Tales from La La Land

The other day someone said that my blog is boring. They said they used to read it, but then I got married.

And then I realized it: If I was to do a weekend recap about last weekend, I would have told this story about how I bought a Dyson Dustbuster (which, by the way, is fucking awesome) and went to the Getty Center to look at art.

10 years ago, it would have been a blog about how I was drunk and ended up at some random dude’s house before realizing that he wasn’t even that cute, and I never should have gone, at which point I decide to walk 3 miles to Amy Longeteig’s house, stopping at 7-11 on the way to get some Nachos with a huge heaping pile of “chili”, only to arrive on their doorstep and realize that it’s 2 a.m., and of course they are not awake, but luckily they’ve left their front door unlocked so I just let myself in while their watchdog Stella greeted me with kisses and then curled up next to me by the couch.

Seriously. The dog didn’t even bark when someone entered the home at 2 a.m.

Also, the only people who eat 7-11 nachos are me and these two.

Now I’m totally refined. My drunk food is left over marinated flank steak with a side of Gruyère cheese and Wheat Thins. And usually I’m eating drunk food at 10 p.m. before passing out at 10:12 p.m.

What in the cliche fuck happened to me?

I do not want to be Lester Burnam. Jerking off in the shower alone at 7 a.m. can not be the highlight of my day. Getting yelled at over using staples as opposed to paper clips can not define my career. Walking around the house obsessing about how to annihilate any form of cat hair should not be my lot in life.

For real though. I wander around with this thing like Natalie Portman in The Professional. Do you see what they’ve done to dustbusters?

But this is totally NOT a blog about vacuum cleaners. This is a blog about how there is a 7-11 down the street from our house, and how I am making it my mission to stumble over there this weekend and eat Nachos.

Basically, what I am saying is that you don’t need your publisher to front you the money to do your own little Eat, Pray, Love type of thing. You can Eat, Pray, Love for about $1.99. First, you eat 7-11 nachos. Then you pray that your husband still finds you attractive (honestly, have you ever watched someone eat “chili”? It might look like a scene from 2 girls, 1 cup, so unless your husband is a total FREAK, he may not be feeling your “chili” lips), and then you love it up old-school style (i.e. you don’t complain about how tired you are. You also don’t say anything about ovulating, or how you need to be positioned a certain way or it won’t work.)

It’s Friday, and I’m on a mission for a super fun, NON boring weekend. Yay!

One week from today I will be 36. I can’t believe it. I truly don’t feel any different at 36 than I did at 30. Things aren’t as tight in some areas as I’d like, but I think it has more to do with wine consumption than age. Yes, I am the person who will make whole wheat pasta for dinner, do my best to eat a small portion, skip dessert, and then cap the night with two glasses of wine. Any complaints about my non-six pack bring the evil squirrel side eye from Laef – “Well, maybe if you didn’t drink 1,000 calories in wine you might have abs”.

He’s right. So, I’ve stopped complaining about it. At 36, things are pretty established for me: I like wine. I HATE doing sit ups (I don’t even want to think about or know what the P90X thing is). From time to time I considered cutting out wine, but realized I do enough (um, hello, running a marathon) to be healthy. I’m not giving up EVERYTHING.  You gotta enjoy a little vino from time to time. And chocolate. And cheese.

Anyway, I feel great despite now being closer to 40 (stomach punch) than 30.

However, I am starting to notice some things on my face. Lines that definitely were not there when I was 30. I’m trying to think of every possible reason for what is causing these lines. For example, there’s a new frowny wrinkle between my eyebrows. I woke up the other morning to Laef gently massaging the space of skin in between my eyebrows.

Laef: “Do you feel OK? Are you having a bad dream?”

Me: “No. Why?”

Laef: “Oh, nothing. You had a frowny face. I was smoothing it out.”

Well, shit. Of course I got up, stared at myself in the mirror for 5 minutes trying to smile, loosen up the frown line. But then smiling shows the eye wrinkles that are being born. It’s fucking exhausting. Because you can’t control age and the changing of your body and face. And, I’m sorry Demi Moore, but I know drinking water and having great sex is not the reason you look amazing. I, too, drink an insane amount of water and am married to a younger guy.

I was thinking that I was getting the wrinkle because I wear glasses, and therefore can’t wear sunglasses. So I squint a lot. Now I wear sunglasses over my glasses when I’m driving. YES. I am that girl. And, it’s all in the name of combating wrinkles. However, I don’t know what to do about my elbow wrinkles.

I mean, seriously. WHAT are those lines? Thankfully, it’s hard to see your elbows unless you are posing in the mirror with the hand on the hip pose trying to look extra cute. I have stopped trying to perfect the Paris Hilton pose so that I never have to see my elbows.

Botox is out of the question seeing as I’m a regular person, and not a movie star. I know how the conversation would go with Laef if I tried to broach the idea of Botox.

Me: “I want Botox.”

Laef: “Hurry up and start your period so you will stop having PMS. It’s making you insecure. You’ll be fine in a week.”

It is true. PMS doesn’t help in the confidence department. Especially when it gives you acne worse than what you ever experienced as a 15-year old.

So, at the peak of my frustration with my skin, I trekked over to Sephora last night to browse skin creams and beauty products that make all sorts of promises. Specifically, I wanted an overnight cream that would make me look like Jennifer Aniston in the morning, and eye cream that would make me look all bright and cheery.

Let’s discuss overnight cream: $80. Let’s discuss eye treatments: $75.

Had I been a tad more fed up, I might possibly have put both on my credit card and kept a little white lie from Laef. But, I was too disgusted. Yes, I know you can buy creams at Target, but I am hesitant to do that because I tried that, and I had a horrible allergic reaction to which my face is still recovering. I know there must be reasonable priced products out there, so I’d love to hear ideas.

I left the mall and thought about what the fuck I was doing. And what other women must be doing. No doubt people drop hundreds of dollars on beauty supplies all the time. The price to make yourself feel pretty is ridiculous. Hair color, make up, lotions, creams, body washes, perfumes. I have always done what I can to cut back on costs in those departments – color my own hair, buy cheap make up, and I don’t even own perfume right now.

But sometimes I want to pamper myself with fancy lipsticks and salon hair color. And these companies know our weaknesses. I mean,  I almost paid more for face cream than I paid for my wedding cake all because I wasn’t feeling pretty. Or youthful. Well, the giant zit on my cheek does make me feel like a teenager, I guess.

I love that Brandi Carlile tells us that the lines on her face tell a story, yet her face has zero hint of any lines.

I do a lot of things to block out the fact that I’ve become everything I thought I wouldn’t in terms of my professional life. Never in my life did I think I’d be a person who sat behind a desk from 8 a.m. – 5 p.m., Monday through Friday. While I don’t miss the Sunday afternoon hours of working in college athletics, I do miss the roaming around I did for most of my work day.

Let’s be honest, I miss the bullshitting with people while standing at football practice pretending to work. I miss the free grub in the Autzen Stadium press box on a frigid Saturday morning after a long night of drinking (nothing says Saturday morning college football like Hole In The Wall). I miss wandering all over the Cas Center looking for Jonathan Stewart because he’s found the best hiding place to avoid interviews. It annoyed the crap out of me at the time, but now I realize that I was constantly in motion. Rarely was I behind my desk.

That was over 3 years ago. Now I sit behind a desk. The good news: I have my weekends completely free. I don’t stand in freezing rain pretending to care about whether or not Nate Costa took reps with the first team. The bad news: Fuck. I sit. A lot.

Office jobs are funny. It’s all of the stereotypical stuff one might think. Our color printer broke the other day and it was like a 6.0 Earthquake had struck. I am not trying to be disrespectful in light of the recent quakes – I am telling you that people lose their shit when office supplies go haywire.

Pandemonium, I tell you.

So, there’s the stress of: “You stapled this wrong”, “The printer is broken”, “How do you scan this?” (Yes, important people really are that stupid), “WHY CAN’T YOU DO 17 THINGS AT ONCE?”

And then there’s the joy of your Office Max order arriving.

I swear to God I get so excited when my new Post-Its arrive.

It’s disgusting. And I hate myself  for loving ballpoint pens so much.

My last post was two weeks ago and something about being pregnant and going to Target on a Friday night?

Well, let me tell you, things have only gotten more exciting since then.

Not.

Laef has been gone a lot over the past two weeks, which is normally great news for me (shopping, watching crap TV, eating). The first weekend he was gone – Valentine’s Weekend – I celebrated by myself at the 3rd Street Promenade. The weather was nothing short of spectacular, I found amazing sales and indulged in a dark chocolate crepe and champagne.

It was a good substitute for spending the afternoon without Laef, but as the weeks press on during basketball season, I’m definitely missing my partner in crime. Sure, I don’t laugh at his ridiculous jokes and he takes up way too much space in the bed, but isn’t that the whole point of marriage? Having someone to talk to besides your cat?

The Sanch and I are getting tired of each other. I know he appreciates my lack of discipline and the fact that his nails have not been clipped since basketball season started (I make Laef do all of the jobs that would lead to the cat liking me better), but he also appreciates it when the litter box is cleaned more regularly.

We’ve run out of things to talk about.

Laef was gone again this past weekend, but I was pretty much shopped out and had honestly run through my entire list of “things that keep me occupied and happy while Laef is gone”. I have painted my nails no fewer than a dozen times over the past two months, colored my hair, gotten a facial, gone out for sushi, made three trips to Pinkberry, watched The Notebook, watched marathons of 16 & Pregnant and Keeping up with the Kardashians, reorganzied the closet and watched the entire Season 4 of Friday Night Lights online.

So, now all that’s left is preparing for this marathon.

That leaves me with running as my “fun thing to do when Laef is gone”. Except that it really isn’t all that fun sometimes.

My hips are wondering when exactly I turned 74. My toenails are no longer on board with marathon training. And my iPod can not believe that I downloaed LA Candy by Lauren Conrad (I won’t even try to justify it or give you an explanation other than to say that I don’t want to be bogged down with Homer when I’m running 13 fucking miles. I have enough to worry about).

My body seems to be holding up fairly well, but I am also working really hard to make sure I do all of the right things. Which means when I got a text on Saturday from a girl I recently met through a UCLA carpool system asking me if I’d like to go out on Saturday night, I had to decline. OK, if I’m being honest, it had more to do with the fact that her text said, “I can pick you up around 10 and we can go have a few drinks before heading out around midnight.”

The fuck?

As lonely as I am, and as much as I need human convo when Laef is gone, I would need 6 Adderall’s to go out according to her schedule. I suppose I would have taken a nap and gone, but I honestly can not go out and drink and expect to run 13 miles the next day.

So, I’m kind of boring right now.

I have only 10 weeks to go until the race and I just keep picturing myself crossing the finish line. All the lame Saturday nights and Sunday’s where my hips creak will be SO worth it when I am done.

This weekend marks the one-year anniversary of my first-ever half marathon.

You can read all about my experience at The Surf City Half Marathon here. That was a fun day. Except for the part about parking miles away from the race and having to walk that far after running 13 miles. I never would have thought that beer could taste SO good that early in the morning. Or that it would feel so good after running.

Since that first race, I’ve run two other half marathons and a 10K.

This weekend, I will run the Surf City for the second time, again with my sister Brooke.

But, it’s different this year. Originally, my goal was to finish the race in 2 hours or less. Now that I’m training for the Eugene Marathon in May, this weekend is simply a training run. While I know that it will be difficult to slow myself down and not get caught up in the adrenaline of a race, I wish that every long training run had me surrounded by thousands of other runners, beer at the finish line, spectators with signs and a cool surfboard medal.

Usually a half marathon would be my peak. It would be the reward for months of training, and I would take at least a week off afterward. Now I can’t think like that. I have to run 13 miles on Sunday and resume running on Tuesday. We’ll see how that goes.

At this point, I don’t know what my goals or expectations for the marathon will be. Right now I want to get through the next three weeks of back-to-back-to-back long runs and see if my body holds up. Assuming it does, my goal will likely be to finish the race without having to walk at all.

Having said that, I was talking to Laef the other night and mentioned that deep down my hope is that I can finish the full marathon in 5 hours. (Which is insane because I could drive all the way to my parents house in Sacramento in that amount of time, so I have no idea WHY on Earth I think it will be fun to run for that long).

Without hesitation Laef said: “As long as you finish faster than Oprah.”

Of course, neither of us had any idea how long it took Oprah to run her marathon.

After some quick googling I found out.

4:29:20.

SHIT.

The fastest I have ever run a half marathon is 2:06. Double that and I would run the marathon in 4 hours, 12 minutes.

But, I can pretty much guarantee that I won’t be maintaining that pace over miles 20-26 in my first-ever marathon. So, it’s more realistic to think I’d finish in closer to 5 hours.

However, Oprah ran this shit in 4 and a half hours!

I really want to beat Oprah.

If I don’t though, there are other famous people that I think I could beat and still feel happy:

Mario López, (5:41:41). OK, so either he was cocky and didn’t train at all and is in good enough shape to just go for it, OR he stopped along the way to do situps.

Freddie Prinze, Jr., (5:50:49). See above.

David Lee Roth, (6:04:43). He probably stopped at a bar along the way and had a smoke.

John Edwards (3:30:18). Let’s be honest. He has a lot to run from. That’s the only explanation for that time. And, it’s probably a lie.

Al Gore, (4:58:25). This is more like it.

This list is outdated because I know that Edward Norton ran a marathon last year, but here’s the list I looked at for Oprah’s time.

TGIF!

I consider myself a lucky wife.

From time to time, my husband travels for entire weekends at a time and I get to do whatever I want.

Doing whatever I want usually consists of me being able to roam about the house without getting the “sex” eye or the “Let’s watch The  Hurt Locker” statement.

However, over the past couple of weeks, I was in a funk. I can’t pinpoint why, but I think it had to do with a combination of getting back to the grind of traffic and the stress of work after a splendid 2-week break for Christmas. It rained quite a bit in early January so I wasn’t running nearly as much as I usually do.

Not to mention, I noticed that I was sporting a mustache that I swear I never noticed before. Also, my brows were clearly trying to meet in the middle of my forehead in an effort to remind me of the most important part of marriage: Always meet half way.

True.

You gotta meet halfway.

Which is why over the past 5 years I can’t remember a time I went to a spa for a facial or a wax. I have gotten a few massages here and there on special occasions, but basic feminine maintenance?

It’s hard to explain to men that a fucking facial costs upwards of $100. I could barely understand it.

But my face was looking tired and Lindsay Lohan-esque, I was growing hair that I can no longer hide or comb into a pretty shape.

So I deemed this past weekend a “me” weekend.

I woke up on Saturday morning, went on a 6-mile run in great weather, and then headed out for my facial and waxing.

Now I know why facials are so expensive.

It was 60 minutes of bliss.

I felt refreshed.

Which gave me the energy to go to the mall and browse around with nothing to do and nowhere to be.

Then I decided to treat myself to a $3 cupcake. Between facials and cupcakes, I am pretty sure I’m in the WRONG business. The bake shop was packed with people willing to spend $3 on one cupcake. I could have made 12 cupcakes for $3.

I am now thinking that I should open a salon that sells cupcakes. The Bill Gates of pampering, bitches.

Anyway, I sat outside and ate my cupcake, savoring every bite and realizing how happy one little cake can make a person.

After that, I headed home to watch a movie and lay on the couch. I did that until I fell asleep. At 9 p.m.

On Sunday, I ran 10 miles and it felt great. By the time I got back, I was feeling back to normal and out of my funk.

Laef came home around 4 p.m.

His first words: Get Naked.

Good thing I am out of my funk.

I recently visited home for the holidays, and being back in my old room from high school brings back a lot of memories.

Now, I didn’t totally hate high school, but I also didn’t totally love it.

I was a zoo in every sense of the word. I was a cheerleader with jet black hair who loved The Cure and played softball in the spring. I’ve never been the kind of person to fit into one type of mold – I somehow always find something in common with almost every person I meet.

That doesn’t really work in high school, and people end up questioning your moral character.

“Damn. Why is that bitch talking to them?”

If I somehow lived the life of the characters on Friday Night Lights (I know, I really need to get over this show) where they all seem so grown up and mature (they go to bars for fucks sake), that might have been OK.  While they all go through serious drama, they come off as way more mature than I ever was.

Anyway, I recently came across this photo of me snapped in my bedroom when I was a senior in high school.

It’s no fucking wonder my parents (and my brother) hated me. If I wasn’t lazy, I would get on photoshop and draw arrows to the MANY things that are wrong with this picture.

For starters, God forbid I allow myself to get a little sun. And, secondly, lose the goth/emo/I hate life bitchface.

You will notice that there is a bright yellow construction/traffic light thing. Apparently, I thought it was cool to steal it and bring it home. I remember that. It was cool until I tried to go to sleep at night.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

WHO THOUGHT STEALING A BLINKING LIGHT WAS COOL? WHY?

A few things of note on my mirrored closet doors.

1. I thought the GAP was THAT cool that I put a sticker on my wall. The GAP. Seriously?

2. There is a photo of my brother (taped above a photo of some male model) in which I clearly drew devil horns and a goatee on him. What a nice person I was.

3. Apparently, I thought that Bartyles and James wine coolers were so cool that I put their labels on my mirror. Wine coolers? Seriously.

4. I guess I liked black and white photos of people kissing. A LOT.

5. Wire hangers were totally acceptable to me.

The point is, if I ever had to go back to those days, I might die. Even knowing what I know now, I would never want to be an angst-ridden 17-year old who covers her wall with stupid shit and has enough anger to last a lifetime.

I’m putting this on the internet and in writing so that it is real. So that there’s no turning back, and so that I can lean on random people for support.

After weeks of debating in my head, I have decided to run a full marathon. I have 15 weeks to train, and will do my first (and almost certainly last) marathon in Eugene, OR on May 2.

When I ran my first half marathon, I watched in awe as people continued on for 13 more miles after I had crossed the finish line of the half marathon. I have very close friends who have run full marathons, so I know it can be done. I know you don’t have to be an elite athlete, and that anyone can start from walking and progress to 26.2 miles.

But, I am nervous. I’m worried about the time commitment, the possibility of injury and about the complete change in my life over the next 4 months. Because the truth is, I can’t really make weekend plans because running 20 miles on a Sunday doesn’t really coincide with a night of drinking on a Saturday. Nor does it coincide with doing ANYTHING on a Sunday aside from that run.

And so I thought a lot about this decision. It comes at a time where I have been seriously assessing certain things in my life and wanting to change those things. Focusing on this will force me to make some of those changes – drinking less, eating better, thinking about positive goals as opposed to dwelling on petty things that don’t matter.

There really isn’t a more perfect time to attempt this. There’s no wedding to plan, no babies planned in the very near future and no big plans over the next 5 months.

So, here goes.

WTF am I doing again?

Oh, yeah. Eugene 2010.

My favorite place for so many reasons.

The Proclaimers wrote a sweet song about walking 500 miles and then 500 more “just to be the man who falls down at your door”.

Even The Proclaimers knew that 1,000 miles was their max.

I’ve already told you how I don’t have any grand resolutions for 2010, but I am trying to continue to challenge myself in different areas of my life. In 2009, I decided I was going to run a half marathon. I ended up running three over the course of the year, as well as one 10K.

A lot of people scoff when I talk about running. Most people hate running and get bored with. To be honest, sometimes I hate running too.

As I prepare for the upcoming Surf City Half Marathon, I’m finding myself extremely bored with it. I am lucky this time around in that I don’t need to train as diligently because I’ve been running consistently for almost two years.

But, I need running.

For me, exercising does two things for me. It keeps me fit, and it keeps me mentally healthy. I know immediately if I have missed more than 3 days of running. I just don’t feel right.

Sometimes, I am sadder. Sometimes, I am bitchier. Sometimes, I am more lethargic. I don’t sleep as well and I am not myself. Laef can also tell and will very politely say, “Sooooo….maybe you should go on a run.”

That’s code for: You’re being a huge bitch and I don’t know why you are sobbing over the fact that Tim Riggins is sleeping with his 30-year old neighbor and not you. GET OVER IT.

Lately I’ve been thinking that I need a new goal. I have been dangerously close to committing to a full marathon. Or buying a bike a trying a triathalon. Or joining a team that competes in something like the Hood to Coast.

And then the other day, I stumbled upon Operation Jack.

This is all I can say about that: The Fuck?

I had to read this web site about 500 times. And then 500 times more just to be the person who fell off of my chair.

Briefly: Sam Felsenfeld is running 60 (YES SIXTY. 6-0) marathons in 2010 to raise awareness for Autism. Essentially, Sam is running ONE MARATHON A WEEK to honor is son Jack.

Maybe I am the only one freaking out because after I run one half marathon, I need like at least a week off. Then, I slowly ease back into running 3 miles.

This fool is in wicked shape. He’s running around a 3:30 pace.

It’s insane. I am in awe of this, and it has completely helped me become re-inspired by running.

And, for all of the people who shy away from running or exercise, Sam wasn’t a world class athlete. He was an unhealthy, overweight college student. He started walking. Then he started jogging. Then he started running. And now he runs marathons.

Since I’m on this big, “I can do anything I want” kick, I thought this story was worth sharing.

Remember in Sex in the City when Charlotte flakes on her friends because “she’s not feeling well”? But really she is just at home, addicted to her vibrator, The Rabbit?

I have a similar sickness right now, and it’s called Friday Night Lights.

Over the years, I have heard my good friend Angie rave about this show. The main reason I didn’t get caught up in it is because it has never seemed to have a stable time slot or station. I was always curious, but it never seemed to cross my path.

Well, Angie, being the great friend she is, brought me Seasons 1 and 2 on DVD when she visited LA last month.

And now I’m making up excuses like, “I have a headache” and “My alarm didn’t go off and I will be late”.

Because, literally, when I walk in the door from work, I scarf down something to eat, feed the cat, brush my teeth and get in my comfy spot on the couch and do not stop watching this show until 2 a.m.

The reasons are simple: Superb writing, awesome storylines, gorgeous people and the excitement of a football town.

Laef has been out of town since Tuesday. Which has not helped this addiction whatsoever. There’s no one to stop me at midnight. There’s no one to tell me to turn it down. There’s no one to take the crack pipe from my hand.

If you are not watching this show, you should start.

And, I’m scrapping my entire Top 5 because Tim Riggins (I don’t know his name in real life, I want to make out with the actual Tim Riggins) is 1-5.

He totally looks better on the show when he’s in his boots and has stringy hair. Not to mention, he constantly says funny shit.

Ladies, if you have problems convincing your man to watch, tell them to talk to Laef. He pretended not to care about the show the first time I watched, and then suddenly he was glancing over whenever the girls were onscreen. One of the characters is dating Derek Jeter in real life, so that’s got to mean something on the hottness factor.

TGIF!