InnerTeub

I think I’ve lost the upper hand in my book club.

Yes, ok, so: I have a book club. And I suppose that is a massively clichéd thing for me to have, except it’s so awesome and amazing I don’t care.

About two years ago Book Club started meeting once a month on a Sunday evening to drink wine and talk about a book. Sometimes we do a really good job being a functional book club, with the seven of us discussing a book at length and other times it’s more of a “I didn’t have time to read it but let me tell you what my husband/boyfriend/mother did that totally pissed me off and can I pour you some more wine” kind of group. We met through the DC Triathlon club, though over the years our individual interest in the actual doing of triathlon varies greatly and I’d say at this point our designation of  us being “a group of triathletes” is more of a  “Hey, remember when?” kind of thing. Since our inception four of us have gotten married, two have had children (with two more on the way), and we now meet at 6pm instead of 7 because, I mean, let’s face it: we just can’t stay up that late on a school night anymore.

Anyway, there’s a been a lot of history and laughter and there’s a strong connection between us best described between The Boss and I last night:

Me: “We’re crazy to think of moving away from our extended family”

Him: “Who’s that now?”

Me: “Book club, duh”

At the end of every meeting we suggest the next month’s book along with picking a date for the next meeting. Selection of book is highly informal; usually it’s someone going “I read this review of such and such book, might be worthwhile,” etc. So at one point last year, I suggested we read a book that my stepdaughter gave me, a book that she and her friends really liked, and I thought that we, as a group of women that are all either directly or indirectly involved in the raising of teenage girls, might be interested in talking about. This was an objective suggestion based our duty to understand the world these girls are living and how we can relate and participate in that world. Are you getting this? IT WAS FOR THE CHILDREN.

Also, it was about teenage vampire with totally awesome abs.

Y’all, ever since suggesting my book club read Twilight, I have officially not been allowed to suggest books for book club. Before a suggestion can even cross my lips I’m reminded quickly about “the vampire book,” usually with a slight eye roll and “Ahem” implied. It will likely be like this for the next two years, minimum, at which point I assume they might consider another one of my suggestions, but only after reminding me about the “Twilight Debacle of 2009.”

That’s fine. I can wait. It’s not like the Sookie Stackhouse books are going anywhere, right?

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Remember when I said when you’re married to a pilot, every solution looks like an SR-22? Well, there are a few other things you should probably know about pilots, starting with their incredibly well preserved sense of self-worth:

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“We can all write about suffering
with our eyes closed. You should show people
more of yourself; show them your clandestine
passion for red meat”
– Louise Gluck, “Rainy Morning”

Several years ago, I used to scan through a blog written by one of the recappers of Television Without Pity. Pamie wrote semi consistently and had built up a following of devoted and loyal readers, and was generally count-on-able for a quick hit of wit, humor, and, at the very least, distraction.

And then she’s stopped writing much. She left a note at one point, saying:

To be honest, the things I’d want to write here, the stuff that makes me enjoy writing pamie.com falls under two categories:

1. Things I’m not allowed to write about here, or at the very least I’m smart enough now to know that I shouldn’t, and

2. Stuff I want to write about but I haven’t had the time to sit down in order to write it properly.

…

So this place ends up being roller derby announcements and videos I saw and books I’m reading and is kind of a sad, sad space. I’m sorry. I really am, because I care very much about pamie.com. Eleven years is a long time to have this site. I just have to figure out what I’m going to do with it next.

And, I mean: who I am to argue? Life moves on and our need to share with the unidentified masses the thoughts in our head moves up and down in the importance ranking; I get it. But there’s something highly irritating about swinging by someone’s site only to read something that basically says nothing. And while there’s nothing wrong with that – I mean, there’s no final exam at the end, I don’t have to read someone’s blog if I don’t like it (“You owe me better free content! And NOW!”), the internet is really only as big as the sites I choose to visit, etc,  but I’ve been thinking about the blogs I really enjoy reading, and why I keep going back, and it really boils down to that quote from Louise Gluck: I love to read about your clandestine passion for red meat. And I miss it – I miss you – when you stop sharing.

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This is my stepdaughter

Originally uploaded by LizScott

Ahhh, stepdaughter. With a single look you remind me of how cool I am not.

I love this picture. Every time I look at it I have two simultaneous responses:

1. I love this girl a ridiculous amount
2. I wouldn’t be a 12 year old girl again if someone paid me a million trillion dollars. Tween/Teenage girldom? Hell on wheels  ::shudder:::

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I wish I could bring you a substantive post all about the world as I see it, but I’m so tired from my stupid insistence of working out at 5am it’s all I can do to stop from slumping to the floor and sucking my thumb. So on that note, I give you a few quick hits of mildly interesting tibits:

• We have a new blogger in the family! The Boss has started blogging about his Ironman training. He promises a new blog title is coming, now that he’s done being annoyed with DC politics circa 2008.
• I’ve been doing some really neat stuff at work, which I’d love to talk about but can’t, except to say that the stuff I was doing today was making me wish I’d finished my masters in Statistics, and when work can make that seem fun, you know you’re doing something right. (Extreme side note to the English majors that I used to teach in Intro Stat: SEE? I told you statistics was awesome!)
• I’ve started my Ironman training “for real”, which is to say that I’m officially scared of the 112 mile bike ride that is coming my way. Not to mentioned the 2.4 mile swim and 26.2 mile run.
• Related: that fear was apparently not strong enough to make me actually go do my swim workout yesterday.
• Related related: It WAS strong enough to get me out of bed at 4:40AM to get my workout in before heading into the office. Y’all, there is just no way around it: if you get your workout in before the rest of the world/family wakes up, life is so much easier. Except for the part where you’re ready for bed by 2pm.

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The boss and I are celebrating the New Year in the best way I know how, which is to say we’re in our PJ’s mainlining season 1 and 2 of True Blood (At one point in my Twilight obsession, [Team Jacob, woo!] the Boss mentioned to me that if he was going to be forced to watch melodrama concerning vampires, he’d just as soon see some boobs while he’s at it, thus: True Blood. Ahem) and for whatever reason the low-rent website we’re streaming season 2 from will only let us watch in 72 minute increments. I don’t know, technology is my friend but I don’t ask too many questions, right?

Anyway, this enforced break is giving me a chance to sit down and reflect in some truly sad news: I received a note from a dear friend informing me that on the day before Christmas, she delivered her twin babies, a boy and a girl, stillborn at 20 weeks. I don’t have much to say about this, what with it not being my story to tell and all, except to reflect on sad life can be, how quickly my heart can break for someone, and how continually impressed I am with the human spirit’s ability to cope and heal.  If you are believer in good vibes or prayer or other energy that sends intentions through thought waves, please send some to my friend and her family; I know they have it within them to heal, but it never hurts to have additional help. We’re all doing this crazy life thing together, after all, no matter how alone we can often feel.

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So, one of the joys in our life is that my in-laws are willing and able to puppy sit whenever we go out of town, saving us hundreds of dollars and making travel financially possible. This is a perk I cannot imagine living without.

The catch – because there always is one- is that they live in New Jersey, and we do not.  This, combined with my stepdaughter’s mother ALSO living in New Jersey, means I spend a ridiculous amount of time driving the New Jersey turnpike and flying in and out of Newark (for perspective: I live ten minutes from my local DC airport. Ten minutes. It is amazingly convenient;  I wish I got to actually use it.) I am blessed with many wonderful things in my life, not the least of which are my in-laws, my stepdaughter, and my stepdaughter’s family, but it strikes me as appropriately life-ironic that these gifts come with strings – and those strings pull me directly back to the Garden State.

ANYWAY, that is all to say that I was driving up to New Jersey last night so we could drop off the pup and  make our early AM flight out of Newark , and while the Boss was catching some sleep in the passenger seat, I started about 50 blog posts that I now can’t remember, which means that today you will get a post about my continued bitching regarding Newark, New Jersey, and probably travel in general. Let’s get started!

Let me be about the billionth person to complain about the current state of Airline suckitude. Here’s how I understand the buying and selling of services: if I give you money for a service – or say, you know: a seat on an airplane – I except to actually receive said service in exchange for the cash.  I mean, commerce literally does not get any more basic than that. Unless, of course, you fly United, where, upon arriving at the airport, I have been told “Yes I know you bought a ticket for this flight, but we’re out of space;  if you’d like, you can purchase an upgrade to guarantee a seat.” And, I mean:  No. Didn’t we all see that one Seinfeld?

My initial purchasing of the ticket guarantees me a seat, asshole. That’s the whole point of the reservation. You take my money, you save me a seat. You don’t take my money and then offer the opportunity to give you MORE money before I get a seat. THAT’S NOT HOW IT WORKS.

(I mean, apparently it is. I don’t know. It’s the airline’s world; I just live here).

I’ve mentioned it before (I think), but I think my background as a client satisfaction professional (which sounds like a euphemism but I promise is not) makes this whole situation that much harder to take. So many service industries have absolutely nailed how to make “positive profits” (where the customer gives you their money because they honestly feel they are getting something in return, and more often than not will recommend you to their friends) versus making “negative profits” (where the customer gives you their money because they have no choice and end up kind of hating you for it HELLO UNITED CAN YOU HEAR ME?).

I suppose this is the part of the blog post where I tell you that I’m working on like, 3 hours of sleep, I’ve been at Newark since 5am, I forgot my phone so am now faced with the lovely prospect of working remotely this week with no access to remote email or calls, I’m wearing the same socks I was yesterday, I wish I could shower but I can’t, and we just got bumped off the 6:30am flight and as such will be here until the 10:30 flight, at which point we will be shuttled to Chicago just in time for a blizzard to hit the Midwest and likely strand us there.

I mean, all I’m saying is–actually, I was about to apologize for being overly negative, but when I look back, I’m actually SO NOT WRONG about anything that I’m not going to. Lack of coffee not withstanding, the airlines suck.

(The Boss would like to interrupt here and point out that this entire post can legally be used as justification the purchase of our own plane.  When you’re married to a pilot, every solution looks like an SR-22)

(Wow, look at that. New Jersey and Newark didn’t even factor into this bitch fest. I knew you’d get me, NJ. Stockholm syndrome, here we come!)

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Two days ago was the fourth anniversary of my heart surgery. I celebrated the event better last year, having just completed an Ironman triathlon. Finishing that race was solid statement of health and vitality, a reminder of the drastic way illness changed my life for the better; certainly if I had never gotten sick, I would have never placed a premium on movement and forward motion. Somethings you don’t miss until they’re gone, I think.

This year I was a little less symbolic in my celebration, which is to say I completely forgot it was my heart-aversary. So instead of completing an athletic race (which is what I would usually do), or even working out at all, I stayed in the house,  snuggled on the couch with the Boss (while we mainlined the fourth season of Battlestar Galactica. I love TV seasons on DVD, btw), played with my puppy in the snow** (20 inches!),  and had some friends over for dinner. I didn’t realize I was celebrating at the time, but when I think back to a lovely day spent with my family, and a lovely evening spent sitting around the table with our friends, enjoying the home the Boss and I have built for ourselves*,  I realize I’ve come to a new way of celebrating health and being alive, which is to just… be that way. And I love it.

*We didn’t like, literally build it. Obviously.

**Obligatory puppy-in-snow picture:

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Mckenzie’s Good Friends

Originally uploaded by pescatello

My brother is spending the year teaching for Duke University in Rome (yeah, his life is pretty awesome), and as such will not be back in time to celebrate Christmas with the Lewis fam.

As I make my plans to travel home I realize we’ll be down one soldier for the Holiday. Cheers to you, C. Mck. You will be thoroughly missed!

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