~Friday, July 29, 2011

Fortuitous Fortune

I was up late last night, heady from both bar beers and good conversation on Gchat. Then the strangest thing had happened: Poet, my boyfriend from college who left me for the great city of Baltimore, pinged me on Facebook.

I hadn't heard from Poet in two years, since we had this awkward as hell coffee after I left S. I was in such a bad head space and Poet had transformed into someone I no longer knew. I didn't expect to ever hear from him again.

Hey you. Shouldn't you be in bed?

I eyed the screen suspiciously. No way. The same day I mention him, here he is? I was so disrupted by the contact that I didn't respond.

I e-mailed him back today. We had short exchange. I told him his contact was serendipitous because I had just thought of him.

Really? No way...Why?

I was writing a piece about when we graduated from school. I was with you then.

True, indeed. You drove a manual pick-up truck. With your husky. For what are you writing? Journal, blog, memoir?


He knows about another incarnation of a blog, but he doesn't know about this one. But Poet is intimate with my writing and my writing style. We were in the same undergraduate writing program and we'd stay up late and read each other poetry and help each other get unstuck in our short stories. He'd audit my classes because he was interested in what I was learning that he wasn't. We'd meet our professors for drinks after class and debate theory in writing. Poet had moved on to great things: grad school at Johns Hopkins, a fellowship at Harvard. I see his name appear every now and then. I've even seen poems he'd written me published in books.

As for me, I'm writing about a dick in my mouth.

I'm a little afraid of what you might have written! he responded.

Actually, you were a periphery character, so nothing bad! It was very matter of fact.

Whew. That's a relief. I know I'll end up as "Jerk Face" on someone's blog before it's all over.

He asked about this book. It must have been the last time we'd spoken. He asked if I was proud of what I had written and whether I was content with the company of writers that appeared beside me.

I expressed to him my feelings on the contribution: I could have done better.

I've always liked your [previous] blog. You have a voice, which is a big part of the battle. Of course, what that really means is that you have character, which is pretty rare these days. I'm happy you're still doing some writing.

My heart swelled. Not because of this truck-driving, bourbon-swilling, tobacco-dipping man I used to love, but because there are people who still believe in me.

~Thursday, July 28, 2011

20 Questions

What's your best holiday destination and why? Anonymous

My father owns a house on the beach in the South Carolina lowcountry (Think Prince of Tides). It's a five-hour drive from my apartment in the city. Especially in the winter, I like to load up the dog in the car and head out there for some solitude. It's a small town tucked away from tourists, so the beaches are lined with trees instead of hotels. It's just perfect.

Pictures can be found here.

Do you have a funny blogger nickname picked out for when you meet your life partner/future husband? Thisisme

I have never really considered the possibility of meeting the love of my life while maintaining this blog. Is that weird? I always figured that was for the cool Heather Armstrongs of the world to have husbands with laptops and scruffy faces to sit on the other side of the desk while she blogs. Actually Heather Hunter of This Fish fame made the transition from relationship blogger to married blogger, so I guess there's hope for me yet. Lately, I've been naming guys based on their hometowns, so as long as I don't meet someone from Helen, Charlotte or Savannah, I think it'll be fine.

What's one of your "can't live without" beauty products? J

Aveda Smooth Infusion Glossing Straightener, or as I like to call it: MAGIC. It's crack for hair. Tames humidity, frizzies and flyaways. Adds glossy shine. It totally makes me look like I woke up with perfect hair that didn't require two different shampoos, a deep conditioner, hair dryer and a hair straightener and then my little bottle of crack. I honestly don't know how I dated in college without a flat iron and Aveda Smooth Infusion.

Everyone has a BJ gone wrong story- are you willing to share yours? Heisschic

Does everyone really have a BJ-gone-wrong story? Why have I never asked this of my friends?!

One time right after college I was working with this guy. He flirted really heavily with me and paid me all sorts of attention. I had just gotten out of a relationship because my boyfriend and I had just graduated and it was either follow each other or breakup. He moved to Baltimore for grad school and I stayed behind.

Anyway so I was really depressed and there was this guy and he was in his late twenties! OMG so grown up! And we went out for drinks and I matched him drink for drink the entire night... only he was over 6 feet tall and probably had at least 100 pounds on me. I was druuuuuuuunk. Drunkity drunk drunk. And I took him back to my place, where I was living with Satchel... and Satchel had friends in our living room and I was totally busted for coming home drunk with a random guy.

We go into my bedroom and I don't even think there were sheets on my bed. Blowie commences on the bare mattress. And something happened. I don't know if it was the bobbing motion, or the alcohol, or me trying to be overly ambitious, but I gagged. And my belly was full of vodka. I couldn't come back from the gag. I threw up just the tiniest amount. I swallowed it back down and I pushed through the blowie, hoping he didn't notice. He didn't. Ta da!

(I have exactly 2 stories of me throwing up on people and now you know 100% of them. I have also retired vodka.)

Answer anonymously if you must, but what was the worst thing to happen to you during a blowie?

Also, feel free to keep submitting questions!

~Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Blogger in Draft

 Sitting in draft mode since January 03, 2007

I swing the door open to an apartment I've never been in and scream, "Love of my life!" Satchel proved that I can live with a man. Of course it helped that we split the rent and had separate bedrooms. And never had sex. Satchel is my former roommate and platonic life partner.

Satchel heard my doorway bellowing and turned towards me while I jump in his arms. I miss him. I truly, honestly don't know how I made it through the past year without seeing him once. Satchel picks me up and swings me around and I survey the party for the first time.

And I lock eyes with someone.

And I have no idea who he is, but I know he has nipple rings.

I wouldn't know he that has nipple rings unless I know him. Unless I know him in a shirts-off kind of way. Satchel sets me down on the wood flooring and Nipple Rings and I stare at each other. He smiles, obviously remembering me.

"Hello there, Sarah. Long time," nods Nipple Rings as he tips his beer towards me. Of course he had to use my name and smile coyly at me; he knows I don't remember him. He's enjoying this moment.

Then I swallowed and choked on my own spit. Of course he would remember me. I too would remember the girl I met at a party five years ago where I split a fifth of potato vodka with her and took her back to my place downtown. There I would get her in my bed... where she would promptly projectile vomit on me.

Yup, I would remember her too.

~Monday, July 25, 2011

Life Fail

Saturday morning, after the incredibly stupid decision to get three hours of sleep, I showed up at bootcamp with Lawyered.

"Today, we are focusing on legs," one of the instructors called out.

I smiled triumphantly. Legs! I have legs! I run! I got this! And if we are doing legs, there will be no burpees! Everybody wins!

I did not win. I did not know there were 74 variations of squats, but we did them all.

At the end of the hour-long class, I was literally hanging on a chain-linked fence and groaning while I was doing some squat hold with butt lifts. Normally I glisten like a lady, but this morning I glistened right through my t-shirt. The nice instructor who says "Nice job, Miss Sarah!" walked away and the mean one approached.

I'm holding my squat with my fingers intertwined in the metal loops for support. There is no lifting of my butt. My stomach is decidedly unsettled. I'm 50/50 as to whether I'm going to yak or die.

"You're not low enough," the mean instructor said flatly.

"Mmphugrn," I groaned.

Then she grabbed me and pushed me down into a squat so low, I could have peed in the woods. I felt an unholy amount of pain as everything in my body ripped. I hollered.

"It hurts!"

"It's supposed to," she said flatly.

She won. It's been three days and basic movement is still a challenge. This morning someone dropped a file in front of me. I stood there like an asshole. "I'd pick it up for you, but I can't."

And that's all I have going on in my life. When people ask me what's new, I immediately apologize for being so boring. So let's play a game. Ask me anything in the comments section. I'll have a few drinks, watch youtube videos of flaming shot fails, and then answer your questions.

~Thursday, July 21, 2011

In Defense of Sexting

  • Sure there's images of 16-year-old girls posing in front of the mirror with her latest Victoria Secret PINK purchase discarded on the bathroom tile. But is she pregnant?
  • And, am I pregnant?
  • You don't have to worry about getting an awkward phone call six months down the line and listen to some guy describe his rash.
  • Also? No condoms. 
  • You know what's better than giving a blowie? Giving an imaginary blowie. No cricks in the neck. No saliva running down your fingers. No "Sorry about the accidental shucking." No pulling that one strange hair out of your teeth.
  • You don't have the wave the airplane in at the airport: "A little higher, please." 
  • You also don't have to flag the play: "Whoops! That wasn't the right place at all!" 
  • It's just the way you like it, all the time.
  • All the money you save by not having to purchase new lace panties. 
  • Actually, you can wear whatever the fuck you want. If it's a t-shirt with Dracula eating a Dorrito that reads, I'm a Party Monster, he's none the wiser.
  • You're the sexiest version of you. The one without the dimple in your ass and the strange mole you're going to have to explain one day. 
  • He's also the sexiest version of him, with the appropriate amount of manscaping without being too gay. Likewise, he doesn't have to explain how he got chicken pox as a kid and that explains the little red spot where there definitely shouldn't be one.
  • You still gain the one-on-one attention which can feel like acceptance and approval because, damn, it's been a long time since you felt either one of those. 
  • He's willing to go down on you too (see above).
  • You don't have to watch that same porn videocassette that your ex-boyfriend left at your apartment when he dumped you in 2003.
  • Your number doesn't increase. You know, the one that reflects both your age and your inability to say no in your twenties.
  • No clean up. That's his problem.

~Monday, July 18, 2011

One of the Guys

In the midst of my summer drought, I've been accepted as one of the guys. With the exception of Lawyered, the new kickball team is composed of commercial airline pilots. They're fun to look at, but they are also monster whores so I was quick to keep my distance.

Thursday night I was sandwiched in between two of the said whores at our bar. They were eyeing the new waitress. I got to hear this conversation:

Whore 1: Did you see her?
Whore 2: Yeah.
Whore 1: She's got a nice body.
Whore 2: Not so much the face though.
Whore 1: Yeah, but the body is nice.
Whore 2: Big hips.
Whore 1: Birthing hips...

It was this point I wheeled around and shot them the stink eye. They had picked apart this girl's appearance (who I would easily say is hotter than me) in minute detail. I thought women were our own worst enemies. Not true! Who needs us tearing ourselves apart in the mirror when we have boys doing it for us?

I didn't know guys were capable of this. They don't notice your noticeable haircut. They don't know the details of the gossip they are relaying to you. But they can wax poetic about the shape of this girl's chin and her "birthing" hips (which, once again, were smaller than mine).

And I was privileged to the entire conversation because I am "one of the guys." Great.


Saturday night I pulled in front of Schmoozer's best friend's house. He met me outside and we climbed into his car. He began driving us to the bar.

"Wait, aren't we picking up Schmoozer?" I asked.

"We can."

"He's been day drinking with y'all's coworkers. If we don't go get him, he won't make it to meet us."

He shot a look at me from across the front seat. "You understand he's with a group of six guys who have been drinking all day, right?"

"So what? We'll just pop in and get him."


We turned into the house where they were. We got out of the car. I was dressed for Saturday night at the bar, not for Saturday night at some dude's house. I was wearing my Fuck Me dress that both plunged at the neckline and barely covered my tush. I tried to pull the dress down. My heels sank into the grass, aerating the yard.

There they were in the backyard. A tiki torch, a cooler of beer and six guys sitting in lawn chairs positioned in a circle. I saw six heads turn around and watch me approach. The conversation stopped.

Schmoozer was too housed to acknowledge me or to tell the guys who this strange girl was in their backyard. One guy jumped out of his lawn chair and gave it to me. He went and stood by the best friend.

The six guys then swarmed.

Apparently the guys near the best friend covertly asked him who I was and congratulated him for dating me (Ha!). He explained we were just friends.

Then the pack asked me how I knew him.

"I know him through Schmoozer," I said, pointing to the boy who couldn't see straight. It was hilariously awkward that I was there for Schmoozer, yet he was too incapacitated to greet me.

I sat in the lawn chair. Immediately I was handed a bottle of Bushmills and a Red Stripe. I swigged from the Bushmills bottle and passed it to the next guy. All eyes were staring at me. It felt very satisfying. I felt wanted and datable. They were congratulating the best friend on me. ME.

Then they started behaving like guys. I don't know what that means. Inappropriate. Vulgar. It wasn't low brow because I can swig whiskey from a bottle and tell a good dead-baby joke with the rest of them. Things just got weird very quickly. They were in a circle quick-firing questions at me. I couldn't fully answer one before another guy asked another. And they weren't normal questions; they were oddly specific. I didn't know their intentions of the conversation and I began to feel uncomfortable.

I kept turning around and making Danger Eyes at the best friend, but he wasn't looking at me. I couldn't get him to make eye contact. I was going to have to get out of there on my own.

I stood up and placed my empty beer bottle on the picnic table.

"Aw, you're leaving?" they asked.

"Yup, we're moving on."

"You'll be at the bar for awhile? Maybe we'll meet you there."

"We'll be there."

Schmoozer didn't want to go. He said he was still drinking free beer and didn't want to go to a place where he had to pay for it. He said he'd meet us there later.

Best Friend and I got into the car. "Ugh!" I sighed.

"I told you!" he laughed.

"I've been around guys. I just didn't think it was going to be like... that."

"The guy who gave you his chair—he's married—he came up to me and told me to take you out of there and that you were ready to leave."

"I was! I was giving you the signal!" I patted the top of my head like Elaine did in Seinfeld, but he didn't get the reference. "I was giving you Danger Eyes!"

Boys are gross.

~Tuesday, July 12, 2011


Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?
-- "Face Down" The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

I heard my cell phone ring. But I was still hung over from the previous night with Lawyered and his fiancée, and the phone was alllllllll the way in the other room. I figured it was just Schmoozer trying to make plans for the night anyway. I let it go to voicemail.

A couple of hours later, I finally checked my phone. I didn't recognize the number. I listened to the voicemail. It was S' step-mom. I hadn't heard from her since January of this year when I avoided her calls. It had probably been a year before that when we last spoke.

She was calling because she had news; I knew that. The question was, did I want to hear it? My mother had received her Karma and I wanted to know mine. I was oddly unemotional. I could have deleted the message and walked away without a second thought. I couldn't have cared less what the news was.

I guess that means I'm finally over it. I read an article on forgiveness and it said that it takes most people about two years after the incident to be able to forgive. Like clockwork, it's been two years and a handful of months since I moved out while he was at work. I did it in secret for my own safety. He returned home to an empty apartment with nothing in it but a couch, because that was all that he owned.

I nothing him. I'm no longer angry. I'm no longer sad. I can't look back at the happy times of the relationship because they were all lies. From start to finish. The only lingering feeling I have towards the entire situation is forgiving myself.

In the hot second I dated Statham, we were lying in bed naked. Despite being an athlete and in very good shape, he wasn't comfortable being exposed. Even though his body as a man was better than mine as a woman. He didn't like it when my fingertips ran across his flesh because it made him feel self-conscious.

"What's this scar?" I asked pointing to his upper arm. There was a very deep, very purple scar running from his armpit down the inside of his arm.

"It's a stretch mark from when I used to be fat," he responded, shifting his weight in unease.

I knew he used to be heavier. He had shown me pictures. To me, he never looked fat; he just didn't look like him. But the scar was a physical toll to symbolize the emotional one his weight took on him.

And that's how I feel. I have a very deep, very purple scar on my heart from when I used to be abused. It's no longer about S anymore. It's about me.

I returned his step-mom's call. Honestly, the only reason I did it is because the blog has been a little dry lately. I also empathize with the step-mom's position. I was able to leave the situation and make a clean break from him. She can't. She's married to the problem. She doesn't work and she spends her days in solitude as she waits for her husband to return home. She doesn't have a lot of people she can turn to so she can deal with the situation. That's why I think she calls me.

S was arrested again. For beating up his newest girlfriend. I know, the Internet just took a collective inhale of shock. He has hurt every single one of his girlfriends since me. He spent the 72 hours in lockup and was released. Just like last time.

"You know, I think there is a pattern," she told me. "He either loses his girlfriend or his job within the same week."

I snorted. Was that not obvious? After I left him, he showed up to work drunk/high and was fired. I can also assume that means he isn't working anymore either.

"And at a family gathering and he stole his father's wedding ring."

"Mmm-hmm." This isn't news. He pawned my shit too.

"We think he's back to drinking and doing drugs."

"He never stopped," I replied.

And while we were talking, he called her on the other line. She played me the message so I could commiserate with her. However, I was pissed off at her insensitivity to play me the voice of the person who had hurt me. She had saw it happen first-hand.

There was one night we were at their house for dinner. S wasn't supposed to be drinking, but he poured himself a glass of wine. No one wanted to start a fight with him, so everyone let him be. He got drunk and said awful things to me. And of course, because he was my boyfriend, he had to get in my car and ride back to the apartment.

We were a few miles outside of her house when we started shouting at each other. Then he pulled my emergency brake while I was driving down the street, causing me to fishtail in another lane. I screamed. He then grabbed me by the throat and began choking me against the driver's side window while I was still driving. I swerved into another lane. I was frightened. I frantically honked the horn, hoping someone would see my erratic driving and honking and call the police. He lunged at the wheel.

After he let go of me I stopped the car in the middle of the road, shaking and crying.

"I need to get out of here," I mumbled.

As I opened the driver's side door, he opened his and ran around to my side and grabbed my car keys. I didn't care. I didn't care. I left my car and my keys and my purse in the middle of the road and began running.

This was before I took up running, but I ran the entire distance to their house faster than every 5k I've ever completed. I rang their bell and beat on their door in complete hysterics.

They didn't need to go look for him. He drove my car like a bat out of hell back to the house. They tried to console me, telling me he's pulled that maneuver with a previous girlfriend. They scolded him. Then they told us it was time to go and they sent him home with me. A selfish part of them didn't want me to leave him, because as long as I was with him, he was my problem, not theirs.

When I heard his voice on her answering machine, I felt nothing. Whatever. It's just a voice. One I don't know.

Face down in the dirt, she said,
'This doesn't hurt.' She said,
'I've finally had enough.'

~Monday, July 11, 2011

Independence Day

Up until about 18 months ago, I had a step-father. He came into my life when I was 7 or 8 and remained there for 20 years. There were some incidents when I was younger; we weren't close. He never told me he loved me and I reciprocated. I'm gutted as I think about that now. That man lived in my house for 20 years as a father figure but never bothered with the father part.

When I fled my terrible, no-good relationship and moved home, I quickly put together that my step-father was cheating on my mother. No one believed me. My therapist told me I was too traumatized and consequently overly sensitive. My mother said the same thing to that effect. But I knew. And every suspicion I had turned out to be right.

Once again I had to flee. I fled the house I grew up in and moved into my present apartment to avoid witnessing the divorce in person. My therapist told me it would have been too hard on me because my own wounds were still so fresh.

My mom once told me that because I had the strength to get out of my relationship, I gave her the strength to get out of hers. And since then, our lives have run parallel to each other. As I watched my dog recover from my relationship (she would shake and hide while I was being attacked), I learned that animals are affected by negative energy as well. So I wasn't surprised when after my step-father vacated the house, animals started showing up.

My mother lives on a large plot of land with several gardens and a small orchard. First, she started spying turtles, then rabbits. Then one day she stopped mid-sentence on the phone to bang on the bay window. "Damn deer," she muttered. Then a hawk took up residence in a tree behind the sunroom.

"It's like you're Cinderella!" I laughed.

Everyday on the phone, I heard about a new animal that appeared. A coyote. A bear most recently.

"Why are they all coming to dinner at my house?!" my mother exclaimed.

"Easy. It's because he's gone. The bad energy is gone, so the animals are coming out."

My mother didn't believe me. She said it was because she was too busy with the relationship and never noticed before. Then the orchid in the sunroom bloomed. That flower hadn't bloomed in 10 years. It made a believer out of my mother.


I haven't seen or heard from my ex-stepfather since I moved out of the house again almost 2 years ago. Since before the divorce. I was angry over the lying and cheating. Home was supposed to be a safe place for me after I was beaten down, but it wasn't. I knew things. I knew things that would get him fired from his job as a school teacher. My mother begged me not to say anything, saying that his time would come eventually. I didn't want to trust the Universe. I wanted revenge just in case the Universe failed me yet again, but ultimately I listened to my mother.

Two years to the day after we got confirmation of his cheating, which ironically was Independence Day. My mother got a letter in the mail. It wasn't addressed to her. It was addressed to him. And it was sent from the county where he taught school.

My mom walked inside the house, hands shaking. Not daring to mess with the letter, she walked over to the lamp she does her mending under—the highest wattage fluorescent bulb. She held the envelope against the bulb. The red letters were illuminated.


He was fired. I asked my mother how hard it was to be fired as a school teacher. She listed all the different ways teachers are removed from schools or pushed into administrative roles. She said something egregious had to have happened to receive a notice of termination.

Her friends had finally picked up on my Internet stalking skills. They looked up the Facebook profile of the woman that my step-father cheated on my mom with. On her wall, she announced that the relationship was over. The same week that he was fired, he had to move out of her house that they lived in with her three children. More damage to more children, I thought. Although two years of exposure isn't as bad as twenty.

I didn't trust the Universe. I wanted to push for the firing years ago. My mother told me to wait for it, and she was right. The Universe mailed the letter to her house, ensuring she would find out. She feels validated in her feelings. She felt like he was a bad person and she received confirmation from both his boss and his girlfriend.


I mentioned that our lives have been running parallel lately. The same day that she received the letter in the mail, I received a phone call. From S' step-mom.

~Thursday, July 07, 2011

Independence Day 10k

Girl from Irish Pub had contacted me a week and a half ago and asked me if I would like to run the Independence Day 10k. It's the state's most popular race that draws in the Kenyans and Ethiopians to put everyone else to shame. The race is such a tradition that the organizers had to cap it at 60,000 runners; racers are granted a bib number through a lottery system. Girl from Irish Pub had come across an extra bib number and offered to sell it to me.

Despite my drunken prance through the rain, June had not been a good running month for me. The endurance I had built up with Schmoozer had dissipated through too many mornings where I just didn't push myself hard enough and too many afternoons where it was just too hot. Last week, I drug Schmoozer out on our lunch breaks for a run. It was a hazy 93 degrees out. I made it 2.25 miles before I doubled over in a coughing fit.

"Do you have asthma?" Schmoozer asked me, concerned.

"No," I sputtered, still coughing and unable to catch my breath. I was full-on wheezing. And the frustration of not being able to breathe in the heat and humidity made me form a lump in the back of my throat, which made the not-breathing thing even worse.

In that moment, everything I wrote about forgiving myself for not being as good as I wanted to be seemed like utter bullshit. Even more frustrating than not being as good as I wanted to be, is knowing that I used to be better.

"Lift you arms above your head and leave them there. It'll open up your lungs," he instructed.

I was lightheaded and my lips were tingling. I couldn't run anymore. We walked the mile back to our cars.

I slumped in my driver's seat and dialed my mother. It wasn't 30 seconds into the conversation before I burst into tears. "I only did 2.25 miles before I overheated. There's no way I can do 6.2 miles in the race on Monday."

She tried to calm me down, saying I had made so many lofty goals this year and had accomplished most of them. It was okay to let this one go. Everyone else had been training for months for this and I had a week and a half's notice. She said I am my mother's daughter because I put too much pressure on myself, which is the family way. She then expressed concern for my health and urged me to call my doctor to make sure it was even safe for me to run that distance in the race in that heat.

So I quit. I didn't quit the race, but I joined the group who was walking it instead of running it. While Girl from Irish Pub and Statham were running the race, First Baseman and Statham's Good Friend and GF's girlfriend were walking it. I felt giddy at the prospect of letting all the pressure fall away. At not trying. I could have done better. I could have probably run 4 of the 6.2 miles, but I chose not to. It was liberating, pun intended.

We met at 6 a.m. at the train station to ride to the start line in Uptown. First Baseman had a loaded backpack strapped to him.  "There's a case of beer in here," he told me, gesturing to the backpack. "We're going to drink a beer every mile."

While everyone else was chewing on protein bars and stretching, we—the walkers—sat on the curb and relaxed. There were 27 waves of 2,000 runners being released every five minutes. We were in wave #26 and our start time wasn't for another 2 hours. The Kenyan had won the race about an hour and a half before we even started. (When asked to say a few words, the Kenyan marveled at how hot it was.)

First Baseman unzipped his bag and passed out the first round of beer. We cheered on the start line and popped the tabs. I still wore my runner's watch and kept us paced at 15-minute miles, which meant a new beer every 15 minutes. At mile 2, our bellies began to feel frothy, but we pushed through it. At mile 3, we stopped for a keg stand in front of one of the local restaurants before trudging up the big hill of the race. At mile 4, we couldn't feel anything anymore thanks to the keg stands and jumped through the open fire hydrants meant to keep the runners cool. I think we also had a bathroom break here. Radio announcers would call out our foursome as they saw us walking with our raised beers. "American water for American runners!" one radio personality teased.

At mile 5, we spotted a group of spectators chucking cheese puffs into the crowd and we stopped again to catch some in our mouths. Any time we passed someone, we felt great because we were multitasking. They may have been walking the race, but we were walking faster and drinking. At mile 6, we debated jogging the last bit, but ultimately decided to not ruin a good thing. We crossed the finish line with our arms holding our beer cans extended, so our beer could finish first. Our time was 1 hour and 39 minutes and included keg stands, a bathroom break and cheese puffs. Of the three, we regretted the cheese puffs.

We collected our prized t-shirts and met the runners at the park in Midtown. They were tired and cranky. We were energized and ready to keep going. I thanked First Baseman for making the experience so enjoyable.

When Schmoozer asked me about the race, he shook his head, "Only you would do a 10k while drinking!"

"We were still safe. We hit up every hydration station for water."

He insisted I forward him our finish-line photo when it was ready. The picture is glorious. We're drunk and laughing with our beer cans pointed at the camera.

"You know what's sad about this picture?" he said.

"What?" I whined defensively.

"There's people behind you. You finished the race, while drinking, ahead of other people."

"You don't understand. We were walking 15-minute miles; we were booking it. We passed literally hundreds of people and finished with earlier waves."

"If I was in this race for real and I saw a girl with a beer can walk past me, I'd just give up. I wouldn't even finish the race. I would be shamed out of competing ever again."

I laughed.

I felt really good about the race and my decision to not run it. Sometimes it feels good to not push yourself.

There's no hangover for the 10k though. The next morning I was back on the running trail and performing better than I had in weeks. It's just a matter of time before I get my old endurance back. I just have to learn to not put so much pressure on myself.

~Wednesday, July 06, 2011


There is a boy in this world who likes me. To quote my favorite Christmas movie, "Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?"

The boy in question is Lawyered's best friend. He made an appearance in this post, where he nailed me in the face in dodgeball and I charged him and started a fight with him (Oh what a story for the grandkids). He also made an appearance in this post when I invited him up to my beach house from Hilton Head.

Lawyered's fiancée was out drinking with Mel, Schmoozer and me at a local brewery one afternoon following the beach trip.

"He told me he likes one of your friends. I think her name was Katie?" she said.

Mel and I met each other's glances across the table. Mel was first to shake her head. I burst out laughing.

"What? I don't get it?" asked the fiancée.

"EVERYBODY likes her," I explained. "Some people just have that 'it' factor and I guess she has it. She was even having an off night that night because she was bummed that she and Schmoozer broke up." I gestured to the boy sitting next to me. Schmoozer was oblivious, talking to another one of my girlfriends from kickball seated on the other side of him.

But that night was the night Lawyered, his golf buddy and his best friend met up with us at the local bar and I ran into Nameless Teammate. I returned to the table in tears. Lawyered dumped Nameless Teammate's drink on him and the best friend took me dancing to my favorite song.

Most of the people had left. The best friend returned from the bar with a beer for me. I was feeling sorry for myself.

"If I could have done it all over again, I would have chosen you," he told me. When he came up to my beach house, he brought one of my girlfriends that he was trying to date, but she was more interested in using him. And this was before he expressed interest in Katie. He had chosen everyone else before me.

I don't know. Maybe it was my state of mind in the moment. I was so profoundly sad at the recent rejection I had been feeling. But the statement he said that was supposed to be sweet made me feel like the consolation prize. He liked my girlfriend, then he liked Katie. I felt just... there, in front of him, like the meat at the end of a buffet that you don't really want, but hey it's free. I want to be first choice in someone's life. The main attraction. The fillet mignon.

Friday, I was out with Lawyered, his fiancée and his golf buddy at happy hour. Lawyered and the golf buddy were playing a game of darts. The fiancée and I were seated at the table adjacent to them. It was the turning point of the evening. The moment where you either order water and sober up or order another beer and make a night of it. We ordered more beers.

"The best friend called Lawyered and told him he likes you," she admitted to me.

"I had a feeling."

Being liked makes me feel feminine, something I haven't been feeling lately because I've been clocking in so much time with dudes. But I'm not interested. He's not my fillet mignon either. And now I'm in the awkward position of rebuking him but maintaining the friendship.

~Tuesday, July 05, 2011

Meet Lawyered

I remember the exact moment I met Lawyered. It was back in December and our two teams were standing in a circle around the basketball court preparing for our second dodgeball game. The referee stood in the middle of the teams.

"So those are the rules. Does anybody have any questions?"

I raised my hand. "Can you juggle multiple balls?" I asked.

The crowd chuckled. What I was trying to ask was could you hold onto one ball while you throw another one across the court. But the game is dodgeball and therefore we all have the same mentality as the people who play it: 13-year-old boys.

"If you are that skilled, you can juggle multiple balls," answered the referee, who apparently is also a 13-year-old boy. The crowd chuckled again. "Any other questions?" he asked.

A tall man in his thirties with thick, jet black hair save for a bald spot forming at the crown leaned in to his teammate. "Yeah, what's her phone number?" he joked.

I heard him. Our eyes met across the court. And we laughed.


When Nameless Teammate made me cry several weeks ago, it was Lawyered who dumped his drink on him. We had become fast friends through expressing interest in the same activities. We both bought passes to go rock climbing. He loved my Warrior Dash story and signed up with me to do it again in September. He talked me into joining his boot camp.

At the office one morning, I got the following text from him: Join my kickball team this summer.

Uh, you know I'm not good, right?

I know.

Are you trying to fullfill the female quota or something?


I'll play if your fiancée plays.

Funny, she said the same thing about you.

And that's how I ended up on a team that wanted me.


I showed up to our first game last week. Despite knowing half of my new team, I was still nervous as if it were my first day of school. Immediately I sought out Lawyered—the team captain—and his fiancée. Lawyered and I had had breakfast one morning after boot camp and we talked through the team positions using the condiment bottles at the diner. I was the salt shaker, otherwise known as catcher.

As I stood at the field making small talk with Lawyered's fiancée, I felt a small shove. I turned around and saw Lawyered's best friend. I politely shoved him back and returned to the fiancée. Then there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around again. This time it was Lawyered's golfing buddy. He stepped towards me and hugged me. Another guy waved. I smiled. I was being greeted by my new team. More importantly, I was being welcomed.

Even though I was playing with a new team on a new night, we were playing against my old team. It's not uncommon for some people to play on several teams throughout the week; this team was the weekday version. It contained The Leader, Girl from Irish Pub, Clemson and Nameless Teammate among a few others. I knew everyone on the field. I was friendly with everyone but Clemson and Nameless Teammate, both of whom I just didn't acknowledge.

Lawyered, otherwise known as the pepper shaker, played pitcher to my catcher. If one of us screwed up, we'd heckle each other. I beamed. I just fit in with my new team in a way I didn't with my old one. I instantly felt comfortable with them. Even the people who didn't know me accepted me because this was my third season and I'm considered a veteran now.

The best way I can describe it is that my old team was the fraternity and sorority of fake, beautiful people. I never quite fit into that scene. The friendships I did forge are people who are on the outskirts of that clique as well. I don't think I've even used the word "clique" since high school if that says anything.

The new team is comprised of real, down-to-earth people. There isn't a list of who has slept with whom. They don't sit around and bash the person who isn't present. And they don't treat people the way Statham, Clemson and Nameless Teammate do.

Nameless Teammate was the pitcher on the other team. When he rolled the ball at me to kick, he treated me differently than he did everyone else on my team. He pitched more aggressively to me.

"You're a dick!" shouted Lawyered's fiancée at him.

That's the kind of friends I've made.


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