Archive Page 2

Things I fucking hate

1. The fact that there are only 24 hours in a day.

2. Trying, trying, and trying to quit smoking.

3. When companies discontinue products I love. Bath and Body works is my primary offender. My favorite lotion was Peace. It was part of the “Peace”, “Love”, and “Happiness” collection and came in a green bottle. I ordered it off of Ebay for a few years after it was discontinued. Then I just boycotted the fuckers for a year. Kroger no longer stocks my favorite hot cereal. Doritos stopped making their Habanero flavored chips that every male in my household loved. I even made a chicken dish with those chips!

4. My husband’s motorcycle. (This week.)

5. My family’s reluctance to refasten twist ties. Really?? The husband will twist the bread bag and pull the excess over the loaf and feel like its properly closed. As opposed to taking 3 seconds to twist the twist tie.

6. That my husband calls me the laundry fairy.

7. Items that go missing in my house which include but are not limited to: socks, hangers, Scotch tape, toenail cutters, and the home phones.

8. The empty and full syndrome. No one empties full trash cans or dishwashers. But they sure as shit leave empty toilet paper rolls and empty boxes in the cabinets. And then bitch when we run out of pop tarts. Or cereal. Or soap. Then throw the fucking package away and tell me!

9. The fact that my boobs are so small. I was ready to go run one day and came downstairs to put on my shoes. Husband looked at me and started laughing.
“Your sports bra is on backwards!”
And it fit.

10. Peeing a little when I cough. Or laugh. Or jump rope.

11. The fact that Bailey’s makes a Bailey’s FLAVORED creamer. Right up there with non-alcoholic beer. What’s the point?

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My best friend’s husband is a DICK

Really. He is.
I have great friends. I have several best friends. And then I have ‘Carol Green’. My best best friend.
I have known Carol Green since I was 5 or 6. Carol Green, her moniker, came into existence during high school out of sheer necessity. My mother was quadriplegic and I often times needed to leave school to check on her. More often, I did not. For 3 out of the 4 years I spent there, the school secretary thought the home health aide that worked with my mother was “Carol Green”. Carol Green called, and I left school. With Carol Green.
We were in Brownies together. We played softball in the same little league. One year we attempted to perform together in our elementary school talent show. I played the piano and she sang “The Rose.” I forget why it did not work out. We went to the coveted 8th grade dance together. And then we entered high school.
Carol Green has introduced me to every bad drug I have ever done.(She HATES when I say that!) I introduced her to her dick husband. Does that make us even?
I contemplated creating a separate category for Carol Green because I have so many Carol Green stories that I love. In fact, I may have if I understood how to navigate Word Press and this blog in general.
Carol’s birthday is in August. At the end of August. Like the 30th or the 31st. I am a horrible friend and can never remember. Hands down my favorite thing about Facebook! Last year she called me on December 9th to wish me a happy birthday. (My birthday is on the 10th). I fucking laughed.
Why is her husband a dick? He is a Virgo. So is she. In fact, I would have posted this entry a week ago but I had to remind myself about the ins and outs of Virgo personality and that led me to several hours perusing the internet about Virgo personality, Virgo married to Virgo, Sagittarius(me), Aries (the husband), and Sagittarius and Aries. Not that I blame EVERYTHING on Carol Green, but I promise I would not be so fascinated by the whole horoscope thing had I never cohabitated with her. She went through a phase where she would not date guys she was astrologically incompatible with.
“He’s cute but he’s a Libra!!”
Again, Carol Green tends to deny such accusations. She forgets because of the drugs.
I actually went on a date with said dick husband. He was friends with a good couple friend of mine. I drink a lot; which summarizes much of our date. We ended up going to visit Carol because she was home from the Navy. The dick was smitten. Granted, it was not until a nasty break up years later that I brought up the fact that the dick was smitten with her and suggested they go out.
The dick is not always a dick. But he is like the girl with the curl; when he is bad, he is very bad. He has female tendencies. He collects shit, tends to be controlling, and makes my husband look like a fucking angel.
Point in case. Carol purchased a membership to a popular gym. If she drafted a few of her friends to attend a class with her, she would receive a discount. I hesitated. I have joined a few gyms in my LIFETIME but this gym is particularly fueled by commission apparently. I run. I do not do squats and stupid shit like that. But Carol asked, so I obliged. I went to this anonymous gym with her and her buddy Jamarr immediately asked me to fill out paperwork. I sighed and picked up my pen. Should I change the last few digits of my cell phone number? Should I lie and say I do not believe in technological advances and therefore do not own a computer, making it virtually impossible that I could have an e-mail address? (Which, on a side note, is a Hotmail address which I never thought was outdated or passé until the husband’s sister laughed about it when she was trying to transfer me money from her Chase account. Bitch.)
I finished the paperwork and begrudgingly sweated through a cardio kick-your-ass class with Carol. Afterward, I lamented to Carol that I gave my real e-mail address and cell phone number to Jamarr. She did not understand. I told her Jamarr’s future now rested upon me joining his gym and that he would relentlessly bombard me with texts and e-mails. She innocently pretended to be surprised.
A few weeks later, I had had enough. Every time I call Carol on her cell phone, I am subjected to listening to some dumb ass country, Christmas, or Top 40 song I have no desire to ever hear again. Enter Facebook. I posted a message on her page that read:
“As much as I love and appreciate you, I think your blatant disregard (that is bordering upon complete subordination) of my musical preferences is driving me to reconsider your position in my friend hierarchy — you have now been replaced by Jamarr. He calls me more often anyway and I seriously doubt if I ever called him back that I would be subjected to Christmas, country or Pink. Ho ho ho”
Within 5 minutes of the posting, the dick had called Carol to ask, “Who the fuck is Jamarr?”
Carol is my rock. I love her more than my sister. I do not know who is crazier; my father or her mother. We have grown up together. (Maybe.)
Carol served in the Navy for 5 years. Hence, she was married twice. Isn’t that what people in the military do? Get married? Get more money? (And I’m the Jew!)
I missed her when she left for the Navy. Carol picked her tours well, though. She was stationed in San Diego and Hawaii. Which makes for a very happy best friend!
When she got stationed in San Diego, I drove cross country with her to help her move into her new digs. I was real gung ho about the trip until I slept with her ex boyfriend a few weeks before the trip (who ended up being husband #1) and remembered that every (2) bad car accidents I had ever been in occurred when Carol was behind the wheel. (Yeah- that was a real dick move on my part. Here’s where I blame it on the drugs.)
The drive was beautiful. Our soundtrack? Beck (top 5 concerts) and The Doors. I took one joint with me since Carol could no longer partake. Thank god she fell asleep in Arizona. I do not have the best memory. But I vividly remember smoking that joint! It was 7 a.m. and the blue sky was cloudless. Cacti bordered the ‘freeway’ and mountains peppered the horizon and The Doors blared from the car stereo. I can’t even remember which car(separate entry) of hers I was driving. Caroline woke up and I was completely enamored with the scenery. After asking me a random question, it took her all of 2 minutes to ask,
“Are you stoned??”
Hawaii? I flew. I went with another one of our friends. Carol lived outside of Oahu in a beautiful house. She embraced the Hawaiian lifestyle. (Her mom-when she chooses to talk to her- STILL gets mad when Carol asks her take her shoes off at her house!) The flight to Hawaii lasted FOREVER! Thank god for beer. They actually cut us off on the plane in the 7th or 8th hour. Don’t get me wrong. The attendants loved us. We had pretzels, countless wing pins(is that southwest?), and a handful of new best friends.
Carol greeted us in Hawaii and we drove to her house to throw a few things in a smaller suitcase to go stay in downtown Oahu for the night.
“Where’s the key to your suitcase?” Carol asked me.
“My suitcase doesn’t lock,” I slurred. Probably because I had made Carol stop and buy a bottle of Malibu. Malibu!! What??
Back to the airport we went. So my drunk ass could collect the right suitcase.
Hawaii stories stay in Hawaii. Bars open until 4 a.m.? $530 bar tab at 3:00 in the afternoon? Coconut bras? I’ll stop there. I will say I can not believe she ever moved back!
But I am thrilled that she did. I can’t decide if she will ever really like her dick husband. I mean, we all go through ups and downs. Sometimes he is really mean. Mine is too at times. I don’t know the answer. I just want her to be happy… because she makes me happy. This morning she sent me a text.
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And I fucking laughed.

Flintstone sour gummy vitamins fucking stink

I have not smoked for 9 days, 22 hours, and 7 minutes. I have been at least a pack a day smoker for at least 20 years so this is a huge milestone in my life. I work in the restaurant industry, am married to a smoker, and am constantly(though not always justifiably) stressed. I drink large quantities of beer. I enjoy the act and smell of cigarette smoking. My father smoked. I am orally fixated. All of my friends smoke or used to smoke. Most of my co-workers smoke. See? I have excuses.
Please let me tell you how and why I quit. I have only tried a few times before to quit, even though I never really wanted to. I figured I run, eat pretty well, and seldom have health issues. Belligerent? Yes. Intelligent? No. Those commercials with the smokers talking through the tracheotomy really affected my point of view. I do not like pain and I do not want to be in pain when I am older. And I want nice teeth.
A year ago I bought a Groupon for laser therapy, a form of acupuncture, that was supposed to be 80% effective for smoking cessation. I felt duped. 2 years prior, I tried Chantix. Crazy Bitch. Crazy dreams. I continued enjoying my cigarettes and then my best friend decided to quit because doctors found a nodule on her lung. A few weeks later, another one of my best friend’s mother had a tracheotomy. Then, my boss asked me if I wanted to quit with him and his wife on Monday, March 11. Maybe it was the “happens in threes” theory. Maybe it was just my time…
I decided to try the patch this time. I had already purchased the patch and the box sat unused in my medicine cabinet. March 11th rolled around. I should have set that patch right on my nightstand. Instead, I had to physically get out of bed and rummage through all the shit in my medicine cabinet trying to find that damn patch. It should not have been hard to find considering the box had a bright orange clearance sticker on it. I grabbed the package and read through the directions, which thankfully did not include a mile long list of possible side effects like so many of the commercialized new age drugs that can cure anything from dry mouth to dry vagina.
As I read through the instructions (peel off patch and stick it somewhere), I noticed the expiration date. There was a reason the box was 75% off. I breathed a sigh of relief and went downstairs to enjoy my morning coffee. With my morning cigarette. I resolved to buy another unexpired patch after work and happily went about my day.
A few days later, I had a few more excuses for not yet purchasing the patch. Kid #3 had stayed home from school Monday and Tuesday because she did not feel well. I rarely get sick; yet this bout I did not remain unscathed. I had not felt that bad in years. I always pride myself on being a ‘good’ sick person. Apparently I am not. It’s that patience thing. I do not have time to be sick. I can’t just lay around and not get things done. How fucking frustrating! I contracted a cross between the cold and flu which was highlighted by an acute headache, plenty of body aches, and a nasty cough. I was miserable. The husband was scheduled to get his wisdom teeth taken out that Thursday so I finally decided I would try to quit Friday. I knew he was not supposed to smoke after having the procedure done and I felt like hell anyway. I purchased the patch and waited for Friday.
Thursday morning I transported the husband to the dentist. They had given him a prescription for some hallucinogenic drugs that would knock him out during surgery. After the procedure, the nurse gave him and I instructions. She asked if he was a smoker. He feebly nodded.
“So am I, “she said conspiratorially, “Just make sure you leave the gauze in.”
What the fuck?? Are you kidding me? My one chance to have the husband NOT smoke for a few days. Ruined!
He lit up in the car. I angrily resolved to stick with my quit date.
The next morning, I rolled out of bed and stuck on my new patch. The hardest part of not smoking for me is not having that first cigarette in the morning. I am not one of those people that can wait a little bit before I light up. Nope- I stumble down the stairs and beeline for my coffee and cigarette. So Friday morning I poured my coffee and detoured to the living room as opposed to the garage. I kept busy and tried not to think about smoking. And I made it.
Somehow, I always imagined if I made it through just ONE morning the next would be easier. And it was. Day #2 was a Saturday. I put on the patch and went to get my coffee.
The coffee in our house is a volatile subject. I like my coffee strong; the husband likes it weak. This discrepancy has caused us to engage in heated arguments. He calls my coffee ‘Jew crack’. I call his coffee ‘hillbilly pisswater’. There was a stretch of time when our coffee maker was really fucked up and brewed Jew crack. I left work one day and went to the doctor because I thought I was having a heart attack/ panic attack or both. Thankfully, it was just the super strong coffee. Since then, I have limited my coffee intake to a cup or a cup and a half.
For the first few days after I quit smoking, I texted the husband to ask him if he had brewed the espresso we sometimes make because I felt so jittery. No, no he had not. Someone explained to me that since coffee is a stimulant and tobacco is a depressant, I was drinking straight stimulant without offsetting the caffeine with my cigarette. Sigh. I stopped enjoying my coffee. I also mistakenly thought the cold and flu symptoms would go away once I quit smoking. Wrong again. I should have known there would be repercussions when I stopped doing something I had been doing for 20 years.
And then bitch mode kicked in. The husband calls me passive aggressive. Not this week!
My new best friend? Sugar coated lemon drops. I have never been a gum chewer. The patch was giving me a weird looking rash so I took it off and have been free balling it since.
I finally started feeling better Thursday. I have an app on my phone that tells me how long its been since my last cigarette and the health benefits of quitting. For the last few days, the app has told me nerve endings have begun to regenerate and my sense of smell and taste have begun to return to normal.
This may or may not be true. I did go to grab kid #3 Flintstone vitamins this morning and almost threw up. Those sour gummies smell like shit! Thankfully, the Bass still tastes great!(I’m saving my lungs; fuck my liver!)
Oh, and the husband got dry sockets.

The husband and his beater

I do not have convertible hair. My hair is curly. And thin. When I wake up in the morning it does not look like it did when I went to sleep. When I ride roller coasters it does not fall back into place with a few light brushes of my fingertips like girls with straight hair. Humidity? Sex? Rain? Fucked! Often times, I painstakingly spend more than an hour trying to straighten my curly locks. I apparently am not good at that either; my hair is so fine(not in the complimentary or slang sense of fine) that it tends to singe and break off.
During my first midlife crisis(when I was 30) my hairdresser talked me into chemically straightening my long curly hair. What the hell? Why not cut off 6 inches too? So I did. Except I still had to use a flat iron to straighten my hair everyday. And since I have never had straight hair I did not know saturating my hair with heat protective styling products was an absolute necessity. After about 3 weeks, I started noticing patches of bald spots. I freaked out and went back to the devil hairdresser to try and get things fixed. You can’t fix bald.
“What am I supposed to do?” I implored, near tears.
“Umm… buy a wig until it grows out,”.
No apology. No admittance of any wrongdoing. No “I’m sorry I straightened your hair, didn’t tell you how to take care of it, and it all fell out”.
What did I do? I bought a wig. Sort of. I went to Sally’s Beauty Supply and bought a fake ponytail. Or three. Wigs are fucking expensive. And even when all my hair falls out, I am still ultimately just a hairless Jew. So I would slick back my remaining hair and pop in a fake ponytail. I had curly ponytails, straight ponytails, and blonde ponytails. A few of the ponytails snapped into place with a simple hairclip. My favorite one was more complex and required a hairnet and drawstring. The amout of time it took me to get ready diminished. Unfortunately, it still did not help with the whole arriving on time thing.
I grew fond of my fake ponytails. I even thought they looked good on me. Washing them proved to be a mild pain in the ass, though. I would have to soak them in the bathtub with a special shampoo and try to gently comb them out. Then I hung them various places around the house to dry. The kids became accustomed to fetching my hair.
“Hey! Can you run upstairs and grab my hair? I need to leave!”
One time the husband and I were at my cousin’s wedding. We needed to travel from the hotel to the ceremony and it was drizzling lightly outside. I had straightened my hair for the occasion so I asked the husband to grab the umbrella out of the car.
“The car is right there,” he said pointing at the vehicle parked 10 feet from the hotel door.
“Baby-we’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Please just grab it for me!” I answered.
One drop!! That is all it takes for one piece of my hair to shrivel up into its own inevitable curl. Am I a freak about my hair? Yes. This proves 2 things.
1. Noticeably singeing the majority of my hair was detrimental to my self esteem.
2. I have no business owning a convertible.
But the husband wanted a beater. Don’t get excited. He drives a medium sized pick up truck. That fucker guzzles gas and he works 20 miles from home. We had been talking for a while about purchasing a smaller car for the sole purpose of driving to and from work. A 2004 metallic blue convertible Saab, however, is not my idea of a ‘beater’.
The Saab previously belonged to the husband’s sister. Though she enjoyed the Saab, the Saab had issues. At one point she purchased an entire new engine. The husband had worked on her car often and longingly. When she decided to depart with it, she offered the husband a deal he couldn’t(and wouldn’t) refuse.
The Saab IS beautiful. We paid his sister $1500 and had it towed to our garage. It took the husband less than 10 minutes to fix the car. At this point, I was less mad about the $1500 and wished like hell I had straight hair.
The Saab gets fantastic gas mileage. And the car is sweet. It took me all summer to really start enjoying driving around with the top down. I even experimented and came up with a sustainable hairstyle that could survive a topless commute.
The husband and I went to another wedding last August. One of his work buddies got married in a little town about 45 minutes away. Of course the husband wanted to drive the Saab. I reluctantly agreed but told him we could not put the top down until we were on our way home. It was August; too humid to straighten the hair and there was no way in hell my curls would remain intact for that long of a car ride.
After the wedding, we started driving home with the top down. The husband pulled into the grocery store so we(I) could get beer. I looked in the mirror.
“I’m not going in!” I told him emphatically.
You know those pens with the little trolls with the fuzzy hair on top? The ones you rub between your hands and their fuzzy hair goes every which way? Yeah. He rolled his eyes and begrudgingly went in to get the beer.
My best friend chose that moment to call and say hi. So I did what I do best and started bitching. I told her the husband was irritated because I wouldn’t go in to get the beer and she started laughing. She called me a diva and said I was such a freak about my hair. I told her I would send her a picture. I snapped a picture of myself with my Iphone.
She called right back and apologized. The bitch also made that picture her background photo on her phone and says she laughs every time she looks at it.
And that is my Saab story.

Things I fucking hate (about being a server)


I love my job. This week. I have known my boss for years. She is younger than me, she is hotter than me, and she is (except for one week out of the month) generally pleasant to work for. Being young and driven causes her to ride my ass about appearing on our work website on Facebook promoting our restaurant. Every week she posts a picture and an employee “profile”, listing our favorite house beer, the entrée we enjoy most, and an interesting personal fact. Fabulous idea. Unless you are pushing 40 and are totally insecure about announcing to the entire internet that you are pushing 40 and still work in the perceived peon stage of the restaurant industry.
Don’t get me wrong. I am proud of what I do, make a lot of money, and so enjoy the flexibility my job allows with three kids and the husband. I do, however, sometimes feel like people expect an explanation. Which they should not. More often, I feel like people owe ME an explanation why they are such assholes. Hence, my list of things I fucking hate about being a server.

1. Bitter bitches. You know the type. Office ass. Office affairs. A general distaste for anyone or anything younger, skinnier, or happier than they think they are. Primary attributes? Condescending banter, unnecessary requests, and a predetermined worthless gratuity.

2. Customers who say, “I’ll just have a water for now”. Ummm… yeah. You are having water. You are not going to pony up the $2.75 for a soft drink or a tea. You are having water. Water drinkers almost require a page to themselves. Hot water with lemon? What the fuck?? Who drinks hot water? It is as much of a pain in the ass as preparing hot tea. Without the $2.75. Water with lemon? I can handle that. Water with a plate of extra lemons? Come on! Get a fucking lemonade. Cheap cheap cheap! And the variations of water? Water with lemon, water with no ice, water with no ice and lemon, water with lime, water with a twist, a soda water with lemon and lime…. really? Fuck off.

3. The splitting of the checks. Generally, I do not mind requests for separate checks. Unless you fuck with me. Today, I had a table of ten that requested separate checks and I happily obliged. Then, seat #1 wanted to pay for seat #5 and #8. Seat #2 wanted to split appetizer with seat #6. Seat #7 had office ass and the rest paid with cash and were suddenly in a hurry.

4. Fighting over the check and trying to make ME decide who is going to win.

5. Whenever I say I’ll be right back with another Pepsi, water, Iced tea, etc. And then someone asks me for a Pepsi, water, Iced tea, or etc.

6. The verbal tip. Need I say more? Because I will…

7. Being an “older’ server. I know those young boys lament because they got the old server. I remember being 21, damn it!! I had a table that loved me last week. The lady says to me, “You’re a great server! Probably because you are a little older”.
Not a compliment, honey.

8. Regular customers who strive to order off the menu. I have one customer I hate spieling our daily special to. Without fail, he will ask me if he can get it in a wrap. I’d like to lie and say I do not know why this annoys me. He annoys me. That is the problem. He is a good tipper, though, so I spiel away and he gets the special in the wrap. And fresh squeezed orange juice. What the fuck?

9. One redhead I work with. She may elicit a page for herself soon.

10. Grown men that pay the bill with a Disney credit card. Pussy.

Don’t steal beef jerky from Walmart

I am not a control freak. Nor am I a clean freak. I just like shit to get done and my house not be a fucking mess. (The husband goes back to work in 48 days). I swear if dinner is on the table just ONCE when I come home from work in the second half of his ‘recovery’ I will dedicate a page to him. I will title it “An ode to my husband who wears a shirt again”.
I fail to understand how none of the kids have inherited any iota of the clean gene I possess. I know 2 of them are not biologically mine but I have always favored nurture versus nature.
I think my kids are spoiled. All three have televisions, game systems, computers, and Iphones. The boys take the trash from the garage to the curb once a week. All I ask is that they put away their laundry (that I gather, wash, dry, and fold) and keep their rooms and bathroom clean. The husband tells me to shut their doors. It is a constant battle I refuse to lose. I am not a control or clean freak, but competitive? Yes, yes I am.
Kid #3 (the biological one) stands out in this category. She flat out refuses to clean her room. She cries when I tell her she needs to, trying to gain sympathy from the husband. This usually proves successful. I tried to have a rational conversation with her tonight about the situation. It started when I asked her to put away her laundry that had been sitting in a basket in her room for a few days. She was playing on the computer in our room because her computer, through no fault of her own, is not working well. She finished putting away her clothes in less than 2 minutes and assumed her position on my computer chair. Skeptical, I checked her room.
She did hang up the shirts (sort of) and then proceeded to shove everything else anywhere it would fit. Mind you- she does have a sock drawer, underwear drawer, etc. Immediately she breaks out the tears. I tried to rationalize and asked her how she thought we could solve this problem.
“Do you think your room is a mess?” I asked.
“Yes, mom,”
“Why do you think you always make such a mess?” I asked.
“Well I play with stuff and then I don’t feel like putting it away,”
We have diagnosed the problem.
“Well, can you think of any ways I could maybe help you keep your room clean?” I asked.
“Will you make me a list on the white board again?”
I shook my head no. My last list?
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In my defense, I angrily scribbled that list 4 hours after I had asked her to clean her room. I have decided, on that note, to make a more viable list for the kids. Over the years, I have learned that no matter how many things I wish they would do; there are so many more things I wish they would NOT do.

1. Do not put toothpaste on your wall. I realize blue and white make pretty clouds. There is, in fact, something even a magic eraser does not do well.

2. Do not make me wash clean clothes. I become bitter. And angry. And I’ll start reading those notes in your pockets.

3. Do not drink soda in your room. It always ends up on your floor or in the trash can you never empty. (or your closet if you are proud).
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4. Do not steal beef jerky from Walmart. And get caught. Really? How white trash is that?

5. Do not freeze Polly Pockets. It scares the shit of your mom when she goes to get something out of the freezer and is greeted by a deranged doll in ice. I know you wanted to see what a caveman would look like. A forewarning would have been sufficient.caveman

6. Do not ‘accidentally’ order something that requires $80 worth of Microsoft points you have not previously purchased.

7. Do not tell your friend I do not like him because I think he smokes pot. Especially if his mom is one of my best friends.

8. Do not use a hammer and nails to hang stuff on your bedroom door.
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9. Do not play with old school mousetraps. This requires an explanation. Before all of my dogs died, I desperately tried in vain to keep them off of my couch. That sentence requires a future post in itself; but one of the several tactics I tried was laying those old fashioned mousetraps on the couches. One night, the husband and the boys were chasing each other through the house throwing the traps at each other. Trying to be the voice of reason(not what the husband would call it), I warned them that someone was going to get hurt. Enter kid #3. My 8-year old daughter walked down to see what the commotion was about and sure as shit a mousetrap snapped on her arm. I was livid! Of course, an hour later, kid #3 posts on Facebook that her dad threw a mousetrap at her and it snapped on her arm. Thank god the mother in law and various aunts and old babysitters have her account password and removed the post. I realize she is too young to have a Facebook page. Her brother set it up for her unbeknownst to us and it has been monitored very closely since then. Don’t judge.

10. Do not use the toilet when it is plugged.(see I’m poop and puke) https://thefbombmom.com/2013/01/11/im-poop-and-puke

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11. Do not rip up dollar bills. Or $10 dollar bills. Your mom is Jewish and it pisses her off.

This list could go on. But I really wish it wouldn’t.
5 Bass in; NINE words with friends games pending.

104.8…yeah, I’m getting a sticker

So I have run 4 marathons. Maybe 5. I can’t quite remember. I did not start running until I was about 24. I don’t really even know why. I used to get stoned and go walk (probably trying to walk it off) at a nearby park. One day, there was an athletically fit woman in front of me. She would alternate between walking and running and for shits and giggles I tried to keep up. And I did. My walks turned into runs, the marijuana turned into beer, and the pounds began to drop. I was never overweight; just never really fit. After I started running, I could eat and drink to my hearts content. I would run about 4 miles every day before my 4:00 (4:10) shift and then go to Tim Horton’s to get an iced cappuccino. Until someone ruined it all for me by telling me how many calories were in an iced cappuccino. Dick.
A couple of years later, I read an article in the daily newspaper about the ideal candidate for a marathon. (Runs 3-5 miles, 3-4 times a week). Hmmm. I could do this.
So I started training. Sort of. The big day came and I had no idea what to expect. The rules stated no headphones were allowed. Of course, this was only for the serious runners trying to win. This was also 10 years ago so I do not even remember if I had an Ipod then. I think my longest run before the actual race was 17 miles. Maybe. So the husband, who was just the boyfriend at the time, asked what time he should be at the finish line. I did some seriously piss poor math and told him about 3 1/2 hours after the start time. Poor guy! He complained about shin splints for a week from straining to see the finish line I was no where near reaching.
The highlight of marathon #1, which took me 5 hours, 11 minutes and 31 seconds to complete, can be culminated in one word; Twizzlers. People are really nice during marathons. Thousands of people line the path of the race, some cheering; some passing out water, Gatorade, or stomach repulsing “power shots”. Every year I do not run a marathon I vow to wake up ass early on the Sunday of the race and go tirelessly root for other crazy ass runners. I also vow to spectate with a giant bucket of individually wrapped Twizzlers to hand to the runners around mile 18. Life changing.
The worst part about running a marathon? The aftermath. The aches and pains were quickly soothed by a few Bass pale ales and a ghetto bath. (I did wait until I made it to the parking garage to shed my thermal/tinfoil looking blanket thing and smoke a cigarette.) I am talking about the strange phenomenon that makes people believe that once one has run a marathon he or she will want to do it again with you. But I am a sucker. And that led me to Marathon #2.
I credit the term ‘ghetto bath’ to my best Asian friend’s husband. He so cheapens my marathon thrills. This guy runs ULTRA marathons. What the fuck? As if 26.2 (flat) miles is not enough?? This chap runs 50 mile marathons uphill in the snow in Kentucky. Fuck that. That is not normal. But then again he is married to an Asian woman. Before he quit smoking, he would call soaking in the tub after a race with a cigarette and a beer a ghetto bath.
So the Asian talked the Jew into running the Pittsburgh marathon. Sounds like a bad ethnic joke, right? I concur. Running 26.2 miles through the hills of Pittsburgh is no fucking joke. The marathon took place in May. In March, I bruised my ribs at kid #3’s birthday party. Fucking trampoline. Honestly worse than childbirth. Every time I attempted to move, cough, laugh, or BREATHE I winced in pain for almost two months. The ribs seriously put a damper on training for the marathon.
But of course the Asian one upped me. She had decided not to run because her and Mr. Ultra Marathon found out they were expecting. Two weeks before the marathon, the unthinkable happened. All jokes aside, I would rather break my ribs than ever lose a baby. I was not getting out of Pittsburgh; the bitch decided to run.
Pittsburgh. I was actually born in Pittsburgh but moved when I was 3. I do not remember Pittsburgh. If I had, there is no way in Hell I would have agreed to run a marathon there. The best thing about the Pittsburgh marathon? The goody bag! Socks and snacks. The morning of the marathon came early and humid. It drizzled throughout the entire run(thank god for those a-cups!)
The worst thing about the Pittsburgh marathon? While I appreciate encouragement and cheers, please let me tell you how many times we heard the phrase “That was your last hill!” clearly shouted by fucking liars. And the checkpoints were metric. Kilometers add up much more quickly than miles. The Asian and I kept our eyes on the prize. The prize? Gummy bears. Oranges. We missed the bananas and it took us so long we missed the BEER! Apparently a bar towards the final stretch was passing out shots of beer as the runners made their final descent. At least we got the pretzels! I know it is terrible to gauge a marathon based on the food spectators pass out, but really; it is life-changing. Aside from a bomb threat and Mr. Ultra Marathon finishing significantly before us, the Pittsburgh marathon was a triumph.
Or so I thought. This leads me to marathon #3; my favorite marathon. Asian decided we had to run our local FLAT marathon to salvage our (I thought excusable) less than desirable Pittsburgh finish time. The marathon was in October, 5 very short months later. Sigh. I finagled a local businessman into sponsoring what was becoming an expensive habit of mine. Really? Who pays $80 to run 26 miles? This time? Not us! Let’s talk about feeling like “Pretty Woman”. This guy was fantastic! Seven us ran in state of the art running shirts bearing his company logo. He did not stop there. He paid all of our entry fees and took us to buy brand new running shoes and shorts! No clearance rack for me!
One of the girls running this time was a good friend of mine I worked with. We would run after work and then drink beer behind our restaurant in the bowels of the alley where all the employees took smoke breaks. She is quite the Pretty Young Thing- blonde hair, blue eyes, a model smile, and a great figure. PYT is also more than 10 years younger than I am. Running with her sometimes pisses me off. I do not look cute when I run. My curly hair frizzes, I sweat in my right armpit, and I certainly can’t maintain mascara or lipstick. We would run 10 miles and PYT would look like she just finished a photo shoot in front of a fan. Fucking anomaly.
Fast forward to the night before marathon. I made pasta and everyone came over to eat. The plan included plenty of carbs and an ample amount of rest. PYT stayed at my house to ensure a timely awakening. Note to self: Do not plan to run a marathon the morning after a very important Saturday night Buckeye football game. Note to self #2: Bottle of wine #1 should have been plenty. The husband had gone over to a friend’s house to watch the game because he figured we would go to bed early. He figured wrong.
He arrived home after midnight. Because the Buckeyes were losing at halftime, PYT and I decided to run and grab a second bottle of wine. When husband walked in, PYT and I were covered in green glitter that matched our company logo shirts and were drunkenly dancing to the Beastie Boys. It was a rough morning.
PYT drove us downtown; exceeding the speed limit while drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and putting mascara on simultaneously. I feebly drank my coffee and prayed for Twizzlers.
The highlight of marathon #3? Bagels at mile 10. I seriously do not think I would have finished otherwise. After the race, a few of us went out to eat. PYT and I beelined for the restroom. I beat her back to the table where I thankfully ordered a beer. The waiter from hell made a note of my request and then asked me what my daughter wanted to drink. Referring to PYT. Okay. I just ran 26.2 miles for the third time extremely hung over. And you refer to my friend as my daughter? Albeit she is younger but I certainly do not look 20 years older than her! (I hope.) Really, fucko, you have no idea what I would have tipped you for that cold ass beer. Of course, in his very meek defense, PYT did finish the race with her lipstick intact.
I ran my last marathon 2 years ago. Marathon #4. I imagine if I ever gave birth again, I would feel the same way about kid #4 as I did about marathon #4. I already had 3, what’s the point? I begrudged you, marathon #4. I did not look forward to Twizzlers(although some of my very good friends were watching the race and per my request handed me a fistful of Twizzlers!), I did not look forward to the empty promise of a beer shot towards the end, and it was a bye week for the Buckeyes. I did indeed enjoy training with my newest running partner who left me at mile 5. I did enjoy meeting up with one of my best friends who ran #3 with us(Mr. Ultra Marathon’s sister). I did enjoy the icy cold beer after the race was over. But the novelty seemed to have diminished.
I still run and I like it again. I wish I could say I would never run another marathon. But I probably will. I should also probably say something here about the fact that I do love Asians. And the Asian and Mr. Ultra Marathon are proud parents of a beautiful one year old boy who will be running 100-mile triathlons by the time he is 9.


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