Obligatory Leap Day Post! Exciting! Heart Stopping! Drama! Exclamation Points!

February 29, 2012

It's Leap Day bitches!  And what kind of blogger would I be if I didn't document this sacred occasion by exploiting my entire family for absolutely no reason at all but the typical, sad narcissist blogger's desperate bid for attention?  Hmm... probably not any more useless of a blogger than I already am.

Educated political commentary?  Rare. 
Specific topic-oriented expert advice?  Not.
Typical mommy shitty diaper humor?  Not even close.
Thinly veiled self-deprecating midlife crisis snark?  Not yet, at least.
Soul-moving, heart deepening, brilliantly crafted poetry and prose?  Not on this blog.

So.  Yeah.  I'm pretty fucking useless.   But love me!  Pay attention to me!  I'm sooo cool!  Pat my head and say I'm cute!  PuhLEEEEEZE? 

So anyway.  Back to the topic at hand.  Leap Day.  I figured the best way to go about this, to take advantage of the full spectrum of my absolute uselessness, would be to give you a pictorial of how we roll on Leap Day all up in my crib and shit.

Here's a picture of my useless dog on Leap Day.  She's saying, "Hey bitch!  Where's my damn food?  Ain't you spose to be barefoot and makin' sammiches or some shit?"

Her name is Sammie.  She's fat and old.  And a diva.  Plus she hates me.

Here is me and Stewie on Leap Day.  We frequently plan our upcoming coup d'etat of the world together.  Motherfuckers betta watch out!  The power inherent in a 4'6'' woman and her stuffed doll is immeasurable!

Here's my Magic 8 Ball after I asked it if I was smokin' hot on Leap Day.  Clearly, there was never any doubt.

Here's my crock pot on Leap Day.  Yeah.  That's all I got for this one.

Here's my pot roast in the crock pot on Leap Day.  The picture makes it look like cow shit.   I swear it isn't cow shit.  No, seriously.

Here's me in my PJ pants on Leap Day.  It's all part of the "narcissist blogger" thing I was talking about.  FUCKING LOVE ME ALREADY!!

This is Drew eating pizza rolls right before dinner on Leap Day.  The fact that he actually turned around and stood still while I took this picture is a Leap Day Miracle!!  That's even better than a Christmas miracle because... well... you know.... the whole "every 4 years" thing.... Nevermind.

This is Sarge.  Not on Leap Day.  Because he isn't home from work yet, and I didn't feel like waiting on his sorry ass.   Sarge is totally hot in his dress blues by the way.  Like, seriously HOT. 

This is Jake on Leap Day.

Jake- "You gotta say something funny or my smile won't be natural."

Me- "Dick."

Toes, Hose, and Chocolate Woes

February 26, 2011

Yep.  I succumbed to the temptation.

Wow.

See.  When I first started running a few years ago, I tried running barefoot.  I didn't know anything about the "minimalist running" culture at the time.  All I knew was that it felt right.  That shoes felt heavy and clumsy.  That I could run faster when I was barefoot.  It felt natural.  I'm not sure if having flat feet contributes to that or not, but I do.  Have flat feet, that is.  So flat that my wet footprints look like little blobs of blobby blobs.  You can't even tell the difference between my toes and my heels.  It's just a big blob.  Flat.  Flat.  Flat. 

Flat feet.  Tiny feet.  Alabama country girl rolling down the hill in Gram's front yard for hours of wicked amusement back when we didn't have PSPs and iPhones and interwebz.

All of this adds up to shoes just being a gigantic thorn in my fucking side.

Until last week, that is.  I've seen these before and was only slightly interested.  Saw them again at a shoe store in Myrtle Beach last weekend.  Sarge encouraged me to try them on.  Of course, the adult sizes were too big, so out came the kids shoes.  Once I found a size that fit, it was like magic.  MAGIC I TELL YOU!  They just slid right on like I should have been born with them.  MAGIC.

And to top it off, the kids sizes were 40 bucks cheaper!  It was fate.  It was kismet.  It was MAGIC.

Of course, I was still hurtin' like a bitch, but I bought 'em anyway.

This past Wednesday was the first chance I have had to really try them.  Yes, even after all my bitching, narcotic-popping, Ace wrapping bullshit from last weekend, I ran anyway.

Holy CHRIST ON A FUCKING CRACKER!  These shoes are the best invention since FOOD!  You are actually supposed to land on the balls of your feet, just like when you first started running.  But in tennis shoes, in traditional running, everyone says you should land flat.  It feels weird.  It feels wrong.  Why?  Oh, because it is. 

I ran faster, naturally, because it felt right.  And it was as though my hamstring did not even fucking exist.  It engages completely different muscle groups.  It is a completely different movement.  A completely different running experience altogether. 

You're supposed to start out slow, and with my injury, that really wasn't a problem.  There should be a kind of "transition period" as you switch over from tennis shoes.  I ran for a good half mile before I switched back to my tennis shoes to finish my run.   The second I started running with my tennis shoes, BAM.  Felt my hamstring again.  I ran anyway, of course.  That was Wednesday.

Friday, I ran 4 miles in them suckers.  The hamstring pain was GONE.  The groin pull was GONE.  I am not exaggerating.  It was like the injury never fucking existed.   Dude.  I am so super excited, you have no idea. 

ANYWAY.  New subject.  Went to the Army Prom Friday night.  See?!?  I know, right?  I'm so super hot in my $25 dress.  I was making a statement, you see.  That bitches ain't gotta spend hundreds of dollars on a stupid ass dress for a couple hours of pomp and circumstance and bad food.   I didn't wear hose, either.  No Spanx.  No makeup.  Brushed my hair.  Wore a pair of old shoes I've had for years.   Sarge paid more to dry clean his blues than I spent from head to toe.  I am such a REBEL, I tell you!






Okay, new subject.  I was trying to clean out a bunch of straggly things that have been taking up real estate in my fridge for far too long.  You know, a couple of cans of crescent rolls, some cream cheese, a bag of chocolate chips.... You see where I'm going with this, right? 

Hmph. 

Don't fucking judge me.  I ran this morning.  I did my part! 

But OH MAH GAWD.  That shit was good. 

So anyway.  I don't have any subjects left.  My brats are still tards.  My dog is still useless.  Sarge still has MS.  And I am still really fucking awesome. 

Til next time, freaks!

The Knucklehead Strikes Back

February 21, 2012

My body stabbed me in the back this weekend.  Full on, right in my fucking back.  Put on the brakes and said, No.  Fucking.  More.

I have been beyond frustrated with myself.  I thought I had been doing the right things.  I thought I was resting.  I have hated every second of it.  I have fought with myself, with my little inside voice.  I have done the strengthening exercises I thought were right.  I stopped when I had pain.  Apparently, my idea of pain is a bit different than what it should be.

No.  I have not gone to the doctor.  Surprising considering my worky job, but doctors just aren't my thing.

I have been so focused on being able to run the 5K.  Focused on healing my leg.  Focused on being able to run period.  Thursday, I decided I could probably do some lunges and squats.  With a 40 pound barbell.   I didn't have any pain at the time.  None at all.  I felt great.  I was excited.

Friday, I woke up and did some yoga.  The run was Friday night at 7:00.  Halfway through my yoga, I knew that something was wrong.  Way wrong.  Wronger than it had ever been.  It wasn't my hamstring anymore.  I'd done something else.  This was pain.  PAIN.  Real pain.  I could barely walk.  It hurt to even touch my thigh.  It hurt to sit down and put any pressure on my thigh at all.

A little voice inside me thought I could still run.  It would be okay.

We loaded up the truck, took the dog to the vet, and drove to the beach.  I was in pain.  A lot of pain.  I still thought I could take a couple of Tylenol 3, wrap that sucker up, and run.  I just fucking wanted to run.  That's all.

We stopped at Wal-Mart to grab some drinks.  I hobbled around, fighting back tears.

Sarge walked up to me and started looking at my hair.  Reached out his hand.  And plucked a hair out of my noggin.  And showed it to me.  It was a gray hair.  I put my face in my hands and fought back more tears.

We got back on the road.  I wriggled around in the seat, trying to get comfortable.  Argued with the voice in my head.  But I couldn't fight back the tears anymore.

I knew I couldn't run.  I knew I couldn't.  I thought to myself.  I could try this.  And I know myself, I know that I would not stop once I started.  I knew that once I crossed that finish line, I'd want nothing more than to go back 45 minutes in time and stop myself from doing it.  Or.  I could stop it now, before it ever started.

So.  I decided at that moment that I wasn't going to try.  I wasn't going to ruin the weekend for Sarge or my kids with my own selfishness.  I wasn't going to risk permanently damaging my body, if I had not already.  So, I decided not to run.

And then I fell apart.  Completely fell apart.  Cried like a baby.  A sobbing, drooling, snot-dripping, dry-heaving baby.  Right there in the truck.  All because I couldn't run.

Once we got to Myrtle Beach, we went to the runner's expo anyway.  Picked up our T-shirts and bibs.  I started crying again.

Went back to the hotel and got in the hot tub.  Started crying again.

Woke up the next morning and went out to get some lunch.  I saw the full marathoners running past our hotel.  And started crying again.  I could barely walk.  If it weren't for Tylenol 3 and the Ace wrap, I would not have been walking at all. 

By Sunday, I finally felt human again.  A little.  We hung around the hotel, watched a movie, watched a thunderstorm roll in off the ocean.  More hot tub.  A little chocolate.   It was great.

By Monday, I was walking without a limp.

This morning, I was back on my elliptical.  No doubt, Sarge will give me the stinkeye when he reads this.

But I don't know what else to do.  I have to move.  I HAVE to move.  I am pissed at my body.  I am pissed at myself.

At some point, I figure I will get all the wrong things out of the way and will have nothing left to try but the right things.

Or.  I could go to the doctor and circumvent the wrong things altogether.

Or not.  

The Warrior Dash is May 21.

The Myrtle Beach Mini Marathon is October 21. 

It's going to be a long fucking year.

A Roach Named Sybil

February 13, 2012

(Warning! Graphic Dead Roach Images!)

I am sad.  I normally don't kill bugs.  I normally lobby for their civil rights.  I normally shame others who attempt to kill bugs, and personally suffer the pain of eye-rolling and disgusted glances in my efforts to be an activist for the bug cause.

But did you know?  Bugs have a certain energy, much like humans do.  If you watch them for a while, without disturbing their natural movement, you will see it.  The same with humans.  We watch them in restaurants, in waiting rooms, in crowds, and in their cars.  And you can sometimes see their energy.  And every once in a while, you will see someone whose energy is all wrong.  There is just something about them that gives you pause.  You consider averting your eyes so as not to become infected with their ooky vibe.  Or perhaps you suddenly change the direction you are walking so as not to entangle yourself in their nasty aura.  Or maybe you pull up to a red light and feel this compelling desire to lock your car doors.

Bugs are much the same.  Most of the time, I just leave those kinds of bugs alone.  I let them be and live and do their thing, but I just walk away.

But this roach was different.  It literally meandered.  Haltingly so.  Hauntingly so.  Almost as though it was in the throes of a non-medicated schizophrenic psychotic break.  That was the first thing I considered.  Other things sort of faded into the background of my consciousness, like the option that it may have just been old.  You know, an old grandpa roach trying to find himself a nice, cozy armchair in which to take his last breath.

No.  I firmly believe this was a schizophrenic roach, meandering about my garage ever so slowly, with purposeful movement, glaring with his beady little eyes, looking for a poor soul on which to take out his frustrations and anger with the voices in his head. 

He meandered his way to my garage steps.  As though he thought perhaps he would sneak in undetected the next time I opened the door.  That is what he thought.   But I saw him and his vagabond gait.  Listing here and there.  Rambling like the evil little periplaneta americana that he was.

I'm only assuming he was a he.  I didn't let him stick around long enough to tell me.

I knew what I had to do.  There was no other choice to be made.  I considered other options.  I thought perhaps I could open the garage door and scoot him out into the yard.  But that was at least 20 feet of scooting between the back door steps and the garage door.  Twenty whole feet in which he could choose to rise up against me and trumpet a call to arms to his heretofore unseen schizophrenic roach army, perhaps hiding off in the shadows, awaiting his call. 

Clearly, I could not allow this to happen.

I knew what needed to be done.

Sigh.....

And now I am sad.

But fortunately for all of you good people out there who may also have a psychotic grandpappy roach meandering about their garage, too, I have actually snapped a mugshot of the little devil.  Unfortunately, it was post-squash.

CLEARLY schizophrenic, yes?  Am I right or am I right? 

Or am I right?  

I'm pretty sure I'm right. 

Maybe It's Just A Me Thing?

February 11, 2012

You know how when you take an afternoon nap, and then you wake up RAVENOUSLY starving?  For some reason, it never happens in the morning, when you have presumably gone 5, 6, or 8 hours without food, but you fall asleep on the couch for a fucking HOUR, wake up in that foggy, sweaty afternoon nap zombie state, and the next thing you know there is an empty box of Girl Scout cookies in your lap and your whole family is cowering in a corner staring at you like you have a dick growing out of your forehead. You know what I'm sayin'?

THEN...

You act all bitchy and then your husband is all like, "Why can you be in a bitchy mood and be all bitchy and whatnot with all your bitchiness, but when I'm in a shitty mood and try to be bitchy, you tell me I can't.  That's a DOUBLE STANDARD!"

And then you're all like, "But I'm just bitchy, you were being mean."

And he's all like, "Mean?  MEAN?  You just yelled at me and told me if I don't hide the rest of the Girl Scout cookies, you would throw them in the trash! MY GIRL SCOUT COOKIES! You're the one being mean!"

And then you're like... crap.  Now you have to go in the garage and apologize, but it's so damn cold.  Can't you just wait until he comes back inside and apologize?  But then it's like, if you wait until he comes back inside, then he's had all sorts of time to stew on it and get even bitchier, so by the time he comes back inside, even though you have totally forgotten about threatening the life of his cookies, he's gotten his little heart all twisted up like a pretzel and mere apologies will no longer work.

Shit.  I'm going to have to go out in the cold, aren't I?

OR....

I could just let it go, let him get his little self all worked up in a frenzy, and then have mindblowing make-up sex, yes? YES?

Sigh..... So many decisions to make on this, the day of my daughter's wedding,  brilliantly lazy Saturday.  I have a feeling this is going to require more Girl Scout cookies....

7 1/2 Inches.....

February 10, 2012

..... a seam ripper, an accidentally not-threaded sewing machine (don't ask), and a bunch of foul language later......

(Before)

Annnnnnnnddddd...... (Chevy Chase Christmas Vacation drum roll please)........

I Freaking Love Myself!  I pretty much rock in every fucking way imaginable.  Full stop.  Well.  Okay, I was too lazy to take off my bra.  Whatev.  And the glowing orb thingy?  I can only assume it is overflow from the brilliance that emanates off of me......

Oh, and a hamstring update.  I have a 5K in Myrtle Beach a week from today.  I will be there.  And I will run.   This shit is going to happen.  Mark my words!  Day before yesterday, I walk/ran 4 miles.  This morning, I made it to 1.7 mi straight running before I got paranoid and stopped to stretch and walk.  Decided I'd check on my Geocache since it is on my path.  You ever been Geocaching?  That shit's ridiculously addictive, on par with a 10-year-old and his Legos.  In a nutshell, this is Geocaching:

Couple years ago, Sarge and I hid our own little micro cache.  Some are as big as Army ammo cans, and even bigger.  And then there are little micro caches that can be as small as a shirt button.  Here's ours:

Oh, damn.  It's me again.  Because I am just THAT fuckawesome!  And I am totally not a peeping tom, I swear. It was 30 fucking degrees this morning.  

Yeah, the textured paint was totally my idea.  It makes for a really excellent night cache.  Night caching is the mutha fawkin' BOMB!

It's one of those $2 pill fob thingies painted with textured spray paint. 

Open the top, and viola!

Names of all the fuckawesome cachers who found my shit. 

So anyway.  Go Geocaching.  You should.  All the cool people are doing it.  Don't have kids?  Don't need 'em!  L'il Uns just get in the way of all the sweet caches hidden under bridges where homeless people live, and the caches you have to cross logs over rivers to get to. 

Oh, and to top it all off?  See, part of the game is being as inconspicuous as possible, especially with caches in public places.  Can you guess what they call non-cachers you must tiptoe around during a cache run?   Take a guess.  I'll wait.  

That's right. 

MUGGLES. 

And no, I do not go caching with my replica Harry wand or my Time Turner necklace...or my Marauder's Map....although...now that I think about it.....

And what does any of this have to do with my dress? 

Absofuckinglutely nothing.  

But in case you forgot exactly how fuckawesome I am, 

here's one last pic of me to remind you

Happy Friday Freaks!

A Seamstress I Am Not

February 5, 2012

Here's what's going down.  I have a dress that needs hemming.  No big deal, right?  That's one of those lessons that a mother of tiny girls considers as much of a priority as ball-bustin', know what I'm sayin?  I mean, every damn pair of jeans I own, every dress, every skirt, I have personally altered.  Well, except a couple formal dresses.   Howevah, what makes this a bit different is that I am not altering it from the bottom.  I happen to like the bottom of this dress and want to keep it intact.  So.  I have decided to attempt altering it so that I keep the entire length of the bottom part.

Just as a frame of reference, the bottom part of the dress, or at least what looks like the bottom when I am wearing it, is actually over 12 inches in length.   No shit, right? 

So.  Here's the deal.  I have no fucking clue how to do this.  Well, I have a clue.  A small clue.  And a sewing machine.  And a buncha pins and a pair of scissors.  All potentially deadly weapons when they are in my hands.   Of course, I could take it up the street to the sewing lady.  Sure.  I could do that.  But I's raised better than that!  So yes, I am going to risk completely butchering this dress for the off-chance that I might actually do this right.  Fortunately, I'm pretty sure Forever 21 still has it in stock.

Pictures of either a successfully altered dress, or a pile of cloth and a seam ripper jammed in my eyeball will be forthcoming.