God Help Me

Other people are worried for me. They think I am unprepared, which I am. Concerned I am peeing blood still, which I am that too. And troubled I am not more concerned about the seven miles I'm supposed to get through Sunday morning for the Pig, which I'm not.

I wrote those words earlier this week. Up 'til last night I was feeling pretty smug about the relay. Pssht, I thought, how bad could it be. Then last night it dawn on me, pretty flippin' bad!

I no longer feel smug. I am in full-on panic mode, people!!!! Holy mother of God why didn't I train?! WHY?!

Four Days 'Til The Pig: AKA, I Am So Hard-Core I Pee Blood

Look, I was going to run this weekend, I really was. But Saturday was no good for me. I ended up way too tipsy on Friday night to think about doing anything more physical than ordering a pizza on Saturday so running was definitely out.

Then on Sunday I nearly died. No joke. On my way to meet Julie for dance rehearsal I suddenly had to pee so badly my back hurt, so I whipped into Brueggers and I'll be damned if I didn't pee out a GIANT blood clot and my pee was the color of pink lemonade.

Oh, you don't believe it was giant? Well, it was. It was so big I took a photo of it and I will gladly show it to you. (Do not doubt me or I will straight-up email you this very disturbing photo.) So then I was all, 'Omg, I'm probably going to die any second now. I should probably go to Urgent Care. But Julie is expecting me, onward.' So I went to rehearsal and Julie was all, 'Here's a tampon, it's probably your period.' And I was all, 'No Jules, I know period when I see it, and this was definitely pee blood.' Then I had to pee really badly again, and there was some more pink lemonade pee.

So then I was all, 'Well, not much I can do about it now. Let's dance.' After I finally nailed the maxiforward right, maxi-cross, shuffle hop-step maxiforward left, I drove home and everything seemed fine. No more blood in my urine. I'm cured, I rejoiced while eating a left over burrito. Then I was chatting with a friend of mine who was all, 'If I had peed out a blood clot I would be at Christ Hospital right now convinced I was dead. But whatever, sister.'

Which got me to thinking, 'Crap. What if something is wrong. I better go to Urgent Care.' Holy scary hell-hole, you guys. Have you ever been to the Urgent Care on Ridge? That place is terrifying. Like, dirty, holes in the walls, no soap in the bathroom, horror movie, former abortion clinic-looking scary. I figured whatever I had in my bladder was nothing compared to the staph infection I was about contract in that joint.

So the "doctor" gave me a prescription for antibiotics. Oh yeah, did I mention during my visit he pulled out his cell phone and checked his messages? Oh yes, that happened. Then he told me to see my doctor because there is blood in my urine. Yeah, no kidding buddy. I'm pretty sure I knew more about medicine than he did. I should have shown him the photo of the clot. He'd have probably passed out.

Then I went grocery shopping for pasta because I have to carb-load for the Pig on Saturday night. By then I was too exhausted from the day's festivities to run. Then it dawned on me... I ran so hard last week I peed blood, ya'll! God I am hard-core. Other people have to run really hard for miles for them pee to blood, not me. One awesome run/walk around the neighborhood and my urine is clotty and the color of pink lemonade a week later.

Google confirms this is obviously what happened to me.

The fact that I'm still going to run the relay after nearly dying in the Bruegger's bathroom and then again at Urgent Care speaks volumes about my dedication. It's a miracle I'm still alive.

Oh yeah, don't even give me that TMI crap. This is basic physiology people and I know a lot about that stuff because I sit near scientists.

Someone Is Trying To Kill Me And I Don't Appreciate It

Saturday evening I opened my front door and this granola bar fell from the doorknob. I live in a relatively secure building and I don't know any of my neighbors... so yeah, poison.

Cakes on a Plane

Martha calls it 'a delight.' The New York Times says it's 'a little slice of heaven.' '...a thing of tearful beauty,' sobs Delta Sky magazine. The Website notes it's 'the cake of choice for Charleston brides.'

The Ultimate Coconut Cake has gotten so much ink it has its own 'fact sheet.'

For weeks it was all I heard about. Colleagues Tiffany and Carolyn were going crazy about this cake. It's crack-tasticness, covered in toasted coconut, cream and butter icing and drizzled with simple syrup. The cost, $100 for 12 pounds of round cake. The Peninsula Grill, home of this frothy marvel, will even ship it, they exclaimed.

I don't much care for cake (most of it is crap) and I sincerely hate coconut. There are plenty of idle office conversations I will take a stand-on - ordering Indian for lunch, for example - but coconut cake is not one of them.

Then, the Boss Man decided he had heard enough, he would buy this cake.

'Did you hear? We are getting the cake! We. Are. Getting. The. Cake,' Tiffany and Carolyn squealed.

Eh. I think put my headphones back on.

But the issue became, How would we get the cake? The problem, see, wasn't the $100 price tag for 12 layers of pound cake. Oh no. The problem was the 75 additional dollars to have it overnighted from Charleston. That, my friends, was the issue. It was 'the principle.'

Then, the planets aligned for Tiffany and Carolyn.

A faculty member heard about the desire for this cake. His mother-in-law happened to be coming to visit from Charleston. She could bring the cake, on the plane, as a carry-on, so it wouldn't get smushed. She called TSA, 'Can I bring a cake on a plane?'

The story goes that when she arrived at airport security, an agent had her open the box and quizzically asked, 'You're taking a cake from Charleston to Cincinnati?' And another agent chimed in, 'Is that the Ultimate Coconut Cake?! Oh my god, it's worth it!'

One flight later, the cake was ours. Or rather, theirs.

I was at a meeting in another building the morning it arrived. Carolyn texted me, 'The cake is here! Hid a piece in your cabinet so Mountain won't get it.'

I got back to the office and everyone was talking about the $100, favorite of Charleston brides and Martha Stewart cake. I was on-board for the excitement but was skeptical of the hype. I was convinced it would taste like a Hostess SnoBall, one of those Pepto-pink disgusting wads of awful you buy at the gas station. That is my loathing for coconut. And cake too, really.

But there it was, hidden away in my cabinet. I made jokes. 'What if the first person you see when you take a bite is the person you marry? I feel weird eating Charleston bride wedding cake. What if it's cursed and I end up married?' Carolyn and Tiffany were tired of my games. They forced me to start eating it, waiting to pounce on my leftovers should I not like it.

I took three bites, maybe four... time stopped... the toasted coconut, divine... all 12 layers, perfection... it was like it was made especially... for me. So rich and creamy and yet light as a cloud, I was stuffed. I gave myself a minute to think over my new feelings about coconut and cake, then I put the rest of it back into my cabinet so I could eat more of it later, alone.

And that's how I came to eat the wedding cake of choice for Charleston brides.

Hudy Deee-licious

I had my first Hudy (Delight) Saturday night. Because I have no discernible beer palate, it tasted like every other beer I've ever drank, which is to say, delicious. In addition to the lovely urine coloring, I observed hints of water, hops and cheapness. Like passing out in a frat house.

Cheers!

Gloriousness

Yesterday I thought long and hard about running.

I was a vision. Passing runners left and right. Attacking the uphills, sailing on the downhills. In my head I was doing consistent 6 minute miles, even with stopping to help blind people cross the road. I hit the tape with thunderous applause. The winner's wreath was placed on my head, the winner's medal around my neck. Not only did I run the Pig plus my relay, I changed lives and gave hope for the future. Trophies were cast in my honor.

I had to eat a Gu I was so spent.

But by the time I finished visualizing about how amazing I was, I was too exhausted to actually go running. It's all mental anyway, right? At least 90 percent mental? Hell, probably more. Like, 98 percent.

But today, carpe diem, fools. The long taper has ended.

I did 3.5 miles in real life, not just in my head. And I only threw up in my mouth. Twice. Not on the sidewalk. And I didn't die. Mostly. I am an inspiration!

Minus my right hip flexor most certainly pulling from the bone, detaching, sliding down my leg and into my shoe to crinkle up my sock, I felt great. Ish.

Now I only have to do twice that distance in 12 days and I will be GOLDEN.

Here's lookin' at you, Greatness.

16 Days 'Til The Pig

A completely accurate transcript of a conversation with my relay teammate and colleague Patrick.

PATRICK: How was your run last night.

ME: Awesome. It was like the wind carried me on its sails.

PATRICK: You didn't run, did you?

ME: Nope... See, the thing is Patrick, I have other things on my mind. The Pig is at the bottom of my priority list.

PATRICK: So you're saying you couldn't care less.

ME: Right.

PATRICK: There is going to be a two-hour window in about two weeks where you're going to regret saying that.

ME: Maybe. I'm curious what will happen to me. If I die it's your fault.

PATRICK: I don't know what's going to happen you, but I know what I'm worried about... me not starting my part of the relay. Oh, and secondly, I'm worried about your injury potential.

ME: Glad me dying and being carted away by medics ranks second on your list.

PATRICK: I'm trying to help you avoid that fate.

ME: Second is the first loser.

UPDATE

Boss Man to Patrick upon hearing he follows me in the relay: You're in deep shit.

If You Can Dodge An Insult...

My parents have an uncanny ability insult to the careers of the people I date. It's not their fault really, it's more a lack of understanding. Though I can't say I've disagreed with their assessments entirely.

One ex told my parents he was going to go to architecture school, to which my dad replied, "Architecture? What's there to now about building a building? I've never understood why anyone would go to school for architecture. I've helped build half-a-dozen buildings and I never went to school for architecture."

I tried to rescue the conversation with, "Well dad, you have to know where to put the plumbing and stuff."

"Yeah, how hard is that?"

Ray Daugherty, architect flamer.

That same ex boyfriend happened to be a graphic designer (as a few of them have been), which was another mystery to my parents. "He designs the Bounce box? It just says Bounce on it, right?"

"Well, right. But sometimes it also says, 'Now more fresher!' Or whatever," I added, weakly.

My mom was the launcher of that insult. Who knew Susie Daugherty could rocket such accidental put downs. (But my god it was hilarious. I still crack up over it.)

Recently I acquired a chemist acquaintance who works on paper. Specifically, paper towel. (I've never known any chemists - nor have I ever taken a chemistry class for that matter - but you know it when you see it, right?) I was mentioning this to my mom and we couldn't help but note that paper seems largely figured out to us.

Paper towel? A 40-hour a week job? Seems like we've kind of nailed it already, right? I feel confident in saying I'm happy with where we are in the world in terms of absorbency and softness. But whatever.

Then my mom informed me I need a man who "works with his hands, like your daddy."

"Hell, I'd be fine if he could just carry the cat litter up the steps," I told her.

Sometimes I feel almost sorry for the poor saps who have to meet my parents. They don't mean to be, but Ray and Susie can be harsh critics. They're filterless.

Hmm... this is sounding familiar.

The Long Taper

Omg I am screwed. That's right party people, totally screwed. I've not run a step since November and guess what, the Pig is less than a month away. Holla!

I'm doing the relay again, and this year even more badly than in previous years. (Who knew that was even possible?! Oh wait, I did.) I've got four weeks to somehow increase my endurance, oxygen intake, prepare my legs, strategize how to fake like I'm actually running when I see the course photographers, etc etc. This could be my year to vomit at the switch point. Who wants to cook me up a plate of alfredo pre-run?

Do I have roof access from here? If I break something beforehand, that's a pretty good excuse, right? What about death? If I'm dead you guys can't really call me out on being out of shape and lazy, correct? Except I know you bastards and I know I could be laid up with my limbs hanging from chains in a hospital bed and you'd be all, 'Way to break your legs just to not embarrass yourself at the relay Daugherty.'

God I hate you guys.

Anyway... We are called Kathleen Turner Overdrive. Look for us to finish last. Ow ow!

Happy Easter!

This little girl watched Stella and me ride up and down the side street today as I was working some of the winter blues out of Stella. She came walking down the drive-way a few minutes after I parked, handed me this purple egg and said a cheery, Happy Easter!

She said she gave me the purple one to match my scooter. It had two little chocolate bars inside of it. Now how sweet is that? Then she happily posed for this photo for me.

Hope everyone got equally as sweetly surprised today.

Oh, and by the way, don't ever, ever doubt Stella. After five months of not being started and weeks covered in snow, she fired up today without so much as a complaint. I knew she would.

Hot Pink Shock And Awe

So there I was, minding my own bid'ness, turning on my desk light, hadn't even put my laptop bag down when out of nowhere the Boss Man comes wheeling into my aisle on a hot pink Razor scooter with a big sign that said "Vespa" on it. Then, Wham! He crashed into me yelling, "Where's the brake on this thing?!" Thank god I work at a hospital so I'm close to people who can sew human flesh back together.

Ummm, this is not what I had in mind when I told him I wanted a Vespa.

No matter y'all, the thing is awesome. It will freakin' fly on lab floor tile. Not that we did that. Definitely did NOT ride the hot pink wheeled Razor (er, Vespa) down the lab hallway, or past very important doctor and scientist's offices... and it certainly didn't happen in high-heels. By nearly everyone. Except the high-heels part. Ok yes, that did happen. I made everyone who wanted to ride it put on my ruby patent leather high heels first. Everyone looked so amazing.

But not as amazing as this photo. My face is saying, 'Pisser, it's not a real Vespa, but still, how fun!' His face is saying, 'I hired her twice. I am emotionally exhuausted.'

Jesus This Is Good!

Because I had to miss the first chocolate last supper, Boss Man acquired another one of these delicious, most holy of snacks and brought it in today. He cut me off a piece and said, "I'm giving you Jesus, because you need it the most."

It's also the biggest piece. Hallelujah!

I am going to straight to hell, btw. But you already knew that.