Sunday, May 23, 2010

Bet They Didn't Account for Me in Their Business Plan

Sweet Baby Jesus in a Manger.

Can someone please explain to me how I have lasted 33 years on this earth and only TODAY been to a Sweet Tomatoes?

Did you all know about this place?

Any of you?

And you never told me?

And you call yourselves my friends?


Now, full disclosure – I probably have driven by this place a couple times in my life, but have paid no mind. Unless it’s pimped in the Biggest Loser, wrapped in wax paper, and comes with a medium drink and yogurt, I don’t do much fast food beyond Subway.

So when Cheese suggested we go to this unknown (to me) gem after we bought our first bike rack, I thought, “I don’t give a fuck – I’ve been training long for three straight days and in 90 degree heat today - just put some food in my fucking face before I eat yours off.”

Decision made. Off we went.

(Side Note: The new bike rack thing is a WHOLE ‘nother one of those life thrills that in my world is probably comparable to birthing a child – which is funny because my siblings post pictures of their kids on Facebook, and I post pictures of Ricky the Rack-y. Now, fingers crossed the fine upstanding citizens in my neighborhood don’t take a buzz saw to it tonight – here’s to hoping!)

Our new addition

So back to the Sweet Tomatoes….

One step through the door and it was like the mother ship calling me home.

A mother ship built with endless rows of food, fueled by free refills, and…

...wait for it….


*deep breathes deep breathes*

Now THIS is intense.

How so?

Cheese pointed out that I actually out-ate him.

And if you have ever sat to a meal with me, you can vouch for the fact that I am to food what Lindsey Lohan is to coke – a straight up whore of a Hoover. No plate unturned, no piece of lettuce uneaten.

In fact, it was hard to ignore the old lady who literally stared at me the entire time I ate. I mean, that old lady just STARED. She didn’t even try to hide it, like maybe sneak a pair of sunglasses on so I can’t see her eyes, or at least save the gawking for when my head was in the soup bowl. But no – ol’ girl went right on staring, and truth be told, I can’t blame her. If I were a betting lady, I would say that in her 180 years on this Earth, she likely has never seen something so appalling and shameless as me – all sunburned and sweaty, grabbing clumps of spinach and romaine and shoving it into my mouth, broccoli chucks flying everywhere, and garbanzo beans leaping off the table for fear of their certain death.

The busboy refused to collect our plates, the fear of me snatching off one of his fingers showing in his eyes.

I mean, picture this - I was at the tail end of many long hours and miles this weekend on foot and bike, and I found myself at dinnertime Sunday, quite literally in the middle of unending food. My will was already weak, my head throbbing, my stomach eating itself in hunger.

If God himself wrote a book called, “Recipes for Disaster,” there would be a picture of me and my shit-eatin’ grin on the cover, big old mixing bowl and spoon in hand, just stirring up the trouble.

There was really nothing anyone could have done to prevent what occurred in the Sweet Tomatoes.

Oh and fear not! I most certainly did not walk out empty handed….

Fuck yeah I pocketed an apple and an ice cream night cap.

There is no WAY I was going to walk out of that joint having consumed only one ice cream sundae-with-hot-fudge-caramel-topping. Come on now - It’s ice cream and its free

I would’ve slapped my own face if I couldn’t squeeze a little more down my throat.

I can still taste the sweet creamy deliciousness of the frozen yogurt on my tongue as I write this.

Yeah, literally on my tongue – I just puked a little up just now.

Turns out that even though my mind doesn't have a limits, my stomach does. And it was three plates sooner than the mind could process.

So, now that I just realized I wrote two solid pages about nothing but my love for buffets, I should probably go take another shower. No, not that kind of shower– I mean, I love food but not THAT much.

It’s just still about 80 degrees and I’m sticky as a used GU packet.

That, and my food baby is about to be delivered, if ya know what I mean.

If people had told me that getting married guaranteed me a Nasty-Bug Killer at my beckon call, I would have hopped on this ship far sooner.

Especially since my town is infested with these horrific 6-inch long bugs with a bazillion legs that slither up the walls while I am innocently laying in bed trying to read. It’s like their surveying out the scene, just waiting for me to turn the lights off so they can burrow in my brain and have babies that will then destroy my frontal lobe.


But this is where fearless Cheese comes in. I scream, he shows up, I make him keep an eye on that brain-eater while I get a baseball mitt full of toilet paper, and then I supervise while he crunches it.

And I do have to supervise – once he pretended like he got it, but I saw it fall out of the toilet paper, and he still tried to convince me he got it. Until ten minutes later, when the little shit crawled right back up the wall.


Moral of the story? Marriage is good.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Creep and Pee - Weird, That's Also The Name of My 80s Hair Band


Watched "Survivor" with the hubs tonight.

(I know -I too was shocked that this show is still on. Guess it must be watched by the same people who watch American Idol – yes, that includes you, Nolan).

I never watched beyond the first season, so I forgot how crazy all the alliance stuff is.

But the biggest observation I walked away with?

If you are a grown ass man with hair long enough to put in a slimy pony tail, you are creepy.

Don’t pass Go. Don’t collect $200. You are just creepy, and must go to Creepy Jail.

You are sentenced to bunk with Creepy Dude Who Wears Long Gold Chains and Creepy Dude That Winks at Inappropriate Moments. Don't drop the soap.

After making this observation to Cheese, however, he rewarded my keen sense of character with this:

“But they make for such passionate lovers.”

Like peas in a pod, we are.

A vomit-filled, scratch-your-skin-off-your-body-type pod.

Turtle Vindication
Got in my second to last long brick before the big Kansas 70.3 debut.

Oh, by the way - Have I mentioned that Cheese’s entire family (and some friends) will be spectating this beauty?

Seemed I forgot this might be a side-effect of doing a race in his home state.

No pressure, no pressure at all. Hopefully he can educate them about the acronym DFL while I’m out of the bike.

(Dead Fucking Last, for those outside the sports world)

Anyslowass, I had the weirdest experience.

I was so totally physically into it – felt great, felt strong, felt like I could turn around and do all four hours again.

But mentally, I was a sick, hot mess.

I mean, talk about Bad Attitude Sally.

In full disclosure, I believe PMS (yes men, it exists, its bad, so shut the eff up before I club you with my Super Absorbency Tampon) was part of this mood.

But then, it would sour even more every time (6) my effing water bottles hopped right out of the water cages onto the ground. And that doesn't even include the amount of time I spent reaching back mid-ride to make sure they were pushed down - so as NOT to jump the cages.

But EVERY.SINGLE.BUMP, I tell you.

Somewhere in the residential section of Highland Park, I was screaming at my bottle in the middle of the street, and then turning my verbal vengeance towards the cages themselves.

Like the true period-pending lunatic I am.

But the icing on the cake (no post is complete without a cake frosting mention) was when I finally found a bathroom after holding “it” for 30ish miles.

I damn near threw my bike down as I rushed into the park outhouse, yanked down my sweaty shorts and commenced “the hover.”

Mid-hover, however, I had the bright idea to also blow my endlessly runny nose – you know, to expedite time. Nose-blowing being oh-so-time-consuming that I couldn't be bothered with an extra two seconds to do it post-pee.

Oh, I didn’t mention that I was apparently time-trialing? Against myself? And the wind?

Turns out that when you hover, you have a little less “stream control.”

So all it took was one hard blow and Good Ol’ Meggy was riding home in urine-soaked pantaloons.

And socks.

I mean, why the hell did I bother to stop in the first place? I could have just kept pace and taken care of business on somewhere along Sheridan Road.

There’s really no moral of the story here. I would say, “lesson learned,” but I know myself, and there will surely be a next time.

My money’s on Kansas 70.3.

‘Cause I’m a crowd pleaser.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Kicking off Race Season - Wisconsin 1/2 Marathon

I know, I almost forgot I did these silly little things called races too!

But alas, it’s true – I still run, bike and (sometimes) swim.

Thus, I have managed to drop what sparse duckets I have on a few races this season, and completed my first one of the season this morning – the Wisconsin half-marathon.

I ran this race last year, and they have a killer awesome course that I happened to PR on last year.

Sub 2, baby.

*golf claps*

So yeah, its kinda one of my favs.

So here we go again this year, and the race didn’t disappoint.

First off, Spie came out to cheer me on, which was AWESOME! Even after doing her long run this morning, she rode her bike all around the course – sadly, I has laser focus for most of the race, so I only caught her once!

So without going into a mile-by-mile replay, let’s hit the highlights:

Picture the scene:

Me - Deep in the corral with 30 seconds before the gun goes off.

My bowels - Moving.

Huh. Weird.

Because until that moment, all efforts to make a poopy had been unsuccessful.

As luck would have it, we get the final warning before the gun, and who decides to show up?

Mr. Turtle, just peeking his head.

And Neck.

Hell, the little bastard was waving to spectators as I crossed the Start.

Now, common sense would say, “Take a second to go to the bathroom BEFORE you cross the start line, because you cross, the clock starts.”

But the Panic Megan said, “Go go go!! Just hit the Porto-Potty at the first station ASAP!”

So off I went, managing to withhold a MAJOR running faux paus until Mile 1, where Scene 2 went down as follows:










And over the rest of the course, I ran as fast and as smart as I possibly could – trying to make up those lost minutes, which I estimated to be about two minutes in total.

And since I forgot my watch (I apparently couldn't be bothered with small details at 3:45am), I had no idea how things were fairing for me, especially considering that only Miles 1 & 2 had clocks.

But no matter – I didn’t care. I actually liked running “naked” – mostly steady, with kicks here and there, and a slow down if needed (but never for long).

It was just me, and my mind, and my own self-motivating thoughts to push through the pain and the slowly creeping fatigue.

When I turned the corner to homestretch, I was pretty sure I had made up the Poop Time, and then some. I was confident that – yes – I put it all out there, and ran my race as best I could. No excuses – I gave it all that I had, I all that I trained for – and when I finished, I gave it every last gasping breath in my body.

But the clock told a different story.

I fell short of new PR.

By seconds.

Ten seconds to be exact.

I immediately felt the tears – stupid poop!! Next time I am going to let you just fall out of my shorts – to hell with the toilet!!

But then I saw Spie – and she was so happy, and so supportive, and so congratulatory that it was hard to stay down on myself.

My muscles were cramping, I felt like I was going to puke, and I then decided – yeah, you did everything you could do. Be proud of that. Be proud you about to vomit Roctane. Be proud that you ran until almost-collapse. Be proud.

And I am.

I mean, yeah, it’s hard not to go over and over and over every mile and say, “Well, I could have gotten my water faster at that stop” or “I could have gotten up that hill just a few seconds faster,” but I am trying not to do that. I did what I could in those moments. There are no excuses. I literally did what I could.

Shit happens – literally, sometimes. And like a recent blogger post that I have really taken to heart – no race will ever be perfect. But what you do whatever it takes to make it as good as possible.

And you never resort to excuses.

Not even excuses of the brown 2-minute variety.

So it is what it is – and what it IS is a motivator to kick things up a notch – it’s like Potential knocked on the door and said, “Hey, I'm your Potential. Pleased to meet you. Can I come in?”

And I am going to open it wide and welcome him with open arms. Because this race showed me tht I actually have potential.

Potential to actually be faster - not just envy it.

Potential to race smarter – and not complain about elements I can’t control.

Potential to actually see what my body is capable of – and not just wonder.

Potential to "race" - and not just simply "run" these events.

Potential to mentally conquer - or, like Liz says, "Adapt and Overcome" - because I am an athlete and that's just what athletes do.

So this race? This may not have been that perfect race, and I may not have reached the time I had hoped for, and I may not have acheived what I wanted.

But yet, I still got what I came for – and what I needed.