My friend and coworker asked me if I had a pair of nail clippers yesterday so I dug in to my pocketbook aka little purse tucked inside a bigger purse/tote bag… And this is what I found:

-a package of latex gloves *I’m allergic to latex WTH?
-hand sanitizer
-pieces of a shredded and possibly used tissue *which I promptly threw in the garbage.
-an unused tissue *which I promptly used because my nose happened to be drippy
-a plus-style screwdriver *I don’t do tools WTH?
-fourteen safety pins *I’m a runner. What can I say?
-dental picks
-baby wipes
-a tube of hormone cream
-alcohol swabs
-a camera
-a toothbrush
-a pair of clean underwear *incase I tried on a pair of pants while shopping since I usually go commando and wear yoga pants
-an Ulta coupon that expired last year
-five paperclips
-seven tubes of lipgloss *I have an addiction
-face powder
-a melted Hershey’s kiss
-one earring
-a leaf
-an eyeglass case
-a half empty bottle of water
-various half full pill bottles
-NORMAL STUFF like my wallet, pens, keys, and stray coins
-a half eaten granola bar
-the remote control for our living room TV
-Fiskars *my youngest child is 18. WTF?
-a sock
-a straw
-a hairbrush with hair
and my iPad.

I did not have nail clippers.

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I Boiled Unborn Chicks, Not Bunnies.


I’m reblogging my Easter post from last year because I wanted to share with you why I’ve decided not to boil (and color) eggs this year FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER. So this is why. I’m scarred for life

(FYI: This conversation takes place with Ethel, my BFF; Nic and Alex are my sons; Wonder Twin is our nickname for my hubs)

Originally posted on virtualendings:

A text conversation from earlier tonight, between me and my BFF Ethel:




View original

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botox or subway?

Last week I learned I could get Botox for the cost of my regular doctor’s visit co-pay because I have migraines.

So the wheels in my head started turning…

I have never really thought about Botox. Probably because I heard somewhere, I think on the Real Housewives of New Jersey, that a single treatment of Botox would cost about three hundred dollars. And well, honestly, paralyzing a wrinkle or two is just not higher on my priority list than say… A good pair of running shoes, and a race entry. Or a hundred gallons of gas. Or a nice handbag (and just for the record Hubs, I do not own a three hundred dollar handbag). So I never considered Botox. For me.

Until last week. Everything changed when I learned it would cost the same thing to paralyze my wrinkles, as it would cost to go to Subway for lunch.

Then I spent the past few days staring at my face in the mirror trying to figure out which wrinkles to paralyze. I analyzed, and critically reviewed every single line on my forty-seven year old face.

And for the first time I noticed that I have a really deep wrinkle on my forehead, directly above my right eye. And I am developing crows feet too. See:

But what really surprised me was that I felt satisfied with my face. I mean, I’m supposed to want to make my wrinkles disappear. Right? I’m not supposed to be as comfortable with my bare-naked-forty-seven-year-old face and my old-lady-in-waiting wrinkles as I am in stretchy jeans after a Fiber One bar. But I am.

And as I thought more about the Botox, and analyzed why I wasn’t as upset about my newly discovered wrinkles as my friends are about their wrinkles, the insanity of all of this hit me.

Why would I even consider shooting up my face with Botox when I am trying so hard to avoid processed food?

Why would I consider paralyzing muscles -even if they were wrinkle inducing muscles, when I am building muscle to carry my ass thirteen miles through the streets of Nashville in a couple of weeks?

Why would I buy organic fruits and vegetables and then purposely inject my body with a toxin?

So I went to Subway.

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it’s a little bit blue

I’ve just finished back-to-work week three, and my mornings seemed to be getting smoother. Until yesterday.. When I ran out of soy milk, and I couldn’t make a breakfast smoothie so I decided to stop at McDonald’s on my way to work for an oatmeal.

As I drove into McD’s parking lot I saw a man riding a bicycle around the lot, and he looked like my friend’s dad so I waved (frantically), and smiled (big) at him. I was really happy to see my friend’s dad. Right?

The Bicycle Man excitedly reciprocated the smile and wave.

Then I parked my car and walked inside McD’s to order my oatmeal. As I did this I realized the Bicycle Man had circled back around the lot to smile and wave at me. Again.

And it wasn’t my friend’s dad.

My friend’s dad is in his late-seventies, and he is certainly not agile enough to ride a bicycle to a McDonalds that is thirty-plus miles from his house. WTF was I thinking?!

As I left McD’s with my oatmeal I noticed Bicycle Man had waited for me, and he eagerly followed me through the parking lot, waving and smiling, as I scurried to my car.

This morning I was still out of soy milk so I stopped at the same McDonalds for another oatmeal.

Bicycle Man was there waiting for me. I swear.

And he followed my car through the parking lot again, waving and smiling. I didn’t go inside McDs to order my oatmeal this morning. I used the drive-thru.

Then I texted Hubs to ask him to go to the grocery today. I need soy milk.


And I got this:
Close enough. This is an emergency.

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i went birthday dark

I took my birthdate off Facebook.

I did it a few years ago, right before my birthday when I was talking to my tech-savvy-BFF Ethel, and bitching about how bizarre it felt to know that casual acquaintances (like people I drunk-friended at a bar in Key West years ago) were about be blasted with reminders about my birth date. I complained to Ethel about how I didn’t need the internet to gather around me, and wish me a happy birthday on my Facebook wall to have a HAPPY day. Just like I didn’t need the waiters to parade and gather around me at a restaurant, clap, sing, and plop a probable-lice-ridden hat on my head, and feed me cake (I don’t know) to have a happy-f&%king birthday. I mean, it’s cool when you are ten, or you do it to your kid…
But I’m not ten, and I’m not my kid.

Then Ethel told me I COULD DELETE MY BIRTHDATE from Facebook. Seriously? I could have skipped that space? Those stupid-ass CTBS tests I took during school in the eighties conditioned me like Pavlov’s dog to fill in every-single-blank without question. I never tried to skip my birthdate. Whoo-hoo. So I removed my birthdate from Facebook, and I have since become an obnoxious blank-skipper, but I’ll save that story for another blog.

And do you wanna know what’s happened in the years since I deleted my birthdate? Everyone that remembered my birthday before Mark Zuckerberg idiot-proofed everyone’s birthdate memory, and invented the obnoxious in-your-facebook-reminders, well… They still remember that it’s my birthday.

The biggest benefit about taking my birthdate off Facebook is the privacy. That’s right. You can still find a morsel of privacy if you look for it -or skip some fill-in-the-blanks.

I REALY love the fact that a casual acquaintance, like say the mother of my son’s best friend’s baby-mama isn’t going to creep me out by yelling Happy Birthday, stalker-style, across a crowded grocery store. If I happen to run into her again. On my birthday. In a crowded grocery store.

Yesterday was my birthday. It was a day full privacy, and bliss; a day full of red velvet cupcakes, surprises, warm-fuzzy birthday cards, mustache swag, flowers from my boys, loving phone calls, private messages, and texts. All of my favorite things. From all of my favorite people. People I real-life know, and love.

My BFF Jan, and mustache rings. Jan knows me.

And I know there are people out there that love me, or really like me, and they forgot my birthday. Or they didn’t know about my birthday. And that’s really cool because I don’t wear a sign, or I forget shit too. Like right now I’m especially bad about remembering the surprise part of surprise party. So really, no worries.

Oh, and yesterday Ethel was a woman on a mission to text me the most birthday memes in one day. This one was my favorite. Oh-my-gawd I love my Ethel. She. Gets. Me.
And so do my boys. Flowers melt my heart. And the card made me snort-laugh. Sometimes I can’t believe I’m a mom. And that all of my boys survived to adulthood -well, almost.

Yesterday was the bestest birthday thus far… Even Google quietly remembered my day without a Facebook reminder.

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Sticky 80s With Ethel

I started my new job last week, almost exactly three months to the day I was laid-off. My new job is a good fit. I really love it; more than I thought I would. I’m back in my wheel-house where I’m comfortable, and I’m surrounded by happy, positive people so I’m laughing my ass off on a daily basis.

But today was a full-on Manic Monday.

I started and ended my day frantically searching for two separate, DIFFERENT, three-inch yellow sticky notes with important information scribbled on them…

I searched for one sticky note first this morning. And because I didn’t learn (my lesson) to write crucial shit down on a life-sized notepad, I found myself chasing down a second stick-to-f&*king-everything-three-inch-yellow-smurf-square at the end of the day. Again.

I’ve always disliked the color yellow, and it’s possibly not a coincidence.

Shortly after I got home tonight I received this text from my twenty-three year old son:
(That’s me in the middle. In the eighties. In a prom-style bridesmaid dress)

My first thought was to tell my son to just dress normal. Normal. The eighties were thirty years ago. Oh-my-gawd. That’d be like my mother telling me back in the eighties to dress normal for a fifties themed party.

I feel like I just stepped into the Rocky Horror Picture Show time warp and I’m doing the dance. Maybe because it’s my birthday week?

Then my BFF Ethel texted me this:
DON’T GOOGLE IT! It’s not a curling iron. Trust me on this.

I hope I’m not murdered tonight, and the police check my internet browser history. And I hope my computer doesn’t crash from some Trojan porn virus. Or maybe I should hope my computer crashes so it is replaced long before I die, or before anyone ever has any reason to look up my search engine history.

Ethel, if I am murdered in my sleep or somethin’ before I replace my iPad, remember to esplane to those FBI guys why the Hell I looked that shit up; right after you clean out my bedside table drawer, and do that other stuff we talked about. Okay? I don’t want all this in my Forty-Eight Hours Mystery episode.

Oh, and Ethel… make a note so you don’t forget. Just don’t make a note on a sticky-smurf-pad.

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self pity party

I don’t know anything that depletes my well of motivation faster than working my way back from an injury or illness.

Trying to regain my running strength and stamina after thirteen sedentary days sucks. I know my body is capable of running ten miles. I ran ten miles last month, and nearly every weekend of every month before that for months, and months. But now I am just. So. F%&king. Tired. After three. Or four. Or two miles that I want to curl up mid-run at the end of a stranger’s driveway, and cry myself to sleep.

Actually, I don’t even want run to begin with because my motivation well is dry, so I am resorting to old tricks; I talk to myself like a bat-shit-crazy-old-bag-lady…

Self, just get dressed and walk to the end of the driveway, then if you still don’t wanna go, you don’t have to…
Of course once I’m wired for sound, armed with pepper spray, contorted into a sports bra, and standing at the end of my very short driveway, I go for a run. Every single time.

Seriously. Bat-shit crazy tricks. But they work.

Wednesday I ran four miles, and I felt like I was on the top of the world. YES! My body was beginning to cooperate. My strength and stamina were coming back, and my short runs were normal.

Yeah. No-so-much.
Today I could barely run three miles.

In fact I ran 2.6 miles, and I’m tired but I managed to make it home. I didn’t fall asleep in a stranger’s driveway, which I should probably consider a plus, but I’m focusing on the negative right now. So excuse me while I continue my pity party…

And yes, I have followed all the tips and advice on how to come back from an illness. I’ve been alternating cross training days with running days, listening to my body, blah, blah. My body just isn’t listening to me.

Dear Body,
We have a half marathon in five weeks so get your shit together. All of the articles I’ve read say it takes two weeks post-illness to regain your stamina and strength, so you have until Sunday or I’m gonna go all Edwina Cutwater on your ass.

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This spring I’ll be forty-seven, and sadly it took me many years to appreciate the unparalleled beauty of Gulf Coast; to recognize that I grew up in paradise, and to value the uniqueness of living here as an adult, with miles and miles of beaches just minutes away from my front door.

But eventually I figured it out, and now I enjoy every minute of it. Especially this time of year.

I love Spring!

The longer, sun-filled days always seem to brighten my mood. Or maybe it’s the incursion of spring breakers, and the riddance snowbirds.

It could be the arrival of the MTV reality actors. And the Victoria’s Secret Pink Beach Party. And the annual free concert in the neighboring town with that whats-his-name-country-singer.

On second thought it’s just everything. Combined. The longer, warmer days, and the influx of youthful, positive, happy-go-lucky energy.

There is no place like paradise at home in the Springtime!

Here’s what I did this week…

I found a quiet beach ten minutes from my home.
I took a long walk.
I watched the dolphins play.
And I put my toes in the still-cool sand.
What did you do this week?

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Typhoid Kelly

I’ve been sick. I thought I had the flu. Or permanent morning sickness despite my lack of uterus. But after some internet sleuthing (I’m not a doctor but I play one one the internet), the flu seemed most likely so I went with that…

About five days into my self-diagnosed flu I decided to ignore the constant nausea, fatigue and chills, and go for a run because I was confident the bit of muscles I’d accumulated were atrophying, and I had a half marathon coming up. I had to be ready. And I just knew if I ignored being sick, and pretended to feel better, it would all just go away.

Of course, I had to fool Hubs into thinking I was better because it was a Saturday, and he was home. And he’d been watching me like a hawk that morning, and asking me every five minutes how I felt. I didn’t quite feel okay, and I think Hubs knew that but I kept telling him that I felt okay, and I managed to make him believe it.

But it was far from the truth.

We got 1.11 miles from our house. I sat down on a curb and started to cry…

“I don’t feel good. Will you please run back home and get the car.”

What? I thought you said you felt better? You repeatedly told me you were okay.

“Well I thought I could fake it. I don’t know. I think maybe I was okay. For a few minutes.”

(in an exasperated-worried-wiggy voice)
I don’t even know when you are feeling better anymore. You are getting to be such a good liar it’s scary. Geesch.

(he sprinted back home to get the car, while I sat on the curb and cried)

A few days later when my self-diagnosed flu wasn’t getting better I went to my doctor. After some blood work, and criminal-style interrogation my doctor determined I had irritated the lining of my stomach.

Apparently taking large quantities of prescription NSAIDs for a couple of weeks, and then spending a day drinking huge amounts of mimosas, and forgetting to eat, will create the perfect gastric super storm.

So here I am, thirteen days later and I feel better (really Hubs, I do). I have to take medication, eat bland foods, and avoid alcohol for the next eight weeks (coincidentally, my half marathon is in eight weeks).

And I can run again. Although I’m convinced my muscles have completely melted away because I’m nine pounds lighter. I guess I’ll find out today when I try to run.

Before my gastric super storm forced me to take thirteen sedentary days, I was running ten-mile long runs. Today I’m just hoping to beat my two week record of 1.11mi, pass up the curbs, and make my way home.

Okay. That’s not totally true. I am actually hoping I can do at least five miles today, pass up the curbs and make it home on my own two feet. But sssh. Don’t tell Hubs… He is at work today, and he is already so worried he is making me take my phone on my run.


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Pretty Naked Piggies

I’ve been logging long miles training for my third half marathon in a couple of months, and I read online that an Epsom Salts bath is good for sore muscles, and that it will also detoxify your body. So the other night I decided to try it.

Since I don’t normally take tub baths I was bored to near-death, and the only thing I had to look at while sitting in the tub (after my magazine got soggy) were my skanky, winter feet. And my feet were really disgusting because it’s been about two months since I’ve had a pedicure, and I’m a runner.

So think: comic-villian-crusty-callused-ugly feet. Now you’ve got a visual…

After about forty-five minutes I couldn’t tolerate staring at my frumpy-dumpy piggies for one more second. I grabbed a cotton washcloth and started scrubbing all the bubbled up, pruned dead skin on my feet.

I scrubbed all the dead crap and callouses right off my toes, my heels and even out of the in-between-nail-meets-toe places. With a washcloth. And oh-my-gawd Y’all, it came right off! I didn’t have to use mani-clippers, axes, razors, or pumice stones! No shit. Really. I mean, it was so easy. I ONLY USED A COTTON WASHCLOTH.

So I yelled from the bathtub for Hubs to bring me my camera…

Why do you want your camera? You are in the bathtub.

(he dutifully got my camera and brought it to me while he questioned me)

“I need to take a picture for my blog! I need proof!”

Proof of what? What kind of picture are you going to take in the bathtub for your blog?

(he didn’t wait for me to answer, he just gave me the camera, shook his head, muttered something about whatever I put online stays on the internet forever, and then he walked away closing the door behind him)

A few hours after my bath (and subsequent shower) I still had sore muscles, and I didn’t have a clue if my body detoxed from the Epsom Salts bath. All in all I felt the same.

But hey, you can’t believe everything you read online. Right? Without proof, anyway.


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