Garage door adventures

Saturday morning, Robert and I took the last official step into adulthood: we purchased our first minivan, a 2004 silver Oldsmobile Silhouette.

Our truck was on its last leg, and we were concerned about Emma’s safety with her car seat being right there up front in the cab. Plus, the truck is not easy to drive in the winter since it tends to fishtail with the slightest bit of ice on the road. And so we took the plunge. As if God was reassuring us that we made the right decision, we had our first major snow of the winter this morning. Talk about good timing.

The van is used, but we’re geeked about its many “modern” features that our 2001 Ford Ranger lacked. Things like automatic windows, a display telling me the song/artist for the radio and CDs, rear defrost and wipers, cup holders by every seat. It’s glorious.

Robert’s stoked about the fact that it can play CDs AND cassettes. So Saturday night, he was out in the van jamming to Led Zeppelin tapes he had long ago banished to the bottom of our audio cabinet.

While out there, he also messed with another one of his favorite features: the built-in garage door opener. With the greatest of ease, I can now reach over my head and open the garage door with a button built into the console. Never mind the fact that it was just as easy to open with the factory door opener. And never mind the fact that I would never ever open the garage from the van, because our mutts Midnight and Shadow would surely take the opportunity to escape into the great outdoors since they run around in the garage all day. Still, it’s pretty cool.

So this morning I was making final preparations to walk out the door, putting Emma’s shoes on.

Suddenly I heard the garage door opening. I didn't know if Robert came back home or if I had an intruder. But I threw caution to the wind and ran out there, panicked that the dogs would escape into the snow. I couldn’t think of a worse way to start my week than chasing two 60-pound dogs through the mush.

Just as I got out into the garage, the door stopped and started going back down. Luckily, the dogs were just standing there confused.

I turned to go back in the door, and the garage door started going back up again. I hastily corralled the dogs, desperately shouting "stay" while hitting the button in the garage so it would go back down again.

Then I went back in to finish getting Emma ready and heard it going up again. So I ran back out. This kept happening like three or four more times.

I was trying to figure out what to do, thinking there must be some of short with the gadget in the van as a result of the cold weather. I figured I better call in to work and let them know I wouldn't be in for a while because I needed to figure out how to get it fixed.

While trying to formulate a plan, I went back to getting Emma's shoes on.

That’s when I saw what she had her hand: the garage door opener Robert had taken out of the truck and set on the table. She'd been playing with it the whole time.

What a riot! But even more so, what a relief!

I don’t know if Robert or I could have handled the disappointment if our van’s nifty control panel wasn’t properly functioning.

A blog is a terrible thing to waste

Wow! It's been a really long time since I blogged about anything. Who would have thought I could go this long without a really thought-provoking piece to inspire the world?!!

Alas, when it comes to deep thoughts, I'm still blogstipated, so I thought I'd just share some random discoveries and ponderings from the past few weeks.

• Why do they say, "easy as pie?" I made it from scratch (mostly) last night. It's not easy.

• Which reminds me: moms and dads truly are the best kind of people in the world. At 9:15 p.m., when you realize you don't have tapioca to finish your pie and the only store in your small town is closed, only mom and dad would insist on driving the 15 miles to bring it to you.

• While sitting on the lid of my toilet waiting for Emma to "finish" going potty (which means absolutely nothing except that she's bored), I noticed that her white bath toys now have a slightly rusty tone to them from the minerals in my water. So does the shower curtain. Do you suppose I'd be even more pale if I didn't bathe in Momence water every day?

• Not everyone enjoys a good haiku. The marketing team expressed our Thanksgiving praises at a company luncheon in the form of Japanese poetry. We read with great emotion, reader's chorus style, while wearing homemade pilgrim hats and standing under a spotlight in the dark. Somehow the audience still missed the brilliance of fitting phrases like "Fat Pants," "Woody Woodpecker" and "Run, turkey, run" into 17 syllable poems. You could have heard crickets. Maybe they were more of an iambic pentameter kind of crowd.

• 8-hour drives can turn into 11-hour drives if you're traveling with the right company. But a whirlwind weekend trip to Nebraska is worth the drive for quality time with your co-pilot and to kiss a newborn nephew.

• There's nothing in the world like picking up your child after a long day and she's jumping up and down because she's so excited to see you.

• Doctors are paid to diagnose your problem, not build your self-esteem. They will not lie and say "well, you look like you've lost weight." Nor will they find it embarrassing in the slightest to ask if you're having any issues with flatulence.

• And finally, your husband will never, ever admit to not replacing the toilet paper on the roll. Just accept it, replace it, and move on.

A startling discovery

It all started with a simple announcement.

Kate, our project manager, pulled me to the side and told me the graphic designers were closing in on a significant milestone. Since the official founding of our “project request forms” three years ago, they had successfully processed 1000 projects.

Wahoo! She asked if we could have a party or something, and my answer was of course, “yes.”

And so the planning began.

I went to Sweet Street and had them calculate how many pounds of Jelly Bellies I would have to buy to have 1000. When that proved too expensive, they weighed and sold me 1000 M&Ms. (Just over 2 ½ lbs, in case you’re wondering. )

Casey baked a double layer cake, and I bought a “1” and three “0” candles to put on top.

Kate searched out appropriate music over which she could do an interpretive reading of the most memorable projects, and I prepared the tackiest certificates I could concoct to honor the three people in the world who would most cringe at my horrible graphic design work.

The party was a smash. We laughed, we cried, we were interrupted two times by people outside of our office who wondered when our “meeting” would be over so that we could take care of projects 1001, 1002, and 1003.

Afterwards, in pure glee from all the sugar, Jason and Matt tossed a miniature football back and forth across the office, while Monique did her best to duck so that she wouldn’t get hit in the head.

That’s when it hit me.

There’s a reason we all like NBC’s “The Office” so much. We ARE The Office.

I’ll spare you my interpretations of who’s who among The Office characters. Partly because that will make this entry long. Partly because you probably wouldn’t care. Mostly because this would surely get back to them.

But I was left with a sincere identity crisis. Am I Michael? Is that how they think of me?

Granted, I haven’t organized any rabies fundraisers lately, and I do not have a George Foreman Grill at the foot of my bed – although that’s not a bad idea considering how rushed I am in the morning.

Yet, those aren’t the things that make Michael, well… Michael. The funniest thing about him is that he is painfully unaware with how out of touch he is. He comes up with “brilliant” ideas while everyone else is rolling their eyes in the background. Is that me?!!!

I once heard that if you don’t know a Michael, you are a Michael.

I thought I had identified who the Michael is at Olivet, but what if I was wrong?!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

And so I took not one, but two, “The Office” personality tests online during my lunch break today. I needed to have the truth, as painful as it might be.

The results were consistent, and more startling than I would have ever imagined.

“You are Pam Beesly.”

Pam Beesly?!!!

I can live with that.

If you're happy and you know it

Today when I went to wake up Emma, I was legitimately excited. Just a couple weeks shy of two years old, she has been an explosion of personality lately, and I couldn't wait to spend the remainder of my morning with her .... even if I was running late ... again.


When I went into her bedroom, she was in her traditional sleeping position: on her belly, her legs tucked up beneath her, her little butt was sticking up in the air. I wonder if she will still be sleeping like this when she's 16, or if this little joy of mine is reserved for her toddler years.



Like her mommy, Emma takes a few minutes to orient herself once awakened, and so I scooped her up in my arms. That's when I saw it. What started out last night as a slightly red bug bite by her right eye was this morning a monstrosity. It looked like she'd been slugged, and the flesh around her eyeball was so pink and swollen that her big, brown eye was barely visible.



After putting her in a clean Pull Up, and setting her in her high chair for breakfast, I started running down my list of obligatory calls. I called dad to make sure I wasn't overreacting. I called to page the doctor. I called Olivet and then the baby-sitter to let them know I'd be late. And then I called Robert. (I'm sure when he reads this, he will wonder why he was last. My theory was that his panic would be significanly diminished if I called him once a plan of action was already underway.)



Then we waited. I finished getting ready, while Emma happily ate a generic version of Apple Jacks in her high chair. I often worry this is not nutritionally sound, but I'm appeased by the box which assures me she's getting 9 essential vitamins and minerals.


When the doctor still hadn't called me back, I joined Emma in watching Wonder Pets. I was amazed that she laughed at the appropriate moment after Ming Ming made a bad pun.



After the credits rolled, she announced she wanted to play cards, and so I went and retrieved the Bible memory card game that I bought for a buck at the Dollar General a couple weeks ago. Again, she amazed me as she recognized and called out the names of most of the characters as I showed them to her one at a time. Jesus. David. Josiah. Mary and Joseph. Jonah and the Whale. Peter. Hannah. Lazarus. I made a mental note to look up Josiah and Hannah later since I couldn't immediately recall who they are.



When the doctor still hadn't called me, an hour-and-a-half after the answering service paged her, I called her office again. "Yes," I told them. "I can be there by 9:30" (fully aware there's no way I could be there in 25 minutes since I live a half hour away.)



On the way to the doctor, we sang our ABCs and we talked about going to Mary's house later. Then as we sat for another half hour in the waiting room, we flipped through the pages of a magazine, and Emma made the sounds of the animals we saw.



After we were called into the examination room, Emma pranced around in her Pull Up and socks identifying the objects and creatures pictured on the wall. Then, she started throwing her fist up in the air, and declaring "Amen" at the top of her lungs over and over again. Yes, that's right: she's was happy, she knew it, and so she was shouting "amen." I tried to persuade her to focus on the clapping or stomping verses, but of course, the yelling won out since that was much more fun.



So finally the doctor walked in, and of course, Emma instantly transformed into a mute. The doctor knows a nervous baby when she sees one, and so proceeded to calm her fears by checking out the ears and nose of Emma's Care Bear first. It worked. Despite a few wimpers that she wanted her mommy (which of course melted my heart) she stayed perfectly still while Dr. Batish examined her eyes, nose, throat, and ears.



The diagnosis? It's a bug bite. Not even a spider bite, just some random bug. She prescribed an antibiotic to avoid infection in the eye and said to pair it up with Benadryl.



If I thought Emma was in pain, I would wish the bug never bit her. But she seems oblivious to the whole ordeal. She just knows she had a really fun and happy morning.



And I did too.



So I'm thankful that little critter, wherever he might be. He changed what could have been a run-of-the-mill Monday morning. Because of him, I was blessed with a fun, happy, bonus day with the coolest almost-two-year-old in the world.



(P.S. The picture is from tonight -- the swelling has gone done significantly, but it still looks like she's got a shiner.)

Two reasons it still matters to me

So I was reading this article the other day, featuring the political viewpoints of four different Christian women. It was an interesting interview, and there was one particular quote that stood out to me.

The young woman said that she just didn't want to one of those "narrow minded" Christians who based their whole election day decision on one or two issues.

I get where she's coming from, and to a certain extent, I agree.

Should Christians protect the environment? Absolutely. Should we be concerned with the economy? No doubt. Should we be actively seeking solutions for the energy crisis, corruption on Wall Street, access to health care and even the war in Iraq? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

But as narrow-minded as it makes me, there will always be one political issue that trumps all the others. Yes, you guessed it... protecting the unborn.

Some might be tempted to ask, "Does it even still matter?" Truth be told, I've asked myself the same thing. Short of a miracle, I don't see Roe vs. Wade being overturned any time in the foreseeable future.

But there ARE very important discussions taking place in the political arena related to abortion, and I, for one, think it's critical that we elect leaders who will champion the cause of the unborn.

So here's what that means to me in this election...

I'm not among those who think that McCain is the perfect candidate for our next president. I like him a lot, and he's got some really great traits. He's also got some real hang ups. Most importantly to me, he is pro-life.

Obama, on the other hand, has said that defining where life begins is above his pay grade. As a senator in Illinois, he has voted against the "Born Alive Infant Protection Act" which would providing basic health care to babies who survive abortion -- four times. Then there's the speech he made at a Planned Parenthood event where he said "The first thing I'd do as president is sign the Freedom of Choice Act." The Freedom of Choice Act (FOCA) is legislation Obama has co-sponsored along with 18 other senators that would annihilate every single state law limiting or regulating abortion, including the federal ban on partial birth abortion.

Again ... call me simple, or close-minded, but those facts alone make the choice a pretty easy one. I can't, in good conscience, vote for anyone who would introduce legislation --- or appoint Supreme Court justices -- ultimately leading to more innocent lives lost.

But I guess since I titled this "My top two reasons it still matters to me" I should tell you my top two reasons why I'm so unashamedly pro-life: Katie and Caleb.

Katie, who will be seven in November, is evidence that God can make something beautiful out of a very ugly situation.

Deanna considered aborting her after finding out that she was pregnant at 17 by someone who had forced himself on her. Then Deanna felt God reassure her that He was still in control and had a plan for her life.

Katie is spunky, creative, and has an incredibly tender heart.

Caleb, who will be three in October, is evidence that God knows better.

Doctors wanted to talk to Stephanie and Ben about their "options" when his tests came back positive for a serious birth disorder. He arrived a little early -- 10 weeks to be exact, but otherwise perfectly healthy.

Caleb is sweet and funny, and quite possibly, the smartest little kid I've ever met.

Looking at my niece and nephew, I have to wonder ... how many Katies and Calebs has this world been deprived of simply because they were never given a chance at life?

My knight in rain-drenched armor

Tonight, on my way home from work, I called Robert to see if he'd get something thawing for dinner. One step ahead of me, he said it was already under control, and that he was going to lay down for a quick nap until Emma and I got home. (He was up late last night fixing something around the house and then had to leave at 6 a.m. for work).

Not even 5 minutes after I hung up the phone, I suddenly felt the truck sputtering. "Uh oh," I thought and then slapped my forehead in punishment as I looked at the fuel gauge. Sure enough, I was out of gas. And of course this was happening in a torrential downpour. Really, how dumb am I?

So I called Robert, who of course was already asleep. "You're not going to believe what I did," I said and then explained my predicament. With not even a hint of grumbling, he reminded me to put on my hazard lights, make sure we were out of the way of traffic, and to stay safe until he got there.

Emma and I passed the time by reading "The boy who cried wolf." Kinda ironic, I thought.

Up rode my knight in a black Hyundai Elantra.

Robert covered his head with a t-shirt, doing his best to stay dry while he poured gasoline into my tank. Then, knowing the truck has a leak, he dug through the cab to find a quart of oil and topped me off. Finally, he insisted on following me to the nearest Shell station and on pumping the gas for me. Each time I tried to apologize for my stupidity, he just said, in the sweetest tone imaginable, "Don't worry about it."

Yeah, that's my guy. Always there to rescue me.

As if I weren't smitten enough already, Emma gave me another reminder of Robert's endearing qualities later this evening.

Somewhere along the line, we each developed our "specialty" chores we take ownership of. It's not like it was a negotiated thing, he just started taking care of some things while I took over others. For example, one of Robert's chores is keeping up with the vacuuming -- no small task with two big, black dogs notorious for shedding.

Anyway, tonight Emma was pushing around her popper toy, and it kinda looked like she was vacuuming. She turned to Robert and said, "Look! I play daddy."

Ha! I'm not sure Robert was thrilled with this being his legacy, but I thought it was funny how even she notices all the small (and big) things he's always doing for us. I feel sorry for the guys who will try to date her someday -- he's set the bar and her expectations pretty high.

Sometimes, after ten years of being together (3 dating, 7 married), it's easy to take Robert for granted. I just wanted to put it on the record how incredibly blessed I feel to have him in my life.

He is a caring husband, and an incredible father, and I love him with all of my heart.

Burning political questions

Phew! I am SO glad the Democratic and Republican national conventions have finally come to an end.

Don't get me wrong ... it's not because they've bothered me. No, it's because I've formed an unhealthy addiction to the coverage of them. Election 2008 is like the world's greatest reality show, and I am hooked!

Except unlike marathons of America's Next Top Model or Project Runway, it's not just the occasional Saturday wasted on couch potatoitis. The house is an absolute wreck, we've had far too many frozen pizzas for dinner, and it's only through massive amounts of caffeine that I'm able to stay coherent at work after flipping between CNN and Fox into the wee hours of the morning.

Reflecting on the DNC and RNC, I'm still left with a few burning political questions:

1. What's with all the hats? Does wearing a a Stetson, a Dr. Seuss top hat, or a stuffed elephant on your head REALLY indicate more support for your candidate?

2. Is the credibility of delegates defined by how many pieces of flair they are wearing? And wear can I buy one of those snazzy, sequin star vests?

3. Does Kool and the Gang get paid residuals every time "Celebration" is played during a rally, or somewhere along the line, did they donate the unlimited use of this classic for the betterment of their country?

4. Can someone please get Donna Brazile some coffee? She's pretty grumpy, and I'm pretty sure it's because someone wakes her up right before the end of the speech so that she can give her obligatory "it was terrible" review.

5. Is it really that hard to make sure your political sign is right side up?

6. What can we do to get these delegates to stop dancing? I admire their enthusiasm, but the arm flailing and booty shaking is somehow lacking. Seriously.... it's embarrassing.

7. Balloons are cool and all, but why don't we try dropping something different from the ceiling just to shake things up? How about 10 percent off coupons to Jewel Osco, or what about Jello Snack Packs? Those always make people happy.

Top 10 ways to avoid going insane

I have the pleasure of spending 40-plus hours a week with an incredible team of co-workers. The men and women who make up the ONU marketing communications team are extremely talented and caring.

But even the best of the best could go crazy under the right circumstances. And believe me, with the deadlines and absurd requests we face every day, it’s not outside the realm of possibility.

Rather than succumbing to the stress, we have found multiple ways to keep ourselves sane, relatively speaking. So as a shout out to my marketing-homies, here are some of my favorite de-stressing memories and ongoing “initiatives.”

1. Rocking out as an air band. We were heading back from an outing to Olivet’s Chicago Regional Center near Schaumberg, when suddenly it was 80’s at 8 on the radio. I can’t remember whether it was Journey or VanHalen or some other wicked awesome hair band, but suddenly magic transpired in that 15-passenger mini-bus. We each picked up our respective air instruments and rocked out like no other air band has ever dreamed. From that moment forward, I’m proud to say, I have served as the marketing band’s official air keyboardist.

2. Perfecting our not-so-perfect impressions. We may not be the best impressionists, but we sure make each other laugh with our attempts. Whether it’s my Yoda, Monique’s Ron Burgundy, or Kate’s Bernie Mac (may he rest in peace), impressions are a staple of everyday marketing interactions.

3. Employee of the month program. Everyone deserves to be an employee of the month at least once in their lifetime, and so that’s why we instituted the Office of Marketing Communication EOM program — awarded alphabetically. Casey was our first recipient, since she dreamed up the concept. The award is so prestigious that a member of the A-Team, Vice President Brian Allen, has campaigned to be included. We humored him and gave him runner-up one month. 1st place, of course, went to our student worker, Liz.

4. Kudos! It’s our take on the whole “caught ya being good” concept. If you notice someone doing above and beyond, write it down and put it on the board. The notes range from the impressive (e-mails from alumni about articles that moved them) to the humorous (“Kudos to Jason for surviving the sewage leak above his desk”). At our weekly meeting, everyone who received a kudos note is entered into a drawing for a kudos granola bar. At approximately $2 for a box that provides 10 week’s worth of prizes, it’s quite possibly the most economical incentive program ever. (Although in this soft economy we’re exploring generic brands as an alternative.)

5. The best of hip hop. I brought in my “Best of Hip Hop” CD as a joke one day, and occasionally a song or two from it cuts through the quietness of the office to grab everyone’s attention. One of the funniest things I’ve ever seen was when I was meeting with Donnie, our director of graphic design, in my office. Our conversation went past the starting time of the marketing team meeting, and so one of them pressed play on the CD player, launching “Bust a Move” into the air waves. They then took turns individually interpreting the song as they danced by my doorway.

6. Lock-in/Lock-out. Sometimes we reach our limit. In those moments, we strategically plan a team “lock in” to “brainstorm marketing concepts.” In reality, we’re just locking everyone else out to regroup.

7. Gluttony. And of course at every marketing “lock in,” meeting or field trip, we eat until we’re ready to explode. As Casey would put it, that’s just “how we roll.”

8. Guard dogs. We politely asked for people to give us advance notice for meetings. People kept dropping by. We tried instituting “quiet hours.” People kept dropping by. We put in headphones and pretended we couldn’t see or hear them. People kept dropping by. So I drew a “guard dog” on our white board, and not having much artistic ability, he looked more like a cross-eyed Chihuahua than a Rottweiler. Needless to say, people keep dropping by.

9. Musical parodies. It all started with Matt’s updated rendition of a Diana Ross classic. He was fed up with a demanding co-worker and started singing “(Name)’s freaking out” in his best falsetto. That launched an ongoing contest to outdo each other with our lyricism to tunes made famous by artists like James Taylor, Michael Jackson, and even Eminem.

10. Tangents. We haven’t encountered a meeting that we can’t turn off-topic. I’ll never forget the confusion on a visitor’s face when we spontaneously began spouting truths from D.C. Talk in the midst of a brainstorming session. Nobody really understands us – and I think we like it that way.

Yeah, my co-workers are a tad nutty … but that’s why I fit in so well.

So thank you Donnie, Matt, Monique, Kate, Casey, Jason, Derek and Liz! You help keep life interesting, and make it fun for me to come to “work” every day.

In my distress, I called to the LORD

Today had all the ingredients to be a very bad day.

After tossing and turning with a cough all night, I slept through my alarm. Emma was uncooperative from the get-go. I was buried in e-mails, and my phone just wouldn't stop ringing. One of those calls was from my boss, with whom I had an impossibly frustrating conversation. Then to top it all off, I couldn't (and still can't) seem to kick this ridicules cold. Argh!

Yes, it was a rotten day, but it did not consume me. Then again, I'm not the same woman I was just a few short months ago.

I'm not completely sure why I'm sharing this, except that over the past few days and weeks I've felt compelled to make sure other women (or men, for that matter) in similar circumstances know they are not alone. Perhaps the biggest lie the devil tells people in the midst of depression is that no one will understand, that no one could possibly look at you the same if they only knew the truth.

That's how I felt. That's why it took me months before I could even tell my husband. And that's why when I finally worked up the courage to see a doctor, I silently handed him a typed up list of symptoms because I was too ashamed and emotional to even voice them out loud.

It's not that I really had the much to be sad about. But that's the thing with depression; even the small things appear to be insurmountable at the time.

Most people would have never guessed I struggled with depression, because it wasn't that bad during the day. But by the time I got home, I was sapped. All I wanted to do was sleep, and I would zonk out on the couch at the drop of a hat. However, if I actually went to bed, I'd lay awake all night worrying about nonsense. It was a vicious cycle.

The things that kept me up at night were trivial and mostly out of my control. I'd find myself replaying conversations from as far back as my teennage years, and I obsessed about the situations of other people that had little or nothing to do with me.

It was my daydreams that ultimately led me to ask for help. It's hard to describe, but I felt like I was enveloped in darkness. Sometimes I'd picture myself going into a bar and drinking until I was left feeling nothing. (Honestly, I never followed through with so much as a drop of alcohol for fear of being "caught".) In the worst moments, I'd curl up in bed and visualize going to sleep and never waking up. Or I'd think about laying in the bathtup and simply slipping under the water without coming up for air. That's when I knew I had a problem.

All this to say, I asked for help, and I got it. It took me months to come to grips with the fact that it was a medical issue and there was no shame in letting a doctor help me come up with a plan for getting better. In my case, it was probably lingering post-partum, amplified by several life changes that happened all at once. My doctor was able to put me on a low dose medication for a few months and then slowly took me off them to live a "normal," happy life.

The funny thing is, once I finally got the courage to tell a few close friends what was going on, three of them told me they had recently been through the exact same thing. Guess I wasn't alone afterall.

In some ways, it's hard to write about what it was like to deal with depression. Is it still a little embarrassing? Maybe that's a small part of it. But more so, it's hard to remember what it was like because I feel like that was a completely different person. Things just don't get to me like they did before.

My pastor recently preached from the Book of Jonah, and a verse jumped out from the page like never before. It said, "In my distress, I cried to the LORD and he heard my cry." What a perfect synopsis of my testimony!

I thought the verse sounded familiar, and sure enough, that same phrase (or very similar) appears in the Bible three other times ... in Psalms 18, Psalm 120, and 2 Samuel 22.

If you feel like you might be struggling with depression, don't be ashamed to talk to someone about it. You are not alone, and don't let the devil fool you into believing that you are.

It's comforting for me to know that in our times of distress, we can be confident that the Lord will always hear -- and answer -- our cries for help.

Success is a relative thing

For those of you who have been reading my blog (have I hit 10 readers yet???), you may recall my original posting which proclaimed my intentions to go from couch to 5K runner in 9 weeks.

I'm one week shy of the 9 week mark, and at this point in the "game" (as if running could EVER be considered a game), I should be running a cool 2.75 miles in just under 30 minutes -- all while sporting a florescent pink sports bra, matching track pants, and sparkly white tennis shoes. (That's how I picture the accomplished runner.)

Alas, I find myself coming up a bit short.

I was keeping up until about week 5, when suddenly my years of inactivity caught up with me. My knees were killing me, my legs burned like they were on fire, and I think I bordered on hyperventilating on more than one occasion.

I blamed it on my crappy $50 treadmill. I blamed it on running in a stinky garage filled with lawn mower fumes. I blamed it on the summer heat. Then when I ran ... er .. shuffled, out of excuses, I realized I had nothing left to blame but myself.

In an embarrassing display of being a girl, I walked inside from my jog, sobbing at my inadequacies.

Robert, in an embarrassing display of being a guy, asked me, "what's your problem?"

I explained I was a failure, and he asked how I had possibly come to that conclusion. I retorted I couldn't keep up with the 5K plan. He asked me, "who cares?"

I reminded him I'd told everyone in the world about my plan, and it was embarrassing to go back on that.

Then in one of those shining husband moments, Robert hugged me, sweat and all, and explained that he was proud of me for working my butt off -- regardless of what "that stupid plan" says.

That was a few weeks ago. With Robert's encouragement and a 12-step program, I threw the 5K plan out the window. Instead, I'm jogging/walking for 30 minutes, 3 times a week, trying to outdo myself in distance each time.

I won't reveal my latest record, because by the world's standards, it's ridiculously slow.

Then again, I'm still jogging after 8 weeks. And tonight, when Emma didn't go to bed until after 9:30, and all I wanted to do was crash, I dragged my butt out to the garage and outdid my personal best.

For that, I'm pretty darn proud of myself.

Reasons I love the Midwest

Okay, so I'm back in Illinois, and to be honest, the beach is still beckoning.

What a fantastic week I had doing absolutely nothing but lounging by the ocean and splashing around with Robert and Emma in the pool!

Sigh....

Actually, Robert and I ALMOST spent an extra 24 hours in Florida. We found out that our condo was rented through Sunday, and we daydreamed about how we could make the most of our "bonus" day. Then I called Delta and found out it would cost $300 to change our plane tickets. Needless to say, we stuck to our original plans.

Some may have seen my Facebook status a few days ago that said I was moving to the Sunshine State. Let me alleviate any worries by publicly declaring that was a joke.

And since that is NOT an option, I've decided to remind myself of the reasons of why I love the Midwest. So here goes, in no particular order:

• Family. Okay, actually, that IS at the top of the list. On those days when I can almost hear the waves crashing on the sand, I remind myself how wonderful it is to live near my mom, dad, sisters and brother. Even Stephanie's only a half-day's drive away.


• My job. Yes - it frustrates me at times, but doesn't that come with the territory? I believe in the mission of ONU, and I work with the greatest group of co-workers EVER. On one particular afternoon, I had two separate people ask me why the marketing team is always laughing so much. I think that's a pretty good sign that we enjoy what we do. : )


• Fall. Nothing beats sipping hot apple cider and carving pumpkins while wearing your favorite sweater, just when the weather starts to turn cold.


• Less racism. I know it exists up north, but not like it does in the south. I can't count how often I've cringed at the use of the "n" word and derogatory statements about minorities while visiting the former Confederate states. It's hard to believe people are still so ignorant.


• Snow days. Those unexpected days when you can't get out of your driveway, before the "mush" appears. Great days for playing games with family or sledding down a snow drift. One of Robert's friends from Jacksonville, at 30 years old, has never seen snow in person!


• Grass. Yes, grass. It doesn't grow well in Florida because of all the sand. And when people do sod their yards, it's with this rigid, grass imposter that doesn't feel good under bare feet.


• Lack of sand. Ironic, because I love laying in it by the ocean. But I hate how once you've been to the beach, sand permeates your bathing suit and everything you took with you (not to mention all the odd places you find it in the shower). Little granules of Floridian sand are still all throughout my luggage and Emma's toys.

So there you go. I'm glad to be in Illinois. Putting this list together, I realize that Florida actually sucks.

Ok, not really. But at least it makes returning from vacation that much easier.

One week to paradise!

Robert, Emma and I leave for Fernandina Beach, Fla., in six days! I'm so excited.

Besides being absolutely beautiful, Fernandina Beach is particularly special for Robert and I since that's where we first met and fell in love.

We'll be living the "high life," staying in a condo right on the beach. It has 2 bedrooms, a balcony off the master bedroom, a kitchen, a laundry room and a pool.

Between now and then, Robert and I have to figure out how we can condense our belongings down to what will fit into the back of my parent's Envoy. Notice I didn't say the trunk of OUR car, because I've already concluded that's not realistic. It's going to kill us in airplane fees, but just to function through a week, we've got to take clothes for all 3 of us, her playpen to sleep in, a stroller, and a car seat. Plus, I think I've lost the battle of Robert leaving his new golf clubs behind.

Speaking of which, here's what Robert's geeked about vs. what I'm looking forward to.

Robert's top priorities:

• Hunt down autographs from his favorite players during Jacksonville Jaguars training camp (the reason we picked this outrageously hot time of year)


• Spend quality time with his dad on the golf course


• Introduce Emma to her uncle John, aunt Melissa, and cousins Justin, Cassie and Susan


• Hang out with his best buds from high school


• Golf at the Plantation, a ritzy resort for the rich and famous where his friend Robbie works, for free


• Take Emma to the Jacksonville Zoo


• Take me to the Marina, the 5 star restaurant where he has taken EVERY OTHER GIRL he's ever dated except for me. (All I got that summer we met was freaking DENNY'S)


• Buy a ton of cheap Jacksonville Jaguars memorabilia at the local Wal-Mart

Heather's top priorities:

• Get a tan by the ocean


• Get a tan by the pool


• Swim in the ocean


• Swim in the pool


• Sleep by the ocean


• Sleep by the pool


• Play with Emma in the ocean


• Play with Emma in the pool

It's gonna take a whole lotta sun block (for Emma -- not me, of course), but this trip is going to be AWESOME!

Where's the flavor?

The other day Emma and I went for a walk. It was a nice night, and she was being so darn cute. I decided to treat her to something she's rarely experienced: ice cream.

So we trekked to Dairy Queen, and I scanned the menu for something that would make the least mess. Ultimately, I decided on a cherry starkiss.

Hindsight being 20/20, there were probably better options. But somehow I came to the conclusion that a popsicle would run less than an ice cream cone, and if it did stain, the faded red would be barely noticeable on a pink shirt. Yeah, I know -- very faulty logic.

I tucked a napkin into Emma's collar (an exercise in futility) and we headed on our way.

The very second we hit the door, it was like someone held a heat lamp directly on Emma's treat. Rivers of cherry stickiness flowed down Emma's fingers, over her arms, onto her shirt, and then rolled right down to the light denim skirt she wore for only the second time. And that was just on the first block.

I felt the stares of every person we passed on the mile or so walk home. But you know what? Emma loved it, and I didn't care what anybody thought. She was having fun, and so was I.

That night, after scrubbing her in the bathtub, hosing down the stroller and putting her to bed with ruby-stained lips, I reflected on what I'd learned.

Life is full of messes ... some big, some small. Sometimes we have the opportunity to avoid them, and sometimes we don't. Looking back on the messes I've had in my life, I guess I wouldn't go back and change a thing.

I could have avoided the messes, but I would have missed the flavor.

Caught in a lie

I discovered tonight that someone has been lying to me and to someone close to me. Repeated, blatant, and unneccesary lies.

So now I'm caught in a very tough spot. I either tell her I know, or avoid the confrontation by pretending it never happened.

I have pretty concrete evidence. Unfortunately, to tell her about it would be to acknowledge that we were suspicious of her all along and set up a trap that would unquestionably answer whether or not she was being truthful.

Actually, it was my "accomplice" who set the trap. She smelled a rat, even as I repeatedly gave the guilty party the benefit of the doubt. I made excuses for her. I came up with extreme scenarios in which her faulty stories would turn out to be credible. I trusted her in spite of mounting reasons why I shouldn't have.

And that sucks.

"So confront her," you say? Of course I should. But will I? No.

Because when it comes to these kind of things I'm a complete weenie. It would be uncomfortable, and I would officially sever our relationship, as dysfunctional of a relationship as it may be.

So tomorrow when I see her, I will smile and play the fool. Argh. I hate that about myself.

His hobby is having hobbies

As I type this, Robert is "putting" a golf ball back and forth across the living room, trying to make it go into a plastic cup.

And he's doing this in his underwear.

Approximately 1 month ago, Robert started watching the golf channel. I cringed because I knew where this was leading. You see, when Robert takes an interest in something, he doesn't do it half-way. He is a professional hobby developer.

Like the time we went to the museum and saw an Egyptian exhibit ... he was reading books about Egypts for weeks. Or when he took up fishing, and suddenly we had a whole new collection of fishing rods, bait, how-to books -- and a boat -- all at our disposal. Or the day he became fascinated with turtles, and now Emma has a red ear slider in her room.

And so within a week of casually observing Tiger, he was scoping out clubs. I made him commit to me he would not even think about buying anything until he had at least been on the driving range three times. I lost. It's his brand new Jack Nicklaus set he's playing with right now.

But that's part of why I love him. Because there is no half-way with Robert. And so the day he asked me to marry him, I knew I had all of his heart.

Freedom from diapers

So I declared this weekend Freedom from Diapers weekend.

I had grandiose visions of Emma jumping straight from diapers to "big girl panties" with little to no trouble at all. After all, she IS a genius.

Actually, I got a headstart last weekend. I put her in panties and figured she'd make a mess or two, then we'd be well on our way. Six pairs of underwear and two spots on the carpet and couch in a 3 hour period was a big reality check.

This weekend I went into it with renewed determination. We will prevail!

I forgot that she inherited her father's stubborn streak. Every time I take her to sit on her Dora potty (yes, only the finest for Emma), she squats for 2.5 seconds then jumps up shouting "Emma done" with not so much as a drop of urine in the plastic green bowl. And once she's made this declaration, there's no convincing her otherwise. Argh.

I was on the verge of giving up, when my little darling had a breakthrough. I was vacuuming the hallway, and looked in the bathroom where she had walked all by herself to sit on her potty. I looked just in time to see her stand up and pronounce "Emma done." I thought, "yeah right," but I checked it out anyway.

Pee! There was pee! We did a dance. We joyously wiped. We washed our hands. We ceremoniously put on a Dora sticker (actually, "Backpack" to be exact). It was truly glorious!

Maybe next time she'll even know to pull down her panties first.

78th time is a charm

I'm trying to lose weight. Yes, again.

It's been a lifelong battle against the bulge, and to be honest, I'm having trouble even believing myself when I say, "I mean it this time." But alas, I'm going to give it another shot anyway.

That's one reason -- among many -- that I decided to start up this blog. Maybe if I declare my intentions publicly, I'll be more likely to stick with it. The fear of letting down others has always been a strong driving force in my life.

Besides cutting back on the food intake (which is big in itself), I'm trying to get serious about this whole exercise thing. I think my biggest challenge in that arena is just believing I can do it. Somewhere along the line I've actually convinced myself that I'm missing the exercise gene that most people carry, that I'm chronically allergic to elevating my heartbeat for 30 minutes at a time.

In spite of that, I bought a super-cheap treadmill from the classifieds and found a plan online for going from couch potato to runner in a 9-week plan. It's a different approach than I've ever taken before. Everytime I've tried to "become a runner" in the past, I've about killed myself for 3-5 days, then quit jogging altogether because I hated it so much.

This time, I'm taking it slow, not trying to do more than the plan recommends. About a half-hour ago, I finished my 3rd session of week 1 (it recommends three workouts per week). I walked 5 minutes as a warm-up, then alternated jogging 60 seconds and walking 90 seconds for a total of 25 minutes. Day 1 was tough, but suprisingly, this 3rd session wasn't too bad. I guess that's the point. Monday, I switch to alternating jogging for 90 seconds and then walking for 60.

Well, congratulations to myself. Not just for the jogging, but also for accomplishing THE most boring blog entry ever. Way to start off strong!