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Archive for the tag “national spokesperson”

We’re all talking monkeys on an organic spaceship.

It’s possible, anyway.  I figure whatever we are, that’s what God (or First Cause, or Creator, or whatever name you use) decided is best so if some monkey in the past began to evolve, and now this is what we are, well, who are we to argue?  We’re not monkeys now, right?  I mean, just look around you at how well we all behave, no screeching unintelligibly because someone stole our banana, no running around aimlessly in circles while scratching our head, no shoving each other out of the tree, no shunning the least because they don’t fit in our tribe.

monkeys organic spaceship

Had the big visit with my new BRDr.FF, Dr. L, yesterday to find out about the MRI.  I don’t want to borrow trouble, but at this point, to tell you the truth, she and I both thought it was going to be the S1 herniated; send me off to the neuro and scoop the damn little thing out.  I was really hoping so.  Easy fix.  Just pull the stinking little SOB out.

You two know how I always do things the easy way.  I’m a rule follower.  I’m a follow-the-packer, just let me sit back here and watch.  Straight line, easy breezy lemon squeezy, no arguing, no questioning WhyHowWhen.

Dr. L reviewed the results of the MRI with us.  A few little things in L1-L-4, but nothing – not a thing – no thing – nothing – that could be the cause.  And the S1?  Absolutely normal.  Finally.  What I’ve dreamed of since I knew the term:  “normal” + “Terri” in the same sentence.  Just when it helps least.

God bless Dr. L flying around on the organic spaceship, she is trying so hard to figure what is going on.  Guess what?  And you will both spit your coffee on the screen so I’m just warning you right now to put the mug down and swallow before you finish reading this sentence:  she said I’m currently one of the most complicated cases she has.  Meanwhile I’m beginning to fear I’m just a hypochondriac or a nutjob.

Hubs probably heard the Hallelujah Chorus repeating in stereo in his head when heard her say that.  COMPLICATED.   It’s official.  Terri makes no sense.  Thank you thank you little baby Jesus in your crib, listening to the cows moo you to sleep, THANK YOU.

She did an ultrasound on my hamstring hoping to see if there were some trigger there, but no luck.  I’ll have another MRI Saturday to look over the entire length of the hamstring and I will freeze to death on Pluto (sorry Pluto.  To me you will always be a planet and if I have to freeze to death I want it to be on you) before I get a copy of that damn thing.  If BRDrFF Dr. L  finds that it shows nothing I’m off to the neuro.  Hopefully the neuro will only look at my back and legs because if he looks inside my head he’ll charge us a finder’s fee.

Saturday was the St. Jude Memphis Marathon weekend.  A friend of mine is injured and couldn’t do the marathon she’d registered for.  She is also a St. Jude Hero, having raised money for the kids.  We kept ending up in the same volunteer spots throughout the day, a lot of it on the field at the two finish lines, watching the runners come in, both of us so happy for them.  But even though  it made me feel like a complete jerk, I was jealous.  No matter how horrid the run, I wanted it.  I wanted to be coming across that finish line, happy, exhausted, hurt, disgusted, anything.  I just wanted to feel that sweat and the hum in my muscles (not the electricity).  To enjoy the sweetness of finally stopping, the first taste of water – even lukewarm – that tastes like nectar.

Now I’m going to admit that I’m an idiot.  Again.  Why Why Why (OMG there’s that word again) do I always end up an idiot?  After the race I did something stupid: I went by the MRI place and got a copy of my report.  I didn’t know I could do that.  So I read it and googled all the terms and stuff, and of course I saw words like andycondializing scuppernongs and blerferating hagis and thought well sh*t my back is totally screwed.  My brain was flying through the universe on an organic spaceship in hyperdrive and it was taking me along.

Hubs is feeling pretty frustrated.   This is not unusual, of course.  But maybe he’s like a couple thousand points higher on the frustrated scale right now.  I’m guessing this based on how red his face gets and the frequency and duration of his tongue biting.  Sunday morning when I woke in the middle of the night I was about as down as I’ve been about all this.  Lying there in bed at 2am trying to go back to sleep all I knew were pictures in my mind of race finishers, the shouts of their families, bispurtilizing discotomies and the little spasms in my leg.  I thought about what I could post to the MRTC FB page in the morning, something about the race, of course, since so many Memphis runners had done it.  And I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to see all the FB posts and emails and joyjoyjoy about their race or the sorrow of a missed PR or sore quads.  I was turbo charged by the steroid shot(s) and frustrated.

When I could no longer stand it I got up and went to the kitchen.  My Garmin was on the counter in its charger.  And right there, encompassed in a half-charged Garmin, were all the long runs and short runs, tempo runs and speedwork, heartrates and elevation maps of all the runs I haven’t done and as embarrassed as I am to tell you this, I sobbed.  I sobbed and snotted and hiccupped and sniffed while tears ran down my face and neck and cried that I just want to run.

Let me tell you both something right here, especially if one of you is a husband.   Maybe someday your wife, in the morning, sober, after having coffee, takes you by the shoulders and states, “next time I go bat sh*t crazy crying and sobbing, I want you to come to me, ask me what is wrong, try to understand what I’m saying and then try to fix it.”  You should then get that in writing, drive immediately to someone who can notarize it, get it framed and hang it prominently in your house.  That way she will know where to find it to throw at you next time she melts down.

I know – pull up the big girl panties – and I have, it just took me a couple of days.  Apparently I’m a slow responder.

Someone mentioned recently that I have not drawn any pics lately.  I thought this might be particularly helpful for any husbands out there, and so I will close with this.  As always, copies are available for $25 and if you’d like it autographed let me know, prices have gone up, I’m sorry, but what with being the National Posterchild and Spokesperson for the BFOS I’m getting a bit busier and my time is valuable.  Drive the picture over to my house and I’ll autograph it for $37.82.  No tax, we’re a nonprofit.

crazy train

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!

Orange you glad that’s over? Or: Spinning Wheels

“Knock Knock”  “Who’s there?”  “Banana.” “Banana who?” “Knock Knock”  “Who’s there?”  “Banana.” “Banana who?” …. “Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?…”

Monday I did manage to get nearly 10 miles done with my fellow nutcase runner friend, Bill H.  Fortunately both of us showed up at the appointed time to run because none of the others did, laying in bed on Memorial Day, sleeping in, the lazy bums; as we dragged each other along Bill and I were unanimous in our opinion that neither of us would have gotten the run done alone.

In the world of Large Sucking Sound that run was one of the Top 10 Hits.  Nothing felt good when I started and nothing felt good in the middle and really nothing felt good at the end except maybe my hair, teeth and eyeballs, and I’m just assuming they felt OK because those were the only three parts that were not screaming at me throughout the run.  Some jerk snuck into the bedroom the night before and filled my quads with cement studded with a thousand tiny electrodes programmed to make a thousand little pinpricks of pain during the run and then stuffed a cotton bale in my lungs.  Maybe it was that drunk from the roof, back to try again?

It didn’t help, I suppose, I’d enjoyed 5 days in cool dry air while spring here has been so mild; I haven’t adjusted to the steam bath of the mid-south that I returned to.  We both sat in the shade for a minute after the run and decided we were bagging the bike and went home.  I told hubs how the run sucked like a lemon and he helpfully pointed out that today it was:

Orange and Asthma are not friends and apparently do not play well together.  I was certainly glad that run was over.  By the way, I’m really sad that my beloved oranges are now being denigrated by this negative connection with pain and suffering.  I think they should call it Code Ugly Salmon Colored Carpet or Code You Really Painted Your House That Color Are You Blind or maybe Code Slimy Okra Green.

OK, now I’m back, sorry for the interruption, all that talk about Orange made me want one so I went to the kitchen.  I think maybe Florida is feeling bad about the Zombie issue and is trying to make up for it by growing particularly good oranges this year.  Each one seems better than the last.  Now Murph is by my desk waiting for his 1/2 of the last section since I’m eating and typing.  Yesterday I forgot and ate the whole thing.  Man did I feel guilty.  Nothing feels as bad as a dog looking lovingly forgivingly sad at you.  “My heart is irretrievably broken but it’s OK, I love and adore you.”  I almost went and got a second one to share with him but decided a doggie cookie would have to do, which may explain the whole trust issue in our relationship.

Anyway, since I bagged the bike on Monday, Tuesday I decided to run 3 on the treadmill and then do spin class.  In view of the torture my quads were subjected to by the cement wielding psychopath I had few hopes for the run but it went well.

And then, off to spin.  Click here for some nice background music while you continue to read.

I tell you what:  If you are a person who can pass a psychological exam, you are not a person who can be a Spin Class Instructor.

If, on the other hand, you like very loud music, inflicting pain, and screaming at people, please report immediately to the nearest Spin Class Instructor Station where I’m sure they have a special spot just for you.

She had us jumping and spinning and sitting and mountain climbing and position one two and three while screaming loudly through her head phone telling us ‘It’s your workout, you’ll get out of it what you put into it” trying to make me feel personally responsible for my own behavior, which is not something I enjoy nor espouse, and telling us to CRANK UP THAT KNOB until I thought, Baby, I’m going crank that knob up your … um… knee.

At one point I looked up beneath the brim of my hat and thought it odd that it was raining inside the building, until I realized it was just the sweat dripping off the brim like a little thunderstorm.  Also I think I broke my HR monitor.  It finally gave up and just told me in a monotone that my HR was 198 which I’m pretty sure it wasn’t since my max is 170 and probably I’d actually be lying in an ambulance if the HR monitor were correct.  I looked around to be sure.   I think the inside of an ambulance would have more medical looking thingies beeping and tubes and stuff everywhere.  All I saw were about 20 people the color of boiled lobsters gasping for air and I don’t think that many would fit in an ambulance.  So, apparently I killed the HR monitor or it died of fright.

Since I know both of you read real slow you’re probably getting a bit tired of reading this incredibly gripping story about my awesome run and spinning, so I added another picture for you to look at.  It’s a picture I made of the spin class.  Don’t pass it around tho, I’m getting tired of being famous for my Butt Falling Off Syndrome (BFOS) and the associated responsibilities as National BFOS Spokesperson and Poster Child and do not want to have to get involved as National Spokesperson for the Proper Medicating of Spin Instructors or the Right to a Larger Ambulance Spin Group.

And, in view of my responsibilities as National Spokesperson and Posterchild, if you feel concerned you may have BFOS, or for more information, check here and here.  Remember: we’re here to help you and all inquiries are held in strictest confidence.  We realize you face many stigmas in society and the workforce butt we want you to know that you are not alone.

Pretty Day for a Run (Or) Pain is only Temporary but Rubber Band Legs Last all Day, “They” say.

I made it back to Memphis in good order and spent the past couple days trying to catch up on work, so how it’s gone so far work-out-wise is that I did 20 miles on Sunday March 25th, got a call from my mom that evening, flew to Arizona the next day, didn’t run again until that Thursday, got a bit of mileage in last week, and I haven’t worked out with Cheryl for almost three weeks.  You use it or you lose it They say, but what are you going to do?  It can’t be that bad, it wasn’t that long a time frame.

So – today is Wednesday and I worked with my trainer, Cheryl, for the first time in nearly three weeks.  She’s pretty, blond, petite and very fit and I have a huge Girl Crush on her, so I try to act all fit too when I’m working out with her.  This means mostly that when I feel like I’m dying I try to be real cool like it’s really easy.  Probably the gasping for air and the bulging eyeballs and the quivering muscles give me away but she never indicates she sees what a wimp I am and we end up doing 47 sets of fortythousandhundred reps all the time, which takes about 17 hours, but I’m a strong fit runner so I’m good with that, I’m not complaining even though my arm fell completely off and landed on the floor once.

I figured that since I was already in workout clothes, working out, I may as well get a run in afterward.  It’s a beautiful day, clear blue sunny skies, all the trees leafed out in fresh spring-green foliage, lots of happy birds and squirrels all flitting about chirping and making whatever little happy sounds squirrels make, and I was ready to get some fresh air.  The fresh air thing has been hampered the past couple weeks by the fact that I apparently managed to get allergic to something in Arizona the day I arrived and I spent two weeks blowing my nose at 3 minute intervals while my swollen red itchy eyes watered and I broke out in hives on my legs one day and my chest another day – all complicated further by the fact that I cannot take allergy medicines *sniff* *sniff* *blow* *eyes water* *ha-choo* repeat and also those damn hives are itchy.  So a pretty run in the non-allergenic Memphis air sounded really nice.  (yes, honestly, I’ve been tested and have no allergies … in Memphis, Allergy Capital of the  World … I know you will not believe me but there ya go.  I’m the only living person in the mid-south with no allergies.)

I’d originally planned to do five but had decided to cut it back to three (miles).  I headed down the street and after three (steps) realized that an hour of working out with Cheryl is an hour that lasts as long as Christmas Eve for small children and my legs felt like overstretched worn-out rubber bands.  Pride, however, kept me going.  I wasn’t going to come to a complete stop and walk back to the car in front of my girl crush, no ma’am.  I made it to the end of the block and walked.  I trotted, the legs wobbled like a cheap camp chair underneath a gorilla, I walked, I trotted, the legs wriggled like overcooked spaghetti, I walked, I trotted … a mile in I turned around.  2-1/2 weeks ago I did 20 and felt better than I did at the end of that mile.

They are not kidding when they say you use it or you lose it.  I just didn’t know they were speedtalking.

Also, here’s a picture of me working out with Cheryl and also one of my run.  Even though my butt didn’t end up falling off when I did the 20 miles it felt like it might and I’m still the Posterchild and National Spokesperson for BFOS and the paparazzi are still loving me so they took a bunch of pics and gave them to me, free.  Because when you’re famous that’s how things work.  Altho I’m still waiting for that Lamborghini.  I didn’t know they were on backorder for three years, did you?

Here’s a picture of my run.  Apparently my legs not only felt like overcooked spaghetti, they looked like it too.  And those damn Birds were making me Angry.

20 IN the BAG yesssssssssssssss

You are both going to be sooooooo excited for me!!!  I did it!  I finally got a long run in on the day I was supposed to, and the distance I was supposed to go!


I can see you two in my mind, sitting at your computers in your sad, cramped, dark rooms and finally – BRIGHTNESS!  SMILES! – you throw your skinny little pale arms in the air and yell SWEET!  SHE DID IT!  OUR HERO!!!  Probably your screams managed to frighten the poor pizza boy completely to the end of the block, and I think you’re just going to have to make dinner out of the cold leftovers from earlier this week which still surround your desk – but it’s not like either of you haven’t done that before.

Yes, I know.  This is undoubtedly the best thing that has happened for either of you all week.  It makes me happy to make you so happy.  I’m smiling right now.

Since neither of you get out much you are probably going to be EVEN more excited when I tell you this:

Due to my recently announced selection as National Spokesperson and Posterchild for the National BFOS Foundation  (  I am now surrounded by paparazzi wherever I go.  It’s a burden, all those little people trying to catch hold of my star as it ascends, but to whom much is given and all that so I feel obliged to welcome them to my life.  The plus side is that now you can actually see my run.  It will be almost like you were there!  You can see where I ran and the many nice things I experienced on this earth-shattering and life-changing run.

As usual, if you print these pictures and bring them to the next fan club meeting I’ll be happy to autograph them.  I do have to tell you that due to my sudden increase in importance the cost of the autographs is now $5 each.  If you’d like them personalized it will be $7.50.  Also please bring your own Sharpies.

Here we’d been out for about 10 miles, running CD Smith Road (scene of the second serious instance of BFOS,  There was a train coming so just for fun I raced it and won.

Then I saw a robin building a nest.  It was a breezy day and apparently the robin was a bit fed up with its little nest continually getting blown out of the tree.  I said, suck it up, little Robin and someday you may be a posterchild for a National Nest Building Ass.

Then we passed a barn and some horses.  One of the horses was very nice and wanted to see what was going on.  The other horse was rather a snot just eating its stupid grass but what do you really expect from a horse anyway?

So there you have it, the story of my incredible awesome 20 miler.

And, by the way, my butt started trying to fall off in the car on the way home.  It’s kinda hard to drive only sitting on the left side of your butt.  Just to show it who’s boss, I’m making it sit on ice right now.  So.  There.

Butt Falling off Syndrome – Little Known, Little Understood

I’m sitting here on an ice pack and I’m cold.  Plus, I decided I’m sleepy so I’m drinking an ice cold Dr. Pepper.  Few people truly understand the echoing ramifications of Butt Falling Off Syndrome, the layers of complexity it adds to daily life, how simple routines become, truly, a pain in the a$$.

The serious lack of information available to the public is about to change!  I am thrilled and proud to announce that I have been named the BFOS National Spokesperson by the Asses of the World Club and the National BFOS Ass., which have recently joined forces to better combat this little known issue.

You, too, could be suffering from BFOS and not even know it!  But now there is hope.  After months of hard work by many dedicated little people, we are revealing –




(Don’t you think the pics of me turned out well?)

(my mom is going to be SO proud!!)

(if you print this and bring it to my next fan club meeting I’ll autograph it for you.  $2 ea.)


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