My workouts with Lacy have been fun from the beginning. Maybe not so much fun for her, but fun for me. She has called me names, given me dirty looks, and even threatened to make a voo doo doll in my likeness. Here is a sample of our conversations the first week-
Lacy – “I hate you. You and your skinny ass. It feels wonderful to be able to tell you that, since I would have to be nice to a trainer I paid. You, I can tell you I hate you for free. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
Me – “No, not really. No.”
In the coming weeks she adjusted to the workouts (but supposedly whimpered in her sleep), and her body was ready for the next level. Our conversations were more like this-
Lacy – “I’m not wanting to look like Jean Claude Van Damme in two weeks here! Let’s ease into it!”
Me – “It’s just some push ups”
Lacy – “I think you are trying to kill me.”
Every weekend we go for a two hour walk. We pick different neighborhoods, and discuss all of the different houses. We are usually very nice. We do periodically make the comment that the owners of certain houses need to make a run to the shit store to pick up more shit since they obviously don’t have enough shit in their yards. We are masters are sarcasm when we get together.
Our topic of conversation this weekend was a new show on HGTV called Houseboat Hunters. For a good 30 minutes we discussed that fact that one of the houseboats had an incinerator toilet in that bathroom which the real estate agent said “might” create an odor. Really? We decided that there was a damn good possibility that BURNING SHIT would cause an odor. We are not rocket scientists, but we do know a thing or two.
If you ever see two women walking/running while flailing their arms and stopping occasionally to almost curl up in a ball, its ok. We are not in pain, but we are laughing hysterically.
Speaking of scents and smells, one morning I sprayed on a little perfume before heading out the door at 5:00am. I have worn the same rose scented perfume since age 12 and will continue to do so until the day I die. I’m not one for sudden change. This is the conversation that followed---
Lacy – “You smell like my Grandmother.”
Me – “Was your grandmother a dirty whore? I sincerely hope not.”
Thank you for reading, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
amanda was a friend of mine
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.
Monday, March 5, 2012
The Cat and I
We have a kick ass cat.
I say that because she is one tough old cat. She kills birds, squirrels, rats, and even a single snake. Sure, you say, all cats do stuff like that. It’s just their nature. Nope, our cat is special because she has no claws. That’s right, we send an unequipped cat into the wild world and she comes home with her own supper.
Our youngest daughter always feels we need to do more for our cat. She thinks this cat needs a stocking hung just for her at Christmas. What in the hell are we going to get for that cat that she really needs? Make her some opposable thumbs out of toothpicks? Night vision goggles? A sniper rifle? Seriously, she is holding her own.
Earlier this winter the cat and I had a couple of bonding moments. No we didn’t snuggle in the bed or watch Beaches together, we just came to a mutual understanding. One cold afternoon I was driving down our street when out cat bolted out in front of me. This by itself wouldn’t be so odd other than the fact she had a dead bird in her mouth. She stopped from her sprint in the middle of the street, looked dead at me with that bird in her mouth, and gave me a look that said, “you might be next”. Then she sprinted into a neighbor’s yard only to, I assume, mutilate the carcass. Better their house than mine…..
The next time was about two weeks later when we were completely out of cat food, and not much food for the humans. I was at home alone with the kids, and realized the poor cat was starving. Knowing that she obviously worked her ass off to get her own food and had come up short, I decided to give her a cat and human treat – Prosciutto.
She refused to eat it. The shit came from Dallas and she would rather lick her own ass than eat it. Was she worried about her sodium intake? Did she want it wrapped around cantaloupe? Then I realized that she was just like me. She can do her own thing, take care of herself, and just wants love. Nothing fancy.
I also understand about missing something. I can’t have anymore children because I simply don’t have all the parts I need anymore. Did I really want more kids before I had that surgery? Maybe not. Is it really making a difference now? No. I am still awesome no matter what I am missing. I kick ass.
No matter what, you just can’t keep a good kitty down.
I say that because she is one tough old cat. She kills birds, squirrels, rats, and even a single snake. Sure, you say, all cats do stuff like that. It’s just their nature. Nope, our cat is special because she has no claws. That’s right, we send an unequipped cat into the wild world and she comes home with her own supper.
Our youngest daughter always feels we need to do more for our cat. She thinks this cat needs a stocking hung just for her at Christmas. What in the hell are we going to get for that cat that she really needs? Make her some opposable thumbs out of toothpicks? Night vision goggles? A sniper rifle? Seriously, she is holding her own.
Earlier this winter the cat and I had a couple of bonding moments. No we didn’t snuggle in the bed or watch Beaches together, we just came to a mutual understanding. One cold afternoon I was driving down our street when out cat bolted out in front of me. This by itself wouldn’t be so odd other than the fact she had a dead bird in her mouth. She stopped from her sprint in the middle of the street, looked dead at me with that bird in her mouth, and gave me a look that said, “you might be next”. Then she sprinted into a neighbor’s yard only to, I assume, mutilate the carcass. Better their house than mine…..
The next time was about two weeks later when we were completely out of cat food, and not much food for the humans. I was at home alone with the kids, and realized the poor cat was starving. Knowing that she obviously worked her ass off to get her own food and had come up short, I decided to give her a cat and human treat – Prosciutto.
She refused to eat it. The shit came from Dallas and she would rather lick her own ass than eat it. Was she worried about her sodium intake? Did she want it wrapped around cantaloupe? Then I realized that she was just like me. She can do her own thing, take care of herself, and just wants love. Nothing fancy.
I also understand about missing something. I can’t have anymore children because I simply don’t have all the parts I need anymore. Did I really want more kids before I had that surgery? Maybe not. Is it really making a difference now? No. I am still awesome no matter what I am missing. I kick ass.
No matter what, you just can’t keep a good kitty down.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
superwoman
Who is this hooker and why do we all try desperately to be just like her? I would like a job description because I have some questions I would like answered. I think I might possess a few of the qualifications but I need some clarification. Here they go -
Does superwoman accidentally ever take the cat to work? She snuck in my car so I had to turn around when I heard meowing in the office parking lot. I took her back home and then gently but firmly explained to the cat that she could not go to work with me since she had important stuff to do at the house. She showed me she understood by killing a squirrel that afternoon and leaving the carcass on the welcome mat. We all show love in different ways. The cat is better at showing love than me.....
Does superwoman react well in stressful situations? If her husband breaks his nose with an exercise band while on vacation does she immediately tend to his wounds with Florence Nightingale efficiency and patience? Or does she scream, "Get off the rug!" because her mother paid for the condo and if she loses her deposit because of blood all over the rug everyone will hear about it?
If superwoman's husband has two black eyes due to the exercise band incident, would she say it was because she beat his ass when he talked back? Perhaps. We all show love in different ways.
Does the bank call superwoman at home and ask for the canister from the drive thru to be returned? Again?
Has superwoman ever clogged an entire parking garage? Was she at a cheer competition in Shreveport and, with 75 cars behind her, insert her card in order to have the bar lifted only to find the machine has suddenly jammed? Does superwoman get out of her car(which is covered in Arkansas Razorback flags and stickers), wave politely to all the pissed off people behind her, and proceed to shake the machine until it raises the bar so she can escape? Does this entire process take superwoman 15 LONG minutes?
Do superwoman's children supply havoc in grocery stores? Has her toddler son ever taken down an entire marshmallow display in Albertsons the day before Thanksgiving? Did her son jump back in the big blue butterfly cart with a lone marshmallow in his mouth and act like nothing happened? Did superwoman beautifully handle the situation by crying because she was 8 months pregnant and pushing 200 pounds? Maybe.
I am willing to bet superwoman's children are banned from talking about farting at the dinner table. They are also banned from farting at the dinner table since at one point it had become a problem. Every once in a while does superwoman have to leave the table because one of the potty humor jokes was so funny she had to quietly laugh in the kitchen? I doubt it.
I guess none of this really matters. I hear that when you reach 40 you quit wanting to be superwoman and focus on being happywoman instead.
That hooker needs to hurry up.
Thank you for reading my post, and I'm sure this made you feel better about yourself.
Does superwoman accidentally ever take the cat to work? She snuck in my car so I had to turn around when I heard meowing in the office parking lot. I took her back home and then gently but firmly explained to the cat that she could not go to work with me since she had important stuff to do at the house. She showed me she understood by killing a squirrel that afternoon and leaving the carcass on the welcome mat. We all show love in different ways. The cat is better at showing love than me.....
Does superwoman react well in stressful situations? If her husband breaks his nose with an exercise band while on vacation does she immediately tend to his wounds with Florence Nightingale efficiency and patience? Or does she scream, "Get off the rug!" because her mother paid for the condo and if she loses her deposit because of blood all over the rug everyone will hear about it?
If superwoman's husband has two black eyes due to the exercise band incident, would she say it was because she beat his ass when he talked back? Perhaps. We all show love in different ways.
Does the bank call superwoman at home and ask for the canister from the drive thru to be returned? Again?
Has superwoman ever clogged an entire parking garage? Was she at a cheer competition in Shreveport and, with 75 cars behind her, insert her card in order to have the bar lifted only to find the machine has suddenly jammed? Does superwoman get out of her car(which is covered in Arkansas Razorback flags and stickers), wave politely to all the pissed off people behind her, and proceed to shake the machine until it raises the bar so she can escape? Does this entire process take superwoman 15 LONG minutes?
Do superwoman's children supply havoc in grocery stores? Has her toddler son ever taken down an entire marshmallow display in Albertsons the day before Thanksgiving? Did her son jump back in the big blue butterfly cart with a lone marshmallow in his mouth and act like nothing happened? Did superwoman beautifully handle the situation by crying because she was 8 months pregnant and pushing 200 pounds? Maybe.
I am willing to bet superwoman's children are banned from talking about farting at the dinner table. They are also banned from farting at the dinner table since at one point it had become a problem. Every once in a while does superwoman have to leave the table because one of the potty humor jokes was so funny she had to quietly laugh in the kitchen? I doubt it.
I guess none of this really matters. I hear that when you reach 40 you quit wanting to be superwoman and focus on being happywoman instead.
That hooker needs to hurry up.
Thank you for reading my post, and I'm sure this made you feel better about yourself.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Life’s Little Instructions
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.
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 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)