First-World Problems

Ruby, Are You Contemplating Going Out Somewhere?

I don’t know shit about makeup. My daily face ritual is

and…

Actually, no ‘and’. That’s it: Bonne Bell Dr. Pepper LipSmacker chapstick.

On school picture day, I’ll powder my T-zone because otherwise it looks like you could wax a car with my forehead. And about two or three times a month, on a weekend night when shit gets crazy, my tube of Great Lash gets busted out.

But some of the bitches I run with, they know makeup. I kept badgering them to teach me, and — squeaky wheel/grease — they got me a gift card to Sephora for my birthday and took me on a field trip to spend it!

It was so fun! And informative! I mean, I still don’t really get it. One of them would pick up a cask of green eye shadow and rub it on the inside of my arm. The inside of my arm. How does? — Anyway, they’d all lean in, and say in concert, “Oh, no.”

I’d squint at it and say, “No? Not good?”

They’d say, “No, not good.”

Then another of them would slather a different product on my inner forearm — one that looked to me exactly the same as the first — and they’d go, “Oooooooh. Yeah.”

And I’d go, “Yeah?”

And they’d go, “Yeah.”

And then they would teach me how to apply the stuff.

Here’s my sister-wife paintin me up like a Jezebel.

Anyhow, last week, at age 37, I bought my first-ever eye liner (a purple one by Dior that cost thirty dollars — what?!) and my first-ever rouge — wait, they don’t call it that, do they? — blush (Dabby dabby dabby on your cheek, aaaaaaand make a C around your eye… that’s what I remember from what they taught me anyway).

They told me to buy cheapo mascara — done — because I have good lashes already, and Kate M. tried to get me to throw out my powder compact and get a new one. She was like, “How old is it? More than six months?”

And I said, “Sure. It’s probably two or three years old, but I’ve only used it, like, eight times.”

She was all, “Older than six months! Throw it out! Bacteria! Breakouts! Disease and putrescence! Your face will rot off!” She didn’t really say all that, but she was quite emphatic. I wrested it from her talons and shoved it back in my purse.

(If I die of meningitis of the face, Kate, you can say I told you so.)

Anyway, I should’ve taken a Before picture. Alas, I didn’t think to. However, here’s an After shot (of me making a face like a total goober!).

I’m also real greazy because I had gone straight from the gym, but ignore that, and pay attention to the eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, blush, and lip gloss. I am wearing makeup!!!

Thanks, Kate, Mayg, Shiv, and Hammer! I love you guys!

Retrobruxist Friday 10/12/12

I was suffering through a pretty extended period of terminal insomnia three years ago. I thought it was from grief, but turned out the Effexor I started taking right after Boonie died was the culprit. When I decided to go off it a little while later, the wake-ups stopped. Now the same thing is happening, but I’m not on meds so I don’t know what the hell. Sometimes it shows up when I start a new job or move to a new city or something, but there’s no major circumstantial upheaval right now. So I don’t know. But it sucks.

Two years ago, I was soliciting career suggestions. Still am! (If you guys had actually come through with my request for a bajillion dollars, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.)

Thing is, I love teaching: I love my content area; I really like my school and the people I work with; I dig the vacation schedule; my administration is supportive; and the kids, the kids are hilarious. But the parts I hate about my job, I hate so bad, namely (1) frequent, long, useless, pointless meetings, (2) 7:20am start time, and (3) stupid, stupid hoops to jump through, passed down from people who have never been in the classroom or were there so long ago they haven’t the foggiest recollection what it’s like.

And those things, minus maybe #2, would be true for any teaching job. So maybe teaching’s not it for me?

But what is?

(Send one bajillion dollars now.)

A year ago, I wrote one of my most commented-on posts. You think it’s about dating? Guess again.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Twofer: A Real Post PLUS Retrobruxist Friday 9/28/12

A few words before we Retro it up here. My point with yesterday’s post was not that I think I’m an ogre… an ogra… what’s the feminine of ogre? I don’t think I’m an ogress. I think I’m aight.

And this next part is weird, because from what they tell me, a lot of women experience the opposite, but many times, I’m reassured by what I see in the mirror. [Oh, god, am I going to go here? Shit, might as well.] I generally walk around in my life kind of thinking of myself as a slightly greasy, chubby, waddling Oompa-Loompa with temperamental skin, and when I catch my look in the mirror, I almost always go, “Hey, that’s not so bad!” I mean, I definitely have times when my reflection makes me cringe, but more often than not, it’s a relief. Photos too. I’m weirdly photogenic, which is nice.

Thing is, I want to be the kind of person who sees the above photo and the one of the fat, ugly, stoned skeptic that Jeff took and says, “Psh, neither is reality.”

But the fact is—OH THIS IS SO PATHETIC—I don’t. I look at the above and think maybe someone could love that person, and I look at Jeff’s picture and say, good god,

i-have-to-rep-my-hermit-life-to-the-dog-and-the-mailman-if-i-ever-see-him — it’s gonna be me and 15 dogs.

What I wanted to get across in yesterday’s post was not “Please, everybody, reassure me that I’m beautiful”; it was “I need to stop caring about this superficial bullshit which is not who I am”.

I want to care MORE that I can live through difficulty, write a meaningful story about it, have the courage to get onstage and tell it to 200 strangers, and do it well enough that the audience is moved and the judges think it’s the best story of the night, and LESS about the fact that Jeff took a picture of me from a weird angle, which made it look like I had some sort of growth on my neck, while I was probably crying and definitely squinting into the bright lights. I can’t control every image that makes it to the internet and every perception that every person has of me. I need to let that go.

Here was my big plan to pull off this caring-about-appropriate-things thing: I asked Jeff for the photo, and I was going to post it on this very blog on the World Wide Web. Alas, he felt so bad about contributing to my distress* that he not only deleted the photo from Facebook; he deleted it completely.

So. The best I can do is try to re-create it for you. It looked a little something like

*Two things: (1) I used those iMessage screenshots without his permission. I am an asshole, and I won’t do that again (sorry, Jeff!); (2) he was nothing but lovely during the whole situation and really believed that he was honoring me and my story with the photo; and—OK, three things—(3) just so we’re clear, as depressed as I’ve been in my life, I’ve never, ever contemplated suicide. The whole bit about offing myself was pure histrionics for comedy purposes, but suicide is not funny, and I won’t joke about it anymore.

On to the Retro!

Three years ago, I was trying to teach my students show-don’t-tell. It’s still the hardest thing in the world to teach.

Redford was already 18 months old two years ago, but he was my baby. Still is.

I hosted the Monti StorySLAM for the first time one year ago. Crazypants. I can’t believe that was a year ago.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

37

Won the StorySLAM — One of these days, I’ll stop measuring my self-worth in Facebook Likes.

The irony (or not) is that my story had to do with being less than sanguine about turning 37, and being single, and having what I have, and not having what I don’t have. People keep asking me if they can read it, but—and this is weird because I told the story to 200 strangers on Monday night—I don’t feel ready to share it here yet. It was hard, and I cried, and apparently they cried, and I was hoping that it would be this big catharsis and I’d be Healed, and Filled with Optimism. But I’m not.

My birthday was great: My friends did it up for me; my writing teacher said nice things about my homework; I won the SLAM.

But two things: (1) I still seem to be in the midst of this 3/8-life crisis, and (2) Jeff, the director of the Monti, posted the absolute worst picture of me on Facebook on Tuesday to announce my victory.

And I flipped out.

I concluded by saying, “If that’s what I look like, then the question ‘Why am I still single?’ has been answered.”

He deleted the photo, but I really did let it ruin my day. Which feels dumb. Letting one bad picture negate all the happy. Especially, since I’ve been trying to be more accepting of my appearance, and most especially in the face of the Sikh woman’s righteous badassery that’s been floating around the internet for the last few days.

How do I get to be more like her? I don’t believe that my body is a gift from a divine being, genderless or otherwise, but I do believe that not focusing on my appearance would leave more time to think about my attitudes and actions.

In the past month or so, when I’ve found myself sliding into egocentrism, I’ve stopped, gotten on Facebook, and acknowledged a friend’s particular brand of awesomeness. It has helped.

But I like gettin my hur did. :(

The Relationship I’m Not In

I’ll start by saying a few words about Dan NJ’s post: I agree.

That was a very few words. In fact, I have no more words because he used up all the good ones on the topic in his treatise. So. Moving on. Now I’m going to say a few words about amy a’s post, maybe more than a few, because she used all kinds of good words in hers, but I have feelings about her thesis. So many feelings.

The premise of the post is that amy a is not necessarily/is not as-yet/might never be “happiest and a better person“ when in a relationship. And I will go ahead and say that neither have I been “happiest” in a relationship, except when I was 15 but it was the 15-year-old kind of happiness: equal parts giddy lust and petrifying insecurity.

The fact is, I have been in precious few relationships since then. Some fourth dates, a couple of six-month stints, and that’s about it. I keep friends around for decades, but I’ve never found anybody who I wanted to sleep in the same bed with for years. Who also wanted to sleep in the same bed with me. For years.

But I’ve always assumed that, should I find that multi-year-bed-sharing person, I would be happier. Maybe even happiest.

Not that every day would be wine and roses, and not that being in a relationship solves all your life’s problems, but there’s got to be something comforting/contenting about knowing that through those problems, you’ll have at least that one person on your team.

As far as the second part goes, I think I have been a better person whilst in my (albeit limited) relationships. I’m a really good girlfriend.

I’m really nice to my partner;
I’m considerate—I think about his needs, provide for them when possible, and encourage him to seek fulfillment of other needs with his bros or whatever;
I’m employed/financially independent;
I’m responsible;
I’m GGG; and
I’m fucking fun to have around.

In short, I’m good to my guy. So yes, if being a better person means thinking more of others, sacrificing, compromising, pulling your weight, etc., then I’m a better person in a relationship.

A couple other lines of the post jumped out at me.

“The pressure as each year has passed in my 30’s to Find Him has been at times not at all fun, but exhausting, humiliating, and unhealthy.”

Not at all fun. Exhausting. Humiliating. Unhealthy.

Truer words were never written.

“It can be kind of lonely, not because I don’t have those types of relationships [spouse & children], but because I find myself being unable to relate firsthand to my siblings and some of my friends on those levels.”

My version of this would be: It can be kind of lonely. Period. Both for the reasons amy a mentioned but also because I’m alone. I wouldn’t consider myself an extrovert. But I like the people I like. Everywhere I lived in New York (Prospect Heights, Hell’s Kitchen, and two different places in Astoria), I could look up and see a window to the apartment from the street. And coming home, I always did look up, because if there was a light on, that meant at least one of my roommates was home, and I’d think, “Yay!”

I’ve lived by myself for six years now, and I can’t imagine having a roommate. I don’t want a roommate. Unless that roommate is sharing my bed. (Or that roommate is canine, in which case I’ll take 15 kthxbye.) But I imagine that, if I had a bed-sharing roommate, I would pull into the driveway and, seeing his car, think, “Yay!”

And finally, the big’n:

“I may never have that Great Relationship, but it never happening is no longer a fear of mine. If it happens, I welcome the addition of it, but I am truly happy in the relationship I’m in already.”

Would that it were so for me.

Now, I’m pretty proud of who I’ve become in the last ten years.

I need a job, I get a job;
I get a job, I work my ass off to get good at the job;
I want a house, I buy the house;
I buy a house, I fix it up;
I want a different house, I sell the first house and buy a different one;
I find dog, I do my damnedest to help the dog;
I make and keep a lot of friends;
I deadlift 250;
I throw bitchin parties;
I host the Monti StorySLAM;
I actively work on overcoming my character flaws;
I post on this blog four times a week (and have for three years).

I’m doing all right. There’s a lot I like about my life. But a relationship is a big Missing for me. I wish I could be like amy a—I really do—but I just can’t say I am truly happy alone.

“Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that’s a real treat.” -Joanne Woodward, on being married to Paul Newman

Yes, that.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Epilogue

Don’t know Tulip? Her story begins here.

Tulip settles into her new home while I’m on vacation in Central America. Her mom, “Ann”, sends me messages periodically updating me on her progress: Tulip took a walk with her adoptive sister (I’ll call her Ridley); Ridley keeps barking at her but Tulip’s being great; Ann, Ridley, and Tulip all slept in the same room without incident (albeit with Tulip in the crate).

Ann is taking it slow, which is necessary, and seems smitten with Tulip. It makes my heart happy.

Every day in Costa Rica, I see dogs with no collars running down streets and roads. Why are they all running? I want to pick them up, but then what? It makes my heart heavy.

My friends keep telling me that I’m to take a break from fostering—I loved Tulip, yes, they say, but it’s been too stressful. And they’re right. I know they’re right. I need to decompress. I need to snuggle with Violet and Redford.

But it’s a struggle. Carolina Care Bullies needs fosters all the time. And adoptive families. They post about this dog:

Pumpkin Patch 1 — Her name is Pumpkin Patch.

She is three to six months old. And a tripod.

Pumpkin Patch 2 — Her right rear leg had to be amputated after she was hit by a car.

And I want her. I don’t just want to foster her—I want her to be mine mine mine.

But even though I want to say yes, I think I have to say no this time. For my dogs. For my friends’ dogs, who I want to be able to babysit. For my finances. For my sanity. For the sake of other things I want to do and pursue. So I can say yes to those things.

So when CCB asks if I’ll foster again, which I’m sure they will, I will tell them regretfully no.

I hope I can say no.

I’ll Take This Tequila and a Pack of Camels–It’s OK, I Was Bar Mitzvahed in June

Still sunbathing here, so I asked my good friend Dan New Jersey to guest-blog today. I’m calling him Dan NJ because I actually have two friends named Dan who have the same last initial, and both read the blog. One is a born-again Christian who lives in Texas; he and I stomped around the same section (trumpet) of the Watauga High School Marching Pioneers. The other is an irreverent Jew who I met when we sat next to each other in a seminar in New York City back in 2002ish; he, his Akita (Zeke), and I were roomies my last year in Astoria, and now he lives in NJ.

Dan NJ is the best at playing Devil’s Advocate with me.

He will tell me straight to my face when I’m being lily-livered. When I wanted to share my feelings with a man I had fallen for, but was convinced that email was the only way I’d have the courage to do it, Dan NJ said,

Sack up and tell the guy you fancy him in person, or don’t. Choose powerfully, and be satisfied with your choice. But should you email him, don’t be surprised if, after you can’t be bothered to take him seriously enough to engage him, he doesn’t take you seriously in return.

Be AMY SCOTT. Not amy scott.

But the opposite is also true. He builds me up when I’m broken, as I was after I “sacked up” and confessed my affections to the guy, who told me in the gentlest terms possible that my feelings were not reciprocated. Dan NJ blew it off:

…any man who doesn’t want you is gay, stupid, or dead for 72 hours or longer. I’m just saying. Even mostly dead can’t withstand your awesomeness.

Based on all the advice and coaching he gave me during Summer 2012, my girlfriends with whom I shared snippets are convinced he needs his own radio talk show. His opinions are always strong, informed, empowering, and persuasive. And this guest-blog post is exactly that. As with yesterday´s post from amy a, I have thoughts and feelings, but I’d love to hear from you first.

Without further ado, I give you the inimitable Dan NJ.

P.S. Dan TX, let me know if you want to take a guest spot sometime!

I’m just a few weeks away from my second wedding anniversary, and I’m reminded of how wonderful my wedding experience was for my wife and me. In particular our cantor, who is gay, married us in a beautiful ceremony and in attendance were a great many gay friends and family, some married, others not yet allowed to do so by the State. During our wedding my wife and I made a point of showing our support for the opportunity for all people in America to have a similar chance to express their commitment, but I was being a bit of a hypocrite.

I’m not actually in favor of marriage equality. I do believe, fervently, that non-traditional couples should be recognized by the State and afforded all the same rights and privileges that traditional married couples presently receive, but to embiggen the definition of marriage to allow same-sex unions will not address the fundamental violation of the separation of Church and State inherent in our current system. The problem that wants addressing is not that same-sex marriages are not universally recognized, but rather that the State recognizes any religious marriages at all, including and especially “traditional” ones.

When I turned 13, I had a bar mitzvah. At this gala event, I was acknowledged as an adult by the established hierarchy of the reform Jewish movement. Without regard to my pre-pubescent testicles, under-developed sense of responsibility and obligation, and total financial dependence on my family, as far as the elders of the church were concerned I was a man. My majority was not recognized by the United States of America, however, as I was not suddenly eligible to vote, drink, be drafted, or legally have sex with one of my teachers, which didn’t actually come up, but it could have. Seriously, it could have.

I mention this as just one example of the many religiously significant but civilly insignificant events that occur throughout the nation every day, to people of all faiths. These events lack secular impact and civil status for several reasons, but the original source of the State’s blindness to religious events is the Establishment Clause of the first amendment which states:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”

Constitutionally, it is no more appropriate for Congress to formally support (through financial or legislative means) any particular religion or religious act than it is for congress to impede those religions from practicing as they see fit, within the law. Yet in the case of marriage, Congress does both.

The outsourcing of this particular civic activity to religious authorities is inconsistent with the spirit of the Establishment Clause, and it’s that very outsourcing which is at the heart of what I see as both the problem and the solution. The contentious issue that we face today is a result of the State allowing religious marriage to afford civil status, and that conflict will not be resolved by expanding the definition of marriage to include same-sex couples. Rather, we should reserve the benefits of civil status for a solely secular civil union, and bring integrity back to the separation of Church and State.

I suggest that the nation promote a national civil union contract between tax-paying consenting adults, with clearly defined creation and dissolution procedures, in order to promote the general welfare of the nation’s citizenry. These contracts would be governed by the secular laws of the nation, and would not tolerate any civil rights preferences or violations. Anyone and everyone who wishes to be considered legally joined to one another in America, whether hetero- or homosexual, would need to register their civil union accordingly. And with universal civil unions, the State can get out of the marriage business, leaving it to religious institutions to include in their roster of meaningful but legally irrelevant activities. I contend there is no need for a broader definition of marriage to include same-sex couples, or for the creation of a separate but equal civil union alternative aimed solely at same-sex couples. I believe the need is for marriage to become a separate and unequal religious event, and secular civil unions to become the standard by which inheritance, taxation, insurance, custody, visitation, and the entire menu of items impacted by marital status is considered.

And then if Roman Catholics wish to exclude homosexuals from marrying, frankly that’s their business. If Mormons wish to allow marriage to multiple wives, similarly, that’s their business. Neither of those unions should have any more significance legally than my bar mitzvah, and if any particular demographic feels aggrieved, they should feel free to take it up with their religious leadership rather than the President. It is no more appropriate for the State to force a civil definition of marriage on Roman Catholics than it is for Roman Catholics to force their religious definition on our secular authority.

The fight for same sex couples to achieve marriage equality via having their marriages recognized is a symbolic, but Pyrrhic victory. The true civil rights victory would be the disenfranchisement of religious authorities of their ability to confer or withhold preferred status on American citizens based on a particular interpretation of a particular mythology.

Now, you may argue that my idea would then require an effort to ensure our civil authorities will universally recognize sexual orientation as a protected-class, which is not presently the case. Yet I would counter that same-sex marriage is already covered under gender-discrimination laws, though for the life of me I can’t fathom why it isn’t being argued that way. I don’t know about you, but if I were a woman and was being actively barred from legally receiving the same rights and privileges that a similarly qualified man was able to enjoy, I’d frickin’ sue.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 26 (The End?)

Tulip’s story starts here.

Days 1-2

Breakfast, dinner, walk, snuggles. Usual stuff.

Day 3

The woman who put in an application for Tulip—I’ll call her Ann—emails to ask if she can hang out with her for a while in the evening. I tell her of course she can. They chill at her house for several hours. When she brings Tulip back, she seems loathe to leave her.

Day 4

Usual stuff again.

Day 5

I’m going on vacation, and Ann is out of town, so another of Tulip’s Facebook friends offers to take care of her for the weekend. I drop my foster dog at let’s-call-her-Stasia’s house in the evening. The next-door neighbor has seven dogs. There is fence patrolling.

As I leave, I realize that, if all goes well, this will be the last time I’ll see Tulip as my foster dog. It’s possible I tear up a little bit.

Day 6

I head out on vacation.

Day 7

Ann picks up Tulip from Stasia’s house, and so begins Tulip’s trial in her new adoptive home.

(Stasia emails to say that Tulip was wonderful all weekend and now she’s missing her like crazy.)

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Epilogue

Retrobruxist Friday 9/14/12

I started raging against the “You’ve lost weight!” machine three years ago. I rage on.

Two years ago, I accidentally let a student read questionable material in the classroom.

This week, one year ago, North Carolina did a bad thing. On May 8 of this year, NC did a worse thing. Amendment 1… Fracking…. Defunding Planned Parenthood… Hard not to think my home state is going down the shitter.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Shit Show

[This post is going to be lousy with #firstworldproblems. I know a girl (she’s 11) who has a prosthetic leg, so all of the words henceforth can go in the chapter of the Avid Bruxist narrative titled Complaints About Shit that Doesn’t Matter in the Grand Scheme. There’s my disclaimer. And yet…]

In February, five friends and I registered to do the Tough Mudder Mid-Atlantic, a 12-mile course with 25 obstacles, obstacles to be overcome by doing such things as swinging across monkey bars, climbing over giant piles of logs and/or hay bales, and getting electrocuted.

The things I was worried about were myriad:

Running 12 miles. Not the hugest deal—my sister and I lumbered a half-marathon a few years ago—but, this time, I would have to do a reasonable job of keeping up with my teammates, all of whom (a) own legs at least nine inches longer than mine, (b) weigh 50 pounds less than me, or (c) participated in the 2011 CrossFit Games.
Doing some of the obstacles. See, there were some I planned to stroll right around: Everest, for example, a huge quarter-pipe, slippery as a snake, up which one must fling oneself and hope that another Mudder grabs at least one body part with which to hoist one the rest of the way. I was planning on skipping that one. But it was the obstacles I knew I should do but was really unsure about that caused some agita. For example, there’s a series of about a dozen shoulder-deep trenches filled with water, spaced five feet apart, over which I was supposed to jump, and I just knew—I knew—I would fall in and not be able to hoist myself out, and my teammates would have to double back and drag me out by the armpits. It was gonna be real embarrassing.
Using wet and muddy port-a-potties. While wet and muddy. Gross.
Getting electrocuted.

Turns out I worried about the wrong things.

Friday evening, my gang and I drove 280 miles to Germantown, MD, where we had booked two hotel rooms for two nights. On Saturday morning at 7:20, we received a text from the Tough Mudder management telling us that, because of traffic delays, we needed to use an alternate route to the site. OK. Odd that there were congestion issues before the first heat had even run, but OK.

Our start time wasn’t until 1:00, so we had breakfast, got dressed,

ran to Target for last-minute gear, and headed to the course (about 20 miles away) at 11:30. Plenty of time, we thought, to get there, get registered, and get psyched up.

Approximately five miles from the course, traffic stopped completely. We sat there for half an hour and then, using our handy telephones, navigated our way to a back entrance.

Ooooh, Mudder Nature, what are you cooking up?!

This time, we got to half a mile from the course before we were stopped. One hour later, we were still a quarter-mile away (correct my math, but I think that’s a quarter-mile an hour). That’s when the skies opened. After another 45 minutes, we arrived at the parking lot, which was 20 acres of nothing but mud. We watched even SUVs having to get pushed out by already muddy Mudders who had completed the course.

Hope sprung eternal, tho’, and several members of Team ‘Lisa grabbed IDs and the it’s-your-fault-if-you-die-doing-this-bullshit waivers we had signed and sprinted through the rain to the registration tents.

The final heat of the day was scheduled for 2:40. It was 2:35. As we ran back to the car to check on parking progress, we heard them over the megaphone announcing last call. We could do it! We were sure!

But, woe!, the attendants were (probably wisely) not allowing cars into the mudbath/parking lot. We were ready to ditch the car on the side of the road, but right then, a group of Mudders came out saying that site management had closed all the obstacles, and if we were to start, we’d basically be doing a 12-mile mud run.

The obstacles are the point.

Fuck.

Team ‘Lisa conferred and decided we would just get up at sick:30 in the morning and do the course the following day. We were Tough Mudders; we would prevail!

In the middle of the night, TM management sent another text saying that, due to safety concerns (flooding from the storm on the course), the Sunday event had been canceled.

Well, see, but the part about safety concerns wasn’t true.

I mean, even at that moment, it rang false because, um, the nature of the event is to slog through a 12-mile flood, but later, news reports indicated that Mother Nature was not the problem. TM management pointed the finger at uncooperative local authorities, who in turn blamed TM management for overselling the event. But the upshot was the mayor pulled the permit.

Shit show.

On the part of TM, I think it was a case of good ol’-fashioned hubris. They’ve been the popular jock strutting around the fieldhouse of mud-runs for a long time. They stopped showing up for practice, didn’t listen to the coach (sanctimonious jerk, though he was), and got their asses handed to them in the Friday night game.

As for the police department and mayor’s office, a.k.a. sanctimonious jerk coach, I do believe there was a lot of hitching up of pants and saying, “You big-city folks might do it that way where you’re from, but not in my town.”

Since then, TM management has backed off the “safety” charade and said essentially, “Even though local authorities were being badge-waving pissants, the responsibility lies with us to make a good event for you, and we failed.” (Which is true. They’re projected to take in $75 million this year. How ’bout you’ns invest in some goddamn ombudsmen?) They’re offering refunds(!), which they never do, or free transfers to upcoming events.

Team ‘Lisa is determined to triumph, so we’re requesting entrée into Tough Mudder Carolinas late next month. (That would give me seven weeks to generate some real good worries.) Alas, TM Carolinas is not on the list of approved transfers that was sent out today, so who knows if they’ll let us in?

All in all, I’ve gone through a lot (of #firstworldproblems) in the last few months. The chapter title for the summer of 2012 will be Wherein Our Heroine Learns to Deal with Disappointment.

I guess we all need struggles, right?, to learn and grow and change… That’s what life’s about, right?, learning and growing and changing… So I guess I should be thankful, right?, for all the learning experiences…

Nah. Summer 2012 can eat a dick.