Vacation: It's not for the weak.

The J family just returned from a week-long beach vacation.

I absolutely cannot remember the last time I was this hung-over exhausted.

Clearly, vacation is no place for children.  Or adults.  Either/or.  You pick.

On our particular vacation, sandwiched between two 12+ hour car rides, RJ and I did everything we could to make our vacation fun, enjoyable and memorable.

For the kids, of course.

We went to the beach.  I drank wine.  We went to the pool.  I drank beer.  We went to the Aquarium.  I drank margaritas.  We went to the Boardwalk and rode rides and played games.  ZJ won at darts and picked two smaller prizes instead of one big prize so he could share with cj.  Cj immediately threw his prize (a duck) into the ocean, because Hello!  Ducks swim!   I drank more beer.  We played miniature golf.  I drank more wine.  We went back to the beach and the pool and we stopped at every single swingset, slide and playground in the greater South Carolina area.  Every. Single. One.  We even went to Build-A-Bear, have mercy on my soul. I was so drunk by then I only remember it because we have a stuffed Tasmanian Wolf named Superwolf and a prehistoric sabertoothed cat named Kitty, and an $80 credit card bill to prove it.   Zj, who is quite a prolific pooper, clogged up toilets all along the coast, including one in the all you can eat seafood buffet place that charges $30 per person. Serves 'em right.  $30 is highway robbery.   I drank beer and wine and margaritas with abandon.  We discussed sharks and dinosaurs and superheroes and vampires and watched Batman cartoons and listened to Kidz Bop until my eardrums bled and I couldn't form coherent sentences.  That may have had something to do with all the wine, though.  We ate ice cream every day.

Every night as soon as the kids were in bed, RJ and I fell into bed ourselves, often before 9 pm, too exhausted to do anything except stare at the ceiling and mumble incoherently about what time we would "get going" in the morning.

The boys were up by 6am the next day, without fail, to see what exciting new adventures awaited them.

To be honest, I'm not sure either one of them will remember this vacation in 20 years, or 10 years, or next week.

But I will remember it.

And I'll remember that my boys had the time of their lives.

Same beach, different priorities.

So, I have these boys.

I love them to the moon and back.

But to say I love them the same would be like saying I love beer and tomatoes the same.

They're just so different.

But that's good.  Variety is good, right?

The differences in their personalities come out the most when I take them to somewhere new and different then offer up the same options.

Like, say...  the beach.

Cj is pretty content to sit and dig in the sand.

Forever.

His other beach pastimes include sitting in my lap while licking the salt off me and pulling my bathing suit top down.

It was like we were on our first date or something.

Zj, of course, has entirely different priorities.

Like surfing the waves.

Over.

And over.

And over.

It's ok though.

In this family, we set our priorities early, and we stick with them.

Always and forever.

They're just like their Mama that way.

Priorities.

We all have 'em.

Why someone ought to rethink those silly "no open liquor containers in the car" laws.

So, the J family is on vacation.

I'm currently sitting in a beautiful condo in beautiful Pawleys Island, SC, just waiting until it hits 80 degrees so we can hit the beach.

It's a hard life.

Really, it's a wonderful, laid-back kind of place.  The kind of place where the beaches are white and clean and empty, the locals are friendly, and nobody expects you to dress for dinner in anything that isn't flip-flops.

Which is a damn good thing, since getting here is a bit... er... stressful.

Fifteen hours.  One car.  One twitchy five year old.  One whiny twenty-two month old.  Two sleep-deprived adults.  Four different sets of directions/gps devices.  Incessant Batman cartoons.  Multiple pillow pets.  An entire electronics department worth of gadgets that beep and squeal and "Mama, this one doesn't work right!!!"  No liquor.

Hell.

Seventh circle.

For real.

They have no idea what's about to happen.

I think I've blocked whole portions of the trip.  It's a whole big long 15 hour day full of repressed memories.  It's for the best.  It's not like I really WANT to remember how I got us lost before we even left our hometown, or how many McDonald's I peed in, or how many Wal-Marts we stopped at before we found one with a gas station...  Hey, we had gift cards.  Gas is $37 a gallon, and our ginormous SUV gets about 2 gallons to the mile.  Don't judge.

I also have no desire to remember how, 30 minutes into the trip, cj started to tug on his carseat straps and yell "HELP! HELP!" at the top of his lungs.  Or how he spent the entire trip, except for the one peaceful hour he passed out, practicing his favorite new words at the top of his lungs, in seeming random order.  "Mine!"  "Bear!"  "Hello!" "Mine bear!"  "Cow!"  "Moo!"  "Nose!"  "Help!"  "Mine nose!"  "Dada!"  "Mama!"  "Mine!"  "Help!"  Or how he yelled "Ouch!" every time we hit a bump in the road.

Proof that he did sleep.  For a minute.

I also don't want to relive how many times zj said "Is there a bafroom nearby?"  Or how many times he peed on the side of the road.  And I especially don't want to remember the church that we stopped at so zj could pee on the tree.  Sorry, Jesus.  No disrespect intended.  But when a 5 year old's gotta go, he's GOTTA GO.  You understand, right?

And mostly, I don't want to remember exactly how many times I got us lost, with the four maps/gps gizmos in hand.

Yeah, totally blocked that.

Nope,  I'm just going to remember the beach and the sand and the sun and the boys having a great time.

And the beer.

I'll probably remember that, too.

All the news that's fit to talk about.

Occasionally, ok, ONCE when I couldn't think of anything interesting to blog about, I Googled "blog post ideas" and decided I would write about the least worst one.

I chose "write a blog post about current news happenings."

Since no one actively criticized and/or stopped following me after that, I decided to do it again.

Hey, there's only so much original content left in the world, people.

Last time, I got my news stories from CNN.

This time, my news sources were a bit more... diverse.

Here we go.

Maine to legalize switchblades for one armed people.  Well, it's about time, Maine.

Norwegian boy saves sister from Moose attack using World of Warcraft skills.  There is nothing I could say about that to make it any better.

Sony CEO says Nintendo devices are "babysitting tools."  Two words:  Hell.  Yeah.

5 reasons to see Thor this weekend.  Really, I'm only interested in number one.  And I don't even really like blondes that much.  Mmmmmm... Vikings.....

Man lives off beer only for Lent.  Best. Sacrifice. Ever.  I'm totally going to a) become Catholic and b) do this next year for Lent.  Or maybe just for the hell of it.

Is bacon cologne proof that America's love affair with with the breakfast favorite has gone too far?  Well, yeah.  Personally, I love bacon flavored... er, scented men.  Nom, nom, nom, nom, nom, nom...

How to get drunk in the healthiest way possible.  With illustrations!  In case you're too drunk to read.

And there you have it, folks.

News, mj style.

You can thank me later.

Yard work as a performance art.

I really enjoy yard work.

I know, insanity.

I  also really enjoy country music.

Again, insanity.

When I can combine the two, it's a little slice of Heaven.

Also, for some reason, every single time I head outside to mow, my neighbor - not the bitchy one, another one - a guy I don't really know, 'cause he's pretty new to the street, decides to mow his grass, too.  Immediately after I start.  Every single time.

The importance of all of these seemingly unrelated things will become clear in a minute.

Last week when I went out to mow, iPod in hand, I was joined quickly by my neighbor guy, who just decided, right then, to mow his yard, too.

Whatever.  I'm a trendsetter.

We did our usual nod/smile/kinda-wave-with-half-your-hand thing, then I hopped on the mower, cranked up the iPod, threw in the earbuds, and started to mow.

I did my usual 'round the house pattern, which was matched in a mirror image by my neighbor guy.  His yard isn't quite as big as mine, but I was going faster, so pretty much every time I was at the front of my house, so was neighbor guy, but going in the opposite direction.  At this point, I...  HEY!  I LOVE THIS SONG!

*Singing at top of lungs*


I said the night you left me,
Nothin' worse could ever happen,
But seeing you with someone else proved that I was wrong.
And when your eyes met mine,
I knew that you were gone forever,
Along with all the reasons , I had for hanging on. 


Waving at neighbor guy.  Wonder why he's going so slow?

I always thought that someday,
We might get back together.
I just thought you needed time to spread your wings and fly.
But when I saw the lovin' way,
You held onto each other,
It was all that I could do, not to break right down and cry.


 Hmmm... He's totally stopped now.  Hope he's not having trouble with his mower...


I'd be better off in a pine box,
On a slow train back to Georgia,
Or in the grey walls of a prison doing time.
I think I'd rather die,
And go to hell and face the devil,
Than to lie here with you and him together on my mind.


It must not be trouble with his mower, because he's laughing.  Hey!  I think he's laughing at me.  OH SHIT!  He can hear me.

Um.. what to do?  Do I play it off as cool, and keep going, or do I stop and address this and be done with it?  What would Chuck Norris do?

 So I stopped.

At this point, he's at a full-blown, rolling on the ground belly laugh, the likes of which I haven't seen since watching Talladega Nights while consuming two bottles of wine and a six pack of Miller Light.  "oh we, we go together like cocaine and waffles." "... absolutely ma-am, I would love to sign your baby ..."  

Anyway, back to the story here.  Focus, people.

Me: "Uh, hi.  I guess you heard me singing, huh?"  I'm super cool when I've been caught acting like a crazy person.

Neighbor Guy: "Yep.  It's ok, though.  I like country music." *wipes tears of laughter from eyes with hem of t-shirt, exposing large round flabby white belly* "That's Johnny Cash, right?"

Me: *Uncomfortable laughter* "Actually, it's Doug Stone."  And clearly you don't know ANYTHING about country music, so stop pretending you do.  Poser.  You are now dead to me.  Ptuah.  "Well, I guess I'd better finish this up.  Have a good one."   Loser. 


So I hopped back up on my mower, cranked it up, and popped my earbuds back in my ears.  Next up, Deana Carter.

*Singing at top of lungs*

He was working through college on my grandpa's farm 
I was thirsting for for knowledge and he had a car 
I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child 
When one restless summer we found love growing wild 
On the banks of the river on a well beaten path 
Funny how those memories they last 

I still remember when thirty was old 
My biggest fear was September when he had to go 
A few cards and letters and one long distance call 
We drifted away like the leaves in the fall 
But year after year I come back to this place 
Just to remember the taste 

The fields have grown over now 
Years since they've seen a plow 
There's nothing time hasn't touched 
Is it really him or the loss of my innocence 
I've been missing so much 

Like strawberry wine and seventeen 
The hot July moon saw everything 
My first taste of love oh bittersweet 
Green on the vine 
Like strawberry wine 



Take THAT neighbor guy.

The asshole probably thinks it's Dolly Parton anyway.

Stream of Consciousness Sunday: About my impending vacation.

So, the J family is about to go on vacation.

One of the best perks of RJ's job is that his boss lets us use his condo on beautiful Pawleys Island for a week every year.  Actually, it's the only perk of his job, but whatever.

So, as is usual for me, I'm in pre-vacation panic mode.

My house has to be completely cleaned from top to bottom before we leave.

Because oh dear God what if we have a wreck and die a fiery death or get eaten by a band of killer sharks or eat some bad seafood or whatever and somebody has to come in our house and pack up all our shit and sees that I haven't dusted the baseboards or washed the windows since... oh, NEVER.

It's part of my particular brand of crazy.  It's just a part of my crazy, but it's a big part.

Also, every time zj sees me cleaning the toilets, he asks me if its going to be Thanksgiving soon.  Really, kid?  I clean the toilets more than once a year.  I promise.

So today I spent the day vacuuming, mopping and dusting in preparation for possibly dying on vacation.

I don't do taht before I, say, go to the grocery.

What would happen if I died when going to the grocery?

Something else to worry about, I guess.

But I'm really lookign forward to this vacation.  I love the beach, and I know the kids


Seriously?  My time's up?  Wow. I've learned a few important things on this, my first Stream of Consciousness Sunday, hosted by All Things Fadra - shameless plug - you're welcome.  1) I type REALLY slowly. That high school typing class I blew off in favor or French is looking better in hindsight.  2)My blog posts are typically anbout 50 times this long. 3) This was fun.  4)It's killing me not to fix the typos I see above, see CRAZY.  5)I think ALL my blog posts are stream of consciousness.  6)In the best Govenator voice I can muster, I'll be baaaaack.

Food is fuel.

I used to know this guy.

We worked together, actually.

He was, and I'm guessing still is, pretty awesome.  He was so awesome, in fact, that he had the dubious distinction of being scheduled for the closing shift with me every Friday and Saturday night, week in and week out, because he was the only one on the staff who could keep up with me.

Lucky guy.

Anyway, one time right after Easter, he showed up to work with a bag of leftover ham.

It was a gallon sized ziplock bag, and it was pretty full.

He ate some ham for lunch that day.

And the next day.

And the day after that.

I teased him mercilessly about his bag of ham.

His response?

"It's just fuel to get me through my day."

I laughed, then went back to my Doritos, Snickers and Dr. Pepper from the vending machine, which was my typical workday lunch.

Now, some five or so years later, I finally get it.

Food is fuel to get you through your day.

DING! DING! DING!

It totally makes sense, for the first time ever.

Since January, I have been tracking calories in versus energy out, and I'm learning a lot about how my body works and what it needs to survive (lots of water) and what it needs to perform at an optimum level (NOT Doritos and Snickers).

I'm also learning what food is not.  Food is not, or should not be, a reward.  For as long as I can remember, I've thought of it that way.  It was a reward at school for good behavior and good grades.  It was a reward at home for milestones and celebrations and birthdays.  It carried over into my adult life with a vengeance.  Bad day at work?  Burgers and fries in a greasy sack will make me feel better.  Great day at work?  I'll reward myself with a pizza.  And forty pounds later...

Now having said all that, I still love food.

And I love to cook good food.

And I love to eat good food.

But I do not love having an a$$ the size of a compact car.

So I'm working on it.

It's a process.

It's a SLOW process.

And sometimes I have to think about a guy with a bag of ham, and remind myself he was right all along.

He's at an impressionable age right now...

My kid, he's just like me.

He's smart, stubborn and has an unnatural attraction to shiny things and superheroes.

My kid, he's nothing like me.

He's a drama queen - currently he's in his room fake crying as loudly as he can, door open and standing in said doorway for maximum effect - he loves to be around people, and he's never met a crab leg he didn't like.

In the 5 plus years I've been his Mama, it's been amazing to watch him develop.

I'd like to say I've guided him, but really I feel like more of a spectator to the entire ordeal, standing on the sidelines, watching but unable to enact any real change with my praise, encouragement  or counseling.  He does his own thing.  He is his own kid.  That's not to say he doesn't pick up things from others.  Ya know, because he lives in the world, and I'm powerless to stop it.

A while back, he went somewhere with RJ, and came home calling everybody "Bro" and drinking sweet tea exclusively, which had previously not been consumed at 154 Hidden Court.  I am of the personal opinion that sweet tea is of the devil and is designed to make you thirstier.  After that same trip, he began to regularly request fish sticks dipped in applesauce.  Blech.

And that was the beginning of the end, so to speak.  Since then, he has picked up things from people other than myself at an alarming rate.

Last week, I had Willie blaring on my iPod, and he walked up, listened for a minute, then said "Mama, do you have anything with a little more Boomp-Boomp in it?"

I've been working with him to drop the phrase "Oh My Gosh" in favor of something more kindergarten appropriate, like "Goodness gracious."  Occasionally when I'm feeling crazy, I'll encourage him to say "Goodness gracious great balls of fire."  He ran up to me the other day yelling "Goodness gracious my balls are on fire!"  Uh... that's close?  I guess?  Good effort?

He has also started using the phrase "punked" a lot.  I'm not entirely sure he knows what it means.  I'm not entirely sure I know what it means.  Usually, it's used in the following sentence "Mama!  Cj punked me!"   I'm certainly sure cj doesn't know what punked means, and if he did, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't do it to zj.  Moving on...

When things are going his way, he likes to announce that he's on the "Happy Train."  I'm pretty sure that's a reference to drug use, but whatever.  At least I can decipher the meaning.

When I handed his his lunch the other day, he looked down it and said with an impressive amount of disdain, "That's not what I ordered."

He recently came running up to me crying that he had fallen down and "hurt his spleen."  Never mind that he was holding onto his arm at the time...

He also likes to occasionally announce, for no apparent reason, that he "has a little mean inside him," and if he is uninterested in doing what I need to him to do at any given moment, he will say "Nah, I'm out."

He has recently moved cool to a whole new level.  His Bieber-hair must be JUST SO, he's working on his whole "click-wink" that he uses when he is trying to be especially impressive, and he likes to yell "Who's the Man?  I'm the Man!" when he does something particularly good, like win at a video game.

When he was three and still somewhat interested in making Mama happy, he would tell me he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up.  I asked him recently and he said "I'm gonna have a comic book store."  I said "I thought you wanted to be a doctor."  His response?  "Nah, too hard."

Yeah, my days of having any influence on him at all are definitely numbered.

When he starts school in the fall, I'm afraid he's going to be in for a big shock.

Probably, it won't be quite as big as his teacher's though.

Good in your mouth Stuffed Eggplant.

A few months ago, I set out on a path to eat better, exercise more and lose weight.

So far, so good.

The exercise has been surprisingly easy, because I have discovered that I love running, and I just finished up running my fifth race - a half marathon.  Oy.

The challenge, I have found, is cooking for my entire family at the same time.  Right after I started my healthier eating plan, RJ lost 20 pounds, which he didn't necessarily need to do.  The bastard.  

Totally not fair.

Anyway, there has to be a middle ground.  Surely there is food that a) doesn't taste like dirt b) won't make my ass huge and c) won't make my hubby &/or children look emaciated.

I'm slowly figuring it out.  It's a diet that includes lots and lots of fruits and vegetables, a little bit of meat, a few carbs, and cheese.  Plenty of cheese.  And chocolate.  And beer.  Oh wait.  That may be how I got here in the first place...  

So, I though I'd try to incorporate vegetables that weren't on our usual corn and green beans radar.  Enter ... Stuffed Eggplant.

WHAT YOU NEED:

1 Eggplant

4 oz. turkey smoked sausage, cubed into 1/2 inch pieces

1 small white onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, give or take, depending on how much you like garlic.  I like it.

1 stalk celery, chopped

either 3/4 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced, or one small can chopped mushrooms  

1 tsp. dried italian seasoning

1/2 tablespoon olive oil

2/3 cup of your favorite tomato-based pasta sauce.  I used Ragu Garden Vegetable, because it tastes good.

1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese

1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

WHAT YOU DO:

Preheat your oven to 350ish.  Slice the eggplant in half lengthwise and scoop the guts out.  Discard.  They're like medical waste and you do not want to eat them.  Make sure you have scooped out enough so that a small hollow forms.  Pop the two eggplant halves in the oven for a few minutes to start softening them up.  Ten minutes or so ought to do.  Meanwhile... Put the olive oil in a skillet, then add the onion, celery, garlic and mushrooms.  Saute that mess up until the onions start to become translucent, then add in the smoked sausage and Italian seasoning and cook until the smoked sausage starts to brown a bit a and look delicious.

By this point, your eggplant should be out of the oven.  Scoop half the sausage mixture into one half and the rest into the other half.  Top these with the pasta sauce, then both kinds of cheese.  

Put them back into the oven until the cheese melts and is bubbly and good - about 10 more minutes.

Good news:  One eggplant yields two servings.

Better news: Each serving is about 500 calories.

Bad news: There will be no leftovers.

Zombie toes, part two. Or, about my recent shoe fitting.

I have foot issues.  Feet issues.  Whatever.  It's both of them.  One just more than the other.

Anyway, here's a little background.

My feet are small.  Not, "awww... how cute, she wears a 6" small, but more "awww... all her shoes have sparkles and cartoon characters because she has to shop in the kid's department" small.  Now, that has a few benefits.  Kid's shoes are generally much cheaper than adult shoes.  Ok, it has ONE benefit.  Try shopping for cute hooker heels for date night in a size little girls 3.5.  It ain't easy, folks.  Sadly, it's possible, but it ain't easy.

Oh, and also, one foot is wider than the other one.  Like, by half a size or so.  Enough to matter.

I've stumbled - literally - through my adult life wearing sandals, Crocs, and too-big boots, and I've managed just fine.

Up until now.

Up until running.

Once I started running for real, it became a quest to find running shoes that actually fit.

I went through about six pairs of running shoes, feeling all the while like Goldilocks.  "This one's too tight."  "This one's too big."  "This one's a device of torture."  You know the drill.  Being a huge Nike fan, and since most Women's shoes start in a size 5.5 or 6, my choices were somewhat limited.  Ok, they were incredibly limited.  I finally settled in on a pair of Nike Pegasus, size 5 wide to accommodate my fat foot, and was happy with my choice.

Until I started putting in some real mileage in them.  Three miles, fine.  Five miles, ok.  Eight or nine miles at a time, and my toenails all started turning black.  And falling off.  And then the part underneath the falling off part would turn black again.  And get blisters.  And ooze.

Ug. Ly.

And just in time for sandal season!

So, I did what any semi-intelligent person would do.

I ignored it.

For a REALLY long time.  Like, until I only had two toenails left.

Finally, RJ intervened and insisted I go get fitted at a real running shoe store, by someone who had a clue... So, off we went.

We walked into the cute little store, ooohed and aaahed over the cute little shoes we saw for a minute, then were approached by an helpful and earnest looking young man.  "What can I help you with today?"

"My wife needs new running shoes." RJ isn't one to mess around.

"Ok, come on over here and have a seat and" - glancing down at my sandal-clad feet - "OH DEAR GOD!  I'll be right with you.  In a minute.  As soon as I do... something... in the back... for a minute.  Just a minute."


He quickly made his way over to a couple other employees and began to whisper frantically under his breath, all the while making large hand gestures and carefully avoiding looking in my direction.  There was a quick game of rock, paper, scissors, which he lost - Dumbass.  Everybody knows you NEVER pick paper - then he headed back toward us, trying not to stare at my feet.  He failed miserably.

It's like that thing when you see someone who is morbidly obese, or only has 2 limbs, or has a hole where his nose should be.  You KNOW you shouldn't stare, but you don't want to be obvious about NOT LOOKING, so in the end, you don't know where to look at all and you end up looking at his crotch or something, which is WAY more comfortable for everyone.

Yeah, it was kinda like that.

Just as he shored himself up and started to do his duty, a lady, clearly his supervisor, walked up and asked him to go wrap a knee, which I assume is code for "I don't think you can handle this; go in the back, eat a Snickers, drink some water, take some deep breaths, and get over it.  We all have nightmares.  This is yours."

Anyway, the lady stepped in and took over our transaction like a pro.  She glanced at my feet, dook a deep breath, and said "Looks like you need some new shoes.  What I see there is never good."

At this point, she began to measure, assess, test, pull, push and shove my feet around.  I ran on a treadmill for a few minutes, and was labeled an "overpronator," which always makes me think of big noses for some reason, but really means I run all knock-kneed, kinda like Forrest Gump.

Then she started bringing out the shoes.

First pair, too big.

Second pair, too big.

Third through fiftieth pairs,  too big.

Along the way, there were a few lame jokes about my wearing shoes that light up, etc.  Yeah, heard it all before, thanks.  Anyway, finally, I said "When I buy little girl's dress shoes, I usually get buy a 3.5."

She went to the back again, and came out with a pair of Brooks Universal Platform stability shoes, size 4 in little girl's.  They have purple daisies on them, because - Hello!  Little Girl's!

And they fit.

Assured that my life would change now that I had shoes that fit, I set out to run 13.1 miles the next day.

Wearing my new shoes, on the advice to the nice lady who seemed to know what the hell she was talking about.

Yeah, bad call.

At the half mile mark, they started to tingle a little bit.  By mile two, my left foot was throbbing.  By mile five, I was vomiting from the pain, and I have a pretty extreme tolerance for pain.  Just ask the nurse who threatened to tie me to my bed when I was walking around 4 hours after my last c-section.  By mile 8, I had taken it off and was walking barefoot.

After the race, I've done a handful of easy runs in these on the treadmill, and although the searing pain hasn't returned, my feet hurt in places that my feet have never hurt before.  Like the heel.  And the bottom.  And the top.  And the sides.

So it's back to square one for me as far as running shoes go.

Anybody out there know of some shoe elves who might come over in the middle of the night and make me a new pair of running shoes?  Or maybe I could just borrow a pair of theirs.  They would probably fit.

  

Yeah, I just ran a mini marathon. My feet could star in a zombie movie. With redneck playlist!!!

So the running bug bit me a while back and it bit HARD.   I'm not an especially good runner.  My form is bad, my pacing is poor, my toes are black and look like they have been stepped on by an overweight elephant.  Also, I'm not really at a training level to run a mini-marathon.  Oh, and my feet... My poor, battered feet...  I am currently missing a toenail, am about to lose another one, and only have two that aren't black or bruised.  I have feet issues.  Serious ones.  But whatever.  I'd post a picture, but I don't want to run both my readers off.  It's ugly.  Maybe, just maybe, if you're lucky, I'll tell you all about my most recent shoe fitting, which led me to wear a pair of brand new, un-broken in, untried shoes for my longest race ever,  but for now, let's focus on the race, shall we?

Anyway, I signed up for, ran (mostly) and successfully completed this little mini, feet be damned.  Here's how it went down:

Starting Line - on the playlist:  Harper Valley PTA by Bobbie Gentry  I always wonder about the women at these races who have to get up at least three hours early to tease and/or otherwise bouffant their hair and carefully apply their makeup.  That woman up there has AT LEAST half a can of Aqua Net on her beehive.  That shit is going to melt once she starts sweating.  Hey!  Why is she in a faster corral than me?  Oh, here we go!!!

Mile one - on the playlist:  Van Lear Rose by Loretta Lynn  Ok, I wanted music to start that would help me pace myself, but... this song is so SLOW I'm practically running backward.  Hmmm... these shoes aren't feeling too great.  Actually, my left foot sort of seems like it may explode soon.  Hey Will, 5:30 Asics Pace Runner, do your really thing dropping trou and going pee in the middle of the race while a pace group is following you is a great idea? Ok, I guess you do.  Carry on, then.  And I kinda need to pee, too.  And what's that weird smell?

Mile two - on the playlist:  I Don't Want To Get Over You by Norah Jones and Willie Nelson  It's my man Willie's birthday today!  Love ya Willie!  Aw... isn't it sweet that the band kids are playing for us?  But could you crank it down a notch?  I'm trying to listen to Willie here.  And... my left foot is REALLY going to explode now.  It's ok, I didn't like that foot very much anyway.   Hi Mr. Policeman.  You are doing a good job keeping the traffic from crushing us on these side streets.  I appreciate that very much.  I'd appreciate it more maybe if you weren't the THIRD COP IN A ROW who was either playing Angry Birds and/or texting your wife/girlfriend/both on your iPhone.  I'm on to you.  I have an iPhone, and I know what it means when you hold it sideways...  And I REALLY need to pee.  And I STILL smell that smell.

Mile three - on the playlist:  I Feel Lucky by Mary Chapin Carpenter   Hmmm... this isn't the best neighborhood, is it?  Damn, my foot hurts.  Anyway, you adorable pit bull, you... you just stay on that side of the chain link fence, ok?  I really don't feel like being bitten today.  Unless maybe you could gnaw my left foot off.  Then it might be ok.  Hey, is that a hooker passed out on that porch?  Also, I'm thinking about peeing on myself.  REAL runners do that, right?  That smell... not going away.  What could that possibly be?

Mile four - on the playlist:  You're the Reason Our Kids are Ugly by Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty  OMG IS THAT A PORTAPOTTY LINE?  I'm totally stopping...  8 minutes later... Whew, that's better.  I can totally do this.  Well, I could totally do this if my left foot weren't about to explode.  Ok, and that smell keeps getting worse.  And worse.  Are we near a dog food factory or something?  Oh... I think I figured it out.  I'M THE SMELL.  It smells like teen spirit up in here, y'all.  And it's bad stuff.  

Mile five - on the playlist:  Tainted Love by Soft Cell  Not.  Feeling. Well.  Nauseous.  Foot. Hurts.  And how the HELL did that song get on my playlist?  Maybe I'll step over here for a minute... My sincerest apologies go out to the members of the Daughters of the American Revolution and/or their groundskeepers for any vomit I may have left near your building.  I can assure you that it is in no way a reflection of how I feel about your fine organization.  

Mile six - on the playlist:  Lyin' Eyes by the Eagles  Ok, I feel better, except for my left foot.  And I'm not sure that will ever be the same again.  Did that Grandma in front of me just Jump. Up. In. The. Air. And. Do. A. Leprechaun. Heel. Kick?  Why yes, yes she did.  Go Grandma.  Right now I hate you with a passion that is indescribable, you and your show-offy heel kicky 70 year old feet that work properly.  Bitch.  I think I'm going to step over here to the side and maybe do a quick amputation.  Or maybe I'll just take my sock off and try running without it...

Mile six point one - on the playlist: Did I Shave My Legs For This by Deana Carter Alrighty, the no sock thing was a bad idea.  Guess I'll get out of traffic and put that sucker back on...  My left shoe, however, I think I can do without. 

Mile seven - on the playlist:  Mind Your Own Business by Hank Williams Jr.  Hi Old Guy.  You must be Gene, since your shirt says "Gene's 38th Mini Marathon."  Either you're Gene, or you rolled Gene in the parking lot and stole his shirt.  Yes, I know I'm carrying my shoe.  Yes, I know it's a bad idea to wear new shoes on race day.  Yes, I understand that the same thing happened to you back in '78 in Memphis.  No, really I don't care.  Gene, I appreciate your wise words and witty anecdotes and all, but I think I might move on over to the side and put my shoe back on.  No, no, you go on ahead.  I don't want to hold you up.

Mile eight - on the playlist:  It's A Great Day To Be Alive by Travis Tritt  Great news!  Now my left foot is completely numb, so it no longer matters if it explodes.  Except exploded foot is going to be Hell to clean out of those shoes before I return them... Hey!  Is this Churchill Downs we're running through?  Awesome!  Also, the smell of horse piss is stronger than the smell of ME, and also considerably more pleasant.  Hey lady?  Why would you stop in the middle of a race to take pictures?  Don't you know you can buy a postcard?  Whatever.  Cool!  Beer tents.  I'm gonna be over there asleep under that pallet of Bud Light Lime if you need me.

Mile nine - on the playlist: Delta Dawn by Tanya Tucker  I love this song.  It's one of those songs I just can't help but sing along to...  Oh, what are you looking at, lady?  It's a good song.  Besides, you are dressed like a middle aged, overweight Wonder Woman.  Clearly drawing attention to yourself is something you know a little bit about.  These people who stand out here and hand out water to all us thristy folks are awesome, but this group from Walgreens is the only group who is keeping the cups and bottles and other trash picked up along the way.  Clearly, being of the retail sort, they are used to picking up after other people.  And... my foot hurts. 

Mile ten - on the playlist:  One More Last Chance by Vince Gill Why are all the people around me congratulating each other?  We have THREE.  POINT.  ONE.  FREAKIN'. MILES. LEFT.  That's a 5k, people.  There is a more than even chance that SOMEBODY will drop out past this point.  Like me, maybe.  Wonder how that works?  Do I just raise my hand and ask to be excused?  Get a hall pass, maybe?  Or do I just go sit down on the side of the road and a bus comes and gets me in a few minutes and takes me to the gladiator ring with all the other losers and we get fed to the lions?  Hmmm...  I should have researched that a little better.  I hate being unprepared.  Guess I better keep going.

Mile eleven - on the playlist:  The Church on Cumberland Road by Shenandoah Seriously?!?!?!  Do you guys really think a mini-marathon is a good place to come on a getting-to-know-you date?  Also, dude, I'm pretty sure a line that starts with "I've made lots of bad choices in my life..." is NOT the way to guarantee a follow-up date.  And honey, you are way cute, but you are a hot sweaty mess right now, and your ponytail, which was probably all cute and perky this morning, is all higgledy-piggledy and askew.  You really don't want a guy to see you like that until after the third date.  And... my foot cannot possibly still be a functioning limb at this point.  That's ok, though.  I'll just get one of those super duper replacements like the Bionic Woman has.

Mile twelve - on the playlist:  Bye Bye by Jo Dee Messina One mile and change to go!  At this point, it will be easier to finish than to quit, because of the car is parked pretty close to the finish line.  Smart thinkin', huh?  Hey, is that Austin Powers up there?  Dammit.  I must be dehydrated and delusional.  Nope, that really is some yahoo dressed like Austin Powers.  Also, maybe I'll just get a peg leg and become a pirate, since my left foot is going to fall off soon.  Pirates are in right now, aren't they?  I'd hate to be a pirate if they were so last week...

Mile thirteen - on the playlist:  Beer for My Horses by Toby Keith & Willie Nelson There are two free drink tickets in my pocket calling my name.  After I finish this #&!@*$# race, I will drink beer.  And eat.  Possibly a whole cow.  With a couple chickens and a loaf of bread on the side.  And a pizza for dessert. And maybe a bottle of wine.  Or three.  Oh, and ice cream... Right after I throw up again... 

Finish Line - on the playlist:  Ready to Run by the Dixie Chicks  I can see the finish line!!!  I'm running FULL OUT!  Ok, maybe not.  How about moderately paced?  Anyway, surely the 10,000 people or so standing around the finish line aren't done already.  Yep, they're done already.  Including all those folks over there who are actual marathon runners.  They've run twice as far as I have, plus they've all had time to cool down, dry off, grab a bite to eat, tell a few funny stories, and... OH WHATEVER.  I'm done!  I did it!  And I got a freakin' medal to prove it.  Hey, why does my medal say "Wal-Mart" on it?


And here I am a couple days later, happy I did it, proud I finished, sore, tired, and planning how to do better next time... and there will be a next time.  


Actually, it's kind of like being pregnant.  It sucks and you're miserable the entire time, but you forget quickly enough, and do it all over again, because the rewards are worth the pain.


So, here's to the Derby City Marathon in 2012. 


I'm thinking by then, I'll be ready to run the whole damn 26.2.