Emergency on the Race Course

It was about mile 6 when I really had to go. The thought of stopping my clock and going into a port-a-potty on the side of Highland Avenue wasn’t my idea of a good time, but you know what they say?

When you gotta go, you gotta go.

And really, I HAD TO GO!

Easy enough, huh?

I walked right in, there was no line like at miles 2 and 4. Did my thing. Used the hand sanitizer.

Opened the door.

Opened the door.

Opened the…







So I was able to push the door open just enough to see out.

I could see a cop directing traffic at the intersection. Only he was a good 50 yards away.

This is when I realized that apparently port-a-potties are freaking soundproof because I was yelling and screaming for somebody to LET ME OUT I’M STUCK IN A PORT-A-POTTY WITH OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT FLOATING AROUND IN BLUE WATER.

Breathe, Jana.

Time’s ticking. My time was getting longer and longer each second.

I pushed the door open again, about 1/2 an inch.

Somebody’s coming.







She looked towards the port-a-potty like there was somebody freaking out inside and for a split second I thought she wouldn’t let me out.

But she did.

I was freeeeeeeeee.

Fresh air. Breathe. I took a second to realize that I, in fact, was going to live.

My death certificate will not say (at least this time) “Death by asphyxiation in a port-a-potty.”

And then I went and finished running 9.3 miles.


Elapsed time of freakout: Approximately 22 seconds, but felt like an eternity.

The One Where I Get A Finger Monkey

The One Where I Get A Finger Monkey

A few months back, I mentioned that I really wanted a finger monkey for my birthday.

A what?

A finger monkey. You know, one of these:


Well, they can’t get me one because they’re probably illegal and hell, I don’t know if they even exist or not. They’re probably expensive, too. And likely would terrorize our dog and cat and kid.

So I figured I would opt for something else. Maybe a gift certificate for a facial or a tank of gas. Maybe I could sleep in until 7. Something practical.

I woke up this morning to being shuffled off to get a Starbucks Chai, a breakfast at Waffle House, and back home to this.

Look at that beautiful cake! It was tiramisu and to die for! But it didn’t kill me.

I didn’t die until I opened my gift and wondered why the HELL they bought me a monkey charm for my Pandora bracelet.

Then Henry said, “It’s because of your love of the finger monkey. And bananas for the monkey to eat.”


According to them, this is what went down in the Pandora store:

Pandora girl: Can I help you today?

Henry: Do you have a monkey?

Pandora girl: Sure. Why do you need a monkey?

Henry: Because my mom saw this picture on the internet and it had a pointy finger with a monkey on it. 


Henry and Jason: ((dying laughing))

Henry: We’re going to need some bananas, too, because her name is Jana Banana and her finger monkey will get hungry.

After I gathered myself and stopped snorting while laughing, I quickly corrected them and let them know it wasn’t a finger monkey, it would really be a wrist monkey.

Stream of Consciousness Sunday: Happy Birthday to ME!

Hey y’all! Guess what?


In honor of that, I’m going to offer up a free writing day so set those timers and just write. For five minutes.

stream of consciousness sunday

Thirty seven. 37. XXXVII. <<see I speak Roman. Fancy.

Feels like the beginning of my late 30’s, close to 40, rigth in the middle of “mid-life.”

I can honestly say, though, 37 feels better physically than 36 and maybe even 35. Is it because I’m running? Probably. Is it because I’m working outside the home? Possibly.

Thinking about my life in numbers, though, is scary. (Taking this idea from Erin who got it from GFunkified) (it’ll also take more than my allotted 5 minutes) (it’s my birthday, so I dare you to call me on it).

37 – age I am today

14 – years I’ve been married

18 – years I’ve been out of high school

3 – number of pregnancies

2 – number of births

11 – number of days I had contractions every 15 minutes when pregnant with Henry

1 – number of living children and number of angel babies

4 – number of cars I’ve had (that were “mine”)

2 – number of tattoos I have

6 – number of months ago I decided to start running

3 – number of 5k races I’ve run since then

74 – number of miles my runkeeper app says I’ve run since then, but it’s really more than that

13.1 – number of miles I’ll be running in February with Team RMHC (psst: If you want to give me a $5 birthday gift, feel free to donate to my run in memory of my Charlie, or not)

2500 – my goal to raise for that race

16 – size pants I was wearing 6 months ago

10 – size pants I wear now BOOM!

4773650 – times I feel like I say “stop it” during the week

7 – times I wonder what’s for dinner every week

3199 – age difference in days between Jason and me

4 – number of times I said “between Jason and me” out loud to see if it was right before realizing that I don’t really care and that’s how I’m going to write it (is it right?)

73 – times I’ve been interrupted while writing this


This was my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

  • Set a timer and write for 5 minutes.
  • Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
  • Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.
  • Add the Stream of Consciousness Sunday badge to your post (in the sidebar). .
  • Link up your post below.
  • Visit your fellow bloggers and show some love.


Dreams DO Come True

Dreams DO Come True

This email came through to me last night.

Thank you for signing up for the Rockettes event on Friday, August 3rd, at 7am, at Radio City Music Hall! This email confirms your space at this event. We can’t wait to see you there!

I’d be totally lying if I told you I didn’t tear up. And squeal out loud. And immediately call my 14 year old niece.

This is totally a dream come true for me.

Let’s back up a little… like to when I was two.

At two, I got my first pair of ballet shoes and started taking classes. I danced non-stop until I graduated from high school, taking ballet, tap, and jazz.

In 7th grade, I was a majorette and a cheerleader in 8th grade.

When I was a freshman, I was one of two freshmen to make the high school dance team — The Vespidaettes.

August, 1990, y’all! I’m 2nd from the left.

Dancing took me many places.

I went to camps during the summer, training with several professional ballerinas.

My dance team earned the chance to dance in two Cotton Bowls at NCA Camps.

I was invited as a senior, to dance in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Dublin, Ireland. My whole family went. (Shoutout to Mama and Daddy for doing everything they could to allow me to experience these trips.)

Twice I was invited to dance in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. The first year, the 5 of us who went from my school were front and center. We opened the parade and it was AMAZING! The second time, we were almost front and center, in a group of 1000 high school girls. We marched the parade route and experienced the whole shebang.

There were two groups that, all my life, I’ve looked up to. The Rangerettes from Kilgore College in Texas, and obviously, The Rockettes.

I knew I would never go to Kilgore College, so my dream of being a Rangerette was dashed (although I could totally kick my hat like they could) (they didn’t call me Miss Dance America for nothing, you know).

But I did look into auditioning to be a Rockette. Crazy? Hell yeah. But why not?

Only… I was too short.

My hopes for being a Rockette were dashed, also.

In college, I took ballet from a wonderful man, Mr. Curtis, and kept myself semi-in shape. But now? Not gonna lie… I’ve let myself go.

I could blame it on grief, marriage, laziness, birthing babies, arthritis. Whatever. At the end of the day, I’m out of shape.

So it’s highly likely I’ll rip pull a muscle on Friday morning. It’s highly likely I won’t care one single bit.

I’ll be dancing with the Rockettes, y’all. Probably with tears rolling down my eyes from both joy AND pain!


Farmers Marketing

It’s been well documented that I have a grocery problem.

“Problem” meaning I could spend $1000 a month EASILY at the grocery store. I mean, if the budget (and income) allowed it. I buy, for the most part, good stuff. We eat a lot of fresh stuff, but also a bit of crap. In comparison

I’ve toned it down some. I’m better. I’m in recovery.

But now I’m obsessed with Farmers Markets. Sweet Lord Have Mercy!

Last weekend we hit Your DeKalb Farmers Market. It was heavenly as usual. We came out with a ton of stuff and only spent about $65. Henry was so very excited about picking out funny shaped and colored fruits and vegetables. And *surprise* he ate a lot of it.

Fresh foods for lunch and supper every day. Lots of choices that, unfortunately, Publix doesn’t offer. (Or Fresh Market and Whole Foods, sadly) It was a week of delicious eating.

(side note: why do they call it YOUR Dekalb Farmer’s Market? Is it really mine? I think not.)

Anyway, today we decided to hit up the Buford Highway Farmers Market.

DUDES. Why didn’t you people tell me about this?

It’s close to my house. It’s easy to get to. It’s clean.

It’s like a real grocery store on performance-enhancing drugs.

I… I… I was left speechless.

The aisles were wide. There was a ton of each item. People actually smiled at you and said “excuse me” when they were in your way (I’m never in anybody’s way, but say “scuse me, sorry” all the time.)

The samples… we should’ve just eaten lunch at the sample tables. Henry tried a bunch of new stuff he would have NEVER tried before.

We have a fridge and freezer full of things like live blue crab, dragon fruit, unusual mangoes, seafood dumplings, some sort of Mexican cookies, queso, fresh mozzarella, yellow tomatoes, bread that I don’t know what it’s called but it’s delicious, and all manner of other crazy awesome stuff that I can’t pronounce. For $138.

I know lots of you will disagree with me on this, but in my mind this is how the Atlanta Farmer’s Market analogy goes:

YDFM : WalMart as BHFM : Target.

I’m not sure I need to go to the real grocery store again. I think I’ll be landing at the Buford Highway Farmers Market for food from now on.



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