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.

Kicking off Race Season - Wisconsin 1/2 Marathon

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

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

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

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

Sub 2, baby.

*golf claps*

So yeah, its kinda one of my favs.

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

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

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

Picture the scene:

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

My bowels - Moving.

Huh. Weird.

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

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

Mr. Turtle, just peeking his head.

And Neck.

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

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

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

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

BATHROOM!

NO!! THERE’S A LINE!!!

*FOOT TAP FOOT TAP FOOT TAP*

FINALLY!!!

COME ON POOP – HURRY UP!! STOP HANGING AND JUST FALL IN ALREADY!!!

PHEW!

NO TOLIET PAPER?!?!?!

WELL, LET’S HOPE IT WAS A CLEAN BREAK!

PANTS UP AND WE’RE OFF!

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

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

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

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

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

But the clock told a different story.

I fell short of new PR.

By seconds.

Ten seconds to be exact.

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

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

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

And I am.

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

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

And you never resort to excuses.

Not even excuses of the brown 2-minute variety.

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

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

Potential to actually be faster - not just envy it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Studio

And now, for your listening pleasure - sit back, relax, and enjoy the sweet, sweet musical stylings of my nephew, Nolan.



A true artist would never let a little boogie get in the way of his mad jam session.

However, the cup of Goldfish crackers he forgot about yesterday but just saw out of the corner of his eye towards the end there completely merits distraction.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, those crazy sick beatz are none other than the timeless classic, "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus.

All together now:

"Nodding my head like yeah/ Moving my hips like yeah"

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:

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….

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.

Feel Good Moment

So it's hardly a secret that I have never really considered myself good looking. "Cute" would never be a word I would ever use to describe myself. I think that that my general features, coupled with increasing age and my daily attempts at athleticism, never really leave me feeling all that good about myself. Let's face - I have a really poor opinion of myself when it comes to how I look.

These last few weeks have been particularly hard, though. I guess I was just feeling kind of shitty all around ("bluesy," as I now describe), and then I saw some pictures of myself from my recent Florida trip - and I just sort of tumbled down this really steep and dangerous hole of low self-esteem.

And listen - I am certainly not saying any of this to get compliments in return - fact is, these thoughts are so commonplace for me at this point that no sweet, nice, kind words of support are really going to soften up the hard view I have of my physical appearance.

Today was slightly different though.

Today, I got my hair cut.

And as shallow as it may sound, I actually felt...well, not so ugly.

It was a new hair stylist (I took a HUGE chance at this one) and walked out feeling like, "Huh. This sort of worked out."

In fact, I even took pictures of myself. Like, just of myself and my hair - not of anything else.

And since these moments are so few and far between, I am going to document this hair cut, and then try to remember how good I felt today when I am having one of those "other" days.

Here is the "before" - taken this wekeend at a fundraiser - what you can't see sit hat my hair literally goes down to the middle of my back.


And here is the after:


And another:


Clearly, the big difference is the bangs. I have become ULTRA sensitive of late regarding the size of me head and forehead, and took the bangs leap. It paid off, IMO. In these pictures, they are swept to the side, but when brushed straight, they are really long and hang over my eyes (like this):



(Yeah, this isn't actually me with my imaginary baby, but you get the idea)

The other big difference is the length - it now falls just below my shoulders, and just feels so much better - so soft, so light, so healthy. Not heavy and hanging and weighing me down.

(Insert male eye-rolling)

Anyways, I am sharing this more for me than anything - taking advantage of that rare moment in which I feel, well, like a lady.

Because of course, my three-hour brick in the morning is going to beat any sort of "lady" right out of it.

Disney Recap Will Have To Wait

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



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

Morale of the story?

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

If you know me on Facebook, odds are that you have already seen my mushy-mushy lovefest for the newest addition to the Project Procrastination family - Mr. Brody Banks McC--.

And if you don't know me on Facebook - why not? I mean, what are you waiting for? Some of my finest wit is demonstrated by those gosh-silly Status Updates. And by finest wit, I mean compelte lack of originality and senseless babbling. Surely you don't want to miss that.

Now, getting back to the main point of this delicious smooshies south of the Sears Tower.


Mr. Brody was born at 10:05pm, all the way down there by Nashville, Tennessee.

He is 25% Pure Sugar Sweetness, 25% Devilish Good Looks, and 50% Rough-Housing, Baseball Throwing, Football Passing BOY.

Brody is the son of this man (crap, I said "Man"), my brother Nolan. It wasn't that long ago when Nolan himself was a baby - and by baby, I mean the neighborhood terror who spent the first few years of his own life thinking his name was "Nolan NO!" Times certainly have changed.

Brody is partially named out his Momma's father (Banks), and partially after that creepy dude from MTV who's related to that Kardashian family. Naw, just kidding about that second part.

Jenny, my sister-in-law and proud mother, was a super-trooper who battled through the labor - girl, I don't know how on earth you did it, but THAT is impressive!

It makes me a little sad that Brody lives so far away, and I can't just pop over there to give him Auntie kisses the same way I can go over and smother Baby Nolan and Aiden. But I know that when I do get to meet him, he'll probably love me and beg his Momma and Papa to come and visit his crazy Chicago aunt.

It's amazing how my family is growing up, moving forward and ever-expanding. To see my siblings - all of whom came up under me - now having their own kids makes my head explode with love sometimes. Man, where is the time going?!?!

I am so proud of Jenny and Nolan, and I can't wait to meet my new nephew!

Mom, You Made the Blog!**

(**My mom loves making the blog!)

So have I ever mentioned that I am Croatian?

Yeah, I know - the Irish name throws ya off, but one glance at my olive skin and it's pretty clear that there's a little bit o'somethin' else in this blood.

I get it from my mom - along with my pear-shaped body, oily-but-easily-tannable-skin, and struggle to maintain muscle tone.

Su-weet.

Anycellulitdimples, I was never really raised with any sort of emphasis on my cultural ethnic background. If I had any identity at all, it was as a Chicagoan and daughter of Bridgeport parents - one of which was a Chicago cop.

Come to think of it - neither of my parents was all that big on schooling us on the roots and branches of our family tree. I mean, I knew some basic stories about my grandparents, but when it comes to actual country and culture of origin, my knowledge amounts to "my dad's irish and my mom's croatian."

(By the way, this was always a treat in grammer school, where it was only cool to be Irish - and most kids were- and anything other than that was considered "weird." And since I was never one to want to stick out and hated when the kids made fun of me when I said the word "Croatian," I usually stuck to the Irish title.)

However, as I've aged, I have become increasingly interested in know more about where my mother's family came from (Croatia) and more about the culture itself - well, aside from my one-word knowledge of the Croatian translation for "shut up your mouth," which my mother's ingrained in us at an early age.

And which I still use with regularity.

So last week, when my brother-in-law told us he was taking my mom to Croatian festival, naturally I wanted to take part.

Turns out, this annual festival's 2010 theme was "Carnival," and it was encouraged to come in costume - of which I did not.

But Patrick made my mom and him costumes - toucans!

Because when you think of Croatia, the first thing you associate with it is toucans, is it not?


Getting ready


No toucan is complete without the head-gear.

And she's ready!!

If she turned her head to the side, you'd see she had a beak coming out the top of her forehead. Me, on the other hand - well, that's just my regular nose.

So two toucans walk into a bar....stop me if you heard it.....

Me and my costume-less date, ready to get our food on.

Toucans gotta eat too, right? Weird, but I had no idea swiss cheese, salami, and corned beef was a Croatian appetizer, but hey - what do I know?

Uh, Patrick?.....nevermind.





Ah, there we go - there's that beak!

Me and the moms.

So basically, we watched a REALLY long play that was spoken all in Croatian, and apparently was funny given the laughs of all the Croatian-speaking people around us (sorry, I didn't have any decent pics of this theatre production). And after what seemed like a really long time (and in my food-hunger-feed me world, two hours is LOOOOONG), we feasted on veggies, mostaccoli, and fried chicken.

Wait - what?!?!

Who knew fried chicken was a Croatian delicacy?

After dinner, dessert and some Croatian beers, Cheese and I had our fill of the evening so we packed it up and headed home.

Okay, I'm out of steam right now - that's my story - that's all I got.

Cupcake

Last week at the grocery store, I bought a box of chocolate fudge cake mix and some butter cream frosting.

No reason in particular - I just seem to find myself wanting/needing to make the occasional cupcake without the proper ingredients, so I figured while I was there, I should buy in preparation for the next wave of domesticity.

'Cause like my menstruation, you never know when it's going to hit.

However, turns out you can't keep a jar of butter cream frosting in the house of a recovering/oft-slipping sugar addict.

Cupcake mix got put safely in the cabinet, while the jar of frosting was opened, tested, and placed in the fridge butter shelf for the occasional sugar hit.

I would only take about two finger fulls at at time - enough to quench that sugar shake at the end of each evening - the one that usually causes me to eat three ice bars in a row, hence prohibiting me from buying them anymore (ice cream bars and chocolate chips - bought again, with the intention of putting them in brownies, but in reality putting them only in my belly straight from the bag).

My goodness - what is it with me and baking ingredients?

But like any addict, the finger-fulls were no longer cutting it after a while, and I wanted more.

Like a spoonful.

Or two. Maybe three.

I eventually got about halfway through the jar, and finally decided - throw it out. Seriously, I can't be working out for two hours a day, and then blow it all of hydrogenated oil that taste deliciously and sinfully like butter cream.

So out it went. Right in the garbage with my dignity.

But for as much as I love butter cream frosting, I don't love it more than this little piece of deliciousness:



He told my sister he had a lunch date.

With his imaginary friends, Fou Fou and Kenea.

Forget the frosting - THAT'S real sweetness.

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.

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.

Call It An After-Christmas Miracle

Still working on the list of resolutions - procrastination what?

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

A photo essay of....

Myself.

Of course it is.

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

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

So enjoy me.

You're welcome.



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

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



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



Adrienne running me in....

"Haaaay bitches!"

Sweaty bride-to-be.

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

Happy me.

Me and Ellie and Smooshie.

Gals.

Kennedy getting her nails done afterwards.

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