As the holiday season comes to a close, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the new year ahead. How can I make 2013 better than 2012? Like most Americans, I usually make a list of resolutions that include exercise, losing weight, drinking less, etc. I write them all down on a piece of paper and I’m lucky if I make it to Super Bowl Sunday before I’m knee deep in wings and beer. It is an ugly cycle that repeats itself every year.
I sat down to make my little list today and started to feel an overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety. Instead of forging ahead, I decided to take a step back and ponder why I felt this way. This is what I came up with:
I’m 35 years old. I have a full-time (plus plus) job, a husband and a toddler. This means that I wake up at 5:30 am every weekday to send emails before my daughter wakes up. Once she’s up, I get her fed, bathed, dressed and take her to day care. From there, I get myself ready, work all day and before I know it, my husband and daughter are walking through the door and there’s no dinner on the table. Day over. Wash, rinse, repeat.
The last time I checked, it was 2008. WTF has the time gone? How much longer will I continue to live this way until I make a change?
Don’t get me wrong. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my life. We definitely manage to have more fun than the average bear. The only problem is that we cram ALL this fun into the two days at the end of the week and then spend the next five days on autopilot—emailing, making calls, robot parenting and masquerading as adults. And if after reading my daily routine you were wondering when laundry and grocery shopping gets done, the answer is sometimes it doesn’t.
I love my job. When I am at work, I am genuinely engaged and passionate about what I do. I love my daughter and husband. In my very biased opinion, they are the most adorable humans on the planet and there is no one I would rather spend my time with. However, at the end of the day, something is missing.
I simply cannot make New Year’s resolutions for 2013. As much as I want to force myself to exercise and try some freaky new diet that requires me to eat like a caveman, I don’t think that is the answer for me in 2013. Instead, I have decided to make every day of the next year interesting.
Yes, I will be my own little version of “The Most Interesting Woman in the World.” There are so many things I want to try and experience (and in some cases, re-experience), yet I never make time for them. I get so caught up in my lame ass routine that I don’t even entertain adding something new and exciting to the work week. I realized today that has to change. You cannot live for weekends.
Following is a list of things I RESOLVE to accomplish (or at least try) in 2013:
1. Make my own champagne. This will really cut down on expenses.
2. Make a craft or recipe from Pinterest at least once a week.
3. Run the Pittsburgh Marathon (I know I have done this before, but it doesn’t get less difficult)
4. Blog regularly again.
5. Make a fabric covered headboard.
6. Start Pure Barre classes.
7. Flip a house.
8. Spend more time laughing with people I love.
After reading this list, it seems as though I might become “The Most Interesting Crafter in the World,” but this is my list and I’m definitely not normal.
As depressing as it is that the holidays are over, I am truly excited to begin my new year and I hope you are too. Sometimes spending quality time with the people you love helps you to realize that you don’t have to wait until special occasions to enjoy life. You just have to make a plan and make it happen.
After a long and eventful trip to North Carolina, Biddy and I are back to the cold, gray, rainy reality that is Pittsburgh.
Unfortunately, the conditions down south weren’t much better during our stay. When we arrived, a black cloud immediately settled over the house—in the form of weather and illness. What began as a marginally painful sore throat quickly blossomed into a full-blown strep infection that settled into my sinus cavity. As the rain poured outside, I spent the majority of the first week on the couch with a bloody nose and zero energy or personality.
There’s no mystery as to where I picked up the infection. My daughter, although seemingly harmless, is a notorious carrier of some of the most miserable cold and flu causing germs in existence. Over the past year, we have all suffered through countless rounds of illness and boxes of Advil Cold and Sinus. She’s definitely worth it, but I’m looking forward to the day when our immune systems finally adjust.
This time, I was not the only lucky recipient. The timing sucked, not only because we were there on vacation, but also to attend my Aunt Willow’s wedding at the end of the trip. Now she was sick, the groom was sick, and so were the bridesmaids and the wedding singer. There was so much pressure in my face. My teeth hurt, my head hurt and the only thing that relieved the pain was alcohol. So we drank and drank. And when we couldn’t drink anymore, we all went on antibiotics.
That finally did the trick. If only we had known sooner! Once I was back on my feet, I was able to accomplish the things I had planned during my stay. One of these things was laser hair removal. As it turns out, my Aunt Prissy is a nurse practitioner at a gynecology office that features aesthetics & laser treatments.
I love the idea of permanent hair removal. To me, not having to worry about waxing or shaving again is equivalent to when I had Lasik surgery and no longer had to bother with contacts. It’s that big of a deal. However, the results are not as immediate as Lasik. You have to go about six times, six weeks apart to achieve hairlessness. I’m totally willing to put in the time and energy to accomplish this goal.
I’m not going to come out and say what I had lasered, but it rhymes with cubes. Surprisingly, it was not awkward to get the treatment from Aunt Prissy for several reasons. Number one, she performs countless pelvic exams a day, so she has seen a lot of vaginas. Number two, she’s very cool and not judgmental, which I really like about her. She was professional and didn’t make me feel weird at all. Number three, I’m much less modest about that whole area since I had a baby.
Since you have to wear goggles during the treatment and can’t see a thing, I’m not totally sure whether she was lasering off my hair or shooting me in the crotch with a BB gun. I really couldn’t tell the difference. The procedure is painful, but so is waxing. The pain is temporary (takes about 20 minutes) and the results are permanent. In six weeks I’m going back for more!
Afterwards, my bikini line was red and not anywhere near beach ready, which was fine because it was cool and windy. However, it was nice enough to take Biddy to the park and to the beach and she loved both! From the moment her feet hit the sand, it was very apparent that she is a natural beach bunny. We had to keep her from running into the water! See for yourself below in a video and photo montage Mister Ferguson put together to document her outdoor activity.
Since this post is crazy long and I have a lot to say about the wedding festivities (including the bachelorette party), I’m going to continue with part II tomorrow. Until then, check out some updates I have made to my side bar. You can now get Tiddy delivered to your inbox and also check out some of my favorite blogs!
Despite the fact that tiddyferguson.com only has two public followers and zero of you mofos comment on my posts (READ please start commenting on my posts), I am continually shocked to see that an average of 900 people read my blog monthly. The beauty of blogger.com (the program I use to create this Web site) is that I can see exactly how many readers I have, if they entered the site from a referring URL or what they searched for on Google that led them to Tiddy.
Sadly (or not), the top Google searches are the following:
big tiddys
girls tiddys and but
girls tiddys
tiddy
If you were looking for porn on Google and you somehow found this site because you can’t spell “titty” correctly, WELCOME! I’m not judging—I’m happy to have you.
Since I’ve started blogging again, I’ve started following other blogs by people who share my common interests—running, mommy-ing, clothes and drinking. I also follow a blog by a very dear high school friend who was both my neighbor and homecoming date. He is a triathlon competitor and the posts detailing his workouts make my marathon training seem like a very pathetic joke. You can find his blog here. Read it when you want to feel like a total lard ass. I’m proud of you, Millhouse.
A blog I have followed for years is skippyhaha, which I stumbled upon through a now defunct site called vintagevantage.com which sold incredible t-shirts, both new and vintage. Over the years, I have learned fascinating tidbits of info from skippyhaha. For example, did you ever notice that there is a white arrow pointing right between the e & the x in the FedEx logo? Now you know.
In addition to providing entertaining trivia and insights, skippyhaha sells vintage t-shirts on the Internets. Not the poser vintage t-shirts you can find at virtually any store in the mall, but kick-ass shirts that were actually made back in the day. She sent me an AMAZING “Wilderness Waterski” shirt from 1981. They just don’t make them like this anymore. I cannot wait to wear this at the lake this summer while I watch Mister Ferguson wakeboard--from the back of the boat with a beer in my hand.
Thank you skippyhaha for my new favorite shirt! Check out skippy’s blog here and her vintage t-shirt store here.
I also want to send out a humongous thank-you to my girl (and adorable mommy-to-be) AR for sending me a fun surprise in the mail when I returned home from North Carolina this week. I love, love, love these New Balance shoes! I feel like they were made just for me.
More on my trip to North Carolina in the next blog. For now (back by popular demand) I’m going to leave you with another round of actual status updates from my Facebook news feed. My Facebook friends never disappoint!
1. Finding an all natural girl in OC is like spotting sasquatch. It’s either terribly dyed hair, covered in terrible tattoos, have random jewels staple gunned into her face or other body parts or a fantastic combo of all 3. To each their own but I'd rather date pinhead from Hellraiser than some of the talent out here.
2. Lady on the treadmill wearing shades would be pretty lame if she didn't just run like 20 miles.
3. I’m looking for a small, blue, Hello Kitty hair bow... not a blue one with Hello Kitty on it, but one that looks like the one Hello Kitty wears. If you have seen it for sale somewhere please let me know :-) Thank you!
4. Been hunting a racoon(s) most of the weekend...so far not winning the battle, but..."the only good varmint is a dead varmint, and to beat the varmint you have to think like a varmint...." I will remove the unwanted houseguests, oh yes, I will remove them!!!
5. My nice peaceful neighborhood has been compromised by what appear to be about 10 college freshmen on spring break. It looks like Akon, Young Jeezy and Chris Brown formed a band with Panic at the Disco and are using my neighbors house as a recording studio. If that's todays college man I fear for Americas future.
6. You’re invited to my birthday at Chocolate City. There will b a photograher on site so please Glam up for my party. I will send out the password the day before the party...letz keep it sexy.
7. When you make it difficult for me to stalk your Facebook page, I can't gather enough information to talk about you with others. Work with me, people.
8. Ran into a former co-worker last night. She said I was still pretty but gained weight. Ummm... thanks?
I have been dreading my two-week trip to North Carolina for weeks. Not the actual vacation, but the journey—the journey I was taking solo with a 13-month-old child. Since Mister Ferguson decided to go on a ski “mancation” to Whistler, my baby friend and I decided to head south for a visit with my family. The prospect of warm weather and Carolina BBQ excited us both, so we booked a plane ticket and packed our daisy dukes, flip flops and sippy cups.
Checking in and getting through security was not as bad as I thought it would be—although folding up a stroller, taking off my shoes and feeding both items through the conveyor belt while holding a toddler on my hip was quite a feat. Luckily, Mister Ferguson was flying out roughly the same time we were, so he was there to assist me through that whole process. Unfortunately, we were headed in different directions. Once he boarded his plane destined for blue skies and fresh powder, I was on my own.
I treated both of us to McDonald’s breakfast because when you have an early flight, you have to have a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. It’s the law. Biddy enjoyed an Egg McMuffin and half of my hash brown. We sat and talked about what was going on in day care—who was biting who, who was getting ready to walk and who just couldn’t get off the bottle. Just kidding. Our mother-daughter breakfast consisted of Biddy throwing her food on the floor, laughing hysterically and randomly shouting at other travelers while waving her sippy cup full of milk in the air like a tiny drunk person.
When I realized that I was actually getting ready to take this pint-sized heckler on a crowded plane, I started looking around for the duty-free store so I could find some Bailey’s for my coffee or vodka for my orange juice—just a little something for Mommy’s sippy cup. No such luck. I’m a nervous flyer to begin with, so at this point my anxiety level was at an all-time high.
Neither one of us is accustomed to waking up at 3 am, so by the time we boarded the first plane to Charlotte, we were both a little glassy eyed. Our seat was in the next to last row so we kept walking, walking, walking to the back—the whole time Biddy was reaching out and petting the lady in front of us.
Children under the age of 2 fly for free on US Airways, but they have to sit on your lap. Surprisingly, the airline does not count them as a carry-on item. You can buy your baby a seat on the plane and bring a car seat, which initially sounded ridiculous but is now looking like a better option for the next trip. She’s used to sitting in a car seat. She’s not used to sitting in my lap for an hour and a half.
As a mother, it’s impossible to imagine that someone would not find your child as adorable/smart/entertaining as you do, but those people are out there. I know this because we sat right next to them on the plane.
Before the flight, I had Googled “tips for flying with a baby” and had also asked several friends for advice. I was told to have snacks and several new little SILENT toys to keep introducing throughout the flight. So I crammed Goldfish, animal crackers, squishy balls, keys, stuffed animals and binkies galore into a backpack and actually threw in my Kindle (wishful thinking).
I was as prepared as a mother could be. I had anticipated everything except for being seated next to the two biggest assholes flying from Pittsburgh to Charlotte. I have been on the receiving end of many, many stink eyes in my lifetime, but nothing compares to the look our seat mate gave us when we sat down. Staring straight ahead and pretending not to notice, I put Biddy on my lap and went about my business. I got out the first toy, buckled my belt and hoped for the best. Apparently not satisfied that her dirty look had adequately conveyed her displeasure of being seated next to an infant, our seat mate loudly exclaimed to her companion, “Next time I will specify that I would like to be seated as far away as possible from any kids.”
My daughter, who likes everyone, decides this would be a great time to grab at the lady’s magazine. Now I am really freaking out because Biddy has no idea what the word “no” means and it really is impossible/pointless to discipline a one year old (no matter what her pediatrician says). The lady gets really agitated and says, “It’s going to be a looong flight” to her friend. I am apparently deaf/non-existent at this point.
To add to my little nightmare, the pilot comes over the loudspeaker and announces that we will have to sit on the runway an additional 15 minutes while the plane is de-iced. Yay. Biddy is beyond exhausted and is acting out like I have never seen. I’m trying to rock her, hold her still, sing in her ear. She is bucking like a wild horse, arms and legs akimbo. I am dangerously close to tears but somehow hold it together long enough to hear another sigh and “It’s going to be a looong flight.”
I get it. The lady paid a lot of money for the ticket and would rather sit next to someone more Wall Street than Sesame Street. Not the warm and fuzzy grandmother type I was hoping for. In a perfect world, there would be a separate plane for people travelling with children where they could all laugh, cry, kick and scream together. But I don’t own US Airways and I don’t make the rules. I was obviously struggling to maintain my composure and keep my child from running down the aisle. If I could talk to her and tell her to behave I would, but she DOESN’T UNDERSTAND ENGLISH or any other language for that matter.
Biddy is not a cuddler. She has never fallen asleep in my arms and she rarely sits on my lap for more than a minute. She likes action and is constantly on the move. The more I tried to restrain her in our seat, the more she struggled to get free. Despite my best efforts, her foot lightly grazed our surly seatmate’s knee during one of the more intense moments of our grappling session. This prompted a third, “It’s going to be a looong flight.” No shit, lady.
By the fifth time she said it, I had had enough. This woman was a bully. She didn’t have the balls to tell me to my face that my child was being annoying, but had no problem announcing it to the entire plane. The last time she said “It’s going to be a looong flight,” I looked her right in the eyes and said “It sure is!” She didn’t say it again.
That’s the thing about bullies. When you stand up to them, they don’t know what to do with themselves.
Mercifully, when the plane took off five minutes later, Biddy fell asleep and didn’t wake up until the wheels touched the ground. My arm asleep from the weight of her head, I sat in silence, grateful for a quiet moment to think up meaner comebacks to my seatmate’s insults. I caught her sneaking glances at my sleeping baby several times during the flight, making sure she wasn’t going to wake up and disturb her again.
When we got off the plane, we had to wait for our stroller along with everyone else who had to check bags at the gate. It was still all folded up when they handed it to me, so I had to balance Biddy and wrangle it open at the same time. Although it is a simple process, my first two attempts failed. There were no less than 15 people standing there waiting for their bags watching the whole thing. Amazingly, not one person even attempted to help. I eventually got it open and we made our way through the Charlotte airport to our connecting flight.
We had a row to ourselves for the 30 minute flight to Wilmington, so Biddy was free to flop around like a fish out of water the whole time. I was SO happy and relieved to see my parents waiting for us at baggage claim. Although it was only 11:00 am, I felt like I had been going at it for 24 hours.
When we got to the house, I gladly handed Biddy over to my parents so I could decompress for a while. While I cooled off my nervous energy with a bottle of Chardonnay, Biddy was more productive and decided to walk for the VERY FIRST TIME! No kidding, we were there for less than 20 minutes and she just took off. You know what they say, you can’t keep a good woman (or toddler) down!
Moral of this WHOLE LONG STORY: If you happen to see someone at the airport travelling alone with a toddler—DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE! If you’re seated next to them and don’t want to be, keep your mouth shut. I promise that however uncomfortable the child is making you feel, the mother is going through hell. I have been on both sides of the fence, and given the choice, I would gladly be the inconvenienced traveler. It’s not that I don’t love Biddy—it’s just that I love her SO much that I am willing to buy her an airline ticket that entitles her to a seat all to herself!
The one thing I really like about running long distances (and there really is only one thing) is that it gives me time and clarity to sort out any issues in my life and put them into perspective. And this past Saturday from roughly 8 to 10 am, in rolling farmlands in the middle of nowhere, I was doing just that.
Mister Ferguson and I woke up around 5:45 am, picked up my running partner Julia Goolia and headed to the Shamrock Shuffle, a ten mile race that is held in Harmony, PA (about 45 minutes away from Pittsburgh). It was cold but clear when we huddled in the barn to get instructions from the race leader. She told us good luck and where to locate the starting line. Almost as an afterthought she added, “Oh yeah, the township police have forbidden the use of ipods on the race course. Anyone caught using an ipod will be disqualified from the race. You need to learn how to run without help, anyway.”
Um, hello? WTF was I supposed to do with that? I can’t run a mile without my ipod, let alone ten. I need Girl Talk, Kanye and Jay-Z to get me up those hills! Panic set in and my heart started racing. I opened my mouth to protest, but the lady meant business. She made it sound like she was going to do a body cavity search on each and every one of us.
It took me all of five seconds to decide the rule was meant to be broken. As I took my place in the back of the pack, a girl asked me what I planned to do about the ipod ban situation. I told her, “I don’t give a shit, I’m wearing it. They’ve already given me my t-shirt and it’s in my car. I’m not going to win the race, so they can disqualify me if they want.” In a show of solidarity, the girl and her friend also strapped on their ipods. We weren’t going down without a fight.
Turns out, it wasn’t as big of a deal as we thought it was going to be. I high-fived several policemen on the course and they didn’t say a word about my headphones. I wasted precious energy worrying about this nonsense—precious energy I desperately needed to complete the race.
The course was impossible. One steep hill after the next, the miles dragged on as I tried to concentrate on my music. It’s amazing how you can focus on the words of rap songs when you have nothing to distract you. In an effort to change things up, I had downloaded some new songs from itunes, including “ET” by Katy Perry and Kanye West. The song is either about having an out-of-body sexual experience or sex with an actual alien. I can’t decide. There are some truly bizarre lyrics, including my favorite line by Kanye, “I’m going to disrobe you, then I’m going to probe you.” Classic love song. Wish it had come out around the time of my wedding.
Distance running is definitely physically demanding. However, you also have to be mentally tough and/or bat shit crazy to take on a marathon. There is a point when the physical part fades somewhere into the background and it’s just you and your thoughts out there. That’s when you really get to know yourself. At mile six, I was obsessing over the interviews I had completed for my dream job the previous week. Had I said the right things? What could I have done differently? Why hadn’t they called me yet? Maybe I wasn’t qualified. Self doubt and fear crept into my mind and began to affect my race. What was I doing out there? This race was full of hills. Would I even finish?
As if on cue, Puff Daddy’s new song, “Coming Home” came on my ipod. You know you’re in bad shape when you’re drawing inspiration from Sean Combs, but at this point I was grasping at anything to help me finish the race. The line that got me moving?
Ain’t No Stopping Us Now… I love that song
whenever it comes on it makes me feel strong
I thought I told y’all that we won’t stop
Looking at it on the page right now it makes me laugh that these words had such a profound effect on me last Saturday morning, but they did. At that point I knew that I was going to finish the race. I knew that I would get the job if it was meant to be and if I didn’t, I would get another one and it would be just as great. I spent the last four miles thinking about all of the things that have happened to me over the past year and how I could apply my new wisdom from Puff Daddy to other areas of my life. A little over a year ago I was afraid of childbirth, afraid of becoming a mother, afraid of starting to run again. Yet, here I was, completing a ten mile race, with a happy and healthy 13-month-old little girl waiting for me at the finish line. And I realized that as long as I believe in myself, the best is yet to come.
We were all pretty beat when we climbed into the car to go home. Mister Ferguson announced to us, “If we’re going to keep running these races, I’m going to have to get a pair of tighty-whities.” We all cracked up and I told everyone about a running thong I had seen in a catalog that week. I don’t know about you, but unsightly panty lines are the last thing I’m worried about during a long run. I can't think of anything more uncomfortable.
It’s Tuesday morning and I still haven’t heard anything about the job, but my positive attitude hasn’t waned! I will keep you posted. Wish me luck.
My 13 mile long run was cancelled today because my running partner Julia Goolia is under the weather. She sounds terrible. And although I wanted to get it over with, I can't say I'm disappointed. Seriously--long runs suck the life out of me. Instead, I spent the morning with Tony Horton getting my P90X on. We own the whole set, but I only like the plyometrics video because it is super hard and makes my legs stronger for running. The rest of the videos are full of push-ups and pull-ups which I am not ashamed to admit that I cannot do.
After the workout, I got out my laptop and logged onto Facebook, which I check before any other site out of habit. There is just so much information available in one place. Some important, some not. For example, I found out Michael Jackson died and what 35% of my Facebook friends had for lunch in the same newsfeed.
My Facebook friends vary. Some post status updates hourly, some monthly, some yearly. What's interesting to me is what one deems important enough to post as a status on Facebook. One of my "friends" is always sick and spares no details about her many ailments. Over the past year, I have been constantly informed about the color of her snot, the consistency of her bowel movements and what medications she is taking. I'm not sure if she's looking for attention or a diagnosis.
Another feels the need to comment about the weather EVERY SINGLE DAY. I'm pretty sure he's not a meteorologist, but he would be perfect for the job. My favorite is when he curses Punxatawney Phil for giving us a false reading on an early spring. That damn groundhog! I don't know about you, but I expect accuracy from my rodent weather predictors.
These two are wedged in between the political commentators (left and right wing), those who "check-in" everywhere they go, the farmers of Farmville and those who simply post song lyrics as their status. I don't want this post to come off as me being judgmental about Facebook status updates, because trust me, I'm not. I find them all fascinating. Yellow snot..Obamacare..barn raisings..dinner at Olive Garden--without all of this, I would have no newsfeed.
The following are five actual status updates from people on my Facebook:
1. Im having a tatoo party at my house tomorrow. My friend is a tat artist and is coming over and doing really good but cheap tats. Txt/call me if you wanna come! It's gonna start at 4pm and run till everyone is done. I need like 5 ppl for me to get mine for free!!
2. Relief! Not only did my abscess break on it's own and give me major relief last night, it just did it again! That means I don't have to drive to Monroeville to see the endo today. Hopefully my tooth cooperates and I stay pain-free this weekend!
3. Its so cold out tonight I wish someone would teach me how to Snuggie.
4. Looking for a place to rifle hunt near kanawha county. Please let me know. Doe, buck, doesn't matter. Let me know. I feel like I am putting an ad in classified section of newspaper. My dad will be with me because I can't drive at this time. Let me know.
5. So my daughter just asked me if she can burn incense in her room during the mummification ceremony she is about to perform for Strawberry Shortcake.
I sure hope she gets that tooth fixed and that guy finds somewhere to hunt. I'm getting ready for the tat party so I've got to get off of here!
Yesterday I went to Wal*Mart to pick up some items for dinner. It was “make your own pizza night” at the Ferguson household, a sneaky way for me to put dinner on the table without actually cooking. I simply purchase pizza ingredients at the store and line them up on the counter. Everyone gets what they want and I avoid slaving away in the kitchen. Win-win.
Back to Wal*Mart. As I entered the store and started wrestling a cart away from the chain (they are always stuck together), a girl who looked to be in her early 20s and weighed about 100 pounds walked in. She took one look at me (at this point I have one leg up on the cart for leverage and there is a vein bulging out of my forehead) and announced to no one in particular, “Shoo. I’m too tired for this.” She proceeded to walk to the other side of the entrance, hop on one of the motorized carts and drive off into the store.
There was NOTHING wrong with this young lady, yet there were no signs on the motorized carts specifying that one must be disabled in order to ride. Shoo. I was tired too! And for a fleeting moment I considered jumping on one of those bad boys and picking up my groceries. But I felt bad about possibly taking a cart from someone who needed it and also self-conscious about the stares I would definitely receive, so I freed my cart and pushed on. Out of curiosity I kept an eye out for the girl as I shopped and I spotted her several times—casually browsing through the aisles while happily bullshitting on her cell phone. Poor, worn out little thing just needed a break. I understand. My early 20s were exhausting too.
Speaking of exhausting…my long runs keep getting longer each week. Thinking up new topics to blog about keeps my mind occupied for half the time. The other half needs music to keep going! If you are in need of some new workout tunes, check out Girl Talk. The artist is a guy from Pittsburgh who mashes different songs together in a way that seems impossible and the result is really kick ass and motivational. There is really no way to describe it, so you will have to listen for yourself. The good news is that it is free and you can download it here. Let me know what you think!
Hello friends. It’s been about two years since my last blog and all I can say is that a lot has gone down here in the Ferguson household since then. Let’s catch up…
When we left off, I was gearing up to run the Pittsburgh Marathon. I am happy to report that I completed the race! It was long, boring and it rained pretty much the whole time. My race time sucked and I am obviously an idiot because I’m preparing to do the whole thing over again this year.
Almost immediately following the race, I got knocked up and ballooned to almost 200 lbs. Not an exaggeration. Last February, I gave birth to a sweet baby girl and named her Biddy Ferguson. Since then, my life has been full of diapers, bottles, footie pajamas and Cheerios. Cheerios are so gross because they kind of smell like urine and they get stuck to everything.
Now Biddy is one! And while not anywhere close to being self-sufficient, I really feel like she is starting to make her way in this world. She doesn’t talk per se, but she grunts and points when she wants something—which is a hell of a lot easier than trying to decipher cries. I remember when I was pregnant and people would tell me I would “just know” what she wanted based on what her cries sounded like. Not true. The only distinction I can make between her cries is when she’s “kind of pissed” and “really pissed.” I have realized over the past year that I am not a mind reader and the sooner this little lady can start communicating her needs and wants, the better! Luckily, she’s a delightful, fun-loving girl who is always ready for a new experience or a snack.
Obviously, having a baby is a major life-changer. I was prepared for that, thanks to everyone who felt the need to tell me, “You have no idea what you’re getting into. Things are really going to be different when the baby comes! Your life will never be your own again.” This is by far the most annoying statement one can make to a person getting ready to have a baby. I mean, I was already freaking out about the fact a BABY was going to COME OUT OF MY VAGINA. I didn’t have the emotional capacity to think beyond what would happen after we brought the baby home. I just figured we would wing it. So far, so good?
I’ve gotten a few lectures from Mister Ferguson on watching my language around Biddy because she is really starting to pick things up. I’m working on it. But recently, I realized it’s not only words she’s absorbing. Last weekend, I was standing in front of a mirror in my ski pants and sports bra. Before I put on my shirt, I started patting my belly and pinching my fat like I always do—bad habit. As I reached for my shirt, I saw Biddy sitting on the floor next to me with her shirt pulled up and patting her belly. It was both hilarious and eye-opening. At that moment, it became very real to me that my words and actions will help shape my little girl’s behavior, personality and self-esteem. And that scares the shit out of me.
So that’s what’s new with Tiddy. As you may have noticed, I redesigned the site and I’m very excited to be internetting again! As usual, I will be here to bitch about my weight (back to pre-baby, but not ideal), talk about new products and services, running, music and whatever else I’ve got going on! If you have any topics you would like me to blog about or questions, please contact me. Talk to you tomorrow!
Guest blogger! Guest blogger! Guest blogger!
You know, I beg you mofos all of the time to guest blog and none of you take me seriously. I was elated last night to receive this guest blog in my inbox last night from my buddy D-Dubs, who is as nice as he is good-looking!
D-Dubs and Mister Ferguson recently struck up a friendship over a mutual love of skiing and actually just returned from Whistler on a man-cation (vacation taken by men). How weird is it when your friend circles start overlapping? All of these dudes I went to high school with and have known for years are suddenly calling Mister Ferguson to go skiing! What am I, old news? At any rate, D-Dubs is a good friend to have and I’m happy to share him with my husband.
The subject of his guest blog this evening is speed eating, something which I am guilty of myself. I think it is because I usually wait until I’m absolutely starving to eat. When it’s time for lunch, I can’t get it down fast enough. I am always jealous of those “ladies” that are able to show restraint at the lunch table—the ones that order a salad and then appear as though they could care less if it arrives or not. I care. I place my order and then twitch like a crack addict until I get my sandwich. Then, look out! I am aware that if I ate smaller meals though out the day, I wouldn’t get like this. However, I’m my own worst enemy and refuse to diet correctly. Until I get some sense, I will continue to complain on my Web site about not being at my goal weight.
The following is a guest blog by D-Dubs:
I am a notoriously fast eater. It's in my blood. My dad used to eat 6pieces of Sam's Pizza (best pizza in the world, right next to Sarris's in Canonsburg) while driving home from Sam's—approx. 4 miles. My grandfather was known to down a dozen ears of corn no problem. Being a sprinter has its drawbacks. When I was growing up, it was not uncommon for me or my sisters to have to stop in the middle of a feeding and lie on the floor and moan from abdominal distention.
Nowadays, my friends will just be getting started on dinner and my plate will be clean. While this sounds like an exaggeration, today I got quantitative evidence of my problem. At lunchtime, I drove across the hot metal bridge to get lunch at Qdoba. I got lucky and found a metered spot right in front of the door. I threw a quarter in the meter, noticing that it already had 11 minutes. The addition of my quarter made it 41 minutes. Inside there were only two people in line, nice. When it was my turn, I ordered an "Ancho Chili BBQ Burrito,” naked with chips. For those that don't frequent Qdoba, the burritos are huge, especially if you top them like I do. I paid for my food and went to the drink station. Here I have a standard routine—squeeze two lemons into my cup, add ice, then Dr. Pepper. Then I got plastic ware, napkins, and Cholula hot sauce. I sat down, dowsed my food in hot sauce, and ate.
Upon exiting I noticed there were 29 minutes left on the meter. What????? I was not in a rush, I was not late for anything, just a creature of habit. I had mixed feelings—pride for being efficient, shame of being gross. I must look like a hostage while eating.
D-Dubs
PS—Opposites do attract because my wife is a marathon eater with stamina. I have seen her sit down with a wooden mallet in-hand and steadily and methodically consume Maryland crabs for 4 hours without rising from her chair.
For those of you who would like to see a video of D-Dubs at Qdoba, click here.
No surprise, speed eating is bad for weight loss. Some genius scientists set out to prove this by observing diners at 11 different Chinese buffet restaurants across the United States.
Their goal was to find out whether the eating behaviors of people at all-you-can-eat buffets varied based on their body mass.
Trained observers recorded the height, weight, gender, age, and behavior of 213 patrons. The various seating, serving and eating behaviors were then compared across BMI levels.
The heavier (higher BMI) patrons: ate more quickly chewed more food per bite used forks sat facing the food buffet
The thin (lower BMI) patrons: ate more slowly chewed less food per bite used chopsticks sat facing away from the food buffet
This study confirms earlier research from the University of Rhode Island published in the journal of the American Dietetic Association which found that eating slowly leads to decreases in energy intake.
Scientists even have a name for this now:
TIME-ENERGY DISPLACEMENT
It means that the more time you take to eat, the less energy (calories) you are likely to consume. The faster you eat, the more energy (calories) you’re likely to consume.
I have MAJOR PMS this week. As a result, everyone and everything is managing to piss me off. Most days, I am extremely easy going and laid back. But when the red tide rises, nobody can escape Tiddy’s wrath.
In order to get even with those who have wronged me this week, I have decided to publicly shame them on my Web site for your enjoyment.
Verizon Wireless
I will be the first to admit that I am extremely hard on my phones. I don’t believe in fancy protectors and I am constantly dropping my Blackberry on the ground. Pretty much every two months I show up at the Verizon Wireless store with a broken phone. What makes me angry is that each time I have an issue, Verizon does ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to resolve it. All they do is tell me no. I have NEVER heard the words, “Yes, I can help you” uttered from the lips of a Verizon sales associate. I even purposely go to different stores each time so I’m not labeled as a “crazy customer.” At this point, I am completely convinced that the company has a training course that teaches employees to only say yes to new customers, and no to existing customers.
For example, this week I showed up with a missing trackball. I dropped my phone the night before. The ball fell out and Nacho ate it (at least I think that’s what happened—I haven’t seen it since). For those of you with a Blackberry, you know that the phone is practically unusable without the trackball. I was desperate for a replacement as I could not imagine spending five minutes without my phone. Don’t judge, it’s the truth. I was confident that my problem was minor and I would finally be satisfied with the outcome of a visit to the Verizon store.
When presented with my dilemma, the sales associated hemmed and hawed for about two minutes and then said, “We don’t really repair phones here anymore. Why don’t you go on the Internet and order the part from an independent dealer?”
“Why would I do that?” I shot back. I bought the phone from you. I pay five bucks a month to you for insurance. It’s your responsibility to fix the phone or replace it. I’m not paying some other company money for a part that you should be able to get out of the back room and pop into the handset. It would take you two seconds. If you give it to me, I will do it myself.”
He just looked at me and said, “Sorry. Can’t help you this time,” and gazed longingly at the new customer checking out phones on the wall. He was getting ready to walk away when I decided to really be a jerk. “Fine,” I said. “The phone is clearly broken, so just give me a new one and I will be on my way.” He said, “Can’t do it. You will have to order one and we will mail it to you. Plus, it will cost you 50 bucks.”
I looked over at the massive pile of new Blackberries and became irate. The guy really had me by the short and curlies. He was seriously not going to do anything for me. I gave him a speech about his shitty customer service and stormed out of the store. I found some random place that repairs phones and they replaced the trackball for 10 bucks and apologized that it was so expensive. What they didn’t know is by that point, I would have paid 30. Verizon Wireless is on my shit list for only accommodating new customers and doing ZERO for existing patrons. I don’t want them to kiss my ass, I just want them to provide a marginal amount of service.
My Dry Cleaner
When it comes to errands, I’m pretty lazy and forgetful. I don’t return movies and library books on time. My dry cleaning would sit at the store for months until I ran out of clothes and had no choice to pick it up. Needless to say, when Model cleaners came knocking at my door with an offer to pick up my clothes and drop them off weekly, I jumped at the chance. Things were great for the first few months. There were clean clothes in my closet! I always had something to wear to work. I felt put together and organized. The clothes would arrive clean and packed nicely. Eventually, however, the quality of service declined dramatically. For one thing, I am missing three sweaters. I have complained about this to customer service, the guy who picks up my clothes and the corporate office. Each attempt I have made to get my sweaters back has been useless. The person on the phone promises to “look into it” and then never gets back to me.
The other problem I have with Model cleaners is that whoever is actually cleaning my clothes is a pussy. I am constantly getting them back with a note saying, “I’m too afraid to take on this stain. I don’t want to ruin the fabric.” What am I supposed to do with that? I can’t wear them with a stain. The only option is to try to get the stain out. I couldn’t do it myself so I sent it to A PROFESSIONAL. If you ruin the fabric, I’m no worse off than I was with the stain. Grow a set. Clean the pants.
My scale
Is a liar. It is spiteful and refuses to give me correct information.
Mall Kiosk WorkersI’m not sure if this only in Pittsburgh, but the kiosk workers in the mall are INSANE. The biggest offenders are the ones that sell the Dead Sea lotion, ceramic flat irons and mineral make-up. You literally cannot walk through the mall without some Latin dude or chick popping around the corner saying, “Excuse me, can I ask you a question?” or “Let me see your make-up!” or “Where do you get your hair done?”
It drives me crazy. If I want to peruse the wares in the middle of the mall, I will. I don’t need some overly aggressive cheesy sales rep accosting me during my relaxing time. I am really tired of pretending to be on my phone or taking alternate routes to stores in order to avoid these assholes. This week I got so pisssed off that I reported one of them to guest services. I don’t think they will get kicked out due to my complaint, but something had to be said. If this continues, I am going to have to take my shopping online permanently.
My Period
It was my understanding that as a female, I was to endure one week of PMS and one week of period. However, the older I get, the longer the battle with my period lasts. My PMS has extended itself to almost two weeks of weight gain, mood swings and chocolate eating. This, coupled with a week-long period leaves me with only one good week a month.
That’s enough bitching for one day. I have some cool Web sites for you guys to check out that I will include in my next blog, along with lists of favorite things compiled by my readers.
Most days, I feel like I'm still 21. However, once in a while something happens that reminds me that I'm not as with it as I used to be. The other day, I went out for a run and realized that almost every song on my ipod that was released in the past year has the word "swagger" in it. I even saw a commercial featuring LL Cool J for a deodorant called "Old Spice Swagger." When did this word creep into the scene? Where have I been? Am I not watching enough MTV? I'm cool, right?
A couple of years ago, something happened that made me realize that there is a whole other language that I have not been privy to since I began the third decade of my life. Picture this:
My family spends Christmas in a cabin in the woods. It's awesome. We are in the middle of nowhere. Nobody has cell phone reception, there's no Internet. It's like 1994 out there! We cut down a Christmas tree, make our own ornaments and spend the holidays getting back to the simple joys of life--food, wine, games and family. We also have a lot of time on our hands. When the Soulja Boy dance came out, the whole family dedicated hours to learning all of the moves. I haven't seen such a group effort since we all learned to moonwalk. Souja Boy must have been played 200 hundred times!
We were all swollen with pride when we arrived at my Aunt Prissy's house to show off our skills. My six-year-old niece was even running though the house screaming, "Superman!" At that point, I saw my college age cousin (who I adore) smirking to himself in the corner.
I went over and asked him why he was laughing at us. "Is the Soulja Boy dance already out?" I inquired.
He said, "Do you have any idea what 'Superman' means? I'm not going to tell you. Go look it up at urbandictionary.com."
I went into the den, logged onto the computer and typed "Superman" into the search engine. This is what I read:
"Superman is when a guy ejaculates on a girl's back and sticks the bed sheet to it. When she wakes in the morning and the sheet is stuck to her back, you have officially supermanned that hoe."
How embarrassing. How on Earth did I not know that? The song lyrics clearly state "Superman that hoe."
As soon as I got home from Christmas vacation, I signed up for daily updates from urbandictionary.com so I could keep my finger on the pulse of the English language. Each day, a new word and definition is emailed to me. Most of them are lame, but there was one this week that made me laugh:
Ghetto Upgrade When you are flying economy on a near empty flight and can lay across an entire row of seats.
Example:
"I got a ghetto upgrade on my flight out west and was able to sleep most of the way."
In other news, I am two weeks away from the marathon and I'm feeling pretty good about the race. So excited Kiddy F. is coming back to the 'Burgh! Thanks so much to everyone who donated to my livestrong.org Web site! Also thank you for all of the great song suggestions!
I’m reading Valley of the Dolls for the third time. Each time I read it, I fall in love with the story all over again. It was written in the 60s, yet it is so scandalous! Drugs! Sex! Entertainment! More drugs! I’ve read every book by Jacqueline Susann and they are all incredible. If you have not yet read Valley of the Dolls, get it ASAP. I check it out of the Mt. Lebanon library every couple of years. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else does, or if it just sits on the shelf and waits for me to return.
Several of you have written to me and asked about my progress with the Resveratrol/Soy Isoflavones experiment. Here’s the lowdown:
I have not lost any weight, yet I have not gained any
I do feel leaner around the spare tire and rotten peaches regions.
I do have natural energy and don’t experience my “tired time” which typically occurred around 2 pm
I’m not that hungry. The combination seems to keep my blood sugar steady all day so I’m not ATTACKING food.
Although I haven’t achieved the results I initially wanted (losing tons of weight while doing absolutely nothing), I think it has definitely helped. You have to be careful about what Resveratrol you order. Since everyone is talking about it, a lot of supplement makers have gotten on the bandwagon and some are offering products that aren’t legit. Through my research, I have found a brand that has been independently tested and the ingredients are actually pretty close to what is listed on the bottle. I have also found the cheapest price for you. To order, click here.
In other news, the marathon training is going as planned. I ran more than 14 miles on Saturday! The hours following the run—not so much fun. I developed debilitating shin splints and a raging case of swamp ass, which I self-diagnosed. The good news is that I followed the rules this time and had a pasta dinner the night before, drank two glasses of wine and went to bed early. I ate a Zone bar and drank two cups of Jet Fuel (available for your Keurig coffee maker) before I left. All of this made a huge difference in my performance. Through my marathon journey, I have tried a lot of different approaches the night before a long run. Here is a list of things NOT to do:
Eat Mexican food. Hot sauce in particular.
Drink Scotch.
Watch movies with your brother-in-law until 3 am.
Smoke cigars.
Do a P90x plyometrics video
All common sense, in retrospect. But what can I say? You have to learn from your mistakes.
I have also gotten some great suggestions from all of you for my running playlist. Not to sound greedy, but I need more. The following is the current playlist I am using. You might laugh out loud at some of the songs, but it is really random what motivates people. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE send me some song suggestions. I am getting so bored!
For the first time ever in print—I give you Tiddy Ferguson’s Pittsburgh Marathon Playlist:
Alphabet Aerobics—Blackalicious
American Boy—Kanye West
Bonnie and Shyne—Shyne
The Boys of Summer—The Ataris
Express Yourself—NWA
Fergalicious—Fergie
Google Me—Teyana Taylor
Hustlin—Rick Ross
I’m Me—Lil Wayne
Jesus Walks—Kayne West (this always comes on at a point when I need Jesus)
Just Like Heaven—The Cure
Love Song—Sara Bareilles
Paper Planes—MIA
Nine in the Afternoon—Panic at the Disco
So What—PINK
These Words—Natasha Bedingfield
Till I Collapse—Eminem
Your Love—The Outfield
Nasty Girl—Notorious BIG
Never Wanted Nothing More—Kenny Chesney
King Without a Crown—Matisyahu
That’s Not My Name—The Ting Tings
Rosanna—Toto
Rich Girl—Hall and Oates
Dixieland Delight—Alabama
Swagger Like Us—Kanye, Jay-Z, etc.
Brooklyn Go Hard—Jay-Z
Ain’t No Half Steppin’—Big Daddy Kane
What’s Beef—Biggie Smalls
Love is Blind—EVE
Back in the High Life Again—Steve Winwood
Take it Off—The Donnas
Crazy—Gnarls Barkley
Everywhere—Michelle Branch
Slide—Goo Goo Dolls
Womanizer—Britney Spears
Fresh Azimiz—Bow Wow
Good Life—Kanye West
I Ain’t No Joke—Erik B and Rakim
Positivity—Stevie Wonder
Ain’t No Stopping Sunshine—Yoli
99 Problems—Jay Z
That's it! I'm going for a run and then Mister Ferguson and I are going to the Harp and Fiddle to watch our good friend Eaton Beaver play a live show! I will have a Scotch and water, as that is my new favorite drink. It's not as hardcore as it sounds, although I must admit it makes me feel like a badass when I order one. Mixed with water, it is a low-calorie libation. Also, I don't drink it quickly and one drink lasts a long time. Mister Ferguson claims that I am sharp as a tack when I drink Scotch.
I’ve grown tired of obsessing over my weight. It’s been going on for 15 years and I’m exhausted. It occurred to me today that for as long as I can remember, not a day has gone by that my muffin top, second chin and rotten peaches (stores of fat on the underside of the arm) have not been at the top of my mind.
In fact, each day I get out of bed it is the first thing I think about. I pee, strip off all of my clothes (including any jewelry) and weigh myself. I record that weight into a little notebook, even though there is little to no movement. Every single day. Once a week, I get out a measuring tape and record the circumference of my waist, thighs and rotten peaches. Get a life, Tiddy!
The most hilarious part of my sad saga is that other than exercising, I do little to correct my lifestyle—hoping, instead, for a miracle. I do work out, but that is only part of the weight loss equation. What you don’t know is that I am a regular at the Sonic drive-through, Burger King and Arby’s. All of the running I have to do to train for the marathon makes me ravenous, and I never feel like I am satisfied. I eat breakfast and immediately start thinking about what I’m doing for lunch. I could eat a large pizza by myself and still have room for breadsticks. I’m a bottomless pit. It’s total bullshit. You think I started training for this marathon for fun? No. The only reason I did it is so that I would be totally hot by the time summer rolled around. There’s only a month left until the race and unless I start melting like a popsicle, I’m going to have to rework my plan.
According to my Women’s Health magazine, the first step is to create a food journal and write down everything you eat. I started mine yesterday. I ran into my weight loss partner-in-crime at a work meeting in the afternoon and showed it to her. She started reading it and busted out laughing. It was mostly normal stuff, but what caught her eye was the CADBURY CRÈME EGG. She found that amusing because she knows that every year around Easter, the eggs are Tiddy’s Kryptonite. I cannot go a day without eating one and it drives me crazy just knowing they are available for sale in the store.
I like the food journal because it is all there in black and white. I’m on day two and have only lied to myself twice. I like to use a pencil so I can make changes on the fly—changes that erase things that took place earlier in the day so I can free up my afternoon for CADBURY CRÈME EGGS!
I was bitching about my weight-loss woes to one of my doctors the other day and he told me to buy two supplements—Resveratrol and Soy Isoflavones. According to researchers at the University of Georgia, the two antioxidants mixed together reduced cells’ ability to store fat by 80% and caused fat cells to self-destruct at a rate 246% higher than normal--causing a natural, harmless form of fat-cell death. Upon hearing this, I ran out of his office like a bat out of hell and high-tailed it straight to GNC, where I purchased the supplements and gulped them down in the parking lot. I’ve been on them for about five days now, and I could really tell something was happening at first. Yesterday, however, old lady period rolled into town masking all progress, so I will have to get back to you on the results later.
Another tip I received from the good doctor was to purchase “Full Bars.” These are nutrition supplement bars that you eat twice a day—before lunch and dinner. The idea is that when ingested with 8 ounces of water, the ingredients are supposed to mimic the effects of gastric bypass surgery, causing you to feel full and eat less of your regular meal. The only caveat is that the bars contain 180 calories each, so you better hope it fills you up before you dive into dinner!
I bought a few of them and I must say, they did make me feel a little more satisfied than usual. I have found that it is a good mid-morning snack for me. Lunch is when I am on my worst behavior, so I need all of the help I can get.
According to the BMI (body mass index) scale, I am at a normal weight. Not obese, not underweight, just normal. However, according to the TMI (Tiddy mass index) scale, I am not at goal weight. Not even close. Whoever said you need to eat lose to lose weight was full of shit. Okay, maybe you need to eat the RIGHT things to lose weight!
Will there ever come a day when I don’t think about my weight? Why am I so hard on myself? Even when I’m at my goal, I’m worried about maintaining it. I guess the answer is that I need to start following some sort of lifestyle and stop eating cheeseburgers whenever I damn well please. I’ll keep you posted on what I come up with. In the meantime, I welcome any sort of tips and suggestions you may have for me!
Also, I really appreciate all of the song suggestions you guys have sent to me, and please keep them coming! I need so many more songs. Lacey Underalls informed me today that one of my readers is running a marathon REALLY soon, so I will post my entire playlist tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
I got a really great email from one of my old high school (and current day) chums D Dubs. It read:
Tiddy:
Rewind twelve months. You were out having fun and a friend wanted to take a picture with you using their cool camera phone. It made you feel good because you thought that they liked you enough to want a photo keepsake of your moment together. But today when a friend says, "lets take a picture" it's more like, "will you 'up' my social standing on Facebook by being added to my mobile-uploads gallery?" When friends take our picture these days, are we being used?
PS...you are even hotter now than you were in high school (just kidding, he didn't write THAT part!)
Your Friend,
D Dubs
I laughed at this email when it came in because it is so true. For example, Mister Ferguson and I went to the Southside with some friends on Saturday to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Eventually, the cameras came out and we all started staging photo ops. "Look at us! We're all wearing green shirts! The slutty Miller Lite girls just gave us shamrock Mardi Gras beads! We're 30 and still so crazy!"
Inevitably, after every photo was taken, I immediately checked it out and imagined what it was going to look like posted on my Facebook account later. Did my face look fat? Was my muffin top showing? What would I use for a caption?
You might read this and think I'm completely ridiculous. Don't judge me! You know you all do the same thing. Did you notice that nobody ever posts unflattering photos of themselves on Facebook? Whenever somebody tags me in a picture and I don't like the way I look, I untag that shit immediately. You never know what sort of ex-boyfriend or enemy is stalking your profile and it is always important to look your best.
Speaking of Facebook, my Aunt Ferguson started a group on the site called "Pearls on Wednesdays" that encourages its members to wear pearls every Wednesday no matter what. I joined the group even though I didn't own a strand and couldn't really participate. However, much to my delight, my dear Aunt sent me my very own pearls for Valentine's Day! I feel so grown up and lady-like. I have faithfully donned them every Wednesday since they arrived and I must say they really do class up an outfit. I would love it if all of my readers would join in and wear pearls on Wednesdays. You could start tomorrow!
In other news, I am 47% sure I saw a drug deal take place today. I was terrified and secretly thrilled at the same time. I'm pretty sure this gives me the street cred that I've always felt I deserve.
I'm going to upload some photos onto Facebook and lay my pearls out for tomorrow.
Download this: Allentown by Billy Joel (I really like to sing this in the car and substitute 'Morgantown' for 'Allentown'. It never gets old.)
Tiddy Ferguson says: The best way to succeed in life is to act on the advice we give to others.
For all of you who thought you were beating the system by unscrewing the top of your "I Can't Believe it's Not Butter" spray and dumping it into your Kraft Macaroni and Cheese to make it fat free, think again.
It's the spray technology that makes it fat free. In fact, the entire bottle contains 900 calories and 90 grams of fat. I don't know about you, but I am devastated by this news. I have been substituting spray butter for the real thing for years and this explains A LOT. Bottom line--if you are currently practicing this culinary charade, you need to cease and desist immediately!
In keeping with my grueling marathon training schedule, Mister Ferguson decided it would be fun we both participated in a 10 mile "Shamrock Shuffle" on Saturday morning. Races are nothing new for Tiddy, I've been a casual runner for years. I enjoy showing up, running a new course, getting a t-shirt and maybe a cookie at the end. I don't come in first, I don't come in last. On the way there, I don't think much about the race. I'm too busy trying to slurp down as much coffee as I can so I'm juiced up enough to finish the damn thing.
On the opposite end of the spectrum sits Mister Ferguson. Whereas I am a mere participator, he is a competitor. I guess I didn't realize this was his FIRST RACE EVER, but it became very apparent as we approached the site. When we arrived, he immediately began sizing up all of the runners that were congregated in the parking lot while I was busy casing the joint for a Porta Potty.
What's annoying is that the serious runners were all taking a light jog (that resembles my full-on sprint) to loosen themselves up for the big dance. Treating this as though it were the Olympic trials, Mister Ferguson decided he also needed a warm-up run to adequately compete. "Come on, Tiddy!" he pleaded. "Let's get out there and get our muscles ready for the race!"
I informed him that this was not my first rodeo and I was quite sure I was going to need everything I had and more to finish the race. I had no desire to get out there and show off by running before it was absolutely necessary. He was a little dejected, but knew I spoke the truth.
A mere ten minutes later, we were lined up and ready to go. He high-fived me and wished me a good race and slowly started to edge his way to the front. I knew my place, so I hung back with the rest of the cruisers.
As soon as I finished the first mile, I knew I was in for one hell of a run. Some sort of sadist designed the course and it was full of hills and smells of cow manure. I amused myself by counting the dead possums on the road. Wow--their tails are really long! I can't complain, though. I finished the race and my iPod was kind, playing the right songs at the right time. If you would get a gander at my playlist, you would swear I was some sort of gangster or hoodrat. There is a TON of hardcore rap and some random Steve Winwood, Lionel Richie...whatever gets me through. Sometimes I catch myself rapping out loud to NWA and it is pretty embarrassing. Right now, my power song is "Swagger Like Us." This song is great to run to and also contains such valuable insights as:
"No, I can't teach you my swag. You can pay for school but you can't buy class."
"I can't wear skinny jeans 'cause my nuts don't fit."
"I'm Christopher Columbus, ya'll just pilgrims."
I did see Mister Ferguson at one point during the race when he lapped me by a pretty significant distance. He had a huge smile on his face and was galloping down the road like Seabiscuit. I'm pretty sure I was wearing a grimace and throwing gang signs.
The good news--Mister Ferguson finished the race in 1:17! I finished a long time after that! We both got really nice long sleeve t-shirts with a leprechaun on the front and I really felt like I earned it!
Like I mentioned before, I am running the Pittsburgh Marathon. It is 26.2 miles and since I run really slow, it will take me about 10 years to finish it. As a result, I am going to need a lot of songs on my playlist to get me through the race. That's where YOU come in. I am calling on all of the readers of tiddy.com to send me any songs get you going in the gym, on the road or in the car. You can send them to me at tiddyferguson@gmail.com or comment on the blog. Either way, I need you! My existing playlist is getting old and I'm losing steam.
I decided to have lunch at Taco Bell yesterday (by myself—so sad) and the drive-thru line was WAY too long so I bit the bullet and went in the restaurant. Usually I like to scarf down my tacos while driving with one hand and talking on my cell phone. I’m dangerous.
I figured I would be in and out in about ten minutes tops. I couldn’t have been more wrong. A very old man took my order at the counter and disappeared. I stood at the register and waited. After five minutes, I was really becoming impatient. How long does it take to put together a taco? I was ravenous and ready to jump behind the counter and pitch in when a 300 pound lady came to the front and asked if I had placed my order. I calmly replied that I had and was waiting for my food. She rolled her eyes at me and went into the back. I could hear her talking to her coworkers in the kitchen as she exclaimed, “She just standin’ there like a bump on a log waitin’ on her food, lookin’ all dumb!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I was in a real predicament. Part of me wanted to be pissed, but I was laughing so hard on the inside that I had to bite my lip. The lady came back up front and handed me a cup so I could busy myself getting a drink while the crew in the back continued to make fun of me and took their sweet ass time making my tacos.
At the drink island, something struck me as odd. There were ten drink flavor choices, yet only one of them was diet. I realize that the population generally favors regular soda, but you cannot tell me that only one-tenth drinks diet. I refuse to believe it. As it was, Diet Pepsi was my only option so I took it. Tiddy really prefers Diet Coke.
I returned to the counter and continued to “look all dumb” until another surly employee came to the front and tossed a bag of tacos at me without saying a word. I had originally planned on eating in the dining room, but I was so baffled by what had just taken place that I took my tacos and ran away from the border.
Once in my car, I wrestled with thoughts of what could have taken place in the back of the kitchen. The employees had obviously taken a dislike to me. What if there were pubes in my tacos? What if the old man with the grey hair shook some of his beard dandruff in my cheese? The thought was too much for me to bear. I simply could not eat the tacos.
I polished off my Diet Pepsi and rummaged around my car for some Tootsie Rolls. Not the most nutritious lunch, but better safe than sorry. Nobody wants to eat a pube taco.
Two more days until I leave for the Super Bowl! Tiddy is going to Tampa!
Yesterday I was walking down the hallway in my house and got a whiff of something that made me throw up in my mouth a little. Mister Ferguson had apparently had his morning coffee and had visited the bathroom a few minutes before. He likes to use the same bathroom every morning for number two. Unfortunately, I like to use it also and he always beats me to it.
Fast forward 30 minutes later. The stench was gone and I was heading in for my own little private time with the latest copy of the New Yorker. As I sat reading about Obama’s inauguration, my own brand of poo began to permeate the air. As usual, it did not faze me and I continued reading for the next 15 minutes in my own little stink cloud.
As I began to wrap up my little bathroom session, a strange thought entered my mind. Why are we repulsed by the smell of other people’s poo, yet don’t mind hanging out with our own toxic waste? I know my poo stinks. I smell it while I’m in there, and it’s bad. It doesn’t bother me, though. I’ll even re-enter and start brushing my teeth five minutes later if I’m pressed for time, even though it still reeks in there. Yet Mister Ferguson takes a dump and I can’t go within fifty feet of the bathroom. I literally start gagging and covering my nose with a t-shirt. It’s not that his poo smells any worse than mine, it just didn’t come out of my body so I’m disgusted.
Anyway, I tried to Google the answer to my question but came up short. Seems like there isn’t a scientific answer to why I think my shit doesn’t stink. However, I did find an answer to why shit stinks in general:
Poos are about 75% water. The remaining 25% is made up of a mixture of things: stuff your body can’t break down (have you ever noticed whole corn kernels in your poo) some salt, bile (bile is made up of dead red blood cells from your liver) and, of course, bacteria. Excrement is not very nice stuff and transmits lots of nasty diseases via the mean bacteria that lurks in it. it is bacteria, combined with food wastes, that turn bile in poo brown, explaining the characteristic brown color.
The smelly substance in excrement is called skatole (3-methylindole), and it is the substance to which the human nose is most sensitive on a per molecule basis. It is present in feces because it is a breakdown product from hemoglobin (found in red blood cells) that enters the gut via bile. The reason we have evolved to be so sensitive to the smell of this substance is that, by making poo smell so terrible to us, evolution has ensured that we remain repelled by our own poo. If we hate the smell, we know that its bad and we steer clear of it as much as possible.
There’s your science lesson for the day. If you’ll excuse me, I just got a new issue of the New Yorker in the mail.
Hello old friends. Wow! It has certainly been a while since I wrote on my blog! What can I say? The holidays really had their way with me!
But alas, here we are again. New year, new attitude. I’m focused and committed to life, love and having a good time. Tiddy is back for good.
We have a lot to talk about so let’s get started. First and most importantly, theSteelers are going to the Super Bowl! I am so excited I can hardly stand it. Mister Ferguson and I decided to book plane tickets to Tampa last week and it really paid off! We made the decision on a whim and thought that we would just take a mini vacation to Florida if the game didn’t pan out. A win-win situation if you ask me!
Now I have a mere two weeks to drop a few pounds, get a little color and a mani/pedi. It’s really funny how you tend to let yourself go when the temperatures plummet. You wait a couple of extra days to shave your legs. You don’t say no to that extra piece of pizza—even though you know you’re going to feel like shit after you eat it. The lady from the gym calls you and asks if everything is okay because your membership has been inactive. Day after day, you trudge out of bed, wrap yourself up like a mummy and face the elements. Once you get to work, you begin counting the minutes until you can go home and wrap yourself in a blanket and veg out in front of the television. Depressing.
It takes a shock to the system like a spur of the moment trip to Tampa to get your motor running again. I feel like an actual person instead of a winter zombie! I wonder—
If I lived in a warm climate, would I be the best possible version of myself year-round? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate the snow. I think it is beautiful and I really enjoy skiing. It’s just Monday through Friday that’s the problem!
Enough bitching. Let’s end on a high note. I recently finished reading The Shack and it was a great way to start the New Year. If you haven’t read it, you should—especially if you struggle with faith, religion, your purpose on Earth, etc.
Each New Year’s Day, I make the same resolutions:
1. Lose weight/exercise
2. Stop drinking so much
3. Stop talking shit on people
4. Don’t worry so much/manage what I can control
5. Be a better communicator/learn how to say no
Tiddy’s Five Commandments last about two weeks if I’m lucky. Honestly, I don’t even know why I set myself up for failure! However, after reading The Shack, I have a new perspective. I’m not going to say on life because that would be giving a book too much credit, but it really did make me think. The whole message is to live your life without an agenda and realize you have no authority to judge other people. These are two areas where Tiddy struggles big time! Admitting it is the first step!
So far this year, I’m looking at people through a different set of eyes. I’m trying not to jump to conclusions or get angry over stupid things. In 2009 Tiddy is all about understanding where someone is coming from—sympathize rather than criticize! It’s the third week of January so things are going pretty well.
If you’re in winter zombie mode yourself, it’s time to:
1. Get off your ass and go to the gym
2. Shave your legs/armpits/face, pubes, etc.
3. Buy The Shack
4. Put down the pizza
In accordance with my own resolutions, I’m going to for a run now. Supposedly I am running the Pittsburgh Marathon in May and I have a LONG way to go. Afterwards, I will drink a bottle of wine. Hey, we all knew the not drinking thing wasn’t going to happen. Plus, it’s the winter.
I have a paper cut on my buttcheek. Two free shoe bags (handmade by Tiddy on my very own sewing machine) to the first person who guesses how it got there. Send your submissions to tiddyferguson@gmail.com. Include your address so I know where to send the shoe bags in case you get the right answer! I will publish the best ones (anonymously, of course).
So as it turns out, the paper cut is not the worst thing that happened to me this week. It all started when Mister Ferguson and I travelled down to Wilmington, NC for the holiday. Mom and Pop Ferguson moved down there last May. I have a huge family and we had a really good time. Dinner was great and I went shopping at 4:30 am on Black Friday for doorbusters with my Mom, Aunts, cousin and Sister-in-Law (Sandy Bottoms). I waited 45 minutes in line to buy Guitar Hero for Mister Ferguson (50 bucks--steal) and another half hour for two sets of flannel sheets. I also scored a 30 dollar cashmere hoodie at Old Navy (the new J Crew). People really get feisty over doorbusters. Especially big TVs. I almost lost my life in the electronics department of Wal*Mart. All I wanted were some cheap Wii games!
Saturday night, we all went out for karaoke night at a REALLY redneck bar. I still smell like smoke. Sandy Bottoms and I did a show stopping rendition of "There's Your Trouble" by the Dixie Chix and I had a solo performance of "Born to Fly" by Sara Evans. There was A LOT of Stoli involved. You know how you sing in your car and think you sound just like the artist? I had this awesome vision of me getting up there and really bringing down the house. What really happened sounded a lot like a screeching cat trying to claw its way out of a cage.
Due to the Stoli, I woke up with a bigtime headache and general malaise. I went outside on the porch to get some fresh air and encountered Poppa Ferguson sitting in a rocking chair smoking a cigar. It was 10 am. If that wasn't surreal enough, he proceeded to tell me that my 78 year old grandmother's new husband has requested that the whole family abstain from alcohol this Christmas or they would not be attending this year. This was not what I wanted to hear. I was outraged. This man just came into the family six months ago and all of the sudden he's the Godfather? What's up with these outrageous demands? This issue has not been decided yet, and I will let you guys know what happens. I have a feeling my brother and I will have to revert to our old high school tricks. We are professionals at drinking on the sly and will probably teach our parents a thing or two.
All I wanted to do was nap the day away, but we had a plane to catch! I crammed all of my doorbuster merchandise into two suitcases and went to the airport. Our flight was delayed. We saddled up to the airport bar to watch the Steeler game and imbibe in some desperately needed hair of the dog. We finally boarded the plane and I started to feel human again. That's when the pilot comes on the loudspeaker and informs us that out flight had been cancelled. OMG.
Long story short, we waited in line for more than 3 hours so some douche could tell us that we couldn't get home until Tuesday. That's when Mister Ferguson got assertive and told the guy exactly how we were going to get home (HOT)!
Our journey home was harrowing. You hear horror stories about air travel all of the time. You might say, "Wow! That sucks!" or "I just can't imagine!" No, you can't.
The first few hours, you try to have a good attitude. You see everyone losing it around you and you vow to not be like them. You smile at the clueless airline agent and even laugh a little at your misfortune. However, after you are flagged for "extra security"--a.k.a. your dirty underwear is being manhandled by some man with rubber gloves--and you are berated by unruly passengers for barely making your plane due to said extra security, you start to crack a little.
It was at this point the Fergusons had a little meltdown. Almost the kind that people get arrested for. First, there was a showdown with a flight attendant who wanted Mister Ferguson to check his bag due to the fact there was no room left in the overhead compartments. Impossible! We had to devote the entire day Monday to trying to fly standby out of Charlotte. If we checked bags, we wouldn't be allowed! She must have seen the desperation in our eyes, because she finally relented. They started shifting bags to make room. The "special treatment" we received enraged several passengers, and they voiced their opinions. Tiddy lost it at this point and started to tough talk those who dared talk shit. They had nothing to say back. I think it was because I had started to feel, act and smell like an animal. I probably had crazy eyes.
We finally made it home many, many, many hours later. Pure exhaustion. I could barely lift my fingers to order Chinese food that evening. I was just starting to get back to normal when I got that damn papercut on my buttcheek.
Christmas is just around the corner. We are driving this time.
