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Category Archives: Conversational Mondays

If You’re Still Standing That Means You’re Not Dead Yet

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Oh my lovely little snark doodles…. contrary to popular belief, I am not, in fact, Dead.

More like I’ve been on a short hiatus, recovering from killing myself by participating in the Nike Women’s Half Marathon, and then getting ready to start my new job, and spending some much needed quality time with my kiddos, because while I am super excited about my new job, I also signed something somewhere along the way that says I will not take any time off (unless I am legitimately ill) for the first 90 days of my employment. So that means I’m pretty much stuck in the coal mines, for the rest of the year…. sigh….

But enough about that. What you really want to know is all about my marathon right….So prepare yourselves for a cautionary tale of woe and misery. (We could be here a while, so maybe uncork yourself a nice bottle of wine, and for all my homies, open up the stopper on your box ‘o wine– don’t hate, appreciate).

On Sunday, October 16th, in the year of our Lord 2011, I ran (and by ran I mean barely jogged and walked) the Nike Woman’s Half Marathon. Myself and 22,000 other participants lined up in the streets around Union Square in San Fransisco by 6am, got crushed by the swelling crowds, got our ear drums blown out by the loudspeakers, and by 6:58 am I was this odd mixture of oddly excited and completely terrified. I placed my ear buds in my already sensitive ears, pushed the volume to max and got pumped up by Fergie’s “Here I Come.” Our corral crossed the official start at 7:11am.

Blowing out my eardrums at 6:30am

As feet hit the start line elbows started flying, runners taking off, pumping their arms back and forth, every inch of the street covered in excited women, finding their rhythm, excitedly chatting to their friends, concentrating at the task at hand.  My friends had already passed me up, and I was working on controlling my breathing, finding my rhythm, and cursing at myself. Right about the first half mile I had a great conversation with myself that went something like this…

Me1: Wow it’s a nice cool morning
Me2: What the fuck, i mean what the fuck are you thinking, we’re half a mile in and our chest already hurts
Me1: It’s not that bad, and we’re only half a mile in. We’re doing ok.
Me2: Ahh, watch out, elbow!
Me1: just got to duck and weave
Me2:oh you’re fucking hopeless.

The first five and a half miles went as planned. I ran at my pace, kept my shoulders back, remembered to just keep breathing, and enjoyed some of the scenery. While others were taking spills left and right (shifting air currents ya’ll), I was (amazingly) avoiding any major pitfalls and keeping up my target mile time: until I came to The Hill. Let me preface this by saying that anyone who had visited San Fransisco is surely aware of the “Hills” or mini mountains that make up the city and its outskirts. I knew the course was hilly, I had seen the map and elevation, and yet I still foolishly believed that these hills would not be the end of me. Oh how I was wrong.

The view from mid-mile 5, it was breath taking, I think I felt like barfing

The first hill claimed it’s place in my heart as the mountain that broke my running streak. By mid-hill my thighs were trembling, my ankles threatening to turn underneath me, my calves straining.  When I finally crested this behemoth I was greeted with a 200 foot plateau before descending into the heart of darkness and walking down another large mountain. I could feel my heart beat in my mouth, and the obscenities that my lower half of my body were screaming at me was enough to even make me blush. Still I soldiered on.

On rubbery legs, the 7th mile seemed easier to tackle, a little flatter, beautiful scenery, it promised some relief and I found the strength to start up my jog again. I had blisters, I felt them biting into the soles if my feet with every step. The hills continued through the winding course and slanted streets, and while the course itself was gorgeous I could feel myself dying as every belabored breath escaped from my mouth.

The view from mile 7, where my feet felt like they exploded…

Thankfully for me and the rest of the participants it remained cool and breezy for the entire duration of the marathon. I’m pretty sure that had the sun come out, or I had taken a tumble I would have had to been golf carted back.

Somewhere around the 9th to 10th mile I started crying off and on, for no particular reason other than I felt like I just had to cry. Many a runner and power walker passed me by with dubious looks on their faces and slight shakes of their heads, as if to say, “she’s so done with.” A few women were polite enough to ask me if i was okay and through my sniffles and snuffles I was able to indicate that I was, and watch them fly past me on Hermes (the Greek demi god, not the designer) gilded feet. As you descend through mile ten along the beach and through the Finisher’s Village (uh huh they actually taunt you with a glimpse of the finish even though you at least have another three mile to go, bastards), two mother daughter teams passed me up (and these daughters were oh I don’t know eight years old or so), and I felt my confidence start to crack and crumble. Whereas I had merely just been in  pain before, and was able to push past it, my mental resolve was now teetering on the very edge of completely failing me, and as mile eleven wound it’s say under my feet I did indeed have a total breakdown, or “hit the wall” as the other runners called it. It went something like this:

Me1: Hey Bitch, just stop, just stop now.
Me2: I can’t, I really can’t. Almost there
Me1: You’re going to collapse right here and die, and no one will find you, and everyone is going to point and stare
Me2: That’s true, maybe I should– no I can’t stop, must keep going….
Me1: Look you almost finished, our fucking legs are done with, you’re going to have to amputate them. You’ll never walk again…
Me 2: Amputate?
Me1: That’s right Bitch, I said amputate…
Me2: That would be kind of horrible
Me1: No Shit
Me2: But we’re so close to finishing, we can do this
Me1: You think you can do this, until we’re walking around on stumps because our feet spontaneously combusted.
Me2: Feet don’t spontaneously combust….
Me1: You never know….

And so the conversation went on back and forth, until I realized that I had reached the end of mile 11, and with one mile to go I was home free.  The promised 12th mile of “Chocolate” was in fact two large tables that had about six boxes of individually wrapped squares of Ghirardelli chocolate dumped on them, and did not live up the to the Willy Wonka hype I had pictured in my mind.  Also, I am sad to report that there were no fireman along the course offering their studly help, and so my well planned and coordinated  falls and trips were of no avail….

Instead when I finally crossed that finish line, a dumpy looking guy in a tuxedo (whom I suppose was in fact a fireman) shoved the Robin’s Egg Blue little box in my hand and urged me forward.  The race was over. While volunteers were busily shoving things in my face left and right, and wrapping me up in mylar, I was trying to not cry like a baby. At the end of the race I had this overwhelming feeling of just needing to let it all out, and when I saw Ms. VampireS I finally did. I stood there sweaty, hurting, wrapped in plastic and cried.

It felt so good.

Me post race, I know, I know, but I feel TERRIBLE

THE GOODS…

I then proceeded to INHALE the nearest food item I could find.  It was probably mildly disturbing, but Ms. VampireS had the graciousness to not stare, or comment. We limped back to the transportation buses, where I was still running high off adrenaline, and then hobbled back to the hotel room. I remember showering and falling asleep, or maybe it was falling asleep and then showering… at any rate, I missed dinner with Ms. VampireS and some friends, and when I finally woke up I was STARVING.

I decided to massacre my food at The Cheesecake Factory because:

1. It was close
2. I wanted to overindulge

While committing my food desecration people stared, I mean one person ordering three food items and a milkshake is a bit excessive, but for the most part, the rest of the participants easily identifiable by their silver Tiffany’s badge of honor just kind of nodded in an appreciative sort of way, and let me continue to pig out.

Overstuffed and in starting to really feel the damage I had done to myself, I paid my bill and stumbled out.

I have never slept sooo soundly in my entire life.

The next morning when I went to get up, I have never been in so much pain in my life.

It would take me a week to be able to walk correctly again.

I am proud of my accomplishment, but highly doubt I will do that to myself again, only because I like walking without wincing. I would recommend it though, to do one at least once in your lifetime, and trust me, if I can do it, anyone can…

So there you have it Snarksters, the race and my life in review. I’m settling in here (my new job) nicely, and cozying up to my new nonsensical title even better (Director of High Muckety Muck Mucks)…. so I’m officially back bitches………

Oh hey, did I mention that my sister is getting married on Novemeber 19th, I’m the Maid of Honor, she’s putting me in yellow, it’s outside on the beach, and every episode of Bridezillas has not prepared me for the horror she’s unleashed on my life………..

Oh no?

Well consider yourself forewarned….

So what have you all been up to while I was away? Please fill me in because I get bored easily and always need new reading material.

I Didn’t Quite Cry Like A Little Girl….

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Well my little Snark Bugs I’m going to make it official. I think my liver is broken. Or my brain my be actually working, or I have been abducted by aliens: any one of these scenarios is highly plausible. Just when I thought I was going to be able to regale you with climactic and scintillating stories of this past weekend’s complete debauchary, I have a confession to make:

I have failed you.

And you better get used to that shit now, you know the lingering garlicesque quality of bitter disappointment. No matter how many times you brush your teeth that shit still sucks.  What can I say Snarksters…. I did not drink at all this weekend.

Wait–

Let me retract that…. I drank a really watered down fruit cocktail with vodka, and by drank I mean I had two sips.

I can hear the feigned outrage and threatened lynchings now, so let’s just get to the punch shall we (yes I revel in irony the way some revel in power, or you know glitter and spanx).  It’s not that I didn’t want to drink per se, in fact I spent most of Saturday afternoon preparing for the onslaught of moonshine I was going to force on my gullet. I drank copious amounts of water, and an Urban Detox drink/elixir.  I had everything planned out… I was going to spend the night at Ms. VampireS’s place, we were going to do a little pre-party, the whole thing……. I had a free pass from the phubster to have a good time… and yet when the time came I just couldn’t do it.

I know…. pick your jaw up off the floor and keep reading, if you can….

But Becca WHY………… you’re asking yourself, or accusingly pointing at the screen and shouting….

Ummm…. to put it in a nutshell–> I felt homesick.

Oh God, and there goes all my hard earned street cred.

So here’s the thing, the phubster and I don’t see a lot of each other during the week, in fact we don’t see each other at all because of our work schedules, locations, etc I actually spend the week with the kids at my parent’s house and we don’t see him until the weekend.  Well we do see him during the week for dinner and stuff but we don’t actually stay together, and Yes, this is by choice.  The money we save on gas, and the stress that’s avoided by me not having to rustle the kiddos up early and drop them off is immeasurable, and so for a while, we’re traversing down this road.  Obviously it’s not all roses and peaches, and for the most part it’s pretty much vomit and shit, but it is what it is, so let’s just move on….

I had been planning on this party for at least 6 weeks now. It was promising to be an epic night, replete with funny drunken stories, and maybe projectile vomiting. I had a crazy morning trying to get everything together for the phubster so he could take care of the kids, and it took me forever to leave the house because he was being cranky, and the Crybaby was being extra clingy. It was just about World War 3 to get out and get over to Ms. VampireS’s place somewhat on time. And I was irritated too. I was really ticked off that the phubster and the kiddos had gotten me all sorts of pissy while I was trying to get into “get drunk party mode” and leave. I was in fact really happy and looking forward to all kinds of inappropriate fun just for spite. Ms. VampireS and I started off at her local nail salon, and the moment I sat down in the chair I knew it… I was screwed, because I was suddenly and desperately homesick for my cranky ass husband and insane kiddos.

But I was committed, and I was determined to push through this, I really was. So I swallowed the lump in my throat, and tried to ignore the texts with pictures of the kiddos from the phubster who really wasn’t helping the cause (and I take this tactic to be part of new strategy in his game, which I’m fucking on to, now….), and I was just going to go ahead as planned. Also in part (a particularly large part) I was embarrassed to be feeling like such a sissy crybaby, and not really willing to let Ms. VampireS know about my current blues. So the festitivites continued and I tried to keep it light, and I really wanted to drink, but as we got ready, and got our eyelashes done, and put on my going out face (aka spackle, aka make-up), I just couldn’t shake it. I was sure it would get better at dinner, where I would see some more of our mutual friends and for sure have a drink or too, at least to relax.

At dinner I kept meaning to order a drink, really. I did. But the service was kind of God Awful, and the phubster was still blowing up my phone (bastard), and when the food finally arrived I was only too grateful to just inhale, without thinking about drinking. After dinner, I promised myself I was going to have a drink at the bar. I was going to get drunk and dance on top of the bar and make a fool out  of myself, I swore it, but instead, the achy hollow feeling, filled up the space that was meant for my liquor, and pulsed in rhythm to the deafening music. I danced with Ms VampireS, kept the creepers off my girlfriends (and Oh LORD we’re there ever some fucking wierdos at the bar), told a drunk guy’s homie he better “check his boy” before I do, and made daggerous eyes at some insane fuck that sniffed one of my other friend’s neck.

I was told numerous times I should have a drink, and I wanted to, I didn’t have a good reason not to, other than the fact that I just couldn’t. Couldn’t bring myself to imbibe in some “forget the feelings juice” and let loose. I stayed until the bar closed and we all went back to Ms. VampireS’s place, where I guilitly broke down and said, “I think I’m just going to go home, the phubster was blowing up my phone all night.”  The look on her face could have recdued me to a puddle of toxic waste, but she gracefully aqcuiesed. I suddenly felt guilty, and knew I couldn’t fight either feeling as I did the walk of shame back to my car and drove home.

Ms. VampireS I’m sorry. Really. For being such a fucking pussy. Seriously. But I know you’re going to forgive me which is why we’re such good friends, and I promise that at your Star Wars themed wedding bacholorette party I’m going balls to the walls……………………

All the way home, the heavy feeling, like walking through a mucky pond became lighter and lighter as the miles flew under my tires, and when I finally arrived home I quietly went inside, laid down next to the phubster and went to sleep. I felt complete.

The next day I was exhausted, as though I had actually stayed up all night drinking. This is when I realized how incredibly old I’m getting, and that I really shouldn’t be out at the bar dancing if I’m not drunk enough to make my muscles loosen up to handle the torture I’m putting it through.

New rule…. I have to stop being such a pussy, and I really need to start doing some yoga or something, because shit, my legs fucking hurt.

So, ever felt homesick as an adult? Please share… emabrassment loves company…..

Don’t Drink and Tweet

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It seems to be just about that time….

CONVERSATIONAL MONDAYS
(bitches!)
Imma tell you a secret…..
gimmie yer wine, and I won’t
shank you, yet….

I’m not even going to begin to lie to you and say that I heard all kinds of interesting things this weekend while I was out and about.  I didn’t. 

Mostly because I wasn’t out and about.
Why?
It may have something to do with the entire bottle of Fetzer Riesling I thought it was appropriate to drink, by myself, on Friday night. You know, after I had my rum and coke. So instead of rounding up the latest juicy gossip, I’d thought I’d share most of what I can remember about Friday.
We went to a nice dinner with my family.  At a nice little Italian restaurant where happy hour was still going strong, and it was $3 for any “well drink” i.e. vodka tonic, gin and tonic, rum and coke, etc.  I settled on rum and coke, and somewhere between me finishing it, and thinking about ordering another, lo and behold MY FAVORITE bottle of wine of all time miraculously appeared at the table. Still not sure who ordered it, but I do know for a fact I’m the only one that drank it. 
Why?
My dad recently had gastric bypass and alcohol is on the list of “Drink this and DIE” things…
My mom doesn’t drink at all (anymore) because she gets a wicked migraine (what a freaking cop out)
My husband didn’t drink because someone had to drive me home, and oh yeah, watch our kids…
Which means I was left to drink the entire bottle, because if you don’t finish it they won’t let you take it. No use in wasting perfectly good wine right………… right. 
While standing (I think  I was standing) and washing my hands in the bathroom after dinner and wine, my mom said:
Mom: “I feel bad for the phubster tonight, hope he doesn’t mind the state you’re in.”
Me: “You feel bad? What for, I’m just going to pass out in the car.”
Mom: “Oh that’ll make it easier”
Me: “You know it. This is why I don’t just have two or three drinks. He’s always telling me just have two or three but I’m onto his game.”
Mom: “His what”
Me: “His game. I mean shit, two or three drinks means more kids. Drink a whole bottle and you’re ensuring you’re just going to pass out, no kids. How’d you think the other two got here.”
Mom: “oh wow”
Me: “I know, I’m smart right.”
Mom: “hahaha, yeah something like that.”
After that and at home I drunk texted Ms. VampireS. Here is our text conversation…
Me: Rgery sucks iambic shit.faced right
Ms VS:  Wow yes you are
Me: I can’t
Ms VS: You cant what hun?
Me: I can’t, read it’s reilly hard
Me: I meancant
Me: Shhhhh
Me: I think phubster is pottery pissed at me
Me: Oh well
Ms VS: Uh yes I bet hun lol
Ms VS: You’re dunzo lol

And if that wasn’t bad enough, for some reason I decided to take it a step further and send out the following tweets:

Officially shit faced and loving it
LET the drink Skpung begin
Ur can’t read. Us toys bag?
Finished a ngihtly of ey’re hi nearly is thIrd bag
Looking drynk svary is thIrd bad?


At this point I think I did actually pass out, in the middle of the bed, fully clothed, with the lights on.  And since the phubster is such a loving and caring man he did wake me up at about 3 am to make me drink about 5 gallons of water because as he put it, “I’m not cleaning up your puke, and I’m not dealing with your headache tomorrow. Drink the water.” Ahhh, such a loving man, how did I get so lucky.

In all actuality, I did feel really good the next morning. No hang over whatsoever.  I was a little tired, and a bit light sensitive, but other than that I was feeling pretty chipper which may be due to the fact that it was the first uninterrupted night’s sleep I’ve had in about ohhhh 4 years. In fact I was feeling so dandy that I got up, made breakfast, bathed the children, and started the laundry.  I even had an in depth conversation with the phubster about the rest of the night that I couldn’t remember.  It’s apparent that when I get really, really, really trashed, I get very—> apologetic. According to the phubster I spent the majority of the night apologizing for the following things, breathing, sitting down, opening the door, lying down on the floor, brushing my teeth, flushing the toilet, talking, walking, moving, scratching my arm, having children, making him buy me dogs, etc. In fact snarksters, I apologized so much, that I am banned from saying the phrase “I’m sorry,” for at least the next six months……… later that afternoon I crashed hard, on the couch for four hours or so….what, I’m old….

The final score:
Me: Winning!
Phubster: NOT   (<– I am so on to your game you bastard!)

Soooooo, what’d you do over the weekend? Drink entire bottles of vodka, make it rain up in the club, hear anything scintillating worth sharing? Do tell….. Can anyone figure out what the hell I meant to tweet up there? If so, send your interpretations and I’ll give you a prize, or a virtual hug and pat on the back, whichever is cheaper….