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.