December 16, 2009

Love Shack(in) Up. Big News: Andrew And I Are About To Be Engaged … In Sinful Premarital Cohabitation!

If you asked me what’s new, I would say nothing except I’m about to commit what some—including my devout catholic grandfather—would consider a mortal sin. (Although, if we are keeping tabs on crimes against humanity, Grandpa’s insistence on stretching a tan thru Speedo across his wrinkly, 83-year-old butt cheeks would certainly qualify for more than a few Hail Marys … but I digress.)

The big news, which is “nothing new,” except that it is, is that:

Andrew and I are moving in. Like together.

We are going to live in sin, which if you think about it, is not unlike living in Singapore except there’s a few less letters to contend with. And also, the unfortunate practice of caning won’t come into use in our household … unless Andrew makes a habit of leaving the toilet seat up, in which case all bets are off. Just kidding, honey! (But not really.)

And no, we don’t think cohabitation is a bad idea. Andrew and I have been together two years and this particular pre-marital proposal has been under consideration for about six months. We both agree that marriage is in the cards, but we’re still sorting out when that will happen—wise men say, only fools rush in. And neither of us is into making serious, life-changing decisions by sticking a careless, wet finger into the wind. Now, sticking a careless, wet finger into an unsuspecting earlobe? We totally back that.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you there has been *some* concern, as it applies to increased domestic responsibility. “There’s a reason why women hesitate to shack up,” Mom recently explained. “Taking care of a man—all the additional washing, cooking, and cleaning—it’s like accepting a second job where the pay really sucks.” I told Mom she was being silly. I said I’d been living with a boy the past five years and I’d never had to fold his underwear. “That’s true what you’re saying sweet girl,“ Mom replied. “Sphynxy is very good about personal cleanliness and he doesn’t go through a lot of laundry, but honey,” she said, “that’s because he’s a cat.”

Andrew—who has never had a roommate—is so lucky he’s leasing an apartment with me. I am a GREAT roommate! In college, I bunked with this sweet girl, Megan Snelling—she was on the crew team, which meant she was gone most weekends at rowing competitions. Every Sunday, while she was out, I would wash Megan’s bedding and turn down the sheets. I did this partly because I really liked Megan, but mostly because I’d secretly spent much of her absence passed out, naked—Saturday night’s vile vodka-Kool-Aid cocktail oozing from my pores like a steamy bowl of microwave ramen—on her convenient, bottom bunk. And only once did she catch me actually in her bed (she’d returned earlier than scheduled). She gasped at the sight of me tucked into her covers, drooling, at 2PM on a Sunday afternoon. As Megan ripped back the purple comforter, the one her granny had gifted her, she asked, Where are your pants?! Looking at her buff rowing legs clad in teeny athletic shorts, I could only reply, I dunno. Where are yours?!

(As an aside: I wonder what Megan’s doing now … and why she won’t add me as a friend on Facebook. It’s a nice gesture and all, but every time I send a request—instead of hitting “add”—my long-lost roommie emails me a link to this video called “Are You F*cking Kidding Me.” Poor girl. She never was very good at computers.)

So Andrew and I are currently apartment hunting. If you are in Houston, we highly recommend the services of Denise “Boots” Boucher at Apartment Living Locators (713-783-1441). She only winced *very slightly* when I told her Andrew and I (being fitness enthusiasts) had special needs that include: space for six bicycles, a dedicated spandex closet … and most probably, an intervention.

If we don’t get committed first, February 2010 Andrew and I are moving in. And then we’re going to buy new furniture. And then—if you ask my Grandpa Banana Hammock—we are going to burn in hell. I personally think the only burning Andrew and I will be doing will occur in our shiny, shared kitchen, but  there’s only one way to find out. Premarital cohabitation, here we come!

December 2, 2009

30

See the girl in that picture? That’s me. I’m celebrating a day that’s a lot like today, except it was 25 years ago. I was 5. I had fewer teeth, bigger dimples, and a lot less candles on my cake. My favorite TV show was the Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes Comedy Hour, followed closely by Knight Rider and the Dukes of Hazzard (check out my sweatshirt). I had just learned to tie the shoelaces on my clunky, kid-sized Caribou boots, and was very proud that my bed—now that I was a “Big Girl”—was stripped of its protective, plastic sheets.

The day I turned 5, I remember my smile—like a watermelon in winter—was wide. At my party, I was Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt; instead of red grapes, I was served a Duncan Hines chocolate cake coated with canned frosting so sweet, it made my mouth ache. Before we cut the cake, Mom asked that I make a wish on its flaming crown. I filled my little lungs and puffed my cheeks. I blew for all I was worth, dousing the candles with a not-so-mighty wind and spray of spittle.

“What did you wish for?” Dad asked.

“World peace!” I cheerfully replied, mimicking something I’d heard Luke Duke say on TV.

My father snickered, and within moments the entire table was laughing at my precocious distraction. As I had hoped, no one was any wiser about my REAL wish. My secret wish, my true heart’s desire was that every day could be a birthday … that every day could be filled with friends, fun, and cake from mix … that every moment of my life would be so charmed. And also, I wished for a pony, even though I was scared of their stumpy legs and overly-large eyeballs.

…

Flash forward to today and suddenly: I am 30 years old.

I have gone to sleep and woken up 10,958 times. Since my birth, ticking clocks have counted down 15 million minutes. And if my life’s breaths were dollars, I’d have more than a quarter billion.

I have—as my 5-year-old self wished—lead a favored and felicitous life. I have many friends, an amazing family, money in the bank, and business cards with my senior title emblazoned across the front. I have hiked Mount Fuji, biked the Texas hill country, and survived nights spent at sleazy, Canadian hostels where the aged windows busted and shattered when wedged shut. I have witnessed great beauty in blizzards of cherry blossoms and in raindrops that transform when white-sleeved snow gowns are donned. In the faces of my cherubic nieces and nephews I have seen God, and because of them, I know He is gracious.

Save for my marriage to a troubled man who told so many lies—to myself and to his mistress—he lost track of all truth, I have had few sorrows. And even in sadness, there were always lessons learned. Since my divorce, I have pledged to love deliberately those who deserve it. And to those who do not? I now know to distrust a heart that’s so bowed it can’t break.

For my next 30 years, I’m wishing for babies, a house, a second shot at being a bride.

And if all those things come true, then the next time I do this assessment—when I’m 60 and smile lined—the only thing left to wish for will be the pleasure of a posture bra and sensible shoes. And maybe a pony, assuming I’m over the eyeball thing.

Happy birthday to me, xoxoh

September 23, 2009

If You Are To Read My Revived Blog, There’s A Few ThingsYou Must Do

First off, clap your hands and say hey yo hey yo.

Clap your hands and say, woot woot.

Clap your hands and say, yeeee haw!

Today we raise da roof, cause honey’s, the haus is back … or at least it’s starting to look that way.

If the haus were to come back, to be New.Improved.AndNowWithLessGas, there’s something you need to know: the format is changing.

In its previous incarnation, Hannihaus was fairly Seinfeldian—it was (mostly) a blog about nothing, unless you are solely obsessed with fart jokes and diarrhea diatribes, in which case it was a blog about everything.

The thing is, I hate Seinfeld. I hate Seinfeld so much that when I flip through the TV channels and it comes on the screen, I keep right on flipping. I flip to the next screen, even if the next screen has some crappy sports show, even if the next screen is a Billy Mays As-Seen-On-TV infomercial spectacular (God rest his Orange-Glo lovin’ soul).

The old haus kept readers at arm’s length, didn’t really let you know what was authentically important to me. Only towards The End did it include stories that were a little less mirthful, a little more truthful. When I refer to The End, of course, I am referring to the end of frantic posting which used to be the hallmark of this well-tended blog. I am also referring to the end of my marriage which, of course, coincided with the end of posting. It was too hard to write about happy when the only way to access a semblance of such things was with a head full of Xanax.

Not so long ago, as part of my New Life, I bought a road bike. It’s pink. Her name is Miss Piggy. Before Piggy it had been many years since I’d ridden a bike. My first time back in the saddle, I immediately fell ass-over-teakettle. The only thing more painful than my banged up buttocks was the knowledge that I’d fallen publicly (at an event) and without grace. If I was being judged, if falling were a competitive sport, my aerial antics would’ve ranked me a “2”.

So here I am, getting back on that metaphorical bicycle. I’m want to start blogging again, I really do. This time I’m going to be more … well, me, whatever that entails. I hope you will come along for the ride.

I promise it won’t hurt … well maybe a little … and only me, not you.

April 17, 2008

The 2008 BP MS 150 Finished, This Is My Victory Lap

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.

April 11, 2008

Dear BP MS 150: Better Fix Me A Sandwich, I’m About To Make You My Bitch

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!

March 31, 2008

Divorce and the Dénouement Or How I Became A Biker Chick

So I won’t mince words. It happened to me and it’s happened to many of you. I’m only mentioning this because avid readers of the haus will notice I’ll not write about him anymore—it turns out Angelface wasn’t really such an angel after all.

Shortly after I wrote this, Angel left me for a woman who—for 6 months prior—had opened her legs to him.

The affair destroyed me. In the face of heartbreak, I stopped writing and started starving myself of both sleep and sustenance so that I became, in every way, a mere fraction of who I’d been.

And then, when I had cried all I could, when my chest had heaved and convulsed it’s last for a man who didn’t deserve it—the labor of moving blood through my broken-but-still-beating heart having lessened—I started over.

I decided to find myself a new love.

And I found that love in a shiny pink bike.

Her name is Miss Piggy. She’s a Marin Portofino road bike. And baby, she’s the best.

Last October I purchased Piggy from a very handsome salesman (who is now my very handsome boyfriend!), and I have been riding ever since. It’s 6 months in and I’ve logged 700 miles of butt time on my bike.

Accordingly I’ve logged 700 miles worth of RECOVERY time from my riding bike for my butt. In cycling the actual physical aspect of peddling and perspiring is only about 50% of the sport. The other 50% is the constant exercise in protecting your tender vittles.

Hello, my name is Hänni and I’m a bike-aholic. I am not ashamed to admit it: I put butter in my shorts…

And I like it.

So you may be wondering, why the hell am I riding so much? The short answer is, I’m insane. The long answer is, I’m training for the BP MS 150, a 170+ mile bike from Houston to Austin on April 12-13. This ride benefits the National Multiple Sclerosis (MS) Society Lone Star Chapter which serves more than 17,000 Texans affected by MS, an unpredictable, disabling disease of the central nervous system.

In the time leading up the ride, I’ll be blogging here about my training experiences. As we take this trip down memory lane together, I hope you enjoy the tales of triumph, tribulation, and unabashed use of padded shorts and crotch cream.

Til next,

xoxoh

German for "totally awesome blog!"