Thursday, May 31, 2012

Why, hello...

Don't play with knives, especially when your mom only has spongebob bandaids...
I am not a mad man...

I have always loved this sign. Vacuums and Dragons. Yep.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

True Story

Things that may have come out of my mouth today. God help me, it's only Wednesday...

1. If you don't get your hands out of your pants, I am going to superglue your fingers together. Seriously.

2. Eggs are not a fruit. Neither are goldfish. Nice try.

3. I know you did not walk the dog. He told me.

4. What knife did you use. How bad is the bleeding?

5. Brush your teeth. Why? Because I love you and want you to have teeth. For a while.

6. I know it looks like poo. It's a vegetarian lentil soup. Just close your eyes.

7. Has the bleeding slowed down?

8. No, I am not upset. Good moms come home when they get texts saying "the blood is gushing."
   Next time, why don't you use a SMALLER knife for a strawberry? Or just stick the berry in your mouth?

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Never forgetting...

Memorial Day.

This day always always makes me think about my Pepa. I grew up to war stories. Pepa was bigger than life in my world, and his stories were also.

I wish I had taken notes. I always thought about it as he was recounting those days, but I would just get lost in listening and think "Next time. Next time I'll write 'em down." All of a sudden, next time did not happen because Alzheimer's took away his stories and his speech.

So I remember bits and pieces. Tales of the island where he was stationed. Tales of his fellow servicemen. Funny stories of one portly sailor friend grabbing his food as they were being bombed, before he jumped for cover. Stories of the long long hours when nothing happened. Stories tinged with pride, remembering how he truly served his country. When I grew older, the stories were darker, stories of war. Not the funny or nostalgic stories, but stories of death and what it does to the men left behind.

I have a picture tucked away of my Pepa when he came back from the islands. Handsome devil, puffed up with pride in his Navy uniform, cigarette dangling from his lip, and a smile on his face. I have a flag he gave Nate eight years ago, right before the Alzheimer's really started taking him from us. And I have my memories.

Happy Memorial Day and a heartfelt thank you to everyone who sacrifices for us.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Deep thoughts

Jalapeno Chocolate Bar. Hell yes.
 This chocolate bar has me freakishly excited. Like, Ooooh Em Gee Excited!! Peanuts, peppers and chocolate. It's like Mole in a solid form. Proof that you can take the girl out of Texas but you will never take Texas out of the girl...
Oh, Planters. Men need manlier nuts? Really?
I bought a paper on Sunday. I never buy papers so I scoured it from beginning to end. Editorials, Sports, World News, Horoscopes and all of the ads. This coupon called to me. NUT-trition nut mix. For men. Because men need manly nuts. Oh, you silly marketing people at Planters. What next? Penis Peanuts? Seriously?

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Utter Randomness

Frida Kahlo matches for my candles. They make me happy.

Bamboo water bottle- who knew this Granola Girl could love a water bottle so much?


Wrens are nesting on my front door. Warm fuzzies.
Just felt like sharing a few things that make me happy lately. You are welcome for not sharing the picture of the Miller Moth swarm or of Timesboy's gnarly troll toenails that I embarrassed him into cutting. Nope, just the warm fuzzy stuff.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Six point four.

Every time I run, I learn life lessons. I feel like sharing my hard won wisdoms, peeps. I will refrain from using my Yoda voice. You are welcome.
One, skunks are supposed to be nocturnal. Supposed to be is the key in this sentence. I know they are not solely nocturnal because I saw them do their crazy drunken little waddle across my path while running. yes, I said 'they' as in plural. Cute little creatures that struck the fear of God in my heart. I didn't know whether to run faster or freeze. So I froze, crouched with my hand wrapped around Humperdink's twitchy little mouth. I figured a bite from his wicked sharp teeth was preferable over a skunk shower.
Two, tiramisu before a 6.4 mile run is just idiotic. Seriously, it borders on masochistic, because tiramisu does NOT sit well when you are trying to keep a certain pace. I must have assumed that since it was a mother's day gift from the monkey girl, it wouldn't count. Phhhhhth.
Three, grabbing the wrong iPod can have a detrimental effect on a pace. Love my Jack Johnson and Blue Merle. Bonnie Raitt gives me goosebumps. Keb Mo is my inner soundtrack. But for running? They simply suck. I'd rather drink a glass of wine to Donovan Frankenreiter than run to him. Jack Johnson makes me want to lay in a hammock on a sunny day, not put my arse in a higher gear. Two miles in and I was really missing Fergie and Andre 3000. Duly noted.
Four, running 6.4 miles after an eleven hour, mind-numbingly long day is a victory in itself. I really wanted to come home, change into my Jammie pants, lay on the couch, and drool over Jax on TV. Instead, I changed into my gear, slipped on my shoes, and took off. I talked myself into the fact that the couch would be there when I was done, but the daylight would only last so long.
 "Do or do not. There is no try." -Yoda
(Ooh, come on. You knew I was going to slip a Yoda-ism in on you. Peace and mush, cupcakes!)

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Just wanted to give kudos to my mama. She has taught me unconditional love, even as she probably sometimes wonders what planet I came from. We are so different from start to finish, but she has loved me during my worst times and my best times. She has held my hand, sometimes literally, during some of my mistakes and hard lessons. She has been my cheerleader, lifting me up when I have been so low that I could not rise up on my own.
As a single mom, I have a newfound gratitude for what my mom went through. I never knew the scariness, the weariness that could descend at times- she protected us from it. I also now know that she deserves the love on Mother's and Father's Day because she had to wear both hats.
As the mother of a teenager now, I  know that she deserves a HUGE thank you for not killing me. The hormones, the weepiness, the tunnel vision of what I wanted, the complete self-absorption that I possessed- I owe her for loving me through it all. I was far from loveable for years, but she loved me anyway.

Mamacita and Cinnamon

Thank you, Mamacita! You are a gift in my life that I am thankful for every single day. XOXOXOXO

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Wicked Wonderfulness

Miss Jackie and me- I have MAD sparkles going on...

Miss Jackie and Superteen- Gorgeous gorgeous...

Lemon Raspberry Torte- Can you imagine this?!

Superteen with the Wizard, backstage heaven!!

Best line- "We cannot all travel in a bubble."
Best bittersweet line- "Wishing wounds the heart."

We arrived in a limo, dressed from head to toe like princesses. Ate amazing food, drank  rich red wine, and sat in orchestra row seats. Laughed at the fun songs, cried a little at the beautiful and sad ones. Then, backstage for a tour from start to finish. What a magical night! XOXOXO

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Evolution of an Athlete

If you had ever told me that I would feel like an athlete, I would have snorted my white chocolate mocha out of my nose and choked on my chocolate dipped biscotti. I hated running as a kid, actually tripped myself in a middle school track meet and broke my arm, which cemented the idea of exercise being awful.
Married life held no time for exercise, other than the occasional New Year's burst of effort or the endless triceps dips with Lisa at the Y so that we could talk and have two hours of freedom from the monkeys. We never used anything other than seven or eight pound weights, so I don't think this counts as a workout. The rest of my married life was too busy taking care of everyone else and making casseroles to ever think about exercise as something more than a guilt-inducing undone task.
Divorce-I lost twenty pounds without trying, which I think was more twenty pounds of misery falling away than anything else. That and not eating all those damn casseroles.
Dating-aaaaah, dating. Dating C for such a long time, you'd think I would have gotten in touch with my inner athlete. C was such an accomplished athlete, the kind of guy that could drink a case of beer one night and ride a century ride the next day without much thought. He had ridden all over the world, skied different continents and was completely intimidating. You'd think this would have propelled me to be more athletic but it was actually so intimidating that I was scared to try anything in front of him, knowing I would never come close. Breakup- I spent a couple of days smoking cigarettes. Bad. Bad. Bad. That helped a little but was ├╝ber-disgusting so not a long term option. Then I looked at the trail by my front door and just went for it. Slowly. Went. For. It. One plodding foot at a time.
And I have gone on to discover something. I am an athlete. I love running. I look forward to it. I only feel right when I wake up to a little soreness, whether it's my shins or my calves or my ass, soreness makes me feel alive. I get more excited about buying compression shorts than I do about buying summer sandals. I run to entire playlists now, instead of just trying to make it through half of a song. I no longer get grossed out by the dirtiness of running. Spit, gnats in my mouth, pools of sweat-they are all just part of it. I compete with myself, seeing how many miles I can log in a week. I admire my shoes, not because they are pretty and new, but because they are caked in a red clay film from the trail and about to be replaced after only two months.
I love the way that running hurts. I was trying to explain it to a friend the other day, and probably came off as a wee bit masochistic. I was telling him how bike riding is like being a kid again, freedom of the wind at your back and flying by with a smile on your face. Running is different. Every step with running requires intent and effort, and you reach a point where each step hurts. Whether your arch hurts, your shins ache, or your lungs hurt, you go far enough and something is going to hurt. It's in those moments that I love running. All of the bullshit and drama fall away and everything ceases to matter except my foot hitting the ground. It's pure peace, just crystal clear presence in the moment as I make it through the hurt to the next step.
And this, buttercups, is the making of an athlete. One step at a time.