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Filth, Fate, and The Warrior Dash

By Sue · Comments (50) · June 14th, 2012

I love me a good sweat.

I have made that clear in the past, have I not?

Running. Gardening. Tennis. Volleyball. Anything that involves sun and exertion and accomplishment.

Now, filth?

Is another story entirely.

And by filth, I don’t mean a wee bit of topsoil up my nose.

I mean mud. Sludge. Murky waters that may or may not contain microscopic creatures that make sweet microscopic love and produce microscopic offspring whilst I share the space in which they wallow.

So you can imagine how shocked I was by my own interest when a commercial aired on the car radio as Twin A and I drove home from her tennis lesson a few weeks ago. The commercial was for The Warrior Dash 5K.

This road race?

Is filth. Defined.

“Eeeeewwwww!” my daughter grimaced, wrinkling her nose. ”Gross!”

It did sound gross, friends.

And strangely intriguing.

I had to know more.

When we returned home, I launched an Internet search.

This is what I found:

Eeeeewwwww. Gross.

I knew I needed a piece of this action.

And the only thing more surprising to me than my own desire to partake in such madness?

Was the boldface type across the top of the Warrior Dash website:

REGISTRATION CLOSED.

Shizznit.

As quickly as my excitement had built for this absurd event

My Warrior hopes were dashed. So to speak.

But time heals dashed hopes, so I was well over the ordeal and perusing Facebook yesterday when a friend’s post caught my eye:

Warrior Dash this weekend — Anyone interested in taking my spot? Does a little run through the mud sound fun? A knee injury will sideline me this year so I need to find a replacement.

Giddy-up.

Now, a handful of phone calls and a transferred race registration later,

I am slated to be a Warrior.

I will be part of the throng of crazies on Sunday, clambering up hills, leaping flames, and trekking my way through indescribable filth.

Fate?

Meh. I’m not too keen on the concept of fate.

I see this chain of events as a divinely approved coincidence. As writer Irene Hannon once put it, “A coincidence is a small miracle in which God chooses to remain anonymous.”

Now. I don’t mean to imply that my pal’s knee was whacked by The Big Guy just so that I could have a shot at this race.

But I do believe that all of life’s happenings, as random and unsavory as they may seem in the moment, are part of an enormous, intricately crafted plan that I, in my forty-one years of human existence, cannot begin to comprehend.

So I won’t try.

I will simply have the time of my life come Sunday

When I get to be a Warrior.

**Photos from the Dash are now on my Facebook page! Click here to “like” The Spin Cycle on FB and check them out.

This post was inspired by a prompt from

This week, write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece where fate plays a prominent role. You can write from the position of a complete belief or absolute disbelief in the role of fate in our lives or the lives of our characters.

Comments (50)

Oh, Trevor, my Trevor.

By Sue · Comments (40) · June 7th, 2012

I come here once a month to see the young man.

My young man.

“Trevor” is the name on the placard affixed over his right breast.

But…deep down…I sense that this is not his true name.

I come here once a month, and he treats me like a queen. He caresses my feet. He massages my legs.

He makes my toenails? Look ah-MAZE-ing.

But his words have a way of cutting through the fairy tale and shattering the romanticism.

And yet I return, time and again, drawn to his handiwork like a moth to a flame:

**************************************************************************************************************************

I settle into the leather chair. The one with the built-in massager. I ease my feet into the warmth of of the swirling water.

Trevor: “You’re a runner.”

Me: “Me? Why, yes…yes, I am.” Pleased that he has noticed, I flex my toes upward out of sea salt bath, accentuating my calves in so doing. ”How can you tell?”

Trevor: “This toenail here is black and blue. It is going to fall off.”

*Silence, save for the whir of the foot bath. I return my toes to a neutral position.

Trevor: (Under his breath, to the tune of Moon River) “Bluuueeeee tonailsssss…”

Trevor: “I see you running up the road when I drive to work. You wear the sunglasses all the time. Even when the sun is not shining. Why? You are hiding?”

Me: ”Pardon me?”

Trevor: ”Why you run so much? You remind me of that other runner I see all the time. I call her the Strange Running Lady. Why you run so much? So you not get fat?”

Me: “What? No! I just like it, okay?”

Trevor: ”But why? So you not go crazy?”

Me: ”No. That’s why I blog.”

Trevor: ”Huh? What is blog?”

Me: “It’s where I write about all of the people that bother me. You know, so I don’t go crazy. The whole neighborhood reads my blog. All of the ladies that come here to get their toes done? They read my blog.”

Trevor: ”Oh.” Trevor files my blue toenail gingerly, then trims the cuticle just so. ”You want free soak in the lavender oil today? Free. Just for my special customer.”

Me: ”Why, yes, Trevor…that would be lovely. Thank you, darling.”

And so it goes. I shall return next month.

Inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat’s Writers’ Workshop: ”Write a post about an argument you recently had with someone from the moment of conflict to the moment of resolution in 15 lines or less.”

Comments (40)

I’m Not Sexy. And I Know It.

By Sue · Comments (49) · May 31st, 2012

I get a kick out of yard work. I mean, really. Have you read my Who is this Woman page? Or seen my “Dig It” board on Pinterest?

Yeah. I’m a digging, weeding, perennial-planting, dirt-loving fool.

My groom counts himself as fortunate to have a lawn boy and bride all rolled into one unpaid package. He suggests that the lawn needs mowing? And I’m all, “Oooh, nooo! Puh-LEASE don’t throw me in that briar patch, Brer Groom!”

Then with, a giggle, off I traipse to my own little slice of Heaven.

So, this past Saturday, with the sun beating down and a gentle breeze rustling the poplars bordering our property, I was completely in my element as I made my way to the back yard to finish the mowing. Sassy thing that I am, I took off my tank top and finished the job in my swimsuit top and shorts. I felt alive. Strong. Dare I say…sexy.

*cue LMFAO’s latest hit*

Grass clippings are sexy. And we know it.

Yes. I felt sexy in my Athleta swimsuit top and board shorts as I pushed the mower around the yard in a precise pattern of zig-zags, dodging dog-do when I came across a spot that I had missed during my pre-mowing scoop session.

But all sexy things must come to an end, friends.

For me? It happened when I finished the mowing, put the Toro away in the garage, and returned to the back yard with my groom’s weed whacker in hand.

Do any of you female friends know how to use a weed whacker?

Well. Bully for you. Because the thing scares the living daylights out of me. But I wanted to finish the job, so I fiddled with the knobs on the handle until the machine roared to life.

And that? Was where the sexy evaporated. When I step out of myself for a moment and recall the ordeal from a third person perspective, my mind’s eye witnesses a scene that could best be compared to Seinfeld’s Cosmo Kramer guest starring in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. That piece of machinery took my swimsuit-clad self on a wild goose chase around the perimeter of my yard that still gives me the shakes when I think about it. I shimmied my way around, power tool in hand, lopping off random sections of overgrown grass, as well as occasional clumps of daisies and moss roses when the whacker careened out of control.

My teeth chattered.

My knees knocked together.

There were parts of me jiggling that no one should have to see jiggling on a woman my age.

So I put the wretched power tool away, cussing under my breath, and decided to pull a few weeds instead.

Because, unlike weed whacking, weeding by hand is sexy.

*restart LMFAO soundtrack*

Hush, garden girl. And hand me that trowel.

I weeded the Dickens out of my flower beds.

Two hours later, as I sat on my back patio, MGD 64 at my side, admiring my handiwork, I glanced down and noticed a smattering of teenytiny red bumps forming a semicircle just below my rib cage.

Mysterious gardening-induced allergic reactions are not sexy, friends.

And neither was the speed with which this reaction proceeded to spread across my entire torso, arms, and legs. Nor was how it crept up toward my face, threatening to squinch my eyeballs shut and leave me looking like something out of Mad Magazine – HGTV Edition.

Furthermore? A trip to the dermatologist and a prescription for rash-combatting oral steroids and oatmeal baths are not sexy either. Much like flesh-hiding cowboy boots and cardigan sweaters on a sweltering day in Chicagoland are unsexy.

So here I sit, in my boots and cardigan, at my kitchen table in front of my laptop, hopped up on oral steroids on a picture-perfect afternoon at the end of May.

Outside, the sun beams. Birds chirp. The yard beckons.

And I tell it to shut the flippin-flap up.

Comments (49)

Martha Stewart Inspired Lego Ice Cream Cake – A Spin Cycle Tutorial

By Sue · Comments (99) · May 24th, 2012

It’s no secret that I’m completely obsessed with Pinterest.

For me? It’s more than a diversion. Or a social media tool.

It’s a way of life, friends.

I use it to cook. To decorate my home. To gather ideas for my garden. To plan The Cherubs’ birthday parties.

Case in point: As The Small One’s birthday approached last month, I turned to my dear friend Pinterest for ideas that would complement the Lego themed birthday party that I was planning. And I found this, courtesy of Martha Stewart Living:

I know, right?

So I went and re-created it. With an ice cream cake, because the child ~~is insane~~ doesn’t care for traditional cake.

And? Not to toot my own horn…but…pssssst…I’ve written a step-by-step tutorial on how I did it. I’m considering pinning it as well. Would you mind giving it a little look-see and letting me know what you think?

Ahem:

Martha Stewart Inspired Lego Ice Cream Crake – A Spin Cycle Tutorial

1. Three days prior to the anticipated birthday party, print out a color image of the cake that you wish to recreate.

2. Take it to the Dairy Queen on the corner and ask the lady behind the counter if she can do it for you. When she starts shaking with uncontrollable laughter, place an order for an undecorated Ginormous Rectangular Ice Cream Cake, muttering, “Whatever. I can decorate the thing myself. Please stop laughing at me.”

3. On your way home, stop at the grocery store and purchase marshmallows, icing, and food coloring. Congratulate yourself on how far in advance you are preparing.

4. On the day before the party, pick up the Ginormous Rectangular Ice Cream Cake that you have pre-ordered. Take it home, affix the marshmallows to the top, slice it into assorted Lego brick shapes, and return it to the freezer until the next morning. Again, pat yourself on the back for your foresight and planning.

5. The next morning, five hours before party time, mix your icing with food coloring to create adorably vivid Lego colors. Head to the freezer to remove the cake.

6. Clutch at your chest and grab the kitchen island to steady yourself as you notice that the door to the freezer is slightly ajar and has most likely been that way all night long.

7. With quivering hands, remove the cake from the freezer and find it nearing room temperature and looking like so:

8. Have a nervous breakdown followed by a hissyfit that wakes all of your Cherubs, your groom, and your dog, who vomits on your carpet in a show of solidarity.

9. Clean up the dog vomit, pull yourself together, pick up your phone and call every store within a ten mile radius who might have a replacement Ginormous Rectangular Ice Cream Cake. Get laughed at by everyone except for Baskin Robins.

10. Dash out to Baskin Robins, purchase your second Ginormous Rectangular Ice Cream Cake in less than 12 hours, hug the perplexed teenaged boy behind the register, hustle home, and begin the marshmallow-affixing and Lego-brick-shape-slicing processes. Again.

11. With time running short, forgo the return-to-freezer step and go right to icing. Discover shortly thereafter that the icing process is a royal pain in the arse which requires time and patience that you do not possess.

12. While spewing a wide variety of words that are not meant for your Cherubs’ delicate ears, make a huge mess of the icing process, like so:

I recommend using your fingers to spread the icing.

The green will take approximately twelve days to wear off of your fingers.

The marshmallows will attempt to slide off of the rapidly melting cake. Show them who’s boss.

13. When you are finished, you should have a Frosted Lego Ice Cream Cake that looks like so:

Baskin Robins Lego Ice Cream Cake Tutorial Fail

Contrary to popular belief, I received no compensation from Baskin Robins for writing this tutorial.

And that, my friends, is all there is to it.

I know what you’re thinking. You totally want to follow me on Pinterest now. Click here to make that happen.

Until next week…

Comments (99)

Don’t Call It a Comeback.

By Sue · Comments (39) · May 16th, 2012

You know that one song by LL Cool J? (Mama Said) Knock You Out?

The one that marked his shirtless, hardcore re-entry into the music scene via a boxing ring after years of making Hip Hop Lite fans swoon with smarmy pseudo-raps such as I Need Love?

How ya like me NOW?

Don’t look at me that way. Yes, you do.

Anyway. In his opening line of Mama Said, LL angrily proclaims: ”Don’t call it a comeback…I been here for years!”

And that’s just how I feel, friends. You know:

~~Shirtless~~

~~Angry~~

~~Hardcore~~

~~Formerly smarmy~~

Um, staging a comeback that isn’t really a comeback.

I’ve been here for years, homies.

I’m still me. Just with a few modifications:

I’m going to post on this site once a week. Thursdays will be my day of choice.

I’ll do my best to visit all of my friends in the blogosphere as often as my schedule allows. But, in all honesty, I will probably visit less often. My ~~happy hour~~ carpools, volunteer duties, and family life in general beckon.

And – speaking of family life – I won’t be doling out as many details about The Cherubs as I did before. I have other topics on my mind that I’d like to write about. Topics that don’t infringe on the ever-important privacy of two emerging middle schoolers and a third grader.

And now, if you’ll indulge me, a bit of housekeeping:

-If you’ve followed me here from dhousemommy.com, please update your bookmarks. Also, please consider subscribing to this site via rss feed or email. Both options can be found to the right. Dhousemommy will no longer exist in a few short weeks.

-If you’re new here? I’m really glad you stopped by. You might want to visit my page entitled Who is this Woman? in order to become better acquainted with me.

-Whether you’ve been with me since my Desperate beginnings or just stumbled across me today, I’d like to suggest that you click away over there on the right sidebar. I am a social media junkie and would love nothing more than to connect with you on Twitter, Pinterest, and Facebook.

-Nicole at The Pixel Boutique is a rock star. She took my vision for this site and crafted it into what you see now. I want to hug her, meet her for coffee, run through the sprinklers with her. If you need a blog designer? She’s your gal. Please tell her that I sent you.

So. That’s that.

I’m so tickled to be back, friends. I’ve missed you.

See you next Thursday.

Comments (39)