When Life Gives You Lemons, It’s Okay If You Just Want To F*cking Chuck Them At People

This post is for anyone who is struggling.

For anyone who is sick and tired of blow after blow after blow.

For anyone who feels like they can’t catch a fucking break.

And I hate vague posts. Vaguebooking.

You know,  when someone posts something on Facebook along the lines of I just don’t know what to do anymore…

Or  even better, just one word.


But as much as I hate it, I’m about to do it.

Sort of.

I received some really shitty news yesterday.

Really shitty.

It’s not something I can share. Not right now anyway.

And before you go crazy trying to figure out what it is, all my family members are healthy. Nobody is in the hospital. There has been no infidelity in my marriage.

To be honest, it doesn’t really matter what the bad news is.

Bad news is bad news.

It’s fairly major bad news.

And you know what?

I’m fucking sick of bad news.

I’m sick of hardship and sadness and worry and anger and anxiety and the fucking resulting depression.


I know better than anyone else what I need to do to get through this.

I need to ask for help where I can get it.

I need to continue to exercise.

I need to get enough sleep.

I need to eat well.

I need to find a therapist. Like yesterday.

I need to take a shower and continue to show up for my kids.

I need to take care of myself so I can take care of them.

Because if I fall apart, then things will get seriously fucked up.

But you know what? I don’t want to do any of those healthy things.

I’m sitting here at the computer typing.

But I really want to be on the couch, binge watching Netflix in an effort to forget about reality for a little while.

I want to eat every single carb in my kitchen. And my neighbor’s kitchen.

I want to call in sick to work and drink a bottle of wine.

I want to call one of my friends who has a “prescription” for medical marijuana and go get completely out of my mind stoney baloney.

I want to be numb. Because this fucking blows.

You know what else I want to do?

I want to punch every single person who tells me that “God has a funny way of teaching us patience” or  “Sometimes you’re not getting what you want because something better is planned for you instead” or “God never gives you more than you can handle” directly in the face. Hard.

The Fall down seven times, stand up eight tattoo I got on my forearm in December?

I want to Indian burn that motherfucker right off of myself.

I don’t want to be inspired. I don’t want to be motivated. I don’t want to be challenged.

I don’t want to be positive or optimistic. I don’t want to look at the glass as half full.

I don’t want to fucking do anything.

I’m frustrated. I’m worried. I’m angry. And I’m fucking exhausted.

But my kids are counting on me.

So as soon as I hit publish on this post, even though I want to do every possible unhealthy (and ultimately ineffective) thing there is to do in order to deal with the bullshit I’m experiencing right now, I’m going to get out of this chair, exercise, eat, take a shower, and then get ready to go to work.

I am going to do my best to show up. I’m going to think about the people who are counting on me.

But I really, really, really don’t want to.

I just want to sit here and cry.

If you are in the same spot, if you are struggling, if you feel like you can’t catch a break, if you are fucking over everything, I’m not gonna try to pump you up.

I’m not going to tell you that Tough times don’t last; tough people do. I’m not going to tell you You’ll get through this. (But you will).

I just wanted to tell you that if you are tired and dejected and feeling hopeless because of whatever your string of shitty things is, I know how bad it sucks. It fucking blows.

I totally get it. Hang in there.

I’m right there with you.


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I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

I ran a marathon 2 weeks ago. I totally forgot to write about it.

Probably because it sucked so bad I just wanted to block it out.


Last summer, in July 2013,  I did the NYC Triathlon.

And that was such an amazing experience that at the last minute, I registered for the NYC Marathon.

Less than four months later, in November of 2013, I ran my first marathon and crossed the finish line in Central Park.

And that was so awesome that I kind of made a secret goal to run a marathon every year.

I’m not fast.

My time in New York was a 4:37.

My ultimate goal is to break four hours.


My friend Erica has been on a pretty amazing journey since September of 2013.

That was when she made a commitment to lose weight and embrace a healthier lifestyle.

In doing so, she started running. And then she kind of fell in love with it.

So we started running together.

At first, it was sporadic. An occasional weeknight and then whenever we could make it work on the weekend.

This past June we ran a half marathon together.


Erica had already committed to running a marathon in October in Cape Cod.

It was a personal goal as well as something she was doing in honor of her friend Karen who, at the time, was battling cancer and who just recently passed away.

She asked me if I would train with her. She also asked me if I would run the marathon.

I really wanted to run the race with her, but since it’s in Cape Cod, I’d need to drive up the day before and stay overnight. There’s not really money in the budget for that.

So I told her I’d train with her.

And every Sunday for the past four months we’ve run together.

Even on those long runs, the fifteen and sixteen and twenty milers, I’ve looked forward to my Sunday morning runs with Erica.


About a month ago, I registered for the Hartford Marathon. I didn’t want to do all that training for nothing, plus that race is close enough to home that I could just drive up there that morning and then come home when I was done.

It was two weeks before the Cape Cod Marathon, so as far as the training schedule we’d been following went, I’d be pretty much on track.

Like I said before, I have a long-term goal of breaking four hours. I knew that wouldn’t happen in Hartford. But I was hoping to break 4:30.

While in my regular everyday life I consider myself to be a risk taker, when it comes to races, whether it be in running, or swimming, I’ve always been conservative. I always take it out slower than I probably need to.  I almost always have just a little bit too much left at the end.

For instance, in the NYC Marathon, my fastest mile split was my last mile.

So in Hartford, I figured I’d just go for it. What did I have to lose? Rather than try and break 4:30, why not go for 4:15?

And so, I went for it.

It was pouring rain the entire time, but I felt great.

My first thirteen miles I beat my fastest half marathon time.

I was on top of  the world.

And then, I hit a wall.

At mile 18 my legs seized up.

And by mile 20, I thought I was going to die. For real. I thought I might need to drop out.

I had to dig down deep. Real deep.

The last six miles I’d run as far as I could and then walk until I felt like I could start running again.

The bottoms of my feet were covered in blisters from wet shoes and I could feel where my sports bra had rubbed through my skin under my boobs and on my back.

There wasn’t one part of me that felt okay.

But I finished.

I didn’t break 4:30.

I didn’t even beat my NYC time.

A few years ago, I would have viewed this as a total failure.

But not now.

I went for it.

I tried something new.

It didn’t work out the way I would have liked ultimately, but I have no regrets.

No what ifs.

What if I had run faster?

What if I had pulled the trigger earlier?

But I do have some more experience under my belt.

I learned a little more.

And it’s going to come in handy.


Because unbeknownst to Erica, I talked to my parents.

And I secretly registered for the marathon.

They sprang for a hotel room.

And they drove up to Cape Cod with me.

I didn’t tell Erica until about…

30 minutes ago.

When I tracked her down at a restaurant in Falmouth and surprised the shit out of her.

And so, what we started together, we finish together.


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You can throw in the towel, or you can use it to wipe the sweat off your face.

 I put in more time working out this week than any other week.

Over 1200 minutes of cardio.

That doesn’t include the 4 strength training classes.

And you know what?

I didn’t lose one single pound.

I’m exhausted.

I am 3/4 of the way through Lose to Win.

8 weeks down, 4 to go.

Clearly there is a difference in my body.

I even unearthed a tricep muscle.

But the number on the scale is pissing me off.

And on a scale of 1 to 10, my desire to workout is about a -5 today.

Getting out of these pajamas is going to be hard.

Really hard.

I could use a little motivation.

If you’ve got some to spare, could you send it my way?

Until then, I’ll be repeating this all day:

the guy who gave up


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Are you gonna eat that?

 skinny person

When you are preparing for your first child, people tell you horror stories about childbirth.

They tell you about the lack of sleep.

They warn you about the amount of patience you will need to possess.

They tell you how your sex life will go down the tubes.

But no one ever tells you that you will throw thousands of pounds of food directly into the garbage.

The amount of food that gets wasted once you have children could sustain a small country.

I really started to notice this around the time that Number 4 turned one-year-old.

And throwing all that uneaten food away was killing me.

So I started eating it.

Because I didn’t want to waste it.

Finishing one kid’s food may not be a big deal.

Finishing 2 kids’ food isn’t awesome, but it’s okay.

But when you have 7 kids who still have significant amounts of food on their plates, well…

Then you end up at 170 pounds.

Which is where I am now.

11 pounds heavier than I was when I started this blog.

That sucks.

So, for 9 days, I have been completely regimented.

I have worked out 7 of those 9 days.

And on 4 of those 7 days, I’ve done doubles — 45 minutes in the morning, and then an hour at night.

I have not put the crust of a grilled cheese, or a goldfish, or a half-eaten piece of pizza in my mouth.

I have caught myself in mid-shove a couple of times, but nothing has made it into my mouth.

I have been drinking an assload of water. 

No diet soda.

Which is another challenge.


I’m proud to say,


haven’t lost a fucking pound.

This weight loss thing sucks.




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