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 month “October, 2012”

Howling Weenie

Mom was going to go visit the little human PUNKIN this evening.  Let me tell you, it does not look the least bit like a PUNKIN or even a pumpkin; it has all the appearances of being a small human, but PUNKIN it is, at least according to mom.

Mom seldom makes sense.

She didn’t go visit the PUNKIN tho because she said her damn butt won’t fall off and it hurts too much to drive and she hopes they block her nerve tomorrow and if not someone is going to hurt.  I’m a cat so I’m not a someone so I should be safe.  But I can tell you what, she also said something about not getting to have coffee in the morning and I think someone should call for help.  Meanwhile probably tomorrow morning Mo and me will be under the bed.  Far under the bed.  What stupid person told mom no coffee?  I will poop in their sink.

Anyway I’ve only been in that horrid car thing with her a few times and I was about to die so maybe I missed some details but I never noticed she drove with her butt.

Anyway, now Murphy the Idiot Dog is howling and barking like a fool, locked into the bedroom so he won’t growl at a bunch of other little humans – little humans who are obviously delusional as they are wearing clothing that makes them appear to be things we all know they aren’t and cannot be.  For instance, earlier, some little human came to the door begging for food – and not even healthy food, we have apples on the counter and low fat cottage cheese in the refrigerator but, no, the little human asks for candy and a trick.

I was trying to tell the little human we have no candy and Mom does not allow candy in the house even though that makes her cranky and I think if something makes you cranky you should stop doing it.  But, no.  She keeps no candy in the house and then opens cupboards looking for candy she already knows isn’t there.

And people think cats don’t make sense.

Anyway, I tried to tell the little human that I knew he was not a spaceman, and that in fact his space suit is made of cheap Chinese plastic and he will suffocate in about 39 seconds if he goes into space wearing that and that second, we have no candy.  Mom said, Chunker!  Get in the house! like she thought I was heading out for a stroll or something.

Dammit.  She’s onto me.

So I looked at her innocently and wrapped myself around her legs purring like all I really wanted was to tell her I love her while she gave the little human idiot who wasn’t a real spaceman:  CANDY.  Now the little human is going to get rotten teeth and is still delusional that his space suit will keep him from dying in outer space.

Wait.  What???  We have CANDY IN THE HOUSE?  and I’m putting up with her cranking all the time about how many weeksdayshoursmintuesseconds it’s been since she ran and she could instead be eating chocolate and shutting UP?

Dammit.

The damn dog is making me crazy, the irritating little weenie won’t quit HOWLING and barking.  I guess that’s why it’s calling Howling Weenie.

Me and Mo are the only ones in this house with any brains.

Eenie, Meenie, Munker, Mo

July 19, 2012 – Mo is living on the Greenway in some trees.

One day around the first of June a little black and white kitten with exotic slanted golden eyes and a black goatee somehow ended up by himself on the Wolf River Greenway (a corridor of paved, protected green space paralleling the Wolf River, which, along with the Greater Memphis Greenline, will eventually be a series of paved trails extending 30 miles from downtown Memphis through Collierville).   (I admit:  I plagiarized nearly all of that information.)  (And when I think of having 30 miles of contiguous trails, I momentarily feel bad that I think Memphis is such a small-minded, backward town.)  (But then I read the paper the next morning and realize it is a small-minded, backward town.)

We are going to allow benefit of doubt and assume this shy, quiet, reserved little guy somehow managed to misplace himself from his loving home, and not that someone tossed him into the woods to rid themselves of an … “issue”.

About this time a very nice lady – while not a crazy cat lady like some we could name – was walking the Greenway and saw this little boy.  She spent the next six weeks bringing food, setting up a little bedded area, stringing play toys in the trees and trying to get him to trust her enough to come to her.

A few weeks after he moved into his new “home” in the trees and Sandy took up the cause of rescuing him, I was running the Greenway with one of my BRFF’s, Lisa.  In fact, it was the same day she and I saw the infamous bobcat.  He seemed so happy and friendly, jogging along beside us and scampering about in his little fort of trees.  We stopped and wondered why he was there, obviously being cared for by someone but left to fend for himself in an area we knew has fox, bobcats, snakes – and a very busy 6 lane street about 20 feet behind him.  We both tried enticing him to come to us but as soon as we got within a certain distance (apparently judged solely by him) he quickly darted away, only to turn and come back, following us again.

Lisa has a heart of gold and big as a station wagon and it was bothering her that he was in such an unsafe situation; I knew it was bothering me, I felt I was supposed to have him, rather like seeing Chunk’s little face that day on the post from the infamous Memphis Animal “Shelter”.  Like I should have him.

I immediately realized I was hallucinating – again – so I smacked myself upside the head and Lisa and I continued on our way.

I did still wonder about him and hoped he was OK, but I’m old enough now that I’ve realized the Saving The Whole World thing is unrealistic and you need to let some things go.  Someone appeared to be caring for him, and what did I know?

Happily, a few days later a friend (another crazy nutjob runner who is also a crazy cat lady, there’s not a lot of room left in her life for any more crazy although I think she occasionally tries stuffing a bit more in) was riding her bike on the Greenway and saw Sandy doing her thing with Mo.

Elizabeth immediately jumped off her bike and started trying to help.  She posted a pic of the little dude on FB and announced to all that efforts were underway to rescue him before he became feral or food.  I was so glad to know someone was trying to catch him; Lisa and I did a FB High Five and Shout Out to Elizabeth.  It still took a couple weeks but finally they were successful, as Sandy lured him into a cat carrier with a trail of salmon, the carrier door rigged with string to pull it shut when he got inside.  Someone needed to give him a home, so Elizabeth volunteered.

Elizabeth, however, already had a dog and three cats; within a couple of months it was obvious little Mo needed a new home and Elizabeth and family needed a break from buying pet food by the ton, delivered in a pile on their driveway.

Meanwhile I’d spent a couple of months trying to decide if we needed to get a second cat.  Murphy is very content to entertain himself, he remains ever hopeful that eventually that damn squirrel WILL fall out of the tree and land in front of him (which did happen to Lisa’s dog immediately after she looked at him, sitting under a tree staring up at two juveniles playing above his head, and said, “What do you think, dog?  The squirrel is going to fall out of the tree and land at your feet?”  At which moment, the squirrel did.  And was instantly dispatched by a victorious dog.  Meanwhile his buddy up on the tree limb watched.  “Duuuude.  Mom’s gonna be really pissed.”)

When Murph isn’t expecting squirrel manna to fall from the sky he happily barks like an insane fool at the new dog next door, Barkahoula Sir Rowfer.  (that’s not really the dog’s name.  I made that up.  It’s name is something vapid like Maude, I can’t remember for sure.  But it barks with the volume of a high-end stereo system on steroids with the bass turned all the way up.  BARRRHHK  ROWWHHFFFFF.  I can hear it upstairs on the other side of the house.  “There goes Barkahoula again,” I sigh, and turn the TV louder.)

Chunker, however, seems to be living up to her name a bit more each day and wouldn’t even play with toys any more.  I got a laser light.  She loved it.  For two days.  Then every time I turned it on she just watched my hand, not the red dot.  She’d look at me, look at my hand, look at the dot.  Then she’d look at me again.  “What?  You think I’m an idiot?”

I got one of those clear plastic stick things with the string on the end and what appears to be an intricately tied fishing fly on the end of the string.  You bounce it up and down and the cat thinks “Damn!  A BUG!” and it chases the bug happily for hours.  Or, not.  Maybe the cat just looks at your hand and the end of the stick and sits there, on top of the un-bug.

I’d been mulling for a while whether to get another cat and Chunk could have a friend.  Chunk tried to talk me into never minding about a friend and just letting her outside to chase the squirrels but I DQ’d that since I’ve seen fox and hawks around.  Every once in a while I’d talk to hubs about it, but we just couldn’t decide.

Then about a month ago Mo’s little face popped up on FB and Elizabeth sadly announced she was looking for a home for the little buddy.

The (Happy) End 🙂

Munker and Mo sharing the cat tree for a nap.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAA

(Credit for today’s post title goes to Chunker, who just walked across my keyboard – cool how it fits perfectly.)

Six weeks and 3 days since my last run.

6.5 miles walked this week.  I wasn’t Little Miss Positive this morning when I stated glumly to the hubs that I walked 3-1/2 miles yesterday and cranked that today my butt (my real butt, not my falling off butt) is sore; apparently I’ve lost a lot of conditioning in those 6-3/7th weeks.

The new cat is sitting on the kitchen counter next to me, purring.  Sweet, but more on Mr. No Mo another time.  I do have to state, however, that this cat farts more than any animal I’ve ever met. Every. single. time. he. eats.   And, repeatedly.  If there were a cat farting Olympics he would win gold.  But no one and nothing can possibly fart that often and that smelly without some type of aid, so probably USADA would soon be after him to determine if he were taking farting steroids.  OMG.  Thank you, little baby Jesus in your little wooden crib, for ceiling fans.

The Doc’s office called yesterday, 8 days after the nerve conduction test, to tell me what I already knew (pinched nerve) and to tell me something new:  they want to do a nerve block.

That’s a bit worrisome in view of the thousands of people now waiting to hear if they have meningitis.  Not that I’m trying to be negative, but the positive thinking thing is getting to be a constant effort and since I am, by nature and nurture, a realist (for more on being a realist read here and here), and with the euphoria of having a real diagnosis worn off and the pain not abated, struggling to squash that is, basically, a struggle.  It doesn’t help that (aided by Dr. Google) I’ve come to realize that a pinched nerve is the gift that just keeps giving.

Uh-Oh – news flash – don’t pick Mo up by the tummy.  It squishes out Mo farts.  Just let him walk across the keyboard and then erase the extra typing.  GAH.  Be back in a minute, I’m going outside.

Ok, I’m back.  *WHEW* Do you think I could find mustard gas masks on Ebay?

Friday I stretched as instructed by the PT and began some core work as instructed by the PT.  Then, I did something very radical:  I stood up.  As I stood, Thor, the god of thunder, stabbed me in the back with his bolt of lightning.  I looked at Killer, and Killer looked at me.  “I guess we’re done for today,” she stated, staring at my bulging eyeballs and fried hair, and I hobbled to the car and drove home sitting sideways.  By Sunday morning it had calmed down quite a bit; I was still getting random jolts causing me to jerk erratically as I walked, but the Finish Line Crew expects erratic and random things from me and no longer notices much of what I do, thank you again, Little Baby Jesus.

The realization that this is going to be a recurring issue the rest of my life, according to the PT, is still a bit new and still stings.  I realize it can be controlled, that it will probably only rear its BFOS head occasionally, and I don’t have cancer or heart disease and I’m not under investigation by USADA (yet, but then so far the Mo farts have not escaped the house).  But I’m still kinda bummed about the issue.  Monday I rode my bike.  Unfortunately afterward my first two toes went numb, which made the PT frown.  Hey, the feeling came back after an hour or two.  Cheer down.

OK, then, no biking.  No running, no biking.  I can: walk carefully, do the elliptical or swim (at which her beady little eyes began to gleam).  You both realize that I no longer hate swimming, but I do not, to any degree, like it.

So here we are, Wednesday morning, I’m still Gloomy Gus despite all my mental rah-rahing and positive thinking.  Probably positive thinking needs to drop words such as never, don’t like, don’t wanna and dammit.  Replacement words:  coffee, cat, dog, um…yay…um…ice cream (no, skip that, too many calories, dammit) ah, crap, I just said dammit.

Hopefully the Doc’s office will call today with the info on the nerve block, I’m sure it will be next week before it can be done at this point; apparently it will be 4-6 weeks after that for everything to heal and maybe my Christmas gift will be a run.

In the meantime I’m going to go check out gas masks.  Or move my office outside.  While I’m doing that, I’m going to paste below a very very nice note my friend, um, “Missy” posted on my FB page this morning (to meet “Missy”, visit here, “Missy” loves Zombies.)  I thought you both might enjoy it.  I know it made my day, even if she is a crazy nutjob runner.

++++++++++++++++++

Terri – Last Saturday I ran a 10k and when Sunday morning came around I just really didn’t feel like getting out of bed to run The Beast. I volunteered to help before the race so I had to go. It was nice talking with you and being the genuine person you are, it was impossible for you to hide your disappointment and frustration with your injury and not being able to run. (Oh how we crave that daily dose of endorphins to keep our minds and souls at peace.) When the race started and I started running I already had in my mind that it was going to be bad. Too little hormones and too much lactic acid was not a good mix that morning. Close to mile 4 I thought, “I’m done….. not feeling it this morning.” I figured when I pass that parking lot I am going straight to my car. Then there you were at the water station. I remember telling you I want to stop. And you told me I can if I want. But there was something about the look on your face that told me the rest….. “How dare you stop now?” “Wish I could finish it for you?” “WTF is wrong with you?”  Something. I knew I had to finish. I guess I just want to let you know that your passion for running carried me this past Sunday and I am going to let it carry me through New York in a few weeks too. Thank you for sharing your passion, your pain, and your disappointment, because although it is awful for you, I bet there are many more of your friends out there who, like me, you encourage without you even knowing it. Stay strong, heal quickly, and keep encouraging others. Thank you sweet girl…

:

Isn’t that radiculos?

Here’s some words you may not have heard before:  S1 Radiculopathy.  Sounds Harry Potterish, doesn’t it?

++++++++++++

Harry and Snape are facing off in the Hogwarts hallway.  Snape throws a Flaming Arrow of Death at Harry, who deflects it at the last second with a shout:  “RADICULOPATHIUM!!”

Snape grabs his back and leg, falling to the ground writhing in pain as his body spasms.  “STOP!” he begs, “Stop!  It hurts!  I’ll quit trying to kill you and turn into a good guy!”

Harry snarls, but since he’s the Goodest Guy of all Good Guys he finally sighs.  No one can ever be as Good a Guy as Harry, but Harry never gives up hope in his fellow sorcerers.

“Fine, get up,” he says, “let’s do 15 minutes of back extension.” and he buckles Snape into the machine.

Snape sighs.  “Can I just stay in this thing until closing time?” he asks.

++++++++++++

It’s been five weeks of near death experiences for my family even given the presence of the Keurig and copious amounts of Creme Brulee and Macadamia Cookie.  Probably if you haven’t been running in five weeks you might should lay off the caffeine unless you can find some other stress relief.  Probably screaming at emails and televised debates does not count as stress relief.  At least not for hubs and the animals.  I felt better.  Wasn’t that what mattered?

This Monday I had the nerve conduction test and it appears I don’t have a whole lotta nerve like I thought.  Apparently a lotta my nerve is getting hung up at my first sacral vertebra where the disc is being a bully and pushing the sciatic nerve around.  Kinda like Debbie Smith did to me in 5th grade, not that I harbor resentment.

I was so happy.  I was SO happy!  I was texting everyone I could think of!  I HAVE A PINCHED NERVE!  YAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!

I even made up phone numbers and texted it to those.  Just so I could have more people to text about how happy I was.  You know what?  Some people are not impressed by happy news.

I actually do have a real thing that’s wrong and fixable.  It has a name.  It’s a radiculous name, of course – why would I expect otherwise? – but who’s to quibble.

Quibble.  Kinda like Quidditch, huh?  Appropriate – there’s some tiny thing whizzing around ready to smack you at any time.  It flies under the bleachers and hides, and just when you think, OK, cool, it’s all under control, the damn thing slams you in the butt and your butt decides to try to fall off again, so it can get out of the way.

Butt — now we have a name, and a plan.

The How of the Why

My mother has always told me that my first word was “Why?”  I’m not positive it was the absolutely first word, it seems mama or dahdah might have been more likely, but it was at least said often enough, early enough and clearly enough that it has stuck in her head ever since.

Yesterday the B’ster was here.  He was watching Cat in the Hat and I was blowing my hair dry.

“Moggie.  What are you doing?”

“Drying my hair.”

“Why?”

“It’s wet, so I need to dry it.”

“Why?”

“Because I took a shower.”

“Why?”

“Because I take a shower every morning.”

“Why?” …

How about those Cardinals, huh, B’ster?

I’m revisiting my favorite spiritual writer.  I’ve purchased a clean copy of his book since the other is completely underlined, outlined and written upon and I’ll just be distracted by the commercials in the margins and not pay attention to his show.

I made it four pages in before I hit the first wall (which I believe should happen on any spiritual journey.  No wall:  No growth.)

“What we want more than anything else on earth is to know and love some other person with our whole hearts and to be known and loved completely in return.”

This writer’s opinion is that this is our greatest motivation – which is a very good motivation – and the short of his take on this is that we search for this perfection of love until we find it in relationship with our God, which then flows outward into the world and our relationships.

I’ve been considering this.  As I move through the day, what is my greatest motivation?  (I do not define it as the author does, although I do agree with his definition of a/this motivation, especially within the realm of spirituality.  That’s his motivation, which is why he’s a priest.  If I were a person as loving as he, I would not be a sarcastic blogger with a Dammit Doll who asks WHY all the time.)

And why is that (whatever) my motivation?

If I know the why of the motivation, I believe I will know how to work toward the goal.  I will be able to understand if the motivation is the correct one – and how to use that motivation to best meet my intentions.  If I find my motivation is actually built on a underpining of desire for approval, for instance, my actions are going to be much different than if my motivation is a desire to own a yacht or corner the K-cup market.

Some other time we can discuss the formation of our goals, short-term, long-term, etc.; suffice it for now that I mean the goals I want to see accomplished when I get to the end of my life and look back; not financial, social, etc.  Although I do question why I never thought to invent the Keurig and K-cups because then I could have all the flavors available to me at no charge all the time.  I’d be bouncing off the walls in a caffeine-high stupor, of course, but I’d have my choice of flavors to do so without surreptitiously borrowing Bed Bath and Beyond 20% off coupons from the neighbors’ mailboxes to buy more.

Not that I steal from mailboxes.  I think  that would be a Federal Offense.  Sometimes the coupons just kind of fall out of mailboxes, is all I’m saying.

I watched the B’ster go through his day yesterday.  He is a very sweet-natured guy, always has been.  He is unconditionally loved by stable parents.  At 2-1/2 years of age his motivation in the day is to live, and he responds to life with love and joy (except maybe naps).  He lives in each moment.  He feels no need to accomplish, to gain approval or love, because it’s there 24/7, freeing him to be a little dude playing with Thomas the Train.

However, as we grow (assuming we do; I know some 2-1/2 year olds living in 30- 40- 50+-year old bodies) we are obviously affected by the things that happen to us – losses, fears, failures, accomplishments.

My parents were Depression kids growing up on farms in South Dakota.  There wasn’t anything available for extras, although they had food, clothing, shelter and many happy childhood memories.  A lot of people my parent’s ages who grew up in the Depression frequently seem to have lots of stuff.  Three packages of flour.  Four rolls of tin foil.  It was on sale with a coupon so stock up while you can, you might not get it later.  Friends my age comment on it.  Their mother has 13 packages of powdered sugar in the pantry and she hasn’t baked cakes in years.  But, it was on sale…with a coupon…

That mindset is ingrained.

What motivates each of us to achieve, strive, push our way to the top?  What is the fear or desire in the back of our head that needs to be reassessed?   Parental approval?  Fear of ridicule?  If someone loses a sibling or parent early in life, will they always have a little part of their heart that holds back in case they are deserted again?  If your father wanted you to be the star quarterback and you didn’t make the cut do you always have a nagging fear of failure, the boss expects you to close the big account and you dread work because some nagging voice you are not conscious of tells you – you won’t make this cut, either?

What about abused children?  Is it ever possible for them not to have the constant voice of more or less volume speaking to them that they are a failure, that they cannot measure up to the one that is supposed to care for them, that the pain or sorrow or loss is inevitable and unending?

And how do you motivate yourself through the day when there’s a fear driving your brain?  Those can be deeply hidden in your subconscious and very difficult to understand.  In 5th grade I was highly motivated to get sick every day in Math because Debbie Smith was in that class, and she hated me.  Like, hated.  I never understood why (there’s that word again!) since she was the most popular girl in the class and I was the social class just above bottom-feeder, but there it was, and she teased and tormented me every day.  I wasn’t aware I was motivated to get sick, I just plain felt sick – literally – and went to the nurse 3 or 4 days out of 5 until she finally called my mom to say she thought I had some kind of problem, and it wasn’t brain cancer causing my headaches or stomach cancer causing my upset tummy.  I didn’t know about psychosomatic issues but I knew I was motivated to get out of that classroom and I was grateful for the (self-made) opportunity.

How many times do we go through life unconsciously creating issues to solve an issue we want to avoid?  How many people do you know that move through life from issue to issue until you finally wonder if they’re somehow causing it themselves?  How many times have I made myself much more upset than needed by continuing to return to a why (why did they said that?  why didn’t they do that?).

So I’ve been sitting quietly for a while, trying to let everything else filter out so I could hear my word, the word defining what I’m really trying to achieve with and through and despite my daily life.  I was pleasantly surprised that Brain cooperated on this endeavor as it’s frequently stubborn and childish, and will attempt to dodge issues by trying to distract me.  It really was my idea for the mug of Carmel Vanilla Creme, though.

At the end of the day, I want peace.  I want a peaceful heart.  I want to feel I did the best I could and used my time well.  I want to feel that I looked at life with joy through pain, with peace in distress and with focus in confusion.

Having defined what I’m motivated toward now I can look at my life and figure out the how.  I can ask in each circumstance, will this help me toward my goad?  How can I turn this toward my goal?  If my goal is peace, but instead I engage in frustrating behavior (rehashing past hurts, rehearsing self-righteous tirades, putting off chores or activities which leaves me behind later) I can now look at what I’ve done and determine what behaviors and actions I should change to bring me where I want to be.

What’s the word that defines your motivation?  How are you working toward that goal?  What’s getting in your way?

Talk to me, baby. Never mind, shut up.

Day Three on the Medrol Dose Pack.  Things are going well.

Do your appliances talk?  Mine do.  Right now my washing machine is; oddly it’s saying “get-me-a-turkey-get-me-a-turkey” very rapidly with the syllables allruntogether.  This is the first time it has asked for food.

My dishwasher is rather boring and appears stuck in a rut, all it ever says is “waash-aaahhhh-waash-aaahhhh” with the “aaahhhh” a bit of a sigh ending on a slightly higher note – but then it’s an old one; if it were a person it would be a grumpy man past retirement age working at WalMart handing out smiley faces to sticky faced, snot nosed little kids: “Here, then *sighhhhh*.”  Maybe the kid drops its sticker and the sticky quits working.  The kid wants another one.  This is an incredible inconvenience for Mr. Sticker Man, just as washing the dishes without breaking them is for my dishwasher, which has broken every piece of stemware I have, five of six glass tumblers, and has melted several pieces of Rubbermaid just for show.  Or lack of interest, I can’t decide which.  I believe every dishwasher has a finite life span and a certain number of washes before it’s washed up.  I’m running it three times a day, now.  Don’t tell the hubs.

So anyway, today I got up at 4am and worked the 10 miler at Shelby Forest (it was kinda cold but, hey, cold…hot…you’re gonna pretty much get one of the two) which took until 11am.  I had three cups of coffee on the way to the race.  OK, one at the house, two in the car, along with a Prednisone, as directed.

After the race started I helpfully cheered on the runners.  First I trotted over to mile one.

“GOOD JOB RUNNNNNNNNERS!”

“YOU’RE ALMOST THERE!”

“THIS IS THE LAST HILL!”

“I’M LYING!”

“BUT YOU’VE ALREADY RUN OFF HALF A DONUT!”

Then I trotted across the parking lot to mile 4.  (It’s a loop course.  I cheated.  But, then, I was running in Uggs so I didn’t think I needed to go for distance.)

Which, by the way, I don’t think are nearly as Uggly as my kids seem to think they are.  Wait ’til they’re old enough for hot flashes and cold feet at the same time.  Things will begin to look real different.  I’ll be long gone by then, of course, so payback will suck since I basically won’t get any.

But, then, that’s payback, too, so Karma is even again.

“GOOD JOB RUNNNNNNNNERS!”

“YOU’RE ALMOST THERE!”

“THIS IS THE LAST HILL!”

“I’M LYING!”

“BUT YOU’VE ALREADY RUN OFF AT LEAST TWO DONUTS!”

Then I trotted over to the top of the switchbacks, lovingly referred to as The  Beast.  I’m not kidding, #6 male coming up the Beast walked a flat spot.  The Beast Roars.  But in the end, it is conquered.

This time I don’t fool around, you don’t mess with The Beast or Karma will move up one point.

“GOOD JOB RUNNNNNNNNERS!”

“YOU’RE ALMOST THERE!”

“THIS IS THE LAST HILL!”

‘I’M NOT LYING!  LOOK!  THERE’S THE TOP!!

“YOU’VE ALREADY RUN OFF AT LEAST FOUR DONUTS!”

Unfortunately a couple of people asked me where the donuts were and I had to admit there were none.  This made them sad.  So, I added helpfully ‘YOU CAN GET SOME AT THE GENERAL STORE!!”

Finally the last runner was in and I drove home.  It wasn’t really that cold, mid 40’s, maybe 50 by the end of the race, but we were in the damp shade of the old forest and we were all pretty chilled.  I drove the 40 minutes home with the heater on high the entire way.

I was still chilled when I got home but before emptying the hot water heater I needed to get a couple of files emailed for the newsletter, so I had a nice hot cup of Coconut Mocha to warm up, and another Prednisone (as directed on the packaging) while I worked.

Then I thought, I’m kinda sleepy so I tried to take a nap but every 5 minutes Brain would say, “GOOD JOB RUNNNNNNNNNNNNERS!”

Or, “Goooooooo IRISH!!!”

Or, “IS THAT THE CAT?”

Or, “I THINK WE’RE AWAKE AGAIN.”

Yeah?  No Sh*t Sherlock.

Finally I caved and got cleaned up.  Then I had some noodles.  Love me some noodles.  Then I did laundry, and I thought I should straighten the closet so I re-arranged all my shoes (I’m missing one slipper, by the way.   Light blue.) and I straightened up my clothes so they’d all be in order by color, which some of them had gotten out-of-order.

Hubs’ desk was a bit messy so I fixed that all up.  Bet he’ll never find a file again, won’t he be happy.

All the magazines were crooked, too.  Not good.

Dusted the entire house.  Did more laundry.  Washed some clean stuff –  it was kinda wrinkled.

Cleaned off my desk, too, so Karma would be kind to me in view of the cleaning of hubs’ desk.

Did a bunch of filing, sorted my Sookie Crackhouse books in order, put all the phones back on the correct chargers and found all the television remotes.

Now I need to quit typing.  I need to go find something else that’s crooked and fix it.

OH – it’s also time for another cortisone pill!  YAY!!  I cannot, for the life of me, remember why I didn’t want to take the dose pack.  Crazy.

Maybe I should go ahead and start sanding the stairs tonight.  I’ve been trying to find a good time for that.

Never mind.  Brain thinks power tools aren’t a good idea right now.  I don’t know what that’s about, but Brain suggested we watched all the recorded TV shows in numeric order so I’m good with that.  If you have 36 episodes of Dr. Who recorded, and some are duplicates, can you skip the dups?

Got a lotta d@mn nerve…

It’s 45 degrees, windy, solid grey skies.  I’m sipping some Gingerbread K-Cup and looking at the lake.

At least now, while I’m looking at the lake, the pontoon is tied to the dock.  As opposed to earlier, when it nearly wasn’t.

Lazy Saturday morning, I’m warm and comfy in my fleece, sipping the Nectar of Gods Keeping All Humanity Safe when I notice the pontoon is sideways to the dock and trying to escape.  Maybe it has a crush on the party barge across the cove.  They do have a ladder to the roof, where they have a slide down to the lake.  I’m rather jealous, myself, of that slide.  The pontoon had managed to slip every moor but one and had enlisted the wind to assist in its escape.

It took hubs about four tries to get the boat parallel to the dock without the wind blowing it back sideways and we were able to get a rope around the back end.  Meanwhile Murphy barked and ran back and forth like he was on the Titanic and we were all going to die.  “SHUT UP!” I yelled, “YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE ON THE DAMN BOAT!” which did exactly nothing to improve the situation.  It’s now tied to the dock like a gangster tied up in a trunk and hubs is at Lowe’s buying some heavy-duty hardware.  At least he won’t be bored this morning, just sitting around enjoying the newspaper or something, right?

Oh, and while I sit here my a$$ and hamstring are pinging like I’d just stuck my toe in the lake while holding a live wire.  ZZZZZat!  ZZZZat!!!

I’m an adult.  I’m over 21, I’m an adult and still I find myself constantly having to remind myself that I need to pull up my big girl panties and act like one.  After Dr. Googling and icing and stretching and grumbling and basically acting like a whiny baby jerk I finally folded.  I went to see a local sports ortho.

What should my next tattoo be?  on my eyeballs?  “Go to the experts, SmartA$$?”

She thinks I have a nerve issue, possibly a pinched nerve.  I have a Medrol dose pack, muscle relaxer, Lidocaine lotion, PT, and an appointment for a nerve conduction test.  She has told me to run short and slow Sunday, and report back Monday.

I GET TO RUN TWO MILES!!!!!!

WE’RE ALL GOING TO LIVE!!

I LOVE POLITICIANS!

Whoa, slow down girl, get a grip.

I’ve promised Our Lady Queen of Pain that I am going to go see her every month for the rest of my life.  I’m going to give up cussing.  I’ll quit drinking coffee.

Obviously the muscle relaxer is working, at least on my brain.

Murph lends hubs moral support.  No opposable thumbs so he’s not very good with the knot tying, though.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch:  Cat, Coffee Mug, Kahlua K-Cup and *sigh*

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