How's Marathon Training Going, You Ask?

Well, maybe you didn't exactly ASK, but I've got a touch of the narcissism, so I'll tell ya anyway.

To summarize, I have my good days and I have my bad days. I am getting most of my runs in (as well as some biking), but some runs are excruciating, while some blissful. The dramatic inconsistency at this point is somewhat of a mystery, though.

For example - Two weeks ago, I had a 14-miler. Well, not so much a 14-miler as it was a 11-miler with a 3-mile death march at the end. In hindsight, I chalked it up to running four days in a row (which I never do), including a 7-mile speedworkout, a 5-miler and a 4-miler. So when I showed up for the 14-miler, it should have been no surprise that my legs were like, "Fuck you M. We out."

Then last week I have a 15-miler, and I could have run all day long. What's more, I came home, ran errands for my sister's pasta party, and then threw the actual party that night (she ran her first 1/2 marthon the next day - which I will detail on my next post....:). ANDDDDDD - I turned around the next day and ran the last handful of miles with her during the race.

I know, right?!?!?!

Before you ask, I'll answer - I have NO idea what's up with that, Willis.

But let's talk about that 15 miles, shall we?

For the most part, it was uneventful - oh, until the point when I realized my shorts slid down and I was running crack-out for god-knows how many miles.

Oh yeah.

Because of all the things runners want to see while running along the beautifully brilliantly blue-watered Chicago lakefront, M's ass crack surely ranks up there - according to Frommers, my crack ranks just higher the Chicago skyline at North Avenue Beach, but slightly lower than crew races in the Lincoln Park Lagoon.

I hear it's a quite a sight. Hard to tell when all I can see is an over-the-shoulder glance in the bathroom mirror.

So turns out, it was far hotter than it felt, and by the time I hit the turn-around at Buckingham Fountain, my shorts looked like I just went for a swim - they were dripping with sweat so bad, the dropletts were running down the back of my legs.

So I knew the outer parts of the shorts were a bit sagging, for sure, but it wasn't until I made it back to the North Avenue foot bridge that I reached back and discovered my...exposure. I spent the rest of the run (4 miles) yanking up the drawers to ensure my modesty (hey, I do have some...a little..okay none, but I could do without being arrested).

I blame it on the built-in undies. See, I wear those Nike shorts, and tend to flip the waisteband over itself because the shorts are a touch too big - thus sort of screwing with my perception of where the waistband is really laying on my body. I still felt the bloomer liners at the base of my butt cheeks, so I assumed things were all hanging tough, if you will.

Turns out things were definately hanging - but not quite so tough.

Too bad it took me until the last half-mile to realize I never tied the strings, which would have been an instant fix. Oh well. I was just grateful that I chose (for some odd reason) to run with a shirt that morning (and not just my sports bra, as I usually do in the extreme heat), so it helped stifle a could-be-major wardrobe malfuction.

So when I got back to the car, droopy drawers and all, I knew that I couldn't sit in the car as saturated as I was. I mean, my ride's not exactly p.i.m.p - yo - but even I have some standards.

So I searched the car and - Tah Dah!! This is what I came up with -


Yoga-mat-turned-seat-cover.

Sa-weet.

After assembling this get-up, I immediately called my husband and told him to erect our finest bedsheets over the window, defrost the squirrel from the freezer and pour his baby a glass of moonshine - hey, it you're going to be white trash, go big or go home, right?

Hee-Haw, ya'll!!



(obligatory self-portrait)

And then, 15 minutes later, I arrive home, and see this:



Is it weird to be sort of...proud? I mean, it's a sweat puddle, right? But I see a puddle of sweat in my yoga-mater-covered car seat, and I view it as a sign of my hard work. That's 15-miles of work pooling there in the driver's seat, no?

In hindsight, that might have been a little weird to take a picture of that.

What do you think, nephew Brody?




Hmmmm....methinks that's a look of judgment...from a guy who craps his own pants.

Let's check in with Cheese and nephew Aiden...thoughts? Am I weird?


Uh huh.

If I had a magic 8-ball, it would probably say, "All signs point to yes."

Oh well. Onward to the next run...

My Attempt at Not Being Blog Lazy

What The-?
Okay, I’ve mulled this over long enough that its time to throw it out there for public consumption:

I don't get Lady Gaga.

Is this just a sign of my age that I just don’t get her?

I don’t think so, because my 62-year old mother ADORES her. In fact, hang out on the south side of Chicago and chances are you’ll see Big Mar riding around in the Trailblazer, cigarette hanging out of her mouth while belting “Bad Romance” like it was an ode to single old broads everywhere.

(Sidenote: Please ignore the “Just Dance” track on my iPod – its not my fault it happens to be a good running song. Some things just defy explanation. Let’s be okay with that and get back to the bigger picture here.)

So what is it that I just don’t get?



Between the outrageous hair/outfits and the following of “Little Monsters,” I just don’t get it. And the more I think about it, the more I feel like my mother circa 25 years ago, when her little daughter M (age 8), was BEGGING for the new Madonna cassette tape while she wondered what the hell was so great about a trashy girl from New Jersey dressed in lace and whining about being a virgin and papas preaching.

Now THAT’S a flashback – how old am I anyways??! Better question – how the heck old is Madonna?!?!

So I guess I will just have to put Lady Gaga on my list of “Things I Don’t Get Because I Am Old or Just Uncool.”

And considering the size of that lsit, I’m gonna need some more paper.



Getcha Boots On, Sandy
Speaking of pop culture – what in holy hell is wrong with Jesse James?

Seriously.

You bag a chick like Sandra Bullock and even get her to marry you, and then you go whoring around with that Bombshell chick who’s covered form head to toe in ratty-ass tats, and reportedly a white supremacist?



I mean, did he have a lobotomy?

That’s the only thing that would explain why he did this, and expected it to be kept a secret.

*shakes head*

Ugh. I debated on whether or not to even put that picture up because personally I want to run naked through a scorching fire just to melt the dirty off everytime I look at it.

Which begs the question - how on Earth did Jesse James get naked and make the sexy times with her?!?!

Excuse me while I go bleach my eyes and brain N.O.W.




S.L.O.W.
Wanna know when three minutes is truly an eternity?

When those three minutes are the time it takes to brew that morning coffee.

GAWD.



Seeking Umbrella
So have I mentioned that it is literally raining babies around my head?

I’ve got three new nephews, one nephew/niece on the way, and all my friends have had or are currently pregnant with new babies.


Aiden and Nolan


Brody


Baby Sully On-The-Way

Me and Cheese are slowly becoming eeked out the social lives of once-babyless.

It is starting to make me wonder if they all know something I don’t, and if this is a train I need to reconsider boarding.

Of course, peer pressure is no reason to have a bambino. For a myriad of different reasons of which I will not disclose here, suffice it to say I am just not down with it yet.

Plus, I like my life right now. Yeah, I get it – its selfish. Nothing compares to the miracle of children, yada, yada.

But I’ll tell you something – being surrounded by baby-makers has taught me that not all is sunshine, rainbows and cute little baby clothes. It’s HARD – I don’t care who you are. And right now, I can’t comprehend uprooting life to take that on.

It's just such a tremendous responsibility of which I am just not capable now.

And besides, I don’t need yet another reason to sit around and binge eat cake frosting and corn chips.

Triathlon training is reason enough.


Not My Reality
And speaking of babies:

Does anyone believe that this lady had one just months ago?



My goodness.

I’ll tell ya what – you find a way for me to look like this post-pregnancy, and I’ll find a way to shoot out those little guys rapid-fire like a machine gun coochie.



T-Time
Oh, and speaking of - once again, triathlon season is upon us.

And now that the weather is mostly above Suck It degrees, I have taken my long runs back outside.

Nothing against the treadmill, which got me almost entirely through Ironman training, but I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs and I was just plain bored with the monotony of my iPod and the fact that I seem to uncannily time my runs during the Rick Sanchez timeslot on CNN –which my gym runs incessantly.

Seriously – would it kill ‘em to toss on Bravo for a few hours here and there?

In any case, I took my legs over to the lake these last few weeks.

My legs and my COMPRESSION TIGHTS.

That’s right – I bought into the fad.

And before I say anything else, we all know by now that I am truly not a new-gadget-type of girl. I am scrappy, plain and simple. I ride a four year old tri bike that is starting to rust and rattle all over, my riding shorts are also that old and all worn out at the crotch, and I can barely spell Garmin, much less plunk down the money to own or work one.

But I got compression tights, and boy oh boy do I love them.

Not only are they great for actually running and giving my ass the sports bra-like support it needs, recovering after a long run or a brick in them is genius.

After having them on a couple hours post long workout, I wake up in the morning feeling almost zero effects of the previous day’s smash fest.

I suspect I will wear the crap out of these until the are no longer compression but more like yoga pants, and the downside is that they cost a ton. And while I considered setting up a texting donation site a la Haiti to help fund my compression tights shortage, I figured I best hold off until I can pay my own way.

Either that, or just wait ‘til my birthday and drop LOTS of hints for my husband.

(Husband, if your reading this, that was hint #1).

Moral of the story?

Compression tights rule, and I hate being poor.

Disney Recap Will Have To Wait

Because I simply couldn't let this one pass without posting.



"Uh, mom? Yeeeeaaaaah...see, the thing is, I don't remember this being part of the 'Little Brother' contract I signed back in August. So howsabout you stop taking pictures, put down that cell phone, and get this half-nekkid child who's trying to style me as a contenstant in the 'Lil Leprechaun pageant off my back? Sigh. Makes me want for the good old days when he would just kick me in the head while I laid in the Boppy."

Morale of the story?

Time to start getting ready for St. Patrick's Day, or it may creep up and surprise you.

Call It An After-Christmas Miracle

Still working on the list of resolutions - procrastination what?

So in the meantime, here is my most current display of blatant narcissism (aside from the obvious blog that's all about me)...

A photo essay of....

Myself.

Of course it is.

These photos were taken from a 5k the day before my wedding (can you tell?) called the Lung Run. The run was to benefit lung cancer research, and since my dad died from it, I figured it was a nice way to have my dad present that weekend.

The visor was a gift from one of my favorite gals, Spie.

So enjoy me.

You're welcome.



What?!?! How did this little smooshie make it in here?! Okay, he can stay. Don't you just want to eat his face off? Yum.

Me and the Devs. Otherwise known as, "Boobs and Not."
MIL, Ellie, Smooshie, Devs, Me, Adrienne, new niece Kennedy, new aunt-in-law.



Must.Burn.Calories.For.Hawaii.Bikini.



Adrienne running me in....

"Haaaay bitches!"

Sweaty bride-to-be.

Obligatory sweaty armpit shot. Goodness, you'd think I ran 20 miles, not 3.1

Happy me.

Me and Ellie and Smooshie.

Gals.

Kennedy getting her nails done afterwards.

And that's it for now. Hopefully that Resolution post will be forthcoming....at some point...soon...in the future....

The Other Shoe

It was one of those weekends that is so blissful, you take pause in a random moment just to remind yourself that, yes, this is your life.

I went to Tennessee to visit my brother and his wife.

They are expecting their first child, and my whole family flew down for the Sunday baby shower.

But Saturday was all about family time in their new house.


It's Jenny, all pregnant and hanging in the backyard.

My brother, showing off his new bow-and-arrow hunting skills. The natural athlete he is, he just started hunting (an idea very foreign to us city-folk) and off course is amazing.

He tried teaching my brother-in-law.

The rest of us were kickin' on the deck, hangin' with the Mayor and his lil' brother.

Even the Mayor needs a little Momma love sometimes.

"Here Uncle No-No. It's Miller time."

Momma Q and Aiden.

The Mayor

The boys.

Cookin' with Coo-Coo Nana. I have to brag, because The Mayor has been cooking with my mom and his mom since birth, and he is really quite good, and not even 3-years-old yet. Look at him crack that egg!

Of course, if he's playing in chocolate, he must be cooking with Auntie Megan!

Me, Ellie and Aiden off for a walk, just outside of Nolan's backyard.

And on the way back.

Its hard to convey how glorious that day was in just these few pictures (and more to follow). The weather, the family, the laughs - it all culminated with an early Thanksgiving dinner and a Mayor-inspired dance party that evening.

Even now, I chuckle when I think of the little dude "Nodding my head like Yeah/Moving my hips like Yeah" just as instructed by Miley Cyrus.

Funny though, how quickly things change.

Like in an instant.

Fast forward to Sunday morning - my phone jolting me out of a sleep. It was Cheese's number. I didn't want to wake everyone up, so I silenced it, and tried to scurry out of the bed and into the hallway to talk. The phone continued to ring - two more times.

When I answered, it was Cheese.

Telling me he just fell off a roof.

In Virginia.

Because my husband travels out-of-state and climbs on roofs for a career, this was the call I always suspected I would get, but I always hoped would elude me.

I found out what it felt like to have your world stop in an instant.

Long story short, he took a dive off roof while getting off a ladder, falling onto his right shoulder as he hit a wooden deck below. Of course, not before he fell through a patio table.

Instead of flying home to Chicago that night, I flew right to Virginia. I found Cheese in his hotel bed, discharged from the hospital with a shoulder the size of a small child.

The diagnosis - his humerus (upper arm bone that is round at the top to fit in the shoulder socket), broke right off at the ball. Thus, the ball-part of the bone was still in the socket, while the rest of the humerus was just....hanging.

His arm was completely disconnected from the rest of his skeleton.

Long story short - we saw a surgeon the following day, who encouraged us to go back to Chicago for surgery. We flew back the following day, saw an ortho at Rush, and got ourselves a surgery day for Monday (why not Friday, I don't know. Neither of us thought to ask).

As for how he is - in excruciating pain. The bone keeps hitting the part it broke away from, the muscles are spasming, the swelling is cartoonish, and his body has finally brought the bruising to the surface, and has turned his arm black.

In my moments when I cry in frustration for not being able to minimize his pain, I reprimand myself - reminding myself that it could have been worse - a broken skull, a broken back - the mind can wander around all the ways it could have been much worse.

But it wasn't, and he's still here.

He's home, with me, in our house.

He's here.

A Little More Auntie Love

So like any other childless aunt that dotes on her nephews, I am going to fill this post with pics of my little smooshies. Maybe at some point I'lll get back to actually writing content, but alas, my life is so blah compared to the sweetness of these boys.





















Happy Sunday.