Science sucks, y’all.  Do you want to know why?  Because it took me three weeks to lose seven pounds and only two weeks to put them back on.  How effed up is that?

I realize I shouldn’t be that indignant considering how I’ve been a complete glutton these past two weeks, but seven pounds?  SEVEN?  I thought the bike ride around Mackinac Island might have canceled out the pizza or the fudge, but it seems as though every calorie I’ve consumed is clinging to me like a sweaty t-shirt.

I skipped my WW meeting last week because…well because I wanted to.  I was planning the trip to Mackinac and just wanted to go without any restrictions.  It wasn’t just a vacation from work.  It was a vacation from all responsibility and, apparently, a vacation from my senses.

Some of it was water weight.  That much I do know because I’ve been peeing like a racehorse all day (and can someone please explain that phrase to me because I’ve read Seabiscuit and it really does not touch on how much a racehorse actually does pee).  In spite of knowing I was bloated and feeling all that water slosh around inside me like an agitating Maytag, I was not a happy camper when I saw the scale shoot back up to within a quarter pound of my starting weight.

The good news is that I’m back to healthy eating again.  The bad news is my metabolism is all wonky and it will probably take me a few weeks to lose what I’ve gained.  My metabolism just hasn’t been the same since my pregnancy and nothing works exactly as it did before Autumn came along.  Years ago I was told that taking weight off gets harder as you get older.  I believed it, but hoped I wouldn’t be in my ’30s and still be fighting oBEASTity.

Has anyone else’s body done strange things since giving birth?  Do you ever get just a little bit peeved that you were able to grow an actual human being inside of you but can’t seem to make it to the bathroom at Target before piddling in your pants a little bit?  

I love my kid, but she really did a number on me.

I stood in the driveway yesterday afternoon while Nathan retrieved the mail.  We were heading out to see a movie and I sighed.  It was Thursday, the second to last day of our vacation together.

“It really does feel like the end of summer, doesn’t it?” I asked.

He nodded.  ”Yeah, it does.”

Today is the last day of our vacation and I have not accomplished one quarter of the things I had on my to-do list.  I had a lot of fun not doing those things, though.  Instead of doing things I had to do, I did things I wanted to do.  I spent a day on an island and snuck onto the porch of a fancy hotel.  I had lunch out with my mother, saw a movie and had lunch out again today with my husband.  I visited the book store, bought my father’s birthday gift (a task that wasn’t on my to-do list but probably should have been) and cleaned my daughter’s room.  That last task wasn’t so fun, especially since she undid most of our hard work in less than 30 minutes.

Summer is coming to an end, and nothing says “end of summer” more than the beginning of a new school year.  Next week I’ll be treated to a sea of new faces as the incoming freshmen move into their dorms and the week after that I’ll be going back to school myself.  I received an email from the professor of my class that asked us all to have “Hamlet” and The Great Gatsby read by our first class meeting on the 27th.  Hey, I’ve already read ten Shakespeare plays this summer.  What’s one more?

I don’t want summer to end.  I don’t want to give up the sun, the light breeze that passes through my living room and the fresh vegetables at the farmers markets.  I want to watch my daughter run through the sprinklers and sit out on my deck to eat dinner.  I want time to stand still, and today would be a great day for it to do just that.

So this whole trip to Mackinac Island was a spur-of-the moment thing.  And for those of you non-Michiganders out there, it’s pronounced Mak-in-aw, so while your eyes are reading Mack-in-ack, your mind is going to have to translate that into the correct pronunciation.  If you can’t do that, you may as well stop reading now because there’ s nothing more irritating to a Michigander than non-native folk mispronouncing our cities.  I’m sure the residents of Charlevoix would heartily agree.  That’s Shar-le-voy to you all.

As any parent can tell you, trying to make spur-of-the-moment plans that involve a toddler are challenging, so our first order of business was to figure out where to ditch the toddler.  We were considering bringing her along, but we really wanted to enjoy ourselves and thought Autumn a tad too young to be good company.  Since she’s no longer in diapers, we’d also need to have ready access to bathrooms and that wasn’t a guarantee where we were going.  We also had no idea if she’d be okay on a boat and getting to the island requires one to be ferried over.

Luckily Carole, Autumn’s daycare provider, agreed to keep her for the night (for a modest fee, of course) so all we had to do was find a babysitter for the dog.  My parents graciously agreed and were handsomly rewarded with a pound of very expensive fudge.  Seriously, that fudge is outrageous.  And yummy.

We spent the night in St. Ignace, the city on the north side of the Mackinac bridge, and took the ferry over to the island yesterday morning.  It was a gorgeous day.  We couldn’t have asked for better weather, but as soon as we stepped onto Main Street we were very glad we had left Autumn behind.

It’s kind of hard to describe Mackinac Island to those who haven’t been there.  Automobiles are prohibited, forcing people to get around on foot, bike (oh so many bikes), carriage or horse.  The docks of all the main ferry lines empty out onto Main Street, which is very Disney-esque in terms of fabricated old-world appeal.  You can’t walk five feet without finding yourself in front of a candy shop and there are people everywhere.  And we were there on a Tuesday.

The smell of horse manure is prevalent on Main Street, so we chose to walk away from the dung and followed the boardwalk along the lake shore for a little while.  I was looking for something very specific though.  I had come to the island for this:

If you’ve ever seen the movie “Somewhere In Time” with Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour, you’ll recognize this place as The Grand Hotel.  If you haven’t seen the movie, I strongly recommend it.  It’s a little cheesy in the way ’80s movies tend to be, but I absolutely love it.  The bulk of the movie was filmed on Mackinac Island in and around The Grand Hotel.  It really is a magnificent building that can bee seen all the way from the mainland.

The Grand Hotel has gotten a little high on itself, a little elitist if you will.  It now charges $15 to even set foot on the grounds.  The signs around the hotel inform you there’s a fee to get into the hotel if you’re not a guest, but the bouncer in the crisp red uniform posted at the end of the driveway above told a different story.  He was making sure everyone entering the grounds was either a guest or a paying tourist.  Paying to sit on the porch of The Grand Hotel really wasn’t worth it, no matter how dreamy I think Christopher Reeve is in that movie.

So how did I get these pictures?  We actually had no idea they were charging to get onto the grounds, so as we were walking up to the hotel, we cut a left into the wooded area that empties out into the courtyard.  Nathan was hesitant to follow because he was quite sure we were going to get the boot.  I persuaded him to come with me and we climbed the very high staircase to the main entrance. Nathan trailed behind, grumbling and saying things like, “You really shouldn’t be climbing this many stairs with your bad knees.”  Did Christopher Reeve say that to Jane Seymour?  You tell me…

Yeah, those are the stairs we climbed and day-um there are a lot of them.  Take a look at the panorama of the front of the hotel and you can just barely see the stairs.  The bushes around it have kind of overtaken everything, which is a shame because there are some excellent views from those stairs.

Once on the deck, Nathan sat down in a chair while I snapped a few more pictures.  After we’d had our fill of the hotel, we walked back to Main Street and rented a couple of bikes.  I was a little leery of getting on a bike.  I haven’t ridden a bike in years, and biking is one of the things my orthopedist doesn’t want me to do all that often.

It turned out my knees handled the ride just fine.  They handled it well enough that we wound up riding around the whole freaking island.  We hadn’t really planned to do that, but every so often we’d pull out the map and I’d ask Nathan how far around the island was.  “Oh, about 3 miles or so,” he’d say.  I protested but he assured me it was just that.  I think he might have started to doubt his estimate around mile marker number five though.

Folks, the coastline of Mackinac Island is eight miles long.  Just so you know.

We eventually made it all the way around.  Back on Main Street, we returned the bikes, bought the fudge (again, YUM) and waited for the ferry back to St. Ignace.  By the time we got back home and picked up Autumn, neither of us could move without groaning.  Our bodies, asses included, were very sore from the bike ride.  It was worth it though and in a few years we’ll proably go back and take Autumn with us.

If you’re at all interested in the rest of our pictures from the trip, feel free to click on any of the photos above to go to the rest of the set on Flickr.

We’re home, we’re tired and we’re glad to see our girl.  We had lots of fun on Mackinac Island but are very happy to be sleeping in our own beds tonight.

Speaking of which, it’s time to hit the hay.  A more detailed post is forthcoming, so sit tight and just imagine what would have happened if I actually had squished that bridge.

Saturday night Nathan and I found ourselves shoe shopping at our local supermarket.  Our first stop had been to the New Balance store, but they closed early and wouldn’t be open again until 10:00 this morning.  That didn’t work for us since we’re currently on our way to Mackinac Island so we wound up buying shoes and groceries in one shot.

I was in women’s shoes and Nathan was a few aisles down when I heard him talking to someone.  A few moments later he came around the corner to tell me he just ran into a guy he worked with years ago, a guy who had actually been one of the groomsman in our wedding.  A guy we haven’t seen since the reception.

“What was his name?” asked Nathan.

“Wasn’t it Jeff?” I offered.

Nathan shook his head.  “No, I think it was Todd.”  A couple of minutes later Jeff/Todd passed the aisle and Nathan pointed him out.  He looked nothing like I remembered him.  On our wedding day he was a skinny kid with shaggy blonde hair.  This guy had a flat top and was at least 50 pounds heavier, leading me to wonder if Nathan actually had the right guy.

We eventually ran into him again in the dairy section and I was introduced to his wife and son.  I’m usually okay with asking someone their name if I’ve forgotten it after the initial introduction and that introduction happened just minutes before, but I wasn’t about to ask Jeff/Todd his name, especially after the mention to his wife about standing up at our wedding.

I remembered his mother and his mother’s name and asked about her, hoping the inquiry would make it seem like we also remembered his.  He said she was great and still with the company.  “She’s a lifer,” he said.

We parted ways and Nathan and I continued to search our memories for the lost name.

“It was Jeff,” I said

“No it wasn’t.  It was Todd.  Remember there were two Todds.  Good Todd and evil Todd.”

“You’re wrong,” I said.  “I don’t remember any Todd, good or evil.  It was Jeff. I know it was Jeff.”

We went around and around like this until we got home and as soon as I walked through the door I went searching for the scrapbook that held a copy of our wedding program.  I couldn’t find it, Nathan couldn’t find it and we were left wondering who was right and who was wrong.

About an hour later we were sitting in front of the TV watching a silly episode of “iCarly” with Autumn when the name just popped into my head.  It wasn’t Jeff or Todd.

“Greg!  His name was Greg.”

“Greg!  Yeah, that’s it,” said Nathan.

So how bad is that, not remembering the name of a guy who was in our wedding party?  You now see why we have a very small social circle.

The lovely Lindsay over at Frugal and Fabulous has nominated me for an award!  It’s my first ever and I’m very honored.  It is nice to know there are people out there who read and enjoy what I write and that I’m not just spouting into what my brother once called, “an echo chamber.”

For this particular award, the recipient posts the award graphic on their blog with a link the person who gave it to them and in turn spreads the love to five other bloggers.   The five bloggers I’d like to give this award to are:

• Meg at Sleepy NewMommy
• Ginger at Love My Dox
• Lori at My Life Interrupted
• Sassy Mama Bear at The Cafe at the End of the Universe
• Collen at Mommy Always Wins

Thanks, Lindsay!

UPDATE: Do any of you recall how Hillary Swank won the Oscar for “Boys Don’t Cry” and totally forgot to thank her husband (now ex-husband) Chad Lowe in her acceptance speech?  I’m feeling very Swank-ish right now because I forgot to add a blogger who certainly deserves this award; my friend Donielle from Raising Peanuts.  Donielle, please don’t divorce me!  Your blog is one of my favorites!

Lately I’ve been thinking of myself as a 37 year-old woman.  I am not 37, at least not yet.  I won’t be 37 for several months but I’ve somehow started referring to myself this way, as in “I’m 37 and shouldn’t be acting like X, Y or Z.”  That kind of thing.

While I am closer to 37 than I am to 36 now, I don’t know what has compelled me to make myself that much older already because 36 is a perfectly lovely number.  Just look at it with its smooth, rounded curves that suggest bounce and fun.  Thirty-seven, on the other hand, is obnoxious with the severe angle of the 7 jutting out like some jokester sticking his elbow in your ribs.  Hey, you’re thirty-seven.  Get it?  Your’e OLD.

I remember how mortified my mother was at turning 40.  It was as though life was going forward and she was being dragged along with it.  She told a lot of people for a long time that she was 39.  She did this with her tongue planted firmly in her cheek because she knew eventually nobody would believe her.  You can stop getting older but you can’t stop aging.

I’m not freaking out about my age yet, though it hardly seems possible that I’m approaching 40.  There’s that obnoxious angle again in the four, that elbow in your ribs telling you you’re REALLY old.  I’m sure at some point 40 will look better than 50 or 60, an age my mother will become friends with shortly after I claim my 37, but I have yet to look in the mirror and see a woman that close to what many people consider MIDDLE AGE.

Nathan turns 40 next year and is getting his coveted HDTV.  He knows this because I have told him he could get the TV so I wouldn’t have to hear more yammering from him about wanting a flat screen.  I also promised him the TV because one should be given expensive electronics for certain milestones, though my plan has backfired some because now all I hear is, “I think I want to go with an LCD instead of a plasma.”  Seriously, he’s told me this about five times already and we are at least six months away from shopping for that TV.

What I’d like to receive for my 40^th birthday are enlightenment and courage.  I’d like those two things packaged up with the secret to permanent weight loss.  As far as Nathan is concerned though, I’ll probably be asking for a sweet lens for my camera.

Last night my parents picked Autumn up from daycare and treated her to dinner out at Perkins. “Better you than us,” I said, thinking of our last dinner out with the girl. Our evening was a little more relaxing and as a result we decided on a short stop at the ice cream parlor before picking her up (I know, bad parents!).

The ice cream shop is a little walk-up joint with picnic tables housed under a covered patio. The place was crowded so Nathan and I decided to sit in the car with our cones. We had only been sitting there a few minutes when Bike Guy showed up. Bike Guy is someone we’ve seen around town on several occasions. Although it’s never been confirmed, we think he might be a little mentally challenged. Aside from riding his bike everywhere, he’s always wearing a set of headphones and singing at the top of his lungs.

Bike Guy stopped in front of the patio and parked his bike on the kickstand. He had his CD player in hand, headphones on his head and was singing very loudly. We’d been sitting in the car with the windows up and I asked Nathan to turn the key in the ignition so we could power the windows down. It was getting a little hot, but what I really wanted was to be able to hear this guy sing. He’s really not that bad.

Bike Guy just stood there by his bike and sang. Once in awhile he’d throw in a little dance move like a spin or some modest footwork. I watched him and watched the folks on the patio sort of pretend he wasn’t there. A family of five finished their ice cream and started filling into the van parked next to us. As he was loading his kids into their seats, I heard the dad say, “Don’t stare,” in regards to Bike Guy and his impromptu show.

I turned to Nathan. “I think that’s wrong, saying ‘Don’t stare.’ If that guy didn’t want people to stare he wouldn’t be standing there singing his heart out. He wants an audience.” The dad’s statement irritated me because it implied there was something shameful in Bike Guy’s behavior, when in fact Bike Guy was a lot more liberated than the folks sitting on the patio.

As I sat in the car with my ice cream, I started wondering what it was like to be Bike Guy. Why doesn’t he give up the CD player and just go with an iPod? What would he do if he was presented with an iPod? Would it rock his world or would it threaten his sense of security? Obviously that CD player is very important to him because I never see him without it.

Nathan turned on the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot to get gas at the Mobil station next door. As I sat at the pump waiting for Nathan to fill up, I could still hear Bike Guy singing to the patrons on the patio. I probably won’t be buying him an iPod, but I sure as hell will be applauding for him next time he sings for me.

This morning Autumn woke at 4:25 and pounded into our room.  Yes, this kid pounds.  All 30-some odd pounds of little girl flesh walking into my bedroom can pull me out of a deep sleep like nothing else.  She wanted into our bed, but I’ve become wise in my old age and knew if I let her sleep with us today this same scenario would play out again tomorrow morning.

I had a hard time getting back to sleep after putting her back to bed, but I did eventually doze off a little bit because I started dreaming some pretty crazy dreams.  Of all the oddities I dreamt of this morning, the only thing that didn’t evaporate into the ether was the part about the poop.

Autumn left her potty seat at Dirk and Lisa’s this weekend.  Fortunately we have a potty chair we had never actually used.  Autumn never took to using it like she did the potty seat and we didn’t push her into using it until last night.  It didn’t go over well at first.  When I pulled the chair into the bathroom and showed her where she was expected to go, she cried and fled with her panties around her ankles.

After a little cajoling, she finally sat down and all was well in the universe.  I think she actually prefers the potty chair now because she can sit down all by herself as opposed to being lifted onto the toilet.  I’m all for potty empowerment, but I don’t like to have to empty the potty chair.  I’ve changed hundreds of diapers and have gotten peed and pooped on countless times, but emptying the contents of the potty chair into the toilet grosses me out.  I’m starting to fear that Autumn’s affinity for the chair will involve a wholesale rejection of the seat when it is returned and that fear must have manifested in my dream this morning.

I can’t recall any specific details about my dream other than the poop.  Where were we, what were we doing and what was the point of it all?  I don’t know.  All I know is that there was poop everywhere that I couldn’t seem to clean up fast enough.  Molly was also on my mind because I kept thinking about how I had to get all the poop taken care of before she got to it.  Yes, my dog is exactly that kind of dog.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on the dog.  The dog that dug a brand new hole in Autumn’s bedroom carpet yesterday because it rained.  There was no thunder, no lightning.  It just rained and she went all apeshit and somehow managed to get into Autumn’s room to add to the two holes she created last summer.  She also tore up the dust ruffle on Autumn’s bed.  The phrase “going to the pound” was uttered more than once last night.

Of course we can’t really afford to replace the carpet right now, but even if we could, why would we with a crazy ass dog in the house?  We’ll just have to buy more rugs and wait for the day our home is pet-free.

So that was my day.  How was yours?