I want to be a millionaire

In case y'all haven't heard, tonight's mega millions is nearly 600 million smackaroos.

600,000,000.

dollars.

I'm feeling pretty good about my chances of winning.

(Side note, I had no idea how to buy a lottery ticket.  I went to a gas station/convenience store and had to ask if they sold them.  They did.  Whipped out my plastic to pay for it, because who the hell carries cash in 2012, and guess what, you have to pay cash.  God bless gas station ATMs.  And the sweet and patient girl who eventually sold me my tickets.)

 Tonight when I win big, I already have a plan of what Mr. G and I will be doing with the millions upon millions of our winnings.

First thing first, I would buy shit-tons of Apple products and make a room in my new state-of-the-art mansion that was literally made out of Mac goodies.  Walls made out of iPads.  Floor made out of iPods.  My desk will be made out of the iPhone and on it will be an iHome and a macbook pro.

I will buy an elephant and a monkey for the backyard and make them be best friends.

I would pay NASA to find a new planet and name that shit after me.

I would get gold everything, just because I can.

I would have a masseuse who lives in their own quarters in our mansion and I would get a daily, if not twice daily, massages.

And I would buy world peace.

JUST KIDDING.

(Calm your tits, animal rights activists.  I wouldn't really force an elephant and monkey to be best friends in my backyard.)

(They can hate each other if they want.)

In all honesty, after discussing our upcoming fortune, Mr. G and I decided to be the nice, humble, responsible millionaires.

Love,

Soon to be rich Granny

Whoops

It had been awhile since I have been thoroughly embarrassed.  I was about due.

In our office break room where we have mini meetings and where our kitchenette is located is a beautiful, white, shiny, clean Dry Erase board hanging on the wall.

Every day it taunts me with its sparkly clean whiteness.

I cannot help but want to draw on it.

Every day I ignore the impulses.

Except yesterday.

Yesterday, as I nuked my veggie soup I decided to draw a big smiley face on the white board.

I walked over, picked up the marker on the dry erase board and drew with a smile on my face, happy to finally give in to my inner child.

And then I realized I had made the ugliest smiley face ever:

I grabbed the eraser and went to wiping away the evidence of my poor art skills.

EXCEPT

OH WAIT

They apparently now make permanent markers that look just like dry erase markers.

That's right, folks. 

I had drawn the world's ugliest smiley face with a permanent marker on my company's dry erase board.

::hangs head in shame::

I immediately grabbed the Clorox wipes we have and started scrubbing.  That only spread out the permanent ink, but did not, in any way, make it go away.

I tried the special dry erase remover spray we have.

No luck.

I googled how to get permanent marker off of a white board.

WIN.

Google told me to color over the permanent marker with dry erase marker and let it sit for 5 minutes and wipe it off and all would be right with the world again.  

So I got to work.

I grabbed the eraser went to wipe away, and still, FAIL.

Blue smiley, though a bit more faint, in the middle of the white board.

FML.

I repeated this step four times, and in between I used the spray and the beach wipes.

In the end I made vast improvements, but not enough.  I had to tell my boss about my foolish mistake.  It was pretty obvious to anyone who walked into the break room that someone with the art skills of a 7-year-old had drawn on the white board with a permanent marker.

Happy humpday, people.

-Still embarrased Bubbie

Dear Sir

Whatever you are trying to pull off by wearing a full track suit with a fedora, it is not working.

Unless of course you were trying to pull of douche-bag.

In which case you are pulling it off very well.

Love,

Bubbie

Race-iversary

A year ago in February I decided to sign up for a 5K.

I trained for a month and progressed from barely being able to run one slow mile to running the 5K.

I ran the Shamrock Shuffle in 31:52.  I was so proud of myself.

After that race I was hooked on running and have been running ever since.

This year I signed up for the shuffle again.  My goal was to run it 4 minutes faster, 27:55.

In November I ran a turkey trot 5K and ran it in 27:55.  Again, I was so proud of myself for shaving off that time since my previous 5K.  But then I found out the course was 1/10th of a mile short.  Not a huge deal, but I really wanted this 5K to be 27:55 for the full 3.18 miles.

I trained all winter, doing sprints and cross training and keeping my miles up.  But I was discouraged. When I ran my sprints on the treadmill I still felt slow.  I was never going faster than 7.2 miles per hour, and that was only for 400 meters, and I always wanted to die after.  I needed to go even fast than that to beat the 27:55 that I had planned to do.

The week leading up to the race I was nervous.  I was anxious.  And I was prepared to be really upset with myself because I just did not feel like 27:55 was obtainable.  But race day came and I tried to stay positive and upbeat, despite the cold weather and my nerves.  

The race started and I felt myself take off too hard and too fast.  But I tried not to slow down too much.  "Just keep running, you need to be slightly uncomfortable to meet your goal," I told myself.

It was hard.  I pushed myself.  

I was being passed by old men, children, and people pushing strollers left and right.

What the actual fuck.

Here I was working as hard as I could, feeling the burn in my legs, and fucking 80 year olds were passing me?

Not.cool.

I kept on though, knowing I was doing my personal best, and just hoping against all odds that I was going to finish in 27:55.

I rounded the last bend and saw Mr. G near the finish line.  I sprinted.  I heard "Go Shauni!" and smiled.  And then I saw the clock under the finish line and was so relieved.

26:40.

26:40!

That is an 8:34 pace.

I cannot explain how proud of myself I am.  Never in the last year did I ever think I could run a 5K in anything less than 27 minutes.  I would read blogs and stories about people running their 5Ks in 26:XX and felt sorry for myself--"I will never be able to do that.  Those gals are fast!"  Not only did I blow my PR goal out of the water, but I blew it out of the water by over a minute. 

I feel like a real runner now. 

Thanks for listening,

Granny

Fake-ation

Ron: Mmm. San Diego. Drink it in, it always goes down smooth. Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it San Diago, which of course in German means "a whale's vagina".

Veronica: No, there's no way that's correct.

Ron:  I'm sorry, I was trying to impress you. I don't know what it means. I'll be honest, I don't think anyone knows what it means anymore. Scholars maintain that the translation was lost hundreds of years ago.

That's right folks, I am headed to the good ole' whales vageen in a couple of days for a work trip. 

Work or not, I had scheduled in an extra day to get to explore this city and get myself a tan.

But when I looked at the forecast, this is what I saw:

What the mother fuck!?

Meanwhile, back in Vermont it will be all tropical and shit:

Well played, San Diego, well played.

FML.

Love,

Granny

How on God's Green Earth is it Only Wednesday?!

That shit is bananas.  

B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Speaking of bananas...(I'm good at transitioning, yo!)

I like myself a banana every now and again.  However, being the freak show that I am, I only like my bananas with a mostly brown peel.

You know how parents use reverse psychology on you when you are kids to get you to do something you might not want to?  Well my mom always used to tell me that the brown bananas were best because the brown spots = sweet spots.  Being a kid who wants as many sweet things as humanely possible I loved that explanation and ate the shit out of extra sweet, brown bananas.

Turns out, my mom just told me that because she hated the brown bananas but didn't want to waste them by throwing them away.

So she fed me that line about brown bananas being delicious and I bought it, hook, line, and sinker.

Two decades later this whole brown banana thing has stuck with me and I still will only eat a 'naner if it's nice and brown.  I follow tricks to make sure my yellow phallic shaped fruits are aged appropriately.  I buy them when they are all separated (true story--if they are not connected they turn brown faster) and I sometimes store them in a cool dark place (again, they turn brown at a quicker pace).

On Saturday I bought myself four already separated bananas and put them in my fruit bowl assuming by Monday at least one little sucker would be delicious and brown.

But no, I was cursed with a still slightly green banana.

Whatthemotherfuck.

I literally gagged as I pulled back the skin and there weren't brown soft spots on my banana.  

There are few things more disgusting to me than an under ripe, still green 'naner.

I did however find one extra sweet brown spot, which improved my dining experience ten-fold.

All of this is to say, I cannot believe today is only Wednesday.

(And my banana today better get a lot darker before I plan to eat it at 3pm.)

Love,

Your own personal freak show Bubbie

YeeHaw!

On top of a great weekend away with friends up north, fantastic weather, and a 9 mile run, the best thing that happened to me this weekend is outlined below.

The setting:

On the couch, laptop in hand, scrolling through facebook.  Mr. G is next to me playing 007.

"OH MY GOD!  HOLY SHIT!  OH MY GOD! YESSSSSSSS!"

"Shauni, is everything ok?  What is going on?"

"THERE.IS.A.CHICK.FIL.A.IN.FUCKING.NASHUA!!!!!!!!"

Except is came out as one word and in a loud shriek.

"OHMYGODTHEREISACHICKFILAINFUCKINGNASHUA!!!!"

(The italics denote the shrieking sound.)

Mr. G just laughed at me.

But it's true--within driving distance from my house there is now a Chick-fil-a.

(Please note, driving distance from my house in rural Vermont means 2 hours, each way.)

And right down the street from CFA is my other BFF, Trader Joes.

Now I just need to get Mr. G to approve of the 2 hour ride just for fast food and groceries.

Drooling,

Granny

Hippo Birdy Two Ewes

Today is Mr. G's 27th birthday.

That's right, ladies.  I am 11 days old than my man, which I do believe gives me the label of cougar.

Rawr.

Happiest of birthdays, snookums!  

Cannot wait to stuff my face with pizza and beer and shred the gnar in your honor.

(Mostly though I like stuffing my face over shredding the gnar.)

Love,

your ancient granny wife

Wow

I was looking back at my old posts last night and realized that lately my blog has le sucked lately.

Not very funny or exciting.

Because my life in general is not very funny or exciting.

HOLD THE PHONE!

Here is an exciting story for you:

This week, after living here for nearly two years I finally went and got a library card at the local library.

WHAM!

Blown away with the excitement in my life, right?

Until next time,

Granny

Introduction

I wanted to take a minute and let my new blog header shine today!

It is brought to you courtesy of my awesome cousin Colin out in Illinois.  He is tres' tres' talented, and if interested you can see more of his brilliant work here, at Swirling Paint.

Dear Colin,

Thank you!

Love,

Shauni and her blog

When we saw this header we just laughed.  It is exactly what I look like.  Sitting with my laptop, wine in hand, tums near by, in full on sweats.  Twas Perfect.

In other news, this morning I woke up exhausted but with my favorite Newsies song running through my head.  And I feel any day that you just happen to wake up with Newsies songs in your head is going to be a good day.

Happy Humpday,

Bubbie