What? Mom without Coffee? That IS a nightmare!

For a brief, terrifying few minutes this morning, I thought my coffee maker was broken. I kept pressing “brew” and nothing was happening. I did it repeatedly, getting more and more anxious with each failed attempt. (What?) Finally, I decided to push it and walk away. Give it time to just decide to work. Which it eventually did. As I pondered that brief trip into the Coffee-Free Hell Dimension, I contemplated the other possible nightmare scenarios. (Of the non-serious variety, of course.)

Hell Dimension Scenarios

• Every time I pop open a can of Diet Coke and take a sip? It tastes like real Coke.
• Firefox stops giving me that squiggly red line under my mis-spelled words.
• No matter how often I brush my teeth, I still can’t get rid of my morning breath.
• My favorite jeans never make it out of the laundry room.
• That hangnail keeps coming back, seconds after I cut it off.
• All of my socks have holes in them.
• Chick-fil-A stops making chicken biscuits.
• All of the good pens in my house are replace with generic ballpoint Bics.
• Clogs get outlawed and I have to start wearing shoes with actual backs on them.
• No. Feed. Reader.
• Perpetual dog farts. Which, if you have a Boston Terrier? Then you can totally relate to how nightmarish that could be.

What are some of your nightmare scenarios? Excluding the obvious tragedies, of course.

In case you missed it on flickr yesterday, I uploaded pictures of a black widow my husband found inside some box on the outside of the house. Every time I think about it, I want to throw up a little bit. I am not a big fan of spiders. MrZ likes to scoop them up and put them outside if they creep into our home. I squoosh them flat with the nearest foot. Of course, he squooshed the black widow, but not until after considering for one brief moment if there was anyplace “safe” to put it away from our house. Then his sanity returned (Me: “You do not get bad karma for killing something that might have killed you!”) and he smooshed the thing dead. DEAD. DEAD. And I ran away from home because even the thought of a dead black widow somewhere near where I sleep scared the crap out of me. I am now living on the streets because I’d rather face druggies and criminals than spiders. Amen.

*shudder*

In less arachnophobic news…my son woke up at 4am this morning! For good! (It should not need to be clarified that I’m talking about my newborn son and not my teenage son who sleeps until 2pm on the days I let him.) 4am is about the earliest I’ll allow a child to wake me up for the day without grounding them for eternity. So, he’s lucky. He can go to his prom this weekend after all. But – if he tries to make it any earlier tomorrow? It’s off.

I’ve actually been staying up a lot later now that AndyZ is here. Maybe it’s because my “ME” time seems more rare and I like to cram in a bit after NikkiZ is asleep. Or maybe my sleep cycle is changing and I’m turning into one of those crazy “Night People” I’ve heard so much about my entire life. Even during my beer-drinking college days, I was a morning person. I have always preferred early mornings to late nights. But maybe three kids will change that in a person. Especially when one of those kids likes to steal my mornings from me by demanding things like being fed and diaper changes and general care. Jeez. So demanding, that kid.

Good thing he’s kinda cute.

You know…I’m not a weak-stomach type of gal. I’ve changed plenty of diapers and been puked and pooped on dozens of times in my life. Motherhood has desensitized me to a handful of previously considered disgusting events. I think it’s a coping mechanism Mother Nature instills in adults. While looking down and realizing your child had just had diarrhea all over your pants may have caused you to projectile vomit before, now you just take a moment to decide if you should just throw the pants away or try to salvage them.

(For the record? I always throw them away. I don’t spend enough money on clothing to try to wrestle with poop stains.)

All of that said, there is something that still triggers my gag reflex every time I see it on TV. It’s that damn PedEgg. Have you seen it? It’s the weird pedicure scraper thing that collects the dead skin inside itself. That’s the part that makes me want to hurl. Seeing several woman dump a full egg of dead skin flakes out onto some fabric. Every time I see the commercial I have to change the channel. That’s a lot of dead skin flakes that are not mine, so I really don’t want to look at them.

I also would like to not look at other people’s nasty feet. Now, my feet aren’t perfect, but they’re mine so they don’t gross me out. The nasty feet they use in the “BEFORE” pictures on that commercial? Oh. My. God. I think the Parents Television Council should quit bitching about sex, violence, and nudity on television and start getting the PedEgg commercials banned FOREVER. That is some disturbing stuff right there. I’d take an entire season of Dexter over one more airing of that 30-second bit of nastiness.

So, if I take the list from Saturday and cross out the things I did and bold the things I didn’t, it looks something like this:

Now I have to find time to wrap and ship a chunk of them so that they’ll get to my family in time for Christmas. I also have to finish the 80+ Christmas cards I have left to address and mail and also take LilZ and his friends to see I am Legend. I think my family would really like it if I did some laundry this weekend and I think my sinuses would appreciate it if I would vacuum this damn house. The dog fur is now so heave in the carpet that I have forgotten what the orginal color was. There’s also maternity clothes to sort through (I finally made MrZ get the container down from the attic. I missed the ability to breathe in my pants) and a pile of clothes in the bedroom to take to charity. Then there needs to be a trip to the recycling center and a trip to get groceries.

I did damn good! Only two things didn’t get accomplished as planned and I have an excuse for one of them: The Goodwill center near my house has no drop bins that I can drop my bags of stuff in after hours. I tried, but to no avail. So – I am quite proud of myself. We even added a few bonus items like a trip to see the Galaxy of Lights and visit to Mimi and Grandpa’s. I’m actually quite proud of myself. It’s always nice when you pass your expectations for the weekend. It never happens around here.

BUT – (there’s always a but) – it seems I may be getting this cold that is going around the blogosphere. I don’t know anyone in my real world that has it, but I’ve been reading about several of you dealing with the never-ending symptoms and pain and agony and…YOU GAVE IT TO ME. I tossed and turned all night last night with sniffles and sneezes and headaches. I got up this morning and took some of that nasty Airborne crap and drank some OJ. I’m also going to make some small animal sacrifices (namely a beagle/lab mix that chewed up my address list last night) to the gods of wellness and possibly make a deal with the devil. I CAN NOT GET SICK. We are going to Louisiana this weekend and then, next week, will be my first Christmas with both my kids EVER. The last two LilZ spent with his Dad (for various reasons) so this one is MINE. ALL MINE. I can NOT be sick.

I’m just going to keep saying that nineteen million times and hopefully that alone will ward off the evil cold demons. Keep your fingers crossed.

This article makes me angry. I mean, when I read it I saw RED. My face got hot and my blood started boiling. The title alone pissed me off because I knew where the writer was going: “How Oprah Ruined the Marathon” I knew this writer was going to start criticizing the fact that everyone runs marathons now. It’s a goal people actually fine attainable. And I knew this person was about to insult that.

I don’t know where to begin breaking down Mr. McClelland’s article and the way it angers me. But, we’ll start with this paragraph which might have upset me the most:

Like Oprah, Bingham deserves praise for luring insecure, overweight novices off their couches and into running shoes. He’s also terrific for business. In the last 15 years, the Chicago Marathon field has increased tenfold, to 45,000. But with this change in the running culture, the average finishing time for men has dropped from 3:32 to 4:15 — not far from the Oprah Line, or my own performance. Last month’s Chicago Marathon had to be shut down mid-race, because undertrained five- and six-hour marathoners couldn’t handle that much time in the 85-degree heat.

First of all – if you don’t know who Bingham is – take a quick moment to go here. Damn. The site’s down. Save it for later. Essentially he mainstreamed the marathon by making everyone believe that if he could do it? Then they could. He sells t-shirts on his site that say things like “Who Cares If I’m Slow.” (Which, for the record, is a depressing thing to see mobs of people passing you wearing.)

So, essentially this author is first saying that the droves of novices that Bingham brought to the sport is a bad thing. But he’s also saying that the disaster at the Chicago Marathon is the fault of the novices? Pardon me for saying so, but when I read the reports about that marathon being cut, there were just as many seasoned runners in those first-aid tents as there were novices. And I know one of those runners who did not want to quit. (For the record, she finally became a marathoner here. Go tell her congrats.) And I hate the contempt in the voice of this author for those people. For MY people. I finished my marathon in an embarrassingly slow time. I mean, Oprah would have run laps around me. But does that mean that my participation lessens the integrity of the sport?

He ends the article with this:

If the marathon is populist enough for everyone to pin on a number, it’s also populist enough for everyone to kick ass. If you’re running the New York City Marathon this weekend, remember, it’s a race. True, no matter how hard you push, you’re not going to win a gold medal. But maybe a kid in high school will, someday. If the pack can drag the best runners back, we can push them forward, too.

You know what? Who is this guy to try to act like that just because my time is slow doesn’t mean I’m kicking ass? Anyone who crosses that finish line is kicking ass. This guy wants to blame the lack of a US marathon hero on the masses of us novice/walkers on the course. And that makes no sense. Yes, the average has gone down. But that’s mathematically expected when more novices jump in. I can’t imagine the woman in the front of the pack in Nashville saw me in the back of the pack and thought, “You know? That curly-haired girl is going slow. I’m going to slow down too.”

The idea that anyone in our increasingly unhealthy culture can actually point negatively to the newfound popularity of marathon running makes me laugh. And I love that he’s passive aggresive about his insulting with such wonderful statements as:

I just didn’t get it. After my knee injury, I’d returned to the 5K. I pushed myself into the pain zone, puked after races, and fought my way back down to 20 minutes — a far more satisfying feat than a four-hour marathon. I was doing all I could do, with what I still had. Yet here was a man whose legs would carry him 26 miles, and he was content to stop for walking breaks.

Mr. McClelland, I apologize that those of us out there who take walking breaks are such a bother to you and your bum knee. It is unfortunate you blame us “Penguins” (It’s a Bingham term) for the low average like it’s a black mark on your precious marathon. I’m sorry if this newfound love for running by couch potatoes over the country takes away the pride you feel in that 26.2 miles. But you know what? I just have to say one thing to you: Screw You. It is not anymore your race than it is mine. I am proud of you for finishing at whatever time you can finish. I look at the first person who crosses that finish like with admiration and respect. Actually? I am in awe of anyone that finishes faster than Oprah because I knew from the day I started training that her goal was too lofty for me. In other words? Before today I would have seen you cross that finish line at your best time and thought, “Man. He’s fast. I wish I could be fast like him.”

But you know what? No longer. I’ll be proud of the person before you and the person after you. But of you? I’m not going to waste my admiration on someone who thinks people like me are not kicking enough ass. I’ll save it for the person who comes in dead last. Do you know how hard it is NOT to give up when they’re closing the course behind you? I’ve been the last one in a race before and had the cops picking up the cones behind me as I slowly crept towards the finish line. It was my first half-marathon and I poorly paced myself and ended up in a lot of pain. And also in last place. It hurts. It made me embarrassed and ashamed and worried that jackasses like you were rolling their eyes at me as I hobbled down the road.

But you know what? Luckily the people on my race weren’t like you. Many kept at the finish line until the last person crossed, cheering us all on. Many ran backwards when they were finished to encourage those of us still on the course. They patted us on the back and commiserated in our agony. They didn’t look down on me for walking a small bit. They let me in their club of finishers. They told me to be proud. And I was. And I’m sure as hell not letting you take that away from me. Or from Oprah. She ran her marathon in 4 hours and 29 minutes. Scoff at my time all you want, but don’t knock hers. That chick is fast.