Tag Archive: fashion

Road Trip Tough Mudder Austin, TX  Last Gasp

I’ve met a lot of new people in the past couple of months. (If chatting you up on Facebook is meeting, otherwise it’s the same old crew and no one new.)  It’s also been a long time since I’ve posted about Tough Mudder in Austin.

There really hasn’t been anything to talk about.  Working out is grueling when you have to do it  yourself and you miss dinner, and you have to do 16 loads of laundry that consist of five items. (Dear god, how do socks get that smelly so quickly)

The whole fundraising thing continues to elude me.  I’ve created a site, and I’ve let people know about it.  I’m not one of those people who chase you down and insist you buy my girl scout cookies. I don’t think girl scouts belong in cookies. I think they belong in a white wine sauce over saffron rice.  That’s just me though.  I’m not chasing anyone down to contribute to my charity, either. Here’s a link to my initial blog post.  Do what you want to do.

It’s exactly 2 weeks until the big day.  I believe I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.  This is all about mental tenacity, and I have tenacity in spades.  What I do not have is a buddy to run around in the mud with me.  I have unsuccessfully attempted to lure, shame and bribe some people to join me, none of them are having it.  Most have suggested that I a) up my meds; b) reacquaint myself with a psychiatrist. Whatever. I’ll be the one having fun in the sun.  I even have a personal Facebook photographer. (Oh, you guys have no idea…)

I am having serious fashion stress over this, I must admit.  You see pictures on the Tough Mudder website, of buff young things in stretch pants and tank tops…and that is soooo….not me.  I want to be practical about this, I want to do this..right. I’m thinking boots and utes, and a short sleeve over long sleeve shirt. A bandana to keep the hair in such a state I will not have to shave my head later, and a couple of things stuffed in cargo pockets (that’s why they’re called cargo pockets by the way) for just in case. Goggles for jumping into the water, and a rag for wiping the crap off my face.

The more I think about this, the more amped I get. It can’t get here too soon. And I can’t wait to tell you all about it.


Shopping Redux

There was a wedding.  I had to wear grown up clothes.  I hate grown up clothes.

I had the dress. (Yes, I really own a dress.) I had to buy shoes. I bought shoes, and I didn’t wear them…I’ll be returning the shoes.

I had to have a belt. Well, thank god I didn’t go buy a belt, because I didn’t wear one.  But I did have to buy a black ‘cardigan’, which is just an expensive way of saying sweater with buttons.

The cardigan became the target of a drive-by shopping.  First, we drove past Marshall’s, then we walked by Old Navy, but, my resistance being weakened, I was sucked into Macy’s.

I, was able to avoid the tentacles of retail madness, by walking up to the first sweater I saw, took it off the display walked to the ….err,  cashier? attendant? waitress? oh…salesperson, and said, “I need one of these.  In a large.”  She replied (and here, she became my hero), “You’re in petites, I’ll take you to the other display where you’ll find the correct size.”

She walked me across the way, to a table with six sizes of sweaters in two styles and three colors.   My head is starting to hurt, my stomach is starting to turn.  She says, “Here’s the black in a large.  Would you like a shell to go with that?” Apparently the blank look on  my face was sufficient for her to hold up a matching tank top (Shell: Expensive tank top, got it.).  “No, no. I’m fine. …Don’t need it in blue or green either, but thank you.”  I said.  Followed by, “Thank you for showing me these, you really rock.” At which point my companion rolled his eyes, and pretended not to know me.  But the lady understood.  Here I stand in jeans, high tops, and an over-sized dress shirt, asking about cardigans, and looking like a deer in the headlights.  Or like a calf at a new gate.  Or both.

She showed me the counter, and a nice gentleman waited on me.  “Do you need the shell that goes with this?” “Nope. Don’t need the other colors either.  Thank you though.”  Credit card. Sign. Receipt (“In the bag please.”) Out the door.  Total time?  Let’s just say I waited longer for my appetizer at the Roadhouse.

Now, I have to take the shoes back…sigh.  The very thought of being shoved back into the sucking quagmire of retail footware.  Maybe next week.


There’s a wedding.  I have to wear grown up clothes.  I hate grown up clothes.

I have a dress. (Yes, really, I own a dress.) I need shoes. I have to buy shoes.

I go to the shoe store.  Excuse me, the “Shoe Citadel of Glorious Bargains on all Brand Name Shoes for Men, Women and Children.”  Three stories of shoes. Shoes. Three stories of SHOES.  I need: one pair of shoes.

Flats? Pumps? Heels? Sandals? Sandals with heels? Open-toe?  Peep-toe? (WHAT??) Wedges? Stilletos? Box and One? (Kidding, that’s a basketball term…)  I want to go with something spring-like…(spring–like I really know what that means).

I am wandering the aisles of the women’s section (which consists of approximately two and two-thirds of the floors at the Shoe Citadel of …yeah-yeah.)  I narrow down my search to black shoes that aren’t basketball, running, soccer, flip-flops, hi-tops, or sandals.  This narrows my search down to two floors of flats, pumps, heels, sandals with heels…

I am in serious trouble here.  I’m standing in a section of shoes that are commonly referred to using a procreational phrase in the reflexive form. (Hint:  Two words, the second one being “…me.”)  These are not the shoes I’m looking for.  I try again in another section commonly referred to as “mother-in-law” shoes.  I’m not saying these shoes are ugly, I am saying that if I’m buried in them, I will rise up and kick someone’s ass.

Finally, I find an aisle (just one aisle) and I’m starting to think that the last three hours have not been wasted, I might find what I’m looking for.  As I’m perusing various models/styles, whatever the hell you call them, a young lady with a very nice name tag, comes up to me and says, “Maybe I can assist you with something?”  I say, “There’s this wedding…”  “Right, I have just the thing for you..” The next thing I know we’re back in “mother-in-law”.

I convince her she should go away. Now. I go back to where I was before being so rudely interrupted.  I continue to search for a shoe that will work.  I have to keep looking over my shoulder to see if the sales chick sent a bouncer after me. I find something that I think meets all the requirements.  It has a heel, well, a wedge.  It’s black.  It looks vaguely spring-like.

I take a deep breath,  sprint to the counter, drop my cash, grab the bag (and the receipt, just in case) and hit the revolving door, head down, elbow up.  I am on the subway before I open my eyes again.

I report back.  I have a dress, I have shoes.

You know you’re going to need a belt, right?