Starting to Atrophy?

I joined a new gym.

My exercise of choice is running. I use that term loosely because the speed at which I move at can barely be categorized as running. But it is what my body currently recognizes as the act of running, so that is what I call it. I can't run outside in the winter though, so I broke down and joined a gym that was having a short-term membership special to get me through the winter. And I am really enjoying it (as much as one can enjoy dressing in unforgiving spandex and sweating in public).

After a week of shaking my stuff on the treadmill, I braved the Nautilus equipment for some work on my upper body. Specifically the waddle under my arms (my girlfriend calls this her "Hi Toby" after the charming effect she noticed when frantically waving from the audience at a Toby Keith concert). My pseudo-boyfriend Robert was there working out with me, so I think I may have been showing off a bit, but it felt good...at the time. Two nights later I awoke at 3am with the feeling that the circulation had been cut off in both my arms, or that I had somehow suffered nerve damage by sleeping unknowingly in a challenging yoga position. I finally figured out that this must have been the result of my ridiculous display of strength and stamina, and have been suffering silently ever since.

Is it possible for your muscles to atrophy from lack of use? Doesn't carrying a 50lb 4-year old around regularly count for anything?

When Will I Learn?

Well my pseudo-boyfriend Robert is choosing to ignore me.

Since our chat about the state of our relationship on Sunday (see blog entry below), he has made no effort to address the issue. I guess I have my answer then hmm?

Of course this doesn't mean I haven't heard from him. Oh no, the man texts and emails me constantly...oops there he us now...

I've seen him a couple times too as he joined my gym and now works out beside me (making it impossible for me to distract myself from our relationship by gazing at other man flesh around me). But he has a knack for avoiding topics he isn't prepared to tackle (his favorite word "perhaps" has been officially banned from use in conversation). And so I wait. And it is festering like a blister on the heel of my psyche.

So I think I am going to have to hit him where it hurts...that's right...in the iPhone. These things are like crack. We are so used to being in constant contact, up to date on the daily details of eachother's lives, and addicted to a steady stream of feedback.

Radio silence. That will force his hand. He'll be twitching in the corner sucking his thumb wondering how he'll make it through the day without me to witness it.

Who am I kidding?

To Serve or Not to Serve?

I am actually considering acting as a process server.

My pseudo-boyfriend Robert is having some legal issues with his ex-wife and has to got to court. She is about to get served with papers requesting her presence in state Supreme Court. But apparently you don't have to pay a process server to perform this act of kindness. As long as the person is not related, you can have anyone act as a process server. Does this mean you should grab the nearest street urchin and request their assistance? Probably not. Hence my potential role in the matter.

At first the idea appealed to me as I had visions of dressing in a black trenchcoat and fedora, approaching the house at dusk, and catching her off-guard in her housecoat and slippers. But I also realized that if his kids are anything like mine, they would probably rush to the door as well. Then I would forever be known as "the mean lady who made mommy cry" thus damaging my status as the Pied Piper (I have a strange ability to charm and entertain children as they seem to be drawn to me with minimal coaxing...they must recognize a kindred spirit).

This reminds me of the time shortly after I moved in with my ex-husband who's previous wife was falsely convinced our relationship had began under less than appropriate circumstances. His twins were about 5 at the time and Brianne came to me and said "Leanne, what's a homewrecker?"

To serve, or not to serve? That is the question.

Santa Needs a Publicist

I let Jake stay up late to watch Rudolph tonight. A favorite of ours, but did you ever notice Santa is a bigoted binge eater?

Seriously, he shuns poor Rudy until he needs him to pull the sleigh, and he's skinny until Christmas eve when he binges to fit in his red suit. I think Santa needs a better publicist.

Is the Absense of an Answer an Answer?

So I have been pseudo-dating my pseudo-boyfriend Robert for six months.

I say pseudo-boyfriend because he is the man in my life, but without the typical benefits of a boyfriend. No he is not gay. At least not that he knows of. No, I am not hideously deformed (although sometimes I feel like it considering the following...) We are both attractive, single, and heterosexual. We get along great, have common interests, make each-other laugh, can talk about everything and have been in contact with each-other ever day for six months. We met through an on-line dating website. Let me say that again, an on-line DATING website. Not an on-line "find a buddy site." DATING, as in I am looking for a love interest and am hoping that you might be that lucky guy who gets to swap spit with me at the end of the evening.

We see each-other weekly. Sometimes he sleeps over (in the guest room). We hug, kiss (but nothing to write home about) have great chemistry, flirt, cook each other dinner, have met each-other's kids, he rakes my leaves, encourages me, relies on me... in short, we are great friends. And it is making me nuts.

I am an affectionate person. What feels natural to me at this point is to hold hands with this guy. To snuggle on the couch, to sleep next to each-other, not in separate rooms, to kiss for goodness sake. Sex would be nice, but I don't even know if he's a good kisser so let's take one thing at a time. And we've talked about it, why are we "just friends" and why if we are just friends does it seem like we are a couple?

So after weeks, no, months of feeling conflicted and confused, I finally brought up the topic Sunday night. He was over for dinner and a movie. My son was with his dad. We had a great time. Then it was time for bed, and he pulled out the futon. Aaah!

A long conversation followed which started with how glad I am that he feels comfortable in my life and how important he is to me blah blah, and ended with me saying I really need more that this in a relationship. And our current arrangement is not a "sustainable model" (thank you to my friend Kristin for that quote which I will use frequently). Sooner or later one or the other is going to want more (at this point me) or need to go outside the relationship to get it. And if he was going outside the relationship, that would hurt me (he has maintained that he has not been dating at all since we met).

He handled me well, no small feat I must say. But I caught him off guard and he didn't respond with too much of his own feelings (shocking) and asked if we could talk more after he digested everything. Sure.

In the meantime, we have been business as usual, emails/texts/calls...oh and he joined my gym yesterday. He did send one email that said. "Thanks for bringing up that stuff last night. I've had a lot on my mind lately but don’t want to ignore your needs. Please be patient with me on this, k? We'll work it out, I know"

Stay tuned readers...this one is gonna get interesting.

My Garage Is Falling Down

My garage is falling down. Literally. It is tilting like the leaning tower of Piza. It used to be just a charming list to one side but has now become comical. I not so secretly hope for a strong wind to knock it down so I can demo the thing and rebuild with the insurance money.

My ancient garage door strains to remain on track, and its days are numbered. It had been jammed for weeks and I was beginning to fear that it would snow and I would have to cut a hole in a wall to get the snow blower out. My dad, who was visiting for the Thanksgiving weekend, offered to take a look at it. My dad is a retired engineer who until recently could fix anything. I have inherited some of this gene, with my ability to use the wire from two place card holders and dental floss to dress the Thanksgiving turkey. But he's not as sharp as he used to be, and I knew this project could take all afternoon with about a 50% chance of success. Regardless, dad and devoted daughter trudged out to the garage with my independent woman's tool box and a flashlight. My Mom doubtfully said, "Tools? Gee you are optimistic that you will actually find something to fix!" I said, no mom, optimistic would be if it opened when I tried to demonstrate its failure to Dad.

Wouldn't you know that the damn thing opened on the first try? I think it took one look at my dad approaching and said "I will not fight this man." Bring on the snow!

Thankful, But....

5:30 am and up with a sick dog. I awake to my little beagle Sadie at my bedside. (I am currently sleeping on the futon in the playroom because my parents have commandeered my bedroom, which contains my most prized posession...my king sized "dino-bed"...I am thankful for my parents who drove six hours to be here this weekend and who paid for the bed so they are really its rightful owners).

Anyway, my dog is sick because she got in the kitchen garbage can which had the miniscule remnants of the Thanksgiving turkey carcass in it's bowels (making quite a mess of my kitchen floor which was actually relatively clean for a change) and made a meal of some turkey bones. This was particularly disappointing, as I had just been bragging about how my 4-year old Jacob and I had broken her of this bad habit by sporadically yelling at the garbage can over a period of weeks, "bad garbage can!!" (you can imagine my son's delight at this ritual).

I awake to a smell that can only mean Sadie has left me a present somewhere in the house and she has pressed her snout into my sleeping face to announce it. So I have cleaned up the vile mess, which she has creatively made in the foyer (I am thankful she thoughtfully used the tile rather than the carpet) and doused the area with enough Lysol to choke a horse...and have returned to the futon in hopes of a bit more sleep before inevitably being pounced on by my son all too soon...