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That’s what I have. A Kindergartner and a 2nd grader.  Freaks me out!  They are huge!  Mouthy!  Lily even gets sort of bitchy!  Arden does everything by herself, even if that means destroying herself in the process!  They’re awesome, however - and so funny. 

Arden’s first day went splendidly and I remembered to take a bunch of pictures. I promptly forgot to take pictures of her exiting the bus, but let’s face it - I was obnoxious enough for 8 moms during the morning bus pick up.  At one point I was body blocking other parents from getting near the bus so I could get my final picture.  I want my girls to learn by example, yo. 

Lily has decreed that she DOES NOT love 2nd grade and WILL NOT love it.  She misses her old school and her old house and the fact that the old house didn’t have “those weird cricket thingies” in it.  She misses our neighbor and her children and she probably misses having her daddy around a lot.  This was evident when we had the fabulous awkward moment of, “Mommy, do you still love Daddy?”  This was spoken to me, in front of Mike.  I answered what i would have answered alone or with others - “Yes, and I always will.”  Unfortunately his answer, when she asked the same question a few minutes later, was not similar to mine, although it was probably more honest.  Frankly I just don’t believe that the kids really need to know anything other than Yes, I Love The Person I Made You With. 

The first day was great because Arden was so excited, and Lily was in full-on big sister mode, but having Mike show up to see Arden and Lily off was very hard on all of us.  He looked like he wanted to puke the entire time; I felt like I was stuck in a bad movie where only the two of you know you are divorcing and everyone else thinks you’re the new happy family who just rented the house “down the block”.  No one saw him driving off as soon as he could, or me going for my run with the music as loud as I could tolerate to drown out the thoughts in my head.  Seeing the girls cling to him and scream excitedly when they see him makes me always, without fail, want to wave a magic wand and return our lives to the way we all thought it should be.  My pretty house in Wyndham, made for entertaining.  My well-dressed children walking down a spotlessly manicured street to see their other well-dressed children, waving to the other kids being driven to school in their Lexuses (Lexi?) or BMWs.  Their pretty rooms, their new carpeting, the lush grass, the Labrador (oh wait, they still have that), their bikes and their play dates.  It kind of reminds me of how I feel about Thomas Kinkade paintings. 

(image source)
At first glance, they are pretty, if not completely expected.  You think, “Aww, how cute!  What an adorable cottage.  I bet fairies live in there!”  After about 2 days, you start to get nauseous because of the kitsch and goofiness.  After a week, you want to put the painting in the attic because your life looks nothing like that stupid glowy stone thing (perhaps the glow is a kitchen fire? NO!).  After a month, you consider using the painting as a floor mat in your car.  Not everything with a polyurethane coating on it is actually as glossy as it seems. 

Onward we march.  My own little cottage in the woods is really a brick rancher in the suburbs (but not overly suburban - let’s be clear about that).  Any glow inside it comes from my laptop screen, and there are no fairies here.  There is, however, a LOT of estrogen.  It’s total Girl Power up in this joint, and we’re all making it the best we can. 

In these pictures, you’d never know the girls had been through the most difficult year of their lives.  Although I’m sure it won’t be, I’d like to think that it’s going to be the worst year of their life so I can say “CHECK!  That’s done.  Now they can move onto happily ever after.”  If that’s the case, I’d be very, very happy. 

My mother arrived Friday night to handle the children early Saturday morning when I left for my (6!!! Mile!!!) run.  She ended up hijacking me and the girls after the run and taking us to Smith Mountain Lake for a couple of days.  After I got over an intense crabby fit on Saturday (my body hurt, I was tired from not sleeping, I wasn’t feeling well, the DVD player for the car was broken, etc etc etc), I calmed down and enjoyed watching the girls play in the water, ate ice cream at inappropriate times of day, and stayed up way too late trying to type quietly so as not to wake the three other people in my hotel room. 

It was a nice way to end the summer officially. 

I sort of have a running coach, though I don’t pay him well - or at all.  I’m not really sure what he gets out of the deal.  It’s probably humorous for him to watch me struggling or maybe it’s nostalgia for the old days when he made “rookie” mistakes.  Sometimes he tries not to laugh at me, but he fails, so maybe he does it for the amusement factor. Whatever the reason, he’s helping me run better - at least when I listen to him. 

Most of my life I’ve compared myself to others.  I always tend to hold myself up against people who are “better”, “prettier”, “faster”, “smarter”.  Whenever I pull out the yardstick it’s always me on the losing end.  Apparently the yardstick disappears when I’m “better” at something.  I don’t give myself much credit for the things I do well.  Writing is so simple for me that it has no value in my mind; it seems like something a monkey could do, and do better than me. 

I was all hopped up on Saturday because my run was fun, and it was not difficult.  I couldn’t wait to share the news with my coach.  Then I got a text from him that simply said, “1st place!!!!”  He had run a 5k and won overall.  He’s won plenty in his age group but it’s big deal to be the fastest out of everyone.  Suddenly my 5 miles didn’t seem so newsworthy.  I’m not in competition, so I became very irritated with myself that I could be so happy for him and so negative about myself.  We don’t even run in the same universe so one is not equal to the other. 

I had a terrible run this morning.  FIrst, I ran too late in the morning.  Coach K says, “Well, dumbass, run earlier!”  (He also repeats, ad nauseam, “there will always be faster runners than you”)  Yes, but unfortunately I can’t leave my sleeping children unattended in the house while I run in the cool shade of 5 AM.  Secondly, there was an air quality alert in effect.  Thirdly, the humidity was killer.  Fourthly (is there such a thing?), I ran too fast out of the gate.  I ran with John, and he still runs a lot faster than me.  I get caught up in this guilt cycle where I feel like I’m holding my friends back so I push myself harder until I want to die.  It’s really counter-productive. 

I texted him after my run today - and admitted I couldn’t finish the mere 3 miles I was supposed to.  I can’t remember the last time I quit like that, but I just had nothing else in my system to give.  He called a few minutes later and chewed my butt for a good 20 minutes.  He was right, of course.  I do know better.  He’s tiring of telling me the same things over and over again, and I know that if I don’t listen to him, I’m not going to make it through the training program.  This probably means I should run alone more often, but I hate running alone. 

I sucked it up and took some money out of my savings account and bought a Garmin 305.  I polled the Twitterverse and it got high marks.  I found one on sale and it should be here in a week or so.  I’ve given up using my iPhone - today it told me I ran 38 miles in 32 minutes.  Um, no.  Unfortunately I need something reliable to pace me while I get used to naturally pacing myself.  If I need to be running an 11.15 when it’s 92 degrees outside, then the Garmin will tell me in black and white whether I’m going too fast.  The heart rate monitor will tell me if I’m being a wuss or truly need to slow down.  It’s definitely worth the money.  Apparently there’s some sort of training log feature and my coach is going to store my runs there so he can gripe at me in person.  It appears that I need the ass chewing and the supervision. 

We talked about realistic goal setting.  Mine for the half:  finish without walking.  So if I’m not focused on how fast I run the half, why am I so focused on it now? 

I’m terribly fortunate to have both Theresa and Kevin in my running life.  Kevin won’t be able to watch me finish the half (and I WILL finish) as he’ll be running with the team he coaches for the marathon.  I’m bummed that he won’t see the fruits of his bitching and the fruits of my labor, but I know Theresa will be there and that means a ton to me.  And maybe I’ll get lucky and be able to keep the back of John and Stanley’s bodies in view.  Sort of the carrot in front of the horse.  I just have to remember that they are kidding when they make comments about my speed.  Theresa has even gotten sensitive about distance - she used to say, “I only ran 8 this morning”.  Now, she catches herself and simply says, “I ran 8 this morning.”  I can handle it, but appreciate the sentiment when I have days like today, where I can’t finish 3. 

PS.  I hate Virginia in the summer.  Passionately.  I can’t tell you how much running in a steam bath sucks the life out of me and makes me want to move to Alaska.  I miss Michigan terribly in the summer months. 

Here’s a few photos of the people that regularly inspire me to run or instill me with so much guilt that I run anyway. Some are nearly professionals, some are just like me (with problem areas and concerns about running tops showing off their “arm or back fat”), some don’t run at all.  Each one flits through my mind as I run - a little bit of extra juice to keep me going.  Color me lucky to have them in my life. 
(note:  i’m posting pictures without their permission.  too bad!!!) 

Theresa, before the Boston Marathon:

Kevin, half marathon: 

Stanley, my personal hero:

John, running partner and teacher in “suspect apprehension techniques”:
>

Robey, who says she never runs but actually does (or she has a tapeworm):

Prissie, who is tiny and fast . . .

Mark and Gina (especially Gina who still is in better shape than me at 9 months pregnant):

Cathleen, followed by Jennifer, who both ran with me in Run Like A Mother:

And of course, Susan, even though she doesn’t run.  She’s the most amazing person I know. 
(love you Susan)

I’ve been really struggling with my runs lately. 

Let me rephrase that.  My runs lately have made me want to jab a fork in my eyes, rip my lungs out with dirty hands and pretend to be roadkill. 

Apparently my problem was fairly simple, but I refused to listen.  I’ve been running too fast.  I took my running friends’ advice and slowed my roll.  It helped that the weather was cooler, and the humidity much lower - but the 5 miles was actually fairly simple.  I didn’t worry about time, how many people were in front of me, or when the run would be over.  I looked around at the big beautiful houses around me and talked to new people I hadn’t met on my training team. 

Tomorrow I go back to the three miles, but I’m going to slow it down there as well.  My biggest competitor has always been myself, but when I’m pushing myself so hard I’m ready to quit everything because it’s no fun anymore, it’s time to step back and be realistic.  My insistence on improving my time has something to do with the people I hang out with.  They are all better runners - they’ve been running for years - and they actually win trophies and medals when they run.  I’m running to burn calories, improve my fitness, and prove that I can do it.  I’m so far from competing I can’t even fathom winning anything, unless it’s the fat girl category (and yes, there actually is a category for women over 150 lbs - the Athenas - and I’ve never wanted to be less greek in my life). 

I’ve traditionally been terrible with any form of slowing down.  This is a bigger challenge to me - nearly - than finishing a half marathon.  I’m going to keep at it, and maybe the heavens will rain a Garmin down on me and I’ll be able to force myself to slow down.  My stupid iPhone running apps are terrible and either tell me I’ve run 0 distance in 3 hours 42 minutes or they say I’ve gone 23.3 miles in 5.45 minutes. 

Mom:  “How are you going to have enough money to go to Disney with the girls?”

Me:  “I don’t know.  I’m going to wing it.  First step is to register.  That might get me motivated.”

Mom: “Well, save money.”

Lily:  “Live Better.”

Arden:  “Walmart.”

(insert rash of giggling and more repetition at the Church Of Walmart’s slogan altar)

I had one of those mornings where I felt lucky to live in Richmond.  It wasn’t too hot and there was a breeze.  The humidity was still there, but not as bad as it has been.  I had a training run to complete and John suggested Belle Isle.  It’s been years since I stepped foot there.  Running across the footbridge yields beautiful views of the James River, downtown, and a bunch of very decrepit buildings that look perfect for a Texas Chainsaw Massacre re-enactment. 

photo credit

Since I was out sick last week, any run is hard for me.  3 miles, which used to be annoying but easy, is no longer easy. 

(it’s still annoying)

I may be one of those people who hate 90% of the runs, but love how I feel after.  I’m going to wait til the temperature cools before making my assessment.  John is already much faster than me which seems not fair, but then again, most roadkill is faster than I am.  I had dinner with a runner last night who finally dropped the “Uber Coach” attitude and told me how his runs really are, when things were hard for him, how a marathon feels mentally and physically, and how he’s gotten through the bad times.  His advice and his stories are invaluable to me.  Some I’ve experienced myself, others I hope to never experience.  His best advice yesterday?  Ignore the rest of the training schedule except the week I’m currently running.  This was good advice, considering looking ahead is giving me a runner’s version of panic attack which includes sweating preemptively, weak knees and a bad stomach.  It also sounds like a bad crush, but trust me, the crush is more fun. 

In the meantime, I’m scheming, trying to figure out a way to do this.  I want to take the girls, and since I’ll have already completed a half marathon (I hope!!!) in November, staying trained shouldn’t be too difficult.  I’m going to pull a Laura Posey and act “as if”.  I’m just going to plan for it, try to save some money, and make it happen. 

This week has been much better than the past.  Once I stopped fighting against what I’m learning, I settled into it and began making small changes to my life.  I cut back on the amount of work I’m doing.  I asked for help with things around the house.  Beds are going unmade and laundry piles up, but I’m feeling okay about it.  I’m acting “as if” I don’t care.  I am not sure why, but I feel abnormally calm.  I’m doing what I said I’d do, minus the yoga.  Still haven’t figured out when and how to slam that into my day.  My list goes 1.) Kids 2.) Work 3.) Run.  And right now, that’s about all I can handle. 

In a strange weird incident, I shared what was going on with me with someone I have known for quite a while.  We’re not super close, but it was like I had to tell her.  Turns out she’s been through the exact same thing and had an amazing amount of insight and advice to share with me.  After that conversation, I felt lighter and less like the world was ending.  The world is not ending, but my life is definitely changing.  In that moment between uncertainty and fear and the desire to share with my friend, I decided I was going to be open.  In the past I’ve been open - too open - and most of the time amazing things have come to me because of it.  When I wrote about the hospitalization, complete strangers and people I’d known for decades came out of the woodwork to tell me both privately and publicly that they too had been where I was.  Part of my protective coating right now is battening down the hatches, and this means more hibernation, more caution, more working on me and worrying less about others and their perceptions of me.  It feels lonely but it feels right. 

A little Tears for Fears reference reminds everyone including myself that I’m so a child of the 80’s. 

I thought I’d hit rock bottom last September.  I’m guessing now that there is no real bottom - life goes up, goes down, goes sideways, busts off the rails, wrecks and reassembles.  I bounced down again last night, but I think that as horrible as the rocks feel right now, they are there for a reason. 

It’s really hard to see the silver lining in a snowstorm, but I’m trying.  All year I’ve been pushing myself to my limit and beyond.  The most important things in my life have been smashed down to make room for other, more pressing things.  My health has taken a serious hit.  I’ve already had one major health scare; this latest one isn’t a scare. It’s a fact. 

I’ve got to make some sweeping changes.  I have to take care of my children, then my businesses.  In order to do that, I have to take care of me.  This means that with the exception of work I have to do, I’m focusing solely on my kids and running and yoga.  That’s it. 

This past year has been physically challenging, but some of the emotional challenges have been far more demanding.  I’ve got some serious trust issues right now and they aren’t going to be resolved overnight.  And it’s no surprise to anyone that bad things happen to good people - all the time.  My friend Susan is a shining example of this.  I wondered, sitting up at night, if this is karma and I’m being punished.  Then I tell myself that these are all lessons, some packaged in prettier paper than others, and I need to be mindful and aware of what is happening to me.  None of this is accidental.  And maybe what it finally took for me to admit I need to slow down was a health issue. 

I’m trying to get over the part where I let people down, where I fail in delivering on things I said I would. I need to be okay with hibernating and protecting myself for a little while.  The hurts this year have come hard and fast.  Some of them were sucker punches; others were slow, drawn out kicks.  Nearly 12 months after this all began, I feel like I’ve been in a year-long car accident and my body is finally begging for mercy.  I’m giving in to it.  I’m giving it what it needs.  I’m giving it a break. 

Conversation with my father: 

C:  “So, did mom tell you I signed up for the Half Marathon in November?”

D:  “I heard that.  Mmmmm.  And WHY would you do something like that?”

C:  “Good question.  No idea.  Um.  Stanley told me to?”

D:  “Is Stanley going to carry you across the finish line?”  (just kidding, he didn’t say that, but he totally should have)

C:  “I think I just need a goal.  Once I completed the 10K, I kept training, but it was anti-climactic to not have a race at the end of it.”

D:  “But. . . a half marathon?”

C:  “The real reason:  I’m batshit crazy.”

First run was last Saturday.  I wanted to hide under my car when it was done. I tried to keep up with the 9 1/2 minute milers on my team.  I did, for the first two miles.  I will not talk about the last mile.  This week has been marginally better.  Today I ran at Deep Run with John, and he neglected to mention that while it was very shady (good!), it was like running up a mountain (bad!).  I looked like I showered when we finally finished - water was pouring out of me.  Unfortunately I did not smell as if I’d showered.  I even went to Starbucks (had a free coupon) and subjected everyone there to my funk.  That’s how little I cared after that run. 

I remember thinking I’d never be able to run three miles without feeling like I’d rather rip my eyeballs out with sand-coated fingertips.  I remember thinking that I could never complete a 10K.  I also remember the first 5k I ran, and how I felt like I could have run forever. 

(I did not feel that way after running the 10K)

I try looking only one week ahead on the training schedule.  I try not to compare myself to every woman on the team.  I try to think about Theresa, Prissie, Mark, Todd, Kevin, Gina, and a million others as Gods with a Capital G.  Maybe one day long ago they were like me, forcing my body to do something it really doesn’t want to do.  Instead of Fat Girl Running, I’m Phat Girl Runnin’.  There is no alternative.  And at the end of the run on Saturday, there will be mimosas. 

I’ve spent the last week trying to wrap my head around the idea of my kids as “baggage”.  Robey says that my kids are definitely designer bags - which is good, because no one likes an ugly suitcase.  Still, it’s been difficult making the words I heard mesh with the image I had in my head of this person.  Someone else’s baggage - a constant reminder that I have a history with another man - all up in his face.  Impossible to work beyond that, I get it.  I really do. 

But I think less of him for it.

My dad was able to “deal” with my mother’s baggage.  Perhaps it was because he allowed himself to get to know her before making a sweeping (and frankly, dumbass) decision about what he could or couldn’t handle.  (baggage handler - heh.  now i know the real meaning)

My brother “handled” baggage as well.  Turns out he actually LOVES his wife’s baggage.  He may not have had his own kids, but he loves them like they are.  He’s shared in the ups, downs, good, terribly bad, and mediocre that parenting brings.  It didn’t happen overnight.  But if someone like my brother (who was completely not kid-friendly or child-safe) can do it, well, there’s hope for mankind. 

All around me are split families who have expanded to include other people who love their children.  As my sister says, divorce opens the door for more people to love your kids.  It also opens the door - if you allow it - for people to tell you that you are not worth the sacrifice your kids demand.

I’ve heard: 

“Good thing you know now - better to know now than later.”

and:

“Anyone who feels that way about your kids is just a loser.”

These statements come from people who knows me, so of course they want to protect me knowing I’ve been hurt.  Secondly, anyone who knows my kids thinks they are the bomb (or at least they aren’t stupid enough to tell me otherwise) and can’t imagine that someone else doesn’t feel that way about them.  I understand that being my friend or a surrogate aunt or gay uncle isn’t the same as being a full-time step-parent.  I also understand how intensely tiring and buzz-killing children can be - especialy when they aren’t bound to you by biology, blood, DNA or family. 

The entire experience has made me gun shy about everyone.  I’ve had two people entirely misrepresent themselves to me. Whether the mispresentation was purposeful or not is truly not my problem.  If they can sleep well at night, more power to them.  The fact of the matter is, I’m left feeling more than confused, significantly angry, and partially sad. 

Even if I wanted to date right now - as in seriously date - I wouldn’t be able to.  I can go out and be social, but everything internal is locked up and it’s a very good thing.  I don’t feel “nice” about boys right now.  I feel the same about boys that boys probably feel about girls, especially girls in their nearly 40s:  they want something, they want it to be easy, and they don’t want to have to work.  The minute something challenges them, they stamp their feet, whine, or run for the hills.  Good luck finding the easy road. 

I remain confused because I have no desire for another man to take care of my kids. They have a dad.  I haven’t asked any man to take care of me.  I don’t need that.  I stare in the mirror, trying to figure out who I am and what my driving forces are these days.  I’m no longer confused about what I want and I’m crystal clear - sparkling, painfully clear - about what I do not. Is it that difficult to just wait and see?  Must you project an entire future before you have even experience a bout of the stomach flu with me and the kids?  Really, until you are barfed on by someone else’s children, you have no need to fear. 

Writing about dating has been really good for me.  I know I can be funny about it, but not today.  I am reminded of being 15, and knowing that all the guys you secretly crush on will have nothing to do with you (other than MAYBE tutor you in math) and all the guys you just want to tutor in math want to make you their wife.  It’s the beautiful rub of justice/injustice, and fairness/unfairness.  It’s the very rare balance, the one you find when you like someone enough - and they feel the same - but have enough doubts or reservations to pleasantly rub your psyche raw worrying about if you’ll end up together. 

It’s a mass crazy blog post, like a casserole of randomness!  Here goes.

It’s a hole.  In my nose. 

True to my mid-life crisis (thanks for that mom), I got my nose pierced on Sunday.  I’ve wanted to do it since high school.  I waited until I was slightly wrinkled and nose piercing was mainstream before doing it.  My friend Stanley went with me, and it was a good thing, because I passed out, had a seizure and was very ill after the experience.  He had to drive me home.  His hand has permanent impressions in it from me gripping him.  He also saved my life last night too, but that’s in a different paragraph. 

It was worth it.  I’m happy with it, it’s healing well, and no, I’m not getting any more piercings and I’m still tattoo-free.  It was simply something I’ve been wanting to do, so I did it.  My kids wanted to know why I didn’t get a “bigger, sparklier” diamond.  I told them that the little one already gave their grandmother a heart attack.  They seemed to understand. 

Kick Me Dating.

I’ve already got a book in the works about the year of separation and divorce. About 80% of it is written - I wrote it last year during NaNoWriMo.  The remaining 20% is being written right now, and it’s going to be about dating at nearly 40.  It’s been QUITE the experience.  I’ve dated an emotionally stunted boy who was old enough not to be a boy.  I dated a guy with more mental issues than myself, but unlike me, he wasn’t willing to address any of them.  I went out for coffee with different men.  One had hobbit toes and spoke exclusively to my breasts.  There was not a second date.  One guy thought I was wanting to meet for coffee during work hours and called me a loser for not having a “real” job (???) - turns out he misread my email and realized I was suggesting 8 pm, not 8 am.  There was no first date with him.  Another guy sent me a long-winded note through a dating site, explaining to me in elementary-school-appropriate wording that he wished me the best of luck as no one really wants to date a woman with kids, especially not an almost 40 YEAR OLD woman.  Then he asked me out.  Guess what I said?

Then, I dated a guy - as in - we had more than one date.  He was normal.  He was good looking.  He worked out. He was healthy.  He was over his past relationships.  He was not hung up or full of issues.  He was funny.  He was mature.  He thought Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a well-written show.  He liked kids, but had resigned himself to not having any of his own. 

He changed his mind.  I can’t fault him.  Having your own kids with someone you love is a pretty cool thing.  It was hard for him to tell me that he had changed his mind.  We were getting along, we were laughing, we were “fine”.  It’s one thing to decide you don’t want to date because you spot some warning signs or the person has an annoying, throat-clearing habit.  Or is afraid to drive downtown because someone might scratch their car.  Or because they talk exclusively to your tatas. 

A part of me felt really badly that having another child is just flat out something I’m never, ever doing again.  Two is enough and frankly, my body and my brain cannot tolerate the pregnancy experience ever again.  And for him, he can date younger.  He can find someone he is compatible with that is in their early 30s and still willing, able, and excited about having a baby. 

I learn every time I meet someone new.  After my first experience, I said I wasn’t going to date anyone younger than 37 (arbitrary, I know) and I wasn’t going to date anyone who was that age and had never been married (judgmental, I know).  Now I wonder whether I can ever really believe what people say.  I change my mind frequently about things - why shouldn’t they?  It is just unfortunate that he wasn’t a psycho jerk or an asshole.  He’s a genuinely good and decent person, just like I am.  It’s much easier ending a relationship with someone who calls you names or throws temper tantrums or is completely self-absorbed.

A note about dating and me.  There’s been some judgment, but most of it has been concern from family and friends that it is “too soon”.  Timelines are arbitrary as well.  I felt alone in my marriage for quite some time.  When I finally left the marriage, it was only physically.  That’s a hard thing to admit.  It is also the truth.  My goal was to simply date - just to get my feet wet, so to speak, learn how to talk to people I don’t know, date different types, be casual and have fun.  Part of me still wants to do this.  Part of me wants to curl up in a fetal position with my daughters and hide forever.  He told me how “strong” I was - how I was such a “good person” - how I “deserve better”.  Yes, yes, and yes, but the next person with a penis who says this to me is going to lose one, if not both testicles.  As my sister said, what choice do we have?  Strength is relative.  Of course I’m strong.  Duh.  Aren’t we all? 

True to my commitment to 2010 being the year of honesty, 2010 is also the year of gray.  No black or white ultimatums for me.  Somewhere in the middle of the wacky world of dating in middle age is where I’ll be. 

Stanley and Robey came by with champagne and laptops.  Robey gave me a stern talking-to and Stanley distracted me with chatter about the half-marathon training team we are starting Saturday.  Robey cleaned up the spilled champagne (I’m a clutz) and Stanley told funny and sad stories about his life growing up.  We are both Latinos and I understand the culture even if I suck at speaking the language.  We gossiped and I cried some more.  I fell asleep before they left.  It is those moments when your friends surround you, even when they are tired of seeing you cry, that you realize what strength is all about. 

The definition of “family”. 

I’m finally starting to do some volunteer project management/board work for GayRVA.com.  I have mad respect for the people who run it, and the person who created it (waves at Kevin Clay - hi Kevin!).  It fills a need in Richmond and it is full of passionate people.  In answer to my mother’s question, posed silently and hanging over my head, no I am still not gay and no not everyone in the organization is.  If I could have jumped the lesbian fence, it would have happened long ago.  Anyway. 

A post on the website yesterday generated a lot of interest. Reading it infuriated me.  As a private business, they can do what they want, but to say it’s because they follow Virginia’s definitions of “family” is a big cop-out.  Especially when you see how many other gyms offer family memberships to all kinds of families. 

Where do you stand on the issue?  Perish the thought that we might actually allow gay marriage in Virginia . . . but denying family GYM memberships?  As one person said, American Family has no problem taking their money as individuals.  As I said, they have no problem with their gay employees (theoretically - maybe they use don’t ask, don’t tell there?), or gay people working out and spending their money there.  But to offer them a family membership discount crosses some invisible line.  I truly don’t get it.  As a marketing weenie, the negative PR alone would be enough to make a company revisit their “policies”. 

That is all. 

It’s your last chance to take a crack(er) at winning a $100 gift card from Ritz.  Go check out my blog post about Crackerfuls and comment away!  Comments close at end of day July 31. 

I’ve been so slammed since vacation, I’ve been terrible about blogging or even pulling the pictures from the Outer Banks off my camera.  I did it tonight, at the expense of my real work - but hey, I needed a break. 

We journeyed to Kitty Hawk because Theresa (from Allergy Apparel fame) and Gina (famous in her own right for being the hottest pregnant woman on the planet) let me and the girls tag along.  Their husbands put up with us nicely as well, especially when the Great Spider Scare of 2010 forced Lily and Arden (okay, and me) upstairs.  The bottom “section” of the beach house was, um, well.  It was . . .damp.  Theresa and Todd and the burly boys ended up stay down there - in twin bunk beds - while I got to stay upstairs in a slightly warmer but much drier bed while the girls snoozed with Landis.  I can’t thank them enough, even though I kept trying to force them back upstairs.  I think Theresa secretly enjoyed sleeping in a twin bed with her hubby.  Then again, maybe not. 

I loved vacationing with Theresa and Gina’s families because they actually know how to relax.  We sat on the beach.  We packed lunches.  We cooked most nights.  When we weren’t cooking, we were eating pizza.  We flew kites.  We took turns watching the kids so that long bike rides could be completed (I think Mark easily surpassed 100 miles on his bike during the week there), runs could be done (Theresa “ran” with me one night - which meant I was able to keep her ass in sight for all of about 3 minutes).  We took naps.  Todd played surrogate father and uber cool uncle to my girls, playing with them in the waves, dragging them around on their boogie boards, and bandaging random wounds.  He also broke up a lot of fights.  Arden and Blue Sky are quite headstrong.  The two of them together negates any country needing a nuclear weapon - their mixture is potent and all-powerful. 

It was weird.  Since I hadn’t really relaxed, the Homestead prior got me in this sort of sloth-like trance that was hard to shake.  Even watching Theresa frantically work did little to motivate me, and usually one needs a crowbar and threats of death to separate me from my shitty old Dell notebook. 

What was weird, too, was being on my first “single mom” vacation.  Being on duty 24/7 was interesting, to say the least, but having the other families around and all the kids helped dull the major absence of male companionship/help.  There were actually a couple of victorious moments where I said, “YEAH MAN, I can TOTALLY DO THIS!!!”  in sort of a Matthew McConaughey/Jack Johnson surfer voice. 

I’m really glad I went.  Leaving during nap mat season was difficult, but WiFi in the beach house made it do-able, and by Friday of this week I might be sort of caught up.  If not, there’s always next week. 

My fourth and final post about my Crystal Light Pure Fitness is up.  This time I got to write about something very near and dear to my heart - a recent accomplishment.  Don’t forget to comment for your chance to win. 

I’m writing from Kitty Hawk, NC.  I’m on vacation with two of my married friends - between us, we have 5 kids and Gina is pregnant with a soon-to-be-6th. 

I spent last weekend in Hot Springs, VA.  Since everything “began” I’ve done nothing but work, stress, fall apart, cry, spaz, work, and stress.  In between there have been moments of happiness but I have not taken more than an hour or two at a time to relax.  Being up in the mountains with crappy cell reception and a laptop that spent most of the 48 hours in my suitcase was just what I needed, plus a massage and a kayaking trip on beautiful Lake Moomaw. 

I slept a lot, too.  I also found that Sam Snead’s Tavern carries Barboursville Brut - so I was a happy camper.  When I die, my heaven will look like The Homestead. 

I just received word that we actually achieved closure today - in terms of the house.  This means that potentially CitiMortgage will stop calling me 8 times a day, including Saturdays and Sundays and National Holidays.  This means I am officially no longer a Wyndhamite and I can officially never have to deal with someone’s obsession over curtains or cracks in walls or other things that are randomly loathsome to a buyer.  Over and out.  I am done with that place.  I cried when I got the text from Chris - 80% pure relief, 20% “holy crap I’m no longer a homeowner and am back to being 20 and renting places that smell funky”. 

I’m focused on the 80%.