On Running

I’ve recently taken up a form of torture most people call “running.” I did it for a few reasons.

1. I was pissed off one night and was about to go all batshit crazy.

2. Physically, I was getting soft.  

3. I just felt like running (said in my best Forrest Gump voice).

But what started off as a way to get some time alone and get out of the house for a while has morphed into something else entirely. It has turned into an ADDICTION. Now mind you, this will certainly not replace wine as my preferred form of sailing off to my happy place. However, it has certainly enhanced my life in a ways that I could not have predicted even if I was the Long Island Medium. 

During my inaugural run, I barely went a mile before I thought I was going to keel over and die on the pretty tree-lined street in suburbia that was named after all of the trees that were cut down to make way for houses. But I kept going. I pushed myself. I ran another mile before I stopped. I was sweating buckets and my legs felt like they weighed 1000 pounds each, but I also felt GOOD. The next day I could barely walk, but I was okay with that. A few days later I went for another run and it soon turned into a daily occurrence.  About a week or two into it, I realized that I craved my nightly jaunts. After each run, I felt better and better. Then one night after a particularly good run I realized that I had that crazy ubiquitous feeling that I had previously thought was an urban legend - the runner’s high. I will not go so far to say that it makes me happier than wine, BUT it's pretty damn close.

Then I started thinking about doing a few races. And of course, that thought scared the shit out of me, so I registered for one. The night of my first race (just a 5k, I wanted to start small) I was nervous but excited. It was a trail race. There were about a hundred people running it and I didn’t know any of them. When the starting gun went off, I took off at a moderate pace. A few minutes into it I was passing people but people were also passing me. I was okay with that, as I just wanted to keep a comfortable pace, at least at first. But then I got passed by an older gentleman and for some reason it kinda ticked me off. Who the hell did he think he was, passing me? Was I going to let some old man beat me? The thought of that got me to pick up my pace a little and a few minutes later I blew by him. When I got to the finish line and realized I was under my goal time of 30 minutes, I was ecstatic. I was also sweaty and thirsty, but lucky for me this particular race offered runners free beer afterward. (Hey, I have my priorities.)

Last night I ran in another race and I’m planning to do at least two more during the next few months. I’d like to do some 10k runs next year and maybe possibly do a half-marathon. (What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.) My body is often sore, but I don’t mind. I’m building muscle. I can feel it and see it! Hamstrings! Calves! Abs! Oh my! Don’t get me wrong; there are times when I’m hitting the pavement (or trail, I like to change it up a bit), that I hit the wall and feel like I can’t go any farther. But those times are getting increasingly shorter and the wall keeps feeling lower. So I power through. Isn’t that what life is all about? Moving forward and powering through? After all, if you stand still for too long, you’re bound to get ran over. 

School Daze

I am not a morning person. Never have been, never will be. I don’t talk to anyone until I’ve had copious amounts of coffee, and even then I’m a little sketchy when attempting to carry on a conversation. I wait until the very last minute to get out of bed, then spend 45 minutes hounding the girls to get dressed, eat their breakfasts, and brush their teeth so we aren’t late for school. However, I seem to have spawned a child who IS a morning person. A very cheerful, singing at the top of her lungs type of morning person. I have no idea where she got this particular affliction. And now that she’s in kindergarten, it’s getting worse. Now when she gets up, she doesn’t just come into my room and crawl in bed to cuddle with me, she is dressed and ready to go, wondering when I’m going to take her to school.  On the first day of school, the child was up and ready to leave at 6am. (School doesn’t start until 9.) And that enthusiasm hasn’t flagged at all.

For years I have been alternating between looking forward to and dreading Maya’s first day of kindergarten. I worried about her immunosuppressed state and about all the germs that she could come into contact with and what that can lead to for her. (Yes, I know living in a bubble isn’t possible. That doesn’t mean I don’t think about it every once in a while anyway.)  Also, that day has always signified the fact that she will no longer be my baby. It was hard enough when Laely went to kindergarten, I didn’t even leave school grounds before I was crying. (And this year when I dropped her off for 3^rd grade I’m happy to report that I didn’t cry. AT ALL. So there.) However, on Maya’s first day she was so damn excited that I didn’t want to start bawling and ruin it for her as I walked her up to the school. So I waited until I got to my car. I drove the short distance home, went straight to her room, sat on her bed, and had a nice little breakdown. Then I painted my hallway orange and mowed the lawn. (What? I needed to do SOMETHING and drinking that early in the day is frowned upon.)

Fast forward to mid-October (seriously, where in the gay hell did this year GO?) and all seems well. Both Spawnderellas are happy in school and both are in Girl Scouts. (No, I am not nor will I ever be a Troop mom. No sir. Not gonna happen.) And I’ve found that I enjoy having both girls in school. On the days I’m off work, I find myself being able to sit in relative silence. And by sit I mean do laundry, clean the bathrooms, vacuum, mop, work on schoolwork and write, along with going on 3+ mile runs. (Glutton for punishment, perhaps, but those jaunts do keep the anxiety birdies at bay.)

I’m trying really hard not to focus on how life keeps moving forward at warp speed. Soon we’ll be facing a new year, which will lead to yet another spring and summer…then another school year. Next year, Laely will be in 4^th grade and will go to school much earlier than she does now.

I’ll probably just have Maya wake her up.

On Being a Cruise Director. Or Mother. Whatever.

I had no idea when I entered the hallowed halls of motherhood how similar the undertaking is to being a cruise director. Lately, I have been feeling just like Julie from The Love Boat, that wonderful 70s and 80s sitcom that enthralled me during my youth and pre-teen years. And just for the record: I never wanted Julie’s job. I will never be as perky and agreeable as she was. (Not even with copious amounts of wine.) As a cruise director, she was responsible for entertainment and all socially related endeavors and activities on The Love Boat. She choreographed games, social outings, and parties. And although on some levels it seemed to be a cushy job (Hello, luxury cruise liner as my home? YES), having to continually herd others into activities that they may or may not enjoy is not my forte. However, I fear that is exactly what my life has turned into, right here in suburbia.

In my house, I am always the one saying “Hey, let’s go do ______________” (insert fun activity, restaurant, outing). I schedule the play dates, coordinating pick-ups and drop-offs. I ferry the elder Spawnderella to Girl Scouts and any other activities that she gets involved in. As the cruise director/mother, I am the one responsible for keeping things running smoothly and making sure the girls are getting along and having fun. (Because if they aren’t having fun they are bored. And if they are bored they start fighting. And if they start fighting over the same damn Barbie again, I swear to sweet baby Jesus that Barbie might just disappear forever.) Julie-the-perky-cruise-director may be responsible for hundreds of people, but I bet she hasn’t ever stepped on a motherf*cking Lego and howled in pain while toting a laundry basket that spills everywhere as she hopped on one foot with tears streaming down her face. Of course, I might be a wee bit jealous of Julie. She did work hard, but let’s face it: she also had a large staff to help her. I (along with most other mothers) do not have that luxury. On the other hand, if I had a staff they would be witnesses to some of my weaker parenting moments, like using bribery to get a few minutes of peace and quiet or threatening to hide the Wii remotes/Mario Kart wheels in places where the sun doesn’t shine because I tripped over them. Again.

But there’s an upside to everything. I may not live on a luxury cruise liner with Gopher and bartender Isaac, but I do live in a house that I do not have to share with hundreds of annoying tourists wearing ugly clothing and bad toupees. I may not get to travel the world and go shopping in exotic locales, but I live in a town with a kick-ass bike trail that I try to escape to on a semi-regular basis. (They didn’t have that on the Love Boat!) And neither motherhood nor my job require me to wear a hideous blue polyester uniform that would probably get really uncomfortable as I carry out my daily duties. And as any good cruise director knows, sometimes the best thing for their guests is to let them fend for themselves and do absolutely nothing. So there are times when I let the family zombify themselves on Mario Kart. (As long as I remember where I hid the wheels/Wii remotes.)

Hey, even cruise directors need a break sometimes. 

Whore Heels and Spiked Lemonade

I’m just going to go ahead and say this: sometimes life sucks. Plans don’t always come to fruition. People let us down. Death and taxes are the only constants. (Along with bitter, annoying political ads; lack of sleep; and the fear of being accosted by Mormons – maybe that last one is just one of my little pet peeves, though.) Life is often like a roller coaster – full of twists and turns and ups and downs that make us want to puke. That’s been happening around (and to) me lately. In the last few months I’ve gotten married, (but I didn’t get a honeymoon) started a new job, (which I only keep until I graduate), took part in a writers workshop, and continued with my classes (and this quarter has been really intense). I’ve also missed copious amounts of quality time with my daughters  – resulting in some behemoth-sized mother’s guilt. Another sad fact is that I lost out on the house of my dreams, at the very last possible moment. Perfect size, perfect neighborhood, and affordable price – it was truly the “forever” home. And unfortunately, it’s something that might have been prevented with better planning and a bit more effort. So for now I’ll stay in my current ‘hood – replete with busy highway in my back yard that doesn’t allow for me to open the windows due to the noise and grime, not to mention the fact that we are busting out of space and I have some really sketchy neighbors, but I digress.)

I was lamenting my woes to one of my closest girlfriends, who happens to be going through her own set of aggravating incidents. Unfortunately she lives far, far away and going out for drinks or coffee isn’t feasible, so constant contact through texting is our only reprieve. (She is also a busy mother with school and a full time job.) During one of our many text conversations, she let me know that because of her recent toe breakage she couldn’t fit into one of her favorite pair of whore heels – the ones she wears when she’s in desperate need of an ego boost. As a female, not fitting into a particular item of clothing can be traumatizing. Especially when there’s no room in the budget for shopping. This circumstance can make us salty, especially if our need to wear our ego boosting hot heels is associated with a special occasion and/or a much needed night out. Many women will attest to the fact that a nice fitting, saucy, sexy pair of heels can make life just a teensy bit better when things seem to be particularly sucky.

Fortunately, there are no shortages of platitudes about what to do when life hands us piles of steaming shit. One of my faves is the old “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade,” (to which I add vodka because the combo of lemonade and vodka is absolutely delightful especially during these long summer months when it’s hotter than hell). But my friend has coined a new one, a phrase that I will be forever grateful for, especially when faced with certain types of adversity:

“Sometimes when your life sucks – you make room for whore heels in your budget.”

This is a truism that many women (and perhaps some crossdressers) can relate to and follow. Because really, who doesn’t feel better after buying a new pair of whore heels, especially if they’re on sale? So I decided to go ahead a purchase my own new pair of whore heels. (On sale, of course.) Will my new shoes help me find a nicer place to live or to write a 3 to 5 page paper extrapolating on social issues associated with speculative fiction? Perhaps not. But they will go perfectly with the lemonade and vodka I will be drinking. 

Antioch Writers' Workshop 2012

Last week was the Antioch Writers’ Workshop in Yellow Springs. This event, to me, is mecca. I have wanted to do this for years but something always got in the way. (Usually my own self – lack of confidence, lack of funds, etc.) But it’s different now. Now I am a student at Antioch University Midwest. In order to graduate I MUST do the workshop. Wow. What a concept: A writing student being required to participate in one of the greatest workshops in the writing sphere. Daunting? Yes. Exhilarating? Again, yes.

The festivities kicked off on Saturday. As I walked into the reception I was scared to death. The first person I saw that I actually knew was Rebecca Morean, the President of the Workshop’s Board of Directors, who was also one of my instructors. She noted the abject terror in my eyes and immediately made me feel more comfortable. Then I ran into Sharon Short, the Director of the Workshop, who also happens to be one of my instructors. (It was actually her encouragement in class that pushed me to do the workshop this year.) A few minutes later I ran into a fellow writers group member, then another classmate and more instructors. Slowly, I relaxed. As I did so, I realized something. The energy in the room was palpable. The longer I stayed and mingled with the people around me, the more I realized that I was where I belonged. (Of course that feeling was made stronger due to the encouraging words of Gilah Pomerantz Anderson, my wonderful Poetry instructor from last quarter.)

John Grogan (of the Marley and Me fame) was the keynote speaker. He was low-key, approachable, and funny. I took his master class the following morning and listened to him give advice about writing and life in general. His teaching/lecturing style is casual and full of interesting tidbits. As he talked, I looked around the auditorium at my fellow attendees, writers who were also here to improve their craft. There was a very broad spectrum of people – from young teenagers to people who were easily in their 70s (or beyond). We were here to learn, we were here to grow. To be honest, it takes a certain amount of courage to sign up for something like this. Courage that I didn’t possess for a long time. But then I realized: I’m here now. And that’s what matters.

All week long I took classes, learned about the craft of writing, and made new friends. And I loved every minute of it. I loved the direct teaching style of Hallie Ephron. I loved the humor of Jerry Dennis. I loved the wanderings of Jeff Gundy’s travels through poetry. I loved my afternoon seminars with Carrie Bebris. I loved being able to have lunch with Hallie Ephron and C. Kelly Robinson. I loved my one on one time with Linda Gerber. I loved the inspiration and excitement I felt every day. 

But what I think I loved most of all is the absolute sense of community – the encouragement, the understanding, and the acceptance that we were all writers and we were in this together. That is the beauty and the magic of the Antioch Writers’ Workshop.

A Shout Out to Renee

Lately Maya’s liver enzymes have been elevated for unknown reasons, which means we head down to Dayton Children’s Medical Center about once a week for lab draws. The results are analyzed and sent to Cincinnati Children’s for review. I have never been shy about extolling the virtues of Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, but I haven’t been a huge fan of Dayton Children’s until recently. That could stem from the fact that they are not a transplant center and we have, quite honestly, received sub-par care there in the past. However, that isn’t what I want to focus on currently. For the most part, the phlebotomists that we have encountered during the last few years have been awesome. (Still not a fan of some of the nurses and doctors, but again, I’m trying to focus on the positive.) It seems to me that the hospital has undergone a metamorphosis of sorts lately. The personnel in general have been more friendly and informative – and that is very apparent at the check in at the lab when we go to register for labs.

One day last week we were registering and the woman who was getting us checked in was awesome. She is a kindergarten teacher and also works at the hospital part time. That intrigued Maya, who is going to be in kindergarten this fall. She is also convinced that she is going to have multiple careers all at the same time: she wants to be a doctor, nurse, blood taker (phlebotomist), and book writer (author) concurrently. The woman behind the counter was proof positive to Maya that people can work as many jobs as they want to. Anyway the woman, Renee, noted that Maya’s birthday was just around the corner. She asked what Maya wanted. Maya rattled off a plethora of wishes including more Barbies (God help me), DS games, and a Zebra Pillow Pet (that was a new one to me).  We made conversation for a few more minutes and then waited for the tech to call us back. I didn’t give the conversation a second thought. (Maya’s birthday list was already ingrained into my head for the most part, as she has been telling me what she wants EVERYDAY for weeks.)

Fast forward to a week later, when we had to go back for MORE labs. Renee checked us in again and she remembered Maya. After she checked us in, we sat in the waiting area and waited for the tech to call us back. A few moments later, Maya’s name was called. As we walked back to the dreaded room for the blood draw, Renee walked up to us with a smile….and a Zebra Pillow Pet in her arms, which she gave to Maya. Maya was so incredibly excited and happy. So was I. Renee’s gift brought me to tears, but in a good way. My daughter was so excited that she barely made a sound when they took her blood. Her new Pillow Pet (she named it Zeebree), has not left her side.

As the parent of a child who was saved from a certain death due to a rare liver disease, I know how lucky I am. Maya is aware of it as well. The doctors and nurses involved in her care are truly lifesavers. But we are also lucky to have people like Renee in the world, a woman who had one conversation with my beautiful, brave, and bubbly daughter and wanted to help bring a little bit more joy into her world. I look back on the struggles my daughter has endured because of her health and her transplant and I am amazed in the ways that she has touched others around her. Maya rarely meets a stranger, and Renee is one of many people we have met along the way who have made our journey such an incredible experience. So thank you, Dayton Children’s Medical Center, for hiring Renee, a woman who is an awesome asset to your hospital. And thank you Renee, for lighting up my daughter’s face with a smile so bright. Once again I am reminded of how blessed we are.