Plugging Away

Accountability.

I can’t escape it.

It’s on blogs. It’s on status updates. It’s all around.

Mostly, I’ve seen it in regards to people’s New Year’s resolutions or the start of many a-training season and race goals. People coming clean about weight/eating issues, people calling themselves out when they half-ass workouts.

So as I embark on my own personal goals post-pregnancy, I have decided to hold my own self accountable - come clean about my own shortcomings or shame-based behaviors.

First, in regards to my fitness. I mentioned that I signed up for a half-marathon in May. Early May. So that means I need to be flushing all my excuses down the shame-toilet and hitting the gym daily. Right now, this does not happen. Why? Because after multiple all-night feedings, my mornings usually consist of handing the offspring to my husband, and either:

A) Going back to bed for a few extra hours or
B) Sitting on the couch, inhaling hot coffee, and staring blankly into the television (which sadly is usually on Kelly Ripa because I am too damn tired to change it after the early morning news ended prior to it) while I wait for said offspring to wake from his all-too-brief nap looking for his milkies.

The day then unfolds with a series of feedings, diaper changes, and quality time. The next thing I know, it’s 10pm, and I’ve managed to make excuses all day to avoid the gym.

I made it to the gym three times last week, and even got in a 3-mile run Sunday (which I then paid for with excrutiating muscle soreness for the next two days, courtosy of my 3-month hiatus from anything more physical than climbing the stairs to my 2-floor apartment, and that didn’t even happen everday. Shit, when I see it on paper, it hits me how lazy I got in those final months, bedrest or not.)

So I went back twice this week, and got in a 60-minute workout both times, which included 30 minutes on the elliptical and a 2-mile run with a warm-up and cool down. And it sucked the whole time. Both times.

No, seriously. Like, I finally felt a warm kinship to the contestants on the Biggest Loser during their first few weeks. Quite a change from where I was 10 months ago, when you would have found me sitting on my couch, calling them cry babies, and screaming at them for not respecting their amazing opportunity.

But I’ll go back. Again. And again. And then at some point, it won’t actually suck. As much.

So accountability goal #1 – post every workout, which includes doing something physical everyday – even if it means walking around the dang block. This way, I am forced to actually leave the house, move my body, and continue getting my fitness back so that I can actually tolerate myself. Oh, and also finish the race.

Next up – weight. Now, while I can’t actually bring myself to post the number of my current – ahem – situation, I will post the amount needed to lose, and the amount lost. So, at my doctor’s appointment Monday, I weighed in at a heafty…number. The number was 27 pounds over my normal weight (3 down from the initial 30, so some early progress?) So once a week, I will check in with my progress and post the amount lost that week – kind of like a poor man’s version of a Weight Watchers meeting. But without Jennifer Hudson singing empowering songs in the background as my own personal soundtrack.

And in order to do this, I will need to post more – even it’s just a numbers update, sans (questionably) witty commentary. Once daily - a workout post. Once weekly - a weight update.

Now that I’ve put that out there, I need to follow through. And this will be hard because I go back to work in a week, so I'll be fullt-ime mom and full-time psychologist again. But I want to do this for at least the next month, because I figure that will be enough time to actually get me back on track to the point I actually like being healthy again. Because right now, the only thing I really like is laying on the couch, streaming movies from Netflix, eating cheese puffs and cake frosting from a plastic jar while hanging with my kid and making funny faces to get him to smile (though not necessarily in that order – but wouldn’t it be shameful if I liked cheese puffs and cake frosting more than my kid? Shit, I’d need more than blog accountability – I’d need an intervention from child protective services. And a nutritionist).

And naturally I can’t end a post without a picture (or ten) of my offspring. Yeah, I’ve become THAT mom.
My husband calls this SuperBaby. That's his cape.

Morning after a long night. In my robe that I almost never take off. It's covered in spit-up but I don't care. Yeah, I've reached that point in new motherhood where I just don't give a shit anymore. Unless there is literally diareha on it (mine or his), I'll wear it as long as it's conducive to warmth and breastfeeding.

Daddy time.

And now, here's the picture I promised in the last post. The first is my son at about three weeks.

And this is me at about six months.

So now that we've clearly confirmed who the mother is, I'll get back to you when we find the dad.

So That's Where They Put the Gym!

Wanted to first say that I appreciate all the well wishes and comments on the previous post. I usually try to respond to all email notifications of the comments, but for some reason when I hit reply lately, it just gives me that generic “no-reply blogger” email address. It only lets me respond to a handful of people, so I apologize if I can’t get to your email. But I really appreciate them.

To that end, there are a couple of things that I wanted to respond to from the comments:

1. In regards to breastfeeding – I too have come to walk around the house in my nursing bra and/or nothing at all – heck, it’s my house, and the nips need a breather, you know? Many a day you might see me lounging on the couch, dark circles under my eyes, baby passed out with the milk-drunks next to me, and a shirt nowhere to be found. Some days, especially the ones when he feeds every hour, it’s simply not worth the effort to keep putting it on and off. The only time this didn’t work was when my in-laws were in town for a week for Christmas. After all, we may be close, but we are not THAT close. The last thing any of us need is for my father-in-law to be making a midnight potty-run and see my big old milkers hanging out in the living room, baby on one end and half-asleep mama on the other.

2. You haven’t lived until you’ve literally sucked the snot out of your child’s nose. With your own mouth, yo.

3. I mentioned this in the previous post, but it’s worth reiterating – doody does fly. And airborne doodys are (ahem) messy. And stain.

4. Been living in my sweats for a while (post-pregnancy gift from my friend A, from Victoria’s Secret, size Large, and oh-so-comfortable). My husband thinks I’ve become one of those women who have just given up. Not true, I say. “Giving up” happens the day I ask for a minivan.

But the wonders of motherhood aside, I’d also like to proudly announce that I did make it to the gym – four weeks and one day since my stomach was cut open and my world changed with my new little man (although coupled with the previous few months of bedrest and inactivity, it’s felt like a year since I broke a sweat not related to my intake of French fries, pie or hot wings). I didn’t get medical clearance yet, but I was getting sick of sitting around complaining about how jiggly and heavy and I was, and needed to do something about it.

Also at the gym, I had the displeasure of stepping on a scale since a week before delivery. The way I figured it, I had gained somewhere around 45 pounds during pregnancy, and estimated that I had about 20 pounds of residual baby weight to lose. Turns out that it’s, uh, slightly more than 20 pounds. I mean, 20 pounds was bad enough, and I felt mentally prepared to deal with the scale’s reality, but nothing prepared me for the number that I actually saw.

So here goes my admission. My ground zero. My starting block. The largest weight hurdle I have ever had to overcome.

I am 30 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight.

To.The.Pound.

And yes, that’s with the baby OUTSIDE my body.

Granted, some of that might have to do with my cartoonishly large bosoms, but seriously – the rest of it is in my belly, ass, and thighs.

Possibly a few pounds in my neck and double chins.

Maybe a few in my elephant-ears upper arms.

Ugh. I’m gross. Just GROSS. I want to barf Pop Tarts just thinking about this mess I call my body.

But instead of crying (I save that for the 3am feedings), I sucked it up, mounted the elliptical, and pressed Start. I made it through 25 minutes, and oddly considered that a victory.

And then after that, I got on the treadmill. Can’t run just yet, but I jacked the incline and walked as long as I could before I could no longer tolerate the moldy stink coming from the man next to me. Which was 20 minutes.

And then I hit some quick weights.

And then my boobs were going to explode and I knew there was a one-month old about a mile away wondering where his lunch was, so I called it a day and headed home.

Overall, I feel good that I did it. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And considering I was ready to make yet another excuse this morning to NOT go, I consider it a win (and I had a REAL good one to skip yet again, be it that the previous night was our most challenging yet, with Baby D having a cold, difficulty breathing, and thus difficulty feeding. Cue a major crying episode – both mama and child – and 5am was a bit of shit show at our house.)

(Side note: I know I am making motherhood sound awful, but the truth is, minus a couple of rough moments, our kid is great. I need to give the little chubby pork chop some credit – he’s in this crazy unfamiliar, loud, and bright world filled with all sorts of confusion, and yet he seems to handle it like a champ. He’s gaining weight, getting long and even gives us a smile here and there. But who wants to hear about all the awesomeness when there are dirty diapers, erratic sleep, crying jags and gassy infants to wail about, right? Right.)

As for the fitness, I don’t have much time to be making any more excuses anyways – I registered for the Wisconsin half-marathon – to continue my streak of running that race every year – and it’s a mere five months away. I don’t anticipate a PR (which I had two years ago there), but I know I can finish if I get my training in order.

Plus, my ass needs a healthier goal than “how many times can you eat at Five Guys in six months time?” Shit, I PR'd that bitch back in pregnancy month 6.

And here' is what I have to show for that nutritional acheivement:






How I spent my New Years Eve.

First bath - success!



Tryin' to be all fancy and stuff. At least he knew to color-coordinate his outfit to with his soothie. He's smooth like that. And not at all like his hygeine-and-fashion-challenged mother.

Well, I think we know who he got his forehead from.



One month old in this picture. My son and his baby Buddha belly. This kid barely misses a meal, lemme tell ya.

Almost outgrown his bassinet in just four weeks. He'll be stepping it up to the crib soon!

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.

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

Sweet Baby Jesus in a Manger.

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

Did you all know about this place?

Any of you?

And you never told me?

And you call yourselves my friends?

Dreadful.

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

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

Decision made. Off we went.

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


Our new addition


So back to the Sweet Tomatoes….

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

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

...wait for it….

FREE ICE CREAM.

*deep breathes deep breathes*

Now THIS is intense.

How so?

Cheese pointed out that I actually out-ate him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Bastards.

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

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

Busted.

Moral of the story? Marriage is good.

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

Survivor

Watched "Survivor" with the hubs tonight.

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

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

But the biggest observation I walked away with?

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

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

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

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

“But they make for such passionate lovers.”

Like peas in a pod, we are.

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


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

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

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

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

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

Anyslowass, I had the weirdest experience.

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

But mentally, I was a sick, hot mess.

I mean, talk about Bad Attitude Sally.

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

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

But EVERY.SINGLE.BUMP, I tell you.

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

Like the true period-pending lunatic I am.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And socks.

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

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

My money’s on Kansas 70.3.

‘Cause I’m a crowd pleaser.

Reset

As noted in the previous post, I decided to make a list of resolutions.

Oh I know – you are probably saying, “I NEVER make resolutions. They’re so silly!”

Well, true - and honestly I have never been one to make them, either.

But like I said in a previous post, I like the idea of a “Reset” button.

See, my list is comprised of things that I already do, I just want to do BETTER.

And frankly, I need goals.

So with that said, here they are – my life but BETTER.

My Resolutions:

1. Tell it like it is.
Fuck it. I am so sick of sugar-coating people’s self-denials and excuses. I am no longer supporting their delusions. Have a long history of not ever following through on ANYTHING, but rather digging in your bag of excuses to soften the blow of your failure? Don’t come see me, because I will call you out like a nun in Catholic school. It’s not a complete erasing of my empathy, but rather this new behavioral change will be reserved for those among us who are chronic bullshitters. I mean, someone has to say it, and I suspect the rest of the people in your life aren’t, or we wouldn’t be in the position, now would we?


2. Train better.
Speaking of being called out on denials – I’m calling myself out on this one. Yeah, I work out regularly. But I need to concentrate on doing more than just lollygagging for an hour on the bike in front of my tv. If there’s no sweat, it never happened.

Towards that end, I have become quite a fan of hill interverals on the treadmill and will start speed intervals as well. I figure since I am not doing a ton of distance stuff this season (and by distance stuff I mean full Ironman), I might as well try to quicken myself up and perhaps lose a pound or two in the process.

And like I mentioned, fear IS my greatest motivation. Sure, there’s fear of having a shitty race season or never getting better/faster/stronger – watching your race results stagnant while all your peers fly by with their Kona-bound dreams. But more importantly, there’s fear of looking like John Goodman’s more attractive-yet-just-as-fat-twin in my race photos. If I have to look at another picture of myself in my tri-suit looking like something processed in the Oscar Meyer factory, or glimpse my ass in a three-way mirror looking like I was beat with a bag of nickels, I will scream.

No mas, mi amigos. No mas.

It’s a new day.


3. Eat Better.
This anti-denial thing is becoming a theme, isn’t it?

This resolution should really read: eat less candy and cupcakes, you fatass. See, turns out that I actually eat pretty well – veggies, lean meats, fruits by the truckload.

But my reality is that these are usually sandwiched between peanut MnM’s, Spice Gum Drops, and brownies. And this has GOT to change.

I mean, there is no point working my ass off at the gym, then turning around and mowing a box of Mike n Ikes, right? What a waste. So I try to ask myself as I go for another cookie: “How many miles is this going to cost you?” Sometimes it helps, and sometimes the licorice bits win out. But sometimes is better than no times, right? And me being a lazy person, I don’t want to run any more miles than necessary, you know?

So my goal here is this – set aside crap-food craving until Sunday. If I want to still rot my face out with a super-size box of Dots, then I can have at it. But my hope is that I won’t, or that I will get to Sunday, and only be able to eat a few.

Mmmmm…Dots……


4. Be a Better Person
Okay, let me explain this. If left to myself, I would sit in my house all day, get my work done, and then just read, read, read. It’s the hermit-tendencies in me, I admit. And I think my mom would tell you that I have always been that way – I like to be by myself.

But it doesn’t work really well when you have family, friends, and a husband all demanding attention.

So rather than give in to my own self desires of solitary confinement (I love you Andy Dufraine), I will make a better effort at getting out, participating in life, and sharing my time with others. You know - get busy living (there you are again, Andy!)

And like it.

That said, under this resolution is the promise to give back – Cheese and I have talked about this a bit already. See, in high school, I was all about community service – perhaps it was Jesuit upbringing – but I did just about everything, including a out-of-state trip to rural Kentucky to build houses.

But as an adult, like a lot of stuff, community service just fell by the wayside – what with my busy schedule of Facebook stalking, Biggest Loser-watching, movie attending, and general life observing/bitching.

Now granted, I give a lot of money (“a lot” being relative to my income and the Joe Biden) to various causes and charities. But I have been a bit more selfish with my time, and that’s not cool.

So in becoming a better person, I will actively give back my time to a valuable cause. It’s about darn time.


5. Be a more patient person.
Wow, did this little flaw bubble to the surface this year. Now, to be fair, most people say that they don’t see this side of me, but I know it’s there and it bothers me. See, I always sort of border on the fence between “good psychologist” and “bat-shit-rip-your-head-off-type-crazy” on any given day. But I really noticed I has taken a sharp dive to the latter side of the yard this year, particularly as work started to pile up. The more cases we got, the more cases I began to take on, and the more families I had to see face-to-face.

And let me tell you – nothing boils my blood more than a selfish, dysfunctional parent who justifies child abuse by their own hands, or exposing their child to daily domestic violence because they don’t think the kids actually sees it.

Some days, it’s all I can do not to haul off and punch these people in their smug-ass faces. I know - not good for a psychologist to say. But it’s one thing to neutrally assess, analyze and treat this dysfunction (which I do very well, thankyouverymuch), and a whole ‘nother to be a human being with feelings and empathy for the kids.

So my vow is to really try to improve this patience thing by any means possible. I have no plan, and might just have to wing it.

I know – good luck, right?

So that about sums up my personal goals for this year. Basic, and nothing to obscenely hard, like climb Mt. Everest – which, BTW, I would NEVER do because I effing hate this cold weather.

And “try new things” didn’t make the list this year anyways.

But perhaps, if reminded, I will do a mid-year check to see my progress.

Here’s to hoping there is some.

Bracing for Steelhead 70.3

(devin sent this to me yesterday - taken on the 4th of july, in case people forgot what I looked like, what with my shameful lack of posting)

So the day of reckoning has arrived.

It’s my first (and only) tri of the season.

Steelhead 70.3.

I know - crazy right? I can't even remember if I have mentioned once that I was racing this season.

Yeah, that should suffice as the foreshadowing on what is to come.

To say that I feel grossly undertrained would be way too obvious.

I mean, I guess when you are standing on front of your mirror the night before you leave, trying to find some fit-approriate race clothes because nothing you have fits after having not raced in a year, you should probably re-evaluate your (lack of) race strategy.

As in, re-evaluate and shut it down.

But no, true gluttons for punishment would NEVER be so impulsive.

No - what we do instead is make a last-minute run to the tri-store for a wet bra, say a small prayer to the Love-Handle Gods in the hopes they make nice with your (possibly too tight) tri shorts, and get to packin’.

Oh yeah, lest I forget to mention that I also received my "lady friend" last night, complete with vomit-inducing cramps, bloat, and back pain.

Seriously - EVERY.SINGLE.RACE. for the last 18 months (including last year's Ironman, and all the 1/2 marathons this year) have started with this mess.

So again, my perpetual question to the Injustices of the World: Why do you have to make being a lady SUCK ASS? And can't you just let me have a race without worrying baout my uterus dropping out in T1?

Geesh.

Oh, and have I mentioned that the water is about as cold as it was last year, when I pulled out the STELLAR performance at Racine?

Ahh, let’s re-live that awesome weekend, shall we?

*folds hands under chin and looks longingly in the distance*

Oh, wait. That’s right.

I DNF’d.

And this would be my first tri since that time.

So given my ill-preparation, my ugly outfit (‘cause it’s all about looking cute, no?), mensus (what an awesome word), and my recent history of pussing out in the cold water, I would say that I am a wee bit (read: pants-crapping) nervous.

So nervous that I started binge eating JuJu Bees and have commenced nervous-stomach diarrhea.

(Dear Clyde, who will be housing me tonight – Don’t worry. It should clear up by the time I drive up later. I think. I hope. Ah hell, just get the plastic mattress pad ready just in case.)

So in just a bit, I will be off – heading up to pick up the packet, check in the bike (which, up until my birthday, was held together with duct tape – looks like it’s not just my ass width that I've let slide a bit...) and try to hunker down with all my positive thoughts to get me through the swim.

See you all on the other side!

(p.s. – on a total random side note, did you know that July is National Ice Cream Month? I sure didn’t, and I sure as hell have some celebrating to make up - Why do I find these things out on the 31st?!?!?!?!? What are the odds that August is National Brownie Month?)

Three for the Weekend

1. Phil Leggitt used the term “pocket rocket” to describe today’s Tour de France stage winner.

No comment *she writes with a smirk on her face*


2.Soooo…..yeaaaaahhhh.

Turns out that this week’s Life Lesson #399 was “Don’t start personal training the week before your ½ Ironman.”

Seriously, I need to start writing a book of these tips.

Because, really – am I the only idiot out there making these mistakes?

And yes, this was a big mistake.

A Big, Fat, Hurting, 2-Day Crippling, How-It-Possible-I-Am-Such-A-Jello-Puss?-type mistake.

Sort of puts a cramp in the “taper” when you can’t get out of bed.

And turns out, eating the fridge doesn’t speed up the healing process either.

Guess that would be #400.

Damn.



3. Did you know that people send you presents even if they aren’t coming to the wedding?

I mean - shoo.

No wonder every.single.sales.lady gave me the stink-eye and nasty comment about the “only ten items?” of my registry, even when I tried to explain that my shower would only be eight people.

No matter – I still can’t bring myself to ask for all sorts of shit we either already have or simply don’t need.

I mean, how many spatulas does one couple need?

Answer: Less than we now have.

My Brother Will Be Interested in This

Apparently, our pal, Dane, from the BL marathon fiasco, will be trying his running legs again at the Nashville marathon in April.

You know who else is running that race?

Yup - it's me!

Well, I will actually be running the half marathon.

But hey - if you ask the BL -it's all the same, right?

I guess you can sign up on the marathon site to "Run with Dane."

Even though I am already signed up for the half, I thought, "Huh, that would be interesting...think of all the scoop I could get out of him!"

But then I remembered - the marathons I run are 26.2 miles.

Yeah, I said it.

For the Heck of It

Today, I really really missed Ironman.

It was one of those days where I was just consumed with the memories of last year.

And it hit me that I am one month short of the year anniversary.

It was right around this time (last year) that I was doing my five and six-hour trainer rides, buying obscene amounts of Clif Shots and Balance bars, and doing laundry three times a week just for the gym clothes.

My body was ripped, my jeans were loose, and I felt like an effing machine, even if just in my own mind. I was strong and I was proud - I felt like the baddest bitch on the planet. Literally.

Aaaaaand here we are a year later.

Take all of what I just said above, and think the exact opposite – and that is where I am right now.

I think it's mostly becuase right now, I’m not really training for anything, so I don't have a ton of focus. I have a couple running races coming up, but probably don’t need to really start training for Steelhead (august) for a bit yet.

And you can tell I am a little bored and/or looking for a goal, the way I handled the no-winner-just-for-fun YMCA triathlon.

Like a damn lunatic.

So for shits and giggles, I did a long brick today.

Why?

Because that’s what Sundays are for – the long brick.

And really, because I just like the satisfaction of the long brick.

No – correction – I LOVE the satisfaction of a long brick.

I love spending my Sunday mornings in my own sweat, breaking through moments of self-doubt, and then finally standing in the shower for 20 burning minutes.

I love waking up sore.

And plus, it’s really shaming to read all those Facebook status updates of everybody doing all the bike/swim/run tests, or day-long bricks while I sits and eat four bowls of cereal. And read Facebook.

But I am not complaining about the lack of Ironman in my life this year – I am really fortunate to be able to do even just my one race- Steelhead - and to still have a job that affords me the ability to do this as a pastime.

I am not complaining.

But I just miss it.

A lot.

Lazyman

We all know I love a good challenge, yeah?

So, in an effort to give my Cookie Monster ass a reason to get to the gym (and do something OTHER THAN feed my Spinning addiction), I (and Cheese) signed up for the Lazyman Triathlon at our YMCA.

Basically, you have to complete an Ironman distance over the course of a month.

It works off the honor system - You have a large index card hanging on the wall, and you just tick off the distances as you complete them. No one tracks you but your honesty and the Big Man upstairs.

I am sure it is of no surprise that, given my love of all things bike, my bike distance is almost complete after four days.

My swim and run, though? Not so much.

However, I am proud to say that I kissed and made up with the pool this morning after giving it the cold shoulder for about three months. And in return, it let me pound out a mile to add to my card.

The runs are just going to have to tick off a little more slowly.

Nonetheless, I intend on completing the total distance by Tuesday of next week, exactly one week after I started.

I should also mention that this is a no-competition race. Meaning, we all get tee-shirts, and no one actually wins.

But I think we all know, by this point, that the phrase “no competition” exists nowhere in Megan World.

There’s always a competitor, even if it’s the cruel little man that runs the gears in my head, taunting me with cake and telling me it's okay to sleep in.

Moreover, I do not understand the concept of a “no-win” race.

I mean, someone has to finish first, right? Hence, there's a winner.

So hell yeah, you know my ass is up in the gym, ticking off my miles on my card while eyeballing everyone else’s mileage – scheming double workouts and calculating finishes….

“Hmm, Mary Ann Giles is half-mile ahead of me on the swim, but she’s only done 25 bike miles.”

“Stacey Mathers has six miles of the run on me, but not a single swim.”

“Carol Smith is racking up those bike miles, AND she’s ahead on the runs! Grrrrr!”

You bet your sweet asses that I counted on my fingers the mileage I had left and when to do it - wondering if I could pull off a double swim today to get that .4 mile in, and finishing up with the last mile on Sunday.

Yeah, I AM that crazy lady that every gym has - the one that always seems to be there, day in and out - evern at the oddest of hours, like 1pm on a Wednesday.

That’s me.

Loud and proud.

I'll let you know when I claim the prize.

A Concerned Member

Since a good part of my world for the last few days has been centered around poops - the whens, how often, how much - I am going to take a break from all things bowels for a moment and get to the important stuff.

Specifically, like how peoples are effing up my workouts.

To address this issue, I have constructed a friendly letter to my local YMCA.

Dear YMCA-

As a long-time member and someone who pretty much overnights in the corners of the cardio room, I have a little bone to pick.

See, since I frequent your facility for most of my fitness needs - at least twice daily, five days a week - I believe myself to be a committed member of this wild and crazy thing we call Health and Fitness. I go to several Spin classes, run the treadmill, spend time on the elliptical, etc. Needless to say, I spend a great deal of my life within your walls.

Thus, you can imagine my irritability when I show up for my Monday Spin class, only to find it FILLED.


Augh!

BUT - After accepting this situation, I decided to run the treadmill (given the seven inches of snow we got this weekend) and imagine my surprise when, at 930am on a Monday, the entirecardio room – treadmills and ellipticals alike – are filled.

I don’t think it takes a genius to know that this atrocity of a morning is the result of one thing, and one thing only – New Year’s Resolutions.

Now listen – I absolutely applaud fitness, and those striving to achieve it. I applaud people wanting to turn their health around, work up a sweat, knock off some of the pounds. Completely and totally support this.


But does EVERYONE have to do it in the month of January? I mean, really.

I honestly believe that people who show themselves to be a committed member of the cause, who show up – day after day, month after month – should get preferential treatment to the classes and facility. I mean, we have established a routine. We have proven ourselves to the long-term, and not just out of a guilt-ridden four-week binge eating marathon.

Yeah, yeah, we all pay the same dues – whatever. It’s just not fair.

It’s the gym equivalent of the high school slacker who never attended a class all semester, but shows up late for the final exam, makes a crapload of noise finding his seat, and disrupts all the good students who spent the last few weeks pulling all-nighters and giving themselves ulcers from coffee and stress. In the end, the slacker’s just going to fall asleep on his desk and get an F anyways, thus prompting his re-enrollment in the same class, only to inevitably engage in the same exact behavior at the end of the next semester.

Of course, I realize preferential treatment will never happen, as we as a society are not really in the business of rewarding those who actually demonstrate commitment and work-ethic, but rather cater to those who half-ass shit and then expect gimme’s, so I suppose I will have to resign myself to waiting out these people who will ultimately detour from the Road to Health.

So be it.

But know that, no matter what the date, what the month, what the season – I will always show up. And at least to me, that counts for something.

Sincerely,
M

Anyone else with this problemo?

P.S. BL tonight.

Home and Away

I made it home from Kansas late Saturday night, and will be leaving for Houston in just a few hours to be with the Man for New Years.

I know my posting has been woeful as of late, and I am barely scratching the surface of reading what's up in the lives of my fellow bloggers (what with all my jet setting and renewed addiction to spin class and cookie binges - the last two being closely related), but hopefully once I return on Thursday, life may start to return to normal.

Whatever that is, anyway.

Have a great new years, and see you on the other side!

I Am Starting To Realize I Complain Whole Bunches

So Is That Good?
Have you ever had a workout so hard that you actually felt you might throw up, even like, five hours later?

YEAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

Love.Them.

Not the throw up.

The good workouts.

Nevermind.


There’s Always One Idiot
And in your “WTF” news installment for the day, Drew Peterson is engaged.

Oh yeah - that would be the same guy who is suspect of killing his old lady.

And by old lady, I mean young, 23-year old fourth wife.

Oh, and his third wife too.

So who's the new lucky lady?

Another 23-year-old.

Who he has dated for 4 months.

And for as big an ass as Mr. Peterson is, I have to wonder about the lady-child who dates and accepts a marriage proposal from the man suspected of killing his last two wives.

Oh yeah – she’s got a 5-year-old by another man.

I mean, it’s one thing to test the Fate Gods by naked humping a suspected killer, and frankly put your own life on the line – but introduce your kid to this guy??!!!

Not to be a bitch, but is her head up her ass?

Like, really.

(Okay, I know, I know – guilty until proven innocent….riiiiight. I think the only one sticking by this possibility is The Fire, and that's only because he likes playing Devil's Advocate, and quite literally in this case. Sorry, Fire, but it's true. Don't run from it.)

I bet if Ms. Soon-To-Be-At-The-Bottom-of-the-Cal-Sag was interviewed, no doubt she’d give these genius statements like Drew Peterson “is misunderstood…unfairly judged...a really nice sensitive guy…innocent.”

My gosh – I mean, part of me wants to feel bad for her, but then again – WHY?

She’s a grown-ass woman making a very poor decision - and with a KID.

So to Victim #5, I say, “Good luck with that.”


Kill Me Now
World’s worst feeling?

Setting up your morning coffee – the night before – and realizing there’s none left.

That the only thing in the fridge is the Dunkin Donuts DECAF you bought for your caffeine-challenged, borderline elderly mother.

Now how on earth can I be expected to move a bowel off of decaf?!?!?!

Forget even shooting a neuron or two.

And no morning coffee run with the snow storm heading our way in oh…right about now.

Hang on to your sports bras ladies, this could get ugly…


“It's Britney, Bitch”
Listen, I'm all for a "comeback," but is it me, or do all of Britney Spears’s new songs sounds like they are all sung by “Wall-E?”

Hey, don't get me wrong - I still pump out a good car-dance/head bop to "Circus."

Sure, it's no "Slave 4 U," but it'll do.

But could she at least try to sing, and not be the vocal equivilant of the guy from South Park who speaks with a voice box?

The Ramblings Continue

An Open Letter to a Friend:

Hey Jenny Aniston –

Let it go.

No, seriously.

Brad left, like, 20 Botox sessions ago.

Two years ago would have been a good time to stop talking about it.

Sour grapes makes for bad Whine.

I don't care how much Oprah prods or what movie you need to promote - have some self respect and lock it up.

Besides, good old Brad's saddled with a broad who's bat-shit crazy and six kids – who lost that bet, yeah?

So snap it up, and move on.

Love,
Me


Injustice and Principle
Why are all the things I hate good for me?

1. Swimming
2. Cauliflower
3. Pap smears

Right now, I am mostly concerned with #1. I think we are all aware of my disdain for that particular discipline. But lately, I am coming to terms with the fact that, no matter how much I bike or run, it will never give me the overall tone that swimming does.

And though I am working out almost every day of the week at this point, I continue to gain weight and loss muscle mass. My diet has even improved, though it was never all that bad to begin with. I truly do not understand it. It is BEYOND frustrating at this point, so much so that I am convinced I need to see doctor because something in me in malfunctioning. My final straw was the newly formed dimple at the top of my back left thigh. Like, not on my ass (though they exist there too) but on the thigh part.

When I saw it, it was all I could do to bite back the tears. Call me shallow – whatever – but I truly believe that if I am going to break a sweat working out everyday, I DESERVE not to have dimpled thighs.

And just to beat this pity party to death, I was in the 7-Eleven getting coffee this morning before my appointment, and all these people were buying up crap foods that I would NEVER think about eating – like frosted honey buns – and I thought, “Now how can you eat that stuff and not gain weight, but simply standing two feet from it just added another chin and three dimples to my ass?”

I wanted to choke some innocent people out…and all for a pastry.

Good thing that appointment I was heading to was therapy….


All Night Long
Recently, I have struggled with a nagging bout of insomnia. It’s like I lay my head down at the appropriate hour, but three hours later, there I am tossing and turning.

Like right now.

Its 2am.

The worst part is that I will eventually feel sleepy at 3am, which is way too late to wake up at a respectable time, but also not late enough to just stay awake and get up for the morning swim at 5.

I have toyed with the idea of raiding my medicine cabinet and tossing back a few painkillers left over from the kidney surgery, but I can’t bring myself to take them.

So awake it is.

This Is What It Looks Like When Your Life Is Boring

Don't have a lot to say, except this:

1. My hands smell like maple syrup, but I didn’t eat any pancakes today. Hmmm…but me likey.

2. Since I didn’t mention it, it was probably assumed that Megathon was put on hold. True, it did not happen this weekend. With vacation, and then being consumed by work, I didn’t have time to make my medal (but alas! It will be made this week!). Also, and more importantly, I was a wee bit delinquent on my runs while on vacation (what with all the potential muggings by naked people, I simply couldn’t take that risk – I mean, the last thing I needed was to be just running along, and get bopped over the head by a rogue boobie). So Megathon will be in full effect on Sunday. More info coming soon….(and yes, Captain Cactus, I am holding you to your promise of running the half, my friend of the north)

3. I don’t know what it looks like where you live, but gas here is 3.08, and to us Chicagoans, that’s just as good as FREE at this point. Good thing too, because the gas hike was really cramping all the drive-bys, cruisings, and joy riding that I was so fond of doing. Guess I can put those Vespa plans on hold. Let’s start wasting some gas, people!

4. On tonight’s news, I saw that today in Chicago, people dressed their pets in costumes and had a parade. See! I didn’t even have to stay in Key West to see dogs in a parade! (ba dum bum!)

5. My man’s gone back on the road until mid-November, and you know what that means, right? Yeah, me neither. But it is awfully quiet here, and I have finally managed to air the fart stink out of the couch and bed sheets. Wish.I.Was.Kidding.

6. Why do people who have plastic surgery think that no one can tell? I have that show, "Dr. 90210" on in the background while I work right now, and this really young girl with HUGE new boobs, was all like, "I think it looks really natural, like, if you didn't know me before, you would never know I had a boob job."

Uuuhh...

Yeah.

Yeah, we would.

Because if your a natural girl and have boobs the size of a small child swinging from your chest, those things are going to hang LOW. And they bounce when you run, too.

Fake boobs?

Not so much.

Or at least hers didn't when she was running around the pool.

Man, boobs have been making quite an appearance on this blog lately, yeah?

Okay, for the next few days we are going boob-free.

That's that. Back to work.

Life as Usual

First things first
Thanks for being patient with this whole transition. I myself find it to be a massive ass cramp to have to sign in every.single.time, so I appreciate those who make that effort.

That said, I had a chuckle over all the comments about it being a super secret club – I made a comment to Flatman about how people would think this was a lot less cool if they knew that the girl on the other side of the screen was:

A) A virtual shut-in who found it too time-consuming to change her clothes on a daily basis and often even slept in them for that matter
B) May go all day without brushing her teeth, and
C) Has taken to eating her dinner of cereal out of a measuring bowl because she can’t be bothered to actually look through the three cabinets to figure out where she unpacked the real bowls.

A month and a half ago.

Yup – I certainly am a prize.

(and I will have you know that I almost hit “publish” before I noticed I wrote bowels instead of bowls. So I guess I have that going for myself – I don’t eat my cereal out of bowels).


Second things second
What with all the excitement of private bloggers and criminals, I really haven’t said much about the fact that I have:

A.) Gained three more pounds, now upping the total to 13 for my post-IM physique;

B.) Cheese comes home today.

And you know what call the day of his return?

PM Day.

As in, Personal Maintenance.

Although it really should named “Gosh Damn that Wax Sure is Hot and Can You Please Not Wax the Actual Skin Off My Lip This Time Because It Makes Me Look Like I Have Herpes” Day, but that’s such a mouthful, yeah?

With Cheese gone all the time, there’s a lot of room to get really lazy about personal upkeep. I mean seriously – if I tweeze my eyebrows , wack down my leg hair and wax my lip hair ONCE once during his absence, I call it a victory for personal hygeine. ‘Cause whose looking? Really?

The only regular appointment I keep is with the bikini waxer – Cheese home or not – mostly because I still swim and frankly, like Samantha said on Sex In The City – “I could be on Death Row and still not have that situation.”

Oh, and while I am the topic of lady bits – I was at the Y last week, and on my way to the pool, through the showers, there was a lady shaving her lady bits. IN THE PUBLIC SHOWER. Not even, like, in a stall – like in the open shower area, where you just have the spouts.

Now, call me prude, but this seemed a bit…unsanitary? I don’t even know if that’s the right word. I mean, I personally don’t care about the shaving part (like I said, I’m a waxer – to each his own – and besides, I’d rather you clean it up because you can’t BELIEVE how uncomfortable it is to be swimming next to some with….”the situation.” I mean, how do you NOT look, yeah?)

And yeah. I stared.

Shame's just a four-letter word. And I ain't got none.

But to be taking care of such private business in such a public place seemed off. But again, maybe I am old fashioned.

Well, old fashioned in the sense that it’s apparently okay to talk about lady bits on a blog, just not shave them in public. See the difference? Yeah, me neither.


Third things is last
The weight thing is a surprise I must say – seeing how I have been such Spinnervals whore these last few weeks. And speaking of whore, is it me or are Spinnervals like cycling porn?

Lemme break this down:
1. You got all the weird awkward camera angles – on the ground looking up, head-on, from behind, and frankly, the lighting does no one any favors.

2. You go the cyclists themselves – trying to out perform the guy next to them, trying not to look directly at the camera and the creepiness when they do – it’s a reminder that it’s actually a job, and hey, maybe they aren’t really enjoying this.

3. The music – are you kidding me with this? Real porn might actually have a leg up on this one.

4. The in-between set interviews and story lines are about as realistic and well-scripted as the “plumber coming to fix the pipes.”

Hmm.

Looking over this post I gotta say – lady bits and porn?

No wonder you need to sign in now.

All in My Head

So after a long week of being sick, capped with an AWESOME day of private practice (that left my still-recovering ass crawling into bed at 730pm last night - I even missed Girls Night for fear that my sleepy crabass might bring down the overall festive mood of the other ladies), I was awoken by yet another dying battery in the second fire alarm, chriping itself to my attenion at 430am.

Fingers crossed I don't mistakenly leave the coffee pot on, or this apartment is going DOWN.

Anyway.

I figured - hey, as long as I was up, I made myself some coffee, laid back in bed for while, and then decided - maybe I should go for a run.

Once I got out there, under the overcast skies, I thought, "Hey this doesn't feel as bad as Friday." So I kept going...

Right past the six mile turn around, then the seven, then the eight - and finally, at the ten mile turnaround (meaning, I ran ten miles, now had to make it ten back - yikes) I figured I'd bring it in and head home.

Good choice, 'cause shit started to hurt around 14, and by 18, I was just in that head-down-get-me-the-hell-to-the-car mode.

All told, I did 20 in 3:26. And while I was pretty stiff after, it was nothing that a good tube roll and some ice couldn't cure.

So this brings me to the crossroads I was at last week - Chicago or Indy marathon.

And my decision is....neither.

I am not running Chicago because, well, I am not. It wasn't my race to run this year.

And I am not running Indy because I will be laying on a beach in the Florida Keys that weekend.

I also considered the ultra for the first weekend of November, but the thought of doing anoth ten-mile loop today was - ugh.

So I am going to do the first annual Megan's Made-Up Marathon. It will likely take place the weekend following Florida, and will occur along the lakefront. My sister Devin is going to be the spectator, and I am going to try to rope my mom and Ellen into maybe bring the Mayor down to watch (I may even push him in his runing stollar for part of it!)

The details are sketchy right now, but I should have them worked out by the end of the week.

If you live in or around Chicago and want to do it with me, or run at least part of it - PLEASE DO!!!! I probably won't have any cool bling to give out afterwards and the aid stations will shame even the '07 Chicago marathon,, but you just may finally get that age-group win you've been looking for! There's no stupid high entry fee (okay, there's no fee at all), and I won't even disqualify you if you wear your iPod, like some other races!

WEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Man, I would sooo treat myself to some fatty ice cream now from the ice cream shop now.

But...sigh.

I would have to put pants on.

Update:
The National Pie Championship is on tv right now.
Fierce.
But delightfully delicious.
BEST.SUNDAY.EVA.

Running in Circles

Well, my eating habits haven’t exactly rectified themselves (see Sunday dinner: canned tuna + black beans+ bbq sauce= 5 minutes of choking down something that smells like it was left in the toilet by Cheese the last time he was here two weeks ago). Last night it was Lime Tostidos and some canned soup.

Mmmmm, Lime Tostidos…..

But at least today I have an excuse – I believe myself to be getting the flu.

I woke up this morning with another migraine (this time not Turkey Jerky induced), and what felt like a midget in Lucite platforms standing on my chest (this not be confused with the morning I work up with an ACTUAL midget on my chest, but that’s another post entirely). My red scratchy throat was a throwback to college keg-and-pack-a-night hangover.

And of course, I thought it IMPERATIVE to get a run in.

Now, to my credit, it was supposed to be 20 miler. What it ended up being was 12, and I was damn happy with that.

Of course, I have a little room to be playing with my mileage, what with all the “what marathon will I actually be doing?” hubbub going on.

Readers Digest version: I was supposed to do Indy on the 18th, (I didn’t sign up for Chicago this year because Cheese was going to be doing it for the first time, and I was leading Curb Crew) but then Cheese got a vacation to Florida the weekend of Indy, so I canceled Indy, but then Hurricane Ike took that vacation away and it was back to Indy for me – but THEN Cheese ended up not being able to run Chicago on the 12th, and I was going to take his bib (because I LOVE running Chicago and if he was going to try it again next year, that would be two years in a row I couldn’t do it), but then that idea got sidelined as well because his family is still coming to town that weekend.

Phew!

Follow?

Guess that wasn’t so abbreviated.

Bottom line - it was either going to be Chicago on the 12th or Indy on the 18th. Now I am not sure. But it looks like Indy again.

Maybe.

But I do HEART Chicago.

I figured as long as I can run a 20-miler at some point in the next week, I should be good-to-go for either of them.

I feel like I have a lot more randomness in me - like the fact that I re-discovered the Bravo network and am now embarressingly addicted to the "Rachel Zoe Project" - but I am going to finish writing my dumb report, making fun of the Emmy’s and go to bed hopefully early.

And speaking of Emmy’s - were you one of the three people that watched it?

A) Compeltely ridiculous and time-waster, but more importantly-

B) When the ladies of Desperate Housewives presented? Holy Botox Batman! Talk about frozen in time – Marcia Cross’s lips barely moved, and Terri Hatcher could have been dead by the looks of her face, but she managed to walk out on stage by herself, so you figure it out.

C) Is Josh Groben's career going that badly that he subjected himself to the showtunes performance? That was one of those moments where you actually squirm in the Lazy Boy and eventually hit the mute button because you feel soooo uncomfortable for him.

D) And lastly, but most repulsively -why did Tom Hanks wear that wig? Gosh. I know there is a joke somewhere there, but right now fever just burned it out of my head.

Strip Clubs

Yes, that is what this post is about.

Here’s the thing – I just don’t get them.

Now, I am not the type girlfriend that would tell my BF not to go. Yes, we’ve had the conversation, what with the Vegas bachelor parties looming in the near future. And yes, I would rather eat a poop-and-mayo sandwich then think about some naked lady rubbing her ta-tas in my BFs face. But hey – he’s not getting a handy from them under the cocktail table, so what can I say?

All I am saying is that I simply don’t understand the point of them.

See, with porn, we all know there is a purpose and end goal there. Naked ladies + sex = well, you know.

But with strip clubs, you see the naked ladies, but there is no sex, and certainly no “pay off,” so to speak.

I mean, you can’t even touch them.

And according to Cheese, seeing the naked ladies is not even arousing or erotic. They are simply, well, naked ladies. Some giving you drinks, some giving you lap dances.

So what’s the point?

I am honest-to-god asking this question.

No judgment, just trying to understand. Like I said, I am not giving my BF limits on going or not going – I just want to know the allure of it.

Moreover, whenever I see depictions of strip clubs on the tv (as I have never actually been to one), all I see is the adult version of little girls who have been sexually abused at some point in their life. And holy crap is that sad enough to make me cry in my Raisen Bran.

How do guys not see that?

So guys – help me out. Comment anonymously if you need to. And ladies – any of you been to one? Why? What was that like?


Blast the Fat
On a completely unrelated note, The Biggest Loser is on tonight!!

And to celebrate, I let Troy kick my ass on the bike again today. Sure, it was a little better than yesterday’s beating, but my gosh. I was one ladder set away from shoving his little stopwatch up his screaming pie hole.

I think to change it up, I am going to do this DVD (“No Slackers Allowed,” for Anonymous who asked) twice a week, and then on Friday I will treat myself to the other one, “Suffer-rama”.

Uh yeah – I just re-read the sentence and realized I was considering a 45-minute workout called Suffer-rama a “treat.”

I also have a three-hour number, “Tough Love,” but I can’t imagine I’ll be doing that one anytime soon.

Who thinks of these names, for gosh sake?

Frankly, I am a little scared of Tough Love - I never tried it before, and if Troy can mutilate me in 45 minutes, I can't imagine what disaster three hours at his mercy would bring.

Now, Anonymous suggested “Mental Toughness,” which made me wonder what other people are using. Does anyone else do Spinnervals? There’s like 100 of them, and I want to know which ones are good.

And with that, folks, I am off to babysit for the Mayor. YAY!!!!