Today is why I live in Chicago. It’s flippin’ beautiful. I ate dinner outside with some friends, and loved every minute of it. Earlier, I took the world’s best dog (Ruby) to the dog park. Unfortunately, the world’s best dog (Ruby) seems to have ADD. I’d throw the frisbee, but then she’d catch sight of another dog out of the corner of her eye and switch course. She’d go in for a drink of water, then see another tennis ball. Someone else would throw a ball for their dog, and Ruby would then herd the dog. I dunno. We’ll see what happens when school starts in the fall.

I also took the giant dog for a nice long walk separate from Ruby, then hung out with him for a while. I brushed him some more, and I think he liked it because he seemed to melt onto the floor. I can tell that he misses his person. I tried to play with him, perhaps a game of tug-of-war with a toy, but in retrospect, that wasn’t the best decision on my part because I’m absolutely confident that he’d win.

The past two or three years, I’ve developed a real interest in fashion. I think dressing, for many of us, is another art form. How we choose to adorn ourselves is like painting a canvas, but perhaps a greater expression of self. I know a lot of people don’t particularly care. That’s fine. It’s hardly the cure to cancer. But, it is interesting to me. I regularly troll fashion websites, but not a lot of blogs, until I really discovered The Sartorialist. http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/

I dig the site because he takes a lot of pictures of regular people and often includes explanations for what drew his eye to them. Sometimes, it’s obvious, but sometimes, he wants to make a point about textures, patterns, colors. It’s been deliciously educational, moreso than porn.

While I’ve always been a people-watcher, I’m now trolling for sartorial greatness. Unfortunately, I live too near Wrigley Field. Seriously: Sartorial Nightmare. I expect a guy on his way to watch the Cubs to dress in such a way as to support his team of choice, as well as accommodate all his gastronomical choices. So, shorts, a Cubs hat, a Cubs t-shirt or jersey, and some trainers isn’t particularly inspired, but it’s practical, especially when this nice weather we’re having evolves into the inevitable furnace o’ summer.

Most women on the other hand, well, I’m not sure what most of them are thinking. Thigh-high skirts and dresses with five-inch wedge heels? Really? And nowhere has the concept of skinny jeans been more abused than on Addison. Either the clothes don’t fit properly (behold the muffin-top) or they are wildly inappropriate. You’re trying too hard, girls. You’re going to a CUBS game; even the suburbanites know it’s baseball, a game. There’s probably a 99% chance that the fella you’ve got your eye on is going to be sloshed by the second inning. You could be wearing a gorilla suit and get lucky. Capeche? He’s not going to notice, or probably even remember. It’s a day when all’s you really need is a mere pulse coupled with willingness = score. If only everything were so easy . . .

 

The other day I was wearing a t-shirt, long pants, socks!, and a big college sweatshirt.

Today, it’s oppressively humid (in comparison) and I’m sitting in my room, typing with both fans on, and only my t-shirt and underwear.

I took the giant dog for a walk, and tried to get zen with the whole experience. While humid, the evening has a lush greenness to it that is relaxing. I let the dogs smell all they wanted, and took the brush along with us so I could get a little hair off each of them. And I imagined that next summer, I will be taking a very similar walk with a stroller. As much as I worry about making money and insurance and all that, it is because I want to be able to take a leisurely walk with my child that I need to go back to Indiana for a bit and stay home. I know some people can do both, can work and be present for their children. I don’t think I can. I think the constant stress I’d feel would overshadow all my interactions. Life would be a constant go-go-go, and while I’m sure that it will be that later anyway, I want some time to just be.  

Back to the giant dog, the impetus for my attempts at zen:

He’s pretty wiley. If I don’t lock the back door behind me, he makes a break for it. He is the master of nudging open doors. He can get out of his latched crate–I don’t know how–but I have to slide the locks, then attach carabiner clips to keep him caged in. I know he’d like some more play time, but he really frightens Ruby, and he doesn’t seem to play well with other dogs in general. He needs his human back.

In other news, I had a former life flashback type of experience yesterday. A friend of a friend relayed her first marathon time, a marathon we were supposed to run together. And her time was great. I don’t know if I could have matched her time, but I really think I could have broken five hours this time (which represents over an hour off my first marathon time). Again, so funny to think about plans I made in January, how I was going to really do a lot of running to prepare for this spring marathon. What’s that expression? Something about life is what happens when you’re busy making plans?

I know the marathon and the running will still be there when I’m ready, after baby. But it’s starting over, from square one, almost. It’s a little daunting. It’s not like missing the ability to drink (which I don’t); the margarita will still be there, and there is very little prep time for ordering and consuming one. I think, reasonably, it might be a couple of years before I can start really distance running again. And that might be optimistic. I’m certainly not going to push it; I’ll go with whatever feels right. It might be five years before I do another 10-miler.

Speaking of being irritated to death by the Chicago Marathon–it still makes me mad–the organizers published a Results Book. It looks really nice, got a full-color cover, lots of pages; I can’t imagine what it cost to print. Many pretty pennies. WASTED. This marathon “fun run” was a debacle. It continues to gall me that the organizers blamed the runners and then moved on like . . . this was all nothing. I will never run another Chicago Marathon. (Yeah, I know–big deal. The field of 45,000 is already sold out for the October 12th marathon. They’ll really miss me . . . )

I’m dogsitting for a neighbor. He has a giant Rottweiler. And I’m not joking. He’s giant. He’s got a head the size of a basketball, at least. I think he weighs around 150, and I think 140 of it is muscle. His human called today to see how he was doing and to see if he was “listening to” me. I laughed. No, he doesn’t listen to me. He’s a young male dog. He’s playful, and mischievous. He sees other dogs he wants to play with, and bounces up and down. It’s all I can do to keep him reined in. I don’t think I’m going to be able to dogsit him again. I can’t really control him. He’s pretty good-natured, but so freaking strong.

People stare when I walk him.

But it’s given me a new appreciation for Ruby. She’s the easiest dog in the world. She listens. I love that she gets along with all other dogs. I can take her anywhere, any dog park, the beach, and I know she’s going to behave impeccably. 

It’s almost time to walk him again, and I have to admit, I’m dreading it.  

Dear Jennifer,

[Jennifer is my sister.]

I was kidding when I said I thought you were useless. I know you didn’t think before you pointed out my piercing, and yes, I knew she’d clue in by the end of the day. You also, however, told her that I was planning to name the kid Cecelia, a name I really like. That would’ve been ok to keep between us.

And now that you’ve started reading this, I need you to not go home and tell her that you learned things about me you’d rather not know about your sister. It makes her think I’m here doing something even more tawdry than I actually am. It’s safe to say my tawdry days are over. I had a bit of fun, and now I’m going to be somebody’s mother. YOU are going to be someone’s aunt. And I am not going to be happy if my 16-year-old comes home asking for liposuction . . .

I’m just sayin’.

Love,

Your sister, who really is quite fond of you

Actually seeing and spending time with my mother yesterday went well. As I expected, she did not care for the nose piercing, although it took her over an hour to notice, and then only when my sister pointed it out. When I was 8, I thought little sisters were useless, and now that I’m 38, my opinion hasn’t changed much, about this one anyway. I’ll leave it at that.

My mother has now really signed on to this. People told me that she’d rally once the baby arrived, but my belly is just showing and she’s on board. She told me about all the highchairs, and strollers, and car seats she’d seen. She reminded me (again) that she needs to know what I’m having. (A baby isn’t sufficient enough information?) Again, I told her when I’d know. She clearly wants to start buying things.

This is crazy, but I’ll just put it out there. I’m afraid to buy things yet. To me, there is still a chance that I could miscarry, and we haven’t done the tests yet that could yield something else. I’m afraid. And, I could also be a little afraid of how real all the stuff makes it. I actually thought that maybe there’d been a mistake, that I wasn’t really pregnant, and I’d thought this relatively recently, in spite of ultrasound pictures to the contrary, and two different doctor confirmations.

I was riding the red line downtown yesterday, and I thought, no, really, my life will never be my own again. I will always live with a little fear that my most precious child will be taken from me, not from intentional violence, even, even from the child’s own benign foolishness, or someone’s elses. And then my life will never be the same. The overwhelming loss will taper a bit with time, I’m sure, but it will still probably shape the rest of my life. This is just how it goes.

Deeeeeep thoughts.

I also had the chance to tell my mother that I’m planning on breastfeeding, to which she said, I was afraid of that. We talked more about it later, and evidently, she’s afraid I’m going to become someone who just pops out the boob whenever and where ever come feeding time. I reminded her that I had her sew sleeves on a Christmas dance dress the night before the dance because I felt too exposed in a spaghetti strap dress, so I sincerely doubted that I’d become an exhibitionist once the baby arrived.

I informed her that if the baby was a boy, I had the name picked out and it was non-negotiable. I’ll talk about girl names, but the boy feels pretty firm.

She also asked about the father. Nothing new to report, except that I told her that I thought it was in the best interest of the child if the father did eventually want to be involved, so the door remains open. Especially if I’m taking child support; I cannot deny the man a relationship with his own child. Even if I wasn’t taking child support, in the grand scheme of things, I couldn’t in good conscience deny them a relationship.

My feelings about the father are quite a bit mellower. I’m sure that this is partly because I feel quite a bit better. I missed him at first; I spent some time last week really thinking about it. Grieving it, I suppose. But the best that can be hoped for is that we can be civil-possibly friendly?-and cooperative for our kid.

Yeah, so, I’m feeling better. Still tired, but so far without the incessant queasiness. I hope this holds.

Happy Memorial Day to you and yours.

There were big storms in the night, and I know this because of my German Shepherd/weather system. I was up with her for a couple of hours before the tranquilizers kicked in for her and she could lay in one place comfortably. (Many aspects of dog ownership have prepared me for motherhood.)

Morning came awfully early, and although I got out of the apartment in a timely fashion, a combination of circumstances (train delays, a closed part of the pedway that connects the red line to the South Shore station, blah blah blah) made me miss my South Shore train. So I had about two hours to hang around downtown before the next train. My mom was so funny; “What will you do for two hours?” I reminded her that I was in the middle of downtown Chicago. “That’s true,” she said.

I ordered some iced tea and water from Starbucks and sat down to catch my breath (I’d literally run from the red line exit the several blocks to the South Shore station), and let my body temperature stabilize. Friday it was so cold we were shivering, and Monday morning dawns hot and humid. It was in the mid-80s when I was waiting on the red-line train platform. I hadn’t yet decided whether I’d leave the train station and troll downtown a little, there’s Borders Books not far away, but a typical urban scene was unfolding within Starbucks and I couldn’t walk away.

I noticed a woman across the cafe (is that an appropriate way to describe the seating area of Starbucks?) mostly because her cell phone conversation seemed unneccesarily loud and animated. She was admonishing someone on the other end of the phone to pray, pray sister, for someone very specific, and insisted that she herself did not need it because she was “delivered.” I am not exagerrating when I estimate that she told this person to pray, pray sister well over 50 times. It was like a refrain. She didn’t seem to have purchased anything, but her cell phone was recharging in an outlet. Although her hair appeared beautifully done-clean, pretty, curled and gathered into a neat ponytail, she was wearing a huge, filthy football jersey. 

During the course of her conversation, a couple with their luggage came into the store and picked seats between myself and the Delivered Lady. They arranged their luggage and the man proceeded to the counter to order their drinks while the wife sat with their things. The wife must have made some eye contact, perhaps smiled at our Delivered Friend, because she then initiated conversation with the wife.

It started very benignly, kind of overly friendly inquiries about their weekend and how blessed it was that they were able to visit the city, and have a blessed life, on and on, and proceded to more personal revelations and information: she’d been to Africa, nearly died of malaria, she’s pregnant, a family member is on dialysis, more and more, tidbits about a daughter, still asleep?, on and on and on.  

When the husband returned, she tried to engage him in a bit of conversation, but he was having none of it. Delivered Lady then approached the wife with two pages that I think were the photos of all the Chicago students killed by gun violence this year. She was trying to tell the wife about this, when the man interrupted and told her that his wife was not interested in helping little black kids.

Nice, I know. Why make this racial?

The husband gets very angry, very quickly, and raises his voice, almost to shouting, telling her “Good-bye!” and to go away. But Delivered Lady was indignant and informed him that she was in fact mulatto, along with some information about her father or grandfather being German?.  He repeatedly tells her good-bye, raising his voice, and she resorts to some kind of prayer . . . the language was indistinguishable to me, and I think it’s possible that she was making it up. The man yells at the Starbucks employees to do something about her, as he is a “paying customer.” Some hapless Starbucks barista who was probably just finishing his freshman year over at the Art Institute was somehow forced to deal with this.

But the “problem” is that the woman wasn’t mean or beligerant, she wasn’t asking for anything. She just wanted to talk at someone, and the kid clearly had no idea what to do or say in the face of this. He finally said, “Well, if they don’t want to be talked to . . . ” and that was it.

The man and his wife left, the man still very angry, and informed the poor kid that he was a “paying customer.”

The barista returned to the back of the store, and Delivered Lady stayed in the cafe area, chatting with herself, moving her belongings (a purse, a bag) between another armchair and her original seat. The police arrived shortly, however and she talked-talked-talked to them, too. Officer number one said, miss your meds, did you? She said that she had them right there, she was getting ready to take them, but continued to explain her side of the story, that she just wanted to talk to them.

Ahhhhh. Then it made a little more sense to  me. A lot more, actually. She was suffering from something that needed medication, but once she felt better, she didn’t think she needed the meds. Her life was probably this vicious cycle, looping in and out of something resembling mania.

The police eventually escorted her out and down the pedway, I’m not sure where to. I suspect just out to the street.

When I get off the return train at 7:00, and came up the stairs to catch my bus on Michigan Ave., she was there, in front of the cultural center, the same filthy jersey, but her hair was a mess. She must have removed some extensions during the course of the day, but it looked like she’d spent the entire day right there in the vicinity of the train station.  

I got my hair cut today, and I was quite pleased that the woman who was doing the cutting recognized that I was pregnant. I prefer to look pregnant as opposed to obese, you know.

The bachelorette party was a rousing success. We all wore the fake eyelashes, and it was great fun. It was a much better way of differentiating our party than making Jen carry around an inflatable penis. We tried to maintain some veneer of class and kept the bawdy in the privacy of Stacy’s condo (which has a sweet view of the city). We went to the Baton here in Chicago to enjoy the female impersonators. The adams apple usually gives a guy away, but there were a couple of guys that I’m not convinced are guys. I heard a great song I’ve already added to my ipod. It’s not for the faint of heart; I think it’s best appreciated when you’re feeling wronged, romantically, and you don’t flinch when someone drops the f*** bomb repeatedly.

[Side note: last year I got into a comedian, Eddie Izzard, and the man uses the f-word non-stop. It's a verb, a noun, an adjective, an adverb. It's truly inspiring what he's done with one word. At first, it was a little startling, but I got completely used to it. I probably even use the f-bomb a little too much for polite company. I'm sure the first time my two-year old drops it, it'll find the nerve my spine, and I'll be really motivated to clean it up. I'm trying now actually. It seems unbecoming for a pregnant woman to swear like a sailor unless she's really pissed off. ]

Where was I? Ah, last night. Well, obviously, I was sober, and therefore the evening’s sorta-chaperone. After the show, it was time to hit a club (yeah, visualize that for a minute: big ole pregnant chick rockin’ it at a club with a buncha 20-something hipsters). We went through the drive-thru at McDonald’s in the cab (a shout out to Chicago cabbies–aside from one who tried to save my soul–are the best in the world). Unfortunately, due to the seating chart, someone drunk (Jen) had to do the ordering, and it went a lot like this:

Jen: Ok, we want a water and a cheeseburger and another cheeseburger and a happy meal with a Coke . . .

McD’s: What kind of happy meal?

Jen: And a medium fry . . .

McD’s: What kind of happy meal would you like?

Jen: A happy meal.

McD’s: Yes, what kind of happy  meal?

Jen: A happy meal.

McD’s: Yes, ma’am, what kind of happy meal?

Me, in the front seat: Hamburger!

Backseat chorus: Hamburger, Jen! Hamburger!

Jen: Hamburger, and another water, I’m sorry!

I’d like to stress that the beleaguered McDonald’s employee who doesn’t make enough money to really put up with a bunch of drunk people was unfailingly polite. Jen was also polite, but let’s face it, she didn’t have a reason not to be. She was sauced, happy, and looking forward to a cheeseburger with her four best friends.

The club was interesting. It’s never been my scene, and it’s even less so now. I was standing in line in the bathroom, and looked around and realized I was nearly twice as old as the drunken hipsters around me. You know, it’s what you do in your early 20s. It’s not like I think these chicks oughta be home gestating more humans. Nah–enjoy yourselves. Life evolves and priorities change. Most of you won’t be there forever. You belonged there, I didn’t. And I’m done trying to assimilate. Michelle played the pregnancy card for me, and secured me the comfiest armchair where I could chair dance and people watch. The bouncer/security guy, in addition to being smokin’ hot, was so nice: whenever I got up to go to the bathroom, he made sure my seat stayed open for me. You know, I’m hormonal, so these little kindnesses really resonate with me.

[A change in the weather may be afoot--my German Shepherd/weather system is indicated a level of nervousness usually associated with storms.]

Tomorrow is Memorial Day. I’m meeting my mother in Michigan City for lunch. My sister plans to come along if she doesn’t die in the night (she’s got a cold and a dramatic streak). I’m a little nervous about seeing my mother. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen her since I told her I was pregnant in March. And now, I’m lookin’ pretty pregnant, too. There isn’t much hiding this. And, she still hasn’t seen my pierced nose. I’m sure that these little disagreements will pale in comparison to the ones we’ll have about child rearing. Good times! 

Not feeling great, but tomorrow it’ll be a week without barfing, so that’s exciting.

Jen’s bachelorette party is tonight. She is pumped. Some people need to have their wedding and all the trappings. Jen is really enjoying all this. Not a single party or gathering has been wasted on her. She gets weepy with appreciation, too.

Tonight will be my first foray into false eyelashes, so that’ll be interesting. For my debut, we’ve selected a pair of metallic blue ones.

It’s official: I’ve ruined this dog.

I read somewhere that very small bits of human/people food is ok to give to a pet/dog because it reinforces the bond.

[My friend Aleks said, my God, how much closer can you two get?]

I might have overdone it because now when I have something edible, and I don’t make an offering fast enough, I get barked at.

I was standing outside earlier talking to the neighbors, and despite wearing a coat with a couple of shirts, Melissa’s teeth were chattering. Friends–it’s the end of May. Shouldn’t it be warmer? The cold weather has my internal sense of seasonality all messed up. Feels like early April, at best. More like late March.

[This whole post is going to be pretty random, kinda stream-of-consciousness.]

Earlier this week, I got a Greek roasted chicken (half) with dill rice, and I have to say, I’ve gotten a number of meals from it, and it always seems to soothe the belly. It never sounds good to me, like when I open the fridge, I’m like, meh, but it always tastes good.

I can’t remember the last time I slept 8 hours straight. I get up at least every two hours, usually to go to the bathroom.

But my skin is lizard dry. There’s a spot on my belly that I literally need to moisturize several times a day. I drink so much water and other non-caffeinated liquids, I have a hard time thinking I’m dehydrated.

And, the lotion I bought-some Vitamin E stuff-doesn’t smell good to me at all.

Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch. I know.

It’s funny to feel very badly in some ways, both physically and mentally, but I also harbor this extreme appreciation for a lot of little things. Like, right now I’m tucked into bed, and the dog is sleeping at the foot of the bed, and I love moments like this. I love the random smell of lilacs when I walk down the street. There are a lot of things I wish for, but I don’t think I lack for any necessities.

While we’re on the topic, though, one of the things I wish for? Being able to walk up a couple flights of stairs without getting winded leaps immediately to mind. Seven months ago, I was ready to run a marathon. I could easily reel off a half-marathon, no problem. I have faith that this will come back, someday, but it’ll be humbling to start from square one again. But, at the same time, it continues to amaze me, what this body can do. Run for hours! Gestate and (hopefully) deliver a human being! Produce the nutrition to keep the human being alive for a really long time! All this and more–so why haven’t we elected a woman president?

I’m becoming a fairly enthusiastic history student. When I was in school, I think I was preoccupied with finding the right answer instead of properly digesting the material and really synthesizing it. The point is there isn’t one right answer. Now I see relationships and themes, and causes and effects. It’s exciting to feel like it’s still possible to learn and get a little smarter even as I age.

The pity party has resumed somewhat. It’s tough to buck up when I always feel like I might throw up.