I've just been working. A lot. Holidays. And pissed cuz I can't be out running with the bitches. The treadmill gets me by, but the sub-freezing temps and ice patches make me long for a warmer climate. So I've been obsessed with remodeling the kitchen. Man Friend probably regrets the suggestion, since I'm always online and taking pics of things at Lowes now. Anyhoo... this is the inspiration. To months of work and dollars to be spent.
Modern Country Style: Anne Turner's Cottage Living Kitchen Before & Afte...: Hey there, sugarplum, I hope you're feeling fine and dandy. But if you're not, if the cold wintry greyness is getting you down, then I ha...
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
A List is Just a List...
Once in a great while, I decide to really clean the house. Not that the place is ever ready for a reality show or anything; the dishes are done and the laundry is maintained. You would never have to be afraid to use the bathroom here, okay? I just wouldn’t earn the Good Housekeeping seal of approval…
However, the past few days have been incredibly productive. Man Friend and I spent time rearranging furniture and art, you know, really setting the place up. He’s good at that stuff, he says things like, “You have the square footage, you just aren’t fully utilizing it.” Swoon. Don’t get me started about when he talks about load bearing walls.
The fantastic part is that the living room feels a lot bigger now, as well as more functional. Plus, this gorgeous entertainment center that he built, AKA “The Big Unit,” is now the hub of the area. Alli is taking her time getting used to the new configuration and Joey could care less as long as she can sleep on the couch.
I have to be honest, though. The most fun of this whole escapade was finding a bunch of notepads with weird lists I made. I love lists. I have legal pads, notepads, and sticky notes stashed everywhere. I make grocery lists, lists for my days off, lists of errands, you get the drift. If I have an important baking project or holiday dinner to prep for, I make the list in the order in which I will go through the store. I have contemplated drawing maps. If I don’t write it down, it probably won’t happen. NOTE: Let the sun rise in the morning.
Much time in my life has been spent writing lists, checking off lists, and throwing away completed lists. I love the sense of accomplishment of a completed list. Thankfully, an uncompleted list doesn’t drive me crazy. I just add what’s left to the next list…
One of the lists I found really made me giggle as it was a list of ideas for blogs:
•Dumb hippies who try too hard
•You should have to maintain a certain GPA to get gov’t loans/aid
•Bread—how dependent we’ve become
•My closet love of Nicki Minaj and Hanson.
•Why do the teabaggers claim Ayn Rand?
•Professional athletes are prostitutes
•People who think Alli is a pitbull
I know Alli guest blogged on the last topic. That was a bitch to dictate.
Another list I found was super weird, but the fact that I made said list speaks to my love of lists… anyone who lives in my area will remember there was tons of flooding a few summers ago. In my city, it was mostly limited to basement flooding, but we had a few huge rains and lots of people living near rivers lost everything.
I was fortunate enough to not have to deal with those type of issues, but we did have a neighborhood issue with the sanitary sewer system. A line broke, everything was overstressed and we were asked to not flush our toilets, run our showers, or add any water to the sanitary system during “the crisis.” On the plus side, I learned that I am not afraid to shit in a bag and that I can get completely ready with a small bottle of water, a tin bowl, and a wash cloth. Call me Half Pint.
But the point here was that along with the call to not stress the sewer, I was also in the zone where the mayor said there could be sewer backups in the basements. That meant sorting through things in the basement and deciding what needed to come upstairs just in case Poop River picked my house.
Again, I got lucky. Poop River stayed north. The big sort in the basement got me thinking and I decided that I needed to do a big pitch. I challenged myself that I would get 100 items out of the house before I could bring anything into the house, not even a gallon of milk. A regular person might have just trusted that they would ditch 100 items or maybe do a slash count. You already know what I did, with a coded system of Gave Away = ga, Goodwill = gw, Sell = s, Recycle = r, or Trash = t.
I won’t bore you with the whole list:
1-7. Underwear for doggie periods (ga)
8. Diapers for dogs (ga)
30-39. Pairs of socks (gw/t)
56. Top Hat calendar (t) (You know which one.)
84. Peppers from flowers (t)
85. Callus remover (t)
95-100. Various projectors and film shit that sat in the garage for years
101-105. Expired condiments from fridge (t: food waste/r: containers)
147. Pom poms (gw) (I had pom poms?)
148. Earmuffs (gw)
149. Cast iron skillet (gw) (Weaponry?)
I have never felt so completely weird and so completely normal simultaneously. I guess that just means I like me.
However, the past few days have been incredibly productive. Man Friend and I spent time rearranging furniture and art, you know, really setting the place up. He’s good at that stuff, he says things like, “You have the square footage, you just aren’t fully utilizing it.” Swoon. Don’t get me started about when he talks about load bearing walls.
The fantastic part is that the living room feels a lot bigger now, as well as more functional. Plus, this gorgeous entertainment center that he built, AKA “The Big Unit,” is now the hub of the area. Alli is taking her time getting used to the new configuration and Joey could care less as long as she can sleep on the couch.
I have to be honest, though. The most fun of this whole escapade was finding a bunch of notepads with weird lists I made. I love lists. I have legal pads, notepads, and sticky notes stashed everywhere. I make grocery lists, lists for my days off, lists of errands, you get the drift. If I have an important baking project or holiday dinner to prep for, I make the list in the order in which I will go through the store. I have contemplated drawing maps. If I don’t write it down, it probably won’t happen. NOTE: Let the sun rise in the morning.
Much time in my life has been spent writing lists, checking off lists, and throwing away completed lists. I love the sense of accomplishment of a completed list. Thankfully, an uncompleted list doesn’t drive me crazy. I just add what’s left to the next list…
One of the lists I found really made me giggle as it was a list of ideas for blogs:
•Dumb hippies who try too hard
•You should have to maintain a certain GPA to get gov’t loans/aid
•Bread—how dependent we’ve become
•My closet love of Nicki Minaj and Hanson.
•Why do the teabaggers claim Ayn Rand?
•Professional athletes are prostitutes
•People who think Alli is a pitbull
I know Alli guest blogged on the last topic. That was a bitch to dictate.
Another list I found was super weird, but the fact that I made said list speaks to my love of lists… anyone who lives in my area will remember there was tons of flooding a few summers ago. In my city, it was mostly limited to basement flooding, but we had a few huge rains and lots of people living near rivers lost everything.
I was fortunate enough to not have to deal with those type of issues, but we did have a neighborhood issue with the sanitary sewer system. A line broke, everything was overstressed and we were asked to not flush our toilets, run our showers, or add any water to the sanitary system during “the crisis.” On the plus side, I learned that I am not afraid to shit in a bag and that I can get completely ready with a small bottle of water, a tin bowl, and a wash cloth. Call me Half Pint.
But the point here was that along with the call to not stress the sewer, I was also in the zone where the mayor said there could be sewer backups in the basements. That meant sorting through things in the basement and deciding what needed to come upstairs just in case Poop River picked my house.
Again, I got lucky. Poop River stayed north. The big sort in the basement got me thinking and I decided that I needed to do a big pitch. I challenged myself that I would get 100 items out of the house before I could bring anything into the house, not even a gallon of milk. A regular person might have just trusted that they would ditch 100 items or maybe do a slash count. You already know what I did, with a coded system of Gave Away = ga, Goodwill = gw, Sell = s, Recycle = r, or Trash = t.
I won’t bore you with the whole list:
1-7. Underwear for doggie periods (ga)
8. Diapers for dogs (ga)
30-39. Pairs of socks (gw/t)
56. Top Hat calendar (t) (You know which one.)
84. Peppers from flowers (t)
85. Callus remover (t)
95-100. Various projectors and film shit that sat in the garage for years
101-105. Expired condiments from fridge (t: food waste/r: containers)
147. Pom poms (gw) (I had pom poms?)
148. Earmuffs (gw)
149. Cast iron skillet (gw) (Weaponry?)
I have never felt so completely weird and so completely normal simultaneously. I guess that just means I like me.
Monday, November 19, 2012
And the spirits played on...
I went through one of those existential phases in my early 20s, where I decided there couldn’t possibly be any type of spiritual afterlife or divine creative force. I was never one of the lemmings to the sea types and I doubt growing up in a Footloose-type town really helped. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe in something, it was more that it never made sense that I was given a brain and all sorts of interesting books, music, and people to talk to, and somehow it was all gonna be served up on a nice platter for easy consumption.
So after some muddling in my teens, a lot of alcohol-fueled anger and a general pissed at the world attitude said, “Done.” I decided, yes, Camille, God was an invention of Man. I think I still do believe that in a socially constructed context, but that’s a story for another day.
My ideas on spirituality and an afterlife changed for a simple reason: Ghosts. Ghosts are not quite right, since that conjures up a negative connotation. Spirits is better, as in the spirits of those who have passed. I had a few experiences with spirits, some of which I didn’t really understand at the time, and most of which was just sort of a playful, “Hey, I’m here,” like the one who would push the quarters back when I started the dryer in the basement of the Brownstone. Sometimes, they spoke to me in my dreams. Sometimes I recognized them, but most times I didn’t. One time, I was one of them in my dream, a man dying in a hospital bed. I could tell by our hands he thought there should have been more time in his life.
I didn’t want to accept the communication, because it simply was something for which there was no rational. And if I could see and feel the communication from these spirits, I certainly could no longer discount the concept of an afterlife. Okay, universe, I’m listening.
The great part of all of it was that I’ve learned to slow down and see the cues and find the lessons. The best part is when someone I know drops by to say hello.
My friend, Tim, was one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure to know. He was kind and complex, messy and hilarious, and struggled with addiction and health issues. My favorite attributes of his were his sense of humor and his genuine ability to connect with people. He was so completely all in when it came to living. In life, he was the type who would talk to anyone. After he died, I knew he would make sure to stop by now and again; he would never let us go too long without thinking about him.
By a strange turn of events, Timmy and I ended up going to the American Idol finale a few years ago, the one where it was Kris Allen versus Adam Lambert. I must admit that I did not watch much of that season, or really any season for that matter, but knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. My auntie gave us two tickets in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. I certainly wasn’t going to pass that up, plus a few days in L.A. with Timmy were bound to be fun.
We were not so secretly hoping that Paula Abdul would be falling off her chair loaded. We even made a point to visit her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame the day before and say a little selfish prayer to that effect. Ryan Seacrest was even tinier than we imagined. The Idols were brilliant. The whole night was brilliant really. We saw Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Queen Latifah, Lionel Richie, Cindi Lauper, Rod Stewart, and KISS perform. Now, seeing KISS almost put me over the edge. I was screaming like it was 1979. And then, during the commercial break, a large banner dropped and covered most of the stage. Tim and I were having a, “Oh my lord, can you believe we just saw KISS” moment and experiencing general bliss, when I saw him. I wouldn’t mistake the skinny man with the big black hair. Brian May walked on stage. I started pounding on the arm of the man sitting next to me and said something unholy about just seeing Brian effing May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen. There’s no replacing Freddie, but he was pretty damned great.
Somehow in our part of the audience, we were in this little pocket of gay men. Of course, the tween female demographic was the majority of the studio audience, but we managed to fit in the gay haven. Perfect for oh so many reasons...
But the point of this part of the story is that Kris Allen won that night. Since we were in gay haven, we heard plenty of, “Oh the little kids just get on every phone in the house and vote as many times as they can.” Blah, blah. Tim’s take? “They are both really talented so it didn’t really matter who won. Now, IS there an open bar at the after party?”
I’m giggling a little just thinking about this since we ended up meeting a bunch of the Idols, having great food and drink, and dancing the night away. Since the show started at five and the party at seven, we even managed to do midnight IHOP and get to the airport by five the next morning.
It was a crazy whirlwind, three-day trip and we made a bunch of memories that I’ll never forget.
Timmy passed away earlier this year and I do miss that crazy sense of humor. I miss him stopping in to the restaurant where I work for a late dinner and a glass or three of wine. Even if I was cut for the night and ready to hit the door, I stayed to wait on him and catch up.
And as things go on for the living, I did think of him from time to time, when something made me laugh or I heard a certain song.
Last week Wednesday, I was at work, just having a normal weeknight. There was an event at the Pavilion and hunters in town, so it was fairly busy. I got a table of four twenty-something guys, who looked like artists of some sort, whether they were writers or musicians or whatever didn’t really matter to me. They were just genuinely nice people who wanted to have a good meal.
Earlier that week I had been thinking about another person who used to tell me “Faith, love, and hope were the most important things in life.” I agreed with her statement but also thought that “grace” should be on the list. So I had been thinking about grace and about times in my life when I felt like I was in a state of grace. Grace was also my maternal grandmother’s name and she was a woman who believed in faith, love, hope, and grace.
Timmy loved my Grandma Grace.
While I was answering a couple of menu questions for the four top of the artist guys, I noticed one of them had several tattoos. Clearly on the outside of his right arm was a permanent “GRACE.”
Hi Grandma.
He knew I was looking at him oddly, so I had to tell them about faith, love, hope, and grace. And they instantly understood. They didn’t look at me weirdly or question the connection, they thought it was cool and agreed that grace fits right in the mix. He also had turtle tatts like mine, so I couldn’t help but wonder if he was my long, lost brother or something.
One of my co-workers asked if the guys at the table were my friends, she said they “Look like guys you’d be friends with.” Since they were cool, I took that as a compliment and relayed the story when I was back at the table. They thought that was funny, but none of them jumped in to say exactly what they did for a living, so I figured they were unemployed bums with credit cards.
Kidding.
I overheard something about “You should do a song with him.” They were musicians. Cat’s outta the bag. I just hoped to grab a name off and credit card and then do a Google search later. God bless technology. I figured any group of musicians that humble and nice was worth checking out.
So when the meals were eaten and the checks split up, I went over to the computer to run the credit cards. And when I looked down at the cards, I felt like a chump and then had a great laugh.
The name?
Kris Allen.
Timmy, you crafty little shit. I know you and Gracie got a kick out of this one. XXXOOO
So after some muddling in my teens, a lot of alcohol-fueled anger and a general pissed at the world attitude said, “Done.” I decided, yes, Camille, God was an invention of Man. I think I still do believe that in a socially constructed context, but that’s a story for another day.
My ideas on spirituality and an afterlife changed for a simple reason: Ghosts. Ghosts are not quite right, since that conjures up a negative connotation. Spirits is better, as in the spirits of those who have passed. I had a few experiences with spirits, some of which I didn’t really understand at the time, and most of which was just sort of a playful, “Hey, I’m here,” like the one who would push the quarters back when I started the dryer in the basement of the Brownstone. Sometimes, they spoke to me in my dreams. Sometimes I recognized them, but most times I didn’t. One time, I was one of them in my dream, a man dying in a hospital bed. I could tell by our hands he thought there should have been more time in his life.
I didn’t want to accept the communication, because it simply was something for which there was no rational. And if I could see and feel the communication from these spirits, I certainly could no longer discount the concept of an afterlife. Okay, universe, I’m listening.
The great part of all of it was that I’ve learned to slow down and see the cues and find the lessons. The best part is when someone I know drops by to say hello.
My friend, Tim, was one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure to know. He was kind and complex, messy and hilarious, and struggled with addiction and health issues. My favorite attributes of his were his sense of humor and his genuine ability to connect with people. He was so completely all in when it came to living. In life, he was the type who would talk to anyone. After he died, I knew he would make sure to stop by now and again; he would never let us go too long without thinking about him.
By a strange turn of events, Timmy and I ended up going to the American Idol finale a few years ago, the one where it was Kris Allen versus Adam Lambert. I must admit that I did not watch much of that season, or really any season for that matter, but knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. My auntie gave us two tickets in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. I certainly wasn’t going to pass that up, plus a few days in L.A. with Timmy were bound to be fun.
We were not so secretly hoping that Paula Abdul would be falling off her chair loaded. We even made a point to visit her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame the day before and say a little selfish prayer to that effect. Ryan Seacrest was even tinier than we imagined. The Idols were brilliant. The whole night was brilliant really. We saw Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Queen Latifah, Lionel Richie, Cindi Lauper, Rod Stewart, and KISS perform. Now, seeing KISS almost put me over the edge. I was screaming like it was 1979. And then, during the commercial break, a large banner dropped and covered most of the stage. Tim and I were having a, “Oh my lord, can you believe we just saw KISS” moment and experiencing general bliss, when I saw him. I wouldn’t mistake the skinny man with the big black hair. Brian May walked on stage. I started pounding on the arm of the man sitting next to me and said something unholy about just seeing Brian effing May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen. There’s no replacing Freddie, but he was pretty damned great.
Somehow in our part of the audience, we were in this little pocket of gay men. Of course, the tween female demographic was the majority of the studio audience, but we managed to fit in the gay haven. Perfect for oh so many reasons...
But the point of this part of the story is that Kris Allen won that night. Since we were in gay haven, we heard plenty of, “Oh the little kids just get on every phone in the house and vote as many times as they can.” Blah, blah. Tim’s take? “They are both really talented so it didn’t really matter who won. Now, IS there an open bar at the after party?”
I’m giggling a little just thinking about this since we ended up meeting a bunch of the Idols, having great food and drink, and dancing the night away. Since the show started at five and the party at seven, we even managed to do midnight IHOP and get to the airport by five the next morning.
It was a crazy whirlwind, three-day trip and we made a bunch of memories that I’ll never forget.
Timmy passed away earlier this year and I do miss that crazy sense of humor. I miss him stopping in to the restaurant where I work for a late dinner and a glass or three of wine. Even if I was cut for the night and ready to hit the door, I stayed to wait on him and catch up.
And as things go on for the living, I did think of him from time to time, when something made me laugh or I heard a certain song.
Last week Wednesday, I was at work, just having a normal weeknight. There was an event at the Pavilion and hunters in town, so it was fairly busy. I got a table of four twenty-something guys, who looked like artists of some sort, whether they were writers or musicians or whatever didn’t really matter to me. They were just genuinely nice people who wanted to have a good meal.
Earlier that week I had been thinking about another person who used to tell me “Faith, love, and hope were the most important things in life.” I agreed with her statement but also thought that “grace” should be on the list. So I had been thinking about grace and about times in my life when I felt like I was in a state of grace. Grace was also my maternal grandmother’s name and she was a woman who believed in faith, love, hope, and grace.
Timmy loved my Grandma Grace.
While I was answering a couple of menu questions for the four top of the artist guys, I noticed one of them had several tattoos. Clearly on the outside of his right arm was a permanent “GRACE.”
Hi Grandma.
He knew I was looking at him oddly, so I had to tell them about faith, love, hope, and grace. And they instantly understood. They didn’t look at me weirdly or question the connection, they thought it was cool and agreed that grace fits right in the mix. He also had turtle tatts like mine, so I couldn’t help but wonder if he was my long, lost brother or something.
One of my co-workers asked if the guys at the table were my friends, she said they “Look like guys you’d be friends with.” Since they were cool, I took that as a compliment and relayed the story when I was back at the table. They thought that was funny, but none of them jumped in to say exactly what they did for a living, so I figured they were unemployed bums with credit cards.
Kidding.
I overheard something about “You should do a song with him.” They were musicians. Cat’s outta the bag. I just hoped to grab a name off and credit card and then do a Google search later. God bless technology. I figured any group of musicians that humble and nice was worth checking out.
So when the meals were eaten and the checks split up, I went over to the computer to run the credit cards. And when I looked down at the cards, I felt like a chump and then had a great laugh.
The name?
Kris Allen.
Timmy, you crafty little shit. I know you and Gracie got a kick out of this one. XXXOOO
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
The Way to a Man's Hands...
I am obsessed with Law & Order. I have been for the better part of my life, way back in the Paul Sorvino days, and well before anyone called Chris Noth “Big.” While the cheese factor of Ice T’s tough guy lines in SVU will always have a special place in my heart, my absolute favorite episodes are in the original series of the franchise, back in the Briscoe/Curtis or Briscoe/Green detective years. Maybe my love of the series boils down to my love of Lenny Briscoe. I have seen the episode where he relapses and Clare gets killed in the car accident dozens of times, but I still cry when he gets out of the car and realizes…
Briscoe was the epitome of the old school detective. He could take the Ice T line and make it believable. Find a socialite’s body in a cooler? Here comes Lenny with something like, “I thought they only liked their martinis on ice.”
There is something about that type of old school guy that appeals to me. Always has, whether it was Han Solo or Magnum P.I., I liked that take charge kind of guy and even more so, the type of guy who wasn’t afraid to get dirty.
My dad worked at a grain elevator and I remember him coming home covered in dust. And even though he wore a facemask to protect his lungs, I remember my childhood fascination at the weird dusty snot rockets he could blow. And I knew my dad was the coolest guy in the universe.
It’s safe to say I was never going to be with a guy who stamped loan papers for a living.
So I really had a chuckle when one of my friends on The Book posted a question as to why women find the blue collar working man attractive. Of course, the bait of “His paycheck” was thrown out, both seriously and in jest.
Man Friend qualifies as one of those blue collar guys since he’s a carpenter. He’s a workerman with the tools and the giant truck. I don’t date freeloaders anymore, so I appreciate the fact that he gets a paycheck, but the paycheck isn’t what I find attractive. I like his workerman hands. They’re all roughed up and calloused, full of little nicks and scars from years saws and drills, telling the stories of all the things he’s made along the way. Holding his hand is like holding a book filled with tables and dressers and cabinets.
I suppose everyone’s hands tell a story like that. I remember how soft the pads on Joey’s paws were the first night she came to live with us. I laugh when I think of her hop stepping the first time she felt snow. The miles have toughened her up. It might sound dorky, but I do hold their paws sometimes when we’re cuddled up on the couch. It doesn’t seem so dorky ‘cuz they let me.
Briscoe was the epitome of the old school detective. He could take the Ice T line and make it believable. Find a socialite’s body in a cooler? Here comes Lenny with something like, “I thought they only liked their martinis on ice.”
There is something about that type of old school guy that appeals to me. Always has, whether it was Han Solo or Magnum P.I., I liked that take charge kind of guy and even more so, the type of guy who wasn’t afraid to get dirty.
My dad worked at a grain elevator and I remember him coming home covered in dust. And even though he wore a facemask to protect his lungs, I remember my childhood fascination at the weird dusty snot rockets he could blow. And I knew my dad was the coolest guy in the universe.
It’s safe to say I was never going to be with a guy who stamped loan papers for a living.
So I really had a chuckle when one of my friends on The Book posted a question as to why women find the blue collar working man attractive. Of course, the bait of “His paycheck” was thrown out, both seriously and in jest.
Man Friend qualifies as one of those blue collar guys since he’s a carpenter. He’s a workerman with the tools and the giant truck. I don’t date freeloaders anymore, so I appreciate the fact that he gets a paycheck, but the paycheck isn’t what I find attractive. I like his workerman hands. They’re all roughed up and calloused, full of little nicks and scars from years saws and drills, telling the stories of all the things he’s made along the way. Holding his hand is like holding a book filled with tables and dressers and cabinets.
I suppose everyone’s hands tell a story like that. I remember how soft the pads on Joey’s paws were the first night she came to live with us. I laugh when I think of her hop stepping the first time she felt snow. The miles have toughened her up. It might sound dorky, but I do hold their paws sometimes when we’re cuddled up on the couch. It doesn’t seem so dorky ‘cuz they let me.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
The Cat and Ham's Key...
I just finished reading “Cloud Atlas,” which is an amazing piece of writing, if anyone is looking for a good read. I cannot stop talking about it. As a writer, I have moments in which I am reading something and get this twinge of jealousy because it’s so damned good. Sometimes it’s just a sentence or a paragraph, but there are entire scenes and characters that keep me writing just for the sake of trying to get at something partially as amazing.
Now, I don’t want to ruin it for any of you with specifics, but the big theme of the novel is how lives intertwine and affect each other throughout time, in the past, present, and future. It’s this big, creative philosophical puzzle that really makes you think. It’s a gift with a big, fat bow on it for an introspective chick like me.
So last Tuesday, with about 200 pages to go, I decided to leash up the bitches and go for a run. Time to digest a story like that is really important and a run is the perfect space for me to muddle around in it.
We cruised down 18th Street and hopped on the bike trails behind the zoo. A loop around O’Gorman High School and the hills of Kiwanis Avenue give us a nice five miler.
And just as we had, so many times before, we broke off the trail at 41st Street, in front of O’Gorman, so we could break back to the north.
But, like never before, a beautiful cat lay dead next to the sidewalk. My gut reaction was to make sure the bitches didn’t get interested. Wrestling away squirrel carcasses is one thing; disrupting the lifeless body of someone’s family member is another story.
It was a very pretty cat, dark gray with those tigery stripes and a touch of white on his paws. He seemed peaceful enough, postured in a slight stretch. Since 41st is a busy street, how he met his maker was probably not a case for the Hardy Boys. I just hope the little one didn’t suffer.
I called Animal Control when we got home so he would be picked up. I’m sure someone was looking for him.
And I really didn’t think about him again, until last night, after I finished the book and jumped on The Book.
Facebook really is a wily bastard. For all the bullshit, nonsense, politics, and well, hate, that is often spewed there, now and then there is a reminder of the promise of social media. The promise of actually connecting people and making us see the connections throughout our lives.
I know you’re thinking that I found the cat’s parents.
This is my life we’re talking about, not an ABC Family Movie of the week, kids.
I caught a status update by my buddy Sambourine Man, who prefers the moniker Ham Surly. His story, below in italics, is used with permission. I would like to state, for the record, that I do not condone his blind consumerism. I would also like to state that, other than that, he rules. Hard.
Today while delivering tasty beverages for Coca-Cola, my co-worker gave me a soda machine key off of his key ring, so that we could go to different machines at the same time, thus saving time. Upon unlocking the soda machine, I tossed the key into my sweatshirt pouch, for quick storage until I could return the key to my co-workers key ring. The machines were filled, and we were on our way.
As the weather gets colder, one must start wearing warmer clothing items. The way I ween into winter mode is through added layers, until I need to just put a dedicated winter coat on. This morning I wore two sweatshirts, staying fairly slim and agile, but adding extra thickness and warmth for the chilly morning.
The next stop was O'Gorman high school, and I was already heating up from my double sweatshirt strategy. I make the decision to remove my innermost sweatshirt layer, (one non-zipper hoodie is an awkward task in its own to remove, two takes some prerequisite courses in physics and biology) and then proceed to hop out of the truck and be on my way with work.
Spoiler: this is where the key fell out.
There are different keys for different soda machines. Each key is universal in a sense, but only to the machines that have a lock specifically set for it. On my route, I have 3 or 4 different keys for the numerous machines I service. The situation with losing a key is that you can't just get a replacement key and continue on. Someone could find that key and go on a Coke banaza, so all of the locks in the machines designated to that key must be changed. That is a lot of machines and a lot of money, all put on the person who lost the key. Me.
Roughly two hours after removing my innermost sweatshirt and dropping the key, we arrived at the next soda machine that required that keys pattern to unlock it. My co-worker asked for the key and I assume I looked like Sponge-Bob and Patrick doing the slap dance in 'The Spongebob Squarepants Movie' (http://youtu.be/j5mb3Uoz3hQ). I couldn't find it but remembered putting it in the pouch pocket of my sweatshirt, possibly the worst pocket to leave it in.
The rest of the day I had to record all the machines we were unable to fill because we were unable to unlock them. Machine by machine I slid into a deeper somber state, imagining all the hours I had worked turning into all the dollars I had earned, that would soon disappear because of a misplaced, quarter-sized hunk of metal.
At the end of the day I was allowed to take a work truck around to retrace my steps in hopes of finding the key, which turned out a lot easier than a hostile attitude would first perceive. Any time I get hit with a ticket, fine, or lose money I imagine all the cool things that could have been purchased with that same sum of money. All the currency possibilities, dead and depressing.
Rolling up to O'Gorman I could see something shining from a distance, a light of hope. I parked where we had hours before and hopped out to where that first small step for Sam-kind was this morning, and there it was. The key, literally "chilling" on the cold ground, presumably untouched, ultimately unclaimed, now retrieved. I hated the day until that moment, but now I gotta say, today was a good day.
Back to the thinking of all that money that was about to be lost because of a key. The key was found and back in our possession, thus leaving my funds snug in my bank account. But now that things are back to normal, is it too soon to forget "all the cool things that could have been purchased"?
Luck was indirectly on my side today, and now it's time to buy something.
Crazy luck, right? Maybe. Good Catholic kids? Perhaps, although I have plenty of evidence to the contrary, some even living under this roof!
You see, an introspective like myself, high on the philosophical novel has to draw a deeper conclusion here. And since it all happened within a 48 hour time frame, I have to believe that there was some sort of karmic energy at work. I think my little kitty friend took some suffering away from the world right here, on that campus, so there was enough good floating around for no one to mess with Ham’s key.
I don’t always understand the balance of the universe and I don’t often see it, but I know it’s there. That I believe.
I don’t know what Ham bought. I might suggest that he buy a bag of cat food and donate it to the Humane Society.
Now, I don’t want to ruin it for any of you with specifics, but the big theme of the novel is how lives intertwine and affect each other throughout time, in the past, present, and future. It’s this big, creative philosophical puzzle that really makes you think. It’s a gift with a big, fat bow on it for an introspective chick like me.
So last Tuesday, with about 200 pages to go, I decided to leash up the bitches and go for a run. Time to digest a story like that is really important and a run is the perfect space for me to muddle around in it.
We cruised down 18th Street and hopped on the bike trails behind the zoo. A loop around O’Gorman High School and the hills of Kiwanis Avenue give us a nice five miler.
And just as we had, so many times before, we broke off the trail at 41st Street, in front of O’Gorman, so we could break back to the north.
But, like never before, a beautiful cat lay dead next to the sidewalk. My gut reaction was to make sure the bitches didn’t get interested. Wrestling away squirrel carcasses is one thing; disrupting the lifeless body of someone’s family member is another story.
It was a very pretty cat, dark gray with those tigery stripes and a touch of white on his paws. He seemed peaceful enough, postured in a slight stretch. Since 41st is a busy street, how he met his maker was probably not a case for the Hardy Boys. I just hope the little one didn’t suffer.
I called Animal Control when we got home so he would be picked up. I’m sure someone was looking for him.
And I really didn’t think about him again, until last night, after I finished the book and jumped on The Book.
Facebook really is a wily bastard. For all the bullshit, nonsense, politics, and well, hate, that is often spewed there, now and then there is a reminder of the promise of social media. The promise of actually connecting people and making us see the connections throughout our lives.
I know you’re thinking that I found the cat’s parents.
This is my life we’re talking about, not an ABC Family Movie of the week, kids.
I caught a status update by my buddy Sambourine Man, who prefers the moniker Ham Surly. His story, below in italics, is used with permission. I would like to state, for the record, that I do not condone his blind consumerism. I would also like to state that, other than that, he rules. Hard.
Today while delivering tasty beverages for Coca-Cola, my co-worker gave me a soda machine key off of his key ring, so that we could go to different machines at the same time, thus saving time. Upon unlocking the soda machine, I tossed the key into my sweatshirt pouch, for quick storage until I could return the key to my co-workers key ring. The machines were filled, and we were on our way.
As the weather gets colder, one must start wearing warmer clothing items. The way I ween into winter mode is through added layers, until I need to just put a dedicated winter coat on. This morning I wore two sweatshirts, staying fairly slim and agile, but adding extra thickness and warmth for the chilly morning.
The next stop was O'Gorman high school, and I was already heating up from my double sweatshirt strategy. I make the decision to remove my innermost sweatshirt layer, (one non-zipper hoodie is an awkward task in its own to remove, two takes some prerequisite courses in physics and biology) and then proceed to hop out of the truck and be on my way with work.
Spoiler: this is where the key fell out.
There are different keys for different soda machines. Each key is universal in a sense, but only to the machines that have a lock specifically set for it. On my route, I have 3 or 4 different keys for the numerous machines I service. The situation with losing a key is that you can't just get a replacement key and continue on. Someone could find that key and go on a Coke banaza, so all of the locks in the machines designated to that key must be changed. That is a lot of machines and a lot of money, all put on the person who lost the key. Me.
Roughly two hours after removing my innermost sweatshirt and dropping the key, we arrived at the next soda machine that required that keys pattern to unlock it. My co-worker asked for the key and I assume I looked like Sponge-Bob and Patrick doing the slap dance in 'The Spongebob Squarepants Movie' (http://youtu.be/j5mb3Uoz3hQ). I couldn't find it but remembered putting it in the pouch pocket of my sweatshirt, possibly the worst pocket to leave it in.
The rest of the day I had to record all the machines we were unable to fill because we were unable to unlock them. Machine by machine I slid into a deeper somber state, imagining all the hours I had worked turning into all the dollars I had earned, that would soon disappear because of a misplaced, quarter-sized hunk of metal.
At the end of the day I was allowed to take a work truck around to retrace my steps in hopes of finding the key, which turned out a lot easier than a hostile attitude would first perceive. Any time I get hit with a ticket, fine, or lose money I imagine all the cool things that could have been purchased with that same sum of money. All the currency possibilities, dead and depressing.
Rolling up to O'Gorman I could see something shining from a distance, a light of hope. I parked where we had hours before and hopped out to where that first small step for Sam-kind was this morning, and there it was. The key, literally "chilling" on the cold ground, presumably untouched, ultimately unclaimed, now retrieved. I hated the day until that moment, but now I gotta say, today was a good day.
Back to the thinking of all that money that was about to be lost because of a key. The key was found and back in our possession, thus leaving my funds snug in my bank account. But now that things are back to normal, is it too soon to forget "all the cool things that could have been purchased"?
Luck was indirectly on my side today, and now it's time to buy something.
Crazy luck, right? Maybe. Good Catholic kids? Perhaps, although I have plenty of evidence to the contrary, some even living under this roof!
You see, an introspective like myself, high on the philosophical novel has to draw a deeper conclusion here. And since it all happened within a 48 hour time frame, I have to believe that there was some sort of karmic energy at work. I think my little kitty friend took some suffering away from the world right here, on that campus, so there was enough good floating around for no one to mess with Ham’s key.
I don’t always understand the balance of the universe and I don’t often see it, but I know it’s there. That I believe.
I don’t know what Ham bought. I might suggest that he buy a bag of cat food and donate it to the Humane Society.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Pawsitively trying...
I once mused, “Are ugly people attracted to politics or do politics make people ugly?” There was a variance of responses, usually depending on how invested one was in the process. Some people took me literally and struggled to point out a lawmaker who they found physically attractive. That was incredibly amusing, as the number of women who found John Thune good looking mystified me. He reminds me of Skelator. And I have no desire to visit Greyskull.
But what I was really getting at was the seemingly ever-present dirtiness of politics. The negativity that offends/sways/turns off the masses for whatever reason. Maybe negativity is all that some of us understand anymore... I don’t want to believe that, but it does make sense to me.
I thought people got into public service to affect change in the world. I thought. Or at least I thought maybe some of them did. Some were after power and money, I’m sure. Some are just the uber competitive type and playing with trillions of dollars and people’s lives has to have mad appeal.
But the striking thing to me, the thing that I’ve only really started to notice since the advent of social media networking, is how the negativity has saturated down to nearly every voter.
A friend made an innocuous post earlier simply asking if anyone could articulate why she should vote for Romney. She clearly stated that everyone she had previously talked to said they were voting for him because they didn’t want to vote for President Obama. She also asked that no one attack her.
Easy enough. I wanted to get on board because I really wanted to see how the average Mid-western Republican would respond. So I took the feminist route and said I couldn’t give a reason to vote for a ticket that didn’t believe in equal pay or my right to autonomy over my body.
Of course, someone had to jump on and remind me that Romney thinks it’s okay to get an abortion if I were pregnant via rape. I didn’t even try to debate that Ryan’s weird personhood ideas would outlaw some types of birth control, so autonomy is more that choice. But I digress…
The whole mess turned into an Obama hating shitfest. Remember the original question? Sigh. I said to check out some non-partisan sites and BBC News. She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.
But they kept going. Someone even posted a link to website entirely devoted to why Obama should not be elected. Holy fucking balls. I get it. I voted against Bush in ’04. I didn’t vote for Kerry.
Maybe it was the poor grammar. Maybe it was the complete lack of structure in the arguments, as there was nothing articulate or factual in the statements. Maybe I’m still upset about Opie “Sons of Anarchy.” I just don’t get the haters on the President. Sure, I thought Bush was an idiot, a dry drunk, a puppet. But I don’t think I ever hated him the way people seem to hate Obama.
I’m sure there are plenty of ways to opine the whys of it. Racism. Definitely. His cool demeanor. Maybe. Calling him a Marxist, Socialist, insert whatever ist you think it’s the most un-American. But his story is so American. I don’t know. I know for whom I’m voting, so I guess that’s something.
The bitches are definitely Obama voters. I mean, I’m pretty sure Alli is a lesbian and I can see her being involved in equal rights. Both the bitches enjoy the outdoors and were offended by the Republicans laughing about climate change at their convention. I just wish the kibble vote had more pull on the national stage.
But what I was really getting at was the seemingly ever-present dirtiness of politics. The negativity that offends/sways/turns off the masses for whatever reason. Maybe negativity is all that some of us understand anymore... I don’t want to believe that, but it does make sense to me.
I thought people got into public service to affect change in the world. I thought. Or at least I thought maybe some of them did. Some were after power and money, I’m sure. Some are just the uber competitive type and playing with trillions of dollars and people’s lives has to have mad appeal.
But the striking thing to me, the thing that I’ve only really started to notice since the advent of social media networking, is how the negativity has saturated down to nearly every voter.
A friend made an innocuous post earlier simply asking if anyone could articulate why she should vote for Romney. She clearly stated that everyone she had previously talked to said they were voting for him because they didn’t want to vote for President Obama. She also asked that no one attack her.
Easy enough. I wanted to get on board because I really wanted to see how the average Mid-western Republican would respond. So I took the feminist route and said I couldn’t give a reason to vote for a ticket that didn’t believe in equal pay or my right to autonomy over my body.
Of course, someone had to jump on and remind me that Romney thinks it’s okay to get an abortion if I were pregnant via rape. I didn’t even try to debate that Ryan’s weird personhood ideas would outlaw some types of birth control, so autonomy is more that choice. But I digress…
The whole mess turned into an Obama hating shitfest. Remember the original question? Sigh. I said to check out some non-partisan sites and BBC News. She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.
But they kept going. Someone even posted a link to website entirely devoted to why Obama should not be elected. Holy fucking balls. I get it. I voted against Bush in ’04. I didn’t vote for Kerry.
Maybe it was the poor grammar. Maybe it was the complete lack of structure in the arguments, as there was nothing articulate or factual in the statements. Maybe I’m still upset about Opie “Sons of Anarchy.” I just don’t get the haters on the President. Sure, I thought Bush was an idiot, a dry drunk, a puppet. But I don’t think I ever hated him the way people seem to hate Obama.
I’m sure there are plenty of ways to opine the whys of it. Racism. Definitely. His cool demeanor. Maybe. Calling him a Marxist, Socialist, insert whatever ist you think it’s the most un-American. But his story is so American. I don’t know. I know for whom I’m voting, so I guess that’s something.
The bitches are definitely Obama voters. I mean, I’m pretty sure Alli is a lesbian and I can see her being involved in equal rights. Both the bitches enjoy the outdoors and were offended by the Republicans laughing about climate change at their convention. I just wish the kibble vote had more pull on the national stage.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
We Are Brownheads...
It was about three and a half years ago that my friend, Moto Cat, asked me if I would be interested in running a half marathon with her. She is one of those fearless, sporty chicks who does multi-day bicycle tours for fun and takes kickboxing classes at the Y. Don’t get me wrong, there had been points in my life where I would have called myself an athlete; I just wasn’t sure if those days had passed. Plus, I always hated running.
I grew up playing softball, volleyball, and basketball. My brother and I played tennis for fun. I loved sports and competition, but I always hated the conditioning aspect and viewed it as a necessary evil, especially since basketball was my favorite.
I had done a handful of 5K charity-type races throughout my 20s, but was more interested in post-races drinks. I remember one race where I was puffing on a cig while stretching along the path at Yankton Trail. I was the type of racer mothers pulled their small children away from and serious runners just started at in disbelief.
Needless to say, the idea of 13.1 miles in a single stretch seemed out of my league. Although I was sober and not smoking, the race was just after my 33rd birthday and if I hated running when I was half that age, why would I subject myself to it as a grown-up? There would be no coach yelling, er motivating, me. Part of the fun of being a grown-up was doing whatever I wanted. Ice cream for breakfast? Sure. Stay up till four in the morning? Why not. It was the trade-off for having to work and pay bills.
But Moto Cat is good. She talked to several girls and organized a Tuesday night run for anyone interested. Since that’s my night off, I figured I better at least go and give it a shot.
I thought I would hate it.
I really did. I thought it would be a matter of, “You have to try the beets, Julie. It’s fine if you decide you don’t like them, but you have to try.” Thanks, mom.
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t easy and I didn’t love every minute of every run, but something felt right. I leashed up the bitches for every single run, whether it was a mile or 10. One time, one of the girls from the Tuesday group said, “You know, you aren’t the fastest, but you can go forever.” Feather in my cap, thank you. I don’t know if she realized how great the bitches are as pacers…
So we did that half marathon and I surprised myself by keeping the habit. I did a bunch of 5Ks and another half, still logging all the miles with the bitches. It was like my brain started firing right for the first time in my life when I had those leashes in my hands and a pair of good shoes on my feet. It was never about winning or times or any sort of numbers. I was a bad ass carrying a bag of dog poop for several miles until we find a trash can.
I ran with humans like Moto Cat on occasion, but I preferred the company of the bitches. I began to understand how every run is like an entire life of its’ own; there are moments where you want to quit and moments where you feel like you never want to stop. You see the place you’ve lived for years differently because you are forced to take in your surroundings as nature intended you to, not through the windshield of an automobile. You get to explore new places and develop mantras to push you through another mile.
So I was just enjoying my new habit and planning on doing another half marathon in the fall when Moto Cat dropped another bomb on me. She wanted to go for the big boy.
The marathon.
I won’t lie to you and say that I immediately jumped on board wholeheartedly. But I did figure why not and started upping the mileage, leashed bitches in tow. Since I liked the time outdoors with the bitches, why not just increase the time? It wasn’t a competition in any sense, really just more of a challenge to do something that not everyone does. One of my brothers spent a bit of life accusing me of always trying to be different. Maybe there is a grain of truth to it, or maybe I was always just trying to be me. Plus I wanted a finisher medal.
It was a long, hot summer of drought. Barely a drop of moisture fell from the sky during the entire month of July. I would pick the warmest year on record to try and compete a marathon. Since my training partners lacked the ability to sweat, this meant we were routinely getting up at 4:30 or 5:00 a.m. to beat the heat. If only we could have beat the rabbits… although I think the upper body workout was beneficial long-term.
Mid-August I finally decided to register, an event that I thought would produce a bit more emotion. Instead it was equal parts of a Zen-like “Everything you need is inside you” mantra and Curtis Jackson saying, “Pray or worry. Don’t do both.” Just keep going, as they say.
The light worry didn’t turn into actual fear until we were into the tapering phase. Then I woke up two days before the race, literally shitting myself and my hands were shaking. Thankfully, taking the bitches out for a couple of miles calmed me. Throw in some words of encouragement from my co-workers and I was okay.
Hands down, the most fun part of the pre-marathon was the carb-loading. I ate till I couldn’t eat anymore, which is a task for someone who normally grazes several small meals throughout the day. I ate bagels, potatoes, chicken, and waffles. God, did I eat waffles.
Since I already mentioned shitting myself, I think it’s worth having the poop conversation. Yes, there are porta-potties at several points along the race. Yes, sometimes people don’t want to lose time and lose it down their legs. I know someone who had it coming out both ends at mile 18. I know there are a great many worse experiences in this world and in perspective, having a shitty butt/leg, is a low priority problem. Lots of people would like to have two legs. Understood. The puking didn’t scare me from an embarrassment perspective at all. My formerly drunk ass had puked a great many public places, such as in front of Memorial Stadium, not on game day, but on the way to a final, but that’s another story. I just hoped my guts were as tough as my mind.
Before I knew it, the 5:00 a.m. alarm rang and it was oatmeal and coffee time. The ritual began… the shorts, the lucky blue bra, the shorts, the Brooks, no the Asics, definitely the Asics. I grabbed the hip pack and turned to see two very eager looking German Shorthair Pointers watching me with anticipation. The ritual never involved guilt before. I explained to them that momma was gonna do a big race with Moto Cat and they were the reason that she could because they were the best trainers in the world. Blank puppy stares followed by a race to the front door where the leashes are kept. I have a bigger brain, but they have bigger hearts.
I said goodbye to the sad bitches, glad that their little brains would forget this and be thrilled to see me in a few hours.
I hopped in the car, picked up Moto, and we headed to the start. It was a beautiful morning and honestly, cold at the 6:45 a.m. start, a nice change of pace to the sweltering summer. We found a nice space at the back of the starting group and before I really even had time to worry, we were off.
We had a previously discussed plan of a nice slow pace. As long as we kept miles around 11 minutes at the start, we wouldn’t stress ourselves and empty our tanks. Plus, that would give us time over the whole course. The course was open for six hours, which gives you like a 13:40 pace. The plan was just to keep trotting along and enjoy the experience.
The previous weekend we decided to tackle the first eight miles of the course, just for familiarities’ sake. On our test run, someone had apparently had a dresser fall off their truck, evidenced by the chunks of that pressed particle board everywhere. Why do I say dresser? Well, it must have been the big blue dildo resting sadly on the side of the road. I would like to take a moment here to give thanks that neither of the bitches tried to pick it up. I’ve negotiated various dead critters away from them but never sex toys.
So on race day, I was more interested in playing Where’s Blue Dildo on mile two. I’m sure some poor race official or community service kid had to take care of that bad boy as it was nowhere to be seen.
It was a weird thing, how easy the first 15 were. We just stuck to the plan, one foot in front of the other. We stopped to stretch a bit here and there. Moto’s hubby did about 400 meters with us at the 20K mark. We ran with a local girl for a while and a woman from New Hampshire for a while. She was doing a marathon in every state. Hard core.
For me, it started to get harder around 18 to 20. That’s when you really start to love the people at the aid stations. An encouraging word can go a long way when you’re starting to doubt yourself. I got a little weird at one point and started singing, “To All The Dogs I’ve Run Before.” You know the tune. Actually, that really isn’t weird coming from me. And it made Moto laugh.
At this point, my mantra from the summer came in handy. I guess lots of runners have that go-to quote that motivates them to push through the pain and go further. Mine developed from the runs with the bitches. I would say, “We are not quitters. We are brownheads.” I would say this over and over to myself during the summer, whether it was just to get out of bed and go or to do another mile. The bitches were always game for another mile, they are brownheads.
I’m not sure how many times I said that to myself between mile 21 and mile 24. I know I started saying it out loud. A lot.
I had been drinking plenty of water and sports drinks. I had downed like 18 gummy chews. I was a brownhead.
Moto and I started to separate a bit around the 22 mile mark. I decided to employ a strategy of race walk the first half of a mile, then jog the second half. It was on a part of the bike trails that the bitches and I had been on so many times over the summer. It was incredibly flat. I knew I was so close; I just wanted to be done.
And then I saw it, the 25 mile marker. It felt like a pass to the promised land. I had a water bottle with just a few ounces left in my hand, so I poured the water out on the mile marker, like a gangster with a 40 on his boy’s grave, and yelled “This one’s for the bitches.”
Like I was going to do the whole thing without doing something dramatic. Please.
I took off like a bat out of hell. Well, it was a bat out of hell for me cuz my last mile was just a little over 11:00. I know Jurker can do an 8:20 at the end of an ultra, but he’s Jurker. I’m a brownhead.
I did it. We did it. It was crazy. I hit the finish line with enough sass to tell the announcer just to call me, “Schooly” as he was searching for my name. I got that finisher medal that I wanted so badly. I did it.
Keeping up the workouts was never an issue. I knew I would keep logging the miles with the bitches, whether it was three or five or whatever. Today it was 11 on one of the familiar routes from this summer and as we ran past Paisley Park, I took in a breath of cool air and realized that the seasons had just changed. Fall happened right in the middle of our run, an experience missed by any of you who were stuck in a car or at a desk. Or maybe it’s something only a runner, er marathoner, understands…
I grew up playing softball, volleyball, and basketball. My brother and I played tennis for fun. I loved sports and competition, but I always hated the conditioning aspect and viewed it as a necessary evil, especially since basketball was my favorite.
I had done a handful of 5K charity-type races throughout my 20s, but was more interested in post-races drinks. I remember one race where I was puffing on a cig while stretching along the path at Yankton Trail. I was the type of racer mothers pulled their small children away from and serious runners just started at in disbelief.
Needless to say, the idea of 13.1 miles in a single stretch seemed out of my league. Although I was sober and not smoking, the race was just after my 33rd birthday and if I hated running when I was half that age, why would I subject myself to it as a grown-up? There would be no coach yelling, er motivating, me. Part of the fun of being a grown-up was doing whatever I wanted. Ice cream for breakfast? Sure. Stay up till four in the morning? Why not. It was the trade-off for having to work and pay bills.
But Moto Cat is good. She talked to several girls and organized a Tuesday night run for anyone interested. Since that’s my night off, I figured I better at least go and give it a shot.
I thought I would hate it.
I really did. I thought it would be a matter of, “You have to try the beets, Julie. It’s fine if you decide you don’t like them, but you have to try.” Thanks, mom.
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t easy and I didn’t love every minute of every run, but something felt right. I leashed up the bitches for every single run, whether it was a mile or 10. One time, one of the girls from the Tuesday group said, “You know, you aren’t the fastest, but you can go forever.” Feather in my cap, thank you. I don’t know if she realized how great the bitches are as pacers…
So we did that half marathon and I surprised myself by keeping the habit. I did a bunch of 5Ks and another half, still logging all the miles with the bitches. It was like my brain started firing right for the first time in my life when I had those leashes in my hands and a pair of good shoes on my feet. It was never about winning or times or any sort of numbers. I was a bad ass carrying a bag of dog poop for several miles until we find a trash can.
I ran with humans like Moto Cat on occasion, but I preferred the company of the bitches. I began to understand how every run is like an entire life of its’ own; there are moments where you want to quit and moments where you feel like you never want to stop. You see the place you’ve lived for years differently because you are forced to take in your surroundings as nature intended you to, not through the windshield of an automobile. You get to explore new places and develop mantras to push you through another mile.
So I was just enjoying my new habit and planning on doing another half marathon in the fall when Moto Cat dropped another bomb on me. She wanted to go for the big boy.
The marathon.
I won’t lie to you and say that I immediately jumped on board wholeheartedly. But I did figure why not and started upping the mileage, leashed bitches in tow. Since I liked the time outdoors with the bitches, why not just increase the time? It wasn’t a competition in any sense, really just more of a challenge to do something that not everyone does. One of my brothers spent a bit of life accusing me of always trying to be different. Maybe there is a grain of truth to it, or maybe I was always just trying to be me. Plus I wanted a finisher medal.
It was a long, hot summer of drought. Barely a drop of moisture fell from the sky during the entire month of July. I would pick the warmest year on record to try and compete a marathon. Since my training partners lacked the ability to sweat, this meant we were routinely getting up at 4:30 or 5:00 a.m. to beat the heat. If only we could have beat the rabbits… although I think the upper body workout was beneficial long-term.
Mid-August I finally decided to register, an event that I thought would produce a bit more emotion. Instead it was equal parts of a Zen-like “Everything you need is inside you” mantra and Curtis Jackson saying, “Pray or worry. Don’t do both.” Just keep going, as they say.
The light worry didn’t turn into actual fear until we were into the tapering phase. Then I woke up two days before the race, literally shitting myself and my hands were shaking. Thankfully, taking the bitches out for a couple of miles calmed me. Throw in some words of encouragement from my co-workers and I was okay.
Hands down, the most fun part of the pre-marathon was the carb-loading. I ate till I couldn’t eat anymore, which is a task for someone who normally grazes several small meals throughout the day. I ate bagels, potatoes, chicken, and waffles. God, did I eat waffles.
Since I already mentioned shitting myself, I think it’s worth having the poop conversation. Yes, there are porta-potties at several points along the race. Yes, sometimes people don’t want to lose time and lose it down their legs. I know someone who had it coming out both ends at mile 18. I know there are a great many worse experiences in this world and in perspective, having a shitty butt/leg, is a low priority problem. Lots of people would like to have two legs. Understood. The puking didn’t scare me from an embarrassment perspective at all. My formerly drunk ass had puked a great many public places, such as in front of Memorial Stadium, not on game day, but on the way to a final, but that’s another story. I just hoped my guts were as tough as my mind.
Before I knew it, the 5:00 a.m. alarm rang and it was oatmeal and coffee time. The ritual began… the shorts, the lucky blue bra, the shorts, the Brooks, no the Asics, definitely the Asics. I grabbed the hip pack and turned to see two very eager looking German Shorthair Pointers watching me with anticipation. The ritual never involved guilt before. I explained to them that momma was gonna do a big race with Moto Cat and they were the reason that she could because they were the best trainers in the world. Blank puppy stares followed by a race to the front door where the leashes are kept. I have a bigger brain, but they have bigger hearts.
I said goodbye to the sad bitches, glad that their little brains would forget this and be thrilled to see me in a few hours.
I hopped in the car, picked up Moto, and we headed to the start. It was a beautiful morning and honestly, cold at the 6:45 a.m. start, a nice change of pace to the sweltering summer. We found a nice space at the back of the starting group and before I really even had time to worry, we were off.
We had a previously discussed plan of a nice slow pace. As long as we kept miles around 11 minutes at the start, we wouldn’t stress ourselves and empty our tanks. Plus, that would give us time over the whole course. The course was open for six hours, which gives you like a 13:40 pace. The plan was just to keep trotting along and enjoy the experience.
The previous weekend we decided to tackle the first eight miles of the course, just for familiarities’ sake. On our test run, someone had apparently had a dresser fall off their truck, evidenced by the chunks of that pressed particle board everywhere. Why do I say dresser? Well, it must have been the big blue dildo resting sadly on the side of the road. I would like to take a moment here to give thanks that neither of the bitches tried to pick it up. I’ve negotiated various dead critters away from them but never sex toys.
So on race day, I was more interested in playing Where’s Blue Dildo on mile two. I’m sure some poor race official or community service kid had to take care of that bad boy as it was nowhere to be seen.
It was a weird thing, how easy the first 15 were. We just stuck to the plan, one foot in front of the other. We stopped to stretch a bit here and there. Moto’s hubby did about 400 meters with us at the 20K mark. We ran with a local girl for a while and a woman from New Hampshire for a while. She was doing a marathon in every state. Hard core.
For me, it started to get harder around 18 to 20. That’s when you really start to love the people at the aid stations. An encouraging word can go a long way when you’re starting to doubt yourself. I got a little weird at one point and started singing, “To All The Dogs I’ve Run Before.” You know the tune. Actually, that really isn’t weird coming from me. And it made Moto laugh.
At this point, my mantra from the summer came in handy. I guess lots of runners have that go-to quote that motivates them to push through the pain and go further. Mine developed from the runs with the bitches. I would say, “We are not quitters. We are brownheads.” I would say this over and over to myself during the summer, whether it was just to get out of bed and go or to do another mile. The bitches were always game for another mile, they are brownheads.
I’m not sure how many times I said that to myself between mile 21 and mile 24. I know I started saying it out loud. A lot.
I had been drinking plenty of water and sports drinks. I had downed like 18 gummy chews. I was a brownhead.
Moto and I started to separate a bit around the 22 mile mark. I decided to employ a strategy of race walk the first half of a mile, then jog the second half. It was on a part of the bike trails that the bitches and I had been on so many times over the summer. It was incredibly flat. I knew I was so close; I just wanted to be done.
And then I saw it, the 25 mile marker. It felt like a pass to the promised land. I had a water bottle with just a few ounces left in my hand, so I poured the water out on the mile marker, like a gangster with a 40 on his boy’s grave, and yelled “This one’s for the bitches.”
Like I was going to do the whole thing without doing something dramatic. Please.
I took off like a bat out of hell. Well, it was a bat out of hell for me cuz my last mile was just a little over 11:00. I know Jurker can do an 8:20 at the end of an ultra, but he’s Jurker. I’m a brownhead.
I did it. We did it. It was crazy. I hit the finish line with enough sass to tell the announcer just to call me, “Schooly” as he was searching for my name. I got that finisher medal that I wanted so badly. I did it.
Keeping up the workouts was never an issue. I knew I would keep logging the miles with the bitches, whether it was three or five or whatever. Today it was 11 on one of the familiar routes from this summer and as we ran past Paisley Park, I took in a breath of cool air and realized that the seasons had just changed. Fall happened right in the middle of our run, an experience missed by any of you who were stuck in a car or at a desk. Or maybe it’s something only a runner, er marathoner, understands…
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