A-voiding Waffles

Last night Tom Selleck and I were making deep fried waffles in a dream.

  We started a fire and the alarm went off.  Only it really did go off.  I woke up to the screaming screech of a 4am mechanical blare.  Why?  I have no idea.  Well, since I’m up might as well go potty.

Speaking of potty…(ha, like that opening-completely-unrelated-transition?  If you get to see a picture of Tom, what is the harm?)  I take my kids to a birthday party in Chase Palm Park on Saturday.  It is standard party fun until my son starts peeing rainbow arches into the bushes and my daughter rips off her diaper and dress and runs around nudies wearing a pink hat and throwing her green garment in circles above her head.  I have to kick off my flip flops in the sand to actually catch my two year old, she’s got wheels to match her squeals.  Where do they get this behavior?  Honestly?

Rewind a couple of hours to morning tempo practice.  Hmmmm, it is a 800 grassy repeat day.  My pacing group turns to the obvious running conversation, excrement.  We could talk about birth?  “No! Poop&Pee is fine!” 

“Hey, do you remember when the lady who won Ironman lost control of her bowels at the finish line?”

“Wow, that’s really leaving it all out there.”

“She won and her shit got second.”

“That’s a whole new spin on number 2.”

“No more junk in the trunk.”

Snort-har-har.  Gasp, need more O2.  Hee hee hee.

~ by drea on June 29, 2009.