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Cornucopia of Thought…

May 18, 2010

This is going to be one of the most random posts I have ever written, but I’m OK with that. It’s also going to involve a bulleted list. Now I am well aware that some crazy ass, have no life what-so-ever pure bloggers have a problem with other bloggers using lists and bullets, but to them, I say that their life must be so boring that they’ve never had to condense it for their readers. So if you’re one of those people, bite me and move on. You aren’t welcome here.

Anyway, let’s get back to my list. Since my last blog post, I’ve…

  • Gone to multiple softball games to tackle the opposing team’s parents and make fun of your kids cheer on my girls. My kids are rockstars and don’t you forget it.
  • Taken my girls to a swimming party. It was enjoyable because I actually liked most of the other moms (which rarely happens), but came home smelling like chlorine and sweating like a damn hog thanks to the hotel’s indoor swimming pool where the party was held.
  • Helped organize, develop and write an 8-hour training course on how to improve your technical writing skills. The class was taught to technical writers who should already know this stuff. So basically, I helped write a class on how to write that was taught to writers. Do you see the humor in this? Because I do.
  • Got word that the training kicked ass and that the tech writers really liked the training exercises I developed and particularly LOVED the document I revised. You know… the one that they as fellow tech writers wrote first and sent to me. Seriously? Because I could use a full-time job again soon and apparently your company’s tech writers suck. Are you hiring? [shaking head…]
  • Was pleased to once again realize that although I don’t always particularly love my job (or even like it sometimes), I’m damn fucking good at it. BOOYAH!
  • Received an email from a recruiter about a contract position at a company (whom shall remain nameless, but is a well-known computer company). As much as it’s probably a good fit for me, the thought of driving one hour to work everyday, working from 8:00am until 5:00pm and then driving home for another hour really isn’t appealing to me. But I’ll get back to her because it’s the responsible adult thing to do and I can’t afford to turn away work. Sigh…
  • Volunteered at the girls’ school yesterday for Field Day. I worked a water station with a dad and throughout the day, found out he’s a prison guard at a local prison. He told me a story about saving a midget from committing suicide. The freak tried to do a head stand in his cell toilet and drown himself. The dad walked in, picked him out by his ankles, and threw him on his bed. Seriously? I was amused that people feel like sharing these types of stories with me (because apparently I come across as someone who truly appreciates the humor in these things), but was also a little freaked out given my fear of midgets. I would’ve let the bastard drown in his own piss. (Not because he was a midget… but because he was a “violent offender” according to this guy.
  • Handed out over 400 Freezie Pops to kids ranging in age from 5 to 10. My hands were a big orange/purple/blue/pink/red/green mess by the end of the day. (But I loved it.)
  • Found myself suddenly completely in charge of the 1st grade tug-of-war contest. Have you ever tried to yell to 60 1st graders NOT to pull on a rope when you’re trying to get the middle flag back over the ground mark prior to starting the contest while 300+ other elementary school students are also talking/yelling/laughing on a big open field? It ain’t easy my friends… Not easy at all. (And my hands smelled like ASS after that. That rope needs a serious cleansing. Bleach? Mrs. Meyers lavender-scented dish detergent? I don’t care. But clean that mother fucker before I volunteer again next year, OK?)
  • Received word that my “baby” (my Canon Rebel XTi D-SLR camera) has arrived at the repair shop and can be sent home all fixed up within 7 days (as soon as I pay that $250 they want). Ugh. Is a “child” really worth that amount? (In this case, yes, as much as I hate to admit it. But it’s killing me to admit that.)…. “Electric bill? Well of course I paid the electric bills, Hon!” she says as the power goes out…
  • Gone to the library’s used book sale and bought the best book ever for my kids. It’s called, “I’m Glad I’m a Boy. I’m Glad I’m a Girl.” and was written in 1970. It’s one of the most politically incorrect (and yet hideously hilarious) books I’ve ever read. I’ve already photographed the pages for your viewing pleasure. (That’s tomorrow’s post. I promise you it’ll be worth clicking back over here to see.)
  • Had a panic attack upon updating her calendar and realizing that unless I clone myself 8 times, there’s no way I’m going to accomplish all of the things that need to be done the rest of this week and be in all the places I need to be. Just. Not. Possible.
  • Done a billion other things that are escaping me at the moment.

Apologies to those that were expecting a post that was funnier/more insightful/heartfelt/etc. Frankly, this week has been nuts and it only gets worse over the next few days. So check in tomorrow to see that politically incorrect book I mentioned up there. It’s good shit (and the sort of mindless post I’m afraid will be occurring over the next few days thanks to the 8 billion softball games, softball photos, Girl Scout picnics, Brownie meetings, and parent volunteering that are coming up). Again… apologies…

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Wanna See Some Girl-on-Girl Cat Fighting?

May 14, 2010

Then watch for me when the next season of the Bachelor airs. (I actually have no clue when the next season airs, but just watch for it, because if I have my way, I’ll be on it.)

See, I have this all planned out. Now first of all, let me reiterate that I am very happily married. It’s like a damn utopia around here. Seriously. I have absolutely no desire to leave my husband, cheat on my husband, or piss him off. Yes, we have our moments, and yes, he does things that make me want to go ape shit. But generally speaking, I’ve found my soul mate, we’re best friends, we very rarely argue, and in 11 years, we haven’t once thought about ending it all. That being said, he also understands my overwhelming desire to make the entire world think like I do, so I’m pretty sure he’d be OK with the plan I’m about to lay out for all of you…

Here’s how it’s going to play out….

First, I’m going to drop about 20 lbs. Now granted, I only weigh 12o-ish lbs. right now, and on my 5’3 1/2″ frame, that’s not so bad. But let’s face it. Unless I can rock a bikini and not have a slight beer gut hanging out, I’ve already lost any chance of landing on the show.

After I drop those 20 lbs., I’m going to get a boob job. Again, I’m somewhere between a B and a C cup, but we all know that unless I’m sporting a cleavage that could hide one of those midgets I’m afraid of, then again, my chances of landing on the show are slim to none.

Next, I’ll become a blonde. A platinum blonde. This is where my amazingly talented hair stylist and friend, Aaron, comes in. He hasn’t done me wrong yet, so I have complete confidence that he can make me look like a walking Barbie doll if asked (or at least like her second-rate cousin, Skipper).

So assuming I do all of the above, I have complete confidence that my personality can guarantee me a spot on the show. This is where the fun begins…

Upon being accepted to be on the show and then arriving on the set, I’m going to just blend right in with the other pathetic whore bag lovely, classy ladies that were chosen. I’ll toss my hair back, bat my eyelashes, and smile so big that you’ll swear my glittery thong is so far up my ass that there’s no hope of ever retrieving it.

I’ll flirt with the wealthy bachelor, while also slyly making friends with the other sluts girls that are there.

I’ll make out with the bachelor in some random, bacteria-ridden, sperm-filled hot tub, knowing all of the other bitches ladies are back at the mansion, contemplating whether or not the living Ken doll really has the hots for me or just likes my new double-D tits.

Once I use my charm to get into the top 4 or 5 girls or so is when my evil plot will all take shape. First, I’ll make a point of having sex with the not even remotely hot attractive bachelor. This is simply to throw off the other women and make them hate me (so that my upcoming bitch slaps won’t emotionally wound them).

Then, I’m going to sit each one of the pathetic excuses for women ladies down one by one and explain to them that if one hopes to find actual love, then going on what is really a glorified game show and sucking face with and screwing a guy who is doing the same with 19 other girls at the same time probably isn’t the way to do it. Then I’m going to tell them (assuming they can comprehend intelligent conversation) that they’re giving women everywhere a bad name, that they’re worthless, that the only reason they haven’t found true love yet is because they’re shallow and superficial. And then I’m going to line them up side-by-side and walk down the line and bitch slap every goddamn one of them.

Chances are, they won’t know what hit them and will run crying to the arrogant asshole bachelor to “tell” on me. And they’ll all fall, one by one, into his arms and he’ll screw them to ease the pain (one right after the other, with a 5-minute break in between each girl so that the douchebag gentleman has time to  rinse off the sex scent of the 4 other previous girls).

And then, as each one exits the dickbag’s upstanding citizen’s room, I’ll bitch slap them again and finish them off by punching them in the chest, hoping to pop whatever silicone or saline-filled pouches are in there. And then when he walks out, I’ll rip his nuts off, shove them down his throat, and belittle him by telling him he has a small penis and chastising him for being a pig who just spent weeks making out (and screwing) 20 random girls in his search for his future wife.

Because we all know that if you’re going to find someone to spend the rest of your life with, the way to do that is to find 20 girls to simultaneously screw, suck face with, and flop around in hot tubs.

That is absolutely the way to set yourself up with a lovely life partner that will forever be devoted to you and be willing to walk to the ends of the earth with. Uh huh.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

PS: I’m pretty sure that upon carrying out my plan, that I’ll be kicked off the show by whatever producer is secretly having a homosexual affair with whatever bachelor is on the show. But that’s OK. Because I can die happy knowing I did at least one good thing for my fellow vagina-bearing comrades who feel the same way I do.

PPS: Yes (for those of you that will ask and/or challenge me), I’ve watched the show. One episode of one season. And I was so repulsed and embarrassed for the losers that were on it (the guy and the girls), that I changed the channel and have refused to ever watch another second of it again. And I and never will.

(Well… except for the season that I’m on it. Because that season will at least be somewhat entertaining…)

Well Slap My Ass and Call Me Charlie…

May 12, 2010

Actually, now that I think about it, don’t do that. Because I’m pretty sure that if you slapped my ass, you could very well lose your hand in there. And then you’d sue me. And a freelance tech writer doesn’t make nearly enough to compensate for someone else’s lost appendage. Trust me on this one. And come to think of it, I don’t want you to call me Charlie either. Because that just wouldn’t make sense. Because my name isn’t Charlie or even close to Charlie, so you’d just look stupid.

But I digress…

The reason for my use of that odd expression is because my new little blog here has been given an award already. And not only that, but it’s been bestowed upon me by a blogger who I find deliciously hilarious. Even more so than me. And although that would normally make me bitter and want to group her in there with my evil sister-in-law, this blogger writes so well that I can’t even hate her for it, dammit.

So after this past weekend filled with 5Ks, birthdays, Mother’s Day, and lots of snot-filled heads (which are still here, but which I’ve chosen to ignore because I wasn’t getting shit done around here and I swear I lost my 6-year-old in the laundry room), I finally had a chance to catch up on the blogs I love to read. It was during this little break from reality when I saw that over on In Pursuit of Martha Points, she had been given an award and was required to choose 15 other bloggers to pass the award on to. She chose me! Little ol’ me! Yay! <— (Yes, I realize the gayness of writing “YAY!” as if I’m a 9-year-old who just found out that the local ice cream joint is offering free sprinkles on their ice cream cones, but I don’t care.)

So anyway, let’s all oooo and ahhhh over my first ever award on this new blog, shall we?

Isn’t it pretty? Anyway, the “rules” are that I have to post 7 little-known fun facts about myself, and then pass the award along to 15 other bloggers. No problemo! Let’s get started…

  1. I’m kind of afraid of midgets. (And yes, I’m well aware the PC term is now “little people” but that doesn’t sound nearly as funny.) I used to be paralyzingly terrified of them, but ever since that “Little People, Big World” show came out (that my children insist on watching), and my friend sent me a shirt with an Oompa Loompa on it that I force myself to wear once a week, I’ve managed to tame the overwhelming fear, and now it’s just a mild “I’m freaked out” sort of thing.
  2. I don’t eat any fruits or vegetables, with the exception of lettuce in a salad and the occasional carrot stick dipped in Ranch dressing. No peas, no green beans, no broccoli, no strawberries, no grapes, no apples, no oranges. None. The thing is, I don’t even dislike most fruits and vegetables. I just don’t like them enough to actually consume them. [shrug]
  3. I’ve had this weird habit since I was a kid where if I’m reading a book or have any sort of sheet of paper in front of me, I HAVE to put my right thumb under the top right corner of the page or paper. Sometimes I move my thumb up and down a bit, just because I like the way the paper feels on the back of my thumb. I have absolutely no explanation for this compulsion, but it’s one of many, many reasons I will never own a Kindle or a Nook.
  4. I don’t like Dr. Seuss books. Never have…. Never will. I don’t care who hopped on Pop, or if Sam I Am doesn’t like green eggs and ham, or if a cat wears a hat, or if Cindy Lulu or Hulu or whatever the hell her name is doesn’t get a Christmas present because the Grinch stole it. I hated his books as a kid and I hate them now when my kids want to read them. (I also think that “Goodnight Moon” is one of the DUMBEST children’s books ever written and I truly, truly don’t understand the fascination. At all.)
  5. Let’s roll with this book theme… I also don’t like the Harry Potter series, the Twilight series, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and anything written by Nicholas Sparks (holy crappy, cheesy, pumped-out-as-quickly-as-possible, mediocre writing, dude).
  6. I have really weird celebrity crushes such as Steve Martin (who could be my father he’s so much older than me), Carrot Top (but BEFORE his freaky ass plastic surgery), Ryan Seacrest, and John Malkovich (shut up… have you seen “Dangerous Liasons?”). You can judge me all you want. I don’t care.
  7. When I’m alone, I sing. A lot. And loudly. And I don’t sing well. At all.

OK. So I guess most of those aren’t “fun” facts so I’m already screwing up these award requirements. But hell, they do give you a glimpse into my life, so we’ll just keep moving along to part 2 of the requirements. The 15 blogs I now need to bestow this honor upon. This part will be way easier.

  1. Where Am I Going… And Why Am I in This Handbasket? — (A friend of mine who is truly one of the most gifted writers I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. Whether it’s funny, sad, or just simple day-to-day life she’s describing, she pulls you in in ways that only truly gifted authors can.)
  2. Yet Another Mom Blog — (Another friend of mine. A normal, everyday wife/mother/friend who chronicles the ups and downs that most of us face. But she does it in a way that has you nodding as you read her posts, saying to yourself, “Oh my god! Me too!”)
  3. Casa Defrias — A college friend who chronicles her life as she beat cancer once, wants a baby, dealt with cancer again, and recently had a hysterectomy. As her subtitle states, “Cancer can take my uterus, but it can’t take my sense of humor!”
  4. The Whatever Factor — This is a blogger I only found since starting this blog up a month or so ago. (And I only found her because she found me first.) This lady KILLS me (in a good way). She has a perfect blend of sarcasm and humor about everyday things and memories from her past. I anxiously await the email in my inbox saying she has a new post.
  5. One Cool Pick — Just what it says. Cool shit every day. A creative/artsy person’s wet dream.
  6. Mommy Wants Vodka — What mommy doesn’t want vodka? That’s my question…
  7. Sparkling By the Way’s Blog — Effing hilarious. Enough said.
  8. The Believing Soul — A friend of mine who doesn’t only have a believing soul, but a beautiful one. (And is an amazing writer to boot…)
  9. Elise Blaha::enJOY it — Just a crazy artistic, creative person. I totally dig her in ways I probably shouldn’t.
  10. Twig & Thistle — More amazingly cool artsy, creative stuff.
  11. My Life… Just Not on the Road I Expected… — CRAZY talented photographer with a beautiful family and great posts.
  12. Passive Aggressive Notes — Just read it. You’ll laugh.
  13. Creative Holly Color — For those of us who get off on a good color palette. (Yes, people like us are really out there.)
  14. Simply Me — Her posts, photos, artwork, creativity make me smile.
  15. Life in Color — Because life should be in color.

So there it is… part 2 of my award requirements. LOL! I hope that somewhere in that list of blogs, you find a blog or two that you can read and then laugh at (in a good way), get joy from, relate to, use for inspiration, or just smile at the prettiness you see when you click over.

And thanks once again to In Pursuit of Martha Points for taking the time to recognize me. It’s an honor and I hope I can continue to please you with my posts.

And now I’m off to bed (soon anyway). Because I’m still sick, I’m exhausted from a crazy 3 days, and I want to run tomorrow for the first time since the 5K on Saturday. Why run you ask now that the infamous 5K is over? Well, because yesterday, I sent in my registration to run another one in 2 weeks… In the town where I live… Where I’ll probably see lots of people I know… Shit… Whose idea was this anyway…?

The Things That REALLY Matter…

May 11, 2010

So let’s talk about the life-altering experience I mentioned in my last post. It happened right after the race, but before we left the park where the race had started and ended.

Now when I decided to sign up for this 5K, it just happened to fall on my birthday, which I thought was sort of “symbolic” in a way, since it would be my first one. But what made it even more cool was that the race was run for pancreatic cancer research. It just so happens that I have not one, but two friends who know someone with pancreatic cancer. Both are young women who don’t deserve what life handed them. In a sick twist of fate, both of these women were also put on hospice within days of each other just a few weeks ago. The battle had ended and now it was just about keeping them as comfortable as possible until the end.

One of my friends is also a runner. So for the 5K, she set up a team to run in honor of her friend that was recently put on hospice. Team Jen was formed and I gladly joined the team. I received my Team Jen shirt that morning and proudly wore it to run the race. It was my pleasure.

After all of the runners and walkers had finished the 5K, my friend that had organized Team Jen started gathering us all up for a photo. As she went around finding everyone, I stood there waiting. A little boy, who I’d guess was about 8 or 9 years old was standing right in front of me, holding the poster that said “Team Jen” and had a photo of a beautiful young woman with pigtails and a huge smile on her face.

Someone else who had run on Team Jen (and who obviously knows the family) looked at the little boy and said, “Oh, are you holding the picture of your mom?”

The sweet little boy simply smiled and said, “Yup!” while looking down at her photo. I lost it. Tears welled up in my eyes and I turned away so he wouldn’t see me. I had no clue that the little boy less than 2 feet away from me was the son of the woman who had recently been told she didn’t have much longer to live. I knew in my heart that very soon, that boy was going to lose his mom. His world would be rocked and he’d go the rest of his life with only memories of the woman who had given birth to him and raised him as long as she could. No more hugs. No more kisses. No more tears being wiped away by his mommy.

I thought of my own two daughters at home and how painful it would be for them to lose me or Steve. And how if I knew my time was near, how I’d be devastated and worried about how my beautiful baby girls would survive without me. Who would take them shopping for their first bras and their prom dresses? Who would talk to them about getting their first period? Who would be there to watch them walk down the aisle? Who would hold their sweet children in their arms and be called Grandma?

The weight of the whole situation and what this particular 5K was really about pressed down on me. In that one instant of that little boy saying, “Yup!” with a smile on his face, I re-evaluated my entire life. I knew in my heart, that from that moment on, any time I thought about complaining about something trivial, I’d flash to that boy. Anytime I looked around my house and inwardly groaned about having to clean it, I’d flash to that boy and thank god that I could go around and clean it. Anytime the girls were acting up and giggling and laughing and being crazy when I wasn’t in the mood, I’d flash to that little boy and realize how lucky I am to be able to watch them laugh and play and run around.

So that morning, we all ran and walked in her honor. And then we gathered for a photo, which hopefully, she got to see.

Last night, I saw on my friend’s Facebook page, that Jen passed away. That woman with the sweet little boy is gone. And that sweet little boy is now without his mommy.

Here is a photo of me and my girls from Mother’s Day this past Sunday.

I’m hopeful that next Mother’s Day, I can once again be in a photo with my girls, all of us smiling and happy and together. Jen doesn’t have that privilege.

So tonight, hug and kiss your loved ones. And the next time you’re ready to rip your hair out because you have one kid that needs to be at one softball field and another who has to be at a field clear across town, and you have to feed your family dinner before you can leave, and then you’re fighting with your kids to do their homework once you get back home, I’m begging you to take a deep breath and let it go. Be grateful that you’re healthy enough to do all of those things, as stressful as they can be. And then hug and kiss them all again and realize that life is a short blip on the radar and that we all damn well better do something good with it and appreciate every blessed second of it.

I Even Run 5Ks “Allison Style”…

May 11, 2010

First things first… sorry it’s been awhile since I posted. We were crazy busy this weekend and I’m going to tell you all about it. But I wanted to tell it right and just didn’t have a chance until now.

But anyway… let’s talk about the 5K. My first 5K ever. Any of you that have known me for a while realize how humorous it is that I was even considering running a 5K. Those of you that just “met me” are just going to have to trust me on this one. LOL!

My Husband, the Prankster…

It all started on Friday night when Steve came home bearing an early birthday present for me. He handed me a gift bag and inside I found a pair of Gold’s Gym neoprene shorts. Now these are specifically made to “keep your muscles warm” while working out. In other words, they give you Hot Crotch. These are NOT meant for running a 5K in. Under those, in the gift bag, I found a mouth guard. Upon seeing the puzzled look on my face, Steve said, “That’s in case you fall tomorrow during the race.” LOL! Gotta love the guy, ya know?

Race Day…

So anyway, I woke up on Race Day (Saturday morning) around 6:00 AM (after not sleeping well). The race was about 35 minutes away and I wanted to be there by 8:15 or so, so Steve and I were going to have to leave here around 7:30. They were calling for wind, rain, and possible thunderstorms, which I was praying would hold out until after the race, but regardless, knew I couldn’t back out at that point.

So I nervously got dressed (in my non-running gear because I never took the time to actually go and buy “real” running gear) and Steve & I hopped in the car and headed out. I was nervous the entire drive there. Well, not really nervous since I wasn’t looking to win the thing. But anxious… apprehensive… worried about disappointing myself… etc. I secretly hoped we’d get lost on the way there, causing me to miss the start of the race. But alas, we arrived right on schedule.

I Registered Twice…

Having never run one of these things before, I was a bit unsure what I was supposed to do. But under the tent, I spied a registration table. So I walked over, filled out a paper, and received my free T-shirt and my race number. I had no clue how to even pin the damn number on, but I figured it out.

A minute or so later, I saw other racers carrying around a large plastic bag that they were picking up at another table. I figured I was supposed to get one of those too, so I went over, gave them my name, they crossed my name off a list and handed me a bag. I walked away and checked out my loot. Inside was a bunch of stuff from sponsors, along with ANOTHER T-shirt and ANOTHER race number. See, I had pre-registered online and should’ve just gone to that table first. But being a rookie, I didn’t know that.

This led to a total panic attack, wondering which number I was supposed to wear. Did it matter? Was one already “linked” with my name or were both now in my name? Should I wear both? LOL! Ugh. The whole fiasco did nothing to help calm my nerves.

My Friend Arrives and the Rain Begins…

So when I decided to sign up for this thing, a friend of mine–who doesn’t live too far away and also happens to be an avid runner–said that she’d run it with me. I thought that was pretty cool, and was thrilled when I saw her pull into the parking lot at the race that morning. She went to the correct table to pick up her race bag, we pinned our numbers on, and then waited.

About 10 minutes before start time, I felt a drop of rain splatter on my face. Fan-friggin-tastic. Sigh. So I threw on my windbreaker (over the long-sleeved tee and short-sleeved tee I was already wearing) and hoped that the rain would stop before the race actually started.

This is us. (I’m the short one on the right.) Please note my lack of proper running gear, my clenched fist, and the nervous expression on my face.

So right after Steve took this photo, they told us to line up at the starting line. At that point, it was pouring, so I made the decision to run with the windbreaker on. This turned out to be a bad decision…

And We’re Off…

So the horn sounded and we were off! My friend warned me not to start out too fast and verbally pulled me back and made me slow down. No problem! No arguments from me, my friend. I won’t get into too many details of the actual run, just because there isn’t much to tell other than the following:

  • About 3/4 of a mile in, the rain basically stopped and I was sweating like a damn hog, cursing myself for keeping my jacket on.
  • I would’ve taken the jacket off and tied it around my waist, except I had pinned my race number to the front of it, over the zipper, and I didn’t want to take the time to stop and unpin it to get the jacket off.
  • Our first two miles were run at a little over an 11-minute pace, which was pretty much on target with what I had been running on my own at home.
  • I kept getting side-stitches, which really sucked.
  • The last mile killed me. I had pushed myself a little too hard for the first two miles, running longer distances before walking than I was used to. Normally, I run, walk for 30-seconds or so to catch my breath, and then run again. But in the race, I would run to the point where when I finally did decide to walk for a bit, I’d need to walk 60 to 90 seconds at a time in order to catch my breath.
  • My friend was awesome, never once chastising me for walking and just chatting as we went. (Well, she was “chatting”… I was gasping for air and could barely gasp yes or no answers…)

The End (Um, Sort of…)

So FINALLY, we see the end in sight. I was SO ready to be done by this point. I just wanted to collapse in a heap, rip the goddamn jacket off my sweat-soaked body, and chug about a gallon of water. So we “run” (and I use that term loosely in my case) for the parking lot where the race had started. Upon entering the parking lot, we were instructed by a woman standing there to go left. So we did as we were told and then just sort of stopped. Where the hell was the finish line? Where the hell was the big clock to give us our time? How anti-climatic was this?

Straight ahead of us (after turning left) was the trail that lead down into the tents in the park where the band was playing, food and drinks were available, etc. People who had already finished the race were walking down to that area, but we still didn’t know what our time was. What the hell?!?! I knew it wasn’t a great time, but I was also curious and knew other people would ask me what it was.

I look up to the other end of the parking lot and see Steve standing there. I was sort of annoyed he wasn’t standing at the end we were at to welcome us back in and take a photo of us actually running, but my friend and I were thirsty, and just wanted to get a drink, so I waved Steve to come over to us.

Steve waved back for us to come to him.

Well now I’m even more annoyed. In my head, I’m thinking, “Don’t be so damn lazy, asshole! Come to us!”

I waved again for him to come over.

He waved again for us to come over to him.

Son of a…

Finally, we both started walking towards each other and that’s when Steve informed us that we were supposed to keep going around the parking lot and then cross the finish line where we’d see our time, officially get “checked in” in the order we finished, and receive a flower. Mother fucker! LOL!

So we did a quick check of the big ol’ clock (once we found it) and then knocked a minute off based on how long we figured we had been standing there like idiots having not officially finished. Then we walked through so our ranking could be recorded (after several people who had arrived after us had found the damn finish line and crossed it), and received our flowers. [shaking head].

Here we are after the race. Note that the damn rain had started to curl up my naturally curly hair, making me look WAY more disheveled than I felt at this point. (Natural = Afro in my case…) I also don’t know why I’m standing like such a dork, but that’s neither here nor there…

So that’s right folks. I ran my first 5K on the morning of my 37th birthday. And I ran it in around 37 minutes (based on our guesstimate, having screwed that whole finish line thing up). And I DID technically finish (although not properly) without collapsing.

I suppose that given the way things usually play out for me, I shouldn’t have expected anything but the double registration and the not crossing the finish line thing. I mean, I am the same person who once went on a band field trip to Canada in high school, got off the bus with a group of friends thinking it was a bathroom break, spent 15 minutes in a gift shop, and got back on the bus only to find out 30 minutes later that we had just been at Niagara Falls and I never saw the actual falls. That’s just the way my life goes. LOL!

My Thoughts…

I’m proud of myself. No, I didn’t run it as fast as I wanted to (but now realize my mistakes). And the end was definitely anti-climatic, not having crossed the finish line properly with my fists pumping in the air. But I did it. I said I was going to do it, and I did. And I had my husband there to support me (even though his heart was really in the woods, turkey hunting). And I had a TON of support from friends and family leading up to it. So I honestly couldn’t ask for more.

I had a life-altering experience after the race, but I’ll save that for another post, since this one is already too long. Later tonight, I’ll write about that experience, as well as how I spent the rest of the day and the next day, which was Mother’s Day.

But let me end by saying that if I can do this, anyone can do this. And I mean that sincerely. I am the least athletic person you’ll ever meet. I do whatever I possibly can to avoid moving if we’re being honest here. So if I can shuffle along for 3 miles, than I’m pretty sure anyone else could too. Give it a shot. It really was a lot of fun and I can now cross it off my list of goals. I couldn’t really ask for a better birthday gift to myself…

Mish Mash

May 4, 2010

So today’s post is brought to you by my seriously gelatinous brain. It’s mush people. Pure mush. But that doesn’t mean I can’t post. This is random and will probably contain a plethora of typos. But I’m OK with that today. So let’s get started, shall we?

* The 5K that I signed up for (in a half-drunken stupor) is this Saturday. A mere 4 days away. I’m not ready. Not at all. Now I realize that many of the other people will walk the entire thing (which I won’t do), so I won’t be in last place (which is really my only goal). But I’m still shaking my head, wondering what the fuck I was thinking…

* I’m also annoyed that the 5K is ON my 37th birthday (which seemed symbolic at the time), and instead of getting shitfaced the night before with my friends, I’ll have to sip water and go to bed early. Again people, don’t drink and sign up for 5Ks! (This is a public service announcement…)

* I’m slightly disturbed that Hannah’s new outfit of choice is any bottoms paired with a boy’s wife beater undershirt. She wears them to bed… she puts one on as soon as she walks in the door after school… and tonight, she wore one to dance class. I’m not sure if I should nip this in the bud now, or tell her to just embrace her redneck ways and revel in it.

* I chaperoned for Hannah’s field trip today (no wife beater was worn). I spent the day counting “One… Two… Three…” over and over and over again as I mentally checked on the three kids I was responsible for. We all had fun, but I’m thanking God that her teacher apparently had heard enough about my reputation to only put me in charge of three kids, and not four like all of the other chaperones. (PS: I’m not sure whether to be completely thankful for this, or slightly offended.)

* The bus driver for today’s field trip obviously hates all children and I’m thinking that choosing to drive a school bus was probably the wrong choice of careers. I swear to god, I’m pretty sure that at one point, I saw his eyes glow green as he attempted to put the children in a trance and summon complete silence. And once, when he yelled, I swear to god, blood spewed from his lips. (God bless his wife (assuming he has one) because the dude was a dick.)

* Was amused that upon arriving at the school this morning, I was “warned” that Cowboy Kyle was going to be giving the children their rides on the horse drawn wagon and that he just “turned legal” a few months ago. I watched grown women swoon before we even met the guy. Watching all of the teachers text each other all day with just the word, “Giddyup!!!” was both hilarious and refreshing. (For what it’s worth, although he was quite a good looking young man, I expected so much more. Perhaps I should lower my standards?… Or the teachers should raise theirs? Either way, “Giddyup!” never once came to mind.)

* Was amused that one of the PTO moms that I greatly dislike tried to get into the whole “Giddyup!” fiasco, which tells me her husband just isn’t up to par. I knew she had an ugly husband! I just knew it! Mwaaahaahaaa!!!!

* Almost got reprimanded at the play we took the kids to because a certain teacher sat right next to me and we couldn’t stop laughing at the weird drag queen action going on in the Junie B. Jones play the children were enjoying. Seriously, if you can’t find 5 females to play the parts, then don’t write the play to contain scenes with 5 girls. Because seeing a black man and a white man dressed as cheerleaders and prissy girls for a room full of hundreds of elementary school kids was the creepiest damn thing I ever witnessed. And having two people with the same sense of humor sit right next to each other is never a good thing.

* Note to play writer person: When a certain teacher and myself are already rolling on the floor laughing about the above actions, PLEASE don’t throw a line into the play where one of the guys says, “I love to hear the woodblock. The woodblock makes cool noises!” because getting thrown out (as an adult) in front of all of the children really isn’t such a good example to set.

* Isn’t sure how to take the following conversation with Hannah on the bus ride home from the field trip:

“Hey mom, if we go on a field trip next year, maybe you could just stay home. Because now you already went on one, so it’s all good.”

Um, thanks honey. Thanks a lot…

And with that, I’m off to bed. Because I’m exhausted. I have so much more to say, but don’t have the energy to say it right now. But stay tuned. Because tomorrow we’ll discuss how I’m on the brink of insanity due to my To Do list.

One More Reason My Kids Will Hate Me One Day…

May 4, 2010

Let me just start out by saying that I love my daughters. Both of them. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. And I honestly love almost everything about having girls. But I’d be lying if I said that God wasn’t trying to punish me (or at least play a cruel joke on me) when he gave me two of them. Because as much as I love them, I’m not exactly what I’d call good Mom of Daughters material. I just don’t “do” girly well.

In some ways, sure, I can pull it off when absolutely necessary. But generally speaking, I’m one of the least girly people you’ll ever meet (with the exception of perhaps once-a-girl-but-now-a-man Chastity Bono). Growing up, my best friends were always the guys. I curse like a sailor, I don’t dig makeup and often don’t wear it, I hate doing my hair, I hate shopping malls, I can drink most guys under the table, and I refuse to partake in the typical girly backstabbing/gossipy crap that most girls seem to thrive on. (Oh, with the exception of my evil sister-in-law because I hate her and I have an unhealthy obsession with bashing her as often as possible, but that’s neither here nor there.)

I don’t like playing waitress and restaurant with my girls… I don’t like to have tea parties… I don’t want to give them manicures and pedicures… and I have no desire to sit and braid their hair for hours (although I’ll do all of it and persuaded enough). Now before people start bashing me, I’d like to say that I do a lot with my girls. But I’d prefer to hang out and read with them, throw a football around in the backyard, go for a walk with them, or just sit around and talk. I just don’t like to do all of that other stuff that moms of girls seem to take great pleasure in. I just don’t have it in me, and I’ve decided that that’s what grandmothers are for.

So let’s talk about yesterday — the day when both of my daughters had to go and have their photos taken for dance class. Now I will say up front that upon arriving to get the photos taken, it takes about 10 minutes tops (if that) for each child, so that in and of itself is no big deal. I always love the photos and it doesn’t take much time once we’re there. The owner of the dance studio keeps the ship running smoothly, and you couldn’t ask for better efficiency. But the preparation here at home to get there? My god, I’d rather walk through Hell barefoot.

All girls are required to put their hair in buns for the photos and the recital. This is due to crazy-ass parents bitching and moaning if some other child doesn’t have their hair in a bun, but they took the time to put their own child’s hair in a bun. (Yes, for real.)  Because god forbid if all children that step on stage don’t look exactly alike. (Seriously people… there are WAY more important things to worry about… Get over it…)

But I won’t break the rules at my children’s expense (because I’m pretty convinced that one day, Grace is going to be taller than me and then she’ll kick my ass), so two hours before photos were scheduled, I plopped Grace down to attempt to put her chin-length hair in a bun. I tried, people. I swear to god, I tried. But after 45 minutes, her hair looked ridiculous (think Medusa), she was cranky and ready to beat my ass, she wouldn’t stop moving her head so that I had at least some hope of succeeding, and by the end of that 45 minutes, I honestly had to call a Time Out for both of us, so we could regroup, take the 800 bobby pins out of her hair and try again. It wasn’t pretty, my friends. Not at all. We were ready to throw down and have our own Steel Cage wrestling match at that point.

So I walked away for 5 minutes and came back to try again. Now during all of this, Hannah’s in the background saying,

Is it my turn? Why don’t you just do mine? Mine’s easy because my hair is long. Grace’s hair is too short. Why are you even bothering, Mom? Just do mine. Mine will look better anyway…

I was ready to kick her ass outside until I was ready for her, because given mine and Grace’s moods at that point, that last thing we needed was comments from the peanut gallery.

But  instead, I just banished her to the next room and got to work on Grace’s hair again. After a few tantrums, some name calling, and a total loss of patience (and she was kind of annoyed too), I managed to get her hair to somewhat resemble a bun. Now granted, it wasn’t like one of those nice, smooth hamburger buns. It was more like a deformed, Oops!-I-Forgot-to-Add-the-Yeast buns. But it was a bun all the same. Ninety minutes, people…. It took me ninety minutes to get to that point. I was hot, sweaty, and annoyed.

I walked away with the thought that I really need to make friends with a hairdresser. A really nice hair dresser who will come to my home at a moment’s notice to help me out in situations like that. Because apparently, I’m missing that girl gene that allows you, as a mother of daughters, to be successful in these endeavors.

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And while we’re here, I think I need to make friends with a makeup artist too. Because after the whole hair fiasco, I had to apply makeup to their faces. Have you ever tried putting a little mascara on a 6 and 8-year-old, trying to convince them that no, Mommy won’t poke them in the eye with the wand! (Well… at least not on purpose anyway….)