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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 “AC/DC”

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.)

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.

Shut up. Give me the coffee.

Car properly loaded to work and run the Road Race Series 10K – Shrine of Coffee, PB and Orange Marm sammie, tunes for the extra miles after the race (only one ear bud will be used for safety)

4:01 am.  56 degrees.

Every year, just when I give up hope, it happens.  It’s like Christmas, I finally decide that there really is no Santa and then I wake on Christmas morning.  Thursday:  103 degrees, 10 quadjillion% humidity.  Sunday: 56 degrees.  Still 97% humidity, so I’ll still sweat like an Arkansas hawg, but … it will be a clammy chilly sweat.  And, um, yay for that.

Here’s a surprise:  no matter what time I wake I’m not a morning person (pick your favorite, I couldn’t choose just one).  Back away, stay calm and leave a clear path to the coffee pot is all I ask.  Oh, and also, Shut UP.  I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to smile, I don’t actually want to breathe but that’s automatic, thank God.  Or maybe not.  Many people might be safer if I skipped breathing first thing in the morning.  Wake up, quit breathing, fall over.  Later, wake again.  It might work.

Do.  Not.  Suggest this to hubs.  He may take you up on it.

Hubs is like this: Deepest Darkest Night, alarm RINGRINGRINGRING and just as I think I will have to find a shotgun and scatter the F*ing thing into space he manages to find the button to turn it off.  Mind you, it’s the same button every damn morning, but somehow it seems to scoot to one end of the clock or the other randomly, never to be found two days in a row.

Over the years hubs has learned, and sometimes failed to remember, that I want to sleep.  Like, sleeping sleep.  Not like, “OK I’M GOING TO WORK NOW, BYE, Oh, sorry, DID I WAKE YOU?” sleep.  Because once you’ve attempted a conversation with someone, unless they are in a coma, under anesthesia or deaf then yes, YOU JUST WOKE THEM UP.  (Hubs has a hearing deficit.  I have to type loudly).  (I don’t have a hearing deficit.  I hear you in there, shaving and talking to the cat.)  (The cat is not going to answer you even if you continue to increase the volume of the conversation).  (Also, putting the cat in the shower and shutting the door does not work.  I can hear her mewing nonstop and you can, too, I know, because you keep saying, Just a MINUTE cat and I’ll let you out.  But, you don’t.)

I blame it on the 9+ months I spent without more than 3-4 hours sleep in a row, thank you so not, T1 and T2 although I know it’s not your fault that you didn’t like sleeping on your head all crammed in there together those last few months any more than I would have; altho the bed would have been more comfy for me than the recliner, it wasn’t about me.  And of course you shouldn’t be blamed for being hungry every few hours when you weighed about 6 pounds, altho it would have been nice had you timed your hunger pangs to coincide rather than splitting it up into 90 minute intervals.  This is all in the past however, and all that is left is a lingering and irrational desire not to be awakened.

As I’ve mentioned, the alarm clock has a warped sense of humor and takes delight in randomly working or not, so I set my phone alarm.  On Road Race Series mornings I’ve got to get up by 4:15am so I can get ready to run the race myself and also have all the registrations, packets, cash box, lists, etc., organized and loaded in the car.  Cat decided to be a nocturnal living alarm clock, however, and pounced on the pillow at 4:01 am.  There’s very little sense in trying to go back to sleep for 14 minutes so I got up and made coffee.  I thought something was wrong with the lights when I turned them on but then discovered I still had my eyes closed and was not, in fact, making coffee in the dark.  I was hopeful for a moment that I was sleep walking and not really awake, either, but discovered to my sorrow that I was indeed awake after a bit of hot coffee sloshed on me.  ouch.

Clutching a hot Go Cup of coffee, the Shrine of The Only Thing Right With The World At 5:15am safely buckled beside me, I head out in the cool dark morning to the race site.  I like this part, driving in the quiet early morning, hitting the freeway with the semi’s and a few out-of-state drivers apparently on vacation.  I think about where they may be going or have been. I’ve always loved driving in the dark, somehow feeling more connected to the greater world, the stars and the silence.  Well, except Thunderstruck just came up on 103 so now I have that blaring as I sip the nectar of coffee and head to the Farms.

This part I love, too – arriving at the race site in the 5:30am dark.  The finish line crew is already there, some are out on the course setting cones, some are getting the finish line set up.  This crazy bunch of nutjobs are not even all runners any more, due to injuries and issues, yet there they are, laughing, setting things up, playing jokes on one another.  Over the past 5-1/2 years of doing my job we’ve all shared ups and downs, we’ve laughed together, cried together.  They are there long before the race starts and long after the last runner crosses the finish line; they are my second family.

The stars slowly fade as the sun peeks up over the park.  There is mist rising off the ponds and I see the horses from the stable jogging along the fence as they see the runners begin to line up behind the start.  Runners stretch out in front and behind me, a rainbow of multi-hued tech shirts and hats, Garmins beeping as they locate the Mother Ship, feet shuffling.

I see Lane climb the stepladder with the bullhorn.  “GOOOOOOOOOOOD MOOOOOOOOOOORNING RUNNNNNNNNNNNNNERS!” he shouts.  The race is on, the day begins.

September 12, 2010 – the horses raced along the fence as the runners took off.  Photo Credit John Bookas.

This is why you need good friends in bad times. Not that I have any.

For the listening pleasure of both of the followers of my World Famous Blog while perusing this very important information: (you will want to copy and paste into another window so you can listen and still read my very important blog)

One thing I’ve learned in life is it is imperative for one to have good friends.  Friends that are there for you, that have your back, who will support you in every way.

I have none, but apparently some people do and that’s a very important thing, to HAVE FRIENDS that support you and are there for you (HINT) not that I’m naming names.

I realize Chunker is adopted and that even biological children will sometimes greatly differ from their parents but sometimes, when it seems you fit together so well, that you kind of jell – mesh in your interests, so to speak – and suddenly something happens and you realize they are not a mini-me but are their own person with their own interests it can take a while to adjust.  That would be the time that a person would reach out to their dearest friends for support IF THEY HAD ANY. I’m just sayin’ and not naming names.

Yesterday I made a devastating discovery.  I’m still reeling from this and to say my heart is broken is not far from the truth.  To find that my own little Chunker doesn’t share a love for the same thing I do – the thing that defined my youth, that colors my life to this day, the thing I turn to when I need it most…that in fact she does not just dislike it, but actively (and actively is the active word here) HATES it.  (Murph T. Dog is now my favorite, lying under my chair, tripping me every time I try to stand up to get more coffee – but I don’t care because he’s hanging with me while that little traitor Cat abandons me, not that I’m bitter.  Altho my legs have finally decided to cooperate, and I do really need more coffee, and I could get up the stairs to get it if the dog wasn’t in my damn way.  But I digress.)

When work gets boring and my brain is about to fall out of my head and land on the desk bouncing about like a walnut…when I’m stressed to the max and I get in the car and crank the radio to 1,000 on the volume and nudge the bass up 1 extra … when I need to get the house cleaned and the car washed and have no energy … I turn to my first love(s).  And this, (below), is what happened yesterday when I turned to my SUPPOSED FRIENDS for support on Facebook (and I know!  Turning to friends for support on FB is like standing on a corner at 40 and Germantown holding a sign:  “Honestly, I really want to work hard for a living but instead I’m going to stand here on this corner with this sign asking you to help me.”  Basically:  you’re going to get the response and support that is not always what some unamed DEAR FRIENDS would give you.)


Post to FB:  This is absolutely horrible. I cannot believe this. Chunk does not like AC/DC or Metallica, Bon Jovi or Aerosmith, Van Halen, The Who, Black Sabbath…none of them. I cannot understand how my child could have gone so wrong. I’m devastated. Not to mention I can’t play Pandora while I work now, because as soon as I turn it on her tail diameter increases by 300% and she starts attacking everything in the room.

Responses from SO-CALLED FRIENDS (no names, keeping it anonymous)

Jay Chunk can never be my friend.

Rachel Rose It just goes to show – ALL OF THAT STUFF IS THE WORK OF THE DEVIL!!!! Cats know these things…

Terri Lee *SOB* Highway to Hell just sent her running into the den. *sniff*

Cindy Sounds like she doesn’t like you very much either. (thank you for your support, “friend”)

Rachel Rose Terri, you’re not dancing around the house wearing devil horns, are you?

Terri Lee You’re all poopyheads and I’m just going to sit here all by myself listening to War and I hope you’re happy.

Cindy But Chunk won’t be and you will be the one to pay for that –

Terri Lee lalalalalalala I can’t hear you


Rachel Rose It’s Friday the 13th, Terri’s wearing devil horns, Chunk is going berserk!  I hear the twilight zone theme song…

Terri Lee ok FINE. I turned the music OFF are you happy?! Rachel, the Zombies are coming tonight.

Carol Plug in the head phones for you…..and….maybe some ear PLUGS for Chunk. (“friend” wants me to bleed to death from a thousand scratches)

Heather Try Lithium on XM. (did my “friend” just say that I need to try some Lithium?)

Elizabeth I do love my friends. I think maybe when you run it’s your brain that’s falling off of your butt.  (Ok, this “friend” may have a point)

Sherry Just give her some catnip and she won’t care what you do!  (“friend” suggests I drug my Cat)

Norma Yeah, headphones for you and maybe some counseling for Chunk. (“friend” suggests my Cat needs psychological help)

Terri Lee  I’m just so devastated that she hates my music, the sounds of my soul.

Mary One thing is for sure. Your life is never boring.  (“friend” is making fun of my lonely life, abandoned by Cat and repeatedly passively-agressively tripped by Dog)


Which is how I ended up on a Saturday morning sitting here all alone in my little garret surrounded by a bunch more pizza boxes containing dried up crumbs of crust and several empty boxes o’ wine, talking to my two imaginary friends on my blog.  Now I’m going to queue up a few favs and smile through my tears, here all alone, friendless, thanks so not.  (In the interest of full disclosure I will confess to what my daughter pointed out:  I went through a Yanni phase.  Not proud…but there it is…it was just a fling; I discovered my error and returned to my true love) (too bad the movie sucked so bad)

One friend did point this out (below).  Every generation has to rebel, I guess.

Terri, this should explain everything about Chunk’s taste in music. Kits these days, sheesh

Sammy Hagar, Les Baxter, and me.

Well this day totally sucks.

Until today I had no clue who Les Baxter is.  But then some idiot created a Facebook app that figures out the top hit on the day you were born and suddenly this afternoon Les Baxter entered my life.

It couldn’t be AC/DC doing Dirty Deeds Dirt Cheap.

Not Guns ‘N Roses Welcoming us to The Jungle.

Mom couldn’t wait 3 more days and I could have at least had an Elvis song at number one even tho Elvis does nothing for me (and I do realize this is blasphemy in Memphis and I could be hauled over the county line on a rope behind a pickup truck) still, he beats the hell out of Les Baxter on the musical Thrill-O-Meter.

No, not even Elvis.  I get some guy directing an orchestra and a bunch of people whistling in the middle of the stupid song.  The only lyrics in the insipid thing is lalalalala and luhluhluhluh.  Whistling and luhluhluhing.

In one minute your life goes crashing about your head.

All these years There’s Only One Way to Rock defined your life.

But no.  You were born when the best music in the country was a vapid luhluhluh.

I don’t even feel like trying out my walker with the new tennis balls now.

I’m so depressed, I’m not going to bother putting in my dentures.

I don’t care that my best apron is in the laundry and I can’t wear it to Bingo at the community center tonight.

Heck, I might not even go to Bingo.

I may just stay home and watch Lawrence Welk while I drink my prune juice.  Maybe Bobby Burgess and Cissy King will be dancing tonight.  That would be great.  If I turn up the sound enough I should be able to hear the music.

Afterward I’ll crochet some doilies to put on the arms of my sofa.

Later I’ll smooth on some Noxema and get to bed.  By then it will be 7:30, late night but I’m crazy wild that way and it is Friday.

Probably I”ll lull myself to sleep whistling luhluhluhluh.

Here, in case you’re an insomniac you can listen, too:

I’ve gotta go find my Geritol.

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