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.

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

But actually it wasn’t a watermelon. It was a baby!

My sweetie-pie niece, Baby Grace was born this morning, weighing 9lbs 6ozs.

What’s cool about all this—besides the fact she looks like a little squished grape and I am all about organic raisins—is that I intuitively knew today would be Gracie’s birthday.

I knew this because I dreamed it.

Sometimes I think I’m psychic. Last night I had a very vivid dream I was at the hospital with Spanky. She was in labor with Gracie.

And then when I awoke—not 5 minutes after my cats’ lodging of claw up my left nostril roused me from bed—I got a call from Sis. She was in the delivery room and it was time to push.

Seriously, Miss Cleo has nothing on me.

So one time I had this dream where I was on a date with John Mayer. He sang for me, and while he performed he made that real ugly face he does; the one where it looks like dude just ate a pound of queso and is in excruciating pain. I find that face incredibly hot. Blown away by both his vocal and physical performance I was like, J-May you’re the shit. And John was like, no H-Wick you’re the shit. And I was like, oh please J Babe you are the total shit. And then JMan was like, Hanni you are the kraft macaroni and cheese of shit—you are the shittiest! And I was like, true. And then he sang some more crap and I swooned while he made Frankenface. And we rode off into the sunset together and ate Tex Mex (so John could make more fuel for The Face.)

I’m still waiting for this particular dream to come true.

In any event, I want to wish Baby Grace a happy birthday. I love you very much little one and I’m sorry I tainted your “welcome to the world” announcement with talk of shit. But if there’s one thing you need to know about Auntie, it’s that when it comes to shit, she is full of it.

Here’s hoping the next time you’re photographed looking so mottled and splotched, it’s at a keg party and you’re in college.

xoxoAuntie

Today I’m wearing a brown dress.

I never wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day, partly because I’m not Irish … but mostly because I have a pinching fetish.

Enjoy your green beers and frosted lucky charms,

xoxoh

—–

Do you twitter? I do. I want to stalk follow you, so get on board with this. Need more info? Twitter in plain english here.

Erin Cooks has been on my ass for ages to update this blog. Unsuccesful at more conventional means re: whining, begging and pleading, that tricky b- has tagged me.Without further ado I present a hannihaus meme (dedicated to the evil Erin Cooks):5 Things You Never Knew About Hänni (And Probably Never Cared To)

1. Although my nickname is Hannibear, if I was reincarnated, I would want to come back as a house cat. They are cool. 
2. I love the name Clementine but think it might be too old fashioned for a baby. Momo, which means “peach” in Japanese is modern an still adorable. I told my sis she should name her newborn Momo but she told me she wouldn’t because in English, it’s slang for “homo.” Apparently I have a thing for fruits.
3. I cut my hair last fall because people kept saying I looked like Ugly Betty. Now I just look like a bitch.
4. Last week I got my first-ever traffic ticket. I was pretty disappointed. Not so much because it cost me $295 and 2 points on my license, but because when I turned on the water works hoping to evade the ticket, the cop blinked twice and walked away. Apparently crocodile tears don’t work on pigs. Bummer.
5. Duing WWII my German-Jewish family converted to Catholicism and escaped to the US where they adopted an American-friendly surname, Horn. Our original family name was Von Dietrich. In Europe names with “von” in them denote royalty. This confirms my suspicion that I am not a garden-variety pain in the ass, but rather a ROYAL pain the in the ass. All hail the queen.

I had to get up at 5 am to find time to write this (thanks again Erin Cooks!) It’s only fair i pass on the torture fun. Leigh, CZE, Kerrianne, MRTL, and Amber you’re it! 

Borrowed blonde wig and baby doll: free
Family-size bag of cheetos: $3
Last-season fishnets from TJ Maxx: $4
Blowing out the crotch on your cheap-ass tights (while at work) and realizing your Britney Spears costume is now entirely authentic: priceless

Happy Halloween Y’all

xoxo Britney, bitch.