1.It’s probably a good thing that "Rescue Me" is ending the series. I hate saying that, but shit – the wheels done fell off that wagon about two seasons ago. I adored this series, especially because I watched it off of dvd while I rode my bike on a trainer all winter in prep for IM AZ and feel a special connection to it. But it’s not the same. It’s not funny – it’s just kinda silly. Of course, I say this as I am about to watch the series finale, and, when coupled with my raging hormones, will probably bawl my eyes out. ‘Cause that’s how my mood swings these days.
2.Speaking of raging hormones – holy effing maternity meltdown tonight. It started at Gap Maternity (where I was lured into thinking it held the treasures of cute maternity jeans – spoiler alert – it didn’t). For the first time in my 6 ½ months, I tried on maternity clothes that were not hand-me-downs from my sister’s closet. Long story short - it didn’t go well. Looking at myself in the mirror in my bedroom is not the same ballgame as checking out the new, rounder M in the three-way mirror of the Gap. Couple that with the last few weeks of noticing how – in general – I just look different, older, balder, chalkier and ugly – and I lost it. In a way that you just can’t come back from to resume happy shopping. It’s not a fat versus skinny thing – it’s a getting-older-frumpier-in-need-of-a-haricut-and-makeover-and-holy-shit-nice-eye-bags-and-double-chin thing.
3.I think I have finally spanned the spectrum of pregnancy experiences. From the uber sick to the super tired, and now into the “holy-shit-where-did-this-energy-come-from-did-someone-slip-me-meth?” I can barely wind down enough to go to sleep at night, I can’t read enough books, and I want to run all the time. And when I start running, I don’t want to stop. And my mind starts thinking crazy thoughts like “I could do a half-marathon!” and I need to be talked off of that ledge. Right? Right?!?!?
4.Speaking of running, I have been helping my sister Ellen prepare for her first marathon. I’ve been meeting her on the weekends to keep her company on long runs. Now, I don’t do all of the miles – like, if she has 14, I meet her halfway and do 7, or if she has 10, I can do that – but nothing quite yet over 10. This past weekend, she had 18 – so I did the middle 11-ish (was supposed to be 10 but I slightly miscalculated). Now you can see why the idea of a half-marathon doesn’t seem so crazy, right? Again, right?!?!?
5.I feel I need to qualify the last two points with this: I don’t mention this running stuff because I need/want people to tell me all sorts of validating things. In my last post, I mentioned that girl who always posts the blow-by-blow of her pregnancy on Facebook because she needs people to tell her how awesome she is that she kept running up to her third trimester, yada yada
(Side bar #1 - man,can I just reiterate how much she bugs that SHIT out of me – seriously, how many more half-nekkid growing belly pics or videos of her baby moving around in her belly do I need to see? Dang, I get that you’re excited, but come one – it’s the Internets - how about emailing that shit to your family instead of posting it for the world to see? No offense but the LAST thing I am going to do is post half-nakkid pics or belly videos on Facebook so that shady kid I sat next to in the second grade and who tortured me with his wet boogers and haven’t’ heard from since until he Friended me and who may or may not be an ex-con can see. Uh, no thanks.)
Now where was I? Oh right. For the record, I haven’t maintained my running for bragging rights or praise – I run so I can feel like I’m not a big fat slob, and so the mountain I will need to climb comes January isn’t so, well, enormous. And I write it here because this is like my journal, and that’s what you do in a journal – keep track of the good (running and poptarts) and the bad (body image and celulite). So that’s that.
(Side bar #2 - My above rant about Facebook posting does not apply to those that have documented their pregnancies on their blogs - which I read, enjoy and benefit from - especially posts from active triathlete bloggers who post about workout clothes tips and how to survive these crazy thoughts triggered by this 9-month mess. Yeah, I know - it's a double standard that I have no problem with blog posts but I get annoyed by the Facebook girl. And maybe it's not really about the Facebook posts at all, but more about that girl herself and all her annoyingness. Or maybe I just appreciate the stories/tips as opposed to the status updates. Or maybe I'm just a bitch. Yeah, that might be it.)
6.Speaking of body image, at my niece’s birthday party the other day, my mom told me that she is now convinced I am having a boy. When I asked her why, she stated, “Because when I had a boy, my ass got big like that too.” And in case I wasn’t sure what she was referring to, she pointed to my ass, and held out her hands about two feet wide. Just for a visual perspective. Fuck it - I ate the cake anyways.
7.Speaking of baby, mine’s still growing. Like I mentioned, I am 6 ½ months (although according to my husband and his mad mathmatic skills, I’m 5 months – hmmm…guess when the baby pops out a month ahead of his personal schedule, I’ll feign surprise). Kicking like a maniac, trying to punch out my belly button. And although we have opted not to find out, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if a baby girl doesn't fall out of my lady bits in the next few months.
8.Totally unrelated - I’m always surprised when I watch a Sex in the City that I haven’t seen before. Especially the super early ones in which Carrie actually looks at and talks to the camera. That’s weird – I’m glad they stopped that.
9.Getting back to point 6, this pregnancy is a big mind fuck – especially for chicks like me who have a history of screwy eating and body-image issues. I didn’t realize how much I think or worry about my weight and appearance until last week, when I saw a friend for the first time in a while, and I spent way too much time lamenting about my new – ahem – proportions. Man, I sounded so shallow – and even said that a time or two. I am embarrassed that I care so much. I am keeping my fingers crossed that all this shit will become insignificant once this kid arrives – because that’s what everyone keeps telling me. I wonder if this kid realizes how much pressure she's under - what with all the responsibility of giving me a new personality and world view. Shoo - and she probably thinks all she needs to do is look cute and drink some boobie milk. Dear Baby: This is your wake up call. Momma needs a new perspective.
Showing posts with label random. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Yeah, I Said It
Since lately all my thoughts are experienced in short, ADD-bursts, this is how I will relay them to you:
Marriage
Moments when it’s not exactly helpful to tell your wife you love her? When she’s on her hands and knees cleaning your piss and turd splatters off the toilet bowl. On her day off.
You Know You are Old When…
Well, it finally happened – I am, in fact, too old and too educated to watch MTV. *disclaimer: doesn’t apply to Jersey Shore*
And in case you’re wondering (you’re not – that’s cool – my feelings aren’t hurt) – they DO still play music on MTV. They just run at 2am when all the actual age-appropriate teens are taking a break from hating their parents, dressing inappropriately, and popping their pimples by sleeping, or stumbling in from a pre-weekend bar crawl/Burrito King binge in College Town, USA, while vaguely wondering if they have a quiz in History 101 in the morning. Which begs the question – what exactly am I doing up at this hour?
Things I Could Literally Not Care Less About
1. Charlie Sheen. Seriously, if the guy wants to hole up in his mansion, screw hookers and smoke crack until his lungs collapse, then who are we to judge? I say let him have at it, and then maybe – fingers crossed – "Two and a Half Men" will finally just go away.
2.Moral musing by Justin Bieber.
3.That show – “Who Do You Think You Are?” – that takes celebrities and traces their ancestry, and they get all “wow!” and weepy and whatnot. Listen, I’m gonna be really frank here – who actually gives a fuck about self-centered, narcissistic, world-revolves-around-me individuals walking down the path of self-discovery but who in reality are so far removed and out-of-touch from their real selves? And I don’t think they could have picked bigger a-holes to profile. It’s like the producers stepped back, took a look at Hollywood proper, and said, “Hmm, who are the least tolerable and most self-absorbed people in this town? Let’s cast ‘em in a show that is ALL ABOUT THEMSELVES!” Bitches, please. You know what would be much more enjoyable? Anything. No, I really mean anything. Like, I would rather have my pedicure lady slice up my toes to pull out ingrown nails and mercilessly bring me to painful tears as she scrubs the bottoms of my feet off with a sandpaper rock than sit through this. There are far bigger problems in the world than Sarah Jessica Parker finding out she’s related to Salem witches.
4. What Lindsey Lohan’s going to do next. So could major news sources stop broadcasting stories about her court issues, lip injections, and drug rehab? Again, definately more important things going on in the world...
5. People using the image of Hitler for political protest purposes. And this goes for both political sides – i.e., those protesting things like Obamacare, and those more recently protesting Gov. Walker’s union bill in Madison. I mean, really people – Hitler is responsible for the deaths of literally millions of people. DEATH. MILLIONS. Call me overly-sensitive, but trying to pass a bill that takes issue with collective bargaining hardly seems like a fair comparison to a man who put people in gas chambers and ovens. I'm sure someone's going to try to make the arguement that Hitler also opposed unions, but guess what? In my job, I have to deal with union bullshit/power grabs and all the bureucratic inefficiancy that would make your head explode, and I've since developed a distaste for them as well - does that make me Hitler-like too? So how about this – how ‘bout the only person we compare to Hitler is Hitler himself? Or how ‘bout we save his image for when we want to storm state capitals to protest actual literal mass genocide? Think about. Get back to me.
6. Homeless drug addicts with good voices who abandon their 9 kids and wife. I don’t celebrate your bad life decisions just because you sound good doing voiceovers for Kraft Cheese and Macaroni.
7. Chicago Mayoral Race – because four blocks separates my apartment and having to make an impossible decision between many evils.
8. Oh, and the political endorsements/television ads that come with it. I mean really – are you going to vote for someone just because the Chicago Tribune tells you to? Do you really believe that when Rahm so earnestly looks into the camera and tells you that “city government is not an employment agency,” he’s really going to be looking out for the best interests of the city once he sinks into the overstuffed leather chair behind the Mayor’s desk? If you do, then give me a call – I’ve got some really lucrative investment opportunities for you.
Marriage
Moments when it’s not exactly helpful to tell your wife you love her? When she’s on her hands and knees cleaning your piss and turd splatters off the toilet bowl. On her day off.
You Know You are Old When…
Well, it finally happened – I am, in fact, too old and too educated to watch MTV. *disclaimer: doesn’t apply to Jersey Shore*
And in case you’re wondering (you’re not – that’s cool – my feelings aren’t hurt) – they DO still play music on MTV. They just run at 2am when all the actual age-appropriate teens are taking a break from hating their parents, dressing inappropriately, and popping their pimples by sleeping, or stumbling in from a pre-weekend bar crawl/Burrito King binge in College Town, USA, while vaguely wondering if they have a quiz in History 101 in the morning. Which begs the question – what exactly am I doing up at this hour?
Things I Could Literally Not Care Less About
1. Charlie Sheen. Seriously, if the guy wants to hole up in his mansion, screw hookers and smoke crack until his lungs collapse, then who are we to judge? I say let him have at it, and then maybe – fingers crossed – "Two and a Half Men" will finally just go away.
2.Moral musing by Justin Bieber.
3.That show – “Who Do You Think You Are?” – that takes celebrities and traces their ancestry, and they get all “wow!” and weepy and whatnot. Listen, I’m gonna be really frank here – who actually gives a fuck about self-centered, narcissistic, world-revolves-around-me individuals walking down the path of self-discovery but who in reality are so far removed and out-of-touch from their real selves? And I don’t think they could have picked bigger a-holes to profile. It’s like the producers stepped back, took a look at Hollywood proper, and said, “Hmm, who are the least tolerable and most self-absorbed people in this town? Let’s cast ‘em in a show that is ALL ABOUT THEMSELVES!” Bitches, please. You know what would be much more enjoyable? Anything. No, I really mean anything. Like, I would rather have my pedicure lady slice up my toes to pull out ingrown nails and mercilessly bring me to painful tears as she scrubs the bottoms of my feet off with a sandpaper rock than sit through this. There are far bigger problems in the world than Sarah Jessica Parker finding out she’s related to Salem witches.
4. What Lindsey Lohan’s going to do next. So could major news sources stop broadcasting stories about her court issues, lip injections, and drug rehab? Again, definately more important things going on in the world...
5. People using the image of Hitler for political protest purposes. And this goes for both political sides – i.e., those protesting things like Obamacare, and those more recently protesting Gov. Walker’s union bill in Madison. I mean, really people – Hitler is responsible for the deaths of literally millions of people. DEATH. MILLIONS. Call me overly-sensitive, but trying to pass a bill that takes issue with collective bargaining hardly seems like a fair comparison to a man who put people in gas chambers and ovens. I'm sure someone's going to try to make the arguement that Hitler also opposed unions, but guess what? In my job, I have to deal with union bullshit/power grabs and all the bureucratic inefficiancy that would make your head explode, and I've since developed a distaste for them as well - does that make me Hitler-like too? So how about this – how ‘bout the only person we compare to Hitler is Hitler himself? Or how ‘bout we save his image for when we want to storm state capitals to protest actual literal mass genocide? Think about. Get back to me.
6. Homeless drug addicts with good voices who abandon their 9 kids and wife. I don’t celebrate your bad life decisions just because you sound good doing voiceovers for Kraft Cheese and Macaroni.
7. Chicago Mayoral Race – because four blocks separates my apartment and having to make an impossible decision between many evils.
8. Oh, and the political endorsements/television ads that come with it. I mean really – are you going to vote for someone just because the Chicago Tribune tells you to? Do you really believe that when Rahm so earnestly looks into the camera and tells you that “city government is not an employment agency,” he’s really going to be looking out for the best interests of the city once he sinks into the overstuffed leather chair behind the Mayor’s desk? If you do, then give me a call – I’ve got some really lucrative investment opportunities for you.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Post-Holiday
1. I don’t find Robert Patterson at all attractive. He looks like his mouth stinks.
2. I like my sweets, but over Christmas discovered how many I can actually eat in one sitting – and it’s ASTOUNDING. It’s like my mind says, “NO!” But my belly says, “MORE!” Belly, you win.
3. At some point I need to organize my Ironman training – I am sans coach this time around, but have identified a plan to follow, am getting involved in Computrainer class, and doing some other stuff to keep me honest about my training. Of course, IM training also means getting in the pool. I guess holding my breath for the announcement that Ironman is now a duathlon is pointless, yeah?
4. I hate Facebook. I’m all but off it – at least when it comes to posting on my own status. I am actually kind of surprised that it’s still going strong, but apparently most of us are far bigger voyeurs and narcissists than we knew – myself included. I mean, come on – how much do we think other people give a shit about our lives that we feel a compulsion to post the minutia of our days? Half the time I don’t even care about my daily activities. Plus, it only encourages me to get involved in political conversations with people I either don’t know, don’t care about, or will never change their mind. So why madden myself? (in my defense, these have significantly decreased in the last 12 months really for no ohter reason than to maintain my sanity, and I've only jumped in the last few days when I feel people need to be called out on their hypocrisy, like I'm self-appointed Facebook Hypocrisy Police) Point is - it's not really fun anymore. I am trying to get more regular at blogging – that way, people can seek me out if they want, rather than me inundating their home page with what I ate for breakfast.
5. Lately some of my happiest moments have been in the aisles of Costco. Not sure what that’s about, but it might have something to do with the coupling of supersizing and good deals, and the Zen-like calm it brings. Plus, few other places exist where you can literally spend an entire Saturday consuming all three meals. For free. And then leave with a sectional couch.
6. I have my team holiday party tomorrow. We got too sidetracked before the holidays, so alas - holiday cheer in January. And I am all about giving our team a break to just chill and socialize and get out from behind their computers. But I am not really looking forward to it. Why? Well, most of you don’t know this (unless you are my husband) but I have extreme social anxiety. Like, to the point I even need to take a nap during family parties because socializing truly is that exhausting for me (weird, I know – my family reading this now is probably like “huh?”). Needless to say, work parties are tough for me. My anxiety usually leads to me over-sharing during small talk (awkward for everyone), sweating profusely (hence my almost-entirely black wardrobe), and standing around aimlessly when the people I supervise suddenly realize they probably shouldn’t be discussing their personal life with their sweaty, stammering supervisor.
In the end, I usually just resign myself the supervisors table, which is akin to the grandparents table at a Sweet 16 party - there only as a courtosy/formality, but pushed into the corner, out-of-the-loop, and wondering why the music is so loud and the skirts so short.
2. I like my sweets, but over Christmas discovered how many I can actually eat in one sitting – and it’s ASTOUNDING. It’s like my mind says, “NO!” But my belly says, “MORE!” Belly, you win.
3. At some point I need to organize my Ironman training – I am sans coach this time around, but have identified a plan to follow, am getting involved in Computrainer class, and doing some other stuff to keep me honest about my training. Of course, IM training also means getting in the pool. I guess holding my breath for the announcement that Ironman is now a duathlon is pointless, yeah?
4. I hate Facebook. I’m all but off it – at least when it comes to posting on my own status. I am actually kind of surprised that it’s still going strong, but apparently most of us are far bigger voyeurs and narcissists than we knew – myself included. I mean, come on – how much do we think other people give a shit about our lives that we feel a compulsion to post the minutia of our days? Half the time I don’t even care about my daily activities. Plus, it only encourages me to get involved in political conversations with people I either don’t know, don’t care about, or will never change their mind. So why madden myself? (in my defense, these have significantly decreased in the last 12 months really for no ohter reason than to maintain my sanity, and I've only jumped in the last few days when I feel people need to be called out on their hypocrisy, like I'm self-appointed Facebook Hypocrisy Police) Point is - it's not really fun anymore. I am trying to get more regular at blogging – that way, people can seek me out if they want, rather than me inundating their home page with what I ate for breakfast.
5. Lately some of my happiest moments have been in the aisles of Costco. Not sure what that’s about, but it might have something to do with the coupling of supersizing and good deals, and the Zen-like calm it brings. Plus, few other places exist where you can literally spend an entire Saturday consuming all three meals. For free. And then leave with a sectional couch.
6. I have my team holiday party tomorrow. We got too sidetracked before the holidays, so alas - holiday cheer in January. And I am all about giving our team a break to just chill and socialize and get out from behind their computers. But I am not really looking forward to it. Why? Well, most of you don’t know this (unless you are my husband) but I have extreme social anxiety. Like, to the point I even need to take a nap during family parties because socializing truly is that exhausting for me (weird, I know – my family reading this now is probably like “huh?”). Needless to say, work parties are tough for me. My anxiety usually leads to me over-sharing during small talk (awkward for everyone), sweating profusely (hence my almost-entirely black wardrobe), and standing around aimlessly when the people I supervise suddenly realize they probably shouldn’t be discussing their personal life with their sweaty, stammering supervisor.
In the end, I usually just resign myself the supervisors table, which is akin to the grandparents table at a Sweet 16 party - there only as a courtosy/formality, but pushed into the corner, out-of-the-loop, and wondering why the music is so loud and the skirts so short.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Complete Randomness
I Got A Fever for TS
Okay, I've got a confession.
I've been carrying this around with me for a while, and it wasn't until I was at the gym the other day that it really kinda took over - and I decided I needed to come clean.
And once I say it, I may forever look different in your eyes.
But I can't pretend it's not part of me anymore.
So here goes.
*Sharp inhale*
I like Taylor Swift.
I know! I know!
*crumples into a ball on the floor, pounding it with fists*
Trust me - I've read all the same musical criticisms of her - her lyrics are childish, she can't sing, she's too sweet, yada, yada, yada.
But it's for all these reason that I find myself loving her.
I mean, I have a 10-year old niece. She's got pictures of the Swiftness on her walls. But she also requested the song "Disco Stick" by Lady Gaga to be played at my wedding (declined).
I would MUCH rather my niece to be bopping around her room listening to the Swiftness bubbly singing about wearing tee-shirts and gyms shoes and flowers on front porches and Romeo and Juliet scenarios than to be harping about taking rides on disco sticks, love not being fun if it isn't rough, smoking cigarettes, and whathaveyou.
(Side not: Is it me or is the word "whathaveyou" one of the top ten signs you have become your parents? Also joining it on the list is the question, "How do parents let their daughter leave the house in that outfit?" and anything about the weather).
And I don't care that her song lyrics sound like they were written by me at age 10 - in fact, that's part of the draw. They are sweet, and for me - they bring me back to the days when I did believe in Prince Charming, and better lifes, and growing up.
In fact, I am pretty sure that Switfy doesn't actually write her songs like she says (this, by the way, is a long-standing argument between my "Team Taylor-Swift-is Hawt-Piece-of-Ass" husband who believes she does, and my "Team Taylor-Swift-is-a-Phony-Fraud" brother-in-law, who doesn't). Frankly, I don't really care if her songs are written by her or a 40-year-old single woman with questionable personal hygeine wearing a howling wolf tee-shirt while watching "Eclipse" on repeat and singing to her Robert Patterson posters while dancing with her cats.
But I digress.
I like that she has a somewhat sweet image (she makes heart signs with her hands!), she is usually fully dressed when out in public and she hasn't yet been caught making out with bongs a la Miley Cyrus.
In fact, here is the most recent addition to my playlist. This was the song that gave me my moment of clarity:
See? Who can't relate to a childhood experience in which they were bullied? I can - in fact, I still remember the names and comments of my bullies. But I like the song because it's also really hopeful. Yeah, the lyrics are simple and cheesy, and the music isn't exactly Beethoven, but who cares? I like belting it out at the top of my lungs in the car.
And I would far prefer my niece value Swifttastic and her "Little House on the Prairie" frocks:
than Miley Cyrus's 18th birthday leather get-up:
Or Katy Perry with fireworks shooting out of her boobies.
And sure - in a few years she may find herself living the life of a coked-out whore that's been used, abused and spit out by the industry, wandering the streets of downtown Nashville and playing her guitar in front of Joe's Crab Shack for spare change, wondering what the hell happened to her life.
But in the meantime, I rather fancy her happy little bouncy songs.
Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who?
And for today's edition of "WTF," I offer this:
I know - you're speechless. Did ya watch to the end to see those two college guys really getting into the granny action? Now this is the REAL Cougar Town. Gertrude's showing all the other young college bitches how to bring the boys to the yard.
I imagine the only thing more humiliating to her grandkids is her choice in footwear.
Is This, Like, an NFL Version of "The Beiber?"
Dear Tom Brady:
Ummmm...no.
I'm not talking about your smokin' hot wife whose body makes me weep for the unfairness of genetics.
This beef's about what's happening up there on top of your head.
Did you lose a bet? Is Giselle forcing you to play out some weird warrior/caveman dude fetish?
Missing ye ol' college days, perhaps?
Whatever. I don't care.
Just get yourself to a barber, k?
It's so bad it's actually making your wife less attractive, and that's the true crime here.
You're welcome.
Love,
Me
Okay, I've got a confession.
I've been carrying this around with me for a while, and it wasn't until I was at the gym the other day that it really kinda took over - and I decided I needed to come clean.
And once I say it, I may forever look different in your eyes.
But I can't pretend it's not part of me anymore.
So here goes.
*Sharp inhale*
I like Taylor Swift.
I know! I know!
*crumples into a ball on the floor, pounding it with fists*
Trust me - I've read all the same musical criticisms of her - her lyrics are childish, she can't sing, she's too sweet, yada, yada, yada.
But it's for all these reason that I find myself loving her.
I mean, I have a 10-year old niece. She's got pictures of the Swiftness on her walls. But she also requested the song "Disco Stick" by Lady Gaga to be played at my wedding (declined).
I would MUCH rather my niece to be bopping around her room listening to the Swiftness bubbly singing about wearing tee-shirts and gyms shoes and flowers on front porches and Romeo and Juliet scenarios than to be harping about taking rides on disco sticks, love not being fun if it isn't rough, smoking cigarettes, and whathaveyou.
(Side not: Is it me or is the word "whathaveyou" one of the top ten signs you have become your parents? Also joining it on the list is the question, "How do parents let their daughter leave the house in that outfit?" and anything about the weather).
And I don't care that her song lyrics sound like they were written by me at age 10 - in fact, that's part of the draw. They are sweet, and for me - they bring me back to the days when I did believe in Prince Charming, and better lifes, and growing up.
In fact, I am pretty sure that Switfy doesn't actually write her songs like she says (this, by the way, is a long-standing argument between my "Team Taylor-Swift-is Hawt-Piece-of-Ass" husband who believes she does, and my "Team Taylor-Swift-is-a-Phony-Fraud" brother-in-law, who doesn't). Frankly, I don't really care if her songs are written by her or a 40-year-old single woman with questionable personal hygeine wearing a howling wolf tee-shirt while watching "Eclipse" on repeat and singing to her Robert Patterson posters while dancing with her cats.
But I digress.
I like that she has a somewhat sweet image (she makes heart signs with her hands!), she is usually fully dressed when out in public and she hasn't yet been caught making out with bongs a la Miley Cyrus.
In fact, here is the most recent addition to my playlist. This was the song that gave me my moment of clarity:
See? Who can't relate to a childhood experience in which they were bullied? I can - in fact, I still remember the names and comments of my bullies. But I like the song because it's also really hopeful. Yeah, the lyrics are simple and cheesy, and the music isn't exactly Beethoven, but who cares? I like belting it out at the top of my lungs in the car.
And I would far prefer my niece value Swifttastic and her "Little House on the Prairie" frocks:
than Miley Cyrus's 18th birthday leather get-up:
Or Katy Perry with fireworks shooting out of her boobies.
And sure - in a few years she may find herself living the life of a coked-out whore that's been used, abused and spit out by the industry, wandering the streets of downtown Nashville and playing her guitar in front of Joe's Crab Shack for spare change, wondering what the hell happened to her life.
But in the meantime, I rather fancy her happy little bouncy songs.
Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who?
And for today's edition of "WTF," I offer this:
I know - you're speechless. Did ya watch to the end to see those two college guys really getting into the granny action? Now this is the REAL Cougar Town. Gertrude's showing all the other young college bitches how to bring the boys to the yard.
I imagine the only thing more humiliating to her grandkids is her choice in footwear.
Is This, Like, an NFL Version of "The Beiber?"
Dear Tom Brady:
Ummmm...no.
I'm not talking about your smokin' hot wife whose body makes me weep for the unfairness of genetics.
This beef's about what's happening up there on top of your head.
Did you lose a bet? Is Giselle forcing you to play out some weird warrior/caveman dude fetish?
Missing ye ol' college days, perhaps?
Whatever. I don't care.
Just get yourself to a barber, k?
It's so bad it's actually making your wife less attractive, and that's the true crime here.
You're welcome.
Love,
Me
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Of Food and Stuff
1.
Remember when we used to crimp our hair? Yeah, me too. That was the SHIT. Or when we wore like two or three Swatches at the same time? Makes me laugh at what we thought was cool. I wonder what we will laugh at 20 years from now. My money’s on skinny jeans.
2.
I can’t say for sure why, but I am always surprised when I see people rollerblading. But yet not as surprised as I was to see a lady running in leg warmers today.
3.
Man, how disappointed were you when you eagerly bit into a chocolate bunny on Easter, only to realize it was hallow – not solid? I WAS *shakes fist at Easter bunny*
4.
Not 100% sure what surprised me more – that I saw “Hot Tub Time Machine” in the theatres, that I liked it, or that I did this all without eating a single kernel of popcorn or candy. I’m gonna go with the lack of junk food because I can’t remember one other movie that I have ever gone to without eating either of these two things – and we go to the movies almost every week.
5.
Dear Brad:
Remember when we used to crimp our hair? Yeah, me too. That was the SHIT. Or when we wore like two or three Swatches at the same time? Makes me laugh at what we thought was cool. I wonder what we will laugh at 20 years from now. My money’s on skinny jeans.
2.
I can’t say for sure why, but I am always surprised when I see people rollerblading. But yet not as surprised as I was to see a lady running in leg warmers today.
3.
Man, how disappointed were you when you eagerly bit into a chocolate bunny on Easter, only to realize it was hallow – not solid? I WAS *shakes fist at Easter bunny*
4.
Not 100% sure what surprised me more – that I saw “Hot Tub Time Machine” in the theatres, that I liked it, or that I did this all without eating a single kernel of popcorn or candy. I’m gonna go with the lack of junk food because I can’t remember one other movie that I have ever gone to without eating either of these two things – and we go to the movies almost every week.
5.
Dear Brad:
That is all.
Love,
Jenn
6.
Conversation with my husband:
Me: Why are we on a diet again?
Him: Because when I look down, I want to see my wee-wee.
Me: Well, I can see mine when I look down. Can I open the ice cream now?
Speaking of diet, I should explain that the husband and myself are not so much on a diet, per se, as we are trying to clean up our eating. This means no junk in the house, meals are laden with veggies, and our snacks are of the orange carrot-y variety instead of greasy fried salty potato-y variety. In addition, we have re-evaluated our perception of "portion" and late-night snacking.
“We” call it a lifestyle change.
“I” call it my own private hell.
As a former eating disorder individual, my previous obsession with food is minuscule compared to the amount of time I now spend thinking about it. I mean, I’m taking pictures of cake frosting containers at the grocery store and posting them to Facebook, for crying out loud. Not to mention the fact that hardly a conversation goes by the words “chocolate chip” aren’t mentioned.
Them is not the behaviors of the sane.
However, this is also eye-opening. It is really making me aware of how much mindless eating I do during the day, and how much of an emotional eater I really am. I mean, every time I get a little frustrated or bored or depressed, I head to the kitchen while grumbling about how “starving” I am.
And I’m not. I’m not starving at all.
I’m being a little whiney bitch, is all.
Also interesting (at least to myself) was an article I read this week about a recent study that found high fat and sugary food have the same addictive qualities as cocaine.
Now, I’ve never tired cocaine, but after the true detox of this past week, I can attest to the fact that I am very likely addicted to the sugar. I sort of knew this before – or at least make jokes about it- but now I am fairly certain it’s true. The need for increased amounts to experience a high, the obsessive thoughts when I don’t have it, the desperate scrounging in far corners of the house for a hidden stash – I’m one mini-skirt and some blue eye shadow away from making some really bad decisions just to score a Snickers.
It’s hard not to get discouraged about the lack of visible progress, as well. Now, I’m smart enough to know that things like this take time, but I would think that this new improved eating, coupled with ramped up training, would deliver at least some preliminary results.
And I got nuthin’.
Nada.
A big fat donut hole.
Donut hole.
DONUT HOLE!!!!!!!
*crumbles to the ground weeping*
Deep……Sigh.
I better get hip bones sharp enough to slice turkey and clavicles I can hang laundry from out of all this.
And I know this will get easier. I mean, it’s sugar, for crying out loud. It’s not like it’s air or water.
Sweet, sweet buttercream frosted air and chocolate infused water….
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Mish Mosh
Blood Sucker
I saw a grown ass man with a hickey at the gym today.
And by grown ass, I mean like 50.
Now, I’m no prude, but I always assumed that hickeys stopped being cool three weeks prior to ALWAYS.
Honestly, there is no workout THAT important that you have to risk public hickey humiliation to do.
I mean, grab a beer, hit the couch, and wait it out.
Because people like me are staring.
And judging.
Gross.
Dirty
Speaking of the gym, there seems to be a new trend.
Last year around this time, all the New Years Resolutioners who otherwise only pass by the gym on the way to the Olive Garden were sporting the denim-jeans-as-workout-attire trend.
Which makes sense, right? I mean, who doesn’t want to work up a good sweat in the ultra-unbreathable fabric of denim?
Feeling the burn as those soggy jeans hug the thighs like heavy-duty Seran Wrap.
Spectacular.
The year, however, seems to be the year of the Bare Feet.
Perhaps this is spawned by the newfound cult-forming book “Born to Run” (side note – I wouldn’t exactly know this, though, because truth be told it’s been on my Amazon.com wish list, but I’ve put myself on a book-buying diet this year until I make it through the stacks in my house - but people are raving).
And that’s cool – I get it. We athletes are all about the new – gadgets, training tools, concepts.
Trust me, I don’t embrace my “scrappy athlete” title willingly – if I weren’t so poor (don’t let the “doctor” title fool you – I still work in child welfare), I too would guinea-pig myself with all the new crap (including a Computrainer, hint, hint, wink, wink).
So I get the intrigue of trying out all the new stuff - or in this case, the new “concept.”
But if you are taking yourself to the gym – home of the nastiest, most evolved colonies of germs and disease, shouldn’t you at least try to get yourself a pair of those finger-shoes? You know, the ones that have a little space for each toe, as if to simulate bare feet?
Because seriously – if you want to run free as a 5-year-old along the lakefront path and risk glass, twigs, and pebbles – have at it. I support all sorts of athletic endeavors.
But if you want to go to my gym, put your sweaty, fungusy, hang-naily, toe-jammy, dirty ass feet all over the same equipment that I also use – well, now it’s personal.
I Stand Corrected
Completely un-athletic related, I saw a short clip of a recent American Idol tryout the other day. Apparently some guy has something to say about pants being on the ground, and I was the last one to know about it.
I admit my shock to discover that this show is still on the air.
I mean – really.
I know not ONE person that watches this crap.
So I thought to myself, “Self, surely there is nothing – not ONE single thing- in the world I care less about than American Idol.”
But then I found myself bombarded with “breaking” news that Simon Cowell was leaving the show. It was even on my local nightly news.
And – whoops! Whatdaya know?
There’s that one thing.
I saw a grown ass man with a hickey at the gym today.
And by grown ass, I mean like 50.
Now, I’m no prude, but I always assumed that hickeys stopped being cool three weeks prior to ALWAYS.
Honestly, there is no workout THAT important that you have to risk public hickey humiliation to do.
I mean, grab a beer, hit the couch, and wait it out.
Because people like me are staring.
And judging.
Gross.
Dirty
Speaking of the gym, there seems to be a new trend.
Last year around this time, all the New Years Resolutioners who otherwise only pass by the gym on the way to the Olive Garden were sporting the denim-jeans-as-workout-attire trend.
Which makes sense, right? I mean, who doesn’t want to work up a good sweat in the ultra-unbreathable fabric of denim?
Feeling the burn as those soggy jeans hug the thighs like heavy-duty Seran Wrap.
Spectacular.
The year, however, seems to be the year of the Bare Feet.
Perhaps this is spawned by the newfound cult-forming book “Born to Run” (side note – I wouldn’t exactly know this, though, because truth be told it’s been on my Amazon.com wish list, but I’ve put myself on a book-buying diet this year until I make it through the stacks in my house - but people are raving).
And that’s cool – I get it. We athletes are all about the new – gadgets, training tools, concepts.
Trust me, I don’t embrace my “scrappy athlete” title willingly – if I weren’t so poor (don’t let the “doctor” title fool you – I still work in child welfare), I too would guinea-pig myself with all the new crap (including a Computrainer, hint, hint, wink, wink).
So I get the intrigue of trying out all the new stuff - or in this case, the new “concept.”
But if you are taking yourself to the gym – home of the nastiest, most evolved colonies of germs and disease, shouldn’t you at least try to get yourself a pair of those finger-shoes? You know, the ones that have a little space for each toe, as if to simulate bare feet?
Because seriously – if you want to run free as a 5-year-old along the lakefront path and risk glass, twigs, and pebbles – have at it. I support all sorts of athletic endeavors.
But if you want to go to my gym, put your sweaty, fungusy, hang-naily, toe-jammy, dirty ass feet all over the same equipment that I also use – well, now it’s personal.
I Stand Corrected
Completely un-athletic related, I saw a short clip of a recent American Idol tryout the other day. Apparently some guy has something to say about pants being on the ground, and I was the last one to know about it.
I admit my shock to discover that this show is still on the air.
I mean – really.
I know not ONE person that watches this crap.
So I thought to myself, “Self, surely there is nothing – not ONE single thing- in the world I care less about than American Idol.”
But then I found myself bombarded with “breaking” news that Simon Cowell was leaving the show. It was even on my local nightly news.
And – whoops! Whatdaya know?
There’s that one thing.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Hello Old Friend
In honor of the new year 2010, I decided to break from my usually Facebook stalking and write a sinkin’ post.
No way does it have anything to do with the barrage of emails and texts from family members wondering about the lack of posting.
Nothing at all.
Or you, Angie F.
Naw, I kid, I kid – I need a little accountability when it comes to this thing nowadays, and I appreciate the "where in the world are you?" check-ins.
It's just that most of the time, I just don’t feel I have a ton to say anymore.
Well, at least not race/training wise - I'm fat and out of shape. That sums it up.
However, in regards to all stuff local/world/political, I usually have a mindful of stuff, espeically with the nonstop news/reading of the last few months.
But given the firestorm of last year, I haven't quite recovered from bashing and hence am keeping most of my thoughts in that regard to after-dinner conversations.
Interestingly, taking those topics off the table for this blog has been a hard decision to make too - after all, this is my blog, I should be able to say anything I want, no?
But there's too much emotion involved on both sides, and my thoughts were being massively misinterpreted all the time. I just got tired of having to justify my opinion, and later read comments by other people about me on other sites (yeah, I read those)that it just wasn't worth the anger and frustration.
Wait, hang on – I gotta poop.
Hey, it’s early morning (for me) and the coffee’s kicking in – give me a break.
…………..
……*flush*……..
Okay, I’m back.
Where was I?
Poop.
Right.
Quick relate side note here - I’ve developed this new (to me) habit of the bathroom.
I read in there now.
I know it’s not that weird because a lot of people do, but for me it is.
See, as someone who drinks a ton of water and already spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, I never quite understood the willful spending of additional minutes browsing some random magazine while trying to pinch one off.
I am generally a wait-til-the-very-last-second-it-falls-out-then-sprint-to-the-bathroom-and-drop-it-flush-wash-and-leave kinda gal.
But two things happened over the holidays to change all of this:
1. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I had at least four airplane trips, and hence lots of constipation, thus requiring me to spend extra time in the loo working for the pay-off.
2. I found both a Runner’s World and a Triathlete magazine I got at least two months back that I must have (gasp!) thrown into my nightstand reading pile and forgot about. Seeing as how the absolutely MUST get read, I decided I would pass my excruciating painful waste of minutes crapping by reading them.
And voila! A new habit is born.
So bowel movements aside, let’s give a run down of the last month since my absence:
.
.
.
Umm..
.
.
Work…..
.
.
Cheese’s recovering…
.
.
Two Christmas’s in Kansas…….
.
.
.
Yup, that about sums it up.
Can you see why I haven’t posted?
Basically between work, Cheese's arm, more work, and the holidays, I haven’t really had a ton to say. Life just…is.
Once I get my act together I am going to come up with a list of resolutions, though.
I used to not make any, and really I still don’t, but this year for some reason, I really like the idea of the “Reset” button. It’s been a good year in many respects (what with getting married and all), but I have also let some things slide, so I like the idea of kick starting some newer/better habits, you know?
So sit tight, and I promise I will power off that list in the next 24 hours.
And most likely from the bathroom.
No way does it have anything to do with the barrage of emails and texts from family members wondering about the lack of posting.
Nothing at all.
Or you, Angie F.
Naw, I kid, I kid – I need a little accountability when it comes to this thing nowadays, and I appreciate the "where in the world are you?" check-ins.
It's just that most of the time, I just don’t feel I have a ton to say anymore.
Well, at least not race/training wise - I'm fat and out of shape. That sums it up.
However, in regards to all stuff local/world/political, I usually have a mindful of stuff, espeically with the nonstop news/reading of the last few months.
But given the firestorm of last year, I haven't quite recovered from bashing and hence am keeping most of my thoughts in that regard to after-dinner conversations.
Interestingly, taking those topics off the table for this blog has been a hard decision to make too - after all, this is my blog, I should be able to say anything I want, no?
But there's too much emotion involved on both sides, and my thoughts were being massively misinterpreted all the time. I just got tired of having to justify my opinion, and later read comments by other people about me on other sites (yeah, I read those)that it just wasn't worth the anger and frustration.
Wait, hang on – I gotta poop.
Hey, it’s early morning (for me) and the coffee’s kicking in – give me a break.
…………..
……*flush*……..
Okay, I’m back.
Where was I?
Poop.
Right.
Quick relate side note here - I’ve developed this new (to me) habit of the bathroom.
I read in there now.
I know it’s not that weird because a lot of people do, but for me it is.
See, as someone who drinks a ton of water and already spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, I never quite understood the willful spending of additional minutes browsing some random magazine while trying to pinch one off.
I am generally a wait-til-the-very-last-second-it-falls-out-then-sprint-to-the-bathroom-and-drop-it-flush-wash-and-leave kinda gal.
But two things happened over the holidays to change all of this:
1. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I had at least four airplane trips, and hence lots of constipation, thus requiring me to spend extra time in the loo working for the pay-off.
2. I found both a Runner’s World and a Triathlete magazine I got at least two months back that I must have (gasp!) thrown into my nightstand reading pile and forgot about. Seeing as how the absolutely MUST get read, I decided I would pass my excruciating painful waste of minutes crapping by reading them.
And voila! A new habit is born.
So bowel movements aside, let’s give a run down of the last month since my absence:
.
.
.
Umm..
.
.
Work…..
.
.
Cheese’s recovering…
.
.
Two Christmas’s in Kansas…….
.
.
.
Yup, that about sums it up.
Can you see why I haven’t posted?
Basically between work, Cheese's arm, more work, and the holidays, I haven’t really had a ton to say. Life just…is.
Once I get my act together I am going to come up with a list of resolutions, though.
I used to not make any, and really I still don’t, but this year for some reason, I really like the idea of the “Reset” button. It’s been a good year in many respects (what with getting married and all), but I have also let some things slide, so I like the idea of kick starting some newer/better habits, you know?
So sit tight, and I promise I will power off that list in the next 24 hours.
And most likely from the bathroom.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Overheard at the County Jail
While waiting to conduct an interview of my own at the county jail today, I sat and listened as a 40-something woman talked loudly into her cell phone to a child of approximately 10 years of age:
"Hey kiddo..yeah, it's grandma...listen baby, I need you to listen to grandma. Yes, I'm here at the jail. Your daddy saw the judge today, and the judge told your daddy he needs to go to the Bad Boy Jail...Yes, he has to go to the Bad Boy Jail. He has to go to Bad Boy Jail for 2 1/2 years.
(Pause)
No, no, it's not the judge's fault, it's your daddy's fault. Every time he hits someone, he breaks their bones, so now he has to go to Bad Boy Jail so he can learn to be good. He needs to learn to be good, or he is going to keep going to Bad Boy Jail.
(Pause)
Well, baby, I know that - your daddy may not be big, but he's stronger than he knows, so when he hits someone, it hurts. He hit your mom and shattered her eye socket, and he hit Uncle Kiko and broke his jaw, and then he hit that police officers.
(Pause)
Now sweetie, you're just going to come live with grandma, and we are going to live together for however long it takes. First for 2 1/2 years, and then forever, if we have to. You know that grandma loves yuo very much, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you.
(Pause)
No honey, they won't let you see your mommy either, but maybe someday when she gets her things together, you can see her too. Now, I need you to not talk to your sister and brother until I get home, and I'll be home at 5:30, and we'll all go out for pizza like we talked about.
(Pause)
I know, kiddo, but we'll get through this. I love you very much, and we will be fine. I love you. See you at 5:30."
(End call)
(Me, in head) Damn. That sucks. The violence, the incarcerated (now absent) father, dysfunctional mother - you wonder how much of that this kid witnessed.
I tried to imagine myself as that kid on the other end of the phone, being told concepts and words that no child should ever have to hear - jail, shattered eye socket, etc.
Sigh.
I don't know that kid on the other side of that phone call, and it's not yet a case for my Department, but I made a mental note of the family name in the event that the case does come down the line.
I know it doesn't sound "clinical" or anything, but - Fucking parents, man.
"Hey kiddo..yeah, it's grandma...listen baby, I need you to listen to grandma. Yes, I'm here at the jail. Your daddy saw the judge today, and the judge told your daddy he needs to go to the Bad Boy Jail...Yes, he has to go to the Bad Boy Jail. He has to go to Bad Boy Jail for 2 1/2 years.
(Pause)
No, no, it's not the judge's fault, it's your daddy's fault. Every time he hits someone, he breaks their bones, so now he has to go to Bad Boy Jail so he can learn to be good. He needs to learn to be good, or he is going to keep going to Bad Boy Jail.
(Pause)
Well, baby, I know that - your daddy may not be big, but he's stronger than he knows, so when he hits someone, it hurts. He hit your mom and shattered her eye socket, and he hit Uncle Kiko and broke his jaw, and then he hit that police officers.
(Pause)
Now sweetie, you're just going to come live with grandma, and we are going to live together for however long it takes. First for 2 1/2 years, and then forever, if we have to. You know that grandma loves yuo very much, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you.
(Pause)
No honey, they won't let you see your mommy either, but maybe someday when she gets her things together, you can see her too. Now, I need you to not talk to your sister and brother until I get home, and I'll be home at 5:30, and we'll all go out for pizza like we talked about.
(Pause)
I know, kiddo, but we'll get through this. I love you very much, and we will be fine. I love you. See you at 5:30."
(End call)
(Me, in head) Damn. That sucks. The violence, the incarcerated (now absent) father, dysfunctional mother - you wonder how much of that this kid witnessed.
I tried to imagine myself as that kid on the other end of the phone, being told concepts and words that no child should ever have to hear - jail, shattered eye socket, etc.
Sigh.
I don't know that kid on the other side of that phone call, and it's not yet a case for my Department, but I made a mental note of the family name in the event that the case does come down the line.
I know it doesn't sound "clinical" or anything, but - Fucking parents, man.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Hair
I have long hair.
Sometimes I like to wear it curly.
Sometimes I like to wear it with a crown.
Sometimes I like to wear it with a lai.
Sometimes I like to wear it to a luau buffet.
But today I woke to find it in a dread up to my scalp.
P.S. Is it weird that I had a tag already for "Katie Holmes?"
Sometimes I like to wear it curly.
Sometimes I like to wear it with a crown. 
Sometimes I like to wear it with a lai.
Sometimes I like to wear it to a luau buffet. 
But today I woke to find it in a dread up to my scalp.This, I did not like.
After spending ten minutes in the shower coating it in Vasoline and conditioner, my dread would not budge.
Enter scissors.
After spending ten minutes in the shower coating it in Vasoline and conditioner, my dread would not budge.
Enter scissors.Now the dread is dead.
But Suri's hair?
But Suri's hair?
WTF?
Has Katie just completely given up?
P.S. Is it weird that I had a tag already for "Katie Holmes?"
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Woa Is Me
I caught a case of the sads.
I have decided that I am not sad about losing my job (with no prospects in sight) - rather, I am just REALLY angry at why I am losing my job.
And it's really hard to maintain a positive outlook when my supervisees are sobbing during their supervision times, and having anxiety attacks as they wrap up their work. But the absolute worst is when my boss - the calmest, most professional supervisor I have ever had - is struggling to keep it together during conversations about returning computers and shutting down cell phones.
But I would also be lying if I said it was only the job stuff - really, it's just sort of everything at this point.
But instead of doing a full-blown post about the atrocities my state government is committing in the name of a tax hike, or post one of those countdown clocks for the remaining minutes of employment, I am going to focus on the positive.
Because frankly, there are a lot of good things happening.
First off, I have been holding onto a nugget of information for several weeks. You, the reader, might know this informtion already - if you were quick enough to catch it on a post a few weeks back before I was instructed to take it down.
Turns out, this ol' girl's about to become an aunt again!
My brother - well, really, his wife Jenny - is pregnant!
So with Ellen's due in August (although the baby's been basically hanging out of her vagina for a few weeks, filling out college applications and waiting on the approriate time to just totally fall the heck out), and Nolan's little guy/gal on the way, I am aunt x 3!!!!!
Poor kids.
Other good news?
My back doctor seems to have worked his little magic. My back has remarkably improved in jsut the last four weeks. Which makes me wonder what the heck my other doctor was doing for the last two years.....
My knee is still problematic, so my doctor tapes it once or twice a week with that kinisio-or-something tape to give the knee cap some extra support.
And crazy enough, it works.
So....uh....hmph.
That...uh...seems to be about it....
.....Thought I had some more stuff for you......
*crickets*
Man, I'm lame.
I have decided that I am not sad about losing my job (with no prospects in sight) - rather, I am just REALLY angry at why I am losing my job.
And it's really hard to maintain a positive outlook when my supervisees are sobbing during their supervision times, and having anxiety attacks as they wrap up their work. But the absolute worst is when my boss - the calmest, most professional supervisor I have ever had - is struggling to keep it together during conversations about returning computers and shutting down cell phones.
But I would also be lying if I said it was only the job stuff - really, it's just sort of everything at this point.
But instead of doing a full-blown post about the atrocities my state government is committing in the name of a tax hike, or post one of those countdown clocks for the remaining minutes of employment, I am going to focus on the positive.
Because frankly, there are a lot of good things happening.
First off, I have been holding onto a nugget of information for several weeks. You, the reader, might know this informtion already - if you were quick enough to catch it on a post a few weeks back before I was instructed to take it down.
Turns out, this ol' girl's about to become an aunt again!
My brother - well, really, his wife Jenny - is pregnant!
So with Ellen's due in August (although the baby's been basically hanging out of her vagina for a few weeks, filling out college applications and waiting on the approriate time to just totally fall the heck out), and Nolan's little guy/gal on the way, I am aunt x 3!!!!!
Poor kids.
Other good news?
My back doctor seems to have worked his little magic. My back has remarkably improved in jsut the last four weeks. Which makes me wonder what the heck my other doctor was doing for the last two years.....
My knee is still problematic, so my doctor tapes it once or twice a week with that kinisio-or-something tape to give the knee cap some extra support.
And crazy enough, it works.
So....uh....hmph.
That...uh...seems to be about it....
.....Thought I had some more stuff for you......
*crickets*
Man, I'm lame.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Winner
So my gym is doing another contest.
And we all know how Megan feels about a fitness contest.
(obviously excited enough to refer to herself in the third person)
And yet again, there is not really a "winner, " technically.
(Side note: What is that about? This no-winner contest stuff? It's like my gym is run by the same parents who think it's okay for every kid or every team to get a trophy just because they don't want some kids to have hurt feelings. Losing builds character. Just ask any loser.)
Anyhoo, the contest goes like this: For every gym workout, you get a little punch on your 15-spot punch card. After you fill one card up, you get a tote.
And I luuuuuvvvvvs me a tote.
No, seriously. I do. Love them. Closet full of them. It's as if I had the foresight years ago to know that, at some point, a tote would become the cool way to carry groceries. Check ME out! I'm doin' it! I'm livin' the dream! I'm one of the cool, no-plastic-sack-for-me grocery carriers!
And then after you fill up a second 15-punch card, you get.....tah dah!
A tee shirt.
This being the YMCA, it's of the cotton variety, not the technical wicking.
But cotton tee-shirts are cool because - a couple snips of a scissors, a needle, some thread - and voila! You can fashion yourself yet ANOTHER fancy grocery tote!
It's true.
I saw it on Etsy.
Girls, you know what I'm talking about.
Etsy.
And the finale- After a THIRD 15-spot punch card is filled (for those math-impaired, that's 45 trips to the gym), you get entered into a raffle for....*drum roll*
Free Personal Training.
Not sure yet what part of that statement is more exciting - the "free" or the "personal training" but who cares - put them together and they equal nothing short of a perfect six hours of bliss for broke-ass psychos like myself.
The very thought of some trainer making me cry Jillian-and-Bob style, forcing me into new positions, and making me build muscles I never knew existed....Sigh.
It's enough to make me want to put down the popcorn and Jolly Ranchers, strap on the sports bra, and run over there now. At 11pm.
So needless to say, I manage to get myself to gym pretty regularly these last few weeks. Even when I do my rides at home, or run on the outside path, I still go at the end of the day to do weights for about an hour.
But this whole long story is really just a lead-up to what the real issue of the day is. See, the more I am at the gym, the more I am assaulted by this issue:
There appears to be a Crocs-and-denim-jeans epidemic at my gym.
Sure, it's no swine flu, you're probably saying to yourself.
But it's here, and it's real, people.
Perhaps I am just now around more to notice, and don't get me wrong - I am definately NOT judging the fitness fashion choices of others (contrary to my habitation of the gym, I am not that big of a gym snob). Rather, it just seems to me that it would be...uncomfortable to be sweatin' in that get-up, no?
I mean, most days I can barely stand the touch of my technical, moisture wicking fabrics against my skin in the stuffy, sometimes-poorly-ventilated cardio room (though just stuffy enough for that timeless skill of trapping and magnifying the most heinous of farts as only a steam-filled room can do - farts of which are coincidentally left behind by the guy on the treadmill next to me, or the man using the machines just before me, as if they were the artist painting the outline of a fart cloud around my head for the rest of the gym patrons to see and draw inaccurate conclusions).
So I can only imagine how sticky it would be to try to pound out a solid effort in Levi's, or do a jog/stairmaster in some Crocs originals.
Crocs? Really?
Not baggin' on the Crocs - I myself wear a pair of the flip-flops ones - but to workout in them?
Eh, maybe I just don't get the mid-lifer population these days. Maybe one day, I'll be trottin' on the eliptical in my hospital gown and bootie slippers with my own devil-may-care attitude, who knows.
And kudos to them, unbreathable fabrics or not, for even getting themselves to the gym, and on the machine in the first place. I mean, it's not about what you look like, it's that you show up, right? Right.
I guess it's that commitment to fitness that reminds me not to lose sight of what's really important here:
How many hole-punches do these Croc-and-jean wearers have, 'cause I'll be a steaming hot son-of-a-gun if they try to steal my free training hours from me.
That is all.
And we all know how Megan feels about a fitness contest.
(obviously excited enough to refer to herself in the third person)
And yet again, there is not really a "winner, " technically.
(Side note: What is that about? This no-winner contest stuff? It's like my gym is run by the same parents who think it's okay for every kid or every team to get a trophy just because they don't want some kids to have hurt feelings. Losing builds character. Just ask any loser.)
Anyhoo, the contest goes like this: For every gym workout, you get a little punch on your 15-spot punch card. After you fill one card up, you get a tote.
And I luuuuuvvvvvs me a tote.
No, seriously. I do. Love them. Closet full of them. It's as if I had the foresight years ago to know that, at some point, a tote would become the cool way to carry groceries. Check ME out! I'm doin' it! I'm livin' the dream! I'm one of the cool, no-plastic-sack-for-me grocery carriers!
And then after you fill up a second 15-punch card, you get.....tah dah!
A tee shirt.
This being the YMCA, it's of the cotton variety, not the technical wicking.
But cotton tee-shirts are cool because - a couple snips of a scissors, a needle, some thread - and voila! You can fashion yourself yet ANOTHER fancy grocery tote!
It's true.
I saw it on Etsy.
Girls, you know what I'm talking about.
Etsy.
And the finale- After a THIRD 15-spot punch card is filled (for those math-impaired, that's 45 trips to the gym), you get entered into a raffle for....*drum roll*
Free Personal Training.
Not sure yet what part of that statement is more exciting - the "free" or the "personal training" but who cares - put them together and they equal nothing short of a perfect six hours of bliss for broke-ass psychos like myself.
The very thought of some trainer making me cry Jillian-and-Bob style, forcing me into new positions, and making me build muscles I never knew existed....Sigh.
It's enough to make me want to put down the popcorn and Jolly Ranchers, strap on the sports bra, and run over there now. At 11pm.
So needless to say, I manage to get myself to gym pretty regularly these last few weeks. Even when I do my rides at home, or run on the outside path, I still go at the end of the day to do weights for about an hour.
But this whole long story is really just a lead-up to what the real issue of the day is. See, the more I am at the gym, the more I am assaulted by this issue:
There appears to be a Crocs-and-denim-jeans epidemic at my gym.
Sure, it's no swine flu, you're probably saying to yourself.
But it's here, and it's real, people.
Perhaps I am just now around more to notice, and don't get me wrong - I am definately NOT judging the fitness fashion choices of others (contrary to my habitation of the gym, I am not that big of a gym snob). Rather, it just seems to me that it would be...uncomfortable to be sweatin' in that get-up, no?
I mean, most days I can barely stand the touch of my technical, moisture wicking fabrics against my skin in the stuffy, sometimes-poorly-ventilated cardio room (though just stuffy enough for that timeless skill of trapping and magnifying the most heinous of farts as only a steam-filled room can do - farts of which are coincidentally left behind by the guy on the treadmill next to me, or the man using the machines just before me, as if they were the artist painting the outline of a fart cloud around my head for the rest of the gym patrons to see and draw inaccurate conclusions).
So I can only imagine how sticky it would be to try to pound out a solid effort in Levi's, or do a jog/stairmaster in some Crocs originals.
Crocs? Really?
Not baggin' on the Crocs - I myself wear a pair of the flip-flops ones - but to workout in them?
Eh, maybe I just don't get the mid-lifer population these days. Maybe one day, I'll be trottin' on the eliptical in my hospital gown and bootie slippers with my own devil-may-care attitude, who knows.
And kudos to them, unbreathable fabrics or not, for even getting themselves to the gym, and on the machine in the first place. I mean, it's not about what you look like, it's that you show up, right? Right.
I guess it's that commitment to fitness that reminds me not to lose sight of what's really important here:
How many hole-punches do these Croc-and-jean wearers have, 'cause I'll be a steaming hot son-of-a-gun if they try to steal my free training hours from me.
That is all.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Little Bit o' This....
So, I was watching the 2005 Ironman Kona race today as I plowed through my trainer ride, and what do my wondering eyes see?
A man exiting the swim in his leopard print Speedos.
LEOPARD PRINT.
SPEEDOS.
IN KONA.
Like, what's the thought process behind that?
Minnesota Joe (standing over his suit case): Hmmm... Kona. It's the big time you know.
Wife: You may never get another chance to do this, Joe.
Minnesota Joe: I know. It's like, Go Big or Go Home, right?
Wife: That's what I always say in my step aerobics class. So why not make a statement?
Minnesota Joe: I see your point. And the banana hammock IS snug, and aerodynamic. Like neoprene, without the life-choking-out-of-you feel. And really, my abs are kickin, yeah?
Wife: I always did like the way your buns looked in that print! *tap on the ass*
Minnesota Joe: Decision made! European leopard print Speedo in Kona IT IS!!
Maybe he knows something I don't though. I mean, Speedo King is in Kona, I'm in my living room pedaling to nowhere and wondering what the hell happened to the sweltering Chicago summer we all used to complain about. Who's the sucker now, huh?
Oh, and another little gem I discovered while I was home, tying up loose ends before my job implodes on itself in a few days?
Remember a while back I posted about my new favorite website - Hot Chicks with Douchebags?
Well, MTV turned it into a show.
And it is EFFING hilarious.
Like, have you ever wished your blog could talk? Like, could mimic tone or the speed of your snarkiest comments in a way that simply writing the word just can't?
Well, this show is like that.
And while I watched NOTHING on MTV EVER, I am stuck on this show.
It's called, "Is She Really Going Out With Him?"
I think what intrigues me most is how delusional these guys are. I mean, you would almost think it is a joke, but it's not. And it's so uncomfortable to watch - sort of like an episode of The Office, but REAL, and with a lot more bottle-poppin', Axe body spray, and "bro-ness."
Check out the episodes with "Hustler Douche" (with an added gem - "Say Somethin!'") and "OC Douche."
You're welcome.
A man exiting the swim in his leopard print Speedos.
LEOPARD PRINT.
SPEEDOS.
IN KONA.
Like, what's the thought process behind that?
Minnesota Joe (standing over his suit case): Hmmm... Kona. It's the big time you know.
Wife: You may never get another chance to do this, Joe.
Minnesota Joe: I know. It's like, Go Big or Go Home, right?
Wife: That's what I always say in my step aerobics class. So why not make a statement?
Minnesota Joe: I see your point. And the banana hammock IS snug, and aerodynamic. Like neoprene, without the life-choking-out-of-you feel. And really, my abs are kickin, yeah?
Wife: I always did like the way your buns looked in that print! *tap on the ass*
Minnesota Joe: Decision made! European leopard print Speedo in Kona IT IS!!
Maybe he knows something I don't though. I mean, Speedo King is in Kona, I'm in my living room pedaling to nowhere and wondering what the hell happened to the sweltering Chicago summer we all used to complain about. Who's the sucker now, huh?
Oh, and another little gem I discovered while I was home, tying up loose ends before my job implodes on itself in a few days?
Remember a while back I posted about my new favorite website - Hot Chicks with Douchebags?
Well, MTV turned it into a show.
And it is EFFING hilarious.
Like, have you ever wished your blog could talk? Like, could mimic tone or the speed of your snarkiest comments in a way that simply writing the word just can't?
Well, this show is like that.
And while I watched NOTHING on MTV EVER, I am stuck on this show.
It's called, "Is She Really Going Out With Him?"
I think what intrigues me most is how delusional these guys are. I mean, you would almost think it is a joke, but it's not. And it's so uncomfortable to watch - sort of like an episode of The Office, but REAL, and with a lot more bottle-poppin', Axe body spray, and "bro-ness."
Check out the episodes with "Hustler Douche" (with an added gem - "Say Somethin!'") and "OC Douche."
You're welcome.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Stolen from My Sister's Blog
What?Like you've NEVER seen a 2-year-old driving a SUV.
Puuu-leeez.
Here in the Chi, we skip pre-school and send them right to the DMV.
I mean, someone's gotta drive after the afternoon martinis and pedicures.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Hey, it's a Start...
Yeah, yeah - long time not talk. I could blame it on Facebook, but then I would have to admit that I neglect that too. I think that (despite what my family says to the contrary) I simply don't have a lot to say lately.
You can only bitch about the weather and a job for so many posts, no?
So here's a smattering of what's been in my head.
1. I have decided that I will never been an Ironman champ. Why? Boobs are too big.
Surely that is the only reason.
2. I am pretty sure I have the world’s worst muscle tone. I mean, even though my little legs can take me on a 3-hour brick any given Sunday, they have the cellulite look of an 80-old smoker who has led a life of leisure and inactivity. I don’t get it. I am going to be forced to run my ½ marathon in Nashville in running pants just to hide the atrocity.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
You know - us girls can't a flippin' break, like EVER. First, it's the whole 3-decades long mentration bullshit, with all it's cramps and PMS and blood and tampon glory. And then, just when you think you've done your "Lady Time," you have to suffer another decade or two of menapause and it's hot-flash fabulousness and hormone replacement. Oh, and if you're "lucky," you get a few 9-month vacations in there. But fear not - those vacations end WITH A KID.
What the fuck kind of present is that?!?!?
It's crap.
What do boys get?
Maybe a receeding hairline and some extra pudge. And yet they're the ones entitled to mid-life crisis?!? They can all just suck it. Suck my big fat leg cellulite.
3.Greatest lesson learned this weekend? Activa gives me diarrhea. Of course, the ass explosion is only secondary to the rock-hard stomach-extending bloat and gas the precedes it. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking –
Thank GAWD I am engaged.
4. So I joined Twitter. Because in addition to the blog AND Facebook status updates, I figured that it is absolutely imperative that there be not.one.single.second of my life that goes unnoticed or unannounced.
I mean, if you can’t live out loud, how can you live?
5. Greatest part of Easter dinner (besides my mom's cooking)?
Watching my nephew dance to and sing "I Hate This Part (Right Here)."
Because nothing celebrates the death and resurrection of Christ like a two-year-old singing the words to a Pussycat Dolls song.
The shit warms the cockles of the heart, you know?
(truth be told - it was effing HYSTERICAL and I can't wait to get the video to post it. so the question is: does that make me a bad aunt that i completely and whole heartedly encourage these performances? i think not. in fact, i think that the easter basket i brought him filled with candy, paint, and -yes- tattoos, sort of cancels out any "bad" i could do as an aunt.
it's true.
it's just how the world works.
i don't make the rules.)
You can only bitch about the weather and a job for so many posts, no?
So here's a smattering of what's been in my head.
1. I have decided that I will never been an Ironman champ. Why? Boobs are too big.
Surely that is the only reason.
2. I am pretty sure I have the world’s worst muscle tone. I mean, even though my little legs can take me on a 3-hour brick any given Sunday, they have the cellulite look of an 80-old smoker who has led a life of leisure and inactivity. I don’t get it. I am going to be forced to run my ½ marathon in Nashville in running pants just to hide the atrocity.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
You know - us girls can't a flippin' break, like EVER. First, it's the whole 3-decades long mentration bullshit, with all it's cramps and PMS and blood and tampon glory. And then, just when you think you've done your "Lady Time," you have to suffer another decade or two of menapause and it's hot-flash fabulousness and hormone replacement. Oh, and if you're "lucky," you get a few 9-month vacations in there. But fear not - those vacations end WITH A KID.
What the fuck kind of present is that?!?!?
It's crap.
What do boys get?
Maybe a receeding hairline and some extra pudge. And yet they're the ones entitled to mid-life crisis?!? They can all just suck it. Suck my big fat leg cellulite.
3.Greatest lesson learned this weekend? Activa gives me diarrhea. Of course, the ass explosion is only secondary to the rock-hard stomach-extending bloat and gas the precedes it. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking –
Thank GAWD I am engaged.
4. So I joined Twitter. Because in addition to the blog AND Facebook status updates, I figured that it is absolutely imperative that there be not.one.single.second of my life that goes unnoticed or unannounced.
I mean, if you can’t live out loud, how can you live?
5. Greatest part of Easter dinner (besides my mom's cooking)?
Watching my nephew dance to and sing "I Hate This Part (Right Here)."
Because nothing celebrates the death and resurrection of Christ like a two-year-old singing the words to a Pussycat Dolls song.
The shit warms the cockles of the heart, you know?
(truth be told - it was effing HYSTERICAL and I can't wait to get the video to post it. so the question is: does that make me a bad aunt that i completely and whole heartedly encourage these performances? i think not. in fact, i think that the easter basket i brought him filled with candy, paint, and -yes- tattoos, sort of cancels out any "bad" i could do as an aunt.
it's true.
it's just how the world works.
i don't make the rules.)
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
As the Mind Turns
A. Before anything else, I wanted to give a HUGE congrats to Steph, who placed FIRST in her age group in this weekends indoor tri at her gym!! And crazier - she did it while nursing a cold too! You're a badass, Ms. Steph!
B. In honor of No Cuss Week, this was submitted by Flatman. Enjoy. I did.
C. A List!
Top Ten Things I’ve Leaned from Watching True Crime Shows (Specifcally “First 48,” "DEA," and "Manhunters")
1. My parents were right – nothing good happens after 10pm.
2. No one wakes up in the morning and decides to be a murderer – that is, if you are going to kill someone, chances are you are already in the system for a litany of other crimes.
3. Criminals are not as smart as CSI and Law and Order would have you believe. Why? Because it seems that many crimes are done impulsively, and not really thought through. Thus, the “strategy” is lacking, if you will.
4. Speaking of strategy, hiding a semi automatic weapon in the dirty laundry basket pretty much signs your walking papers to the Pokey. Lock. Key. Done.
5. Surviving a robbery is similar to surviving a plane crash – the act is just as random, and you’re just as likely to get out alive (read: you’re not).
6. If a car is on fire, there’s dead body inside. So call the police. And lock your doors.
7, Like my dad used to say – you run with dogs, you get fleas. Hence, you hang with drug dealers and gang bangers, you will likely die at some point. And not naturally.
8. It never ceases to amaze me how little value some people place on human life. It’s like killing someone is the ONLY option of conflict resolution.
9. If you’re a bad guy, chances are you have a nickname (Lil’ D and J-Roc being the more popular). And oddly, not one person in your life will know your real name.
10. If a cop picks you up and brings you into the “Homicide” department for questioning, there’s a p.r.e.t.t.y. good chance they already have your number. Hence, when they ask you where you were on Friday night, they already know. Keep that in mind, and lie accordingly.
In addition to these observations, I have to speak to a startling episode. On this one episode, this guy confessed to shooting four adults (two of which were his brother and sister-in-law) to death, stabbing two children to death, and beating the life nearly out of three other children (stabbing one of them in the head as well). Pretty horrible right? But the starling part was that, after he confesses, his mother holds his hands, then hugs him and says I love you – the entire time lacking any sort of emotional affect whatsoever.
Why does this surprise me? Well, let me just say that if that were me, and I told my mom I just murdered my brother, his wife, and two for their five children, and was a monster enough to stab the faces off the other three, I am fairly certain she wouldn’t offer a hug and some comforting words.
Rather, my guess is that, right before she grasps her own heart and falls into cardiac arrest, she’ll fashion a shank out of the investigators Bic pen and shove right in my throat. This, to me, seems the more appropriate reaction then a hug and an “Everyone makes mistakes” speech.
Yes?
B. In honor of No Cuss Week, this was submitted by Flatman. Enjoy. I did.
C. A List!
Top Ten Things I’ve Leaned from Watching True Crime Shows (Specifcally “First 48,” "DEA," and "Manhunters")
1. My parents were right – nothing good happens after 10pm.
2. No one wakes up in the morning and decides to be a murderer – that is, if you are going to kill someone, chances are you are already in the system for a litany of other crimes.
3. Criminals are not as smart as CSI and Law and Order would have you believe. Why? Because it seems that many crimes are done impulsively, and not really thought through. Thus, the “strategy” is lacking, if you will.
4. Speaking of strategy, hiding a semi automatic weapon in the dirty laundry basket pretty much signs your walking papers to the Pokey. Lock. Key. Done.
5. Surviving a robbery is similar to surviving a plane crash – the act is just as random, and you’re just as likely to get out alive (read: you’re not).
6. If a car is on fire, there’s dead body inside. So call the police. And lock your doors.
7, Like my dad used to say – you run with dogs, you get fleas. Hence, you hang with drug dealers and gang bangers, you will likely die at some point. And not naturally.
8. It never ceases to amaze me how little value some people place on human life. It’s like killing someone is the ONLY option of conflict resolution.
9. If you’re a bad guy, chances are you have a nickname (Lil’ D and J-Roc being the more popular). And oddly, not one person in your life will know your real name.
10. If a cop picks you up and brings you into the “Homicide” department for questioning, there’s a p.r.e.t.t.y. good chance they already have your number. Hence, when they ask you where you were on Friday night, they already know. Keep that in mind, and lie accordingly.
In addition to these observations, I have to speak to a startling episode. On this one episode, this guy confessed to shooting four adults (two of which were his brother and sister-in-law) to death, stabbing two children to death, and beating the life nearly out of three other children (stabbing one of them in the head as well). Pretty horrible right? But the starling part was that, after he confesses, his mother holds his hands, then hugs him and says I love you – the entire time lacking any sort of emotional affect whatsoever.
Why does this surprise me? Well, let me just say that if that were me, and I told my mom I just murdered my brother, his wife, and two for their five children, and was a monster enough to stab the faces off the other three, I am fairly certain she wouldn’t offer a hug and some comforting words.
Rather, my guess is that, right before she grasps her own heart and falls into cardiac arrest, she’ll fashion a shank out of the investigators Bic pen and shove right in my throat. This, to me, seems the more appropriate reaction then a hug and an “Everyone makes mistakes” speech.
Yes?
Monday, March 2, 2009
H-E-Double Hockey Stick
So apparently tomorrow marks the beginning of No Cuss Week.
First off, I think its bullshit that it starts on a Tuesday.
Who starts a week on TUESDAY?
If my week has to start on Monday, so does Cuss Week.
Damn.
Second, if the money jar and the Dial soap sandwich my mom fed me as a child didn't work, I can't make any promises about a vague psuedo-holiday of Cuss Week.
I mean, I even try the old standby substitutes - Cheese and Crackers, Freck, Eff, Gosh Darn, Flying Monkeys - you catch my drift.
But lemme tell ya - when you just NEED to get that point across - when you just gotta tell a mother fucker how you feel - nothing really says what on your mind like a good old fashioned
FUCK
You know?
And I right, or am I right?
I mean, it's kinda like using the word douche bag when trying to describe a ...well, douche bag. You use that word, and there's NO mistaking how you feel.
And swears aren't all that bad, right? I mean, some are so versatile, they can be nouns, verbs, AND adjectives.
Like "shit."
Noun: "I gotta take a shit" or "I don't give a shit."
Adjective: "I had a shitty day" or "This is a shitty job."
Verb: "Don't bother me while I am shitting."
Now, I don't advocate cussing around young children - after all, cusses should only be used by adults, say perhaps, a right you receive when you register to vote or join the Army.
So, use this Cuss Week as you will - perhaps I will try to curb it, perhaps not.
But it's a interesting thought.
First off, I think its bullshit that it starts on a Tuesday.
Who starts a week on TUESDAY?
If my week has to start on Monday, so does Cuss Week.
Damn.
Second, if the money jar and the Dial soap sandwich my mom fed me as a child didn't work, I can't make any promises about a vague psuedo-holiday of Cuss Week.
I mean, I even try the old standby substitutes - Cheese and Crackers, Freck, Eff, Gosh Darn, Flying Monkeys - you catch my drift.
But lemme tell ya - when you just NEED to get that point across - when you just gotta tell a mother fucker how you feel - nothing really says what on your mind like a good old fashioned
FUCK
You know?
And I right, or am I right?
I mean, it's kinda like using the word douche bag when trying to describe a ...well, douche bag. You use that word, and there's NO mistaking how you feel.
And swears aren't all that bad, right? I mean, some are so versatile, they can be nouns, verbs, AND adjectives.
Like "shit."
Noun: "I gotta take a shit" or "I don't give a shit."
Adjective: "I had a shitty day" or "This is a shitty job."
Verb: "Don't bother me while I am shitting."
Now, I don't advocate cussing around young children - after all, cusses should only be used by adults, say perhaps, a right you receive when you register to vote or join the Army.
So, use this Cuss Week as you will - perhaps I will try to curb it, perhaps not.
But it's a interesting thought.
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