That’s My Story, And I’m Sticking To It

I didn’t see him there, lurking against the wall.

In retrospect, it seems odd that I would have missed him.  Six foot six, 240 pounds of pure muscle, shoulders like a linebacker…. it really does seem odd that I didn’t notice him at first.

I definitely noticed him when he reached out and grabbed me by my shirt, slamming my back against the wall with a force that knocked the breath out of me.

“BUY CHICKENS,” he rasped in an eerie voice, not unlike Bane from Batman.

Actually, now that I think about it, he totally looked like Bane from Batman.  He had a creepy weird mask, and evil eyes, and it was dark and rainy even though it was 8:30 in the morning.


Just like this, only I was wearing Wal-Mart jeans instead of a Batman suit and my back ended up against the feed store wall instead of the floor.

So anyways, there he was, all creepy and scary and demanding I buy little bitty baby chickens, but, well, you know me.  I’m brave, and strong, and it takes a lot to scare me.

“NEVER,” I cried, struggling to pull out of his inexorable grip.  It felt like thrashing against a brick wall, and for a brief moment I panicked.  I was trying to escape with all my strength, and he wasn’t even budging.  I kicked at his knee cap and he grunted at the impact, but since he was 6’7 and Bane and all, it didn’t really do that much damage.

“BUY CHICKENS,” he repeated.

I let my body relax, thinking I could lull him into relaxing his hold, but when I kicked off against the wall he barely twitched.

I paused, panting, and spit in his face.  “”Let go of me, you warthog-faced buffoon!  My husband has our monthly budget all planned out, and I would never ruin it like that!”


“You think I care about pain?  You think you scare me?  My husband and I are a team!  We decided on this budget together!  I will not betray him!”


“I don’t care!  Remove my arm!  He is my beloved husband, and I will not turn against him!”


Bean, I could have withstood anything, even though he was 6’8 and 300 pounds of sheer muscle, even though his face mask creeped me out, and even though he literally had my back against the feed store wall.  My love for you is that strong.

But Bean.  BEAN.  He threatened your car.

Bean, I know how much you love that car, and I just… I just couldn’t let him do that.  I know that getting chicks will mean a lot of personal sacrifice on my end, as I prepare a place for them to live in, and set up the heat lamp.

I’ll have to care for them round the clock, and clean up after them, and… and… pick them up and hold them…. and it will be so hard making sure sure they get hugged all the time….
It will mean so much work and sweat and effort on my part…. but I don’t care.  I knew the moment the words left Bane that I would do anything to protect your car, even if it meant buying baby chicks that weren’t in this month’s budget.

That’s how much I love you, Bean.  I am willing to sacrifice for you that much.

And so I did.

So…. anyhooo…..

Do you think you can get home tonight before the feed store closes so we can pick them out together, or do you just want to go tomorrow morning?  I was thinking Ameraucanas that lay the blue eggs, Barred Rocks, and maybe a Leghorn would adequately prove my devotion to you and your car, as well as give us enough eggs.






Ask a Car Salesman

Have you ever wished you could just get a car salesman to give you an honest, straightforward answer?




Well, here’s your chance.

For those of you who don’t remember, before we moved to Oregon The Bean made his (our?) living selling cars.  He’d been doing it for over 10 years, and I mean, he really sold cars.  I think his record still holds at his old dealership for the “most units moved” in a month (73 cars? 76? he can’t quite remember the exact number anymore).  It wasn’t like he worked at a small dealership, either. His dealership was second in sales (for the brand of car they sold) for the entire United States

In other words, The Bean can really sell cars.

Heck, the guy can sell pretty much anything. Don’t believe me?  Allow me to illustrate:

A few weeks into our dating I realized that our relationship wasn’t really going anywhere, and it didn’t make sense to prolong the inevitable.  After my shift as a cocktail waitress ended I walked over to his house to break up with him…..

….and ended up cooking him dinner, giving him a back massage, and staying the night.

What’s worse, I didn’t even realize what had happened until the next morning, when my sister texted me, “So, how’d the breakup go?”

That’s how good of a salesman he is.

So, here’s the deal.  If you have ever wanted to ask a car salesman a question and get a straight answer….. leave a comment. I’ll ask The Bean, and you’ll get the straight answer in the next “Ask A Car Salesman” post.

Also, I type at about 100 wpm, so I am doing my best to take down The Bean’s answers verbatim and only editing them to make them easier to read on paper.  One of the things I’ve always enjoyed when listening to him talk about the car industry was the weird vocabulary/vernacular.  Cars are units, people who have made the decision to buy are “under the ether”, all salesman use a foursquare, you avoid mooches and roaches and hope for a lay-down to walk through the door….

It’s kind of fascinating.

Anyways, if you ask, he’ll answer.  We’re deep enough into his career as an accountant that I don’t think we’ll ever have to fall back on him selling cars, so there’s no harm in straightforward honesty about some of the stuff car dealerships really do.

So… ask away!

In the meantime, I proposed this idea on Facebook a couple of weeks ago, so I thought I’d start off with some of the questions people left on the post.


How long do I REALLY have to return the car with no penalties? I believe it’s 3 business days?

Zero days.  The three-day thing is a myth. The federal law for cooling off periods does not apply to auto purchases.  Although….I remember in California, before I left the business, they came out with this optional thing you could buy if you wanted. It was a cancellation contract where you could give the car back.  The price of it was based on the selling price of the car, and it was only available on used cars under $40,000.

It didn’t really matter, because nobody ever bought the contract because it was so expensive. On a $20,000 used car it was around $500 bucks, and if you didn’t bring the car back within 3 days, it was just money you lost. What was the point?  You can rent a car for three days cheaper than that.

There might be a state somewhere that has a legal cooling off period for cars, but not for new cars.  If you get in a new car, and you drive it over the curb onto the street, you own it.  It’s yours. Once it leaves the dealership, even if it only has .25 of a mile on it, it’s considered a used car and can’t be sold again as a new car.

Moral of the story…if you sign on it and drive it over the curb…you OWN it.


Why does buying a car take so long?

It’s supposed to wear a buyer down.  The more tired you get, the more desire you’ll have to “just get out of there.” There comes a point in the transaction where a buyer’s mentally committed to buying the car, and they’re gonna buy it no matter what.  By wearing them down, the buyer’s more likely to just say “Yeah, that’s fine, that’s fine, that’s fine,” and be willing to just sign on whatever so they can get out of the dealership.


What’s that term again?  That term for people who you can totally rip off at that point if you wanted to?

Becky, I didn’t rip people off.


I know, I know.  I’m just trying to remember the term you mentioned for people who you could rip off at that point, if you wanted to.

I really hate the term rip-off, you know—


A lay-down!  That’s right.  I was just trying to remember.  Oh, RELAX, Bean.  I was just trying to remember the term.  Anyways, once someone’s committed to buying, is that when the salesman tries to sell them lots of stuff?  (<— Would you like to buy my new book?  It’s called: Becky Bean: How To Piss off An Interview Subject And Make Them All Defensive.)

Most car salesmen aren’t trying to sneak something in – they’re trying to pay the bills the same as everyone else. Most of us are pretty honest people.  Think about it – it’s the same type of transaction you get when you go to some high-end clothing store like Nordstrom’s.  When you buy a sweater and the salesperson says “You look great in that”, you’re still getting sold something.  When the person at Nordstrom’s says, “You look great in that shirt, and it matches this tie I have over here perfectly,” they’re trying to upsell you something, the same as a car salesman.  Sure, once a person’s “under the ether” and they’re mentally committed to buying the car, that’s when you try to get them to buy upsells and accessories, but it’s not like that stuff is worthless.  All that stuff adds value to the right type of buyer.

For example, somebody who keeps a car a long time and isn’t that good at maintaining it***, they’d actually benefit from an extended warranty.  Someone who leases or sells their car every three or four years, it wouldn’t help.

Fancy wheels might be expensive, but to the right person there is value in that. They might like how flashy they look in it, whereas a soccer mom in a minivan wouldn’t be interested in flashy wheels.

At the end of the day the transactions gotta make sense to everyone, right?  The dealer’s gotta make money, the salesman’s gotta make money, the customer’s gotta feel like they got a good deal and everyone gets what they want.



Can you explain the price terms? (<— Okay, nobody actually asked this.  This was me asking, because I’m financially dyslexic and can never keep money-terms straight in my head.) 

The invoice is technically what the dealer bought the car from the manufacturer for.
The MSRP is the Manufacturer Suggested Retail Price.  It’s what they’re listing the car at – the sticker, not-on-sale price.  You don’t usually sell a car at MSRP, because for some reason nobody thinks cars are worth what the sticker price is.  The exception to that would be exotic sports cars, or if it’s a high-demand, low-production car.  For instance, when the Turbo Miata was new there wasn’t anything exotic about it, but a lot of people wanted it so they sold for MSRP.  If you went into the dealer and asked for a grand off, well, there were ten other people willing to pay full price .

There are a lot of cars where the supply and demand dictate it sells for more than MSRP.  It’s been several years so I don’t know if it’s still true, but if you went in to buy a Porsche 911 Turbo you’d be lucky to have the privilege of paying only 10 grand over MSRP for that kind of car.  When gas was over 5 bucks a gallon, if you wanted to buy a Toyota Prius or a Honda Civic hybrid you had to pay over MSRP.  People fought over cars like that – as in, they actually almost physically fought each other to buy them.

What about the MSRP on Used Cars?

Oh, used cars are fun.  Used cars don’t have MSRP.  An MSRP is only for new cars – MSRP is “MANUFACTURER” Suggested Retail Price.  Basically, dealers go to Kelly Blue Book to come up with what the price the car is worth.  The only reason they use Kelly Blue Book is because the banks used Kelly Blue Book to determine how much money they’re willing to loan on the car. So, if Kelly Blue Book stated the car was worth 15 grand, then the banks would say they wouldn’t be willing to give a loan over 110% of what the car was worth.  So, the dealer would price it at 16 grand.

I always hated Kelly Blue Book because certain types of people would come in waving a piece of paper around and saying things like, “Well, Kelly Blue Book says my car is worth X amount!”  I always used to tell them, “Well, why don’t you go have Kelly Blue Book buy your car?”  Interestingly enough, Kelly Blue Book doesn’t actually buy cars…

Interesting rant/point of view I inspired out of The Bean when I was arguing with him about how a lot of people do get ripped off by car dealerships…because, I’m a super professional interviewer and like to argue with the interview subject:

Sure, there were people who might have rolled back odometers and stuff like that in the past, but that was back when cars had tailfins and Bugsy Siegel rolled around in them. The thing is, that stuff mostly went away when tailfins went away on cars.  You can’t do that anymore.   Still, there’s this public perception that car dealership’s aren’t there to make money, and that the buyer shouldn’t have to pay a penny over what the dealership bought it for.

The thing is, you wouldn’t do that anywhere else.  I mean, you wouldn’t go to Best Buy to buy a tv and ask the guy what his invoice is, and tell him you’re not gonna pay a penny over that. It doesn’t say “Red Cross” on the side of the building – it’s not a charity organization.  Dealerships have to pay the bill to keep their lights on, too. That’s part of the reason some dealerships have gotten more aggressive in their tactics. If consumers push and push and push, then dealerships are gonna push back.

What was the average you would make on an average car commission?

Are you talking about my commission or the dealership’s gross profit?  As far as commission, depending on the pay plan I was on, it was 25-30% of the gross profit for the deal.  A beginner car salesman would get around 20%.

The least amount I ever made on a deal was $100 – that was the amount you got for moving a unit.  Some guys only got a $50 flat for moving the unit – it all depended how well you negotiated your pay plan.

What’s the most you ever made on a deal?

I think it was around $8500 bucks.  That deal was on the last mineral grey Acura NSX that was available for sale in the US, when the car went out of production. I sold it through a contact of mine to a very well known actor.  He was actually a total prick, but he paid all the money.


How about you guys?  Got any questions?  Ask away!

Do You Want to Make a Baaaaby?



Uterus: Do you want to make a baaaaby?


Me: What?  You’re mumbling again.  What’d you say?


Uterus: Do you want to build a baby?


Me:  Oh, holy heck.  No.  Not again.  Please don’t.  I hate that song. Shut up.


Uterus:  Do you want to build a baaaaby?


Me: Stop it. Please don’t sing that song again.  NO SONGS FROM FROZEN, AND NO BABIES.


Uterus: Come on let’s go and plaaaaay


Me: Seriously.  Stop it.


Uterus: I never have fun anymore…


Me:  Good.


Uterus: I get a little bored…


Me: Shut up.


Uterus: Now that the babies inside me have gone awaaaaaaay.


Me:  …… are you done yet?


Uterus: You used to keep me busy, now there’s just empty wallls, watching the uterus lining flow byyyyyyyyyy……


Me:  …… Now are you done?


Uterus:  Do you want to build a baaaby?


Me:  NO.


Uterus: Okay, byyyeeee :(



A couple weeks later


Me:  Hello?




Me:  Hello?  Uterus?




Me:  Hey, sweetie, I’m sorry I didn’t let you build a baby, but, you know, I have a say in these things, too.




Me:  Look, you can’t ignore me forever.  We’ve got a timeline for our conversations. Remember?  That thing that happens once a month?


Uterus (mumbling):  Don’t wanna.


Me:  You don’t wanna? Huh?  What’s that supposed to mean?  Look, it’s time for you to do your thing.


Uterus.  No.


Me:  Hey, trust me.  I wish it wasn’t an option, but it is.  it’s time to clean house, so let’s just get it over with, okay?


Uterus:  No.  I made a nursery for the baby. It’s lovely. I wanna keep it.


Me:  What?  Why would you make a nursery?


Uterus:  For the baby. It’s beautiful, and the baby is going to love it.


Me:  You do realize how stupid that is, right?  Why would you make a nursery for a baby that was never gonna happen? I specifically told you we weren’t going to have one. What a waste of time.


Uterus:  No it’s not. I’m keeping this nursery.


Me:  That’s…. that’s just gross.  It’s already past due.  Just get rid of it.   You don’t even need it.


Uterus:  YES I DO.


Me: What?  Explain yourself.




Me:  ….. now you’re scaring me.  Why do you need it?


Uterus:  None of your business.


Me:  Actually, it’s totally my business. What do you mean you need the nursery?  I mean it.  Tell me.


Uterus:  I’m not telling you.


Me:  Yes, you will.  I’m going to force you to tell me the truth by using my magic wand, otherwise known as ClearBlue Pregnancy Stick.  Now.  Speak clearly into the wand, and tell me the truth:  Did you smuggle in a baby while I wasn’t looking?


Uterus:  No.


Me:  Oh, thank heavens.  You had me worrie–


Uterus:  But I could be lying.


Me:  WHAT?


Uterus:  Oooh, ooh, I’m feeling weird.  Is it because it’s a cramp?  Or am I stretching the walls to make more room for the beautiful infant I’m housing?  You’ll never know, because I’m NEVER TELLING YOU AND I’M NEVER GIVING YOU THIS NURSERY.


Me:  I hate you.  I’m going to make you speak into the wand of truth again tomorrow morning.  You can’t lie as well first thing in the morning.



[Later that night]


Uterus:  Hey, Becky, you awake?


Me:  <snore>


Uterus:  Are you really asleep?


Me:  <SNORE>


Uterus:  Good.  Because you totally deserve this.


Me:  What the…. WHAT IS ALL OF THIS?


Uterus:  It’s what you wanted, you selfish waste of a human being!


Me:  What is going on?  Did somebody slaughter a rabbit in the bed?  WHAT IS THIS HORRIBLE MESS?


Uterus:  I HATE YOU.  I made a delightful nursery for the baby, and you’re forcing me to get rid of it, SO I’M GOING TO GET RID OF IT ALL AT ONCE BECAUSE YOU’RE A HORRIBLE PERSON AND THAT’S WHAT YOU DESERVE.


Me:  This is not what I wanted at all!   I don’t make these rules, you know.  I just live by them!  Oh, gross.  Nasty.  It’s everywhere.  Why?  Why would you do this to me?  It’s not even six in the morning!




And now you all know why I wish I was a man.



Quit shoving books down your pants, Becky

Dear 19-year-old Becky,


Hey, that’s a great tan on your legs.  It totally matches your shoulders.  You don’t look at all like someone grabbed two different Lego people and forced their mismatched halves together.

Okay, quit shooting me dirty looks.  Whatever, you’re me.  I get to pick on you all I want. That said, there is a point to this, you know. I didn’t just come here to make fun of you. I wanted to let you know that I see you.  Yes, you.  You are on your first cruise, and you’re in the prime of your youth.  I’m looking back through the photos today, and I assure you:  YOU ARE NOT FAT.


As far as I can tell, you are composed of about 90% legs and 10% flat belly, but eh.  I’m not gonna argue with you, because we both know you’ll never hear me, so I might as well get down to business.

Dude.  You are on a cruise, you’re single, you’re totally hot, you’re laying in a gorgeous little black bathing suit on the sands of a Mexican beach…….

And you’ve got your nose stuffed in a book.

Here’s the thing:  I know what book you’re reading.  That’s Outlander, isn’t it?  No, don’t even bother trying to hide it under the towel – we both know you stole it out of the ship’s library.  Yes, yes, I know you didn’t “steal” it – I know you’re going to “give it right back”, so it’s not “technically stealing”. Although, now that we’re on the subject….

DUDE.  You have got to quit shoving books down your pants to steal them, even if you’ve rationalized the theft in your mind.  I mean, really. Think about it for a second.  Do you realize how socially inept you’re being?    Let’s not even talk about the fact that yes, it is stealing.  No, this point is non-negotiable.  If you’re not supposed to take it and you do, then it’s stealing.  It doesn’t matter if you do give it right back to the library, which is the only place you steal books from.  It’s still stealing.  It’s going to take you three or four more years before you realize what a jerk thing that is to do to your favorite place in the entire world and you leave your life of crime behind.

It’s just… morality issue aside, how do you even consider all the possibilities of how to steal something, and then decide that cramming it down your pants is the way to go?  Are you for real?

Look, I’m older than you and I’ve learned a few things over the past few years so let me  tell you something: just tuck the book under your arm and walk off like the badass mofo you are.  Nobody cares.  Everyone’s as caught up in their own lives as you are with yours, and they really. Don’t. Care.

So quit jamming books down your pants and waddling off with them like a gimpy penguin.  It’s not cool, man. Books don’t deserve that.  The person who reads that book next doesn’t deserve it either.

Alright, back to my main point.  Where was I?

Ah, yes.

So you’re 19, single, hot, and on a Mexican beach.  You’re taking a break from a cruise filled with other single, hot young guys…. and you have your nose stuffed in a book? I know you’re feeling guilty about that – like you’re wasting this cruise  by spending the whole time reading, and let me tell you something….


Holy crap, isn’t that, like, the most amazing book ever?


It’s still your most-favoritest-book-ever, even though it’s almost 15 years later!  I know you’re worried that you’re not gonna finish it in time and that you’ll actually have to consider for-real, legitimately stealing the book because you don’t have a job and your library card has a bunch of fines on it again, but dont’ worry.   You actually creep back to the library and pull an all nighter and finish it somewhere around 6 or 7 the next evening.  Also, you’re doing the right thing in not speed-reading through it.  Keep savoring those words.  There’s only one “first time”, you know?

Here’s the super cool part.  Brace yourself, because this is really good.  In about 15 years… YOU’RE GOING TO MEET THE AUTHOR, AND TAKE A PICTURE WITH HER BUTT, AND IT WILL BE AMAZING.

RIGHT?!  You live in Oregon, you own a 16.2 Andalusian cross, you’re becoming a for-real writer, and YOU ACTUALLY MEET DIANA GABALDON’S BUTT.

I know.  Life turns out pretty awesome for us, doesn’t it?

Okay, I can see that you’re actually really busy making awesome decisions so I’ll let you get back to reading, just…. Look, 19-year-old-Becky, even if you won’t believe me that you’re not fat, please believe me that you’re totally making the right decision.  You’re not “wasting” your cruise time at all.  That is such an awesome book.

Moving From Blogspot to WordPress

I know most of you guys know a heck of a lot more about computers than I do, but I’m going to explain before I explain:

Even though the fancy url up at the top doesn’t show it, I use Blogspot to type up my blog.  It’s easy to use, and honestly, if I wasn’t considering “going professional”, I’d still stay here.

Unfortunately, I just can’t seem to tweak the design to look professional, no matter how hard I try, so it’s off to WordPress I go.

Why am I bothering telling you this?

Well, if you’ve clicked “Follow this Blog” in the past you probably get email updates whenever I manage to post…. also, if you have me listed on a sidebar on your blog, it updates for you whenever I post.

What will be different after I switch where I host this blog?

HOPEFULLY NOTHING. (Knock on wood.  Spit over left shoulder.  Uh… what other superstitious stuff do people do? Throw a black cat at a mirror?  Anyways, you get the point.)

In other words, if all goes well, you guys won’t notice anything but a slight blog redesign.  The name won’t change, or anything.

Unfortunately, I’m usually quite terrible at website stuff, so I doubt all will go well.  I’m trying to keep all the thousands upon thousands (HA.)  of followers I’ve accrued over the past 7.5 years (can you believe it’s been that long?!)…but who knows if I’m following the directions right.


Hopefully I’ll manage to “migrate” you guys over with me…. and if not, well… well, I guess this serves as my warning that you might have to click the “Follow this Blog” button again if you stop receiving notifications that I am posting.. and/or update the url on the few people I have who list me as a blog they follow.

Once again:  my url will stay the same (  However, since a lot of you have followed me as, and it just automatically forwards you to the correct url…. well, when I switch to wordpress it might mess everything up.

If any of you get a weird “301 Redirect” notice, would you let me know?  That means I’ve done it really wrong, and I have to go bang my head against a wall for a couple of hours as I try to fix it.

Sorry for any inconvenience!

Edit:  DAGNABIT.  I was gonna do try to switch it right now, but NameCheap (who I bought my domain name from) is doing maintenance.  I guess I’ll try the switch tomorrow night.

Ignore this:  e8637ed67c1e9ef8952fb4216df421eada35cea6d7d031086b

I Am Not Smart

I found this neat little biological fact in a thread of scientific facts:

One of the most recent byproducts of human evolution is that no matter how hard you try, you can’t pee your pants on purpose.  Your biology won’t allow it to happen. Go ahead, try right now!

Just in case you’re curious, you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet.  Let me save you some embarrassment… it’s not true.  I know this because… because reasons, okay?

How Not to Run a Half Marathon: The Serious Edition

Okay, so confession time:

I have had the most difficult time blogging about my first half-marathon that I finished back in September.  It’s been months now and I keep staring at this blog post, dissatisfied with it, and I’ve finally come to the conclusion that the only way I’m ever going to get this post out is by starting it off by getting the serious stuff out of the way first.

I was stupid.

I’m not talking “Ha, ha, look at this idiotic thing I did, tee-hee” type of stupid… I’m talking stupid-stupid.

I was stupid, I did not hydrate well enough at the water stations because I wanted to keep going, I did not bring my own source of water, and during the last three miles I suffered heat exhaustion, bordering on heat stroke.

I want to be perfectly clear that the situation I almost got myself into was 100% my fault.  I’ve heard a couple people say that it’s the race organizer’s job to avoid this sort of thing happening, but I disagree.  In this case, it was completely my fault.  I was both under-trained and under-prepared.  The race had hydration stations – I failed to use them correctly.   I also failed to do the research so I knew exactly what to do once I recognized the signs that my body was struggling.

I think the reason I got into trouble in the first place is because I rely so much on my brain to help me think my way through difficult situations… and what I didn’t anticipate in the case of dehydration was how it would shut my thinking power off.  It wasn’t obvious to me, either.  I mean, it seemed like my brain was was working, and it was only when I started feeling better that I realized how dumb my decisions were.  When my body became covered in goosebumps and my mouth completely dried out and I lost the ability to sweat, instead of stopping and finding some shade, all I could  think about was:  Water.  Go. Keep going, and get water.  Becky, you need water, and walking will take longer, so just keep running and you’ll get to the water faster.

I made it to the finish line, and it was scary and wonderful, but later that evening the first rumors came in.

I made it, but another runner didn’t.  He passed out and eventually passed away less than half a mile from where I struggled the worst.

He was 28 years old, in way better shape than me, he ran half marathons before, and he died.  It was more than sobering, and I just couldn’t find it in myself to keep laughing and joking about all the fun thoughts I had about my first half marathon.

So, I put the blog post aside for a bit, but every time I came back to it, I couldn’t really continue because it felt… I dunno. By ignoring how close I came to really being in a bad way and not sharing my learnings with other, it felt disrespectful to the other guy’s death.  I finally decided to include a section at the end of the blog post talking about it, but that felt almost worse.  “Ha, ha, look at how much fun I had!  Also, I almost killed myself and this other dude died, so don’t do what I did.  But anyways, back to the fun….”

So. After chewing on it for awhile, I’m starting this blog post over, and it’s not nearly as funny as the other intro I had, but I need to write it like this.

I’m also going to begin it by being preachy:  If you are a beginner (or otherwise) runner, here is my VERY STRONG advice to you:  Don’t ever attempt a longer run without a source of water.  For those of you who hate bringing things on your run, I get it.  I hate holding things on my runs, I hate backpacks, and I hate fanny packs.  I figured I could hydrate at the water station – that worked for me on my first 5k and my first 10k…. why not my first half marathon?

Look, I’m a queen of ignoring my body when it’s complaining – living with Rheumatoid Arthritis will do that to you.  But I’m also pretty used to listening to my body and judging where I’m at… and I’m here to tell you that yes, I finished my race, but…. but I was very, very close to being in a very, very bad way.

I learned that I don’t do well in heat when my body isn’t prepared for it.   I love the heat of the desert, and I’ve worked in the sun on 102 degree days with no problem… but that’s after my body had a chance to acclimate slowly as the weather heated up from winter to spring, and then to summer.

I do not do well in heat when all of my runs have been at 6am, in the dark, and the race is on an 80 degree day in the sun.   I’m so glad I learned this fact during a simple little race on foot, in the middle of civilization, where there was water, and gatorade, and paramedics on standby.  I’m so glad I didn’t learn this when I was at an endurance ride, on horseback, in the middle of nowhere.  It could have been very, very bad, and I will never, ever, ever, EVER EVER EVER run a long race again without bringing my own source of hydration.

So, once again, that’s my advice to you, if you’re going to do something strenuous, bring your own water.  The worst that will happen is that carrying the water will be annoying.  It’s a lot better than the worst-case of the alternative scenario.

Okay.  Moving on.

Last September I ran the Beat the Blerch half marathon in Carnation, Washington.

If you have never heard of The Blerch, drop everything right now and click on this link below and read this story:

Seriously.  Click here.  Nothing I write will make any sense unless you know the context.

Anyways, sometimes I rattle on and on and give lots of backstory, but lately I’ve been feeling sorry for you guys because my posts have been so long, so I’ll get right to the point:

I almost sold my ticket and didn’t run the race.  This would have been such a big mistake.

When I first bought the ticket back in March of 2014 – beating out thousands of people and a website which kept crashing – I was so excited.  The race sold out in a matter of minutes, so I felt very, very lucky to have my ticket.  I had such high hopes for myself.  I had a plan, a running partner, lots of good intentions, and  I even left almost six weeks of extra “whoops” time for my training.  I’d be in great shape for the race…. wouldn’t I?

Two months before the race found me angry, out of shape, and so very, very disappointed in myself.  I was supposed to be a third of the way through the half marathon portion of my training – averaging 20+ miles a week at a brisk pace.

Instead, not only was I fifteen pounds fatter than when I signed up, I was lucky if I managed more than one run a week, much less 20+ miles worth of running.  I hadn’t even worked my way up to three miles at a stretch, but the training program told me I needed to be at 5-6 miles a run.

I should sell my ticket.  What’s the point, anyways?  I’m not ready for this run, and there’s no way I can get ready in two months.  I’ll probably have to walk the whole thing, and that’s just a waste compared to what I had originally planned.  I can’t believe I took this spot from someone who would have done it justice, someone who deserved it so much more than me.    I should wait.  There’s no point ruining my “first half marathon” experience.  I should sell my ticket to someone who deserves it and try again when I can do it right.  I suck.  

And that’s when I realized – my Blerch is not a fat cherub who encourages me to eat gravy.

My Blerch is a stupid jerk who demands perfection or nothing.  There is no in between for my Blerch, and there is no joy, no reward in half measures.

And you see, on the surface that sounds inspiring.  It’s the sort of thing that sounds good on one of those 1980’s motivational posters you see in gym teachers’ offices.

It sounds good, but it accomplishes nothing.  This way of thinking does not motivate me – it destroys me.  I end up using it as an excuse to quit things, even if it doesn’t feel like an excuse at the time.

That’s what I realized as I was jogging around the track one evening in the middle of July.  It was late evening – that perpetual Pacific Northwest summer twilight that lasts for hours, and as I limped very, very slowly around the track in my inept fashion…

I decided to quit thinking that way.  I’m not sure what helped me make that decision, or why it took me so long to come to it, but I realized – I can’t afford to think like that anymore, not about this race, and not about my life.  If I keep waiting until I’m totally prepared or everything lines up juuuuuuust perfectly, I’m going to be 85 years old and still daydreaming of all the stuff I never did.

And seriously, what a waste of a life that would be.

The thing is, I hate feeling mediocre, but sometimes mediocre isn’t necessarily such a bad thing.  My life is too busy, and nowadays I am just too many people to be able to be truly excellent at everything.  Sometimes I feel like a juggler who has been given too many balls.  Mom.  Wife.  Christian.  Thoughtful friend.  Good family member with extended family.  Athlete.  Horseback rider.  Writer.  Reader.  Laundry-do’er.  House cleaner.  Dog trainer.  Excellent employee.  Healthy eater. 

No matter how fast I move my hands and try to keep all the balls up in the air, I just can’t do it.  Sooner or later I drop one of them… but that’s okay.  It doesn’t mean I need to quit juggling, or get off the stage, or quit.  It just means I need to pick that ball up and reintroduce it back into the mix, and try to do better keeping it in the air next time.

So, that’s what I decided during that hot evening as I shuffled my slow way around the dimly lit track.  I decided to be honest with myself.  Yes, I dropped the “do great at a half-marathon” ball.  Oh well.
Yeah, I sucked.  Yeah, I didn’t make the time for training that I could have…. but you know what?  There was joy to be found in following through anyways.  And even if that joy wasn’t going to be found in the fist-pumping victory of averaging a 12 minute mile as I crossed the finish line…. screw it.  I was going to go anyways.

Maybe it wasn’t going to be the victory I imagined, but it was still a victory.

So… I kept training as best as I could and showed up at the race anyways.  And Claire (my jogging partner) went, even though she had even less of a chance to train than I did.  At one point on one of our runs, we both adopted the endurance motto:  “To finish is to win.” I don’t know about you, but I love that motto.

The neat thing about a run organized by The Oatmeal was that nobody seemed to take themselves seriously.  Claire and I got to the run early – we needed to pick up our race packets, having opted out of packet pickup the day before.

The shirt was amazing… and several sizes too small.  I guess that’s what happens when you sign up for a race expecting to lose tons of weight….and spend the intervening months eating away your feelings instead of running.

Go figure, right?

I spent the hour before the start milling around, stretching, and trying to find ways of entertaining myself.  I get nervous right before big events, and when I just stood around waiting I found myself getting nauseous with the adrenaline.  So, I tried to distract myself.  Eventually I made a decision to find all the Blerch posters and get a picture of me copying them.

Hey, it wasn’t the most interesting thing I could have done… but it was either that or stand around belching in an attempt to settle my upset stomach and being eaten away by nervous anticipation.

Admit it.  You all wish you could be as sexy as me.

Finally, FINALLY it was time to line up at the start.  There’s something seriously exciting about the start of a race – the nervous energy, the waves of people – the mental preparation.  I have to remind myself to go slow – much, much, much slower than I want to go, or I tend to sprint, run out of breath, and lose before I’ve barely begun the race.

Hundreds of determined racers…. and one Becky.  Look, butterfly!  Look, a photographer!  
Hello, Mr. Photographer!  Hi! I’m in a race!

It took most of a mile before the crowded start began to thin out and I was able to settle into my stride.

Look, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but I have a tendency to cry when I finish a race.  It’s the most ridiculous thing, but the surge of emotion I get as I cross the finish line overwhelms me, and it just starts leaking out of my eyes as liquid happiness.

Well, for the first time ever I didn’t cry when I finished a race.  Oh, no.

I cried for the FIRST THREE MILES.  It was the stupidest thing.  I’m a very, very slow wogger (jogging so slow it might as well be walking), and as I settled into my back-of-the-pack status I realized I was surrounded by all the other slow-jogging chubbies, and something about it just set off my I’m-so-proud-of-all-of-us emotions…

And I started crying.


Every time I saw a back roll, or a waggling too-large butt, or a jiggling tummy I started choking up. It just felt so beautiful, so amazing, to be a part of this group of people banding together, standing up against our own personal demons, learning to persevere even when the insidious whispering of our own personal Blerches got us down….It was so beautiful… so amazing…. look at us all.


The fatter the person was, the harder I had to fight back the tears.  I think at one point this really chubby lady passed me, and when I saw her arms jiggling with each step I actually let out a little sob, out loud.

The problem was, not only was it ridiculous to be crying my way through a race as well as a little bit demeaning to the people I was crying about, but the more I tried to hold back the tears, the more my throat closed up, and the more my throat closed up with emotions, the harder I found it to breathe…

And at some point it occurred to me, “Becky, knock it off.  Seriously.   Get your crap together,or you’re gonna pass out, wake up surrounded by paramedics, and then have to explain to the paramedics that you’re not sick, you’re just overwhelmed with fat-people-camaraderie.”

So I plugged my iPod headphones into my ears and turned on my music.  I’d planned on waiting to turn on my music somewhere around mile four or so, but I figured that starting my music early was better than choking to death with emotion over someone’s chubby waist.

For the record, I have the crappiest taste in running music. I used to be on a crew (rowing) team in college, and I learned during my morning workouts that the heavier the beat, the faster/harder I could work out….. so now my running tape is filled with just the trashiest dance music.

However, on that morning, running high on adrenaline and Adderall, the music seemed oddly perfect.

 I’m bringing sexxxxy baaaack….UH.  You other brothers don’t know where it’s at UH.  Get your sexy on UH  Get your sexy on UH.”  
The morning was beautiful – the dirt trail was hard packed but still had a little spring to it, and even though the day promised to be hot, the 9 am start time meant the sunlight filtering through the Pacific Northwest foliage was still cool.

Something something HEY 
Something something HEY 
Korean something HEY 
Oppa Gangam Style

I found my rhythm after a bit and settled into the beat of the music, starting to pass people.  My breath was coming a little harder than I wanted it to, but it felt so good to stretch my legs, to feel myself following through, to be a part of this race – I didn’t mind.

The first hill was brutal, and when the trees gave way to sun baked earth it left me wondering if I was actually going to be able to run the whole way.  I’ve never been good at jogging in the heat, and without the protective cover of the trees, the sun beating down on me promised heat in spades.  I’d been training in the cool of the morning, and I found myself slowing my pace as my legs kept up the slow, steady rhythm.  The air felt dry in my mouth, but I didn’t mind.

I was here.  I was racing.  I was running my first half marathon, and even though it was harder than I thought, I was still doing it.  The mile markers lined the side of the road, and….

…and I was on mile Two.


Look, I don’t think I can adequately explain time warp I experienced during the my first three miles of the Blerch.

I’ve never run a longer race than those first three miles.  It felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.  For some reason, every mile felt more like six or seven miles….. and when I discovered that I had literally only run two miles, and that there was actually still 11 miles to go….

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more horror.

I passed by the couch at mile three.

They had the coolest setup straight from the Blerch comic- cake, and grape soda and people dressed up in Blerch costumes who would harass you as you ran by, trying to convince you to join them on the couch, or to quit running and just enjoy the sunshine and eat cake with them.

I wanted to take a picture with The Blerch, with me sitting on the sofa, but I had barely begun to hit the point where my legs felt mechanical underneath me.  Every single time I jog, or run, or race, or whatever you want to call it, I spend the first mile or two having to mentally instruct my body before the movement becomes mechanical. “And now you lift your left leg, and now you set it down.  And now you lift your right leg, and now you set it down.  And now the left leg again….”   I wonder if super fast runners have this problem, or if it’s just me?

Either way, at mile three I’d barely found my rhythm so I didn’t dare stop for a photo. I smiled and waved at the Blerchs, lowered my head and plugged on through.

Somewhere right before mile four I began to feel the same rhythm and sense of completeness that I’d felt in the beginning, only without the bursting into tears.  I hit a couple of good songs in a row and I could feel my stride lengthening. I began passing people – I’m very VERY slow in the beginning (usually a 13.5-14 min mile), but I have a tendency to get faster the longer I run, and people who had blasted past me in the beginning were now falling behind me, one after another, as I passed into the shady part of the run.  My breath came easily, and my feet fell on the rhythm of the beat. “Sultan of Swing” came on, which is my all-time favorite running song, followed by LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It”, and I began to feel like maybe, just maybe I was gonna be okay on this run.

I’m sexy and I know it.
I’m sexy and I know it.
I’m sexy and I Know it.

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle YEAH
Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle—-

And then, with no warning, my iPod died.

Right there, somewhere in between mile five and six,  right in the middle of the wiggle-wiggle portion of the song, the stupid, hideous, good-for-nothing piece of equipment just quit working.  I’d charged it for nearly two days prior to the event, terrified something like this would happen…. and it did.

I’ve never hated anything worse than I hated that iPod the moment I realized it was broken.  I felt so betrayed.  I considered chucking it into the forest, or slamming it beneath my heel, but I was scared of disrupting the rhythm of my run, especially since I had no music to listen to anymore.  I shoved it into the pocket of my pants and a few moments later my ears had adjusted to the silence of the morning race.

Suddenly, I wasn’t flying high.

Suddenly, I wasn’t riding the mechanical, effortless rhythm of my slow-moving body.

Suddenly, I was just a fat person out for a very slow, excruciating, boring jog in the woods.

I could hear the heavy sound of my breathing and it just depressed me.  I tried not to think about how far I had to go – I tried to focus on the sound of my feet crunching on the gritty dirt, or the sounds of the birds in the trees, or the conversation of the other runners….but the overwhelming beauty of the morning had been popped and the whole thing became just one giant, depressing effort not to break into a walk.

I’d like to be one of those people who flies high on joy of running alone, but if I am running by myself I have to blast music .  Without it, the sound of my personal Blerch is too strong.  My Blerch doesn’t try to get me to watch TV or eat – my Blerch very encouragingly tells me to give up, and with every footfall on that silent, music-less half marathon, I could hear it.

You’ve gone far enough.  Just stop at that sign right up ahead and break down into a walk.  It’s okay.  You can probably walk faster than you can jog, anyways.  You can’t do this without music.  Just walk for a bit.  Just a little bit.  It’s not like you’re gonna finish in the time frame you wanted, so why not walk for a bit?

People started passing me – people  nodding in time with the beat of their own music that played on their faithful STILL WORKING iPods, people moving in sync with their partners, people I’d flown past a mile before.

I ducked my head and kept jogging.  I was moving slow enough that I wasn’t out of breath – I’d read on the Internet about the hill between mile 5 and 6 and realized that if I didn’t tackle it slowly I really would end up walking the whole race, especially without music.

And this is the story of how my beautiful, memorable, gorgeous, sexy first half-marathon literally became the world’s most BORING jog.  I had nobody to talk to.  I had no music to distract me.  I didn’t dare push myself too hard, for fear of running out of juice completely.

Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  It was just me, the crunchy sound of my tennis shoes on gravel, and the heavy, wet sound of my fat-person breathing.

And no, that’s not me and my low self-esteem… I was genuinely bored and had nothing else to listen to and eventually I became supremely irritated with every sound I made.  If you had to listen to my fat-person breathing for three hours, you’d hate it too.

Eventually I started getting closer to the turn-around point.  It took me awhile to realize that the amount of people passing me on their return trip had started to increase dramatically.  I lifted my hand to high-five one or two people, specifically this one dude who was literally high-fiving every single person on the entire trail, but mostly I stayed to the far side of the road, steadily crunching my way to the turn around point.  I figured I would stop and take a break there, fill up on some water, and then turn back…..

But when it came time I realized I still had a good rhythm going, so I waterboarded myself with a little paper cup and turned around.  In retrospect… HOLY CRAP, BECKY, STOP JOGGING AND DRINK SOME WATER.

Crunch.  Crunch. Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  The way back was even worse, because I didn’t even have new scenery to distract myself with.  It was just me and my boredom, and my dogged determination to not break into a walk.

It was literally the most bored I’ve ever been while exercising.  I felt like a horse on a hot walker.  I kept looking for stuff to distract myself, hoping I could settle in behind someone to at least pace myself with them, but I was this weird in-between speed.  I was too slow for most of the joggers and too fast for people who were walking, so eventually I just lowered my head and tried to think about interesting stuff so I didn’t get too bored.  I got a few chapters of my book mentally plotted, so there was that, right?

I will say there was something exciting about seeing the mile markers getting into the higher numbers.  Mile 7.  Mile 8.  Despite the fact I was drowning in boredom I was able to find a small thrill of accomplishment for having jogged for so long.

And then there was the couch again, and the people in the Blerch costumes attacked me again.

“Just sit down… you’ve earned it.  Why not have some chips?  How about some cake?  Enjoy some cake….”

I shook my head at The Blerch, and finally high-fived him.  That wasn’t my Blerch.  My Blerch didn’t say stuff like that.  My Blerch whispered at me to not bother showing up.  My Blerch whispered at me to just walk, since I wasn’t going to get a good time anyways.

My Blerch was an a$$hole and I was feeling proud at how much I’d managed to tune him out.

I thought about filling up at the water stations, because I had started to feel disturbingly thirsty, but I was so scared of breaking into a walk.  I’d never jogged this far before, and the only thing keeping me going was the rhythm of my body.  I could feel that if I broke down into a walk my legs would be wiggly and sore and I’d probably have a lot of trouble picking it back up, so instead of hydrating I just grabbed two drinks from each table, double-fisted the water into my gaping maw, and then grabbed a small handful of weird little energy gel packets just in case.

I didn’t know where to put them so I stuffed them down into my sweaty sports bra.  It wasn’t like I was going to be winning any sexy awards anyways, right?

The water revived me, and I felt another teeny rush of endorphins.  If I’d planned ahead and brought my own water and a source of music which didn’t break down on me, I think mile 9 would have been the spot I’d have really shined.  I was amazed to find myself passing people again – people who had blown past me on mile four and five – thin, fit people I never would have thought I could pass in a million years.

I wanted to stretch my legs and really settle into a faster pace, but I’d begun to realize that I might actually be able to accomplish my goal – that I just might be capable of “run”ning the whole thing,  despite only practicing up to 6 miles, and I was scared of jeopardizing that.

Besides, I was thirsty.  I was so, so, so thirsty.  It was almost noon, and the sun had begun blazing down with a vengeance.  In terms of Southern California or Arizona heat it was nothing, but I had been training in 40 degree weather so  I was completely unprepared for 80 degree heat.  I tried some of the weird packet goo I’d stashed in my bra, and realized that… yeah, it was pretty disgusting.  “Chocolate-flavored Goo” is still goo…. but I will say that I don’t think I was capable of chewing at that point, so it was kind of nice just to slurp it down mindlessly.  Also,  it seemed to make me feel sort of perky, so there was that

Mile 10.

I started to feel weird – really weird, and I realized I was actually pretty dehydrated. I have a bad habit of forgetting to be thirsty – stupid, I know, but it’s always been a problem.  One of the ways I can tell when I’m dehydrated is when life stops making sense, or when I start trying to assign it too much sense.  If I find myself pondering weird things and thinking, “But what does it meaaaan???” like some kind of stoned philosophy student, then it means I’m super dehydrated.  And that morning, as I jogged along, I realized my head was beginning to be pretty cloudy.  I fished the last little packet out of my bra and squirted some of the chocolate goo in my mouth….

Only I couldn’t seem to swallow it, because it kept clogging up in my throat.  It took me a few tries for me to realize that I was so dehydrated I wasn’t even making enough spit to swallow stuff.  I knew that probably wasn’t a good sign, but I couldn’t really do anything about it, so I just pushed it to the back of my mind. I started applying the goo to my finger and rubbing it on my gums, figuring at the very least I could absorb it, or something.

Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  My muscles and lungs felt fine, but I was so, so, so very thirsty. I think it was at this point I started asking other runners that I passed for water, only nobody had any left.

Mile 11.

I started feeling very weird, and somewhere in my water-deprived mind I came up with the rationalization that I wasn’t tired, I was just thirsty…. so dropping to a walk didn’t make any sense. What I needed was water, and water would be at the finish line, so I obviously needed to get there as fast as possible, right?

Hey, man, I was pretty dehydrated at that point.  It made sense to my brain.

Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.

I passed a dad and a daughter who were on their bikes and not even a part of the race, asking them if they had any water.  They didn’t.  I passed more runners.  They also didn’t have any water.

I passed a policeman holding up traffic for the race.  He didn’t have any water either.

I was so thirsty.  Drinking was all I could think about.  If someone had handed me a shiv, I could have happily shanked someone for water.

I noticed the trail was actually getting fairly close to the river, and for a little while I considered abandoning the race to go drink…. Giardia could kill me later on – I wasn’t just thirsty, I was dangerously thirsty, and I knew it.  I really considered doing it, but I realized I was so very thirsty and feeling so very weird that there was a very real chance of me passing out if I bent over to get the water, and since there was nobody around that section of the river, I was worried nobody would be able to see me or help me.

Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.

The trees died away and I was in the sun again.  I reached up to scratch at my forehead and watched little flakes of dried sweat fall off – awesome.  I’d lost the ability to sweat.  Clinically, I knew that was a bad, bad sign….. as was the fact that the sun felt almost cold on my body.  The hair on my arms was standing on end, and I was covered from head-to-toe in goosebumps.  I knew exactly how bad that was….

But in my water-deprived brain all I could think was “I’m thirsty, not hot, so I just need to get to the finish line and water as fast as I can. Jogging is faster than walking, so that’s my best shot.”

I kept asking people for water, but nobody had any.  Finally.  FINALLLLLLY, I saw someone with a small Gatorade bottle half-filled with water.  I was so excited I felt like crying…..

…..until I got close enough to realize it wasn’t just someone, it was the race photographer.

I couldn’t ask him for water – if I did, he wouldn’t be able to photograph the people behind me, and my lack of preparation shouldn’t mean that they had to miss out on their photographs.  (I realize now I could have STOPPED and waited for the people behind me to pass by… but again.  My brain was not making good decisions right about then.)

I’ve never hated anyone the way I hated that man.  Forget hating my iPod – my iPod was a saint compared to that stupid photographer.  How dare he be the only person in three miles who had water, and also be the only person in three miles who couldn’t share?

If you ever see this expression on my face, it means I hate you.

Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Mile 12.  My steps were so slow I was almost jogging backwards, but it was still technically a jog.  It was frustrating – my muscles were capable, but I was so thirsty I didn’t dare do anything but the lowest, tiniest of steps.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.

I saw someone on the grass with a small thing of Gatorade – about quarter of a bottle left.  I veered off road.  “Please.  Please, I’m so thirsty.”

They gave it to me, and I felt like a basking shark.  I unhinged my lower jaw and literally dumped it in.

I couldn’t even feel it wetting my mouth. I didn’t even have to stop jogging – it went that fast.   It tasted life-saving, and my goosebumps prickled my harder.  Heck, maybe it was.

I said thank you as I jogged away – I meant it more than I ever meant anything else.  I love you, random, faceless stranger who shared your old drink me.  I loved you so much right then, and I still love you now.

The sun shone down on me, but there started to be more and more people on the side of the roads. Less than a mile left – I decided to quit asking people if they had any water.  I was so close I could see the finish line.  I could get water there.

I resisted the urge to speed up.  The world had narrowed to me and the road.  The sound of my feet.  The feel of the cold sun on my dry, goosebumped skin.  I was almost to the water.

The road began to slope around to the right, and I realized I was there – there was the finish line, around the curve and down the straightaway – and I also realized that even though I’d never been this thirsty before in my entire life, I still had plenty of gas left in the tank.  I may have been jogging ridiculously, ridiculously slow before, but suddenly, desperately, I wanted to know that I’d given the race my all.

I picked up my feet and started running harder.  My legs felt leaden and wobbly, but I forced them to quit complaining and pushed harder.  I spend almost every day of my life being forced to listen to a stupid body that eats itself when I get stressed – it was time for my body to shut up and listen to me.  I passed one person.  Two.  Three.  A pair of girls.

I saw someone ahead of me, and I realized that if I sprinted, I just might “beat” him in, and decided to make that my goal.

My body felt like it was separate from me – a willing horse I was riding, digging deep to give me its all.  I stretched even further, feeling the ground beneath my feet.

The rush of air in my lungs.

The sound of people cheering me on, the knowledge water was just ahead, the knowledge I had done it.

I felt my body telling me that it was done.  I didn’t have anything left – I grabbed deep, and sprinted the last few yards, and made it in past the man.

All around me was cheering, and people smiling, and…AND SHUT UP AND GIVE ME MY WATER.

I pushed past the people trying to collect my race timer chip from my shoe and hand me a medal, and began pacing around.  I’d heard of someone who died when a crew race was done from stopping too suddenly, and I could feel my heart skittering in my chest, feel the lack of water, and didn’t want to stop moving all at once.

“Where’s the water?”

A volunteer smiled at me, and said something in gibberish.

“The water?  I need water.  Do you have water?”

She smiled again, speaking WingDings or something, and gestured at a barn that seemed impossibly far away.  I could have cried, if I had any moisture left in my body.  “I just need water.  Please.  Water?”

She gestured at the time tag I’d attached onto my laces, and I shook my head.  Screw the time chip.  I needed water.  Someone came up and tried to hand me a medal, but it wasn’t water.  I think they looped it over my head for me, but I couldn’t tell.

Claire had finished before me, and she and her husband approached me.  I thought they wanted to talk.  I couldn’t talk.  I needed water.  They said something, but I spun away from them, circling, heading towards the barn, pacing, trying to calm my breathing and the frantic beat of my racing heart.

It took longer than I’d like to admit for me to realize they weren’t just coming up to chat with me, they were trying to push a Gatorade bottle into my hand.  I tore off the lid and pounded that thing faster than I’ve ever pounded a drink in my life, and it staved off my desperation long enough for me to make it over to the volunteer tables where I proceeded to drown myself for the next ten minutes in water and Gatorade.  I have no idea how much I took in.  I know it took almost 10 bottles before I started to feel myself again.  I actually didn’t feel like drinking Gatorade, but after a ton of water I realized I probably had to consider electrolyte imbalance so I started alternating between the two.

I kicked off my shoes and socks and found a water pump and turned it on, delighting in the feel of the cold water on my skin, the way my goosebumps were receding, the way sweat began to bead on my brow again.

I’d finished in 3 hours and 12 minutes and I jogged the whole way.  I accomplished all of my goals.

I also learned a day or two later, as I mentioned above, that someone died at mile 12 from heat stroke.  I’m not just saying this – it could have been me.  It very, very, very easily could have been me.  I was in the middle of writing it up when I found out, and it just took the wind out of my sails when I did.


Bring water.

I don’t care if it’s hard to hold, or if you don’t like the way the belt feels, or if you’ve never needed it before.  Here’s my request of you   Don’t be me.  If I’d been thinking rationally I never would have made decisions that were that dumb…. but when you’re tired and dehydrated you’re not exactly at your most ration or coherent.  BRING WATER.

And now onto the less practical, more touch-feely thing I came away from the race with:

Everyone’s Blerch says something different.  Mine wanted me to sell my ticket rather than “waste” my first half marathon with a crappy attempt.  I certainly wasn’t prepared at ALL for the event.  I hobbled after the race for almost two weeks, and my thighs rubbed together so much during the race that I rasped the skin right off and bled enough my pants stuck to me.  I had scabs on my legs for more than a week, and my sheer stupidity literally almost killed me….

But on the other hand, I still did it.  My Blerch whispers to me that I’m not enough, and that I need to be perfect before I can even try.  My Blerch whispers to me “Why bother?”  My Blerch whispers that trying and failing is more disappointing than not trying at all.

That is such a horrible lie.

I love the photos of my sprint to the finish line.  I think I’m going to frame them one day.  I like what they say, even if I don’t even look particularly “sexy” in these photos.  I look at them and I compare them to the super thin girl of my childhood, or the toned up teen of my younger years and my initial reaction was to wince at how heavy I am, and hide them away.

But… but that’s wrong.  Look, these photos.  This is the photo of a chubby mom who ran thirteen miles on willpower alone.  Who cares if I have rolls?  I kind of rock.  If I’d listened to my Blerch, I wouldn’t have these photos, or this knowledge of what I’m capable of, or the feeling of having accomplished something that means so much to me.

I wouldn’t have the knowledge that I had this much “try” in me, and I wouldn’t be able to apply that confidence to other areas of my life.

Besides, I’m pretty far from perfect.  If I put my whole life on hold waiting until everything is perfect, before I enjoy it, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life in my living room.

And what a waste that would be.

How Not to Update Your Website

Good morning!  Welcome to Computer Tips with Becky!  Today we are going to go over one of my favorite projects – updating your personal website. We’ve got a lot of material to cover, so let’s get started.

  1. You’re going to migrate over to WordPress eventually, but until you can pay someone to do it for you, you need to make do with Blogger.  You’re a big-time, important writer now.  You’re creating article proposals.  You’re submitting short stories.  You deserve a website that reflects how big-time and important you are, so you need to make sure you research it and do it right the first time!
  2. Spend a long time on Pinterest, looking up blogging tips.
  3. Congratulations – you have now designed the world’s most amazing imaginary pantry for your kitchen. What do pantries have to do with websites?  Nothing, other than the fact that you’re on Pinterest, and ohmygosh, look at the shelving space on that one!
  4. No, really.  FOCUS.  Websites.  You’re here about websites, and researching what makes one look professional.  Here, let’s just focus on one thing.  Why don’t you find the world’s most perfect Blogger template?  Surely you can focus long enough to do that, right?
  5. Oh, you found it!  Oh.  Oh, oh, oh!  It’s perfect!
  6. Oh, wait.  The “World’s Most Perfect Blogger Template”  costs money.  Start your search over, and include the word “free” in the search bar, because that’s how you roll.  You’re classy like that – nothing but the best for you, baby.
  7. Find the “World’s Second Most Perfect Blogger Template”.  Go to download.  Realize that it’s a scam.  Start over.
  8. Settle on something that looks good enough – it’s not flashy, but it’s clean and it’ll do nicely. Save it to your desktop.  The last time you saved it to your downloads it disappeared and never resurfaced.
  9. Upload the template onto your blog.
  10. Stare at it in horror for a few minutes.  That’s…. that’s not what it looked like on the preview mode.  That’s not what it looked like AT ALL.  Screw it – you should just go back to your old template.
  11. Wait… where is your old template?
  12. Oh.  CRAP.  You mean that “old template” you were supposed to download before uploading the new one?
  13. Spend several minutes cursing.  Your kids are hanging around eavesdropping on your mumbling, so try to make it creative.   MOTHER FLETCHER!  FLAMING HECK!  OH, FOR THE LOVE OF PICKLE FARTS…. STONE OF A PEACH!
  14. Realize with a dawning sense of horror that it’s up to you to fix this monstrosity of a website. Why is your header so teensy-tiny?  Why is it off-center?  Why are all the gadgets all over the place?  Why does nothing make any sense?
  15. Spend 45 minutes clicking around uselessly.
  16. Spend another 30 minutes clicking around angrily.
  17. Finally lose your temper.  Is something out of place?  Delete it.  Is something else out of place? Delete that.  In fact, delete everything. If it wanted to stay on your blog, then it should have behaved, amiright?  DELETE EVERY SINGLE THING THAT DARES MISBEHAVE. That’ll show your stupid website who is boss.
  18. Calm down.  Realize you deleted important stuff.  Calmly try to re-add those important items.
  19. Wait, what were the  actual links on your sidebar of your favorite websites? You can’t remember.  That’s why you created those links in the first place – so you wouldn’t have to remember.  You mean you didn’t even screenshot the thing before going on your deleting rampage?  Crap.  DOUBLE CRAP.
  20. Give up on fixing the “Most popular posts” or “Websites I Like” gadget.  Instead, you should probably try to fix your header.  I mean, it’s the most important thing, right?  It’s the first thing that people see when they first go to your page, so it should probably be gorgeous and perfect and reflect who you are as a writer.
  21. Fiddle around with the teensy-tiny, crooked header for another 45 minutes.  Get angry and decide to start from scratch. Delete it.  Look in your computer for the saved version so you can try uploading it.
  22.  BOB SAGET!  You accidentally deleted the old header when cleaning out your pics the other day, and you even emptied the trash can. Settle in for another round of creative cursing, doing your best to avoid anything that has the word “fart” in it, because your kids still haven’t finished singing “Pickle farts!  Pickle farts!” at the top of their shrill little lungs.
  23. Fifteen minutes later you should probably give up and delete the header entirely.  Whatever. You didn’t need a header anyways.  Headers are for stupid people.
  24. Give up trying to fix your “Pages” section.  That’s okay.  Nobody needs an “About Me” section anyways.  “About Me” sections are for stupid people, too.
  25. Spend several minutes trying to delete the navigation bar at the top.  It’s cool, but you can’t figure out how to fix it.  What the heck’s a shortcode, anyways?  How do you get that to redirect to something useful?  What’s a layout button?  This seems important – I mean, you’re having problems with your layout, so wouldn’t accessing this fix everything?  Then why can’t you access this to fix?
  26. Maybe you should take up drinking.  You can’t help but feel that an entire bottle of tequila would make this night marginally better.
  27. Whatever.  Websites are stupid.  Turn the computer off, turn on some Norah Jones and Jack Johnson, and pick up a book about werewolves.  You can’t actually kill anyone,  even if you’re in the mood to, but at least you can pretend to be a main character who can kill people, right?

Anyways, this concludes my latest installation of “How to Update Your Website.”  Tune in next week for “How to Throw A Computer Through a Window” or “How to Stab a Laptop Screen”.



I’m sweating.  It’s 6:40 in the morning and I’m literally sweating.  Yesterday it was sunny and in the mid-60’s….. in February, for crying out loud. Today it’s not even 7 and I am waking up five minutes before my alarm because I’m sweating beneath the covers.  I throw them off of me and ease myself out of The Bean’s unconscious too-warm hug, seeking a cool spot on the sheets.

I wiggle around for a few moments, but there’s no cool spots to be found.  It seems I used them all up as I clawed my way to consciousness.  I give up on sleep, sliding tired legs out of bed, groping for a robe.  I stagger to the bathroom in an uncoordinated wobble, willing energy into my barely-functioning limbs.  I haven’t jogged in days.  In fact, I’m edging closer to two weeks of no jogging.   It’s not a “I wanna look good in a bikini” thing, although I wish it were that easy to look good in a bikini.

The thing is, my body’s natural state seems to be wooden, kept at bay by regular movement. Every day I don’t exercise finds me returning to petrified…  glue?  I dunno.  Petrified wood is like a rock, and rocks seem sturdy, strong.  Useful.

My body feels like glue.  Thick, ropey, wiggly strands of useless glue.  Moving feels like swimming through mud, thinking feels like peering through a fog, and it’s my least favorite part of rheumatoid arthritis, or lupus, or MCTD, or whatever the heck is going on with my immune system. The blood tests were inconclusive, so they need to be interpreted by a specialist.

I consider making a return appointment with the fancy rheumatologist in Portland I’d been referred to… but I dismiss it almost immediately.  I still haven’t forgiven her.  Three months of waiting for my appointment, and she turned me away for being 9 minutes late.  I know it’s not really her fault.  I should have left my house earlier, should have left time to be stuck in traffic, waiting on the world’s slowest train to cross.  I tried explaining, but the receptionist was firm.  I may have been 9 minutes late to the appointment, but check-in time was 15 minutes prior to appointment time.  This seems silly to me.  If they wanted me there at 2:30 rather than 2:45, why didn’t they just make the appointment for 2:30?

After wasting years of my life in waiting rooms, something about the whole scenario is incredibly insulting.  I know it’s just business, but I can’t help feeling snubbed. I’m not ready to get back on the waiting list yet.  Soon, maybe, but not today.

So, I waddle through the house on my glue-thick limbs, yawning, battling an exhaustion which constantly clouds my limbs, thoughts, body, brain.  At least I’m not flaring anymore.  I’m pain-free right now (or as close as I come) so that’s a plus, but it’s small consolation when you’re left driving a body that resembles something closer to overcooked spaghetti than it does a useful bit of meat and bones.

I suppose I should think better of my body than that, but right now we’re like two angry roommates forced to share a bedroom.  We’re barely on speaking terms.  If we were siblings, we’d have the cereal box between us so we didn’t have to look at each other in the morning.

I stagger into my muddy work boots and head outside in the early morning light to let the chickens out of their coop.  This morning they’re cross, and their disgruntled clucking mirrors my own feelings.  I agree, ladies.  Morning did come too early, didn’t it?  Sorry I wasn’t here before dawn. After years of safety I grew complacent, leaving their coop unlatched at night…. and yesterday I got a worried text from my neighbor while I was dropping the DragonMonkey off at school, having missed the bus.  Had I checked on my chickens yet?  They were acting weird – huddling together, quiet, subdued….and there were feathers everywhere.

It took almost 15 minutes to get home to confirm:  Goodbye, Moaning Myrtle.

It feels a little dumb to mourn a chicken that I was considering giving away next fall to someone’s stew pot.  Chickens stop laying regularly around 3-4 years old but can live for almost 10 years….  I love my chickens but I love regular eggs more.   Moaning Myrtle was approaching her eggless years, and while the plan had always been to treat our hens like farm animals,  who can eat a chicken they’ve named?  Not me.   So even though the plan was for them to end up in the stew pot, I’d always planned for it to happen off-screen.

Besides, there’s something more than a little macabre having to spend a morning picking up little bitty chunks of your pet all over the yard – feathers with bits of friendly fowl and fond memories still attached. The other chickens had followed me as I cleaned up, clucking quietly.  Itchy.  Scratchy.  Martha Stewart…. even fat, clueless Tanesha.  They circled me, pecking at the feathers I scraped up with a rake, courage returning with my presence.

It’s not love, but there’s something soothing about the consistency of a hen’s greedy hunger.  Chickens are hardly sentimentalists.  If they thought they could get away with it they’d happily eat me.  Still, I feed them, and in exchange they bolt towards me in an ungainly sprint when I call, making me laugh.  It’s a relationship which works for us.

I head back into the house, kick off my boots and heading upstairs, flinging open the boys’ curtains. Wake up.  Time to hop in the shower.  No, I’m not carrying you downstairs – you’re too big.  No, whining won’t change my mind.  Hush – you know better than to complain before I’ve even had a sip of coffee.

By the time they tumble downstairs and are stripping down for their shower I’m working on remedying my coffeeless state – emptying the coffee grounds while holding my robe closed with an elbow.  Why does it keep untying itself? The Bean passes by me as he heads into the boys’ bathroom.  He reaches for the light bulb, preparing to unscrew it and bring it back to our bathroom, but he’s met with a chorus of cries from the boys.  They can’t shower in the dark – the bad guys will eat them… or something.

The Bean sighs and returns to his bathroom for his shower, and I promise to hurry the boys along so he can have the light bulb by the time he needs to shave.

I echo his sigh as he leaves, frustrated at myself.  It’s 2015.  We should not be huddling over our house’s only light bulb like it’s 1915.  I need to get to the store.  I really, really need to get to the store.  Maybe I should go instead of jogging today?

I lean forward to pick up a toy and feel some kind of ligament pop in the back of my knee from the motion.  No.  No, I need to jog.  I’m going to turn to stone if I don’t get some exercise soon.  I need to remind my body how to circulate, or whatever it is that running does for me.  Besides, my eyeballs feel like I’ve coated them in itchy, hot sand.  I don’t know why jogging helps with my dry eye, but it does.  If I don’t jog today I’m going to end up with red, itchy, burning eyes that make me look like I’m high on pot.

The coffee is percolating, releasing a scent which improves my spirits, so I go hunting in the fridge for some kind of breakfast.  We’re almost out of almond milk, which means we can’t have cereal…. and after three weeks of being passionately in love with zucchini omelets, the boys have suddenly decided they hate zucchini.  Figures.  We’re out of anything easy to make – no microwaveable-this or toaster-that.  We’re out of bananas.  In fact, we’re out of fruit.

I tap my fingers on the side of the fridge, conscious of the time crunch, and finally decide on a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs, a bit of butter and the last swig of almond milk.  I’ll make french toast – who doesn’t like french toast?

I start the pan heating on the stove, to cut down on the cook time, and rummage through the washed-but-not folded laundry.  A pair of pants…. a sock…  the boys’ outfits emerge one at a time, crackling with static electricity.  We’re out of dryer sheets.  I really, really, really need to get to the store.

I whip up the eggs, vanilla almond milk, and a bit of cinnamon, soak the bread and toss it on the sizzling butter in the pan.  Then I begin the rapid-fire breakfast dance – drying skinny little boy bodies, flipping the bread, helping an arm find a sleeve, soak a new piece of bread, button the pants, switch out the toast on the stove, hoping the boys don’t notice the blackened edges.

Somewhere in the middle of my whirling ballet of busyness The Bean steals the light bulb, and the boys gravitate out of the dim bathroom to the kitchen with its fluorescent lighting.   I slap the french toast onto colorful plastic Ikea plates and comb their hair while they eat.

“This is really good!”
“I love my Mama’s cooking!  You’re the best cook in the world!”

They’re still trying to mollify me for the way they reacted to the Ruined-Chicken-Nugget incident from Valentine’s Day. I’d messed up the crock pot carnitas. Just so you know, you can turn on a slow-cooker all you want, but if you don’t plug it in it won’t actually accomplish anything.  The only meat I had left was chicken breast, so I tried to make gluten-free chicken nuggets from scratch.  They looked good, but who knew Lawry’s seasoning salt would be so salty?

The worst part is I couldn’t even serve them with ketchup to mellow the taste – man, I really do need to make it to the store.  The boys were disgusted at the idea of a too-salty, nearly inedible dinner, but I was too tired to try for a third round of culinary failure and called it quits.  A little salt never hurt anyone, right?  DragonMonkey and Squid were horrified that I wouldn’t cook anything else and there was nothing for them to make on their own, so they complained how horrible their dinner was until I almost broke down into tears.

They’re only 4 and 6 but they know when they’ve pushed too far, and they’ve been making an effort ever since.  It sounds forced and fake, but I figure learning how to give fake compliments is good training for the future (who knows if they’ll marry someone who can cook?) so I don’t call them on it. You’re welcome, future spouses.

The coffee finishes brewing right as I’m shoving a snack into DragonMonkey’s lunch bag, and The Bean emerges from the bedroom – freshly showered, starched business clothes, bright-eyed and brushed teeth.

I retie my frumpy robe for the 17th time and pour myself my first cup of coffee, clearing the mossy cobweb-feeling from my mouth with the first sip.  I close my eyes, finding a moment of stillness in the morning chaos, letting the aroma of coffee swirl around my brain as I count backwards from 10. I can afford ten seconds to myself, right?

10.  9.  8.  7.  6.  


5.  4.

“I said leave it alone!  Don’t touch— MOM!  HE SPIT ON ME!  SQUID SPIT ON ME!”

Six seconds.  Apparently I can afford six seconds.  I set the cup down and intervene, eyeballing the clock behind me.  The Bean offered to drop DragonMonkey off at the bus stop this morning, but if they don’t leave in three minutes, they’re going to miss the bus.

I let them know this, and both the Bean and DragonMonkey grow visibly anxious.  They’re cut from the same cloth – both loving schedules, and order, and rules, and the idea of being late makes them leak an anxiety that’s almost palpable.  I’m throwing shoes on DragonMonkey, fishing discarded Superman hoodies off the porch, stuffing take-home folders into Angry Bird backpacks, kissing, hugging, waving, and they’re finally out the door.  The Bean returns for a quick kiss – he smells like soap and tastes minty fresh, which means I don’t.

Man, I really need to start brushing my teeth first-thing in the morning.  I hate feeling self-conscious about goodbye-kisses.

“If you miss the bus bring him back and I’ll drop him off!” I pause, wondering if I ought to add something more romantic.  It’ll be about 14 hours before I see The Bean again, and that’s only if I stay up late to greet him, otherwise I won’t see him until tomorrow morning.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again:  Friends don’t let friends become public accountants.

“Love you!” I holler as they head out the gate.  Hey, it’s not exactly a Shakespearean sonnet, but I’ve only had one sip of coffee.  Speaking of which….

I pick it up and take a sip, making a face.  It’s lukewarm, edging towards cold, and I cross to the sink to pour it down the drain.  I hate wasting it, but I’ve never gotten the hang of microwaving coffee.  It always tastes… well, microwaved.

I ditch the robe and find jogging clothes, tripping over dogs that circle me in quiet adoration.  Squid is standing in front of the couch, staring wordlessly at Caillou. I grimace at the sound of it.  I hate that show – it’s like they’re deliberately teaching children how to be whiny little ingrates, plus the main voice actor was a 17 year old girl who died in a car crash, so I can’t even feel right about hating it.  Still – it captivates Squid, and he’s still for the first time all morning, staring up at the TV with his scruffy hair spilling over the back of his shirt in a little mullet.  I wince.

“Squid, come here.”  What he needs is a haircut, but what he gets instead is a quick trim on the back of his hair.  We don’t have a lot of standards in this house, but I have to draw the line at mullets.  It’s a bit crooked, but hopefully nobody will notice.

I glance at the clock as I gather up the plates from the kitchen table, noticing as I do that in the excitement of getting DragonMonkey out the door on time one of the dogs has somehow managed to countersurf the baggie of leftover Valentine’s Day candy off of the kitchen counter and is now hiding with it in her kennel.  Well, I say “one of the dogs”, but I know exactly who the culprit is.


She slinks toward me, all apologies, and I glance inside her kennel – it’s too late – it’s already gone.   There’s nothing but empty wrappers and slobber.  She stares at me, guilt-ridden, and I sigh.  Yelling won’t bring the candy back, and at this point the only thing that’s going to stop her counter-surfing is getting the mouse traps someone suggested…. but again, there’s that trip to the store I keep putting off.

I help Squid into shoes and walk him over to daycare, realizing as I do that I’ve forgotten my coffee on the counter again.  By the time I get back it’ll be cold.  I think I managed two sips out of this cup. We go through creamer at a horrific rate, but the truth is that I feed most of it to my kitchen sink.  It’d probably be cheaper to pour myself coffee one sip at a time, but that just feels dumb.

I glance at the clock, mentally ticking off the errands still left on my plate.  Let’s see…. make sure the chicken water is filled, let the dogs go potty, check the cat food…. find my keys and squeeze in a sanity-saving jog before heading to work.  Pick up the DragonMonkey on my lunch break, make lunch for both boys, drop both DragonMonkey and the lunch off at the sitter’s, and return to work.

I want to see Caspian today – it’s been too long – but do I have time?   How much work is on the docket today at the barn?  I love the fact that I’m making money working at a horse barn, but I can’t seem to find as much enjoyment as I want to.  There are no set hours, and I find myself unable to relax.  While I’m there I keep thinking of all the unfinished tasks that are waiting for me as soon as I’m done, and I spend the whole time weighing the decision of thirty more minutes of paid work versus thirty minutes of unpaid chores at home.

Speaking of unfinished…. I wince as I remember the still untyped dictation I owe… no, no Caspian today.   Again.   I need to finish up the dictation so I can get my time card off to my job.  I need the check for board, so it’s a non-negotiable item.  I can do it after work,  before I pick up the boys at 5…. but by that point it’ll be dinner time.  Should I chance a trip to the store with hungry kids, or try to go after dinner? I keep trying to go after dinner, but by that point I’m so tired I don’t even feel safe behind the wheel, which is why we are living a life of One Shared Bathroom Lighbulb. What I need to do is cancel the jog with my friend and just go to the store now.  It’s makes the most sense.  Maybe I could make my body learn how to release itself by writing, instead of moving?

Speaking of writing….my blog – my poor, un-updated blog.  I need to be blogging more than ever now.  If I’m really taking this whole “writer” thing seriously, I need regular posts.  I need pageviews, and likes, and a ready-made audience to better “sell” myself to agents and publishers….

But seriously.  Whose stupid idea was it, anyways, to brand myself as a humor writer?  I think of the dozens of partially-finished stories in my drafts box, and find myself shaking my head.  I’m too tired to be funny today.  Today, walking up the front steps of my house is as much of an effort as I can handle.  There’s just nothing left in me to make other people laugh.

I’m so lucky – most of the medications for auto-immune diseases have side effects like “cancer” or “death”.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s better than living a life of crippling pain, but still scary as heck.  I’m so lucky that thus far I’ve been able to keep serious flare-ups at bay… but I really do need to make an appointment with that rheumatologist.  This last one took it out of me.  I’ve been mostly pain-free for almost two weeks, but I’m still caught in that flare-up fog.  I’m only 33.  Walking to my front porch shouldn’t feel like this big of an accomplishment, but it does.  A trip to the rheumatologist might give me some answers.

But seriously, I was only 9 minutes late.  Between gas and baby sitting and time off of work it cost me over $30 to make it to that appointment, only to be turned away for being 9 minutes late.  I search my feelings and realize I’m still a little too angry to make the call, so I shuffle inside, searching for my keys.

I glance at the clock  It’s not even 8 in the morning and I’m already exhausted.  Of course, is “already” the right word?  I haven’t stopped being exhausted, not for days.  Still.  There, that’s a better word. It’s 8 in the morning, and I’m still exhausted, but that’s okay.  I’ll feel better after I jog.  I don’t have time for a jog, but I can’t afford not to.  The store can wait.