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.
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