Month: March 2017

I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day…

Right now it’s 4:19am and I’m wide awake and more than a little embarrassed to tell you why.

It all started with our damned cat – BrettFavre.  You know how ridiculous it is to have a cat named BrettFavre?  “Hi, this is the veterinary clinic; BrettFavre is due for his feline leukemia shot.”  If Abby had been the boy I planned on… we wouldn’t be stuck in this pickle.  All my pre-motherhood life I imagined having a Cal and a Brett; never, during that time, did I think the one named Brett would require deworming.

Anyway – that damned BrettFavre (the cat, not the man) is suuuuuch an utter asshole… He likes to go out in the middle of the night.  Please don’t judge us for accommodating his wish.  This cat will stand outside our door and cry until we stumble downstairs and open the door.  If we don’t respond to the meowing – he scratches those needle-like claws down our door (you’re wincing right now, imagine being awakened from a deep sleep with this….).  If, by chance, we haven’t closed our door completely – he bats it open, it swings closed, he bats it open, it swings closed, he bats it open, it swings…

We have no choice but to set that asshole free to roam the neighborhood.  We’ve tried a squirt bottle by the door – he scurries, then comes back with a vengeance.  We’ve tried closing him in our sunroom, he gets out; that son of a bitch somehow gets out…  with no opposable thumb – it’s baffling – how the hell does he turn the doorknob??????

I try to be calm about it, and I promise you – I’ve never punted that cat (although the thought has crossed my mind on more than one occasion) but I may have nudged him with my toe a few…. dozen…. times.  Ok, stop it right now with your PETA bullshit – after you’ve spent 9 years dancing this dance – claws down your door at 2:15am, walk downstairs, open back door, have cat stand there deciding if he wants to go out or not (those 2° mornings are fun AF)… then you can judge me.

I’d guesstimate in those 9 years – this asshole has woken us at some point between 1:30a and 3:45a at least 1800 times.  Now… when I say “us” – you know I obviously mean “me”, right?  Of those 1800 middle-of-the-night excursions – Dan has taken care of the situation at least 3 times.  When I die – I want to come back as a husband.

I love how he says, “Just wake me up… it’s not my fault I don’t hear it.  Just wake me up and I’ll take care of it.”

uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-huh

Getting up and letting the little dickhead out is way less involved than trying to wake up the big dickhead next to me.  Who sleeps like that???  You’d think the 2 hours he napped on the couch before bed would make him a little more easily roused…  not so much.  I usually end up more pissed off when I try to wake him…  It starts with, “babe……. babe……” a gentle rubbing of the back, arm, leg – whatever I can reach easily (buncha weirdo pervs – yes, even THAT once or twice) and 3 minutes later ends with “DAN!” and a kick to the shin – then he yells, then I yell…

I will say this… if, against all odds, Dan does hear that asshole – he  jumps into action.  Well… there’s no jumping as he has to stretch his bitched up plantar fascia first (all the while the scratching, meowing, door batting continues); but then he’s swiftly and quietly on the move. Well… it’s not always quiet because of how he runs into the end of the bed most times and swears, but then he’s on his way to handle the problem so that I can go back to sleep.  Well… I don’t go right back to sleep because he always forgets that – since he DW40’d the door hinges – the door slams if you don’t slow it down once it’s been opened but he does handle it quickly and efficiently so I can fall back to sleep undisturbed.  Well… he doesn’t usually make quick work of it – there’s the bathroom break (“I figure I’m up… why not”) and he stops for a drink, checks his phone… all while I lie there listening for the scuffle I just know is coming – I mean, what else could be taking so damned long, obviously he foiled a burglar… but at least, once he does come back, he slides right back into bed unnoticed.  Well… there is the sighing and dropping onto the bed, oh! and that cute way he throws the covers back so that my warm, snuggled-up cocoon gets some of that refreshing frosty air and it does only take a minute or 2 for him to beat the hell out of his pillow and then throw his head at it a few times to get it worked over just right… But hey – I didn’t have to ruin my slumber, right?

This morning was a Dan morning and I have to admit – I have zero complaints regarding his handling of the matter.  He was on it immediately and took care of it as well, if not better than I do.  Kudos my love… kudos.  He did make some kinda comment about water as he was getting back in bed but surely it wasn’t anything important…

And here – finally – is why, on the one morning Dan took perfect care of the BrettFavre (the cat, not the man) situation and did so to my standards, I still find myself up and writing at 4:19…

I can’t even explain why… or how… or why… but… while Dan was downstairs I had an image pop into my head.  Outta nowhere, for no reason whatsoever I had the most clear image of a dog driving to work (necktie and all) with his coffee and foil-wrapped sandwich still on the roof – like he took off and forgot it was up there…

I told you it was embarrassing.

I just sorta laid there for a while after Dan got back in bed – wondering what in the hell would drive me to visualize this situation; then Dan struck up a conversation (he could tell I hadn’t fallen back to sleep).  All the sudden I started giggling.  I tried desperately to describe the image I had (it was no easy task – there were different points when I literally couldn’t breath, I mean… scared ’cause I couldn’t catch my breath); damn if Dan wasn’t right on board with it…  “Sorta like a cartoonish image but not a full cartoon.”

He soooooo gets me.

I couldn’t get myself straight.  Dan was laughing at my asinine laughter.  I finally just said, “I’m gonna go ahead and leave the area so you can get some sleep,” and then I came downstairs…  and googled ‘dog driving to work with coffee on roof’ – I came up blank and I gotta say… I really am surprised, I mean that damned image is SO CLEAR to me…

beagle-type dog, leaning forward – anxious to get to his [clearly] stressful job, long rounded ears, black necktie; with both ear and necktie flying out the window (because obviously, he would have the window down)…

When this image popped into my head I saw the dog in the driver’s seat first and then my “vision” sorta scanned up and that’s when I “saw” the coffee and sandwich on the roof…

I’ve been known to get so incredibly irritated with Dan when he laughs about stupid shit and I look him square in the eye and say, “…must be nice to be that fucking simple…”

well… I gotta tell ya, even though I know I’m gonna be exhausted later – it is, actually kinda nice, to be this fucking simple…

Now… I know I promised not to carry on about my triathlon training and I have to say, I’ve done pretty well to this point; but, alas – my rabid fans are begging… (ok, ok, ok… I have 1 mildly devout follower and he has not even mentioned it, I’m just trying to justify this entry).

To be completely honest, this story is such a perfect representation of the shit show I call my life, I just couldn’t let it go without sharing.  The upside is: the story involves little to no actual training…

As with all of my stories, this one requires a little bit of back story, bear with me.

About 4 weeks ago I texted my friend Gary to give him props; I was out jogging when I saw him doing the same – I was dressed for a trip up Everest and he was in a t-shirt.  After some back and forth I realized the conversation was going awry for 2 reasons: 1) while Gary was out running that day – he assured me, he had worn more than a t-shirt (I still have no idea what or who I saw…) and 2) by the end of our tête-à-tête I had agreed to enter the local triathlon.

…damn Gary.  He can sense a weakness like a hungry lion on the Serengeti.  Ya know… when you’re kinda down and suggesting bucket list items – a friend will suggest a day-long Rocky marathon or a trip overseas; not this guy – he gets me to sign up for a triathlon.

I figured it would blow over; go right on by with me (half-heartedly) lamenting, “I should’ve signed up… damn! Oh well…. it’s too late now.”  But the next day, there I was…. dropping my entry fee in the mail box, feeling like Rocky as he crested that mountain, triumphant arms in the air, shouting, “DRAAGOOOOOOOOO!”

Ironically (which, btw, should be the title of my autobiography), the days leading up to the mailing of my entry fee were uncharacteristically warm – February in Pennsylvania should not offer 62° days – since the moment my envelope hit that fucking mailbox we’ve spent every day challenging the record lows.  I am an early morning exerciser – pre-entry form saw 40° mornings, post-entry… 15°.  Did I mention the 12+ inches of snow we got last week?  Oh, and let’s not forget the time change… a lost hour of morning light has been exceptionally helpful.

I won’t even get into the personal struggles I face.  Wait! maybe I will…

I’ve spent thousands, I mean literally… thousands of dollars on support wear and I still have to layer it.  Boobs are dumb, plain and simple.  There was a time I wore 2 layers; right up until the day my (then) 66 year-old father nearly killed some dumbass for commenting on my “assets in motion”. I now wear 3 layers.

If poor Dan happens to be anywhere near me while I’m dressing for a run – he gets an earful, “…must be fucking nice to just throw on a t-shirt and shorts and hit the pavement.  I’m a sweaty fucking mess and I’m not even fully dressed yet…”

So, to say that motivation and determination have been the least of my troubles is an egregious understatement.  But, to my credit – I’ve been out there… even developed a shoveling technique to mimic a rowing motion (no swim in this tri – we kayak); I’m making the most of what I’ve been given.  I’m Rocky… in Russia… throwing boulders.

My story takes place last Tuesday morning but it really started the night before…

Monday evening here at the Iseminger home was a pretty good one on the athletics front.  Alex brought home her new VARSITY jersey.  I played softball at the college level and yet… I never wore a varsity jersey, here was my 9th grader holding up her #22; it was a big moment for me (I’m tearing up right now… God help me should that girl get a scholarship).  Cal brought home his junior high baseball hat – all signs are pointing to him getting a fair amount of playing time on 1st base and on the mound – not to mention, the cap fit his big, melon head… that is a miracle in and of itself (Dan frequently gives thanks for C-sections).  And Abby finally landed a standing back tuck – hasn’t been able to repeat it… but there was resounding cheering, jumping, clapping (and that was just me).

After an evening like that, I had no choice but to proffer my own athletic prowess… “I’m gonna hit the trail early tomorrow.  I’ll run then bike – just to get a feel for the transfer – it’s time to push this training to high gear…”

I was up at 4:45am and on the road by 6:20, my bike stowed in the back of the pharmacy car (my own car, you know… the one that can easily accommodate a bike rack… is outta commission); I had just about recovered from the sports bra(s) debacle when the bike stuffing debacle almost killed me.  The key word being almost…  Motivation/determination -one, shit show of a life – zero.

I got to the trail at 6:35, it was still dark but the sun was a mere whisper away.  I figured I had already lost 4 weeks to crap weather and late sunrises… I was hitting the trail (7 minutes) before sun up – trail rules be damned.  I took off with my headlamp blazing, my pepper spray ready and Nirvana making me feel invincible.  It was an exhilarating 45 seconds…

until….

I heard the big, mean dog and almost pissed my tights.  The I saw the big, mean dog – sans any hint of tethering whatsoever – and did what any self-respecting scaredy cat would do – screamed bloody murder.  I did have the presence of mind to stomp my foot and scream, “BACK!” which startled Cerberus just long enough for Satan to come out in her robe.

“YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE TRAIL BEFORE DAY LIGHT!”

She was right, of course.   However, with her wildebeest continuing to close in on me I would’ve appreciated it if she had put the scolding on the back burner and concentrated all of her efforts on getting that mammoth mother fucker under control.  She couldn’t handle that dog – please don’t own a dog you can’t handle… (that’s my PSA for the day).  Apparently her lack of control stemmed from my headlamp…

“CAN YOU PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR FLASHLIGHT SO I CAN CALM HIM DOWN!!!”

uhhhh… fuck no lady – I need to be prepared to beat feet (I did turn it to face me).

She finally got the dog to go in through the garage.  Which would’ve been really fucking fantastic had her front door not remained wide open from when she first came out to rescue scold me.

Cujo was nothing if not determined…

I sat in my car for 17 minutes (nervously giggling over the mental image of HER realizing she hadn’t shut the front door and hauling ass, in her robe, through the house).  I think I would’ve just gone home if she hadn’t scolded me – twice.  I just couldn’t let her win (even though she was right).  I had to show her I had every right to that trail (now that the sun was up).

I finally mustered all my courage and restarted my run…  damn if Zoltan, Hound of Dracula wasn’t still outside.  I’m pretty sure it was tied, but we’ll never know ’cause I turned right the hell around and jumped in my car; official loser of the trail war.

Once home I told Dan I was going for a short run through town.  Would’ve worked, too – if I hadn’t strained my calf muscle during the (almost) dog attack.  As I was hobbling home a one in a million timing situation caused me to scramble down into a ditch to avoid being hit by a tractor trailer…  I figured between the dog and tractor trailer – my heart had pumped about as much as it does during a workout.

I was hobbling, shaky from nerves and teary-eyed when the guy flipped me off because he had to take a sharper angle because I was standing on the side of the road at a turn…

full blown tears when I walked in the house.

The pity in my kids’ eyes was enough to push me over the edge…

I got a hug from each of them and headed for the shower.  I did nothing to my hair, wore no makeup and carried the weight of a thrashing on my shoulders as I walked out the door for work.  Dan rubbed my cheek and said, “awww you’re so pretty babe…” (he’s Shallow Hal for chrissakes).

I got in my car and the tears flowed –  for so many reasons: taking my life for granted, wondering if I’m up to this, because the multiple surges of adrenaline had not only drained me but had stepped aside to make room for the fear to finally hit me full force… I spent my entire drive to work crying, all 90 seconds of it – son.of.a.bitch. I can’t even wallow in self pity like a regular person………..

(PS for those questioning my driving such a short distance – there are a number of factors that play into my walk vs. drive decision every day – I felt I’d gotten enough of an ass kicking Tuesday, I’d earned the ride)

(PPS I can’t stand the thought of ending on a down note – I had a pretty good training day yesterday – I’m still questioning my capabilities but at least I didn’t have a dog dangling from my leg….)