What was I thinking?

A post in several points:

a) People in San Francisco must be crazy, freaky in shape. Because, seriously, these hills?!?!? Fuck almighty. My muscles hurt just walking up them. During a jog this a.m. (which, precipitated this posted, and which I will discuss later) I saw a bunch of people headed to graduation, which was being held in a big-ass building at the top of a hill. And then I saw them: Tons and tons of chicks in like 4 inch heels, plowing up the hill like it  no problem. Yeesh.

b) OMG, I am a dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb. I went on a jog with some people today. And by going on a jog, I mean, I had a great view of their rears for a few blocks before suddenly, they vanished while I huffed and puffed my way (walking by this point) up the hill.

c) Chicago is flat. Pancake flat. Great Plains flat. You can see the Sears Tower from 25 miles away flat. And you know what? I'm cool with that. 

d) Owwwwwwww.

e) Groan.

f) I didn't vomit.

Bon Voyage!

Three guesses where I'm headed tomorrow morning at the ass-crack of dawn...

Here's one. And no, I won't blame you if this site makes you hungry for some Rice-A-Roni.


Here's No. 2. Purdy, huh?


And here's your final guess, in case you've accidentally consumed too much wine to be able to accurately decipher the first two easy-peasy clues. And YES! This row of houses is famous and called the Painted Ladies. but, er, I totally recognized them from the opening credits of "Full House." (Also, I was convinced that was where the Tanner family lived....) Damn, I'm such a child of the '80s.


I'll be hanging with some friends for a long weekend in the city by the bay. The Modern Gal has graciously agreed to be my "date" for the weekend, since everyone else who's coming along is coupled off and will probably spend the evenings making out furiously while she and I drink most of the booze and contemplate our navels. Or something like that.

I'm refusing to lug my now-geriatric laptop with me because I need space for the five pairs of shoes that I so desperately MUST bring with me to appropriately accessorize each ensemble. So I'll return to posting next week.

Until then, happy (early) weekend!

San Francisco fabric store suggestions?

On Thursday, I'll be flying out at the ass-crack of dawn (Seriously, what jackass books a 5 a.m. flight? Oh. Wait.) to head to San Francisco for an extra-long weekend with some friends. We've got a loose itinerary of stuff to do, which also includes hefty amount of time for hanging out and boozing.

But I was hoping to hit up some fun and fab fabric shops. Of course, I'm stumped on places to go. I *may* have access to wheels, but I'm hoping whatever is around is public transit accessible and preferably in the city.

A co-worker suggested I get my cute butt over to Berkeley to check out StoneMountain & Daughter. Any other ideas of cool places in the city? And by cool I mean, calico is all but banished.

There, here, back again and everywhere.

It was four years ago today that my over-packed Honda Civic and I (along with my mom who was driving an equally over-packed rented Expedition) drove out of the city that I loved, Chattanooga, Tenn.

I'm a through-and-through East Coaster who grew up smack between the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. But Chattanooga was the first place where I collected a real, adult paycheck at my first real, adult job. It was a job I applied to on a lark while studying in Northern Ireland. I got there expecting dueling banjos, and instead I found one of the most amazing and beautiful small cities filled with some of the most amazing and beautiful people I could ever imagine.

It was a place filled with stories and ambiance and atmosphere and soul. And I, without a doubt, loved it.

My friends there became my family. A college friend, who convinced me to move to Chattanooga in the first place, became after a series of stumbles, my best friend. Classical violin lessons that I'd hated in high school became a bluegrass habit I've never quite been able to quit. Chacos became the best footwear on the planet. Wrap-around porches shaded by magnolia trees became outdoor living rooms. PBR (which I firmly believe should never cost more than $1 for a tallboy) became as quenching as water.

And, during my three years there, I became an almost grown up.

It was 6 a.m. exactly four years ago when my mom and I left for our drive to Indianapolis. And it was beyond picturesque that morning. The sky was the perfectly blue and the leaves were the perfectly green and the mountains were perfectly dark. As we went north on I-24, we rolled through ridge cuts and along switchbacks and then over the Cumberland Plateau. I listened to the mix CDs Currer Bell made for me and then I said good bye.

(For the record, only an absolute idiot thinks it's a good idea to move to Indianapolis on the weekend of the Indianapolis 500, which is, in case you're oblivious, the world's largest single-day sporting event. Apparently, I am that idiot.)

I didn't last long in the Circle City. In fact, I was there just long enough to attend the next year's Indy 500 (and get swept up in Danica madness) before I was packing my car again, this time to head to Chicago.

At the end of this summer, I'll have called Chicago home for three years. Which, since it's the same amount of time I spent in Chattanooga, is making me draw a lot of parallels between my life now and my life then. I finally feel settled here, it just took me so much longer. You know what it's like... the further removed you are from home, and from college, the harder it is to make friends and put down roots.

It was tough, but now I run into people I know on the street. I have my favorite haunts. I've established a routine. And I'm finally starting to find friends who are on their way to being called family, too.

It's finally home, but it's different. (And by the way, it's flat. Very, very, very flat.)

Next weekend, I'll be reuniting with my Chattanooga peeps for our yearly reunion. We pick a different destination, rent a house, and spend three days playing music, bonding, drinking and generally doing our best to get our fill of each other so we can last for the next 52 weeks.

Every year we're different. There are new boyfriends and girlfriends. We know kids probably aren't too far off. We're a little pudgier, a bit better dressed, a smidge more cynical, a little more tired, and a lot less drunk every year. (In my case, I am all of those things. I am also a lot more blonde.)

There was, I swear, a point to this blog post. Of course, I now have absolutely no idea what it is. Other than that I'm a little nostalgic. And it's Memorial Day weekend. And every Memorial Day weekend I think about Chattanooga and my time there, and the day I left, and the amazing friends I have because of my time there.

So, in honor of the Boulder of the South, maybe I'll put on my Chacos, open a way-too-expensive PBR and flip through some old photo albums and play one of those CDs. And then, I'll think about the next four years.

They like me! They really like me!

I'm downright giddy that Schmutzie picked my "I Am" post to be part of the weekly Five Star Friday roundup, which features some of the best writing on the Web. Seriously! I've been squeaking and eeping with excitement all day, much to the dismay and annoyance of anyone within a 15-foot radius of me. (Also, I swear, dogs have been barking. I've totally become supersonic.)

I wrote that post on a lark because my head was about to explode with so many thoughts. You know what it's like, when your mind runs like those crazy agitated electrons you learned about in high school, running around and bumping into each other?

I didn't really intent to inspire anyone. (Except, maybe, The Modern Gal, who is so damn cool because she graciously volunteered to train for her own triathlon simply to keep my lazy ass honest.) I guess in a round about way, though, that post also managed to re-inspire me, too.

Even better? Based on the comments, it looks like some of you are digging it too.

Boooo-yah!

So if you're new to these parts of Noodlestopia, pull up a chair, pop open a beer _ or four _ and stay awhile. And thanks, really, for reading.

(BTW: You can see the whole list of those on this week's list here.)

I am.

I am not an athlete. I am not fit. I am not lithe. Or skinny. Or particularly good at doing my dishes. Or patient. I am not one of those girls who simply craves cardio and the latest shoe style. (You know who they are. They discuss exercise over field greens and balsamic while drinking water with lemon.) I am not calm. I am sometimes lazy and neurotic as shit.

But we girls are too hard on ourselves. We're too willing to see ourselves as fat and not good enough and think that we're not able to hold our own in a line up with humanity. We don't self-promote. We criticize and diminish ourselves. When we're single we see ourselves as less-than, instead of as women who have the benefit of making their own decisions, with their own time, on their own terms.

Which is why today, after a series of events, I decided to focus instead on what I am.

I am crass and loud, prone to laughing fits, and one of the best friends you could ask for if you can keep up with me. I am a stellar planner and a book worm. I am clever. I am creative and unique as hell. I am an avowed nerd and a sometimes-just-a-little-bit artist. I am sass personified. I am Type A and dedicated. I will do almost anything for my dog and really, sometimes, think I can make a difference in the world _ as much as I want to laugh at myself for admitting it.

I'm all that. And I'm a whole lot more too.

But today, more than anything, I was strong.

And it was, quite simply, awesome.

This post started out as being about slipping (OK, tugging and yanking) on my bathing suit and trying to swim laps for the first time in almost a decade. Instead, it's become about how we need to change the mental image we have of ourselves and how that fits into my crazy idea that this generously proportioned, jiggle-prone girl could become a triathlete.

It all started when I surprised an onlooker _ and quite honestly, myself, too _ by pounding out a mile in the pool this afternoon, without so much stopping for more than a minute or two. I was close to the third of a mile mark when I saw him, standing by at the end of my lane, waiting to see if I was almost done. I popped my head out about halfway through as he was catching his breath in the shallow end of the next lane.

Him: I'm totally impressed by your stamina. You just keep going.
Me: (stunned silence. realizes he's talking about me.)
Me: Thanks! Breast stroke is a lot easier for me than freestyle.
Him: I'm out of breath after a few laps. But you make me want to keep going.
Me: Wow! Seriously. Thank you. You really just made my day.

SAY WHAT?! Fat girl is inspirational? Seriously?

I had planned to just do another two laps or so to cool down. But as I dipped back under the water and pushed off from the wall, I realized I wasn't tired. Or out of breath. If anything, I felt amazing. So I kept going. And going some more.

And you know what? It was awesome. I wasn't fast _ it took me about a half hour to do the whole mile _ but I was strong. And impressive. And hearing that from someone, from a stranger, was just what I needed.

So what if I'm a huffing, puffing, sweating, swearing, slowly moving stubborn girl? I'm a freakin' vision in my new pink sneakers and my faded Speedo.

Catch me if you can.

A rose by any other name ...

Since I was taking pictures of my kick-ass baby herbs, I thought I'd also take some shots of one one of the lovely bouquets I got for my birthday!

These gorgeous roses are courtesy of a super fabulous girl friend!








Roses are never wrong.

How her garden grows.

A green thumb I am not. Instead, I'm a plant murder who commits aggravated, first-degree herbicide. (Chlorocide? Faunacide? Floracide?)

I over-water. Under-sun. Under-water or over-sun. Usually in two weeks, the plant begins to look sickly. A month later, it's time for a funeral. (Other than a once lush and leafy green houseplant, the only thing that faces a swifter certain death in my care is a gold fish. And trust me, I have ample evidence to back up both.)

Since I also lack a learning curve and am fond of reliving my idiotic errors over and over again every year when the temperature climbs I convince myself that I really am FINALLY going to be a capable of raising a plant baby from seed to sprouthood and beyond.

Enter this year: I spied two cute all-in-one herb growing kits for basil and cilantro at a home improvement store. With a price of $2.99 each, I figured I'd give it one more go.

And, BEHOLD!

Cilantro! That is taller every day I get home from work!






Lookie! Itty bitty basil, just waiting to be added to a summer salad!







Maybe this means that I'm not a total failure.

In which I learn things.

Since the triathlon is less than two months away and I'm, as I said, petrified of the running portion, I took my first training "run" today. I use the word "run" loosely, since I mostly just shuffled for 60 seconds at a time, before spending 90 seconds walking. I'm following this plan by Cool Runnings and also listening to a training podcast I found on iTunes. The music is a little weird, but it tells me when to run, when to stop, when to walk. I am, if anything, excellent at following directions, so this works nicely for me.

Of course, roughly 3 minutes in I was already learning things.

1) The Macy Mutt makes a HORRIBLE running partner.
Mainly because about eight seconds into each running interval, she either needed to pee, poop, sniff, or do something distracting that meant she couldn't keep up with me. And she became progressively more uncooperative at each interval, refusing to walk down some blocks unless they were on the direct path to the condo. At the last interval, she gave up completely and planted her yellow butt outside the front door while I ran back and forth as far as her extend-a-leash would let me for the rest of the 60 seconds.

2) Boobs are not the place to store an iPod.
After I got dressed to go out, and I realized I didn't have any pockets. And I had a set of keys and iPod to carry. I clipped the keys to Macy's leash and stashed the iPod in the only place I could think of where it wouldn't get loose and crash to the ground. Yup, I stuck that baby right in the cleavage. (BTW, having storage space in the boobs about the only good part of being painfully well-endowed.) Unfortunately, about 25 minutes in I discovered that boob sweat and circuitry don't mix well. And I'm currently praying for it to start working again soon and welcome suggestions on how to fix it.

3) Granny panties are where it's at.
I'm a low-cut briefs kind of girl and have banished every pair of granny panties from my dresser. Although, let's just say, low-cut briefs don't appreciate the jiggling that comes with running and, in a plea for freedom, decided to just roll down in the midst of the run. Lovely feeling, really. Also fun: trying to readjust your undies on the street without looking like a pervert or like you're soliciting.

4) Running for 60 seconds isn't hard.
Running for 3.2 miles probably will be. Gah, what was I thinking?

By the way, I promise not to decide this blog to postings only about this stupid adventure. My friend once told me she'd de-friended people on Facebook for only "posting about how many goddamn miles they run." Will. Not. Be. That. Girl.

That is all.

In which I am stupid.

Happy birthday to me! Yup, after roughly 364 days of anticipation, I turned 28 today and celebrated as only I do. Mainly, by being incredibly, monumentally and epically stupid.

How? Well, er, I kind of signed up for a triathlon today. Yeah. My 200+ pound self thought it was a good idea to huff-and-puff my way through a half-mile swim, 12 mile bike ride, and 3.2 mile run. On, wait for it, July 12.

If any of you are all athletic (or can read a calendar), you know that July 12 is really, really freaking soon. Which means I should have started training, oh, I don't know ... two months ago. Ooops.

I spent a decade growing up as a competitive swimmer (ah, back in the skinny-and-in-shape days of yore) and can pound out a 12 mile bike ride no problem right now. So I'm not worried _ too much, anyway _ about those legs. It's the run that has me absolutely, positively scared shitless. See... I don't run. Like, ever. Not even if I'm being chased. I'm fairly sure if someone tried to attack me on the street and my options were to run away or sit down and take a breather, I'd park my butt on a bench and be all, "excuse me, can I help you with something??"

You think I exaggerate, but it's true. In high school, at the pinnacle of my in-shape-and-athletic-days, I thought it'd be better to be the goalie on the field hockey team than to have to spend hours of practice every day running up, down and around the field. I was perfectly content to strap on 20 pounds of sweaty, heavy gear and let girls in kilts hurl hard balls at me than to have to spend 90 minutes a day running and doing sprints and drills.

So as part two of my present to myself, I bought myself these cool-ass kicks.


Now, before you go roll your eyes at the fact that I bought pink and white sneakers ("How obvious, Noodles...") you should know I went to a real, honest-to-goodness running store and got fitted by a very nice runner type who determined these were best for my weird feet.

And after my friend Tina convinced me that it would be a good idea to do this, I also put in an order for a tri-suit. Which, by the way, are possibly the most hideous things on the planet, aside from those crazy "modesty swimsuits" the Duggars wear on TV.


Please note, this model looks significantly better in this get-up than I ever will.

And finally, because I am a huge nerd who believes in research, research, research, I'm FINALLY reading the book I picked up a few years ago when I first got this crazy idea in my head.


It's actually great. Jayne is funny and snarky and I feel certain we would get along splendidly while shopping for god knows what together before getting martinis.

So, yes. That was my birthday. Well, there was that, and the fabulous and lovely gifts, calls, messages, cards, voicemails, text messages and other loveliness that my friends and family showered on me. Even the mutt got in on the act, but letting me sleep in until 8 a.m. All in all, pretty splendid.

So, let's just hope that this triathlon doesn't kill me so I can survive another 364 days to bask in birthday love next year.

Randomness that may or may be illuminating

I've spent a lot of time these past few months in trying to figure stuff out. And by stuff, I mean, quite simply, me. To paraphrase my friend Currer Bell, who quoted 40 Days and 40 Nights when she said this: I'm action-packed with issues.

Whatev. Issues? They're part of our charm. Right?

So what if I'm an OCD worrier who doesn't believe in allowing oneself time to grieve, or wallow, or agonize (which, ironically, I've spent a fare amount of time doing so far this year.) Who cares if my skinny clothes from last summer won't button, or zip any more? (Ok, well, I do. I never said I'd fixed my issues. I'm just accepting them.) So what if having house guests stresses me out? So what if I'm an impatient perfectionist? So what if I quilt and sew at night to keep myself from flipping out?

You know what, my friends will love me just the same, even if there are days that I don't.

Anyway, all this none-too-profoundness was the ground work for this eureka moment, courtsey of Shapely Prose's quote of the day. (Ready for inspiration?)

"Self-loathing is not a fucking character-builder. It doesn’t make you stronger. It doesn’t make you better. It’s just an ever-deepening, creepy-ass trap; a trap that is a huge moneymaker for corporations that do not have and never will have good intentions. You’re not disgusting. You’re not freakish. You’re not ugly. And you’re never going to be perfect. And holy shit, that is so okay." —Jane from Casual Blasphemies, in an awesome post about Kirstie Alley.

Jesus Christ is that good advice. Whether it's body image or, really, anything in life. I am never going to be perfect. And that is fucking okay. OKAY! Hear that universe!?! Hear that brain?? OK! As in fine! As in not fucked. As in, just breathe.

I know, I know... all this is easier said than done. But hey, life's about baby steps, right?

So, I'm realizing now that there probably is no point of this post. Maybe it's just my three glasses of chardonnay. (Also, here's a big shout out to whoever decided the world would be a better place with Three Buck Chuck in it.) So, I'm going to stop typing before I get overwrought and Hallmarky.

Happy Tuesday.

Love,
Noodles

Maytastic! Except at the dermatologist.

Leaves are returning to trees, flowers are blooming and my poor friend Emily has scarred retinas after catching an overly hairy dude with stretch marks jogging shirtless on a 60-degree day.

Yep, it's springtime here in Chicago, that lovely almost-temperate time when Chicagoans start ditching clothing at inappropriate temperatures and find really bad excuses to end meetings early so they can make it to an afternoon game at Wrigley. (There is, after all, a reason why Ferris Bueller was from Chicago ... I'm just saying. No one parties that much in warm weather unless the winter really, really, really, really, really sucks balls.)

But, as usual, I digress.

In addition to it actually _ typically _ finally beginning to feel like spring, May kicks ass because it's my birthday. (May 17, in case you've forgotten to mark your calendar...) I'm a consummate only child and so I don't believe a birthday should be restricted to an actual, you know, day. And even a birthday week is kind of lame. Nope. I believe in a BIRTHDAY MONTH.

The revelry got off to an early start, since I got my first birthday present, from Currer Bell, two weeks ago in the mail. But, because I am an idiot, I foolishly swore not to open it until my birthday and also swore on the Mutt Dog that I wouldn't Google the return address, either. So it's sitting, untouched, still in the box. Mocking me.

But my excitement got a swift shin-kick today when I opened my mailbox and got my first birthday card of the season. Sure, it's from the dermatologist. But hey, anyone is welcome on the Noodles Birthday Bandwagon. So, I tore open the envelope, honest to God, nearly choked.

"As our loyal patient, please accept this birthday gift of a reduced-price skin treatment ....Your glycolic treatment for $40 can help you achieve brighter, more youthful looking skin. This treatment, normally $105, improves clarity and may provide a more even skin tone."

Excuse me? Brighter, more youthful looking skin? YOUTHFUL? Are you jerkfaces serious?! I'm 28! I refuse to accept the fact that there will be gravity and wrinkles and grayness in my future. Nope. This peaches-and-cream Irish complexion is perfectly happy WITHOUT your stupid rejuvenating treatment _ 62 percent discount or not.

So there! Assholes.