I’m in Charlottesville gearing up for my marathon which I have now been told twice is “nothing but hills.” Help! Oh well, it actually takes a little pressure off as I am less worried about my time now. It also makes me thankful for the “I am a warrior” playlist I spent hours putting together this morning. And what does a warrior listen to you wonder? ABBA!
I googled “marathon playlists” for a good 30 minutes and many women recommended the timeless ballad, “Dancing Queen.” Brilliant! Running to the sound of perky Swedish people vocalizing in the 70s seems like a wonderful idea. So I immediately downloaded the cast of Mamma Mia the movie singing brilliant little ditties like “Money, Money, Money.”
I of course loved my fellow Vassar alum Meryl Streep in the movie but I also adored Amanda Seyfried who had me at “I can tell the weather with my breasts,” in Mean Girls. She actually looked hot in a one piece bathing suit and sang “Honey Honey” as well as any rhinestone-encrusted Swede. And don’t even get me started on her in the romcom “Dear John.” Boy am I a sucker for chick flicks.
It’s 8:57 pm and I’m off to bed in 33 minutes. Can’t wait to listen to Amanda sing “Fernando” as I crawl up hills in historic Virginia. Here’s to 26.2, woot woot!
Ah the ABBA fest that was Mamma Mia! For some reason I have been inspired to run a chunk of tomorrow's marathon to the sounds of the 70s legends.
I loved that Amanda Seyfried's name in Mean Girls was Karen. An underused name in film. And the weather boob thing was amazing too.
Tonight is our biggest event of the year at Washington Life magazine – our annual Young and the Guest list party. This is the soirée where we toast the who’s who of under 40 Washington. It actually gets a lot of press and a ton of people try to crash. We even had a talk in our last meeting on what to do if the Salahis try to come, as they attended last year before all the White House brouhaha. My vote was to let them in with open arms! But my grand idea was shot down.
I’m very excited for tonight’s event because it’s going to be the first time that Craig and Grey meet. So insane. Stacey and I have been blogging for five months now and they still have not met. Also excited that Stacey will be there and many of my wonderful former interns too. Also thankful that this year we were able to borrow dresses from our sponsor Karen Millen, which saved me a nice wad of cash. The only bad news is that I can’t drink a drop because of my marathon Saturday, so I have to rub elbows cold sober. Oh the woes of running.
Of course I shouldn’t complain, for while I post this and the rest of the staff starts the spray tanning, hair straightening, spanks wearing that goes with this kind of event, Kelly Fisher is still stuck in the big bad world of spreadsheets and RSVPs. In fact as I type she is on the phone going “wo, wo, wo calm down. Can I confirm that those are not plus ones? All individuals?” She sounds really scary. She should probably be hired alongside enormous bouncers at prestigious clubs, or be appointed White House social secretary.
You cannot begin to imagine the amount of people who try to fake RSVP to the event. And sadly, the last organizing of any guest list at Washington Life falls on Kelly’s shoulders. It’s a pretty thankless but very very important job and I just want to say THANKS KEL for being the muscle behind the list. As we learned from Crashergate, two wrong guests can get you top billing on CNN as the social disaster of the season. But not with Kelly “the muscle” Fisher at the helm.
As I basically sit on Kelly at work, I was able to covertly snap this pic as she was hard at work in spreadsheet hell.
I had to do my second longest run before my marathon in Charlottesville on April 17th today, but what a day to do it. Of course 22 miles is kind of an ass kick even on a gorgeous day and I was still a little traumatized from last week when I had to do 18 in the rain. Craig, sensing I might hurl myself off the Capital Crescent Trail, volunteered to go with me. Not willing to run next to me for 22 miles, he hopped on a bike and peddled slower than a snail as I gabbed along for the first two hours and grunted at him for the last one.
At one point during an uphill portion where my mouth was so dry I felt like I was eating sand, I told him in a gentle bounty hunter kind of way that if he kept singing, I would have to kill him. He just seemed so darn happy peddling along on his bike that I snapped. When I’m in pain and it feels like I have 300 pound weights strapped to my ankles, I want everyone to be in pain. I sort of forgot the fact that he sacrificed three hours of his morning to creep along beside me and chant motivational slogans.
What may be even nicer than keeping me company on my crazy run was the fact that he hasn’t broken up with me even though I am now the proud owner of the ugliest feet in America. Two of my toes are black and blue and I have so many blisters my feet look like I have gangrene. I try to keep them covered so I don’t cause any permanent trauma, but today I had to strip off my socks and shoes after my run and even put my heinous hooves on his lap. And he hasn’t run screaming back to Nebraska yet. What a gem.
Not for the faint of heart! This is my right foot after a 22 mile run. I really have been saving a lot of money on pedicures as I'm afraid to traumatize anyone who dares come close to my foot.
When I was training for the Philadelphia Marathon, I felt entitled to eat anything I wanted. Fat, fried, or wrapped in processed cheese, I could shove it down my trap because just a few hours later I was going to burn a thousand calories on a 15 mile jaunt to nowhere. I’m surprised I didn’t start munching on road kill or start eating straight butter.
I did things during training that would have made my formerly “just a spoon full of mustard for dinner, thanks” self cry. I ate frosting with a spoon. I ate battered French toast wrapped in cheese, followed by a family size pizza. But I was basically high tailing to California in a pair of New Balances every morning. What did it matter!
My most cherished spot for larding it up during training was Osman and Joe’s Steak ‘n Egg Kitchen. How could a place with a name like that be anything but delightful! Open 24-hours, the size of a public rest room, always packed full of inebriated coeds, and emanating a scent that gives you cellulite by breathing, it’s a glorious place.
The house of fried goodness was opened by you guessed it, Osman and Joe, who came to the US from Sierra Leone to escape the violent civil war tearing apart their homeland. What that means is every time I inhale a rootbeer float and pancakes to the sky, I am supporting the American dream.
I am no longer training for a marathon so I should probably go vegan and eat nothing but tree bark, but I’ll still have to pay my respects to Steak ‘N Egg every now and again. It’s the patriotic thing to do.
The teeny tiny 24-hour land of food made by culinary geniuses.
As I write this note of thanks, my feet look like they were beaten with a meat tenderizer and I’m still peeing five gallons of Gatorade. But it was all worth it. From the hours of 7-11 am on Sunday, I was running the Philadelphia marathon. Sometimes I wanted to break my own legs so I could just give up, and other times I thought how amazing it was to get to run on a gorgeous morning. But without a doubt, the highlight of the marathon was the benevolent whack jobs that cheer on the runners. I saw everything from a man dressed as the Pillsbury dough boy, a 13 piece rag time band, perverts offering free hugs, college kids handing out beer at mile 24, and of course the infamous frat boys of Drexel University. They inspired me to dream about day drinking and nudity for the next five miles rather than why the fat lady wearing felt antlers was cruising past me. For those minutes of peace, I owe them (naked) thanks.
The only picture taken where I don't look like I have facial paralysis and a desire to off myself. This is after the marathon where I am sporting my medal given to lunatics who pay money to run 26.2 miles for fun.
Frat/Sorority row at Drexel. Every marathon should include a pat on the back from a frat boy drinking Old English at 9:30 am.
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