Musings on Vomit in Killeen, Texas
This past weekend, my friend Jen and I journeyed to the small town of Killeen, Texas and stayed the night at the lovely Howard Johnson hotel. Why would you choose to go to Killeen, many of you may ask. And I would answer with a question of my own. Where IS the town of Killeen? For all I saw were rows of strip-malls and chain restaurants whose greatest achievement seemed to be the refusal to create a semblance of a town. The best I can say for Killeen is that one day, it may aspire to be the thriving metropolis that is the great town of Waco, Texas.
The only reason we were there was for yet another triathlon, the Dog Ridge Triathlon to be exact. Yes, in order to keep this figure girlish and this neck Hulk-like, I must continue to compete in triathlons. My goal for this race, or the goal given to me by my coach Lisa, was to test my Lactic Threshold. Jen likes to call it Lactate Threshold. I like to call it the Puke Zone. When Lisa says, "Today we are going to test your lactic threshold levels," what she really is saying is, "Today, I’m going to see how many of you I can make puke." No, I jest. But I am terrified of puking. So much so, that I almost always do it before the beginning of every race. Something about standing barefoot on a cold rocky beach too early in the morning, shifting from foot to foot, listening to the National Anthem, wondering if it’s socially acceptable to dig a hole to discreetly throw-up into and then cover up with sand, that makes me really nauseous! I don’t need to exercise in order to reach the Puke Zone. I’m already there before the race even starts. But I am learning to conquer these negative thoughts. Because negative thoughts are not allowed in Lisa’s class. We are taught to distinguish the difference between pain and challenge. For example you would not say, “Damnit, that was the longest, hilliest, hottest, most painful bike ride I have ever done, and now you want me to go RUN?? I would, except I think my ass fell off back at mile 20 and I’m too tired to go get it. I hate this. I hate you. And I want my mom.” Now that would be negative talk! None of that! Instead you would say, “Boy, that sure was a challenging bike ride! I’m excited to work out this burning sensation in my thighs by kicking it in with a long run. I’m really aware of the areas I can strengthen mind and body for the next time!” See the difference? Subtle, but it’s there.
So the night before the race, you must forgive Jen and I for whining a bit, dragging a bit, and just being Negative Nellies about the race. It’s hard to be positive about the Puke Zone. We were even unable to appreciate the fine delicacies of the highest-class restaurant Killeen had to offer, Friday’s. There was talk of skipping the race; of sitting at Friday’s and drinking multiple alcoholic drinks of unnatural colors and many umbrellas. Aren’t we free women? Can’t we drive an hour and a half to Killeen just to get drunk at Friday’s? Just to stay the night at Ho Jo’s, the hotel of billowing cigarette smoke, and carpeted walls? Alas, no, for we are true-blue slaves to the triathlon. Addicts of the adrenaline. Unable to let a registered race go unconquered, or at least unfinished. So we returned to Howard Johnson’s for a good night’s sleep. Nothing like going to sleep at 9PM on the longest day of the year. Us triathletes sure know how to have a good time.
Bright and early the next morning found us at Dana Peak Park, and thankfully the sun had come up by the time we arrived. I set down my gear in the transition area, in the fashion of a an old man muttering and puttering in his garden (no, the socks go here, gloves diagonal over here, the gu’s gotta fit here and the helmet goes on top! Perfect! But where are those darn Clif bars? Dagnabit.). We headed down to the beach. I was not too nervous about this race, so digging a hole for my vomit wasn’t necessary. The race started off strangely with a prayer read by the announcer instead of the National Anthem. Maybe that’s the way everything starts in Killeen.
And we were off. The swim was a cluster of arms, painted toenails and pink swim caps. I valiantly fought my way through and swam out into open water. You would think that after completing a 1.2 mile ocean swim in May, a 600 meter lake swim would be a piece of cake. No, it’s still painful. It will always be painful. After dragging myself out of the water, we had a nice sharp pebbly run to the transition area. A little old man volunteer waved us on with a green towel. I thought he was offering me the towel. I almost took it. I was feeling a little loopy.
But it wasn’t until the bike that I reached the heights of the Puke Zone. This was my bike ride: getting thirsty, drinking water, feeling nauseous, attempting to burp, succeeding, repeat. It was a pretty ride with fields, cows and one really god-awful hill. I saw the mother hill from a distance, but couldn't see any cyclists riding up it. Good thing we don’t have to do THAT one, I thought to myself. Until I got closer, and saw the poor little panting cyclists, pushing themselves up the hill. I was soon one of those little cyclists, in my granniest of granny gears. But at least I didn’t get off my bike and walk like some people (insert smug little smile here).
The Puke Zone subsided when I got to the run, but I had also transformed into a 200-pound woman. That is the only explanation I can give for feeling ssooo heavy and slow during the run. I could hear Lisa’s voice, "Push it during the run, Megan, and leave nothing!" But if I had pushed it anymore I wouldn’t have left nothing. I would have left the contents of my lower intestine on the course. I did sprint the last 1/4 mile, just for the cheerers. And finished feeling like HELL. But most importantly I DIDN’T throw-up, I had entered the Puke Zone and left without consequences! Jen and I were so happy with our finish we drove a full 20 minutes out of Killeen before we realized we were going the wrong way! We live in Austin not Dallas! Silly triathletes. And that’s my Dog Ridge Triathlon Race Report.
Wedding Planning Pain II
Have you been to a BRIDAL EXTRAVAGAAANZA? I have. It is unlike anything I have ever seen, or would ever want to see. The BRIDAL EXTRAVAGAAANZA is kind of like a monster truck show. Only not as fun. No, it's more like a trade show for computer geeks. Only more creepy.
So 2 weeks ago, Mahlett and I head on over to Palmer Auditorium, which is stuffed with every sort of wedding vendor booths you could think of. I was surprised they didn't have a Win-A-Priest booth. But I get ahead of myself. As we walk in the door, this rouged middle aged-lady pops up and says "Which one is the bride? huh? which one?" Merritt and I point at each other. The lady slaps this big heart-shaped gold sticker on my chest that says BRIDE. And now I'm branded. We walk into the auditorium. Rows upon rows of booths with cakes, tuxedoed djs, china, dresses, etc. Blonde eager brides-to-be with their big-haired moms hopping from booth to booth giggling and screeching. And these sad migrating groups of lost-looking men shuffling aimlessly down the aisles. I wondered at their sadness, until I saw that they too had gold stickers on their chests. Only theirs said GROOM. They collected together in groups because they had no place to go, no place to escape, no place to sit and watch tv. They had found safety in numbers. Bringing a man to that event is a cruelty punishable only by divorce.
As we head down the aisles, we are accosted by people with clipboards, wanting us to sign up to win cookware, undergarments, or even a free vacation to the Bahamas. The only thing I won is a garter. it's nasty. I brought it home and tried to get Ponyboy to wear it on his head, but it's too small. We sampled the wedding cakes. Mahlett almost threw-up her piece of cake, in FRONT of the caterers. She then discreetly threw it away in the trashcan. The coolest part of the entire Extravaganza was the fountain of chocolate you could dip strawberries in. Somehow I got chocolate all over my face. Somehow Mahlett got it all over her hair. You can take the girls out of Southern Oregon, but you can't...well, you know.
One booth gave us this huge WEDDING GUIDE book that is about the size of War and Peace. The lady behind the counter was so excited about it and so excited about the BRIDAL EXTRAVAGANZAA, that I felt sorry for her, and ashamed of myself. While I'm smiling and nodding at the poor lady, Mahlett opens the WEDDING GUIDE to a photo of a bride. A bride and the head of a white horse. And she sets it in front of me, as I try not to explode laughing and hurt the poor lady's feelings. I mean, is the bride getting MARRIED to the horse?
But the best part is yet to come. The BRIDAL EXTRAVAGANZA FASHION SHOW! yes. There's a fashion show. And there's not an empty seat in the house! OK, so the fashion show...is...incredible. The theme was AMERICA!!! Yes, it's the year for patriotic brides! One of the brides comes out with all of these big blue paper stars stuck to her dress! And the "groom" salutes her!
Best I could tell, the two themes of the fashion show were patriotism and sexiness. Those two go hand in hand don't they? All of the models are sauntering out and doing this "sexy bride" act, which seemed so inappropriate. They walk out with this "come hither to my American sleaziness" look in their eye. You got the man, honey! Stop acting like a tramp! You're supposed to be a fairy princess! The "grooms" come out with two bridesmaids on each arm. Like they're about to have a threesome. so gross. But the grossest thing was the little kids. This little girl and little boy come out, do a little turn. and then he takes the garter off of her thigh! it's really disturbing! So disturbing that Mahlett and I stay for the whole show, enthralled by every last painful little detail. like a car wreck.
and then we ran out.
and that was the end of the BRIDAL EXTRAVAGAAAANZA!
Baby Birdie FAQ
Why do you have this blog site now, huh?
Because my knowledge is vast and wide, much like my forehead. And I would like to share it with all of you.
No, actually this is a tool to force me to keep writing. And forces you to share it with me! I'm also moving to Mexico for a month and want keep an online journal of all my adventures. Hopefully none of these adventures will involve seeing the inside of a Mexican jail.
Why do you call yourself Baby Birdie?
My dad gave me the name Baby Birdie many a year ago. I was a dreamy, some would say other-worldly, others would say slightly-stupid child. I was also a wee slip of a girl with a large noggin, much like Tweety Bird. Dad would always tell me stories starring Baby Birdie. Baby Birdie was unable to complete the most basic tasks like eathing or breathing, because she was constantly distracted by the clouds and butterflies. She was so distracted by the beauty that she would forget to eat or breathe. And then she would die. Yes, she would always die at the end of the stories. It was cute and funny at the time, but now sounds kind of disturbing.
So are you a nerd now?
Yes, yes I am. But I am confused by the use of the word "now".
Well, can we get a taste of one of your adventures?
Certainly, here is the first one from the planning of the ANTI-WEDDING:
So bridal shops. fun, huh? no. not really. less on the fun side and more on the surreal side.
Picture this. Mahlett (my anti-bridesmaid) and I at a bridal shop. yes...a bridal shop. funny already. We had to make an "appointment" to try on dresses. what? Tell me when this scene starts to get weird. The saleslady come in with you into the dressing room. She is carrying 300 pounds of plastic encased sequined fluff. The saleslady doesn't leave while you're undressing. The saleslady gives you an oft used bustier (or whatever they're called) to put on. You try to avoid the thought of how many other girls' dirty pillows have been in this grey bra already. You become entirely dependent on the saleslady because you can't even hook the stupid piece of crap bustier on your own. This is their goal. To make you as vulnerable and confused as possible, so they can fool you into spending 2,000 dollars on a piece of fabric glued to rhinestone barette. The sales lady starts to dress you. She forces your head and arms through the big fluffy tunnel of satin and crinoline. It is not unlike being born. You try not to start laughing and almost start crying. Don't look at Mahlett or it's all over. Where the hell are you? What century is this? The sales lady coos and clucks over the big inedible cake that you are wearing. You have to get up on a little step just to get the bottom hem off the ground. You are too small to be a bride. You are having one of your "ugly days". Your hair looks like a 1970's 14 year old boy. You have a terrible sports bra tan. And a big triathlete's neck. You swear it's getting wider than your head. You are too athletic to be a bride. Maybe you should just wear a wetsuit.
So you decide that that store was a little too shee shee. You move on to one that is a little more in your price range. The second store is kinda, um, dingy. Kinda like a whitewashed Ross Dress for Less. One of the dresses had a big black grease stain on the hem. Like the bride had taken it on a long mountain bike ride. After much struggling with the sequins and zippers and frickin' TRAINS (don't even get me started on trains), you discover the flower girl's dresses! which are refreshingly simple, cute and cheap! You try on one for an 8 year old. It doesn't zip up, but you're on to something. You are now on the hunt for a 14 year old flower girl dress. You found a loophole! You've fooled them all! HAHAHAH! You leave the store dressless, but also feeling triumphant.
Does that sound like hell or is it just me? I forgot that I was wearing bright red underwear that day. I think I heard the saleslady hiss "slut doesn't deserve to wear white".
One question: Why is everyone blond in a bridal store?
I had to eat a big greasy hamburger after all of the fluff, just to cleanse myself
