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.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
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…
Monday, August 27, 2012
Pets, Vets, & No Debts
We were out running on the bike trails mid-day on Saturday. It’s one of my favorite places to run since other than one stretch near the interstate, you almost feel like you aren’t in a city. There are a few places deer have made a home and we always see lots of ducks and geese. A little taste of the country for my city bitches, if you will.
Unfortunately we did see one flattened frog near the golf course. Sad-faced me. I didn’t wonder if the biker had any issues, I worried that the frog suffered. So it wouldn’t surprise you to know that we stopped near 26th Street to pick-up a baby turtle and set him down by the river. His little shell’s diameter was only a bit over an inch, so you can imagine how slowly he moved. He would not meet the same fate as the frog… at least not on my watch. There is still a bit of the little girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds she would find in me.
I have been thinking a lot about just what it is that animals mean to me lately. For instance, all but one of my tattoos feature animals. I try to be mindful of how the animals I choose to eat are raised. I get way more excited about pet pics than small human pics on the Facebook. I like my bitches more than most people. I interrupt my runs to get baby turtles off the bike trail.
What got me going on this was that a friend of mine, let’s call her Farmer in the Deltron, was struggling with what to do about her beloved dog, Finny. He was getting older and the usual age issues were coming to light. Even with the health stuff coming out, he was still a pretty happy dog, which is one of my favorite things about them. They find something simple to wag about, even if their bodies are falling apart.
My advice: Letting him go before it gets too bad is a gift.
Letting go. Such easy advice, but probably the hardest thing to do in the whole world. Whether it’s a relationship or some object like a shirt or a car, it’s such a human thing to hold on to everything as tightly as we can, especially with the fear of actually losing it. We will hold on to the point of enabling, like the parent of an addicted child.
I’m just as guilty as the next person. It’s part of the reason I’ve done the major clean-ups at my house and insisted that 100 items leave via garbage, recycling, or donation, before even a gallon of milk can come back in. It’s weird how letting go of a sweatshirt can let so much more go.
Not like an article of clothing is anywhere on par with a dog. The friend, the defender, the protector, the pain in the ass. It’s like having an entertaining, energetic child that just wants to have fun, eat, cuddle, sleep, and eat some more. But the child also knows how to perfectly read your emotions, whether you need your tears licked away or want to dance to “Single Ladies.” (Joey loves that song, cuz I liked it and put a collar on it.)
I had to let go of my childhood dog, Blacky, a Chessie-Lab mix. It was never an issue with death, everyone knew it was time. He was almost completely deaf and his hips were shot. In retrospect, we did probably wait a bit too long, but my dad waited until I was home from college one weekend so I could be there.
Blacky never liked going to the vet and always put up a fuss. I think my dad had to practically drag him in to get shots. I have to laugh just thinking about it. My dad wasn’t much for nonsense like that. But on that final trip, Blacky seemed pretty okay with it. I’ve heard other people say that, as if the dog intuition takes over and realizes it’s all for good. I have to believe that since they are wired with a pack mentality where showing weakness can get one left behind. Canine Zen, perhaps.
I still tear up when I think about it. Over 12 years have passed and trust me, I wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other way. My older brother and dad were there so we all got to say goodbye and I held his handsome old face in my hands as he took his last breaths. My brother said, “I’ll be walking behind you again someday.” I think the old farm vet even shed a tear at that one. It was such a dignified, beautiful way for him to leave this life. We buried him near the farm where my dad grew up, where they had spent so much time hunting, and I left wildflowers with him in his grave, just like I did with the birdies.
So Farmer in the Deltron had a decision to make. I don’t know the specifics; the specifics don’t matter. I know that she let him have a whole bacon cheeseburger and some chicken strips, so I can only imagine how happy his last meal was. And I know he was loved, fully and unconditionally. Not a bad life, not bad indeed.
Unfortunately we did see one flattened frog near the golf course. Sad-faced me. I didn’t wonder if the biker had any issues, I worried that the frog suffered. So it wouldn’t surprise you to know that we stopped near 26th Street to pick-up a baby turtle and set him down by the river. His little shell’s diameter was only a bit over an inch, so you can imagine how slowly he moved. He would not meet the same fate as the frog… at least not on my watch. There is still a bit of the little girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds she would find in me.
I have been thinking a lot about just what it is that animals mean to me lately. For instance, all but one of my tattoos feature animals. I try to be mindful of how the animals I choose to eat are raised. I get way more excited about pet pics than small human pics on the Facebook. I like my bitches more than most people. I interrupt my runs to get baby turtles off the bike trail.
What got me going on this was that a friend of mine, let’s call her Farmer in the Deltron, was struggling with what to do about her beloved dog, Finny. He was getting older and the usual age issues were coming to light. Even with the health stuff coming out, he was still a pretty happy dog, which is one of my favorite things about them. They find something simple to wag about, even if their bodies are falling apart.
My advice: Letting him go before it gets too bad is a gift.
Letting go. Such easy advice, but probably the hardest thing to do in the whole world. Whether it’s a relationship or some object like a shirt or a car, it’s such a human thing to hold on to everything as tightly as we can, especially with the fear of actually losing it. We will hold on to the point of enabling, like the parent of an addicted child.
I’m just as guilty as the next person. It’s part of the reason I’ve done the major clean-ups at my house and insisted that 100 items leave via garbage, recycling, or donation, before even a gallon of milk can come back in. It’s weird how letting go of a sweatshirt can let so much more go.
Not like an article of clothing is anywhere on par with a dog. The friend, the defender, the protector, the pain in the ass. It’s like having an entertaining, energetic child that just wants to have fun, eat, cuddle, sleep, and eat some more. But the child also knows how to perfectly read your emotions, whether you need your tears licked away or want to dance to “Single Ladies.” (Joey loves that song, cuz I liked it and put a collar on it.)
I had to let go of my childhood dog, Blacky, a Chessie-Lab mix. It was never an issue with death, everyone knew it was time. He was almost completely deaf and his hips were shot. In retrospect, we did probably wait a bit too long, but my dad waited until I was home from college one weekend so I could be there.
Blacky never liked going to the vet and always put up a fuss. I think my dad had to practically drag him in to get shots. I have to laugh just thinking about it. My dad wasn’t much for nonsense like that. But on that final trip, Blacky seemed pretty okay with it. I’ve heard other people say that, as if the dog intuition takes over and realizes it’s all for good. I have to believe that since they are wired with a pack mentality where showing weakness can get one left behind. Canine Zen, perhaps.
I still tear up when I think about it. Over 12 years have passed and trust me, I wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other way. My older brother and dad were there so we all got to say goodbye and I held his handsome old face in my hands as he took his last breaths. My brother said, “I’ll be walking behind you again someday.” I think the old farm vet even shed a tear at that one. It was such a dignified, beautiful way for him to leave this life. We buried him near the farm where my dad grew up, where they had spent so much time hunting, and I left wildflowers with him in his grave, just like I did with the birdies.
So Farmer in the Deltron had a decision to make. I don’t know the specifics; the specifics don’t matter. I know that she let him have a whole bacon cheeseburger and some chicken strips, so I can only imagine how happy his last meal was. And I know he was loved, fully and unconditionally. Not a bad life, not bad indeed.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Countless women are being told that they are not reliable witnesses to their own lives, that the truth is not their property, now or ever. — Rebecca Solnit
We've spent the past couple of days bombarded with the moronic quote regarding rape and abortion by Missouri Rep. Todd Akin being played over and over. From a political perspective, it should be a beautiful mistake viewed through my lens. A real-live human being, in the middle of a tight Senate race, saying something so stupid is an early birthday gift, wrapped up in a big blue bow. I mean, seriously, how could anyone vote for him after saying such ridiculous things like that? People are smarter than that. Oh, wait, that's right he's already serving in Congress. And oh yeah, he's one of the Paul Ryan personhood-type buddies whose anti-woman rhetoric on everything is ignorant, and frankly, frightening. And apparently, he is still leading the polls by one point.
Sigh. A big one. A really big one.
The whole idea of "legitimate rape" is almost too much for me to handle. Like my head nearly blows off the top of my body. And this isn't about me saying that men can't be raped. They can. And this isn't about me saying that women can't commit rape. They can. A married person can rape his/her spouse. Sexual preference isn't an issue.
You know what really gets my goat here?
THAT THESE COCKSUCKERS USE RAPE AS A POLITICAL TOOL TO PUSH THEIR ANTI-WOMAN, ANTI-CHOICE AGENDA.
Cuz, you know, women say they get raped by their husbands has a tool in a divorce or as a means to justify abortions. Because apparently, we can't truthfully ever have control of our own bodies or make our own choices regarding sexuality. If we can't have our own bodies or our truth, what can we have?
We've spent the past couple of days bombarded with the moronic quote regarding rape and abortion by Missouri Rep. Todd Akin being played over and over. From a political perspective, it should be a beautiful mistake viewed through my lens. A real-live human being, in the middle of a tight Senate race, saying something so stupid is an early birthday gift, wrapped up in a big blue bow. I mean, seriously, how could anyone vote for him after saying such ridiculous things like that? People are smarter than that. Oh, wait, that's right he's already serving in Congress. And oh yeah, he's one of the Paul Ryan personhood-type buddies whose anti-woman rhetoric on everything is ignorant, and frankly, frightening. And apparently, he is still leading the polls by one point.
Sigh. A big one. A really big one.
The whole idea of "legitimate rape" is almost too much for me to handle. Like my head nearly blows off the top of my body. And this isn't about me saying that men can't be raped. They can. And this isn't about me saying that women can't commit rape. They can. A married person can rape his/her spouse. Sexual preference isn't an issue.
You know what really gets my goat here?
THAT THESE COCKSUCKERS USE RAPE AS A POLITICAL TOOL TO PUSH THEIR ANTI-WOMAN, ANTI-CHOICE AGENDA.
Cuz, you know, women say they get raped by their husbands has a tool in a divorce or as a means to justify abortions. Because apparently, we can't truthfully ever have control of our own bodies or make our own choices regarding sexuality. If we can't have our own bodies or our truth, what can we have?
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Radio in the Bathtub...
When we were little bitty kids, my baby brother, Tiny T, was extremely quiet. For any of you who now him now, you know sometimes it’s a wonder if the he’ll shut up. Back then, my parents thought there might be something wrong with his hearing since he never talked. When he was a bit older, my aunt thought he was on drugs. His explanation, “I don’t talk unless I have something to say.”
Novel concept. I think he was about 12 when he said that.
I can think of about 80 people I would like to present that to…
That popped into my head yesterday when I was listening to someone bloviate about all the things he knew and the places he’d been. High decibel announcements of anything in a pubic place just never seem as interesting to me. Blah, blah, and blah. But this man did make me think of my little bro’s high decibel announcement when he was about 3 or 4 years old.
I was the family piano player, or maybe it’s more accurate to say I was the only one who took piano lessons. The sitting was kind of hard for me. Still time was something I preferred to reserve for reading and being stuck at the piano bench when there was action outside was a bit torturous for the smaller version of myself. Plus, the budding feminist in me was always quick to question why I had to do anything that neither of my brothers had to do.
I don’t know if Tiny T wanted to take lessons, but his Mozart moment is burned into my mind. The moment “Radio in the Bathtub” was born.
We never understood from where the simple lyrics came, just a repetition of “Radio in the bathtub, raaaad-I-o in the bathtub” over and over, his tiny hands pounding in unison on the keys, stretching as far as they could reach, building with the intensity of Elton John working through the third hour of the concert. Rocketman, burnin’ through milk and cookies in Edgerton.
Once he realized he had an audience, there were encores, but “Radio in the Bathtub” left as quickly as it came with the burst of creative glory of our favorite one hit wonders. Or maybe it’s just the inspiration for future renditions of stupid shit I do like “Remote in the Fridge” or “Car Keys in the Backdoor…”
Novel concept. I think he was about 12 when he said that.
I can think of about 80 people I would like to present that to…
That popped into my head yesterday when I was listening to someone bloviate about all the things he knew and the places he’d been. High decibel announcements of anything in a pubic place just never seem as interesting to me. Blah, blah, and blah. But this man did make me think of my little bro’s high decibel announcement when he was about 3 or 4 years old.
I was the family piano player, or maybe it’s more accurate to say I was the only one who took piano lessons. The sitting was kind of hard for me. Still time was something I preferred to reserve for reading and being stuck at the piano bench when there was action outside was a bit torturous for the smaller version of myself. Plus, the budding feminist in me was always quick to question why I had to do anything that neither of my brothers had to do.
I don’t know if Tiny T wanted to take lessons, but his Mozart moment is burned into my mind. The moment “Radio in the Bathtub” was born.
We never understood from where the simple lyrics came, just a repetition of “Radio in the bathtub, raaaad-I-o in the bathtub” over and over, his tiny hands pounding in unison on the keys, stretching as far as they could reach, building with the intensity of Elton John working through the third hour of the concert. Rocketman, burnin’ through milk and cookies in Edgerton.
Once he realized he had an audience, there were encores, but “Radio in the Bathtub” left as quickly as it came with the burst of creative glory of our favorite one hit wonders. Or maybe it’s just the inspiration for future renditions of stupid shit I do like “Remote in the Fridge” or “Car Keys in the Backdoor…”
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