I love me blog. I really do. But it’s been a bitch to keep up lately, for a few reasons.

1.) Hijacked Computer
Shaun’s computer is broken. He earns his keep by writing articles and scripts and whatever else anyone wants to pay him to write. He needs a computer for this and has hijacked mine while the Mac Pros dawdle around on his for a million years.

2.) The Grain is Eating Me Alive.
Starting tomorrow, I’ll be in week #9 of Vessle-dom. On the upside, my skin looks amazing and my boobs are getting pretty rad, even if they hurt like a bitch sometimes. Plus, the doctor tells me that The Grain is doing it’s webbed-toed thang pretty well.

On the downside, this week has been the first time that I really felt anything different. And what I felt is gross between the hours of 8:30am-11:30am, with intermittent spells of shock and horror that the world smells like ripe ass. The time of day is really inconvienent for me, too, as I have to be on the bus at 8:30 for work. And nothing starts your day off on the right foot like morning sickness on public transit. When I arrive to work, I lead a staff meeting for my crew before we head downstairs to open the museum. I excuse myself if retch in the bathroom for a while before coming up to my desk, where I stare at the computer screen pretending to work but really just trying not to look at anything too hard or to move. Then, at 10:45, I give my staff breaks at the admissions desk. Here, I get to greet the public, sell tickets, and provide information about our current exhibitions. And I do it all while managing not to dry heave in their faces. This is particuarly tricky when fur-coated old ladies come in with buckets of purfume on. I’m usually back to my desk by 11am or so. I sit still for a little while longer. And then, all of a sudden, I’m back. Energy like normal. Buzzing around, happy but sort of stressed that I now have only 1/2 the day to get everything I need to get done. So yeah. I think I need to come clean about the bun in my oven soon, because my staff must think I’m coming in hung-over every day. Plus, the Box Office manager has had to cover for me once already, with a second time coming this Thursday, for Grain-related doctor’s appointments.

Also, some days the energy doesn’t come back after sickie-time and I’m just tired. Luckily, this happened mostly this weekend, so I was off anyhow. Yesterday, I stayed in bed most of the day. I read mostly. I also napped. I had a horrible dream in which my lower abdomen had a hot-tub shaped plastic jet thing in it. The jet had an small opening that was covered in alge and seaweed. I was just realizing in the dream that not everyone had this. Shaun was really nice about it in the dream and implied it had something to do with the belly button ring I used to have.

3.) A Hitch of a Personal Nature
The only hitch with The Grain is that there was some miniscule teeny-tiny bit of blood that showed up on the ultra sound I had at the very first appointment on Jan 9th. I’ve not spotted or bled or anything weird. The nurse practitioner/midwife lassie said that this was no biggie, that it happens all the freaking time, that I have no extra restrictions, and that the blood would most likely be absorbed back into my body in a few days.

But then, when we went to the second appointment with the primary doctor last Tuesday (she did not do another ultra-sound), the doctor was full of crazy talk.

Doctor: Have you had sex since the last appointment?
Me: What? Of course! That last appointment was AGES ago! Why?
Doctor: You should refrain until your next appointment. I mean, if you’ve done it already, you know, oh well. But…[Here, she trailed off in a way that was simultaniously ominous and dismissive.]

Needless to say, I am dismayed. First of all, because the next appointment is YEARS away (Feb 11th!). Plus, rationale that is confusing to me. The doctor did not put any other restrictions on me. She encouraged me to keep up with my 3x-per-week work out schedule, I’m not on bed-rest, I’m still allowed to ride the #147 express bus to work (which should require a mouth-guard, since the ride is so pot-hole ridden). So my question is this: how could sex harder on a body than running 5K? Plus, it makes it confusing to me to figure out how serious this is.

4.) Isolation
This weekend was the first weekend I wanted to tell anyone. Mainly because I finally had a chance to digest it all for myself and I’m a little worried and just generally feel like I’m in the closet.

We have a test-thing on Thursday to see if the Grain might be developing in a deformed or mentally impaired way. Although this is all really unlikely. No history of anything on either side. I’ll only be 27 when the Grain is born. Things will probably be fine. I’d wanted to wait until we got the test results telling us that the Grain would be a-okay before telling our family. I’d hate for them to get happy and then have to be sad. But then again, do Shaun and I really want to go through it alone if something is wrong? Why should we feel weird about saying anything about it? Perhaps if more people talked about shit like this, things would be less devastating.

I’m still undecided about when/what to tell people. I also dread the onslaught of societal expectations and assumptions. I dread people talking about us behind our backs, mostly about how poor we are. As if I didn’t already have enough to be sick over.
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On a scale of 1-10: how are you, Xanga friend?

2/16 Edit: The “miniscule teeny-tiny bit of blood that showed up on the ultra sound” is completely gone, so says the doctor. It’s called an “abruption” and is fairly common; the blood was so little and it just got soaked up by my blood stream and dissapeared. Everything is a-okay now.

That is all.

Shaun and I don’t like to celebrate our wedding anniversary, since that was just this big party we threw. We discovered that we fit together in some fuzzy space before that. We became life partners sometime between our first date and five minutes ago. But we like to celebrate things, so we decided to celebrate our first date day instead.

Eleven years ago yesterday, Shaun and I went to see Jackie Brown at the Waterford Cinema 11. We went to Big Boy after and split a brownie sunday. After, he came to my house to watch The RuPaul Show. We kissed as my favorite drag queen paraded onscreen in her finest gowns. When we came up for air, we both glanced at the screen and laughed. Magic.

Yesterday, we celebrated by going to an Ethiopian Restaurant for dinner. We ordered lamb stews, cabbages, greens, and lentils to pick up with sponge-y bread. We talked about what we remembered most from January 9, 1998. He remembers standing in line for the movie with me, thinking I gorgeous. I remember riding in the car with him, laughing and inventing a silly musical (we pitched it as “Death of a Salesman meets Tarzan”). We both remember thinking how easy it was to be with one another, how fun it was, how funny. Still is.

January 9th, 2009 we spent at the doctor’s office. A giant dildo with an ulta-sound camera took pictures of a weird little grain that lives inside of me. The grain flickers onscreen, it’s heartbeat present throughout it’s whole structure. We listened to it, a little noise underwater, a million miles away. I am  6.5 weeks pregnant.

We’re excited. We’re nervous. Like everything we do, we’ve started in on this without enough resources. But that’s never stopped us from making things work before. We’ve had plenty of adventures on a shoestring. I’d like to think we’re sort of experts at the unpredictable now. We roll with it, laugh about it, and work hard to make sure it gets better. And it always does, at the very last minute. Things are just a bit more stressful now because more is at stake. We can rescue ourselves just fine; but this little grain will probably grow into a human. At first, that human won’t even be able to hold her neck upright.

I’ve not told anyone with the exception of my bff Bryan. And he guessed. He called the day I took all the Plus Signs tests. He asked if everything was okay, that I sounded weird. I told him I was fine, something slightly horrifying had happened and I’d tell him later. He said: “Oh my God: your brother got his girlfriend pregnant.” I laughed, “No!” “Oh my God: You’re pregnant.” Since then, he sends me a text daily about how excited he is to be Uncle Bryan. Last night, we spoke on the phone and I was relieved that the grain wasn’t the only thing we talked about. We talked about that for about 10 minutes or so and spent the rest of the hour dishing about other things.

The weirdest thing about this for me is that I feel exactly the same. I guess when I see pregnant people out in the world, I think they are all angelic and thinking mushy thoughts 24/7. I assume that pregnant people are preoccupied with thoughts of fetus, care only about nesting and the newest Baby Bjorn. But really, I’m still me. I still care just as much about art, society, fiction, and politics. I still care about movies and if that Joss Whedon series out this fall is going to be any good. I’m still excited to see friends. I still love my job. When we toasted at dinner last night, Shaun and I toasted to The Ninth. I was so relieved I nearly cried. The obvious choice would be to toast to The Grain. But I want the ninth just to be for us. The Grain will get plenty of attention in this life, trust me.

 I’m also sort of surprised that I’m not more interested in the science of The Grain. One thing I’ve always gotten a kick out of is research, but I don’t like researching pregnancy. We went into Borders yesterday to check out the pregnancy section and discovered that I HATE pregnancy books. The tone is so revolting. So gooey. So presumptuous. With stupid little “Dad Tips” in the margins that say things like “Vacuum the living room without having to be asked” or “Buy your wife flowers on your way home from work.” WTF?! What is this, 1950 where a dude with a vacuum is some big favor? That is just retarded. Plus, I really don’t want to hear about every freaking bowel movement I’ll take for nine months. What to Expect When You’re Expecting? Expect Hemroids. Pregnancy’s a bitch. Plus, I find that I get totally nauseous when I look at pictures of fetuses at various developmental stages. Seriously. I had to squat down with my head between my legs in the bookstore. Shaun did find a fun book called From The Hips that might be fun to read. He was laughing hysterically over a chart that had the size of the baby at different months. One month, the fetus is the size of a lobster. Another month, a duck. At nine months, it’s the size of a cat. A CAT! I so prefer this to gross pictures of squiggly alien things. To be honest, I didn’t even know if I was going to be okay looking at The Grain on the monitor at the doctor’s office. I still can’t really look at the pictures. There’s a white blob inside a the yolk sack. Beneath it, the tech typed “Baby.” Gives me the willies.

Aside from private-blogging about it and dishing with Bryan, I really don’t want to tell people. What if we get bombarded with horrifying questions?

* Are you going to move to the ‘burbs? (No!)
*  Are you going to buy a car? (We’ll probably to a car sharing service for a while).
* Are you going to quit work? (No!)
* Where will it go to school? (How should I know?)
* How are you going to afford everything? (I have no freaking clue.)

I guess I’ll have to say something sooner or later. I want to wait until The Grain has been alive for three months. That is the longest it seems you’re allowed to keep things to yourself without getting ragged on for it. I know I have to get over this, but it’s just hard. I don’t want people thinking about me in that stupid way I’ve been thinking about other pregnant people. I don’t want them to freak me out anymore than I’m already freaked. I think I just need a while to get used to things.
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Have you ever made an assumption about a pregnant person?

Roland Burris is going to Washington today. Sure, neither Jessie White (Illinois Secretary of State) nor Nancy Erickson (Secretary of Senate) ever confirmed the appointment, but why should that stop Burris? He believes that he’s been divinely appointed. That’s right. His appointment has nothing to do with the $15,296 he’s given to the Blagojevich machine since 2002; his appointment has nothing to do with obvious racial politicking. Burris will be a senator because God wants him to be.

As frightening as I find people (politicians especially) who claim that God tells them what to do, it’s not just Burris’ ego mania that makes this whole situation infuriating. (Did you know he’s named both of his children after himself? Rolanda and Roland II. He also likes to refer to himself in the third person.) What makes this truly horrifying is that Blago has created a situation in which a black man will be barred from the glaringly white senate today. Blagojevich has made this situation into a racial one to take himself out of the spotlight. Like we’ll all somehow forget that he tried to sell Barack’s senate seat. Like we’re all somehow so stupid that we won’t notice that this is nothing more than an insulting minstrel show. (Dance, Jim Crow, dance!) Blago is using Burris. Worse, he’s almost exclusively using his skin.

I loathe the fact that the senate is 99% white, but this is not the way to make things better. There are plenty of people deserving of that senate seat, people of all colors and people who are able to acheive it legitimatly. And that legitimacy is everything.
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Ever met an ego maniac?

EDIT: I just wanted to mention that this reminds me of the introduction of Sarah Palin once Hillary Clinton’s candidacy had waned. It’s that hideous notion that one vagina can replace another, just like one black man can replace another. We’re all the same when we’re getting used by The Man.

Holly shit. Holly shit. Holly shit.

So, you know how I wrote a few blogs about how I don’t ovulate because of a thyroid issue? I’ve been treating this holistically and have been pleased with the results. My lady cycles are longer (38 days), but they are present (this summer I went a whopping 93 days without a period).

Anyhow, I’m approaching day 48 and I mentioned to my friend (who is also having lady issues) how pissed I was that the holistic treatment seems to have stopped working its magic. Then she said, “are you sure you’re not pregnant?” I laughed, especially because we were sipping away at a bottle of chardonnay.

I didn’t think pregnancy was in the realm of possibility. I’ve been told–point blank–that I’ve not been ovulating. And yet something about the shitty way that I feel the past few mornings made me buy a test today.

I took it at work, thinking I would just be able to shut the question down in my mind and focus. But holly shit. It’s a plus sign. A blue plus sign popped onto the screen straight away. Bold.

I took another one (there’s two in a pack). And there it is again. Plus. Plus. Plus.

I am horrified. I am happy. I am sweating. Horrified. Happy. Sweaty. In September, its possible that a howling squirmy human will pry her way out of my body cavity. Horrified. Happy.

I am also suddenly really hungry, but then again it’s almost lunch time.
 
The day that Shaun proposed we get married,  I knew he was going to do so from the moment I woke up in the morning. I was covered in a cold sweat. I called him and said: “you’d better not ask me anything horrifiying today.” I just knew. And although I’ll take another test tonight, just to triple check, and make a doctor’s appointment first thing Monday morning: I just sort of know. It’s sort of cool. Regardless of if this bundle of cells lives and thrives, it’s weird to think that right now I’m a willing host to something that is chomping away at my caloric intake.

I’m trying to keep in mind that its just cells right now. I don’t want it to be more because loads of fetuses abandon ship prior to three months. And I’m not the healthiest cat in the litter, so I won’t be offended if the little cell bundle decides my body is a crap environment to morph into a human in. So I’m not gonnae tell anyone (aside from the doctor and Shaun) until a few months pass. So please, pretty please: don’t mention the plus sign on any public comments.
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Ever had another person attach themselves to your uterus?

Edit: I forgot to mention–this wasn’t exactly planned, although it was (like most cases of preggers, I presume), not rigorously prevented. I’m actually sort of surprised this is the only “oops.” We’ve been together since we were teenagers. I’m laughing to think of how freaking freaked I would be if this happened at virtually any other time. Even though the money situation sucks at present, at least we’re not still in school!

2/16 Edit: The morning before I dished with my friend over wine, I was at the computer, Googling all the gross symptoms that I’d been having. Since I thought that pregancy was impossible, I’d diagnosed myself with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or an Autoimmune disease. When Shaun came home from writing, he found me crying at the kichen table. “I’m seriously sick, Shaun. It’s not the flu. It’s not a cold. It is something really serious, I can tell.” He soothed me and encouraged me to make a doctor’s appointment, which I did. How hilarious is it that I thought I had some horrible illness, when really it was just a little fetus? Ha!

I woke up today and decided to mop the floor. To celebrate this momentous occasion, I decided to throw an Impromptu Pizza Party. Invited lots of folks, but funny thing is: most of those who were able to attend on such random and short notice are those that I graduated high school with and are living in the area. I hang with these peeps separate from one another (I was a part of a few different groups in HS–wait, is that true? I was open to it, anyhow). Regardless, tonight is going to be a mini-reunion.

The main point is: why waste a very clean house on just yourself? Might as well invite people over to mess it up again. Otherwise, it just taunts you to spill things all over it yourself.

I hope to take lots of pictures. One of the guys who is coming mentioned that there are literally about 3 photos of him over the course of the past 10 years. I will amend this. We will have a photo shoot. Also, my bff Squee is coming and she hates having her picture done, but honestly she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. Don’t know why the shy. That said: I’ve been told I’m not exactly hard to look at and I HATE the camera. It’s becuase most people don’t know how to use it and I just want to get behind it and work the damn thing properly and give a lecture on composition. HA! (Inner control freak emerges!)

Well, as you can probably tell, I’ve been sipping wine while prepping these pizza pies. And I must say: they look amazing. I made a honey-wheat dough from scratch and I’ve done it enough now that I’m an expert at tossing. Actually, I think this is the first time I did it expertly. Secret: wine.
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What are you doing tonight?

My favorite years to ring in were 2006 and 2008.

For 2006, we went to California with our friends Beth and Jay to visit friends Ally and Jessie. For 2008, we went to Baltimore with Ally and Jessie to visit Beth and Jay. While I’ve got many pals on this earth that I love, there’s something about this particular group that strikes a perfect balance. Perhaps it’s because both Shaun and I share an equal friendship with them; it’s not like I’m hanging out with his friends or vice versa. Or perhaps its just a good chemistry. There’s few compromises–we all seem to enjoy the same things. Makes traveling fun. On New Years Eve, we stay in and play games.

Anyhow, none of us had enough money to travel this year, so we all stayed in our respective cities. As such, Shaun and I sort of kept forgetting that a new year was on the horizon. We just worked Wednesday. After work, I had tea with a recent college grad who wanted an informational interview with me to learn more about not-for-profit museum work. I can’t tell you how weird it was for me to help this person; it was just a few years ago that I was begging for informational interviews myself. After the interview, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some New Years Eve mimosa supplies ($6 champagne and OJ from concentrate to mask the taste). I also got some fortune cookies and oven egg rolls to make things more festive. At home, we cooked dinner (salmon patties with broccoli) and ate our egg-rolls and mimosas while watching the last two episodes of LOST on DVD. After, we spent the last hour of 2008 on a freezing cold walk around the neighborhood. The moon was a pretty sliver.

I’ve never really made resolutions. Or rather, I am a constant goal-setter, so those that I happen to be working on or thinking about as a New Year rolls around are nothing out of the ordinary. Nonetheless, they exist and are as follows:

Task: Start Volunteering again
Status:  I usually make sure to volunteer at least once a month, but I’ve not done a damn thing for society since moving back to Chicago. I’ve been getting settled, but I’m settled now and really have to start contributing again.

Task: Find a way to keep in shape during the winter that doesn’t upset Downstairs Neighbor.
Status: Found a satisfactory Park District gym, only a 15 minute walk away. Price is very right at $15 a month, no joiner fee. Our Family Membership starts Jan 2. I also signed up for an 11-session park district yoga class that starts on the 9th (it’s only $2.73 per class!).

Task: Find a way to better connect my department with other departments at work.
Status: I’ve been actively pursuing information and communicating visitor needs instead of relying on others to consider my department. With the support of the curatorial department, I’ve started meeting with artists during installation to talk to them directly about their work. I’ve been writing weekly memos with my findings to share with my staff and others in the museum who work directly with the public–security, restaurant folks, store staff, receptionists. I want everyone to be able to give visitors (and potential visitors) the inside scoop on our programming.

Task: Pay lunch it’s due.
Status: I’ve been eating a variation of the same spinach lunch salad for about 5 years now. Five days a week. I dread the lunch. I’m bored of lunch. The lunch is not filling. The lunch is not warm. The only redeeming quality about the lunch is that it’s healthy. But other things can be healthy, too. But I’ve been too lazy and cheap to think of a new lunch. About once a week, I can’t face the lunch and I end up spending $5 on a nice soup or a wrap. Then I beat myself up for spending money. It’s really a vicious cycle that needs to end. I need to make time for lunch. I can make a soup or a wrap at home, for pete’s sake!

Hesitant Goals
I’m hesitant to set financial or health goals. I’m doing my best with these as it is and its just not enough. But most of this is out of my control. So I guess the best goal I can set for myself in these arenas is to keep my chin up, keep doing what I’m doing, and trying not to let things get to me. I need to have faith that things will get better, that Shaun will get a job, that I will heal. I need to having faith in time. I need to keep my optimism alive; hope has always been a part of me and I need to keep that now more than ever.

2008 was a turbulent year. I crawled out of the black hole of NYC, re-settled in Chicago. My endocrine system got sick. Our nation was yanked by its hair into a financial melt-down and Shaun and I, like everyone else, felt it big time. We were privy to the most fascinating presidential race in history. So much was at stake. And we won.

I’m looking forward to finding footing in 2009. While we’re starting the year off on an all-time financial low, my heart is lighter somehow. I’m happy here. I like my job. I have great friends the world-over. I have a partner I love and better yet, like. I regret nothing. I’m in a place, emotionally and geographically, where building can happen. I’m looking forward to a calmer year. To a year of quiet diligence. To a year of healing.
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What are you looking forward to in 2009?

Only insane people and those with Sunday shifts were outside today. I woke to a morning that was twenty below, with “blowing snow.”

I am having a wardrobe crisis.

I tried to “extend” my wardrobe by wearing leggings (I own 2 pairs) and cardigans (okay, cardigan–there’s only one) over summer dresses. But that just ain’t cutting it anymore. I ordered 4 tall girl sale sweaters online (I can’t shop most places, since my arms wingspan is crazy-long), but they’ve not arrived yet. I also ordered some cool brown flat ankle boots and a pair of black grown up loafer-y things, since I’ve just had freezing feet at work while wearing ballerina flats (I wear hiking boots and wool socks to commute in, and I’ve got to say: I have a really nice pair of hiking boots and plenty of nice wool socks.). Grown-up Shoes: also not in yet.

In the meantime, I’ve just been freezing and wearing so many layers that I look like a bag lady. Luckily, so does everyone else. We’re all a bunch of bundled mummies in Chicago during winter. Mummies in snow-boots.

I don’t know why I never have the right things. I suspect its to do with the fact that I’m a captive audience with no money, meaning: I require things in Tall sizes and those things rarely go on sale because stores know Amazons need them. So I make do and buy things that don’t fit and make due with looking atrocious and inapporpriate 90% of the time. I tell myself I don’t care, but I do. I get cold. I get embaressed. I get sick of wearing grays and blacks and nutral colors that mix and match and have nothing to do with anything I like but easily make multiple outfits. I’m sick of having cold arms, a cold torso, shirts that creep up whenever I move to expose my low back and sides to the chilly air.

Anyhow, sorry to get all girl-y. I just had a massive hissy fit while packing. Because I forgot to bring my ballerina flats home from work today, meaning I get to wear hiking boots to every occasion in Michigan. Along with the two sweaters that I own, one of which is a ratty-ass three-quarter-length that my lower arms freeze off in. Oh! And let’s not forget the gray short-sleeved V-neck sweater whose bleach-stains I hide with that 8-year-old mis-shapened belted cardigan thing. The other sweater is actually pretty cute. I’ll save it for Christmas day.

I sometimes get on these kicks where I think I’m going to “get it together” and start dressing less like a starving college kid and more like a 27-year old museum administrator. But I never buy the right things. Or I only can afford to buy one right thing. Or I buy 4 right things online and use my charge-card, even-though I promised myself I wouldn’t. Because what’s the point? By the time I pay for it on the charge-card, those sweaters will be just as ratty as everything else, for I am a debtor just like the bloated country I come from.

I envy men, who can get away with only having one pair of shoes. I hate that they always get to be warm and have clothes that are flattering to most forms. Men don’t have to deal with stupid fashion ideas like the short-sleeved turtleneck sweater (if its cold enough for a turtleneck, why would you require short sleeves?!) or the three-quarter-length sweater (again: if I’m wearing a SWEATER, I’m probably freezing. This does not exclude the lower third of my arm.).

I’ll stop ranting now. I think I just needed to purge the angst. And warn my mom (who sometimes reads this) that I might need to borrow something warm to wear.
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What was your last hissy fit about?

It snows in Chicago. It rains ice. It is bitter and freezing in a way that threatens to snap your bones in half. Chicago’s kind of cold can stop the entire city. Giant fat snowflakes fall en-masse on desolate streets, lined with closed-early businesses. No one is out. Those of us lucky enough to have homes are in them, cuddled up. I wait patiently for the bus in snow up to my knees. I listen to the whispering shuffle of snowfall and air.

My only complaint about the winter is that it’s pretty much a forced to take a hiatus from running. While the downtown sidewalks are often brushed up and clean, the neighborhood walkways are not. Ice lurks beneath layers of trampled snow, threatening to snap a runner’s ankles in two.

To avoid injury December-February, I’ve always done lame aerobics tapes in the house. Let me stress to you this: I hate them. They are a chore I do 4 times a week so that when March comes around, I can pick up with running again without the misery of re-conditioning. Last Friday, I dusted off my collection of workout DVDs and wearily popped in Burn & Firm with Karen Voight.

I’ve always exercised before work; around 5:30am. But I knew that Downstairs Neighbor probably wouldn’t love that, so I was careful in my planning. I figured I could do my tapes on my weekend (Fridays & Saturdays) as well as Tuesdays (when I work 12:30-8:30); that way, I could wait until a more reasonable hour–an hour when everyone is up and at ‘em–until I started jumping around on Downstairs Neighbor’s ceiling.

Little did I know that Downstairs Neighbor works nights. He doesn’t get in until 5am and when I jump around like a maniac at 9:30 in the morning, I’m seriously disrupting his sleep cycle. I found this out today, when he knocked on our door in his bathrobe to tell me.

I’ve never craved my own house before. I get it now. I really get it. Because he wasn’t wrong to tell me. We share a space. I understand the importance of sleep. That said, what am I supposed to do? I’m considering my options:

Option 1: Exercise After Work
Exercise after work has rarely been a viable option for me; my evenings are already spoken for. Not only does my job require me to sometimes assist with special evening events, but I also have a healthy social life and a husband who would rather drink a steamy glass of lava than do anything as insane as run 5 miles with me in the evenings. Not that I need a running buddy, but I’d like to kick it with him at some point in the day. If I go this route, I predict a low success rate. I’ll probably complete the tape 1-out-of-2 scheduled times.

Option 2: Gym
Not really an option. I can’t afford a gym. I looked into it. Sure, you ca go to cheap gyms, but the only ones in my ‘hood are Cheetah Gyms, and those are $90/month. Remember, I don’t have a car to get into and drive to another gym. If I work out out-width my hood, I’m riding the subway or bus to do so. Which gets annoying and is totally inconvenient. So, as far as I can tell, the gym is just not an option unless I want to give something else up. But I don’t do anything but pay rent, pay bills, pay for healthcare, and pay for food. I could stop paying for the Internet and Netflicks, as that is the only entertainment expenditures allowed on the table at the moment. I think I’d rather be fat.

Option 3: Low-Impact Tapes
Perhaps I can keep my muscles conditioned with a non-aerobic style tape like Yoga or Pilates. These won’t help me with aerobic fitness, though, and as a runner/biker person, that is pretty much the goal. But at least its something.

Option 4: Buy a House
HA! Hahahahaha! Just kidding.
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How do you keep fit when the weather outside is frightful? Any good Yoga/Pilates tape recommendations?
 

The last time I spoke with my dad was Christmas Day 2007. We don’t talk much. I wouldn’t say we have a bad relationship. We have no relationship. We just have a dirty history.

Details aren’t fun and its suffice to say that once 9th grade hit, I realized that most of what was happening to me at my dad’s house was not normal. My mom’s house wasn’t a paradise just because she fed me and I wasn’t a shitty person who didn’t deserve to be fed. During my first semester of High School, I learned new words. Child Neglect. Emotional Manipulation. Substance Abuse. I didn’t speak to my dad for nearly four years. Life felt better without him.

For whatever reason, my dad broke the silence at the end of my senior year. I had a bit part in the High School musical. He showed up to my last show with his parents and a dozen pink roses. And while he didn’t know me well enough to know that I think roses are cheesy and lame, he was able to figure that nothing would suck me back into the vortex of guilt and self-hate than to approach me with my now elementary-aged cousin pushed in front and displayed like a platter of what-I’ve-been-missing. I’ve always been a sucker for kids, especially innocent ones who need saving from shit-heads. I put on a gracious and friendly act. I took my roses and excused myself to join my cast mates backstage. As soon as I was out-of-view, the stench of flowers made me dry heave and pass out in the hallway.

In the nine years since, I’ve had a relatively small handful of similarly awkward and horrible exchanges with my dad’s side. That’s not a relationship. It can’t be.

I tried to stay connected to my dad’s side of the family for that little cousin’s sake.  I thought that a concrete example of normalcy, nurturing, and love would make a difference. But things don’t work that way. Not when your everyday reality is intrinsically fucked. Once my cousin hit high school, some of the the saddest, most harrowing things that could ever happen to a girl happened to her. Think of the absolute worst. Now tripple it. Shove it in a black hole and take it out to see how warped it can really get. Now, I’m just another person who let her down in life. I’ve been across oceans, over state lines. I am just another absence.

I decided to forego contacting my dad’s side of the family over the November holidays. If they wanted to talk to me, they could initiate. The other sides of my family and my friends are just so loving. Its hard to extract myself from all that love to just to feel like shit for a few hours.

Last Thursday, I was feeling great. Shaun and I have a bad habit of over-thinking things during our trips home to see family, leaving us feeling disconnected and with a sad, misfit sense of “otherness.” I’d decided to knock that shit off and it was working really well. I’d run the 10K Detroit Turkey Trot in the morning with Shaun’s sister and her husband. I was enjoying everyone’s company. I was having fun.

I was having a conversation about plagues with Shaun’s uncles when my mother-in-law joined us to tell about a recent trip to my grandpa (on my dad’s side)’s restaurant.

Here was her story:

At the restaurant, my in-laws thought they spotted my grandpa in the kitchen. My mother-in-law mentioned to the waitress that she just wanted to say hello to my grandpa and tell him that they’d enjoyed themselves. The waitress went in the back to tell my grandpa, who had no idea who my in-laws were (they’ve met before) and in a moment of serious social awkwardness, asked the waitress to ask them their names. (I should mention that my grandpa can’t even remember Shaun’s name. He calls him John.) The waitress did and went back to tell my grandpa. My grandpa never came out. The waitress made a lame excuse and mentioned that my grandma wasn’t there because she was grieving the loss of her mother. That would be my great-grandma Pike. And that was how I found out that she died.

While I was not there to know grandma Pike when she lost her marbles (she really deteriorated during her last 4 years of life), she is a part of my history.  My older cousin Sheri and I went to a horrible Southern Baptist church with her every other Sunday. We were bad little girls at church. We did impersonations of the pastor and church ladies. When my Sunday school teacher said that dinosaurs were just chicken bones glued together to make scientists rich and famous, I professed my desire to be a paleontologist and my cousin defended me. We were sent into the hall, where we escaped to the bathroom and sabotaged everyone by crawling beneath the doors and locking them. In the stalls, we removed the toilet paper rolls and bit them, chanting: “Bite them in the butt! Bite them in the butt!”

After church, Grandma Pike took us to Taco Bell if we were good. We were rarely good.

One Sunday, at grandma’s after church, Sheri and I snuck into grandma’s bedroom and stole a big pair of her polyester pants. Each of us got inside a leg and we hopped up and down the stairs, singing in a southern accent: “Grandmaw’s Pants! Grandmaw’s Pants!”

We were whopped. Not hard. Never hard. But whopped. This did not stop us from asking, every Sunday, if we could play with grandma’s pants.

One Sunday, Grandma Pike drove Sheri and I to Sears in her big mauve caddy. She decided that poor 5th grade Sheri needed to start wearing a bra. On the way, Grandma Pike needed gas but didn’t know how to pump it herself. Sheri and I did it for her and showed her how. She was impressed and presented us with red-striped peppermint candies, untangled from a rumpled Kleenex at the bottom of her big black purse.

We could only be good girls for so long, though. Once inside the Sears bra department, Sheri and I made Grandma Pike madder than she’d ever been at us. While she tried to find a suitable training bra for my cousin, we poked all the padded bras in the department, collapsing them. We chanted: “Me boobs are dented! Me boobs are dented! Help! Help! Me boobs are dented!” Grandma told us that we were Vulgar Little Jezebels and escorted out of the store by our ears. We didn’t know what Vulgar Little Jezebels were, but from then on it was always a really funny name for grandma’s Barbies.

Sheri and I hated Barbies (we liked Garbage Pail Kids), but Grandma Pike loved them. She had a handful of nappy-headed Barbies from the 1950′s that she knitted hideous outfits for. They were the only toys at grandma’s house (aside from her pants) and so sometimes we played with them. Mainly they would bitch-slap each other and make wild accusations of being Vulgar Little Jezebels before humping wildly.
 
Grandma Pike bought me gross frilly pink dresses that I hated with all my being. She baked southern biscuits and chocolate pudding pies. She bought me polyester night gowns with lace detail and ribbons that I thought were grown-up because they were fancy and totally uncomfortable. Grandma Pike let Sheri and I eat Moonpies and cans of Pepsi for dinner. She had weirdly soft and vein-ey hands. Since I can remember, she had short steel-gray hair and an old lady perm. She wore owl glasses. She was fat, but not horribly so. She was racist. She was religious. She had her own bedroom. She liked pickled pigs feet and watermelon and butter beans. Once, I made her laugh really hard when I was blown over by a strong March wind. After wiping tears from her eyes, she helped me up off the ground and kissed my cheeks.

Grandma Pike died this October. No one called me or let me know.

I’d been in touch with my Grandma Render, who was taking care of Grandma Pike (her mother). I’d written Grandma Render a few letters, sent flowers a few times, and mailed her a copy of East of Eden. I knew she was having a shitty time of things, as her husband wouldn’t let her put Grandma Pike in a home. Too expensive. So Grandma Render had to shower and diaper her (very heavy) mom. Grandma Render did all this caregiving while recovering from symptoms of her own old age: a painful back surgery, an eye surgery, and crippling arthritis. I know that my letters don’t make me a saint but they shouldn’t have made me a pariah.

Anyhow, I wasn’t upset or anything. I’m good at compartmentalizing. When my mother-in-law told this story at Thanksgiving, I was surprised but acted like it was just a funny story. (To be honest, if I over-thought it, I might have felt a little hurt that the story was told in such a public way. Says the blogger.)

Last night, I called my cousin Sheri to confirm the story. Its true. Grandma Pike died on Halloween weekend. Sheri doesn’t know why no one called me. She didn’t go to the funeral.

I’ve decided that this story isn’t funny. Its not sad, exactly. Its just there. Evidence of a dirty history.
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Hey—on a completely and totally unrelated note: how many desserts do you think you’re allowed to eat in a week? My cousin says that its crazy that I eat a little tea cup full of ice cream most nights. This shocked my socks off. I eat totally healthy all day long and I just have this one after-dinner treat. I thought that was normal! Thoughts?

I should mention that this came up because I weighed myself on my friend’s scale over the holidays, just out of curiosity, and was horrified to see that I’m 10lbs heavier than I thought I was. I’m trying to “diet,” I guess, but I’ve never done it before and I think it is freakish and weird. I went 3 days without dessert and thought I would die. No dessert is no fun. Plus, all my clothes still fit and I’ve not noticed I’m getting big or anything. Is it okay to just blame her scale? I had to cut back on excersise (doctor’s orders), so perhaps I have to start being better diet-wise. But I eat so freaking healthy! Its rediculous! There’s nothing, aside from my ice cream (and yes–I get the full-fat, hormone-free stuff because it is delicious and natural and has less sugar than that 1/2 fat shit), that I can cut! I don’t eat a shit-ton of carbs. I never snack, unless it is on fresh fruit or a wee handful of nuts. Vegitables, fish, legumes, herb tea, and water are my foods of choice. Can I not just have this one thing and be a little fatter for it? God damn it. Why did I ever think it would be fun to look at that scale?

End of rant. But seriously. How many desserts is normal? How many desserts do you eat?