Amongst the last few entries I had written I had made a couple of decisions, one was to make myself public and another was to move my domain. It’s been a long while since I’ve been writing here or anywhere, really, and you might have noticed that my ‘official’ domain is now the home of some very confusing beauty products which is obviously not me. The domain name lapsed, I wasn’t the original purchaser, through some complicated and stubborn moments I didn’t realize this and it was bought up by someone else. Eh, sometimes this happens.

I also noticed that due to the decision prior to moving my domain, my writing had become more reserved. I started to hold back much of what I wanted to share. Although nothing I revealed here compromised anything about a client, a project, or a family member, it did complicate life in a way that I didn’t expect and in a way that made me not want to come back. I did miss writing here and I did miss all of you. As you might expect and while I don’t think it will surprise you, I wanted to say that I don’t believe I will be continuing to write here at TCDA. I do appreciate and want to thank you for spending your time coming here to read this part of me and for coming back for more. Thank you to everybody who wrote to me personally and let me know how I affected them or just letting me know that you thought I was funny. You always made my day.

As for what’s next, I will probably go on writing, possibly start a new blog. I’ve not yet decided whether or not I want to publish it anonymously, but if I do I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to tell if it was me. If there’s anything that I’m constantly repeating over and over it’s that I couldn’t wear a façade, not even if it were stapled to my face.

My best and much love to all of you,

me.

http://thecatsdemandanswers.com

Brilliant! Update your RSS feeds, your bookmarks, your blogrolls, and whatnots because this location is soon to be mothballed.

“Uh-huh?”

“Does it sparkle?”

“No.”

“Does it come in a turquoise box?”

“No.”

“Can I wear it?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“It really doesn’t sparkle?”

“Yes.”

“AND we decided not to do anniversary presents this year so there’s, like, no sparkly surprises?”

“Right.”

“Are you sure? You better check again just to be certain.”

“Listen, I can’t get you jewlery every year, you’ll get sick of it.”

“Wanna bet?”

So one day you’re walking around like a perfectly normal human being a then all of a sudden, you decide you need an olive plate. Not only do you need an olive plate but you know the exact one that you need. It just so happens that the one you desire you saw in the Autumnal Pottery Barn catalog of 2006. And you remember the exact year because that was the year you suddenly decided you needed your kitchen towels to match your pot holders. At this point, you’re wavering in a downward spiral of domestic wares memory lane and eventually you wake up damp and in a pool of your own spittle. But the point is, you’re awake and you need a mother fucking olive plate.

This is where things get a little tricky. You go to Pottery Barn to get yourself the olive plate that you’re sure they have because olive plates can’t be flying off the shelves regardless of how many years ago you first saw the uber-oval shaped piece of porcelain and said, “What the hell is that thing? An olive plate? Who the hell needs an olive plate?!” You do, that’s who and now you’re hell bent on claiming your rightful piece of pottery. Which, you will inevitably discover, that they no longer carry.

Now, I love me some Pottery Barn. If you ever come over to my house you’ll pretty much see a real life reconstruction of their catalog laid out in incredible precision. The only thing missing is the Copperplate font listing the prices next to the items. But, I digress. The particular Pottery Barn that’s by my house is teeming with helpful associates. The people who work here are so helpful that some days when I wake up between my 330-thread count sheets I half expect to find an overly cheerful employee standing next to my pillow offering to bring me coffee and asking me if I would like to take a survey on the level of comfort of the sheets I just slept in. They’re nice, nice people. They’re the kind of nice that almost makes you feel bad for having thoughts of stuffing them into a mailbox when they cheerfully explain to you that they haven’t carried an olive plate for nearly three years. However, they’d be happy to call every single Pottery Barn in New England and the Mid-Atlantic states to see if they have any old stock for you. But you’ve taken this bait before, you’ve sat there for an hour as they call their overly cheerful friends in other states and you know that in their Stepford-ese they’re discussing the tragedy of you not buying your olive plate three years ago when you should have.

So you weigh your options. A Bowl? A Platter? A glass? Just a plate? And why the hell do you need an olive plate anyway? Why not just get that groovy little dip bowl that holds three varieties of dip, except now that you’re pressed to think about it, you realize you only like TWO varieties of dip. Three dip options seems like a lot of pressure. Again you become woozy with the backward rationalization of condiment containers, your vision becomes blurry, the world begins to close in around you and the next thing you know you’re propped up in your car by a bag full of placemats, napkins, napkin rings, and a gravy boat.

Possessed with the spirit of Martha Stewart and determined to make sure your Kalamata olives are all neatly lined up in a row, you go to Williams & Sonoma who in turn tell you they don’t have it, but you know who does? Pottery Barn. You should totally go there. Then, fitfully, you go to HomeGoods and Macys, then you search about a half dozen quaint Cookware shops around Cape Cod because searching on the internet just feels like cheating. It’s hunting season and by god you’re not going to shoot at a caged animal, you’re going to find a housewares store and you’re going to get that goddamned olive plate if you have to wrestle it out of a 90-year old dying woman’s hands if need be.

And yet, here you are sitting in the blue glow cast by your computer screen, olive plateless and staring at Amazon.com. The thrill of the hunt gone at this point your quivering hand tempted but not quite able to make that final click because in your heart of hearts you know that clicking this button won’t be nearly as satisfying as if you found the little bastard in person. Just before you make that click you remember there’s one more Cook Shop that you had forgotten about three towns over, also, this Cook Shop is next to a place that sell fudge and somehow, in some way, your passion about olive plates is rekindled and the hunt goes on to see another day.

So, without further adeiu, I humbly present you with with the stunning conclusion of the Mirena project. Way back in May I discovered that things seemed just a tad off with my newly implanted IUD. Things seemed… hmmm, crazier. And by “things” I mean “me in general.” Now, there’s no secret that I am just kind of crazy to begin with, but it’s a manageable crazy, a lovable kind of crazy, a kind of crazy that just makes you want to quote When Harry Met Sally on a daily basis. But the hormones in Mirena took me on a 6-month vacation to Certified Crazytown. Hellllloooo unpredictable mood swings! I don’t know how many of you out there have ever been afflicted by The Crazy but let me tell you, it’s no picnic. There’s a lot of lashing out. A lot of arguing for no good reason. A lot of “if you come near me I swear to god I’ll stab you in the neck with this blunt pencil I have in my hand.” And at the same time, you’re incredibly needy. Add all that to a 24 year old set of neuroses firmly rooted in insecurity and whoo boy, you might as well have a straight jacket on hand because things are gonna get bumpy.

Luckily I am blessed with patient people around me, a husband who can tell by the look in your eyes that it’s time to quietly back away, and fearless friends who have no problem calling my crazy out and telling me to lighten up. And so, despite the $900 price tag, I had the little bastard removed last month. And now I’m on a little something called lithium Ocella. (Hi, Normal! It’s me, Margaret!) So, why didn’t anyone tell me about this miracle medication before?! I swear to God it’s like birth control mixed with Prozac. Not once have I felt like repeatedly running anyone over with my car (unless they really deserve it) (success!).

Now, as is my nature, I am skeptical. Part of me feels like my body’s just fucking with me, waiting for me to be comfortable, and WHAM!, it springs The Crazy on me again. But the other part of me, the part that sees the sun coming over the horizon on a bright new day? That part of me remains hopeful.

Jack writes in to say:

You fuckin nerd, where’s the part about the lobotomy? Don’t mislead people you fucking twit.

Jack… this is the internet and you are posting ON A BLOG. Do you really think the word “nerd” is going to offend me? What is this? Fifth grade? C’mon. I expect more from my hate mail because honestly when you sit down and take enough time to express your irritation on my blog I really expect you to come up with something that might have a chance at hurting my feelings even just a little.

Also, a little tip regarding your “anonymous” identity and email of jack@jack.com? Your IP address is attached to every comment you make here, so don’t think for a second that you’re actually incognito.

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. People, the internet is a place for many things. It’s a great place for retailer coupon codes, lively social media chatter, and porn. Lots and lots of porn. The internet is NOT a place where you are going to find competitive pricing on surgery. There are better places to find out such information. Get your ass to a doctor. Ask THEM these questions. They are not used car salesmen, they aren’t trying to snowball you into a Certified PreOwned Lobotomy.

Side bar: I’m noticing that 95% of my hate mail comes from the posts that have rhetorical questions as the title… I can hardly wait to see the kind of hate mail my “How many licks does it take to get to the center of a toostie pop” post garners. Those sugar fiends can be real freaks about that kind of thing.

So, ahem, this place has gotten a little stale hasn’t it? And yet you guys keep coming back to check in which is just about as sweet as can be. Gone are the NaBloPoMo days where I would (half-heartedly) attempt to write a post every night and gone with it is really any sort of writing ambition which I can only assume has been replaced by intellectual sloth.

Let’s see… oh man, we have a lot ot catch up on don’t we? We have a Triathlon to talk about, catch up on hate mail, and lastly (for I know that my female readers are dying to know) the shocking conclusion of my IUD experience (Spoiler alert! I hated it!). So sit back and relax, maybe even get yourself some popcorn, I’ll wait for you.

These last few months have been a bit of a revelation followed by a good bit of introspection and reinvention for me. A firm believer in constant change, I know that life doesn’t often stay the same, and how could it really? There are billions of people making individual decisions every day and eventually some of those decisions will make an impact on your life and no matter how stationary you think things are, when met with an object in motion physics dictate that there is no other option than to be moved.

I have grown comfortably lazy in a few areas in my own life, most notably my occupation but on a more subtle yet imperative level, my own self. It’s so easy to settle into a groove, mark the course, and run on autopilot. I have been fortunate to have discovered a new core group of people, some close and some far, that have inadvertently challenged me and my comfortable conventions. This new awakening hasn’t been all rainbows and kittens. Even though I champion the cause of change, with it comes a lot of hard work and a lot of uncertainty. For me, it’s always been easier to focus on the unflattering parts of myself, to assume the worst in preparation so whatever the outcome is it will be better than what you had expected. But I have been challenged to change direction, be more accepting, ask only important questions, show your work, and best of all plan to be surprised.

Then why, dear god why, am I currently dreading their arrival today? It’s partly because I don’t know exactly who’s coming up. Will it be Frank (FIL)? Frank and Barb (MIL)? Frank, Barb, crazy sister #2 with boyfriend in tow? Frank, Barb, crazy sister #2 & slightly less crazy sister #3? Frank, Barb, crazy sister #2 & slightly less crazy sister #3 with each sister bringing a friend/boyfriend? Each permutation requires a different mindset in order to fully be able to survive a family visit. Whatever the combination, the not knowing about it just about sets me on edge. We know this about me though, not knowing? Not having a plan? Not getting a phone call with a final tally? These types of things send me to the brink of insanity. Of course, the family I married into knows no such thing as this new fangled concept called “planning” or “calling to discuss a change in said plans” and although I’ve been infused into the family unit for years I, myself filled with flaws (no no, really, it is true), cannot find it within myself to modify that one teeny tiny stubborn trait which is lack of patience in order to deal with it. And so here I sit, pondering and giving myself a headache and maybe sneaking in a little praying. “Dear sweet baby Jesus, please help me to refrain from feeling justified in strangling anyone out of the ‘My House, My Rules’ concept.”

There wasn’t really much to track practice outside of running and so that first day of practice was just that, a 10 mile run. Ten miles. That’s like running the length of Central Park 4 times on your first day out. To say that I wasn’t much of a runner would be putting it kindly. I’d always been in sports in some form or another but long distance running was something I wasn’t quite prepared for. At the end of that first day every muscle in my body seized up on themselves, flush with lactic acid. It was pain so intense that I could barely breath let alone move on my own. That night the muscle cramping was so bad the only thing that helped relieve the pain was my step father massaging the cramps out of my legs by using a power sander covered with a thick towel.

The first day pretty much summed up the rest of my experience on the varsity track team. A lot of running, a lot of cramping, and a big pain in my ass. My coach and I were constantly at odds with one another. I wanted to sprint and he wanted me in long distance competition. I hated him for it and in retaliation I sucked. I came in last in every single competition I ever ran and I did it on purpose because I was making a mature statement. After graduating high school, I haven’t ran since.

Fast forward 15 years and you can find me living on Cape Cod, lumpy and out of shape with a competitive undercurrent still pulsing through my veins. Way back in March I decided to give the Row Team a go and it was lovely. The training program was fun, the coach was a dream, the girls were (mostly) funny and awesome and then the amateur team self destructed and the two of us that were left found ourselves basically without a team, which, as I understand, is vitally essential to playing team sports. Under normal circumstances this would really bum the hell out of me, however, during my rowing training I bumped into a personal triathlon trainer who happened to be training a group of girls at the pond I swim in. After our respective workouts we all stood around for a chat and it went something like this: “You should do a triathlon.” “Me?” [insert a snort and a maniacal cackle] “Um, no, I don’t run.” “Oh you’ll be fine.” “No no. Really. I. Don’t. Run. Everything else would be fine, the running part? Well I put it to you this way, do you know CPR?” And then I seem to remember them ganging up on me, pushing me to the ground, and pinning my arm behind my back until I relented. (((Physical altercation did not actually take place. I said ok embarrassingly quickly because at 31, I just find playing hard to be a little stale, also I have a fairly weak mind just after dawn as anyone who has been on the receiving end of a half-crazed 6am email can attest to, early morning emails are my version of drunk dialing. Note to self: move iPhone away from arms reach when sleeping.))) And so I proudly went home and announced to Sean that I was going to run a triathlon to which he promptly responded “Why do you have a footprint on the side of your face?” Of course he thought I was nuts, which can you really blame him for? Simply put there are parts of me that are downright nutty (((see reference to early am emails))).

The day I signed up for the triathlon I ran out and bought appropriate clothes for the sport. As it turns out, appropriate apparel is made out of Lycra. Me. In spandex. At 31. And lumpy. Did I mention lumpy? Because, woo boy, the lumps, they are many. But I closed my eyes, took the items up to the register, and handed over the AmEx. I did this repeatedly with bike gear, tires, helmets, platforms, toe cages, soy bars, tri suits, tri shorts, swim caps, sneakers, iPod accessories, and god only knows what else until my credit card went up in flames. And if no one has told you by now, let me be the first to break it to you: triathloning is a deceptively expensive sport. But, I was determined (at the very least) to look the part.

The first Tuesday after I signed up with my trainer she had me running and my very first run after a 15 year hiatus was a mile. Despite the overwhelming desire to puke into the closest bush I could find, I was incredibly stoked. Me. Running. And at that a whole mile without stopping. It wasn’t a fast mile, but it was a bona fide measured mile. I did it, and I did it wearing spandex to boot. To my surprise no one came out of their house to mock my speed or to gawk at my giggling Lycra-clad thighs, and it even seemed as though no one felt that it was necessary to prearrange for the paramedics to be on call. It was amazing, and unexpectedly addictive.

That was five weeks ago. Since then I’ve been dutifully running, swimming, and biking my little heart out nearly every day. I’ve learned that although my cadence is good, my footwork sucks. So instead of being able to zone out (a favorite pastime of runners) I have to constantly pay attention to my foot placement. Though my biking is strong, I lose a lot of steam going up hills from having weak knees and quads from multiple injuries from past sports competitions. And then there’s the swimming. Don’t ask me why but it never occurred to me that the swim portion would be in the ocean. I mean, why would it be? It’s only the largest most accessible body of water that’s all of 2 miles from my house and coincidentally happens to lap at the shore where the triathlon starts. I think professionals like to call this lack of awareness “denial.” To know me is to know that I have a deep fear of the ocean. Well, not so much a fear of the ocean itself as it is really a combined fear of the dark and being bit in two by something with very large teeth, lives in the water, and goes by the name JAWS. Up until last night I would hyperventilate as soon as I was waist deep in salt water. Yesterday, however, my trainer, another competitor, and I all suited up in the sexiest ensemble of swim caps and goggles that you had ever did see and the two of them proceeded to drag me into one of my greatest fears. And I did… ok. Yes, I told my trainer that, dressed in her wet suit, she looked like a seal and wasn’t allowed near me and I told the other girl that if she put her goggles on and looked in the water first I would promise her a healthy kidney should she ever need one, but I was in the water, outside of the buoys, eventually with my goggled head in the water, swimming. And you know what? I was fine. Not only was I fine, but I swam pretty damn good in water with some pretty big waves coming in.

My very first tri is in a little less than three weeks. The competition is the shortest version of a triathlon called a Sprint, (there’s also the Olympic, Half-Ironman, and the Ironman each one respectively increasing in distance and insanity), which means I’m signed up to complete a 0.25 mile swim, 10 mile bike, and 3.5 mile run. In the process of training, I’ve already run a similar course twice, so at the very least I know I can finish. I am running in a weight class instead of a age bracket, (the Athenas, which I affectionately refer to as The-Sisters-In-Chub), which my trainer insists that I have a shot at placing in (of course my reaction to this was “there are only 3 people competing at the Athena level?). I have two more weeks of hard training before having to rest and eat a whole mess of carbs the week before the race. I’m a little nervous but looking forward to it. And worse comes to worse, some of those paramedics are wicked hot.