"...In the end, people either have excuses or experiences; reasons or results; buts or
brilliance. They either have what they wanted or they have a detailed list of all the rational reasons why not."

~ Anonymous
(taken from Matt Erbele's, It Takes Time to Get Good)

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Ahhh, to be 19 again!

Today I turn 19 years clean and sober.

My recovery birthday always makes me reflect back on my life: where I have come from, how far I have gone, and where I am headed (ok, so you can't "reflect back" on where you are headed, but stay with me here, people)

The last time I turned 19 I was careening towards an alcohol and drug induced grave and was stomping on the accelerator.

Nineteen years ago on this day I was awakening from my last ever overdose. It was Easter morning. How is THAT for irony?

Nineteen years ago, I was a college drop out, homeless, jobless, skilless, and overall clueless as to how to do life without being fucked up beyond all reason.

Nineteen years ago, to cure the aforementioned homelessness, I moved in with my boyfriend of 2 months, who had just witnessed my catastrophic self destruction and who was now terrified of my bat shit crazy ass. All of his clean and sober friends told him to RUN LIKE HELL, but he, in his own bat shit craziness, let me stay.

In the last nineteen years, I have managed to not scare off this man and we have been married 10 years.

In the last nineteen years, I went back to college, earned my bachelors degree, passed state boards for veterinary nursing, earned 2 masters degrees, and a teaching credential.

In the last nineteen years I also learned a whole lot of things that I would have never known had I stayed numb:

I learned how to be a daughter, a friend, a wife, and a productive member of society. I fall short at all of these titles routinely, but I keep striving to be as good to the people in my life as they are to me. This is a tall order. I have seriously kick ass friends and family.

I have learned I can do more than work and study. I can take time for me and it did not turn me back into the lazy, worthless piece of shit of my disease, like my mind always told me it would.

I learned I was NOT a lazy, worthless piece of shit and, more importantly, how to stop calling myself one.

I learned that I do not have to be good at something to enjoy doing it. This freedom, allowed me to become an athlete (ok, athlete-ish). Five years, nine marathons, 5 century rides, and 11 or so triathlons later I am still enjoying it.

I learned that having opinions does not make me a bitch, but not letting others have theirs does.

I learned that I can love people so much that it feels like my heart will burst in my chest at the very thought of them.

Not one of these things was possible for me had I continued the unending quest to numb myself. I am so grateful to be clean and sober today.

I am working on a hubby update. He is doing well on the hormone therapy. I will post about it soon. Thank you for all of your support and keeping him in your thoughts. :)

Monday, March 29, 2010

A personal best!

Last week I reported that I would be returning to the hallowed halls of Jenny Craig it to attempt to shave *mumble mumble* pounds off my generous derriere.

Upon entering the office I was greeted by the staff with "RBR! So good to have you back!"


Yes, I get a Cheers-esque greeting at the local weightloss center.

Me and my perky little consultant, who weighs less than my right thigh and is approximately 22 years old (just ONCE I want an old, fat-ish consultant that does not make me feel like the hunchback of Notre fucking Dame) Anyhoo... we head back to the Room of Doom that houses the torture device that we women hang our all of our self worth on,

the fucking scale.

We will call my consultant, Ms. Perky Tits, 'Jenny' for this portion of the post because 'Ms. Perky Tits' is just mean and too long to type.

Ms. Perky Tits, errr.... I mean, Jenny: So, hon, what brings you back to Jenny Craig today?

side note: I do sooooo adore when people half my age and weight refer to me as "hon"

RBR thinks: Well, sugarlips, I was soooooo happy with my body shape and weight that I thought I would swing on by and gloat in front of all your fat ass clients. Isn't that what most people usually come here for?"

RBR says: Well, *rubbing my own fat ass* I found a few pounds I lost here before and I wanted to give them back

Jenny: *giggle, head tilt* Awwww. Hop up on the scale, hon, and let's see where we are at today.

Dreaded, stupid, fucking JC scale: [censored]

RBR: *gasp*

Jenny: *gasp*

Mathematicians that have never seen numbers that large: *gasp*

Astronauts in outer space that can undoubtedly see my ass from there: *gasp*

RBR attempting to keep from dying of embarrassment: *throws arms up in a victory V* We have a personal best!

I just finished my 47,000th first week of JC. Weigh in today at 3:40. I will keep you posted

Monday, March 22, 2010

Emotions have a lot of calories

My name is RBR and I am an emotional overeater.

Good thing I am too lazy to tag my posts or I am certain I would be horrified to see a visual reminder about how much of my life I devote to this fucking topic.


Food tends to be my go to drug of choice in most situations, but throw in some emotional pain and


Competitive eaters hold on to your trophies and get to practicing your reptilian-like eating, there is a new girl in town and she is gunning for your title.

Really, that HAS to be the most disgusting "sport", ever

When I began to notice that small dogs were being trapped in the gravitational pull of my gigantic ass and orbiting me, I decided enough was enough.

Today, I go back to Jenny Craig.

I am sure every one has lots of opinions on this and feel free to voice them, but I will remind you that I am a 40 year old, biology teacher that has been battling her weight her entire life. If I could "eat a balanced diet of whole grains, dark leafy greens, and lean proteins" or "consume less calories than I burn" don't you think that I would have done it already?

I need someone to say "See this little box? That is all you get, fatass. Once you finish licking the tray you are D.O.N.E."

Now, I have failed at every diet you can possibly imagine, INCLUDING Jenny Craig, but JC is the only one I have had some semblance of success at. I know it is not a long term solution, but sometimes I need an intervention to stop the madness and soul crushing upward trajectory on the scale.

I think JC has worked in the past because it gives my addictive, obsessive personality something to focus on and it is my hope to use it to stop the compulsive overeating and get the eating and portions somewhat under control while I work on the emotional side of this.

If you think compulsive overeating means eating two pieces of pie when you only planned one, congratulations, you are probably not a compulsive overeater. If you know it means eating two whole pies, while crying in your car as you hide from everyone you know, dude, I am sorry. *bows head and raises fist in solidarity and empathy*

Wish me luck

In accordance with the rules of this blog I must post something bitchy. So here is a list of shit that pissed me off this week:

1. Dude at fast food restaurant staring up blankly at the list of food choices and asking the 16 year old cashier for culinary recommendations from the menu.

Alien from another fucking planet that has apparently never been to a Burger King: "Do you think the number 8 or the number 10 is better? Which would you get?"

Poor dumbass cashier as he
turns to stare at the menu as well: "Uhhh, I don't know... Do you like BBQ sauce?"

Cranky, hungry RBR who is trapped behind this MENSA meeting thinks: "Oh, for fuck's sake, they all taste the same. Pick one, asshole!"

RBR says: *sigh*

2. Woman at the grocery store blocking the entire dairy case while she chooses yogurt, and then acts offended when I reach in front of her.

RBR: Excuse me *grabs cottage cheese*

Fatass Dairy Blocker: *hmpf *You must be in a hurry.

RBR thinks: Well, I considered spending another 10 minutes staring at your mesmerizingly huge ass while you contemplate yogurt flavors, but, I decided to get on with my life. And by the way, nonfat yogurt? Seriously, who are you fooling? *

RBR says: *eye roll* Whatever ( I know I am sooooo witty!)

Monday, March 15, 2010

When do the locusts arrive?

Ok ,I am a super bad blogger.

I am going to pretend that this happened yesterday ( it actually happened LAST Monday, and since today is Monday that is close enough for government work) I wanted to write about it anyway because it makes me seem like kind of a bad ass and I love to share stuff that makes me seem like a bad ass.
Yeah, that is 'Professor Bad Ass' to you

Monday after work bike ride

LA Run Buddy shows up promptly at 4:30 pm for our 4 pm ride (she is so fucking perfect-link to diatribe about her perfectness- that I feel the need to point out her one character flaw, unfailing lateness for EVERYTHING) it is cold and breezy and the sky is looking a little ominous. We mount our aluminum steeds and head out for a quick 20 miler. About 8 miles in I look to the mountains and see something that is very reminiscent of this (the last time I thought I could out run a storm)

Storm 'a brewing over the Palo Alto Baylands Dec 2008. Hail Storm 1 RBR 0

I look back at LA Run Buddy and say "Ummmm...Maybe we should turn around to avoid the rain." About 10 minutes later we were cloaked in darkness and I revised that to "Ummm... we may not beat this home." About 2 minutes after that we were hit with a monster cross wind that shook our bikes and had us riding at a 45 degree angle. This was followed by some very hard, very cold rain. Then the hail started.

Sweet Christ.

Hail hurts when you are running.

Hail hurts like a MOTHER on the bike.

The poor coots and ducks were caught off guard as the small percolation pond along the bike trail turned into a white water thrill ride.
I did not take this picture. I submit it as evidence that you can find ANYTHING on Google images. "Coots on rough water" = 10,000 hits. Amazing!

We were still about 7 miles from home and had resorted to holding one hand up to block the sting of hail from our faces. We stopped under a bridge for refuge.

LA Run Buddy - literally quaking from the cold, her face pocked red from hail: Fuck this, call Eddy to come get us!

RBR - looking in my Bento box: Uh, do you have your phone?

LA Run Buddy: Fuck!

We headed back out and peddled like hell for home. We stumbled into the house half frozen, wet, and unhappy. My hubby was sitting at his desk with his feet up, drinking hot cocoa (no, I am not kidding!)

Hubby: Whoa. What happened to you guys? Were you riding in that?

That is my husband, Captain Obvious.

Still that is some old fashioned RBR bad assery, no? (ok, there is a fine line between dumbassness and bad assery, but I digress...)

Tuesday, March 2, 2010


I have apparently learned NOTHING in the 5 years since I started doing all of this endurance sports stuff.


Case in point, this weekend I was cleared to get back to training so I decided to act as if I had taken no time off and did not just have surgery.


On Saturday, Run Buddy and I decided kind of last minute to try a bike ride, so I powered up with a hearty breakfast of half a banana (Exhibit A of RBR Brilliance)

We headed out with no clear plan of what we were doing in terms of distance or where we were going. As is always the case when I train with my uber-competitive Run buddy (ok, I am a smidge guilty of it myself) we head out WAY too fast. I think initially we were both thinking we would do about 20 miles to get back into it, but at 10.5 miles out we stopped to access where the hell we were (translation: we where a teensy bit lost. Oops) and how far we wanted to ride today and me saying this ride was harder for me than I had hoped for.

This lead to full scale, semi-hysterical, laughing/crying breakdown on the side of the road (I know it is an odd response, but it is how I roll. *shrugs*) about how there was NO WAY IN HELL I could get ready for a full iron triathlon by the end of July, yet I had to train for it anyway because my hubby wants me to and thinks I am capable of anything seemingly impossible, and he will be spending this summer going through radiation treatment, and I do not want him to think for even one second that he was in any way the reason for, what I am certain will be come to be known as, "RBR's Iron Failure Numero Dos"....

Breathe RBR, breathe. *wipes snot on sleeve*

My Run Buddy starts punching me in the arm to make me stop crying saying that was her big brother's answer. This made me laugh and compose myself.

But now, angry at myself, I decide we are riding farther (Exhibit B of RBR Brilliance) I powered down ALL of the nutrition I brought on this ride, three Cliff Shot blocks (umm...yeah Exhibit C of RBR Brilliance)) , and we headed out to do thirty miles. Still lost, we finally figured out where we were going and at what would be the turn around for about a 32 mile ride, Run Buddy says, "Lets keep going for an even 35"

Sure. I am not going to be the one that pussed out, so we keep going. (Exhibit D of RBR Brilliance)

After getting lost AGAIN, we turn around, and 40 miles later we are home. By this time we have both bonked due to piss poor nutrition, are barely able to stay upright on our bikes, and our communication has been reduced to grunts and snotty looks at each other.

This has lead to a great debate in my head. A debate on which I would appreciate the thoughtful reader's opinion (yes, that means you).

Do I:

1. Continue this charade. Train my heart out knowing that the likelihood of me being able to complete Vineman at the end of July is about the same as the likelihood that I will be selected as the next spokes model for Levi's skinny jeans and let whatever will be, be on July 31st (and can I add a hearty "Fuck you" to whatever soulless asshole brought the little slice of hell called "skinny jeans" back in fashion? They look good on approximately 0.00076% of the population and that number drops dramatically if you exclude people under the age of 14)

I did not make this image, but I could have. This is the oh-so-flattering ice cream cone effect of skinny jeans.

2. Drop back to Barb's Race 1/2 Iron for July 31st and register for Redman Iron distance on September 25th.

3. Forget this whole stupid pipe dream, sell my bike to go buy more donuts, and take up needlepoint as my new hobby.

Ok, I guess that is not really an option, but this is a funny needlepoint. For more like this, go here www.subversivecrossstitch.com. Hysterical.