Friday, October 31, 2008

Get your sticky hands off my knocker

The grocery store contains two kinds of patrons: (1) Adults who are desperately trying to kill time so they don't have to go home and hide in their cave-like dark house and (2) Parents who are cruel enough to only allow their kids to trick or treat at local businesses, i.e. grocery stores.

I am one of the former.

This is a free country, right? I mean, I stood in the Vote Early line this morning and voted like a good American should. So why do I feel so guilty about not answering my door? That every single light in my house is out and I'm burning my retinas by staring at this computer screen like a loser who never gets invited to a Halloween party?

No, it's not a secret that children aren't my favorite things to collect. But I'm not evil. It's just that tonight's potential turnout on my street is unwieldy. This entire neighborhood is devoid of children except for this street.

AND let me describe one of the costumes I saw on a 10-year-old girl. I think she was supposed to be a cat? A witch? Lindsay Lohan? All I know is she was wearing those shiny skin-tight leggings and a little top. AND her parents (or some adults) were with her and her friends. . .

I remember being a tiger in a baggy homemade striped tiger suit (I loved this so much that when I got too tall for it, I cut the feeties off and continued to wear it.) I remember being a witch that had nothing to do with a leotard. A clown, even a birthday party.

Who lets their kids go out in public like this? Did the parents take a picture before leaving the house to preserve the evening? "Ok sweetie, smile at Daddy."

So, my next question is probably expected but I'm going to ask it anyway: Why do females use Halloween as an excuse to dress like frustrated sluts?

I know this girl doesn't have the best of role models and I'm not even talking about Britney Spears, blahblahblah. I'm talking about adult women who feel it's perfectly ok to go into public places as long as it's Halloween, grocery stores for instance. Itsy bitsy tight black little dress that kept its "R" rating only because it had a smiling pumpkin stitched on it, black and orange stockings held in place by black garter belts and really high black stilettos. This would normally spell "slut" to me but she was about 50, which just meant it was sad.

This is what that little girl will look like on Halloween 40 years in the future.

Which brings me back to my first point. Why is it the norm for those of us who choose not to partake in childhood diabetes issues or encourage once-a-year hooker dressing to hide like moles in utter darkness? For whatever reason. My reason is my unwillingness to part with the fun-size Three Musketeers.

I feel like I'm taking one for the team. I mean, childhood obesity is at an all time high. I'm saving the children from that ooey gooey nougat stuff that I could eat in bowl with a spoon sans chocolate.

But, like I said, it's a free country.

I should be celebrated not egged.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

I'm leaving my attention span to science

Here's one for the ladies: Have you ever worried about leaving the bathroom and forgetting to pull your pants up? Not just the zipper, the whole pant.

Because I do. This is a real possibility because when I'm on the throne, I'm thinking deep thoughts. Or I'm involved in a magazine article. Or I'm so spaced out that my thoughts would read like Homer Simpson's: DoDooDeeDooo.

But my attention span is so diverted at times that post-restroom pantslessness could happen. It would take me tripping over them or walking like I'm trying on shoes at Academy where they join the shoes together with a wire the thickness of telephone lines before I had even an inkling something was wrong.

I think I would remember to pull my underwear up. (Note that I did not say the "p" word.) It's simply the pants.

I'm also avoiding checking my sent box at present. Reason being I emailed my friend Glenn asking if he is going to photograph the "sluts and dudes" on 6th Street for Halloween.

He hasn't answered me.

I think I sent it to my mom.

We're all afraid of say "I love you" to our boss as we hang up the phone. But what if you have a dream where you're in love with your boss? (I can't believe I'm talking about this. This is how certain I am that like 10 people read this blog.) And what was really gnarly was he was this gross, abusive a-hole. I swear I drank caffeine nonstop for a week just so I didn't fall asleep.

Then there's the time when my skirt hitched up past my right arse cheek in rush hour Chicago. I really thought I looked hot because 400 guys passed me with huge smiles on their faces. Not until three blocks later did a WOMAN, of course, tell me what was up, so to speak.

There's always the emailing someone and spilling your heart out at 3am. On Ambien. I woke up early the next morning lazily at first then with the force of the space shuttle when I vaguely thought I remembered but was making vows to God about faithful churchgoing that I didn't do what I did.

And this is why I avoid sent boxes. Some things should just remain a mystery.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Just released - monthly anorexia!

My name is Tamirra and I am a magazine-aholic. I can't stop. Oh sure, I thought I had it licked when I canceled subscriptions to magazines that make no sense to my life - Real Simple, a probable favorite of the local white suburban mommie set, and Domino, which would make sense if I had the money/inclination to redo my house in retro-50s pieces. The furniture being about $2000 removed from actual 50s prices.

But despite having complaints about "women's" magazines, I keep subscribing to them. It's for this reason, much to my mailman's horror, that I continue to receive Sears catalog sized InStyle.

It's easier than keeping your credit card on file with ITunes. You just click the Bill Me Later button and *poof* here comes some self-confidence sucking literature that probably takes an hour to flip through.

I try to be selective. I figured since I am an athlete, I should subscribe to magazines about how to work my pectorals and get "killer abs." Oh, and wear cute little shorts and put my hair in a ponytail on top of my head.

1. When I see women like this at the gym, it makes me want to tear the scrunchie from the top of their blonde heads and preach to them about giving their souls to the anorexic Establishment.

2. My hair is pretty short and I've seen bald men with thicker hair. I've tried making a ponytail. It would take a bottle of Aqua Net and 20 bobby pins to get it to stay there.

Another reason I subscribe to "healthy" magazines is because of their tips about good food for athletes to eat. But in reality when I see a story about dark chocolate actually being a "benefit for my bod" with a picture of chick who can't weigh more than 95 pounds wearing a huge laser whitened smile, the article loses a lot of its credibility.

Not only is the model wearing lipstick while she eats her Hersheys, she holds it right up to but not actually in her mouth. It just hovers in the oral vicinity, like a chocolate carrot before a horse. Seriously? The closest chocolate has gotten to this woman's mouth has been when she stoops over the toilet to barf up dinner.

If these subscriptions are beneficial to me in any way, I'll believe men read Playboy for the articles.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Botox on my shoulders makes me happy

Well, mostly.

Eating a bowl of cereal has become the weirdest thing ever. Because most of my shoulder and neck muscles have been 'Toxed, when I try to eat with the bowl propped on my lap (I avoid tables at all costs) it feels like my head is going to drop into my bowl in a narcoleptic way.

It's like those dreams where your muscles won't work and you don't know why. And then you get sad because they don't work any longer. Or maybe it's just my dreams. (I take Ambien, which not only makes you unknowingly purchase items online/bid on random shit on Ebay/eat an entire box of Wheat Thins, makes you have the strangest dreams. It's like LSD for non drug users.)

So most of the muscle pain is gone but in an odd way. It's like non-pain. But there's still a little hold-out. One little bit of muscle that is insisting it wants Botox just like its friends and will keep me from getting on my bike until it gets it. Like an actress who won't come out of her trailer until, well, until she gets Botox.

I'm just curious, in the event I can ever get in the pool, what my stroke is going to look like. Am I going to flop my arms forward like I have no skeleton? This actually buys me an excuse from ever learning breast stroke.

But getting my tattoo dragon back piece worked on was a breeze. In two hours, Michael got more done than we have in two months because of my wooziness. And I wasn't thinking he was the devil holding an buzzing instrument containing 2000 extra-sharp needles. Now, you're not hearing this from me but using muscle relaxants other than the purpose for which they were intended also helps. A lot. A lot a lot.

I'm trying


to figure out how to do this. . .

Saturday, October 25, 2008

This is your brain on drugs

blubbbbb. . .not sure how to make the noise of a tongue lolling out of mouth. . .

Sore back. Muscle relaxant.

The only reason I'm putting anything in here is because I got my coolass new camera and I want to post a picture.

I finally made the jump from film to digital. I mean, I've got the little tiny Coolpix but I get the feeling if I showed up to an event for which I was hired as a photographer and I whip that out. . .

Anyway, this is a picture of the corgi of my dreams, Clementine. This was shot at 1/8000 of a second (she's chasing water from a hose - note the little white streaks. No they're not dust. They're my camera being bitchin'.)

More to follow as I'm currently taking pictures of just about everything.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Well THAT was disappointing

Yesterday was supposed to be a two hour bike ride. My back is supposed to be better.

So how can two hours turn into 15 minutes? Fifteen minutes spent wondering "Does it or doesn't it? Is that pain or muscle weakness? Do I really want to screw up a lifetime more of training from this one bike ride?"

Do I feel like a wimp? Yes. Am I second-guessing myself? Yes. Did I sit around for the rest of the day having a Pity Party? You bet.

I managed to pull it together for the editor of Southwest Cycling News (a wonderful, literate cyclist whom I'm looking forward to writing for). But when I went to visit my friend Michael (also the Tattoo King of the World - check out his link listed below), I was busy trying to sound cheerful and like not a thing was wrong.

You know how this usually goes. High pitched voice, nervous laughter obnoxious enough to annoy anyone within 10 feet of you, diarrhea of subject matter coming unedited out of your mouth, blah blah blah.

Oh, well. I'll see him Sunday while I'm under the influence of muscle relaxants for further work on my beautiful dragon on my back. At least my speech will have slowed and I'll probably be in a coma so he can get lots of work done.

One huge point of note and enough to pretty much turn my day around: My new camera is here!! Oh, it's delicious. This is my first foray into professional digital photography. Yes, my faithful fossilized Nikon is being put out to pasture. He and my Dad's wonderful Nikon will live their days out in harmony.

Unless I throw my hands up in frustration with the three 400-page instruction manuals necessary to just set the thing up and revert to my old celluloid ways.

I realize if I am to be marketable, I need to go digital. But if you ask any fossil who, like people who refuse to leave their houses despite the onslaught of a hurricane, are stuck in the days of photo processing and the unadulterated pleasure of losing oneself for hours in a darkroom, we are NERVOUS.

I feel like Mom in front of her computer, slowly picking my way across the keyboard hunting and pecking, reading the entire screen to make a simple decision. It will be a painful (and freakin' expensive) transition but I'm looking forward to the new wrinkles in my brain.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Bun Therapy


I held a baby bunny tonight. He was soft and fuzzy and brown and leeeeetle. In my opinion, if everyone held a baby bunny at least once a week the world would be a better place.

Think about it, oil magnates would lower the price of gas because no one can rip people off when there's a little bun sleeping in their arms.

I swear, teeny little cutie pants baby animals make me talk about eight octaves higher than I usually talk. This frequency makes dogs howl because I think I hit the same range as ambulances do. It goes something like this: "Eeeeeee!!!! Look at how leeeeetle!!!! Just one ITSY. BITSY. bunny fits in one hand. . .Eeeeeee!!!!"

Sometimes there's a silent pause in between words it seems to human ears but dogs and aliens know better.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Here we go!

To say that I enjoyed being stuck with a needle 15 times, including three times in the base of my head, is a first.

I was seriously dreaming when I thought this would be just one little *poink* in my back and the fat lady sings. Nooooooo. . .we killed three vials of Botox. Just like Britney Spears, I am "Toxic."

BUT. I am also free to start training on Thursday. No, wait. I AM FREE TO START TRAINING ON THURSDAY!!!!! WHOOOOHOOOOO!!!

Yah, we're a little sore today and in a strange sort of way. What do I mean? I mean, my friggin' muscles no longer hurt. She not only took care of that nasty, pesky little back muscle but all of the nasty, pesky little muscles that ever dared to interact with the nasty, pesky little back muscle.

What animal is it whose botulism am I carrying? A pig? A squirrel? I forget. I purposely stay off the Internet for medical research lest it convinces me I'm about to grow a curly tail.

Anyway. . .yes, Thursday. Here comes Ironman Louisville! Here comes 1/2 Ironman Orlando!! My bikes need some serious lovin' before I take them out this week, my running shoes have grown spider webs (actually, these are new Nikes I'm trying out. They look like Moonboots if Moonboots were running shoes. They are actually UFO green on the bottom and look kind of like I just descended on the surface of the moon.) and my swimsuits have curled themselves into dejected, over-chlorinated balls in their little swimsuit drawer.

Until Thursday, I become one with the icepack and muscle relaxants. I don't mean to complain but how do people inject themselves in the forehead?

Oh, one important thing. I almost passed out. There something about feeling a needle in the base of your skull and (don't read this if you're easily freaked) hearing the "whoooosh" of the medicine getting squeezed out of it. Yeah. Who wouldn't faint, really? My doctor and the nurse turned into, well, a doctor and a nurse - putting me into the "special" chair, putting cold things all over me and watching me to make sure my lips turned from white/blue to red again. Very patriotic.

OK, I'm obviously falling into a medical induced haze aka "HappyLand". Merry Christmas. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Sit up straight and no elbows on the table. Be good or I'll turn this computer around.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

<24 hours 'til Botox

I honestly don't believe that, apart from Cher, anyone has looked so forward to getting Botox injected into their body.

Botulism Toxin = swim, bike, run.

(Not sure if "botulism" is spelled right but it's not redlining me, so I assume it's ok.)

I don't even know what to say apart from this except I've sighted all the hills I'm going to have ridden before Ironman Louisville and the order in which I'm going to ride them.

My coach is probably aware that I'm going to assault him with a desperate need to get the Ironman ball rolling.

Til tomorrow!

Friday, October 17, 2008

Four days 'til Botox

Monday is Botox day.

I wish I could say I'm getting it injected into my forehead to erase all the creases on my forehead from getting ignored by editors. No, it's going into my back. Frankly, I prefer it this way because this injury has gotten way outta hand.

That is why I'm battling a vicious muscle relaxant hangover this morning. Everything is still, well, relaxed.

My doctor changed my prescription because the other muscle relaxant was putting me in a coma (not a bad thing) while not relaxing my muscles (like Ambien without the side effect of unknowingly ordering expensive crap from Amazon). This prescription on the other hand gives me the benefit of the coma AND makes me look like a mime doing an impersonation of someone with no skeleton.

I still stubbornly refused to put down my book last night until I realized I was only reading the first three words of a paragraph before going to the next paragraph. Which became the next page, the next chapter, etc. I wonder how far I'm going to have to go back and try to remember where I really left off. That is, if I remembered to mark my page.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

*burp*

This is so TMI but what's a blog for but to share my Inner Grossness?

I decided to make the most out of my last days of vacation by contracting the stomach flu. Um, I really don't have much else to say about that.

Here's a haiku:

*pop* bad sound front wheel
rental car far from Mom's house
Drive! Drive! Outrun flat!

Monday, October 13, 2008

For the positive Clay Aiken fans. . .

Thanks for the encouraging words, you guys.

I took the post down because I don't want my mom to worry about vengeance or lawsuits or getting my car keyed (haha). . .

Let me just say this: Clay Aiken has taken a lot of grief over the years and so have you guys. All I know is he has made my mom really happy, gotten her to travel to places and meet people she keeps in contact with (probably a lot of you!) She gets pins from everywhere and looks on the boards and there's Clay pictures everywhere (It's weird - there's so many pictures in this house it's like I had this brother I never knew about) A tattoo soon to follow (I'm so just kidding).

It's admirable and necessary to have something/someone that brings out the best in a person. For me, it's expensive tri bikes and horses. For you, it's Clay Aiken. It's not up to anyone to judge or question or, in this case, sully your beliefs by cheapening them with dumbass behavior.

Anyway, that whack-job chick was the only psychopath I saw both nights we were at the theater. Everyone else was patient and kind. I am all for people meeting someone they admire or getting their autographs or whatever. . .What got my motor revving was the rudeness, not just to my mom but to all those nice people who had been there waiting. When Clay came out the door, these same people politely handed him theater flyers while he autographed them and smiled in the pictures he took with them. He seems like a sweet soul.

On the flip side of, yes, a very strange evening my mom finally, after all these years of worship, got her program signed. So if I kept the path clear using whatever means necessary for her and the other folks who also got their programs signed, I would do it all over again.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Please pass the Preparation H

It's no secret that as you get older, your body falls apart. This doesn't happen all at once but a little at a time. It's like paying off a maxed out credit card by sending in $15 a month.

I used overhear hear old people complain in vivid detail about colonoscopies, bowel movements or the lack thereof and the latest in cataract surgery. So what does it say about my own age when I start adding in tidbits of my own?

If it's not my back hurting, it's the nasty bike accident. If it's not the seeping road rash then it's the boils I got when I had chicken pox as an adult. (Really gross.) I say these things not necessarily in the privacy of my own home anymore. I sometimes talk about this as other people are eating.

See where I'm going?

Gastrointestinal information of any kind used to destroy my appetite for a few hours until I could release the imagery. Now I just shrug and pick up my sandwich.

I still feel like if you're 90 years old, you have the right and privilege to discuss any damn thing you want at any time of day. Personally knowing the person you're speaking with vs. some random person in the elevator is completely up to you. And I don't feel like I'm there. Yet.

Part of why old people bring up the subjects in question is because they no longer care that someone next to them is consuming something that looks like the results of too much Ex Lax. And that's my problem. I simply don't care anymore. I'm not seeking attention it's simply what I have to offer during a conversation.

I remember when Generation X was the cool, hip generation. Sure, we were purported to be the laziest generation ever but it was the whole "title that ends in an 'X'" mystique. We wore black clothes and flannel shirts. We grooved to Pearl Jam.

Have you seen a picture of the members of Pearl Jam lately? They look old. Instead of battling heroin addiction, Eddie Vedder is fighting lactose intolerance.

But despite everything coming disassembled, I grant myself this one benefit as the years go by: More cake than the year preceding it.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

In that case. . .

I am seriously doing my best today to ignore there's a 1/2 Ironman going on at another location in Austin other than where I'm seated in front of my computer. When I emailed them two weeks ago to let them know that I wasn't going to race, they emailed me back suggesting that "someone can come and pick up my goodies."

There's an unstated rule in the triathlon world: Don't wear race shirts from races in which you haven't actually raced. In this case, don't wear race shirts that make you want to kill yourself.

On the positive side - I found a LONDON FOG trenchcoat at Goodwill for $25.

See? If I was racing in an event that I spent pretty much the entire year training for I would never have this coat. And it will cover my outta shape big ass while I'm in NY. Maybe it's someone's way of saying they *heart* me.

Friday, October 3, 2008

You can go to Kona and I will go to physical therapy

For those who don't get the joke, it's supposed to read like this: You can go to hell and I will go to Texas. I'm not sure who said it but I guess it's a famous quote from somewhere because I saw it on a bumper sticker.

Longhorn is this weekend and I won't be there. Kona is this month and I won't be there, either. I will, however, be in a physical therapist's office and I really hope they aren't sensitive to the f-bomb. The soundtrack to this back injury is loaded with f-bombs, like a rap song without the racial epithets.

Last night I had the audacity to reach for a dryer sheet. Apparently, my back hates Bounce because it did whatever it does to bring on the hurt. Today I was as absent from the vintage stores as I will be from Longhorn/Kona. Today I've been doped up on muscle relaxants.

My schedule went something like this: Read, go into a coma, wake up, eat a handful of something, repeat. For a field trip, I went to the bathroom where I looked in the mirror. I look like I'm posing for a mug shot.

The muscle relaxants are also good for calming down the cooped up, frustrated, uber-bitch that I have become. At least when I had the gnarly road rash bike accident, I could look at (at get nauseous by) the right side of my body. This time the injury is not visible.

Secondly, invisible injuries are normally something I can ignore and train anyway, which is probably what got me into this mess in the first place.

In any case, I'm sick of listening to myself whine. And curse like a sailor on leave. I've taken to walking up and down the stairs for a workout like a hamster on a wheel. I also put my ice skates on and walk around the house. Freakin' psycho.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Forget the office, just gimme the plaid

Ninety-nine cents. 99 cents.

That is what I paid for an Ann Taylor blazer and a sounds-weird-but-looks-great plaid blazer. These are really the cherries on the cake of my vintage day so maybe I should've ended with that.

But finding a bargain like these is like winning bigtime in Vegas. You don't just head quietly toward the nickel slots after you've just scored the BMW.

Savers. That's the name of the store. Mecca. Nirvana. Sixty-four bucks and I brought home a garbage bag full of clothes. Not Old Navy. I'm talking like $100 jeans. SAVERS.

I didn't buy a single thing for the office and I would've stuffed that garbage bag even more, baby, but I was on my Vespa. I had to cram some of it into the helmet holder and I kept the rest in the bag holding on for dear life by a bungee cord from the back of my scooter.

S.A.V.E.R.S. on South Lamar but it's a nationwide chain so if the three of you who read this happen to live anyplace other than Austin, look it up. Ninety-nine cents.

P.S. What the *(& is with the library having to close an extra day due to "budget constraints" to make Austin's libraries "cleaner and safer"??? What hooey!!! This is beginning of the end, I tell you. That's right. Close the library so that the ten people who read are caving to the rest of the lazy dimwit society that our country is turning into who consider reading to consist of three letters: Wii.

New Zealand is looming closer as a logical housing choice.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Goodwill? Rocks

I am becoming a thrift store junkie. The object is to prove that, because I'm unemployed, I'm broke. If I'm broke, I can't go to Nordstrom. (I hate to go to malls anyway but that's beside the point.) If I can't go to Nordstrom, then everything I buy will be way, way inexpensive.

Case in point: My heretofore mentioned office I'm redoing. I'm determined to prove to myself that I can earn this room bragging rights to the tune of, "Yep, it's cool. I got that for three dollars at Goodwill."

At the rate I'm going, I will have this whole room done spending no more than $50.

I found a pair of jeans today at Thrift Town - six dollars. I went to St. Vincent de Paul's yesterday, bought nothing but considered passing out free deodorant. Tomorrow? Savers on South Lamar.

What a surprise to discover that Yelp rates thrift stores.

Word to the wise - I read once that someone got crabs by wearing an unwashed pair of pants they bought second hand so what I save in clothing costs I will make up for with my electric bill. And crab medicine. Gross. I'm kidding.