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.

Dark humor kicks ass

Perhaps it should also go without saying that my birthday party theme involves swine flu -- be there, or be bacon.

Bipolar brainworms.

My crazy-girl brain has a thing for songs. Specifically, songs that can get stuck in my head for a minimum of 18 hours at time. It's just how I roll. Er, yo.

But today's dueling songs are enough to drive a girl to drink. (Pauses. Sips chardonnay. Sighs happily. Refills glass.)

Ready? How's this for eff'd up?

Right Round, by Flo Rida. (Yes, "rida." I know.) And, By Way of Sorrow, by Dar Williams, as part of Cry Cry Cry.

I can't embed the video for the first one, but you can listen to the second here:





In fact, I like the second one so much, I'm hoping to learn how to play it on the fiddle. Want to hear another version? Here you go.

Mawhahaha. Happy Earth Day.

Thanks go to Someecards.com for this and my lovely pal who sent this to me, noting that we're both doing our part to help the save planet.

Happy Earth Day!

Contest, baby.

Inspired by my lengthy haikus, I thought I'd host a teeny contest. Best original haiku* on the original post (or on this one), gets a lovely special prize handmade by yours truly.

Deadline to enter is midnight CT Wednesday. Oh, and I reserve the right to use the random number generator thingy to pick a winner if they're too good for me to pick on my own.

Ready? Set? Go!

Five, Seven, Five.

Remiss in blogging,
So, instead, haikus for you.
My life in April:

Cold in Chicago.
Oh, right! No surprise there. Sigh.
That's why we need booze.

April showers, huh?
Who knew that included snow?
Why do I live here?

Fuck you, Midwest. Grrr.
I bet flowers are blooming
in Atlanta right now.

Behold! A nice spring
day. Surely this won't last. Ha.
Mother Nature. Mean.

Tax Day came and went.
I miss my refund. It ran
straight to Visa card.

Boy got last of stuff.
Breakups still suck, months later.
Why are eyes leaking?

Baking treats with friends
reminds me how fortunate
I am to be loved.

Easter morning church.
Sunrise service at the lake.
Woot! New beginnings.

Bike versus taxi.
Guess who won? Sounds worse than you
would think. Am badass cyclist.

Sewing for my quilt.
Bride friends need sewing help, too.
One woman thread fiend.

Friends came to visit.
YAY! But too much stress to clean.
Next time: maid service.

Four people in my
small 700-square-foot
condo. Friends, or die.

We saw Ira Glass!!
This American Life! LIVE!
Am NPR nerd.

Jay taught mutt to heel
in a block at a half. Huh?
Me? Four years. No luck.

No luck at making
birds for friend's wedding cake top.
They look like monsters.

Am murderer of
plants. Accidental, of course.
No green thumb for me.

Crashing book club in
Milwaukee next month. We are
reading Lolita.

My pants still won't fit.
Whatever. Time to kick this
funk in the ass. POW!

Saw flowers blooming.
That must mean there is still hope.
Spring's eternal, right?

Like haikus a lot?
Leave me one below. Best one
might just win a prize.

ADDENDUM:
Contest is on. Best haiku posted by Wednesday at midnight CT wins a crafty surprise.

Tylenol PM 1, Noodles O

I take my sleep seriously. My friends know I become progressively less pleasant (some might even say a twee bit bitchy) after 10 p.m. I live and die by 300-thread count Egyptian cotton. And I have, on more than one occasion, excused myself from a social gathering so I could take a nap. (What? Like you haven't?)

My coworker and I were emphatically discussing our mutual love of sleep so deep and sound _ the kind where you find yourself in one of those hit-the-pillow-and-don't-move a muscle-for-HOURS states _ that I said if we substituted sex for sleep, some people might get turned on listening to us.

All of this is background to establish the fact that when I'm not sleeping well, I'll do almost anything -- ANYTHING -- in my power to return to my happy sleep place. This includes, but is not limited to, the magnificence that is a hefty dose of Tylenol PM.

Which brings me to last night, around 11:30 p.m., roughly two hours after I first crawled into my lovely new, crisp covers. (Btw, my new sheets are the absolute and total bomb.)

There I am, (possibly snoring) when I hear it. Someone is talking and says: "Oh my god."

I jerk awake and open my eyes to see there, standing by my bed is ... HOLY BEJESUS ... a person.

My sleepy, Tylenol PM-addled brain rapidly begins to process this situation as my heart starts beating in overdrive.

Who is it? Duh. Obviously it's someone that's there to kill me and murder me in my sleep. This someone, appears to be unusually skinny and sort of short. And, why are they speaking? Shouldn't they be taking care of business? Are they as distraught about the chaos of exploded clothes in my bedroom as I am? Is that why they said "Oh my god?" Or are they just some weird sleep-watcher, you know, like Edward in Twilight? Do they want to rob me of my oh-so-valuable collection of Amy Butler fabrics? What if they're here to dognap Macy?

Blink. Blink.

I try to focus my very blind eyes at this mysterious, unmoving figure, while laying VERY VERY STILL so they don't know I'm awake.

Blink. Blink.

Something doesn't make sense. Why would a stranger be standing by my bedroom doorway? Much less judge me on my volume of dirty laundry?

Blink. Blink.

Maybe it's not a person.

Blink. Blink.

Maybe it's ... the dressing table? The door? Whatever. Furniture can't speak.

At this point, I'm as wide awake as a tweeked-out-on Tylenol PM person can be, which doesn't say much, although does explain why I have not done the very logical thing of turning on the lights to see who, in fact, this mass murderer is and what they want with cute little me. (OMG, maybe it's a prince who's come to whisk me away to someplace where I can live with the tiara I so rightly deserve... Maybe it's Publishers Clearinghouse?! EEP?! Is there such thing as a Cheese Fairy? A girl can dream...)

Instead, I do what any other dog-loving, lives alone, single girl would do. I look for the mutt.

Who, at the moment, happens to be spooning with me. Snoring.

Blink. Er... blink?

And only then, as my eyes start to focus on what is, in fact, just my dressing table in the moonlight, do I realize that there can't, realistically, be a crazed, psychopathic killer standing at my bedside wielding a cleaver dripping with blood. Or, even a minor European royal who has come at an inopportune time to bring me gifts of brie and gouda. Because, if there was, my dog _ who can't let someone go up or down the condo building stairs without becoming apoplectic _ would have most assuredly thought to bark.

And that voice? The one that woke me up in the first place? Um, yeah. It sort of sounds like me.

Fuuuuuuck.

And with that, I went back to sleep.

Moral of the story: Tylenol PM may or may not produce night-talking and shadow-fueled delusions. But damn, if it isn't worth it for some Grade A shut eye.

Dreams become reality.

You'd think that given the Hallmarkish title of this blog post, I'd be writing about great achievements and hardwork and, like, puppies and sunshine and babies and eep!!

Ha.

If you do, then you do not, apparently, know me or my deeply honed sense of sarcasm very well.

Let's rewind, if you will, to Saturday night when one passed-out-from-exhaustion Noodles collapses in bed. And so begins my night of weird dreams. There was one about being on an airliner that crash landed onto an interstate, but then we kept taxi-ing along the highway along with traffic and no one would listen when I demanded to be LET OFF THE PLANE! RIGHT! NOW! There was something work related and equally as traumatic. And then there was the weird dream that the mutt was puking on my covers.

Oddly, the dog vomit wasn't the most vivid of the trio. But it was definitely one that I remember, right down to seeing her move over the side of the bed where The (Ex) Boy used to sleep (good girl, btw, Macy) and seeing her tail bounce as she heaved.

In the words of the young prince of Denmark, according to Mr. Shakespeare, "To die. To sleep. To sleep: perchance to dream."

I wake up the next morning thinking, hum, weird night. Then my something hits my nose. Weird smell.

You can probably see where this is going. Plane crash? Work drama? Both slumbery, subconscious visions. Macy vomit? Not so much.

Sigh, indeed.

"Newspapers are like blogs. That leave ink on your hands."

Ah, Mr. Colbert. Touche.

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm /