Epic Battles on Ugly Sweaters!!!

Have you heard of this Coke Zero: Sweater Generator thingy? Well, I've created an ugly Xmas sweater that I'm calling "Epic Battles" -- it pits dolphin against robots, unicorn against ninjas, Sasquatch against snakes, and of course T-rex against narwhal. Who will win? ME! If you go vote! I think I win the sweater itself, and you know you want to see me in that! And in that case, we all win!

VOTE HERE.

Engine Engine #9

Over on that Facebook thingy, a friend of mine played one of those old numbers games -- "tell X number of things about yourself, and pass it along -- so I played along. I was given the number 9, so I'm going ahead and passing it along here, too. Without further ado, here's 9 facts you might not know about me:

1. I don't talk much. People who only know me either online or one-on-one are always surprised to find this out. But I'm actually very, very quiet.

2. The quiet doesn't mean nothing's going on inside. On the contrary, I'm usually having elaborate tales and conversations inside my head, which helps to drown out all the excessive talking others do around me. If I don't hear what you say the first time, it's usually because I was listening to something else inside my head.

3. I really do like bacon, unicorns, and Star Wars as much as it seems. I just don't have as much bacon and unicorns in my daily life. Star Wars is ever-present, however.

4. I don't have any tattoos, but I came very close to getting a giant Mothra tattooed across my back about a decade ago -- had the money saved and everything. Then I realized I could go on a really neat vacation instead of getting some skin art, so I did that.

5. I've had a lifelong crush on Jack Lemmon that has never abated. The crush may have even kept me from being in serious, long-term relationships throughout my 30s. (No, I do not make Scott compensate by reciting lines from Some Like It Hot or dressing in drag. Speaking of drag...)

6. My "thing" for beards is really just an overgrown (pardon the pun) fascination with something I can't do/have myself. I don't actually want one -- especially not after wearing one for half the day this past Halloween. Itchy and sweaty! How do you beardy gents do it?

7. I have a mild, but visible phobia of escalators. I'll take the stairs or an elevator every chance I can instead of getting on one of those. When there are no other options, you may see me do a little hesitant two-step as I get on, and freeze before getting off in a way that makes me stumble as my feet hit the end.

8. I have a mild fear of elevators, too, but only when they're crowded. It's actually the people that give me the discomfort, not the small, falling box. This has made riding the bus and train very difficult for me, but I'm using it as a challenge to stay focused.

9. According to my mother, I was likely conceived at the drive-in. Pretty remarkable, considering that it was early March in Chicago ... a little too briskies for friskies, you'd think!

This entry has been brought to you by Wilson Pickett, the number nine, and random image searches for combinations of the words: unicorn, bacon, star wars, jack lemmon, beard, mothra.

Make It S.O.

I guess I still have an imaginary boyfriend.

But it's not all it's cracked up to be. 

On the Run

I just realized something... I run like Robin trying desperately to keep up with Batman.

Since I last wrote -- *GASP!* -- six weeks ago, I've amazingly continued running.

Yes, it's still more like "not dying" than running, per se, but the point is that I've persisted with it. And the good news is I've actually succeeded at something! Sure, I'm so slow that even a guy wearing flip-flops was able to pass me. Take that in a moment: a guy was running in flip-flops. And he passed me. Twice.

Maybe he needs a pair of these?

But despite those kinds of crippling emotional setbacks, I've somehow managed to officially make it all the way around the park. Three times! Without dying!

No, it wasn't three consecutive times around the park -- just once on three separate occasions. And once around is only slightly over two miles ... but there's sun and hills and bugs and shit. That's a lot to ask of a person who only ever ran ("didn't die") indoors on a flat treadmill before this.

Rule #1: Run hungry.

Here's what I've learned so far:

• No matter how good of an idea it seems to eat ice cream before running to give yourself a little sugar burst of energy when you're lagging after work, it never is. You will end up making embarrassing noises during your run and feeling miserable. This goes for pretty much any eating, frankly. You're no marathoner ... run hungry. 

• No matter how good of an idea it seems to run with an excitable, untrained dog, it never is ... especially when your dog doesn't know how walk on a leash. You will end up doing a bellyflop onto the pavement when you're running full speed downhill and he decides to cross in front of you. 

• No matter how good of an idea it seems to run at midday, it never is ... especially when your wardrobe consists almost entirely of black clothing. You will come close to heatstroke and think you're dying for really real. 

• Bugs will always aim for your eyes, nostrils or, most often, gaping mouth. But hey, remember how hungry you were before your run? Bonus protein! 

• Water is your friend. Invite your friend into your daily life as often as possible and your run will benefit. 

• Morning runs are the easiest: less bugs, less people, less heat. Pre-dusk runs are a good second choice: still less heat, but way more people and bugs.  

• A supportive running bra and well-fitting athletic shoes are your best investment. So why are you still putting those off? Go invest already, jeez! 

• While you're at it, get some compression socks, will ya? You're not getting any youner! 

• I still hate running. 

I Heart Not Running

Mostly, I've learned that I'm not a runner. Not yet, at least. I'm not ready to start putting numbers on my car. 

Damn, now I can't have this sticker anymore either.

And old injuries plus a mild, underlying heart condition might keep me from ever being the kind of "athlete" that wants to sign up for races ... or at least I'd use those as my excuses. Remember my mention of the flip-flops runner? I wasn't kidding. This is more likely what would really stop me: 

Most humiliating part would be that it's not even me in the orange.
Look in the far left background. That'd me in the blue. Walking. 

Here's a little test to see if you're really a runner. If you answer yes to any of these, you can get yourself the appropriate numbers oval: 

(1)

Nope.

(2)

Double nope.

(3)

Also nope. Still not really a runner.

(4)

Hmm ... now you're talking!

Lastly, and maybe most importantly, the thing I've learned is I might need to invest in one of those fancy iPods and fill it full of rhythmically and lyrically inspiring music to keep me going. Every time I see a truly fit, determined runner, he or she is wearing some sort of MP3 player. There might be something to that, because most days I feel like my brain DJ isn't doing me any favors. 

You see, the first time I made it all the way around the park, I had one song stuck on repeat in my head. Was it the theme from ROCKY? No. It was this ... 

The second time I made it all the way around the park, THIS was stuck on repeat in my head, and for half the day afterwards ... 

But wait, it gets worse. The third time I made it all the way around the park, this was stuck on repeat in my head -- and STILL IS ... 

You know what this means, right? I mean besides the fact that I desperately need an MP3 player. It means that my brain DJ strangely believes that songs that involve afro-headed white dudes are the most inspiring and motivational songs ever, that's what. 

I'm afraid that also means this is the next song to take me around the park, and possibly follow me into a week-long extended-remix mania ... 

Don't judge me until you've run a mile in my brain.

You Better Shape Up!

I'm a runner.

Let me rephrase that.

I'm a "please don't die"-er. And I'm a "just make it to that next curve"-er. And I'm also an "ow, ow, ow, ow, holy crap, ow"-er. And somewhere in there, I've been becoming a runner.

Actual action shot of me running. Taken yesterday.

I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. I hate running. But lately I've been running anyway, and most surprising of all ... NOTHING is chasing me!

My runner boyfriend is excited, because he thinks we'll be running races together someday soon. To that I say, "Ahahahahahahahhahahahhahahahahahahahaha *cough* hahahaha!"

Running sucks.

It started when I went to my beloved gym one night, only to find the doors locked and a sign up saying, "Closed - Sorry for the inconvenience." The next night, I returned to find the doors menacingly chained with a thick padlock, the same useless sign, and another next to it saying, "If you're upset about the closing of this gym, come try ours. We have Polynesian Zumba!"

WTF?

Aside from being confused and a little scared by the idea of whatever "Polynesian Zumba" might be ... which, frankly, sounds like a more exotic form of West Nile Virus ... I had the sinking feeling that my gym might be closed for longer than just a night or three.

You can hear it, can't you?

Returning home with the sad "Charlie Brown" music playing on repeat in my head, I found an email from my gym's management saying that they'd lost a battle with their landlord, and were hoping to have a resolution ... "meanwhile, feel free to use the gym that's 6 miles and 30 minutes of shitty traffic farther away." Um, no thanks.

So after a week of being totally bummed, picturing myself getting heavier and sadder until my entire life would be shattered by this turn of events, I finally forced myself to take drastic measures: I would have to make laps around a local park.

Running with me convo #1: Why the hell do people run marathons?

It's not a bad park, mind you ... I don't know why I haven't spent much time there before. It's always buzzing with activity and, for some reason, disc golfers. Why not? And while I'm at it, maybe I'll give this running thing a try again.

Running with me convo #2: I'm too out of shape for this.

Now, I have not run in a decade (once upon a time, I was kinda good at it) ... not for more than a few minutes at a stretch and on treadmill, at least ... and definitely not since I've seriously damaged both knees in equally painful (both physically and psychologically) falls ... both captured for posterity here and here (with a bonus follow up here). Those injuries' remaining twinges and "sitting in a rattan chair while pulling apart a pop-pearl necklace" sounds are not helping to rekindle a love affair with running.

Running with me convo #3: I need to walk. Wait, why does that hurt more?

That doesn't mean I'm not doing it, however. I mean, I hate it ... and I hate most of the people around me who are doing it, like they invented running or something. But I'm DOING IT.

Speaking of hate, can I just take a moment to ask one thing ... what the hell is up with all the shirtless running dudes? Stop it! Just. Just. Stop. It's not turning anyone on. No one. But it is making the rest us all realize how disgusting we all look under our clothes, drenched in sweat that's running down our flabby bodies. And did I feel some of your droplets hit me as you splashed past me? Gah! Please, for the love of not-vomiting, keep your shirts on!

Don't be THAT guy!

Despite the gross, shirtless dudes ruining it for everyone, I will say that I do enjoy when my park will have the occasional dude with a giant afro, skipping rope around the park...

He was way more adept than this, but I imagine this is how his practice went.

Or another dude wearing all purple, hula-hooping his way around the park...

Or a random hipster kid in a giant stuffed animal head hat, shuffling aimlessly around the park (I keep wanting the disc golfers to take aim at those giant hats).

Damn, hipsters!

I enjoy all of those things very much. What I don't enjoy are the times when a bug goes down my gasping pie hole, or up my nose, or in my eye. Those things do not happen at the gym!

One night, the bugs were particularly bad ... probably because I'd cut it too close to dusk, which is when they all come out, along with other sorts of creepers ... the kind who look at you like they're sizing you up for something. The bugs, along with my deathly gasping for air and loud knee-popping, may have saved me from harm that night, because after an especially stingy-juiced bug committed Hara-Kiri in my eye, I ended up running the rest of the way around the park in the near-dark like so:

Not shown: The snot running from my right nostril, thanks to the stinging bug juice.

The creepers actually stayed waaaay away from me. I can't imagine why!

So when I say I'm a runner, I'm using the term loosely. I am getting better, at least. And I haven't died! The complaining in my head, however, hasn't really relented much. My daughter has started running with me lately, and I've come to realize that bringing her is like bring along a loudspeaker for my inner dialogue:

"I hate this. I can't breathe. I think I might collapse. Can we stop? I really hate this. Why did I come here? I never like doing this. I'm stopping. Can we at least get ice cream afterwards?"

At least it's a good reminder that I need to tone up my own flabby inner dialogue, along with the outer flab. Maybe if I just focus on looking up at all the lovely rainbows and moon and clouds and shit, that'll take my mind off of possibly dying.

Ah, that's better!

Tonight's blog has been brought to you by the letters R, D, the number 3 (as in the three Bartles & Jaymes coolers that I drank while writing) and the sound of awesomeness. More specifically, the whole first album of Brazilian Tropicalia glam rock gods, Secos e Molhados (Dry and Wet). Seriously, these guys are the shizz!

What a Girl Wants...

*swoon*

Kisses on the hand.

Silly little notes to make her laugh. Just because.

Love letters that arrive mail that punctuate what is cherished most about her.

Reminders of her found while surfing the internet, and shared to her page.

Doors held open.

"Good morning," and "good night," texts, if not together ... or even if they are!

Flowers, but not necessarily bought. Picked and handed to her is lovely, too.

Attempts at fixing something around her house.

Handmade gifts.

Shares with the world how proud of her he is, like picture posts or life moment brags.

Holding hands during long walks or short car rides. And not letting go.

Hugs. Just because.

Getting surprised with a dinner (or dinner plans) already made for her.

Hearing the words "I love you" said (or whispered) daily, if possible.

These are but a few of the things we girls want more of.




What a guy wants... 

Blow jobs.




Conclusion... 

Ever wonder if the frequency of receiving those things is directly proportional to one another?

(Answer: It is.)

We girls remember those romantic gestures that you couldn't help but do in those early days. We also wonder where they went, and why you wait for a "special occasion" to dust them off. They're not "sweet nothings" -- they are "sweet everythings"!

Sure, grand gestures are awesome, but it's the small, creative, day-to-day romantic gestures that truly keep our "home fires" burning. We girls love being reminded that we inspire those actions in you, even the smallest ones -- so much so, it just naturally "inspires" frisky reciprocation from us! We don't even consciously realize it, but it's true.

Basically, this is Mother Nature's way of making sure that everyone wins!

Now get out there and pave the way for more blow jobs, fellas!

You were staring at my boobies, weren't you? 

Can't Touch This!

Sometimes I think I shop late at night for the same reason that I used to go on ill-fitting dates: for the stories.

So I'm standing in line at the (super giant chain) grocery store, and a guy comes up behind me with little ones in tow and only about five items in his cart. I ask, "Want to go ahead of me," like I often do, because I often have about 250 things in my cart, and I like to be conscientious of other people's time.

He graciously accepts, and now I'm still standing in line, but with sense of "all is well with the world," since I just did one of my favorite things.

After we continue to there for about 15 minutes for just one woman to discuss with the cashier (who is indulging her, mind you) the finer details of the stitching on the 3 items she's buying, the man that I let go in front of me begins speaking to someone apparently just to my right?

"Oh, I don't think I can. I was allowed ahead myself."

I look to my right and there's an exceedingly skinny, shaky "gentleman" swaying back-and-forth while hoisting up a pair of flip-flops in a "May I?" gesture. Now he's hoisting them at me.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," I relent.

"Oh thank you," he bellows.

Without missing a beat, flip-flop guy is suddenly squeezing me close. As if that wasn't freaking me out enough, he turns and puts his mouth right up to my ear and sort of low giggle-growls, "You know you don't want me smelling like a liquor store standing at your backside."

It went from feeling like this...

...To this. Really quick.

Then he squeezed me again for good measure, and hopped up to the front of the line.

As I'm standing there trying to shake off the willies that I'm feeling, a woman pops up behind me screeching, "LEON, GET ME DEEZE, TOO!"

I turn to see an equally skinny, equally shaky woman waiving bikini bottoms in the air. Not whole swimsuits ... just the bottoms ... and she looks at me and adds, "They're for my dancin'!"

As if that were not not enough of a visual for my brain to try to purge, she proceeds to then show me her dance moves, which were seriously inappropriate for doing in a grocery store, much less in front of that other guy's little ones!

After about 2 awkward minutes of her punctuating her dancing by repeating the phrase, "You know what I'm talkin' 'bout," she then slaps me on the back (although in retrospect, I think it was an attempted hug that I shied away from just in time), and hops up to the front of the line, where she proceeds to hug the guy ahead of me, one of his kids, the lady who was still discussing the stitching, our lane's cashier, and the cashier for the lane next to us.

That's when I notice that somehow "Leon" had been hiding several other little things behind those flip-flops he was waiving -- cigarettes, lighter, batteries, crackers, some sort of ... ointment. Or maybe he just managed to grab all of those things in the checkout lane? I don't know. I'm still in some amount of shock.

Their little "may I skip ahead" stunt ended up going on for 15 more minutes as they stood there making friends with the cashier -- who, again, was indulging them -- before finally making their exit ... but not before telling everyone in our line that they will remember us all and, "We're friends for life now! We don't forget!"

For some reason, this feels more like a threat than a promise.

Strangely enough, just two nights earlier at the drive-in for the big "Monster Bash" event, I overheard in the restroom some girls chatting about buying "bright colored bottoms at [mega chain store] for go-go dancing" -- that must have been exactly what this woman was waiving around. Maybe I spent too much time with that info in my head and I drew this to me? I dunno; I'm still confused.

I think this shopping experience officially beats the time that I was there after 1AM, with two "gentlemen" standing in line together behind me. One kept repeating over and over, "gon' kill dat dawg - gon' kill dat dawg," while the other stood eerily silent. They were only buying one item: a hammer.

Please, hammer, don't hurt 'em!