the half truth of a whole life

First I’d like to say that there was no blog post on Wednesday because no one emailed me a questions for Ask Caroline Wednesday. That was both hurtful and humiliating and now I’m doubting my cred as a legit blogger. Really? No one wanted to benefit from my expansive knowledge of the universe? Unbelievable.

Alas, my self worth is closely tied to blog readers, their opinions of me, and my blog stats and recently it’s all been in the shitter. So, in an effort to regain the adoration of readers around the apartment, and to make up for my one week absence from the blog, I am going to tell a tale that I have previously decided not to share. In order to maintain my own dignity.

So. My biggest fear in life, besides snakes, roaches, airplanes, and dying, is shitting myself. For most people, this is a fear that will likely never be realized because, come on, who shits themselves? Well, I’ll tell you who. Me.

This is actually a very sad story about a to-date undiagnosed stomach issue that basically ruined me as a child. Through middle school, high school, college, and there after I lived in a constant state of fear. My belly was like a demon, waiting for me to get comfortable before it seized up and ruined everything. About two years ago I gave up eating meat, which largely contributed to my semi-wellness now. This is not vegetarian propaganda. Eat all the animals you want, but this girl will not be joining you. Animals in the tum lead to fire in the bum.

Having the stomach thing in check (relatively) has enabled me to live a fairly full life. I can go out to dinner now, hang out, eat at other people’s houses, all things I couldn’t do before. I have to be careful though. Occasionally I get carried away, get a little bold, and BOOM. Shit myself. What. the. fuck. This is mortifying for many of you to hear, but you really needn’t worry. I’m actually pretty used to it. I know pretty much every available bathroom in every major city, how to wiggle my way into health clubs, restaurants– any place that usually has rules about bathroom usage, I can bypass. When your alternative is pooing your adult pants, you figure it out.

Despite my progress there is one arena where I am as vulnerable as a lamb. Running. My best bet is not to eat anything at all before a run. By that I mean that if I plan on going on a run at 4PM, I should plan to starve all day long. It’s the only way to know for certain that I will be able to complete the jog without cold sweats and the McGurgle.

Unfortunately, when you’re training for a half marathon (which is tomorrow), you really don’t have a lot of choice in the matter. You need to be running constantly, and in order to get those runs in, you have to run in the mornings, afternoons, sometimes even at night. It takes about four hours to go for a run. First you need to gear up, which can take up to an hour. The actual run can be anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours and then there’s the cool down, lie on the floor period. If you need to shower, forget about it. May as well take the day off work.

Training for this half marathon has been a totally different experience than training for the last. The little voice in the back of my head remembers that I already did this once and is pretty certain I can do it again. Training or no training. That voice ate paint chips as a child and has no business making decisions for me, but that voice is also lazy and likes cocktails, so it’s been the predominant factor in my training. Oops. All that is to say that I should have been running lots more and lots more frequently, but I wasn’t. Instead I decided that one week before the race I would run 8 miles to make sure I’d be okay.

I convinced the husband and best friend H to come along for the jog. They are, after all, both signed up to run the half as well. Due to scheduling conflicts, the only available time we had was Sunday evening around 7PM. That day I had to go to Foxwoods for work. I had eaten lunch around three, which for normal people would be plenty of time for digestion. (You know that thing about not swimming for 30 minutes after you eat? As a child my rule of thumb was pretty much no swimming the day I ate. You cannot imagine what it’s like to get the stomach drop in a pool. Danger! Danger!) How naive I was.

We took off at an awesome pace. It was one of the best jogs I’ve been on. We were clipping along, breathing, chatting, enjoying the weather. The miles were passing with no problem (save the hubs who was sweaty, crampy, and ornery) and it was pretty clear that we’d be able to finish the eight miles with no problem. I kept an anxious (mind’s) eye on my tum, knowing that I had likely made a huge error.

Let’s take a moment away from the story so that I may stress to you just how anxious running makes me. I am acutely aware that there is no where you can go when the tummy drop takes place. Without warning, a light and enjoyable jog can turn into a top five reason to kill yourself. For some, it is possible to waddle quickly home before all hell breaks loose, but I am not one of those fortunate folks. If and when it strikes, I am an immediate victim.

Back to the story.

We rounded 5 miles with no problem. We’d broken off with the husband so we could all pace appropriately. H and I were already making plans to run a marathon– that’s how great the run was going. (Silly girl. To think life could be so pleasant…) At mile 6, it happened. Swiftly the chill took over. My stomach dropped and my sphincter immediately reacted, clenching in fear. Oh no. Oh. no. Ohhhh no. No. No. No.

I suffered in silence for a moment, knowing that I was going to have to cop to the situation. H is my nearest and dearest. I don’t have any sisters, but I’m certain that if I were going to have one she’d be it. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about me. Except that as we jog a bitter battle is raging in my belly. What to do. What to do. What to do.

I did the only thing I knew to do. I looked ahead (at the WIDE OPEN expanse of trail) and behind (at the spotting of people jogging near us) and finally at Hailey (oblivious to the situation).

Hey, H, you think that tree looks good for a pit stop?

And in a response more glorious than anything anyone has ever said to me, H replied,

Why, I think that tree is perfect. As I matter of fact I was going to stop here and do some stretching…

And that’s how it happened. I shit behind a tree. With H faux stretching a little ways back, coughing in warning of approaching joggers. (Not that there’s a whole lot you can do. The pants are where the pants are. They’re either gonna get a gander or they’re not.)

I righted myself and stepped back onto the path, H joining me as if we’d never stopped. We finished our jog– even tacking on an extra mile just for kicks–without missing another beat.

The only sign of any shenanigans was my missing right sock.

I’ll be back tomorrow. A lot going on at work. And at home. And I’m lazy.

We ask why because we cannot ask nothing. Because nothing sits,  stares uncomfortably at us. Relentless, heartless, wonderless, soulless.We ask why because we need something else. We need something to ponder, to hope, to factor in and follow through to the other side. The side that is brighter, the side that is lighter. The side that sighs relief and gives us peace from why.

We ask why when we see answers we do not want. We ask why when we see love returned, pain standing, staring, waiting, wanting. We ask why before we turn away, before we attempt to rewind, undo, try something different. We ask why because we are scared, human, small, sad.

Why, I wonder. Why sadness, why loss, why pain, why heartbreak. Why will you leave, why will I stay, why will I be alone, and why do I why do I why do I why do I why do I why.

Why does it hurt. Why does it hate. Why does it care to see me cry. To wonder. To beg. To pace.

Why?

Can you tell me why?

Even though my blog is composed nearly exclusively of self indulgent blither, I manage to sleep at night by hoping that somewhere in all my musings is a nugget of truth and hope for someone out there.

Wait, no I don’t. Nevermind.

At any rate, today’s post is nothing but nonsense. I’ve got two completely unrelated things that I’d like to talk about and since it’s Friday and it’s my blog, I’m just gonna talk about them. (Plus the last week has been confirmation that no one really care what I talk about. Six survey responses? Really? You know I can tell when people have been here. Two hundred people enjoyed the fruits of my….er….labor and only six people answered the survey question? Dis. a. point. ing. (And not a single question for next week’s Ask Caroline. That was short lived.)

Cheese: The American Conspiracy

Adults: Know Your Percentile

I have a problem with cheese, specifically American cheeses. Not specifically”American cheese”, which isn’t even a cheese, but the cheeses that we, as Americans, eat recreationally. I’m not speaking of those divine puff pastry clad Brie wheels, or a sprinkling of Feta, or even my most despised goat, but cheese. White cheeses, shredded “mozzarella”, and all the other cheeses that we’ve concocted for consumption around here. I think we’re being fooled. It doesn’t taste like anything, except the other things it’s hanging out with. Essentially it’s high calorie glue. Yet time and time again I feel that I need cheese. Without cheese nothing will taste right. Pizza will be nothing but toppings and crust. Burritos will be pointless, quesadillas obsolete. I need cheese. But then I eat cheese and I can’t help thinking that I didn’t taste the cheese. I didn’t really even notice the cheese at all. I consumed an additional 150 calories without even noticing. Not worth it, my friends, not worth it.

Take Velveeta for instance. Why do we eat it? You wave a square of V in front of anyone’s face and they assume you’re challenging them to a Double Dog Dare. It’s like eating Spam. (Imagine a Spam and Velveeta skewer. I just did. Almost yiffed on my keyboard.) No one in their right mind eats Velveeta unless it’s gluing something together. Like Rotel. Don’t you think that we could create a calorie free, tasteless glue that would do the job without killing us and blocking our small intestine? I think so. It’s no wonder no one with a palate eats Velveeta shells and cheese unless it’s with a lot of salt and pepper. It’s flour and glue! It’s the cooked version of those picture frames you made in preschool.

I know that I’m stirring the proverbial pot, but let’s think for a second. My “famous” Super Bowl queso dip is divine. It’s got Velveeta, sausage, onions, garlic, sour cream, black beans… it’ll kill you soon as look at you but it’s delicious. But the truth is that a pile of sausage, onions, garlic, sour cream, and black beans would actually be freaking delicious, it just wouldn’t stay on a chip. (Plus the chip would have to be make of reinforced steel.) And it’d be impossible to keep warm. Add some V glue, though, and you’ve got a party favorite. No one is walking around talking about how delicious my Velveeta is. (Almost every time I’ve gone to type Velveeta I’ve type Vulva or Vagina. Gross. And Freudian.)

I recently stopped ordering Cheese in my burrito at Boloco. They’re using MontJack or something useless like that. After I got over the emotionally hardship, I realized it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Didn’t even notice it. And I think I’m thinner already.

That’s all I have to say about cheese.

Moving on.

You know how new parents are all into their baby’s percentiles? At the very least it’s totally obnoxious, but always entertaining. I’m pretty sure it’s the poo-flinging quiet kids who synthesize oxygen and save the world. So, yay for your percentile kid, too bad it doesn’t mean shit.

But I do think we need a percentile chart for adults. Only for weight/height though. The silver lining to this obesity epidemic is it’s ability to make marginally thin people seem anorexic. I feel certain that if I were having a fat day and I could look at a chart that told me that even at my heftiest I was in the 99th percentile of weight I’d feel pretty rosy.

I can’t be sure, but when I was thinking about it the other day I figured out that if we did that chart it’s likely that I’d be in the same percentile as models and hosts of shows on E!. What’s even better is how upsetting it would be for them. Here they are depriving themselves every human delight to stay svelt and they aren’t even a PERCENTAGE POINT better than little ol’ me. Because in the grand scheme of life, those 6 lbs don’t make a damn bit of difference.

I mean, hopefully it would be insightful and inspirational and help solve the obesity crisis, but even if it didn’t it’d still be fun.

I’m just sharing this because it makes me giggle.

I’ve had this here blog since October of 2006, I believe. Since that time, almost every single day one of the search terms is “half truth of a whole life” with the IP address always being similar, if not the same.

Now, bless you, whomever you are, but you should know that if you just remove the spaces and add a .com to the end you could save a whale or something with all the saved search-induced global warming stuff.

(Or you could subscribe to the blog, but I don’t want to be pushy.)

Other search terms for today included (I’ve linked to the posts that I either know they were led to or I think they may have been led to):

the days before google

bitches don’t know shit about my aids (<– a gem from 2007)

amanda carsey

littlefuck (this one was tough. you search this on my blog and nearly every post is returned…)

muthers a cock

isagenix and gas

You can blame E. Until his most recent visit I was happy in our relationship. Sure, I get annoyed when you don’t read my mind and bring me ice cream with my Neosporin from the CVS, but those are things that we can work through. What we can’t work through is me falling in love with another man. It was E who introduced us. He carelessly brought him to my attention. There, on the TV, just fighting crime and breaking hearts like it was nothing.

Hubs, I’m leaving you for Timothy Olyphant.

I know what you’re thinking, this isn’t love, it’s only lust. I’ll get over it and we’ll be back to normal.

That’s not true, hubs. It’s simply not true. I checked IMDB. Timmy is a full six feet tall. Six feet! He isn’t one of those little tiny creepy Hollywood men. You fall in love and next thing you know he is popping up out of a little suitcase that his 5’4 body folded up into with no problem. This isn’t like the James McEvoy thing from ’09. I’m not going to have my bags packed when you reveal that he’s actually a 5’8 Scotsman with midget hands and an ugly wife. This is closer to the Hugh Jackman thing of… well…. always. I could wear heels. I could wear platforms!

Timmy even graduated from college. Wait, more than that, he SWAM in college. He is a D1 athlete for God’s sake. Just imagine that crime fighting, tough guy body rippling beneath the water… omg omg omg omg.

A quick skim of his IMDB lineup sealed the deal. Any man who plays characters named Raylan, Seth, and Wes is the man for me. I bet he drives an SUV. Or a truck. No Prius for Timmy and me. Oh! I bet we’ll ride off together on his hog.

I’m sorry that you had to find out this way. You know I think you’re a dear, really, I do. And really you look quite a bit like Mr. Olyphant. Your rugged (kind of) beard and swagger. (So what if it’s actually a limp from a dip shit doctor putting your cast on wrong?) You’re well over six feet. You may not drive a truck but you’re hell on a Singer and even better with a Dremel. And one day we could ride off into the sunset on a Vespa or something, I’m sure.

Ooh. Now I’m torn.

*******

Get hot and bothered by the opening credits to Justified. Tuesday nights at 10EST on FX.

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I’m ill. Hacking cough, tissues stuffed up my nose, chapstick smeared on my nose because that’s what’s chapped, not my stinkin’ lips. Add to that that I can’t taste a goddamned thing but I still insist on eating high calorie foods for fun and you’ve got yourself a winning day.

Oh, plus I managed to piss my mom off so she’s not even feeling sorry for me. Super. Just super.

On days like this, when the self pity is really thick, I get really anxious. The week is now blown because I didn’t get my Monday AM workout in, the one that sets the tone for the whole week, I’ve slept all day which means I definitely won’t be tired tonight, which means I won’t sleep, which means I’ll have a hard time getting up tomorrow, which means tomorrow is ruined, which instantly means the rest of my life is going to be ruined and I’ll never grow up to be the girl I’ve always wanted. Hmpfh.

And then there is Facebook. I should just burn my computer. Nothing takes self pity to the depths that Facebook can. I’m lying on my couch watching the most depressing Robin Wright Penn movie ever, looking at photos of friends I haven’t managed to keep up with, people who don’t like me, and some I’m pretty sure want me dead.

I’m in a good place, as you can tell.

All of that was simply to set up my announcement that there won’t be a blog post coming today. I’m cranktastic to say the least, annoyed at the reason my mother is mad, sick as a squirrel, annoyed that I’m annoyed about the reason my mother is mad at me, and stuff full on food I couldn’t taste.

But don’t worry. I wont take it completely out on you. I’m going to post some photos of the infamous dress. The photos aren’t great, but you get the idea…