Posts Tagged 'home'

i fucking hate christmas(and people who won’t call it Christmas)

I am in a pissy mood.  I don’t necessarily have a reason either.  Sometimes, I like to think that because I have not had a period for the last 17 years that grants me pms days whenever the fuck I feel like it.  What set me off? I had just finished making dinner and my daughter grabbed a can of soda from the fridge.  She asked if she could pour it in a glass.  Let me explain.  I empty the dishwasher almost as much as I do laundry.  I fucking hate it.  While I was making dinner, I realized that the dishwasher had reached its maximum capacity.  However, I pride myself on my dish loading skills.  The husband wholly believes I should never have to load or unload the dishwasher.  We have three kids for Christ’s sake.  I agree.  But they, like him, tend to fuck shit up so they do not have to do it again.  No one in my household understands the concept of rinsing off debris from plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

“What’s the point of washing the dishes before we wash them?”

I refuse to buy Cascade Complete.  Too fucking expensive.  I do, however, buy Cascade.  The off brands don’t seem to work as well.  Have you ever bought a generic magic eraser? Yeah- not the same.

So I questioned why the daughter needed a glass when she usually drinks soda straight from the can because the dishwasher was already full and the husband had just brought in 6 tumblers from his car that he toted his coffee to work in for the week.  Because God Forbid anyone(the husband) in my house uses anything(a  travelling coffee mug) for anything it was meant to be used for.

The husband gave me shit for giving my daughter shit (yeah- he understands) so I fell silent.  Because I am passive aggressive.  My best friend chose the next moment to call me, when I had already fast forwarded to all the reasons my life sucks right now; including but not limited to the fact that I need a vacation yet my husband gets motorcycles.

“Why did you call me?” I asked her.  Her turn.  She fell silent.

I tried to explain that she called in the middle of one of my “I’d probably be pms’ing if I had a period,” moments.  (God love Mirena!!)

I tried to assure her that it was NOT because she had told me a few hours earlier that she had most of her Christmas shopping done.  She has three kids too.  But they don’t count.  Because they are young and not demanding.  Her husband, on the other hand…

I am Jewish.  I do not like Christmas.  I grew up celebrating Chanukah (pick your own spelling!)  I never had the visceral experience of running down the stairs on Christmas morning and tearing into present upon present that Santa had delivered under an adorned Christmas tree.  Nope-Jews drag that shit out.  Over 8 days.  One year, before my daughter was born, the husband’s best friend gave each of our boys $100.  He gave kid #1 a hundred one dollar bills.  He gave kid #2 one $100 bill.  Kid #2 freaked the fuck out because he thought his brother received more money than he did!  Yup, sums up my thoughts on Christmas!

Two years ago, I asked the kids what they had gotten for Christmas the year before.  Not one of them could remember.  I told the husband, “No more! We are only buying them large, tangible gifts!”

And yet, I still find myself shopping Christmas Eve every year because we do not think we have bought them enough.

Another reason I hate Christmas?  Because my birthday is in December.  What a bunch of shit!  Every year I pray for cash.  So I can buy my ungrateful kids MORE presents.  Christmas music?? Pshaw.  Unless it is “Please come home for Christmas” by Bing Crosby.  The only Christmas song I love.

I am currently trying to arrange a Christmas get together for all of my high school friends and our kids.  Mainly because one of our friends works for Bath and Body works and I want to solicit her for discounted gift certificates.  Not necessarily for gifts; my candle infatuation is quite ridiculous.  But it makes a good cover.

“Just ask her! She’ll understand- she’s Jewish too!” my best friend said when I told her my plan.

She isn’t really.  She may have married a Jew but deep down she is as Jewish as I am.  Which boils down to CHEAP.

My other best friend agreed with I’ve- got- my- shopping- done best friend.

She has five kids- twins and triplets.  And I hate Christmas more?

I do, however, LOVE Thanksgiving!!

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And I just can’t seem to quit smoking….

April consistently proves to be a busy month in my household. Easter, birthdays, and spring break usually equal an eventful few weeks. This year was not an exception.
Easter fell early this year. I volunteered to host dinner because I ALWAYS volunteer to host dinner because then I can drink beer.
#1. I am a responsible parent and do not drink and drive. With the kids, anyway. Ever.
#2. No other family members usually offer beer at family functions. And if they do, it usually does not meet my standards. (Bass; or any other dark beer).
I should mention a few points here. Both of our families enjoy coming to our house for family functions because deep down they really want to drink too. (Don’t family gatherings naturally equal a deep desire to imbibe?) And even if they do not drink, the atmosphere is always more relaxed.
I remember attending a birthday party for one of my nephews before my sister graciously moved to Florida. My husband did not attend because I do not make him attend anything my sister and her douchebag husband host. I shall explain that dysfunctional relationship in a future post. My dad also attended said birthday party. About halfway through, he asked if my daughter could stay the night with him after the party. I said, “Sure!” and went to hunt down the douchebag to get a beer.
He studied the fridge much too intently before handing me the only beer the refrigerator contained. Bud Light. I shook my head, disgusted.
“No, thanks!” I futilely tried to feign politeness.
“Are you kidding me? You’re an alcoholic!” was his stupid response.
Instead of warning him, “Yeah, you grow up with my sister and see how much you drink!” since his marriage will certainly be affected sooner or later, I simply looked at my watch. Time to go.
I guarantee the douchebag has never drank a Bud light at my house. He beelines for the stocked garage refrigerator at my house every time he visits. It does not contain cheap beer.
Easter dinner just consists of the husband’s family. For obvious reasons. My Jewish family does not celebrate the resurrection of Christ. And yes, I just asked the husband while I was typing whether Easter was the resurrection or the birth of Christ.
The good Friday before Easter also marked the first day of the kids spring break. Years prior, we have gone on vacation. This year, their very short spring break started the Friday before Easter until the Wednesday after. The husband was scheduled to go back to work (YIPEE) on the 10th of April, so he and I decided to go away just the two of us for a few days.
The husband had surgery on his elbow and convalesced at home for 3 months. More accurately, he built himself a motorcycle. I think he agreed to go on a quickie vacation with me so I would like him again.
We decided on a few days in Chicago. We decided the night before we left. On Easter. My mother-in-law took the kids home with her after Easter dinner, and the husband and I left for Chicago Monday morning.
Chicago is such a fun city! The 6 hour drive was not too bad; mostly flat and not very scenic except for the hundreds of wind turbines through Indiana. And the freeway signs once we entered Chicago.
Fist of all, I made the husband Google how many drunk driving arrests were issued in Chicago per year. How the fuck do you drive drunk in Chicago?? It’s hard enough sober! Secondly, the freeway alerts blared the number of traffic deaths so far this year in the city. When we arrived on Monday, the first day of April, the sign proclaimed 222 deaths. The husband and I meandered around the city for almost 2 days. Every time (fucking often!) we heard sirens, I would say, “224!”
I know, I know…that’s morbid. Bu when we left, the sign read 226 traffic deaths so far this year. Essentially a day and a half later!
We ate well, we drank well, and we did other things well!
We came home and immediately celebrated my father-in-law’s birthday, kid #3’s birthday, and the husband’s birthday. (All within 6 days!) The real reason to celebrate?? The husband went back to work!
While we were in Chicago, he found several things he liked at the local Eddie Bauer store. “We” agreed everything he bought should be considered his birthday present.
I still felt obliged to get him something on his birthday. But what the fuck do you buy someone who buys himself whatever he wants?
I decided to blow up a picture I had taken of his motorcycle. It is, no matter how bitter I am, beautiful. The only pictures I had taken were on my phone, though, and were not good enough quality to enlarge to a poster size.
A great Father’s Day idea! But I still had no idea what to get him for his birthday.
So it is Wednesday morning. The day of his birthday. His first day back to work. I have dicked around on the computer trying to enlarge the un-enlargeable photo to the point where I am going to be even later to work than usual. The doorbell rings. Aaaaahh… the UPS guy!!
I grabbed the two packages off the front porch. I knew their contents contained parts for the husband’s motorcycle. Boxes had arrived daily for the past 3 months. I inspected the perfect-sized cardboard and knew they were the solution to my dilemma!
Yes. I sure as shit gift wrapped both boxes and left them on my kitchen table!
Watching him open his gifts later? Priceless!
He opened the first box and pulled out a chrome kickstand. His first reaction?
“How did you know?”
And then he started laughing. And remembered he married a Jew.

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.
IMG_5085
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.

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.

I love the trendy top. As seen on TV…

Day 33 of the husband being off of work. We have our good days and our bad days. I met the husband 13 years ago. I met him at a bar because that is what I did 13 years ago. I was with a few girlfriends and we actually were meeting his friend who was a friend of my friend. A local band was playing at a local bar and the drinks were flowing nicely.
The husband’s friend, a guy I will call Tom, is quite the character. One of the girls I was with was hitting on him; he was hitting on the other. In the whole mess of the night, his recent ex-fiancée showed up. No matter to me. Tom is in my whole “stinky sweaty balls” category of men I never wish to encounter naked. I meandered up to the bar next to my future husband, made fun of Tom, and bought him a drink. That easy? Yes.
The next morning, my roommate and the other girl we took to the bar with us, barged into my room where the future husband and I were post-coital sleeping. “Did you do it? Did you do it?”
I was so embarrassed. My 6 month drought had thankfully ended, but really, did my partner need to know this at 9:00 a.m.? He admitted being terrified. I did not care. The drought had ended.
Fast forward 13 years. No one barges into our room anymore. The kids learned a long time ago that we sleep naked. Kid #2 swears he is permanently scarred for life after trying to wake up his dad once (the blankets had escaped the husband’s backside).
Since he has been off work, the husband has been sleeping a little later and wearing a shirt a little less often. I try not to give him too much shit. His job usually requires significant amounts of overtime working with significantly high voltage and wires and heights that scare the fuck out of me. (Should I insert Primary Beneficiary here?)
If I did not go to work for 3 months, my house would be immaculate, my files would be impeccable, and the cabinets would be organized. Elaborate dinners would grace the kitchen table nightly. My ass would be rock hard after hours on the treadmill. Not that I’m bitter.
The husband? He orders stuff online for the motorcycle he is building in his half of the garage. He bought a motorcycle last year. And another one this year. And apparently he is melding them somehow together into a new bike and then selling the leftovers to a friend to help build his friend’s bike. What the fuck? Are you kidding me? Again, thanks to the overtime I try not to give him too much shit. I asked him yesterday if he was going to start inviting the UPS guy to Thanksgiving dinner. I do believe the husband sees him more than me.
The husband has also been catching up on appointments. Post surgical, the dentist, the eye doctor, etc. I came home from work one day and he proudly showed me his new glasses. Irritated by my lack of the proper response, I shrugged and apologized.
“They look like your old ones,” I said.
He half heartedly agreed and proceeded to tell me about the pair he should have gotten. Military style ones. He said he might go to eyeglasses.com and order a pair.
“What? They don’t have them on QVC?” I asked.
Somewhat offended, he responded, “You’re the one that orders all that ‘As Seen on TV” bullshit.”
Somewhat offended, I responded, “No I don’t. I buy it on clearance at the store.”
On a roll now, he said, “What about all the stuff you order from Jew-pon?” (Groupon, and yes I am guilty.)
He won. But he still buys more shit online than I do.

Things I fucking hate

1. The fact that everyone in my house has beautiful eyelashes except for me! I cannot tell you how many times I have woken up and looked at the husband and asked if he woke up earlier and put on mascara.

2. February. And fucking Valentine’s Day.

3. Same-side-booth sitters. I hate you. And I hate waiting on you. And everyone else hates you too.

4. Some facets of my kids school system. I realize I need to pay for school lunch, school fees, school clothes, and school supplies. I am okay with that. And then they start telling me I have to pay for school artwork (the magnet is the cheapest!) School pictures?? Which season? In the old days, you had to order pictures. Now, they send them home and charge you if you do not return them. Same with Entertainment books they send home for your child to sell. Please–send all of this shit home with my 8-year old who thrills me when she remembers to brush her teeth. One year I bought one of those Entertainment books for her because she wanted a fucking plastic egg that she would “win” if she sold one book. To hell with the trips to Disneyland she could win if she sold 10,000; she just wanted the egg! So we get the egg and of course hers is defunct. I ordered a new one on Amazon for $3.99. The $25 Entertainment book? I found it in her book bag a year later. Fucking egg.

5. Cotton balls. And the cotton in pill jars. Ewwwww.

6. The word butt. Ass? Perfectly acceptable.

7. Running indoors.

 


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