Monster Bash- in More Ways Than One

        I was getting ready to volunteer at a local kids Halloween festival called Monster Bash when it happened.  I guess I shouldn't have been surprised; I brought the pain on myself, but I have to say, I didn't see it coming.  I definitely punched myself in the face.  Hard.  More specifically, I punched myself in the mouth, and it really hurt.  I mean, I cut my lip, you guys.  My first thought was, "Man, it must have really hurt when Brad Pitt punched Edward Norton in 'Fight Club.'"  Why would anyone ever want to start a fight club?  Just because you have a Fight Club with yourself, doesn't make it any less painful... on so many levels.

The first rule about Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club.

        Yeah yeah, we know.  The second rule about Fight Club is: you DO NOT talk about Fight club.  *Spoiler Alert* I just realized how perfect it is that my first thought after punching myself in the face pertained to a movie about two guys who were actually the same dude that created Fight Club...and soap.  I guess the soap part doesn't really apply in my personal situation.

       I had just finished a harrowing 8 mile run in the rain.  I may have just as well taken a dip in the Sound, I was so soaked afterward.  

Dumb.

        Anyway, I was getting dressed to go to Monster Bash when I realized that I own a pair of Jack Skellington leg warmers.  Because why wouldn't a self-respecting 31 year old woman own leg warmers featuring an animated Disney skeleton?  Exactly.  Plus, remember how I like Jack Skellington?

Totally grown up

        See, I was trying to incorporate the leg warmers into my outfit.  The only problem- well maybe not the only problem depending on who you ask- was that I wore jeans, so the leg warmers didn't work for their intended use.  The next obvious step was to pull them over my arms- duh.  I thought I could make them look like long sleeves under my t-shirt.  As I was pulling a warmer over my right arm, I slipped and gave myself a wicked left upper cut.  (Do you see the irony? I bashed myself in the face while getting ready to go to Monster Bash!)

Also easy to punch yourself playing Wii...just sayin'.

        I didn't end up wearing the leg/arm warmers at all.  Yeah, I punched myself in the face for no good reason.  Although, I can't say I can think of a great reason to ever punch oneself in the face.  Nevertheless, Monster Bash was fun, even without Jack Skellington.  Just in case you're wondering,  I ran the pumpkin painting station, which is a super important, premium job- obvi.  In retrospect, it was probably better to leave ol' Jack at home because pumpkin painting is a messy station.  It gave me a tic- that's how messy those little painters were.  Paint everywhere.  Hate it.

I didn't create this pumpkin, but some genius with an awesome name did.

        Whenever kids would sit down to paint pumpkins, they got adorable little orange aprons to cover their costumes, and then all hell would break loose on those poor gourds.  I would give each patron the following speech, "Listen kid, the first rule about pumpkin painting is: you do not talk about pumpkin painting.  The second rule about pumpkin painting is: you DO NOT talk about pumpkin painting."  Maybe we should have talked about it, though.  Those fools were horrible artists.  

        I'll try not to beat myself up about it.

What to do in Case of a Total Suck Fest

        Warning: use of the word "fool" is excessive in this post- even for me.  If this does not bother you, proceed.  If it does bother you, you're probably no fun...and a fool.     

        I hate running on the treadmill, but I hate getting murdered more.  So, since it's been getting dark earlier and earlier, I have been running on the freaking treadmill on Monday evenings.  It. Is. Torturous.    Then again, last week I ran hills in Sammamish.  Which is to say, I pretty much ran pure hills.  I literally ran uphill both ways on that run.  Also. Torturous.

        It's at times like that when I have to ask myself why I would continue to subject myself to something that is such a suckfest.  Literally.  (I don't know if you know this, but I actually hate the word "literally" because it is so often misused.  For example, have you ever heard someone say, 'I am literally sweating my balls off!'?  Unless there are testicles on the floor in front of you, someone is absolutely not literally sweating his balls off.  It seems like simple diction, but you'd be surprised.  Or maybe you wouldn't?  I think we'd all be the most surprised if some dude literally sweat his balls off.)

I would tell myself this when I run up hills, but I am  always eating such a huge suck sandwich that I can't get the words out. 

        Besides, what's so great about "lapping everybody on the couch"?  At least the fools sitting on the couch can drink a box of wine if they want.  I daresay it's nearly impossible to drink box o' wine while running hills.  At the very least, it's probably not worth the effort. Who's the fool now?  The fool running hills with no wine.  

        Please don't tell me you're against wine in a box.  It is awesome.

This equals two bottles of wine, and you can keep it in the fridge for up to four weeks.  As if two bottles of wine last that long.

        I am running on the blasted treadmill, and Sammamish hills because of the Seattle [Half] Marathon.  We discussed this already- I am the dumb ass that is running 13.1 miles with a gut full of cranberries and tryptophan the Sunday after Thanksgiving.   Make no mistake, this is all my own doing.

Just like this is all Jay Cutler's own doing.

        However, it is all semi - tolerable because of my running buddies.  If you should ever happen to find yourself eating a suck sandwich in the middle of a suckfest that is uphill both ways, make sure you recruit your favorite fool to be your partner in crime.  (Or at the very least, find someone to be your running buddy so you don't become a victim of crime.)  Also, make sure your favorite fool knows where to procure only the finest boxed wine.

One of these fools gets wine at the gas station, so yeah... we're pretty good friends.

Whoever Said Money Can't Buy Happiness Must Have Been Super Poor

        It happened.  I had a birthday, and now I'm old again. I'm really hoping I don't end up looking like the Britney Spears that has been appearing on X Factor, lately.  (I think we're the same age. Our similarities end there, of course. She has the millions of dollars that can't buy enough cover up to hide the alcoholic-esque splotchy face, and me with my thousands of dollars that can't buy enough over-priced work out gear at Lululemon...)  Poor Britney.

No thanks.

        Speaking of Lululemon, Rico got me a gift card to the Hundred Dollar Store for my birthday.  Smart man.  In addition, we went to Tulio, an Italian restaurant, with some friends (who also gave me a Lulu gift card!)  Prosecco, handmade pasta, and good company- nailed it.  What a way to ring in the ol' 31st year.  Oh, then we went to Molly Moon's and I had a salted caramel "Lil' Sundae" (which is not little at all, by the way, nor does it adhere to Skinny Rules.)  Amaze-balls.

The Antipasti Platter at Tulio.  Yep, it happened.

       As if that wasn't enough excitement, my good buddy got married on Saturday night.  It was a beautiful wedding, and there was plenty of wine  (qualifiers not necessarily listed in order of importance- obvi.)  

In my mind, we were both making fun, happy-wedding-type faces in this photo.  I now see the bride is afraid of me, while the groom looks on with pure disdain for the fool in the gold shrug.

        I was all set to do some serious mom-dancing, but the dance didn't start until about 10pm.  What am I- on spring break?  I had already partaken in too many mini-sliders, too much wine, and a giant piece of chocolate pie.  By the time dancing started, I was in a self-induced food/wine coma and all the mom dance I had in me was stuck between my ribs.  Eric saw disaster about to strike and got us a cab home.  I am pretty sure I was in bed by 11pm, but not before I chugged some Alka-Seltzer, and washed my face.  What? Good skincare is important to a youthful appearance.  Maybe dinner and Molly Moon's Friday night was all the excitement a 31 year old Nicole could handle?  

There was a photo booth at the wedding.  This is the best picture I could find...yeah.

        Will somebody please warn me if I start to look like Britney Spears? That's all I ask.  Although, I think we all need to be really worried if Eric starts to resemble K Fed...

With and without Britney- it's all bad.

     

Don't Judge Me...Unless You're a Killer.

        When you justify wearing a sweatshirt to work because it's one of your "fancy sweatshirts," it is a sign of several possible issues- the least of which is a mountain of dirty laundry that may or may not be piled on your bathroom floor.   Life lesson #65: Sweatshirts are never fancy unless you are in Canada.

This is one of my "fancy" sweatshirts.  Yes, I'm in Canada, and, yes, I have my eyes closed in this picture.

        I have been running again, and therefore, feel much less stabby overall.   A couple of my nurse friends and I are doing the Seattle 1/2 Marathon in November.   The good news is that so far, the weather this fall in Seattle has been phenomenal.  This makes training [mostly] enjoyable- especially as opposed to running in January.  The bad news is that the race is the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  BLERG.   What kind of a fool signs up to, nay, pays to run 13.1 miles (yes, the .1 is important) after eating nothing but mashed potatoes, cranberries, turkey and gravy?  Probably a genius.

Probably this guy.

        A few of us were doing a training run this Saturday down by the waterfront, and it was beautiful - blah blah.  The important part was that 7 miles went by incredibly fast with three of us jabbering the whole time.  We discussed many an important topic including, but not limited to the following: "Who likes Angelina Jolie, anyway?" and "How to avoid getting murdered while running."  

        And then I almost did get murdered at Target.

        Let me clarify, we're talking City Target here, people, so there is a far higher percentage of patrons on crack than, say, Northgate Target.  (As you can see by virtue of the fact that I am still blogging, I have lived to tell the tale, so don't get too worried.  But still!)  I was followed by a lunatic into City Target...   Okay, it might have just been a schizophrenic homeless person with a Mariners hat on...  It's plausible that it might have simply been a guy who was trying to remember what kind of boxed wine his wife wanted him to bring home for breakfast... I'm pret-ty sure he was a straight up killer, though.

        I had to walk super fast and escape down the laundry aisle to lose this evil mastermind.  (I think we all know that while a psycho may follow an unsuspecting victim into City Target in order to surprise stab her amongst the paper towels and mops,  he wouldn't dare cut a bitch in front of the Up and Up lavender scented fabric softener.)  Obvi.

This was my face before I found the safe aisle...I really don't know why Jack Skelington got involved.

        Just to recap...  I wore a "fancy sweatshirt" to work on Friday.  Saturday I ran to train for a 1/2 marathon that takes place with a belly full of Thanksgiving food.  Sunday I ran up the escalator at Target to hide in scented laundry supplies.  

       Monday I contemplated a sad thought with a fair amount of certainty.   The murderous vagrant  I had so narrowly escaped probably noticed a blonde freak with a penchant for athletic clothes,  speed walking into the automatic door at City Target just before tripping up the escalator.  "Good thing I got fabric softener yesterday," he must have considered, "Looks like the chick in mom shoes forgot to take her meds again."