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 “November, 2012”

All ye All ye Outs in Free!

HI!  Where the heck have you two been?  I’ve been right here!

Well, so, maybe I’ve been sort of here but not really.  Guess what??  Mom came for Thanksgiving!  yep!  She said she wasn’t going to, but Hubs, the Man, Mr. Patient, called and said we’d really like you to visit and let me get your ticket booked and she caved like a cheap camp chair.

She’d told me she didn’t want to come.  Hey – I’m fine with that.  I’m the kid, she’s the mom, even though I’m 28 years old now  (and I don’t want to hear from any of my children who may think they were born prior to 1984 because actually I lied to you all).

Reverting to childhood, I spent the past week worrying about pleasing my mother while trying to get things done that, as a fake adult, I feel obligated to do.  This means I would review work emails, consider which had to be taken care of immediately and shunt the remainder to the unread pile.  The take-care-of-later pile.  The oh-SH*t-I-probably-should-have-taken-care-of-that pile, and the SCREW it pile.

In between mom coming for a week and the Thanksgiving holiday (Right.  I needed that.  Turkey, dressing, gravy, pumpkin pie, whipped cream, leftover turkey on white balloon bread and mayo, more pumpkin pie, blahblahblah and for the three days following, even though I’ve already gained some awesome steroid pounds). Last Sunday I had an MRI.  Today is Thursday and it will probably be Friday before I get this posted.  But – no MRI results.  Is my new BRDr.FF too busy to let me know the results?  I suppose so.  They say results have not been received, the diagnostic imaging people say they were sent Tuesday.   Either way, I had a 2nd spinal epidural yesterday (Wednesday) marking the 4th steroid injection in four weeks and also marking a new high water mark for my face which now looks like a basketball without the seam lines.  Not that I’m bothered by that.  I like looking like a balloon.

On the other hand I just smashed a mosquito in .00157 seconds.

Die, you little sonuvabitch.

I’m seriously considering going for a run and not telling anyone.  What?  I’m going to herniate a disc?

I’m lying.  hahahahaha

Oh, here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8gmARGvPlI  Maybe now I can get rid of the earworm.  Let me know how that works for you.

HUGS and all that sh*t.

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The new normal

4am Saturday.  Apparently 36 hours of sleep out of 48 is quite enough.

The second SI joint injection, while it did make it much less painful to sit, has not solved the problem.

Natural Childbirth was newly the rage when I was having my first child.  It was all new news; if you took so much as an aspirin while pregnant you risked terrors unknown for your unborn.   My mom drank coffee and ate sugar and took aspirin and look how well that turned out.  What’s everyone worried about?

I slept, cocooned around the life in me, planning the joy of birth, all natural:  breathe innnnnnnnnn breathe ouuuuuuuuuuut.  Soon out would pop a pink face resembling the Gerber baby.  Labor and delivery revealed to me a different world.  And, yet, when my second child came along I repeated the process.  This time there was no rosy glow surrounding my daydreams but I knew it was probably best for the baby.

When the twins came along, rosy glow or no, it was epidural time.  One of them was crossways and he had two choices:  breech or transverse, and the doctor didn’t consider either option optional.  Loaded up with an epidural I gave birth pain-free.  (This could explain why the carpet, 14 years later, ended up on fire.  Small fire, quickly extinguished, but, still, fire.  On my carpet.  In the middle of the den.)

Cue the robins and rainbows and clouds:  la-la-la-la wow.  That didn’t hurt a bit.

For the intervening decades pain level for me has always been compared to childbirth.  Am I being torn apart limb by limb?  No?  Ok, give me some ibuprofen.  I may still hurt, and I may not be a happy camper, but just leave me alone to get through whatever’s going on, and I will.

It took me until this morning to put together this week’s clues.  Like the Sunday puzzler, right?

1.  Tuesday and Wednesday I walked 3 miles each day.  Agonizingly slow miles (and please, no one get offended if they are walkers, because taking an hour to walk three miles when I did 10K in that time ten weeks ago, including allowing for the limping to the finish line the last two miles of the race, is a blow to my ego even though I should be above that type of thing.  I’m a shallow, vain person.)  I’m also impatient and stubborn, which is one of the reasons I run.  Every time I walk I think, I could be done now…I could be done  now…  In fact, I’m going to admit something else that shames me.  On Wednesday as I trudged along I saw a guy running past me in the neighborhood.  I always try to make contact with other people out running and walking, a little wave, a little ‘hi’ if I have enough breath.  No.  I trudged along, head down, refusing to look up.  I was mad.  He was running.  I was not.  Nice attitude, eh?

2.  (Here’s where genius comes in, see if you can figure it out before I did)  Tuesday and Wednesday nights I had spasms in both legs – dozens, all night long – which would grab my legs and freeze them with electricity so hard that two days later my muscles are still sore.

3.  Thursday morning after a night of pain I woke, exhausted.  “I don’t feel so good,” I thought.  I started to sit up.  Ohhh, noooo …. and I hit a pace to the bathroom which would shame Usain Bolt, where I was immediately and completely assaulted with the worst stomach virus I’ve had in at least a couple of years.  This set the day’s pattern.  Sleep like the dead, awake, beat Usain to the throne.  Twelve hours later, both Usain and I exhausted with the intervals, the last of the virus had been exorcised.

4.  How sick was I?  I never had any coffee all day.  Yes.  Now you understand the seriousness of the situation.  Mere mortals fear to tread.

5.  Thursday night I slept like Eric Northman in daylight.  Another twelve hours and I woke, Friday morning, wondering why there was roadkill in my mouth and how I could possibly have actually melded to the mattress.  And, yet, initial consultation revealed both seemed to be true.  Further rumination revealed that I’d had no leg spasms.  None.  Oh, sure, twitches but that’s always there.

6.  All this meant that Thursday’s follow-up visit to the ortho was, understandably, postponed to yesterday afternoon.   After a lunch of Ramen noodles and sipping a Route 44 Diet Cherry Limeade, nectar of the Virus Gods, I headed to the Doc.  Driving was not very painful.  I didn’t find myself shifting restlessly in the seat, spasms in my hamstrings.  Odd.

7.  All Together Now:  Why did I not have spasms?

8.  Because lying around all day long is good for not having pain.

9.  I refuse to accept a lifestyle that includes that as an option without exploring every other option possible.  (see 1, above)

10.  This has nothing to do with my back, but I have to tell you both about Murphy Munker and Mo.  The entire time I was sick they would not leave me.  Ok, well, Munker and Mo ran down the hallway like their butts were on fire every time I jumped out of the bed and bolted for the bathroom but that was just the suddenness of movement.  Murphy, who will spend 8 hours outside in 40 degree weather if he can just find a squirrel to hate or a 24″x 24″ patch of sun to lie in, would not leave the bed.  He went outside for a couple of minutes twice in 24 hours.  If I moved to the couch, he moved to the couch.  Munk and Mo followed.  It was cute.  Like a sick little parade.  Me, wrapped in a blankie, shuffling downstairs, Murphy running ahead to clear the path:  Make Way — Make Way — Munk and Mo following, occasionally stopping to playfully bat one another in the head.  Once in the den they would put on a little cat show, running back and forth, hiding behind the plants or the chair, jumping out to pounce on each other.  Look, Mom!  Funny, Right?  Smile?  If you have an empty nest, I recommend you find some good used animals.  You cannot overestimate the joy they add.

New Normal continues as we continue to puzzle out my Falling off Butt:  My new BRDr.FF has scheduled me for another epidural which should happen next week.  She said we’ll give it a week or so; unless I call her singing the Hallelujah Chorus and already planning my next marathon training schedule we will move into Plan B, Operation Save the World from Terrilee:  visit the Neuro.

NEXT WEEK IS THANKSGIVING!  What are you two planning?  Regardless of my back and my whiny little tiny baby issues, I am blessed.  I have many wonderful friends whom I love, and who seem to love me even without their drugs, a fantastic, wonderful, supportive, loving family, a job that’s out of this world and, of course, Murphy Munker and Mo.  I could want more – and usually do – but I know the truth:  I’m incredibly blessed.

Breathing underwater.

My new BRDr.FF, Dr. L, slammed my falling off butt with another steroid shot Thursday in the SI joint.  She said give it a bit and take it out for a shake down run, she wants to see what happens.  Since it continued to hurt and actually felt worse after the injection I waited.  Friday as the day progressed I was surprised to find that sitting wasn’t hurting near as much, and I decided to try a run this morning.

I felt like I was in high school again and after waiting nervously for weeks, the boy I secretly liked had just asked me to prom.  I carefully charged up my Garmin, located the HR monitor, got my inserts back in my running shoes.  I opened the drawer I’d just recently and reluctantly tucked my running stuff into, thinking I wouldn’t be seeing them again for a while, and happily dug out shorts and shirt.

It certainly did not hurt a bit that it’s a gorgeous fall day, brilliant blue sky, green, gold, russet leaves drifting in a breeze, birds chirping, cheeping, and flitting through the trees.

Spring, 2011 we moved into this house.  I had not been running consistently due in part to the plantar fasciitis but mostly due to the incredible busy-ness of renovating a house, keeping up a house we were trying to sell, and then moving.  Stir in a few emergency trips to my parents…it was a crazy time.

My usual route leaves my house and across the busy street at the end of our block.  There’s a lovely upscale neighborhood about 1/2 mile away with a lazy winding road running through it.  The developers wisely kept all the old growth; houses sit back from the road and 30′-40′ trees line the narrow road, natural undergrowth left in place.  It’s like running through the country although I can vaguely hear the semi’s on I-40 a 1/2 mile away.  I like the sound of trucks on a freeway, the thought of where they’ve been and where they’re going, zooming along in their little contained worlds.

Last spring when I started back running I ran this road consistently, reveling in the beauty of these beautiful trees leafing out, the birds serenading each other and wooing, daffodils and crocus popping up through a layer of leaves.  Today I ran that same route, watching the swirling helicopter seeds float past me, squirrels rushing to the trees for more hickory nuts.  It’s not uncommon to see deer here, usually does with their young ones in the spring, with their tweens and teens later on.  I didn’t see any today but last time I ran I saw three young buck, antlers just fuzzy bumps, young enough they could still be friends.  They stood back, but didn’t run.

I have friends who are former runners (committed runners, people who did well under 3 hour marathon PR’s in their younger days) now walking stiffly with worn hips and knees (and – not from running, but genes).  They ride like crazy now, and we’ve discussed before my opinion of that as a substitute for running.  At this time, and I’m trying to keep an open mind, biking as a substitute for running is like getting a turkey sandwich with an apple for dessert while sitting next to someone with a steak and sweet potato fries and a huge hot fudge sundae for dessert.  It’s a moot point, I can’t bike anyway, it makes my toes go numb from the pressure on my back as I lean over the bars.

If I rode like this it would be OK:

Gotta find me one of these.  Since I frequently match her cranky attitude, however, I might find myself cackling as I biked.

As I grow older there are many things I want to begin cutting out of my life, but activity is not one of them.  I do not want to be that person who cannot carry two bags of grocery to a car.  I will do all I can not to lose that.

I want to get rid of the worrying, catastrophizing (my counselor made that word up, it’s a great word) OMG this is the worst that could happen, that is horrid, what if, how can we, who will…impatience – that car is in my way, when is the paper getting delivered, my K-cups pouring forth nectar within 30 seconds.  I want to slow down.  I want to look around.  I want to feel this day and live it, not wait it out, which I have done too many times.

When I run I am using the body I was given.  I am making muscles what they were formed to be.  I have life flowing through me and I am alive to the world.  I feel that in some way I am doing honor to the honor I was given:  life.

I love the act of running.  Looking down watching my feet blur on the street.  Hearing my breathing.  Street level, looking at the world go by on my own power; open to the world on this little private journey, burning some endorphins.  I’m alive in that moment, for just a moment existing in that present.  Yes, of course, most of the run still has a running conversation of when, how, next, then – but the hum is quieter and running further in the background.

There are so many things we no longer do for ourselves.  When my daughter was born I used cloth diapers.  The first few months I didn’t have a dryer and I hung them to dry in the Arizona sun.  I made her food.  The grocery was about a mile away, if I only needed a few things I put her in the stroller and walked to get milk and things.  I washed the dishes.  We had a swamp cooler but no A/C.  On Saturday she’d play in the hose while I’d wash the car and let her play with the bubbles.

Now I order Christmas online, getting most of it done on Black Friday as I sit in my climate controlled office in order to avoid the traffic.  I drive everywhere, the washer and dryer left spinning and the dishwasher chugging away at home as I run my car through the car wash after I buy gas.  I’ve got a sack full of microwavable veggies and pre-formed hamburgers, automatic bowl flush cleaner tabs.  Hubs’ 100% cotton button downs go to the cleaner.  I haven’t ironed in so long that while typing this I had to stop and think where the iron might be.

I’ve recently discovered a poem that has grabbed hold of me, circling in my brain, landing for consideration then lifting up and swirling back into my thoughts as it floats about lighting little dark corners of my day.  I have too often and for too long held my breath and dug my toes into the sand, determined to stand still and maintain a moment, a place or an event. I stand, clinging, to imagined wrongs, to imaged rights, to how I think things should be.

I want to learn to tumble through life embracing it all, living in the coral castle, learning to breathe underwater.  When I run, I feel I am.

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

Breathing Underwater

I built my house by the sea.
Not on the sands, mind you;
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.

A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.
Good neighbors.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences.
Respectful, keeping our distance,
but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.
Always, the fence of sand our barrier,
always, the sand between.

And then one day,
-and I still don’t know how it happened –
the sea came.
Without warning.

Without welcome, even
Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine,
less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.
Slow, but coming.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight and I thought of drowning and I thought of death.
And while I thought the sea crept higher, till it reached my door.
And I knew, then, there was neither flight, nor death, nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling, you stop being neighbors,
Well acquainted, friendly-at-a-distance neighbors,
And you give your house for a coral castle,
And you learn to breathe underwater.

Sr. Carol Bieleck, RSCJ
from an unpublished work

Things that make you go hmmm hmmm hmmm

I’m not really sure what happened.  I have an average of 56 views daily, and that’s only because I shamelessly promote myself on my FB page and my family is forced to check it out under threat of not making the sweet potato casserole for Thanksgiving if they don’t.  Oh, maybe a few hapless runners have some confused idea I would delete their race results but that’s just crazy sh*t and I have no idea where that would have come from.

Two days ago I had 515 views.  Site Stats said well over 300 people looked at it from a link at Runner’s World alone.  I realize rundogcat has been linked from that site for months; I doubt 300++ people suddenly decided on Wednesday to go to an obscure link at RW and read a bunch of crack about cats and my mom folding sheets by someone who is not currently even running.

Anyway, please be sure to comment to this post if you would like an autograph.  I haven’t set up a paypal account yet, you send me cash (inbox me) and I’ll get that out to you soon as the bucks arrive.  I think, maybe, $15? each?   Think about it, I was once also the Queen of England, you’ll get a lot of bang for your buck.  Or Euro.

Blogging is a crap shoot.  I know that I am putting stuff out there in the interworldwebnet that people can randomly find if they google Daniel Craig swimsuit (which tends to get me a quick view almost daily; they don’t actually read my blog, it’s a drive-by viewing where the searcher just wants to see poor Daniel, now apparently embarrassed by the entire Speedo incident, poor guy, welcome to sex kitteh world, I know, it’s tough, but you got the buns, hun, you get the name.)  (I never posted him in the Speedo to get views, other, of course, than my own.)  (Just thought I should disclaim this.)

So:  hmmm hmmm hmmm.  Wordpress apparently posted someone else’s views to my page.  The worst of it is all those readers getting ground turkey when they were looking for steak.

On the plus side, ground turkey has less cholesterol.

Hmmm hmmm hmmm.  Saw the ortho yesterday.  The short of it:  She’s thinking it’s the S1 disc but did another SI joint injection just in case.  I was supposed to call her later to let her know if it worked.  She even said I could go for a run to see how it shakes out.  Since I got home and it wasn’t any better I called and reported in.  I moved forward through my day assuming that it was the S1 and we might be looking at surgery.

Hmmm hmmm hmmm.  Today – it hurts less.  WTFudge flavored brownie crusteroles?  Is my butt falling off or is it not?

Damn.  I’m going for a run tomorrow.

BAZINGA

Cleaning house

As I folded sheets today I thought of my mother.  She folds a bottom sheet perfectly.  They are square and flat without any extra fabric poofing out, carefully stacked in the closet, next the fitted sheet; pillowcases on top.

I stand in the hallway by the laundry closet, holding the bottom sheet.  I shove one corner into the other corner and hold the point.  I take the third corner and bring it up to the first two as my mother always did and begin fishing for the fourth corner.  It’s there somewhere.  It had four corners when I took it off the bed.  Where the &^%$ is the corner?  Oh – there, underneath.  I drop the other three corners when I reach.  I pick them back up.  The fourth corner is now INSIDE the other three.  Screw it.  I wad it in a ball and shove it in the corner of the closet.

No one has ever yet come to see if I’ve torn the do not remove tag off the bed, I’m sure the sheets are fine.  And they’re wrinkled the first morning after you sleep on them, anyway.

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

It’s like life, isn’t it?  You get a good hold on one thing, so you bring in the next.  Things are hanging together well.  Then you toss in the third, it’s a bit tricky but you’re doing ok until you reach for the 4th and then *poof* it’s all a big wad.

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

We have a new cat:  Chunklite.  She lost a pound!  I think playing with Mo is good for her.  Except now she doesn’t hang with me as much so I feel sad and abandoned.  First I want her to have a friend, then I don’t.  What, I’m in 7th grade?

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

I measure my life by the yardstick of catlove

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

Mo is my kind of guy.  He’s in love with my Keurig, but he doesn’t take my coffee.  What more could you want?  Affection without control.  Every time I start it, if he’s anywhere near, he runs and jumps onto the counter, watching the coffee pour into the cup with his head tilted to one side.

I’m trying to type with myhead thiled to one side and it doesn’t wori very welland infact I’m going to keep the thyping just the weay it came out while my ehad was sidewasy.  try. it  Weird how such a little thing makes such a big difference.

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

Life lived Full Tilt.  No stopping me, I’m a wild and crazy guy.

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

This morning’s view out my window was 50 Shades of Grey only rated G.  We had a foggy mist covering everything in a monochrome black/grey.  It was neat.  Do you ever look around during your day and see how different every day looks, physically?  Sometimes blurry, sometimes sharply clear; sometimes bright and crisp, sometimes hazily humidly softly-edged.  I was busy for a while and when next I turned toward the window I was surprised by bright blue skies and brilliant fall colors.  What a change in an hour!

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

And, yet, I think that the world will never change.

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

Someone needs to create a casserole recipe that is only crust.  The crusterole. I try to be evenhanded when I dish up a casserole.  But the truth is:  I give me the crust scrapings.

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

I console myself.  No one else wants the crusteroles, they’re a little dry and crunchy.

The Bobment. Happy Bobday!!

Yesterday was Daylight Stupid Time, in which some unnamed They people dork around with my hour twice a year, first taking it away in the spring and then acting like they are such great Good Guys by returning it, apparently unharmed, in the fall.   Every year the They people repeat this, touting the goodness of theft, arbitrarily removing and replacing my hour.

THEY ARE LYING:  there always remains 24 hours in the day!!!!

If anonymous They people can do such a thing, I, too, can create a movement:

The Bobment.

Everyone hates poor Monday.  Vilified, decried, despised.

I hearby declare Monday’s name is changed to Bob.

Now you can awaken after a pleasant weekend and, instead of dreading Monday, you can enjoy a nice cup of coffee with Bob.

Happy Bob Day!

Of all the Joints…

I’m at the computer for the first time today, having spent the day on the couch but definitely needing a different position for a minute.  The short of the story is I did get the S1 Epidural steroid injection; I also got an SI joint injection which I didn’t expect but when the Dr. hit that magic sore spot in my lower back we realized I have an issue there, too.  Checking in with Dr. Google on the SI joint and accompanying issues I think that’s been part of it all along but I’m not a Doctor nor do I play one on TV.

I said, “all I want is to get back running.”

I’m thinking no response was a good response.  Don’t you two think so?

Here’s what I know right now:

  • It hurt much less than I’ve been led to believe from Dr. Google
  • Like, none
  • I’ve spent the entire afternoon on the couch and even HGTV can get old after a while
  • It did take about four hours for HGTV to get old
  • It takes a lot longer to get old if you get to watch Scott McGillivray, who makes me feel happy because he resembles T1
  • I have the first four seasons of True Blood, thanks to Lisa O, so that’s next up on the DVD rotation, or maybe my laptop in bed.
  • I hear Eric Northman is pretty dreamy, for a blond
  • I am very blessed with wonderful friends
  • Who are really good cooks
  • There are doctors out there that do look you in the eye and discuss with you what’s going on without their hands on the doorknob (or, in this case, the skimpy curtain separating me and my enormous hospital gown from the rest of the world)
  • To all of you docs out there that do that:  Thank you.

Hi, so mom got up and went back to the den, I guess she got tired of writing to you.  She put some silver plate into the TV box and now she keeps saying something about Eric Northman who I have no clue who that is but she like, sighs a little bit so apparently he does a really good job on HGTV building houses or something.

Anyway, we did finally get rid of all those miniature humans banging on the door last night and mom let Murph T. Idiot out of the bedroom and he ran around the house barking and sniffing everything like he thought they’d all buried bombs around here.  Which that is just stupid because he can’t be a bomb sniffing dog because I think bomb sniffing dogs, for the most part, have to be around men and Murphy hates men.  Except dad and my brothers.  And PUNKIN.  He likes PUNKIN a lot.  Probably because of the food dropping thing that goes on. Murphy is an idiot, but he knows where to find food, I will give him that.

Wish he could find some food for me.  Mom keeps hiding it all.  Mo gets a bunch and I get a little tiny bowl.  Sometimes Mo doesn’t eat all his and I sneak in and eat it.  Except mom has supersonic hearing and makes me quit.  Then I try to eat some of The Idiot’s food but mom keeps putting a saucepan lid on it.  I thought the saucepan lids went with the saucepans, but it doesn’t look like it.  Maybe it’s like a steering wheel which doesn’t have wheels, as far as I can tell the few times I’ve had a near death experience and mom says STOP I have to hold onto The Steering Wheel which doesn’t have a wheel.  Then she started cramming me into the box of Near Death so now I can’t try to escape that car thing, I’m just stuck inside it inside the Box Of Death.

I hate the car thing.

Anyway, since Mom is asleep in the den, drooling, I thought I’d spend some time surfing the net and I found a new video of my favorite cat Henri.  *Sigh*.  He’s french and he speaks french and he’s so swavy and debahnair and aloof.  Aloof is very important in a cat.  I love Henri.  If I ever learn how to write a letter on this internet thing I’m going to ask for his autograph.

He just released a new movie, if you’d like to watch it.  I think you should.  He’s quite excellent and handsome.

Here’s a link to the video

I’d like to paste the video in this page but I can’t find mom’s credit card to buy that option.  She’s so cheap.

*sigh* Isn’t he dreamy???

Now Mom’s in bed so I’m going to go sleep on mom’s head and dream of Henri.

Oh, here’s my favorite picture of Henri.  This is the picture I would have him autograph.  Maybe he’d sniff my nose, too.  It would be nose sniff love at first sight I bet.

See?  He understands me.

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live life healthy and happy