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As someone once said, “I know worrying works because 99% of everything I worry about never happens.”

Saturday, 2:45am, dark, warm, muggy. I’d been awake for a while, trying to sleep but failing. My mind was not going to let me forget we face Armageddon this morning. Talking sense to it was useless. WAKE WAKE, EMERGENCY! it shouted in my sleep, until I finally surrendered and padded barefoot downstairs, firing up the Keurig. I looked out at the foggy night, details blurred into soft gold and black while I sipped strong hot coffee, cozy and comforting. Soft air gently wrapped around me, sound suspended and dampened, moving slowly through the thick air like the drawls of old Southern ladies visiting on Mississippi porches. Murphy looked about with me and seemed to understand. The world muffled to velvet, we moved slowly not to disturb that sweet gentle silence.

Can you hear it? Can you feel it?

I’d found an interactive site and created a check list personalized to my preference. Everything had been checked off three times, lined up in the hallway and kitchen; Hubs has done this so often his checklist is in his head. We loaded up the car and bikes. The hour long drive to Tunica seemed endless, of course, and I could not leg jiggle enough to expend the nervous energy I had. Hubs looked at me. ”Are you OK?” Hell no I’m not OK, do I look OK? I’m hopping like a spider on a hot griddle in a front seat the size of jet fighter cockpit. But you are sweet and kind and loving and I thank you for your concern although I can’t actually speak right now.

You learn something new every day, so they say, and I learned something new about Fight or Flight: you body is going to jettison everything possible. Thankfully the Expo Center was nice and large and you can easily sprint through the foyer to the equally nice Ladies Room. I also noticed I didn’t seem to be the only person doing so.

There’s a lot of detail getting all that gear out of a car, into the Transition Area and set up properly, more than you need to know unless you have had a lobotomy recently and now want to do a triathlon; if that’s happened let me know and I’ll get with you. Otherwise suffice it to say that many surgeries are done with less preparation, although without a doubt they are more sterile, since I was soon to walk through fish sh*t and then drag that sh*t back into Transition and deposit it in my socks. Bleach. Just don’t think, and bleach.

For the fourth damn time in a row I put the damn wetsuit on backward. Next time I’m leaving it backward. If there is a next time. I got in the lake for a warm-up and paddled out to the first buoy where I stopped, my feet not resting on what can only be described as the un-bottom. There was nothing solid. It just sort of floated, a half-substance. The stuff nightmares are made of, the evil fog rising slowly through the cemetery enveloping the heroine’s feet…her ankles…her calves…rising, pulling, wrapping about her, slowly sucking away her life…

Damn, this sh*t is NASTY. Don’t think don’t think don’t think, just keep swimming just keep swimming.

We lined up for the swim by age group. Fortunately I was toward the front of the line with some older men behind us. They sort the groups randomly every time. Next time I could be right in front of the 20-24 males and get run over like a train. If there were a next time.

One of the ladies heard a couple of us commiserating over our first and possibly last triathlon. She gave us an invaluable piece of advice: when you get in the water, don’t kick. Just pull. This will keep your heart rate under control until you’ve had time to warm up and get the feel of everything. And then there I was, on the ramp, looking at my friend the photographer, praying her huge and hugely expensive camera would fail, nothing personal Donna, sorry, but I do not want to be forever remembered in that figure flattering wetsuit, swimming hair condom and goggles.

Not kicking made all the difference. I cornered the first buoy and realized that the wetsuit, my new BFF, made me buoyant enough that all I had to do was pull. Now it’s just another workout in the pool. With a deadly, life-sucking un-bottom, but you cannot have everything no matter how you try.

And then, I got pissed. I’m sorry, but I’m a bitch and it should just be acknowledged. I could try to hide it but it’s like trying to hide behind swimming goggles and a self-image crushing wetsuit: We know you’re in there Terri, no use hiding. The really nice lady right in front of me at the start was zig-zagging like a Singer sewing machine and I could not get around her. At first I thought it was me going crooked, but I realized that as I breathed I was sighting on the seawall, and it was always about the same place. So I went to the right. She was in front of me, again. Dammit. I swam to the left. BOOM. I went back right. Bang.

Oh, hell no. I stopped, deadly cloud of lake bottom rising to kill me. I watched, weighing time, enough time to sight her but not enough time to be completely sucked into a slow lake bottom death. She went…ri..no, left. I went right as fast as I could and aimed for the finish.

Not too quick in the transition (learning curve) I headed out on the bike. Nervous, I couldn’t clip for what seemed forever. We turned onto the highway and I got into a rhythm. Hey. This is nice. Mississippi is flat! The roads are coned off! No &^%%’s asking me if I pay wheel tax! I don’t have to stop at the lights! Cruising, I’m just cruising, me and Matilda, we’re just out, riding, having a good time when, suddenly, &^$#!!! that woman is IN FRONT OF ME.

Sorry, Lady, but yes, you do, and here’s your shirt.

Oh, hell no. I tooled along behind her for a few minutes, getting a feel for her pace. It was too slow for me, so I passed. No eye contract, I’m just out here, just out here riding my bike, me and Matilda, nothing to see here, Lady, just keep going slow, that’s good.

I kept a pace that felt a bit of a push but not uncomfortable since I had no idea what my legs would do off the bike. Next time, if it happened that I went batsh*t crazy more than once, I would know better how much to push it.

At mile 10, cruising, suddenly, what the $%#@!!?? She PASSED me.

Oh, hell no. I looked at my quads. Sorry dudes, this might hurt but it’s for your own good, and I knocked it into a higher gear and started stepping on those pedals. We went from the Beatles to some Highway to Hell in 13 seconds.

Coming in I heard Hubs, Becky and Heather yelling for me, although I didn’t try to see them, not falling over on the bike seemed more important, and at the dismount line there stood Killer, screaming for me! I looked at her: ”I’m pissed now.”

“SHE’S PISSED NOW!” Cheryl screamed in triumph, “GO TERRI!”

This time transition was as fast as I could handle it, gear thrown everywhere, shoes shoved on and I’m outta here, running out of transition and around the corner where

OH. HELL. NO. She’s in front of me. Again. What?? She’s filming an Eveready commercial??? Dammit.

I waited, jogging behind her, getting a feel for her pace. It looked to me like she had one gear – a good one, but it looked like she was a pretty steady runner, so if I passed her she might not have a higher gear. My legs loosened up and got into a running rhythm. I passed her and I had no intention of letting it happen again. Somewhere in the last mile I stopped at a turn and walked a bit, looking at the field behind me. She was still in the same steady gear, and I took off again. I am never doing this crazy voodoo doodoo again, but if I did ever maybe lose all my meds in a tropical storm or something I would definitely push the bike a bit harder and I would totally want my run stronger, I thought, as I died on the turn into the last few hundred miles.

“TERRI!! ONLY 150 YARDS!!!” someone screamed.

Well hell yes, I can do that, I thought, and I hammered on home.

You want some REAL crazy voodoo doodoo?

So, next time, if I ever do this again, not that I will, but if I did, I know I can’t expect that kind of thing because the fast ones stayed home or – most of them – waited to do the Olympic distance on Sunday (not being modest, I just know who they are). But if there were a next time, I’d still do it differently, and I’d still find someone in front of me to pick off.

And that was a pretty awesome ending, if I do say so myself.

Posted in Triathlon and tagged bike, biking, coffee, exercise, fitness, healthy-living, Run, running, swim, swimming, triathlon

17 May 2013

5 Comments

Confidence? Reality? A spoonful of sugar?

“To do your best, you’ve gotta believe in yourself. There is a functional link between physiology and psychology. If you have the confidence to do something, your body will respond. With confidence you can cope with various race day obstacles, but even slight problems are magnified if you lack it. Achieving goals – long training runs, consistent mileage, increasingly faster times in speed workouts and races – builds confidence, which results in further improvements in performance. Reflect on these successes as you approach a race and during it to keep your confidence strong.” Bob Glover, The Competitive Runner’s Handbook

It’s ugly at the rundogcatcatme household this morning and it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the day. And, yes, coffee: on the third.

Chunker must feel the tension because she is prowling about mewing and chirping at her stuffed toy ‘babies’. Just now she climbed up on the washer and dumped her kibble into the washing machine. Now I’ve got cat food pellets stuck under the agitator. I mean under the agitator in the washing machine, not the agitator in fur, mewing.

CHUNKDAMMITYOULITTLESHIT

Oddly just minutes before we were discussing yelling at our furry children and that our furry children didn’t have middle names to make the shout effective like it did when I would yell TRAITOR MIDDLE NAME CHILD DAMMIT I TOLD YOU BUT, NO, AND NOW WE HAVE TO GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM. AGAIN.

Apparently Chunker does have a middle name and I had just forgotten it.

Last night we gave the lake swim another try. Heather bravely faced the lake and announced there had better not be any &^%%&** snakes this time. I felt fine, buoyed by my new-found comfort and lack of fear in the lake Tuesday. Unfortunately I failed to realize I had a couple factors against me. First I forgot to use my inhalers yesterday and a front had come in (my trigger). Secondly, and much more importantly, Hubs was home. Home, and on the boat following us in the lake.

I have performance anxiety. I don’t mind failing or struggling in front of others (too much) but can’t stand to do so in front of Hubs, which is ridiculous because I usually manage to screw something up on a daily basis so I should surely be used to it by now. It embarrasses me, and he tries to fix everything which frustrates me (it’s a guy thing, isn’t it?). After all these years I should get over it. For some reason he’s fascinated by the thought of me swimming. He keeps saying, “I’ve never seen you swim” which means every time we’ve been to a pool he’s been struck blind? Or perhaps that doesn’t count if it’s not laps or something? I don’t know. I just know, at this point, that the pressure is on and it’s building and I cannot stand it.

B&H are two of the most mothering and nurturing people I have ever met, polar opposite of me. Becky stayed back with me when we set out. Every damn time I looked up there was that boat with Hubs, watching. The water was cool, I didn’t warm up and within a couple minutes my chest said Ciao, see ya later and shut down. I’d doggy paddle for a few minutes and set out again, Becky waiting and watching. I told her to go on, I’m fine. I swam a bit and floated a bit and doggy paddled a bit but I could never catch my breath, wheezing and pissed off, knowing that Hubs was watching me struggle. Finally I saw a dock and headed for it. I held on, trying to catch my breath, looking at our dock across the cove, a million miles away. Hubs and the boat swung around. I got on. ”I’m done. I’m fine, but I’m done.”

The reality, with no sugar-coating, is that inhalers or no, Hubs or no, I am not a strong enough swimmer to go even 400 yards. I will have to stop and I will have to stand in the 6 inches of marshmellow-y fish poopy fish burial mud until I can catch my breath and then I’ll have to start again. I’ll just have to boil my feet when I get home.

Well, SH*T.

One of my BRFF’s, Lisa, called yesterday to see how I was doing facing this weekend. She did her first Tri last summer. She told me how helpful Hubs was at the race start, consoling her with positive reinforcement. “You can FLOAT, cantcha?” he asked her. She nodded. ”You can DOGGY PADDLE cantcha?” She nodded. ”OKAY THEN, you’ll be FINE,” he boomed. She nodded.

Someone posted the quote above this morning. I can’t decide if the issue is that I don’t believe in myself enough and I need to pump myself with spoonfuls of sugar-y positive thinking and reinforcement all day, or if the issue is what I stated: I am simply not a strong enough swimmer at this time.

And if the reason is the fact that I am simply not strong enough at this time, is it negative to admit that? To be afraid, and to feel angry because I’m afraid?

Posted in Triathlon and tagged cat, coffee, exercise, fitness, healthy-living, Journey, muddy lake, positive thinking, Run, running, sugar coating, swimming, training, triathlon

14 May 2013

4 Comments

Well, that went swimmingly.

7:42am *boink* B: Swimming today?

*boink* T: Sigh. Guess so. Just checked, water temp is still 70

*boink* B: I am not worried about the temp of the water really…wet suit–I must wear it, swim in it, and just do it. Intestinal fortitude.

*boink* T: studies show intestinal fortitude is highly overrated. And you can always take Imodium for it.

7:48am *boink* B: can you see the lake on google earth?

*boink* T: Checking. Been taking your meds, eh?

*boink* T: Yes, I see it. It looks like distance to the boat launch is 162 yards. I’m putting Kahlua in my coffee right now.

*boink* B: riiiiight….

8:18am *boink* H: Just catching up, you two swimming in the lake this morning?

*boink* T: I DON’T HAVE ANY KAHLUA

*boink* B: Can you put some Merlot in the coffee, then?

*boink* H: OMG I’m so nervous. Every night this week I’ve worried about snakes.

*boink* T: there are no snakes in my lake. I swear. I promise. I’ve never ever seen one.

8:57am *boink* T: how far you going?

*boink* B: I don’t care. What you need, is to get in the water and get the feel for it–and for the love of all that is holy DO NOT WORRY ABOUT TIME

*boink* T: no, right, just get in the water.

*boink* B: I repeat just get in the water…and swim some…no pressure

*boink* T: Right, that’s all I’m planning to do, I’m not concerned for distance.

*boink* B: there are no drills, no specific length just tip toeing through the tulips.

*boink* T: tiptoeing through fish shit, you mean.

8:32am *boink* H: I’m back. You’d better be right because if I see a snake I will die. Or maybe I’ll kill you.

*boink* T: I SWEAR.

*boink* H: okay

9:31am *boink* B: On my way

9:34am *boink* H: me too

I woke this morning feeling resigned and peaceful. Yesterday afternoon it occurred to me it was a swim in a lake, not the Bataan Death March. Seriously. I thought, what, I’m gonna die? I still wasn’t thrilled of course, but I seemed to feel a little more realistic about the situation. I’ll get in the water, I’ll get to the other side somehow, and then I’ll get back.

I was surprised, at 70 degrees the water didn’t feel too cold. It was chilly on my hands and feet but they quickly warmed; I’d expected to feel cold the entire time.

I finally let go of the dock and we swam to the boat launch and back. I did get dizzy, I might consider some Dramamine for the next couple days, and I called it at one lap.

B&H returned to the boat launch for a second lap. It all went well until they saw the snake. That it was dead did not make any difference to them. Heather threw Becky to the wolves and hauled ass. Becky did some speed work. Being dead and all, it stayed where it was, but, still, it was a snake.

Later we drove around to the boat launch to be sure. Maybe it really wasn’t a snake.

There were a couple guys working on the house next to the launch.

“Are you the ones that swam across the lake?” they asked in that tone which indicates they are watching carefully and are ready to back away slowly if necessary.

“Yes, we did, and there’s a f*cking snake in the water!” said Heather, delicately.

“Really?” Suddenly this was a lot more interesting. Men with trucks and power tools. Three women squealing about a snake, what’s not to like?

“Yeah,” intoned the younger one, walking to the shore to check it out, “That IS a snake.”

He threw a rock at it, it bounced on the waves, obviously dead.

“It’s dead.”

Heather shook her head. “It’s still a f*cking snake.”

Maybe that didn’t go as well as it could have, after all.

Posted in Triathlon and tagged coffee, dead snake, exercise, fitness, healthy-living, Journey, snake, swimming, swimming in a lake, training, triathlon, wetsuit

22 Apr 2013

Happy freeking Monday.

As you two might already know, I have a couple of Monday issues happening here.

First, I’m supposed to be having an “off” day. Obviously most of my days are “off” so I expect you’re both wondering what’s so unusual about that. Cynics, both of you, I’m supposed to be taking the day off from working out. So of course I slept wonderfully and didn’t get up until 7am, waking refreshed and enthused about maybe swimming (right, OK, not really enthused, but you know…sorta not hating the idea. That’s a lot like being enthused.)

I have to admit I no longer look at swimming like it was my second pregnancy and this time I knew what natural childbirth felt like and knew I was going to have to go through it all again anyway. See? That’s positive, right?

I remember being pregnant with the twins, sitting in a chair, unable to see my toes. Hubs asked me about the Lamaze classes, wondering how learning a breathing technique was helpful. ”Does it make it hurt less, then?” he asked.

In the most polite way possible I told him to go shut his buddy in the door over there and work on breathing slowly and deeply, which would be helpful in demonstrating to him both the feeling of labor and the benefit of proper breathing. He politely declined and indicated he was happy to take me at my word.

So today I’m not going swimming or running or biking (but I am going to sneak in some yard work SHHHH be vewy vewy quiet.)

Since I’m full of energy and it’s a pretty day and also I put it off for the past three days I decided to go to Kroger’s and buy food. Secondly, I decided to actually make dinner tonight. Fasten the seatbelts, it’s going to be a rough ride. I even looked up a recipe. Then I decided we don’t need no stinking recipe and I’m going to make up my own plan. Baked pork chops, rice and veggies. I’ll let you know if hubs survives. There’s really no other option because I forgot to buy the Lean Cuisines and I’m not going back to the store. I figure more than once a week in Kroger is probably a leading cause of brain leakage, and I have reason for that belief.

Part of the problem is the Muzak. Usually I can handle a little bit of the orchestral remakes of Back in Black or Somebody to Love because once those get stuck in my head, as they will undoubtedly and without fail do, I don’t feel like I need to thread dental floss through my ears and clean out my head.

Oddly, I kept feeling I should not go to Kroger this morning. Not that I didn’t want to, I was actually feeling rather enthused about buying food and cooking it, as opposed to buying it and letting it rot. And I kept thinking of other things to take care of instead of going to the store, but I didn’t want to go this afternoon because I want to get outside in the sunshine and rake up 10 millionbajillion leaves from the 87 trees on our lawn.

OK. FINE. It’s not really 87 trees. I don’t want to count them though, because then for the rest of my life at some point every freeking day my brain would randomly announce WE HAVE 23 TREES ON OUR LAWN and when I’m in the home and don’t recognize my own toes my brain would still randomly announce out loud to the nurse WE HAVE 23 TREES ON OUR LAWN. The nurses will all call me Tree Lady and they’ll all know which resident they’re talking about. Sometimes they’ll just shorten it to “23 needs a bed pan” and they’ll all know then, too.

Anyway, I didn’t listen to my own inner psychic and I went to Kroger. Probably, too, if I weren’t so damn well hydrated it would still have worked out OK. But, no, I’ve had like 40 ounces of water already this morning plus three coffees, so of course I had to go to the Ladies’ Room – this is the polite term for bathroom in public places – which when you think about it, they can’t call it a bathroom because it has no bath. If it did have a bath I would totally not go in there because I have no clue what I might see at that point, but – without meaning to point fingers – if that woman in front of me in the checkout was naked in a bath and I saw that at Kroger’s I would probably go blind or end up in the home tomorrow telling everyone about the freeking damn trees and drooling.

This is precisely why I will never make it as a nurse. I’ll never play piano either, but if I did, I can tell you one song I would NEVER-NEVER-EVER play: Please Mr., Please which, unfortunately, came on overhead just as I was checking out.

AND THIS IS THE SECOND TIME THIS HAS HAPPENED AT THAT STORE!! Let me repeat that as I’m sure you are both completely stunned and cannot believe what you just read: THIS IS THE SECOND TIME THIS HAS HAPPENED AT THAT STORE!

How can the odds possibly work out that I would hear that damn song twice in the same store? How random is that, anyway? Shouldn’t I have fallen into a black hole first, or hit a hole-in-one at the Masters even though I don’t golf? Wouldn’t those chances be better than hearing that song twice in the same place??? AND it happened in the check out line. If I’d just not gone to the Ladies’ Room. Dammit.

But, no. Here I sit, two hours later, and that song is running through my head like a warm murky stream on a grossly hot day. I even youtubed AC/DC and played it real loud to try getting it out that way, but they can’t seem to kick Olivia out. Probably by Wednesday or Thursday it should be gone.

Secondly, “at my age” which the doctors seem get some perverse joy out of saying, I think there should be some perks. One of the perks I think I should be able to enjoy is not have a pimple grow in the middle of my nose.

I’m concerned that hearing Olivia warble about B17 has flashed me back to my teen years and my pores felt obliged to make me feel right at home. Soon I shall don my jeans that are far too short because my legs are too long and they don’t sell jeans by the inseam yet and get some broccoli stuck in my braces so when I laugh out loud during Monday afternoon Spanish class the popular kids will laugh too.

What do you mean, they weren’t laughing with me?

Dammit. I HATE Mondays.

Posted in Biking, Running and tagged AC/DC, biking, coffee, earworm, exercise, fitness, grocery store, healthy-living, Kroger, mental-health, Olivia Newton John, posterchild, Run, swimming, training | Leave a Comment

20 Apr 2013

3 Comments

Never leave home without it

Tuesday was the one year anniversary of my dad’s passing (I like the word “passing’”. Passages. Life is a series of them.) so I was visiting with my mom for the past week. She lives in the hills about 1-1/2 hours north/northwest of Phoenix. The town is not that small but I was reduced to 2G on my iPad, which sucked since I’m attached at the hip to the internet and have no life to speak of. I felt rather as though one of my arms had been torn off. Probably by Zombies. This was particularly irritating when area TV stations kept emailing MRTC to see if we had any runners in Boston and could I give them their personal contact info. We have 3400 members, I don’t know and I’m not giving you their personal info if I did know, but thanks for asking. That, however, took 12 minutes to type every time, apparently you can’t type too fast on an iPad with 2G or you crash it. Repeatedly.

Hey, at least I didn’t have to call AT&T, right?

Mom lives in a bi-level house built on the side of a steep plot of land, the backyard about 1-1/2 stories above the street. The guest room is downstairs and the window sill is level with the yard. I look upward to watch chipmunks steal sunflower seeds from the bird feeder and see the lizards amble past. It’s cool and dark and I’ve named it The Bat Cave.

Every evening we watched movies on AMC, which, as an aside, I’m kinda pissed at AMC. Mom’s AMC is having a special this month with little notes popping up throughout the film about the actors, funny anecdotes, etc. I was so excited. I was going to watch AMC the rest of the month and learn all kinds of useless pieces of info. For instance I learned, while watching Willie Wonka, that all the little Oompa Loompas liked to rent a limo every day after filming and bar hop. This was particularly funny to me, and totally not PC, because I kept having a mental image of the little dudes hopping up so they could see over the bar: HOP “Scotch” HOP “on the” HOP “rocks, please” (bar? hopping? right?) So I apologize if either of you are an Oompa Loompa and also that I’m an insensitive un-PC bitch.

But, no. No little notes on my AMC. Dammit.

Oh, well, I’ve been distracted by the talking heads on CNN anyway.

Mom is of an unstated age that allows her to pick and choose what she feels like doing and I expect she’s earned that right. Personally, however, I do think she should have felt like killing those large red ants with the big mound of ant mansion in her backyard sometime in the last few years. I particularly think she should have killed them before one of the little bass turds bit my foot. Dammit, that hurt.

I grabbed some rubbing alcohol and some cortisone cream and some anti-itch cream and sat with ice on it while we watched the Oompah Loopahs roll away the large blueberry girl (one of my favorite parts, although I’m sure it wasn’t fun for her as she apparently wore the Styrofoam ball all day long and couldn’t eat while the rest of the crew had lunch because her arms couldn’t reach her mouth. Seriously? No one could spoon a little soup in her mouth?) Then I started worrying about her. What if she needed to go to the bathroom?

Well, it’s too late now, isn’t it?

Sorry, I’m back now, I was gone for a while there ^^^ Chunk is on my desk hovering over my keyboard, trying to smack my hand every time I type. Apparently the typing is keeping her awake or something. So sorry, Princess, your constant jumping on me is the whole reason we’re all awake at 4am. Think about that tomorrow. Anyway, now she is distracted as the sun is coming up and she can see the birds outside so she’s at the window chirping, tail twitching, and no longer trying to kill the dreaded Fingers of Typing. That’s some tail, I tell you. I had to move my coffee cup.

After Charlie gave Mr. Wonka the Everlasting Gobstopper back (which, BTW, they do make Everlasting Gobstoppers in real life but they actually only last 16 minutes, thank you, AMC) and proved he was a great guy and got to own the whole candy factory I retired to the Bat Cave to read a while before bed. Of course then that damn ant bite started itching like fire. I didn’t want to go back upstairs to get all the anti-itch stuff because every step you take in that 40-year old house makes the cups rattle slightly in the cupboard and I would wake mom, so I sat there for a while trying to ignore it. You know how that goes. Pretty soon the ant bite was the size of a basketball and it was all I could think of, itch! itch! itch!, the way a mosquito in the night ends up the size of a 747 and the next morning the bedroom looks like a war zone because you’ve thrown everything you could find at the damn thing and now you have to buy a new lamp. Not that I ever did that.

I kept thinking there had to be something I could put on it to sooth the itching, something in that bathroom had to have alcohol in it, right? Dad’s old aftershave? Something? But, no. Mousse, Ajax, extra lightbulbs, I dug everything out of the cupboard – nothing. I started digging through my overnight bag, furiously rubbing my foot against my leg uselessly trying to stop the burning itch which was now half the size of Alaska.

And then, voilà:

It worked! Or, maybe it was just mental, but either way, the itching finally stopped, I fell asleep in the cool darkness of the Bat Cave and slept not like a baby until the sun came up.

We had another fun day and went shopping and eating and shopping and eating. I had a nice run in the hills – at 5,000 feet it takes a while to get acclimated to the thinner air so I had to do some stopping and starting but it was a beautiful day and I was so happy to be running my beautiful Arizona. You can’t feel too sad when you have a view like this:

And this:

Beautiful, huh?

That evening we watched Ground Hog Day and read all the little stories at the bottom of the screen which my AMC doesn’t have, not that I’m bitter or going to harp on that all month. Then I went to the Bat Cave to read my second book since I’d finished the first book I’d brought. This new book was one of those that Oprah’s kingdom has deemed worthy of her honor and they’d slapped a sticker on the front. But the sticker was a little loose in one spot, which was irritating because I could feel it with my fingers while I held the book. So I tried to pull it off but I think they use Gorilla Glue or something on those things so all it did was tear in half and then when I tried to read it was sticky. This was even more irritating. I tried scraping it off with my fingernail but that started to mess up the book cover, which was currently new and smooth. If you’re going to read a book it either needs to be new and smooth or totally worn out, not sort of new and sort of worn out. There had to be a way to get that sticky off the cover. If only I had something with a little alcohol … or … something…

So now my book reeks of mouth wash.

But – it’s smooth and new and the sticky is gone.

I’m telling you: do not leave home without it.

Posted in Running and tagged ant, ant bite, antiseptic, cat, coffee, exercise, fitness, healthy-living, Journey, mouthwash, Pet, Run, running, Zombies

17 Apr 2013

8 Comments

I haven’t been right here. Where were you?

I was abducted by Aliens!
I was sucked into a Black Hole!
I was transported to an alternate universe!
I fell deeply asleep for forty years!

Ok, maybe I just got busy and then went out-of-town. Sorry, I know both of you have completely stopped breathing while waiting for a wonderful, life changing post. You don’t look so good, not breathing and all that. Maybe you should get a life?

Anyway, taking up where we left off two weeks ago on the last tantalizing and mesmerizing post about how hard my poor life is, AT&T was firm in its resolve that I was not getting anything fixed for five days. Whether they have too much stuff that breaks or not enough people to fix the broken stuff, either way they were intractable.

I made up a song about the issue:
It’s my blog and I’ll rant if I want to rant if I want to rant if I want to.
You would rant too if it happened to you

Well, unless you were the Hubs who has the patience of Job, only not as many cows and wives. ”Ok, I’m accepting, I’m accepting,” he said when I told him. Well, sure he was accepting. His work still had internet, right? What was to accept on his end? Working and getting things done? That’s tough.

I said something cranky. Imagine that.

To continue with the comparison of Job: this is why Hubs, with the patience of Job, if he were Job, would have lots of cows but would balk at more than one wife. One is one too many most of the time, I suspect. Also, you pronounce it JOBE. Even though it’s spelled JOB like “I have a job”, it’s pronounced JOBE, like I said. Like, “I have a JOBE.” Of course, if you tell people you have a JOBE they will think you have a dog or a friend or something named Job pronounced JOBE and will think you are a ne’er-do-well who doesn’t work. I think you should just shut up at that point, but that’s just my opinion. Go ahead and try it. Don’t come crying to me.

I felt irritated and cranky until it occurred to me that what we are dealing with, here, is a First World Problem. Put on the Big Girl pants. Which I did and then I went to BeckyB’s house and borrowed a cup of wireless for a couple of hours to be sure any work hot spots were stomped out. AT&T showed up the following Tuesday (which was about a year ago at this point, thankfully I have a good memory) – at my house – a live person – who immediately detected the location of the issue, found that in the box at the end of the street where my service arises out of the deep dark hole of underground life were two wires, a black one and an orange one. When these two wires are dangling, loose and unconnected, voilà! No Service! When they are connected, voilà! Service! And then he stayed until I got everything hooked back up and working. Nice guy. I have his name and number. Let me know if your internet quits. Black connects to black, orange to orange. Crazy sh*t, I know, it takes an expert.

So then, since I had nothing else to do that week before I had internet resurrected, my crazy friend and I worked out with Killer. Then I went to my anonymous crazy friend’s house, where BeckyB set Matilda up on the Cycleops and we did Suffer-O-Rama Spinnervals for 45 minutes (seriously? Suffer-O-Rama? How can this possibly be good??) and then quick like little bunnies we hopped off, put on our running shoes and did 1.7 around her neighborhood. My first Brick. With mixed emotions I have signed up for the Memphis in May Sprint Tri. When I told hubs he started to smile and then he froze as though Big Foot just showed up on our front lawn. Don’t move Don’t move Don’t move, you might scare it. Carefully moving nothing but his lips he said, “oh, good.” Pat Big Foot softly on the head. Nice Big Foot, there you go.

I thought about that a lot – the triathlon, not Big Foot – the next day as I swam back and forth back and forth like a hamster running on its little wheel going nowhere. I thought about how I have a few more weeks to learn to swim 400 yards without holding on the side of the pool every 25th yard. I thought about being in a lake and looking down as I swim, seeing nothing. I considered closing my eyes while I swam in the pool, to practice not seeing, but I didn’t really feel like bumping into the side of the pool in front of everyone. I wondered if maybe you see stuff but it’s kind of slimy and squishy, and some of it came out of a fish? Or do you see fish? I bet you don’t see fish. They’re probably too smart to swim where crazy people are. I hope so, anyway.

Finally I had internet and to spare. The next morning I sat on the patio, Jamaica Me Crazy in my steaming mug, foggy and zero visibility. I could see the trees, random black outlines twisting and curving against the grey fog, a cacophony of birds cheeping chirping tweeting and squawking and an awkward squirrel ran down the side of a tree, little shards of bark breaking loose and falling in front of him.

I was reminded of one of my favorites from Morning Prayer, the Canticle of Daniel:

Every shower and dew, bless the Lord.
All you winds, bless the Lord.
Fire and heat, bless the Lord.
Cold and chill, bless the Lord.
Dew and rain, bless the Lord.
Frost and chill, bless the Lord.
Ice and snow, bless the Lord.
Nights and days, bless the Lord.
Light and darkness, bless the Lord.
Lightnings and clouds, bless the Lord.

Let the earth bless the Lord.
Praise and exalt him above all forever.
Mountains and hills, bless the Lord.
Everything growing from the earth, bless the Lord.
You springs, bless the Lord.
Seas and rivers, bless the Lord.
You dolphins and all water creatures, bless the Lord.
All you birds of the air, bless the Lord.
All you beasts, wild and tame, bless the Lord.
You sons of men, bless the Lord.

Thankfully, although I forget to do this most of the time, the birds, squirrels and budding plants remembered. I need to watch them more often.

Isn’t this better than internet?

Altho there could be some Zombies out there…

Posted in Biking, Rants, Ruminations, Running and tagged coffee, exercise, fitness, healthy-living, Journey, Run, running, swimming, training, triathlon, zombie, Zombies

03 Apr 2013

7 Comments

I’ve been right here, where were you?

Well, here’s a surprise: it’s another grey, drizzly overcast day. I have the heater on and am wearing Uggs, jeans, a sweatshirt and a fleece jacket while I drink moremoremore coffee.

A couple Mondays ago dawned grey, stormy and depressing and I felt the same way. I’d spent part of the night with Murph T. Dog dug head first under the blankets, crammed between me and hubs, me teetering on the edge of the bed as the poor thing shivered beside me in terror at the thunderstorm, his butt uncomfortably close to my pillow as house vibrated with every nearby CRASH of thunder. I held him tightly, partly to calm him and partly to keep from sliding off the little sliver of bed left to me. Doze off BOOOOOM doze off BOOOOOM … repeat. I finally sort of oozed out of bed and foggily tried making some coffee. Note to self: put the K-cup IN the coffee maker if you prefer coffee over a mug of hot water.

The previous Friday hubs had directed the house painters to sever what he thought was a dead DirecTV cable coming into the house and, yep, soon as he sat to watch the news it was sadly discovered the wire had been, in fact, and as you’ve already guessed: Live. I’m gonna bet you also know which of us spent 45 minutes on a Friday evening calling customer service numbers only to be told to call a different customer service number only to be told to call a different customer service ad nauseam. I did finally connect with a charming young man named Andy who was originally from South Dakota and who sounded just like my family; within a minute I was pronouncing it South DahkoatAH and yep you bettin’ all over the place. It was old home week in a customer service phone center microcosm and I suddenly desired thick black coffee in a china cup and lemon pie with a meringue top sweating slightly where the sugar had been sprinkled, served on a mismatched china dessert plate.

At 7:37 am Monday, while I was still trying to figure out why my coffee tasted like hot water, the phone rang. What. The. Hell? DirecTV, scheduled for 8am-Noon, was on their way – and actually showed up at 7:59. I don’t know what kind of business they are running there, hiring nice young men to effectively handle your service call and then sending a nice service man out – on time – to fix your cable – without telling you that he needs something he doesn’t have on his truck and he’ll be back in an hour only to return next month. They cannot continue to do business like this, it is not the American Way of Truth And Justice and Liberty For All Amen Baby Jeezus In Your Little Wooden Crib Filled With Straw Where Is The Remote. (You don’t have a remote, Baby Jesus, remember? It wasn’t invented yet.)

Meanwhile I had a morning appointment scheduled with Dr. K because who actually thought DirecTV would really show up? So now their promptness and fine customer service have caused me a problem because I’m a cynic. I do believe it is my right to remain cynical and I do not appreciate them trying to disabuse me of my hard-earned cynicism. I was forced to read Letters to the Editor twice at lunch just to restore my lack of faith in humanity. I called and – of course – Dr. K’s fine office staff promptly answered the phone and graciously re-scheduled me for noon, which, for all I know, was Dr. K’s lunch time. It would be just like them to be really nice like that. And I bet they don’t read the idiot Letters to the Editor and yell at the newsprint, either.

So two Mondays ago I had a little extra trouble with the whole brain thing. As you both know, I have a little bit of a daily fight with depression. Whenever I finally see Little Baby Jesus in His Crib His Daddy Made Him we are going to have a talk about the issue. However, and until that time, I’m stuck with this damn brain, made of cells and electonicals and neutriniums and chemicals that all function on some scientific level, leaving me to expect it to be rational which, apparently, once filtered through the physical composition of a body, it can no longer be. Created to be rational, born into irrationality. Grey rainy cold days don’t help. More caffeine does. Social media helps. People post uplifting crap about being Zen and smelling the roses and putting your best foot forward helps. They post stupid pictures and videos that make you laugh, which helps. I can’t prove it, but I have also begun to suspect there are people out there who actually post stuff – on purpose – that will make me either LOL or say dammit. Dammit.

After a bunch more grey cloudy drizzly days that week, Monday dawned last week: grey, cloudy, drizzly and miserable. This time, however, I didn’t even have internet to lift my flagging spirits because, as opposed to the DirecTV people, AT&T was desperately trying to reach new lows in customer service and doing a damn fine job of it with little or no apparent effort whatsoever. Flushed with success after the TV issue, I decided to call AT&T about the irritating and increasingly loud hum in the phone which also disconnected internet for a couple of minutes every time I answered a call. Fortunately the only people calling are debt collectors and that guy from prison in the Philippines, but, still.

I knew it was a mistake, I’d known all along not to be expecting this to be a quick fix and sure enough the guy they sent out Thursday, the Invisible Man, who never actually showed up at my house, asked me any questions or checked back after invisibly not fixing the issue: didn’t fix the issue. What Mr. Invisible Serviceman did, actually, was leave us with no connection whatsoever, as I discovered Friday morning when my internet and phone were dead. Another 45 minutes of AT&T service call hell YES YOU SORRY @#&^%&!!! PIECE OF @#&^$$$!! THAT YOUR MOTHER CREATED IN A FRYING PAN, AS I’VE SAID 87 TIMES, THAT IS MY CORRECT PHONE NUMBER, do you have trust issues??? (I’d like to point out here that at this time I was yelling at the computer that answered the phone, not a real person from India.) (I would not yell like that at a live person. I might say to them, “I’m so incredibly frustrated, here, and I’m kinda mad, but I understand it is not your personal fault.”) (Then, when I hung up, then I would definitely yell at them. YOUR MOTHER WAS A HAMSTER AND YOUR FATHER SMELT OF ELDERBERRIES! I would yell, randomly shoving my fists in the air in a slugging motion.)

Picking up the first index card in the pile, the service person read carefully, “Yes, Mrs. Upset Person, your phone line does appear to be dead.” NO SHIT, SHERLOCK!!!! I screamed silently in my head, my eyeballs bulging.

“Yes, I understand I have no service. This is why I am calling you, my new favoritest person in the world.”

Looking through their alphabetically ordered index cards, the phone answering person found the Conciliatory Reply index card and replied, reading slowly, “I am sorry you are having this problem. We here at AT&T value you as a customer and think you are probably a fine upstanding person who does not yell at people inside their mind, and we want to help you because we value you, and we are here to help you. How may I help you?”

If I continue typing the rest of the conversation I will A) have carpel tunnel syndrome B) scare the poop out of Mo again and C) have to beg the doctor for a Zanax which I don’t really have time to wait for since their office is closed on Wednesday, plus driving to the pharmacy is difficult once your head has completely exploded.

It turns out that my valued, cherished, esteemed and highly regarded relationship with AT&T was of such importance that they eventually scheduled a service call - for the internet THEY broke - for Tuesday no later than 6pm. Five days hence.

And they weren’t kidding.

Posted in Rants and tagged AT&T, coffee, customer service, DirecTV, ennui, internet, phone service, service call, weather

02 Mar 2013

2 Comments

There goes the castle.

It’s a grey cold windy day with flakes of snow blowing sideways past my window. None of it is sticking, although we woke to enough to lightly blanket the grass and the deck was white. I have Italian herb bread in the bread machine (I cheat, but it makes such a nice dough! Then I bake it in the oven, not in the bread machine.) and minestrone will soon be on the stove. Murphy is curled up in the bed and Chunk and Mo are off somewhere asleep. They should be, they were crazy this morning. thudthudthudthud thundering down the hallway. thudthudthudthud back down the hallway. thudthudthudthud up the stairs. thudthudthudthud down the stairs. Suddenly the happy little felines went thudthudthudthud through the kitchen nearly knocking my coffee mug out of my hand. Near death experience for cats.

Don’t break my new coffee cup!

I Love Grumpy Cat. *heart* *heart*

Everything went well in Oxford and Sunday I was surprised – I was not sore at all. Rather like someone who just bought a matching set of Ford Pintos, I was, however, feeling deeply remorseful over the Fbombs exploding in my head Saturday and showering all over poor Maggie, who happened to be running next to me when they started igniting, and was regretting my effing slightly effing negative effing attitude. Not that I’m always Little Mary Sunshine anyway, but I’m thinking I may have also been spitting pea soup in a circle on the course.

Unfortunately Monday morning I apparently tried breathing or thinking or something and suddenly my lower back went “EFFFINGSUNUVABEECH” only louder and with a lot more intensity. Who knew, we actually have live wires that run through our body and my back had stuck its finger in the socket. I moved and it hit again. My back was in labor. I already have a back. I don’t need to birth another. I’m not even registered at Babies BackwardR Us. Thank God for Lamaze classes, little did I know decades later I would be using the breathing techniques again.

Tuesday it was no better and I called Dr. Krackurback – who is out of the office on Tuesdays, oh yippee skippy – and got an appointment for Wednesday, resigning myself to spending the day walking around like a puppet on a string, jerking erratically. Hey, it gave the cats something to look at. Murphy slept through it all, curled up on his blanket. Just don’t touch his blanket. Ever. He jumps like it just exploded and looks at you: WHAT? WHAT? WHAT DID I DO? all sleepy-eyed and confused. It makes you feel really guilty. Especially the 7th or 8th time.

Wednesday Dr. K explained to me that muscles are like a castle wall. Muscles are the first line of defense. If the muscles hold the castle then all the kings and queens and little knaves and knavettes are safe. If the invaders start knocking the wall down, and the wall is already rather rickety – maybe made out of bamboo instead of bricks – pretty soon the wall gives in, the castle is invaded and everyone starts screaming and trying to shove knives into the knaves and pouring boiling oil all over the place.

He’d already figured out that my Quadratus lumborum is weak and gave me some exercises to do but noted it would not be a quick fix, need to get the muscles strengthened and that takes time. (Seriously. Quadratus! lumborum! Doesn’t that sound like some made up word that Harry shouted at Voldemort? ZZZaaaaat!)

No, it’s just a stupid muscle in your back. The short of it is I slightly sprained my SI joint (castle) because I strained the QL (rickety wall of bamboo) because it’s a sorry a$$ 99 pound weakling at the beach, all white and puny and skinny getting sand kicked in its face, stupid thing. Probably it got a bit tuckered out, poor weak little jerk, feeling sorry for itself because my butt never invited it to the Falling Off Party and later when everyone else was all laughing hahahaha at inside jokes that happened at the party the QL got jealous and decided to go remedial.

So, it’s all good. I know what happened and how, I know what to do to fix it, and I can be patient working on it. I took it easy this week and moved carefully in order not to re-strain anything; every day it’s better.

I can’t feel too badly about any of this – I’m in a lot better shape than Becky, who’s got a stress fracture of the 5th metatarsal and possibly 6 weeks off running. Today we swam. I used the swimming buoy so I didn’t kick (no need to upset QL, the whiny brat, I’d go down like a rock) all arms pulling which is great as they also need to get stronger. I did OK, got 1750 yards. I wanted 2,000 but was losing my form – no need for that, just another way to get hurt.

While I was swimming, backandforth-backandforth-backandforth, for the first time I thought, this isn’t too bad. I could breathe well enough. I didn’t have to hold onto the side at each turn. It felt … good.

Posted in Running and tagged BFOS, Butt Falling off Syndrome, cat, coffee, Coffee mug, dog, exercise, fitness, Grumpy Cat, healthy-living, Journey, Keurig, Quadratus lumborum, Run, running, swimming, training

19 Feb 2013

6 Comments

Hmmmm. I see what happened there…

…when I left the house for thirty minutes to help a desperate friend in need.

Chunker and Murphy will be spending some hours in time out. And I’ve taken away their phones so don’t bother trying to text them.

Becky and I both work from home, alone in our lonely, cold garrets, surrounded by wadded up Taco Bell wrappers and discarded K-cups, huddled in the chill in our pajama pants and Uggs, wearing our favorite sweatshirt emblazoned YIPPY SKIPPY RUN 2001, the fleece covered with pilled lumps of thread, talking to pretend people on Facebook and blogging with our animals who are treated better than any child ever was.

Becky’s job requires actual work, as opposed to mine, and she has to type many very big words that have a lot of the alphabet in each one and include many z’s, x’s and y’s – which are the hardest keys to find, you know, stuck down in the corner of the keyboard like an afterthought.

After 7 straight hours of transcription Becky sat back, stretched, and her eyeballs fell out onto her desk. She managed to find them although she did accidentally knock one off onto the floor and it rolled under the credenza which took her a while; she finally slid it out with a yardstick. She wandered crookedly into the kitchen for a cup of coffee to help wipe the cobwebs from her addled brain.

Her brain intoned, “I spy with our dusty little eye that we only have three K-cups. This is nowhere near enough to fill the IV bag.” Then her brain started to scream, ”NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Becky wandered back to her desk, frightened and alone, all alone with only Brain and three K-cups in the house. ”I only have three K-cups to last me until tomorrow. Good-bye. I loved you all.” she typed to her imaginary friends on FB.

I’LL SAVE YOU! I replied! and I leapt or lept or leaped in my trusty Explorer, Babs, and brought her coffee and saved her life and that of her family and probably several neighbors! I was a hero! News Channel Zippy wanted to interview me! But I’m humble and loving and giving and told the reporter than I needed no reward or recognition for saving my friend, her family, the neighborhood and, probably, actually, the world.

And you know the rest of the story. I left the computer open in my haste and apparently Chunker and Murphy had a little verbal sparring contest with my blog. I apologize and I would make them write an apology too but I believe they would enjoy that too much.

Flush with her success, Chunk has become a terror today. I heard a faint mewing and tracked her down in the closet, on a pile of boxes, trying to climb up and walk across the hangers. When she saw me she jumped down and wandered regally down the hallway. ”What? There’s nothing to see here,” her tail twitched. She jumped up on the bathroom counter so fast she skidded into Mo, knocking him into the sink. Ignoring him, she then tried to grab my arm to turn on the water, which I did just so I could watch her shove her snooty nose in the air and jump back down. She’s terrorized Mo, attacked the bedskirt, tried to eat the fern then turned, jumped on the desk and slid to the other side falling off onto the chair, smacked Murphy on the nose for no reason whatsoever and then, when I came upstairs to work, I found this:

And her royal highness, seated on my laptop, was searching online:

Apparently she either needs glasses or needs to dust her eyeballs because she had enlarged the screen. And she doesn’t seem to know exactly how to spell oy vey, but I have a feeling I know what her next comments about me were going to be.

Posted in Pets and tagged cat, coffee, dog, K-cups, Keurig, Pet, yippy skippy

17 Feb 2013

6 Comments

Sunday Sunday….

Sunday Sunday, so good to me,
Sunday Sunday, it was all I hoped it would be
Oh Sunday morning, Sunday morning couldn’t guarantee
That Sunday evening my legs would still be here with me.

HAPPY SUNDAY BOY AND GIRL!! How are you both doing this fine cloudy grey morning? I had a little crash and burn yesterday. I’ve been trying to watch the calories and behave and I’m not doing so well with that. Behaving, in my opinion, is usually rather overrated. Of course I do not mean you/we/I should not behave within the confines of law. I’m looking at the self-imposed rules of behavior that we seem unable to quit placing upon ourselves, then self flagellating when we inevitably fail after being harder on ourselves than we are on anyone else.

What kind of rules you do find yourself imposing on yourself – and immediately resisting?

Today I will floss morning and evening for 60 seconds. I will only drink 12 cups of coffee. I will not shout cuss words at the Letters to the Editor. No. I have to modify that one. I will not shout cuss words at the letters if hubs is still in the house. No. Here: I will not read the Letters to the Editor if hubs is still in the house. I will not go to the secret hiding place of the Lindor Truffles. Ok, I will go to the secret hiding place of the Lindor truffles but I. Will. Not. Pick them up. Ok, I will only pick up three.

So. I quit. I ate everything I wanted. We went to a Mardis Gras party and I carted around about three plates of food. I did not snort. I did kind of gnaw on a rib bone just to be sure I’d gotten all the bbq goodness. But I gnawed very lady-like. I’m going to do the same thing today.

I have this idea that all the people around me are mature adults, and I’m living with the brain of a two-year old. I seem unable to dispel that notion, partly because I try to act like a grown up but find myself responding to a stupid email with the term “Poopyhead” and “Dipshidiot” which I think is very funny and I like to say it out loud because I like how it sounds and rolls off my tongue.

So. Today I’m not going to bother thinking I’m a grownup. I’m going to eat whatever I want, and I’m going to drink however much coffee I want. I’m going to run the Winter Off Road Series 10K this afternoon – slow and in the back – and I’m not going to worry about am I doing too much too soon or will my butt fall off or will my legs crumple. Because probably none of that will happen anyway. Like Erma Bombeck once said, of course worrying works. 99% of everything I’ve worried about never happened.

One thing I will not do:

But that’s only because I don’t feel like it. Too much mess. And I’d have to go to the grocery store.

Plus I still know where the truffles are hidden.

What are you going to allow yourself the freedom to do today?

Posted in Running and tagged BFOS, Butt Falling off Syndrome, coffee, exercise, fitness, health, healthy-living, Journey, Lindor Truffles, mental-health, poopyhead, resolutions, Run, running, secret hiding place

Run. Dog. Cat. Cat. Me.

Everything you need to know about running and life and any other random crap I find bouncing through my mind like a ping pong ball. And always be sure your shoes are happy.

Archive for the tag “coffee”

If I ever did that again, not that I will, but if I did…

Confidence? Reality? A spoonful of sugar?

Well, that went swimmingly.

Happy freeking Monday.

Never leave home without it

I haven’t been right here. Where were you?

I’ve been right here, where were you?

There goes the castle.

Hmmmm. I see what happened there…

Sunday Sunday….

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