Kansas City (aka "That Which Will Require One Week of Recovery")

Before I review the events of the last few days, I have to give a MASSIVE shout-out to Spie (of Sandbagger glory), who just completed her first half-Ironman in 5:22!!!! Okay, this is like a superhuman feat to the average Joe, and add into that that Spie is the mother of four VERY ACTIVE children. Still, she managed to coach herself and stick to her training, NEVER not ONCE making excuses, and always putting in every last ounce of energy she had. Congrats Spie - may this be your first of MANY tri-successes!!!

Now onto THE weekend.

So I just spent the last three days in Kansas City for a wedding.

And I think the title of this post speaks for itself.

See, I learned a couple of good things this weekend:

1. It's good to go to a wedding one month before your own, so you can make note of all the things you still have to do. Like organize a wedding.

2. I certainly, and unequivocally, CANNOT hang with the Kansas crew. Even though both nights I turned it in early and pretty wrecked (which isn't saying a lot for my self-proclaimed light-weight status), the party continued to rage until 5am both nights.

3. There's a p.r.e.t.t.y good chance that the girl that shows up in the zebra print dress and jet black hair is going to be the most likely to take her dress off at the pool during the hotel after-party, and then jump in the pool after showing the guys her thong-clad ass. Not that I am stereotyping, but funny how these things work themselves out....

Interestingly enough, this would be the same girl who, seconds after meeting in the church vestibule minutes before the wedding gave me the Manhatten Once-Over and told me that the most important part ANY wedding is checking out what other people are wearing. And I don't think she was refering to the bride.

So without further ado, let's check out........what I am wearing.

Me and Cheese, who was a groomsman. Me is clad in a VERY short silk halterish dress that tied in a bow at my shoulder. How short? If you look at the bottom of this picture, you will see a black line that goes around my dress. The dress stopped jsut below that black line. Every time I sat down, I was one quick shift away from bare-assing it on the chair.

And any girl knows that no outfit is complete without the cute shoes. I bought these shoes about six months ago, and have been patiently waiting for Just.The.Right.Outfit. Turns out, the dress I bought almost two years ago happened to be that outfit. You can't see really from this picture (unless you click to enlarge it) but they are these really high wedge sandles with brown ruffles down the front.

I know, right? It's like I can almost hear the orgasms through the computer. I won't even tell you how comfortable they were because you just might have to take a cold shower.

You know how when you go out and take a bunch of photos, you can sort of watch the night (and your sobriety) unravel by the photos you take? Look closely, and you will notice the tell-tale sign of my slow decent into Drunk with my hair in a ponytail. The other sign is my multiple self-photos (you know the ones you take of yourself and someone else while you're actually holding you're own camera?) Yeah, I have like 20 of them, but I thought I would spare you the pain of my insane close-ups and people you may not know.

From left to right: Chad, the groom; Jon, the man who will be marrying me and Cheese (I call him Rev. Jon); and Cheese.

Me and Rev. Jon's wife, Rachel.

Rev. Jon, Rachel, Chad, me (hair in pony tail....) and Cheese.

Hair was down briefly for another photo, but don't let it fool you. The world's most awkard kiss should be a pretty good sign that things are starting to get a little silly....

Chad, his new wife, me and Cheese.

My Man, Cheese.
/

I stopped toting the camera around by the time we got back to the hotel for the afterparty (mostly because I was starting to get the spins so operating it was a challenge.) Heck, not urinating in public places was a challenge, but I succeeded that one. The other guys and public urination? FAIL.

/

Unfortunately, the lack of camera was sort of a shame, because this is when all the let's-get-naked-and-jump-in-the-pool stuff started.

/

Well, I guess there's always our wedding in September.

/

And now, I need to go to bed becuase guess what I get to do tomorrow? Start my personal training!!!

FAT
To celebrate my one year anniversary as an Ironman, I weighed myself at the gym last week.

Turns out that my once-favorite Ironman motto of “You will do this” has become “If it ain’t elastic, I ain’t wearing it.”


Stink
My farts have been really bad as of late. Like, smell wise. And potency.

The kind where, 10 minutes after you fart, it still hangs thick in the air like the shame over a bedroom the morning after a one night stand.

Or so I’ve heard.

From my friends.

They’re real sluts.


Twit
I have reached the pinnacle of voyeurism. No, it wasn’t the obsessive scouring of photos every time I get a friend request on FB, or even the routine checking of blogs.

I mean, yes - I still do those.

But I refer now to the fact that I have been on Twitter for a week now, have yet to post even once, but check it about one an hour.

Twitter is like the cliff-notes version of blogging. One liners, right to the point.

“Just got back from run and it sucked.”

“Made cookies and ate them all.”

And it was all fun and games until this morning – when I didn’t get to the remote control fast enough, and ended up having my senses assaulted by the *ahem* ladies of The View.

Turns out good old Barbara W is all about the Twitter now.

So I figure, if 150-year-old ladies are getting on this bandwagon, maybe its already time to get off.

I mean, first Ashton, then Oprah, and now this?

Is there ANYTHING cool a celebrity doesn’t ruin?!?!?!


Drink Up
My job has officially turned me into a wino. No shit. For the last 10 years, I have been virtually alcohol free, save a few minor incidents of which we no longer speak.

And all photos have been burned.

Anylush, I have now taken to having a glass of wine every night. I figure, hey, if I have to work until midnight, just to round out my 18 hour days, why not do it with some of this magic elixir everyone is talking about?

I have somehow reasoned that a glass of wine is somehow sooo much better and less of a "on-her-way-to-being-a-drunk-in-the-gutter"-type-vice then pouring myself a stiff martini.

Just how is this different?

I don’t know.

But four glasses in, I don’t care either.