Ten minutes to blog, so here we are.

I’ve been thinking about, you know, my life, and I’ll tell you the toughest bits are some odd ones. I have this cognitive dissonance that just rings my bell sometimes. I’ll be grocery shopping, and out of a habit I taught myself, I appraise items based on if he would like them or eat them. I see his favorite treats and I almost toss one in the cart. I’m out with friends for hours and I reach for the phone to text a quick check in. And I have to stop and remind myself, over and over and over, that’s now how it is, anymore. It’s nice to not have to try so hard. It’s nice to not have to strain and reach and be so mindful. But it still hurts in a hollow way, like when you’ve a loose tooth and been pressing and tugging on it for ages and you’re so used to the hurt and the soreness and the irritation. Then, finally, it’s out and the mature tooth is coming into place. It hurts because it doesn’t hurt, and you press that spot a hundred times a day, so used to the pain it still hurts even when it’s gone, but it hurts BECAUSE it’s gone.

It’s so strange to still be in contact. He talks to me like normal, sometimes. We’re arranging the sale of our house and we email and text about odds and ends. And I don’t know what to equate it to, because it’s so odd. We’re breaking up, but we’re still working together toward this common goal.


Don’t worry, I have no intention of getting philosophical here. I just wanted to say that I survived my abnormal exercise week, not without vast quantities of whimpering, ibuprofen, and sympathy-mongering. However I and my body are better for it. Turns out that whole “fitness” and “exercise” racket was on to something.  Go figure.

I did a parkour class today.  If you need me to wait while you Google it, that’s fine.

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all caught up?  Great.

I took a class at a gym owned by one friend from high school, and managed by another.  They happen to be brother and sister, which is cool.  It was a ladies only class, so that was also pleasant.  I have at least five bruises from my time there, the first occurring when I attempted to, as all the other ladies in my group had, run up a “warped” (curved) wall to grab a ledge and muscle myself up onto said ledge.  I failed and slid dramatically back down a few times; I think about four but in retelling it became six because that allowed me more sass-leverage over the instructor.  I banged my knee but good the first time, but at the end of every slide I did finish well, posing at the bottom in various ways: dead flail, savior on a cross, I’m a star, feel my shame.  Next up was vaulting, where I was supposed to use my arms to help propel me “safely” over a sort of triangular structure that resembled a long ziggurat mixed with a pommel horse.  After careening into/over that a few times, we got to try a different, taller vault with no padding on top.  sure, instructor who does this all day and has done for years, I’ll just run a short step up the side of this. . .thing? and flail on over.  It’s totally a natural maneuver!  It just feels right!  Then we ran at a wall, upon which I splatted and dangled, and got to scamper through an entire piece of scaffolding as we wished.  there were also large tires.  I ran around several obstacles, but I did do a poledancing twirl on one of the scaffolding uprights.  I’m pretty proud of that. I don’t know where all of my bruises will be when they finally color up, but I know that I will be doing that class again.  As long as the one teacher-fellow doesn’t make jokes about inevitable catfights to a group of women he’s just met.  All the vaulting and freerunning in the world will not get you safely away from a group of women you’ve just pissed off, Sweetcheeks. Best of luck and godspeed.

Nikolai has had three teeth pulled this afternoon.  His oral surgeon (the word oral always makes me think rather tarty thoughts) was an expeditious man, busting those three suckers out in an hour, tops.  The “procedure” (a word that makes me feel as if I am in a bad medical show or perhaps a likewise bad sci-fi flick) was scheduled to start at 2:30 ( get it?  Tooth-hurty? I bet the oral surgeon had no idea. snicker)  and end at 3:30.  I was asked to collect Nikolai at 3:15, or at least return about then to get him.  I got a call as I was in transit at like, 3:20.  He was ready.  Dayum, Dr. Teeth was efficient!  I ushered a pale and ice-packed man to the car and home, flustered about getting him installed on the couch in comfy clothes and far more cushy pillows and blankets than were strictly necessary.  He managed to drool blood panache, bespeckling ojbects that would otherwise have faced to the background of my attention.  Once we corralled his numb mouth and got him settled, I set off to the grocery store for his meds, a hell of a lot more gauze, and soft foods.

First off, I have never put in a prescription at a pharmacy to be filled.  Honestly.  I have never done such a thing.  So I wandered in, trying to be honest and open, and I explained to the gal at the counter that I had no idea what I was doing.  She was sweet and directed me over to the “Rx Drop Off” counter and only rolled her eyes once, while an astonishingly attractive pharmacist-man laughed at me.  Really, dude?  I am honest that I have no idea what’s going on, and your response is to laugh?  Well thank god you only went into pharmaceuticals.  If this is how you treat people once they’re recovering, I would hate to see your bedside manner.  HA HA HA YOU HAVE CANCER WHAT A NERD WHO GETS CANCER?   I am extrapolating, of course, but I feel that this is a distinct possibility.

Anyway, I got the scrip started and set off to get soft foods and other things we needed.  In process, I managed to overfill the wee little basket I had nabbed, so I staggered up to the checkout fellow with three loaves of bread and a dozed bratwurst in one hand, and a basket with pudding leaping out in the other.  He was unimpressed.  halfway through sherpa-ing that stuff home I got the call that his meds were ready, but no way was I turning back then.  I got home, offloaded, helped him swap gauzes, got his insurance info, and pranced on back to the store for the drugs.  Lucky for me, the attractive pharmadouche was no longer on shift.  I probably would not have kept the sass to myself.  After obtaining the swag as well as far more gauze than was strictly necessary, I got home where I promptly fed Nikolai a Percoset™.  I then explained that he should have taken it with food, but whatever.

He has recently requested soup.  Granted, he has recently exploded into a flop sweat and fainted, so it’s really anyone’s game.  But he’s upright (mostly) and eating now, and has just put in a request for pudding.  This may end well, after all, given that I didn’t giggle myself into a fit when he collapsed.  I totally saved him, if you were wondering.  Busted out my three-year old first aid training and SAVED his fainty butt.


Why do I never learn?  Why do I not recall previous experiences, and think that if I repeat them, the same results won’t occur?  It hurts, and for so much longer than it was good.


Stupid fatty meats.


Ow, my tummy hurts.

In planning for this trip, and by planning I mean studiously avoiding thinking of it in any way except the murkiness of The FUTURE, I knew I would need walking shoes.  I also knew that if anyone attempted to make me wear tennis shoes of any variety in that kind of humidity and heat, I would start kicking that person and never stop.  I needed some comfortable sandals I could walk in, and I did find a nice pair that I assumed would do the least amount of damage while being affordable and cute.  I knew I would inevitably be in pain, so all I tried to do was minimize that.

The sandals did have a heel, because I prefer blisters to having hyperextended knees – call me crazy!!  After that first day in them, when I had the first blister on one foot and what seemed to be a hive on the other foot, I did think that maybe knees that bent backwards and made me walk like a chicken might be preferable.  They’re not, in case you were wondering.  After switching shoes a few days in row and buying certified Disney® flip flops, I had four blisters, one of which had started to mutate.  It began innocently enough, on the pad just as the base of my second toe.  A shoe switch and another day later, the fluid inside had managed to shove itself up between my second and third toes, and IT TOTALLY FASCINATED GROSSED ME OUT YOU GUYS.  I proceeded to show Nick my newest acquisition, and spent the rest of the trip squishing on it from both sides.  It was so gross (but kind of cool).

I snagged another two blisters in Vegas on the LONGEST TRIP HOME EVER, which helped me cement the belief that I do not like Las Vegas, and not just because of the driving winds and the dirtiness that embedded itself in my skin.


Stay tuned for a play-by-play of a very long trip that never wanted to end and became travel purgatory.

I’m fine, Nick’s fine.  A divorce was just announced in his family, is all.  I don’t know how I feel.  No, I do.  I feel. . . sick.  I feel so heartsick that it’s having a physical effect.  I want to fix it, I want to make it better.  I want to wave a wand and heal the wife, wave that same wand and repair the husband, swish and flick that wand and protect the children.  And then I just want to be nearby, watching, and not interfering.  It’s not my life but it’s close by.  I’m terrified of what this will do to my Nikolai.  He’s never lived through trauma this close before – as the youngest of his generation, most of the grandparents, great-aunts and uncles were gone before he noticed or weren’t close enough for him to feel it.  I have a tendency to exaggerate my own importance and abilities and responsibilities, and therefore I feel like it’s my job to protect this family from the worst of it.  I feel like it’s my job, as the only one in the mix who’s lived through this before, to maintain communication with the wife and husband, respectively, help Nick talk through what he’s experiencing so he can process it and deal, and coach the other adults through proper grieving channels and habits to minimize the damage that is sure to go down.  I don’t want years of bad blood.  I don’t want severed connections because of judgments and misinformation and hurt.  I don’t want these people, my new family, to know what I knew, growing up.  Being shunned by extended family on the other side, not mentioning his name, her name, pity in their eyes, and satisfaction too.  Satisfaction that it was difficult to survive, that we were all damaged by it.  Studiously not mentioning a two or three year span of time, because that’s when it was worst.  Charity from school and church, whispered conversations with glances in our direction, and ostracism so delicate it was almost imperceptible, except it was right there, because my parents had failed.  They couldn’t hack it.  They weren’t strong enough, didn’t pray enough, didn’t try hard enough.  If they had really tried, surely they’d still be married and happily prosperous, and touting God’s miracles.  If my mother had been a good wife, she’d have submitted.  Ew.  Okay sorry for the rant, I just . . . I’ve lived through a divorce and I want the second time to not be as bad as the first.  And there are all these people I care about, who will have to live through this too, and they don’t know what comes next or what to expect.