a letter to my nephew

Dear Kid,

As I write this, your mother has been in the hospital for ten hours. Ten hours, and nothing. What’s with you?

Look, I know it’s warm and cozy in there, and technically you’ve still got three weeks left on your lease. But your little nature provided airbag (amniotic sac) is gone now, and that’s kind of the point of no return. You don’t want to get an infection, do you? Of course you don’t. You’re a good boy, and I know you want to do the right thing. So come on out, already.

It’s not so bad out here, really. Sure it’s noisy, and bright, and you’ll have to wear clothes (and that’s a drag, really), but there’s a lot of good stuff too. Your mom is really anxious to meet you, and so is your dad. They’ve been waiting a long time for you. Someone who’s been waiting even longer is your Grandma - she’s crazy about you already, and I bet if you play your cards right, she’ll spoil you rotten.

I want to meet you too, of course, and I can teach you all kinds of neat stuff. How to play baseball, all about hockey (you WILL be a Red Wings fan, of course), and most useful of all, how to REALLY get on your mom’s nerves. I’ve been doing it for a long time, and I know all the tricks. Anytime you want to get one over on her, you just call Auntie Hannah and we’ll get it done.

If you come out you’ll get to meet King, too. He’s your doggie, and he’s very sweet. When you’re old enough he’ll snuggle up on your bed with you, even though Mom will tell him not to.

Best of all, Kid? Everybody – I mean EVERYBODY, from the nurses to the doctors to Mom & Dad, Grandma & Grandpa and all their friends – are going to be at your beck and call for the foreseeable future. They’ll do everything for you, day or night – you won’t have to lift a finger. Which let me tell you, is a pretty sweet deal.

So come on out, okay Kid? We’re ready to meet you.

ode to exercise

Since the middle of November I’ve been having some problems with my knees. First it was the left, then the right one, then I pulled/strained/just plain fucked up something in my right calf so walking was painful. Then once that was under control my left knee started up again…I swear, I turned thirty-six and my body somehow got the memo to start falling apart.

It’s only been the last couple of weeks that I’ve been feeling at or around one hundred percent healthy, so it’s only been the last couple of weeks that I’ve been able to return to my normal gym routine. And it makes me so happy to be able to exercise again I could cry.

Seriously. I love the muscle quivers that follow a heavy weightlifting workout, the flushed cheeks and dripping sweat that accompany me on my morning run. Heavy breathing, pounding pulse, the taste of salt on my lips…it’s a drug, and I’m addicted.

But I was not always an exerciser, oh no. Most of my twenties were spent in studious avoidance of any sort of physical exertion, and still, I do enjoy a good sloth (defined as being as inert as possible for as long as possible, with the goal of accomplishing absolutely nothing at all) from time to time. But everything just seems to run so much more smoothly if I manage to make it to the gym at least three (five is ideal) times a week. I sleep better, eat better, I’m more alert during the day, my skin is clearer…life is just easier if I can get an hour on the elliptical or a session with the kettlebell in the morning.

Christine thinks this makes me a mutant, and looks at me with fear and trepidation when I announce that I ran five miles that morning. As though this affliction is communicable, and might take hold in her (she’s a little paranoid that way). And I freely admit that not everyone feels this way. Even people who get up and do it every day might not love it.

But I do. I love it. And as long as my body holds out, I shall never leave it.

tis the season

Well, it’s the 14th of December and I’m finished with my Christmas shopping.

The reason I know I’m finished is because I’m out of money.

I’m very happy with the gifts I was able to get for my loved ones this year. I still have three packages to ship to my long distance family and friends, but everything for the local loved ones is wrapped and under the tree already. Which leaves me with a lovely sense of accomplishment, and no further excuses for putting off my manuscript.

I started this project out with a big bang, but my attention has been wavering since just before Thanksgiving. I traveled to visit my sister the week before Turkey Day, and it’s been difficult to get back on my five to ten pages a day track. But I have a nice chunk of time ahead of me (I’m on vacation from Christmas Eve until January 4th) and very little in the way of obligations, save a party on New Year’s Eve, to get in my way. My boyfriend will be spending the holidays with me, but he’s really great about not only entertaining himself so I can work, but reminding me that I said I wanted to work.

Sometimes I need to be reminded.

It’ll be good to both get back to work and have a nice stretch of time to spend with my fella. Living two hours away from each other tends to take its toll, even though we do a great deal of traveling to make sure we see each other regularly, and we’re both looking forward to several uninterrupted days to spend together. The sum total of our plans is to maybe, possibly, meet some friends for dinner one night.

I can get behind that kind of holiday.

confessions of an addict

I find myself a little at odds with myself this holiday season. You see, one of the things I do every year, one of my holiday traditions, if you will, is bake. Peanut brittle, hard candy, church windows, party mix, fudge (several flavors) wreath cookies, chewy chocolate ginger cookies...all these things I bake.

I started doing it back when I was in college, and just after college, when I was too broke to buy the gifts I wanted to for my friends. I'd give a tin of goodies instead, and it was always such a hit that even after I had the means to shop for gifts I kept doing it. (I like when people ooh and ahh over something I've made. I'm just narcissistic enough to get off on it.)

Anyway, last year I did my usual round of baking - which means every available second between my birthday, which is in mid-November, and Christmas was spent in the kitchen. But last year, for the first time, I found myself resenting the hell out of it.

The truth is, it stressed me out. Like, big time. The only thing I remember about last year's holiday season is that I spent most of it in the kitchen and I was seriously pissed off almost all the time. I also remember that my roommate and my boyfriend both said things like, "Are you sure you're okay?" and "Maybe you should take a break" a lot. As I recall, I did a lot of snarling at these questions.

So this year, I decided the baking would have to go the way of the dinosaurs. Oh, I'm not stopping entirely, of course. Like any addict, I have to have some kind of fix. So I'm limiting myself to two items. I will make the peanut brittle, because the recipe was handed down by my grandfather, and making it at Christmas is a family tradition. And I will make the chewy chocolate ginger cookies, because they make people moan in ecstasy. And making people moan in ecstasy, well, that's part of the addiction.

I'm feeling much calmer about the holidays this year, which is a good thing. But I've found about six new recipes on the internet that I want to try, and that can't be good.