In another life I was married. And in that life, late one night, I received a phone call. “Hello,” said the woman’s voice, “I’m calling to tell you your husband is my boyfriend. All those times he said he was working out of town, he was with me. I was with him on Halloween and then on New Years. Thanksgiving he spent with my family. We were together on your birthday. And I was with him last night when you called. I just thought you should know.”

—-

Grief.

I plunged my head underwater. The tears kept falling even though I was facedown in the tepid tub. My only wish was not for strength or solace-for things that would make me well-but that the water streaming down my face would fill my lungs instead.

—-

Hope.

“I went a whole day without crying,” I told Susan, my therapist. “This marks a shift. I’ve been noticing a lot lately that I’m not who I used to be. I don’t blog any more-I don’t even think to do it. I spend more time praying than I ever have. I don’t have any favorite TV shows and I never watch movies. I have replaced my sneakers with spike heels and sweatshirts with designer denim. My circle of friends has gotten very small. Six months ago I was hysterically talking to anyone I could. Most days now I only talk to Mom and I am disappointed when I call and she’s not there.”

Susan, ever the professional, merely nodded a response. Her eyes betrayed her clinical demeanor though–I saw a flash of happy in them.

—-

Healing.

About a year ago I started to come out of my depression. I had accepted my circumstances-that my marriage was over and I was truly alone for the first time in my adult life-and I embraced it. In a journal entry I wrote that I was beginning to think that I’d reached the light at the end of the tunnel. For so long I’d prayed that God would let me feel good again, that I’d get out of the black and back into happiness. I cried, I wrote, because I’d finally gotten there.

In another life I was married. And in that life, late one night, I received a phone call. And for that call-for the awful catalyst that transformed me from a dull, complacent pupa resigned to the false security of a wedding band and suburban dwelling, into a beautiful butterfly queen, determined to walk by my own light, living and loving deliberately-I am eternally grateful.

To borrow from John Mayer, I’m in repair. I’m not together but I’m getting there.

As summer begins its slow acquiesce to fall, I’ve found it necessary to do some renovating behind the scenes at the haus.

Most notably, the curtains now match the carpet.

Isn’t brown beautiful?

I was talking to a friend who expressed frustration that her more thoughtful posts were less commented than those that were quickly concocted—folks got all crazy-like commenting on toaster sandwiches but were kind of meh about her pistachio pops

Me I thought the pops rocked. Mostly because—as a keen observer of the human anatomy—I couldn’t help but notice they resembled something we like very much at the haus.

Those rigid pops—positioned erectly in all their cold, hard, and shiny glory—looked just like ….

Well you know what’s coming dear hannihaus readers.

Yes, I was going to say they looked just like Nicole Kidman’s botoxed forehead.
…

Oh and also penis.

The pops looked an awful lot like penis, which is not weird considering that where you find nuts, you often find knob.

But I digress.

Times are hard. The economy is tanking, the price of gasoline is surging, and I have a seriously bad case of assbrows. And why do my brows look like like such ass? Well, because the economy is tanking and the price of gasoline is surging. Whilst I used to get a luxurious bi-weekly brow wax, the cost adds up, so now I just wax nostalgic instead. That shit is free yo.

Speaking of free, a few months ago the government sent me a letter saying I’d be getting an economic stimulus package at no cost—just for being an American. At first I was super stoked. I mean, what girl doesn’t love a nice package? But then when I learned the package was just money (not mangina) I was like, awww ok.

It turns out the government wanted me to spend this free money frivolously. The idea is, if I, and every other American, spent that 600 bones on something fun—like 600 bones in Vegas (where there is abundance of mangina and it’s legal)— I would feel good (albeit sore as hell) and business would be bolstered.

And it’s a cool idea. My parents own a small business and they are struggling. Operating a power sports set up (read: ATVs, snowmobiles, go carts, etc.), the ‘rents rely on “fun money” entertainment expenditures to keep afloat. Maaa and Popi don’t make their bread and butter on folks who limit their spending to necessities like, uh, bread and butter.

Despite my desire to stimulate the economy in a fun and frolicsome way, my desire to pay my rent is even greater. And so it happened that what I did with my economic stimulus package was NOTHING. I put that junk in the bank kids.

And it’s a good thing I have *something* in savings. The cost of groceries is out.of.control. The other day I decided—in an effort to save money eating out (har)—I would make a dessert at home. I chose Rhubarb Fool (recipe to follow) because we like fools around here; heck I even married one—a fool, not a rhubarb, though it would’ve been preferable to marry the veggie but whatevs. So anyway, I go to the store and pick out three measly sticks of rhubarb (the same stuff that grows wild and FREE at Maaas house). I get to the register and snicker at the cashier’s name tag which reads: Rainbeaux. Then Rainbeaux tells me the total and I no longer laugh. That shit costs $5.99! This is too effing expensive for something that looks like pink celery, which if it existed would probably cost what green celery does which is $1.99 for organic. But anyway, I didn’t want to look like a cheap ass, so I sucked it up, walked towards the end of Rainbeaux’s conveyor, opened wide my wallet and handed her my gold…. And then I died a little inside.

Long story short, I am spending my economic stimulus cash on the essentials: FOOD and GAS. Granted, if you eat in my kitchen the former will inevitably produce the latter, but that’s a whole other post.

Rhubarb Fool (serves 2)

1 C fresh (or frozen thawed) rhubarb stalks
¼ C agave nectar or sugar of your preference
2 Tbs orange juice
1 C plain Greek yogurt

Preheat oven to 350 F. Combine rhubarb, agave and orange juice glass pan. Bake for 20 minutes or so, until rhubarb is completely soft. Refrigerate until chilled, about 15 minutes.

Into two glasses or goblets, spoon alternate layers of rhubarb mixture and yogurt. Eat immediately or cover and refrigerate up to 6 hours.

Hope you enjoyed that sexy title.

After all, it’s hump day.

*bow chicka wow wow*

So Erin Cooks—that saucy bakerella—wants you to get some. And she knows just how to give it to you.

To get some sweet sweet love, enter to win Erin’s copy of the Warren Brown CakeLove cookbook. The recipes are smokin hot. Look at this Mojito Pound Cake EC made Monday. Tell me that’s not total food porn.

To win the torrid tome, just go to Erin’s blog and make a comment.  Do it here.

At the contest’s close a random number generator will pick the winner. And then it will pick the winner’s nose … and then it will pick the winner’s shoes … and socks … and wedgie … and whatever.

Well it might just pick the winner, but still that’s pretty cool.

So yeah, go visit Erin Cooks. Leave her a comment.

I will love you long time.

One time I went to a company picnic and that time was last week.

It’s springtime in the Lone Star state and that means it’s BBQ season. Like most Texans, the people I work with really love meat, so we had lots of it at our picnic.

Look here’s a picture of my friend Shex enjoying a sausage.

Shex is wearing a funny Mister Rodgers sweater, so when I saw this picture all I could think was: It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a beauty would, would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you eat my sausage?

I can see Shex singing this song, mostly because he is single and looking for someone to share his sausage with.

My friend Carolyn also enjoyed le pork.

She looks really happy. I think it’s because the sausage Carolyn’s holding is really fat. Some people say size matters. Who knows?

Me, I don’t like meat so much so I enjoyed another kind of traditional picnic fare called egg rolls.

I know. I was like WTF too.

So after we ate, it was time for games. I thought my boss would like it if I participated in one, so I did. I did this thing where you hop for 50 yards to the finish. It was pretty fun until the announcer started yelling at me to lift my sac. Although the 3 dudes I was competing against could claim otherwise, I don’t have that kind of equipment and I got real frustrated. But in the end everything made sense. See it turns out the “sac” the GameMaster was referring to was made of burlap. I did have one of those.

Look at me in this pic. I’m like WTF is this brown thing?

And then I’m like, cool dude it’s a bag. Let’s do a hip hop handshake to commemorate!

And then I was like, uh oh is this bag gonna make my butt look big?

And then the answer was, yes.

After the food and games I was pretty tired so I headed home. Carolyn, however, continued eat and enjoy her sausage. She sure was happy.

The end.

As I rounded the bend in that small Texas town a tingling sensation sandwiched itself between my shoulder blades. A similar sensation, a snap-crackle-and-popping of my wrists, had started some 50 miles back. A persistent pain in my sits bones was fairly excruciating but I stayed seated, forcing my aching legs to pump one-two, one-two. My brain knew we had a long way to go. My body was going to have to comply.

In many of the towns my rider’s group had pedaled through—Belleville, Fayetteville, Bastrop, and La Grange—enthusiastic townsfolk thanked us from sidewalks in woops, hollers, and shouts. One group of merry makers included a fiddler; an impromptu hoe down was happening in a ditch as we peddled past. Another group blasted Sir Mix A Lot’s I Like Big Butts as they danced in the street. Possessing a big old juicy double myself, I appreciated their enthusiasm and gave a high five as I rolled by.

But here on this last stretch some 40 miles from the finish, the merry makers were few and far between, so when I felt that searing in my shoulders I was experiencing it sans happy distraction. My spirits were low as headwinds of 25 mph took the momentum out of my step and the breath from my lungs. Although I’d diligently applied sunscreen my flesh was scorching under the cloudless south western sky. Overhead vultures flew ominous circles—no doubt attracted to the smell of my stinking skin.

So imagine my surprise when—on that lonely desolate road— I saw a singular man, sort of redneck-looking, hoisting a sign of support. The man, dressed in overalls and baseball cap, held up a board with a single word painted on it: HERO.

HERO?

Dripping with sweat and caked in grime, I didn’t feel heroic. What I felt was fatigue. But then—inspired by the stranger’s sign—I looked at my bike computer and found I’d gone 109 miles.

109 miles! On a bike! A year ago I didn’t even OWN a bike. If you’d told me I’d be riding one for 150 miles over the course of two days, I’d have laughed my non-athletic face off.

And then I remembered why I’d vowed to pedal these 150 miles in the first place: to raise money for those who weren’t capable of doing the same. For people with MS the smallest physical feat can be an impossibility, and so the 150 miles I was riding on their behalf and the $1187 I raised doing it, made me—in someone’s eyes at least—a hero.

I wasn’t the fastest one in, but I did finish. At the end, I boarded a bus back to Houston. Physically and emotionally spent, I laid my head on my companion’s shoulder and fell fast asleep. And with that small physical surrender, the hero became—once again—merely human.

—–
This year I confronted the biggest physical challenge of my life, riding my bicycle, Miss Piggy 150 miles in the BP MS 150 from Houston to Austin, Texas.

Due to a cold front and high winds, this year’s ride was—by all accounts from those who have ridden previous years—the most difficult in anyone’s memory.

I did not walk a single hill. I did not SAG, save for one mile due to mechanical difficulties. I averaged a respectable 12.3 MPH. I spent 11 hours total pedal time going those 150 miles.
I am proud of me.

It’s been 6 months, 683 miles, 70 bottles of water, 15 plates of pancakes, and 1 container of crotch cream in the making.

I have been biking my butt off in preparation. And finally, the ride I’ve been training for, the Houston to Austin BP MS 150, it is upon us.

I am super stoked.

See, awhile back I got into biking after some bad shit happened to me. Riding Miss Piggy (my pretty pink road bike) has changed me. I no longer feel like a stranger in this western town, as I’ve explored Houston’s vast expanses on two wheels; from Brays Bayou to Terry Hershey, Memorial, and Cullen Parks, me and Miss Piggy have had quite the tango in this oilman’s paradise.

Speaking of oilman’s paradise, did you know Houston is home to the George Bush Hike and Bike Trail? I like to ride that trail, but I do so with caution. True story: my first time out, I rounded a bend only to be greeted by the rapid staccato of gunfire echoing—from a nearby range—through the bayou. Jilted, I swerved left. I was quick to correct though. On the George Bush Trail you keep to the Right.

So tomorrow I’ll embark on my longest ride yet—it’s 150 miles from Houston to Austin. Thinking back, I still worry about bad shit. But the kind of bad shit I worry about these days is the kind that appears in the aftermath of endurance exercise wherein the excessive consumption of powders, goos, and gels is par for the course.

Wish me luck!

This is my submission.

A HAIKU ABOUT THE CONTENT STRATEGY SUMMIT
Corp. Writer’s Workshop
Dude’s like, “This class is bullshit!”
Teacher is angry

—-
AND AS AN ADDED BONUS: During my participation in a mandatory workshop wherein the instructor has asked us to write haiku expounding on our experience, I decide to memorialize the result of a participant’s request for salad in addition to pizza, as it consequently slowed delivery time.

This is my other submission.

A HAIKU ABOUT FOOD AT THE CONTENT STRATEGY SUMMIT
I’m freaking starving
Stupid dumb-ass veggie heads*
Delayed our free lunch

*[read: me]
—-
Clearly my talents are not wasted in the workplace.

At least as it applies to blogging.

After being outed as a 10-year blogger (beating the mistress of the haus by 3 years) our beloved Erin Cooks has tweeted into the friendternet, asking if she could win a prize for longevity.

To that I say yes.

It will come in the form of a Costco-size pack of Depends and a bottle of Geritol.

…

Thank you I’ll be here all night.

But seriously, Erin Cooks will probably be pissed at this post. That’s O.K. She’s making limoncello and can drink her blues away.

Of course her recipe might not turn out, in which case she’ll have to settle for prune juice.