Cake

Yeah, real sorry about the lack of posts. Thing is, my life has been more like "Eat Bitches Eat" than "Run Bitches Run" the last week or so while my best friend visited. Four days, two layers of chocolate cake, one wheel of brie, approximately fourteen bottles of wine and two packs of cigarettes (cough) later, and I'm feeling exceptionally happy and bloated.

But I did get a call this morning from a doc who's going to shoot cortizone into my bum hamstring. It hurts right where it connects with my pelvis, which means in my a. And my doctor's mildly attractive. So that should be nice and awkward.

Not working

So, S.Sadie has decided Roller Derby is cooler than waking up at 5:30 a.m. to call me and wake me up and force me to go to the gym.

Asshole.

If I look fat in any of the pictures from the wedding I'm in this summer, I'm blaming her, her whole team, and Drew Barrymore.

But, still. Now I get to say my bestie is a kickass hotass radhot roller derby mama, and there's something to be said for that.

So, a little help? The best thing about roller derby bitches is their names. What should she be? And you should know (though you don't have to use these facts in the name, they may spark your lil imagination): She is, in fact, a mama. She is also a hot bitch. She also has long red hair and pretty nice T and A. Idears?

In case you're wondering, it's gonna be just like this, but with more fishnet:

Because I know the internets were dying to know

My alarm went of at 5:30 a.m. today. I turned it off and rolled over. Two seconds later, my phone rang.

"What."
"Wake up, hey come on wake up," she was singing.
"OK."
"Go, git!"
"I hate you."
"I hate you, too."
"OK, bye."
"Bye."

Then I got my ass out of bed and went to the gym. Because my best friend is rad, and because if someone is willing to wake up at 5:30 and dial your number to try to make you do something that's going to make you feel better, you should probably do it. Also, my best friend is kind of a bitch and wouldn't let me live it down if I lied to her.

Also, I only have like one pair of pants that fits anymore. (As my 15 year old niece would say, FML.)

Oh how I love B Cup Bitches

What did bloggers do to entertain themselves before Google Analytics?

Search terms that have brought people to Run Bitches Run:

1. b cup bitches
2. bouncing boobs
3. bra bitches
4. panty crease workout

I'm pretty sure these people were disappointed with what they found here.

So, to make someone feel a little better, I'm going to post a highly disturbing video I found thanks to Kama Mama.



Seriously. If that guy was my personal trainer, I'd ask for a refund.

Mornings

Nearly every day, my alarm clock goes off at 5:30 a.m., and I promptly turn it off, then roll back into the warm body next to me. It happens if I stay up too late watching Chuck on Hulu (I have the hots for Chuck, big time, but I HATE his new hairdo. It's so Magnum P.I.) drinking wine until I spill on my shirt, pass out on the couch, and then stagger to the bedroom somewhere around three. But it also happens if I tuck myself in at 9:30, read a book (I started The Unbearable Lightness of Being, though I really feel like I should be reading the books I borrowed from my boss. I mean, if I read them fast she'll think I'm smarter, right?) then fall asleep at 10:10.

Talking to SSadie about it, she vowed to call me early mornings to help rouse me from bed.

But on day one, after a date with my boss (opera concert we both wanted to go to), I came home to three drunk boys on the couch, so of course I pounded several 22s of beer with them, then slept through my wake-up call the next morning.

We're trying again tomorrow morning.

Also: A big hurrah to an old friend who ran her first 15k run this weekend. That's more than 9 miles, if you're counting.

Color me embarrassed

What's worse than farting audibly in pilates class? Farting audibly when you're getting a private pilates session. There's just no chance of pretending it was the guy next to you.

Based on a true story

Tonight at a birthday dinner for my Tiny Running Pal, she confessed she's trying to turn another girlfriend to the dark side.

"So, I went for a walk with Ms. P the other day," TRP said, eying Ms. P across the table. "I've decided she needs to start running."

I took a bite of falafel (This is an important detail. The falafel was good.)

"Why?" I asked.

"Good question," TRP said, while Ms. P shook her head.

It all came down to a matter of pants size.

"Oh, if that's your concern, then do it," I said. "Sorry, I'm on her side. Run."

"OK," Ms. P admitted. "I'll admit, I'm intrigued by the idea."

"How long have you tried running before, did you get up to two to three times a week for a couple of months?" I asked.

She shook her head. No, she'd only lasted a couple of weeks.

"Then you don't know," I said. "Look, if I can run, and get to the point I enjoy it, you can run."

I spared her the details, about how profoundly lazy I was as a kid. How I'd fall asleep in my dinner. How I'd been on a swim team at one point, and though I'd shown some proclivity, I simply hadn't a competitive bone in my body. I'd finish a race, and my dad would be standing there, shaking his head.

"You were in first until the last few yards. You were winning," he said.

I'd shrug. Third was good, too. What was the big deal? Also, was snack time coming? And were we going to make it home in time for "Charles In Charge"?

In the car on the way home from dinner, Ms. P admitted it may be time. She may be willing to hit the trail. But, she was clear on one point: Bitching and moaning is something she enjoys. She simply refuses to give it up. And although I'm lazy, I'm not much of a complainer. Still, I'm fine with the potential bitching. I want to join TRP and Ms. P on the trail.

I've decided the physical therapists have three weeks to get my heel in shape, or I'm searching out an injection. I need to join them. I can't let Ms. P and TRP run without me.

I got picked!

Seriously, I got picked for something. Me! Picked! By Sarah at Naked Cupcakes (which, incidentally, is one of the better blog names I've come across recently. It makes me hungry and randy. Truly a lovely combo).

So ... I'm supposed to say six things I am a master at. I'm going to vote for:


1.) I am a master of modesty. No, seriously. You have no idea how modest I am.

2.) I am a master of sarcasm. No, really. You have no idea how serious I am about being sarcastic.

3.) I am a master of cuddling and b.j.'s. Ha! I'm kidding. (Sort of. Not really. ((Just kidding mom!)) I'm totally not.)

4.) I am a master of Better-than-average home cookery and baking

5.) I am a master of liquid eyeliner application.

6.) I am a master of ordering super-involved, pain-in-the-A orders at certain restaurants that I used to work at, like Red Robin, where I order a teriyaki chicken burger, on a plate with silverware, sub a whole wheat bun, with extra pineapple and a side of honey mustard dressing.

Annnd now I'm supposed to tag six people. Hmmm.

1.) SGL at Dating is weird
2.) Plumpdumpling at Unapologetically Mundane
3.) Thewritegal at Seasoned to taste
4.) Shannon at Wannabe Hipster Mom
5.) The Kama Mama
6.) Kelly at Bachelor Girl

OK, that was hard. Too much listing for one day.

Marian the librarian

I went to Portland this weekend, and before the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon (it was, perhaps, the girliest weekend ever: baby shower, wedding planning, and ice skating), I decided to take a yoga class to kill some time. I poked around on line until I found a class at the time I was looking for.

When I unrolled my mat, I had no idea I'd just stepped into the worst yoga class ever. No, really. The worst. I'm not exaggerating even a little tiny wee bit. No hyperbole here. It was the worst. You know how I know it was the worst yoga class ever? We spent about 10 minutes on mountain pose.

Let me repeat. We spent about 10 minutes talking about and practicing for mountain pose. If you've never done yoga, let me explain what mountain pose is: You stand there. Both feet on the ground. Both arms at your sides. That's it. It looks like this:








(I made that drawing myself, in Word. Because apparently my macbook pro didn't come with a drawing program. wtf, apple?)

See, I've taken beginner yoga classes before. At the Bikram studio (which I do not recommend, though that's a separate rant) and at the local park and rec yoga studio. You tell them you're new, and they tell you to watch what everyone else is doing, then they get going. But this? This was a real beginner's class. A beginner's class for 'tards. (Does it make it OK to use that word if I take of the "re"? No? Eh. Sorry.)

But it wasn't just the slow pace (I counted 6 poses in 90 minutes) that made the class so maddening. It was the instructor. Marian. "Marian the librarian," as I heard her say to two of the people in class.

"Oh, are you a librarian?" One woman (the larger lady whose legs started to shake about 15 seconds into warrior 2) asked.

"No," Marian answered, giving her throaty, Erkelish "he he" laugh, "No, I'm a fiction writer."

I think it's appropriate that Marian writes fiction, actually, because I swear the woman stepped out of a Woody Allen movie. She had thick black glasses, shoulder-length, wiry hair, and she pulled her red workout tights up nearly to her bra strap. The tights gave us all a good view of the outlines of her underwear, and those were really fascinating. Not just granny panties, but almost like some sort of support panties, with a belly control panel. Not that Marian had a belly, it just sort of looked like it, the way her T-shirt was stuffed into the top of the tights. The odd thing about the control panties was that they cut across the outside of her hips, creating a definitive crease across the tiny pouches of fat she carried there.

In the first five minutes of class, while Marian was explaining the intricacies of toe-heel placement, a woman squatted down.

"Are you OK? He he. Does your back hurt?" Marian asked.

"Oh, no, it's just, menstrual cramps," the woman said in a stage whisper.

Well, shit. You can't have a woman in yoga class with menstrual cramps. So every five minutes, Marian would leave us all standing around waiting while she demonstrated a new menstrual-positive pose for the bleeder in the corner.

But the laugh. The laugh will haunt my dreams. Every "he" sounded like she was about to choke, and her shoulders would hitch up as she bared her tiny teeth.

"Okay, so, take a strap, and pull it like this. He he. And, oh, oh my. That's not long enough. I guess, he he, I guess, yeah, maybe get an extra strap, he he. And, yeah, connect the two straps, he he."

Because I was a drop-in, I paid $16 for the class. $16! Do you know what I could buy for $16? Five bottles of Three Buck Chuck. Five! That's a lot of bottom-shelf red wine. Plus I'd have a dollar left over to give to the homeless lady down the street.

Can you rue a person, or only rue the day you met them? Because I'm pretty sure I rue Marian.