And on a more personal note...

I re-read my daily journal for 2011 yesterday, an indulgence which left me reeling with memories of a year that was excessively eventful and yet nominally didn't appear to move me forward all that much.

There were, however, two obvious and predominant themes for me in 2011:  Fireball shots and Ole Miss grads.  I spent a lot of time hanging out in bars with both...and they proved to have an unparalleled ability to make me feel like shit...

(I think there's a life lesson somewhere in there, but whatever it is, I don't think I've learned it yet.  Maybe I will in 2012.)

Books read in 2011:  31 (that's the number finished; this year I implemented a rule that it was okay to walk away from a book if it sucked, and a fair number of them do)

Movies seen in the theater:  34 (goal for 2012:  finish more books than movies)

Miles run:  792 (not bad for someone who'd never previously cracked 500 in a year)

Blogs written:  170 (more than I would have guessed)

Here's to 2012, and the hope that it treats each and every one of you well.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!!!

2011: At Least It Didn't Suck as Hard as 2010.

I thought I'd take a one-entry break from my usual highly-personal drivel and do a year-in-review roundup that deals with our current culture and my most complaining-est thoughts about it.

Taking a page from the book of Bill Maher, I present my copyright-questionable "New Rule" List for 2012, ten (bitchy) rules for the general public.  

2011:  It Was Cool for a While, but Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Ass on the Way Out

RULE FOR 2012: Stop acting like Justin Bieber is a threat to the music industry.

Long-haired, feminine-looking pubescent boys who sing of puppy love in falsetto voices pop up with military regularity every few years. The only thing more certain than his current popularity is the decline in it that’s coming. Like all former teen idols, by the time he’s forty, Bieber will be backcombing his hair, doing the casino circuit, and producing remixes of his hits sung by his maladjusted offspring. Let him enjoy his moment while he can.

Speaking of which, RULE FOR 2012:  Considering in 2011 a song called (You Look) “Better with the Lights Off” was a Top 40 hit, be thankful that Justin Bieber exists.

RULE FOR 2012: If you care about the daily lives of the Kardashians, you probably don’t deserve to own a television.

And let’s all stop pretending these people are legitimately famous. The Kardashians are to E! what the Republican Party is to Fox News: attention whores who bolster a fabricated, cable-television narrative that appeals to an extremely small sub-section of the American population, and who seem to legitimately not understand that most people think they’re a joke.  Don't encourage them.

RULE FOR 2012: Facebook is not the internet.

Back in my day, the internet was where you went to find out about the world at large. Now it’s a place where you spy on your friends, and your friends’ friends, so you don’t have to do any leg work in real life.

It’s also a place where you try – and fail – to make yourself look good. Oh, you “read” an article on Yahoo? Congratulations on being literate. Oh, you listened to a non-mainstream band on Spotify? Congratulations on me not caring. And for God’s sake stop “checking in” to stores. No one cares that you’re at Wal-Mart. (Except for Zuckerberg, who’s laughing all the way to the bank.)

RULE FOR 2012: Tumblr memes should never be elevated above the status of “inherently valueless and fleetingly relevant.”

Hipster Ariel is five minutes’ worth of interesting. Fuck Yeah Google is good for maybe half an hour. Neither has added anything to society or to your obviously boring life. And while we’re on the subject of Tumblr, let’s all agree to stop calling this a blogging platform. Calling someone’s Tumblr a “blog” is an insult to anyone who has ever taken the time to actually write a blog.

RULE FOR 2012: NBC is not allowed to hire any more daughters of former presidents.

While Chelsea Clinton’s reporting style is more refined than the “fifth grade book report” feel of Jenna Bush Hager’s, neither one of these people would be on TV were it not for their parents. Nepotism does not a good newscast make.

RULE FOR 2012: Stop “explaining” away America’s financial problems with simplistic villains and heroes.

The entire world got drunk on excess and the United States was hosting the party. Now we’re all hungover and trying to clean up the mess we made of everything. If any of this were simple or easy, we’d have worked our way through it already. And if you think differently, you’re a moron.

RULE FOR 2012: When men start having babies, that’s when they can weigh in on birth control and abortion issues.

Until then, shut the fuck up.

Everything about this picture is stupid.

RULE FOR 2012: Just because you have an iPhone doesn’t mean you have to be on it all the time.

So you've got $100 a month to burn on mobile Twitter updates. Good for you.

This is me. Sitting across the table from you. Thinking you're a douchebag.

Buy your way out of that one.

And finally, RULE FOR 2012: Accept it.  Harry Potter won.

Yeah, that's right, Twi-hards. SUCK IT. You can wake me up the day the “Breaking Dawn: C-Section by Mouth” theme park ride opens in Disney World.

And now that I have that out of my system, I would like to send a sincere wish of good luck to the year 2012.  Since the world is supposed to end and all by the close of it, I don't think it's too much to ask that it man the hell up and show us all a good time.

NO PRESSURE, 2012.

HO-LEE HELL

Three hours.  Nine courses.  I can honestly say it was a culinary experience that so far surpassed any other I've ever had that I'm at a loss to describe it.  I ate fried shrimp heads for God's sake.

As my mother said as we put on our coats to leave, "I knew you could do that with booze, but I didn't know you could do it with food."

Tonight, the Heinekes and John's friend Mickey ate at Andrew Michael Italian Kitchen.  It was an experience, and one that, done in the presence of four foodies, made me realize how woefully uneducated I am when it comes to dining.

And that I'm okay with that.  I live a life rich with true connoisseurs, and I let their expertise and studious enjoyment carry me through that which I do not always understand myself.  But even a mac 'n' cheese junkie like me knows an exceptional meal when she eats it.

My God, I am full. 

And now I'm going to go sleep for about a thousand hours...

Becky Reports from the Field: Hashing

Last Friday, your author, who enjoys both running and drinking to the point of pain, set out on a grand adventure: her first hash run.

Modern day hashing looks exactly like this.

Hashing, you see, is this thing where people who are grownups take bags of flour and write symbols on the street. And then other people who are grownups run where the symbols tell them to go, but sometimes the markings are deceptive and they get lost. And everyone’s really drunk and sings shockingly crude sexual songs at infrequent intervals. And then afterward, everyone gets even drunker while standing in a circle and flogging their fellow runners for things that sometimes don’t make sense. And all the regulars have special hasher names, which are bawdy and outrageous, and everyone acts like it’s normal to never call anyone by their real names. This is something that people do for fun.

I had only a rough inkling of the protocol described above when I bundled up on Friday night for the “Jingle Balls” Hash (gentlemen, attach your bells appropriately). I expected drinking, low to moderate weirdness, and a run that in and of itself would not be taxing in any way.

“It will be so short!” I was told, repeatedly. “Like, a walk around the block!”

WELL, WELL, WELL. What did I actually encounter whilst hashing?

Not all that much drinking (on my part, because I felt oddly sick for no apparent reason…ugh, lame), EXTREMELY HIGH levels of weirdness, and a run that was, no lie, probably FIVE MILES in the freezing cold, with me wearing a winter coat the entire time because I had subscribed to the whole “walk around the block” myth and was fearful of hypothermia. (Prior to the run. During the run I quite quickly discovered why it is that people don’t normally do five-mile runs in their winter coats.)

Here are my observations about hashing:

1. WOW, THESE SONGS YOU PEOPLE SING. Because I’m actually twelve, I spent a lot of time wondering if you’re allowed to say such things in public places. I also spent a lot of time wondering who came up with these songs, because they’re really quite clever…in a grossly perverted and over-the-top sort of way.

2. PUBLIC NUDITY. It’s this whole thing.

3. After the run, I sat around and watched people make genitalia out of Play-Doh.

TO SUM UP, hashing was pretty damn weird, and also the run made me tired.

Several people have suggested I try a Saturday afternoon hash, as those occur during the daytime and are a somewhat different experience. When the weather gets warmer, I might…but I have to keep careful tabs on how many times I go. If I make it through five hashes, I’ll be “named” in a ritual that promises to be humiliating in the most awful way possible. As someone who develops Tourette’s while intoxicated and will tell any embarrassing story that comes to mind about either herself OR anyone in the immediate vicinity, it would SEEM like the naming process would be something I could handle. But honestly, I’m not sure I’m up for it. I’m not sure I’m up for any of it.

I’m not sure I’m up for hashing, period. I’ll try just about anything once (even if it takes me six months to talk myself into it), but I need to sit on this one for a while and figure out if once was enough…

(We stopped mid-run to drink beer from the back of a car parked in a cul-de-sac and small children huddled at the door of a house down the street to watch us drunkenly flail around in unison as we sang a song about a tiny dick. Dear Youth of the World, this is what awaits you in adulthood.)

Etching from HERE, Play-Doh HERE.

Capitalism at its Finest

Let's say that one time, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, you did some work for someone.  You got paid half midway through the job and the second half was supposed to come when the job was done.  But you never got the second half.

And say that when you asked about the second half, you were told that there was an issue with your address and that as soon as you provided correct mailing information, the check would be on its way.

And say that after you provided that mailing information, you were told that, oops, the payer didn't actually have the money, but soon would have the money, and, at that time, the check would be mailed.

Say six months passes and you've lost all hope of seeing that money, but purely on principle, you again ask about your check.  And you are again told that there must have been an issue with the mail.  And you are again asked to provide your address.  And when you do, you are again told that, oops, JUST KIDDING there's no money to pay you.

But when there is, the check will be on its way.

I'm never going to get paid, am I?  Son of a fucking bitch.

For the first time since July...

...I don't have to get up early tomorrow (!).  No long run!  No training!  I don't know what to do with myself!

I could probably find some trouble to get into tonight, but, to be entirely honest, it's been a rough seven days - starting with that marathon that nearly killed me and leading straight through last night, when I wound up the only girl amongst seven guys at the Slider Inn.  I'm struggling to explain, even to myself, how it is that a night that seemed enjoyable at the time has left me wanting to crawl off in a corner and lick my wounds; I feel a little damaged after being in the presence of that much testosterone.  "Vulnerable" is the word that I often use to describe the experience of walking into Breakaway alone, never knowing who's going to be there or how the people who show up are going to treat me (not to suggest that people are mean to me, but rather that I lack the reliability of close friendships). "Vulnerable" doesn't cover what I'm feeling today, though.  Today I feel worn down.

Months and months of energy was expended on things that didn't turn out the way I had hoped this week.  For that, and for all the details that I wish I could share but am too paranoid to publish, I'm missing Kara right now.  OH, the stories I would have told her...

There is a God.

John was responsible for cooking our Thanksgiving dinner this year, and since his ingredient list included, among other things, two pounds of butter (!), I froze all of the leftovers so I wouldn't be tempted to eat them in that critical week leading up to the marathon.

I had my first meal of (oh-so-delicious) Thanksgiving leftovers last night.  And then tonight, when I was putting something in the freezer...

...I FOUND HALF OF A PECAN PIE.  How the hell could I have possibly forgotten that when I was pulling everything out yesterday?!  I could weep with joy right now...

What Running a Marathon Looks Like...

What Running a Marathon Feels Like...

What I Was Thinking After Running a Marathon...

I didn't have a good run on Saturday.  It was new and awful to be one mile into a run, realize it's not going well, and have to face down the reality that you still have 25.2 miles to go.  The temptation to stop at the half marathon point was damn near overwhelming, but I'm so incredibly glad that whatever idiocy it was that drove me to think this was a good idea in the first place propelled me to keep going and get through the whole thing.

You put that much into something and it doesn't go well?  There's a lesson in there somewhere.  I was pretty sure by Mile 8 the lesson I was learning was that next time I'm going to run a better marathon.

But even though I sucked and it sucked...wow.  I did it (!).  I don't think I've really processed that yet...