Lullaby.

My mother is a grandma.  She's really good at it.

Bees.

One of my most favorite things to do in the world is to go running with my sister Emily.  We used to run together all the time growing up, but just as everything else in life changes as we grow up (um, hello, like the sounds my gut makes - but that's a whole different post), our opportunities to run together pretty much stopped.  But last weekend while we were visiting Mom and Dad at the farm, she unexpectedly accepted my invitation to go on a 4 mile run.  I was absolutely thrilled!  Mostly because I knew this would happen:

About half a mile into our route, we saw a car coming toward us on a very rarely traveled country road.  Knowing that we have probably already caught the eye of the occupants of this car (mostly because this particular country landscape doesn't typically include runners), Emily and I made eye contact with each other. Without any more prompting than just a single word ("bees"), Emily and I kicked it into our complete immature ridiculous mode we've perfected so well over the years.

We get attacked by a swarm of non-existent bees.

See, it starts with just a single wave of a hand in front of our faces like we're shooing a pesty gnat.  It gradually intensifies to a quick swat of the t-shirt or a kick of the foot.  Then, with confused "what WAS that?!" facial expressions, we brush our hands down our forearms, shake our heads, and just when it looks like we escaped a minor insect annoyance, the ridiculousness begins.  We go absolutely bat-shit crazy.  We duck around, spit, scream, and start swinging both arms around and flailing like...well, like we're being attacked by a swarm of vicious bees.  (There was a similar "attack" years ago when Emily lost her balance and rolled down a ditch after turning up the intensity a little too much.  That was pretty fantastic too, and completely believable.)  We tend to stay in character pretty well, but after the car passes, we burst out into giggles that eventually ruin our pace and we have to make a considerable effort to pull it together and finish our run.  It's pure fun.

No one has ever stopped to help us escape the bees, but I can't say I blame them.  Those f*ckers can be pretty dangerous.

Threat.

A few years ago, I ran my last marathon. Well, I thought it was going to be my last. Because, let's face it, those things hurt in the most ridiculous way. But lately I've been inspired to run more. Sunday was my first long run in a while, so I hammered out 6 miles. When I say "hammered", I mean I wish I would have been hammered for this experience because it sucked.

About .004 miles in, I stepped in dog poo. Perhaps I should have turned my ass around right then and gone back inside to eat raw cookie dough, but I'm an idiot so I didn't get the hint. About 4 miles in, I stopped in a grocery store to collapse into a water fountain, but it looked like someone else had the same idea, but instead, they puked in it. Change of plan. About 5.5 miles in, I was waiting at a stop light next to a gas station. A fairly gnarly homeless man started walking toward me. This was our brief conversation:

Homeless Guy: "Ma'am?"

Me: (panting and holding my side trying to kinda ignore him) "Huh?"

Homeless Guy: "Now, Miss, I'm not going to hurt you."

First of all, who starts a conversation like that? Secondly, what's with your TEETH?!

Me: "Stop."

Homeless Guy: "No, I'm not going to hurt you."

Me: "Dude, get the f*ck away from me."

Homeless Guy: "I just want to-"

Me: "Seriously, if you don't get away from me right now, you're going to be choking on your own balls. Back the f*ck off."

Where in the WORLD did I come up with that? How did THAT sentence beat out "I'm going to call the police" or "I'm going to go all bat-shit crazy on you"? Those are more expected statements from me, so the fact that I threatened a man with his own testicles is pretty wild.

But I like it and I can't wait to use it again.

Breakdown.

I had a major break down last night. I'm talkin - it was an award winning temper tantrum. Why, you ask? Can I make a list?

1. There is a mouse that ate through my KITCHEN CABINET. Seriously. The damn thing ate through WOOD to get at a plastic wrapped cardboard box of green tea. That was after I had already removed three shelves of food the night before because it helped itself to a bag of walnuts and a can of quaker oats and then shit all over the place. 

2. My air conditioner called it quits last summer and since I've been a little worried about becoming suddenly unemployed lately, I haven't been able to justify spending $5k on cold air. And even if I did feel like it was ok to get it fixed right now, I wouldn't be able to take off work to meet the AC guy. I'm getting good at sleeping in puddles of my own sweat.

3. The small crack in my windshield has recently become a GRAND EFFING CANYON. If I make it to work without it shattering into my lap this week, it will be a miracle.

4. My throwing arm is getting really strong, and I'm proud to say that my aim is fantastic too. This good news is brought you to courtesy of the jackass woodpecker that keeps gnawing away the wood siding on the east side of my house. I've thrown approximately 13,000 rocks at this asshole bird so it will JUST STOP IT!

5. The person who is allowing their dog to shit in my lawn is going to have a really bad day when I find out where he lives. I want to personally pee on his kitchen floor.

6. Why won't my ice-maker work? And why are there pools of cold water dripping onto my laundry room floor in the basement, which just happens to be directly below the kitchen? This is puzzling.

7. My roof has hail damage, the flowers Dad planted out front are dead, the house is dusty from a ridiculous drywall experiment, and my lawn is an absolute nightmare.  

So I completely broke down. My poor mother and sister had to listen to me sob about life being "so hard". I haven't been this pathetic since 1997 when my high school boyfriend knocked up some chick in the drama club.

Treadmill rules.

There are rules, you know. Treadmill rules. If you can't follow them, you need to leave the gym.

1. If you find yourself running at the same tempo as the person on the treadmill next to you, switch it up. You're annoying.

2. If you're walking at 2.5 MPH, puffing up an incline of 20-stupid-percent, holding on to the bars for dear life and flailing around like an orangutan, maybe you should consider a different regimen.

3. I'm clearly aware of how funny you think that sitcom is because I can hear your cackling above my Katie Perry playlist. However, everyone in the 6 rows of equipment behind you thinks you're suffering an exercise induced screaming seizure. Calm the eff down.

4. The treadmill is not a stretching machine. If you've just thrown your leg over the hand rail to stretch your delicate hamstring and you jack me in the elbow, I'm going to swing my fist directly into your genitals.

5. You are impressing no one by starting with an easy FULL OUT EFFING SPRINT for nine seconds and then cracking the emergency stop button so you can call that a warm up and hit the free weights. Stop it. We think you're a dumbass.

6. If you refuse to wipe off the speckles of sweat you've sprayed all over the machine, I'm probably going to find you in the locker room and wring out the sweat in my tank top into your gym bag. Stop being gross, Miss Groady Grosserton.

Hey baby.

Remember in high school when you drove your dad’s 1982 Ford Granada Station Wagon? Remember it had fake wood side paneling that was peeling off? Remember how you drove it down Douglas Street on Friday nights and hoped the car full of cute varsity baseball players with their caps on backwards in the next lane would notice you? Remember that? You weren’t one of the cool girls at school because you had no idea how to French braid your hair and your eyebrow (singular) was like a dead ferret sprawled across your forehead. Remember that?

Fast forward to June 2011. I’m driving my much cooler car about a mile from my neighborhood. It’s a beautiful night, so I have all the windows down, the sunroof open, and I’m listening to Paperboy’s Ditty – clearly channeling 1994 but embracing being 32. My eyebrows are nicely shaped, and I’m feeling good about my deodorant. As if written in a script, a car full of Justin Biebers pulls up next to me and they’re yelling at me. Not yelling at me like “Hey, old lady, your left taillight is out!” but the kind of yelling a 16 year old high school girl dreams about.

High school boy: “Hey babe! Hey! Baby, what’s your name?”

Me: (humoring them) “Ha-ha, hi.”

High school boy: “Follow us to Sonic, ‘kay?”

Can you believe it? They want to know my name and they want to share a cherry limeade with me! I can barely contain my sheer joy and obvious cool-chick status. I glance their way, give a little smile and…

…a bug flies directly into my cornea. I jolt my head back, let out a rant that sounds kinda like “holy-geez-ugh-hot-fugger” while I immediately start to cry. I take both hands off the steering wheel to peel tiny insect wings out of my eye and my car veers into their lane. After the screaming subsides, I pull myself together and drive the rest of the way home with one hand holding my eyeball in.

Prepare.

Now I get it. Now I understand why mothers tell their children to always wear clean underwear...just in case they get hit by a car. No, I didn't get caught wearing dirty underwear. But I did want to run and hide when the firemen caught a glimpse of the bras and panties strewn about my bedroom floor.

Thank God they were clean. From now on, I will keep my bedroom in "Unexpected Firemen Visit" condition. You know, just in case I get hit by a car. Or have a carbon monoxide leak.