I am now on the lookout for the perfect grey throw pillows. And a bed skirt. And some sort of an alternative to a headboard because I really hate the one that I have. And some sort of magical storage that lets me cram all of my crap into my room at Liz’s house without it looking like a cluttered dorm room inhabited by a hoarder in training. And new bookshelves. And time. A significant amount of otherwise unoccupied time that will allow me to make a seamless transition from my apartment to Liz’s house while also throwing Lucy a baby shower and playing hockey and watching new episodes of Gossip Girl.

Very Important Components to Success

2011-10-04T09:38:00.001-04:00

In 13 days, I will be writing about how sore and miserable I am because, in 12 days, I am running my second half marathon.

When I ran the same half marathon last year, I ran a really decent race up until the last three or so miles, in which I totally tanked. It was a crash and burn of massive proportions, likely due to the fact that I hadn’t completed any training runs over 10 miles. This year, I have been better about squeezing in longer runs even though it is oftentimes the last bloody thing that I feel like doing.

Positive of longer runs: I am definitely more fit.

Negative of longer runs: the overuse injury that reared its ugly head after last fall’s half marathon is back with a vengeance.

I could barely make it through four miles yesterday.

(To be fair, I had cranked out quite the run the day before.)

Which does not leave me feeling awesome about the 13.1 miles I have to run on race day.

But I’m going to rest a lot and ice a lot and consult my personal physical therapist student (that would be my sister, Meg) a lot and do the very best that I can do and hope that it’s enough to get me across the finish line in 2:00 or less.

Since I will be doing a lot more thinking about running than actually running in the 11 days that lead up to my race, I have more time to focus on what is really important:
a. What I am going to wear
b. Crafting the perfect race playlist

While I have sufficient amounts of adorable workout clothes that I could choose from – but will probably buy something new anyway because that’s how I roll – I am struggling a little bit more with the playlist. In nearly every trip to the gym since last year, I have listened (and listened and listened and listened) to last year’s playlist. It is stale. It will not suffice. I have downloaded a bit here and there, but I’m nowhere near filling 2+ hours of what would otherwise be the sound of my own shortened breath.

Help me out here. Don’t hold out on me, you guys. What’s your favorite workout jam?

And, while we’re focusing on the most important components to my race success, I have another question: how should I do my hair?

29

2011-10-02T22:51:00.003-04:00

I started the day with an adorable miniature cake from my adorable miniature grandmother.

I finished the day with peanut butter mousse and banana ice cream, served with caramel sauce and salted roasted peanuts.

In between, I watched football. I did laundry. I opened presents and did a bit of planning for Lucy's baby shower and talked to The Coach and smiled at each phone call and text message and Facebook post that came in. I went for a run. I cuddled with my favorite dogs. And spent time with my favorite people. All while being shocked - genuinely shocked - by my advancing age. 29! How did this happen?

Yes, I've lost it

2011-10-01T12:49:00.004-04:00

I turn 29 tomorrow.

This is shocking.

29.

29 as in almost 30 as in EVERY NEWS SHOW I WATCHED THIS WEEK WAS ABOUT HOW MY EGGS ARE GOING BAD.

Seriously, you guys. I watched Maria Menounos talk about how she’s freezing her eggs because she’s 33 and I guess that’s old but not too old to drop $10,000 on the harvesting/freezing process and she’ll magically get pregnant when she feels like getting pregnant. (I’m sure that’s, like, fail proof.) (And why does she need to discuss this on television?) And then some other crap on the rapid deterioration of the eggs that Maria says I should be harvesting.

Also I swear all of my friends are pregnant. Which is of course not true but LUCY IS and Lucy is Lucy and my sun practically revolves around our friendship so naturally it feels like everybody is pregnant. When in reality it is just her and Heather. And this girl who I played soccer with. And this one girl who I kind of know from work. Plus yesterday I saw Liz’s friend’s Sumo baby and she is so cute and so chubby that I almost stole her.

Why, yes, this is panic mode. Thank you for noticing.

When you turn 29 as in almost 30 you have to evaluate your life and your timelines and what is realistic WHEN YOU ARE SITTING AROUND WITH YOUR EGGS GOING BAD and also, hi, I have such awesome luck with finding boyfriends, let alone husbands, let alone baby daddies. This won’t be an issue at all!

I turn 29 tomorrow and this is what I conclude happens when you turn 29. You freak out. About eggs and babies. And then you take your birth control pill at exactly 9:15.

(This is the part where I acknowledge that I am obviously a little bit insane. And clearly a little self-centered. But have nothing but respect for: parents, those who want to be parents, those who never want to be parents, those trying to conceive, those unable to conceive, those working so, so hard to conceive and anyone who has ever been a baby. I’m not trying to be disrespectful of anyone else's situation. I am just feeling old in my ovaries.)

Another season

2011-09-29T22:07:00.001-04:00

My hockey season starts today.

It started 50 minutes ago, actually. When I was still at work.

I'm currently sitting at the rink. Cold. Waiting impatiently for my team to get off the damn ice. They have paperwork to sign in order to make us official.

In addition to being the goalie, I'm the paperwork girl.

I like hockey. I do. I like my teammates. I like the competition. The endorphins.

I'm the one and only goalie on my team.

That's what I don't like. Being a prisoner to my position. Always having to run my life by my hockey schedule.

I can't. I have a game.

I did that enough as a kid.

Every year for the past few years, I have started the season feeling uncertain that I even want to. I'm not sure the fun balances out the part where this feels like a job, an obligation.

A couple of good games and the feeling subsides.

A couple of bad one and it rages back.

Maybe it's winning that I truly love, not hockey. I'm not like my sister, Meg, who lives to play the game. Who played in college. Who coaches a youth team. Who never, never turns down a chance to skate.

I'm not like that.

But the season comes around and I don't have anything better to do - or so it seems, in the midst of summer when I commit - and so I play again. Mostly because I can't find a good reason not to.

The Coach and the reality

2011-09-28T09:28:00.003-04:00

While I haven't written much about The Coach, he's still around.

I haven't written much about The Coach because it feels somewhat risky, a little bit dangerous. It feels like I am inflating him to all of you and inflating him to myself and, the higher I lift him up, the greater distance he's going to fall.

The Coach is not my boyfriend. There is no commitment. He owes me exactly what I owe him: absolutely nothing. I do think that it is best that way -- for us to have declared ourselves a couple when he was on the verge of moving would have been foolish and unrealistic and really, really hard.

Not that this is easy.

This is not easy.

There have been a couple of of really, really nice articles written about him recently. He emailed them to me and they made me cry.

We hit an enormous bump in the road a few weeks ago. He did something stupid. I felt like I was drowning. He understood why I was disappointed.

He adds new friends on Facebook - girls, of course, I notice the girls and when they live close to him it makes me a little sick.

There is this one place at work that, when I walk there, I can't help but think of him. It's just a simple walkway, lined with windows, but every time I am there I remember walking there one day this summer and getting a text message from him. Confirming that he would be over that night. And I got that text message and looked up and caught my own eyes in the reflection of the window and I looked so happy. That's what I think about when I am there. How much easier it was, and how much happier I was, when I could leave work with the knowledge that, when I got home, he would be there.

And now he's not.

I adore him. I absolutely adore him. I adore him and I miss him every single day. And somehow I have to remain cognizant of our status and our distance and the reality that plays before me, not the romantic comedy that I am writing in my head.

TMI (apologies in advance)

2011-09-26T14:48:00.000-04:00

Last Friday, I found myself at Victoria’s Secret getting measured and fitted for bras and, 10 days later, I’m still not sure how I ended up in that store and in that dressing room. I may have been transported by Bra Faeries or hit over the head and dragged to the store by the Bra Mafia. Because I swear that I didn’t go to the mall to get my goodies sized up. But, oh, I am so happy that I did.

Now, here’s the thing: I don’t really have boobs. I mean, I obviously do – it’s just that, well, they aren’t exactly the first thing you notice about me. Or the second. Or the tenth.

So, when the girl measured me and suggested the size she suggested, I told her that she was wrong.

“That doesn’t seem, um, close at all,” I told the girl. Who is a professional. Or as professional as a college kid working at VS in the mall can be.

But she sort of shrugged me off and started throwing bras at me.

Bras with a C cup, bitches. And an alarmingly small band size. And they actually fit.

Best trip to the mall ever.

Always another party

2011-09-23T12:39:00.001-04:00

Lucy squealed when I told her my idea for her baby shower – a fondue party – so I know that I am on the right track.

Thank goodness. Because, up until recently, we were on no track at all. Lucy’s husband Chet, however, has caved in and is no longer having cultural issues with the idea of having a shower. Lucy, thankfully, is mulling over dates with her mother. I, finally, have hope that we can pull this off.

Sort of.

Lucy really, really doesn’t want to open gifts.

My cousin Mara didn’t open presents at her baby shower – it didn’t seem like any huge deal. But that was a coed fancy-schmancy We’re Having a Baby cocktail party; the guests were all too busy guzzling Prosecco and stuffing our faces with the fig and goat cheese flatbreads to notice. (Or maybe that was just me.)

Chances are that my mom and Lucy’s mom will hate this idea. And all people over a certain age. And some people under a certain age. But it’s what Lucy wants. How do you make everyone happy? I’m not sure if we’ll go the display shower route – telling people to bring their presents unwrapped and setting them out for all to admire – or putting a note in the invitation indicating that she’s not going to open gifts. Maybe Lucy will just do us all a favor and cave. I don’t know. I’m not the socially awkward one who is weirded out by the act of opening gifts. (Lucy’s description – not mine.) I’ll let her decide. And I will take the hit and look like the classless, tacky girl throwing her shower if it means she gets what she wants.

We also have the Colleen thing. Missing in action since June, she’s been a huge donkey during her best friend’s pregnancy. Lucy seems less than sure that she even wants her there. In the end, she’ll get an invite. And, damn, you would think that Colleen would feel pretty low when she gets an invitation in the mail to a shower that she didn’t even know was being planned.

But, then again, that would require her to think of someone other than herself and that is clearly not happening these days.

And, most importantly, I need to make a baby themed music mix. We can’t just play Britney’s “Baby One More Time” and Vanilla Ice’s “Ice, Ice Baby” on repeat.

Well, maybe we could. And see who stays at the party the longest. Survivor: Baby Shower. That would be memorable, right?

New surroundings

2011-09-21T14:24:00.001-04:00

I’m moving in with my cousin Liz.

Her house is done. And fifteen minutes from my new job. And it has a room for me and a bathroom for me and her laundry room is upstairs. I won’t have to haul my laundry up and down the stairs. Hell yes, new construction geniusness.

Living where I live and commuting as much as I commute is silly. Renting elsewhere when I could stay with Liz – who, I’m sure, will appreciate the extra money – seems silly, too.

The lease on my apartment isn’t technically up until April, but someone wants to move in to my unit so I’m getting out (in mid-November) without paying a penalty which is HUGE. And moving before the weather gets completely snowalicious and craptastic and I spend 2 hours tackling my 35 minute commute, which is also HUGE. And I’ll obviously be spending less cash money on gas and living expenses. HUGE. And, as Liz moves in next week, I don’t have to make the move all in one painful weekend. HUGE.

I’m a little nervous about living with a roommate again. Especially a roommate who I adore like I adore Liz. I don’t want drama. And I definitely don’t want to compromise our friendship/cousinship. We managed to get along swimmingly in Switzerland and Italy – and travel always brings out the worst, right? – so I do not doubt that we will get along the vast majority of the time. But I fear that big blowout fight. Especially because I will certainly be the housemate with less power (you know, not owning the house and all).

And – this is ridiculous, but I am sort of ridiculous – I am totally bummed about how much of my stuff will be boxed up and packed away. My dishes and my stand mixer and my furniture and my décor – all of those things are me. And maybe we’ll find room for some of my things, but Liz has been planning out the interior of her house since the builders broke ground. It’s her house – she’s so excited about it and she should obviously decorate it how she wants to decorate it.

Overall, I think that it will be good for me. I’m not playing soccer at the moment, Colleen has disappeared off of the face of the earth, Lucy is pregnant and I’ve been pretty consistently and pretty overwhelmingly bummed out – those factors don’t lead to much of a social life. Liz – who is a few months older than me – is a lot more outgoing and more social than I am; I’m not planning on riding her coattails to the bar every weekend, but getting out on occasion would be normal and healthy.

I’m also jazzed up about the lack of a lease or any formal agreement tying me to Liz’s house for any set amount of time. When I decide I’m ready to buy a house, I can buy it. If I land a job that requires relocation, I can take it. It’s one less thing holding me back. And, right now, I am thriving on those mere possibilities – that maybe things are going to get better in ways that I do not expect and cannot anticipate. That maybe new surroundings are just the beginning of it.

I was in Zurich (5 months ago)

2011-09-20T09:41:00.001-04:00

I am totally kicking myself for not blogging about my trip to Switzerland and Italy when it was all fresh in my mind. You totally think that you’re going to remember every detail from every day and then you come home and life gets in the way and with every day that passes, the memories get a little less vivid.

But I do have pictures. Pictures that I’ve been meaning to share since May.

My cousin Liz was working in Lausanne, but I flew in and out of Zurich. It seemed like a good idea at the time: I would arrive in Zurich, spend part of the day getting to see the city and then hop on a train to Lausanne.

I failed to take into account my general exhaustion, having to find a suitcase locker, my complete ignorance of the German language and how much I would want to take a shower. Oh, and also the ridiculous blister that I developed on my heel before I even left Detroit that was such a pain that I paid approximately $21 for special blister band aids in the airport in Amsterdam because I was so bloody desperate for relief.

Anyway. Zurich. I spent a lot of time in Zurich searching for wifi so that I could email my mother and tell her that I had arrived safely and was, indeed, alive. (She’s always curious about that, being my mother and all.)

Other than that, I took myself on a little walking tour from a guide that I had found online. I wandered into the Fraumünster abbey, which has the most breathtakingly gorgeous stained glass windows that were designed by artist Marc Chagall. I sat in the pews and looked at the stained glass for a long, long time – thinking about Aunt Marie, who would have been so taken by both the beauty and the spirit of Fraumünster, and wiping away tears.

In my wanderings, I stumbled upon St. Peter Church of Zurich. The tower of St. Peter's Church is home to Europe's largest clock face and also happens to be a really great monument to navigate by, as my general exhaustion did not lead well to the effective use of navigational devices such as, you know, maps. Or common sense.

You may recall the circumstances under which I left for Switzerland: The Coach had recently come into the picture, I had quit my job and was on the verge of starting a new one and I was working really, really hard just to keep up with the pace of life. I didn’t get to plan out my day in Zurich (or the rest of my trip) as I would have liked. I’m sure I missed things that I would have liked to have seen. I’m sure I could have toured the city more efficiently. But, as it turned out, wandering with no expectations and no itinerary isn’t all that bad, either.

I signed up for Match.*

2011-09-18T14:21:00.005-04:00

I signed up for Match weeks and weeks and weeks ago, right after a few very wise pals told me to because I'm always very good at listening to the advice of my friends who always end up being right.**

I signed up because I am supposed to proceed with my life as though The Coach is never coming back which means, I think, that I can get away with sending him some cookies (cookies can be sent to someone who is never coming back, yes?) but also that I have to put myself out there for all of the single men of the world who are looking for slightly crazy, curly haired, bookworm girls with blue eyes and a wicked sweet tooth.**

I wasn’t convinced that I wanted to sign up for Match because, you know, it sort of seems like a lot of work and I was afraid that it would only result in a lot of mildly humiliating blog fodder and no potential Mr. Rights but then I had an epiphany and I said to myself, “Aly, suck it up. Grab the bull by the horns. Nothing good is going to comes to you while you are waiting for it to fall into your damn lap” and so then I whipped out my credit card (even though I wanted to spend my money on other things, such as nail polish and sports bras) and signed right up.***

And then I sat down with my best friend, Lucy, and we wrote a killer profile.**** Now I spend gobs of my free time communicating with eligible young men who I would otherwise not have a chance to meet and it is so, so fun because – among other things – it’s a good excuse to talk about myself. I love talking about myself! (See: having a blog.)*****

I’m still new to the Match thing but I'm pretty sure I love it. ******

*Lie.
**More lies.
***Falsification.
****Fabrication. I actually discussed this with Lucy and she gave me a pass.
*****Misstatement.
******Inaccuracy.

I know that I’m being a stubborn brat, but what I’m trying to say here is this: maybe it’s what I’m supposed to do, maybe it would be good for me, maybe I’m being stubborn, maybe this is why I deserve to be miserable and alone for the rest of my days – but I’m just not ready yet.

The day The Coach left

2011-09-17T14:39:00.000-04:00

It has been five weeks since The Coach left. It seems like he has been gone forever, not just five inconsequential weeks – 35 measly days. It seems like he just left. And sometimes, it seems like he is still here. But not most of the time. Most of the time, I’m acutely aware of how far away he is and how many time zones span between us and the seemingly endless number of days it will be until he’s home again.

The Coach left early on a Friday morning.

I saw him briefly that Thursday night before he left.

And it pretty much sucked as bad as I thought that it was going to suck. A lot. We both handled it the way that I expected that we would handle it. Stoically.

The night that we said goodbye was not a big, dramatic affair. I did not lie on the ground and sob uncontrollably while holding on tightly to his ankles. He did not punch a wall in a display of the deep, deep emotions that could not express.

It was quiet. It was sad. Neither of us said much, really, other than what we both already knew: that we would miss each other.

You want a rambling, nonsensical update?

2011-09-15T14:32:00.002-04:00

Yes, you do.

I neglected to tell you about my cousin Mara’s baby shower. Well, I’m not really sure I would call it a baby shower. It was more of a We’re Having a Kid! cocktail party in which gifts were brought but not opened. To describe it in one word: extravagant. Not that I’m surprised – that’s how her family does everything – but also I accidentally saw the bill and my eyes are still burning. (Later I accidentally told my mom what I accidentally saw on the bill.)

The baby shower/We’re Having a Kid! cocktail party was held at THE EXACT SAME TIME as the UM/Notre Dame football game. I am happy to report that:
a. the baby shower/We’re Having a Kid! cocktail party was held in a room that was mere steps from the restaurant’s bar and, as we did not need to witness the opening of any gifts or participate in any shower games, sneaking to catch updates of the game was quite painless.
b. MICHIGAN WON.

Quote of the weekend: “I’m always impressed with men’s asses. I am always impressed with them. Not really with the big pecs or shoulders, but when they have muscular asses, I am always impressed.” –My Grandma the Troll

Training for next month’s half-marathon is going surprisingly well and I expect to suffer an injury any day now.

I had my first caramel apple of the fall! Okay, okay. I had my first two caramel apples of the fall. They were equally delicious.

I quieted my inner bitch and resisting holding a grudge against The Bully after our little disagreement on Monday. I apparently played my cards well because she came to work on Tuesday morning and started stroking my back (I nearly vomited) and telling me how sorry she was about what happened. Reports from my predecessor suggest that The Bully never once apologized to her.

I feel like I have a lot to write about but, when I sit down to write it just all comes out so bland and so boring. Consider this my official appeal for suggestions, otherwise you'll have 1,500 words on my housing situation sitting in your Google Reader. Maybe a few paragraphs on the weather, if we play our cards right. And my fantasy football team. Definitely post upon post about my fantasy football team.

Remember that care package I mailed a few weeks ago? It was received. It was appreciated. I picked out the perfect book for The Coach.

Of course I did.

I am a professional.

First Impressions

2011-09-13T10:14:00.001-04:00

This morning, I told a coworker about last night’s blowout. The coworker who had warned me about The Bully.

“Good for you,” she said.

A little while later, she came back into my office. “I have been thinking about that story you told me this morning,” she said to me. “I thought that you should know this. When you started here, I told (another coworker) that I was quite sure that you wouldn’t stand for being treated badly by (The Bully) like your predecessor did. And I was right.”

That was really nice to hear. Because I feel like a punching bag.

Not in the mood

2011-09-12T22:20:00.001-04:00

I am not in the mood for bullshit.
I am not in the mood for catty comments under your breath and the half-assed "sorry, I guess that wasn't very professional of me" comments that follow.
I am not in the mood to watch your eyes get watery when I call you out on your blatent rudeness.
I am not in the mood to be manipulated.
I am not in the mood to be pushed around.

I know that you're the department bully.
I know that you pushed my predecessor to retirement.
Not me, sweetheart.
Not me.
Find someone else to push around.
It won't be me.

I am not playing your games.
I am not in the mood.
I am not in the mood for your commentary about my work. That I am too good, essentially. That I shouldn't step in to offer help. That I shouldn't make the extra effort because that embarrasses you. Because that makes you look bad.
I am not in the mood to listen to you insist that, no, we shouldn't work like a team. We're territorial animals. We're floating bubbles of knowledge. We're non-intersecting planes. We should never collaborate. Heaven forbid we collaborate.

Get over yourself. Get over your antiquated ideas about who should do what and when. Get over your fear that I am too fast, too good, too smart and too willing. Get over your fear that I'm so good that I make you look bad. You know what makes you look bad? Petty backstabbing because you're afraid.

I am not in the mood for your fears.
Get out of my way.

Yay family time

2011-09-11T22:22:00.003-04:00

I will be the first to admit that I'm abnormally close to my family but even for someone like me -- three weeks shy of 29 and still haven't cut the umbilical cord -- there comes a time when you probably should stop going on roadtrips with your family.

And that time is now.

We haven't taken a roadtrip together - just the four of us - in a very long time. We haven't taken any sort of a trip together, actually.

Maybe that's why it seemed so painful. I didn't remember what it was like. I got soft.

I had forgotten how awesome it was to be trapped in a moving vehicle together, just the four of us. With my dad signing along to annoying music. And taking at least 40 minutes to stop after one of us proclaimed that we needed to pee. And my mother, trying to be fun and funny and failing miserably and starting over again. And the food choices. Oh, the food choices. Just because Meg said one time that she likes Culver's doesn't mean that we actually have to go there multiple times. Some of us like food that is not fried or on a bun. And if I say that I don't want ice cream it's probably because I really don't want it, so please don't ask a second time or offer me a bite of yours 11 times. And you know how, like, since the time I learned to read I would get so engrossed in a book that I would completely tune out what was happening around me? I actually like that, but you have to not interrupt me for at least five minutes for me to get into the zone. It's sort of like how you don't wake up someone when they're going to sleep.

(Special props to Uncle Ed, who booked us two hotel rooms instead of cramming us in one room. Because I would be bitching about The Snoring Twins, too.)

Also, I think that I am developing (or just beginning to notice that I have) a touch of anxiety. That has to be what this is. That horrible tight feeling that sits right in my chest, while tears dance in my eyes and my fists clench and unclench and my teeth grind and every muscle - and my stomach - is painfully knotted.

This weekend definitely isn't the first time that I've felt anxious.

But I certainly did.

When I was trapped. Trapped in the car. For hours. (Five, technically. But it felt like at least 11.)

Next time I'm bringing booze.