Warrior Dash

HHP and I are going through a bit of a rough spot. We’re talking a lot but we aren’t hearing what the other person says and we are both missing super big important non-verbal clues. It’s neither my fault or his fault. I think we were super focused on improving ourselves and now that we’re ready to pay more attention to being a couple it’s hard.  So when I conned him into signing up for the warrior dash I thought it would do us both some good.

Obviously, neither HHP and I are in prime physical condition so I knew it was going to be hard. He was unsure about the whole idea of the race; jumping over fire was intimidating and the idea of  “dying” were definite drawbacks. I was concerned about getting all Kirk Cameron left behind and not having enough confidence in myself to finish. I’m really quick to quit something because it’s hard and I know that I don’t push myself as much as I should.

So we get there, and it’s scary as fuck. There are tons of people running around some of them mud covered and even a few dressed as Link and Princess Zelda. We saw an incredibly patriotic Captain America who completed the course with a giant American Flag that didn’t get muddy at all. People dressed as Street Fighters, Spartans and even a few brides running the race.

The flames shot up at 2:30 and we were off. The first obstacle was a giant fucking hill. It was pretty similar to the hill to our house, except not paved and I couldn’t stop and pretend to check my cell phone to take a break on it.  I was caught up in the rush of the crowd and ran up it and then we came to the mud. I’m not talking about a little bit of mud, I’m saying like brownie batter, diarrhea, fire swamp from the princess bride  mud.  I fell a few times, my shoe came off once and HHP biffed it too. That part of the course exhausted me. I knew it was going to be muddy and hard but I had no idea that mud could seep into my shoes and make them 5 pounds heavier. HHP was great and he would pause and wait for me to catch up and didn’t even laugh when I face-planted into what I’m pretty sure was deer shit.

When I get in stressful situations I get snippy and shut down. HHP kept me from quitting by telling me that he was proud of me and to not care that we were getting passed by people that started half an hour later than we did. We made it through the Swamp of Sadness and then we found ourselves with more obstacles. Climbing over walls, under barb wire fences, balance beams, and even more mud. It was exhausting. I was most terrified about climbing this giant wall and I couldn’t do it but HHP did. He started to struggle a little at the  top but I think I promised him “warrior dash anal” if he completed it. We could smell the fire when we came around one of the last turns. It was much smaller than I was planning and taking practice leaps over the speed bump near our house totally paid off. HHP sailed through it and I can’t wait for the sports photos to see my look of sheer terror.

We came up to the giant cargo net. You could hear the DJ spinning Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby got back” and I was pumped. I just wanted this thing to be over but in yet another awesome act of selflessness HHP asked me to wait until a woman at the top who was visibly terrified of the downward climb got started. We cheered her on and didn’t start our climb until she was securely on the ground. We slipped ass first down a giant mud hill (I have wicked  grass rash from that) and we crossed the finish line holding hands. Ok, really HHP was pulling me along.

It was the hardest thing I’ve done in recent memory, but even when I was covered in mud hating everything and everyone and repeatedly telling HHP that this was the worst idea I’ve ever had I would do it again in a heartbeat.  I got to spend a few hours with my husband, totally relying on him and his encouragement to keep me going. That doesn’t happen very often. In our relationship I’m usually the one pushing him and encouraging him so it was a really good change of pace. The whole walk back to the car we were giddy with excitement that we accomplished something that we really didn’t think we could do;  we felt closer to each other which was exactly what we wanted.

We didn’t end up getting around to Warrior Dash Anal last night. Honestly, by the time we got in the house, sex was the last thing on our minds. We took showers, HHP dressed my wounds since I couldn’t see them and we passed out.

Everything hurts today, we’re both dragging ass and all I want to do is not wear pants but I’m happier than I’ve been in a while. We’ll probably do it next year, heck I might even do the one in NY in August and Tennessee in September. But neither of those races matter because I’ve got this:


Home Alone

HHP is gone for 13 out of the next 17 days. I’m sure by the end of it, I’ll miss him but right now I’m reveling in being alone.

Things I’ll do when HHP isn’t around

-Eat at Taco Bell.  It’s not really meat and I’m okay with that.

-Poop with the bathroom door open. (This has nothing to do with eating at Taco Bell) If you haven’t done this, I highly recommend it. It’s another level of pooping freedom.

-Write more. HHP is hands down the most supportive person on the planet. But I’m still too afraid of putting myself out there for him to read what drops out of my head.

-Wear pants around the house. When HHP is here, I don’t wear pants all the time. But when I’m almost 30, eating cereal in my underwear on the couch with the dogs. I feel creepy.

-Do the dishes and other household duties. When it’s the two of us, I can justify being lazy and letting the housework slide. But when it’s just me, I feel guilty.

-Wear his underwear. Sometimes it’s fun to rub my girl-bits all up in his shorts. (HHP doesn’t know I do this)

Things I won’t do when HHP isn’t around

-Talk a lot. I can go hours without opening my mouth but it will end up with me talking out loud to myself at 2am.

-Dance. Having a kitchen dance party all alone is the saddest kind of dance party.

-Vacuum. Yeah, I feel guilty about not having a clean house but not that guilty.

What do you do when your spouse isn’t around? Anything I need to add to my list?

I’m not a marketer; I’m also not an idiot

This first time I wrote it, it was much better and snarkier and funnier and also smarter, but WP decided it was hungry and ate my post. Here’s version 2:


I don’t know what was said yesterday in Mitch Joel’s speech at #social2011 but I’ve heard it’s pretty negative towards GenY. A paraphrase of his statement: “24 year old tattooed and pierced gen-yers are better fit to roll spliffs than think strategically.”


Here’s the thing:


1)      I had to google what the hell a spliff is.

2)      I’m not 24 and glad I’m not.

3)      I don’t do social media strategy and I kinda don’t care about social media strategy.


But I’m pissed. I’m super pissed actually. And I said so on twitter. And today I looked this dude up to see if he clarified anything from his speech, but he didn’t. He was talking to someone today and he said “for the record: not knocking young people and skills. Knocking experience. It takes experience to lead something this huge not…”


Really? Because it sounds like you are knocking young people and their skills. You’re also passing judgment on people who have piercings and tattoos which is really passé. So I tweeted that “Every single tweet from Mitch Joel makes me less and less impressed, because only those with experience can be leaders?” Surprisingly he responded. His comments were pretty unimaginative and the only reason he replied was to try and shut me up.


Here’s what chaps my ass: When I was 24 and had tattoos and piercings, I also had 10 years of work experience.  And while it wasn’t sitting in marketing meetings, I wasn’t “working” in my dad’s office for the summer either. I was interacting with customers who had successfully been marketed to. I was in the real world. Just like I’m sure Mitch was, but at 24 the internet probably wasn’t invented and marketing was done on sheets of papyrus.


But no, Mitch Joel believes that everyone is exactly the same and all young people are incompetent. With my feathers ruffled, I got on my 140 character soap box and was met with the response of telling me to pipe down because that always happens. Every generation is treated that way; it’s just the way it is. (Please tell that to anyone who has ever been discriminated against. “Just the way it is” is my favorite answer to anything ever.)


I find nothing justifiable in grouping people together simply because we all happen to be roughly the same age. Just because I sprang forth from the loins of my mother at roughly the same time as 60 million of my besties doesn’t mean we’re exactly alike. So no, you can’t market to us all the same way, nor can you assume that we all have the same work ethic and drive to succeed. And I’ll be damned if I let you treat me that way.





Vulnerability is a four-letter word.

This blog post about being vulnerable struck a chord with me. I’m not very pleased about writing this, because I prefer to live in my delusional world that I’m almost always right/perfect and have few if any flaws, but this post really brought me down a peg or 7.

Fact: I don’t do vulnerable.

I can’t pinpoint exactly where, but for a long long time now, I associate vulnerability with weakness. It’s taken me a while, but I no longer think when someone else gets weepy or is emotional that they are less than me, but I flat out refuse to show that side of myself. I’m pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of people who have seen me cry in my adult life (this includes the woman who removes the hair from my upper lip.) I don’t feel comfortable expressing sadness, grief, disappointment or fear. Give me anger, rage, joy and lust any day of the week. I’ve read enough to know that I won’t connect with people or establish true interpersonal relationships with people because I don’t show my vulnerability but frankly, it’s just not in the cards for me to call up someone and tell them that I had a super shitty day and I just wanted to share. I have to be pulled, while kicking and screaming, into sharing my emotions. I go on auto-pilot when someone asks me how I am. The words “I’m fine.” have rolled off my tongue more than a million times and even if I show a hint of not being fine, no one pushes me to elaborate.

While I could have not written anything about this, this sentence struck me:

“Lame not just because I can be a gigantic asshole but lame because I am then never ever getting my actual needs met when I express myself this way. “

Fuck. I hate not being able to place the blame on someone other than me.

The blogger’s New Year’s resolution is to be more vulnerable in 2011. She’s going to accomplish this goal by focusing on 3 tasks.:

“1) tune into my true feelings, 2) disclose those true feelings (admit when I’m wrong, admit when I’m afraid), and 3) take into consideration the feelings of others and be open to their emotional processes (especially when they’re unlike mine.)”

I think I have a good handle on steps 1 and 3; being married to HHP has made me empathetic. I can tell when people are upset and I think I’m ok with dealing with other people’s emotions. But step 2 is the biggest one for me; I think I’d rather go to the dentist and gynecologist while simultaneously getting my upper lip hair removed then disclose any negative feelings I have, but I’m going to challenge myself to try. What’s the worst that could happen?

Hot Mess, table for 1

I’ve been having some serious writers block lately. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve got tons and tons of blog posts, stories and just general ideas floating around my noggin and I can’t translate them to paper. I busy myself with unnecessary things and at the end of the day I get super annoyed that I haven’t accomplished all the things I wanted to do.  Then at 11pm I get this flash of inspiration but am too exhausted to complete anything. Then I end up staying awake until 1am because my brain is going 100 miles per hour. It’s becoming a vicious cycle and I’m getting more and more annoyed with me. So what’s the solution? What’s the best way to combat this? Should I promise myself that I should write something everyday even if it’s bad and terrible?


My problem with that is, I get stuck in the notion of having everything be perfect before I start writing. Well, if I’m going to write daily I should have a folder in my documents for daily writings. What should I title the post? Should I have a folder within the folder? Gee, my photos haven’t been alphabetized in months! This is outrageous, how can I get any work done in a word document if my photos folder looks that bad. What if I die tragically tomorrow, who will know where I hid my porn so my mother won’t look for it? Well, if both HHP and I die, I need someone else on the outside to clear my internet history and dispose of my sex toys. But, who can I trust? A local friend? My BFF who lives 5 states away? Oh, what about the dogs? And their porn history? No one should have to see the weird kind of porn my dogs are into….


Where was I going with this? Oh look, an adorable skunk!

It’s what’s for dinner

I always knew this day would come. I have known for a while that a PYT (pretty young thing) would catch his eye. I had no idea that I would have introduced them, and encouraged him to push forward in their relationship. It started innocently enough, he and I were sitting around one night watching television and I asked if he had ever noticed her before or thought about trying something new. He casually replied, “Yeah, I mean I’ve thought about it, who hasn’t? But I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve never done that sort of thing before.”

After a late night trip to the store that carries such supplies, we got down to business one Sunday night. It was scary at first, there was a bit of discoloration and the nerves were apparent, but we successfully made it through and I was so adventurous to suggest using it again the very next night. We didn’t get around to it the next night, but tonight we couldn’t contain ourselves. HHP was the first to mention it in the car on the way home. “What would you think if we uh, you know”

“Oh, oh. Oh.” Was all I could reply. I know that my suggestion from Sunday was still fresh in his mind. When we got home, he had already prepared everything. It wasn’t until the dogs started whining that I was able to fully comprehend what we were going to do. “Wait, we have to take care of the pups first.”

HHP had a few choice words for the mutts, but I told him to get started without me and I would handle them. I turned on my iPod to really set the mood as I left with the dogs. When I returned from the fastest walk the dogs have ever taken, HHP was willing, ready and waiting. Within minutes it was getting hot and heavy in the kitchen.  You could smell the soy sauce coming together with the onion powder. HHP manned his bamboo spatula like a master; debaters will speak of his skill for years. With limited experience in wok cooking, and only his second time at the helm HHP made a delicious chicken stir-fry for dinner.

Highs and Lows of Social Media

High: I asked FudgeThatSugar.com to create a facebook page and she did.

Low: Graham Elliot referred to me as a dude.

To finish off this post, I give you my favorite Fudge That Sugar comic so far:

Well it isn’t Twilight Fanfiction…

Every so often, I think about what is going to happen when a close family member dies. This happens more frequently than I should admit to, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I tend to think about it a lot. I’ve planned my father’s funeral more times than I have spoken to him in the past 5 years and whenever someone on my mother’s side dies I have to go over her and her husband’s plans that I’ve essentially known since I was in High School. So about a month or so ago, I texted my mother the following message

To: Mom

From: S

I call dibs on writing gma’s eulogy.

Being strangley similar to my mother in terms of overplanning things, I knew that she wouldn’t think twice about this text message and just file it away for future knowledge when the time comes. Her response surprised me.

From: Mom

To: S

Are you going to let her read it?

Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. I hadn’t actually written anything down, she’s not sick, she is getting older but she’s still fairly active so I hadn’t really planned on writing it soon but since it’s on my mind, maybe I should jot a few notes down. What happened was I wrote a little over 700 words describing who my grandmother was. I was pretty proud of it so I had HHP read it over. He laughed in all the right places and I sent it on to my mom.

To: Mom

From: S

Attached: gma.doc

Subject: Eulogy

Let me know what you think…

***the next day***

To: S

From: Mom

Subject: RE: Eulogy

That is beautiful,  can’t wait to print it out for Gma.    Love you,    do mine
do mine……MOM

What? Really? Um, okay I guess. So that started me on the process to eulogize my mother. It wasn’t difficult, but I had a couple of cocktails before tackling it. I debated what tense to refer to her in until HHP said “well, she’ll be dead anyways, just use past tense” The next evening, I sent my mother her eulogy. She loved it and told me she was taking it with her to her girls away weekend trip.

Truth be told, I had kind of forgotten about the whole thing until I got yet another text message

To: S

From: Mom

Your godmother says do me do me, your namesake cried

When I got over the initial What the fuck mom? How drunk are you at 10am on a Friday? confusion, I remembered that she was going to tell her friends about it. So maybe I can start a eulogy business. Maybe I can write short drabbles about the better times and overlook any bad times that are no longer important. Or maybe I can just be the Derek Zoolander of eugoogoolies…

90-day Cult

Because I’m a dumbass trying to better myself, I agreed to join some people on the internet to a 90-day challenge.  They posit that you can break/start a new habit if you do it everyday for 90 days. I have a lot of addictions/bad habits but none that I’ve purposefully started. So this whole ordeal is pretty new to me. For me, it’s not about losing weight or getting fit it’s about committing to something. I’m such a quitter it’s not even funny. I’m always the first person to pull back or am paralyzed with fear to try something new. And if you know me in real life this may seem like a surprise, but it’s true.

rippedThis is exactly what I want to look like after 90 days.

So I decided to sign the dotted line and have committed myself for the next 90 days to the 90DayCult. I will workout for at least 20 minutes everyday, be it holiday, wedding, funeral or even if I get trapped in a mine for 69 days (too soon?)

I worked out for the first time tonight in god knows how long. I went downstairs to my apartments gym (read: elliptical machine my landlord found on the side of the road) and worked hard for a good 20 minutes and 30 seconds. The 30 seconds extra was because I think I blacked out and forgot to stop.

Here’s a play-by-play of my workout:

:00.15 Man, why have I put this off for so long? This isn’t so bad. I can totally do this. 90-days you are my bitch.

:00.23 What? Why is time going so slowly?

:00.46 Okay, I’m pretty sure the time on this machine is wrong. I’ve been on here for at least ten minutes.

:01.30 I really should start preparing my will, I don’t think I’m going to last all 90 days. Tell my dogs I love them.

:02.45 Why the fuck did I agree to this? Has time stopped? God hates me.

:03.57 Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” just came on my ipod. Fuck you ipod, fuck you and your brilliant sense of irony.

:08.00 My landlord came over from his side of the basement to tell me about the heart monitor built into the elliptical machine. I really hope I don’t throw up on him.

:09.15 A pre-workout cocktail was a bad idea. A really, terrible, awful, bad idea.

:10.23 I wonder if I could read while doing this?

:10.45 Why am I doing this? Honestly, these ladies won’t know if I don’t do this every day…

:12.30 I’m pretty sure I could read during this, that would be fantastic! I would get so much more done if I could dedicate a solid 20 minutes to reading.

:14.47 What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t read when I’m dying. Who the fuck do I blame for this terrible idea?

:16:54 Neck Sweat….ewwwww

:18.00 I just tweeted during this…it took me 3 minutes to try and type, that was a terrible idea, but a really good time distraction.

:19.45 I think my heart just exploded…

I hope tomorrow goes better, I’m glad I completed the first day but frankly that shit was hard.

Wish me luck!

Wax On; Wax Off

I made the appointment for 12:30 not 2:30.So when I show up at 2:20 the receptionist looks at me like I just got off the short bus. This is after of course, they confirmed the time with me on Sunday. They manage to squeeze me in but the eastern European woman who is doing my waxing doesn’t realize this my first time. She shoves me in a room with an “I’ll be right with you” tossed casually over her shoulder and I’m not sure what the fuck is going on. There is some weird ass Enya music, some crazy ass “soothing” scent being piped in and I’m pretty sure the closet I’m trapped in has 6 walls and a mirror. The only light is this weird UFO thing that will undoubtedly magnify every single one of my flaws.

This light is now my mortal enemy.

I’m standing in this 6-sided room and now the question is do I pop my shirt off? I don’t want to be creepy and have her come in and have my shirt off when it isn’t that time. I don’t want to look exceptionally eager to get my hair ripped out like I’m some kind of masochist. If my aesthetician comes in and I’m a little too eager she might tell me a safety word and put a Kado mask on. But, I don’t want to look like a dumbass by keeping the only garment that needs to come off on. I nut up and take my shirt off. I have my standards and don’t lie on the table. The aesthetician comes in carrying a very relaxation induced pot covered in tinfoil. She looks at me like I’m clearly not mentally capable of receiving a waxing and motions for me to lie on the table.

I try to make small talk as I lie on the table about this being my first time and I realize precisely how painfully awkward I am at small talk. I trail off incoherently and notice that the table is warm. Not like residual heat from the previous victim but full on this thing is heated. I’m sure that this would be calming/relaxing/therapeutic any other time, but it’s August. I’m about to have hot wax slapped on my skin and the spa wants to make sure my ass isn’t chilly?

I lay down and the woman has me wrap my hands around the back of my head. I pray to whatever deity is watching that I have the right amount of deodorant so I don’t smell bad but not enough to interfere with the waxing and the woman proceeds to throw some baby powder on my arms. She takes a tiny hand towel and casually drapes it over my bra. I’m pretty sure she cops a slight feel but think nothing of it as my breasts are only awesomely-great on a good day and this bra is terrible to say the least. My mistress shoves the tinfoil pot against my skin while asking if it was too hot. In my fear of being punished for my insolence, I say no as she starts slapping hot wax on my armpit (I hate the euphemism underarm, it’s a pit.)

The actual wax application tickles and I feel like a pain fetish freak for giggling during my torture. The wax removal isn’t even that painful it’s truly the small talk that is awful. The woman tells me how great waxing is and the best thing for the skin so you “can go to the beach and not worry about hair and it’s also great for…the beach.” My other pit is slightly more painful and the woman really gets her face in for the last few hairs that just don’t want to be separated from my flesh.

When yet another part of my body is now unnecessarily hair-free she tells me to put my shirt back on and meet her out front. I kinda want to ask if I need to leave the money on the table and if she can hold me after, but I’m afraid that will cost extra.

After she leaves, I run over to the mirror and hold my arms up for a closer inspection. I want to be excited because I won’t have to think about shaving for a while and I can now FINALLY throw my hands in the air and wave them like I just don’t care.

yeah, I linked to an NKOTB video. You liked it.

Only, now I’ve realized something; Jesus I have ugly armpits.

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