A Near Cat-tastrophe

        Sorry for the absence of posts, people, I have been down and out with the cold of the century. Stupid. Also, the Pack lost last week. Double stupid.

        All of us kids are at Mom and Dad's new house in Eastern Washington, and It doesn't quite feel like Christmas, since I didn't have to hop a plane to the frozen tundra of Green Bay.   It's cold here, but there's no snow.   It may be my first brown Christmas because even the times I have stayed in Washington there have been freak Christmas snow storms.   Ah well, much easier to drive with out snow mucking up the works.

        My parents' house is brand new, and really beautiful.   There are all hardwood floors, granite counters, and a kick ass giant pool.   Problem is, the giant pool is closed for the winter-obvi- and the hardwood floors have been pledged to a terrifying sheen.   My dad stays up late at night and puts Pledge on the floors until they gleam.   We're talking every night, here, folks.   Needless to say, since our arrival, Ben, Stephanie, Eric, and I have nearly broken our necks via floor accident about twenty times a piece.

Danger lurks below

        Poor Kittles can hardly walk on the floor. Her furry little paws slip-slide out from under her. The first time she hopped off the couch onto the floor, it was like Bambi on ice. She ended up spinning out with all four legs in opposite directions, bless her heart.

imagine a persian cat doing this

        Speaking of Kittles, she disappeared for a minute this morning, and as you might imagine, I lost my shit.   I woke up, and skated out to the living room, no Lola.   I thought it a bit strange that she didn't come out from hiding because she is usually very excited to play when a human wakes up, and wants attention.  But I figured she was hiding somewhere, pissed that she had left her miniature kitty ice skates at home, thus rendering them useless to help her navigate the slick floors.

       I looked under every bed, in the closets, in the bathtub- still no Lola.   I started to get a bad feeling in my stomach.   My mom and brother and sister had gone to the gym, and what if she snuck out while one of those fools left the door open?!  All I could picture was a frozen, squashed, lifeless Kittles, and panic mode set in.  I hate to admit it, but I started crying.   "She's not here!"   "It's okay," Eric said, "We'll find her," but I could see he was worried too.   "She's already DEAD," I shouted hysterically.   I flew into my parent's room where my dad was trying to sleep, and screeched, "What's the number to Mom's gym?!!! Kittles is gone!"   I raced out of the room to get my coat, and narrowly avoided a spinal cord injury as I slid across the killer floor.

        My dad stumbled into the living room, dazed having been scared awake by a mad woman.   "I am going to kill the person who let her out!" I raged.   My dad defended himself, "I didn't let her out!"   "It's not about you dad! I don't care who did it, they are DEAD!"  I ranted on.   I threw on my coat and was about to get in the car to begin the search, when I decided to look in one last spot...

        That little jack wagon was under the couch.

Good thing I didn't alert the authorities

        Happy Holidays. Hold your loved ones-furry and otherwise- close this season, and try not to spaz out too much.

Oh Heyyyyyyyy

        Do you ever think to yourself,  "It's difficult being so fabulous?"  It crosses my mind about 8 times per day.  I bet Aaron Rodgers is too good of a person to think that.  However, if anyone was to have a self commentary on one's own fabulousness, I feel he could justify it because he's freaking rad.  13-0 baby!  P.S. Can we stop talking about who the bigger story is on ESPN?  Tim Tebow could not generate enough stock sales to pay for an addition to Mile High.  Just sayin'.

Oh heyyyyyyy

        I would like to think I am smooth enough to have the wherewithal to say, "Oh heyyyyyy" should I ever run in to Aaron Rodgers.  Unfortunately, any minimal brush with a B-list celebrity, and I am even more of a freak show than usual.

        For instance, one time Eric and I saw Casey Kotchman (I'll get to who that is in a minute, but as most Mariners' acquisitions go he was an unmemorable part of a losing season) at the Tap House down town.  At the time, he had just signed with the Mariners to play first base, and we had recently seen him at Fan Fest.  I spotted him before Eric did, and I (big surprise) couldn't get my words out.  I started pointing and sputtering as he walked past, and both he and Eric thought I was having a seizure.  Finally, he was halfway up the stairs when I blurted out, "That's the dude!"  Serious?   At the very least it was a mini fail - so uncool, and he's not even a big deal!  (No offense, Casey, if you are reading this, but you're no Albert Pujols.)  I am not putting in a link for you to find out who Albert Pujols is.  If you don't know, we're fighting.

       No, I don't know what I would do if I ever saw Aaron Rodgers in real life, but I can tell you what my brother did...BOOM.  It's true.

        So the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, he walks through the ol' Austin Straubel International (Green Bay airport) sliding glass doors, and a crowd starts clapping.   This is the best part of the story to me:  he thinks to himself, "Weird, but I'll go with it." Awesome.  Oddly, enough, the round of applause wasn't for him; he turned around, and there was A-Rodge.  I like to picture the scene with a white light appearing from a magical cloud from above, doves flying, and a choir of angels singing a single perfect, "Aaaaaaah!"

        One thing I can assure you of, is that Ben played it cool.  Let's be honest, I would have wound up tazed and served with an official document stating I am not allowed with in 500 yards of Lambeau Field for  an infinity.  Strong work on staying taze free, bro.  I will let that be a lesson to me.

Miller Lite in front of Miller Park- nailed it.

   

     

        

Epic Fail

        I have a confession: I am the fat kid in my ballet class.  Get all your jokes out now.  No, I don't have a tutu, but that is a hilariously sarcastic question.  I know it's super 5th grade that I'm in ballet, but it's a good work out, and apparently, I need it.  I consider myself an average size person.  I don't need a bunch of 22 year old college kids pirouetting circles around me (literally) in size XS leotards.  It makes me feel like I have some kind of excess growth hormone disorder.  Geesh.

"It's so hard finding a small enough leotard"- I know right?

        This all brings me to my next point.  What does the average fool do when faced with a certain to significant amount of failure?  This doesn't really happen to me very often-obvi.  So seriously, people, what to do?

Mini Fail

        I know what you're thinking, and you're [sort of] right.  This hat seems like a bit more than a simple 'mini fail.'  While it is an epic fail as far as hats go, it is only a mini fail in the grand scheme of things.  The good news is, it's an easy fix.  Burn the hat, burn the picture, and as long as that image isn't burned into any one's mind, we're all good.

        How about a medium fail?  Anyone ever have one of those?  I had a medium fail last Tuesday when I came home from work and found Eric's keys on the "wrong" key hook.  To his credit, I don't think he was aware that there was (and is) a right or wrong place to hang his keys.  Sooooo, let's just say he was a little surprised when I sighed, "Ugh. You're always taking my key hook!"  I can neither confirm nor deny any use of profanity associated with this event.  I can verify, however, that I needed a Mulligan, and promptly took one after that entrance.  

Don't take my key hook- RUDE

        Burn a hat here, take a Mulligan there- these mini to medium style failures are fixable.  Okay, fine, but what about things you can't fix overnight, or even... ever?  What if you're the fat kid in ballet class?  I could lose a limb and still outweigh all those chicks by about twenty bills.  Plus, I'd like to keep all my limbs, as losing one would make ballet class exponentially harder to be awesome in.  Even if I know it's actually a good thing to be the fat kid amongst a bunch of 90 pound bony freaks, sometimes it feels like an epic fail.  

        There are obviously much more serious epic fails on the spectrum, but I don't want to sit here, get hippie dippy, and talk about feelings.  Whether its an epic fail of the day, the week, the month, or even the year, you probably can't make it go away with a magic wand.  I do have a recipe to help with my own personal epic failures, though.  You can borrow it if you want, but there is a patent pending, so don't even try to sell this on the black market.

         First, I am nice to myself.  (Disgustingly close to hippie dippy, I know.)  I tell myself, "You're the prom queen."  Next I get my nails done and eat a cupcake.  Aaaaaaand then I get over myself.  

If that's not awesome, I don't know what is

           We all have moments when we wish we had done something differently, said something better, or skipped dessert.  It's so common that it makes me wonder if maybe none of it is any kind of a failure.  It's probably just life.

        Be nice to yourself... and then get over yourself.  Trust me, it is smarter not harder.

        

     

My own brand of crazy

        Have you ever left the house and thought, "Nooooooot my best outfit."?  That happened to me today.  I knew it wasn't great, but couldn't be bothered to change.  

At least I didn't wear this to work today

        Let's talk about family.  I spent time with my in-laws as well as my immediate family over Thanksgiving.  One thing I notice when hanging out with different family units is that each one has their own particular brand of crazy.  Some people are good at hiding it.  My family- clearly- is not.  (See above picture.)  

        You know what I mean, though, right?  Some families think fart jokes are funny, and some would never dream of laughing at such a thing.  Some families yell when they fight, and some smile bigger the more pissed off they get.  Some families watch football on Thanksgiving (GO PACK GO) and some don't even know which teams were playing.  I hate to say it, but [in order to appear slightly PC] none of these differences are right or wrong.   If you believe that skip the following sentence in parenthesis and continue on to the next paragraph.  (This is obviously total bullshit.  If you didn't know the Packers beat the Lions on Thursday, you're dead to me.)

I always make total sense

        Some families are more functional than others, but let's just be honest, we're all at least a little dysfunctional.  I like to say my family puts the "fun" in dysfunctional because, well, we do.  

Don't let the smiles and waves fool you

        My parents drove with my brother over the pass to have second Thanksgiving with Eric and me.  The minute they walked in to our apartment, I started busting my nugget.  I hadn't finished cleaning the shower.  My dad needed to use the [one] bathroom in our apartment.  "You're just going to have to hold it!" I hollered, scrubbing like a would be escapee from an insane asylum attempting to scrape a hole out of the bottom of the bathtub.  My dad just stood there and blinked.  Let me give you a tip: do not tell a person with Chron's Disease (or Ulcerative Colitis for that matter) to "hold it."  It is rude, and unrealistic.  Get your ass out of the bathroom ASAP should you ever find yourself in a similar situation.  Don't worry, even though I was acting tough, I followed my own advice and got my ass out of there.

        Keep in mind, my family was here for less than 24 hours. I don't think a single one of them used the shower.   It obviously didn't do any harm to wait and clean the shower in segments.  I just had to spaz out.  That's what we do in my family; we spaz out.  The good news is, once you have a serious spaz, you're set.  This works for me.  If you don't come from spazzy stock, though, you might have been taken aback had I shouted in your face in response to a relatively reasonable bathroom request.  I guarantee you that my dad didn't think twice, except perhaps a fleeting, "That's just Nikki being Nikki,"  

Not to be confused with Manny being Manny

        The point of this story is that I am a freak.  I come from a family full of freaks.  We like to fly our freak flags at every family gathering.  Yes, they are weird spazzy freaks, but they are mine, and I love them.  Enjoy your family, immediate or otherwise, and fly those freak flags high this holiday season.

Normal, right? You have no idea how many takes this took.

        

        *FYI people:  I got stuck in the elevator with the killer the other day.  He didn't recognize me because I had no make up on.  Unfortunately, my cover was blown when he saw me going into my apartment, and he called creepily down the hall, "Oh, I know who you are."  Holy crap!  I nervously laughed before he could try to poison dart me in the neck, and barely made it in alive.

Prime Suspect

        What I am obsessed with now...

Garmin Forerunner 610

        It tells you how fast you are running, how far you have run, and it has a virtual racer that you can, you know, race against.  Do I hate myself a little bit for wanting such a geeky training accessory?  Yes.  It's just that I need it to stop being slow.  Oh, also!  Let me just quote you something from the advertisement for this little gem of a watch, "It's time for a sport watch that can help you train smarter, not harder, and the 610 can do just that."  How am I just finding out about this now?!  So obvi the watch for me.

        Okay, now that's out of the way,  I have to tell you guys something.  I think there is a killer living three doors down from me.  Granted, he doesn't exactly look like a killer, but that's precisely what my neighbors will say once the news crew shows up to film the chalk outline of a dead body on our hallway floor.

Killer?! But he was such a nice guy....

         How do I know he's a killer if he doesn't look like a killer, you ask?  Duh.   Well first of all, he started talking to me in front of the elevator.   I know, right?  What. a. pyscho.  Second of all, I was carrying Kittles in her little cat carrier to the groomer, and he asked me her name.  Cree-py.  Am I the only one who saw Dexter: Season 4?  This is almost exactly how the Trinity Killer interacts with a suburban house wife right before he forces her to jump out the upper deck of an abandoned warehouse so it looks like a suicide!  He was just trying to make friendly small talk so I wouldn't see the murder coming. Well, I see the murder coming all right.  

Granted, he kind of looks like a killer

        Also, he lives in a studio apartment, alone.  (Reference any Dexter episode to know that a middle aged man living alone is a sure fire way to spot a killer.)  Fine, maybe my neighbor looks more like a 23 year old college kid studying engineering, than a forty seven year old living in a plastic lined apartment to keep blood from seeping into the hallway. However, that doesn't necessarily prove anything, except that this fool has an excellent disguise.

        Finally, a few days after our initial meeting at the elevator, I was unlocking my apartment door, when out of nowhere, I heard, "How's Lola?" It was the scary killer who appeared down the hall (feigning a simple entrance into his own studio of terror, no doubt.)  "Hehehe" I nervously laughed, "she's good... welp,  see ya!" SLAM. LOCK. Phew, I barely made it into my apartment before I was sleeping with the fishes.  Forget a Persian cat, I need some kind of an attack dog.

No one would mess with this  guy

I am so dead

        There is only one clue that suggests he is simply, in fact, a friendly person rather than a psychopath.

This is his door mat

        I'm still sleeping with one eye open, just in case.

       

     

The Holiday Edition

        Have you ever bought a German electronica dance CD on iTunes, and then instantly regretted it to the point where you wanted to stab yourself in the ear with a letter opener?  Yeah, me neither.  That would be so 1999- not to mention an embarrassing waste of money.

Does this look like an embarrassing waste of money to you?

        What I did do recently was go to Trader Joe's in an attempt to beat the Thanksgiving rush.  Being the middle of the day, and the middle of the week I thought I was golden.  Clearly, I thought wrong.  Trader Joe's is always a disaster, but yesterday it was a special brand of annoying.  People were carting me in the arm, stopping in the middle of the aisle to stare at cranberries, and asking dumb questions to the poor TJ team members in their Hawaiian print shirts (bless their hearts.)  Be warned people: the grocery store is a dangerous place.  Shop if you dare.

        I feel now is the appropriate time to share one of my major life goals that happens to come in quite handy this time of year.  This life goal is as follows: never cook a turkey. There are a couple of reasons why I continue to achieve this lofty goal.   The obvious reason being that turkey is super gross and full of disgusting salmonella just waiting to explode all over my kitchen and give me diseases.

And it will sneak up on you, too

        Do you see that sick, raw turkey in the picture?  Don't let the cute cartoon salmonella dupe you, this is no joke.  If you are going to act a fool and cook a turkey on Thanksgiving, you should absolutely visit www.foodsafety.gov and read the plethora of information on safe turkey prep and cooking tips.  

        The next reason why I will never cook a turkey is much less dangerous, but equally as important.  Cooking a turkey is not working smarter.  I keep hearing, "It's so easy!" People have tried to bait me with this lie, but I am not biting- at least not until after it's cooked to a safe internal temperature (165 °F.)  You have to thaw the darn thing, brine, stuff, baste, bake, BLECH!  Who has the wherewithal to plan that far ahead?  Forget it! It was all I could do to make it through Trader Joe's with hummus and rice crackers in my cart, let alone an 8-12 pound naked monster bird.

Too disgusting for words

        The smart way to have Thanksgiving dinner is certainly not to cook poor old Tom Turkey yourself.  I recommend bringing an appetizer and a lovely Malbec to throw potential poultry pushers off your scent.  Or, if you are having Thanksgiving at your house this year, trick your husband or significant other into cooking the beast, and follow him or her around with a Clorox wipe after that thing is safe in the oven.  Better yet, become a "vegetarian," and tell all your friends and family you are serving Tofurkey for dinner.  Not only will someone else end up cooking the turkey for you, but it is likely the event will not have to be held at your abode, thereby saving you many hours of cleaning and slaving away in the kitchen.

Do you see what I mean?  This will make horrible left-overs

        And my final piece of advice on working smarter not harder for the holidays:  if there is a task that you have been working on avoiding for quite some time, there is one sure fire way for continued- nay, life long- avoidance of said task.  Do not learn this skill.  If you don't know how to do something, you have the perfect excuse not do do it.  "Gee, mom, I would love to host Thanksgiving dinner, and make a giant turkey, but I just don't know how."  Problem solved.

9-0 + TB Free since '93

        I kicked off Monday night football at Lambeau with a Sofia mini and chinese food.  Boom. There's not a whole lot to say about the Vikings, except maybe- suck it, nerds!  Just like I told everyone who tried to wish us good luck for this game, "Thanks, but we won't need it."  We have A-Rodge.

I love you. *

*For those of you who might worry that Eric will take offense to this- don't.  I used to have a picture of Brett Favre taped above my bunk bed when we first met (yes, I had a bunk bed...at the age of 24) and he still married me.  I think he secretly loves Aaron Rodgers too.  As a matter of fact, who doesn't?  Maybe cry baby Cutler, and every other quarter back in the NFC hate him a little, but you get the idea.  Don't judge me.

        The good news is, I don't have Tuberculosis.  Random, you say?  Oh, yeah, I thought so too, when I got news of a positive TB test in an email.  I told the poor occupational health nurse, "It seems like it's something you don't want to tell people via email."  He concurred.   It turned into a whole ordeal, which included a minor freak out, screening questions to determine exposure, two TB skin tests (first one placed incorrectly), and a shuttle ride to a separate building to make sure I was not infected, blah blah blah.  Ridiculous.  I mean, a male nurse? Serious?  

       Of note, I have been TB free since '93, but also before '93.  It's just that "TB free since forever" didn't really have the ring I was looking for.  All of you "How I met Your Mother" fans know what I mean here.

   Okay you guys, the Packers are freaking awesome, and I don't have to stop drinking for a year while I take isoniazid (google it.)  Win win.

Open Mouth; Insert Entire Leg

        Eleven years ago I went to Bible College (or Bible Camp, as I liked to call it) in Carnforth, England. I happened to be there during the dreaded Foot and Mouth Disease outbreak. The bad news- aside from the fact that I was, indeed, at Bible Camp- was that we lived in a castle on a sheep farm.

This is the only digital picture I could find 

         I firmly believe it was from that very sheep farm/ Bible camp, that I had the severe misfortune to contract Foot in Mouth Disease. I pretty much always, albeit accidentally, say the exact wrong thing.

        It has crossed my mind that it also could be genetic. My Grandma Natalie had a similar habit of saying the exact wrong thing in many circumstances. For example, once, while getting a hair cut, her Native American stylist asked her how she wanted it to look, to which my grandmother replied, "Oh I don't care, as long as I don't end up looking like a wild Indian."

        I pulled a real Natalie at work today. One of the residents came up to me and asked, "Hey Nicole, do you know of any place around here where you can get eyeliner tattooed on?" I retorted, "What am I ninety? Who would ever get eyeliner tattooed on the face!?" Let's pause for a moment and realize that a normal human would think to herself, "Why is this fool asking me this? Maybe he wants eyeliner tattooed on his face. If that is the case, perhaps I should avoid saying anything potentially insulting."  Too bad I have no idea how to act like a normal human.  

Um.  Yeah.

        No, a normal human would have thought- at least a little bit- before speaking.  The resident then went on to say, "Oh, well, my fiance was thinking of getting it done-"  "Right!" I backpedaled (too late) "I'm not judging, it's just that I don't... even wear eyeliner! Right? So I wouldn't tattoo it on- It doesn't mean it's not... cool.  I don't judge!"  As if that wasn't bad enough, he went on to say, "Yeah, my mom and my sister get it done all the time."  Kill me.  Are you serious right now?

O'Doyle, I've got a feeling your whole family's going down

        I insulted this man's mom, sister, and fiance in a single sentence.  I tried to lament to one of my co-workers, and explained my faux pas.  The answer I got was not necessarily sympathetic, "Yep, sounds about right."  I tried another friend in the office, hoping for a little more compassion.  "I was doing so well [not insulting people] today," I whined.  "Yeah, and then you started talking," he said.  Rude.

        Forget Foot in Mouth Disease. I just put my whole leg in my mouth. Ratsicles.

Perrier and Ratsicles

        Not that it really matters, but I made an addendum to my previous blog entry, "Baller" yesterday.  It might not even be worth going back to peruse, but you might wonder about it if you don't.

        If you like to work smarter not harder, you should be well acquainted with how to be fancy.  Fancy people work minimally, if at all.  Nothing screams "I am fancy" like a nice bottle of Perrier.  Also, it is French, which automatically makes it a pretentious - I - only- work- here- to- get- out- of- the- house- sort of beverage.  You are practically required to extend a pinky while drinking this mineral water.  I just ordered three cases from Amazon, so yeah...I'm kind of a big deal.

Le fanciest

        With the help of Pink Grapefruit Perrier, I worked smart again today.  True, I did wake up at 0730 to go to Pilates, but then I went to Starbucks for an Americano and a mini doughnut-obvi.  Next, of course, my driver- I mean Eric- dropped me off downtown at my hair appointment.   The rest of the day has consisted of eating Thai food and booking international travel in my pajamas.  Perrier bottles consumed: 2.

        Now, the term "ratsicles" (like a popsicle with plague inciting capabilities) is one I have invented to try and reduce cursing in public.   It is along the lines of saying "Justin Bieber!" instead of taking the Lord's name in vain.  For instance, if you stub your toe, you can just shout out "Justin Bieber!"  I think it's less offensive to shout the name of a teeny bopper pop icon than Deity, but I can't be sure since people look at me with disgust either way.  

        If something goes quite wrong, and uttering "rats!" will simply just not do, adding "sicles" as a suffix will give it a bit more oomph.  Does anyone love rats?  Okay, not lab rats or pet rats, but sewer type rats that swim up toilets on Queen Anne.  Disgusting, right?  Horrible, right?  

ewwww

        What could be worse than a rat?  A frozen rat on a stick.  Hence, ratsicle- double ewwww.  Feel free to use the term whenever there is something that is not awful enough to require true profanity, but it is a gross enough misdemeanor as to require more than the Mickey Mouse Club response of, "Rats!"  Please see examples below.

Situation                                                                                         Appropriate Response

Out of Pink Grapefruit Perrier                                                         Rats!

 Rat infestation in Perrier supply                                                      Ratsicles!

                                                   

        This has been your lesson in decorum and fanciness.  You're welcome.

Baller

        Today I flew to work.  That's right- I flew...in a plane.  It would have been a lot cooler if I hadn't flown to Pasco, WA.  Not that I don't love Pasco, but it would have been a lot more baller if our hospital had an outreach clinic in, say, Vegas.  Oh well.  I still felt PRE-tty important.  How did your day go, Nicole?  Oh it went awesome, thank you.  I flew to the Tri-Cities and back, and we had Pizza Hut for lunch.  Disgusting, you say?  Don't hate me cause you ain't me.

This isn't from today, but it's a cool airplane picture

        What we need to talk about is the free booze they pass out on Horizon flights.  I got carded by the flight attendant, which would have been flattering if it was a longer flight.  In this case, however, it was just annoying because it is only a 45 minute flight. What I needed was to get drinking, not waste time digging around my purse for my driver's license.  Also, I am not that old. Annoying.  Irritating as it was, I didn't want the secret federal air marshal on the plane to taze my ass, so I didn't get crazy.  What I really hated was the part when the flight attendant took my wine before I was finished because the plane was landing.  (P.S.- not a good enough reason- you never take a drink out of a lady's hand. Right, Sarah Phillips?)

Do not disturb

Once again, not wanting to get tazed, I begrudgingly handed my plastic cup- still 1/4 full with a decent Merlot, might I add- back to that fool.  There probably wasn't even a secret air marshal on that flight.   Please tell me wasted wine doesn't let the terrorists win.

         As I was skimming through some of my previous blog entries the other night, I noticed I talk fair amount about getting old, drinking, and the possibility of getting tazed.  Maybe this blog should be called blazed not tazed?  Perhaps when I grow up, I will revise my subject matter.  Probably not, though.  I mean, if I was going to grow up, wouldn't I have done it by now?

        I have to tell you this, people.  Today was smarter not harder.  Flew to work.  Pizza party lunch.  Sky high wine bar.  Oh, and the best part- the two best parts, really- I did not work out today, and we had Chinese food delivered for dinner.  Love this day.

*Addendum* It was brought to my attention by a concerned friend, that I should have mentioned the Chinese food was ordered on my iPad at the Pasco airport.  It was delivered mere minutes after the town car dropped me off at home.  How smart is that?!
     

Old as the Hills

        First off, I am drinking sparkling wine out of a miniature pink can with a tiny pink straw included in the package.

      Don't judge me- the staff picked it

        I felt super bad ass today because I went running down by the water front even though the weather was shit.  I ran 5 miles at an average 8 minutes 45 seconds pace- this is fast for me.  I then went to yoga.  It was a freaking glorious morning.  I would be in amazing shape if I never had to go to a job, and all I did was work out.  Also, it would help if I didn't drink sparkling wine out of cans.  It does have a bendy straw, though- how could I pass this up?!  Does this make me old?

        This weekend I was further reminded that I am slowly growing old and senile.  At approximately 10 pm every night, I became incredibly tired, and simply had to go to bed.  I mean, it was as though it were 4 am, I was so tired all of the sudden.   I got really fussy, you guys.  And then, Saturday morning I woke up at 7am and could not get back to sleep for the life of me.  Question: am I thirty or seventy four? 

        There are other serious signs of aging that I have noticed.  The main one being my lack of ability to work technology.  I should have seen this one coming because I historically have no patience for people I deem old who can't work a computer, camera, microwave, DVD player, etc.  Karma's a bitch, as they say.  

       
         I was volunteering at a children's Halloween event last weekend; there were a bunch of UW college kids who were helping out as well.  (Yes, I know, the fact that I think of them as "kids" makes me old in and of itself.)  This group wanted their picture taken, and I couldn't figure out how to work the camera.  "Fuck," I thought to myself, "I am so not going to be that old lady who can't work a Nikon Coolpix.  Ashton Kutcher and I are the same age, damn it!"  I futzed around with it, and yelled at the Huskies (University of Washington Mascot- nothing to do with the size of individual volunteers) to move in because they couldn't all fit in the picture.  Finally, the owner of the camera came over, and pressed a few buttons.  "You had it zoomed in.  I just fixed it for you."  Then she bounced over to her friends, rolling her eyes.  F my life.  I just became everything I said I never would.  Old.

        The good news is, once you are old, you can fart whenever and wherever you want, and you don't have to feel sorry about it.  Also, you can wear bright colors that don't match and say things like, "My stars!" and "Oh, for the love of Pete!"  Or if you wanted to be like my Grandma Donna, just shout, "Goddamnit you kids stop fighting- you're going to make me get in a wreck!" and "I can't believe they made me pay 25 cents for a goddamn thing of sour cream."  (That last quote was in reference to a tablespoon of sour cream she ordered extra at Taco Bell right after my brother and sister and I almost killed us all by fighting in the back seat of her 1986 white Toyota Corolla.)  

       

I have a head start on dressing old- obvi

        I guess all I can do is enjoy life, and respect my elders.  Pretty soon I will be one of them, and I don't want those damn kids rolling their eyes at me behind my back when I am.

The Ugly Dorkling all grown up

       It turns out, I just recently got friends.  And by recently,  I mean within the last five years.  Growing up, my parents were incredibly strict- to put it mildly.  (My dad once paid me $100 not to go to the high school homecoming dance.  My curfew was 10pm on the weekends when I was 18 years old.  I was only allowed to listen to contemporary Christian music.  I hid Harry Potter books under my bed when I was in college so I wouldn't get in trouble for reading about magic- you get the idea.)

        FYI- this is not a boo hoo kind of a blog post. I find my unorthodox way of growing up akin to Ron Washington's vernacular.

"That's the way baseball go." 

        That's just how my life go. Those of you who know me, know that I am... a weirdo.   I have a melt down if I think I might get hungry in the near future.  I seriously lose my shit if -god forbid- I actually become hungry.  Also, I order people around like I was either royalty or a Persian cat in a past life.

Diet Coke!

         Let's just be honest, I am a freak show. Thus, in addition to stringent parents and lots of rules,  my history of friendlessness should surprise none of us.  I don't feel sorry about it, and neither should you.  It's just the fact of the matter.

        Now, we all need friends.  The obvious reason to have a friend or two is so you don't have to do crap by yourself all the time.  The main reason I am glad to have friends is so I don't end up like this...

        I also personally need friends who can tell me, "Stop making that face" or "Don't get that lesbian hair cut*" and the ever popular, "No you cannot say that out loud."

*You really screwed the pooch letting me get that haircut, Car

        But here I am in Seattle with great friends who have seen me through all sorts of life events- good and bad.  I guess what I am trying to say is, I haven't always had...peeps.  It feels good.  Thanks peeps.  

       

The unsung Trophy Wife

        First of all, the Green Bay Packers are 7-0 this season.  Obvi.  Now that I have that great news off my bust, we can move on.

        Tonight Eric convinced me to go out to dinner. I have to say, I really didn't want to go.  I ate like shit last week.  I was determined to make a nice, healthy soup for dinner after my four mile speed work run this evening.  I guess I wasn't determined enough because I ended up beers deep at the Tap House downtown.  I'm not complaining.  How can you complain when your significant other pays for dinner and beer, and all you have to do is watch the world series and Monday night football at the same time?  Nailed it!

        While I had really wanted to eat healthy for the remainder of this week, I ended up two Ichibans, sushi, popcorn shrimp, and a steak salad later, and thought, "Epic Fail, Warwick."  (I know I am an Engel now, but I still think of myself with my maiden name when spouting reverse pep-talks about over-consumption of fried food and hops.)  Operation "Sextastic" out the window...

we're fighting

        Okay, so do I want to look like that?  Duh.  Who wouldn't? Do I want to eat (or not eat) like she does in order to look that way? Shit no.  Lesson of the day:  Skinny people aren't just naturally skinny.  Those little bastards like to pretend they eat cheeseburgers and drink beer all the time, but I guarantee you that for every cheeseburger they eat, there are ten 3 ounce boneless skinless chicken breasts that last those assholes for the remainder of the year.  So don't feel bad, normal people, when some skinny fool tries to make you think it's easy to be skinny.  It's not!  If you want to look like a movie star, you either have to work out and/or diet in excess (according to the 'smarter not harder' philosophy, anyway.) 

        This puts those of us who like to work smart at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to looking hot.  What's an average gal to do?

First of all, take off those sunglasses

"When in doubt, pinky out" -Sponge Bob Square Pants

        I still wish I could effortlessly turn into a size 2, but to be honest, I would rather have a beer or a cupcake.  Screw it, I would rather have a beer and a cupcake.  Not to say that maybe there are people out there who would rather be skinny than, say, enjoy life- I mean eat carbs- I mean... But [to a point] that's okay too.  Find what makes you happy and do it!  I am personally much happier on a full stomach.  Whatever you do, try to work smarter not harder- just love what you've got and work it instead of wasting time hating Cameron Diaz.  (I have done enough of that to cover all of us.)  Life's too short to pass up a cupcake when you want one.

Leavenworth Oktoberfest

       As some of you know, this was the weekend of the Leavenworth half marathon.  I decided this should be my first big race because when running that far, beer, brats and lederhosen should be in close proximity.  It was a good decision; right off the bat I was a winner!  I finished in an okay sort of time, but i really had wanted to run about a 9 minute pace, and ended up doing a 10 minute pace.  I can't say I'm surprised, since that is about the pace I ran for my long runs during training.  The good news is, it's my PR since it is my only half marathon thus far.

it was a beautiful day!

        Don't worry.  The medal has a built in bottle opener.

        I am sure no one will be surprised to hear that it didn't take long to find my way to the beer garden after finishing.  Many beers, pretzels with cheese cups, and tubed meat items were had by all.  And thanks, Beerfest, for this photo opportunity:

 I'm the kid scratching my knee

        I wish the picture accurately portrayed how awesome this was.  You at least get the idea.  As the afternoon turned into evening, and everyone's judgement turned into slightly drunken tom-foolery, individuals would leave the table for one reason or another and return with random items purchased at the festival booths.  Our friend Mike was gone for about 45 minutes and returned with a miniature drinking boot.

So cute! You little beer baby!

        Eric left for a while and came back with my new favorite hat.

That's right, jagweeds! I'm turning you to stone.

        Aaaaand since I am now thirty, the night ended with us walking home on a dark highway at approximately 10pm.  I guess the highway part has nothing to do with my being thirty, but the evening ending at 10pm most certainly does.  Luckily, I chugged a Gatorade before and after all of the German beer, so I felt fantastic this morning when I woke up at our B&B, The Ponderosa Country Inn.  I pretended I was staying at Schrute Farms since we actually stayed in a barn.  The only thing missing was beets... and Dwight K. Schrute, obvi. 

        All right folks, my first half is out of the way.  Next stop: Edinburgh rock n roll half marathon!  And don't get any funny ideas, 13.1 miles at one go is my max.

 

 

SaCURRity!

        Well, since I am thirty today, I thought I should live it up.  I promptly woke up and got my teeth cleaned by the lovely Pat at Roosevelt Dental- obvi.  Pat is the only person I will let near my grill.  She is the sweet lady to the left of orange turtleneck.

Good Morning! 

        Next stop: Starbucks.  My coffee maker broke yesterday.  (Emergency! I know, right?)  I gave some kid sitting outside SBUX 80 cents because apparently, I look like [and am] a sucker.  I felt bad lying about not having change, and I figured he probably wouldn't be able to by crack for so little money.  At least not much crack anyway...

        The next place on my list was the office of Social Security Administration in the International District- or as I like to call it, the I.D.  As is nearly always the case with government offices, there was a choice selection of humanity on display for people watching.  This included, but was certainly not limited to the hard ass security guard (complete with flat top hair cut- duh.) I would have loved to snap a picture of this freak, but I was afraid of getting tazed and having my phone confiscated.   He did bear a striking resemblance to Kevin James...

        I like to say "SaCURRity" like Anjelah Johnson  does in the MAD TV Bon Qui Qui skit.  I didn't want to try it out on the SaCURRity guard in the office, though.  Again, afraid of getting tazed, and also,  he kept regaling us with tales of putting his knee in people's heads if they looked at him "crazy."  I always look a little crazy, so I just kept my eyes down and my comments to myself.

How not to look if you want to remain un-tazed

        Turns out, changing your name on all your cards and identifying documents is kind of a big deal, as well as a serious pain in the ass.    That's what I get for gettin' hitched.

Good thing he's cute

        Now I am just stone cold kickin' it here with Kittles.  I have a short run to get in some time before E gets home.  Last run before the 1/2 this weekend in Leavenworth- eeks!  We are going to one of my favorite restaurants for dinner tonight, Buenos Aires.  The steak is to die, the staff is fabulous, and they have a killer wine list.  I like going on the weekends because they also have live tango dancing.  And why wouldn't they? It's awesome.  Anyhoo, no tango dancing tonight- just steak and wine.  Nailed it!