I will be painting the aqua trim on the garage.
Want to come and visit? I have a guest room!!!!
That is all. I'll get interior pictures... eventually...
Happy times!
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Homeowner... almost... ohmygod, It's THIS CLOSE FOR REAL THIS TIME...
We have a closing date!!! This house will be mine as of one week from today, God willing. Lord, help us all.
I will be painting the aqua trim on the garage.
Want to come and visit? I have a guest room!!!!
That is all. I'll get interior pictures... eventually...
Happy times!
I will be painting the aqua trim on the garage.
Want to come and visit? I have a guest room!!!!
That is all. I'll get interior pictures... eventually...
Happy times!
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
House. Whatevs. I'm over it.
So we are moving. For real this time. Remember that time I gave you a bunch of pictures of a house? The house where I made an offer, and they accepted the offer, then we had an inspection and an appraisal, and all of that went well. Then, after that? They do a title search, and the goddamn title wouldn't clear?
Not that house.
The sad thing is, I still *LOVE* that house. Which sucks.
I don't *LOVE* the house I'm really buying, but it's all right, because it is costing $33,000 less. YES. So I'll find a way to love it, don'tcha think?
It's a good house. It's big. Dedicated playroom FOR THE WIN.
It has a screened in porch where I can drink.
It has granite countertops.
I'm just trying to ignore the fact that it feels dark (can lights!), that it has no fireplace, and that it has a galley kitchen. It has a pantry, I can deal with the kitchen.
Anyway. So it's really happening this time. I mean, I think. Supposed to close this week. Think happy thoughts. Then pay no attention to my insanity as we approach actual moving date. Ugh.
Oh- one more thing. The outside has trim that is teal. TEAL. teal. I shit you not. Ugh.
Not that house.
The sad thing is, I still *LOVE* that house. Which sucks.
I don't *LOVE* the house I'm really buying, but it's all right, because it is costing $33,000 less. YES. So I'll find a way to love it, don'tcha think?
It's a good house. It's big. Dedicated playroom FOR THE WIN.
It has a screened in porch where I can drink.
It has granite countertops.
I'm just trying to ignore the fact that it feels dark (can lights!), that it has no fireplace, and that it has a galley kitchen. It has a pantry, I can deal with the kitchen.
Anyway. So it's really happening this time. I mean, I think. Supposed to close this week. Think happy thoughts. Then pay no attention to my insanity as we approach actual moving date. Ugh.
Oh- one more thing. The outside has trim that is teal. TEAL. teal. I shit you not. Ugh.
Monday, January 13, 2014
1968 Movie Viewer
Things I learned while watching Chitty Chitty, Bang Bang, with my 7 year old son, this last Friday:
1. Dick Van Dyke was pretty foxy in the 60's. I'm grateful that there was no fake cockney accent in this particular show.
2. Russia and Germany and all the little Russia sub-nations (at the time) were VILLAINOUS in the 1960's. All bad guys had slavic accents, wore black hats and long coats, and looked like Boris Badinoff from Rocky and Bullwinkle.
3. All women in the 1960's both looked kind of like, and wanted to be, Shirley Jones. And who the fuck can blame them? I want to be her, too. Makes perfect sense to me.
4. I'm not teaching my son how to be a good father. The inventor dad, while truly being a very loving father, is clearly a total eff-up in life. "What do you think," I asked my child. "Is he a good father?" C responded, "Yes, and no. He is very responsible." NO HE IS NOT. He is nice. He is the opposite of responsible.
5. Alzheimer's was pure entertainment back in the day.
6. There are no children allowed in Bulgaria.
7. All movies of that decade were musicals. They could make a musical about nazis. Oh, wait, they did...
(Julie Andrews also kind of looks like Shirley Jones. I'm not sure which is the egg and which is the chicken, here, honestly.)
8. During the last week of school, while I was in elementary school, we were piled onto the cafeteria floor and were force-fed terrible movies to kill time until summer break. Chitty was DEFINITELY one of them. Yet, I had zero recollection of the plot beyond the fact that there was a car involved. What the fuck was I doing during the playing of this movie?? Sleeping? Talking? (I'm going to go with talking...)
9. There were lots of inventions on the plate for this little family that were insanely awe-inspiring at the time, but are definitely being used in the back of the house at McDonald's. I am pretty sure a McEmployee hasn't actually touched food since 1997.
10. Ian Fleming liked to hit acid.
11. Truely Scrumptious is both my dream name and the Best Porn Name, Ever.
1. Dick Van Dyke was pretty foxy in the 60's. I'm grateful that there was no fake cockney accent in this particular show.
2. Russia and Germany and all the little Russia sub-nations (at the time) were VILLAINOUS in the 1960's. All bad guys had slavic accents, wore black hats and long coats, and looked like Boris Badinoff from Rocky and Bullwinkle.
3. All women in the 1960's both looked kind of like, and wanted to be, Shirley Jones. And who the fuck can blame them? I want to be her, too. Makes perfect sense to me.
4. I'm not teaching my son how to be a good father. The inventor dad, while truly being a very loving father, is clearly a total eff-up in life. "What do you think," I asked my child. "Is he a good father?" C responded, "Yes, and no. He is very responsible." NO HE IS NOT. He is nice. He is the opposite of responsible.
5. Alzheimer's was pure entertainment back in the day.
6. There are no children allowed in Bulgaria.
7. All movies of that decade were musicals. They could make a musical about nazis. Oh, wait, they did...
(Julie Andrews also kind of looks like Shirley Jones. I'm not sure which is the egg and which is the chicken, here, honestly.)
8. During the last week of school, while I was in elementary school, we were piled onto the cafeteria floor and were force-fed terrible movies to kill time until summer break. Chitty was DEFINITELY one of them. Yet, I had zero recollection of the plot beyond the fact that there was a car involved. What the fuck was I doing during the playing of this movie?? Sleeping? Talking? (I'm going to go with talking...)
9. There were lots of inventions on the plate for this little family that were insanely awe-inspiring at the time, but are definitely being used in the back of the house at McDonald's. I am pretty sure a McEmployee hasn't actually touched food since 1997.
10. Ian Fleming liked to hit acid.
11. Truely Scrumptious is both my dream name and the Best Porn Name, Ever.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Antisocial Office Employee (please can I just work from home?)
One of the things I want to do in 2014 is be a more consistent blogger. You are welcome. A result of this will be your being forced to read some of the trivial things that live in my head. Again, prégo.
Here is a list of things you can do to ensure that I hate having your office within 10 feet of my "office." I put my office in quotes because, although I do have not one, but three doors, I also have a half-wall-shelf-thingee on the front of my desk, and that makes me look like a receptionist. Which I am not, but I would completely understand if you think I am. It's fine with me, really.
1. Snort. Please, for the love of all things good and wonderful, please, please God, please don't snort where I can hear you. Don't clear your sinuses. Oh, for fuck's sake, please just go in the bathroom and blow your nose. I do not need to hear your allergies. Gah. Ross.
Once upon a time, I had a shared office with two other girls. It was a big office and really comfortable, but this one lady, Peggy? (Seriously, that was her name) Peggy had the allergies. Peggy liked to drain her sinuses in a big ol' loogey kind of way, and it was AWFUL. The other girl, Lisa? She cringed for a while, then she took action. This is how the afternoons were:
Peggy: SWWWOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRKKKKK
Lisa: BEEEP
Yeah, not joking. Lisa beeped every time Peggy cleared her sinuses. AND PEGGY NEVER NOTICED.
Please to not snort. I swear to God, I'd rather deal with Indians-from-India-that-have-not-acclimatized-to-American-bathing-standards (this is NOT racist, somebody from that place I used to work please get my back on this one) than deal with the snorting.
2. Music. 'kay, look. Jam to your tunes to your heart's content. I do, sometimes. I get it. But here's the trick. Point your everloving speakers right at you, and turn that shit down. You know what is worse than hearing your office-neighbor's music? Just barely hearing the tinny sound of a tiny bit of treble, knowing there is music that goes to it, but not being able to hear it, AND said tinny sound being just loud enough to be heard over your own jam. If YOUR music drowns out MY Humpty Dance, I'm going to be pissed.
All that being said, if you randomly break out into song, particularly in a Billie Holiday - or David Sedaris doing Billie Holiday - voice, I'm all for that. That's my joy in life. Please don't stop doing that.
3. Phone Etiquette If you call anybody, and I mean anybody, "man" on the phone, I will mentally stab you with a pencil. If you fail to say "bye" on a phone call, said pencil will meet your eyeball. If you fail to leave your door open while you are having convos with your spouse or other family members, for my nosy-ass-pleasure, I will cut you in real life. Don't take away my little joys, people. I want your personal gossip. I want to know your dinner plans and what you wore and how your mother said such-and-such. DO NOT SUCK AWAY MY JOY.
While we are on this topic, here's another little bit of advice from me to you. When you buzz me to ask a question, and I pick up the line and say "go ahead," don't say, "Question." I fucking already know you have a question. And you BEST say "bye" when we are done with this little intercom convo, too.
4. My shelf-thingee is not a place for you to put your crap. Don't leave shit on it. For that matter, don't ever put shit on it. Don't do it. Don't stand in front of my desk to talk to your clients. Take them to your space, take them outside, take them wherever the fuck you want to, as long as it is away from my desk. If I am feeling particularly nice, I may offer them water or a cup of coffee. If I do this, and I probably will, I will NOT clean up their cup or throw away their trash. Your guest, your trash. If this is left on my shelf-thingee, I will envision carrying it all and putting it on your desk for you to deal with. All that being said, any candy, cupcake, brownie, bag of chips, alcoholic beverage, or other snack food left on the shelf thingee will be eaten immediately by the gnomes that live in my face, which I call my teeth. It is also acceptable to leave me jewelry. I prefer silver to gold.
5. No prank calling. Our office is not exactly new-fangled. Our caller ID works, sometimes, but most of the time it shows "Cell Phone" or "Jefferson Pa." Not helpful, and also weird, in that we don't work in Jefferson Parish. Whatevs. That means that, if you call in to me at work, there's at best a 50/50 chance that I will know definitively that it is you before I answer. So. If you call in, and I answer, do not fuck with me. Don't pretend to be a client. Don't put on a silly accent or ask me ridiculous questions. Do not do that. I'll think to myself, "self, this is probably the asshole whose office is next to mine, but I do occasionally interact with some pretty whack-job members of society, so it's best to not take a chance." When I do discover that it is, indeed, you, using a semi-Borat accent and asking me about something absurd, my respect for you will fall lower than my respect level for the real crazy people who occasionally call. They can't help themselves. You fucking can, and you fucking better.
6. Do Not Ring The Bell. There is a bell on the shelf-thingee, and it is there to alert me if somebody has walked in and needs help, while I am, say, at the copier, or eating lunch, or in the potty, or in somebody else's office. If the bell rings, I turn into Pavlov's dogs and come running. If I have put down my $8.00 Subway Sandwich (toasted!) and it was you just being a dick, I'm going to consider slashing your tires. I'll state that we have a few clients who are bell-happy, and it grates my nerves, but I will be much more forgiving to them. They do it a few times a year. You do it every day, and I'm going to go all crazy-ass batshit yelling at you one day, and you will find it funny, but you will try not to laugh, which will make you want to laugh even more, and that's just going to make me that much madder, and then I'm probably going to end up crying, and I've been wearing a lot of eye makeup lately, so if I cry, it's going to be BAD, so for the love of anything and everything good in the whole motherfucking universe, do NOT RING THE BELL.
That's enough ranting for today. I feel better now that we've had this talk. Now go sing me some Billie Holiday and shut the fuck up.
Here is a list of things you can do to ensure that I hate having your office within 10 feet of my "office." I put my office in quotes because, although I do have not one, but three doors, I also have a half-wall-shelf-thingee on the front of my desk, and that makes me look like a receptionist. Which I am not, but I would completely understand if you think I am. It's fine with me, really.
1. Snort. Please, for the love of all things good and wonderful, please, please God, please don't snort where I can hear you. Don't clear your sinuses. Oh, for fuck's sake, please just go in the bathroom and blow your nose. I do not need to hear your allergies. Gah. Ross.
Once upon a time, I had a shared office with two other girls. It was a big office and really comfortable, but this one lady, Peggy? (Seriously, that was her name) Peggy had the allergies. Peggy liked to drain her sinuses in a big ol' loogey kind of way, and it was AWFUL. The other girl, Lisa? She cringed for a while, then she took action. This is how the afternoons were:
Peggy: SWWWOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRKKKKK
Lisa: BEEEP
Yeah, not joking. Lisa beeped every time Peggy cleared her sinuses. AND PEGGY NEVER NOTICED.
Please to not snort. I swear to God, I'd rather deal with Indians-from-India-that-have-not-acclimatized-to-American-bathing-standards (this is NOT racist, somebody from that place I used to work please get my back on this one) than deal with the snorting.
2. Music. 'kay, look. Jam to your tunes to your heart's content. I do, sometimes. I get it. But here's the trick. Point your everloving speakers right at you, and turn that shit down. You know what is worse than hearing your office-neighbor's music? Just barely hearing the tinny sound of a tiny bit of treble, knowing there is music that goes to it, but not being able to hear it, AND said tinny sound being just loud enough to be heard over your own jam. If YOUR music drowns out MY Humpty Dance, I'm going to be pissed.
All that being said, if you randomly break out into song, particularly in a Billie Holiday - or David Sedaris doing Billie Holiday - voice, I'm all for that. That's my joy in life. Please don't stop doing that.
3. Phone Etiquette If you call anybody, and I mean anybody, "man" on the phone, I will mentally stab you with a pencil. If you fail to say "bye" on a phone call, said pencil will meet your eyeball. If you fail to leave your door open while you are having convos with your spouse or other family members, for my nosy-ass-pleasure, I will cut you in real life. Don't take away my little joys, people. I want your personal gossip. I want to know your dinner plans and what you wore and how your mother said such-and-such. DO NOT SUCK AWAY MY JOY.
While we are on this topic, here's another little bit of advice from me to you. When you buzz me to ask a question, and I pick up the line and say "go ahead," don't say, "Question." I fucking already know you have a question. And you BEST say "bye" when we are done with this little intercom convo, too.
4. My shelf-thingee is not a place for you to put your crap. Don't leave shit on it. For that matter, don't ever put shit on it. Don't do it. Don't stand in front of my desk to talk to your clients. Take them to your space, take them outside, take them wherever the fuck you want to, as long as it is away from my desk. If I am feeling particularly nice, I may offer them water or a cup of coffee. If I do this, and I probably will, I will NOT clean up their cup or throw away their trash. Your guest, your trash. If this is left on my shelf-thingee, I will envision carrying it all and putting it on your desk for you to deal with. All that being said, any candy, cupcake, brownie, bag of chips, alcoholic beverage, or other snack food left on the shelf thingee will be eaten immediately by the gnomes that live in my face, which I call my teeth. It is also acceptable to leave me jewelry. I prefer silver to gold.
5. No prank calling. Our office is not exactly new-fangled. Our caller ID works, sometimes, but most of the time it shows "Cell Phone" or "Jefferson Pa." Not helpful, and also weird, in that we don't work in Jefferson Parish. Whatevs. That means that, if you call in to me at work, there's at best a 50/50 chance that I will know definitively that it is you before I answer. So. If you call in, and I answer, do not fuck with me. Don't pretend to be a client. Don't put on a silly accent or ask me ridiculous questions. Do not do that. I'll think to myself, "self, this is probably the asshole whose office is next to mine, but I do occasionally interact with some pretty whack-job members of society, so it's best to not take a chance." When I do discover that it is, indeed, you, using a semi-Borat accent and asking me about something absurd, my respect for you will fall lower than my respect level for the real crazy people who occasionally call. They can't help themselves. You fucking can, and you fucking better.
6. Do Not Ring The Bell. There is a bell on the shelf-thingee, and it is there to alert me if somebody has walked in and needs help, while I am, say, at the copier, or eating lunch, or in the potty, or in somebody else's office. If the bell rings, I turn into Pavlov's dogs and come running. If I have put down my $8.00 Subway Sandwich (toasted!) and it was you just being a dick, I'm going to consider slashing your tires. I'll state that we have a few clients who are bell-happy, and it grates my nerves, but I will be much more forgiving to them. They do it a few times a year. You do it every day, and I'm going to go all crazy-ass batshit yelling at you one day, and you will find it funny, but you will try not to laugh, which will make you want to laugh even more, and that's just going to make me that much madder, and then I'm probably going to end up crying, and I've been wearing a lot of eye makeup lately, so if I cry, it's going to be BAD, so for the love of anything and everything good in the whole motherfucking universe, do NOT RING THE BELL.
That's enough ranting for today. I feel better now that we've had this talk. Now go sing me some Billie Holiday and shut the fuck up.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Television Oracle - Spring, 2014- UPDATED!
Sarie Barie gives you 2014 Spring TV Lineup Viewathon LIVE AND IN ACTION (not really). In which the Oracle Herself predicts what will happen on the following shows, all of which she will WATCH WITH A PASSION AND A SELF-DISGUST. Delightedly.
1. Sister Wives: Meri and her daughter, Meriah (Meri-ugh), will cry a lot. The family will continue to think it is fun to shock people by announcing their polygamy, and they will continue to be surprised when people think that it is weird that they are polygamists. And Meri will cry about it. Christine will be mad that Cody (kody?) (xody?) doesn't spend enough time with her, and will name any children she mothers something earthy and oddly-spelled, but which will nearly constitute a sentence by itself. Truely. Which is misspelled, anyway. Her next kid needs a verb-name. I'm going to call him Biking. Biking Brown. Only it needs to be misspelled, so maybe Bykyng. Truely, Bykyng Aspyn. Truely Bykyng, Aspyn. See?
2. Dance Moms: Abby Lee Miller will continue to lose weight on the hush hush (she's been doing it, do your own comparison, see if I didn't call this bitch,) and later on it will be revealed that, remember last year, when Abby was gone-girl-gone for a few weeks? Lap. Band. You heard it here first, kids. In other news, Blonde Christy will continue to hate Payton's mom, who I don't even think has a real name. Sayton. That's what I'll call her. And they might bitch-slap each other, if we are really lucky.
3. Sleepy Hollow: ... ...
...
...
Oh, sorry, I was just fantasizing thinking about the ridiculously fine man talented actor that plays Ichabod. Dudes. Oh, not so talented, you say? WHO GIVES A SHIT. Have you seen him?
I think there is a plot to this show, but I really don't know what it is, and that's fine because HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? My prediction is this: I'm going to drool while that show is on.
4. The New Girl: Jess will continue to be little-Sarah. Her knitting and wearing of socks will increase, her quanitity of sex will decrease, and she may join a "women's group" at a church.
5. The Olympics: Sarah will become an expert critique on toboggan, ice dancing, and luge. All other sports will be viewed with wonder, and Sarah will turn up the thermostat inside the house to 77 degrees, as watching snow makes her feel really cold.
6. Post-season Football: The Panthers will win the Superbowl.
7. Love It or List It: Expensive homes in Southern Canada will be remodeled, during which process (pronounced PROHHH-cess) old water/fire/other major structural damage will be uncovered, which will cost 60% of the remodeling budget, thus forgoing having their bathroom/kitchen/basement being finished, resulting in pouty homeowners and a smirky David, who will then show them 1/2 million dollar homes in the area that will meet their needs. Approximately 55% of the time, OR however often the wife doesn't want to move, they end up staying in their old house, and David is shit out of luck, except his opportunity to wear a bitchin sport coat.
8. Dog With a Blog, or Jessie, Which May or May Not Be The Same Show: Sarah will walk past the bedroom tv playing this show, wherein a precocious teenager talks with the FAKEST FUCKING VOICE EVER. The end.
(for the record, I just subjected myself to a TORTUROUS ten minutes of Disney Channel - and Nickelodeon - online clips to try to find the FAKEST FUCKING VOICE EVER show for you, so I could prove my point, and it was a huge fail. Also, I'm at work, so I'm watching Disney clips at work. How professional, indeed.)
(please note, I'm not troubled at all that I go unprofessional and blog at work, but watch wholesome programs targeted for children? UNACCEPTABLE.)
UPDATED: HERE IS THE SHOW. Go to 9:10 and see if you are not choked with rage by this crazy fake voice. Props to C-luv Doodlebug for INSTANTLY knowing which show I was talking about when I asked him last night.
I think that's enough television to get you going this season. If I overlooked something important, let me know.
And if anybody wants to put money on whomever (Seattle) else that might make the superbowl (Seattle), OR on the AFC team to play against Carolina (Seattle), let me know...
In the meantime polish up your remote, let's get viewing!
Friday, January 3, 2014
Ghosts
Once upon a time, I really, really, really loved a man that loved music. A lot of incredible things resulted from 9 years of loving him, all of which are in a scrapbook of concert tickets or in my iTunes database. All he brought me was music, and for a long time, I couldn't forgive him for not giving me more, when I gave him everything I had.
Now, though... Well, hindsight helps. As does maturity and a general disdain for fucking holy-martyr-omg-you-amazing-woman-you-gave-up-everything-for-love syndrome. Because that, friends, is bullshit. But that is also not the point.
The point is, he gave me music. A LOT of music. Most of which I fell in love with, dissected, ate for supper, analyzed, and adored. He gave me Steve Perry, and Petra, Triumph and Rush. Oh, Rush. He gave me Bela Fleck and Steve Morse, Linda Ronstadt and Olivia Newton John and even Sarah Brightman. He gave me Allison Krauss and Sam Cook, Dream Theater and Queensryche, Reba McEntire and Vince Gill. I will say it is possible that I might have found some of these myself, but I didn't. He gave them to me.
We spent our weekends on road trips. We drove from Charlotte to Jacksonville, Norfolk, Atlanta (many times), Knoxville. We saw these bands, and Survivor, and then saw them again, then drove to the next stop on the tour and saw them again, again. We drove to New York to see Pat Matheney, then to Memphis for the hell of it. All for music.
But another thing he gave me was Kansas. I'm not talking about "Dust in the Wind," Kansas. I'm talking about "Bells of St. James," Kansas. "Miracles Out of Nowhere" Kansas.
While we were together, we saw them, I think, 13 times. The first time was in a bar that I was too young to get into. There were festivals and street concerts, orchestral performances and bar gigs. The last time I saw them, David Ragsdale had joined, and That Guy kind of knew Ragsdale, and we hung out a little. Steve Walsh handed me the mic for a verse of Carry On My Wayward Son, I shit you not. It was in a pool hall, maybe 150 people there, and they were STILL PLAYING POOL, but still. I sang with Kansas. Boom.
And then I grew up. Moved to Georgia, and That Guy was supposed to, too, only he didn't. It took me a long time to realize that he wasn't coming there, not ever. My Janie went through the meager collection of his things that I had, with Heather's help, and they trashed his stuff. Gave it away, threw it away. I just sat there, but I'm glad they did that.
I kept the music, but stopped the road trips. I still listened, to all of it. Some really GOOD FRIEND songs, and I was not about to let him steal those away. But the concerts stopped. Oh, I went to see Olivia a couple of times, in lovely, refined, wine-friendly settings, but that was it. Over the years, the occasional notice has passed my way. "Starship performing This Saturday," and I would think, "Maybe..." But then there would be a little boy who needed attention or a tae kwon do tournament, or $13 in the bank account, and I just let it all go on without me.
Last year, my dad and Sam and I went to see Rush. Yeah, shut up. You might cry too if all those ghosts were around you. But you still love it.
Tonight, some friends took me to see Kansas. I admit it, I looked for That Guy. It seemed impossible that he wasn't there. The ghosts were everywhere, from putting on Rock and Roll clothes until I got home, alone. Happy, oh, the concert was unbelievable, but...
If any of you ever see That Guy, tell him thanks for the music, and that I wish him well. Tell him Ragsdale has gotten BETTER (if that is even possible), but I didn't go groupie after the show. Tell him I sing, now, like a lot, and like... Not bad. And tell him I saw his ghost tonight, and it was all okay. I am okay.
I have new friends who are up for an occasional road trip.
Also, I'm fucking smoking hot. Big mistake. Huge.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Half Marathoner.
The bottom line is this: I ran 13.2 miles on Saturday, and I freaking mutha fucking LOVED IT and I ROCKED IT and I am PROUD.
PROUD.
Here's what's crazy, I can pretty much remember each mile of the race. It went like this:
Mile 1 - why isn't my music playing? It's cold. I can't see the face of my phone and I can't make the music play- oh wait, I was pressing the down button instead of the up button on the volume. Oh look, a mile already? Wowza. I kind of need to pee. Water? Already? Well, why not. Bottom's up. I kind of need to pee.
Mile 2 - I kind of need to pee. Look at those guys peeing in the bushes. I wish I were a guy. I wish I had a ponytail like that girl. She's got to be hot in that jacket. It's not cold at all any more. I kind of need to pee. Oh, he must have had a rock in his shoe, bummer for him. There is a canal here? Who knew?
Mile 3 - I kind of need to pee a lot. None of these bushes look awesome for peeing, but I will if I have to. hummdyhummhumm I need to peeeee hummdyhumm OHHELLYESAPORTAPOTTY. And a water stop. Let's eat a gel and then pee so my hands won't be dirty until after I eat something.
Mile 4 - Game on, muthafuckers, I'm in the zone. Look at me just a-smiling. I like those girls' shirts ("Tramps like us.") and the team with the orange "13.1 - We are only HALF CRAZY" - I wish I were one of them. It's flipping GORGEOUS out here. Look! Space ship parts! (the race was at a space center.)
Mile 5 - I love everythingggggggggggggggggggggggg let's eat a gel smiley smiley smiley.
Mile 6 - STILL LOVE EVERYTHINGGGGGG smiley smiley smiley that girl that I'm passing right now has a big ol' bohonkus. I also think it's weird to be running a half marathon in jean shorts but I lovee youuuuuuuu smiley smiley smiley.
Mile 7 - High fived a stranger. Love everything. Ate a gel. Love love love love smiley YOU ARE ALL MY BROTHERS.
Mile 8 - Two random people. I just caught them after trailing them for two miles. Eek. "Do you have sunscreen?" I asked the girl. "No," she said, smiling ruefully. Bummer for her. I will stick with them for a little while. He says "pretty weather, right?" I go, "yeah!" He goes, "perfect for running!" I nod. This is not the time for a conversation, but I appreciate you being friendly. Sign - "Great job, random runner!" I love them. LOVE EVERYONE.
Mile 9 - Leaving the random people. A race official on a bike brought her some sunscreen. That was nice. See some of the full marathoners, now. Eat a gel. Home stretch now. Hey, I haven't walked yet. I was supposed to start walking by, like, mile 6. Whattha....
Mile 10 - Hmm. Not loving EVERYTHING but I can taste victory. Just realized that I may actually FINISH this race.
Mile 11 - Getting tired. Gel. Also some extra chomps. Because I can. Still running.
Mile 12 - Out of my way, dude who can't run any more. I know you are tired, and I'm about to cry. But move, because I am NOT WALKING.
Mile 13 - Around the last curve, and there are lots of people cheering and ringing noise makers. At the last possible minute, the first marathoner flies past me - I was lapped by 13 miles. Imagine. Doesn't matter. I go around that last curve and the finish is directly ahead of me. "It's right there?" I ask a stranger. "Yes," they say. "You have got this."
I had it. I may or may not have cried a little bit at the end (SHUT UP. YOU WOULD HAVE, TOO.) Think about it like this. I'm a fat, middle aged woman with a 30 year smoking habit just barely behind me, and I just ran a half marathon. Note, I didn't walk/run it. I ran it. I had hoped to finish in 2:50. That would be an average of 13 minute miles, a touch faster than my long training runs were.
Actuals are below. A few things to note: My splits ROCKED. Hello, very, very smart race. Less than a minute's spread across the whole freaking race, not counting my potty break at mile 4. Also? Note that I kick total ass. Average speeds well under my intended. TOTAL ASS.
I am superman. I am the terminator. I am ready for a tiny little 13.1 tattoo.
I kick ultimate, total, amazing, utter, unbelievable, incredible, outstanding, complete ASS.
Who wants to be me? EVERYONE.
Bring on 26.
PROUD.
Here's what's crazy, I can pretty much remember each mile of the race. It went like this:
Mile 1 - why isn't my music playing? It's cold. I can't see the face of my phone and I can't make the music play- oh wait, I was pressing the down button instead of the up button on the volume. Oh look, a mile already? Wowza. I kind of need to pee. Water? Already? Well, why not. Bottom's up. I kind of need to pee.
Mile 2 - I kind of need to pee. Look at those guys peeing in the bushes. I wish I were a guy. I wish I had a ponytail like that girl. She's got to be hot in that jacket. It's not cold at all any more. I kind of need to pee. Oh, he must have had a rock in his shoe, bummer for him. There is a canal here? Who knew?
Mile 3 - I kind of need to pee a lot. None of these bushes look awesome for peeing, but I will if I have to. hummdyhummhumm I need to peeeee hummdyhumm OHHELLYESAPORTAPOTTY. And a water stop. Let's eat a gel and then pee so my hands won't be dirty until after I eat something.
Mile 4 - Game on, muthafuckers, I'm in the zone. Look at me just a-smiling. I like those girls' shirts ("Tramps like us.") and the team with the orange "13.1 - We are only HALF CRAZY" - I wish I were one of them. It's flipping GORGEOUS out here. Look! Space ship parts! (the race was at a space center.)
Mile 5 - I love everythingggggggggggggggggggggggg let's eat a gel smiley smiley smiley.
Mile 6 - STILL LOVE EVERYTHINGGGGGG smiley smiley smiley that girl that I'm passing right now has a big ol' bohonkus. I also think it's weird to be running a half marathon in jean shorts but I lovee youuuuuuuu smiley smiley smiley.
Mile 7 - High fived a stranger. Love everything. Ate a gel. Love love love love smiley YOU ARE ALL MY BROTHERS.
Mile 8 - Two random people. I just caught them after trailing them for two miles. Eek. "Do you have sunscreen?" I asked the girl. "No," she said, smiling ruefully. Bummer for her. I will stick with them for a little while. He says "pretty weather, right?" I go, "yeah!" He goes, "perfect for running!" I nod. This is not the time for a conversation, but I appreciate you being friendly. Sign - "Great job, random runner!" I love them. LOVE EVERYONE.
Mile 9 - Leaving the random people. A race official on a bike brought her some sunscreen. That was nice. See some of the full marathoners, now. Eat a gel. Home stretch now. Hey, I haven't walked yet. I was supposed to start walking by, like, mile 6. Whattha....
Mile 10 - Hmm. Not loving EVERYTHING but I can taste victory. Just realized that I may actually FINISH this race.
Mile 11 - Getting tired. Gel. Also some extra chomps. Because I can. Still running.
Mile 12 - Out of my way, dude who can't run any more. I know you are tired, and I'm about to cry. But move, because I am NOT WALKING.
Mile 13 - Around the last curve, and there are lots of people cheering and ringing noise makers. At the last possible minute, the first marathoner flies past me - I was lapped by 13 miles. Imagine. Doesn't matter. I go around that last curve and the finish is directly ahead of me. "It's right there?" I ask a stranger. "Yes," they say. "You have got this."
I had it. I may or may not have cried a little bit at the end (SHUT UP. YOU WOULD HAVE, TOO.) Think about it like this. I'm a fat, middle aged woman with a 30 year smoking habit just barely behind me, and I just ran a half marathon. Note, I didn't walk/run it. I ran it. I had hoped to finish in 2:50. That would be an average of 13 minute miles, a touch faster than my long training runs were.
Actuals are below. A few things to note: My splits ROCKED. Hello, very, very smart race. Less than a minute's spread across the whole freaking race, not counting my potty break at mile 4. Also? Note that I kick total ass. Average speeds well under my intended. TOTAL ASS.
I am superman. I am the terminator. I am ready for a tiny little 13.1 tattoo.
I kick ultimate, total, amazing, utter, unbelievable, incredible, outstanding, complete ASS.
Who wants to be me? EVERYONE.
Bring on 26.
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