Run Like A Mudder

I want to run.  I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike. Oh, sorry, Queen got stuck in there for a minute. I want to run races.  I want to do a mud run.  There’s only one thing stopping me. Me. Well, that and the fact that my left running shoe is about to turn itself into a peep-toe flat.  I can only imagine what my Asics have to say on the matter. As many times as I have said it, I want to run.  I even said it a few sentences ago.  See?  I do say it a lot.  I have started running again several times.  One of my favorite pinned items on Pinterest says “If you’re tired of starting over, stop giving up.” There’s a girl beside the text.  What is she doing?  Running, of course!  It’s a sign.  Maybe it’s just a sign that people quit running a lot.  I understand that, it’s not like it’s easy!  If it were, everyone would do it.  And no one would be overweight. So, to sum up, running is hard. I have done two 5K races in my life.  The first one I did not even two months after I had my second child.  I love to say that it sounds so hard core.  I recall right after the cord was cut saying to what, oddly, was a roomful of med students that I now had to go train for a race.  It was the medication talking mostly. My second 5K was a week after that same child turned 3.  Good and spaced out.  I did manage to shave almost seven minutes off my time, though.  Unfortunately, not a very impressive time to begin with.  Oh, well, we aren’t all Kenyan.  Gotta start somewhere. I want something to challenge me, and yes, running on its own does that.  I want a REAL challenge.  I want…the Tough Mudder.  Probably the toughest event on the planet, it says so right there on the website.  Ten or so miles and about twenty obstacles to get through.  Now when I say obstacles, my mind automatically reaches back through the television ages and channels the old Nickelodeon show Double Dare.  Anybody else remember that or am I really showing my age here? I don’t mean walking a balance beam or, as it were, trying to find an orange flag in a pile of goo.  Ever see Ninja Warrior?  It’s kind of like that.  Crawling through a field of dangling live wires, jumping bales of flaming hay, a massive pit of mud to traverse.  THOSE are obstacles, baby.  Nary an orange flag to be seen. Luckily and somewhat surprisingly, your finish time at Tough Mudder is probably the least important thing anyone focuses on.  Getting through it and helping people out along the way is what it’s about.  I have seen YouTube clips of parts of the races that bring me to absolute tears they are so great and that is not something I admit willingly.  Look up Tough Mudder on YouTube.  You’ll see what I mean. It is, without a doubt, hard core.  And it is what I want. This may come as a shock to you, but I am not a Marine.  No, it’s true.  Spare me your gasps of surprise.  I possess what I believe to be about the average amount of upper body strength for a chick.  Which means I can’t do a pull-up.  That bothers me.  Partially because I know that won’t get me through Tough Mudder.  At all.   I also can’t expect a REAL Marine to follow behind me and hold my legs up when I have to do things like monkey bars.  Ascending monkey bars.  The humanity. Yes, people will gladly help, but I’d really rather not need it if I can at all avoid it.  That’s why I have to start training for it.  Another potential problem is the entry fee.  It’s no $25 road race, dude.  It’s a three digit price tag.  Proceeds go to a very worthy cause, the Wounded Warrior Project.  If anybody deserves my money it’s them.  Or March of Dimes.  Or Susan G. Komen.  But they aren’t getting it.  Wounded Warrior is.  Oh, except for the fact that I don’t have that kind of money to donate.  See the potential for an issue there? Yes, without the funds, I’m really just running up and down my parents’ driveway looking for a mud puddle to jump in when I’m done.  While my 3 and 4 year olds will disagree, I don’t think that is worthwhile. I don’t know how long it would take me to fully train for the Tough Mudder, but I do know that Zumba alone will not accomplish it.  More’s the pity.  I gotta do the stuff I avoid in the weight room.  The stuff I used to be “sick” for in gym class.  Yeeeahh, pretty much the stuff I can’t do. Oh, I also would prefer not to do this alone.  Any volunteers?  I can’t make my Hetero Life Mate Rosa do it.  She says no.  Some days it’s hell, no.  Other days it’s HAELLLL NO!  I’m pretty sure one of these days it’ll be ‘stop asking me’ followed shortly by ‘I think we should see other Hetero Life Mates.’ People, I implore you.  Don’t make me roll in the mud by myself.   Incidentally, when you finish you do get a bright orange headband.  Hey, it could have been a flag in some goo.

Chirp Chirp! Tweet Tweet!

After I wrote that my head started singing “toot toot! Ahhhh beep beep!”  Kudos if you know the song. So recently upon rediscovering the email connected to my long-stagnant blogs, I was alerted to the fact that Twitter missed me.  Perhaps you’ve heard.  After a very long session involving the delete button, I ambled over to this Twitter and had a look around.  Shortly thereafter I began to wonder why I am following a Korean BBQ lunch truck in Orlando. I learned from the email spring cleaning that, lo and behold, I had followers!  However, I can’t help but feel that I let 78% of those followers down daily as they seem to be death metal bands.  Sorry, Choking on Bile, did you not want to know that I switched to Splenda?  Oh, well, thanks for following just the same!  There were also real people following me, at least a few of whom I was tickled to see there. (Ahem, @danielleaelwood) I have to admit that I joined Twitter because of the hype.  I must admit further that once I signed up I had no clue how to use it.  I mean, I understood the concept, 140 characters and all, but the format that I was actually gazing upon was making no sense.  Perhaps it was because it was a recently birthed app at the time.  I can only hope that it made sense to almost no one and that they were all tweeting from their phones via text message because they couldn’t figure out how to do it any other way.  Either way that was the main reason my interest in it fizzled out pretty quickly. Now!  I understand the app now!  Oh, it makes sense!  Now I can do more than just stare at it blankly.  And it hits me…Twitter is actually an ideal medium for me.  Short, to the point, witty one-liners that I can deliver to, again, mostly death metal bands.  Oh, and Danielle Elwood!  Hi, Danielle! Here’s where you come in.  Don’t let my singular brand of humor go unappreciated.  Come follow me on Twitter!  Don’t subscribe to Twitter?  Sign up!  Danielle is busy, she can’t watch my tweets all by herself!  She has her own self-named website to tend.  Follow me and I will follow you back.  Sounds like a threat.  Kinda of like mutual stalking. Now that Twitter is more user friendly (for me) and I know that it missed me, I intend to utilize it for my random thoughts and shameless plugs.  What thoughts?  What plugs? you wonder.  Follow me and see. And be sure to wave to Danielle.

Here's the Mail It Never Fails...

  Ever stumble upon an email address that you have forgotten about?  Then by some miracle you remember the password, open it up and see that you have 1,183 pieces of mail waiting for you to read.   Or take all the time to delete.  Why don’t they make a ‘delete all’ button? Today I have done such a thing. Ironically, it’s the email connected to all my blogs. Well, if people would comment on them I’d have a reason to check!  No, no, I realize that if my blogs were my kids I’d be no better than that couple would couldn’t be bothered to feed their child because they were too busy playing World of Warcraft.  Yes, that really happened, by the way. Let me tell you what I have found in this dusty old electronic mail box.  Updates from a pregnancy website on a child I was never even pregnant with.  My question here is, who was? A ‘digest’ email regarding house cleaning that looks as though it comes four times a day.  Good God, who is talking about cleaning their houses that often?!  Oh, so THAT’S where my iTunes receipts have been going. Twitter update.  I have a Twitter account? Ahem!   I mean, I have a Twitter account! @deathmetalmommy.  Follow me! GeorgiaSexOffenders.com.  Well, that’s just good sense. Ooh! I have 37 followers on Twitter!  It looks like most of them are death metal bands.  Hmm, it pays to read the whole name, people. EHarmony?  Um, no? Oh, look, they’ve missed me on Twitter. I don’t know who Andy Bailey is, but he seems to like me.  Oh, maybe it’s some newsletter that had relevance at the time. Or it’s eHarmony again. A date night look that I HAVE to try from Glamour last November. Perhaps I should tweet more.  They seem to really like me, too.  Along with a new follower as of November of last year, Choking on Bile. I…I…thanks for following? It’s pretty much playing out like a big pattern. Why have I been invited to join a Paranormal Social Network? OK, unsubscribe.  “Do you really want to unsubscribe from this newsletter?” Would I have clicked it if I didn’t? Free yoga panty.  They must be really flexible. Someone activated Find my iPhone.   I hope they found me. Someone wants my opinion on their diet/fitness app…last September.  Well, better late than never, right? I’m now down to 665 email.  Oy. Aw, hell, somebody did comment on a blog post.  And it’s someone I don’t know!  My sincerest apologies for not seeing it! Wait, no—I do know them. Classmates.com update for a school I never went to.  What? 389.  Still going. Oh, hey, they’ve missed me on Twitter! Nothing interesting, nothing interesting. Oh, they’re all gone. OK, and now I see that there actually is a ‘delete all’ button. I’ll remember that for next time I have over 1,000 emails. Maybe I should put something on Twitter.  They miss me.

The AA of Fashion

American Apparel. It’s terrible.

And I love it.

I am a little ashamed what with all the bad press American Apparel gets because of its lecherous head honcho, Dov Charney, but I just can’t help it. This brand totally appeals to the gaudy retro in me. Not fifties retro, I leave that to labels like Stop Staring. This is sweet, gauche, self-absorbed eighties retro. You’re not going to find any other brand that proudly dedicates one of the front page ads of its website to a fabric like nylon tricot. These days you’re more likely to see the page emblazoned with ‘Organic cotton!’ Not American Apparel, oh no. Sure, they do have some organic cotton, but it’s not the main thing they’re hawking. Again, not too many other retailers use the adjective ‘shiny’ on such a wide expanse of products. When was the last time you bought shiny bike shorts? I ask you. Probably about, what, 1987? Sounds about right.

A lot of the items seemed familiar to me as I clicked through the on line catalog pages. Then I realized it. I had Barbies that wore most of these things when I was younger. It’s like the designers over at American Apparel saw the Barbie wardrobe and thought, “By Jove! What a fantastic idea! Zippers that go completely up the side of your nylon tricot neon green leggings in a contrasting purple color? We must market this to adults!” Seriously, I haven’t seen so many plastic, oddly placed zippers…well, since the eighties. I don’t think it’s necessarily a great fashion strategy, but it does make me a little nostalgic. It made me long for the days when Pepsi was Free and New Kids on the Block were still both New and Kids.

American Apparel is the only place that I have seen a quintessential eighties piece: the unitard. It’s pants, it’s a top, it’s spandex, what more do you really need? Maybe leg warmers? Well, they’ve got ‘em, baby. I remember the late eighties when my mother had a peacock blue unitard. I loved that thing. I took it upon myself to inherit it, though, the seams did eventually split and I miss it dearly. At least now I know where I can go to get a replacement.

I would also be remiss (and lying!) not to mention that I have their unisex Henley unitard on my wish list. I love it and I almost wish that it had the little trap door in the back. OK, I do wish that. And remember in eighties movies, those super short, skin-tight tank dresses that seemingly only hookers wore? Oh, they’ve got ‘em. In eight, count ‘em, EIGHT rock ‘em sock ‘em colors, including stripes and polka dots. They even have them in nylon tricot.

Another eighties treasure on the shelves is stirrup pants. Stirrup pants and harem pants. Harem pants, for those of you not of the eighties, were once referred to as Hammer pants. Aptly named for the uber trendy rapper M.C. Hammer who wore them. I can’t say that I quite understand the see-through factor that American Apparel has going on with some of their harem pants. Maybe it’s just so you’ll buy one of their leotards to wear under it.

They should name an entire department I Love Gold Lamé. They sure do. I have not seen this much gold lamé in the last twenty years combined, barring those two concerts by the Velcro Pygmies I attended. I cannot honestly say that I have a need or a use for a zip-up gold lame one-piece swimsuit, but I sure am trying to think of one.

American Apparel also seems to have quite the affinity for high waisted items, but not in the fifties Mad Men kind of way. These are the kind of high-waisted jeans that unless you weigh just a smidge under 100 pounds you will, in fact, be labeled pear-shaped.

They do have basic tees and they are basic tees, but the price suggests they are something more than just basic. So, yeah, the prices are not entirely reasonable on all items. And then there is all the bad press. So the CEO is, for lack of a better phrase, a pervy douche. OK, that said, don’t blame the clothes! And sure, the models have hip bones and cheek bones so sharp you could slice cheddar on them and that’s not quite so eighties. The sizing may also be a topic of dissension. Most things are sized a little small. That doesn’t seem like that big of a problem until you consider that a substantial percentage of Americans cannot shop at American Apparel at all because they do not have sizes that accommodate them. Why should the larger and half-size gals have to go without lace trimmed nylon tricot bike shorts and the matching stretch floral lace crop top? Although, to AA’s credit they have added some larger sizes of late.

There is a 2 and 3XL section, but it consists primarily of t-shirts and a couple of pair of lounge pants. Sadly, they could not even have been bothered to rustle up a plus size model or two to sport these items. It’s the same girls with jutting hips and clavicles. There is also a maternity section, but again there are no pregnant models. It’s not real maternity wear either. It is simply items that are really stretchy or really loose that would probably work for a preggo. Hmm, no plus models and no pregnant models…maybe Dov Charney IS a douche. Oh, well, that’s not concerning me today.

They also have men’s and kids’ clothes, but that’s all pretty straight forward, despite some strange male model choices and even stranger examples of pants.

There is something I want on just about every page of American Apparel’s website. Other things I just have to laugh and clap my hands at. American Apparel provides a piece of nostalgia for those of us who grew up in the eighties. We just have to accept the fact that we’re now old enough to be nostalgic and say ‘I remember when…”

Now if they only sold Hypercolor…

Tired Doesn't Begin to Describe It

After having numerous children over the past four years, you would think one would be used to having very little sleep.  Well, in this case, you would be wrong.  I have never had such a problem sleeping as I have these past few weeks.  I’m not sure why either.  Trust me it’s not an issue of GOING to sleep; I’m very adept at that part.  It’s the ignoring any children who may wake up and cry that is hindering my sleep at the present time.  Dude, why can’t they just go to sleep!  And stay asleep!
For example, last night I was very, very tired having spent the evening trying to think of the name of the strip club in Atlanta that Marilyn Manson likes which is known for employing one legged hookers.  You wanna know, don’t you?  More on that later.    I had gotten two out of the three children in bed and Sully was the only one left, just like most nights.  He finally fell asleep and I was under the impression that I had as well.  I dreamed I got on Facebook and posted on my father’s wall “What is the capital of Assyria?”(a Monty Python quote, for those of you not in the know.)
When I got to work this morning I checked Facebook on my phone and, to my utter confusion, realized that I had actually posted said quote.  That, my friends, is why you should not be allowed to surf and sleep.  Now if I had been drunk, that would have been more acceptable, but just excessively somnolent?  No, that one is all you.  
Think that’s bad?  It doesn’t compare to the night before that.
Lily had woke up so I plucked her from her crib and went to lay down on the couch and give her a bottle to put her back to sleep.  Somewhere after the bottle was began I fell asleep, and I believe the bottle rolled off somewhere.    I then had to fight unconsciousness to wake up because I heard something.  It took a while to realize that Lily was four inches from my head crying.  Loudly.  Loudly and a lot.  And I hadn’t heard it.  But that wasn’t the worst part.  The worst part was when I didn’t know who this screaming baby was lying beside me.  It really took a good full one or two minutes for it all to come back to me.  So I grabbed for the bottle which was now silently taunting me from under the recliner and had to get up.  Did you know that when you’re that sleepy it’s damn near impossible to stand up straight or walk without falling?  I didn't know that.  But I’m well aware of it now.
If this isn’t a great handful of reasons to get more sleep then I don’t know what is.
 
Oh, and it’s Clairmont.  But there’s only one monopedic hooker.

It could be funny...

I haven’t written much of anything for the last few weeks, months? Eeee, has it been that long? It’s not that I’m being lazy, though I will definitely cop to that accusation. It’s that I didn’t want to inundate my blog with pregnant nonsense. Since that is pretty much the only thing happening to me at the moment, I have a sneaking suspicion that it would sneak in.

However, since I haven’t written in so long, no one has any idea what is going on with me. That’s right, all twelve of you are totally in the dark. But do you really want to read about pregnant stuff? I do, but it’s pertinent to me right now, and I go elsewhere to find it. Besides, I thought, what’s really all that funny about being pregnant? I inadvertently just answered my own question. Here’s how. As I was about to type that sentence I had to reach down to the calf area of my jeans, grab a handful of material, and hoist my ankle to rest on my other thigh. I can’t even cross my own legs without manual assistance. That’s probably pretty funny from an outsider’s view. What I shouldn’t add is that the reason I have to do that is because I have so much pain in my thighs right now that I actually am physically incapable of crossing my legs, making walking absolute hell. There, see, that’s not very funny. Kinda makes you feel bad for laughing, doesn’t it? Well, that’s not what I want.

As I was coming in to work this morning, a trio of gentlemen were standing about fifty feet in front of me and from one of them I heard the word ‘waddle.’ I didn’t need to hear the rest of the sentence, as I had already flipped him off. I started to explain why I’m walking like I have two prosthetic legs, but a few words into that explanation and I just stopped. Eh, what’s the point?

Now I happen to think I handle pregnancy pretty well, what with all the experience that I have. I have a fairly physical job and yet I work up until the 11th hour. My first two pregnancies were pretty nondescript, save for a slight scare here and there. The last few weeks always suck; it’s a law. I guess I’ve hit that point. It seems to have come early this time around. I have seven weeks to go, whereas it usually doesn’t start to become a problem until four weeks to go. But see, that’s just not funny. Maybe to a sadistic onlooker...

I personally think it’s getting pretty bad when I’m trying to find a way to maneuver early maternity leave simply because the sheer act of driving to work is excruciating.

So, no, there’s not much to write about or report on right now as it all revolves around my current state of moo cow. Now as long as nothing unusual happens I will be shopping the day after Thanksgiving and I’m sure that will yield some stories worth reading, and not just about me squatting by a Cinnabon for half the day because people are running over me. Now, that’s funny

When Do I Have to Grow Up By?

Since when was figuring out what you want to do when you grow up so stinkin’ hard?

When we’re young and longing for that first double-digit birthday, most of us have a pretty good idea of what we want to do when we grow up. Boys would have the standard boy answers of fireman or policeman or even astronaut. Girls ordinarily would want to be teachers and nurses or mommies. Clearly, I went to school in the fifties.

I didn’t want any of those normal jobs. I can remember early on choosing my first job being a fashion designer. I can remember saying it and writing it down. The only problem there was I did not sew or draw very well and at the time my standard daily uniform consisted of stretch pants and empire waisted floral tunics, topped off with a stretchy headband. Even then, swing and a miss.

Yes, fashion designer was my first dream job. After that I really didn’t think about it very much, which I believe now was a big mistake on my part. I was just going on about life, minding my own business, not giving any thought whatsoever to what I might do to make a living once I got out of school.

During high school I toyed with the idea of going to college to become a band director, inspired at the time by my own band director whom not everyone liked. Then we got a new band director and he kind of killed it for me. It’s just as well. Did I really want to spend the rest of my days thinking in terms of eight-to-five steps? The fact that my step size was already eight-to-five was not the point.

Even when I graduated it still hadn’t really hit me that I needed to decide what to do with my life. I had done some modeling and dearly loved it, but how far is a 5’4” runway model really going to go? Not even to the end of the runway. Besides I was nowhere near emaciated enough to make a go of it. Acting had also been a possibility, but in this particular area of the country/world there’s just no outlet unless you want to play one of the old bitties from Steel Magnolias in your local community theater. I did not.

So I went off and had my ill-considered adventures after high school, still just floating about. I eventually got a job at a law firm, which made me consider a career as a lawyer. That takes so long, though, and did I really want to do that? As much fun as arguing is to me and as good at it as I am, I knew there would be a lot of requisite grunt positions that I would have to suffer through first. So defending the scum of the earth is just not my cup o’ tea.

My next job has seen me back at the school system that I once attended. As much as I like my job, there are moments that were somewhat embarrassing for me. Teachers in the system come to the central office once a year for new picture ID tags. Several of my old teachers have popped up as they still work for the board of education. Teachers from middle school and even elementary school have greeted me and asked what I’m doing now. Unfortunately, the answer that popped into my head first was “This.” ‘This’ is delivering packages from the warehouse to the departments in the central office. That’s what they see. I also do purchase orders and invoices but they don’t see that. They see a delivery girl. Yes, it’s embarrassing. They ask what I’ve done with my life and all I can say is “Not a thing! A chimp can do my job! Oh, and I have no ambition!” It’s embarrassing because I know for a fact that they all expected big things from me. Even the stupidest cheerleader in my class became a nurse, a fact which scares me out of ever admitting I’m sick.

Only now do I realize I was supposed to do something...something. I envy people who have always known what they want to do, whether it’s logical or not. Sooner or later, if it isn’t terribly feasible, you’ll find a way to make it that way or turn it into something similar that could work out. There are all sorts of things that I would like to do, but for how long would I like them?

My sister and I had a brief stint in baking and cake decorating. I got so excited about it that I planned in my head what my bakery was going to look like and marveled at the prices of commercial mixers. As much fun as it sounded and no matter how much I knew I would like it, it fizzled out, replaced by...some errant thought, no doubt. Then it was just forgotten. On the plus side, all that baking pretty much turned me off of eating cake in general. I’ve gotten my taste back for it a little, but I am much more critical of any cake I taste now, wondering if I can do it better.

Then I thought of being a lawyer again. But after having talking to one and hearing about the detestable cases he was forced to defend I decided that wasn’t my road. Surely you have to pay your dues no matter what field you go into, but I refuse to defend people I would just as soon flip the switch on if I could.

Throughout the years, though, there has always been writing. I have always written. It’s been a constant. I like to think I’m decent at it. If I didn’t, I don’t think I’d be doing it. With my fingers crossed for my first book to be picked up by a literary agency, I wonder if perhaps this is the road I should travel.

Alternately, I recently decided, or thought I had, what it was I wanted to go to school to do. It is not related to writing or to anything else I have ever considered doing. I like the idea of it and I have even researched job opportunities for this particular degree and the classes I would have to take to achieve it. While I am hesitant at some of the classes, y’know like MATH, I know that I could get past them as long as I kept in mind the end point.

So what am I going to do? Should I be a writer or should I pursue mystery job X that deals with math and chemistry?

Wow, that last one kind of sounds like a no-brainer to me now that I’ve brought math and chemistry into the equation. Eeek.

Maybe I should have just stuck with fashion designer.