1. Never say the words – “My child will never do that”. Your child will do that. As well as talking other friends into doing it as well.
2. You cannot repair a vacuum with a butter knife. Or a toaster.
3. No one gives a rats flying fat ass about which formal china pattern you pick out when you get married.
4. Hydroxy Cut gives you diarrhea, not muscles.
5. At one time or another, everyone will be broke.
6. The next time you are sick of everyone’s bullshit, take a look behind you at the wagon o’ bullshit you are pulling around behind you. Mine is in a U-Haul.
7. Baking Soda toothpaste and Peroxide mouthwash do not go together.
8. Oreos are not a gateway drug. Let your kids have a few.
9. Just because someone lives in a beautiful house, gives wonderful party favors, and seems like Martha Stewart does not mean they have their life together.
10. The shit does not fall far from the bat. If her momma is crazy, chances are she is too.
11. Women don’t like being called crazy.
12. “Well if I had known you were going to make such a big damn deal about it I would have just done this from the start” is not a good way to start an apology to your husband.
13. Screw it. Order dessert.
14. Your children will only be with you for a fraction of your life. They will be gone before you know it and off in their own lives. Boss them around while you can.
15. If you call your husband home from work one day because you desperately need him to rescue you and he hurries home to find you standing on top of the bed clutching a three year old and an infant babbling about how you sucked up a lizard in the vacuum cleaner – he will bring that up the next time you say you are a “tough” woman.
And last but not least – Life is not a dress rehearsal. You can sleep when you are dead. When you are old you will regret what you didn’t do, not what you did do. You can always turn a Sunday into a Saturday. The graveyard is full of indispensible people. Getting laid makes everything better.
Thank you for reading, and I hope you feel a little bit better about yourself.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
70.3
One June 1 of last year I asked my husband to pay for my enrollment fee into the Austin Half Ironman. Our conversation went like this:
Hubs – “So let me get this straight. You want to swim 1.2 miles, bike 56 miles, and then run 13.1. Basically you will get beat to shit for about 8 hours and you want to pay for this experience. “
Me- “No. I want you to pay for it.”
Many of you remember my journey of training over the spring and summer. It consisted of dragging my ass all over miles and miles of the drought infested Ark-La-Tex, crying on the side of the road, vomiting on my bike, and telling my friends while at the end of 5-8 hour workouts how much I loved them like a drunken co-ed. I pushed myself to the edge of my limits, and then pushed even more. I had plenty of time alone to sort through my purpose in life, and what God wanted out of me. I became much more thankful for my children. I made peace with many demons in my soul. I did not lose one damn pound.
Finally the time came and we made the journey to Austin for a long weekend. We went to EddieV’s for a wonderful meal Friday night. I am allergic to shrimp but have started to add small amounts of other shellfish to my diet and have had no bad reactions. I ordered the lobster tail with my dinner. After about 10 minutes my tongue became a little swollen and I broke out into a full sweat. Because my tongue was so fat I had a hard time getting my words out correctly. In concern for my well being my husband lovingly asked, “Are you drunk?” and suggested I go to the bathroom to splash water on my face. Within a couple of hours I returned to normal and still had another full day until my race.
Sunday morning came and I prepared all my separate bags. You had to have a separate bag for each leg of the race and all had to be dropped off prior to the start. I had a swim bag, a bike bag, and a run bag. It looked like I was packing triplets for Mothers Day Out. We made our way to the swim start with my stomach turning. The swim has strict time limits, and since I was in the last wave start(which entered the water a full hour after the first wave), I had to really move in order to make the time limit. I am not a fast swimmer, and I have huge mental blocks surrounding the swim portion of a triathlon. I felt sick even when I looked at the bottled water station. I was fighting down bile in my throat due to what I thought was nerves. I finally entered the water with my group and took it nice and slow for the first 100 yards then I sped up and was making great time. I was 1/3 of the way through and about 1400 feet from the bank when I could see the first of three turns ahead of me.
If you have never thrown up in the water, I can tell you it is an experience. I could not stop. I kept trying to swim, but I was heaving so much I couldn’t get anywhere. Trying to float on my back was definitely not a good idea. There were other swim waves behind me, and I was just a wonderful welcome wagon for each of them ralphing in the water. I was determined to finish, but eventually I knew something was wrong. This wasn’t just nerves, and there was a reason I felt extremely nauseous before the race. I resigned myself to the fact that doing 70 miles with a stomach virus was not a good idea. I signaled that I needed to get out of the water.
The jet ski with what is supposed to be a rescue swimmer sitting on the back approached me. The nice woman said, “What is Wrong With You?” I weakly replied that I had a stomach virus or something and could not stop dry heaving. There is a platform that looks like an oversized swim board being pulled by the back of the jet ski. As I am a little worn out from my wonderful experience in the water, I ask how I am supposed to get on the platform. Was I meant to get on it? Did they drag me? I was so worn out and sick I could not have fought them if they tried to tie a rope with a cinder block to my foot.
I am not trying to be bitchy, and I am definitely not the skinny model type myself, but this chic was about 20 and weighed 250 easily on a tiny frame. She didn’t look like she could bob an apple out of the water, much less a swimmer. In response to my question she replied, “You pull yourself up. Can’t you do that?” as she is sitting backwards on the jet ski. I wasn’t thinking I would be airlifted to the bank or anything put a hand would be nice. She barks into her walkie talkie that she has a “nervous” swimmer with her and they are coming in to the medical tent. I started to heave again while on the platform and she tells me to make sure I throw up in the water so I don’t get HER platform dirty.
Oh, so you’re a clean bitch too.
Normally I would have some major mental and emotional issues with not finishing a race, especially one I had trained for nine months to finish. Having to pull out of a race usually makes you feel like you have once again failed at something in your life, and you are ashamed. I was just praying I didn’t shit in my wetsuit on the way to the ambulance.
After an IV, a bag of fluid, some really good meds in my IV, and a refusal to go to the hospital later, I was on my way home. One week later I did the race and finished. I was on cloud nine and felt like I could conquer the world. I never want to do it again.
But I am in the market for a new wetsuit.
Hubs – “So let me get this straight. You want to swim 1.2 miles, bike 56 miles, and then run 13.1. Basically you will get beat to shit for about 8 hours and you want to pay for this experience. “
Me- “No. I want you to pay for it.”
Many of you remember my journey of training over the spring and summer. It consisted of dragging my ass all over miles and miles of the drought infested Ark-La-Tex, crying on the side of the road, vomiting on my bike, and telling my friends while at the end of 5-8 hour workouts how much I loved them like a drunken co-ed. I pushed myself to the edge of my limits, and then pushed even more. I had plenty of time alone to sort through my purpose in life, and what God wanted out of me. I became much more thankful for my children. I made peace with many demons in my soul. I did not lose one damn pound.
Finally the time came and we made the journey to Austin for a long weekend. We went to EddieV’s for a wonderful meal Friday night. I am allergic to shrimp but have started to add small amounts of other shellfish to my diet and have had no bad reactions. I ordered the lobster tail with my dinner. After about 10 minutes my tongue became a little swollen and I broke out into a full sweat. Because my tongue was so fat I had a hard time getting my words out correctly. In concern for my well being my husband lovingly asked, “Are you drunk?” and suggested I go to the bathroom to splash water on my face. Within a couple of hours I returned to normal and still had another full day until my race.
Sunday morning came and I prepared all my separate bags. You had to have a separate bag for each leg of the race and all had to be dropped off prior to the start. I had a swim bag, a bike bag, and a run bag. It looked like I was packing triplets for Mothers Day Out. We made our way to the swim start with my stomach turning. The swim has strict time limits, and since I was in the last wave start(which entered the water a full hour after the first wave), I had to really move in order to make the time limit. I am not a fast swimmer, and I have huge mental blocks surrounding the swim portion of a triathlon. I felt sick even when I looked at the bottled water station. I was fighting down bile in my throat due to what I thought was nerves. I finally entered the water with my group and took it nice and slow for the first 100 yards then I sped up and was making great time. I was 1/3 of the way through and about 1400 feet from the bank when I could see the first of three turns ahead of me.
If you have never thrown up in the water, I can tell you it is an experience. I could not stop. I kept trying to swim, but I was heaving so much I couldn’t get anywhere. Trying to float on my back was definitely not a good idea. There were other swim waves behind me, and I was just a wonderful welcome wagon for each of them ralphing in the water. I was determined to finish, but eventually I knew something was wrong. This wasn’t just nerves, and there was a reason I felt extremely nauseous before the race. I resigned myself to the fact that doing 70 miles with a stomach virus was not a good idea. I signaled that I needed to get out of the water.
The jet ski with what is supposed to be a rescue swimmer sitting on the back approached me. The nice woman said, “What is Wrong With You?” I weakly replied that I had a stomach virus or something and could not stop dry heaving. There is a platform that looks like an oversized swim board being pulled by the back of the jet ski. As I am a little worn out from my wonderful experience in the water, I ask how I am supposed to get on the platform. Was I meant to get on it? Did they drag me? I was so worn out and sick I could not have fought them if they tried to tie a rope with a cinder block to my foot.
I am not trying to be bitchy, and I am definitely not the skinny model type myself, but this chic was about 20 and weighed 250 easily on a tiny frame. She didn’t look like she could bob an apple out of the water, much less a swimmer. In response to my question she replied, “You pull yourself up. Can’t you do that?” as she is sitting backwards on the jet ski. I wasn’t thinking I would be airlifted to the bank or anything put a hand would be nice. She barks into her walkie talkie that she has a “nervous” swimmer with her and they are coming in to the medical tent. I started to heave again while on the platform and she tells me to make sure I throw up in the water so I don’t get HER platform dirty.
Oh, so you’re a clean bitch too.
Normally I would have some major mental and emotional issues with not finishing a race, especially one I had trained for nine months to finish. Having to pull out of a race usually makes you feel like you have once again failed at something in your life, and you are ashamed. I was just praying I didn’t shit in my wetsuit on the way to the ambulance.
After an IV, a bag of fluid, some really good meds in my IV, and a refusal to go to the hospital later, I was on my way home. One week later I did the race and finished. I was on cloud nine and felt like I could conquer the world. I never want to do it again.
But I am in the market for a new wetsuit.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
When Daddy Let Me Drive
I’m a bad driver. I admit it. I am safe when I have kids in the car and I happily drive on field trips, but I definitely do not need to take on a second career as a cross country truck driver. Perhaps “bad” is the wrong term. “Unlucky” is better, and I come by it honestly. My parents had to replace the garage door after my father backed his truck into it three different times. He said it was my mother’s fault for leaving the garage door down. Damn crazy woman! What was she thinking leaving the garage door down? Who does that?
My mother has two speeds – 80 and 10. There is no in between. She lives in a beautiful condo on the beach in Daytona Beach, Florida. I can just see her revving the engine of that Cadillac at a red stoplight and looking at the sports car next to her. She drives herself and all her buddies to bridge once a week. Oh to be a fly on the wall of that 20 foot sedan….
I have plenty memories of driving my mother’s Cadillacs. She gets a new one every few years or so, but I was 14 when she got her first one. I had a learner’s permit and my parents and I were driving back from Atlanta when they decided to let me test out my interstate driving skills. Somewhere about the Georgia/Alabama state line they both fell asleep. I was doing great on the interstate, but Birmingham snuck up on me while they were still dozing. I am all of fourteen driving in lunch hour traffic in my mother’s new caddy. I looked like that damn little person on Fantasy Island driving that 12 person golf cart.
I was doing a great job traveling through the traffic and knew what exit I needed to take. My mother realized this a few minutes after she woke up and screamed, “Oh Shit Melanie Ann!” . I took my exit with ease but realized I had never merged into traffic in any of my lessons. I was gun shy until my father bellowed “Merge, Damnit, Merge” from the backseat. I put on my blinker and hoped for the best.
A few years and Cadillacs later, I was home from college for Christmas break. We were driving to Nashville for a convention. All my parents could talk about was listening to the Mississippi State football game on the radio during the drive. These two were fanatical about Mississippi State athletics. I decided to be the good daughter and take the caddy through the car wash before we were scheduled to leave for Nashville since my parents had been experiencing some health and family issues. I took it to the drive through car wash in town and was blaring the radio while pulling into the stall with all the fuzzy wheels and scrubbing brushes. I heard a god awful noise and turned off the radio. Shit Shit Shit was all I could think about so I put the land yacht in gear and ramped it out of the car wash.
I did a quick inspection of the car and found nothing wrong. I could hear my father bitching in my mind about how expensive the replacement parts on mom’s “glorified Buick” were, so I was relieved momentarily. Until I saw the radio antenna on the concrete floor of the car wash about to go down the drain. If they didn’t get to listen to that football game they would kill me! So I did what I had to do.
That car wash beat me to shit. I walked out of there sopping wet, but holding a gnarled, nonworking, power antenna. It was a long silent drive to Nashville with no football that day, except for when my parents would burst into laughter about me getting knocked around by a $5 car wash. I told them to hold it down so I could listen to the game….
thanks for reading, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
My mother has two speeds – 80 and 10. There is no in between. She lives in a beautiful condo on the beach in Daytona Beach, Florida. I can just see her revving the engine of that Cadillac at a red stoplight and looking at the sports car next to her. She drives herself and all her buddies to bridge once a week. Oh to be a fly on the wall of that 20 foot sedan….
I have plenty memories of driving my mother’s Cadillacs. She gets a new one every few years or so, but I was 14 when she got her first one. I had a learner’s permit and my parents and I were driving back from Atlanta when they decided to let me test out my interstate driving skills. Somewhere about the Georgia/Alabama state line they both fell asleep. I was doing great on the interstate, but Birmingham snuck up on me while they were still dozing. I am all of fourteen driving in lunch hour traffic in my mother’s new caddy. I looked like that damn little person on Fantasy Island driving that 12 person golf cart.
I was doing a great job traveling through the traffic and knew what exit I needed to take. My mother realized this a few minutes after she woke up and screamed, “Oh Shit Melanie Ann!” . I took my exit with ease but realized I had never merged into traffic in any of my lessons. I was gun shy until my father bellowed “Merge, Damnit, Merge” from the backseat. I put on my blinker and hoped for the best.
A few years and Cadillacs later, I was home from college for Christmas break. We were driving to Nashville for a convention. All my parents could talk about was listening to the Mississippi State football game on the radio during the drive. These two were fanatical about Mississippi State athletics. I decided to be the good daughter and take the caddy through the car wash before we were scheduled to leave for Nashville since my parents had been experiencing some health and family issues. I took it to the drive through car wash in town and was blaring the radio while pulling into the stall with all the fuzzy wheels and scrubbing brushes. I heard a god awful noise and turned off the radio. Shit Shit Shit was all I could think about so I put the land yacht in gear and ramped it out of the car wash.
I did a quick inspection of the car and found nothing wrong. I could hear my father bitching in my mind about how expensive the replacement parts on mom’s “glorified Buick” were, so I was relieved momentarily. Until I saw the radio antenna on the concrete floor of the car wash about to go down the drain. If they didn’t get to listen to that football game they would kill me! So I did what I had to do.
That car wash beat me to shit. I walked out of there sopping wet, but holding a gnarled, nonworking, power antenna. It was a long silent drive to Nashville with no football that day, except for when my parents would burst into laughter about me getting knocked around by a $5 car wash. I told them to hold it down so I could listen to the game….
thanks for reading, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Picture Perfect II
I am doing data entry at work today until my eyes are blurring. This is what I do on my lunch break so I can kick it through the rest of the afternoon. These are pictures I take that make me laugh. I hope they do the same for you.
This is what happens every morning at my house. The dog pulls my towel off the rack with his teeth and then lays his little dog body all over it. Who needs a towel warmer???
Priorities
I constantly have a lens missing from my sunglasses. Why? I have no clue.
So we are doing a historic restoration of a home in town and we repaired all the holes in the original 1904 facade. Evidently the pigeons who were hanging out in there are pissed. They have chosen to protest by SHITTING NONSTOP on the outside of the building.
And running into windows. I am guessing this is the pigeon mafia equivalent of a horse head on your pillow.
Winning
When I run these races, I have a friend who always tells me to give her my race shirt. Really? The last race I bought her a visor since there was no way in hell I was giving her my shirt. I still haven't given it to her. That's what friends are for.
I am a grown, educated, professional woman who laughed for a good five minutes straight at this box in the store. Yes it is a chocolate laxative called "smooth move".
Winning.
AERODYNAMIC
Remember that time I pulled the jet ski behind my minivan? I suddenly feel so much better after seeing the Lincoln Town Car pulling a trailer full of trash.
Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams.
"And then I had to go all Marie Antoinette up on her ass in the parking lot!"
This is what happens every morning at my house. The dog pulls my towel off the rack with his teeth and then lays his little dog body all over it. Who needs a towel warmer???
Priorities
I constantly have a lens missing from my sunglasses. Why? I have no clue.
So we are doing a historic restoration of a home in town and we repaired all the holes in the original 1904 facade. Evidently the pigeons who were hanging out in there are pissed. They have chosen to protest by SHITTING NONSTOP on the outside of the building.
And running into windows. I am guessing this is the pigeon mafia equivalent of a horse head on your pillow.
Winning
When I run these races, I have a friend who always tells me to give her my race shirt. Really? The last race I bought her a visor since there was no way in hell I was giving her my shirt. I still haven't given it to her. That's what friends are for.
I am a grown, educated, professional woman who laughed for a good five minutes straight at this box in the store. Yes it is a chocolate laxative called "smooth move".
Winning.
AERODYNAMIC
Remember that time I pulled the jet ski behind my minivan? I suddenly feel so much better after seeing the Lincoln Town Car pulling a trailer full of trash.
Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams.
"And then I had to go all Marie Antoinette up on her ass in the parking lot!"
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Young and the Restless
Last week I took Monday off from work to rest and recuperate from working all weekend. Actually I was very tired and cranky so my office staff suggested I go home. I spent the day rolling in and out of sleep and had a major revelation – Daytime Television is CRAP.
It was nothing but people yelling and screaming at each other and trying to see who can act the trashiest. When I was a child at home we watched real television with some artistic flair – Young and the Restless.
If you are not familiar with the show, let me explain its importance to our family as a child. When school was not in session my mother would wake us up with the warning that we had to get up and “hit it”. “Hit it” meant we had to clean the house before 11:00 when the Young and the Restless came on the tube. You better be wrapping it up by the time the wheel was spun for the final Showcase Showdown.
I have vivid memories of my mother getting on the couch with me watch the Abbotts create make up at Jabot Cosmetics. Poor Ashley Abbott was always working in that damn lab brewing up some kind of perfume, but never really seeming to make any headway. It was all blue and I bet it smelled horrible.
I will never forget seeing Katherine Chancellor walking around in a BURKAH for about a year for no apparent reason. And then her son married some chunky little half skank named Nina who snarled at everyone. No one could ever forget Victor and Nikki. They evidently had super hero kids or something because when I finished third grade they were small preschool children. When I started fourth grade, those fools were adults! Amazing!
When I would watch Young and the Restless with my grandmother and aunts in Florida at the garage beauty shop, they would stay completely silent all through the show and then debate like scholars during the commercial break. After the “alleged incident” and the beauty parlor got shut down, we watched Young and the Restless on my grandparents sun porch…with all the same people. My grandfather would say he didn’t like it that all those women coming into his porch around his recliner and watching what he referred to as, “that ole mess”. If there was a heated discussion about Jill Abbott or if Victoria was really Victor’s baby he would argue vehemently that Victor was getting the wool pulled over his eyes and that Jill was just using that poor old boy for his money. Pretty good argument for someone who doesn’t watch that ole mess.
When I had my first child I stayed at home and soon began settling into a routine. I turned on the tube to Young and the Restless after being away from it for many years. Low and behold it was the same shit! The only thing that was different was that Nikki was acting like this fancy matriarch of the family. I think she has forgotten that Victor dragged her straight off the pole.
I have never watched the Young and the Restless again. Sad but true. I spend my time working, raising my children, talking to my husband, and watching a historically based miniseries on PBS that has everyone in these strange love triangles with all of them fighting over money and stabbing each other in the back. Daughton Abbey. I love it. Hell I even have the app on my phone.
Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little bit better about yourself.
It was nothing but people yelling and screaming at each other and trying to see who can act the trashiest. When I was a child at home we watched real television with some artistic flair – Young and the Restless.
If you are not familiar with the show, let me explain its importance to our family as a child. When school was not in session my mother would wake us up with the warning that we had to get up and “hit it”. “Hit it” meant we had to clean the house before 11:00 when the Young and the Restless came on the tube. You better be wrapping it up by the time the wheel was spun for the final Showcase Showdown.
I have vivid memories of my mother getting on the couch with me watch the Abbotts create make up at Jabot Cosmetics. Poor Ashley Abbott was always working in that damn lab brewing up some kind of perfume, but never really seeming to make any headway. It was all blue and I bet it smelled horrible.
I will never forget seeing Katherine Chancellor walking around in a BURKAH for about a year for no apparent reason. And then her son married some chunky little half skank named Nina who snarled at everyone. No one could ever forget Victor and Nikki. They evidently had super hero kids or something because when I finished third grade they were small preschool children. When I started fourth grade, those fools were adults! Amazing!
When I would watch Young and the Restless with my grandmother and aunts in Florida at the garage beauty shop, they would stay completely silent all through the show and then debate like scholars during the commercial break. After the “alleged incident” and the beauty parlor got shut down, we watched Young and the Restless on my grandparents sun porch…with all the same people. My grandfather would say he didn’t like it that all those women coming into his porch around his recliner and watching what he referred to as, “that ole mess”. If there was a heated discussion about Jill Abbott or if Victoria was really Victor’s baby he would argue vehemently that Victor was getting the wool pulled over his eyes and that Jill was just using that poor old boy for his money. Pretty good argument for someone who doesn’t watch that ole mess.
When I had my first child I stayed at home and soon began settling into a routine. I turned on the tube to Young and the Restless after being away from it for many years. Low and behold it was the same shit! The only thing that was different was that Nikki was acting like this fancy matriarch of the family. I think she has forgotten that Victor dragged her straight off the pole.
I have never watched the Young and the Restless again. Sad but true. I spend my time working, raising my children, talking to my husband, and watching a historically based miniseries on PBS that has everyone in these strange love triangles with all of them fighting over money and stabbing each other in the back. Daughton Abbey. I love it. Hell I even have the app on my phone.
Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little bit better about yourself.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
How I Roll
This is how I rolled into work this morning. Let me clarify – how I rolled into my first meeting of the day. Deodorant on your black shirt is okay to many people if it is a one time thing, but not when you add it to all my other wardrobe malfunctions. I have a history….
Underwear – Last week I felt a breeze when I hopped out of the car at the gas station because my dress was tucked in my panties. At least they were pretty panties. Once I was in Wal Mart in my grey sweater dress with black tights when I got so hot I thought I was going to pass out. I went into the bathroom to remove the tights and felt soooo much better. Better until I realized that the people staring at me could see my bright green large cotton underwear through the sweater dress. I just thought my fine short little ass still had it!
Once in high school I was visiting a church with a friend one Sunday morning. The elastic in my panties apparently gave up the fight and my underwear fell down right before we walked into the sanctuary. Being the quick thinker that I am, I kicked them off and stuck them behind the potted plants in the corner and just casually walked off. I’m a big fan of band aid solutions. I forgot to go back and get my panties after church. I went to a boarding school where everyone had to have their names in every piece of clothing….
Shoes – I love high heels. They do not love me. I have twisted my ankles, broken heels, and had my stilettos stuck in cracks all over the country. Once after completing my first half marathon I was in my office at the Girl Scout office when one of the older girls said she could teach me how to do the electric slide. I was all for it and jumped up in my high heeled boots and started my lesson. I took a misstep into a large shipping box behind me and ended up having to go to the doctor. That was after I apologized profusely to the girl for knocking her into the wall during my fall.
I either go big or go home. It is high heels or nothing. I have started taking flying lessons. I know, it is the last damn thing I need to be doing, but I want to learn. My flight instructor shall remain nameless, but due to the fact that I still call important instruments “thingy” and give him a ton of shit to put up with, let’s just refer to him as Job. Before I started one of my last lessons the conversation went a little like this:
Me: “Can I fly in high heels?”
Job:”No mam.”
Me: “Well I am coming straight from work. Are you sure?”
Job: “Yes I am sure.”
Me: “Can I just fly barefoot?”
Job: “NO YOU CANNOT FLY BAREFOOT!”
Me: “Geez you sure are cranky. I drive barefoot all the time. It’s no big deal.”
Job: he just puts his head down and closes his eyes.
Clothing in general – I have walked around town with holes in my pants, shirts unbuttoned, and sweaters on backwards. Hell I’ve even worn a dress backwards all damn day long. I have run in not so supportive bras, not so flattering pants, and shorts that rode up in bad places. I have a closet full of shit that doesn’t look good on me. I really don’t care.
The next time you see me walking with my dress in my panties, a half a roll of toilet paper dragging behind my shoe, and my sweater inside out, just say a little prayer. I didn’t name this blog a Diary of a Busy Mess just for shits and giggles.
thank you for reading my post. I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Different
Last year my kids were all in the car with me after school. The middle child made the comment that someone at school called him different. Before I could turn on my ever present happy mom face and make it all better, his younger sister told him it was okay since people have called her different at school. His older sister said almost the exact same thing except that she added one of her teachers said I was different to another teacher. She said the teachers were saying it in a good way.
Being different is good. Quiet is good. Mean is not.
My oldest child has come home crying due to bullies in her school, and asks me why people are mean. Why they laugh when she reads out loud in class or why kids make fun of her friends. I tell her to stand up for herself and her buddies. No one else really matters. I tell her kids are mean because they are lonely and they hurt on the inside. They are only jealous of her and are perhaps ignorant of how wonderful she is on the inside.
The problem is I don't listen to my own advice. The problem is there are adult bullies. They talk about what you wear to work, what dish you bring to a church pot luck, or put ugly letters in your mailbox. (the mailbox letter is my personal favorite since they were too scared to sign it) They might even say you write a blog about your friend in order to get attention for yourself and that you were part of the problem.(another favorite)
I often wonder if the pool has replaced the playground as a Mecca for bullying. If the t-ball stands are the new school cafeteria. People know when you are talking about them. Just because you put your hand over your mouth while you whisper to your friend next to you, some adult woman across the pool feels like she is two inches tall.
We all do it to some extent. Talking about someone else's problems let's you take your mind off your own. I've had plenty of problems where I wanted to bury my head in the sand. Others just attempt to fill a day with gossip and hateful actions. Neither solves the problem at hand, and people end up getting hurt by both.
I guess my mother never really gossiped or talked bad about other people. I'm sure she did sometimes, but we were never allowed to say hateful things about other people. Our children listen to everything we say and they see everything we do. Hate is taught at home. So is
love. I've been known to get up and leave a table if people are bad mouthing someone else. I learned that from my mother.
I hope I am passing that on to my children. Even though it seems like everyone else is doing it and it seems like fun, you do not have to join them. Being different is good.
Being different is good. Quiet is good. Mean is not.
My oldest child has come home crying due to bullies in her school, and asks me why people are mean. Why they laugh when she reads out loud in class or why kids make fun of her friends. I tell her to stand up for herself and her buddies. No one else really matters. I tell her kids are mean because they are lonely and they hurt on the inside. They are only jealous of her and are perhaps ignorant of how wonderful she is on the inside.
The problem is I don't listen to my own advice. The problem is there are adult bullies. They talk about what you wear to work, what dish you bring to a church pot luck, or put ugly letters in your mailbox. (the mailbox letter is my personal favorite since they were too scared to sign it) They might even say you write a blog about your friend in order to get attention for yourself and that you were part of the problem.(another favorite)
I often wonder if the pool has replaced the playground as a Mecca for bullying. If the t-ball stands are the new school cafeteria. People know when you are talking about them. Just because you put your hand over your mouth while you whisper to your friend next to you, some adult woman across the pool feels like she is two inches tall.
We all do it to some extent. Talking about someone else's problems let's you take your mind off your own. I've had plenty of problems where I wanted to bury my head in the sand. Others just attempt to fill a day with gossip and hateful actions. Neither solves the problem at hand, and people end up getting hurt by both.
I guess my mother never really gossiped or talked bad about other people. I'm sure she did sometimes, but we were never allowed to say hateful things about other people. Our children listen to everything we say and they see everything we do. Hate is taught at home. So is
love. I've been known to get up and leave a table if people are bad mouthing someone else. I learned that from my mother.
I hope I am passing that on to my children. Even though it seems like everyone else is doing it and it seems like fun, you do not have to join them. Being different is good.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Everything I needed to know about life I learned from Training
While running, Biking, and swimming I have plenty of time to think and learn. Here are a few of my epiphanies…
1. I am still afraid of the dark. Once I found myself running Nix Creek after the sun had gone down. I had planned on being home by that time, but for some reason I was still a few miles from the house. While I was running I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. I distinctly remember being in my grandparents house one night as a child and trying to make it from my bedroom to the bathroom in the hall in the pitch blackness of that house. I really had to pee but I was terrified. If someone on Nix Creek had said BOO I would have pissed all over my fancy running skirt and screamed like a little girl…
2. There is nothing you and the big man upstairs cannot take care of during a 7 hour bike ride and run. Those monks have the right idea. I have told people before that I ask God many questions while on long runs and rides. Sometimes I get an answer at mile 4. Sometimes I get an answer at mile 40, and sometimes I do not get an answer. When I do not get an answer, it means I didn’t need one, or that I wasn’t ready for the answer anyway.
3. Hotels have the best bathrooms. Seriously. They always have toilet paper and are clean. If you have ever traveled with small children and were worried they would catch Meningitis from a gas station restroom, remember this tip. And yes I will smooth rollup in there all stinky and sweaty and use the facilities, but I still think it is trashy to use the hotel pool if you are not staying there.
4. If something bothers you just a little bit in the beginning, it will drive you insane in the end. A sock bunched up the wrong way will slightly irritate you at mile 5. At mile 25 it will feel like torture. I know I have certain “traits” and “habits” that hubs used to think were cute and endearing when I was 20…..
5. When I run races I find people to beat. If I am running a 5K I find someone after the first mile and try to pass them by the next mile. I am like a lion. Not because I am king or anything, but because I pick out the old and sick…. I know my limits. I will not outrun the 22 year old that is built like a brick shit house. The 70 year old with a slight limp – I have a chance.
6.I train a lot. I exercise a lot. I put a ton of time and energy into this hobby of mine. When I actually run a race or do a triathlon, I rank somewhere close to the bottom of my age group. I could care less. I will never be the fastest. I will never compete in Boston or Kona. I will never run a large corporation, or make six figures a year. There will always be someone smarter, prettier, faster, and stronger. I compete with myself. I beat down my demons one step at a time, and push myself beyond what I thought was an obstacle in the past. "The highest form of competition is self-competition, and I was proving to be the cruelest of opponents, ruthlessly demanding more of myself, relentlessly doing battle with the road, with my own body, with my mind.
Pain was my weapon of choice." Dean Karnazes
7. Always pee before you leave the house.
8. I am making a generalization here and please don’t take it out of context. People in nice cars get pissed you are on their road and they have to wait sometimes to go around you. The less fortunate cheer you on. I have been flipped off by a person in a Lexus because I was in the road running, and no other reason. An Oldsmobile with the trunk tied down and black smoke rolling out the back once slowed down and gave me plenty of room. The lady on the passenger side hung out the window and screamed, “Get it Girl! I am PROUD OF YOU BABY!” I drive a nice car and so do most of the people I know. Once someone asked me if I was crazy for running in the “bad” part of town. The people in the “bad” part of town are my biggest supporters. They yell out and ask what mile I am on when I run by them. At one house there is a group that sits in chairs in the yard and say things like, “you got a good pace this morning” or “you need to pump it up a little, you dragging!” Never judge a book by its cover. In fact, there is no reason to judge people at all. Jesus has that under control. There is no reason for you to micromanage his job.
9. Speaking of Jesus, I have Come to Jesus Meetings on extremely long runs and rides. A Come to Jesus Meeting occurs when you have reached your physical and emotional limit, and you still have more miles to go. Every disappointment in your life creeps back up and your body is trying to tell you to quit. You have to tell yourself to keep going no matter what, and your mind has to be stronger than your body. Every person reaches highs and lows throughout life. When I run a half marathon I know when I have reached mile six because my body relaxes and the miles pass easier. Mile 11 is horrible. When I did 70 miles last week the highs and lows were the same, and the frequency of the lows came much faster in the end – along with the highs. A friend once sent me a quote one night when she knew I had a long run the next morning. “When you have reached your limit, dig down and ask yourself if you can give a little more. The answer is usually yes.” I had to repeat to myself over and over that I could give a little more. That quote doesn’t just work in running. It has served me well in more than just the relationship I have with the road. I learned that with every high, there will come a low. With every low, there will eventually be a high. I thrive in dragging myself from the low to the high.
10. Never look at your race picture. I do thrive in dragging myself from the low to the high, but I damn sure do not want a picture of it. Feel like you have an extra 10 pounds on you? Try having a picture taken of you with that 10 pounds flapping in the breeze and then put in on the internet. EVERYONE can see it. Even the limping grandma….
Thank you for reading my post. I hope this makes you feel a little bit better about yourself.
1. I am still afraid of the dark. Once I found myself running Nix Creek after the sun had gone down. I had planned on being home by that time, but for some reason I was still a few miles from the house. While I was running I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. I distinctly remember being in my grandparents house one night as a child and trying to make it from my bedroom to the bathroom in the hall in the pitch blackness of that house. I really had to pee but I was terrified. If someone on Nix Creek had said BOO I would have pissed all over my fancy running skirt and screamed like a little girl…
2. There is nothing you and the big man upstairs cannot take care of during a 7 hour bike ride and run. Those monks have the right idea. I have told people before that I ask God many questions while on long runs and rides. Sometimes I get an answer at mile 4. Sometimes I get an answer at mile 40, and sometimes I do not get an answer. When I do not get an answer, it means I didn’t need one, or that I wasn’t ready for the answer anyway.
3. Hotels have the best bathrooms. Seriously. They always have toilet paper and are clean. If you have ever traveled with small children and were worried they would catch Meningitis from a gas station restroom, remember this tip. And yes I will smooth rollup in there all stinky and sweaty and use the facilities, but I still think it is trashy to use the hotel pool if you are not staying there.
4. If something bothers you just a little bit in the beginning, it will drive you insane in the end. A sock bunched up the wrong way will slightly irritate you at mile 5. At mile 25 it will feel like torture. I know I have certain “traits” and “habits” that hubs used to think were cute and endearing when I was 20…..
5. When I run races I find people to beat. If I am running a 5K I find someone after the first mile and try to pass them by the next mile. I am like a lion. Not because I am king or anything, but because I pick out the old and sick…. I know my limits. I will not outrun the 22 year old that is built like a brick shit house. The 70 year old with a slight limp – I have a chance.
6.I train a lot. I exercise a lot. I put a ton of time and energy into this hobby of mine. When I actually run a race or do a triathlon, I rank somewhere close to the bottom of my age group. I could care less. I will never be the fastest. I will never compete in Boston or Kona. I will never run a large corporation, or make six figures a year. There will always be someone smarter, prettier, faster, and stronger. I compete with myself. I beat down my demons one step at a time, and push myself beyond what I thought was an obstacle in the past. "The highest form of competition is self-competition, and I was proving to be the cruelest of opponents, ruthlessly demanding more of myself, relentlessly doing battle with the road, with my own body, with my mind.
Pain was my weapon of choice." Dean Karnazes
7. Always pee before you leave the house.
8. I am making a generalization here and please don’t take it out of context. People in nice cars get pissed you are on their road and they have to wait sometimes to go around you. The less fortunate cheer you on. I have been flipped off by a person in a Lexus because I was in the road running, and no other reason. An Oldsmobile with the trunk tied down and black smoke rolling out the back once slowed down and gave me plenty of room. The lady on the passenger side hung out the window and screamed, “Get it Girl! I am PROUD OF YOU BABY!” I drive a nice car and so do most of the people I know. Once someone asked me if I was crazy for running in the “bad” part of town. The people in the “bad” part of town are my biggest supporters. They yell out and ask what mile I am on when I run by them. At one house there is a group that sits in chairs in the yard and say things like, “you got a good pace this morning” or “you need to pump it up a little, you dragging!” Never judge a book by its cover. In fact, there is no reason to judge people at all. Jesus has that under control. There is no reason for you to micromanage his job.
9. Speaking of Jesus, I have Come to Jesus Meetings on extremely long runs and rides. A Come to Jesus Meeting occurs when you have reached your physical and emotional limit, and you still have more miles to go. Every disappointment in your life creeps back up and your body is trying to tell you to quit. You have to tell yourself to keep going no matter what, and your mind has to be stronger than your body. Every person reaches highs and lows throughout life. When I run a half marathon I know when I have reached mile six because my body relaxes and the miles pass easier. Mile 11 is horrible. When I did 70 miles last week the highs and lows were the same, and the frequency of the lows came much faster in the end – along with the highs. A friend once sent me a quote one night when she knew I had a long run the next morning. “When you have reached your limit, dig down and ask yourself if you can give a little more. The answer is usually yes.” I had to repeat to myself over and over that I could give a little more. That quote doesn’t just work in running. It has served me well in more than just the relationship I have with the road. I learned that with every high, there will come a low. With every low, there will eventually be a high. I thrive in dragging myself from the low to the high.
10. Never look at your race picture. I do thrive in dragging myself from the low to the high, but I damn sure do not want a picture of it. Feel like you have an extra 10 pounds on you? Try having a picture taken of you with that 10 pounds flapping in the breeze and then put in on the internet. EVERYONE can see it. Even the limping grandma….
Thank you for reading my post. I hope this makes you feel a little bit better about yourself.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
REK
This weekend I went to the Robert Earl Keen concert in Linden, TX. Did I love it? Yes. Did I dance my little butt off? Yes. In the beginning of the night I had a blonde sitting in my lap and she danced and sang. Then she got a little tired and started complaining. She finally moaned and complained until she just passed out. No it wasn’t Lacy, it was my youngest child.
We took all of the kids to the concert mainly because they know all of the words to his songs. That and we didn’t have a babysitter. We had a wonderful time and he sounded just like he did years ago when I first heard him. It was a festival in downtown Texarkana when I sat for hours and laughed at his songs and commentary. The next time I heard he was coming into town I was fired up about seeing him in concert again for many different reasons.
One was that my second child was about to be 9 months old. I had weaned him, lost all my baby weight, and my hair had grown out again after I cut it shorter when he was born. On a side note, I got knocked up again 2 months later. Got to watch it when you bring sexy back. I was also so fired up because everyone in the family had just recovered from a stomach virus. It is never good to help a houseful of little and big people vomit all over your house, especially when one of them is three and cannot make it to the bathroom. I remember her throwing up all in my bed, hair, and on the wall one night.
I was ready to party! We were at a club in town which later burned down. We were all sitting around and I finally got a beer. The opening act was on stage and I took one nice long drink of that cold, cold beer. I made the comment that I was the only person in the family who had not been throwing up the past week. I decided to walk back to the bathroom before REK started to play.
I do not know what the onset of Cholera feels like, but I was damn sure my body was riddled with it by the time I made it into the bathroom. I am certainly not above throwing up in a bar bathroom. I have been known to do it before under completely different circumstances, but this was miserable. I was in a cold sweat and could not get up and away from that nasty assed toilet. I finally told someone to tell my husband I needed to go home – now.
He called his father to come get me. He stood out front with me until his father arrived (in his robe and house shoes). I was barfing by the front door like I was at a damn pledge party when I heard “that Buckin’ Song” being played onstage. To top it all off I was a preschool teacher at the local private school at the time. I don’t know what was worse. People who I knew assuming Miss Melanie was drunk off her ass before the concert even started and was throwing up outside a bar, or that NO ONE raised an eyebrow over it.
It was all worth it when I saw all my kids this weekend perk up when they heard Shery Was A Waitress at the Only Joint in Town.
Thanks for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
We took all of the kids to the concert mainly because they know all of the words to his songs. That and we didn’t have a babysitter. We had a wonderful time and he sounded just like he did years ago when I first heard him. It was a festival in downtown Texarkana when I sat for hours and laughed at his songs and commentary. The next time I heard he was coming into town I was fired up about seeing him in concert again for many different reasons.
One was that my second child was about to be 9 months old. I had weaned him, lost all my baby weight, and my hair had grown out again after I cut it shorter when he was born. On a side note, I got knocked up again 2 months later. Got to watch it when you bring sexy back. I was also so fired up because everyone in the family had just recovered from a stomach virus. It is never good to help a houseful of little and big people vomit all over your house, especially when one of them is three and cannot make it to the bathroom. I remember her throwing up all in my bed, hair, and on the wall one night.
I was ready to party! We were at a club in town which later burned down. We were all sitting around and I finally got a beer. The opening act was on stage and I took one nice long drink of that cold, cold beer. I made the comment that I was the only person in the family who had not been throwing up the past week. I decided to walk back to the bathroom before REK started to play.
I do not know what the onset of Cholera feels like, but I was damn sure my body was riddled with it by the time I made it into the bathroom. I am certainly not above throwing up in a bar bathroom. I have been known to do it before under completely different circumstances, but this was miserable. I was in a cold sweat and could not get up and away from that nasty assed toilet. I finally told someone to tell my husband I needed to go home – now.
He called his father to come get me. He stood out front with me until his father arrived (in his robe and house shoes). I was barfing by the front door like I was at a damn pledge party when I heard “that Buckin’ Song” being played onstage. To top it all off I was a preschool teacher at the local private school at the time. I don’t know what was worse. People who I knew assuming Miss Melanie was drunk off her ass before the concert even started and was throwing up outside a bar, or that NO ONE raised an eyebrow over it.
It was all worth it when I saw all my kids this weekend perk up when they heard Shery Was A Waitress at the Only Joint in Town.
Thanks for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Retirement
I, like most people, had two sets of grandparents. On my father’s side I had Papaw Yancey (Charlie) and Gertrude. I only knew Gertrude as my grandmother because they were married around the same time I was born. My Father’s mother died when he was nine from breast cancer, and she left behind 4 other children as well. Ladies, check yo self.
When I am extremely stressed at work I think about Papaw Yancey. At his funeral, the written program pretty much summed him up in two sentences. “Charlie was a barber and a Baptist. In his retirement he liked to fish, camp, and visit.”
Oh hell yeah! I cannot wait to be retired so I can fish, camp, and visit. I am good at all three of those things! I might even change it up sometimes and visit, camp, and then fish! SHIT that will be fun.
I have a list of many things I would like to do when I retire. Like no longer having to kiss ass like I do here at work. That would be a nice change of pace. Just wear knee highs with my dresses. Let my facial hair grow with wild abandon. And bitch at every restaurant, store, and event I go to about some tiny problem I have.
I want to sit on the furniture at museums even though there are signs everywhere. Maybe eat dinner at 4:30, with my senior citizen discount. I know it sounds like I have this all planned out, but that is because I do.
Lacy and I plan to have an RV together with a young and handsome driver. Since both of our 401K’s are in the crapper, we might have to rethink that. I want to be sitting in my kitchen reading the paper and notice there is a free blood pressure check somewhere in town and know that will make my day. Lacy and I (because we will be living together regardless) will run and jump in my 4629 foot long Cadillac and high tail it to Caroline’s house. We will lay on the horn in her driveway and scream, “Get Your Shit and Come On!” until she finally drags her ass out of there wearing that damn visor. Still.
I will say whatever I think. I will have an ever present lit cigarette dangling from my lips, because if I make it to age 70 I am picking that habit right back up again. I will sleep in church. I will go through menopause and get really, really big and just not care. I might even start drinking whiskey again, but in small doses. Small doses means I will ask for” just a touch” over and over again until my glass is full.
Who am I kidding? I will hopefully still be running. I cannot wait to have grandchildren, and I would like a Mercedes – not a Cadillac. I am sure I will not be sitting on the furniture in any museums as I will still be working in mine. I am sure Lacy and I will take a few trips in our RV, but we will let Caroline drive. I will be a sweet loving grandmother who volunteers and writes blogs about her life.
But I am dead serious about the smoking.
When I am extremely stressed at work I think about Papaw Yancey. At his funeral, the written program pretty much summed him up in two sentences. “Charlie was a barber and a Baptist. In his retirement he liked to fish, camp, and visit.”
Oh hell yeah! I cannot wait to be retired so I can fish, camp, and visit. I am good at all three of those things! I might even change it up sometimes and visit, camp, and then fish! SHIT that will be fun.
I have a list of many things I would like to do when I retire. Like no longer having to kiss ass like I do here at work. That would be a nice change of pace. Just wear knee highs with my dresses. Let my facial hair grow with wild abandon. And bitch at every restaurant, store, and event I go to about some tiny problem I have.
I want to sit on the furniture at museums even though there are signs everywhere. Maybe eat dinner at 4:30, with my senior citizen discount. I know it sounds like I have this all planned out, but that is because I do.
Lacy and I plan to have an RV together with a young and handsome driver. Since both of our 401K’s are in the crapper, we might have to rethink that. I want to be sitting in my kitchen reading the paper and notice there is a free blood pressure check somewhere in town and know that will make my day. Lacy and I (because we will be living together regardless) will run and jump in my 4629 foot long Cadillac and high tail it to Caroline’s house. We will lay on the horn in her driveway and scream, “Get Your Shit and Come On!” until she finally drags her ass out of there wearing that damn visor. Still.
I will say whatever I think. I will have an ever present lit cigarette dangling from my lips, because if I make it to age 70 I am picking that habit right back up again. I will sleep in church. I will go through menopause and get really, really big and just not care. I might even start drinking whiskey again, but in small doses. Small doses means I will ask for” just a touch” over and over again until my glass is full.
Who am I kidding? I will hopefully still be running. I cannot wait to have grandchildren, and I would like a Mercedes – not a Cadillac. I am sure I will not be sitting on the furniture in any museums as I will still be working in mine. I am sure Lacy and I will take a few trips in our RV, but we will let Caroline drive. I will be a sweet loving grandmother who volunteers and writes blogs about her life.
But I am dead serious about the smoking.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Stupid things I have done
I've done plenty of dumb stuff in my life. I've also done plenty of stuff I am not proud of either. I won't talk about those things I am not proud of on here though. One reason is that my mother is still alive, and I'd like to keep her that way. The other is that Facebook would shut down because this blog would have so many hits. For now we can just stick with a few of the stupid things I have done while just rolling through life.
In high school the main building on our campus had four flights of stairs. While on the top floor I saw a boy at the bottom who I had been trying to impress. I tried my best to think of something cool to get his attention. I rolled out with, "Hey there!". He looked up at me and told me to come on down and talk to him. It had been raining so the stairs were slick and I slipped, twisted,and fell the entire way down all four flights.
At my freshman year of college you registered for class by filling out little bubbles on a sheet. I didn't bring my reading glasses to registration so my ass ended up in Air Force ROTC.
Clogs were never meant to be worn by real people. I was on the patio of the infamous JR's Lightbulb club and decided to go inside. One of my clogs broke and I fell down the steps. Thankfully there was a pool table to break my fall. I was on a date. A first date. There was no second date.
I was once arrested by campus security while on a date. He never called again.
Just because you think you know how to hook the jet ski trailer to your minivan and you tell your husband that damnit you do know how to hook the jet ski trailer to your minivan does not mean you really do know how to hook the jet ski trailer to your minivan. I drug that son of a bitch half way down State Line Avenue before I saw the sparks flying. I did have the safety chains attached so it really only weaved in my lane of traffic.
My assignment once when I worked for girl scouts was to make bath salts for a large group. I rounded up a list of ingredients and bought bags for the moms and girls to fill. Baking soda is a natural way to exfoliate your skin. Glycerin is a base for most soap. Yeah, I had girl scouts making bombs. I got calls for days about bags of bath salts exploding in cars, purses, and bathrooms.
Baking soda reacts with all kinds of crap. Never brush your teeth with baking soda toothpaste and then use your peroxide mouthwash. I was foaming at the mouth, and drinking water to get rid of it just made the whole damn experience worse. And no I wasn't in college, because this was about three years ago.
That means I will have many more years of material for this blog.
In high school the main building on our campus had four flights of stairs. While on the top floor I saw a boy at the bottom who I had been trying to impress. I tried my best to think of something cool to get his attention. I rolled out with, "Hey there!". He looked up at me and told me to come on down and talk to him. It had been raining so the stairs were slick and I slipped, twisted,and fell the entire way down all four flights.
At my freshman year of college you registered for class by filling out little bubbles on a sheet. I didn't bring my reading glasses to registration so my ass ended up in Air Force ROTC.
Clogs were never meant to be worn by real people. I was on the patio of the infamous JR's Lightbulb club and decided to go inside. One of my clogs broke and I fell down the steps. Thankfully there was a pool table to break my fall. I was on a date. A first date. There was no second date.
I was once arrested by campus security while on a date. He never called again.
Just because you think you know how to hook the jet ski trailer to your minivan and you tell your husband that damnit you do know how to hook the jet ski trailer to your minivan does not mean you really do know how to hook the jet ski trailer to your minivan. I drug that son of a bitch half way down State Line Avenue before I saw the sparks flying. I did have the safety chains attached so it really only weaved in my lane of traffic.
My assignment once when I worked for girl scouts was to make bath salts for a large group. I rounded up a list of ingredients and bought bags for the moms and girls to fill. Baking soda is a natural way to exfoliate your skin. Glycerin is a base for most soap. Yeah, I had girl scouts making bombs. I got calls for days about bags of bath salts exploding in cars, purses, and bathrooms.
Baking soda reacts with all kinds of crap. Never brush your teeth with baking soda toothpaste and then use your peroxide mouthwash. I was foaming at the mouth, and drinking water to get rid of it just made the whole damn experience worse. And no I wasn't in college, because this was about three years ago.
That means I will have many more years of material for this blog.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
My Permanent Memory
When I was about seven I found a roll of money in my Grandmother’s top drawer.
When I was little my grandparents would spend half of the year in Tennessee on the farm and the other half in Florida. Sometimes on the way through Mississippi they would pick me up and I would ride with them in the RV. Well actually I would ride in that front part that was over the top and when I looked out the front window it felt like I was flying. Safety first. My Grandparents, Edith and Scott, lived next to Grandma’s sister and brother in Tennessee, and they also lived next to them in Florida. Aunt Ruby, Aunt Joyce, and Uncle Buster all lived within 2 blocks of each other in either location. I always thought it was normal.
I also always thought it was normal for your grandmother to have a small beauty parlor in her utility room. My Mamaw did. She was actually pretty hot shit in rural Tennessee in the 40’s and 50’s to be a woman who owned her own beauty parlor and beauty school. She just kept it as a hobby when she retired and moved down to Florida. Or so I thought.
Evidently Mamaw and Aunt Joyce were in business together in Florida because Aunt Joyce had a full blown salon in her garage. They had sinks, stations with mirrors, and a damn wall of dryers. Little old ladies would come in groups to get a wash, set, and curl on Thursdays and Fridays. They also gave permanents. Not some pansy assed perm; a PERMANENT. High and tight baby, high and tight. That place was hopping with Mamaw and Aunt Joyce working on all these ladies. Aunt Ruby, who had been a nurse in the Navy and a widow for 40 years, didn’t do hair. She was in charge of hospitality, or as she called it – “Visiting”. I would sit and watch all of these women talk and carry on for hours while I folded towels. Then that place would go silent at 11:00 when Young and the Restless came on T.V. I mean not a word for an hour. Mamaw must have been making money left and right in that shop in order to have all that cash in her drawer.
Until they got busted. Yes the po po came to shut down the illegal beauty shop in the retirement community. Evidently they didn’t have permit number one and sure as hell weren’t paying any tax. Aunt Joyce was mortified when they put police tape across the garage Uncle Buster had worked so hard to enclose for her. They also ranted and raved about who called in the tip. Some thought it was Pearl down the street. A real conspiracy theorist thought it was Aunt Garnett, although that got shot down pretty quick. They were madder than hell for a few weeks, and then they calmed down.
And started doing hair in Mamaw’s utility room instead…
As always thank you for reading my post. I hope you feel a little better about yourself…and your Mamaw.
When I was little my grandparents would spend half of the year in Tennessee on the farm and the other half in Florida. Sometimes on the way through Mississippi they would pick me up and I would ride with them in the RV. Well actually I would ride in that front part that was over the top and when I looked out the front window it felt like I was flying. Safety first. My Grandparents, Edith and Scott, lived next to Grandma’s sister and brother in Tennessee, and they also lived next to them in Florida. Aunt Ruby, Aunt Joyce, and Uncle Buster all lived within 2 blocks of each other in either location. I always thought it was normal.
I also always thought it was normal for your grandmother to have a small beauty parlor in her utility room. My Mamaw did. She was actually pretty hot shit in rural Tennessee in the 40’s and 50’s to be a woman who owned her own beauty parlor and beauty school. She just kept it as a hobby when she retired and moved down to Florida. Or so I thought.
Evidently Mamaw and Aunt Joyce were in business together in Florida because Aunt Joyce had a full blown salon in her garage. They had sinks, stations with mirrors, and a damn wall of dryers. Little old ladies would come in groups to get a wash, set, and curl on Thursdays and Fridays. They also gave permanents. Not some pansy assed perm; a PERMANENT. High and tight baby, high and tight. That place was hopping with Mamaw and Aunt Joyce working on all these ladies. Aunt Ruby, who had been a nurse in the Navy and a widow for 40 years, didn’t do hair. She was in charge of hospitality, or as she called it – “Visiting”. I would sit and watch all of these women talk and carry on for hours while I folded towels. Then that place would go silent at 11:00 when Young and the Restless came on T.V. I mean not a word for an hour. Mamaw must have been making money left and right in that shop in order to have all that cash in her drawer.
Until they got busted. Yes the po po came to shut down the illegal beauty shop in the retirement community. Evidently they didn’t have permit number one and sure as hell weren’t paying any tax. Aunt Joyce was mortified when they put police tape across the garage Uncle Buster had worked so hard to enclose for her. They also ranted and raved about who called in the tip. Some thought it was Pearl down the street. A real conspiracy theorist thought it was Aunt Garnett, although that got shot down pretty quick. They were madder than hell for a few weeks, and then they calmed down.
And started doing hair in Mamaw’s utility room instead…
As always thank you for reading my post. I hope you feel a little better about yourself…and your Mamaw.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Rotten
Are my kids spoiled? I usually run a pretty tight ship so normally my response would be no. Last weekend we spent 4 days on the lake. We have a ski boat and a fancy tube with enough room for all the kids, or so we thought. We also had our cousins and some friends as well so we added another tube. They said their legs and knees hurt, their tummies were being bounced around too much, and they wanted to be on the other tube. We let that go for one day and then hubs told them how it used to be...
"Grandpa and Uncle Larry drug us all over this lake on actual inner tubes. They were black and scalded your skin. We didn't have anything to hold on to, we just wrapped out arms around the whole tube and hoped for the best. There was a spout that would constantly spray water in your face and they used a ski rope to tie the tube so the handle slapped you in the head too. They drug us around buoys, stumps in the water, and skimmed us by the bridge pillars. THEY NEVER TURNED AROUND TO CHECK ON US. If you complained you were sent back to your hot assed tent. And all of this was done from a four foot wide Bass Tracker. No ski boat for us. WE LOVED IT!"
After this monologue, every kid stopped complaining. For about fifteen minutes.
On the way home they asked what we were doing the next weekend. I explained to them that when I was a kid we cleaned the house on the weekends, then we mowed the yard like it was the White House Garden. After that we might shovel gravel in the drive or mulch flower beds. In the fall we went to every Mississippi State football game. No tailgating, no visiting with friends like you enjoy. We would roll up to the game and listen to my Dad bitch about parking. Dad would hardly say a word and only stand up when it was third and long. Even then it was in silence with his arms crossed. Your Nana would scream nonstop for 4 quarters straight. Then on the way home we would listen to the post game commentary on the radio and listen to my Dad say,"Defense my aching ass!" Good Times!
My children enjoy weekends at the lake, football games with food, friends, and too much money to by them crap in both places. I would get a coke at the game and then had to take the plastic cup home since one of my sisters would need it in their apartment.
Next weekend I think I'll get a truck bed full of gravel for our driveway for the kids to shovel and spread. Our driveway is asphalt, but I think I'll just do it for shits and giggles.
"Grandpa and Uncle Larry drug us all over this lake on actual inner tubes. They were black and scalded your skin. We didn't have anything to hold on to, we just wrapped out arms around the whole tube and hoped for the best. There was a spout that would constantly spray water in your face and they used a ski rope to tie the tube so the handle slapped you in the head too. They drug us around buoys, stumps in the water, and skimmed us by the bridge pillars. THEY NEVER TURNED AROUND TO CHECK ON US. If you complained you were sent back to your hot assed tent. And all of this was done from a four foot wide Bass Tracker. No ski boat for us. WE LOVED IT!"
After this monologue, every kid stopped complaining. For about fifteen minutes.
On the way home they asked what we were doing the next weekend. I explained to them that when I was a kid we cleaned the house on the weekends, then we mowed the yard like it was the White House Garden. After that we might shovel gravel in the drive or mulch flower beds. In the fall we went to every Mississippi State football game. No tailgating, no visiting with friends like you enjoy. We would roll up to the game and listen to my Dad bitch about parking. Dad would hardly say a word and only stand up when it was third and long. Even then it was in silence with his arms crossed. Your Nana would scream nonstop for 4 quarters straight. Then on the way home we would listen to the post game commentary on the radio and listen to my Dad say,"Defense my aching ass!" Good Times!
My children enjoy weekends at the lake, football games with food, friends, and too much money to by them crap in both places. I would get a coke at the game and then had to take the plastic cup home since one of my sisters would need it in their apartment.
Next weekend I think I'll get a truck bed full of gravel for our driveway for the kids to shovel and spread. Our driveway is asphalt, but I think I'll just do it for shits and giggles.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Schedule
Every morning I have certain rituals I like to go through before I start my day. If those rituals falter or change in any way, there is a chance I will be extremely bitchy slightly uncomfortable for the rest of the day. Here is my list and it goes like this….
The alarm on my iphone goes off and I quickly turn it off so as not to wake hubs. I truly try to not wake him on the days I run before dawn. I distinctly remember telling him many years ago that if he woke me up when he left to go hunting I would meet him at the door with a knife when he returned home. Or something sweet like that…
Once I put on my running shorts and multiple sports bras, I promptly check my email. I guess I think Michelle Obama will *finally* send me a message one day asking for fashion advice. I then move on to Facebook to see what happens in the world after 8:30 when I go to bed. By this time I am usually making my one cup of coffee with the same amount of fake sugar and skim milk every day. It NEVER changes, and I am just fine with that. Some people call it an obsessive rut. I like to refer to it as “tradition”.
This is where the plan sometimes falls apart. Take this morning for instance. I could not find a ponytail holder. My youngest daughter loves to keep a small arsenal of ponytail holders around her wrist at all times. I snuck into her room and gingerly removed one from her arm. I felt bad for taking the chance on waking her up, but at least my neck wasn’t so hot. Mother of the Year. Again.
My next dilemma was the toothbrush. I knew that if I ventured back into my bedroom and woke up hubs I might as well go sign a short term lease at the apartment complex down the street. My only option was to find a spare toothbrush in the other bathrooms. I found one that appeared to be fairly new and was not caked with hardened Spiderman toothpaste. Knowing how stuff goes down in my house, I had a feeling there was slight chance this toothbrush was not clean. Hell, there was a slight chance this toothbrush had been on the dog’s ass. Who am I kidding? I finally just dove into it and brushed my teeth with the hottest water I could stand. I grabbed my ipod, stretched my legs, and started to head out the door. That’s where the dog gave me a visual guilt trip for leaving him behind.
Or maybe he was just mad that I used his ass scratcher.
The alarm on my iphone goes off and I quickly turn it off so as not to wake hubs. I truly try to not wake him on the days I run before dawn. I distinctly remember telling him many years ago that if he woke me up when he left to go hunting I would meet him at the door with a knife when he returned home. Or something sweet like that…
Once I put on my running shorts and multiple sports bras, I promptly check my email. I guess I think Michelle Obama will *finally* send me a message one day asking for fashion advice. I then move on to Facebook to see what happens in the world after 8:30 when I go to bed. By this time I am usually making my one cup of coffee with the same amount of fake sugar and skim milk every day. It NEVER changes, and I am just fine with that. Some people call it an obsessive rut. I like to refer to it as “tradition”.
This is where the plan sometimes falls apart. Take this morning for instance. I could not find a ponytail holder. My youngest daughter loves to keep a small arsenal of ponytail holders around her wrist at all times. I snuck into her room and gingerly removed one from her arm. I felt bad for taking the chance on waking her up, but at least my neck wasn’t so hot. Mother of the Year. Again.
My next dilemma was the toothbrush. I knew that if I ventured back into my bedroom and woke up hubs I might as well go sign a short term lease at the apartment complex down the street. My only option was to find a spare toothbrush in the other bathrooms. I found one that appeared to be fairly new and was not caked with hardened Spiderman toothpaste. Knowing how stuff goes down in my house, I had a feeling there was slight chance this toothbrush was not clean. Hell, there was a slight chance this toothbrush had been on the dog’s ass. Who am I kidding? I finally just dove into it and brushed my teeth with the hottest water I could stand. I grabbed my ipod, stretched my legs, and started to head out the door. That’s where the dog gave me a visual guilt trip for leaving him behind.
Or maybe he was just mad that I used his ass scratcher.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sticks and Stones
I was called a ball of fire today.
That has always irked me to no end. Fircracker, spitfire, ball of fire – they are all the same. When I was a baby, my parents were worried that the large Collie dog we had would bully me or some way hurt me as I was crawling around the house. My father told the story of how one day he came home from work to find the dog up against the wall behind me as I was eating his food from the bowl. I was probably about eight months old, and from then on my father called me Fat Cat.
The New York Times defines Fat Cat as people who are able to "buy access, influence policy and even veto appointments." Really Dad? Thanks! He meant it as a term of endearment, since he said after that day he knew I could get whatever I wanted out of life. I think I was just hungry. Good thing I didn’t try to drink from the toilet. No telling where I would have ended up in life.
I heard people tell my parents that I sure was “a ball of fire”, or “one that will keep you on your toes”. I have been called similar things at work by people who meant it as a compliment. Once I was in a meeting where I had to draw a line about what money rightfully belonged to the museum. As I was leaving I heard someone say, “Lord, I feel for her husband”. I kept a smile on my face and told jokes while I was putting my foot down, so I don’t know if that remark was an insult or not. I think he just really felt sorry for my husband and having to deal with my spirited ass all the time.
It is odd how people perceive you. I feel like a shy person who has self doubt. That’s a far cry from a fire cracker.
A few years ago a person with whom I was battling over some museum property called me a cold hearted bitch. Oddly enough that rolled off my back. Another time a man was trying to intimidate me into backing down over a building dispute. Even though he was bigger than the Jolly Green Giant and uglier than sin, I still stood my ground. When he was spouting off at the mouth I put my hands on my hips and smiled sweetly as I said, “Bring it.” He changed his tune and left with a much better attitude.
I am sure people mean it in a good way, but it still troubles me. Does anyone else really give a shit? No.
People have a perception of you which can be very different than what you feel inside. While I still cannot stand the phrase “ball o fire”, I need to learn to take it as a compliment. We all should push that dog against the wall, channel our inner Miss Piggy, and light a fire.
That has always irked me to no end. Fircracker, spitfire, ball of fire – they are all the same. When I was a baby, my parents were worried that the large Collie dog we had would bully me or some way hurt me as I was crawling around the house. My father told the story of how one day he came home from work to find the dog up against the wall behind me as I was eating his food from the bowl. I was probably about eight months old, and from then on my father called me Fat Cat.
The New York Times defines Fat Cat as people who are able to "buy access, influence policy and even veto appointments." Really Dad? Thanks! He meant it as a term of endearment, since he said after that day he knew I could get whatever I wanted out of life. I think I was just hungry. Good thing I didn’t try to drink from the toilet. No telling where I would have ended up in life.
I heard people tell my parents that I sure was “a ball of fire”, or “one that will keep you on your toes”. I have been called similar things at work by people who meant it as a compliment. Once I was in a meeting where I had to draw a line about what money rightfully belonged to the museum. As I was leaving I heard someone say, “Lord, I feel for her husband”. I kept a smile on my face and told jokes while I was putting my foot down, so I don’t know if that remark was an insult or not. I think he just really felt sorry for my husband and having to deal with my spirited ass all the time.
It is odd how people perceive you. I feel like a shy person who has self doubt. That’s a far cry from a fire cracker.
A few years ago a person with whom I was battling over some museum property called me a cold hearted bitch. Oddly enough that rolled off my back. Another time a man was trying to intimidate me into backing down over a building dispute. Even though he was bigger than the Jolly Green Giant and uglier than sin, I still stood my ground. When he was spouting off at the mouth I put my hands on my hips and smiled sweetly as I said, “Bring it.” He changed his tune and left with a much better attitude.
I am sure people mean it in a good way, but it still troubles me. Does anyone else really give a shit? No.
People have a perception of you which can be very different than what you feel inside. While I still cannot stand the phrase “ball o fire”, I need to learn to take it as a compliment. We all should push that dog against the wall, channel our inner Miss Piggy, and light a fire.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Picture Perfect
I was looking through my pictures and realized that I never add pictures to my blog. A picture really says a thousand words. Then I tried to upload these damn things to this blog and have since given tech support a piece of my mind. easy uploader my ass.
It's not white trash if you only do it on holidays.
"My personal tragedy will not affect my ability to do good hair." Why I don't fix my daughter's hair. And why I am not the best wife by the looks of that trashcan in the background.
"I will beat you like the ugly dog you are if you chew up these shoes like you did those green ones. Yes I will. I will beat you."
"I'll go shit on the carpet instead. No biggie"
You think your life is a crazy three ring circus? I have a small stuffed lamb named Weasely that goes with us everywhere. Weasely likes to photobomb. Top that.
What's funnier? The back of the car in front of me? or the amazing amount of crap on my dashboard? You be the judge.
Please let this be exhibit A in my insanity hearing.
Obviously our cat has discovered "the other white meat"
Kid free weekend Betty Ford Style. I AM JOKING!
Sadly how I go through most of my life.
You are born with class. It cannot be acquired.
DITTO
It's not white trash if you only do it on holidays.
"My personal tragedy will not affect my ability to do good hair." Why I don't fix my daughter's hair. And why I am not the best wife by the looks of that trashcan in the background.
"I will beat you like the ugly dog you are if you chew up these shoes like you did those green ones. Yes I will. I will beat you."
"I'll go shit on the carpet instead. No biggie"
You think your life is a crazy three ring circus? I have a small stuffed lamb named Weasely that goes with us everywhere. Weasely likes to photobomb. Top that.
What's funnier? The back of the car in front of me? or the amazing amount of crap on my dashboard? You be the judge.
Please let this be exhibit A in my insanity hearing.
Obviously our cat has discovered "the other white meat"
Kid free weekend Betty Ford Style. I AM JOKING!
Sadly how I go through most of my life.
You are born with class. It cannot be acquired.
DITTO
Monday, August 22, 2011
weighing in
I am once again working harder on my weight loss.
I should really say that I will quit eating crap while pretending to work on my weight loss. When you sustain yourself on a diet of beer and oysters for 4 days on a trip, your weight tends to reflect it when you get home.
Weight Watchers is the best program I have ever used, and I can tell you the approximate point value of any food on the planet. I know that lots of things are zero points, like individual jello servings, and air. What makes it easier is when you have someone else doing the program with you. Not so great though when they get more points than you do on any given day.
“Oh, you still have 20 points left for the day? That’s nice. I am at zero points left for the day so I’m going to eat 15 jello servings and run my tongue down in the plastic container in order to get every single ounce left in there. Then I will take half a Tylenol PM in order to make me sleep so I can finally quit thinking about eating. “
Writing this I come to the realization I am like a tiger that has to be shot with a tranquilizer gun in order to stop attacking prey - Although my prey is Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and not a wildebeest. Same difference.
While attempting to make my diet tea at the office this morning, I notice the water cooler has slowed down to a trickle. I decide I can take matters into my own hands and change out the water. While I am dragging the large and hefty water barrel across the carpeted room in my high heels and dress pants, I hear a rip. I just split my pants? To God, my maker, my leader and listener in troubled times, I can only say – “Really Dude? It’s Monday!”
Thank goodness no one was around when I put my head between my legs in a yoga move in order to survey the damage. Nothing says “leadership” from a boss like putting yourself into a pretzel in order to look at your own ass. The hole is rather small, which is good considering I don’t have time to go home and change. I can just cover the hole by carrying my oversized purse in a certain way when I walk. Instead of people seeing the hole I ripped, they will just assume I have sharted in my white pants from the Gap. PROBLEM SOLVED.
I should really say that I will quit eating crap while pretending to work on my weight loss. When you sustain yourself on a diet of beer and oysters for 4 days on a trip, your weight tends to reflect it when you get home.
Weight Watchers is the best program I have ever used, and I can tell you the approximate point value of any food on the planet. I know that lots of things are zero points, like individual jello servings, and air. What makes it easier is when you have someone else doing the program with you. Not so great though when they get more points than you do on any given day.
“Oh, you still have 20 points left for the day? That’s nice. I am at zero points left for the day so I’m going to eat 15 jello servings and run my tongue down in the plastic container in order to get every single ounce left in there. Then I will take half a Tylenol PM in order to make me sleep so I can finally quit thinking about eating. “
Writing this I come to the realization I am like a tiger that has to be shot with a tranquilizer gun in order to stop attacking prey - Although my prey is Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and not a wildebeest. Same difference.
While attempting to make my diet tea at the office this morning, I notice the water cooler has slowed down to a trickle. I decide I can take matters into my own hands and change out the water. While I am dragging the large and hefty water barrel across the carpeted room in my high heels and dress pants, I hear a rip. I just split my pants? To God, my maker, my leader and listener in troubled times, I can only say – “Really Dude? It’s Monday!”
Thank goodness no one was around when I put my head between my legs in a yoga move in order to survey the damage. Nothing says “leadership” from a boss like putting yourself into a pretzel in order to look at your own ass. The hole is rather small, which is good considering I don’t have time to go home and change. I can just cover the hole by carrying my oversized purse in a certain way when I walk. Instead of people seeing the hole I ripped, they will just assume I have sharted in my white pants from the Gap. PROBLEM SOLVED.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Why
I’ve got less than 10 weeks until my 70.3 mile race, I am training like a fool every day. That means I am sore, dehydrated half the time, and overanalyzing all aspects of my life while logging 150 miles a week. Here are a few of the questions I ask myself while swimming, biking, and running.
Why does my cat kill birds? More so, why does my DECLAWED cat kill birds and eat them in the back yard. I guess the real question is how? Does she bitch slap them to death? Just badger them so long they have a heart attack? Drive them to drink? You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive for a cat with no claws.
How did my dog throw out his back? He is a pug who sleeps all day. It’s not like he does manual labor. He was probably jacking with that cat.
Why can’t men read minds? Can they not tell that “I’m Fine” means you are an asshole and everything you say after this will only piss me off more. When we are mad and push you away it means we really want more attention! Geez! It’s not rocket science!!!!
Why did I hook my phone up to the IPod speaker this morning and then look for my phone for 20 minutes WHILE listening to the music?
Why do people who obviously do not exercise fell the overwhelming need to give me tons of unsolicited advice about my exercising. I know these people have not run since they were on a playground, but I really think I’ve got it handled.
Why is it so damn hot? Follow me here… I do not allow my children to say the word Hate. Not even in general terms. We are very strict about how they can express perceptions about other people and the world around them. Words are meaningful. They carry. I try to set a good example for them. When Mary Margaret said, “It’s hotter than HELL” the other day I just couldn’t get on to her. She was right.
Why does the dumpster guy at work jack with us so bad? Probably because the maintenance guy jacks with him. It’s been a battle for years over where that dumpster is placed behind the museum. We have fire codes with the alley it sits in, but I think the guy just loves to move it around to get a reaction. It’s been placed facing the building so it won’t open. Leaned up against the corner. Yesterday it was smack assed in the middle of the alley. I think I’ll put the cat in that dumpster and see what happens to him after he jacks with her!
Why does my husband call when we are going out of town to tell me he is ready and waiting? He is. And I gotta go.
Thanks for reading! Hope you feel better about yourself! I do. Because I am BLOWING THIS POPSICLE STAND!
Why does my cat kill birds? More so, why does my DECLAWED cat kill birds and eat them in the back yard. I guess the real question is how? Does she bitch slap them to death? Just badger them so long they have a heart attack? Drive them to drink? You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive for a cat with no claws.
How did my dog throw out his back? He is a pug who sleeps all day. It’s not like he does manual labor. He was probably jacking with that cat.
Why can’t men read minds? Can they not tell that “I’m Fine” means you are an asshole and everything you say after this will only piss me off more. When we are mad and push you away it means we really want more attention! Geez! It’s not rocket science!!!!
Why did I hook my phone up to the IPod speaker this morning and then look for my phone for 20 minutes WHILE listening to the music?
Why do people who obviously do not exercise fell the overwhelming need to give me tons of unsolicited advice about my exercising. I know these people have not run since they were on a playground, but I really think I’ve got it handled.
Why is it so damn hot? Follow me here… I do not allow my children to say the word Hate. Not even in general terms. We are very strict about how they can express perceptions about other people and the world around them. Words are meaningful. They carry. I try to set a good example for them. When Mary Margaret said, “It’s hotter than HELL” the other day I just couldn’t get on to her. She was right.
Why does the dumpster guy at work jack with us so bad? Probably because the maintenance guy jacks with him. It’s been a battle for years over where that dumpster is placed behind the museum. We have fire codes with the alley it sits in, but I think the guy just loves to move it around to get a reaction. It’s been placed facing the building so it won’t open. Leaned up against the corner. Yesterday it was smack assed in the middle of the alley. I think I’ll put the cat in that dumpster and see what happens to him after he jacks with her!
Why does my husband call when we are going out of town to tell me he is ready and waiting? He is. And I gotta go.
Thanks for reading! Hope you feel better about yourself! I do. Because I am BLOWING THIS POPSICLE STAND!
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
River Cities Tri
1. It was suggested I not smoke while here at the Triathlon.
2. I brought lip gloss. It’s for the gator when he puts you in a death roll. You’ll look nice when Vickers comes to pick you up.
3. I plan on doing most of the swim on my back, just like I’ve floated through the rest of my life…
4. Sorry I can’t come to watch you in this triathlon thing. My Grandma’s outta Scotch and I have to deliver her a case. Sorry.
5. Rolling hills my ass.
6. You paid to do this? Have you gone completely batshit crazy?
7. Some men plum smuggle better than others I have noticed.
8. Does she have a bike in that Mini Car? Is it like some tent she throws out on the ground and it puts itself together? OMG LOOK! She is pulling bike parts out of that car. Like a damn assassin! I bet she can put that thing together with her eyes closed. Mrs. MacGyver!!!
9. You paid what for that bike? You have gone batshit crazy!
10. Next time I come to one of these things I’m gonna be more prepared. You will see a whole new me. Do the race? Oh hell no. I’m bringing a chair, fan, and a full icechest. Do the race…That’s funny.
11. I am so nasty after swimming in that mess. Andy Dufrane was cleaner when he escaped from Shawshank Prison.
2. I brought lip gloss. It’s for the gator when he puts you in a death roll. You’ll look nice when Vickers comes to pick you up.
3. I plan on doing most of the swim on my back, just like I’ve floated through the rest of my life…
4. Sorry I can’t come to watch you in this triathlon thing. My Grandma’s outta Scotch and I have to deliver her a case. Sorry.
5. Rolling hills my ass.
6. You paid to do this? Have you gone completely batshit crazy?
7. Some men plum smuggle better than others I have noticed.
8. Does she have a bike in that Mini Car? Is it like some tent she throws out on the ground and it puts itself together? OMG LOOK! She is pulling bike parts out of that car. Like a damn assassin! I bet she can put that thing together with her eyes closed. Mrs. MacGyver!!!
9. You paid what for that bike? You have gone batshit crazy!
10. Next time I come to one of these things I’m gonna be more prepared. You will see a whole new me. Do the race? Oh hell no. I’m bringing a chair, fan, and a full icechest. Do the race…That’s funny.
11. I am so nasty after swimming in that mess. Andy Dufrane was cleaner when he escaped from Shawshank Prison.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
It all makes sense
It all makes perfect sense now. After spending two weeks with my in laws, certain things about my husband are much clearer now. Why he says and does certain things and why he is the way he is.
Example 1 – While walking in Rome…
In Laws: “Do you think we should take this street to the Pantheon or go down one more?”
Me: “It’s this street I’m sure.”
In Laws: “No. No. We go down one more.”
A few minutes later…
Me: “That’s the back of the Pantheon. We are close!”
In Laws: “no.”
After we walk around the front…
In Laws: “That was the back of the Pantheon!”
Me: “I’m about to beat you both with this map.”
Why ask a question if you will not listen to the answer! Hubs does that all the time and it drives me nuts! We all have little things we do and say that we are not so proud of. I know they were ready to sacrifice me to the lions at some point in Rome, but everyone has their own quirks.
And we pass them on to our children.
My son feels he is all knowing. I have a very clear knowledge of why he feels that way. When I was little I had Weeble Wobble toys. I had the whole stinkin’ family of Webble Wobbles. One year I even got the Weeble Wobble Camper for Christmas! I snuck them into church, rode them around in the grocery cart, and played with them nonstop. What bothered me was the commercial claiming they would never fall down. I called BULLSHIT on that one and proceeded to put my Webble Wobble family through the ringer. I subjected them to a series of tests and experiments which no plastic toys should have to endure. They were lined up on the patio and sprayed with the water hose. Even though I knocked them down over and over again, they still managed to spring back up. The final test was when I secured the family down to the carpet in my room with duct tape. I made myself a little chart and checked off the box everytime I made an observation. I would check to see how long they had been taped down, go jack around outside, and then see if they were still on their backs. When I finally removed the tape, they slowly but surely teetered back to an upright position. I was wrong. I was pissed. I was five years old.
My youngest daughter is extremely shy around people she does not know. She refuses to speak when strangers in public places even though the strangers are my friends. Even at school she barely spoke in the beginning. My close friends tell me my first impression sucks. I’m too quiet and it comes off bitchy.
One morning back in 1979 after the school bus left our house my mother looked at me and asked, “What are you still doing here?” Signing me up for kindergarten was on her to do list, but with 4 kids from college age down all the way to me it got pushed to the back burner. I do not think it was any coincidence my kindergarten was 0.5 miles from our house. I think it was the first one she came to and immediately enrolled my in the program at the Church of God. For the first two weeks I didn’t speak a word. I remember hearing the teachers whisper about me. They were wondering if I had a problem. Finally one day we all had our little books in front of us and the teacher asked if anyone could read the first word. I raised my hand and proceeded to read the entire book out loud to the class. That was the end of the teacher to teacher whispers.
My sweet little shy angel of a last child experienced carpool for the first time two years ago. I knew she was in good hands and all the other neighborhood kids were great. She did not agree. One of them evidently gave her a little lip and she threw her shoe at them across the Expedition.
Summerpurse Junior. I am so proud.
thank you for reading my posts, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself
Example 1 – While walking in Rome…
In Laws: “Do you think we should take this street to the Pantheon or go down one more?”
Me: “It’s this street I’m sure.”
In Laws: “No. No. We go down one more.”
A few minutes later…
Me: “That’s the back of the Pantheon. We are close!”
In Laws: “no.”
After we walk around the front…
In Laws: “That was the back of the Pantheon!”
Me: “I’m about to beat you both with this map.”
Why ask a question if you will not listen to the answer! Hubs does that all the time and it drives me nuts! We all have little things we do and say that we are not so proud of. I know they were ready to sacrifice me to the lions at some point in Rome, but everyone has their own quirks.
And we pass them on to our children.
My son feels he is all knowing. I have a very clear knowledge of why he feels that way. When I was little I had Weeble Wobble toys. I had the whole stinkin’ family of Webble Wobbles. One year I even got the Weeble Wobble Camper for Christmas! I snuck them into church, rode them around in the grocery cart, and played with them nonstop. What bothered me was the commercial claiming they would never fall down. I called BULLSHIT on that one and proceeded to put my Webble Wobble family through the ringer. I subjected them to a series of tests and experiments which no plastic toys should have to endure. They were lined up on the patio and sprayed with the water hose. Even though I knocked them down over and over again, they still managed to spring back up. The final test was when I secured the family down to the carpet in my room with duct tape. I made myself a little chart and checked off the box everytime I made an observation. I would check to see how long they had been taped down, go jack around outside, and then see if they were still on their backs. When I finally removed the tape, they slowly but surely teetered back to an upright position. I was wrong. I was pissed. I was five years old.
My youngest daughter is extremely shy around people she does not know. She refuses to speak when strangers in public places even though the strangers are my friends. Even at school she barely spoke in the beginning. My close friends tell me my first impression sucks. I’m too quiet and it comes off bitchy.
One morning back in 1979 after the school bus left our house my mother looked at me and asked, “What are you still doing here?” Signing me up for kindergarten was on her to do list, but with 4 kids from college age down all the way to me it got pushed to the back burner. I do not think it was any coincidence my kindergarten was 0.5 miles from our house. I think it was the first one she came to and immediately enrolled my in the program at the Church of God. For the first two weeks I didn’t speak a word. I remember hearing the teachers whisper about me. They were wondering if I had a problem. Finally one day we all had our little books in front of us and the teacher asked if anyone could read the first word. I raised my hand and proceeded to read the entire book out loud to the class. That was the end of the teacher to teacher whispers.
My sweet little shy angel of a last child experienced carpool for the first time two years ago. I knew she was in good hands and all the other neighborhood kids were great. She did not agree. One of them evidently gave her a little lip and she threw her shoe at them across the Expedition.
Summerpurse Junior. I am so proud.
thank you for reading my posts, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Snakes on a plane
told my husband I wanted to go to therapy. Not because I had a problem with him, but because I had a haunting feeling I was becoming someone I hated.
I'm not going all sappy and shit, I just cannot stand bitter people. I'm a busy person who strives to be perfect and amazing to everyone. In that process I see the time I spend with my husband dwindling to the point I may or may not hold a conversation with him during a given day. Little things bother me, but bigger things press on my mind so I jump back into perfect and amazing mode and forget about it. It was slowly beginning to dawn on me that bitterness was a byproduct of perfect and amazing because I never dealt with the little things. He did. All the time. And I was jealous deep down inside of his carefree lifestyle. I allowed my issues to fester and grow while he just threw them out and moved on.
Plainly put he is a man and I am a woman.
While in the first therapy session the doctor asked me why I had such a problem expressing my emotions. Chad's hand shot up into the air like he was a second grader that could spell a curse word. He continued to wave his hand around until the doctor nodded for him to speak.
"Because of her fucked up family!"
Really? You wanna bring family into this?
Only one time in three months of therapy did I cry, and I abruptly quit as soon as I started. I don't think it is an issue. Obviously my friends, family, and the entire medical community thinks not allowing myself to cry is some kind of determent to my health. I think bumping up my self induced crying allotment from once to twice a year is a huge improvement.
In all other areas of my life I am very open. I am truthful about myself and others and never try to hide who I am. I recently told a man to watch out for women who use too many items to change their appearance. Massive hair bleaching, excessive clothes, and raccoon mascara on a woman means she has a lot to hide. It also means to me she has a lot about herself she doesn't like, or else she wouldn't want to cover it all up. She is trying too hard to be someone else.
Perfect and amazing.
While I am writing this I am flying over the ocean on my way to Athens. It is God only knows what time in the middle of the night and most people on the plane are asleep. I love to travel. I love movies. I also love Chanel mascara and lipstick, which is the only make up I wear. I tried to wipe it all off in the bathroom before I boarded this overnight flight but the mascara wouldn't budge. Maybe it's because I just bought it in the airport. Maybe I can't sleep with mascara on my face.
Even though I cannot sleep, I am in my happy place and decide to watch a movie from the comedy list on the in-flight movie selection guide. I am an hour into Thank You More Please when suddenly I am balling. Not the shed a few tears over a movie kind of crying. I have huge tears steaming down my face, snot coming out of my nose, and my stomach cramping from the gut wrenching sobs. I cannot stop even when I realize my mascara is in my hands as I wipe away my tears. I have raccoon eyes. Its not just the movie I am crying about. It's the perfect and amazing that is whipping me with my own belt right about now. About 20 minutes after the movie is over I finally stop crying. It is only then that my perfect, amazing, too busy to enjoy my life, guilt ridden mother, pour kerosene on everything I love and watch it burn self has arrived at one amazingly clear and perfect thought.
Continental Airlines needs to quit hiring dumbasses to write movie lists. That was no comedy.
I'm not going all sappy and shit, I just cannot stand bitter people. I'm a busy person who strives to be perfect and amazing to everyone. In that process I see the time I spend with my husband dwindling to the point I may or may not hold a conversation with him during a given day. Little things bother me, but bigger things press on my mind so I jump back into perfect and amazing mode and forget about it. It was slowly beginning to dawn on me that bitterness was a byproduct of perfect and amazing because I never dealt with the little things. He did. All the time. And I was jealous deep down inside of his carefree lifestyle. I allowed my issues to fester and grow while he just threw them out and moved on.
Plainly put he is a man and I am a woman.
While in the first therapy session the doctor asked me why I had such a problem expressing my emotions. Chad's hand shot up into the air like he was a second grader that could spell a curse word. He continued to wave his hand around until the doctor nodded for him to speak.
"Because of her fucked up family!"
Really? You wanna bring family into this?
Only one time in three months of therapy did I cry, and I abruptly quit as soon as I started. I don't think it is an issue. Obviously my friends, family, and the entire medical community thinks not allowing myself to cry is some kind of determent to my health. I think bumping up my self induced crying allotment from once to twice a year is a huge improvement.
In all other areas of my life I am very open. I am truthful about myself and others and never try to hide who I am. I recently told a man to watch out for women who use too many items to change their appearance. Massive hair bleaching, excessive clothes, and raccoon mascara on a woman means she has a lot to hide. It also means to me she has a lot about herself she doesn't like, or else she wouldn't want to cover it all up. She is trying too hard to be someone else.
Perfect and amazing.
While I am writing this I am flying over the ocean on my way to Athens. It is God only knows what time in the middle of the night and most people on the plane are asleep. I love to travel. I love movies. I also love Chanel mascara and lipstick, which is the only make up I wear. I tried to wipe it all off in the bathroom before I boarded this overnight flight but the mascara wouldn't budge. Maybe it's because I just bought it in the airport. Maybe I can't sleep with mascara on my face.
Even though I cannot sleep, I am in my happy place and decide to watch a movie from the comedy list on the in-flight movie selection guide. I am an hour into Thank You More Please when suddenly I am balling. Not the shed a few tears over a movie kind of crying. I have huge tears steaming down my face, snot coming out of my nose, and my stomach cramping from the gut wrenching sobs. I cannot stop even when I realize my mascara is in my hands as I wipe away my tears. I have raccoon eyes. Its not just the movie I am crying about. It's the perfect and amazing that is whipping me with my own belt right about now. About 20 minutes after the movie is over I finally stop crying. It is only then that my perfect, amazing, too busy to enjoy my life, guilt ridden mother, pour kerosene on everything I love and watch it burn self has arrived at one amazingly clear and perfect thought.
Continental Airlines needs to quit hiring dumbasses to write movie lists. That was no comedy.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Treat me bad
Wednesday was a long day. I started out receiving a sweet message about Amanda which made me cry so hard I couldn’t finish eating my fiber one bar. I also knew I had a meeting with the biggest self absorbed prick to make a pitch that afternoon as well. Then top it all off with my oldest daughter was still dealing with being called fat by another kid over the weekend. My motherly instinct was to go beat up this kid and perhaps threaten to set he and his family on fire (that one’s for you Jennie), but instead I told her a phrase which I have not mastered myself. A person only treats you bad if you let them.
The whole morning reminded me of a story when Andy bought the kids hamsters for Christmas including a labyrinth of tunnels and cages. It was great except for the one named Tex was an escape artist that hissed nonstop at Amanda. One night she is home by herself and Tex proceeds to escape from the cage and supply havoc in the perfectly appointed house. He hisses at Amanda, chews on furniture, claws up her drapes, and SHITS ALL OVER HER CARPET. I have such a wonderful picture in my head of her skinny ass in a nightgown with a broom chasing that glorified rat all over her house in the middle of the night. She said he wouldn’t get the best of her. He didn’t. A few months later Tex was found in the pool drain. She said it was an accident.
We all know the type of man I met with to ask for money. He looks me up and down like a piece of meat and then makes pansy little comments about what all he can do for me and how wonderful he is to the world. I usually just sit there and act sweet and do my job to the best of my abilities. Wednesday I said to hell with that. I put on a pair of heels that looked like I could make him use his orange AND red safe words. I pulled the rest of me together and forgot about what people told me about him probably saying no to me this year. I pulled into the parking lot, slammed my car door, and pounded my heels across the pavement while listening to the sweet sound of my ego swelling.
I walked in there and proceeded to shit on his carpet. I had a smartassed reply for every comment he made. I even smiled at the son of a bitch. I leaned forward in my chair and asked for more money…..and I got it.
Now before you say I played the girl card and used my sexiness to get money out of someone please remember I spent two hours stuck behind a dryer and once sprained my foot while attempting to do the electric slide in my office while wearing high heeled boots. Erin Brockovich I am not.
Also he didn’t see me turn my ankle and bust my ass in the parking lot after the meeting. I didn’t let him treat me bad…
The whole morning reminded me of a story when Andy bought the kids hamsters for Christmas including a labyrinth of tunnels and cages. It was great except for the one named Tex was an escape artist that hissed nonstop at Amanda. One night she is home by herself and Tex proceeds to escape from the cage and supply havoc in the perfectly appointed house. He hisses at Amanda, chews on furniture, claws up her drapes, and SHITS ALL OVER HER CARPET. I have such a wonderful picture in my head of her skinny ass in a nightgown with a broom chasing that glorified rat all over her house in the middle of the night. She said he wouldn’t get the best of her. He didn’t. A few months later Tex was found in the pool drain. She said it was an accident.
We all know the type of man I met with to ask for money. He looks me up and down like a piece of meat and then makes pansy little comments about what all he can do for me and how wonderful he is to the world. I usually just sit there and act sweet and do my job to the best of my abilities. Wednesday I said to hell with that. I put on a pair of heels that looked like I could make him use his orange AND red safe words. I pulled the rest of me together and forgot about what people told me about him probably saying no to me this year. I pulled into the parking lot, slammed my car door, and pounded my heels across the pavement while listening to the sweet sound of my ego swelling.
I walked in there and proceeded to shit on his carpet. I had a smartassed reply for every comment he made. I even smiled at the son of a bitch. I leaned forward in my chair and asked for more money…..and I got it.
Now before you say I played the girl card and used my sexiness to get money out of someone please remember I spent two hours stuck behind a dryer and once sprained my foot while attempting to do the electric slide in my office while wearing high heeled boots. Erin Brockovich I am not.
Also he didn’t see me turn my ankle and bust my ass in the parking lot after the meeting. I didn’t let him treat me bad…
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Hobbies
Since I sit around with a lot of time on my hands, I have hobbies. Here are a few.
Purchase Redbox movies. I know they are $1 per night but I much prefer to lose them under a kid’s bed and never see them again. I only know I buy them after a $24 charge shows up on my bank statement.
Let people give me guilt trips. I love sitting around with another mother who tells me she is the world’s best parent because she breastfed for a century, doesn’t RUN because that would take time away from her children, and certainly does not go out of town to compete in races because that would make her selfish. I’ve stayed at home and I’ve worked. I’ve had time to exercise and also known when I needed to hang out with family instead. To each their own. The best part is when you see and meet these champion’s children. They have obviously taken all that time that they demanded be spent with their children and spent absolutely no time parenting. You are raising a GANGSTA. If you are dying to label someone else, you might want to look in the mirror. My favorite was the one who said I was lazy because I bought pre cut carrots. She can kiss my dimpled ass.
Take the longest route possible. I have GPS on my phone and can travel across the country without a problem. I drive an extra mile just to get to Wal Mart. I do not mentally plan when on the road and feel like complete crap when I am in the right hand turn lane on Texas Boulevard when there is an arrow but I just need to go straight and a line a mile long is behind me griping about how some dumb chic is sitting still in the turn lane. “We all could have been there by now if she wasn’t sitting there like a fool.” I feel guilty.
Speak my mind. If I do not like you, I simply tell you. To your face. Give me a drink and I’ll tell you why I don’t like you and what I do or do not like about your family. I have actually told someone-“I like you, your sister—not so much.”
Don’t Listen. I don’t listen to good advice. I don’t listen to bad advice. I don’t listen to my husband. Not is the way you might think as in he tells me advice, because he doesn’t. I wouldn’t listen to him anyway. I don’t listen to a word he says sometimes. He can be talking on and on about something when we are driving somewhere for thirty minutes and then ask me a question and I realize I have not heard a word he has said. I’ve just been looking out the window thinking about shoes or some shit.
We leave next week for vacation.
As always thank for reading and I hope you feel better about yourself.
Purchase Redbox movies. I know they are $1 per night but I much prefer to lose them under a kid’s bed and never see them again. I only know I buy them after a $24 charge shows up on my bank statement.
Let people give me guilt trips. I love sitting around with another mother who tells me she is the world’s best parent because she breastfed for a century, doesn’t RUN because that would take time away from her children, and certainly does not go out of town to compete in races because that would make her selfish. I’ve stayed at home and I’ve worked. I’ve had time to exercise and also known when I needed to hang out with family instead. To each their own. The best part is when you see and meet these champion’s children. They have obviously taken all that time that they demanded be spent with their children and spent absolutely no time parenting. You are raising a GANGSTA. If you are dying to label someone else, you might want to look in the mirror. My favorite was the one who said I was lazy because I bought pre cut carrots. She can kiss my dimpled ass.
Take the longest route possible. I have GPS on my phone and can travel across the country without a problem. I drive an extra mile just to get to Wal Mart. I do not mentally plan when on the road and feel like complete crap when I am in the right hand turn lane on Texas Boulevard when there is an arrow but I just need to go straight and a line a mile long is behind me griping about how some dumb chic is sitting still in the turn lane. “We all could have been there by now if she wasn’t sitting there like a fool.” I feel guilty.
Speak my mind. If I do not like you, I simply tell you. To your face. Give me a drink and I’ll tell you why I don’t like you and what I do or do not like about your family. I have actually told someone-“I like you, your sister—not so much.”
Don’t Listen. I don’t listen to good advice. I don’t listen to bad advice. I don’t listen to my husband. Not is the way you might think as in he tells me advice, because he doesn’t. I wouldn’t listen to him anyway. I don’t listen to a word he says sometimes. He can be talking on and on about something when we are driving somewhere for thirty minutes and then ask me a question and I realize I have not heard a word he has said. I’ve just been looking out the window thinking about shoes or some shit.
We leave next week for vacation.
As always thank for reading and I hope you feel better about yourself.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Triathlon I
I competed in my first ever triathlon this weekend. Triathlons consist of a swim, bike ride, and a run. I tried to compete in one a few weeks ago in Galveston, but the wind and storms kept us from swimming. Believe me there was no love lost there. Let me give you a brief history of my life in the water.
Ever been to a water park as a teenager with all your buddies in bikinis and you have on a huge life vest? I have. Trust me; it is hard to look cool in a large orange floatation device. Ever have to take a six week course at the local community college to learn how to put your face in the water without having a panic attack? I have. Taken swimming lessons at the country club pool on your lunch break while the tennis ladies and their toddlers look on with sympathy? That would be me.
I have always wanted to do a triathlon, but I knew not being able to swim would hold me back. Well, that and hardly being able to ride a bike. I spent my bonus from work on a racing bike when I decided I would train to do triathlons. If you are not familiar with road bikes, let me give you an example. The tires are about half an inch wide and the seat is not much bigger. On my first ride I rolled rather quickly over a speed bump. Evidently shocks would weigh down the bike and defeat the purpose of racing. I honestly thought my uterus was going to fall out of my body onto that speed bump. Over the past couple of years I have grown accustomed to riding the bike and it no longer stings when I pee.
On a serious note, I loved the way the race was put on by Mike Riley. I think all races should start with a large group prayer. I especially liked that Mike told everyone to put their hand on their heart and look at the flag during the National Anthem. No questions. No complaints. Just do it. Everyone did.
The men start the swim portion of the race three minutes prior to the women. The men wear blue swim caps and the women wear red. Go Hogs. I knew to wait until all colors were in the water before I began the 650 yard battle with the murky water. Imagine my excitement when I made the last turn and realized I was about to pass two blue swim caps! I passed the first man only to realize he was obviously twice my age. The next blue cap seemed to be my age, so I sprinted as hard as I could the last 150 yards. Even though I tried as hard as I could, he still beat me to the finish. When we emerged from the water I saw he had only one arm.
Well Shit.
I felt guilty and inspired. I have no excuses. No one has excuses. We can all do what seems impossible, and none of us need to whine about our obstacles. Pretty deep thoughts coming from a woman who got her ass handed to her by a one armed man.
I then entered the transition area. This is where you get ready for the next leg of the race. I guess I thought it was the area in which you lay down and rest your eyes for a little bit, because most transition times were about a minute. Mine was over four. So what. I finished the bike and run portions with decent times. The operative word there is finished. There was a keg at the end of the race. Some people are strong in the swim while others are strong in the bike or run.
I am strong in the beer.
Thank you for reading my post and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Ever been to a water park as a teenager with all your buddies in bikinis and you have on a huge life vest? I have. Trust me; it is hard to look cool in a large orange floatation device. Ever have to take a six week course at the local community college to learn how to put your face in the water without having a panic attack? I have. Taken swimming lessons at the country club pool on your lunch break while the tennis ladies and their toddlers look on with sympathy? That would be me.
I have always wanted to do a triathlon, but I knew not being able to swim would hold me back. Well, that and hardly being able to ride a bike. I spent my bonus from work on a racing bike when I decided I would train to do triathlons. If you are not familiar with road bikes, let me give you an example. The tires are about half an inch wide and the seat is not much bigger. On my first ride I rolled rather quickly over a speed bump. Evidently shocks would weigh down the bike and defeat the purpose of racing. I honestly thought my uterus was going to fall out of my body onto that speed bump. Over the past couple of years I have grown accustomed to riding the bike and it no longer stings when I pee.
On a serious note, I loved the way the race was put on by Mike Riley. I think all races should start with a large group prayer. I especially liked that Mike told everyone to put their hand on their heart and look at the flag during the National Anthem. No questions. No complaints. Just do it. Everyone did.
The men start the swim portion of the race three minutes prior to the women. The men wear blue swim caps and the women wear red. Go Hogs. I knew to wait until all colors were in the water before I began the 650 yard battle with the murky water. Imagine my excitement when I made the last turn and realized I was about to pass two blue swim caps! I passed the first man only to realize he was obviously twice my age. The next blue cap seemed to be my age, so I sprinted as hard as I could the last 150 yards. Even though I tried as hard as I could, he still beat me to the finish. When we emerged from the water I saw he had only one arm.
Well Shit.
I felt guilty and inspired. I have no excuses. No one has excuses. We can all do what seems impossible, and none of us need to whine about our obstacles. Pretty deep thoughts coming from a woman who got her ass handed to her by a one armed man.
I then entered the transition area. This is where you get ready for the next leg of the race. I guess I thought it was the area in which you lay down and rest your eyes for a little bit, because most transition times were about a minute. Mine was over four. So what. I finished the bike and run portions with decent times. The operative word there is finished. There was a keg at the end of the race. Some people are strong in the swim while others are strong in the bike or run.
I am strong in the beer.
Thank you for reading my post and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Triathlon II
As many of you recall, I completed my first full triathlon last year around this time. I blogged about the experience and was amazed at the responses I received. Some of the highlights were as follows –
1. I finished the swim in record time.
2. I damn near took a nap in the first transition between the swim and bike. Therefore I had the longest transition time out of 335 people.
3. I had my ass handed to me in the swim by a one armed man.
4. I drank a beer the moment after I ran across the finish line.
I completed the same triathlon yesterday, but it was not the same experience. Some things were the same though. Mike Riley and his group of volunteers did an amazing job as always. I love that he tells everyone to put their hands over their hearts for the national anthem, and everyone does. I love the time reserved for prayer, even if some young dumbasses laughed and talked during it. I did restrain myself from not yelling, “What the Hell is your problem? Can’t you see people are praying?” I did however stop my own personal prayer time and give them the evil eye. I think I made my point.
Since it was unusually cold Sunday morning we were allowed to wear wetsuits in the water. My wetsuit and required swim cap made me look like an orca wearing a yellow condom. Maybe it was because I was swimming in Lake Infectious. Maybe it was the cold weather, or perhaps it was because it was my first race of the season, but for some reason I had a panic attack in the water. For those of you who are not familiar with panic attacks, my heart pounded until my chest hurt. My arms went numb and refused to work, and I was gasping for air. In other words, I LOST MY SHIT in the water. I haven’t had a panic attack in years and was amazingly disappointed with myself for having one in the damn water at a race. I hung on to one of the rescue canoes off and on for the remainder of the swim. I refused to cry in my goggles. The operator of the canoe was amazing and we had a nice chat. I owe him a steak dinner.
Since I was the last person out of the water, I knew I needed to make up time on the bike and run. This was my plan for about 4 seconds until the zipper on my wetsuit messed up and it took three people to get me out of it. I had to pee really bad and most people just pee in the wetsuit but since I was obviously in no hurry I said to hell with it and just walked to the actual bathroom and used a real toilet before I got on my bike. Many people only have about 2 minutes transition in between the swim and the bike. With my zipper issues and my trip to the shitter my transition time was about 10 minutes.
I saw an older woman get on her bike a few minutes before I mounted mine and decided I was going to pass her. I had to make up some time and needed some inspiration. Where is that one armed bastard when you need him? I needed a reason to make myself push harder. I kept telling myself I could catch that old bitch.
That old bitch could move. I didn’t pass her until the run. After her - I passed someone else. I did not, however, pass the keg when I was finished.
I was on beer number three during the awards when my name was called. WHAT? I won 4th place in my age group. I don’t give a rats flying fat ass if there were only 4 women in my age group. I actually won something! I have never won any type of race, raffle, door prize, or nose picking contest in my life! So many times during that race I wanted to quit. I wanted to cry often but knew I wanted to finish. I reminded myself of that when I had my picture taken with my beautiful 4th place sign. I. AM. AWESOME.
And then I locked my keys in the car.
As always, thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
1. I finished the swim in record time.
2. I damn near took a nap in the first transition between the swim and bike. Therefore I had the longest transition time out of 335 people.
3. I had my ass handed to me in the swim by a one armed man.
4. I drank a beer the moment after I ran across the finish line.
I completed the same triathlon yesterday, but it was not the same experience. Some things were the same though. Mike Riley and his group of volunteers did an amazing job as always. I love that he tells everyone to put their hands over their hearts for the national anthem, and everyone does. I love the time reserved for prayer, even if some young dumbasses laughed and talked during it. I did restrain myself from not yelling, “What the Hell is your problem? Can’t you see people are praying?” I did however stop my own personal prayer time and give them the evil eye. I think I made my point.
Since it was unusually cold Sunday morning we were allowed to wear wetsuits in the water. My wetsuit and required swim cap made me look like an orca wearing a yellow condom. Maybe it was because I was swimming in Lake Infectious. Maybe it was the cold weather, or perhaps it was because it was my first race of the season, but for some reason I had a panic attack in the water. For those of you who are not familiar with panic attacks, my heart pounded until my chest hurt. My arms went numb and refused to work, and I was gasping for air. In other words, I LOST MY SHIT in the water. I haven’t had a panic attack in years and was amazingly disappointed with myself for having one in the damn water at a race. I hung on to one of the rescue canoes off and on for the remainder of the swim. I refused to cry in my goggles. The operator of the canoe was amazing and we had a nice chat. I owe him a steak dinner.
Since I was the last person out of the water, I knew I needed to make up time on the bike and run. This was my plan for about 4 seconds until the zipper on my wetsuit messed up and it took three people to get me out of it. I had to pee really bad and most people just pee in the wetsuit but since I was obviously in no hurry I said to hell with it and just walked to the actual bathroom and used a real toilet before I got on my bike. Many people only have about 2 minutes transition in between the swim and the bike. With my zipper issues and my trip to the shitter my transition time was about 10 minutes.
I saw an older woman get on her bike a few minutes before I mounted mine and decided I was going to pass her. I had to make up some time and needed some inspiration. Where is that one armed bastard when you need him? I needed a reason to make myself push harder. I kept telling myself I could catch that old bitch.
That old bitch could move. I didn’t pass her until the run. After her - I passed someone else. I did not, however, pass the keg when I was finished.
I was on beer number three during the awards when my name was called. WHAT? I won 4th place in my age group. I don’t give a rats flying fat ass if there were only 4 women in my age group. I actually won something! I have never won any type of race, raffle, door prize, or nose picking contest in my life! So many times during that race I wanted to quit. I wanted to cry often but knew I wanted to finish. I reminded myself of that when I had my picture taken with my beautiful 4th place sign. I. AM. AWESOME.
And then I locked my keys in the car.
As always, thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Tinker my Ride
I just spent five days in San Francisco and loved it. Why? Because my dumbass ran all over that town and saw most of the sights before dawn while traveling at about a 9:30 minute mile. That S.O.B. is hilly.
I attended a conference on Tinkering at the Exploratorium. For my dirty minded friends, and you know who you are, it is not like that at one of those places in San Francisco. It was about working with items in an experimental manner inside our children’s museums. Basically you set up a bunch of stuff and let kids create whatever they want. It might use gears, small motors, marbles, artwork, you name it. Then we went on to a tour of a place called the Crucible to see Tinkering in the real world. The Crucible is a non-profit educational facility that fosters a collaboration of Arts, Industry and Community. Through training in the fine and industrial arts, The Crucible promotes creative expression, reuse of materials and innovative design while serving as an accessible arts venue for the general public. Basically if you like to work with metals, glass, etc you can do it there on your own time. I thought the concept was awesome, even though the marketing director that gave us the tour made my ass twitch every time she opened her annoying mouth. But I digress.
There was an area in the Crucible where bikes were being remade, repaired, and even turned into art. A few of us thought a great idea would be to have a workshop at our museums called “Tinker my Ride”. You could have people bring in bikes, wagons, whatever. I immediately thought of my sisters ten speed that I borrowed without asking when I was ten.
I have always been a bit of a slow starter, and did not learn how to ride a bike until age ten. Once I finally mastered my ugly bike with the great big banana seat I started eyeing Cindy’s light blue ten speed. One Saturday I hauled ass (read casually rode) out of the garage before anyone else noticed and made my rounds in the neighborhood. Low and behold I saw the hottest boy in sixth grade mowing his lawn. Some things never change as even then I had NO FREAKING CLUE how to deal with the opposite sex. I just watched. I was still riding my bike past his yard and I was still watching him to the point my neck was straining. My neighborhood did not have curbs on its streets. Rather it just had concrete slopes from the edge of the street to the edge of the lawns. The next thing I know I hit the mailbox of the hottest boy in sixth grade and became airborne. Luckily his driveway broke my fall after I sailed over his mailbox. He stopped the mower and came to help me while I was in his driveway with bleeding legs and road rash all over my arms. My sister’s bike was simply put – beat to shit. I kept telling him I was fine and attempted to ride oh so casually away on the bike but the front tire was now in the shape of an “L” and would only go in circles. He offered to have his mom drive me home but I refused and carried my bike while limping down the road.
I think this set the tone for my future dealings with boys and men. Simply put, I AM SMOOTH.
I attended a conference on Tinkering at the Exploratorium. For my dirty minded friends, and you know who you are, it is not like that at one of those places in San Francisco. It was about working with items in an experimental manner inside our children’s museums. Basically you set up a bunch of stuff and let kids create whatever they want. It might use gears, small motors, marbles, artwork, you name it. Then we went on to a tour of a place called the Crucible to see Tinkering in the real world. The Crucible is a non-profit educational facility that fosters a collaboration of Arts, Industry and Community. Through training in the fine and industrial arts, The Crucible promotes creative expression, reuse of materials and innovative design while serving as an accessible arts venue for the general public. Basically if you like to work with metals, glass, etc you can do it there on your own time. I thought the concept was awesome, even though the marketing director that gave us the tour made my ass twitch every time she opened her annoying mouth. But I digress.
There was an area in the Crucible where bikes were being remade, repaired, and even turned into art. A few of us thought a great idea would be to have a workshop at our museums called “Tinker my Ride”. You could have people bring in bikes, wagons, whatever. I immediately thought of my sisters ten speed that I borrowed without asking when I was ten.
I have always been a bit of a slow starter, and did not learn how to ride a bike until age ten. Once I finally mastered my ugly bike with the great big banana seat I started eyeing Cindy’s light blue ten speed. One Saturday I hauled ass (read casually rode) out of the garage before anyone else noticed and made my rounds in the neighborhood. Low and behold I saw the hottest boy in sixth grade mowing his lawn. Some things never change as even then I had NO FREAKING CLUE how to deal with the opposite sex. I just watched. I was still riding my bike past his yard and I was still watching him to the point my neck was straining. My neighborhood did not have curbs on its streets. Rather it just had concrete slopes from the edge of the street to the edge of the lawns. The next thing I know I hit the mailbox of the hottest boy in sixth grade and became airborne. Luckily his driveway broke my fall after I sailed over his mailbox. He stopped the mower and came to help me while I was in his driveway with bleeding legs and road rash all over my arms. My sister’s bike was simply put – beat to shit. I kept telling him I was fine and attempted to ride oh so casually away on the bike but the front tire was now in the shape of an “L” and would only go in circles. He offered to have his mom drive me home but I refused and carried my bike while limping down the road.
I think this set the tone for my future dealings with boys and men. Simply put, I AM SMOOTH.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Laugh
Through the past 17 years my husband and I have made each other laugh constantly. This is probably why it is 17 years and not 17 months. It was 19 years ago when he first made me giggle while sitting on his ice chest at the Sigma Alpha Epsilon house. No matter I was there on a date with another guy, which is just a mere detail. Next was two years of flirting every time we saw each other. He told me years later once he spotted me in Wal Mart and ran his cart all over the store trying to “accidentally” run into me on an aisle. I never knew he was there. Go figure. He also made me laugh so hard the night we actually saw each other in My Pleasure. It was a Thursday night and he was inviting me to something that weekend. I told him no since I was going home for the weekend for a special ceremony at my church back in Starkville, Mississippi. He asked me what church I attended and I told him I was Presbyterian. He said, “ Ewww Weee! And you are in a bar and wearing pants! I like your style!” I laughed out loud.
He was dead serious.
Two short months into our relationship came Christmas break which meant he went to Texarkana and I was back in Starkville. I awaited his call every night since my mother would not allow my sisters and me to call boys. (Now when he calls me every day at work and asks what I’m doing I say Working! Like I have nothing else to do all day but sit around and dream about him. My, how things change. ) There was a break in our phone calls since I was going on a business trip with my parents to San Antonio. The five day trip was wonderful until the flight home when I started feeling bad. By the time we landed I was in such a cold sweat I looked like I was carrying cocaine filled balloons somewhere in my body. Turns out the chicken I consumed the day before on the Riverwalk was undercooked. The family doctor also determined that I caught an additional stomach virus upon my return home, which resulted in four days from hell.
Chad, while still wearing his new relationship rose colored glasses, called on the last night of my trip to the underworld. Since I was a sweating gelatinous mass on my mother’s bathroom floor, Chad spoke only to my mother. The conversation went like this:
“Well she’s had horrible vomiting and hellacious diarrhea for 4 days. I mean horrible. She threw up all over her clothes so she’s been naked in the bed or on the floor of the bathroom. She even threw up on me! She actually passed out on the kitchen floor trying to get some Sprite one night and one of her sisters found her on the floor. Chad, I have to let you go. Her father just got back from the pharmacy with her suppository. I’m sure she should feel better by tomorrow. Why don’t you call back then.”
Chad said he laughed until he cried. THANKS MOM!
Thank you for reading, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
He was dead serious.
Two short months into our relationship came Christmas break which meant he went to Texarkana and I was back in Starkville. I awaited his call every night since my mother would not allow my sisters and me to call boys. (Now when he calls me every day at work and asks what I’m doing I say Working! Like I have nothing else to do all day but sit around and dream about him. My, how things change. ) There was a break in our phone calls since I was going on a business trip with my parents to San Antonio. The five day trip was wonderful until the flight home when I started feeling bad. By the time we landed I was in such a cold sweat I looked like I was carrying cocaine filled balloons somewhere in my body. Turns out the chicken I consumed the day before on the Riverwalk was undercooked. The family doctor also determined that I caught an additional stomach virus upon my return home, which resulted in four days from hell.
Chad, while still wearing his new relationship rose colored glasses, called on the last night of my trip to the underworld. Since I was a sweating gelatinous mass on my mother’s bathroom floor, Chad spoke only to my mother. The conversation went like this:
“Well she’s had horrible vomiting and hellacious diarrhea for 4 days. I mean horrible. She threw up all over her clothes so she’s been naked in the bed or on the floor of the bathroom. She even threw up on me! She actually passed out on the kitchen floor trying to get some Sprite one night and one of her sisters found her on the floor. Chad, I have to let you go. Her father just got back from the pharmacy with her suppository. I’m sure she should feel better by tomorrow. Why don’t you call back then.”
Chad said he laughed until he cried. THANKS MOM!
Thank you for reading, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Amanda
Amanda was a friend of mine. She was the type of friend that would drive you to Shreveport for your post op visit with your plastic surgeon. She would go to a wedding and say it was nicer than any of hers. She was a genius with hair color.
She was also in a horrible place within her own mind. To her it was not a choice, but the only light at the end of the tunnel. Many people we know have problems. Some of us are functioning alcoholics, but Amanda had the balls to actually try to do something about it. She never swept it under the rug. In fact, there was never anything under her rugs because her house was always spotless. Her homes were showplaces, and she strived so hard to make herself that way too.
She could have a baby with no drugs and almost give birth while her husband was driving through the ATM. She could give amazing baby showers. She gave me two. We all knew about Amanda’s problems by word of mouth. During a divorce I called her and told her she WAS going to our Junior League meeting. She WAS going to sit with me on the front damn row and everyone else could suck it. I had also just had a baby a few weeks prior. The meeting ran a little long and my milk started to leak and seep through my shirt. I had huge round wet spots on the front of my shirt. Amanda said, “Oh great, we are the slut and the slurpie machine.” We greatly offended the woman giving a speech while we were laughing out loud.
We all have holes inside us, but people fill them in different ways. I run to keep my demons down. Amanda’s was just larger than most. No amount of husbands, shoes, handbags, or help could fill it. She was a good mother who tried her best. Please remember that fact the next time you hear gossip about someone. Talking to everyone you know about someone else’s demons only shows your own.
Amanda drove me to a post op visit. After helping me walk into the waiting room and picking up a few brochures for herself, she went shopping. Once she helped me back in the car she gave me a little present she had just bought. It was a hideous black thong with a pink bow on the back. She flung it on me and said Chad would like it. It is extremely uncomfortable. How do I know? I dug it out of my drawer this morning and threw that bad boy on under my jeans. I could think of no better way to celebrate my beautiful friend’s life today. I hope you can find a way to celebrate her life also.
She was also in a horrible place within her own mind. To her it was not a choice, but the only light at the end of the tunnel. Many people we know have problems. Some of us are functioning alcoholics, but Amanda had the balls to actually try to do something about it. She never swept it under the rug. In fact, there was never anything under her rugs because her house was always spotless. Her homes were showplaces, and she strived so hard to make herself that way too.
She could have a baby with no drugs and almost give birth while her husband was driving through the ATM. She could give amazing baby showers. She gave me two. We all knew about Amanda’s problems by word of mouth. During a divorce I called her and told her she WAS going to our Junior League meeting. She WAS going to sit with me on the front damn row and everyone else could suck it. I had also just had a baby a few weeks prior. The meeting ran a little long and my milk started to leak and seep through my shirt. I had huge round wet spots on the front of my shirt. Amanda said, “Oh great, we are the slut and the slurpie machine.” We greatly offended the woman giving a speech while we were laughing out loud.
We all have holes inside us, but people fill them in different ways. I run to keep my demons down. Amanda’s was just larger than most. No amount of husbands, shoes, handbags, or help could fill it. She was a good mother who tried her best. Please remember that fact the next time you hear gossip about someone. Talking to everyone you know about someone else’s demons only shows your own.
Amanda drove me to a post op visit. After helping me walk into the waiting room and picking up a few brochures for herself, she went shopping. Once she helped me back in the car she gave me a little present she had just bought. It was a hideous black thong with a pink bow on the back. She flung it on me and said Chad would like it. It is extremely uncomfortable. How do I know? I dug it out of my drawer this morning and threw that bad boy on under my jeans. I could think of no better way to celebrate my beautiful friend’s life today. I hope you can find a way to celebrate her life also.
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