But a bunch of people are trying to tell me that gluten is responsible for everything that’s wrong with me:

• Weight gain
• Weight loss
• Fatigue
• Sadness
• Irritability
• Farting
• Explosive diarrhea
• Fat

Friends, I’ll not be so easily swayed. It’s my contention that a diet heavy in rye, barley, wheat and yes, plenty of OATS(!) is what my body craves. Gluten is not the disease, it’s the cure!

Let’s explore.

First of all, I have been eating gluteny things for pretty much my whole life, and look how great I am.

Oh, are you taking a photo of me? You caught me completely unaware! I mean, it's not like I even just handed you my camera and asked you to take a photo of me.

Two, beer has gluten in it, and I’ve never regretted a beer, ever. (I have often, however, regretted seventh beers.)

Wheat makes you beautiful.

Three, gluten has definitely helped me become a faster runner! When I have a meal that is heavy in gluten, it’s almost like I’m wearing a jet pack!

Plus, have you ever noticed how diarrhea totally gives you that sinewy, gaunt look?

Tara Reid knows what I'm talking about.

[source]

And four, that gluten “brain fog” they’re always talking about really isn’t such a bad thing. It’s kind of like being stoned, and a lot cheaper!

If you’re wondering how to get started, this traditional Mexican-American fare of fajitas, quesadillas and tortilla chips are a tasty and gluten-full treat.

Gluten and gluten with a side of gluten. And some bean dip.

You might think that corn tortillas wouldn’t have a lot of gluten in them, but these are special corn-wheat tortillas (for real), which I think are lighter and fluffier than regular corn tortillas. And a surefire way to tell if there’s gluten in something is if it’s fluffy!

Anyway, all this talk about gluten is making me hungry for more gluten! Off I go!

Do you like gluten? What kinds of gluteny things do you like to eat? 

Anyway. It’s streak day 24. Honestly, I think I’m at the point where I’m just doing this out of spite. I’m not getting any faster or stronger and I am certainly not learning anything. I have not transcended. I just really like looking at the string of back-to-back days on the Garmin site.

pretty.

Here are some of the pathetic numbers since the streak began April 20:

Weekly mileage:

Week of 4/16 (half week): 7
Week of 4/23: 15
Week of 4/30: 13
Week of 5/7: 17

Total miles: 53
Total time: 9h:32m
Average distance: 2.14 miles
Average pace: 10:43

For those of you who may have just stumbled onto this blog, I JUST HAD A BABY SO FUCK OFF.

I’ve been running with the stroller almost exclusively so I’m not running fast, and despite what I just said four or five sentences ago, I do think running has been getting easier so there is the possibility that this hasn’t all been an exercise in futility. At any rate, I’ve been having fun.

I did start doing a little strength work (grudingly) in the way of my Jillian tapes. Usually around 9 or 10 p.m. after the baby’s asleep and after I’ve had six or seven beers. Because the best workouts are the ones you don’t even remember.

[awkward segue into beer talk]

More important than what I’ve been doing to my body is what I’ve been putting in it. (See there? I set up a dick joke for you. You’re welcome.) Beer. I discovered a brewery in Indianapolis that I did not even know existed.

Triton Brewing is way the hell on the opposite side of Indy from me, so it’s not weird that I don’t stop by there every day on my way home from not having a job. I found a six-pack of the Rail Splitter IPA at Trader Joe’s last week, and the friendly bagger (ha?) told me that Triton is the only Indianapolis brewery that actually bottles and distributes their beer. (Can anyone confirm? Oaken Barrel is technically in Greenwood, and Sun King distributes cans only.)

Come take a look at how Triton Brewing Company works. Take a weekend brewery tour, talk shop, or simply enjoy your favorite beer in our smoke-free, family-friendly tasting room. We also have flat screen televisions so you won’t miss any sporting action. All ages are welcome.

Sounds like we’re going to have to take the baby up there for a tasting. She’s probably already developing a very sophisticated pallet due to the all the beer in my breast milk. KIDDING. Don’t flip out.

Also, 100% of Triton Brewing Company’s spent grain goes to local farms to be used as feed for cattle and poultry! And since a lot of local cattle and poultry goes into me, I am pretty much consuming this beer in every way possible.

Rail Splitter is a 7% ABV (NICE), 70 IBU India pale ale. Sharply floral, but finishes malty and smooth, in that way that makes it really easy to take down four or five big swigs without coming up for air. I had two of them last night and became awkwardly buzzed before I thought to check the ABV on the bottle. Not complaining, though.

Plans for the week: more running, more beer, more baby barf. I had every intention of writing up something clever and thoughtful for Kenzie’s 5-month birthday, but it came and went and that cerebral cortex thing continued to sputter and fizz. But I assure you: she is still astonishingly cute and extraordinarily advanced for her age.

See?

With more than 35,000 participant, it’s the nation’s largest half marathon, and I’ve since realized the advantages of running a smaller race: I’m not fast enough to get preferred seeding, which means I start out crammed between a bunch of people who may or may not be actually running. Once, I started out in the 10:00 pace corral next to a lady wearing jeans and carrying her purse. So the sheer volume of annoying people in any big race can be frustrating, but this was the very first half marathon I ran, and it holds a special place in my pudgy little heart. Plus you get to do a lap around the famous Indianapolis Motor Speedway, which is kind of neat. (I’ve never been into cars or racing, but I’m told it is kind of neat.)

A happy moment on the motor speedway.

Back in November, I actually thought about registering for the race, thinking, surely I’ll be ready for a half by May, that gives me four months to train! Hah. Considering I’m barely running 13 miles a WEEK right now, I’m so glad I didn’t jump the gun and waste money on a race that would be absolutely miserable in my current condition. (And judging by the forecast for tomorrow, it looks like it may be pretty miserable for everyone!)

Anyway, I’m still a little bitter. It just sucks hearing all about it on the news and from friends, and knowing I’m not going to be there. But Indy has a couple of great Fall half marathons and I’ll definitely be ready and itching to race again by then.

As for today, you shitheads be careful out there! And don’t talk to me about the race. I’ll be drowning my sorrows in beer and baby barf until Sunday.

Kisses!

Anyway, one thing I learned about television news is that you get a lot of hate mail, mostly when you have to cut in on programming during severe weather. There’s nothing like a sad, lonely, jealous, fat and ugly person raging because you interrupted 45 seconds of the last minute of the last quarter, or worse, the season finale of [name any popular reality show].

We In The Television News Industry are sympathetic to the needs of our viewers and do our best to get through severe weather updates as quickly as possible. That’s why I was both tickled and bewildered tonight as I watched a damn near 30 minute weather cut-in, even more so when I realized it was during the season finale of The Biggest Loser. (And since you aren’t reading anything about any tornado carnage in Indiana, you can presume there really was very little weather to report.) Seriously, I worked on the Texas Gulf coast during Hurricane Emily (órale!) and we didn’t have 30-minute severe weather updates. (Okay, we did, but that was a fucking HURRICANE.)

Anyway, I made a funny tweet about it, and then headed over to WTHR’s Facebook page, where a bunch of people had expressed their displeasure (peppered with grammatical errors and misspellings, natch) with WTHR’s long-winded update. Now, in the age of social media, we all get to share in the brilliance that is hate mail!

Here are a few of my favorites:

Poor Shelly. She really tried to hold it together, but in the end, she was forced to resort to CAPS. (And the “Hey Girl!” is probably the best part.) And no, I didn’t black out the names because it’s a public page and really, these people deserve whatever ridicule they get.

Anyway, before all the barely existent severe weather struck, I managed to squeeze in another run, continuing my poorly planned and sloppily executed run streak with another 3-miler around my favorite (#sarcasm) fitness trail. I had the baby so I cruised along at an 11:15 pace, but it counts. And really, I just can’t find any fucks to give about how fast I run with the stroller. Anything running is impressive in my opinion.

We’re looking at high 80s tomorrow! Fack. Going to have to get out there early if I want to keep up this suckery. Lucky 13?

See you.

Anyway. The run streak continues. Today was day 11, which is six days more than I’ve ever run consecutively in my life. Too bad the measly mileage I’m putting down completely invalidates the streak.

I ran a mile to the gym, where I plunked my tired-ass legs into the pool and aqua-waddled for about 20 minutes.  I have had some discomfort in my hips and pelvic joints, and also my knees and ankles, and I keep waiting for that magical moment where I transcend, but it hasn’t happened yet. I feel like it might be time to throw in the towel.

Things I’m doing to my own detriment:

Not any strength work. I hate it. It’s boring. I’m just not willing to make the effort. I swim a few days a week, but I’d be kidding myself if I thought it was enough to actually be meaningful.

Not varying my running activities enough. I run on the same paved fitness trail around my gym every day and it’s getting a little tedious. All the same parts of me are getting hammered without a break and that wasn’t the point of this.

Running in old shoes. I have these Adidas Marathons that I just love, but they’re worn out. I trained and trail ran and wore them as street shoes for most of last year. But it seems kind of pretentious and wasteful to buy new running shoes when I’m not even running 20 miles a week. I know a bunch of you guys walk out the front door every day to find 50 pairs of new shoes piled up on your doorstep from shoe companies that want you to queef and drool all the fuck over them on your blog, and you can wear a different pair of shoes every day of the week, but I’ve alienated any potential sponsors by using words like queef and fuck all the time. And yeah, I know the badass runners of yore ran in old tire tread strapped to their feet but I am not badass.*

So yeah, that was fun but I might be done with it. I’m not saying I’m going to wise up and start lifting weights or taking care of my feet or stretching, but I will consider the possibility that you can’t kick start your triumphant return to running by doing a mile or two a day while holding onto all of your bad, lazy habits. Bad, lazy, fat, jealous, ugly and sad habits.

Oh, look at the baby:

At least I'm good at making good-looking babies.

*For the purposes of just this post, I am not badass.

Yeah, well. You gotta start somewhere right? You might be laughing now, but who’s going to be the one laughing in another 25 years? Probably that dude. Because he’ll still be alive and I’ll have long since died of alcohol poisoning.

I’m starting to feel the effort of the last six days, but in a good way. A run streak is kind of like starving yourself (or giving up air!): there’s going to be some initial discomfort as your body adjusts, but after a while, it just begins to feel right. And the reward is that you look so, so good.

Anyway, I ran with the baby yesterday morning and again yesterday afternoon, when my dick husband put me to shame by taking off at a 9:00 pace. I could barely keep up with him and I wasn’t even the one pushing the stroller. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t a great idea to try pulling a double just yet. My ankles feel a little squishy today, but I’ll live.

Last night, we ended up having an impromptu party to watch the Bulls beat the crap out of the Pacers. I essentially have no job, my husband was off, and our friends and neighbors apparently need very little convincing to come over and drink tequila on a Wednesday. So I am doing the bare minimum today: a mile run to the gym so I can float around in the pool awhile and get rid of these party zits.

That Google giveaway: My unlucky winner is Cindy of Loteria Chicana!

obligatory proof that I chose a random number, so the cyberpolice don't come and shut me down.

She recently kicked ass in the LA Marathon and I feel a special kinship toward her because she lives in the Southwest. (I know Albuquerque is not Los Angeles, but shut up. The kinship. We haz it.)

Cindy: email me your address (or your PO Box if you don’t want me popping in unannounced sometime), and I’ll get you your prize. I haven’t decided what it will be yet, but I promise you: IT WILL BE FUCKING EPIC.*

*ish

No, not that kind of streaking. Although that is pretty much how my ass looks right now. I’m talking about a run streak, and today was day 5. And in the grand tradition of me celebrating mediocre victories and jinxing myself, I’m going to go ahead and brag about it. I don’t think I’ve gone running five days in a row since my XC days in high school (don’t get excited, it was the C-team. Nobody got cut at my school. AND EVERYBODY GOT A MEDAL YAY!). And I call myself a runner.

Anyway, today I did about two and a half with the stroller, which was actually comparable to the MILE I did yesterday in 30 mph winds. I swear, I can’t catch a break here. When it’s warm, there’s wind. When it’s cool, it’s pouring rain. I give up.

But, I’ve successfully stayed off the treadmill and off the DL and I’m feeling strong. This is something I can maintain. And I’ve got a solid foundation of at least half a month of running a couple miles every other day. What could possibly go wrong?

Incidentally, I will not be going for the record for the most consecutive days running without even hitting 20 miles per week. And fuck you for noticing.

In the interest of disclosure, some of those earlier runs were actually run/walks, but now that I am officially calling myself recovered, I’m logging only actual running miles. A groundbreaking concept, I know. (I’m also officially calling myself president of the Society For Those Who Would Like Sweaty Kid To Join Twitter.)

One more thing, and this has nothing to do with anything: in spite of faithfully continuing to take my prenatal vitamin and also a 325mg iron supplement, I am losing hair by the handful. I’m told this is normal after a pregnancy but it’s also totally fucking nuts. I’m thinking of picking up a bottle of Mane ‘N Tail. And if that doesn’t work, mainlining a head of kale stuffed inside of a sirloin stuffed inside of a grapefruit four times a day. And if THAT doesn’t work, I may consider adopting a strict policy of drinking only four days a week. God, I hope it doesn’t come to that.

Anyway, if you live in my neck of the woods and you see a balding, lily white pudgy gal heaving and wheezing behind a jogging stroller, just do the right thing and don’t take photos. Unless you have some kind of airbrushing app on your iPhone. In which case, could you please also do something about the bags under my eyes? Thanks.

Giveaway update: I believe we have several correct answers to the Google question. But I’ll give you punks another day to enter your smartass commentary and get in on the winnings (let’s say all comments before 4 a.m. April 25, EST will be accepted). Confession: I really thought it was going to be a beer. Maybe a Jasmine Hefeweizen from the 96th and Hazeldale (Hazel Dell, it turns out) Brewery? And I was going to send one to the winner. Since I can’t send you a Thai restaurant, I promise I will think of something else that is nice. And cheap. Thanks for playing.

Ah, the elusive note scribbled on a bar coaster. What does it mean? I have no idea! So I am calling on you dear readers to figure it out.

Correct answers as well as creative guesses will both be considered. I will choose a random winner and send you whatever it is.*

GO!

*Unless it turns out to be something expensive or abstract or foreign.

I’ll be honest: when I saw the six bags of slushy breastmilk in our tepid, now-worthless freezer, I promptly burst into curses, muddled with tears. All the pumping, all the work, all the nipple desecration. And you can’t refreeze that shit, guys.

Ever had all the contents of your refrigerator out on the countertop? And not been drunk?

Oh, also? Last week, the carburetor blew out on the lawn mower ($100) and we’re pretty sure the A/C isn’t going to last through the summer ($3000). I told the baby she needs to try to hold it in a little more so we’re not also hemorrhaging money on diapers. She laughed at me and took a shit.

Anyway, here’s a blog post I’ve been throwing together in increments of 20 minutes…

The run streak ended at day 3, through no fault of my own (not really but it sounds good).

Back up.

I felt like I needed a little redemption after that botched 3.5 miler last Saturday, so I set out Monday evening for what I thought would be a two miler, then decided would be a three miler, and then finally went ahead and made it four.

The difference between Saturday and Monday was almost ridiculous. My pace was a whole minute faster. I know there are good days and bad, but shit. This looks like it was done by a whole different runner:

Still a fat runner, just not AS fat.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy about it, but it’d be nice to know how it happened so I can maybe do it again sometime.

Then Tuesday night, all pumped up on expectations, I went for my first trail run in ages. I think the last one was a month or two into my pregnancy and I barely made it four miles. (Side note: I’m one of those people who instantly becomes 9 months pregnant at 4 weeks.) Tuesday, I just did three and some change, but it felt fanfuckingtastic. Got mud all over my legs, sweat buckets, and headed home feeling pleasantly achy, but not injured or sore. (Except for ye olde uterus,  which I’ve come to accept.)

Then Wednesday morning, I took the baby for a two mile run in the jogging stroller and pretty much spanked ass. (Side note: spanking ass with a stroller averages out to about an 11:20 pace.) SOMEBODY GIVE ME A MEDAL.

Wednesday afternoon, I thought to myself, hey, I’ve got a little bit of a streak going on here, maybe we should see how far we can go with this…naturally, that’s where it ended. But, as with the refrigerator situation, I am retardedly optimistic. No, seriously: I don’t think it’s unrealistic to believe that any person (even me and my wonky ankles and fat uterus) can run every single day (as long as one mile counts). But in the very least, it’s been FOR…E…VER since I actually enjoyed running, and I’m grateful for that. (Commence injury in 3…2…).

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish all this beer before it spoils.

Why, the view from up on my cross is lovely, thanks for asking!

I set out to do a longish/longer/whateverthefuckyouwannacallit run yesterday morning, and I expected it to be fairly easy. It was one of those days when you have this running idyll in your head and you feel all giddy about it: the sun is shining but its not too hot, the grass is swaying serenely to a gentle breeze, but it’s not too windy, the fat on your legs has firmed up over night and you’re not all jiggly, and you’re all like, I’m gonna run and it’s gonna be AWESOME. Yeah, not so much. I got the job done without stopping or walking or shitting myself, so I’m chalking it up as a win. But it wasn’t pretty.

Something I have never been able to master: the negative split. And, much like your AIDS test, when your splits are positive, that’s actually a negative.

awesome in reverse.

Now before you guys go all “just work on running and don’t worry about your splits!” on me, I want to reassure you that I’m really not all that worried about my splits. Because, as a bunch of well-meaning assholes keep reminding me, it’s not like I’m going to break any records no matter how much I improve. And yeah, what’s the big rush? I wasn’t so stupid I started signing up for races as soon as I got that baby person extracted from me. And I still have a winning smiling and charming personality. But I want to be faster. Like, now.

I suppose it could be worse. I could have AIDS. I could be nailed to a cross. I could be running Boston on Monday.