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 “lake”


ANGRY BIRD4:45am.  There is a fifty pound bird in the tree outside the open window CHIRPING in letters 10 feet tall.  Surely soon his head will explode with the effort.  At least I hope so. Although we did get the house painted this past spring and fifty pounds of exploded bird would be a lot of power washing.

Still, the satisfaction of  his head exploding right in the middle of the CHIR—-Boooooooooooooooooom! … it could be worth it.

None of the other birds are answering him.  I know they can hear him because the window panes are rattling slightly with every booming CHIRP.  “Don’t you DARE answer him!” sternly whispers Mrs. Robin in Mr. Robin’s ear.   Mr. Robin sighs and goes back to reading the gardening section.  All the neighborhood girl robins are giggling.  “Wow, look at the size of his CHIRP!” they whisper, while their moms lock them all in the closet at the back of the nests and throw away the key.

The year we moved into the house there was a socially awkward goose in our cove.  It was very, very sad.  I’m not sure if he had anger management issues or perhaps the other geese had a bigger HONK; either way it appeared he had no friends.  I couldn’t really blame the other geese even though it did make me feel badly for him.  I remember the first day I saw him.  I was sitting outside with a cup of coffee, enjoying the beautiful morning.  A goose couple were floating about rhythmically yelling at each other, HOUNK then HONK then HOUNK then HONK, repeatedly.  There was really no need for them to yell, they were only about six inches from each other.  In all honestly it was very irritating.  Irritating, but not attack provoking.

Suddenly from the end of my cove arose a fury of goose, taking a running start on the surface of the lake and gaining altitude he went speeding just above the water directly for the geese doing about 60 and BAM he slammed into the back of the goose’s neck, feathers flying HOUNK HONK HOUNK HONK HOUNK HONK.  The offending goose scrambled across the water, finally managing flight with Socially Awkward Goose in hot pursuit.

“Hounk?  Hounk?” questioned the abandoned half of the goose couple, paddling forlornly.

A couple days later they were back, hounking and honking.  I learned to know whenever they were around by their distinctive and, frankly, incredibly boring conversation.   Hi, I’m home!  Hi, how was your day? Hi, I’m home!  Hi, how was your day? Hi, I’m home!…and then he’s off again, S.A. Goose flying angrily across the lake and nailing the offending goose again…again… “Hounk?  Hounk?” she would query as the two flew off, S.A. in hot pursuit of Offending Goose.

I began to wonder if O.G. was perhaps HONKING insults?  “HONK! (I’ve got a mate and you don’t)”  “HONK! (nanner nanner nanner)”

Finally the 4th of July rolls around.  S.A.G. was, as usual, all by himself, floating in circles at the far end of the cove.  I noticed geese were beginning to gather in the lawn next to the boat launch across the lake.  They were all walking around with their little adolescent geese mingling, honking and muttering.  It looked like a picnic only without hot dogs.  Which would be a very sucky picnic, if you ask me.  You have to have hot dogs.  They need to have those almost black, but not quite black, burned-y stripes on them, and the buns have to be balloon bread buns, where you slather on a whole bunch of cheap yellow mustard and put the hot dog in the bun and squish the bun around the hot dog until the air is all out of the bun and it’s kinda stuck to the hot dog.  Nom Nom Nom, Repeat.  Also if you can get your hands on some Chili Cheese Fritos, that’s about all you need.  Maybe a diet Dr. Pepper, but that’s it.

Anyway, what do geese know?  They apparently thought it was a great picnic and they were all walking around eating bugs out of the grass and murmuring-honking at each other “honk wow Henry, the chicks are getting big!”  “yep, yep,” said Henry, “pretty soon we’ll be kicking them out of the nest.”  “It goes so fast, doesn’t, Henry, old boy?”

Meanwhile S.A.G. had moved a few houses down, hiding on the other side of a docked boat.  He’d kinda honk a little, then he’d swim to the front of the boat and peer down the lake at the goose picnic.  Then he’d swim back toward shore and float.  Then, back to the front of the boat, peering.  Back – forth.  Back – forth, honking softly to himself.


But, I couldn’t.  He didn’t understand English and the shouting appeared to frighten him.  Plus the neighbors were all out having their own picnics, staring at me, shouting at a goose.

So, on this Memorial Day, when you remember all those who gave their all for our freedom, this story actually has nothing to do with that.

(With thanks to my father, uncles and everyone else that allow this country the freedom where someone can write a stupid story about a goose and eat hot dogs.)

Happy Fourth of July!!

This morning I worked out with Killer and then did three (very) slow miles in the heat, continuing my efforts to acclimate to heat.  At least I finally found my shuffle so I could listen to some tunes while I gasped for air.  Another notch in the got ‘er done column!

We celebrated the fourth last Saturday, had friends and family over and enjoyed tooling around the lake before the fireworks and then parking the pontoon near the display for a great view.  The neighborhood association puts on a very good show and the kids loved it.  I’m not sure what you call your husband’s cousin’s child (umptythird twice removed?) – at four years of age she was the highlight for the adults as she screamed after every explosion that “THIS IS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE!!”  This kind of attitude could someday ruin some poor guy’s honeymoon but I’m not going there.  B’ster, on the other hand, being 2-1/2 years old, was very excited right up the first BOOMPOW when he immediately glued himself to his mother and attempted to return to the womb.  Hands over his ears he stated quietly, “I don’t like fireworks.”  Obviously he got nothing of his mother’s or his Moggie’s blood, thank you Little Baby Jesus in the straw, and instead, happily, seems to be exactly like his patient, quiet, and understated father and Poppa.  My daughter and I are fully capable of being patient, quiet and understated any time we are under full anesthesia, so I do think we need some credit, however small it may be.

Murph and Chunk had a great time.  Chunk was hounded mercilessly by three little girls and the B’ster which serves her completely right since she has been very full of herself lately, shoving all my things off my desk, walking repeatedly, slowly and regally across my keyboard causing some poor member’s name to be transposed to John Poihylkuyoiuaah – and won’t his momma be surprised that he is Hawaiian when she could have sworn he was born at the Memorial Hospital in Menomonie, WI to her (of Irish decent) and the hubs, Mr. Smith, whose grandparents were from the upper Cotswolds?

Murphmeister – abused as a pup, apparently – has an issue with men.  He mostly hates them for the first five minutes he meets them, then after repeatedly barking at the decibel level of a sonic boom and occasionally doing a fake rush at the now terrified male he decides he loves them and slavishly follows them about.  A while ago hubs thought it would be a good idea to quietly slip the petrified male visitor a ‘cookie’ (as they are called in our house) in order to make the dog like the guy.  Now Murphy associates new males with barking wildly and cookies so he barks more, and longer, in an attempt for more cookies.  His thought process is, apparently, “I barked until the guy peed himself, got a cookie.  How far can I take this?”  He was in heaven, barking and eating cookies.  Fourth of July is now his favorite holiday.  Fireworks?  Not a problem.  By that point he was in a stuffed tummy stupor asleep on my bed and if a drunk guy had tried to climb in the window…useless.  As he was before when the drunk guy tried to climb in the window.

Today it’s a quiet one.  Traitor is probably celebrating his sorry a$$ off in Brooklyn, Other Traitor is probably working HAHAHAHA because they don’t celebrate the 4th of July in Brazil (and I don’t care to hear either of you mention Carnival  since I’ve already told him any beautiful Brazilian lady he might fall in love with is moving to America and their mom can come visit here.)

There’s some fireworks.  Won’t that look nice walking down the aisle at St. Mary’s?

Google images has ruined many lives.  Hold on a minute, I think I’m hyperventilating.

It took me a while to book tickets to Brazil for 12 months.  I had to find an apartment too, and it was hard to get one that close, but I managed to get next door to him.  Bet that will be a happy surprise when he finds out his momma is his neighbor!  Makes me smile just to think of his joy.

Murphy and Chunkster enjoy my blog.  They read it all the time, apparently.  That surprised me until I remembered how well Chunk can work the keyboard.  I guess she’s able to pull up my posts.  Since they are so excited about the fourth of July and all the fun I thought I should draw a picture of the excitement around our house today.  I know I’ve been remiss in making pictures lately so I took extra time with this one, I think it captures quite truthfully the extent of their enthusiasm and I hope you enjoy it.

Happy 4th of July!!  Many (very sincere) thanks to all those who risk their own lives so I can sit at this desk and write a bunch of stuff that has no redeeming value.

Do you have any spare change?

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get accustomed to the idea that I get to live in a house on a lake.  Last night I sat on the back porch as the last of daylight faded and watched drizzly rain fall over the lake, considering the constant changes of nature.  Water seems a living thing, an entity with definite moods and temperaments; grey then blue then nearly clear; smooth, then rippled, then whitecapped; moving toward me and then away.

Most of the trees are bare right now and their limbs are beautiful art, twisted and gnarled like my farmer grandfather’s hands were, telling stories of thwarted growth abruptly turning the limb the other direction, knotted and bent.  Skinny crepe myrtles with peeling bark and thin straight limbs make me think of a gangly teenager growing tall quicker than they can keep up with.

Watching nature’s seasons I find myself wondering why I continue to expect that I shall not – or should not – have seasons in my life also.  Constant change is evident all around us and yet we think somehow we will be the same, do the same, accomplish the same today and tomorrow and next year.  And when that doesn’t happen, as it never does, we get upset.  We try to change the change.  The trees don’t try to change what is barring that limb from growing in that direction, the limb changes its direction.  And when I see that limb I think it’s beautiful.  The tall straight skinny limbs just look young and awkward to me.

This morning told me it was going to be about 47 degrees and there was a icon of a large bright yellow sun with little rays coming out of it next to the 47.  

Thus I assumed it was going to be about 47 degrees and the sky would sport a large bright yellow sun with little rays coming out of it.

Thus I also assumed that a singlet with a L/S lightweight tech shirt and shorts would be fine to wear.  I also assumed I didn’t need gloves, and while we’re at it I assumed since there has been water and Gatorade on the course before (provided to me at no effort on my part by nice runners who buy the water and Gatorade and cups and leave it at intervals) that the same thing would happen again (because of course it shouldn’t change) and – thus – I additionally assumed I could leave my fuel of choice behind in the car.

So it happens then that I find myself at mile .67 with a co-runner who is wondering aloud, since we’re running a different course than usual, will there still be water and Gatorade on the course.  I look at my empty hands and panic.  NO WATER.  NO GATORADE.  I HAVE13 MILES TO GO.  WHAT DO I DO NOW?

Trying to ignore the panicked little brain cell which is screaming loudly in my head I twitch nervously and mention several times to co-runners that I have no water and no fuel.  Apparently I believe they are both blind and deaf and continue to repeat myself.

The fates having pity on my running partners, a front runner returns to report that there is, indeed, fuel on the course.

Damn good thing I spent some time in a fit over that or fate might not have figured things out and fixed it for me.

Around mile 5 I realize I’d probably have to run 31 miles before I’d dehydrate anyway, because I gotta go.  Informed that the bathroom at mile 7 is usually unlocked I spend the next two miles fretting about where I’m gonna go if it’s locked.  Why, yes, there is a forest of trees right next to the (possibly) locked bathroom but now I need to figure out exactly which tree I would use – made more difficult by the fact that I’m still a mile away from the trees and cannot see them to know which tree would work.

Spending those two miles feverishly planning my locked – unlocked – tree – locked -unlocked – tree options apparently changed fate because the bathroom was, indeed, unlocked.

Turning back toward home we head into the wind.  The greatly anticipated and attired-for warmth of a sunny day has died a lingering and sorrowful death and I repeatedly mention to my blind and deaf running partners that it’s cold and there’s a wind and I didn’t bring gloves as I hold out my bare hands to their blind eyes as proof.

Fate had apparently tired of my incessant whining and desiring of things being fixed to meet my (supposed) needs and did not turn off the wind and turn on the sun.

At mile 9 my right hip and calf begin vague crampings.  Since the day has been nothing but disappointment, fear and worry, I’m pretty sure by now that I have Butt Falling Off Syndrome and this will probably be the last run I ever have and how would I handle it if I couldn’t run because I intend to run until I die and I’m not planning death today and also if I do have Butt Falling Off Syndrome and my butt falls off I won’t be able to sit down ever again, I would just tip over.

This is most definitely not the run I had planned and visualized.  This needs to change and it needs to change now.  I need my butt to quit hurting and I need the sun to come out and I need the wind to stop and I need –

– and suddenly I realize I need to do the same every other created thing except man does:  adapt.  Change myself to fit the day before me and quit looking at what the world needs to change to meet my expectations.

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