Just a regular day at the gym

I woke up late
(because Nesto woke me up to put me back to sleep)
(bow chicka bow wow)
(sorry. Too much info?)
So I decided to do a short run and then hit the weights
And while I was ACTIVELY WORKING OUT ON THE MACHINES this man starts talking to me.
Why do you have a brace on?
What happened?
Did you get it from your MD?
They don’t have braces for your hip, do they? HAHAHAHA
Me: No, Sir. They just give you a new one.
He finally goes away.

THEN. As I was getting a paper towel to wipe down a machine that some asshat left soaking wet
He catches me at the dispenser:
Do you come here every day?
Me: Just during the week. I hit the beach on the weekends.
Do you swim or layout?
Are you married?
OH. You ARE?
Me: Yes, sir. 20+ years.
AWWWW.. He’s a lucky man…
I was hoping you were single…

And that’s how at not even 6AM, I got hit on by some 70+ year old man.


Over the weekend, I went to a Dodgers game. The Man & I met up with some friends that we haven’t seen since we left Camp Pendleton. Which was a LONG ASS TIME AGO.

Because men don’t plan things well, we were sitting in different sections (which turned out to be okay ’cause they were sitting in the blazing hot sun and I burn like a mother fucker and it was 1200 degrees Saturday in Elysian Park). So they had to go in through a different gate and then meet us so we could show them Dodgers Stadium and yannow: eat.

Meeting place: Tommy Lasorda’s. There’s a bar nearby, and that’s where I go because it’s goddamn hot and also, beer.

Bartender (I’m assuming)*trying to be flirtatious*: Are you sure you’re old enough to order a beer?

Me: Ha! I am well over the legal drinking age.

The very nice bartender pours my beer and because I almost never carry cash, I paid with my card and also handed him my ID because I try to make things easy when I feel like it.

Bartender: Looks at my ID. Then back at me. Then back at my ID. I’m on a horse (I can never resist). Then down at my boobs. THEN BACK AT MY FACE.

Me: *smirks* TOLDJA

Bartender: Whatever you’re doing, keep it up!


Look at me over here aging gracefully and shit.

So my husband says I park like an asshole

This weekend, my cousin and I went shoe shopping (and prom dress shopping and to lunch) at the mall.

One of the local-ish malls is kinda big. And always ridiculously crowded.

And OF COURSE, even when the mall is ridiculously crowded there is always *that asshole* who is taking up two parking spaces because fuck you, that’s why.

photo (5)

That blue car? Is me. Why am I parked SO FUCKING FAR to the left? Because originally that stupid red car was parked in both parking spots.

You know how you drive around in circles looking for ONE DAMN PARKING SPOT for what seems like all of your life, and then you get all excited because OMG! A PARKING SPACE!! Only to find that some asshole is hogging an extra space for no fucking reason at all?

I was tired of looking for a parking space, and it was almost noon and I hadn’t had breakfast and I had just passed the “I could eat” stage and was rapidly approaching the I’M STARVING point. I just said FUCK THIS SHIT, and I’m parking in this spot anyways, even if it meant I had to climb out of my trunk.



And so I sit there and wait for him to realize he won’t be able to get out because *THAT* is how close I parked to his door. Also, he was 100 years old, and probably woulda broke a hip trying to climb out the other side.

So he moved his car so that he was parked properly in his parking space and was able to get out on the driver’s side, while I laughed maniacally with my windows rolled down so he could hear me*.

And then I got out and spent the rest of the day shopping for shoes. And prom dresses. And matching clutches. And wishing that I’d had more booze for lunch. Because I wasn’t quite ready to see my babygirl looking quite so grown up in her prom dress.


*But what I didn’t do, was adjust MY parking situation. So I apologize to the white truck who probably got back to his car and was like WHY IN THE ALL OF THE FUCKS IS THIS PERSON PARKED SO GODDAMN CLOSE?

**The reason is because I actually had plenty of space to get out, so it didn’t occur to me to re-position my car.

***Also, I guess my husband is right. I *DO* park like an asshole. But sometimes it comes in handy!




My weekend in Pictures


I ran THIS this weekend with Aaron. Because I talked him into it. And apparently, I don’t have any sense.

I would like y’all to know that there were Trojan fans manning the red and yellow powder. And they strategically made sure I was crimson and gold from head to toe. At least until I got to the green. I also took blue powder right to the face. Sidenote: I’m pretty sure they were getting a kick out of those face shots.

Still though. I had a good time.

Even though it was the rockiest trail in the history of rocky trails.

And my uterus was trying to fall out.

And I was maybe not quite HUNG OVER, BUT. Some asshole let me come to her house and hang out until almost midnight, while drinking up her Jamesons.

Let’s just call it TIRED.

I also hugged Erin, after our dash because I totally forgot she was being interviewed for a magazine. Luckily she loves me. And Aaron had already hugged her on the other side, so at least this way she was even. No?

ANYWAYS, fun times had by all. I definitely give this weekend two thumbs WAY up.

Everyone mentions how drunk they got when they write complaints, right?

I am frequently enlisted to write letters for people because I love to say “FUCK YOU” in the most professional way possible. But I hate writing letters of complaint. I don’t know why, because obviously they are the people who need it most. But after talking to my Mom about my horrible flight from Vegas, she told me to write a letter. And because my mommy knows best, I did:

Dear Southwest,

I’m not really sure what say, except that I’m fairly unhappy that it seems as though my last few flights with you guys have ended up with me waiting in the airport for hours while the people that I’m meeting up with at the destination are waiting on me.

 My flight was about an hour delayed GETTING to Vegas  and two hours leaving Las Vegas. And I’m not going to lie to you: After lying by the pool drinking for an entire weekend, I was MORE than ready to go home. I was tired, a little bit hungover and the very last thing I wanted to do was spend several hours hanging around the airport. WHICH, by the way was super crowded because, OBVIOUSLY.

 Anyways, I know that y’all are reasonably priced — which is sort of the point when you plan on leaving all of your hard earned dollars in Vegas, and I really had to think long and hard about booking this flight due to your track record for previous flights. I’m not generally a complainer, but, I just feel like you guys should know:

 It’s driving me crazy that you guys are super convenient as far and dates/times I want to go somewhere, but I can’t trust you to get me there when you say because YOU ARE ALWAYS BEING DELAYED. I wasn’t even the only flight being delayed while I was in the terminal. I heard an audible groan from another one of your flights that had ALSO been delayed. AGAIN.

 Please. Let me love you. Don’t make me find another airline. I don’t want to. But I will, if these keeps happening.


I know my mom is SUPER PROUD she gave me that advice.

When the bikini is on the other butt

Not too long ago, I went shopping with my sissie.

Seems that auntie’s baby needed a bathing suit. And my niece will NEVER be a member of the itty bitty titty committee. Which is causing my sis a little bit of stress because “OMG, SHE WANTS A BIKINI AND I JUST WANT TO PUT HER IN A BURQA AND BE DONE WITH IT”

And by burqa, she meant a one piece. But she probably really meant a burqa

Actually, I won’t lie on her. She seemed to be okay with monokinis too.

We went to Old Navy because:

1. They were having a sale

2. They have really cute bathing suits (I know, I just bought TWO there)

3. I had to return some shorts for the Brat (wrong size. TOO BIG. GAH)

Sissie: How about this one? *holds up monokini*

Auntie’s baby: I don’t like it.

Me: How about this tankini over here?

You can always count on me to be super helpful, y’all.

Basically, my niece and I did some bathing suit shopping, while my sissie made sure I didn’t suggest anything too outrageous. She tried on a bunch of bathing suits and we chose a very cute, VERY APPROPRIATE orange tankini with some boycut bottoms. Sidenote: I am also very much a fan of boy-short bottoms. I don’t feel so exposed. Which is sort of ridiculous, when I’m practically naked from the navel up, but there you go. LOVE the boycut shorts.

And as my niece was changing back into her clothes, my sissie says:

WHY didn’t you talk her into a one piece?

Me: She’s 15. She wanted a bikini. I think it’s a pretty good compromise.

Sissie: But…


Sissie: …

Yeah. Welcome to my world. I don’t like it here either.

One more thing crossed off my bucket list

So here’s what happened:

I got to talking about getting into shape, and starting the Couch 2 5K program. Not because I had some 5K to get ready for, but because it was a running program a lot of my twitter peoples swore by.

And so I started tweeting about my training. And then Aaron was all “What? 5K, I’ll run one of those with you.” WHICH. Although, I hadn’t really considered running one, I did then. (I’m running THIS ONE. I blame this one on Megan, actually. Apparently a mud run is on HER bucket list)

And then EMMIE was all “You should think about running this relay race in October.” And in typical ME fashion, I was all “IT’S MY BIRTHMONTH!!” (Sidenote: I turn 40 this year, y’all. Get ready for real ridiculousness)

Another friend, who is NOT on the twitters goes “You know what would be great training for a relay? A half-marathon.”

I know right? It’s like everybody I know got into running ALL AT ONCE.

Actually, running a half-marathon is on MY bucket list. I have no interest at ALL in running 26.2 miles. But. I always thought running a half marathon would be just far enough to prove I was badass, but not so long that I would question my own sanity.

So I signed up! And talked several people into signing up too. Half marathon on May 20th.

Even though I’ve been a runner for a significant portion of my life (before I fell out of the habit), I know absolutely ZERO about long distance running, so I signed up for a training program called Start Training. It’s pretty awesome, not gonna lie. We meet every weekend to train, and get tips. Last weekend I ran a 10K as training. I have a feeling that I will be more than prepared to run 13.1 miles by half marathon day.

ANYWAYS (here comes the begging for money part), the Start Training program is run my the American Heart Association. And in order to participate, they ask us to do some fundraising for them. Did I mention that I HATE FUNDRAISING? Because I do, I really, REALLY DO.

BUT. I love love LOVE my trainer. And? My first job at Big Fancy Hospital was in the Cardiology department, and I do have a soft spot for AHA for that reason alone. Plus, Did I mention how much I love my trainer? She’s teaching me WAY more than I would have learned trying to do this on my own. Which THANK GOD I DON’T HAVE TO DO.

And so now I’m asking for money, because I love this program enough donate to it myself (which I did) AND ask OTHER people to donate to it too. Don’t y’all want to donate to a good cause? Of course you do.

And please do spread the word. Even though I have a minimum fundraising goad, I’m pretty sure they won’t hate me if I raise more.

Because I’m the most helpful person ever

My cousin in 23 years old.

And she’s never been to Vegas. (I know. It’s hard to believe we’re related)

Actually, the funny thing is that of my younger cousins, she is the MOST LIKE ME. 

Anyways. She IMs me on Facebook. I know. A lot of my cousins IM me on Facebook. Which I find to be weird. But what are you gonna do? Family.

She tells me that she wants to go to Vegas for her birthday. In JANUARY. I think her exact words were ” Be there, or never be spoken to again…or something” So, uh…yeah. TWIST MY ARM, I’ll be there. And then I say, “Hey, me and your cousins will be there in April, B2V is coming. Blah blah blah…. they’ll be running/volunteering; I’ll be drinking on the sidelines… blah blah blah….And the weather is perfect…blah blah…. Ditch Fridays at the Palms”

And then after she grilled me about Ditch Fridays, she said that she was scrapping Vegas in January plans. 

Me: Well, you can always have a HALF birthday. JUST SAYING.

So in case you were ever wondering, I AM sorta helpful. Depending on what you want help with.


How sick is sick?

Blah blah blah, surgery



The funny thing is, when I first got my disability information for surgery I was like, ” THE FUCK they mean a whole month? What exactly are they doing that I’m going to be off for that amount of time?!”  I started envisioning frankenboob with tubes and such, and me lying in bed in horrible agony because why else would I have so much time off to heal?

And then I had surgery. Which, you know… was surgery. The first day, @laprimera hand delivered these babies from @emmiej and @undomesticdiva. Which I …and The Man, enjoyed. I even tweeted about them. High on Vicodin, because I HAD SURGERY GUYS. I’m not a machine.

But then I felt weird because I had surgery. I am SUPPOSED to be in agonizing pain, right?  Too hurt to do anything but pop pills and sleep. Too broken to send daily (okay, every other day) emails for Black History Month? Which, I also send to my manager, WHO KNOWS THAT I’M OUT FOR A MONTH.


I’m in pain, don’t get me wrong. But not it’s debilitating. I am capable tweeting and tumbling my heart out. I can have visitors; I can still walk around.

I’m in purgatory: Too sick to really do anything, but too well to sit around on my ass all day. It sucks. Because I want to do more, but I can’t really. Or at least I can’t without being in pain.

I had a doctor’s appointment today. That I went to alone, like a big girl. I drove myself, and reported back to The Man because he had to work. And then I had to go to class because I can sit in the back of the class and zone out just as well as I can sit and stare into space at home.

Yes, in case you were interested, I’m in some pain. NO, I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna kill me. Though to be honest, I wouldn’t mind some ice on it and some tylenol. But I’ll be home in hour. And when I get there I will pop a pain pill and settle into bed for a nap.

And until then, I’m going to assume that whoever thought a month was how long it was going to take me to feel like myself knew what the fuck they were doing, and stop feeling guilty for the things that I *do* feel well enough to do.

Hopefully this will include Jack Daniels soon enough.


Obligatory Birthday Post

On the way home, we were discussing all of the birthdays in October. Aside from The Brat and I doing some birthday bowling, we had been invited to several birthday parties just this weekend.

Me: Well, there are a lot of birthdays in October. January is a cold month.

Brat: Yeah. I’m Daddy’s birthday present.

Me: What? You’re MY birthday present. I got to come home from the hospital with you on MY birthday.

Brat: Nope. I am EXACTLY 9 months from Daddy’s birthday.

The Man: …

Me: [please insert loud, hysterical laughter here] [and here] [and here]

Because she is. EXACTLY.

I’m sure 16-ish years ago, they told me when I conceived. And I probably laughed then too, realizing that it meant that our birthday sex gave us both a birthday baby.

I just never really thought that SHE* had realized it too.

Who says you never use math in real life?

*Gah! “Sweet 16”, my ass.