Well let’s never do THAT again

 

With roughly 120 days until death, I mean our ½ marathon, I figured I should share an update. I’m not doing so hot but keep reading (please).

I did a 5k, in North Dakota, in December, because I’m a moron. Here I thought, “Hey, we could finish in less than 3.5 hours I need to get a time in so we can get in like the fun corral!” or something like that. Robin won’t admit it but she’s a Speedy Gonzales and is already doing like 10 minute miles without killing herself. So it’s me that needs to catch up. She needs consistency, I need to get my lazy ass in gear. So I –was- running two days during the week, thanks to a decent flexing schedule and day care covering my ass, with one long run on the weekend. I say long, but really it just means I go for x distance. So I was doing 20-30 minutes “training” runs and then 2-6 miles on the weekend. I can survive. I will survive… but currently at the pace I’m going the Disney police will be carting my ass off the course and I won’t be a “finisher”… their rule is if you are slower than a 16 min/mile you are too slow to finish “on time” and are therefore disqualified from finishing… here I thought just making it to the finish line is what matter but, this is Disney World and they have a park to open with money to be made… so fuck me.

As if that rule alone didn’t sting… there’s this 5k. A “Santa run” all in good fun.

It was not fun

There were Santa’s

There was running

But there was no fun from my point of view, which was more often than not, from the ground. You see, here in the godforsaken land of North Dakota, there is ice… everywhere. The organizers told us that they “did the best” they could in clearing the tracks “but this is North Dakota and we run anyways, just try to be careful”… because being “careful” while RUNNING ON ICE is totally doable right?

Look, I know I’m not graceful, I’ve accepted that. But I WAS TRYING MY BEST NOT TO FALL AND FUCK ME I FELL EVERY SINGLE FUCKING TIME.

Like when I was walking.. I was fine… but I needed to get a time in and the path was all of 5 feet wide for the 430 people on the course so if you got stuck behind someone you’re stuck until the next junction….

I swear to Jesus, I was trying to get a decent time, my 300 pound self was chugging along at a 4 mile pace and staying JUST under my heart rate range limit… and as I would try to up it… I fell… then I’d have to walk until I recovered enough to feel up to running (or until I could get past some group of people laughing and talking about dinner plans)…. Then BAM on my ass again.

On my ass

On my knee

On my elbow, that hurt the worst.

ON MY BACK landing on a fucking rock that knocked the wind out of me and totally fucking embarrassed me as people stopped to make sure I was okay… and then keep running themselves. Which I appreciated, that was really nice of them to stop but still…

And I was FINE with the falling and the pain and the fucking torture of people LEAVING while I was still running because god dammit I was going to finish this with a decent time

I could’ve cheated and finished 6 minutes faster by doing only one loop instead of two in the final section… but I have morals … fucking morals.

SO I get to the finish line ready with my little stub of a paper to hand them so they can record an “official time”… at 53:15 so like 17 minute mile… THERE are groups of people taking pictures and a load of fucking people inside the building that was hosting… but no one at the line… so I walk inside, they hand me a giant fucking candy cane and say “great job you finally made it”… brush it off Ella, they don’t know what it took to get here… brush it off…. I ask “where do I turn in my stub to submit my time, there was no one at the finish line” this baffled woman says “I think they’re done with that part you could go ask them over there”… them over there… okay.. fine… I get this three times… three fucking times… I finally find the table where they are listing out the winners for each category and say, “who do I give this to so I can get my time recorded for online listing”.

I shit you not these words are forever fucking burned into my head:

“We only had someone taking the stubs until about 42 minutes, all the real runners where done long before that and we don’t have enough staff to get everyone that was walking”

How I’m not sitting in a jail cell right now I don’t fucking know.

I was fucking crushed. I know my time wasn’t going to get me into any kind of corral but I wanted something to show SOME improvement and I couldn’t believe someone would say that. The kicker, they had over 100 volunteers… four of which were within the last 30 feet of the finish line high fiving everyone as they passed… but not enough people to have someone scribble some numbers on a piece of paper…

Had I known… my first fall was maybe ten feet from my truck and I went alone, nothing was stopping me from just getting the keys out of the bed of the truck and leaving… nothing… but me. I could’ve gone home and ran in the comfort of my perfectly heated home and only had that one fall under my belt. No embarrassment. No one knew who I was. No one cared if I left. No one was “counting on me”. Like why the fuck didn’t I just leave? Had I not fallen all those time I really do think I could’ve done a 13-14 minute mile, ice and all, fucking HILLS and all. Fun fact, the incline in different areas was so steep my fitbit thought I did 17 floors…

I keep telling myself that had I known the time wasn’t going to matter I would’ve left right then and there, because that was the one that knocked the wind out of me… I don’t think anyone would’ve talked shit for me leaving after that one…

Sigh

So I send email to my doctor the next day because oh now I can’t even fucking walk… like it hurt to stand my legs were so sore. I can’t run until, well this week now, as that was almost three weeks ago. Loads of ibuprofen and positive reading and some yoga and now I think I’m okay to get back into the groove.

But I learned my lesson, never fucking again am I running in the snow/ice with a group that can’t get their shit together enough to record EVERYONE’S TIME.

 

#rantover

ELLA

Lavendar is TOO relaxing

            So I find that every now and then essential oils come up in discussions on common childhood ailments and issues. In the beginning I was totally skeptical, but then I was rocking a gassy three month old who was screaming his head off and I figured, it couldn’t get worse. I gave it a try. While I am nowhere near being “a new believer” I will say that the results are pretty damn remarkable. I’ve used oil concoctions for teething, gas, and runny noses to date. Stuff works, gotta give the EO people that. Joe was incredibly fussy the other day and I figured why not add some oil to his bath to help calm him down a bit quicker before bed. I added the oils and left Joe in the tub with my husband to watch over him and wash him off.

Within five minutes of finishing the dishes I hear “LAVENDAR IS TOO RELAXING! THERE IS CRAP IN THE TUB!!!” coming from the bathroom. Apparently Joe was relaxed enough to poop in the tub, something my husband had never experienced before. I walk in to see him holding Joe up in one arm and using the strainer we keep in the bathroom for his toys after baths to fish out the poop which, according to him was “disintegrating too quickly to catch all of it”. I was laughing too hard at the stressful issue at hand while I tell him to pull the plug and “just rinse him off, and I’ll clean up”. I have a feeling I should copyright that saying for as much as I say it with him.

My husband is a social creature and immediately took to informing a dad-to-be friend of ours of all that he has to look forward to… as though that was helpful.

*sigh*

Ella

Ella training – a total work in progress

My stride must be off. It feels like one leg is longer than the other, almost like I’m dragging one leg. Knee surgery from high school is messing with me, I always baby my left leg and when I attempted to jog on the treadmill for the first time in… well… ever, I noticed that it seemed like I was dragging my leg. The way my left foot hit was different and after one singular mile my hips hurt… so off to chiropractor and running shoe store (easy up-sell for today) for an evaluation I will go.
I actually have an appointment to talk to my general doctor about my gait, to make sure it’s not something I need old people orthopedic shoes for… cause those, those babies are hella sexy

But the answers to why I’m doing this are as follows:

YES I totally got caught up in Robin’s hype and excitement for doing a runDisney event.

YES I want to stay on track for continuing to lose the weight I gained before, during, and after baby.

YES I totally want to do this damn thing that I’ve talked about doing for over three years now and be held accountable by someone who will be doing it with me…

but mainly, and this is so so fucking wrong, but I’m doing this damn thing because a cocksucker in another department was joking with a co-worker of mine. When the subject came up that I was going to do this whole 1/2 marathon event, his response was, “she doesn’t even like getting up to go to the printer”. Fucka youa dude.

like OUCH, did you really need to say that? Yes I’m incredibly lazy here at my state office job. But I stay in my corner cubicle to avoid hearing those kinds of interactions. The audible conversations of those that have nothing better to do than to shit talk about other people. Not going to lie; Robin and I are total damn bitches on gChat about other people but we do it in private, like the fucking ladies we are.

So there you have it, where I’m at so far and the reasons for running.

Having My Best Week Ever (not true!)

You remember that VH1 show, Best Week Ever?!?  By referencing that show, does it show my age?  Ah, well, hell….let me tell you the week I’ve just had.

Last Thursday – Sunday:  We have had a trip planned to LA for several months so of course I get sick right before we fly out.  Thanks for sharing your germs from daycare kiddo!

Monday:  Work from home because I’m feeling like absolute crap and guessing my coworkers will be happy that I’m not going in to the office to “share” this with them.  Went to doctor and confirmed that I have upper respiratory infection and because I’m still nursing, there’s not really anything I can take unless I want to dry up my supply.  Bonus/plus side?  My doctor was pretty hawt.

Monday Night:  Husband tells me that his work trip, which was supposed to be a day trip on Tuesday will now last until Friday.  Wake up in the middle of the night and I feel a lump in my boob.  Don’t give it much thought as I roll over and go back to bed.

Tuesday Morning:  Work from home again because I’m still not feeling great/hacking all the time AND am pretty sure now that I’ve got my second case of mastitis.  My right boob is throbbing anytime I move around.  I’ve been trying to hand express to get the milk out, and also put moist heat on it, but not really helping much.  FML.

Tuesday at 11AM:  Jump on a “catch up call” with my coworker, boss, and director to find out that the latest reorg puts me, my coworker, my director, and about 10 other people of our 25 person team out of jobs.  I was expecting this, but there’s something to be said for hearing someone tell you “Congratulations – you’re getting laid off/let go/bye Felicia!”  We were told our last day would be 2/29/2016…a day that occurs once every four years.  What a special occasion!

Tuesday at noon:  Mastitis is confirmed with slight fever and boob that is all red and inflamed.  Call dr. to get prescription for antibiotic since I’ve been here before…thanks to my friend Angela for that suggestion because I’d have probably waited until I felt like complete and total shit, requiring a middle-of-the-night ER visit.  Add finding new daycare to the to-do list because of massive issues.

Tuesday evening:  Talk to husband and have total meltdown on the phone, complete with ugly crying, repeating “I can’t adult any more today”.

Wednesday morning:  Still at home, took a sick day because I need to rest AND because I no longer give two shits about my (soon-to-be-eliminated) job.  My idea of “relaxing”?  Cleaning up my shit sty of a house.  Relaxing fail.

Thursday:  Finally go in to work and virtually no one in our department is there.  I get it, with the happenings of this week, but we have 5 months until our last day…it’s a little early to start checking out everyone, isn’t it?  Leave work early myself to enroll daughter in new daycare.  Go to pick her up from daycare that we are about to fire and the ladies ask me, “Did you not bring any food for Viv?”  Um, what?!?  You didn’t feed her all day then and I see hardly any milk has been drank.  Oh even better – they fed her food that we didn’t authorize, and they sound unsure of what they fed her.  Let’s just hope she doesn’t have allergies to anything because I don’t know WTF she ate.   Please, please, PLEASE dear God do not let me lose my shit.  If I end up in jail, it will be a solid 24 hours before the husband can bail me out.

Friday:  Inform daycare that we are pulling our daughter from them.  Best part?  When I pick her up a few hours later after working a short day, they even fuck up packing up her supplies.  I was missing two bottles full of milk THAT THEY DIDN’T FEED HER.  Husband had to stop on his way home after his flight landed.

Friday Night:  Drank a beer and listened to my husband tell me all about his wild night during his business trip.  I got to hear how they were out until 3AM, their dinner bill for 9 people came to $1,400, they went for drinks later (that was $500 alone), and lastly, but surely not least, they ended up at a strip club.  I honestly don’t care about the strip club part, but way to regale me about your adventures when I’m stuck here, sick, and managing to (barely) hold down the fort.  I love my husband deeply but sometimes I want to slap his fucking face off.

Saturday Morning:  As I write this blog post, I’ve been awake since around 3:30AM.  I’ve fed and clothed the baby, changed 2 diapers, walked the dog, got showered, and am currently writing out my grocery list.  I went upstairs around 7AM with the baby, and the husband was still half asleep.  He’d been sleeping for about 11 hours, and when I mentioned that to him, he replies, “So?!?”  And then commented about how he was making up for my lack of sleep.  How thoughtful, huh?!?

Conclusion:  I need to buy a lottery ticket because my luck has got swing back up at some point, right?!?  It HAS to…that’s what I keep telling myself.

I ran out of diapers

             My child is borderline lactose intolerant, like he can have milk as long as that is his only dairy for the day. If he has cheese then he better not have more than a couple of cups of milk. We have ratios and in general we know how to work with his diet. My husband apparently pays attention to none of that. In one of the rare occasions that he tried to help out by giving me time in the house alone; he went out with Joe. He was gone for a total of three hours, to the library, the zoo, the grocery store and even the parking lot for an impromptu nap. You know, when a kid passes out within two minutes of getting to your destination and the number one rule is to never wake a sleeping baby… yea…

            Well, during his outing I was occansioanlly receiving picture text updates of where they were and what they were doing. It went something like this

At the library: he sure does love that fish tank

At the zoo: look babe, he loves ice cream

Parking Lot: guess I have to wait to go inside huh?

At the store: I think we need this mask

I did not reply because, well, my hands were covered in paint and I pretty much got all these texts at once. But I noticed the ice cream and thought… he knows better, he has to… and then I hear the garage door open. I count the steps, yes he’s rushing, and then I hear the door slam… YUP he’s rushing. I greet my husband who is holding a pissed off toddler and a disheveled diaper bag. This is how it went down:

Husband: I ran out of diapers, I had to bring him home, that diarrhea is unbelievable, I don’t know what he ate that made him poop so much, it’s everywhere…

ME: How much dairy did he have?

Husband: He only had his bottle, the rest was just his snack poofs while we were shopping….he went through three diapers in an hour!

ME: so not TWO cones of ice cream?

Husband: He LOVED THOSE

ME: I love chocolate, that doesn’t mean it won’t turn on me and make me fat…

Husband: I’ll go get the bath ready….