A moving story

Not to toot my own horn (TOOT! TOOT!) but in the middle of all my don’t-get-my-wrist-mole-excision-sutures-wet bullshit (TOOT!) drama, the flapper in my toilet (WHERE I TOOT!) tank started leaking. LOUDLY. LIKE A BIG LOUD TOOT. I’M SURPRISED YOU ALL COULDN’T HEAR IT. And not only did I buy the right-size replacement flapper ON ONLY THE SECOND TRY, but I also managed to remove the old one, install the too-small replacement one, remove the too-small replacement one and finally install the right-size replacement one ALL WITH ONE HAND.

TOOOOOOOOOT! Flush.

When you have to miss the debates, make sure it’s because you’re doing a cue-to-cue tech/dress rehearsal in a tight black T-shirt with some badass actors

Ablutions

If you’ve wondered why I’ve been smelling like a LiveLaughLove candle shop and looking like the very dew of insouciant youth lately, my Ponce de León elixirs are as close to all of us at the Target/CVS aisles.

Three-atre!

Tonight I had our first off-book line bash for Aurora AND our first rehearsal for Hello, Dolly! so I thought I’d go for the TCR trifecta and wear my King Triton shirt from The Little Mermaid.

Now I’m sweltering under a ceiling fan because OUR AIR CONDITIONER IS BROKEN AND NOBODY CAN COME FIX IT UNTIL FRIDAY KILL ME NOW KILL ME NOW KILL ME NOW and I’m filled with Tylenol PM to dull the pain of my mole excision and hopefully get me some sleep. Please bring snow.

How to have a relaxing family picnic with the dog:

1. Pick up a pizza.
2. Pack some drinks and plates and a package of cream-cheese brownies you’d accidentally purchased earlier.
3. Get a random text from your friend Mary and invite her to join you.
4. Tell her to meet you among the terraced flowers at Ellis Park.
5. Drive to Noelridge Park and realize that you can’t get to the terraced flowers because of all the damn endless construction.
6. Text Mary to tell her to meet you at Thomas Park instead.
7. Realize in a moment of panic that you’d originally sent her to the wrong park.
8. POTENTIAL MORTAL EMBARRASSMENT AVERTED!
9. Meet up at THOMAS PARK and start enjoying your evening together.
10. Collectively notice out of the corners of your eyes a young mommy chasing her little toddler toward a storm drain at the edge of the parking lot.
11. Watch the mom catch up to the little girl just as she threw something down the drain.
12. Watch the mom and dad look at each other in a wave of cheek-draining incredulity.
13. Walk over to see if they need anything and find out that their little girl had thrown their car keys into the sewer.
14. Marvel at their Zen-like calmness.
15. Realize that they honestly have no idea what to do, so find the local non-emergency police number for them and offer to drive one of them home to get a second set of keys.
16. Wait with them until the police and then a fire truck show up.
17. Watch the responders initially stand around and look confused ... then get some massive tools from their vehicles ... then pry up the drain cover ... then fish around in it with some long hooky tools ... AND FIND THE KEYS!
18. High-five everyone.
19. Finish your cream-cheese brownies.
20. Completely fail at getting the dog to look at the camera for a group selfie.

Miles of decorating progress

Since my stupid owie is preventing me from doing load-bearing things like moving furniture and crawling around on the floor touching up baseboards, I’m focusing my bedroom-redo energy on artsy-craftsy projects like découpaging LiveLaughLove cutouts on my ceiling and making an art installation of my running hats, bibs and medals. I had the brilliant idea of carrying that stupid Captain America shield—mostly hidden here under my Mickey-ear ball cap—on my arm for an entire 13.1 miles in the Disney Avengers Half Marathon, so it’s staying fully enshrined among my endurance running souvenirs, no matter how cheap and out of proportion it looks.

When your little OCD kitty toes have to touch every nearby wall surface

Flashback Sunday: More Underpants Edition

2011 Chicago Undie Run!

Fun fact: There are precious few places you can pin a running bib when you’re wearing only your underpants.

Two lamps I have loved, sitting forlornly in storage and awaiting whatever fate they have that I have yet to decide

Flashback Saturday: Underpants Edition

Seven years ago I did my second annual Chicago Undie Dash, the title of which needs no explanation or clarification beyond the fact that it was a 5K and it ended with a private party aboard a massive yacht that was moored at one of the lakefront marinas whose name I can’t remember. A few years earlier I’d sung at a wedding on the deck of that same yacht. If I remember correctly, I wore Superman underpants that I bought just for the occasion. (The Undie Run, not the wedding.)

Bridget! Is! Visiting!

Bitch Kitty’s gonna be pissed.

SHIT!

I WAS GOING TO GET SO MUCH DONE THIS WEEKEND.

I was going to finish all the final details on my bedroom and finally be back in my own bed by tomorrow night. I was going to start and finish a little caulk-and-touch-up project in my bathroom while I had all my supplies out. I was going to get rid of the last of the little stuff in my storage unit so all I’d have left would be the big pieces of furniture. I was going to help a friend move some stuff.

But NOOOOO.

As the anesthesia wore off this afternoon I found myself getting nauseous and profoundly exhausted. So I left work early to crash for an alarming FIVE HOURS in not-my-bed and miss our office’s fun summer party tonight. And since I’m forbidden from lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk FOR TWO WHOLE WEEKS—no hauling boxes, no helping friends move, no throat-punching Mitch McConnell, apparently no putting my pants back on after my nap—I’m left with no options but to stuff myself with pain meds and cookies and watch MSNBC. With no pants.

OUCH!

The football field that Dr. McDreamy hacked out of my wrist has almost as much acreage as the care instructions the nurse gave me—on a piece of paper that at the moment is really hard to hold without dropping. I hope the function in my fingers comes back sometime soon.

EEK!

After a massive FIVE-WEEK wait to get on the dermatologist’s schedule, I’m finally having my scabby, itchy wrist mole—which turned out to be a squamous cell carcinoma, which it turns out is not, in fact, Bigfoot’s drag name—removed.

I tried to take a picture of Mickey looking terrified of it, but twisting my arm to show the mole next to his face looks more like I was trying to take a gratuitous flexy selfie. But the dermatologists is totally cute, so I do not regret this gross-mole-canceling serendipity.

Flashback Friday: Granny Socks And Abs Edition

You know how when you get old and lumpy you feel compelled to show everyone how lithe and nubile you once were? It's a good thing I didn't put that into words here because what my cover story for reposting this picture is remember that one time I had to wear granny compression socks to keep my shin splints from exploding out of my legs when I ran a half marathon in epic EPIC heat and they were itchy and hot but they did their job and I managed to finish in a medal-winning time? (And don't listen to those losers who say that EVERYBODY gets a medal for crossing the finish line. We don't need that kind of negativity in our lives.)

Aurora tech rehearsal!

When you play a range of interesting characters, you get a range of interesting props.

* Phrenology head not included.
* And the Superman protein shaker is mine because I just came from the gym.
* But I’m sure at least one of my characters world work out.
* AND MY CHARACTERS DESERVE THEIR TRUTH.

I folded and organized and stacked my shirts in rainbow order (SHUT UP) and now I’m afraid to get dressed and mess them up

Fifty Shades of Gray!

OK, Four Shades of Gray. If you count the car. Which I hear is recently paid off. And is named Eleanor. Presumably after the Roosevelt Eleanor. Who also ended up gray. Which takes us all the way up to Five Shades of Gray. Almost there!

Rob and I just ran three miles in our matching shirts. Scott, presumably mortified that we were all tripleting, entered a loop of scampering ahead of us, circling back to us and then scampering ahead again. I think he ended up running 497 miles. He was a rabbit. Which made me Mitch McConnell. Except I rooted for the team that actually won the Civil War. (That was a tortoise-and-hare allusion, in case it was as abstract for you as it was challenging for me to write with any helpful context. Scott was the hare. I was Mitch McConnell’s stupid tortoise face. The rest of Mitch McConnell is a racist, zealously dogmatic, chancre-scarred tortoise butt. But I digress.)

Anyway, it was nice out so we ran because it’ll get hot out again soon and we—or at least I—won’t want to run. So for at least today I’m facing the world feeling athletey and lithe. Even though I run like a turtle butt.

Blerg

I was cozy and comfy in my cozy, comfy bed and dreaming about shopping for baby wipes and Diaper Genies and then my alarm went off and now I’m stretching for a run on my driveway as a bird tries to figure out how to kill and presumably eat a terrified cicada whose frantically fluttering wings are making alarming amounts of scraping noises on the cement.

Same, little cicada. Same.

Beware the wiles of Bitch Kitty ...

This is the little game we play: She waits by the top of the basement stairs for me. I approach her cautiously from the other side of the planet. She growls lowly like a power drill without enough torque. I casually creep closer without making eye contact, as though all of my interest lies with a random sock that fell out of the laundry pile near her. She amps up her growling to sound more like a Kitchen Aid mixer struggling with its dough hook and a particularly hearty bread recipe. I make eye contact. She makes eye contact. I slowly, s l o w l y, begin the process of maybe kind of thinking about someday possibly squatting in her general vicinity to facilitate the hypothetical scratching of her ears. She shifts her growling into third gear, this time sounding like a vacuum with a strip of raffia stuck in its roller during post-Christmas clean-up. I get brutally murdered by a suspiciously nearby surgeon who promptly disarticulates my arms, rendering me profoundly incapable of living, breathing or furry-ear scratching. She shifts into overdrive, sounding almost exactly like the steamroller that all-too-conveniently appears from behind the aforementioned laundry sock to crush my disarticulated remains flatter than the aforementioned bread, which, in my selfish hurry to pet her, I completely forgot to do the part where you fold in the yeast and let the dough rise for three hours. I softly sing "Nothing's gonna harm you. Not while I'm around," which, through the restorative power of show tunes, revives me and rearticulates my arms. She rolls onto her back and does that adorable Fosse thing with her front paws (pictured here), all of which is the international symbol for "I trust you and I unconditionally love you so I'm showing you my vulnerable underbelly in the expectation you'll stop what you're doing and come rub it nonstop until President Pete takes office." I, blithely trusting her yet again, reach out tenderly, gingerly and gratefully to overcome my crippling yet understandable trust issues and finally—FINALLY—rub her soft, furry tummy in servile gratitude. She draws me in with her calculating eyes and her deceitful body language. I, emotionally scarred and spiritually broken by years of this unceasing abuse, finally—FINALLY—make finger-to-tip-of-tummy-furcontact, tears of grateful joy and social acceptance streaming down my face like healing waters spilling forth from the nose of a centuries-old Madonna statue in an Italian grotto. She, once again reaching the triumphant climax of our emotional Grand Guignol, rolls away from me, hisses like a steam brake struggling to stop a runaway train, waddles maybe three feet away, plops her geriatric belly firmly on the carpet, softens her hate-filled eyes to a dewy, inviting semblance of friendship and love, and meows plaintively as though to invite me closer to pet her. I approach her cautiously from the other side of the planet ...

You will be found

There’s only one thing more certain than me taking a selfie when I’m at the gym: me forgetting where I parked my car when I leave the gym. In my defense, EVERYONE at the gym today came in a silver car.

Also: new haircut!

Also: Disney running shirt!

Also: I finally found my car!

2.13 miles. 12:00 pace. 3.00 runners.

Last night the weather thingie on my phone promised me it would be a cool, comfortable 63° right now

But right now my phone tells me it’s actually a global-warmingy 66°.

I suppose next you’re going to tell me the Arbor Day Cow who frolicks through the cobbled suburban streets munching on squirrels and bringing all the attractive children immunity from smallpox isn’t real.

MY WHOLE LIFE IS A LIE.

Epic pants purge! With the discerning help of my fashion-maven niece!

From the left: Give-away shorts. Give-away jeans. Keep shorts. Keep jeans.

Mi-sol-sol

Three Potential Area Rugs And Some Badass Camo Cargo Shorts You WISH You Were Cool Enough To Wear: A Study In Blues

Happy Moon Landing Anniversary!

Check it out!

Disney: check.
Norway: check.
Fashion: check.
Historical research: check.
Serious, meaningful discussions of underpants: check.
Fashiony stuff I might need to know for work if we ever sell 1840s Disney Norwegian royalty underpants: I’ll keep this video bookmarked just in case.

The perfect storm:

• I have 90 minutes to do a 45-minute workout
• There’s nobody here to keep me focused, motivated, accountable and working out instead of playing on my phone
• I have a full battery
• And a super-cute T-shirt
• For selfies!
• It’s Friday and I’m not terribly motivated
• And by “not terribly motivated” I mean “Look! A phone!”
• For selfies!
• It’s so hot outside that we started measuring in Celsius so we don’t horrify the Europeans
• Heat makes me hot
• And sweaty
• And glisteny
• For selfies!
• I have to be at rehearsal in half an hour
• So there’s no time to start a new exercise
• But do you know what there IS time for?

Too darn

I’d like to sup with my baby today.
Refill the cup with my baby today.

Gah!

It’s not even 10:00 and I’ve already tried to take a drink of soda with the can completely backward, described a solid-color polo as “soiled,” killed a wombat with my bare hands, downed emergency doses of Gabapentin and 5-Hour Energy, and lied about killing a wombat with my bare hands. WHAT’S NEXT, SATAN?

I’m seven months pop-free today!

I credit my success with gallons of wistfully flavored sparkling water and the occasional (OK, almost daily) intravenous 5-Hour Energy.

For the record, I do not claim the beer bottles lying in repose in my empty Klarbrunn box.

Don’t shave in a hot shower with a big nose, kids

Note to self: It's way past time for SOMEONE to shave his old-man ape shoulders.

Hurry up with your courtship, little flirty birdies!

A big storm’s a-comin’ and you’ll want to be makin’ your own thunder and lightning someplace where you won’t drown.

You know how it’s almost impossible to take a decent picture of the moon with an iPhone but you keep trying over and over anyway in case it’ll finally work just this once?

I think this is that once:

Yesterday marked an unholy confluence of events that in the mortal world happen only on a frustratingly mismatched timeframe:

I ran out of pre-workout shake mix and post-workout recovery shake mix ON. THE. SAME. DAY.

Fortunately, I've recently purchased two exciting new products that are just waiting for their turn to jump into the rotation ... though never in their wildest dreams did they think they'd do it together. I took a new-family photo* this morning with an artfully tipped shaker bottle for context and an apple because there was one sitting there and it seemed like a healthy (and shiny!) prop.

Anywho, I'm about to chug my first shaker of Beyond Raw LIT Clinically Dosed Pre-Workout in an exciting flavor called Icy Fireworks, which are two words that separately could be horrible ways to die but together I hope taste like Awesome.

Then I'll chug GNC AMP Wheybolic Clinically Proven Performance Protein to recover from my LIT-fueled workout.

THEN I'LL BE HUUUUUUUUGE! Please enlarge your doorways if you want me to visit.

*Slightly bumpy apple and nicked-up shaker bottle sold separately.

Happy Tuesday!

Here’s a picture of Bridget yawning:

Before making any bed, it’s important that you first lay out all your supplie

Great-read books that rose to the tops of the piles in tonight’s brief excavation of the storage unit:

Two are bipolar. Two are totally gay. One is a fascinating historical-fiction fantasia (Let the Great World Spin—read it!). One is the pre-McSteamy actual reference book that I received for Christmas 1981 back when I had dreams of being an ER doctor. But it qualifies as a great read only if you really REALLY want it to be.

Hello, little birdie hopping through the bush outside my window!

Dear Pete:

My BOOT EDGE EDGE T-shirt and I reached 14 people (16 if you count the couple I ran into again after my turnaround) this morning, so we have achieved critical voter mass, at least in the 6:00 am CEMAR Trail demographic. There is still work to be done, but I am exhausted and my T-shirt is clinging to me like a drowning Titanic victim and I need to shower and get on with my day.

I ran my same three-mile route as always, but this time my watch registered me at 3.05 miles—no doubt because for once I wasn’t running at the speed of light (so people could read my shirt) and my watch could actually keep up with me. Science is amazing.

When you’ve been awake for no reason since mega-butt-stupid o’clock

and you slept in your Pete T-shirt so you decide you might as well get up and go out and run in it to spread the Gospel of Pete to the pre-sunrise crowd.

Look at the matching brushed-nickel handle and hinges I just installed on my otherwise-just-like-everyone-else’s bedroom door!