Strange Way to Tell You That I Know We Belong

The Pre-Kids and I had worked out a Routine. I would come home, peel the wedged and crumpled pieces of mail out of our impossibly small apartment building mailbox, walk slowly up the stairs, unlock the apartment and shove the door open, arms brimming over with the mail and the Tupperware from lunch and one of the several large bags I used to carry all of my Very Important Things. Wilbur would be waiting just on the other side of the door. He knew what the Subaru sounded like as it shuttled up the drive and into the parking space. He had watched me from the bedroom window as I gathered my armload from the backseat. He knew my footfalls on the stairs.

But I knew him.

When I shoved open the door I would hiss and tisk and scold him away from it. He played his part well, backing inch by inch until he would finally whirl and twist and run t stand next to the scratching post. Not scared of me. Just waiting. After dumping my whole armload on the kitchen counter, I would feed them. Wilbur knew this. He also knew that sometimes, when I was very tired from working my usual 12 to 13 hour day, I would forget that he was just on the other side of the door. And sometimes, because he is a cat and cats are never really Wholly Good, but always sometimes Devilishly Clever, he would slide past me with one fluid leap and bolt for the laundryroom door. This was not part of our Routine, though, so I won't talk about it here.

I would drop everything. Feed them. Pursue Orville with a plastic syringe full of liquid liver-flavored beta blockers. Medicate Orville. Collect my dinner from the refrigerator and sit on the couch, flipping on the television for company and watching whatever crime/detective/medical/suburban drama happened to be on at 9:00 CST. I ate at the coffee table most nights, except when I ate while standing next to the sink in the kitchen. Sometimes, I would get home at 8:00 and eat and then go to the gym because the Biggest Little Gym Ever also has the Most Amazing Hours and I could workout until 11PM. Most nights, though, I would eat, brush my teeth, change into my pajamas, and then sit on my bed with the laptop, looking at craigslist even though I knew I did not need a motorcycle or a free-to-good-home blue heeler pup or a vintage waterfall dresser with mirror.

The cats liked all this very much. I would talk to them sometimes, but for the most part, we were quiet, communicating with blinks and sighs and listening to the night noises of the Edge of the Edge of the Hood. When I sat near the head of the bed with my computer, they would assume their respective positions at the foot, Orville curled at the righthand corner, Wilbur in the left. When I finally turned out the light and slipped under the covers, I slept in the middle.

Now that Expat's home with the visiting GAFIL, Wilbur does not always wait for me on the other side of the door, but sometimes comes yawning from the bedroom some five minute after I have already been home. Sometimes, the Pre-Kids have already been fed. We are no longer silent together; they have to talk for attention and I have to talk to be polite, to appear Affable and Well-Adjusted.

Expat calls the Pre-Kids names and makes fun of their wimpy meows. He calls me names and swats at my bottom when I walk past him in the kitchen. He whines when I don't bring him his morning coffee while he's still lying in a coma-like state in the bed clutching all of the covers to his chest. He grumbles about having to cook to my nutrition plan while he's making another perfectly-seasoned, made-from-scratch dinner with the locally-raised meat and asparagus we picked up at the Dane County Farmer's Market last week. He hates that I use the snooze button on my alarm clock more than once. He snores just infrequently enough and just loudly enough to be Really Frustrating at 3AM.

And two days ago, even though he was out for afternoon drinks with his father, Expat left the bar and walked down the street to help me pick out a pair of Ultra Fabulous, impulse-buy sale shoes, just because I asked him to.

The Pre-Kids and I had worked out a Routine.

I still peel pieces of mail from the metal mailbox. Now, though, I have someone to help me sort it.

It's A Nine-Hour Drive from Me to You

The sign I posted on my office door before closing it immediately upon arriving at work today:

Sparky is unabashedly Rocking Out to Fountains of Wayne. Feel free to interrupt her with questions, etc.

She didn't think you would want to hear her singing along at 7:30 in the morning.

I stopped the singing along part when my office mate, Mr. Reliable, arrived at 9:00, but the first 1.5 hours of my morning definitely, um, rocked.

Tomorrow, I'm blowing off work to drive 15 hours to see Expat (finally) graduate, to introduce my German/Australian Father-In-Law (GAFIL) to my Very Handy Father and Weathergirl, and to then drive said 15 hours back to Madison with said GAFIL and all of his stuff, and Expat and all of his stuff. I just dropped $350 getting the Subaru tuned up (apparently, it needed a new swaybar and a few bushings and a wheel alignment and . . .), I have cash and quarters for the obscene amount of tolls through Chicago and the Vast Flatness that is IllinoisIndianaOhio, and I know exactly which tollway service plazas contain my favorite venders of the very necessary Foofy Coffee.

I. Cannot. Wait.

Seriously.

Until then, I shall continue Rocking Out. Quietly. To myself.

And an Hour in the Shower is the Best That You've Got

I don't know much about getting accurate weights and all that, so I don't know if this is a particularly meaningful number, but as of 10:45PM this evening when I completed Virtual's grueling Day 2 workout, and according to the fairly reliable old-school doctor's scale at my gym, I weighed three pounds less than I did last Thursday, when I weighed myself at approximately the same time in the same place wearing about the same thing.

Accurate or not, I still did the Dance of Joy right there in the locker room in front of God and everybody.

In my past life (read: ten days ago), this would have been cause for Celebration with Ice Cream.

Tonight, it was cause for Celebration with Long Hot Shower, Extra Steamy, with a Side of Uber-Girly Body Wash.

And now, it's time for some Serious Progressive Farmer Sleep, as my first roommate after college, the Mistress of Calamity and General Debacles and a former Progressive Farmer magazine intern, used to say. Not even the jackhammering road crew working on the beltline that is about .5 miles away from my open bedroom window here on the Edge of the Edge of the Hood can stand between me and my Dreams of fitting back into my favorite jeans.

Lean Meat and Veggies—No Carbs. Oh My

We here at Scooter Nation are Making History.

We have grown tired of Unhip and Frumpy.

We have foresworn our Cupcakeness.

We have hired a Cybertrainer.

"A what?" you ask.

A Cybertrainer.

I first heard about Virtual and her Cybertraining gig from the Matic clan matriarc. Once Mommymatic started waxing poetic about some "total-lifestyle-altering, kick ass plan" she'd gotten from Virtual, I started thinking, "Hey, maybe I should get one of those."

This month, I did.

I have gone a whole two days on my new nutrition plan. I quite like parts of it. Virtual isn't all about no carbs, she just particular about what kind of carbs I eat and when. I get to eat bananas and apples and oranges, Kashi chewy trail mix bars, cheese, lots of vegetables whenever I want (well, sort of), and even the occasional skinny, small, sugar-free Foofy Coffee. God, I love Foofy Coffee.

Of course, yesterday, I thought I might die without my usual half-box of crackers and/or dry cereal. I was Very Cranky. Then I went to Target, you know, just to walk around, and found a pair of Super Fabulous Earrings for $1.47, and how can anyone be cranky after that?

Tomorrow, I will commence the Very Structured Exercise Routine. This will be a stretch for me. My idea of a good workout is hanging out on the treadmill through all of Boston Legal while reading some mindless fantasy fiction or the latest women's magazine from the gym's rack, then doing my 15 minutes of stretching and heading home. Oh, and sometimes I run. Tomorrow, I'm aparently going to be trying something called a "single leg balance to touchdown" that Virtual has promised will "make your legs and glutes burn like no other." This, admittedly, isn't something I typically strive for. Burning of any kind—sunburns, razor burns, heartburn, the possible burning of my soul in eternal hellfire— isn't really high on my list, unless you're talking about Expat, my Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love, but even at that, I'm not the one burning.

But we'll give it a go. By this time next month, I shall be svelt . . . er. At the very least, I will no longer be consuming my weight in Wheat Thins. Worst case scenario, I end up with lots of cheap earrings from Target.

After all, we have to try. We've foresworn Cupcakeness.