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.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
My Girls...My Girls...Talkin' bout my Girls
Do you remember when Grey's Anatomy was this show you had to - HAD TO - watch?
I think it's still a good show, don't get me wrong, but there was a time in the second season when it was fucking brilliant.
When we cared who Dereck chose.
When we liked Izzie.
When Burke shutthefuckup.
When Bailey screamed Vajayjay.
As of late, I don't really care if I watch it. I don't move things around to be sure I am home Sure, I DVR, but maybe I forget to watch until Sunday afternoon.
When I have ironing and I want something to look at.
And if I haven't already on-demanded all of the available episodes of Sex & the City.
Maybe television was just better 5-10 years ago?
I appear to enjoy watching shows that I already know the ending.
Anything is better than watching 17 tramps try to find true love on TV.
No, I will not accept that rose - because you people are the reason Europeans can justifiably mock us.
Or some under-fed housewife from LA who whines that her son is in prison and her husband wants to leave her? Um, honey, maybe less time as a "real housewife" on television an a little more time, I don't know, with your son's parole officer?
And before you get all huffy, I know about this Real Housewife show because West Wing is on Bravo...and Bravo really like to run and run and run the same commercials. All morning long.
I don't watch Real Housewives of LA.
The Jersey one? Yeah, that one I watch.
Prostitution Whore!!
My most favorite Grey's was the one when the man had the bomb in his chest, and Christina Ricci was there, and then Meredith switched places with her (and of course, the bomb didn't explode because it was a TO BE CONTINUED...
The part I love of this particular episode is the end.
Meredith is covered in ash of hot (dead) bomb squad guy (sorry if you've not seen it) and Izzie and Christina (Yang, not Ricci) hold Meredith up in the shower, because she needs them. Her needs are not expressly said mind you.
They are her girls and she needs them to.
Without a word, they know what to do.
When I watched it the first time, Lucio came out and asked me what I was crying about. I said, "I know you may never understand how women work but this, right here, is best friends. The people who show up because they just wouldn't feel right not being there. The women I love, and who love me, are amazing like this. Hold you up when you cannot do it for yourself."
He walked over, kissed my forehead, and told me I was silly.
I sent an e-mail to a choice few and told them how much I love them.
And that I hope they know they hold me up.
And that I am ready to do the holding when I am called.
And not to make fun of their sappy friend crying alone in the middle of the country.
They all made fun.
I knew that they would.
They also told me they would totally hold me up too.
The women I call friends are miracles.
People I can't possibly explain to anyone they are so magical.
But, hell, I'll try.
Caye. Over 25 years and still she loves me. Strong and honest and seemingly more beautiful as we approach our 40th than she was as we slid into 30.
Vivian. The single best thing that came out Uno's. She is my effortless friend.
Leigh. The softest part of my heart - where I keep Jack and Lucio. Leigh is right next to that. She is my touchstone.
Eileen. Over 20 years ago, the silliest thing in the world brought us together. I thank God for NKOTB.
Les. Happy fingers. Every single thing I do with Les is fun.
Becca. No one makes me laugh like you. Or can bring me off the ledge faster.
Liz. Passionate and generous. Best voice of anyone I know.
Stephanie. A sister friend. I should spend more time thanking my brother for marrying her.
Danielle. Gentle and strong. And everything she wears is perfect.
Lori. Best laugh ever. Gives the best hugs. Lets me be whatever I want without judgement.
Julie. She's my comet. I didn't even know I was looking for her. Kind and smart and calls me on my shit.
Good night, my friends. Thank you for holding my fat ass up.
Which, incidentally, is four pounds smaller than it was on Christmas.
Me love you long time.
I think it's still a good show, don't get me wrong, but there was a time in the second season when it was fucking brilliant.
When we cared who Dereck chose.
When we liked Izzie.
When Burke shutthefuckup.
When Bailey screamed Vajayjay.
As of late, I don't really care if I watch it. I don't move things around to be sure I am home Sure, I DVR, but maybe I forget to watch until Sunday afternoon.
When I have ironing and I want something to look at.
And if I haven't already on-demanded all of the available episodes of Sex & the City.
Maybe television was just better 5-10 years ago?
I appear to enjoy watching shows that I already know the ending.
Anything is better than watching 17 tramps try to find true love on TV.
No, I will not accept that rose - because you people are the reason Europeans can justifiably mock us.
Or some under-fed housewife from LA who whines that her son is in prison and her husband wants to leave her? Um, honey, maybe less time as a "real housewife" on television an a little more time, I don't know, with your son's parole officer?
And before you get all huffy, I know about this Real Housewife show because West Wing is on Bravo...and Bravo really like to run and run and run the same commercials. All morning long.
I don't watch Real Housewives of LA.
The Jersey one? Yeah, that one I watch.
Prostitution Whore!!
My most favorite Grey's was the one when the man had the bomb in his chest, and Christina Ricci was there, and then Meredith switched places with her (and of course, the bomb didn't explode because it was a TO BE CONTINUED...
The part I love of this particular episode is the end.
Meredith is covered in ash of hot (dead) bomb squad guy (sorry if you've not seen it) and Izzie and Christina (Yang, not Ricci) hold Meredith up in the shower, because she needs them. Her needs are not expressly said mind you.
They are her girls and she needs them to.
Without a word, they know what to do.
When I watched it the first time, Lucio came out and asked me what I was crying about. I said, "I know you may never understand how women work but this, right here, is best friends. The people who show up because they just wouldn't feel right not being there. The women I love, and who love me, are amazing like this. Hold you up when you cannot do it for yourself."
He walked over, kissed my forehead, and told me I was silly.
I sent an e-mail to a choice few and told them how much I love them.
And that I hope they know they hold me up.
And that I am ready to do the holding when I am called.
And not to make fun of their sappy friend crying alone in the middle of the country.
They all made fun.
I knew that they would.
They also told me they would totally hold me up too.
The women I call friends are miracles.
People I can't possibly explain to anyone they are so magical.
But, hell, I'll try.
Caye. Over 25 years and still she loves me. Strong and honest and seemingly more beautiful as we approach our 40th than she was as we slid into 30.
Vivian. The single best thing that came out Uno's. She is my effortless friend.
Leigh. The softest part of my heart - where I keep Jack and Lucio. Leigh is right next to that. She is my touchstone.
Eileen. Over 20 years ago, the silliest thing in the world brought us together. I thank God for NKOTB.
Les. Happy fingers. Every single thing I do with Les is fun.
Becca. No one makes me laugh like you. Or can bring me off the ledge faster.
Liz. Passionate and generous. Best voice of anyone I know.
Stephanie. A sister friend. I should spend more time thanking my brother for marrying her.
Danielle. Gentle and strong. And everything she wears is perfect.
Lori. Best laugh ever. Gives the best hugs. Lets me be whatever I want without judgement.
Julie. She's my comet. I didn't even know I was looking for her. Kind and smart and calls me on my shit.
Good night, my friends. Thank you for holding my fat ass up.
Which, incidentally, is four pounds smaller than it was on Christmas.
Me love you long time.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Johnny Be Good
I remain in the early stages of my interest in Emile Hirsch. I know he's too young for me but I cannot seem to quit this man/boy...
I know his birthday, but mostly because it's March 13th and that is my brother Kevin's birthday.
I know he doesn't have a new movie coming out anytime soon. I don't care. I still think he is the cutesthingever.
Oh, and I know he is climbing Mt. Kilamanjaro right now as part of this group of activists raising awareness for clean drinking water.
I have had some long term celebrity crushes over the years.
My celebrity crushes live on Hump Island. Not unlike the list of 5 celebrities you can -and would - um, canoodle with, if ever presented the opp. How interesting that it never occurs to me that bedding this 24 year old actor who stands just a smoosh taller than Jack could be a challenge?
Hump Island has had several inhabitants since I discovered it way back when.
Bradley Cooper moved onto the island last summer.
Didn't we all that moment watching Hangover and think, "How long has he looked like that?"
Edward Norton visits fairly regularly.
He has a time share.
Emile has been there for a while. Since Dogtown.
Clooney, Pitt (before the stench of Angie turned him into the dad at the playgroud I have to explain to Jack, "Sweetie, please stop saying that man smells at the top of your voice.")
Patrick Wilson and Justin Kirk. There all the time.
I know, I know, I am all over the map on hump island. It's my island. I can do what I want.
Because there is a king of hump island.
He is a classic.
He is as sweet as grand marnier. (God, I hope we have some GM...)
He is the right age, I am sure the right smell, and certainly the cannoodling would be divine.
Because you know he works for it. No neck fucking here...
A neck fuck is a phrase we coined in the 90's about men you could just tell, when they are doing the hard work, really only move their neck. And really, who's happy about that? Can we all say three pump chump?
Johnny Depp is the coolest of the cool because he doesn't care.
Because he has the best filthy floppy hair ever
No, no, my main man Johnny Depp never goes out of style.
So I will sign off shortly, as I hear the bath water draining from the tub and Lucio speaking rapidly to Jack about getting to sleep if he wants to go sledding tomorrow.
Dillinger is ready to be cue'd up. Popcorn is popped.
Long live the king.
I know his birthday, but mostly because it's March 13th and that is my brother Kevin's birthday.
I know he doesn't have a new movie coming out anytime soon. I don't care. I still think he is the cutesthingever.
Oh, and I know he is climbing Mt. Kilamanjaro right now as part of this group of activists raising awareness for clean drinking water.
I have had some long term celebrity crushes over the years.
My celebrity crushes live on Hump Island. Not unlike the list of 5 celebrities you can -and would - um, canoodle with, if ever presented the opp. How interesting that it never occurs to me that bedding this 24 year old actor who stands just a smoosh taller than Jack could be a challenge?
Hump Island has had several inhabitants since I discovered it way back when.
Bradley Cooper moved onto the island last summer.
Didn't we all that moment watching Hangover and think, "How long has he looked like that?"
Edward Norton visits fairly regularly.
He has a time share.
Emile has been there for a while. Since Dogtown.
Clooney, Pitt (before the stench of Angie turned him into the dad at the playgroud I have to explain to Jack, "Sweetie, please stop saying that man smells at the top of your voice.")
Patrick Wilson and Justin Kirk. There all the time.
I know, I know, I am all over the map on hump island. It's my island. I can do what I want.
Because there is a king of hump island.
He is a classic.
He is as sweet as grand marnier. (God, I hope we have some GM...)
He is the right age, I am sure the right smell, and certainly the cannoodling would be divine.
Because you know he works for it. No neck fucking here...
A neck fuck is a phrase we coined in the 90's about men you could just tell, when they are doing the hard work, really only move their neck. And really, who's happy about that? Can we all say three pump chump?
Johnny Depp is the coolest of the cool because he doesn't care.
Because he has the best filthy floppy hair ever
No, no, my main man Johnny Depp never goes out of style.
So I will sign off shortly, as I hear the bath water draining from the tub and Lucio speaking rapidly to Jack about getting to sleep if he wants to go sledding tomorrow.
Dillinger is ready to be cue'd up. Popcorn is popped.
Long live the king.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
It's just a number
Eight people read this blog.
Okay, eight people follow this blog.
Maybe only three people read this blog.
I am not really sure.
One reader is my mother. Hi Mom!
One taught me to breastfeed. Hi Becca!
One I've known since I was in 8th grade. Hi Alison!
Hell, Lucio isn't a follower. Uh, hello?
Not one of you eight is under the impression I am small.
And yet I have spent the past couple of days considering making my pants size in the last blog post a size 20 or 22.
Cause that is so much better than size 24.
That was totally what you were thinking...right?
I don't plan for this blog to be weight loss blog.
I just want to create a discipline to write.
I would like to be called a writer.
But then a few friends reached out after my last post about being a cliche, and offered such support that I need to update my beloved 8 on my quest.
Today is Day 2.
I hit the treadmill both days for at least 30 minutes. On an incline. A little one.
I brought lunch both days. Snacks like oatmeal, yogurt. Freeze a Yoplait Whips. The lime is divine!
Tracked my food.
At 7 pm (central time) I stepped on the treadmill. I turned on the televison and the season premiere of Biggest Loser was starting.
I am concerning myself with telling 8 people that I wear a size 24, and these people are getting weighed in front of their towns?
Families, teachers, colleagues, friends and strangers alike.
Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!!!!
I think Bob should have to at least show us his dick.
Jillian flash a nip or something.
I am so happy I tuned in tonight.
And I am still a size 24.
But not for long...
Okay, eight people follow this blog.
Maybe only three people read this blog.
I am not really sure.
One reader is my mother. Hi Mom!
One taught me to breastfeed. Hi Becca!
One I've known since I was in 8th grade. Hi Alison!
Hell, Lucio isn't a follower. Uh, hello?
Not one of you eight is under the impression I am small.
And yet I have spent the past couple of days considering making my pants size in the last blog post a size 20 or 22.
Cause that is so much better than size 24.
That was totally what you were thinking...right?
I don't plan for this blog to be weight loss blog.
I just want to create a discipline to write.
I would like to be called a writer.
But then a few friends reached out after my last post about being a cliche, and offered such support that I need to update my beloved 8 on my quest.
Today is Day 2.
I hit the treadmill both days for at least 30 minutes. On an incline. A little one.
I brought lunch both days. Snacks like oatmeal, yogurt. Freeze a Yoplait Whips. The lime is divine!
Tracked my food.
At 7 pm (central time) I stepped on the treadmill. I turned on the televison and the season premiere of Biggest Loser was starting.
I am concerning myself with telling 8 people that I wear a size 24, and these people are getting weighed in front of their towns?
Families, teachers, colleagues, friends and strangers alike.
Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!!!!
I think Bob should have to at least show us his dick.
Jillian flash a nip or something.
I am so happy I tuned in tonight.
And I am still a size 24.
But not for long...
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, January 1, 2010
I'm brewing something...
Happy New Year!
If you're looking for something, I hope you find it.
If it's strength you need, ask stronger people if they have a minute.
If it's guidance you need, ask people who know you best and love you anyway.
If you're loved, I hope it gets stronger.
I hope you and yours find happiness, fulfillment and peace to fill your heart.
I hope we all try a little harder to be better versions of ourselves.
I hope we don't stop trying.
I hope I am better wife and mother and sister and daughter and friend and woman when 2010 comes to a close.
I hope I can keep feeling the way I have felt all day today.
And if you know me and think I need a nudge in the right direction about this post in the coming weeks and months, feel free remind me of my own shit. Kisses.
If you're looking for something, I hope you find it.
If it's strength you need, ask stronger people if they have a minute.
If it's guidance you need, ask people who know you best and love you anyway.
If you're loved, I hope it gets stronger.
I hope you and yours find happiness, fulfillment and peace to fill your heart.
I hope we all try a little harder to be better versions of ourselves.
I hope we don't stop trying.
I hope I am better wife and mother and sister and daughter and friend and woman when 2010 comes to a close.
I hope I can keep feeling the way I have felt all day today.
And if you know me and think I need a nudge in the right direction about this post in the coming weeks and months, feel free remind me of my own shit. Kisses.
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