Nothing a little DCA cannot fix

Sometimes I get a certain way.
Maybe I'm a little edgy. Maybe I can be saucy on occasion. Maybe.
I'll admit it's possible.

When I get this way, Lucio usually has to intervene. Take me out.
Distract me with something sparkly.
Keep me off the phone with the people who call asking us to support the Police Benevolence fund.
Like 4 cents on the dollar from these cranial giants actually gets back to the local police. And they are so not listening when I tell them 6:10 pm is not a good time to talk. So, yes, call again every night this week at the exact same time...

He usually knows when I am approaching the precipice of cray cray.

Yes, he's a good man. Or maybe, just maybe, the whole reason I married him was because he actually knows what I need before I do. Yikes. Good thing he doesn't read my blog.

Totally serious.
He doesn't read a word of it.

Tangent.

Here's my side of a recent conversation we had after a dinner he claimed to have made.

Technically, he re-heated pork chops I had cooked the night before, steamed a bag of brown rice from Trader Joe's in the microwave and opened a can of green beans and put them in a pot. He gets to count this one as "making a meal" and therefore I am on clean-up, which is redonkulous, because he didn't actually cook anything as much as he made stuff I cooked hot again, but I digress.

"Don't you need to go to DC sometime soon?" Lucio asked with a shaky voice. "I think you maybe need to get home soon."
'
"Why exactly?"

"Um, well," he stammers...

"WHAT?" I snap the cabinet closed. My husband seemingly is unaware that the clicking noise means the cabinet is closed and will stay that way.

Straightening his spine, he clears his throat. "Every 6 months or so, everything about Illinois starts to really bother you. Before it's me or the kid, or in the interest of our mortgage, one of your colleagues, maybe you should try to book a weekend back east."

I cock my head at him and smile. Every six months? Perish forbid I am becoming predictable.

"For how long have you known this?", I ask, loading the dishwasher.

"Since you ran away the first Memorial Day weekend we lived here and you didn't let the ear infection Jack was nursing get in your way."

"Well that was different. Flights were cheap and he could still sit on my lap for free."

"I also remember the following October when he was not under the age of two, nor did he have the slightest interest in sitting on my lap for any length of time and you told the airline he was just about to turn two, even though his birthday was three months prior so he could still be free. But you wanted to have margaritas with the girls and go to some exhibit with Leslie and swoosh - off we went to DC. And none of this is important. Jack told me you used your horn twice today after picking him up from school. There are only three traffic lights between his school and our home. In that space of time, three horn uses seems excessive. You want to wind up in the paper? It's a small town, Heather. You need your east coast fix."

"Fine, smarty, but I went to the library and Walgreens after I picked him up, which involves like 11 lights."

"Are you or are you not the same woman who used dream of a cigarette lighter plug in hair-dryer for your nine mile, 45 minutes commute from the ghetto house to American?"

"That would have been a totally amazeballs inventions and I am for sure not the only one who would have used it. But, yes, maybe you're right."

"I am sorry. Someone used their horn in front of our house. Can you repeat that?"

"You're right. Almost everything and EVERYONE in Illinois is annoying me lately. Present company included."

Silence.
So happy is he to hear these words he's singing a little song as he makes his way down to the basement.

"Don't you want to know some of the things that are making me crazy?" I call after him.

"Do I have a choice?", he replies from the bottom of the stairs.

I can hear his damnable grin from the kitchen.

"You did. Now you don't. In the past three days, our surname has been mangled by no fewer than seven people. Vaz. Quez. Like it's two words. Like there's a pause in the middle. And even when I said it correctly to a couple of these people, they repeated it back incorrectly. They make the QUEZ part "kwez".

Then I went to arrange for a campus car for an upcoming trip and I was told it was a vee-hicle. Not a car and not a vehicle. But a VEE HICKLE. Again with the making two words out of one. Why again can we not call it a car? Turns out, here in Illinois, they are all vee hickles.

Then, while Jack was in Tae Kwon Doe, I chatted with a woman who was so artificially tan - fake bake tan, you know, from light bulbs, who looked like Magda from There's Something About Mary - who tried to give me a free pass to her tanning salon. And she's sitting there the color of maple syrup and I politely decline and tell her I don't like to use tanning beds. I laugh and point to my whiteness. You know what cafe crayola tell me then? "Oh, a tan always make you look better." Um, listen much? So I told her, no, actually, it's the vacation at the beach that usually makes me look better and the tan that comes with it from spending my days languishing in a beach chair watching the boys race cars across the sand is just a really nice perk.

She smiled at me, clearly not understanding, and that's when I realized in lieu of vacations, this raisin goes tanning to look like she's been somewhere! The irony? The only place she looks like she's been is on a watch list for the next George Hamilton dating show! And she had that Illinois Angle haircut. And you know how I feel about that. Then she leaves me the card to get a free tan and says "Just make sure they see my name on the card." Um, hello?

And lastly, I had woman in my office today who is educated in the traditional sense - all sorts of letters after her name - who stood up at the end of our meeting, thanked me for my time, turned around and upon seeing my signed photograph of me with my arm around HILARY RODHAM CLINTON asked me, "OMG! Do you know Ellen DeGeneres?"

I take a deep breathe and wait.

Still waiting. He knows I hate waiting.

"Honey? Are you there?"


He pops his head around the corner.

"They're still getting our name wrong? Really?"


"I KNOW!!"

"You should really tell the girls about this in person. Maybe there's a deal on Airtran?'


Seriously, who's better than him?

Deep Cleansing Breathe

Of all the things I've tried in my efforts to make there be less me without losing what is innately moi, this was by far the worst.

Super far.
Can't get there from here far.

Way worse than the breathe that accompanies the complete lack of carbohydrates. I guess what with a good portion of a cow and 43 eggs doing the hokey pokey in your belly, breathe is bound to get rough.
But wowsa.
The smell of dog shit is the closest I can equate it to. In your mouth.

Jarringly worse than the cabbage soup gas. An overachiever when it comes to flatulence, the cabbage soup diet put me in the Olympics trials. Easy.

Even worse than the "oily anal leakage" situation from 2001 when Lucio was forced to ask the question, "Ah, Dios Mio, Heather, what did you eat?" as he woke in a bed quite literally full of orange oil.

Stupid Dorritos.

A simple cleanse. For three days, no food. Sounds like something Goldie Hahn would do. Admittedly, she'd probably do it to jump start her no doubt marrinated liver, but whatever.

Here were my instructions.

No food.
Just OJ, Pineapple or Carrot juice when I found myself hungry.
Water all the rest of the time.
Work out like normal.
Hungry? Have 5-7 ounces of juice.
Hell, if it's day 2 or three, you can even add Apple Juice to the mix.
Keep drinking water.

Par...tay.

Toxins. OUT!!!
Caffeine addiction. BEAT IT!!
A quick 5 pound loss. COME ON!!

Originally, I thought if I started on Friday, it would some how be easier.
For me, it's too hard to be that disciplined on a Friday.
It was almost impossible for me to not eat on Saturday, what with all that goes on in our world on any given Saturday. Like I don't want to cook, and we have pizza and usually go out for at least one meal on Saturday.

Oh, and I forgot to buy juice.
Whoopsie.


So, I begin my fast in earnest on a Sunday.
The Lord's day.
Sounds meant to be.

I muddle through. Barely.
Lucio takes lead with child, as I am cantankerous by 2 pm without benefit of diet coke.
Actually, I kept dozing off, what with no outside influences of energy in my system.

I find napping helps almost everything.
30 minutes can be magical.
Try it. I dare you to be as whatever you were before you let yourself doze off watching Toddlers & Tiaras. If nothing else, you know you're a better person than those nuts.

Just a little pearl of wisdom from me to you.

I make it through work on Monday and Tuesday basically without too much trouble because, well, it's work, and I am expected to not just think about myself there, and I almost always manage to meet that expectation.

The paycheck is a solid motivator.

Almost always.

Tuesday night arrives. Trip my way through a Junior League meeting.
Avoid snacks, water and invitations to grab a cocktail post meeting.

Head home for the finale.

Oh, did I not mention?

The Finale goes like this.

Stop drinking and eating at 8 pm.
At 9 pm, drink a combination of 2 pints of olive oil and 2 pints of lemon juice.
Lay on right side.
Be still.
And wait.


I know? Right!

I choke down the olive oil/lemon combo. Do them in one NOT CLEAR container.
Trust me, you don't want to see what's in the glass. I don't like remembering what it looked like.

But, on the other hand, if I ever need to induce vomiting, I do have the image now to get things started.

I brush my teeth.
I lay down.
I am still.
I taste like Italy.
I brush my teeth again.

(I bought really expensive olive oil. If I am going to drink it, and pretend it's a drink, it's going to be the best I can find)

Lying there, I begin to congratulate myself.
Such discipline. So strong.
"I'm every woman...it's all in me... anything you want...."

I wonder when I will have to go to the bathroom?

Oh, that's right. I haven't told you about the real finale.

Like, in a scary movie, when the naughty killer is downed by our heroine, and she turns to check her wrongly accused beau, and then she turns around, and poof dead bad guy is GONE.

Oh my! Where did he go?

He's right there!! With one last evil deed in him!
BAM. BOOM. BLAST.

That is what it going on in my tum tum.
Keep staying still, Heather.

"Baby, you're a firework...come on show me what you're worth..."


Wait. What is that?
Uh oh. Urgent and seizing.

Quickly to bathroom.

Door closed.
Fan on.
Time for the final finale.


The final finale is all about the, um, output.
If you've done this correctly, it's entirely possible you're are going to finally part ways with a cheeseburger you ate in '87.

In the form of green pellet like substances.
The size of peas.
At top speed.

Well, I did it right.
Way right.

It sounds like a firing squad had our toilet bowl in its cross hairs.

The noise jostled my usually fairly oblivious husband from his permanent seat in front of the computer doing homework.

Hurrying down the hallway, Lucio calls, "Honey bunny, are you okay?"

"I think I'm alright."

"That didn't sound alright."

"It didn't feel great either, but I think it's okay."

Gripping the side of the tub, I wait for everything to settle down.
Which it totally does.

I go to bed, and basically, pass out.

Nine hours later, I wake and I am horizontally across our bed, with Lucio gripping the side and using his Columbia fleece as a blanket.

I get up, scrape my tongue clean, use the loo.
Stripping down, I step on the scale.

7 pounds down.
S-E-V-E-N P-O-U-N-D-S!!!!

Totally worth it.
It wasn't that bad.

Completely doable.
Highly recommend.

Just make sure you buy good olive oil.
That's the key.

That, and being able to not accidentally chew your own elbow off when you just cannot stomach another ounce of OJ.

Maybe it was be easier to just watch what I eat and exercise.

Damn it.

Not from these parts

None of you are under the impression that I am some young chickie born in the 80's, right?

Most of my dear readers have conscious memories of the blessed 80's.
Some of you were next to me when I was taking my hits.

At least one of you is completely at fault for me never not being punished for '86 in its entirety.

You know you are.
I have to own it. So do you.

So, me. Not so young.

Everyone still okay? Cause there's more.

The readership of this blog is also not so vast that you cannot not know that it is our goal -mine and Lucio's - to have another child.

So we tried.
A lot.
For months.






Having been bit by the age bug a while back (twazzoo will not stop rearing her ugly head) I assumed we needed some help in the fertile department.

Of course, my handsome spouse is young and spry.

Evidently he is also a great white because his equipment is totally all pristine to do nothing but making little sharks.

He still had to make a deposit to demonstrate said ability to make little sharks.

Still not sure he's forgiven me yet for that lovely machismo moment when he learned he now had a urologist and a deadline.

So, it's my old parts.
I knew it would be.

When you have old parts, you check things out.

Couple of scans here.
A vile of blood drawn there.
No worries.
Five pills...a couple of hormone shots...one big shot and BAM!
We're off to the races again...

Then came June.
Conception.
Triumph! Delight! Joy!
Oh, yeah, that's right!

Wait, what?
Doom. Tears. Failure.

Learn a world of women are member of this club.






A few months pass and we're back to the drawing board.
Call doc.
Says come it for a treatment and then we'll see.

"So Heather, we'll want to do this scan to make sure your tubes are not bent."

"Really, that wasn't mentioned as an option in the video "Blossoming Into a Woman" in 4th grade. Sorry, okay. What happens?"

"Well, Heather, we'll flush your who-ha-ha with water and do a scan."

"Will it hurt?"

"It's uncomfortable, yes, but it's fairly quick."

"Um, okay."

Scooched to the edge of the chair, feet in place, I take a deep breathe.

Moments pass.
My left forearm is across my eyes and I am holding the side of the chair.
Wow, that is uncomfortable.
Wow.
Really?
Seems like there has to be another way.

"Okay, Heather, here's we go..."

What? Shut the Front Door! You've haven't gone yet!?!!

Seizing pressure cooker what in the name of all that is good and holy...

And then the Jersey just came screaming out...

"Are you fucking kidding me? Fuck! Hurry up and get this shit done!!!

Crickets.
Hand to God.
Now one said a word.


15 minutes later, sitting up and look like I've been swimming.
Feel like I've been gladiating.

Sweet midwestern masochistic who just completed scan that tells me tubes are totally tubular and we can proceed to level 2.

"Wow, Heather, we've had women pass out from that procedure, but never one who screamed the "F" word twice."

"I'm not from around here."

But maybe my baby will be. For a little while at least.

How long has this problem been bothering you?

There's a lot of things people don't tell you.
Some will say it's for your own good.
I say it's because we secretly enjoy watching others suffer the same fate we ourselves have sloshed through before.

Like before you have a kid, for example.
Breast feeding is natural.

LIE.

It may occur in a natural, organic way.
The magic of me making my precious perfect baby grow.
Looking all idealic in the delicate charcoal sketch in my What to Expect books.

That is where the natural part ends.

Getting it to work, in sufficient amounts, at the right times, without drenching your clothes just because another baby you didn't give birth to is crying. Not natural.

Without giving you mean, horrible red spots that are evidently only a precursor to the real delight of learning that you can get yeasty there and it will make it feel like someone is pulling knives out of two of the most delicate area-olas on the body. . Not natural.


There. I said it.
Don't say I didn't warn you.


Want another one?

I likewise was not told by a single married woman that I would be responsible for my beloved husband's complete and total body health in it's entirety. Forever.

Man and woman meet.
Man and woman fall in love.
Man and woman marry.
Man fails to notice leg has fallen off until wife carries leg into garage and asks what happened.

I need to notice when he is sick because he will say he is just tired and it's more than likely my fault he is tired because I asked him to go to the grocery store and get dry cleaning.

I need to get him to a dentist. "No, honey, that's not normal, to bleed when you brush."

I need to convince an otherwise brilliant man that a multi-vitamin is not, in fact, poison, simply because it makes his pee fluorescent yellow.

I need to break the news that he will one day be 50 and need to do that thing with the camera on the long tubes that scrapes the polups. I cannot spell it. You know what I mean. I frankly think he's already a little annoyed with me about that one.

Really, though, how hard can it be to keep an essentially healthy husband healthy?

Except I married a man who doesn't get sick.
At least not according to him.

He calls cough drops "medicine" and has suggested on more than one occasion that I "drugged" him with a Halls.

Exhibit A: Advil.
"Heather, it puts me to sleep."
"Wow, can I get some of those Advil?"

Lucio also has elevated cholesterol. Has had it forever.
Evidently, it's genetic in his case.

Care to guess when he filled his first prescription?
Three weeks after we returned from our honeymoon.
Did I mention we went to Paris and Rome? Elitist leak. Not sorry.

Lucio had seen dentists before we were married, but I suspect they had side gigs as cattle prodders because dentisty wasn't proving to be as lucrative as they had hoped.

The worst? His toes. Or more aptly, his toe nails.

Like he didn't have any.

15 years standing in a puddle behind 2 feet of oak passing beers and refilling ice stations had been hard on my handsome mans tootsies.

I think I was pregnant with Jack when those commericials started for how to erradicate funkitoenailitis. The cartoon one, where the toe nail gets lifted up.
Gross.

I could make them look right?
He could wear something besides sneakers and square toed Cole Haan's?
Sign us up!

Already tired of being forced to wear socks to bed, Lucio was open to the idea.
"Call that foot doctor, baby. I will get you in a pair of flip flops yet!"

Sneakers to the beach. If my own body image issues are not enough in a swimsuit, my beloved is marching across the sand in Nikes. Yeah, he's that guy.

Off to the podiatrist we go.

Upon arrival, Lucio is given a questionaire to complete. I am hungrily pouring over Entertainment Weekly. That Lindsey Lohan! What a rising star!

Lucio's name is called.
Lucio invites me to the consult.

Surprised? Nope. Because he hates hates hates when I ask him to call the doc back two days later because he didn't get all the answers I was hoping for.

We enter an actual office with a desk.
We sit across from the doctor.
Young. Cute thing. Bet he wears Tivas.

Scanning the piece of paper, doc is all "uh huh, yes, I see."

Out of nowhere, explosive laughter from doc.

Really? What could be so funny?


Questionaire: How long has this problem been bothering you?

Lucio's answer: It doesn't bother me. It bothers my wife.


Doc: "I'm hanging this one on my wall."


Tell the truth doc, how much business would you have were it not for the tenacious certitude of wives like me?

Toot Toot

Blop. Blop. Blop.

Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.

Two teeth missing, Jack slides around the tub laughing his 5 year old head off.

"Mommy, I tooted."

"Yes, Jack, I know...I heard it, and now I smell it. It's just gas."

"Hee hee hee what? It's what?"

"Gas. Toots are just gas from the food we eat."

"Really? What foods, Mommy?"

"In your case, broccoli and beans."

"I don't eat beans Mommy. You know that."

"Really, are green beans beans?"

"No, Mommy. Green beans are not beans. They are green beans. Duh."

"Okay, well, these things make gas and it comes out as toots. Let's go, buddy. Bath, Books, Bed." Kind of like "Gym, Tan, Laundry" except with genuine earning potential.

A few minutes later we're liberally applying Aquafore to every bendy part of our child. He gets really really dry. Like desert dry.

I've been lotioning him like this since he was born. Danielle said you knew Jack was ready for bed because he was easily seen by his reflecting off the moon.

"Why don't you put lotion on my bottom Mommy?"

"Do you need lotion on your tush?"

"No. But why don't you put it on me like you put on Piper."

"I still give you a massage, just like Piper."

"But you put the lotion all around her gashole."


Jack had to finish lotioning himself.
The adults in the room were dizzy from laughing so hard.

Damn it, the kid is already funnier than me.

Coach Roach

Traveling is part of my job. My commitment to uninterrupted employment means I must partake of planes, trains and mostly my automobile on a regular basis.

The bulk of my travel remains within the confines of the state of Illinois. I journey outside of Illinois on occasion by car, visiting Indiana with alarming regularly considering before accepting my current job the only this I had to say about the Hoosier state was it smelled an awful lot like formaldehyde.

Though I have done one-day trips to Wisconsin and Missouri alike, I prefer to consider any mileage in excess of 220 one-way as over-nights.

Here’s my math – 220 miles takes about 4 hours.
4 times 2 equals 8.
Technically, I should work 8 hours a day.
Each visit I make takes about an hour, and I rarely travel over 440 miles to see only one person.
You add in 2 or 3 visits, and the time it takes to get between visits, and a day of work is pushing 13 hours.
Though it happens more than I think it should, the day after a 13 hour day, I am hardly worth the space I take up in the office.


In addition to not loving winters in Illinois, I am likewise not a fan of Route 57, the road I take back and forth to Chicago and its surroundings.

It’s length, it’s lack of interesting sites, the entire stretch in Ford County where they have evidently cut asphalt out of the budget completely as it rivals any road in in Northeast Washington, DC.

While living and getting educated in our nations Capitol, I once saw a city road crew throw a mattress in a pothole, dump some filler asphalt over it and pound it down with the weight of a crew I am certain only moments earlier had been outside the homeless shelter on 15th and Corcoran. To this day, the car sinkins a little when I drive over it. Barry should have thrown a Tempurpedic in there.

I am on 57 all the time, and I just now know where the dunkin donuts are, where not to stop to piddle (Paxton, this is you)and to always sing out "Rantucky" as I speed past Rantoul. This insult is from a girl who was raised in here, calling her home region Shampoo Banana.

Though most of my travel in and around Illinois, I am thoughtfully released 4 or 5 times a year to places that, though they can be reached by car, it’s not the most prudent use of state dollars.
The DC area, NJ and the greater tri state, and Florida - east coast and gulf.

This particular trip, I headed west. To Los Angeles.
El Lay baby.
Good visits. Fine leads and solid outcomes.

LA has a lot to offer. Blue skies, mountain peaks sprinkled with snow. Beach front without a single skeet-ball game in sight. Minor celebrities sitting across from me while I am talking to a donor about the College's amazing new curriculum and I barely covered my "who the hell is that?" look.

I hope.

Yes, LA has a lot.

You know what LA doesn’t need?

Any more frickin people.

Seven lanes of traffic in each direction and every one of them are full?

I don’t think they actually go to work. I think it’s like the Truman Show, and there are people whose job it is to just congest the freeways.

Maybe I am getting more accustomed to Illinois than I thought?

Could I actually enjoy our sad little two lane roads with views of absolutely nothing except the random driver reading a novel in her lap whilst driving 70 miles per hour? Yes, ma’am, we know the road is rather straight. But, really, reading? An actual book? Maybe next time you swing past the library and pick up John Grisholm on CD?

I probably caused more problems chasing her delinquent ass up 57 and maddeningly calling the police to report her plate number.

Anyway, or this particular trip to LA, I’ll admit it. I was nervous.
Total odgidda. Thank God Prevacid is OTC now, though it takes two, sometimes, three, to really settle my increasing travelers woes.

So fearful was I that I would be late for an appointment as I was trapped in too far a left lane on The 405 (what’s with the The stuff?) or lost in a valley with no signal to Julie, the woman who lives in the windshield now, I was leaving my hotel before 6:30 am each day. Just under 500 miles in 3 days, and I am once again reminded that I don’t really like business travel.

Sure, in my 20’s, I was enchanted by the allure of business travel. I work with lovely people who think I have this glamourous side to my job.

These are the same women who travel outside of Champaign County once a year and it's not uncommon for them to usurp three work days planning an overnight to Memphis. By car.

Yeah, the bloom is off the rose.

I am not meeting handsome innocuous chatty strangers in my middle seat.

Because even if Bradley Cooper was actually in the middle seat next to me, and I was the multi-toothed Julia Roberts, I would still be out of my skin with fury that there was someone in the middle seat to begin with. The only thing that belongs in the middle seat is my discarded copy of Vanity Fair.

Neither is George Clooney in the seat behind me, waiting for his 10 millionth mile.

A basketball player from Naperville currently has his overlong legs – and therefore knees - in my back at this moment and is determined to make me put my seat in its full and upright position. Good luck, kiddo, you’re what, 19 years old? Sit back and enjoy the strength behind my size 24 body pushing back at you.

So, no, I don't love business travel.
Though I do love frequent flier miles and hotel points.
Greed, by definition, is good.

There is only one good reason to love business travel.

The coming home part.

If you could bottle how it feels to come down the escalator and see Jack running towards you, with Lucio standing behind him, holding a diet coke and smiling up at me, we could completely negate the need to depression meds.

It's like seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time.

I am on a plane now, heading home. The middle seat empty and the man by the window is sleeping soundly enough that he didn’t notice me put down the shade. Mother and daughter in front of me recently escaped from some eastern block nation spitting all over each other and wear more make up between them right this moment than I wore in all of 2009.

Neither one of them actually fit into their clothing but that doesn’t seem to concern them. The A in Hardy is stretched so tightly across the top section of her at least 70 year old breasts that it looks like it might split down the middle and start making two new letters.

Drag Queen wisdom of the day - "Girl, just because it goes on, doesn't mean it fits."

Flight attendants skirting past me (probably crop dusting) collecting trash.

And I am smiling wide, happy as loon.

Here’s what’s waiting for me.

A tiny hand in mine that has grown large enough for our fingers to twine together when he walks next to me.

A warm, inexplicably soft cheek he will let me touch endlessly for the next day or so whenever the mood strikes.

Snuggling in our king size bed with all the lights off as he tells me how he has received not one time out or reset in the past two whole weeks.

A sweetly whispered request thisclose that I not do a Mommy Mommy Attack...as he slowly raises his long arms above his head, a giggle of delight escaping his lips.

Two teeth I suspect have waited for me to arrive back from LA so he can get top dollar.

A tired adult student who will tell me “he’s all yours” and then crawl into the middle of our too small king size bed (seriously, where is emperor size? Tzar maybe?), lay back on the piles of pillows, raising his arms so both of us can put our heads on his chest, wrap us up in a warm hug and fall asleep while my favorite five year old tells me all about his week at school, asking at least three times, “Is tomorrow a stay home day. Mommy?”

And I answer, “Yes, my love, tomorrow is a stay home day.”

I love business travel.

That, what they just said, does not exist

I have seen all kinds of weather.
Lived one both coasts.
A few years in sunny California.
With it's sun and it's more sun and it's sometimes wind.
Santa Ana's are rough. Like a coyote cartoon.

Raised mostly in the mid-atlantic, which has sun and rain and snow and sleet. Something for everyone.

Now in the middle of the country.
The middle has the wind. Like whoosh - WIND!!!
I used to be nervous going out in wind.
Now, if it's under 30 miles per hour, we'll still walk the dog.

I have seen a lot of weather.

I made it through Hurricane Isabel in 2003, in the ghet-to, when Lucio had to regularly go out and clear the sewer drains of used diapers and chicken bones so our house wouldn't flood. The only time our lights went off the whole two days? When he was trying to unstick a tire from the sewer. He heard me scream from three houses down. Swear to God. Ask him.

I survived the Blizzard of '96 with only MaryAnn for company and barely two packs of cigarettes between us. For three days. It's interesting to me now that quitting smoking was never a consideration. Hmmm. It's a puzzler.

While we were going to nicotein withdrawl, Vivian was trapped alone in her apartment near AU.

It was in this apartment where just a month earlier Vivian had frozen the pipes to the whole building because she left the window in her kitchen and bedroom open whilst she went home for Christmas.
For two weeks.
To Long Island.

Because...
wait for it...
She was convinced the cockroaches wouldn't enter her apartment if it was too cold.

Like a little chill can scare off a distict roach?

During the 96'r, MaryAnn and I ventured outside while it was still coming down..hoping the 7-11 was still open.
It wasn't.
I am sure we considered robbing one of the old bitties living in our building for her smokes, but none of them smoked Marlboro Ultra Lights.

During our fruitless search for smokes, we sat down in the middle Montrose Road, just off Rockville Pike. Not a car in sight.

Because of 96, I was totally prepared for the big storm in 2001 when Lucio and I lived MacArthur Boulevard in the pre-burbs. While everyone was at the soviet, the social and the unsafeway grabbing milk, we prepared by leaving time for a a trip to the liquor store for Grand Marnier, the bakery for bread, the Italian Store for cheese and the video store for The Godfather, parts I, II, and III. And we got milk and bread too. And plenty of cigarettes.

I also learned how to make lasagna during that one. Jamie and Steve had no idea that I had no idea what I was doing.

Hell, Becca and I trained for the Marine Corps Marathon in 2002, one of the hottest summers on record in our nation's capitol. Running our fat asses from SW DC to Bethesda (and back). Hello? Crossing boarders. In this story, Becca is the real amazing one, as she was three months pregnant with Theo at the time and didn't know it. That's my godchild...the litle Advil baby that could.

I have weathered wind in Illinois that literally knocked Jack off his 18 month old feet walking into Schnucks a few years ago.

Isn't that a ridiculous name for a grocery store? I spent the first two months we lived here thinking it was called Schmucks.

But this is too much.

The forecast for the past few days continues to include FREEZING FOG WARNINGS.

That is made up! There is no such thing as freezing fog!

Like you're driving down the road, and BAM!! Smack right into a sheet of ice just hanging out in mid air?

Fog is what? Really wet air right? I am going to check...

Like I thought. Basically just really wet air.

And here we sit. Day after day. Night after night. The same forecast.
Freezing Fog.

Maybe the people on the news are just making this up.
Is Doug Quick going to hit us with "Gotcha! Fog can't Freeze! Suckers!!!"

When he does, I can say I knew it all along.

I am so a total cliche

We acquired a treadmill today.

I say "we" because well, I found it online and I made the arrangements to pick it up.

I also say "we" because Lucio drove to Potomac, IL this morning (even more east central Illinois than we are) to procure said treadmill.

He also arranged for the use of John's pick up truck.

I adore John.
I love his wife Mary.
I love their daughter, Emilee. Jack love loves her. When he was a baby he called her "mymee"
I adore their sons.
They are our former neighbors.
They are the best kinds of neighbors.
They became friends.
We will be friends with them long after I stop judging from my current location in the cornfields.
They are another of the reasons I will always love Illinois.

And John is totally handy.

He has every tool imaginable.

Lucio calls his garage "John's Depot".

When Lucio wanted to finish putting in something call quarter round last summer, he asked me to call John to see about borrowing the tool he'd need to complete the task.

Lucio told me the name of the thing.

I forgot what he called it before I found my phone.

John kept the message for a while and played it for random friends whenever we were in a group and felt I needed a good shutting up already.

Here's the gist of the message...

"Hi, John, It's Heather. Lucio is finishing the quarter round today. I think that's what he called it. Anyway,,, He needs your...it's a hammer thing with a hose I think. But no plug. The "ptch ptch ptch" thing. Shut up. I know you know what I mean. Can you call us back? Thanks!"


So, in addition to a lovely wife and a macked out back porch with bed swing John made himself, he has a pick up that he lets Lucio use when needed.

Lucio came home with our new treadmill.

He and my brother got it in the door and he is currently lubing it up and making sure the bolts are doing whatever it is bolts needs to do.

All before my maiden walk tomorrow morning.

Because no one in their right mind would be outside today if they didn't have to be.

I have heard of bone chilling.

I have heard of the tundra.

I have wondered why people would purchase expensive jackets from Columbia for 5 year olds that are only going to outgrow them in a years time.

I have all my answers now.

Because 3 should not be a temperature in industrialized communities.

Because I was plenty cold before that twit with the angled haircut (Really? You thought you could pull off the same style as Posh Spice? Because why again? Oh, yeah, that's right, you can't) told me the wind chill.

Because my nose is bleeding from the lack of moisture in our home. We all look like our fave restaurant friends of years past who had an affinity for booger sugar.

Ever night I put a bowl of water on the floor vents and every single morning it's completely evaporated.

If you looked around our house, you would see a pattern emerging.

The treadmill. The Wii games. Frozen weight watcher meals. And treats.

A fridge full of leafy greens.

Yogurt. Oatmeal. Fruits and Veggies.

I have finished 8 glasses of water already today. Ever since Jack was born, I hate sneezing when I have to pee. Look around. You can tell who has kids.

A plan to blog daily so as not to accidentally cook the tater tots in the freezer that are for Jack and not for Jack's mother.


Yes, dear readers. It's 2010.

And I am planning to lose weight. In case it wasn't clear.

Cancel the intervention.

One of my greatest fears has always been finding myself as one of those headless, nameless fat people on the intro to some 20/20 segment about the rising percentage of obese in America.

There I will be, sitting on the couch, thinking, "Why is that fat woman wearing the same pants and shoes as me and holding hands with Jack?"

My fear is different lately.
I have been smacked with reality.

Young healthy people die.
People who have never smoked.
Never been overweight.

My paternal grandmother died before she was 50.
Paternal grandfather didn't make it to 60.
Maternal grandmother had many heart attacks.

Hell, my father was dead at 68 from essentially life style choices.
Marlboro's and Oreos are a choice.

So exactly how much luck should I be pushing as my 40th looms?

I am working hardest to not get in my own way.

As you can imagine, I have had this plan before.

In 2007, I had been a non-smoker for over a year, so I thought I could get movin.

In 2008, I thought the looming 20th High School Reunion would have served to motivate. Hell, if my recently deceased father didn't do the trick... though he did get me to quit smoking.

Last year, I found Julie at Junior League.
We've done a lot for each other. I have a bonafide sister sledge in Illinois now (taking tremendous pressure, I hope, off my lovely actual sister in law/sister sledge, Stephanie)

Julie and I have not, however, served to help either one of us in the "weighing less" department.

Here it is 2010, and I am scheduled to turn 40 in eight months.

This better be it.

The Crown Prince of Puebla

Too much to do between 5:30 pm and 8 pm.
Never going to make it to pick up dry cleaning, get the Rx from Walgreens, drop the books at the library, get four more things for dinner at the grocery and make dinner.
And get a certain kindergartener fed, washed, lotioned, dressed, read to and sleeping all before 8:30 pm.
Couldn't do it all myself.
Need a staff.


I ask Lucio to go to Target for me.
With a list.
And take Jack with him. So I can hop in and out of the car and be efficient.


I have coupons for Target for paper towels and toilet paper and shampoo and conditioner (not co-mingled, two independent containers of each) and we need a present for a birthday party Jack has been invited to (for a child I couldn't pick out of a line up).

Dear reader, would you imagine I would ask Lucio to go shopping with a list and take the child if I didn't have just too much to do in this incredibly short amount of time?

Like I would choose to skip a trip to Target.
I love Target.
There is always something I need at Target.
I don't even know I need it yet, but I know Target has what I need.

But don't call it Tar-jay.
It was cute in 2001. The first time.
It's not cute anymore. Nope. Not cute.
Stupid.

No, reader, you wouldn't imagine that I would ask this of Lucio were it not completely necessary.

You know who did?

Yes, He did.

But let me be clear.
He was okay with going to Target.
He was even okay with the child accompanying him.
He was cool with the list.

I knew he'd add Doritos and some cookies to the list. No worries.

Like I didn't factor that in. What am I, new?

No, Lucio's break down was the coupons.

I hand him the list and the coupons to him.

He looks at me blankly and doesn't immediately take them from me.

"What are these for?"

"Coupons. You've heard about the economy tanking and all. This is me, doing my part for our little Vazquez economy."

"I have never used these before."

"Well, honey, you purchase the items in the small picture, checking the size is the right, and it costs less."

"I really don't want to. What are you doing? I'll do that. You go to Target."


See, now I am going to stand on principle. My husband, who has been a citizen of the US for just over a year, as most of you know, comes from rural Mexico.
The state of Puebla.
Three bumpy hours south of Mexico City.

Maybe when we first met and you asked me where Lucio was from, I told you about the grand mountains and incredible colores of the flowers. The gardens of avocados, tomato, and cilantro, just waiting for you to crave guacamole. His donkey.

I probably told you about Lucio being related to the whole town. Or that his father was Mayor.

I can sell the shit out of the beauty and simplicity of Tehuacan.
Or more specifically, San Bartolo Teon Tepec.

The straight scoop?

The are farm animals wandering around everywhere.

Dogs without homes.

When the small Church festival caused a power outage to the whole town, the only person freaking out was me.

That fucking rooster every damned morning.

You want hot water? Better start burning some shit.

You've finished doing your business in toilet? There's a big (really big) hole in the ground filled with water and you have to get a bucket of water and throw the bucket of water down the toilet. There is nothing to flush.

Yes, I stood there the first time for a few minutes before sitting. I thought if I filled it up we'd just toss the whole thing out and go get a new one.

Let me say again how much I love this man. And our Mexican family couldn't be nicer.

This little ditty usually sums up my feelings about his home town.

I was sitting under a tree quietly reading Fast Food Nation and a fucking chicken jumped up to perch on my arm chair.

Flipped the damned chair over and all I could see through the dust all around me was my extended family running to help me up... and my beloved husband laying on the ground laughing his rather Americanized ass off, spewing some shit about "I can think of 20 people, off the top of my head, who would have paid to see that."

Indeed.


Quaint. Rural. Simple. All completely true. Parts are so perfect I cannot explain it. A family meal every night in the courtyard with a live band. And it had nothing to do with our being in Mexico. Just a regular old Miercoles.

But I ask you, does this sound like underpinnings of a man now refusing to use coupons?

I think not.


90 minutes later, I am back at the house, dry cleaning in closets, prescriptions in cabinet, library books returned, dinner on the stove with all listed ingredients and all the fixinng for dinner tomorrow in the fridge ready to crock pot in the morning.

Lucio comes in.

Jack is eating Dorritos.

Lucio tells me they came with the paper towel.

I ask him where the shampoo and conditioner are, as I search the two bags and cannot see them.

"They didn't have the one you wanted."

"So you got me nothing?"

"I knew you wanted what you wanted." (I'll give him that one.)

"Okay. Where's the coupon?"

"What coupon?"

"The one for shampoo and the one for conditioner."

"I gave it to the guy."

"You left it there? I don't understand. You didn't get the stuff. Where is the coupon?"

"I gave it to the guy."

"You said that already. I still don't understand."

He looks at me and says, "Heather, there was a line of people behind me, and they were all looking at me and so, I left it there."

He turns to walk out of the kitchen and calls out, "And I am not going back to get it so don't bother asking."

I watch him saunter down the hall in his Kenneth Cole shoes and entire outfit from LL Bean I picked out last season.

"To the manor born" I mumble just loud enough for him to hear.

"I am going to school now, Heather. I heard that and I understand it now."

I think this is what they call just desserts.