butt blasting

Right now my butt is so extremely sore from physical therapy. (And by butt, I mean glutes, not butthole. Because why on earth would a physical therapist work on your butthole? Although I will admit that once I did one of those colon hydrotherapy treatments that supposedly all the celebrities do before red carpet events because it makes them look skinny. I was curious. And also I had a Groupon. As I’m sure you can imagine, the experience was weird and involved sticking a hose up my butt and using a tennis ball to massage my stomach while water flowed in and poop flowed out. And then afterward the woman who administered the butt-cleansing made me look at all my poop and told me I needed to chew my food more. And I went home feeling like a big balloon of liquid and not at all like a celebrity.)

Anyway, apparently my ankle is related to my butt. Or rather, my gluteus medius, which is more like the hip-butt. (I’m like a total scientist with my awesome anatomical knowledge.) And when the hip-butt is weak, instability ensues. So I am doing clamshells with a band and fire hydrants (yes, these are just like a dog peeing) with a band.

And oh how it burns.

That feeling when.

my return to the pool

I’m happy to say I’m back in the pool and have been swimming pain-free for the past three weeks, which is great.

But you know what’s not great?

When you’re in the middle of a set and you feel random strands of stray hair winding themselves around your fingers. And you know in your heart of hearts that this is not your hair.

And then when you get to the wall and can finally stop swimming and check your hand, you discover a bird's nest of horror:

 Please pardon the gagging sounds.

relationship insights

You are probably looking at this picture and wondering why the hell I am trying to set my coat closet on fire.

The answer: Someone (who shall remain nameless but who has a penis and lives in my house and isn’t a cat) shut the basement door last night, so the cats couldn’t get to the litter boxes.

So there was runny poop in the closet this morning.

And the entire house smells like runny poop.

And I was late for work today because I had to scrub the floor with enzymatic cleaner and then spray it with wood oil. And then that nameless someone (who thought the poop was a cat toy and picked it up with his bare hand, and naturally freaked out and dropped the poop on our shoes, so those had to be cleaned too) decided a scented candle would make everything better.

During times like these, I cling to the quote that goes something like, "Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads, which sew poop, the runniest, stinkiest poop ever that binds people together through the years."

the trials of winter

I'm going to drop the stoicism for two seconds and tell you the truth: This winter is kicking my ass.

This is my life now.

It's either snowing or so cold that the highs are sub-zero and windchill is like -20. This wasn't a big deal last year, when I lived in a towering apartment building with indoor parking, a gym, and a lap pool. But then I had to go get married and become an adult and now I have no luxury amenities and have to park outside and shovel a driveway. (Life lesson: Don't grow up.)

And my car hates this weather and won't start. Yes, friends, Wally the Mazda has decided he's 100 percent Californian and F this shit. Which made for fun logistics this weekend when I had a run off the bike, but couldn't run outside because frostbite, but couldn't go to the gym because Wally was protesting winter.

Wait, it gets better.

You know what else is awesome about winter? Frozen barf. In mid-December, someone puked in the snow along the walkway to work. And because the snow has not melted, it is still there. It's like a permanently installed pinkish stain of disgustingness. And I see it every single day, sometimes multiple times if I decide to walk somewhere for lunch. And as some of you know, I have this total vomit phobia where I am just absolutely unnaturally terrified of other people's puke, so every time I walk past the frozen barf, I imagine it reaching out for me and pelting me in the face like a tiny horrible snowball.

Oh my god, is it spring yet?

adulting and stuff

Since my last post, I've gotten married, traveled to Costa Rica (where running on a shadeless beach in a very humid 90 degrees is ill-advised), organized my first media event at work, experienced my first art opening, applied for a home loan, advocated for saving the NEA and NEH, witnessed the ugliness the current political climate seems to be unearthing, joined an interfaith women's book club (yes, I am very unsettled by current politics), improved my swim speed (holy shit, right?) and finally washed my car (and of course it snowed the next day).

No wedding photo for you; instead: The car wash!

Naturally, my apartment is an explosion of shoes and dirty spandex and kitty litter crumbs and unopened mail. And my front closet is packed so full of boxes of god-knows-what because whenever anyone comes over, my "cleaning" strategy involves throwing all of my piles in a box and hiding it. And the other night Mouse barfed in the bed, and I was too tired to get up and clean it, so I just kept sleeping. And I never actually finished the reading for the book club. And I haven't cleaned my bathtub even once since I moved into my apartment a year ago. And I need a haircut and a chiropractic adjustment and a pedicure. And there are a bunch of vegetables in the refrigerator that are going to go bad unless I cook them immediately. And I got a power meter but it's still in the box because I haven't had time to sit down and figure out how to install it.

And thus we have the adulting paradox: The more you do adult things, the less you feel like an actual adult.

ask me about discomfort

Current status:

Do you like my pedicure?

Remember my recent "my left knee hurts" complaint? Turns out my left IT band and hamstring are so tight they've been pulling on my knee. The pain was enough yesterday that I skipped my long run and then went to the chiropractor today for some intense Graston action. Hence the bruising (which is a totally normal thing after this treatment, I promise). I'm already feeling better, but may still keep the running easy, especially since I'm less than three weeks away from Vineman.

Anyway, this weekend was a brutal one for training. The heat and humidity were overwhelming. (Dear Minnesota: I thought you were supposed to be cold. WTF.) I did my long ride -- 65 miles -- on Saturday. Even though I brought ample hydration and nutrition and followed my plan exactly, by mile 45, I knew something was wrong. I started feeling really drowsy -- like I could just shut my eyes and fall asleep mid-ride.  

The part when I seriously considered lying on the side of the road.

And it got worse. The air was stifling, and when there was wind, it felt like a hair dryer hitting my face. And when I stopped at a park to use the restroom, taking my shorts off was a struggle because they were so soaked through with sweat. (However, I was happy I could still pee. At least there was that.) And when I got back on the bike, I started to feel chilled, and my heart rate was in zone 4, even though I was riding really slowly.

(Meanwhile, this entire time, I also had a bug bite in the crease between my upper thigh and my lady parts. So imagine that too -- sweat plus awkward bug bite plus extreme heat plus hours in the saddle. And if you're wondering how the hell I got a bug bite there, it happened at last week's race. I changed out of my tri shorts into regular shorts after the race, and somehow a bug flew up there. And I totally felt it happen. It was like a sudden pinch. And I actually stuck my hand up my shorts to figure out what was going on. And this was mid-conversation. So if you happened to be the person I was talking to while I shoved my hand toward my crotch in discomfort, sorry.)

Thankfully (my awkward bug bite and) I made it safely to my car, only to learn the outside temperature was 95 degrees. I nixed the T run and went home.

Not the most productive training weekend.

nothing to do with triathlon

So I'm back in Washington at Annie's bachelorette party, which means the mister is overseeing the cats.

And I've discovered he can't tell the difference between cat barf, a hairball and poop.

We had a 30-minute conversation tonight about the texture, color, smell and overall placement of something he thought was poop but I'm pretty sure was a pile of cat barf.

Me: Was it like a dog poop but smaller? Was it dark brown? Was it hard? Because someone barfed yesterday. It had pieces of dry food in it. Was there dry food? I don't understand why they would just poop on the floor. I haven't even been gone that long. Why does this always happen when you're taking care of them? Are you sure it's poop? Can you look in the litterbox and compare? This is really a poor choice if someone is actually pooping on the floor. How big was it?

Him: I picked it up with toilet paper and flushed it. I'll take a picture next time.

By the way, this is where I am right now. Not shown: Any sort of feline expulsion.

that only took four years

Because I am an extraordinarily intelligent human being who respects her body and its need for recovery, I did the New York City Marathon three weeks after Ironman. As you can see from my official race photos, I had an absolute blast.

Walk of shame in an unflattering shirt? Nailed it!

My left hamstring was so excited for this race that in the weeks between Ironman and NYCM, it allowed me to run a whopping total of five miles. And I would've deferred the marathon, except I've been deferring it (or it's been deferring me) since 2011. And I was out of deferments. And since I got in via lottery and the chances of ever getting in again are very slim, I told my hamstring to suck it up. (OK, maybe it was more like: "Let's at least get to the starting line, and if this is really awful, then I promise we can get on the subway and go home and eat pizza.") 

The demeanor of a true champion.

Race morning dawned, and Neveia, Margie and I left the apartment we were staying at on the Upper West Side at 6:45 a.m. and squeezed onto the subway.

Then we stood in a huge crowd waiting to get into the ferry terminal.

My fashion choices for this race were spot on.

Then we stood in another huge crowd waiting to get on the boat.

When we got off the boat (which was so crowded we sat on the floor and I tried not to think things like, "What if a previous passenger got seasick right here and now I'm sitting in it?"), there was a huge line to get on some shuttle buses. 

"Being squished is fun!"

It took us three hours to get to the start area. And then we began running at 11 a.m. (Pro tip: If you ever do this race, bring a portable lunch that you can comfortably eat while your face is pressed against a total stranger's back.)

Anyway, I made it to about Mile 14 and was somehow on track for a PR, but then everything about my left leg started hurting. And then I did the run-walk-shuffle thing until Mile 18. And then I just decided to walk. And for awhile, it was fine because I was walking with a random guy named Jerry who was also having problems with his hamstrings, but then around Mile 21 or so, Jerry barfed, and we all know how I feel about barfing, so I said farewell to Jerry. (For the record, there was a lot of barf in this race. The most horrible thing I saw was a woman jamming her fingers down her throat, making herself puke. I wouldn't be surprised if that sight alone was the whole reason Jerry lost his cookies. Because it was pretty disgusting. And hey, now you can have that mental image forever too! You're welcome!)

Walking those final miles was slow and painful and not very fun at all. I amused myself by taking pictures of my favorite signs.

I would like to adopt these people as my own.

Dear random strangers: I love you.

I finished in 5:41:25, for a brand-spanking-new personal worst marathon time!

And then I got in a huge crowd.

On the plus side, Margie qualified for Boston, so we celebrated afterward with some bubbly.

And I did get to eat a pizza (gluten-free of course).

And now I can cross NYCM off of my life bucket list.

P.S. Those are pirate pajamas. And I may or may not still be wearing them as I type this post.

tapering

I love taper. I know some people hate it and feel restless, but I welcome the extra time and use it to get a lot of important life stuff done. Like napping. And baking a quiche.

And teaching the kitten how to walk on a leash.

The best part was when my neighbor came home and found me outside with the cat. My response: "Hi. This is totally normal."

*

Yesterday I had my last brick workout -- two hours on the bike, followed by an hour run. And even though the weather was gorgeous, Coach Mark put me on the trainer. Smart move, considering my recent history of slipping on railroad tracks and riding into walls. Best not to crash one week before race day.

Unfortunately, I made the poor choice of watching "Spring Breakers" during my workout. Pro tip: Do not ever, ever subject yourself to this. Life is better without the horror of James Franco with dreads and a grill leading a trio of bikini-clad, gun-wielding college girls. 

*

So my toxic Ohio River stress dream may actually become reality. Surprisingly, I'm not that worried about it. I'll roll with whatever they decide. Mostly, I just don't want to get sick and end up with explosive diarrhea and projectile vomit on the bike. Or the run. Or pretty much any time ever. (Side note: A good ice-breaker is to ask total strangers: "Would you rather have explosive diarrhea or projectile vomit?" Never fails to result in a passionate reaction. Try it as an interview question some time.)

Ironman Louisville: One week.

this isn't really happening

So I looked up my bib number today.

I'm in denial that this race is less than five weeks away. I'm also in denial that I have a 70.3 this weekend. (Have you noticed that I have completely and totally failed to mention that until just now? I'm telling you: Denial.)

And while we're at it: I'm not really in the 35-39 age group. That must be a typo. I also didn't wake up this morning with a sore throat. And the Loch Ness monster is real.

*

On another note, I went to the chiropractor today. (I usually go once a month, but as Ironman gets closer -- which of course, is not really happening because it's all just pretend -- I start going every other week.) Our conversation went like this:

Chiropractor: How's your body feeling?

Me: I crashed my bike Sunday.

Chiropractor: Didn't you crash last time you were here?

Me: Did I? Oh wait. Wait. Yes, I did!

Chiropractor: Stop crashing.

*

I am healing, though. And the road rash is really not that bad -- amazing what a little Neosporin and arnica can do. Although I will admit that it is totally gross when you pull cat hair out of your wounds.

Also, I may or may not have been sitting on the toilet when I took the above photo.

*

Recently, I was on the bus behind this:

Actually, at first, it was next to me and it didn't smell great so I didn't look at it because I've learned the hard way that sometimes it's really best not to engage, so I scrunched closer to the window, but then the seat in front of us opened up, and so it moved since apparently it didn't want to sit next to me either, and that's when I saw the incredible hair.

I was sort of hoping a litter of kittens would pop out and fall into my lap and it would be like this story about the two guys in Alabama who were fishing and randomly had two kittens swim up to their boat.

misadventures, per usual

So I was just now Googling "chocolate poo mold." Because I'm doing Swim for (Dear) Life again next week and our team is Team Fecal Coliform Bacteria (which is why you should never let me name anything) and no one has donated to my fundraising page (which is here, in case you would like to change that) and I'm hoping to entice people with homemade chocolate poo. (My logic is flawless, thank you very much.)

Anyway, since this post has pretty much already gone down the toilet, yesterday my bike peed herself. 

Mouse's first instinct: Play in it!

You'll recall I'm having hydration setup issues, so this time, I decided to give Minivan's built-in bladder system a shot. I followed the directions, and everything seemed fine until I poured liquid into the bladder and my bike started peeing.

The problem: The straw kept getting disconnected from the bladder, and then all the liquid would seep out.

I was under a bit of a time crunch yesterday (this is what happens when the man who cuts your hair is the type who doesn't talk at all while he does the deed so you think maybe he is silently judging you especially since you showed up at your appointment wearing a trucker hat because your hair was that bad and he actually kind of scoffed at the hat but then he does such an incredible job that you keep going back even though you wonder if maybe this is an unhealthy relationship), so I abandoned the bladder and relied on my bottles instead. (Thankfully, none of them fell out this time.)

Of course, because the universe has a twisted sense of humor and seems to want to toy with my stress levels, I got stuck in a footrace 30 minutes into my ride.

I re-routed and got back on track. Although not without a lot of grumbling and also my heart rate monitor wasn't working and I was still frustrated by the peeing incident and it was really tempting to just go home and get on the trainer. But eventually I got over it all and regained a more positive mindset.

Only to get stuck in a second footrace.

Not shown: The spectator who asked if I brought lunch to pass the time.

At this point, I was convinced the universe wanted me to have bad hair. But all those people eventually passed, and I got my ride done. It was long and slow and cumbersome -- still trying to build that relationship with Minivan. Shifting is coming more naturally, and my neck and shoulders are hurting less, but I still find the rear water cages awkward and am a bit too fidgety with positioning.

However, at least things with nutrition are going well. I really love this stuff. It may replace the hot dog for me. (Which is a good thing, since carrying a hot dog around for hours in your jersey pocket sort of seems like an invitation for food poisoning.)

I guess I did bring lunch. Mmm. Pizza.

I eventually finished my ride. And then I did a T run (because I'm only nine weeks away from Ironman now -- gah). And then I came home and found this on the living room floor:

That would be the attachment for the new hydration system.

I almost put her on Craigslist.

And that wasn't the only surprise.

Nothing like piles of cat puke to warm the heart.

However, I did make it to my hair appointment on time. And I was so tired from my workout that I barely noticed the judging and was actually pretty thankful for the silence and lack of small talk.

day 3 of this nonsense

According to the post-surgery care literature, I am supposed to be experiencing "peak swelling" right now.

I woke up this morning like this:

Pretty sure my upper lip is trying to eat the rest of my face.

I spent the day moving through a cycle of force-feeding myself mushy foods, taking meds, rinsing my mouth with warm salt water, icing my face and then passing out from exhaustion.

I miss when my food didn't look like diarrhea.

Also, when you have to puree all of your meals, you end up with a lot of dishes. And consuming enough protein is kind of a challenge. And seriously, I just really want Doritos.

At least I still have my sense of humor.

Anyway, in case you are not totally sick of hearing absolutely everything about my surgery, this is what's in my mouth now:

I am telling everyone I got screwed.

My friends have been so supportive about the whole experience.

Apparently, we all have the same brain.

And this is what I look like without my denture:

Totally the next Lara Stone. Right? RIGHT??!

My friend Brian thinks I should start wearing an MMA hat and telling people I lasted five minutes with Ronda Rousey. 

I didn't die

In fact, I feel pretty decent, considering this came out of my mouth:

I've named it Monica, to honor the coworker who was part of The Incident.

(The secret tooth that was hidden in my upper jaw was also extracted. Sadly, I did not take photos of it because it was broken into two pieces during surgery and was a lot smaller than I thought it would be. I kind of wanted it to be more dramatic -- like with a tiny, partially formed skeleton attached, thus confirming the existence of my secret twin. Because who isn't obsessed with the possibility of a secret twin that was somehow absorbed into your body so then you spend your life living for the two of you but never realize it until later?)

The procedure was fairly straightforward. The doctor and nurses talked to me about cats and triathlon (my oral surgeon rides in Kona with triathletes and liked how I was wearing an IMAZ shirt to the appointment!) until I went under. And then the surgery was over, and I woke up and said: "Did I fall asleep?" And the nurse said: "Yes, for a little while." And then she put me in a wheelchair and took me to the car, and then Annie drove me home.

And I didn't really do or say anything wacky while drugged. Unless you count making up a song about being on drugs and singing it loudly to my swim buddy over the phone. Oh, and refusing to take more drugs until I had meticulously decorated my prescription bottles with stickers so Annie and I would be able to know which meds were which because safety first. (The Vicodin now bears a "Party Time" sticker.)

I spent the rest of the day eating pudding and mashed potatoes, but craving Doritos and steak. And getting out of bed and trying to do chores, only to have Annie ask me what I was doing and send me back to bed. And then Heidi and Belle and Julie came over to check on me. And I felt so happy about having such good friends who love me even if I look like this: 

That's right: I rocked a headband around my face because I needed to keep pressure on the gauze in my mouth so the surgery area could clot. (I don't know what's a more disgusting word -- "clot" or "moist." Ick. Shivers.)

Thankfully, I was able to wear my denture flipper immediately after the surgery, so there was no traumatizing gap.

Not bad, modern dentistry. Not bad.

And I can also talk, which is a huge relief. Although I did learn one very important lesson today: Do not play Cards Against Humanity right after you've hard oral surgery because the chances that you will laugh so hard you spit blood all over the deck are very, very high.

let it go

(I'm sorry. I like that movie.)

One thing I've noticed about triathletes: The vast majority of us are Type A control freaks who get off on solving problems. And because of this, when we encounter something we can't fix or change or help in some way, we have an extraordinarily difficult time letting it go. (Don't believe me? Read everything that exists in the "Archive" section of this blog.)

Anyway, I'm currently six days into an eight-day, multi-city stretch of travel that started in New York with a wine event, a FOX News interview (I know, right?) and some quiet time remembering my cousin on the one-year anniversary of her death, which was Wednesday.

This girl was fierce. Terrified of chickens, but still fierce.

I met one of her best friends for breakfast. We talked for a long time -- sad, funny, honest conversation. (Death is so strange -- it hurts so much, but at the same time, you don't want the hurt to stop because you don't want it to become a blip, something that just "happened that one time.") I drank a glass of fresh-pressed green juice and ate half a bowl of soft-scrambled cacio e pepe eggs. Then I went to the airport to catch my flight to Phoenix -- the next stop on this whirlwind trip -- where I'd pick up a rental car and head to Tucson for bike camp with the tri team.

But there was something horribly, horribly wrong with that green juice and those eggs. Let's just say I now know what it is like to puke in an airport bathroom, attempt to get on the plane anyway, immediately puke in the airplane bathroom right after boarding, get escorted off the plane in front of everyone for being a "liability," watch the plane pull out of the gate with my luggage still on board and then spend the rest of the afternoon sitting on the floor of a bathroom stall at EWR, puking non-stop. (Don't worry, germaphobes -- I picked a freshly-mopped stall and made a little spot for myself with a pile of toilet seat covers so I wasn't directly sitting on the bathroom floor.)

I never want to see this bathroom again.

It was so bad that I was fantasizing about a gurney and an IV bag, with my mom standing next to the bed, holding my hand. (I told you it was bad.) Finally, there was a break in the purging, so I picked myself up, got a plastic bag from a Hudson News store, called a cab and went to a hotel. (Cab driver: "Do you have luggage?" Me: "No. Long story. Please just drive.") 

I got to my room just in time for Phase 2 -- a.k.a. The Pooping -- to begin. (Honestly, I would much rather deal with poop over vomit any day.)

Eventually the horror ended, and I made it to Arizona on Thursday night. I was a day late, I arrived in the same clothes I had spent the previous day puking in and I hadn't eaten anything for more than 24 hours, but I was there. And I wanted to get as much out of camp as I could.

Friday started with a swim. 

Four words: Outdoor pool in winter. Bonus word: YES.

I made it through -- had a really strong swim, in fact -- but as soon as I got out of the pool, I started feeling shaky. I took a gel and some water and got on the bike anyway.

Calm before the storm.

I lasted six miles. My heart rate skyrocketed, I couldn't catch my breath and I thought I was going to hurl. I had to get off my bike and walk, stopping every few steps to heave a little. (Confession: I also cried. A lot.) I ended up in the SAG vehicle with water in one hand and Gatorade in the other. It felt humiliating.

And even though the coaches and my teammates told me over and over again that it was not my fault, that food poisoning was beyond my control, that it was better to have this happen at camp than in a race, I still felt like a failure -- so much so that as soon as I had downed some liquids, I got back on the bike and rode another 11 miles. (Which, in hindsight, was probably really stupid considering how dehydrated I was. But I felt like I had to do it or I would've kept feeling terrible about myself.)

The rest of camp turned out to be a wash for me. I couldn't run, either, so I ended up hiking a lot.

At least the scenery was pretty. And there was sun. And good people. And I wasn't on the floor of a Newark bathroom anymore. But the frustration: When your mind and heart are there and you want something so much, but your body has a different plan.

How to let go, when to know it's time for that to happen ...