Selfish

Buddy has been coming around, in small but promising steps. We’re hopeful we can get him (and us) okay with the longer crate times in just two more weeks. These two weeks have been two of the more challenging weeks I’ve had in awhile, but in a wonderful way. Truth be told, I’m a pretty selfish person. I consider myself (hopefully humbly said) a good friend, I work in a helping profession, I try to do as much as I can to make my husband’s life easier, but when it comes right down to it up until June 1st, I mostly did what I wanted to did. If I wanted to stay an hour later at work, swing by the gym, or sleep in an extra hour later on any given day – I almost always did it. Not to say I didn’t take others (most notably, the husband) into account, but let’s be honest: Matt’s not going to pee on the carpet if I didn’t get home after 8 hours on the dot. While we convened schedules on The Big Things, my moment to moment schedule was pretty much up to: me.

But I’m happy about this change, for many reasons. One, I’ve always hated change but it’s unfailingly been good for me. I could cite so many examples where I’ve freaked out, frozen up and panicked when Life Changed. But then, it turned out to be really, really, really good. For more examples, you could pretty much read my last blog. 2 Panicky Entries to every 1 Resilient, Insight Entry.

Two, reality check. Most ever client I’ve ever had has had a challenge with prioritizing their health because they’ve been in a caregiver role. I’m a huge proponent of selfishness when it comes to health. I’ve done many talks on taking time for yourself. And I still believe in it, but suddenly here I am not going to the gym after work because it’s my turn to come home and do crate practice. And I’m going “Oh…. so this is how it happens.” I’m beginning to see how it’s a bit more complicated when dependents come into the picture. And mine is just the furry-four legged type. Hardly comparable to a infant child, a parent in declining health, an adult child who’s lost their job, a spouse with health issues and the many other scenarios my clients detail on a daily basis. “Getting it” is key to helping others and I’m beginning to see a teensy bit more of the light. Understanding can only improve my practice. Professionally, and without question, personally.

Third, practice. One day, I want small, squirmy, drooling things. Not just of the canine type. Heaven knows why, because I’m sure they’re going to cause more sleep deprivation and guilt and worry production in 24 hours than Buddy has in 2 weeks. But nonetheless, having any type of creature be dependent on me is good practice for things to come. Because let’s be honest, I didn’t do so good with the ferns.

Today we came home to Rochester, for Krissy’s wedding. Last night we had the dog sitter over and while I fed her wine and reassured her that the whole “only an hour in the crate” thing wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded over a 3-day period, I was internally panicked the whole time she was going to throw her hands up any minute, tell us this wasn’t what she bargained for and leave us high and dry. This did not happen, and she even seemed to take kindly to my 8 page notes on how and where he will #2. (I’m serious. It’s a strategy.) My fear that she would reject my doggy was second only to the guilt I felt when he gave us THOSE eyes as we slipped out the door, suitcases in hand this morning.

Welcome to doggy parenthood: time to unsubscribe from e-savers.

Meet Buddy

So, we just adopted a dog. His name is Buddy, he is a 5-ish year old rescue sheltie who was found running loose in Greensboro, probably turned out and has been in foster care for the last 3 months. All we really know about him is he has super smart, sweet as can be, and did we mention he some potentially major separation anxiety? We don’t know much about that, other than that sounds really not fun and hazardous to your favorite possessions, such as curtains and loveseats. Are we ready for this?

He arrives in an hour. DEEP BREATHS.

Do you sense a note of panic?

I am starting to lose track of what day/date it is, and I am moving through each moment nearly totally dictated by the reminders that pop up on my phone that tell me where to be and when. Wed after teaching four (four!) classes, I came home, scurried around, threw 3 more bags into my already full car, loaded up the TomTom and headed up to Matt’s grandparent’s house in Boone to spend the night before a talk I was giving up there. As I pulled into their driveway at 8:00 pm and gazed on the normally serene looking isolated house, the thought crossed my mind “This is pretty much the perfect setting for a horror movie.”

#1 thought that should not cross your mind when staying alone in a mountain house? That one.

I spent the rest of the somewhat sleepless night trying NOT to think that.

The talk went great on this morning, the ladies who signed up for the workshop were incredibly receptive and warm and provided funny commentary throughout, which I LOVE, and I felt charged with energy after the hour+ talk was over. I still can’t get over the fact that I do public speaking/workshop/motivational talks as part of my “for a living” category when 3 years ago the idea itself would have made me throw up all over myself.

Today was THAT day on my Outlook calendar I had been one part dreading, one part eagerly anticipating in kind of “Can I really pull this off?” way.

6:00 – Wake up in mt house, get dressed, locate Starbucks for oatmeal/skinny latte.
Starbucks locate = FAIL. (There isn’t one in Boone?)
8:00 – Arrive at Broyhill, McLatte and Egg McMuffin in hand. Eat in car. Yoga breaths pre-talk.
9:00 – On Stage. Talk, Talk, Talk
10:30 – Back in car. FOG EVERYWHERE. Driving was hell. Scheduled 3 calls for my drive back. Didn’t make one due to fog. 1 successful call, the other woman was on the golf course when I called. SHE SCHEDULED THIS CALL. Still trying to figure that one out.
12:30 – Arrived back in WS, detour to Barnes & Nobles. Coaching client is reading a Jillian Michael book inside out and asking all sorts of questions relating to insulin-growth factor, and organic chickens, and holy crap, what? Needed to be on same page. Bought book. Realized coaching appointment is in 30 minutes, no food since Egg MM at 8:30. Does not a happy coach make. Called Riverburch, ordered Chevre Salad.
12:46 – Pick up salad. Meeting client across the street in 14 minutes. Eat salad by means of grabbing fist fulls of spinach while driving. Apparently provides shock value/entertainment for neighboring car at stopped light. WHAT? You have never seen a woman eat arugula out of the palm of her own hand while driving??? So normal.
1:00 – Coaching appointment. Want to clone the clients I have right now as they are delightful times infinity.
2:00 – Appointment finished, shoot back over to WFU. Party for our most recent group of “graduates.” Schmooze, schmooze, schmooze until my coworker says “And now, Meghan is going to take the folks who have been doing our exercise program and tell them all about the weight loss program!” I AM???? I am. Had forgotten this is part and parcel of the ‘grad parties.’ Wing it off the top of my head. What’s that? Sweating? Just a little. Thank goodness for public speaking warm up this morning, as WFU study participants can be a demanding and tough crowd. They appear enthused and happy and scribble notes as if there might be a final exam later.
(Final Exam = what the scale says later. No biggie.)
4:00 – Finish party. Supposed to order BBQ for Saturdays party. BOTH cell phones have died. Yes that’s right, I have two and neither were functioning. Murphy’s Law, meet Meghan. Somehow manage to find BBQ place by combination of highway signs, instincts and crowded parking lot. Walk in and order something IN PERSON? Unheard of, face to face interactions these days, but mission accomplished.
4:45 – Parents flight is thankfully delayed, because original plan was to go straight from WFU. Car is currently full of: overnight bag, gym bag, computer bag, bag full of food logs & weight loss logs, “talk” bag (full of bidnis cards, books I refer to and giveaways), external hard drive, a bag full of vidalia onions from a participant, and 3 pairs of shoes. Mom and Dad, please hold your suitcase on your lap? Go home to empty car, turn around back to airport to pick up parents.
7:30 – Parents are ooh-ing and ahh-ing over new home, steaks are sizzling on the grill, little sister has arrived from Charlotte with Trader Joe’s hummus, wine glasses are full.

All is well in the world. Thursday May 14th is quickly becoming nothing more than a blog entry. For better, for worse.

We is moved!

It’s official! We are homeowners! Yipee!! Mortgage Payment!

The move went pretty much as perfectly as one could hope for – which was a nice counterbalance to the day of fun I had waiting on the Time Warner installation and dealing with the customer service reps the completely apathetic worker who pretended to sympathize with me. I already devoted about 230 tweets to this subject so I’ll move on. Maybe.

Friday our team of movers showed up – BJ & Minez – and we went to dinner and then sat around and stared at each other. Boy, life without a TV, huh? The boys, including Z and my father-in-law, were pretty frickin amazing as far as a moving crew goes. Hubby had the truck in the driveway by 9, it was loaded by 10:30, at the new house and empty by 12:30. Cap it off with a visit by the ice cream truck chiming it’s merry little bells down the street (PUSH POP!!! what what), and it was pretty much the most efficient and wonderful moving experience ever. Also, no TVs were dropped this time.

The moving crew, big fans of the now EMPTY truck.

Ice Cream Truck? Seriously? Best neighborhood ever.

What it took to move us: 26 foot truck, 2 CRV (full of clothing, pillows, camera, banana bread, etc, all things I did not trust to go into said truck), an Accord with all paintings, pics, mirrors in backseat, and a pick-up truck with our elliptical and lawn mower.

PS, there’s just TWO of us. Yea.

And the pathetic thing is, I didn’t feel like we own a lot of stuff until this move. I’m the queen of ebaying, and I’m constantly paring down my closets and warding off the accumulation of excess clutter. Yet, it took no less than 4 vehicles to transport just the two of us across town. What gives?

On a related note, see my ebay store! New and exciting stuff being posted by the minute! Eh?

After we moved in and chowed down on push pops, the boys went back to the old house to do some cleaning. Minez will forever hold a special place in my heart for cleaning the laundry room floor where the washer & dyer were located. While they were gone, my in-laws went to town unpacking the kitchen while I finished the rest of the boxes in the downstairs. By 7 pm, we had burgers on the grill, friends showing up with wine & guacamole, and the downstairs kind of looked like humans could live there. Nothing like having guests over on the first day to send you into an unpacking flurry.

You have to prioritize the order you unpack things.
Sheets & towels can wait.

I think I was on an adrenaline high, because I even made the most obscenely organized kitchen-overflow closet. If Williams-Sonoma had a 8×3 foot store, it would look exactly like my closet. I can’t wait for Jamie, queen bee organization, to see it. (Yes, J, your approval on my closet space means a lot to me.) Last night, we sat on our back deck listening to the nothing-ness of living out in the country. I have come a long way, baby! From the shock trauma center in Baltimore, to the sounds of the cityscape in DC, to the rush of I-40 in our old house to…. CRICKETS. I can hear crickets. Awesome. We just keep looking around the place going “this is ours? Seriously? We get to keep it??”

My little slice of heaven, with some really fugly patio furniture, unfortch.

The only downside is that I find myself not wanting to be at work because there’s about a zillion home projects I want to tackle while I still have the motivation of novetly. Including our bonus room.

Overheard on moving day: “Where does this go?” “Um, I don’t know, put it in the bonus room.”

Yea, that room. Sigh.

Dear Lucky Stars, Thanks. Love, Megs

Losing your camera and license in a cab is never a good idea, but it’s an especially terrible idea when you’re headed out of the country the next day. This is exactly what happened to me on my wedding night. After we were kicked out of our reception sight, the revelers from our party relocated to Foothills Brewery, and then eventually to Burke St Pizza. (Yes, wedding dress, bar sludge, pizza grease? Don’t know what I was thinking. Hey, you only wear it once, who cares what you get on it at 2 a.m.!) Somewhere in the midst of all this, I left a wristlet containing my driver’s license and camera in the backseat of a cab. Fortunately I did not have any credit cards – I guess I assumed the white dress would sort of be a “free pass” for having to pay for anything. (It was. NTS: wear more often?)

Just going for a stroll up Burke St.

The next day I frantically called around to the different cab companies. “Can you remember what cab you were in?” Um, no, they all sort of look the same from inside, BUT I’m willing to guess if you put out an APB to your cabbies and ask which one shuttled around the BRIDE last night, you’ll narrow it down to one or two. After three or four cab companies said no one could recall having an adorably sweet woman in a poufy white dress in their backseat, we gave up. My passport would suffice for my airport ID and my mom lent me her camera for our honeymoon. I wasn’t too frustrated about my ID, since I had to replace it upon returning anyway – new last name and all. And, although I was upset to lose my camera, to me the priceless part of a camera would be the pictures – so, considering I had paid someone to walk around shooting pictures of the last 10 hours of my day, I felt confident that those would be replaced. Mostly I was just mad at myself and embarrassed – I was sober after all, and who leaves things in cabs when they’re sober? I pride myself on being someone who rarely misplaces thing (one cell phone, ONE… I know Matt is going to remind me of this, so I might as well “out” myself)… so I was just super annoyed at myself for losing it. We took off the next morning for Greece , and while I had plenty of other things on my mind that week (Ancient ruins!! Jeep tours of volcanoes!! New husband!!!!!) in the back of my mind was the nagging annoyance at losing my stuff.

Judging from my happy expression, this might be right about the time I realized it was missing.

Our return trip was exhausting and after nearly 24 hours of travel, including connections from Venice to Frankfurt to Newark to Charlotte (oh my!), and then driving from Charlotte to Winston, we walked into our house at 2 a.m. There, sitting on the corner of my coffee table in full view, was MY CAMERA AND LICENSE. I literally fell to my knees in shock and gratitude and a little bit of delirium and just kept going “What the! What the!” Part of me thought it was a dream, and when I woke up the next day I had to check it was still there.

The next day when I checked my email I found out one of my sorority sisters (who I had no idea was even living in Winston) got in the cab RIGHT AFTER ME and found my wristlet. When she saw the ID inside was me, she decided to hold on to it rather than turn it into the “lost and found” of the cabbie . Thank you, thank you, thank you brilliant Chi O sister. The next day she promptly drove out to my house (conveniently listed on my ID) and delivered it to my other friend who was house-sitting, who left it on the coffee table for me to find when I returned. I could not believe my good fortune that someone I knew would get into a cab right after me! It was almost too good to be true. I still think about that day as one of the greatest “gifts” of good fortune I have ever received.

What is the luckiest things that has ever happened to you?

Ready, Set, MOVE!

So hey internets, guess what… we are MOVING!

After about a bajillion saved entries on listingbook, endless Sundays spent going to open house after open house and creating price per square foot excel sheets like it was my job (or, you know, at my job), we finally found “The One.” Kids, here’s a tip you should know about house hunting: it is nothing like the HGTV show. You do not go to 3 nearly-perfect homes in one afternoon with your endlessly perky relator, you do not have to narrow down your decision going “hmm, do I want the granite countertops or do I prefer the extra big garden tub?” and you do not sit patiently in a coffee shop and wait for the counter offer to come after one commercial break. In fact, if you just take all those things and apply the opposite rule to them, you would have home buying.

(Although, we did have a very patient and wonderful realtor. And I’m not just saying that because she might follow my blog.)

Once we settled on the house, the process of mortgage application simply required turning over every piece of information about yourself including a DNA sample, your childhood pet’s name, and how many visits to Starbucks you make each month (too many!! i’m sorry!! I’ll stop if you’ll give me a mortage.) via fax machines to strangers. So you know, just more FUN. I suppose this is the backlash of the former free for all mortgage industry, and I am thankful that change is so very transparent, but SHEESH….

While we were at the beach we got word that our mortgage was approved. We are all set to close on WEDNESDAY and move next weekend. NEXT WEEKEND! Holy crapballs.

So I came home Thursday from the beach, and I had already taken yesterday off to do a wellness workshop at a staff retreat for a company here. I’m glad I had that day off, because we started packing yesterday. It’s been a whirlwind…. but we should be in our new house next weekend! We’ve got friends and some family members coming to help lift heavy things and unpack next weekend; then another friend arrives the weekend after that to stay for the week —> graduation. Graduation Saturday we should have approximately ~15 people here for Matt’s grad party. So you know… nothing like hosting a party in your house 2 weeks after moving in to force you to figure out what box you packed the napkin rings in. NTS: LABEL THINGS!!

Welcome back from vacay. Time to get moving. Literally.

Reality Check: The Beach Version

So after the initial excitement of family beach week, one would hope that the week had had it’s quotas of OMG moments. The next couple days of beach week passed by in a blur of SPF 30, which library book should I read?, carrying squirmy beach towel wrapped burrito babies back to the house, and rapid fire rounds of Pictionary around the table after dinner.

Then yesterday, we were lying on the beach when my uncle, looking up at the sky, said “Hey look at those weird clouds…they look more like smoke.” Sure enough, it turns out about 3,000 acres of land to the north of us, including a bunch of houses, 2 golf courses and some forest areas, ended up burning in 3 massive wildfires that burned from about noon until early this morning.

My friend, who lives down here, was visiting for dinner and as we’re watching the news she’s all, “Hmm, that’s near my house… weird.” Sure enough she goes home after dinner and there’s a sign on her apartment door that says something along the lines of “well you don’t have to leave, but you probably should.” (Funny, I remember the same quote being said towards the end of most of the frat parties I attended in college.) The fires were about a 1/2 a mile in the woods behind her apartment, so about midnight last night she and her 5 lb Yorkie returned and bunked up with me. It was a rather sleepless night as the little pup was all :::Timmy down the well::: whine whine whine all night.

I woke up at 5 with her this morning so she could go back and check her apartment – fortunately it’s still there and I think the fires are finally out. No word on how they get started, and I’m sad for all the people who have lost homes or businesses in the blazes.

What a week. I’m about to go have my fourth cup of coffee and there’s a 3 yo hovering over my shoulder going “CAN I SEE THE PINK PHONE AGAIN???” and a the 2 yo is hollering from the other room “COME FIND ME MEGGY COME FIND ME.”

I should take vacations more often. They make me miss the relative calmness of the life I was just declaring INSANELY CHAOTIC a week ago. NTS: Children, head injuries and natural disasters most DEFINITELY trump balancing working, wife-ing, running, softball, blogging and wine drinking.

Dear Self, You Have It Easy. Love, Your Life.

Things that Go Bump Down the Stairs

Our first night was pretty much TMZ-worthy. Every year when we get here we have a big clambake and there’s an astonishing amount of beer consumed and then we all play Kings. This is a great recipe for someone to do something embarrassing and be added in to the stories that will be retold at Christmas, Thanksgiving and the next decade’s worth of beach trips. This year my sister’s boyfriend looked like he was itching for that title – by the 3rd round, he had instituted a rule that whenever anyone wanted to address him they had to call him “Mister Master” only it came out “Mishter Mashter.” Katie was pretty thrilled. The next 2 rounds he would interject with random outbursts like “I didn’t work hard all week to act like your sister!” or “Positive Mental Attitude Katie, Positive Mental Attitude!” After round 5, Katie put him to bed.

One would THINK Dylan would enjoy the embarrassment of the next day. But oh no, it got worse. We all went to bed around 2. Katie & boyfriend, husband & I were sleeping in a downstairs room right near the stairs to the kitchen. Around 4 am, Matt said he woke up to a noise that sounded like “Shelves holding a 100 lb of stuff collapsing.” Only he did not investigate. (Matt & Meghan: Not Ready for Parenthood. I don’t wake to loud noises, he wakes but assumes “eh… must have been nothing.”) Turns out that nothing was my aunt taking a nosedive down the stairs. She went to the powder room next to our room and tried to clean up…then finally gave up and went and got her sister. Her sister, alarmed by the SKULL she could see through her gaping head wound, called 9-1-1. Matt awoke again to the noise of the paramedics hollering “Hello!” into the hallway next to our room, and finally went out to investigate. (Me: still sleeping.) She had a huge gash in her head, and they ended up taking her to the hospital. (I did finally wake up when Matt came back in our room and started rifling through my purse to get my keys.) She ended up having stitches down from about the middle of her forehead back to behind her ear. (And apparently the doctor’s demeanor towards her changed drastically when she pointed out she was here with “her nephew, the doctor.”) *Um, he’s not a doctor just a student doctor, but that can be a moot point when you want someone to stop explaining things to you in “poor stupid drunk lady” terms. She’s okay now, and in fact the stitches come out today.

Yesterday I was uploading pictures to my computer and her daughter (the 5 yo) came to sit on my lap. We were flipping through pictures and she looked at one and said “That’s before Mommy bumped her head!” so she clearly gets the concept of where the stitches come from. (Another great comment as we flipped through pictures…. “Lets count the beer cans in this! 1….2….3….10…11….12….12 beer cans! How many people drank those beers?” Can you do long division, sweet child?)

We are happy to know that for all future family vacays the answer to “Is there a doctor in the house?!” will always be a resounding “Yes!” (And by resounding, I might mean resigned. He’s kind of stuck with us.)

You Mean to Tell Me Some People Eat That Part of the Chicken?

On Tuesday night, I attempted cooking my first WHOLE chicken. I knew that cooking a chicken required the removal of the disgustingly named “giblets,” but I was under the assumption that said gibs were in a handy plastic bag that just required the simple removal of from bird cavity. No, my friends, this was not the case. MY giblets were about as neat and tidy as 9th grade biology class, minus my lab partner jabbing at things with a scapel. (I did not need to see the fetal pig’s BIRTH CANAL. Ever, ever ever.) No, no, my giblets were just hanging out inside the bird waiting to be removed by someone with a stomach of steel. “MATTTHEWWWWW!”

Nope. My dear, sweet wonderful husband made ME remove the giblets. Apparently this was a lesson in “stop being a wuss.” Simultaneously holding back tears and vomit (ok, a bit much), I alternated spraying the nozzle from the faucet into the body cavity and then shaking the chicken over the garbage disposal. Post-dinner clean up involved a Lysol-ing of the sink, my arms, the cabinets, the coffee maker… pretty much everything in a 5 mile radius. The neck finally fell out, followed by the liver (gag) and then the heart (double gag.) I deftly removed the neck bone with my hands securely ensconced in a Wal-mart grocery bag and ground up the liver in my garbage dispoal. Yes, friends, I just ground up some organs in my disposal. Good to know the insinkerator can handle that.

Once I got over taking out the gizzards, the rest was reaaaaaaaaaaally easy. I just smushed some lemon slices, rosemary and thyme up under the skin and gave that sucker a little olive oil bath. I put it on top of potatos in a pan and baked the whole thing at 350 for 1:40 min. SO EASY. From it I got: 2 chicken breasts, 2 drums, 2 wingies, and some meat I pulled off the bone and made a chicken salad out of. The whole chicken cost $4. So that’s like easily 4 meals (or feeding maybe ~3 people) for el cheapo. Definitely worth doing BUT buy the chicken where the giblets are in the bag you just pull out.

In other cooking news, last night I wanted to make these sweet potato gnocchi I had bought on sale at Teeter. I asked a “graduate” of mine, who is a super duper talented chef (ie. has his own restaraunt, cooking store and his own tv show once) what kind of a sauce to make. He suggested I take apple juice and simmer it on the stove top while slowly adding ground walnuts to thicken it. Sounds amazing right?

I’m sure it would have been if he cooked it, and maybe I was missing something obvious, but it was muy ter-rible in my version. It tasted like baby food. Mushy pasta with applesauce on top. GOURMET COOK FAIL.

Best Case Scenario: Wednesday Staff Meetings.

Today is Wednesday. I had a staff meeting, as I always do on Wednesday. I play this game with myself called “best case scenario.” As I am en route to something – be it a meeting, a run, an open wine bar, or a small jumper plane to Ambergis Caye, Belize where you had to declare your weight in order to determine the proper number of passengers, I run through in my head what I imagine the best case scenario to be. (If you’re wondering it’s “short, long, as many as I can without resorting to my LOUD VOICE, and no crashing omgmaybe I’ll lie about my weight?) Best case scenario often times shifts me from the kind of worrisome “what if” thinking that can drive a gal to get on the highway going the wrong way, to imagining what could possibly go RIGHT and how great it’ll feel.

Point of all this is to say every Wednesday I’m always doing something hard-core BCS prep work on the way to my staff meeting, as I’m pretty guaranteed to be under scrutiny for that previous week’s weight loss.

“Why did this group not lose more weight?”
“Well, um, they ate too much.”
“Why are they eating more?”
“I DON’T KNOW, ASK THEM.”

Unless this was a clinical trial run on hamsters trying to lose weight, I’m prrrrretty sure we’re going to be faced with what I like to call the “real life” effect. As in, in real life, people don’t always lose weight. Nonetheless, I get grilled on this every Wednesday.

Why does it bother me so much? I guess I feel as if the weight loss is the most tangible expression of my success. Or at least the one my direct supervisor (i.e. signs my paycheck? approves vacation? sends me to Tampa for amazing conferences?) sees and dispenses his approval in a direct dose response. They skinnier they get, the more praise I get. Which, y’know, praise is nice. But the freaking rub is, at the end of the day, I have VERY minimal control over how much weight people do. So every Wednesday morning, I find myself waiting to be either chewed out or patted on the head, based on whether or not 160 other autonomous individuals decided to have a 2nd helping. Makes sense right?? If I spent some free time in therapy, I’d probably find a way to blame my dad for this -i.e. daddy approval now transferred upon boss??

Best case scenario thinking as I drive to work on Wednesday mornings: I am calm and unwavering when he asks me why that class gained a pound. I am emotionally unattached to the poor attendance in that group. I am confident that individuals missing will soon return having lost zillions of pounds in their absence. AM WONDERFUL, SELF-ASSURED, INTRINSICALLY REWARDED ZEN-LIKE SELF.

Crap.

Best Case Scenario: I don’t cry until I get to the car, I don’t cry until I get to the car, I don’t cry until I get to the car. I abhor Wednesday mornings. Sigh.