the slack daily

The Next Step.

Woke up at 4:50am.
On the road to Santa Monica by 5:20am.
Three blocks away from the preferred parking (which I shelled out an extra $20 for) at 6:10am.
The half-marathon was supposed to begin at 7:00am.

We were told that preferred parking was going to close at 6:30am. We had 20 minutes to go three blocks. Will had to pee so I let him out and told him I'd meet him at the starting line.

At 6:48am I reached preferred parking. I was told by the race official that it was closed. We were dead-ended at the beach, so I asked him where else I could find parking. "On South Venice" he told me and then waves me away. There was a line of cars behind me who were about to be told the same thing.

I turned down an alley and grabbed my phone. I didn't know where South Venice was - I don't go to Venice. A car behind me honked and I realized the entire traffic jam was coming my way.

At 6:58am I was two miles from the starting line with no place to park. The lots were either full or unattended, the street parking filled up with the extra 2,500 people who were running the race that morning.

At 7:05am, I finally parked - a half a mile from the starting line.

I texted Will. "I don't think I'm going to make it." There weren't any other racers around me, I was stranded and the race had begun five minutes ago.

I admit: I started to cry. I had trained and gotten up early and because of parking - something that I had planned for by getting there with plenty of time and paying extra for preferred parking - and it didn't look like it was gonna happen.

"They haven't started yet," Will texted back. "I can not run," he continued.

"No, go," I texted back. "I'll figure it out."

I sprinted toward the starting line (.63 miles I learned later) and got there just as the horn was going off. I ran straight into the corral of runners and began my 13.1 miles out of breath, frazzled, and really having to pee.

I used the facilities (aka, race porta-potties, aka gross central) at Mile 2. Relieved (in more ways than one) I just decided that while my goal was to come in under three hours (I was hoping to run an average of a 13-minute mile) I would be happy just to finish.

I ran the first four miles, then walked through the water/electrolyte station.

At Mile 6 my back seized up. I started to run/walk.

At Mile 8 my feet started to hurt.

At Mile 10 I told myself "now you just have a 5k to finish."

At Mile 12 I restarted my playlist, because I was pretty sure that I would hit the Dirtbombs "Wreck My Flow" which would take me to the finish line. If the Dirtbombs don't make you want to move, then there's something wrong with you.

At Mile 12.5 I realized that I was going to hit the song early. I unhooked my iPod.

Repeat.

Repeat.

At Mile 13 I saw Will.

Repeat.

I finished at 2:45:10 - a full 15 minutes better than I thought I would.

I still don't consider myself a runner. I don't particularly like it, but I appreciate the lesson. Place one foot in front of the other. Remind yourself not to worry about however many miles lie ahead, but just the next step.

The Dirtbombs "Wreck My Flow"

How am I Married?

Last night, Will turned off the light and crawled into bed. I turned to him.

Can I ask you a question?

Sure, he said.

It's the kind of question where I feel like I can only ask you, I told him. The kind where it's one of those things I should know for sure but I have some doubts and I'm embarrassed that I don't know by now so I can only admit it to you.

It's okay, he said. Just ask me.

I took a deep breath.

Notorious B.I.G.and Biggie Smalls - that was the same guy, right?

...

PLEASE DON'T BURN YOUR PENIS!

Sometimes, I use a flat iron my hair. This probably comes as no shock to you all, although the times I mess about with my hair are few and far between. I have two looks: ponytail and non-ponytail.

"GREAT PONYTAIL!" - no, one ever*

Every time I turn on the flat iron - every single time - I tell Will that it's on, and careful not to burn himself.

This is even though:

1. The flat iron is on my vanity.
2. Will has never expressed any interest in touching anything on my vanity.
3. Will has never touched my flat iron, ever.

It's akin to yelling at him to look both ways before crossing the street. Or to stop at stop signs. Or not to gamble away half of all of the money we have in the world ($1000) the night before our wedding.

A few years ago, he asked me why I did this.A reasonable question. Which demanded my reasonable answer:

When I'm flat ironing my hair, it's usually because we're getting to go somewhere. Which means you're getting ready to go somewhere. Which means that you're just out of the shower. Which means you're naked. Which means you could burn your penis on the flat iron and hey if that's what you want to do, fine, but what kind of wife would I be if I didn't at least warn you?

Please don't burn your penis on the flat iron, kids.

What are your random acts of nonsensical advice?

 

 

 

 

 

 

*I stole this from someone on Twitter but I don't remember who and I can't find it. If you can recall, please send me the link so I'm not a dirty stealerpants.

So That Just Happened...

Then DC Pierson said:

 

You should follow DC, if you aren't already.

Ladies & Gentlemen, my Husband.

Follow Will and Rob Delaney on Twitter.

Happy Birthday to America's #1 Husband!

Will & I, May 2011. Photo by Martin Degrell

 

Will's 33rd Birthday, 2007

You've come a long way, baby.

Things I Learned While Watching Pretty in Pink.

• That first outfit that Andie wears was my dream outfit that I attempted to recreate (poorly.) I don't think there re pictures, although I rocked the vest CONSTANTLY and did a lot of boxy jackets with pins.


• If you didn't want to be Annie Potts character Iona in Pretty in Pink when you grew up, then we wouldn't have been friends in High School.


• Iona talks about her friend missing Prom... "She realized nothing was missing...it was side effects from missing the Prom." WHICH IS WHY I WENT TO PROM STAG.


• I coveted that pink Kharmann Ghia. I now drive a pink Mini Cooper.


• I met director Howard Deutch at a party a couple of weeks ago. I tried not to fan out, so I turned to talk to the person he was with. His wife.


• Watching Andie listen to her messages from Duckie reminded me what a big deal it was to get a phone in my room. The phone jack was there...I just wasn't allowed a phone of my own until I was in 8th grade.

• I modded my gym suit my freshman year. I think there were boxer shorts with a ruffle that I wore under my gym shorts.


• I'm still a Duckie girl. (I married mine.)

Five Movies I Don't Want to See on my DVR.

Note: This post initially was published a couple of years ago on the comedy blog Pointless Banter, which Bobby Finstock traded for a "gently used" copy of Ted Bundy's address book.

The other day I was scrolling through the “to-do” list on our DVR to make sure that the LOST premiere would be recorded when I came across the following movie title, scheduled to record the next morning:

How to Murder Your Wife.

Will and I have an open relationship. Not meaning that we bone other people, but we’re pretty communicative about our thoughts and our feelings and all that sappy bullshit that you hear on Oprah (if I watched Oprah. Okay, I watched Oprah that once, but I was young and needed the morale boost.)

We’ve only been married nineteen months, so I’m sure this will eventually harden into a crust of resentment and rage.

Give us time.

But this got me to thinking about other things I don’t want to see showing up on my DVR:

 

Reversal of Fortune

Jeremy Irons gets an Oscar for being a possible-wife-murderer. This is not a good precedent for those of the wifely persuasion. 

I could fall into a persistent vegetative state by staring at Jeremy Irons' forehead.

 

Side note: I used to have a MAD CRUSH on Jeremy Irons, and now he's playing Pope Alexander VI in "The Borgias" and it's a little skeevy for this Catholic girl to have a crush on a Pope, although that particular pope would've been waaaaay into it.

 

The Lizzie McGuire Movie.

During my tenure on Lizzie McGuire, I discovered that the late-night airings were almost always our highest-rated shows. I don’t like to think about that too much.

 

Dirty Dancing, set for “Save Until I Delete.”

One could make an argument for a Swayze revival – now that we know he’s suffering from pancreatic cancer, he’s suddenly everyone’s new best friend (Christopher Reeve flashbacks, anyone?) and not the guy who did “Father Hood.” (Sigh. RIP, Mr. Swayze.)

Can I call you Baby? That’s what my father calls me!

 

Beaches.

Spoiler alert: she dies in the end. Girls in high school were obsessed with this movie. Watching the first few scenes made me wish I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness just to escape watching it.

 
"Some friendships last forever." That sounds like a threat.

Top Gun, cued up to the beach volleyball scene.

I don't want my husband asking me to be his Wingman, I want him to want to have sex with someone who has breasts. And I’m not talking about Goose - I'm talking about me.

 

It's weird to think there was a time when Tom Cruise wasn't crazy.

 

Anything you'd be freaked out to see on the DVR?

A Love Letter.

At some point, we may have met. At a panel, at a conference, at a meetup, at my house.

We may have crossed paths holding bourbons in a dark, crowded bar, or clutching margaritas in our house. You may have been invited for a cocktail party, for our Christmas Potluck, for no particular reason except that we met you and weren't embarrassed to say YES WE WANT YOU TO BE OUR FRIENDS.

People are still laughing at the Internet. I'm still saying there are so many people that I have been privileged to meet (and have over to our house!) and there is still a host of people that make me think I need to purchase more glassware.

This is not a love letter to the Internet. The Internet is a tool.

This is a love letter to the people who have learned to use that tool.

You have made my life so wonderfully full that I'm fit to burst.

If you think this is about you...you're probably right.

 

What's a Girl Like Me Doin' in a Place Like This? Club 33

It starts with finding the door.

A few weeks ago, Will scored a reservation to Disneyland's uber-exclusive Club 33. At first I thought it was a joke. I wrote for a hit series for the Disney Channel and even though we begged and pleaded, we couldn't get in. Flash forward ten years and my husband and I are weaving through the throngs of tourists to do our "test run."

You see, Club 33 has rules. A dress code. And they expect you to be on time.

We found the door in New Orleans Square, tucked next to the Blue Bayou Restaurant.

Test run.

A few hours later we were back, dressed in our finery. Here's the thing: you don't see a lot of finery in Disneyland. We received more than a few raised eyebrows as we wandered through the park (me in my flip-flops and dress, as I tucked my fancy shoes in my purse. So it wasn't as fine as it could have been.)

When we returned, a couple of tourists were taking a picture in front of the sign. We waited until they were done, then stepped forward. They grabbed each other and gasped

THEY'RE GOING INSIDE!

Except that we weren't going inside, not just yet. Because we were at least ten minutes early. So we took a photo instead.

Goin' to the Show.

By this time, a small crowd had assembled, all whispering they're going to ring the bell! He's going to ring the bell! I wondered if they were going to break into a musical song-and-dance number, and if that was part of the Club 33 experience.

(It wasn't.)

Will rang the bell and the door opened. He gave his name. The door closed.

A hush fell over the crowd.

The door opened again, a tiny bit wider.

Welcome to Club 33, the voice said.

I have been lucky enough in my life (and my career) to attend events and activities that many people do not. But I was never so excited as I was walking into Club 33. The dark wood, the clink of glassware, the servers who don't blink twice as you gawk at everything around you.

Is this your first time? our server asked.

How could you tell? I responded.

We started off with a cocktail (a Manhattan for Will, a Kir Royale for me) and then ordered the tasting menu (with the wine pairing, natch.) The food was good. It wasn't the best meal I've ever had, but you understood it was all about the experience...

I didn't take photos for most of the meal, preferring to just live in the moment rather than document it.

But I did take a picture of the toilet on request. Because I'm classy like that.

Two hours later we finished up with some espresso and looked out the window, realizing we were going ot have to return to earth with the mere mortals.

It's going to suck to be a regular person again, Will said.

But it was sure fun while it lasted.