Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Punch in the face for some. Kisses for others.

Guys, I'm having a bad day.  A really bad day. No need to bore you with details, but needless to say I'm feeling punchy and their are a whole slew of folks I'd like to punch in the face, throat, groin... you name it. So be sure I will "entertain" you with a partial and edited for the public list of who is in the doghouse, but in an attempt to cheer myself an appear somewhat balanced and sane I will also make mention of the good guys, the ones who brightened my day, gave me reason to smile and deserve a big old smooch on the cheek. :)

Let's start with a partial list of who is pissing me off.

My Sports Med Doc: This is the fellow who told me several weeks ago that due to my weak tush there would be no race this October. This is the physician who has sent me to the physical-therapist Nazi,   prescribing the most boring routine of exercises known to man. I have followed my doctor's orders, I have been diligent and determined. I visited him yesterday for my follow up appointment.  I'm not sure if it was a pep-talk or tough love but he continually told me that my body is just like his wife's  (hey McCreepy are you leering at me?) and his wife who's body is just like mine, had to give up running altogether. But just because his wife who's body is seriously just exactly like mine, had to give up running doesn't necessarily mean I'll have to do the same. But I might. Time would tell. Because her body is just. like. mine. I'm not your stinking wife dude! I will run again.

My Children: Okay, no not punch them anywhere. Just  to firmly, calmly and lovingly tell them to QUIT THROWING YOUR DAMN HOTWHEELS DOWN THE STAIRS. And to please, please STOP LEAVING YOUR NASTY DIRTY UNDERWEAR ALL OVER THE FREAKING HOUSE. And to requests gently that they REFRAIN FROM SCREAMING AT EACH OTHER EVERY SINGLE BLOODY MORNING STARTING AT 6:15AM.

Myself: Because I can't seem to keep my personal life straight. I am so horribly unorganized I am constantly showing up for appointments on the wrong day, or not at all. I missed my kid's back to school night because I thought it was on a Friday when it was on Thursday. I showed up to meet my personal trainer on Wednesday, when my appointment was Thursday. I bought tickets to a fundraiser, forgetting that my husband would be out of town... again. Honestly. I need a personal assistant. Any applicants? The job doesn't pay very well.

The truth is I could go on and tell you stories that aren't all that funny, but I'll spare you from the angst.

Yet in the midst of this miserable day there have been a few people whom have reminded me that it isn't all bad, at least not usually.

There was the neighbor who made me the best damn cappuccino I have ever had. There was the store clerk who told me I had a lovely smile. There was the girlfriend who texted all the way from California, reminding me that it's time to set up a phone date. There was my sweet Evan who after his first full day of Kindergarten ran down to my office to tell me that he had a super-fun day at school. There was the woman who left a lovely comment on yesterday's blog post.  To all of you thank you. You ave no idea how much I needed you today. Kisses to you.


Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Kargas Inc. CEO "Shocked" that she can't terminate herself.

Kargas Inc CEO, Rachel Kargas, whom we previously reported was going crazy, issued a statement yesterday that she was "shocked" at her inability to fire herself.

 In an unprecedented move, Ms Kargas, referred to affectionately by employees as "mom"  tried to terminate herself for cause when she was informed by the company's CFO and Board of Directors that she was unable to do so. A shocked Ms Kargas released the following statement:

"Look at this organization. It's falling apart. I am failing as your leader, I haven't come up with a creative craft, produced a meal that resembles a clown, boat or smiley face or successfully broken up a fight in months. Clearly I am not fit to be your CEO. I can hardly keep myself properly groomed."  Ms. Kargas  did appear disheveled for her interview.

Apparently it is impossible for Ms. Kargas to fire herself from the organization, and in fact their are legal implications should she simply abandon her small company. Ms. Kargas was also informed that she is under a binding contract through 2029 and cannot quit her position until it expires.

Thus, even if the CEO is having difficulties fulfilling her duties (employees report backlogs of laundry, and a frequently barren refrigerator) it looks as if she is with Kargas Inc for long-haul.

Saturday, August 24, 2013


This morning I listened to Muse's Madness ***on repeat, tears stinging my eyes as I plugged away on the elliptical. Madness. The song I began each of my training runs with all spring.

That song, the intensity, the feeling, the passion resonated with me. Every mile a victory. Desire answered. Pounding that pavement I felt alive. Perhaps it was the mix of endorphins and accomplishment. The drive to succeed, the surprise that I could. Each morning I woke up with sore hamstrings I was elated. The pain proof that I would do whatever it took. The madness of running 11 miles on a Saturday morning. The bad-ass feeling that I was strong.  I found the fact that I could  outrun 90% of the population strangely satisfying.

Madness. The music raw and emotional, it pushed me physically while fueling a passion. Like a new lover, I thought of it all the time. I woke up ready to embrace my love and went to bed planning my next day's rendezvous . I needed that madness in my life. I still do.

But now stripped of my outlet I feel stifled. Days when I just need to clear my head I feel trapped.  I feel sadly devoid of passion, almost apathetic. It could be that I just need to find inspiration elsewhere, but like a musician without his instrument, I am fumbling. It could be that turning 39 has contributed to the "what am I doing?" angst. Running was powerful for me. It felt somehow important,  and I am wondering what else I can do that might be notable. Never one to shrink in the shadows of other's success I have always wanted to be great, to shine, to be....special.

So as I sat moving nowhere in that God-awful gym, I felt mild, average and  defeated. The song mocking me for what I once was or what I might have been. Madness. The climax of of a musician belting "I need your love." I want to feel that way again. Somehow. Someway. Some sort of madness....

***do click the link. The song is worth it.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Torture at 24 Hours

I've got this. I've GOT this.

I'm plugged in. It's the running play mix I trained to months ago, when my body was working properly.

I mount the steely beast of a machine. The dreaded device of torture where I will spend the next 45 minutes, moving arms and legs in rhythmic repetitive motions while going exactly nowhere.

I select "variety" the ups and downs and varying intensity will certainly keep this interesting right?

The timer starts ticking away the seconds and minutes ever, ever so slowly.

I stare at Barbie on the treadmill in front of me, blond ponytail bobbing up and down while her spandex clad bum runs at a breakneck speed. Bitch. Wait until your knee gives out.

Justin Timberlake serenades me with his "Sexy Back", the beat cheers me and I remember to engage my core.

God damn it! My Iphone slips from it's spot on the elliptical and crashes to floor ripping out my ear buds. Christ. The clock reads 8 minutes and 42 seconds. Where is the damn pause button?
I retrieve my phone and plug back in, ready to restart. How do I restart? Where is the unpause button? Is it...

Crap! No! I do not want to cancel out. Now I'm back at zero and will have to mentally calculate that I already put in 8 minutes and 45 seconds.

Okay Adele, your love songs worked when I was gazing across the blue waters of Lake Merritt on my long runs, but when I'm staring at a muted HGTV program about a farm house renovation I need something a bit more... inspirational.

I'm sweating. Why am I sweating so darn much? Is it unusually hot in here?  Seriously, you can't trick me into thinking that just because I am soaking wet after 15 minutes on this damn machine that I am working out so much harder than I did when running ten miles.

Did I say I was going to do 45 minutes? Would 35 be enough?

Yeah Barbie I see you. You are so fast, look at you go. So determined. What the hell are you doing in this sweaty gym anyways? You can run outside. I'm stuck in this hell hole.

22 minutes. I need a distraction, but what? The farm house show blows, the running Barbie is pissing me off, and staring at this blinking screen is driving me nuts.

Attitude adjustment! Come on! Up that intensity. Go. Go. Go. This is what you have to do now. This is your means to a healthy body.

Seriously? Did they just change the channel to The Food Network? Now I have to watch some skinny chick making fettuccine alfredo with a gallon of whipping cream? I don't know what is worse skinny pasta lady or beauty queen runner.

Okay the dude next to me smells. Bad.
Is this ever going to end?

36 minutes. I have passed 35. I can make it to 45. 45 minutes and then I can go home and take a nap.

Or eat some pasta.
Yeah. Pasta.
Fettuccine alfredo.
And some wine. Lots of wine.

But then I'd have to come back.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013


Fourteen years
Five Thousand, One Hundred and Ten days of marriage
Three states
Fourteen months of fertility treatments
Three children
Seven moves
Two dead cats
One old dog
Three-thousand dollars in vet bills (at least)
Nine jobs
One minivan
Six international vacations
One marathon, one half marathon
One ambulance ride
Three sofas
Countless coffee makers
Few funerals
Many weddings
Too many unsuccessful attempts to make grass grow
Two Yosemite Thanksgivings
Millions of tears shed over spilled milk
So many sleepless nights
So many toddler kisses
Zero trips to Hawaii
One dead car on the Vail Pass
A Zillion dirty diapers
Fourteen years

And no, it no longer feels like just yesterday.

Happy Anniversary David.

Monday, August 12, 2013

I want a F*cking Pinata

Have you ever noticed that as you get older people stop asking you what you would like for your birthday? In fact, if it weren't for your parents and perhaps your own significant other, you might not get as much as a card to mark your special day.  It is as if you are supposed to pretend like your birthday isn't the most awesome day of the year, and that actually you would prefer if it were left at a monthly group cake celebration in the office conference room.

Okay, I get that the increasing number of candles on the cake can be a wee bit.... depressing, particularly when you are staring down menopause in likely, less than ten years, but DUDE, it's your birthday!!! Forget about the age part, it is the one day of the year when people pretty much have to be nice to you. Your boss really can't yell at you on your birthday. Your husband can't bitch at you for putting the kitchen's last existing sharp knife in the f*cking dishwasher, and anyone who fails to wish you HBD on your Facebook timeline has to face down guilt and utter shame.  It's a good day. Damn right I want to acknowledge it.

Why do we leave birthday celebrations to the youth? We mark our children's birthdays with parties, cakes, pinatas and presents. At 16 you might get a car,  at 18 we recognize adulthood, at 21 we have raucous binge drinking, and finally at 30 there is usually a somewhat more sophisticated blow-out. But how about 39? God damn 39. Too old for birthday shots at the club, and (in my opinion) too young for the lame "over the hill" parties. 39, like so many other years is mostly forgotten, acknowledged quietly in the privacy of ones own home, or at an over priced restaurant finished with a sliver of "death by chocolate" cake
adorned by a solitary candle.

Well I am here to say SCREW THAT. I want a fucking pinata! I want a god-damn party. I want to get all dolled up and be the center of attention for one lousy day of the year! Don't we all deserve it for the mere act of surviving yet another 365 days of aging? Should we not embrace the opportunity to celebrate the beautiful life we have been given? Damn straight. Every other day of the year I blend in with the crowd. I rarely get called out for any of my life accomplishments, I am in fact terribly ordinary, EXCEPT for on my FREAKING BIRTHDAY- when I can claim special privileges and yes, I'll say it: It can be All. About. Me.

So for the love of God, do not send me to a lame dinner where a few whiny adolescent waiters croak out "Happy Birthday Ole" while rolling their eyes at the old folks.  Dance with me. Get me good and tipsy. Tell me that you love me in the biggest boldest way you can.  Smash that pinata with all your strength. It is my day. And I want to go big.  

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Summer Lovin'

Pool time somewhere in Utah
It's only now, that my children are school-aged that their childhood has begun to awaken memories of my own. Of course their toddler years reintroduced me to places I had long forgotten, the zoo, the playground, the cereal isle at the grocery store, but it is only now that I can really begin to identify with what they are feeling.

The experiences we have had this summer brought back vivid memories from years ago. As a child summer was always somehow magical.  Hot, sticky school-free months that seemed to stretch ahead for years. The anticipation we felt those last few days in class, that tickley feeling of butterflies in our tummies as we envisioned sun-splashed afternoons enjoying the water parks of the Wisconsin Dells, the lazy days of beach and Popsicles, and the evenings spent outside with our friends playing kick-the-can and ghost-in-the-graveyard until dusk.  

Evening bike ride
Over the past couple of months we have had after dinner strolls for frozen yogurt, reminding me of my own frozen custard pilgrimages as a kid. We have hiked the Rockies, played in the rain, endured the Renaissance Festival, visited the zoo, splashed in the pool, drove across country, played with friends, stayed up too late, enjoyed all things grilled and did the ceremonial back-to-school-shopping.  And all these years later as August slips past I still feel the old familiar twinge of excitement in anticipation of the coming school year. Growing up in the Midwest, fall was always a welcome reprieve from the sticky heat of summer.

It's always a little sad to say goodbye to the summer, but I think the kids and I are ready. We have made sunny memories and are now eager to embrace the "new year" to come.

Wine in the rain

Rocky Mountain National Park

Fireworks over downtown Denver

Fun with friends.

Lots of summer ice cream! 

Even Bascom got to play!
Arches National Park

Thursday, August 8, 2013


When I was a teenager I used to have bouts of sheer misery. Days or weeks that would go by where I couldn't sleep, couldn't smile, could not pull myself out of the deep dark funk. Usually these gloomy periods were due to some sort of rejection, by a boy, a teacher, or a school play director. I took everything so very personally. That has always been my nature. A "no", a sneer, a shrug of the shoulders was always an indication of what I lacked. It was representative of  what I wasn't, what I was too much of, or what my ugly, evil core deserved.

Along the way I grew up and experienced these sinister feelings of self loathing less. I like to think it is because I matured and grew more self confident, but in reality it may be simply because as life went on I experienced less rejection. In college I got the guy, a faithful boyfriend who stood by me through it all, I got the friends, the grades and the attention I craved.

I got married, got the jobs, the house and the life that I wanted. It made it easy to push away the ugly feelings, the despair, the self-loathing.

But it is so precarious. My happiness due so much to outside circumstance and affirmation. A small slight and I find myself sliding back into the dreary dungeon of depression. When I couldn't easily conceive, I blamed my body for it's incompetence and hated it endlessly. When a friendship fails, I always blame myself for my lack of charisma, when someone ways no, it is always, always because I'm not enough.

I am a relatively intelligent woman. So when will I ever be able to push this nonsense away? When will I ever stop internalizing every no, every mistake, every failure? I should know better. I should stop feeling it so damn much. Yet, at almost 39, I often feel it just as deeply and painfully as I did in adolescence.

When, when will I ever learn?

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Not a punch in the face but a kick in the booty

For whatever reason I'm not feeling particularly snarky lately, which makes a punch-in-the-face post a bit of a challenge.  So instead I'll do a more appropriate kick-in-the-booty post. And that booty would be mine, and fairly literally. As a follow up to my post about my sad knee, today I started physical therapy beginning my journey to a stronger me. As it turns out the main focus of my therapy will be my derriere. That's right. My butt is weak. To my surprise this is not uncommon for runners. Runners have strong quads and hamstrings, but often neglect to tone the tush. In my case this results in poor form and too much impact on my knee. Hurray.

So today I met with my physical therapist Dan. I like Dan. Unlike the therapists I saw for my ankle, Dan is clearly an athlete. The dude is ripped. He is the kind of guy that likely has a difficult time finding a shirt that will accommodate his biceps. Clearly the man works out... a lot. So he gets why I am so determined to return to my sport and he is focused on getting me there. However this means an awkward amount of attention on my bum. I admit I blushed as we discussed it, but was happy to learn some exercises that will ultimately make me stronger. Dan assured me that as an added bonus I'll get "aesthetic" benefits as well (so professional!) Well yippie-skippy for that, now I can throw away my padded, butt enhancing panties. *****

It's going to take discipline. Those exercises are not fun, or pain free. And I have to do a ridiculous amount of repetitions every day. As far as I know there is no Nike ap for butt exercises to keep me honest, and I don't think I will create a blog category to update everyone on m tushie toning. (Sorry!) Thus, this will have to come from within. If I want to get back to what I love, I'm going to have to stick with it and expect a little pain in the ass.....
*****I don't really own padded, butt enhancing panties. For real.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013


So beware, this post will likely be a bit of a self pity party, but sometimes you need to mourn your "loss" before you can move on.

Not too long ago I wrote a post "Mama is Strong & Fast" It was while I was in the heart of my half -marathon training and I was also hitting the gym for "body pump" 2-3 times per week. I thought I was in the best shape of my life. The half marathon came and went. I continued to run and felt good. Then life got in the way.  A cross country move, an injury and two months later I am finally getting back into my grove. Or so I thought.

It started with a pain in my left knee two weeks ago during a five mile run. It wasn't terrible but it was there. I continued to run, it continued to hurt. I made it 6.5 miles last Sunday and was feeling like maybe this half marathon in October could happen. But the pain was still there and I decided to consult my sports med doctor.

My appointment was yesterday. I was expecting him to recommend strengthening exercises and ice. Instead he told me to Stop. Running. After having me do some exercises and observing my body the doctor's conclusion was that I am way too weak to run. WEAK. He told me that while my quads were in good shape they were doing all the heavy lifting. My hips and core are not strong enough, thus my form is bad and putting too much pressure on my knee, which he warned would likely result in a stress fracture if I kept down the path I was...running.

The tears came quickly. My face grew hot. I was sad. I was angry. "You knew this didn't you?" the doctor asked. I shook my head no. I thought I was stronger than I am. I thought that since I had completed 13.1 in under two hours I was a freaking rock star. I was solid. I am not. I am weak. WEAK. I hate that word. I have for the better part of my life always been physically weak. The girl who can't lift her luggage into the overhead compartment, the girl who can't do a push up, the girl who can't take care of herself. I am not sure if the doctor knew just how much that word stung.

And so the end result is that I am to go to physical therapy and lay off running for some time. He wants me to gain muscle and possibly weight. He advised that I would not be ready for an October distance race. He said if I can bulk up and get strong I just may get there again someday. Someday.

So it's in my hands. Will I do what I need to in order to be what I want to be? Will I be able to transform my body into that of a strong, solid woman? Or will I give in to the past and be who I have always been. Physically incapable. Weak.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Secrets of a girls night out

A few days ago I was chatting with a male friend. I told him that I had a "girls night out" planned and he recoiled in horror. "Those nights scare me. What do women talk about when we aren't around?" I sensed fear.  My response: It's Top Secret.

But it got me to thinking... what is it about a girls night that women crave so much? How do we change, if at all, when the men folk are absent?

So I did an informal poll of my girlfriends and asked them what they chatted about over cocktails sans significant others, and of course I did my own research yesterday when I joined three other women at local hot-spot, Linger for an evening out. Here is what I found:

We don't talk about sports. At all. Unless you include our children's athletic endeavors, but that's mostly just bitching about lost weekend mornings and endless parent "volunteer" opportunities.

We talk a hell of a lot about fitness and our bodies. We talk about our upcoming races, our boot camps, our baby bellies and our newly acquired wrinkles.

We talk about cosmetic surgery. We know that while most of our partners would love it if we looked 22 forever, they shudder at the expense of nips, tucks and injections because after all, youthful beauty doesn't come cheap and they want to retire someday. So we plot in the privacy of a book club, a dimly lit bar or over coffee and scones with the girlfriends who understand.

Sex is a mixed bag. One of my girlfriends (who will remain anonymous) rolled her eyes when I brought up the topic "I already have to do it once a week" she grumbled "Why should I waste time talking about it too? Others  jump at the opportunity to talk about their intimate lives, married women discussing how to "spice it up" and the single girls describing their new lovers. Now boys, stop looking so worried, all this chatter and information sharing may actually work to your benefit....

We talk about politics, our careers, our families, our dreams and fantasies. We discuss our plans, our disappointments, worries and insecurities.   We talk about the things our husbands are tired of hearing about and we look for a fresh perspective.

We also do a fair amount of listening, providing a platform for the woman who needs it most. The woman recently divorced, sick or worried. Sometimes you need the kind of love and empathy you can only get from a good girlfriend.

So yes we share a lot of personal information and talk about things that would make some "boys" uncomfortable. But husbands, boyfriends, lovers stop worrying and trust me when I say there are some things we do keep to ourselves. There are the moments,  the words and the feelings between a man and a woman that are locked in our memory and held there just for you. We love you too, but sometimes guys, a mani/pedi  and a vodka soda is just
more fun with a chick.

Friday, August 2, 2013

When there is nothing you can say.

I often wish that I could write anonymously. My blog would be far more entertaining if nobody knew who was behind the keyboard. I have been thinking about writing a blog post all week, but the only things I feel like writing about can't be told without hurting someone's feelings, telling someone's secret or just looking like a bitch. So I'm staring at the flickering cursor and wondering what I can write about.

And I'm blank. And tired. It's been a long week. Work, kids, single parenting, planning, cooking,  running, physical therapy ,soul searching, tears. So instead of boring you with a meaningless post about nothing, I'm sharing photos from the week. Thrilling, I know....
Pizza party with my boys

All dressed up and no place to go

Book club with my girls

Last Saturday night with friends. Out of focus, but I like it for some reason

Saturday Hike
Sunday jog with my big kid!