Posts Tagged 'marriage'



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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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-fiancĂ©e 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 love

1. Lists!!! I write lists everywhere on everything about anything. Very often an item on my list is to combine all my lists.

2. Birth control. And the fact that mine lasts for five years and I do not have to endure the monthly issues other women dread.

3. Acronyms. I use them often. Sometimes to remember things; more often when I’m being mean.

4. Guessing what time it is when I have not looked at a clock for a while. Making a wish when it is 11:11 or 12:12 or so on.

5. Manila folders. My filing cabinet is organized. I have folders that are titled, “Shit I don’t know where to file”, “Shit I don’t want to fuck with yet”, and “Shit I’m really mad about paying”. Then I have the standard “Shit to save”, “Important shit”, and “What the fuck is this?” Really.

6. Laying in the pool with a beer in my hand and a lawnmower in the background.

7. Best birthday present ever? An Iphone case with a beer opener on the back. And it’s PURPLE.

8. When my husband wears his fire retardant hat. It’s a toboggan or a beanie or whatever the hell you call it. I have asked him several times to leave it on when we have sex. He will not.

9. Toothpaste with flip top caps. Life changing.

10. Q-tips.

My daddy loves hores

All families have their own traditions. Once, when my daughter was three, she looked at me and said, “I think you might need to send me to one of those people that solves problems.” I hate to think that is the road we are paving…
Our favorite family tradition, before all of our dogs died, was affectionately referred to as “Family Fun Day.” This was the husband’s pet name for picking up dog shit. We had a boxer and a greyhound so “Family Fun Day” proved to be laborious and was met with whiney groans of protest. Not many kids automatically roll their eyes when they see six plastic grocery bags laying on the counter. Ours did.
Another family tradition? Happy plates. If anyone finishes his or her dinner, he or she is permitted to bang their silverware upon their empty “happy plate”. And then there is my favorite tradition. The battle of the favorites. I have been telling each of my kids separately for years that they are my favorite. I actually do have a favorite. Would I ever put it in writing? Fuck no. Then, I would never be able to milk it for what it was worth! Of course, I do have favorite stories, though.
Kid #3 (my nine year old daughter) never ceases to amaze with her creativity. When she was in the first grade, she was very excited about a Mother’s Day project. Her teacher had the students list their favorite things about their mothers. Then, the students typed and laminated their creation.
Kid #3 comes home with hers beaming with excitement. “Happy Mother’s Day, mom!”
Colorfully printed on an 8 x 10 certificate spells out, “My mother…” and then the students filled in five things. In order, mine read:
1. Likes to yell
2. Likes my bottom
3. Pretty
4. Nice
5. Something else I forgot after reading #1 and #2

Likes to yell??? What the fuck? And please let me explain #2. In the movie Madagascar, the animals sing “I like to move it, move it”. For years, I would sing to my daughter, “I like your bottom, bottom”. I imagine her teacher looking over her shoulder as she carefully crafted #1 and #2 and saying something like, “Hmmmm…that’s a good start. Can you think of anything nice about your mother?”
How embarrassing. For weeks, the husband loved this story. He continually hung her “artwork” on our refrigerator, which prior to this incident he only opened or closed. Thank God our daughter is such a budding artist. A few months later, she came home with new artwork.
She had drawn a picture of things her mom liked and things her dad liked. This time, I graciously liked rainbows. Her daddy? Hores. Oh, let’s talk payback. My husband has no affiliation with horses. I have no inkling why my daughter would choose this as the one thing he liked, and nor do I care; but God love her grammatical error. That picture hung on the fridge even longer.
Kid #2? Favorite story? One time, the husband and both boys were wrestling. The husband held kid #2 down and passed gas in his face. Kid #2 turned his head and puked. The husband does not respond well to throw up. I, of course, was not home. No one in my house, thankfully, passes gas in front of me.
Kid #3? He deserves his own page for his story. I will title it, “Willy and the hand jive”. Ewwwww. 4 bass in, 7 words with friends games pending.


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