I had a rough time last week. I am sure the people around me had a rough week as well. I try my hardest to be patient and kind. I treat people the way I would like to be treated. Not really, I just ball it all up inside and then spew venom on occasion.
I am aware I have this issue now. In college I took a class which dealt with human nature and different personalities. When the professor spoke about people who show no emotion and keep it all inside until it gnaws away at them like a parasite, my best friend looked directly at me. An ex-boyfriend across the room pointed at me. This was the first time I had been made aware of the problem. Years later a therapist told me sarcasm was not an emotion. I beg to differ.
Venom was on the menu last week. I know what it is like to be on the receiving end of a bitchy person. I spend my days making sure everyone is happy. Let me rephrase that. I spend my days kissing ass. Occasionally I stand my ground or make a point with someone, but I do it with a smile. It is my job. I also do not raise my voice when dealing with other adults. Last week I was screaming. “You WILL make it right and you WILL make me happy!” This lovely tirade was unleashed on a business man who said he would try to make it right and make me happy. As my father always told me – “Try my ass. You will do it.” This dude obviously did not grow up with Jim and Jonell.
This is a rare occurrence. People often tell me I have the patience of a saint. I am no saint, but I am a fan of the Saints. As a matter of fact, when they played an exhibition game against Dallas a few years ago, we went to the game. I looked forward to this game for weeks. We rented a bus to take us from the hotel to the game and back. We had a huge group of friends going with us, and we had front row seats on the 50 yard line. I am a big fan. I am an even bigger fan of good seats. It just so happened that this was the first game for Reggie Bush. People were constantly standing in front of us taking pictures with cell phones of Reggie, themselves with Reggie in the background, etc. Do you think this is Olan F. Mills? This is a football game! Get your ass out of my view!
Security was a joke. This went on and on for the entire game. The only thing that squelched the fire growing inside me was $7 Miller Lite. The fourth quarter rolls around and some six foot tall jackass with his chest painted orange and an orange cone on his head proceeds to stand directly in front of us. At first I politely tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to move. He ignored me and turned around. I then poked him in the back and told him to move. He looked down at me and said,”F^$# You, Bitch.”
Did this asshole just say this to me? The F you was bad enough, but he had to throw bitch in there? I got a babysitter and used vacation days for this game. We saved money for this. I bought a new nightgown to wear in the hotel room! I even bought expensive bath salts to use in the hotel sunken tub so I could have a nice bath by myself without three kids and a dog interrupting me nonstop. THIS IS BULLSHIT!
I took my favorite purse with the canvas sides and proceeded to beat him with it.
I got in a few licks before my husband pulled me away. I made my point. I felt better. But what tops it all off, was that conehead called the cops on me. Really? How did he describe me to the cops? A brunette with an I Love Chad shirt on, khaki shorts, flip flops, about five feet tall, and carrying a canvas bag with orange pain smeared on it. She sounds like a real troublemaker! Regardless, I ran.
I was terrified the “alleged incident” had made it on TV, so I called my mother to head off any issues. After explaining the scenario to her she simply replied, “The asshole deserved it.”
Thanks Nana.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
“Mamma I wanna Pug”.
I was shocked when my son began asking for a pet, specifically a pug. I still do not know why he chose a pug over the broad spectrum of other available pets, but I looked into the matter. After discussing it with my husband, I asked the vet at a Junior League meeting what she could tell me about pugs. She replied that they were short, stocky, and prone to obesity. What was my husband’s response? “Sounds like a Dowd. Sign us up!”
Shorty after receiving the green light from my husband (please refer to a previous post entitled The Cat), I contacted the Pug Rescue of Northwest Arkansas. I was told I needed to submit three letters of recommendation, a background check, pictures of our home inside and out, and summary about our family and activities. Geez, you want to give me the damn dog or what? I had to describe the personalities of the children, including The Blonde (again please refer to The Cat). We also had to list and describe all other pets.
We had to talk about The Cat.
Yes, the cat came back. It must have been some kind of hellacious living conditions for that cat to come back to us, but it did so after about nine months of being MIA. The Pug Rescue of NWA informed me I needed to have the cat declawed since pugs have bug eyes and our chosen pug had a tendency to “bug” cats.
This part of our adoption process occurred during a time when my mother was having radiation treatments in Florida. I left a list of items Hubs needed to take care of while I was gone. One item on the list was to take the cat to the vet. Imagine my surprise when the Vet called and told me it wasn’t our cat. What the hell? Did he just pick some random cat out of the neighborhood, cram it in the Suburban and drop it off at the vet?
The vet informed me, through her laughter, that this cat had already been declawed.
Sure the cat came back a little thinner, but it really looked like our cat. We all have our family secrets, this one happens to be ours.
When I returned home from Florida we decided on a certain pug named Albert. I was told by the Pug Rescue of NWA that Albert was a mild mannered dog who slept 20 hours a day, couldn’t swim, had eye drainage issues, and mild skin allergies. Bring. Him. On.
We were also told that Albert was housebroken. My aching ass housebroken. Mild skin allergies actually mean he is allergic to grass. Being allergic to grass is a real bitch when you are 8 inches tall and you poop in the yard. We bought him a doggie life jacket to wear in the boat at the lake, but he just ends up looking like an old canister vacuum because the life jacket has a handle on the top and his legs are too short to jump from the boat to the dock. He can be running one moment and fast asleep on the floor the next. He is also partially deaf. Someone could come in our home, steal everything inside it and terrorize the family. He would sleep through it all. If you turn on the stove, the fool barks for 20 minutes.
He is Perfect.
Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Shorty after receiving the green light from my husband (please refer to a previous post entitled The Cat), I contacted the Pug Rescue of Northwest Arkansas. I was told I needed to submit three letters of recommendation, a background check, pictures of our home inside and out, and summary about our family and activities. Geez, you want to give me the damn dog or what? I had to describe the personalities of the children, including The Blonde (again please refer to The Cat). We also had to list and describe all other pets.
We had to talk about The Cat.
Yes, the cat came back. It must have been some kind of hellacious living conditions for that cat to come back to us, but it did so after about nine months of being MIA. The Pug Rescue of NWA informed me I needed to have the cat declawed since pugs have bug eyes and our chosen pug had a tendency to “bug” cats.
This part of our adoption process occurred during a time when my mother was having radiation treatments in Florida. I left a list of items Hubs needed to take care of while I was gone. One item on the list was to take the cat to the vet. Imagine my surprise when the Vet called and told me it wasn’t our cat. What the hell? Did he just pick some random cat out of the neighborhood, cram it in the Suburban and drop it off at the vet?
The vet informed me, through her laughter, that this cat had already been declawed.
Sure the cat came back a little thinner, but it really looked like our cat. We all have our family secrets, this one happens to be ours.
When I returned home from Florida we decided on a certain pug named Albert. I was told by the Pug Rescue of NWA that Albert was a mild mannered dog who slept 20 hours a day, couldn’t swim, had eye drainage issues, and mild skin allergies. Bring. Him. On.
We were also told that Albert was housebroken. My aching ass housebroken. Mild skin allergies actually mean he is allergic to grass. Being allergic to grass is a real bitch when you are 8 inches tall and you poop in the yard. We bought him a doggie life jacket to wear in the boat at the lake, but he just ends up looking like an old canister vacuum because the life jacket has a handle on the top and his legs are too short to jump from the boat to the dock. He can be running one moment and fast asleep on the floor the next. He is also partially deaf. Someone could come in our home, steal everything inside it and terrorize the family. He would sleep through it all. If you turn on the stove, the fool barks for 20 minutes.
He is Perfect.
Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
NOLA
What to do, and not do, in New Orleans.
After spending what seemed like two house payments in New Orleans only to lose the game, I have a few words of advice.
10. Do not laugh at the co-eds who are sleeping 16 in a room with nothing to eat but summer sausage and saltines. You were once like them.
9. Never look the test tube shot girl in the eye. She will not leave you alone. You don’t need everclear and tap water to have a good time.
8. Hand Sanitizer.
7. Burn your boots when you get home. You will not get the smell out of them.
6. Call the hogs in every cab, bar, restaurant, and bathroom you visit. They really like that.
5. Never write the address of your tailgate spot on a girl’s arm in black sharpie. Her boss will not like that Wednesday morning.
4. Every Ohio State fan you meet does not want to be asked, “Can you lead me to the closest tattoo parlor?”
3. Bring your own toilet paper. Paper towels are not a good substitute. Ever.
2. Do not use the Rickshaw under any circumstances. I guess if you like panic attacks and seeing your life flash in front of your eyes it is a good mode of transportation. Every part of my body was tense while on that thing. Even my ovaries were tense.
1. The horses do not want to be ridden. Even if you “Just want to hang onto the tail.”
Thank you for reading my post. Go Hogs.
After spending what seemed like two house payments in New Orleans only to lose the game, I have a few words of advice.
10. Do not laugh at the co-eds who are sleeping 16 in a room with nothing to eat but summer sausage and saltines. You were once like them.
9. Never look the test tube shot girl in the eye. She will not leave you alone. You don’t need everclear and tap water to have a good time.
8. Hand Sanitizer.
7. Burn your boots when you get home. You will not get the smell out of them.
6. Call the hogs in every cab, bar, restaurant, and bathroom you visit. They really like that.
5. Never write the address of your tailgate spot on a girl’s arm in black sharpie. Her boss will not like that Wednesday morning.
4. Every Ohio State fan you meet does not want to be asked, “Can you lead me to the closest tattoo parlor?”
3. Bring your own toilet paper. Paper towels are not a good substitute. Ever.
2. Do not use the Rickshaw under any circumstances. I guess if you like panic attacks and seeing your life flash in front of your eyes it is a good mode of transportation. Every part of my body was tense while on that thing. Even my ovaries were tense.
1. The horses do not want to be ridden. Even if you “Just want to hang onto the tail.”
Thank you for reading my post. Go Hogs.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Crazy Train is Now Leaving the Station
Hubs and I are going on a small trip to NOLA Friday. These short trips are designed to get us away from the daily strains of our hectic lives and allow us some adult time. I love New Orleans. Some of my favorite words in the English language are,” Welcome back to the Royal Sonesta Mrs. Dowd.”
We do not always travel to New Orleans. One year we jetted off to Las Vegas with some friends to see the National Rodeo Finals. Just in case you were wondering, it is the best place in the world, WORLD, to see good looking men in Wranglers and cowboy hats. Hubs and I hit Downtown after the rodeo. There is a little hole in the wall downtown which serves large daiquiris in yard long plastic glasses. We ask for two. We then enter into the Golden Nugget with six feet of daiquiris between us and start playing slots. While sitting in our high backed stools at the slots, my husband gave a little playful kick to my stool to make me teeter back and forth a bit. I playfully kicked his back a little harder than intended. He then proceeds to kick the fire out of mine but grabs my arm in an attempt to keep me from falling over. The attempt failed. I teetered to one side then slammed into the other side while knocking down all stools on both sides of me. Daiquiris fly into the air and land all over the slots.
Hubs and I are on the floor enveloped in laughter. We thought the whole thing was hilarious until the bouncers walked up to us. Since we shut down a bank of slot machines, I was politely asked to leave the casino. Hubs got his ass tossed out into a back alley.
A few years later we head to Atlanta to see the Razorbacks play in the SEC title game. While in the Shreveport Airport, hubs warned me not to eat the chicken salad. He said he didn’t want to take care of me shitting all weekend. He chose the hot dog. Guess what he did all weekend? So bad he had to get a prescription called in and have our brother in law drive him to the pharmacy.
On another trip to see the rodeo in Vegas we visited Gilley’s after the bull riding. On his way to the bathroom a hooker asked my husband if he was looking for a good time tonight. He graciously said, “No Thanks, I’m with my wife.”
While on our fateful trip to NOLA last year involving my fall during a race, I broke down in the room with my arm in a sling. I was sitting on the bed while he was helping me put on my clothes after assisting me with my shower. I was supposed to be having a good time on Bourbon Street after my race but instead I was having my wounds cleaned. In order to cheer me up hubs said, “Good thing we had sex twice yesterday!”
Sorry ladies, he’s taken.
Think of us Friday. I hope the cavity searches in airport security, emergency room visits, and meetings with bouncers are kept to a minimum.
Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little bit better about yourself.
We do not always travel to New Orleans. One year we jetted off to Las Vegas with some friends to see the National Rodeo Finals. Just in case you were wondering, it is the best place in the world, WORLD, to see good looking men in Wranglers and cowboy hats. Hubs and I hit Downtown after the rodeo. There is a little hole in the wall downtown which serves large daiquiris in yard long plastic glasses. We ask for two. We then enter into the Golden Nugget with six feet of daiquiris between us and start playing slots. While sitting in our high backed stools at the slots, my husband gave a little playful kick to my stool to make me teeter back and forth a bit. I playfully kicked his back a little harder than intended. He then proceeds to kick the fire out of mine but grabs my arm in an attempt to keep me from falling over. The attempt failed. I teetered to one side then slammed into the other side while knocking down all stools on both sides of me. Daiquiris fly into the air and land all over the slots.
Hubs and I are on the floor enveloped in laughter. We thought the whole thing was hilarious until the bouncers walked up to us. Since we shut down a bank of slot machines, I was politely asked to leave the casino. Hubs got his ass tossed out into a back alley.
A few years later we head to Atlanta to see the Razorbacks play in the SEC title game. While in the Shreveport Airport, hubs warned me not to eat the chicken salad. He said he didn’t want to take care of me shitting all weekend. He chose the hot dog. Guess what he did all weekend? So bad he had to get a prescription called in and have our brother in law drive him to the pharmacy.
On another trip to see the rodeo in Vegas we visited Gilley’s after the bull riding. On his way to the bathroom a hooker asked my husband if he was looking for a good time tonight. He graciously said, “No Thanks, I’m with my wife.”
While on our fateful trip to NOLA last year involving my fall during a race, I broke down in the room with my arm in a sling. I was sitting on the bed while he was helping me put on my clothes after assisting me with my shower. I was supposed to be having a good time on Bourbon Street after my race but instead I was having my wounds cleaned. In order to cheer me up hubs said, “Good thing we had sex twice yesterday!”
Sorry ladies, he’s taken.
Think of us Friday. I hope the cavity searches in airport security, emergency room visits, and meetings with bouncers are kept to a minimum.
Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little bit better about yourself.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Thankful
How much do I complain? In looking back on some of my Facebook post, evidently a lot. I have made it a point in my life to not gossip or tear other people down in order to make myself feel better, but it seems lately I have slipped. If I am around someone who is saying something ugly I make a smartass remark. Something along the lines of, “How is that view from the glass house you are living in?” And I wonder why the church has never sent me on a mission trip.
It is human to complain. You know how people have to put up signs when a certain issue needs addressing? Like a sign in a restaurant which reads, Please No Smoking In The Buffet Line. Evidently it happened so much the management had to address the issue. God and his kid made lots of signs about complaining, whining, and general unpleasantness because there was a great need. It became an issue long before I made it an issue.
I have a friend named Chad Raney. I have worked with him on occasion and came to know him through mutual friends. I have known a few of the girls he has dated, (there is a long list) and heard stories of his past relationships (long line there too). He is always good for a smartass remark. Once I asked him to proofread one of my blogs as he writes speeches. He told me his proofreading skills were worse than my credit.
I have a list of people I send smartass texts to on occasion. One day I was in an amusement park and sent out a text that I had seen 25 CT’s if I had seen one. Chad’s reply? Look in the mirror #26. That is exactly what I get for being so rude.
One day he posted something on Facebook about how even though he was having a horrible day - life is what you make of it, and that complaining about it will not change your fate. I commented that my life sucked at the moment. A few moments later the receptionist buzzed me to tell me there was a Chad Raney on line one. After he asked me what was wrong I launched into a long tirade about how hard work had been lately at my non-profit and I was taking it as a personal failure. I knew the job was going to be an uphill battle, but I had not expected it to be so taxing on me mentally. I asked him what was making his day so bad. He told me it was the anniversary of when he broke his neck at age thirteen and ended up in a wheelchair.
Obviously I’m the President of the Selfish Piece of Shit Club.
I felt worthless. I had just been caught smoking in the buffet line. I apologized until I was blue in the face and told him he had turned around my day. I admitted that when I run and feel like I cannot go one more step, I think about him and how much he would love to be able to take that one more step.
Over the years we have thrown out the idea of me pushing him in a race. That day he gave his usual response. “Listen Hooker, I am a quadriplegic. All I have is limited use of one arm. The last thing I need is your accident prone fool ass wrecking both of us and taking that away from me.”
He made me feel better about myself.
It is human to complain. You know how people have to put up signs when a certain issue needs addressing? Like a sign in a restaurant which reads, Please No Smoking In The Buffet Line. Evidently it happened so much the management had to address the issue. God and his kid made lots of signs about complaining, whining, and general unpleasantness because there was a great need. It became an issue long before I made it an issue.
I have a friend named Chad Raney. I have worked with him on occasion and came to know him through mutual friends. I have known a few of the girls he has dated, (there is a long list) and heard stories of his past relationships (long line there too). He is always good for a smartass remark. Once I asked him to proofread one of my blogs as he writes speeches. He told me his proofreading skills were worse than my credit.
I have a list of people I send smartass texts to on occasion. One day I was in an amusement park and sent out a text that I had seen 25 CT’s if I had seen one. Chad’s reply? Look in the mirror #26. That is exactly what I get for being so rude.
One day he posted something on Facebook about how even though he was having a horrible day - life is what you make of it, and that complaining about it will not change your fate. I commented that my life sucked at the moment. A few moments later the receptionist buzzed me to tell me there was a Chad Raney on line one. After he asked me what was wrong I launched into a long tirade about how hard work had been lately at my non-profit and I was taking it as a personal failure. I knew the job was going to be an uphill battle, but I had not expected it to be so taxing on me mentally. I asked him what was making his day so bad. He told me it was the anniversary of when he broke his neck at age thirteen and ended up in a wheelchair.
Obviously I’m the President of the Selfish Piece of Shit Club.
I felt worthless. I had just been caught smoking in the buffet line. I apologized until I was blue in the face and told him he had turned around my day. I admitted that when I run and feel like I cannot go one more step, I think about him and how much he would love to be able to take that one more step.
Over the years we have thrown out the idea of me pushing him in a race. That day he gave his usual response. “Listen Hooker, I am a quadriplegic. All I have is limited use of one arm. The last thing I need is your accident prone fool ass wrecking both of us and taking that away from me.”
He made me feel better about myself.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Marathon
This weekend I will run a marathon. I have heard the trick to these things is to drink plenty of fluids, eat lots of carbs, and get plenty of rest the week prior. I have been resting and drinking fluids, but all I have eaten is crap. CRAP. I had hot wings as a snack yesterday if that is any indication of the crap I have been eating. Clarification – a pound of hot wings.
I have run half marathons in Texarkana, Memphis, New Orleans, and Las Vegas. My first full marathon will be in the big city of Wynne, Arkansas. I wanted a small race for my first 26.2 run. If the 5k in Smackover, AR is any indication of how small town races go, there will not be a pistol fired to signify the beginning of the race. There is just some dude who yells “GO”.
My last race in New Orleans did not go so well. I tripped on a crack at mile 7 and fell into a pothole. I cut open my elbow on the jagged edge of said pothole and had to be taken to the emergency room. During my seven hour stay in the emergency room the doctor told me there was a 50/50 chance my arm would heal. When I calmly asked him what in the hell he meant by correctly, he just looked down at the ground.
If I am going to loose my arm, I want it to be in some cool hiking accident where I am stuck for 385 hours and I have to cut it off myself using a nail file. Not because my dumb ass fell during a race.
Please think about me on Saturday morning. Most people will finish the race in 4 hours or less. Many will do it in less. I am hoping to tie this thing up in just under six. I have my power gels, my amazingly cute brown and pink running outfit, anti-chafing cream so my chunky little inner thighs don’t rub together, and a fully charged ipod. Once a friend of mine gave me a “supplement” right before a race. I sprayed it under my tongue because she said it would help me run faster. I have never tasted the inside of a donkey’s ass, but I’m pretty sure the two are similar. I ran faster, but with my mouth open.
On Saturday all I want to do is finish. By finish I mean without losing control of my bodily functions and messing myself at mile 22. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed.
I have run half marathons in Texarkana, Memphis, New Orleans, and Las Vegas. My first full marathon will be in the big city of Wynne, Arkansas. I wanted a small race for my first 26.2 run. If the 5k in Smackover, AR is any indication of how small town races go, there will not be a pistol fired to signify the beginning of the race. There is just some dude who yells “GO”.
My last race in New Orleans did not go so well. I tripped on a crack at mile 7 and fell into a pothole. I cut open my elbow on the jagged edge of said pothole and had to be taken to the emergency room. During my seven hour stay in the emergency room the doctor told me there was a 50/50 chance my arm would heal. When I calmly asked him what in the hell he meant by correctly, he just looked down at the ground.
If I am going to loose my arm, I want it to be in some cool hiking accident where I am stuck for 385 hours and I have to cut it off myself using a nail file. Not because my dumb ass fell during a race.
Please think about me on Saturday morning. Most people will finish the race in 4 hours or less. Many will do it in less. I am hoping to tie this thing up in just under six. I have my power gels, my amazingly cute brown and pink running outfit, anti-chafing cream so my chunky little inner thighs don’t rub together, and a fully charged ipod. Once a friend of mine gave me a “supplement” right before a race. I sprayed it under my tongue because she said it would help me run faster. I have never tasted the inside of a donkey’s ass, but I’m pretty sure the two are similar. I ran faster, but with my mouth open.
On Saturday all I want to do is finish. By finish I mean without losing control of my bodily functions and messing myself at mile 22. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Buns Hon
It is official and I am pissed. My butt has gotten bigger.
I put on a pair of pants this morning which have always fit a little snug in the hips and thighs, but I can’t even cross my legs in them now. Have I gained weight? No. Have I been training for a marathon? Yes.
People can tell me all the crap they want to about muscle weighing more than fat or how I look “healthy”. Tell it like it is. I have a honkeytonkbadonkeydonk. I have more cushin’ for the pushin’. Junk in my trunk.
My husband told me last week he wanted to start running and I was elated. I would love for him to do something with me that I enjoy. We love to travel together, but it is just not the same. What we really do is eat our way through certain areas of the country dragging along three kids and a babysitter. Exercising together would compliment that nicely.
The hubs wants to lose weight. I told him it would make the weight drop off of him. I would like to say that is what happened to me, but I cannot. If I added up all the weight I lost from when I began running four years ago it would equal ziltch. I haven’t lost pound number one after years of dragging my ass up and down every hill in Texarkana. I bet money he will drop 20 pounds in the first month. Asshole.
I also had a hard time when I started running. Even though I tried for about a month I could not run a full mile without stopping. I could stop and walk for about 30 seconds and then run again, but could just not get over that hump. One Saturday I was all dressed to run when one of the kids asked me to give them some peanut butter on a spoon. Since that is an upgrade from them asking me to squirt easy cheese in their mouths, I obliged. I reached in the silverware drawer and instantly ignited.
How hard is it? I have asked repeatedly and still he ignores me. It must show some sign of disrespect to me and my role as a wife. The little fork goes in the slot with the other little forks. Not the bigger forks. It is simple. I was irate. I took off running, after I gave the two year old half a container of peanut butter on her spoon, and didn’t stop for 1.5 miles. I was so pissed I just ran out all of my anger. I returned after 30 minutes a new woman.
Hubs was oblivious. I don’t even know if he realized I was gone. I returned to find him and the two year old watching a football game with peanut butter smeared on both their faces. I gave him a big kiss and thanked him for emptying out the dishwasher.
A few weeks later I built up to running five miles. I was so proud of myself I didn’t want to lose my momentum on our upcoming trip to Washington D. C. My plan was to run the monuments. Hubs decided he would go with me, but gave me a little speech before we left the Washington Monument. He explained to me how he had not run in a long time, but that he didn’t want to leave me behind. He told me,”Honey, if I leave you on the trail I will wait for you at the last monument. Don’t hurt yourself trying to keep up with me.”
I passed him at mile one. Surrounded by all the cherry blossoms and tourist I blew by him without breaking a sweat. I slapped him so hard on the ass his back arched. I was finished a full fifteen minutes before he finally met me wheezing and red in the face. He said, STOP FORREST STOP!
Once he starts running again he will be faster than me. He will also loose weight like I can only dream about. But perhaps he will no longer hate the way I leave my clothes on the trunk at the end of the bed, which I will gladly take over less junk in my trunk any day.
I put on a pair of pants this morning which have always fit a little snug in the hips and thighs, but I can’t even cross my legs in them now. Have I gained weight? No. Have I been training for a marathon? Yes.
People can tell me all the crap they want to about muscle weighing more than fat or how I look “healthy”. Tell it like it is. I have a honkeytonkbadonkeydonk. I have more cushin’ for the pushin’. Junk in my trunk.
My husband told me last week he wanted to start running and I was elated. I would love for him to do something with me that I enjoy. We love to travel together, but it is just not the same. What we really do is eat our way through certain areas of the country dragging along three kids and a babysitter. Exercising together would compliment that nicely.
The hubs wants to lose weight. I told him it would make the weight drop off of him. I would like to say that is what happened to me, but I cannot. If I added up all the weight I lost from when I began running four years ago it would equal ziltch. I haven’t lost pound number one after years of dragging my ass up and down every hill in Texarkana. I bet money he will drop 20 pounds in the first month. Asshole.
I also had a hard time when I started running. Even though I tried for about a month I could not run a full mile without stopping. I could stop and walk for about 30 seconds and then run again, but could just not get over that hump. One Saturday I was all dressed to run when one of the kids asked me to give them some peanut butter on a spoon. Since that is an upgrade from them asking me to squirt easy cheese in their mouths, I obliged. I reached in the silverware drawer and instantly ignited.
How hard is it? I have asked repeatedly and still he ignores me. It must show some sign of disrespect to me and my role as a wife. The little fork goes in the slot with the other little forks. Not the bigger forks. It is simple. I was irate. I took off running, after I gave the two year old half a container of peanut butter on her spoon, and didn’t stop for 1.5 miles. I was so pissed I just ran out all of my anger. I returned after 30 minutes a new woman.
Hubs was oblivious. I don’t even know if he realized I was gone. I returned to find him and the two year old watching a football game with peanut butter smeared on both their faces. I gave him a big kiss and thanked him for emptying out the dishwasher.
A few weeks later I built up to running five miles. I was so proud of myself I didn’t want to lose my momentum on our upcoming trip to Washington D. C. My plan was to run the monuments. Hubs decided he would go with me, but gave me a little speech before we left the Washington Monument. He explained to me how he had not run in a long time, but that he didn’t want to leave me behind. He told me,”Honey, if I leave you on the trail I will wait for you at the last monument. Don’t hurt yourself trying to keep up with me.”
I passed him at mile one. Surrounded by all the cherry blossoms and tourist I blew by him without breaking a sweat. I slapped him so hard on the ass his back arched. I was finished a full fifteen minutes before he finally met me wheezing and red in the face. He said, STOP FORREST STOP!
Once he starts running again he will be faster than me. He will also loose weight like I can only dream about. But perhaps he will no longer hate the way I leave my clothes on the trunk at the end of the bed, which I will gladly take over less junk in my trunk any day.
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