[Previous entries: Pre-Marathon and Part One]
Mile 13
As a reward, I put on my headphones. My marathon playlist keeps me moving. I see stee pass in his car down the highway. I’ll see him again in about an hour. I run the numbers. 15, 25, 27, 37, 39, 49, 51, 101. It’s all about getting that medal.
It rains, just slightly. Continue reading
“You know, your father was proud of you for more than just that race.”
“I know, Ma.”
“He just didn’t always know how to say it.”
I got up at three in the morning. Sprang from the bed, actually, when the alarms went off. (Two different alarms). I got dressed. Wrote sleeping stee a note. He woke up and took pictures of me applying sunscreen. Took a few bites of apple and made a cup of tea.
I left the iPod, as I don’t like breaking rules, walked to the elevator, decided I definitely needed the iPod and ended up knocking on the wrong door trying to get back in. Panicked, I flattened against the wall and tried not to breathe as whomever I woke up answered to see who the hell was knocking so early in the morning. Continue reading
“But why do you want to do this?” my mom asked in that tone, the worried whine of motherhood.
“For a lot of reasons,” I answered. “Because I want to, and because I don’t think I can, and… well, probably because Dad and that race when I was in the third grade.”
She sighed. She remembered.
I don’t know if I wrote about this before. Probably. Yep. I totally did. It’s worth reading, because it explains things a little.
“Just be careful out there,” Mom said. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Mom, it’s 26.2 miles. It’s going to hurt.”
More sighing. “Good luck.” Continue reading
To put it mildly, I’ve been dealing with an overabundance of feelings. Apparently this is all very healthy and normal, and I’m handling it with the closest I can come to grace. “Grace,” for me, is crying until snot falls, flailing around my bed like an angry pre-teen, whining to any friend who will listen until he or she says the one thing they all say, “You will be okay.”
Visiting my book at a store the other day, I came across Andrea Seigel‘s To Feel Stuff. I was drawn to it for two reasons: Continue reading
One year ago, we looked like this:
And now look at Miss Liz Feldman:
That’s an Emmy, bitches! Continue reading
Awesome accomplishment, Laura. I’m so proud of you. [Warning: you’ll probably get teary at the end, when Eric’s running and cheering, being a badass husband.]
I don’t understand why they can’t market hair removal products to women without being utterly condescending. The worst is the Intuition, which instantly puts a Shakira song in my head anyway, but to add insult to injury, they also show these near-retarded women who can’t handle holding a razor. It’s always flying across the room, soap shooting out from their luxurious bubble bath. “Ooopsy! I dwopped my waazor! I sure wish someone would hewp widdle naked me.” Continue reading
Look at all the books! I’m so proud.
John Scalzi‘s book, Old Man’s War, comes out in January.
Miranda‘s book The Effects of Light, is out in February.
Wendy’s book, I’m Not the New Me, debuts in April.
And Erin’s book, Tales From the Scale, is out in May.
Can’t wait? Read Gwen’s book, To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him, right now.