While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

The bright side of things, or how to stand in the rain and stay dry

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https://www.jojobride.co.uk/collections/beaded-prom-dresses

Oh hey September! You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.

Due to last week’s cantankerous post, I feel I owe you an upbeat story, minus the sarcasm, salty language and snarling.

So here goes it:

A funny thing happened after I pouted about my Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad August.

Things got better.

The last seven days have been a testament to the old annoying saying this too shall pass. Since airing my dirty laundry (and by dirty laundry I mean my gratuitous references to swamp ass) on the internet, I’ve felt a lot less like Charlie Sheen and a lot more like his toothy, hapless counterpart on that sitcom I’ve never seen, Two and a Half Turds.

It would appear that our August hex is over. The Pig-Pen-like dirt cloud that has hovered over our house dissipated about a week ago, giving way to a bright blue sky with puffy clouds that resemble ukulele-strumming unicorns. Not really, but I’m inclined to see unicorns in all clouds, so maybe.

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The view from here

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Two days before it was scheduled to be shut down, I took Henry to the St. Pete Pier so we could bid farewell to our favorite ailing tourist attraction.

Like most Bay area residents, I’ve known for years that this old landmark would soon be demolished. I also knew that once I had my son I would regret having not made memories with him on the old pier before a slick new pier one day opens in its place.

The fate of the Pier has become a hotly contested subject. I refuse to discuss the pros and cons of its replacement design, The Lens, out of sheer exhaustion. I’m tired of hearing about it. When it comes to CHANGE I’m as much a fan of progress as I am a curmudgeon, so I’ll refrain from offering what would likely be an uneducated opinion.

However, this fact remains true: the Pier’s infrastructure is falling apart, its concrete pilings, if left alone, would crumble into the bay. Studies revealed 10 years ago that the aging destination with its smattering of kitschy gift shops and empty restaurants wouldn’t survive another 20 years of saltwater erosion, never mind an impending economic blow.

When this news became public fodder in 2010, I added the Pier to my biking route. When Henry arrived in 2011, I added it to my running route. Knowing it would close before he’d be old enough to remember it, I decided to take him there often – always by foot or by bike.

Save for a handful of brooding old men drinking coffee and reading the paper, the food court inside the Pier’s dated building was usually vacant in the afternoon. Often it looked like Henry and I were the only people to order an ice cream cone for hours. In order to get the attention of the proprietor of the ice cream stand, I’d have to rap on the freezer doors and shout, “Yoo hoo! Anyone here?”

I once caught the guy asleep in a chair.

I wondered which was crumbling faster: the Pier’s infrastructure or its business.

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A crushed bicycle and the end of a bad habit

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Over the course of my adolescence and adulthood I’ve made many attempts to stop biting my fingernails. They’ve all ended in failure. As a reminder of this weakness I’m left with nubs so useless I’m forced to use paper clips to open pop cans, credit cards to scratch bug bites and tweezers to fasten necklaces.

It’s pitiful. And gross. My hands are ugly. Looking at them as I type this post, I’m reminded of the brief times in my life when I actually had real human nails. I can count these times on two fingers. (Pun intended.) Once: In 2007, when I went Kerouac-ing across the country. Twice: when I left the newspaper and a took a job in a marble yard . (Lesson learned from my marble yard experience: Having visibly filthy hands all day is the best deterrent to nail biting.)

So what does this have to do with a crushed bicycle you ask.

Well, let’s see here…

About a month ago I strapped my bike to the back of my car and drove to Sarasota to do some riding with Oma. (Note: I’m not talking about my sexy Bianchi. I wisely left her at home. I took Joe’s cumbersome, twice-crashed Specialized Crossroads – the one with Henry’s green seat mounted on the front.)

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You can still run fast in cheap shorts

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My training style in a nutshell:

1. I don’t stick to schedules. I find workout “schedules” to be overwhelming and frankly, stifling. When I want to run, I run. When I want to bike, I bike. On sunny weekends when Joe is at home and can watch Henry, I break away to the public pool and swim.

2. When I train, I push myself harder than the week before. I run 6 miles. I run 8 miles. I run 9-minute miles, then 8-minute miles and the occasional 7-minute mile burst. I bike 20 miles. I swim 75 laps. The only piece of gadgetry I use to track these workouts is the Nike fitness app on my iPod. The rest of the stuff I jot down in a journal. I rarely go back and analyze this data. The numbers don’t matter to me. Here’s how I gauge whether I’m making progress as an athlete: If what I’m doing feels difficult, but not like the world’s worst chore, then I’m doing OK. This is my guiding principle.

3. Just because I don’t stick to a schedule doesn’t mean I don’t train regularly. I think the reason I’m able to wing my workouts is because I do something physical every day. Even on the days I don’t do JACK, I still walk to the grocery store. I count this as activity though it usually means I’m up at night with insomnia. Another reason I think I like training: it TIRES ME OUT and helps me SLEEP.

4. I’m not a gear whore. In the running (and triathlon) industry too much money is spent on Looking The Part rather than Being The Part. Just get yourself a solid road bike, quality running shoes, a few cute tank tops and be on with it. A lot of triathletes take themselves uber seriously. I’d rather look weird and perform well than look slick and perform lousy. I’m already pedaling a strange old bicycle. Why not wear ridiculous sunglasses too? I’m not cocky enough for overpriced sports bling. Triathlons are expensive enough! The $50 Izumi Tri Suit was a splurge at HALF OFF the original price. It was an early birthday treat because I’d gotten to the point where I was too embarrassed to compete in a $20 swimsuit from TJ Maxx.

5. I wonder what the neurosis is behind this little strategy: each time I embark on a run, I set the distance on my Nike app to 5K. My intentions are never to run a 5K. I always exceed this distance by at least double. I’d rather set out to run a 5K and surpass my goal, than commit to a 10K and achieve my goal. I don’t know if this is because I set low standards for myself, or because I like to overachieve. It’s probably a little of both.

6. No matter how hard or often I train, I cannot stop eating sweets. In fact, I like to inhale a couple frozen peanut butter cups right before a run. It fuels my turbo boosters.

The red drug balloon

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It’s the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. I’m without Henry. His grandparents have him for the day so I can work on a magazine story. I’m walking Cubbie, enjoying a break from my computer. The sun is in my eyes. The pug is especially pokey, stopping to sniff every tree trunk and urine-drenched blade of grass.

I’m plagued by things related to the magazine story, none of which I have any control over. I spot someone in the distance riding so slowly on a bicycle I wonder if they’re pedaling at all or miraculously stationary. The strangeness doesn’t stop there. The cyclist is holding a red balloon, stranger still.

As we get nearer I notice that the cyclist is young, a teenager. He looks like he’s 16, but then again I’m a terrible judge of age since I still think I’m 22. Despite this denial I’m old enough to make these three calls: he’s a kid, he should be in school and he’s up to no good.

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Exercise is my Adderall

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At the top of 2013’s to-do list: complete an Olympic distance triathlon.

An Olympic distance triathlon breaks down as follows: 1.5K swim, 40K bike and 10K run. In non-metric terms this is roughly a one-mile swim, 25-mile bike and 6.2-mile run. This is perfectly do-able if you put in the training, which is the hardest part.

I’m on the roster for St. Anthony’s, an ambitious triathlon that every year draws some of the world’s most elite athletes (including Olympians) to downtown St. Pete. I wouldn’t even attempt to compete with these animals. My doughy Reese’s-loving behind can’t hold a candle to these fat-free lean machines. I’m thrilled just to be in their company.

And I’m eager to plow through the food tents. I love post-race food tents.

I ran my first race three years ago. At the time I considered this an epic undertaking. Turns out it was more of an epic life-changer. I’m addicted to these things now. Since then I’ve clocked five sprint triathlons and two half-marathons.

Somewhere in the middle of this I had a baby.

When I trained through my pregnancy people told me I was crazy. When I raced a few months after Henry’s birth people told me to slow down. When it became apparent that my child was a fireball people told me it was good thing I have so much energy.

This energy is not always inherent. Sometimes it has to be mustered. Sometimes I burn out. Sometimes you’ll find me sitting under a blanket on the couch, eating a hazelnut chocolate bar, watching Sex & The City reruns.

The reason I’m able to stick to any sort of workout routine is because I don’t view it as a routine. I view it as therapy. I exercise to maintain sanity, strength and self discipline. If I go too long without physically exerting myself I get kind of flaky, scatterbrained and unfocused.

If I were drawn to taking psycho-stimulants I could probably get a prescription for Adderall. I’m hyper with a fairly compromised attention span. Writers have long upheld a tradition of taking drugs to produce good material. Me? I’d rather bike. It’s good for your cholesterol and the view is phenomenal.

The kind of mom I am

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Fifteen percent of the time I suck at being a mom. I do things other moms would find deplorable.

I lie to the pediatrician about how often I give my child his vitamin D supplement. (That would be never. We spend our days outside synthesizing Florida’s natural abundance of the vitamin.)

Also: I tend to wake up in a surly mood, not because I hate mornings, but because I hate 6 a.m. mornings. Most people think I’m bubbly. At 6 a.m. I’m as flat as an old can of root beer. I trudge into Henry’s room like a mom zombie. I close the door behind me and crawl under a blanket on his couch, during which time Henry tears through his toys, upends his collection of Legos, rips his clothes out of his bottom dresser drawer and squawks like an angry bird. This is not an ideal situation. If I’m lucky I can get away with closing my eyes for 10 minutes. If I’m unlucky, as I was Wednesday morning, I’m roused from my 6 a.m. coma via plastic truck to the face. For those of you who noticed, this was how I acquired the small gash on the bridge of my nose.

I’m a natural night owl. This doesn’t mix well with motherhood. Still, I’ve found ways to persevere.

Now that we’ve removed the front rail from Henry’s crib, I can easily crawl inside to catch a few minutes of shut-eye before his squawking reaches headache decibels. Last week I fell asleep in the crib while Henry gutted his bookshelf. When Joe got up for work he glanced at the baby monitor and saw footage of his wife curled up like a big galoot under a monkey blanket.

I’m not an ace mom. The first time I caught my kid eating dog food I made him rinse his mouth out with water. The second, third and fourth times I let him decide whether or not Kibble was palatable.

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The great skimp

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My name is Heidi and I’m a crazy bag lady.

I’m a crazy bag lady because I recently returned six cans of tuna fish to Save A Lot. I pulled six cans out of my enormous purse, stacked them in front of the cashier and shamelessly asked for my money back.

Henry squawked. The people in line behind me squawked. Ohnoshedidn’t. Tuna fish in a purse? Those cans better not be opened.

(They weren’t.)

I was that woman. The one who plods into a bargain basement grocery store with a baby on her hip and a purse full of tuna fish.

Upon pulling the cans out of my purse, I explained to the cashier (and to anyone behind me muttering bag lady under their breath) that I had mistakenly purchased albacore instead of chunk light.

Ten dollars is a lot of money for tuna fish your husband won’t eat.

I never felt more like my grandmothers, although I’m pretty sure even they’d suck up $10 and move on. Not me. I was the penny-pinching old bat; the one who wears her hair in a babushka and carries change in a margarine container.

“There’s paperwork,” the cashier said flatly, handing me a form on which I had to write my name, phone number and address.

Seriously? I thought. Paperwork? Fine. Bring it on. If I’m not too proud to return the fancy kind of tuna to the poor kind of grocery store, then I’m not too proud to create a paper trail.

This should come as no surprise to you: I don’t live large. Never have.

I come from blue collar stock; the kind of people my husband describes as “salt of the earth,” which is ironic given the metaphor comes from Jesus, whom I was raised without.

New money. Old money. It’s all someone else’s money to me. Writing, though I hoped it would one day catapult me into a new socioeconomic stratosphere, has yet to buy me a Stephen King-sized house or a J.K. Rowling-sized movie deal.

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Newly minted!

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What have I done with my life since we last spoke …

seven weeks ago?

Well, let’s see.

I left my job, reevaluated my life, my work as a journalist and my work as a mother. I pitched a few stories to magazines. I booked a few freelance photography gigs. I helped my clever neighbor edit her book on grieving. I fretted (briefly) over leaving my job. I got over it. I made a list of all the posts I want to write because I feel lazy in the blogging department. I got a speeding ticket royally screwed for driving 28 mph in a 20 mph zone speed trap on Siesta Key Beach. I bought Henry a retro spring horse for $20 off craigslist. I got bit by an Australian shepherd on my final assignment for the paper. I took Henry swimming at the luxurious public pool near our house. In an attempt to fully appreciate the cool-down and to get the most for our $5 entry fee, we turned all the outings into bike excursions. (PS. Biking with my kid has become my new workout regime.)

What else?

Oh yeah, I stood up in my sister’s gorgeous wedding gown on the Erie Canal, at which Henry served as ring bearer and handsome flirt. The weekend before Heelya’s nuptials, I camped with my entire family in Middle of Nowhere, Upstate New York, where I exposed my one-year-old to the joys of four-wheeling through the woods, bathing in frigid spring water and sleeping in a cabin. When we returned to Florida, I gave him his first hair mullet cut. He had spent so much time in the New York hinterlands he’d grown a baby Billy Ray.

And then I gutted my office, which had turned into a black hole for all the crap in our house Henry has broken or has yet to break. I painted it mint green, redecorated/refurnished it with an uncharacteristically girly touch and managed to stay under my $200 budget.

Last year, when I posted pictures of Henry’s baby cave I pulled in my highest number of comments EVER. This still floors me. I write and write and write my heart out and it’s pictures of baby decor that generate chatter. A crib and an Ikea dresser-turned-changing-table, that’s what gets your juices flowing.

In the spirit of pretty pictures, I decided to return to the Lance after a long hiatus with a post dedicated to my office makeover. I was especially resourceful when it came to this overhaul. Now that we’re minus an income and living on tuna fish, I can hardly justify a new Aeron chair. This is why I got a wooden one for $30 at an estate sale.

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The Electric Bicycle Diaries: Turtle Porn

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My father recently started riding a motorized bicycle to work.

I’m pretty sure he’s the only fella in town with one of these things, so if you live in North Collins, N.Y. and a man buzzes past you at 20 mph with a lunchbox strapped to the back of his seat, it’s my dad.

He bought the bike last fall while visiting me in Florida. He got it second hand for $150. It originally cost $800, or so he says.

It took him five hours to properly disassemble it so it could be bubble wrapped, packaged and shipped via FedEx to New York.

It arrived broken.

My father, crestfallen, immediately began searching for replacement parts. Because he’s a veteran at fixing broken shit, he had his bike up and running within a few days. The only problem was it was winter and there was snow on the ground.

“I’ll just have to wait until spring,” he chirped enthusiastically.

Well guess what folks? Spring is here and my tool-and-die-maker father has been leaving his house at 5 a.m. and pedaling motoring through rural back roads like a blue collar Pee-wee Herman in steel-toed work boots and a reflective vest.

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