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."

     

I almost hulked out of my shirt*

        Just when I thought I couldn't get any more awesome, it happened.  A bunch of my fool friends drove to Vancouver, B.C. on Friday evening for a bachelorette weekend.   I needed a night to decompress because my parents and brother stayed with me last weekend,  and then I flew to the Tri-Cities for work on Thursday.  I was busy okay?  You don't know me.

My Bro and the late great Dave Niehaus (obvi.)

        One of the girls took the Bolt Bus up to Vancouver on Saturday morning, but as one of the surgeons I work with said when I mentioned I was considering joining her, "You don't take the bus."  Duh.  What was I thinking?  We all know the bus is for poor people and hippies.  You should never take the bus unless you are on tour, and your face is on the side of it.

This is an F650 (which I didn't even know existed.)  It is roughly the size of a bus, but is not for poor people or hippies.

        I considered the train.  I do enjoy a good train ride (as long as it's in business class-obvi.)  Then the train got sold out!  BLERG.  Wait for it...this is the part where I get even more awesome.  I frickin' booked a flight on Alaska Air and flew to Canada!  Boom.  It was pretty fancy- and you guys know how I like to be fancy.  The best part is, I also got to take a train.  It went straight from the airport to our hotel.  Nailed it.  

YVR to Vancouver City Center

        I got to our hotel, and changed into my running clothes.  My running buddy and bride to be, Katie, and I took a great spin around Stanley Park- one of my all time favorite runs! It was so beautiful outside, and I was really thankful that I was able to enjoy such fabulous scenery with a good friend.  

Try and tell me this doesn't make you want to lace up your running shoes!

And then we took the next logical step...

Pick your own mustache wine charm- perfect.

        There were mimosas.  There was shopping.  There was food.  It was amaze-balls.

Remember Roots?  It is heaven for people who love sweatshirts and the maple leaf.

        Oh, and there were lumberjacks, but this shouldn't surprise you.  It's Canada.  That's where lumberjacks come from.

Do you see the flannel in the background here? It happened.

       Back to the food.  We ate at a delish Lebanese restaurant called Nuba.  I was a little nervous because there were things on the menu like taboulleh salad and vegan stew.  However the prosecco was flowing,  and the hummus was smooth.  Yum.

Did I mention the prosecco was flowing?

        As per usual, the things I love about Canada stand.  My top two would be that I never worry about getting murdered while I am there, and it doesn't smell like pee.

Two things I don't love:

 1.) Roaming cell phone service makes it hard to keep a group of ten together.

 2.) Middle aged soccer moms who cut you off with no signal and then flip you off (with their kids in   the back seat) when you honk. 

        Rude.  Someone may or may not have shouted, "F@#$ you! We're from America!" in response, but said soccer mom couldn't hear the retort.  Even if she could have heard it, she was too busy trying to kill us with her mind as she zoomed past us at the stop light for these words of wisdom to have made any impact.  Really, it was probably too sophisticated of a statement for her to handle, so it's better she concentrated on giving us the super evil eye as opposed to, you know, concentrating on the ROAD.  Fools exist in every country.  Let that be a lesson to you.  If you have to be outside your motherland, make sure to travel with the fools you love. 

       Also, for the record, only a really good friend would acquiesce to a bride's request for "mug shots" to be taken the morning after a late night on the town.  Come to think of it, I am friends with some serious weirdos.  Yeah, yeah, takes one to know one. You don't have to remind me.

 Hate it.

* The title of this blog is related to a conversation regarding what my super power would be if I could have any super power.  I would have a button that I could push and instantly be 2,000 pounds.  I would stay exactly  the same size, but just be incredibly dense.  I was  trying to explain this highly desirable super power to my dining companions, and demonstrated the face I would make once I pushed my instant 2,000 pounds on.  I was all, "Raaaawr."  Someone who missed my demonstration asked what the other girls were laughing at, so I explained, "I almost hulked out of my shirt just now." I am a supreme weirdo; I know this.

     

     

     

       

     

     

I'll Never Grow Up!

        If there's one thing I've learned about drinking vodka sodas on a Saturday from approximately 1pm - 10pm, it's this:  it will ruin your diet and your Sunday.  I don't think there is any need to elaborate.


        Just kidding! Why would I have a blog if I didn't want to elaborate on completely useless, self-deprecating topics?

It started with class- business class.

        Let me tell you, my friends.  If you take a train from Seattle to Portland- which you should- you must take business class. (Confession: as I was editing this post, I realized I had written 'you must take the business class' which is not classy at all.  It's akin to announcing you're going to the Wal-Mart.) The obvious reasons being that you don't have to mingle with the commoners prior to boarding (or at all,) and they give you a voucher for the dining car.  I guess all the reasons to take business class are obvious, unless you don't mind being surrounded by people who fail to see the necessity of extending a pinky while drinking beverages.  Then we probably shouldn't be friends anymore, and you can go ahead and get yourself a coach ticket.  *gasp*

What did I tell you?  If it's printed on a clock tower, it can't be wrong.

        I feel as though taking a train is much safer than flying or driving.  I have absolutely no scientific evidence to support this speculation, of course.  But as we all know, science is for losers.  First of all, you're not, you know, flying, so if you fall out of a train, it's less distance before you splat than if you fall out of the SKY.  Eek. Imagine falling out of the sky- wait...don't.  I just did it, and it's absolutely terrifying.  Then, if you figure there are fewer trains on a track than there are cars on the road, you've just eliminated a whole class of fools who might murder you with their vehicles.  How's that for evidence? Boom.

       Needless to say, I made it to Oregon totally alive.  It was a beautiful weekend to be in Portland...

Oh mini palm trees randomly found in the PNW- so embarrassing.

        And then we had some lunch with our Prosecco...

If only I had known then...

        It's like this was a fortune cookie, except that it was printed at the bottom of a drink menu at some hip Portland eatery rather than pulled from a crispy delicious chinese dessert.  Maybe my problem was that I was drinking Prosecco - which is Italian champagne, for those of you unrefined non-pinky out drinkers.  It did make me feel like it was Sunday and better days were just around the corner.  But better days were not around the corner.  Worse days were around the corner.  

        And that's what you get for not reading the fine print- damn Italian bubbles will lull you into a false sense of security every time.  Now, had I started with French bubbles, like a good Christian girl should, Sunday would have been filled with cotton candy and elephant rides.  Alas.  Italian bubbles! Curses!

        You may be asking yourself, "Did Nicole just join a sorority?  Isn't she too old for this?"  No, and yes.  But guess what?  You cannot be too old to get together with one of your oldest friends, channel your inner (if not slightly intoxicated) Peter Pan, and act like you'll never grow up.  It's really fun. You should try it some time.

Thanks for the bubbles and the laughs, my friends.  

        (P.S. I figure we can behave like ladies when we're grandmas, but for now, it's too much fun to be rowdy, and chug stranger's beers after accidentally drinking a bowl of spicy clam juice to drown out the horrible taste of a leaf wrap that was most likely filled with poison.  I mean, I've heard that's fun.  I wouldn't know from my own personal experience.)

And on the Seventh Day- I Cheated on the Skinny Rules

        I wish I had a good reason for not writing knee slapping blog posts, but the truth is... I've been cooking.  The worst part is, it's all freaking healthy food.  I mean, who's even heard of farro besides blasted Julius Caesar and other old Roman dudes.  FYI peeps, farro is an ancient grain.  I probably shouldn't be eating it.  I bought some super duper ancient kind by accident, I think, and you have to soak for eight hours before cooking. BLERG.

This is some kind of Giada De Laurentiis farro recipe- and she is a skinny freak!

        Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be as skinny as a freak, but I felt like a bit of a blob after not being able to run for about six weeks.  Combine that with buying a condo, moving, and eating a lot [more] Chinese food than usual, and a person starts to feel kind of blobby.  Right?  If this, or something similar, has never happened to you, or if you are Giada De Laurentiis- we're fighting.

The phrase, "Never trust a skinny cook" comes to mind

        I'm going to level with you.  I'm following this book like it's the Bible...

I'm ignoring the awkward comb over here

        Actually, I follow it much better than I follow the Bible.  The Bible is super long and boring- have you ever read it?  I have.  Seriously, I read the whole Bible in nine months once.  That's a topic for a different, blog, though.  Let's be honest, that entry probably won't get written, since a blog about an incredibly tedious book written a gazillion years ago can't be that funny.  I don't want to lose one of my- I mean, I don't want to lose my reader due to boredom.

This is Kittles after our evening reading of the Pentateuch- I almost bored her to death

        Here's why I love it:  you get to eat a lot of food, and you get SNACKS twice a day.  You guys know how much I love snacks.  Also- and you're going to think I'm a crazy hippy naturopath for this one, but it's true- I am sleeping like a rock every single night.  I haven't even needed my fake root sleeping pill!

       Here's why I hate it a little: lots of the food is non-fat, unsweetened Greek Yogurt.  In case you haven't tried it, non-fat, unsweetened Greek Yogurt is SICK.  One person I know said, "It tastes like gastric juices."  I can not deny that it might, although,  I don't consider myself to be a connesiour of gastric juices.

Feed this to your nemesis.

        Just put some agave in it, you say?  Gladly, except for that Bob Harper is masterfully helping me reset my palate, and he doesn't want me to have any extra sugar- even agave.  No artificial sweeteners either (Rule 10.)  Worse than gastric juice flavored yogurt?  Consider this: No. Diet. Coke. So, yeah... it's worse.

Ivy Jane knows exactly how I feel.

        I am eating ancient grains,  abstaining from sugar,  and I haven't had a cheeseburger in... at least three weeks.  Next thing you know, I'll be selling my birth right for a bowl of stew- as long as there are potatoes in it, and I can have a beer to wash it down.  Which I can't because one of the skinny rules is, "Get Rid of Those White Potatoes," and another is, "Don't Drink Your Calories." Bob Harper is the worst (for those of you who don't know, and couldn't read the copy of his book cover, he is actually "a weight loss expert, and star of NBC's 'The Biggest Loser.'")  So, he's not really the worst.  Except for when you want a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and you remember "Rule 7: No Carbs After Lunch."  That bastard.

        Now you know if I order "the farro" when we're out for lunch, I am not summoning an ancient Egyptian king.  If you should happen to order a cheeseburger and a beer at that same lunch outing, however, you might want to hold your butter knife in a defensive position.  There's no skinny rule that reads, "Thou shalt not get stabby when coveting thy neighbors' food."  

        

Again, I will cut you.

 

Just a Spoonful of Sugar...

         I was reading about cat behavior the other night- because I'm that person now- and I was all thrilled because it said if your cat grooms you, it is basically the highest compliment.  I thought, "Oh, Lola licks my arm sometimes! She loves me."  Then I saw her licking a pole today.  She is either more mentally challenged than originally projected, or she's a stripper.  Great.  I have no idea where that mouth has been.

disgusting.

        Speaking of which, one of our residents told me yesterday that "another" resident said I look like Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriend, Holly Madison. Rude.

Other than our penchant for nautically themed outfits and small animals- we pretty much have nothing in common.

She was not nearly as excited about her tiny puppy as I was about mine... Then again, that may be all the farther her face can move.

     

        Now, I actually like Holly Madison, and had a terrible habit of watching "The Girls Next Door" when she was on that show.   I just remember the first time I saw her on TV, I thought she looked like an alien deer. I know that sounds mean, but you have to remember, I'm from Wisconsin, where there happen to be a lot of deer and almost ZERO humans who look like this.  Since leaving Wisconsin, I have lived in Colorado and Washington State.  None of these places are riddled with women under 40 who have had multiple plastic surgery *ahem* enhancements.  Let's be real for a minute (no pun intended,) unless you live in Bellevue, you are surrounded by dirty hippies in this city.  If you come across a broad who's wearing a bra, it's your lucky day.  People in Seattle don't look like Holly Madison- especially not me.

This is me in Hollywood.  And why wouldn't I be wearing a grandma cardigan?

        We had a school- age patient today who told the Nurse Practitioner on our team, "Your name is 'Spaghetti'!"  Which, because I am also ,mentally, a school age child, I thought was absolutely hilarious.  He also told us this short gem of a story (mind you, his parents and grandparents were also in the room...)

        Oh! And sometimes, I go into the kitchen and I SNEAK sugar.  Yeah, I get a spoon, and I get a chair, and I bring it over to the sugar jar.  I climb up on the chair and I sneak a whole spoonful of sugar!  Then I put the cover back on the sugar jar and put the spoon and the chair back so my parents won't notice.

        If you could have seen the looks on his family members faces, you would have died.  This was clearly news to all of them.  P.S. Did I mention I actually love my job?  (Mostly, anyway, but let's not quibble about the minutiae.)

        Obviously I can't go into details about this person, but if you saw him, you would notice he is different than most of us.  Still, as good old "Spaghetti" the Nurse Practitioner would say, "That's just the way he was put together."  This kid was hilarious, and had zero qualms about his appearance not being the same as everyone else (as was evidenced by him running down the halls in his underwear- obvi.) 

          Don't get me wrong, the moral of this story is not to judge people for altering their appearances.  If you want fake boobs, fine, but don't do it for your grandpa/boyfriend who is just going to trade you in for a new model once you're over 27 years old anyway.   At the end of the day, do what it is you need to do in order to feel good, confident, peaceful, happy, etc.  I am personally quite glad to sneak a little sugar and stay the way I was put together.

Right?