Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Let Love Win - Vote No on 8

Let’s say, for the sake of consideration, that your child is gay and will thereby grow-up to be a gay grown-up who wants and deserves equality and human rights. My nephew is one of those people. When he was five, he would wrap himself up in sheets fashioned to look like evening gowns and sashay around as if there was a runway competition in the living room. He’d love to pretend he was me. Aunt Sharon. I was so honored and I was 17.

One day the little kids from the neighborhood discovered a new word: “Faggot.” I know this because my nephew came inside sobbing “They said I’m a faggot! What’s a faggot?” I was so angry I felt like throwing rocks at the little bastards, but instead, we just stayed inside and played.

Voting Yes on 8 is like that day all over again, but in grown-up world. I don’t understand any objections to gay marriage. I’ve tried to see the other side and to empathize but I still just don’t get it. I mean, are people afraid that someone’s going to make them be gay? Are they afraid their kids might “turn” gay? If so, that probably can be handled in a therapists’ office, not the ballot box.

Someday American’s will look back on these days of gay prejudice with shame and disgrace as we do when we recall outlawing interracial marriages once upon a time.

Monday, October 27, 2008

PMS Hospital Plans

I’m writing myself mysterious notes. For instance, the other day I wrote on my calendar “Pick-up piano.” Its impossible for me to go pick-up a piano! I could not recall writing that cryptic message, why I wrote it, or any recollection at all. I really thought I was going nuts and that I perhaps purchased a piano in some kind of weird sober black-out. As it turned out, it was my turn to pick-up the carpool girl at her piano lesson that day.

Just now, I pulled up the document with my stories and the first line at the top of the page read “Feeling a little depressed, are we?” It was like God was in my computer, or something! I swear I don’t remember writing that, but I must have this morning and guess what? I really am depressed. Its mostly hormonal, but has an extra sprinkle of gloomy weather on it. Therefore, I’m just eating voraciously. In bed, of course. I just finished off a giant bowl of BBQ chips and Cheddar Chex Mix. When I just typed that I felt a little sick, but when I was throwing it into my face hole, I really thought it was helping me.

I’m on strike. I’m not doing anything I’m supposed to be doing. Everything on my mental “to do” list is not as important as me going insane. I’m mentally folding my arms and sticking my tongue out at my commitments, declaring “I won’t do it!” Its not that I want to be mean, it’s just that I cannot bear to be helpful to anyone right now. I think its best for me to stay inside and away from vulnerable human beings.

When I was at the *hospital the other day, I was casually noticing patients being wheeled around in their hospital gowns. Some had little blankets on their laps. Some had flowers and balloons that they were taking home. Each had a handler with them, a nurse or someone who was looking after them. Just making sure they didn’t fall out of their chair, or need another shot of Demerol. I wanted to be them so badly that I felt a little sorry for myself for being so healthy. They looked so cared for and I’m just expected to prop myself up and make it through life everyday. Then I found out that my husband’s co-worker’s wife is dying. They’re taking her off life support and saying good-bye. Now I feel even worse, because I realize what a selfish, ungrateful person I am.

That’s when I decided there should be a specialized PMS hospital for people like me, healthy as a horse, but needing to be a patient just for a couple of days. I don’t want to be sick or anything like that. I just want people to come and visit me, bring me flowers, and sneak treats in for me. I’m never too old for the electric bed either; knees up – knees down; head up – head down. Sigh.

I would shuffle down the hallway in my little hospital booties and a peek-a-boo nightgown and the nurse would come up to me and gently say “Its been a long day, better go lay down some more. I’ll bring you some decaf in a minute, honey.” I could catch-up on my reading because no one would expect anything of me because Jesus Christ, I’m in the HOSPITAL aren’t I?!

I would even appreciate the hospital food, because it comes on that shiny tray with the different size squares and rectangles. Neatly placed in each and every hole is something individually wrapped and never touched by human hands: Broth, Jello, cracker, juice. I really need someone to bring me a tray of food in bed today, I don’t care how horrible it is, because it’s really the thought that counts, although a Big Mac would be super thoughtful.

My special PMS hospital will have a ward just for men like my husband who, no matter what he says in the next three days, will be on the shit end of a shit stick with me. There will be big giant screen tvs and each and every husband will have their own remote control that they can carry around and even sleep with if they want to. There will be beef, chicken, pork, and brontosaurus ribs. Each fart will be welcomed with a boisterous cheer from the ward; and at night each one will get a hand-job from the nurse and then they can roll over and go to sleep.

Wow, maybe I’m not so totally selfish after all.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Kick'n Up My Heels!

Yesterday I had to take another trip to the doctor’s office . Don’t presume that I’m a hypochondriac. I’m not. I’m a woman. We HAVE to go at least once a year. That’s why its called an “annual” boys and girls.

I dreaded it more than usual and cancelled three appointments before I finally ran out of excuses. When I walked in they shuffled me off to the weigh-in scale conveniently located in a major thoroughfare so that everyone can hear how much I weigh (with all of my clothes on!). That’s when I spotted Lydia, an old friend from the last town I lived in. By the look of her clipboard, she must work there, although I’ve had an ongoing fantasy about walking around “off-limits” places with just a clipboard and a serious look on my face and getting away with it. But Lydia has never been that type of a person, so I believe she actually does work there. We made quick small talk and I was moved into the exam room.

I wonder if Lydia thought I was there for a disgusting STD or something. What if she thinks I have vaginitus, whatever that is, it sounds horrible. The nurse walks in and I compliment her on her frock. I tell her “If I was a nurse, I would wear that” but of course, I’m not a nurse, I’m a patient and they’ve already picked out my paper outfit for me. When she opened the paper gown armoire, I noticed different shades of blue and different size square piles. She seemed to know exactly what to pull out for me. “Here’s the top and here’s the bottom, please strip down to your socks.”

I’m not too sure about the size she selected for me because the top is a big giant square and the bottom is simply a long tablecloth. Who does she think she is? I know for sure she’s just given me a tablecloth. Who were the other shades of blue for? Are they secret signals to the doctor? Does the doctor walk in and know exactly what kind of a woman she’s dealing with based on the shade of blue?

Light Blue: Hypochondriacs and Whiners
Bright Blue: Sluts and Skanks
Dark Blue: Unstable Crack Addicts

The next time I am provided with a tablecloth for clothing, I’ll turn it into a Project Runway assignment. I’ve found a great instructional website so that I can learn how to wrap my own sari so the next time I visit the doctor, he’ll know exactly what kind of woman he’s dealing with. Not just some run-of-the-mill light blue tablecloth patient.

As I wait there for the next thirty minutes, I’m noticing all their free literature. This is the kind of stuff they never have out in the waiting room because who’s going to run over to a stack of Urinary Confidence Group – The Key to Successful Bladder Control pamphlets and shout “Hey! Look over here Mary, I’m totally going to this!” There is a flyer for laser treatments with a discount coupon. I’m skeptical about a cosmetic surgeon that accepts coupons.

I see there is a metal tray on wheels that has been prepared for the doctor and me. On it is a giant swizzle stick, a tube of Surgilube, and a bottle labeled “Cytology Fixative Poison.” What the hell is going to happen here? I lie back on the crackly paper table and stretch out my legs straight, sort of practice my position. I feel my back crack down low and I’m relieved for a moment and then I remember that the peace will end soon when Dr. M enters the room.

I look to the ceiling for distraction but there’s nothing in this exam room but an acoustic ceiling. I think they should put some kind of puzzle or word-find up there to keep my mind off the work at hand. This would have been a great place to bring my iPod.

Dr. M comes in and gives me a warm handshake. For which I’m relieved because a cold handed gynecologist is nightmare, right ladies? He pokes around, takes things on and off the tray while I’m trying to avert my eyes, I practice my breathing, and after some small talk and a couple of laughs, its over. He declares me “normal” and exits the exam room.

As I got dressed I felt like a little piece of me was missing or maybe slightly exploited. So I looked around to see if anything would make me feel better. That’s when I found this big giant Q-tip and just had to have it. I didn’t consider this theft because I plan on bringing in my old magazines next time I visit. I dropped it in my purse and felt like we were even.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

My Bubble

I’m not sure, but I might be a little neurotic about space issues. In my daughter's pre-school they taught her about having a bubble around each person and if you get too close, you might pop their bubble. Kids have weird space perception. Have you ever seen them stand in a line? Its like they’re in the noodle line in Hong Kong or something.

The other day I was in an x-ray waiting room. There were plenty of seats from which to choose. Why oh why would someone have to plant themselves in the chair directly next to me? Isn’t there some kind of rule about leaving one empty seat between you and a stranger? I have wide shoulders and unless I want to play some kind of junior high version of petting, I’ll have to be the one to slouch my shoulders, because it's always me that has to. Who designed those stadium-style chairs anyway? They all connect side-by-side and they leave about 2” between each chair. Unless we all turn sideways at the same time, we’re never going to fit!

I was there having my back x-rayed. It’s probably due to years and years of trying to squeeze into ill fitting chairs that were probably designed in 1950 when Americans were the size of human beings and not small horses like we are today. I’m speaking for myself of course. Slouching and curving, crossing and tucking every part of my body so that I don’t touch any weird strangers. Speaking of weird strangers, of course that’s who sits next to me because I am the Weirdo Magnet .

He was probably about 45 years old and looked a little disheveled, but also a little wealthy (you can always tell by the shoes). He flops his ass down and gives a really audible sigh. He waits a few more minutes and then he sighs again and looks in my direction. I know exactly what he’s doing; he wants me to engage in a conversation with him, about him. He wants me to say to him “Wow, you look really awful, are you okay? Is there anything I can get you? Perhaps a daiquiri or a crutch or a band-aid?” He needs someone to understand how he’s feeling and what’s going on in his life. He needs sympathy. Well, sir, you’ve chosen the wrong seat for that. I once heard an old guy say “Go and look up sympathy in the dictionary; it’s in between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis’! My sentiments, exactly.

He keeps up this pathetic attempt for attention for 20 minutes, but I’m an asshole and I’m still pissed off that he even sat in the chair next to me. Another patient checked in and the nurse asked her if she had been fasting for 24 hours like they told her to. Weakly she muttered “yes.” I wanted to nudge the big baby next to me and say “Now there’s someone who’s really suffering. So suck it up, Mary, you’ll have your vagina x-rayed soon enough.”

I had to go to the pharmacy that day too. There’s always a long line. The back and forth kind like in Disneyland. We can only go as fast as they call “next” so I don’t understand why the woman behind me has to get all up in my ass. There’s plenty of room to leave for good manners and considering that this is a hospital pharmacy, I would consider this an especially important place to reserve real estate between people. But nope. I can feel her breathing so I move up. She moves up. I move up. She moves up. So I start rocking back and forth like I have a baby and she doesn’t budge. Then I start fake coughing to mimic a patient with a rare disease that’s becoming airborne. But she just stayed there. I consider this harassment and decided to confront it. So I just turned around really abruptly and looked her dead on in the face. Making it super obvious that there’s only 2” between her nose and mine. Bringing forth the imposition this has presented in my life. I just stared. It was unnerving for both of us, but I held on. She quickly lost her battle and I won the war.

For days like these, I want to buy a jacket with porcupine quills on it and shove garlic cloves in my pockets. I want to flail my arms around and swat at pretend flying insects. I want to have a big bean lunch with extra broccoli. Maybe I should just stay home.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Size is Relative

Until I hit my 30s, I was officially “skinny”. I was called “Skinny Little Bitch” on more than just a few occasions from some of my larger acquaintances, a weird way of complimenting me I suppose. Assuming that this style of compliment is acceptable, I shouted “You big fat whore!” to a woman in a parking lot who almost ran over my son one day. Strangely, she did not find this flattering and took another lap around the parking lot in order to flip me the finger, which I graciously replied in kind. That’s when I noticed this nice daddy right next to me. He had an alarmed look on his face and was quickly shuffling his children into their SUV to be safely away from the “Crazy Lady.” I felt a little embarrassed and shouted “Sorry!” but mostly I felt good just to let it out. Sorry kids. This event took place in my neighborhood grocery store parking lot and I’ll just bet that every time that daddy sees me, he ducks down and whispers to the other parents in the elementary school parking lot the story of the woman with Tourette Syndrome.

Tell me why Skinny Little Bitch is more acceptable than Big Fat Whore? There are a lot of skinny haters out there. I have a dear friend who just had a baby and she was in great shape for the entire pregnancy, so she naturally snapped back into shape about four weeks after she had her little baby. Well, this just drove 90% of the female population around here crazy with jealousy. Not me, though. Perhaps it’s because of the gift she gave me.

She called me one day to see if I’d like some of her old pants she can’t wear anymore. Well, I just love her style and I’ve had some luck with her hand-me-downs before. So I said “sure.” Then she muttered her confession that these were actually her maternity pants. “What? You cannot expect me to wear your maternity pants!” She assured me that they did not look like maternity pants and she insisted that I at least try them on. When she brought them over that afternoon, I was skeptical. There was one pair that had an honest-to-God stretchy panel in front. “Jesus Christ! There is no way I’ll wear these.” Then she pleaded and pressed my vanity button. “Please, just try them on, they’ll look great on you.” I begrudgingly agreed just to prove her wrong. To my horror and astonishment, she was right. I didn’t want to keep them but they just made my butt look so great and I cannot pass up that opportunity no matter what. Plus, if I roll down the stretchy panel in front, it just feels so soft and supportive. They are now my official PMS/Eating pants. I think they’d also make great hiking pants, because I could just carry all kinds of stuff in there like a water bottle, iPod, keys, sandwich, spare socks, ad infinitum. I can also tuck my shirt inside and pull the panel way up to my bra and I look like this schizophrenic woman who used to walk around downtown on Thorazine.

A couple of years ago, when I visited Hungary and France, that’s when I became fully aware of being a freaky giant. I’m not kidding either, I’m 5’10” and I was soaring over all the men by at least half a baguette. I brought with me only two pairs of shoes: high-heeled boots that made me 6' tall and a pair of running shoes. Both of these shoes only heightened my insecurities about being a big oaf. When I walked through the streets, I felt like there should be a kettle drum behind me … Boom, boom, Boom, boom! In Europe, gym shoes are for the gym. Otherwise, you look like a big dorky American tourist with no class or style with your jeans and sneakers. It’s sort of the equivalent of wearing acid wash jeans and a Members Only jacket to an opera.

I was planning on buying a pair of European shoes upon my arrival. That would be my “treat” for my feet. In these two countries the customer service is not what we’re used to here. In America, we are practically offered hand-jobs just for walking through the front door. “Hi, I’m Mandy and if you have any questions or need any help with sizes, or colors, or fabrics, or washing, or cooking, or anything – anything at all, I’ll help you. Just please God, ask for me by name because I’m the one who greeted you and DON’T forget my name. M.A.N.D.Y. Here’s my card, my cell phone number, and my picture in case you forget what I look like by the time you get to the counter. Don’t forget, that’s Mandy rhymes with ‘Candy’ hee hee hee!”

I walked into a Paris shoe store with my hidious jeans and sneakers. I probably had spinach in my teeth and a piece of toilet paper coming out of the top of my pants too. I weighed more than I’d ever weighed, except during pregnancy. The saleswoman was a beautiful petite French woman with tussled black hair and a couture pantsuit. She looked at me as if I’d tracked dog shit into her store. A total possibility since there are no laws or manners about picking up your dog’s shit in France.

In America, women will look me up and down in order to determine who's the alpha. In Paris, they looked me up and down in order to keep their distance so that they wouldn't catch my ickyness. I used my fingers to tell her what size I wear. I held up four fingers on my left hand, and two fingers on my right. Size 42, that’s 10 in America. She sniffed the air and pointed toward the men’s department. I felt so ashamed of myself, like I’d just asked for creme for a scorching case of ass herpes or something. Store after store I searched for shoes that would help me feel less like the star of a monster movie but guess what? They don’t make shoes for gargantuan women in France, or Hungary for that matter.

When I returned back to America and complained about feeling like Big Bird in France, my husband suggested that next time I travel to Germany where people are large. So, you see its not what size you wear, its simply that you might be in the wrong country. I'll be packing my maternity hiking pants.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Women are Suckers for Little Things

I love little things. All women do. We’re wired for it. It doesn’t matter what kind of little thing it is, just as long as it’s the smaller version of something larger (the exception being penises). Case in point, I was in a run-of-the-mill souvenir shop where I spotted a whole basket of tiny little Tabasco bottles about a half inch tall. I raced over to them and held it up between my thumb and middle finger and smiled. My head tilted to the side, my voice went up an octave and I said “look how cute it is!” I just knew I had to have it. I must take it home with me and make a little home for it. I wished I still had a doll house, and then I could put this little bottle of hot sauce in the pretend pantry. Then I tried to justify the purchase by pretending that I needed a miniscule bottle of Tabasco. The committee inside my head had an informal summit on the matter. It was decided by the Committee on Impulse Buying (CIB) that said bottle was not a timely purchase, as I was not formally planning any miniature Mexican fiestas.

The reason women find such pleasure in miniaturized things is because nature gave most of us this brain germ to trick us into taking care of babies and other needy little things. Baby people, baby animals, baby Tabasco, baby whatever. We’re drawn to babies. We’re such suckers. But what happens when the things get bigger?

I had my first baby 22 years ago, but before you think I’m all old and decrepit, just go take a look in the mirror. You’re no spring chicken either, you know. The first time I held him in the hospital I knew what love really was. There were no more questions in my life like: What am I here for? What’s life all about? How do I know what love is? All of the answers were snuggled in a blanket. Little feet, yellow skin, and big blue eyes. A little miniaturized person and he needed me more than anything.

Twenty-two years later, he’s all grown-up. His eyes are still bright blue, but his feet are size 13. He only needs me sometimes for problems that baffle most adults like, what do I do about insurance, where are my tax forms, and “will you tell me when birthdays are coming up?” But last week I got a call in the middle of the night from his girlfriend. They were in the E.R. and he had fluid on his brain. I knew the moment she said “emergency room” that I was going to get on an airplane and be with him. I had to. He was my little bottle of Tabasco and I simply had to have him with me.

By the time I got there, he had been released and diagnosed with Viral Meningitis and a hernia. Thank God it wasn’t bacterial meningitis, which is deadly. I stayed with them both and reminded him to take his pills. I also had other important jobs like making sure they remembered to take their rental movies back because $3.00 is $3.00 buddy! I bought them both a pair of winter boots, because you can’t go traipsing around Alaska in sneakers in October! But mostly, I was just there. I needed to be there just in case. I needed to be there for him and her. I needed to be there because, no matter how big he grows, he still needs me sometimes.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008


When you get a call at 1:17am from out of state and its your son’s girlfriend saying “Sean’s in the hospital and they’re doing a spinal tap” I might make some “Do” and “Don’t” suggestions:

Should Do:

Get the name of the hospital, just in case the cell phone batteries die and you have no idea where the hell they are.

Make coffee, you’ll be up anyway.

Find a quiet place to receive your multitude of telephone calls and bring your favorite blanket and new robe that your husband got you because he’s nice.

Be calm (at least while you’re on the phone) you can freak out when you hang up.

Plan to fly there immediately, even if you cannot.

Pray. Hard.

Eat chicken taquitos and diet coke for breakfast. You'll feel better.

Call your bitches (aka supportive friends who know just the right thing to say).

Act like you’re making rational decisions when speaking with your husband about flying out that very minute.

Start some laundry, because heaven knows you’ve waited until the last minute AGAIN and the luggage sniffing dogs would surely find your period panties and bark like crazy to alert everyone in line that there is a homicidal slasher boarding the plane.

Should Not Do:

Don’t try and catch up on your sleep with a nap, as your mind will go places you never want to wander.

Don’t look up “fluid on brain” on the computer.

Don’t book a flight, just yet.

Don’t say scary things to the girlfriend because she’ll freak out too.

Don’t try and do math (this always applies to me).

Don’t forget to pray. Hard.

Here’s a quote from that spells it all out for me:

“ … dealing with some very sad family news. Its been very difficult to want to write anything funny.

Sometimes I wish I were back in second grade. Making people laugh was so effortless back then. All I had to do was stand on a chair in my classroom and say “Penis farts!” and I’d have people doubled-over screaming “Bravo!”, “Brilliant!” and “Get this man another chocolate milk!” But sadly, I’m somewhat of a grown-up now, and that material doesn’t fly so well. […] thanks or being patient with me.

Penis farts.”

Thursday, October 2, 2008

The First Triathlon - Part II

The continuation and finale of my two part series (read Part I first)

I had what I perceived to be at the time a moment of clarity. I had a stern talk with cheerleaders in my head “You’re wrong about me and you’ve been lying this whole time! You almost killed me in the swim portion, Jesus H. Christ, what’s your trip? Then, as if hanging off a lifeguard’s surfboard isn’t humiliation enough, then I get passed by old people, large people, and anything else on two wheels. The only thing I passed was the dead raccoon in the middle of the road. I’m a failure and I hate this triathlon. I’ll be happy when it’s all over because this was the biggest mistake, in public, that I’ve ever made.” So all the voices in my head that once said “You can do it - it's gonna be easy” and “It’s not about winning, it’s about finishing” walked off the job and probably went into someone else’s head where they’d be appreciated for once.

My legs felt like poorly fitting prosthetics and denied me anything but a slow draggy swagger. I looked like a drunken cowboy walking uphill in sand. Since all the cheerleaders in my head were on strike and pissed off that I was so hard on them – after all, they were just trying to help, I had nothing left to make me go. I just moved forward because I was too tired to figure out what else to do. I was in the pack mentality and I forged ahead. But inside my head there was a dimly lit “vacancy” sign.

After a quarter mile of playing the part of Zombie #8 in Night of the Living Dead, I realized that if a jogged I could end this horrible day faster. I passed a couple of tables with lovely people handing out water and power drinks to the zombies/participants. I passed signs that See Jane Run had hung upon the trees, very inspirational quotes from people like Eleanor Roosevelt, I just love her. There were the official motivators that were clapping and cheering and helping us not get lost. All these people held me up when I was empty. They told me I could do it and then, to my astonishment, my interior cheerleaders put down the strike signs, picked-up their pom-poms and walked back on the job and said “You know what, Sharon? This is getting easy and you’re running pretty fast. See all those people your passing? I think you’re going to make it!”

I ran for a while and then slowed down for a fast paced walk. A woman I don’t know went gliding past me and as she did she looked over at my worn spirit and said “You’re almost home.” I did feel close to home, not the home that I live in, but the home at the finish line and I sprung into a run that lasted the rest of the race. I ran uphill and downhill, which is what I hate the most because it always makes me pee a little. At first I was worried that all the other runners would know, but then I thought “Screw it, man. Am I going to worry about what people think of me – a bunch of total strangers? Or am I going to make this the best leg of the race?” So I went for it while the little sprinkler in my pants gently sprayed the ground behind me.


I could see the Finish Line and hear the cheers of the crowd. This made me run a little faster until I approached the last four official motivators and they were yelling “Only 200 more yards to go!” As I passed them and looked toward the Finish Line, I noted two women between me and the ultimate goal. I said out loud “Watch me beat those two women up there”. I put my 34” legs into full speed ahead, tucked my head down and approached them for the pass, but just as I was about to pull ahead, one of them spotted me and the race was on. We were neck and neck and just as we were about to cross the Finish Line I pulled in front and won.

I have yet to receive my Finish Line photo, but I’m afraid it will tell the whole ugly story. We’ll see what the expression on our faces will portray. I’m pretty sure I’m horrible – I can’t wait!

I completed the race in 1:35:25:3! Why so proud? Because I met my two goals: 1) finish the race and 2) beat Gina (1:38:09:7). That’s right race fans; I beat the toughest woman I know. She has kicked my ass in a lot of other departments:
1) Style and Grooming
2) Income
3) Education
4) Bad-Ass-ness
5) Math skills
6) a lot of other crap …

But on this day, I won.

BECOME A T.W.A.T. ("Tough Women Are Triathletes")

You must first understand what we are. We are women who are not afraid to try. We hold each other up and cheer each other on. We don’t allow anyone to embarrass us, we insist on embarrassing ourselves. We want other women to laugh with us along the way. We want fun.

You must also know what we are not. We are not serious athletes; we’re just plain people with hang-ups and foibles, and special gifts. We are not bad people just because we shout “Go TWAT!” and we’re not forcing you to join us. But if you want to be a T.W.A.T. you just have to do a few things:
1. Try to do a race. Any race.
2. Don’t be afraid to wear a T.W.A.T. t-shirt
3. Support other women in their goals and dreams
4. No whining or making excuses


I would like to send my love and gratitude to all the T.W.A.T.s for making me try harder and commit to something that I almost bailed out on, but I just couldn’t let down my team by quitting. Now I’m hooked and so are they. We are all looking forward to our next Triathlon.

Thank you to See Jane Run for making this a celebration of phenomenal women. The participants were 8 to 70 years old, and they ranged from high-ranking athletes to women kind of like us. There were the Super Jane girls in the hero costumes and they were so awesome. All of the employees and volunteers were completely into it. I wish I could be that charitable, but I’m more of a “taker” than a “giver.”

Thank you to our loyal and loving T.W.A.T. supporters which consist of our husbands who were proud of us and encouraged us to do it. Our children, who set an example for us every day just by their very existence. My best friend in the world, Kathy, who showed up and cheered me on just like she has for the last 25 years. And all our friends and enemies because we just had to prove to you all that we could do it.

And we did.