The half

You know how a vagina feels when it's giving birth and ripping from side to side and bleeding and tearing and crying and then all of a sudden BAM! EXPLODES! EVERYWHERE. VAGINA SCHRAPENAL ALLOVER EVERYTHING!

Me either.

But if I had to pick the perfect analogy for how my calves feel, that would be it.


I survived my first half marathon. The first 5 miles were extremely downhill. Which, I thought, OK cool... Curvy girl, momentum, down hill, walk in the park. (Or canyon)

The thing about extremely down hill though, IT TEARS YOUR FUCKING LEGS APART!


I was running under 8 minute miles for the first 5 miles.

Then it flattened out just enough for my legs to readjust to the newly flattened grade and decide that cramping was a good idea.

I made it to a water station and tried to stretch.

Miles 6-10 were ok I suppose. It was cold. I was tired, sick and drenched in my own sweat but all in all I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Only 3.1 more miles and I was done.



Mile 11 things started pulling awfully wrong. It felt like my knees were rubber bands and someone kept pulling the bands away from my body and then flipping them back.


There's "tired, sore, I just ran 11 miles kind of hurt"..... and then there's "OH MY FUCKING GOD, SHIT'S GOING SOUTH QUICK AND I DON'T HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE AND I'M PRETTY SURE MY KNEES ARE FUCKED AND I'M GOING TO DIE" KIND OF HURT.

It was THAT kind of hurt.



Finally I started seeing people with medals on walking around. My garmin said it was only another half mile to go. I made it across the finish line just in time to get caught in a human sea of cluster fuck. No one was moving. I was stuck shoulder to shoulder, belly to back with random sweaty, strangers.

My personal hell on earth.

It's been 2 weeks since the race and last night was the first night I could actually run for 30 minutes straight with only minimal pain.

Am I glad I did it? Absolutely.

Would I take it back? Never in a million years.

Am I proud of myself? You bet your sweet ass.

Do I want to do it again? No fucking way.

How do non-religious folk pray?

Let's talk about life for just a second.

Tomorrow morning at approximately the ass-crack-of-god-damn I'm running my first half marathon.

I'm not going to lie and act all tough and prepared and ready.... I'M BATSHIT SCARED.

I kind of trained. Sort of.

I gave it my all up until I came down with a cold.

My brain is currently swimming in cold medicine and all I want is jammies and my bed.

And whiskey.

Things have been super stressful here at my big girl job. It always seems like every time I get super duper ooper stressed and worn ragged here at work I get sick.

Weird.

Tonight I'm having family over for a huge ol' spaghetti dinner.

I plan on gorging myself in garlic bread, pasta and tylenol cold and then saying my final goodbyes to everyone.

To all of my readers, don't be too eager to watch for my next post. This blog may not exist after tomorrow morning.



Godspead yall.

I'm pretty much the hooker in red lipstick standing on the corner in a matching track suit

A couple days ago a good friend of mine sent me a text message.
It read: "I bought you something today. When I saw it I just knew you had to have it. It's sooo you!"
This spiked my curiosity. What even IS me?

She knew I liked anything leopard print, shot glasses and sweats.
Other than that, I don't really convey A style, if you will.

Monday through Friday I dress like a corporate mother. Button ups, slacks and heals. THIS is totally not me. It makes me feel old and icky. Not to mention collars and cuffs are entirely too binding.

Saturday nights when I bar tend I'm almost ALWAYS in a black Tshirt of some sort and jeans. I don't wear any other color because when a keg blows all over you or you get grenadine on your shirt, you can kiss it goodbye. Black hides everything. It's just easier.

By the time Sunday rolls around I feel too chewed up and spit out to fathom wearing anything other than baggy man sweats.

When the occasion presents itself to go out on the town or to a party of some sort I always feel stuck.

Am I tough girl? Am I girly girl? Am I bohemian-shabby-chic? (Certainly not the last one. I don't even know what the fuck that means)

Another dear friend of mine recently introduced me to pinterest. And for this she must die. And be completely responsible for my lack of productivity. And social skills when my smart phone is in my clenches.

On this devil website I've stumbled upon really cute outfit ideas. None of which are me.

The outfits are always accessorized with matching rings, necklaces, purses, shoes etc.
I wear the same damn black heals nearly every day to big girl work. I pick my rings by their ability to keep their form after weightlifting, And nothing can fall out or snap off in case I decide to punch something/one. I carry a wallet only, a purse is way too much baggage. Unless I need to smuggle booze in somewhere. Then I totally have backup purses. But it's for their functionality, not coordinating with my outfit.

I know I love black. I feel pretty in anything that looks tough. I dig red lipstick. I like my nails painted. I gravitate to anything leopard print. I have a sick hoodie fetish and I like to be comfortable.

But not so comfortable that you're that girl who's "really let herself go since High school"

Oh, and what my friend bought me that was so me? An antique Jim Beam bottle. It fits perfectly.

I suppose it's time to update my eulogy.

Did I mention I have a half marathon approaching in T-minus 25 days?

Have I mentioned that I am in no way, shape or form ready for said half marathon?

A HALF MARATHOOOOOOOON.

Too bad there isn't such a thing as a menstruation marathon.

I'd totally dominate that bitch.

A gift card to the mortuary.

My big girl job deals in real estate transactions, so it's safe to say I see my fair share of Realtors.

Yesterday a certain agent came in and she was talking to me in her frantic-realtor-jibberish manor. Telling me things that didn't pertain in anyway to this particular transaction we were working together on and rattling off random facts.

I knew that my grandma (Nana) was the one who had listed the property and that she was doing it for free because her and this certain agent were like, best friends.

I went over the numbers with her on this transaction and showed her the bottom line figures she should expect from the sale of this property.

She said those figures were just about what she had figured and was so excited because she would be able to afford a gift certificate for my nana.

Naturally one would think $50.00 at chilis or a gift card for a mani/pedi.
So I asked "Aw, you're so sweet to do that, where are you getting her a gift certificate to?"

She said "The mortuary. I want it to be for $1,000.00 so these figures are great."
I'm pretty sure I looked like I'd just shit myself.
I thought:
A) What a fucked up gift.
B) Is that what best friends do now? Go in on each others plots?
C) She's got to be kidding me.

Then she quickly followed it up with: "Well you see honey, she always says how much she wants to get her daughter a real headstone. One she deserves since she doesn't really have one at all."

It took .5 seconds for that to register.
My eyes started to well with tears that I couldn't hold back.
She noticed.

Then it clicked with her. "Oh my god, that's your mother, I'm so sorry"
Through my ugly-cry voice and balls of wet tears rolling down my cheeks I told her to not be sorry and that was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever heard.

Still the very thought of this kind hearted, thoughtful act brings tears to my eyes.

With all the mass amounts of bullshit that I deal with in the industry I work in, I'm pretty sure this one thing makes the board even keel.

Just one of those days, er months.

Do you ever have one of those days where you have to go to the grocery store for two fucking items?

And the only two items you need in the entire store are either blocked off by palates of canned string beans or the only isle you need to go down is filled up with old people oogling and hoarding the glucosamine for thirty god damn minutes!?

Young people need joint lubrication too.

I swear to everything holy in this life, every time I need to make copies, the copier is out of paper.

Every. TIME.

I went to take a short power nap between jobs in the parking lot of Shopko last Friday. I parked in the very far corner, away from all vehicles. I reclined my seat, rolled the windows down so I could feel a cool breeze and shut my eyes. Just then a guy driving a bullet bike pulled up RIGHT NEXT TO ME. He shut off his bike and made a phone call:

"Yeah man, I'm just in the Shopko parking lot. Ok, yeah, cool. See ya in a second."

A minute later his friend arrived in a white Tahoe.

"Hey dude, you gotta check out this new album. It's sooo tight."

The Tahoe began blaring death-metal-punk-skaw bullshit that made me want to immediately punch one million babies.

Why do you hate me Jesus, Why?

Last Saturday I had a two hour workout. Between running 4 miles, lifting for 45 minutes, making sure to get a killer ab session in and all my big girl stretches it was just over 2 hours.

Saturday was also laundry day.

The one pair of jeans that fit me best were wet.

Knowing I had piles upon piles of jeans in my closet I set out to find a second best pair.

Not one pair fit. Even my fat pants were snug.

I immediately threw on a big, black, baggy pullover man hoodie and sulked down stairs.

I'm extremely frustrated with my body. I put this curvy, spiteful bitch of a body through hell and back at least 5 times a week. Most women would get a flat stomach and thighs that don't touch.

Me?

I get wrecked up knees and shin splints.

Can a bitch just catch a break?

And then I received an email with this horrid thing:

And suddenly things aren't so bad.

There once was this boy

When I was 16 my dad bought me a white Chevy cavalier. Towards the end of senior year I remember parking my white cavalier in the east parking lot of the high school. I parked there because it had prime locations for stashing your empty six pack of mikes hard lemonade before going back to 4th and 5th hour classes.
Most every day I'd watch this boy walk to and from his car with his dude friends and this one obnoxious girl that tagged along.
This boy had swagger.
He walked with a bad-boy-don't-fuck-with-me kind of limp.
From what I could tell he had mysterious hazel eyes.
Eyes I needed to get to know.
That boy and I just recently celebrated our SIX year wedding anniversary.

The husband doesn't read this blog. For too many obvious reasons.
Nonetheless I'm giving him a shout out.

Dear Bradley

You're one of the hardest working men I know. You juggle work, school, me and our canine family quite impressively. You even manage to find time to do yard work and golf. You humor all my whacky ideas and hang anything I ask you to. I may not know what the hell you're talking about when you're explaining to me, with your eyes as big as they'll go, how exactly sunsets emit color, and what a galaxy's composition is, or how magnets work or how aliens are among us every day, but I love your passion.
You're one brilliant dude, who without a doubt is destined to do great things and I'm honored to be by your side, and couldn't be prouder of the person you've grown to be.
Thank you for always being my shoulder to cry on, my person to vent to, my designated driver (babysitter) and the best back rubber in the world. Seriously, you have hands of gold.
When I watch you interact with our niece and nephew my uterus tingles just a bit. Then they spit up or start crying and it shrivels back into it's cold, dark cave. But I know one day you're going to be a remarkable father.
I don't know what drew us to each other, but just like the magnets I hope we never stop working.
No matter where we are in life, I'll always be happy as long as I'm with you.

8-3. Forever and Always.

E.