Monday, May 28, 2012

The Pretenders

After spending 2 nights in Chicago this weekend for Angela's 40th, I realized something (other than she's turning 40):  I am in the middle of everything.

Five of us were there Friday night; Saturday around noon the other four arrived.  Five and nine, respectively.  We had a great time.  I met Devin Hester whose come-on and smile was met with, "Sorry, I'm a Browns fan."  I met Bruce the homeless (?) guy who met my smile with, "Just one of those big bills would help me out."  I met the masseur, a fellow Buckeye (two smiles) with extremely talented elbows.  I met super snotty women in the Nordstrom shoe section who didn't smile at all.  And there were a slew of others with various kinds of smiles or not, for various reasons or not.

Middle seating position after eating the best Mexican food I've ever had


As I tend to do, I took every bit of it in.  People watching is a past time, sort of like an art form.  It's all very interesting, what people do, why they purport to doing it, and how others around them react.  Mostly though, I find it saddening.  There are a lot of unhappy people.  A lot of people who are simply disingenuous no matter how hard they try to be otherwise.  Which somehow makes it even more obvious and painful.  If I had a tally sheet and walked around with a clipboard all weekend (as our buddy Barry did in the dicey joint known as The Hideout announcing to the very irritated bouncer-cover charge money taker-bartender-jack-of-all-trades-woman that he was on "the list"), the findings would have been entirely disproportionate.  True to themselves people are hard to come by these days.

This I know.  Whether I'm in the Windy City or back home in the Fort, there just aren't many people who do what they say, say what they mean, or really even know the difference.  And if I try to discuss this with anyone of significance, that'll just put me in the middle of an argument or a migraine.  I digress, but only slightly...

The middle.  I sat in the middle of two and four couples all weekend (wishing at times there was someone's arm around me, both to keep me close and out of that position).  I am in the middle of a book, the middle of my last class, the middle of the pack when I run.  I'm in the middle of my life, live in the middle of my neighborhood located in the Midwest, and am in the political middle more often than the left or the right.

Even worse, I function middley (made up words are allowed when lamenting).  It's always been this way - and I've always been kind of pissed about the whole thing really.  Am I goodish at most things?  Maybe.  Probably.  But not elite.  Not exceptional.  Just pretty proficient at whatever I try.  Golf - decent.  Tennis - decent.  Educational endeavors - decent.  Running - decent.  Work - decent.  Riding a motorcycle - decent.  Parenting - decent.  Cooking - bad example, but this whole annoying gist is sufficient anyway.

Yes, I am thankful for being able to pick up on most things quickly and easily.  But landing somewhere and totally excelling, I've never done.  Frankly, I think the whole thing is a curse.  I have a ton of interests.  I dabble in a multitude of things.  But what if I finally picked just one?  One sole focus.  Would being superb at one thing trump being pretty good at a bunch of things?

My neighbor, Phil, recently said, If you spent as much time golfing as you did running, you'd kick serious ass.  You'd be scratch.  But, do I really want to do that?  And of even more consequence, am I being true to myself when I can't decide?  This question plagues me.  Almost as much as thinking about a sole non-Devin Hester with his arms around me again.

No matter, I guess.  I'm too busy being respectably average at too many things.  And anyway, someday if he ever does show up, maybe he'll drive in the middle of the road. 

While he listens to me tell him what we're going to go do.







Friday, May 25, 2012

Burning Rubber

Walking into Absolute Results yesterday, even I had a moment where I wondered what's wrong with me.  I'm still hobbling around somewhat - legs, back, and other annoyances are all good to go, but this tendinitis in my heel thing is not.  That will take more time, more patience, and more adjustments.  So when co-workers asked yesterday when I was planning to run again and I answered, "3 hours ago," they collectively rolled their eyes.  Non-runners.

Let the record show I should probably not have run and they may have had reason to ridicule.  I wasn't exactly fast out there.  The "rule" is after a race, you are supposed to take as many days off as miles you completed.  Does the genius originator of that rule realize that's almost an entire month?  Non-runner.

Not only did I get through 5 miles yesterday morning, at 5:00pm Liv and I went to see Evan.  I love that place.  Although yes, as I was yanking my hair up into its Pebbles position, I was having the standard conversation (battle) in my head.  But those two shut up quickly once I gingerly stepped on to the elliptical.  After a few rough steps, I found 250 of them per minute again.  Didn't you just run a marathon?  "Yeah.  But that was 4 days ago."  Non-runner.

Yesterday's workout was intense.  I requested we step it up, and step it up we did.  After lifting heavier weights than usual for many more reps than usual, after "do as many on your toes push-ups before 40 on your knees," after "take those 5's and press them above your head for 60"...I put on gloves.  Not my favorite blue boxing gloves either.  A pair of black jersey you-could-garden-in-these gloves.  I didn't ask, I just followed him outside where I moved an earth mover tire.  10 times in a row x 2 sets. 

I got into a low squat position, put my jersey-gloved hands underneath, exploded up and tossed that sucker over like the (former) Governator was watching.  I LOVED IT!  I guess it was mostly because there was a boot camp class standing outside as well, and they weren't doing much other than giving me strange looks as I was sweating and grunting and smiling.  I suppose I also loved it because it was something new.  Another challenge.  Another step on the road to Boston.

Evan could tell.  He knows me well enough by now to not give me the woes me "you should be proud of yourself for just completing it in that heat" speech.  It's not that I don't appreciate it, believe it, realize it, or accept it - I do.  It's just that I am a runner.



Thursday, May 24, 2012

Stray Cats

Feed them once, they come back for more.  Give them the tiniest bit of encouragement, eye contact, communication, or something to drink and we've got ourselves an instant problem, Houston.  

I constantly waiver between the new nice and patient leaf I've convinced myself I turned some time ago, and my old leaf that occasionally shows up unannounced.  At times, I welcome that old friend.  Sure, I feel badly after it arrives, but it does fit like a glove in those moments it's most needed.  Like for example, when I am working away at my desk and someone walks into my office and wants to chat incessantly about who gives a shit stuff.  Do I look like a water cooler kind of girl?  I know it's mean.  I know I should care.  And honestly - I probably do, just not right then. 

If I look busy, I am busy.  If I don't look busy, I'm thinking about what I need to do next which equates to about-to-be-busy.  If I don't make eye contact with you while you're hovering over my desk, please leave.  My shoulder cannot magically speak, so are you really happy with looking at it for FIVE straight minutes?

Ok, that's the old leaf talking.  The newly turned leaf stops what it's doing and says, "How are you?  Please tell me more."

Thank god it's summer and I have a few months before anyone thinks about leaves.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Learned and Remembered in 3:56

Thank goodness that's over. 
(Yes, that statement can usually go either way, but right now I'm referring to the marathon).

Even when I am maximally exhausted, I detest bad grammar and punctuation.  Therefore, realizing I do not possess the wherewithal right now to avoid either, this post will be in the form of a list.  And completely random at that.

It's been a year and a half since I've run a marathon.  26.2 miles never gets any shorter.  These are the various nuggets which came crashing back to me today.  (Emphasis on crashing...)

1.  Cleveland is cool.  Super cool.  There was a Tribe game going on both yesterday and today at Progressive field.  The districts are fun.  There are new bars.  Jazz bars.  Outdoor bars.  Sports bars.  Steakhouses.  Cozy Italian restaurants.  A huge library.  Museums.  Art.  Chic hotels.  And a new Casino.  I'm going back either soon or permanently.  Or, maybe both.

2.  A race with 20,000 participants should have separate starting times for the Half and Full Marathoners.  Further, newbies should get the hell to the back or at the very least, start where they are supposed to start.  If I wanted to trip over stupid people, I'd go to the Roller Dome.

3.  Pace Groups.  Verdict is still out on this one.  It's the first time I've tried it, and I'm not sure I would do it again.  If I had my druthers, I would run the marathon with 3 other very reliable people (as in, great friends) the whole way.  I love the camradrie, the banter, the feed you get off of each other.  What I do not love, is this forced feeling with strangers - ones that have no regard for proximity or a straight line.  One annoying-for-at least-4 miles guy literally looked over at me at a water stop as he was both cutting me off and seconds away from a right hook only to mutter, "Hey, I'm in the same group." 

4.  And speaking of water stops...what a cluster.  Today was brutally H-O-T (more on this in a minute - or, however long my minutes really are), so I knew to stop at every single station.  Problem was, so did everyone else.  All 20,000 of them.  The volunteers did a great job given the circumstances, but it was a nightmare getting over without getting trampled or pushed or groped.  Even more troublesome was that the pacers somehow managed to magically stay hydrated without entering the choas or losing time.  It was like running a Fartlek in the middle of a marathon trying to catch back up with them.  Clearly not recommended.

5.  It was 63 degrees and overcast at the start of the race.  Had it stayed 63 degrees and cloudy the entire time - man, would finishing times have been drastically different.  It was easily 86 degrees when I hobbled over the final mat (92 on my drive home).  Not only that, but the sun was beating down the entire time we were out there.  I wore a hat and stayed on the sidewalks whenever possible to catch a tree every now and then.  When I got back home a couple hours ago, I stopped out front of my neighbor's house and yelled up to her on the porch, "The @&!*'ing marathon!"  She laughed and came down to the car to get the recap.  Before I could even begin she said, "Gheese...you got some sun!" 

6.  I was on pace through 14.  Even made friends with Jordan, the pacer from Kalamazoo.  He is 27 years old, does these things every other weekend, and was within 3 seconds of the required 8:23 every single mile.  Oh, after mile 5, that is.  Mile 4 was 7:53.  Jerk.

7.  Mistakingly, the entire first half I thought, "I got this."  Even more alarming, dare I admit that I even thought, "This seems slow and pretty stinkin' easy."  And then, 100 yards later - all hell broke loose.  I came out of a water stop, behind as usual, tried to catch up as usual only...yikes.  What is happening?  Oh.  Nothing is happening!  It was like I was running in place.  Stupid race.  But then, I heard 3 airhorns go off and saw my Mom and Dad standing next to Liv.  I busted a move like Young MC and tried to get back to my happy place.  Good.  Yes.  Got it.  Um, don't got it....stupid race.

8.  The stretch to mile 20 was horrid.  It was there that I decided this was positively my last marathon.  Turns out I'm more of a Half-Marathoner.  Swimming?  Cycling?  Definitely getting a bike.  Or, some knitting needles.  No!  This race is mental over physical.  Do NOT think like this, idiot.  So...I picked it up.  Problem was, "picking it up" meant going from like, 8:55 to 8:40.  Waaayyyy over pace.  Just as we did not understand what "respect the distance" meant when we ran our first marathon, likewise I did not understand what "you can't race-race in this kind of heat" meant.  Now I know.  When I wiped my face at mile 17, it wasn't wet.  It was gritty.  Salt oozing out is never a good sign.

9.  I remembered to use Body Glide like it was my job before I left the hotel.   In all the right places except under my iPod arm band.  I have the world's worst chaffing ring underneath my left armpit.  Very attractive and even more painful.  Water, air, and clothing cause me to gaspingly suck in a quick breath and hold back tears.  On a postive note, it is taking the focus off the pain in my lower back, left heel, calves, and quads, so maybe a skanky left arm is not all bad.

10.   I am Italian, but let it be known that I am officially sick of carbs. Paleo sounds perfect right now. In fact, some sauteed cabbage and mushrooms would be heavenly.

11.  When I got back to the room after the race, I had 16 texts and several more emails and Facebook messages.   It's difficult to convey how special those messages were to me in that moment.  As I was spent, drenched, sore, a little disappointed yet simulaneously feeling tough-ish since I didn't stop running as many others did, I sat there smiling.  It's good to have friends that genuinely want you to succeed, and commisserate in complimentary ways when you don't.  I am exceptionally blessed to have such fantastic people in my life.  To have other athletes - way better than you could ever hope to be - say they are proud of you and mean it...wow.  Unbelievable human beings.  Love.

12.  I have the best parents in the world.  Totally supportive no matter what, come out to see me run for a few minutes (of the 3:56) after having just gotten back from vacation, spend time with Liv... just super great.  Yes, I get a little post-marathon weepy, but the older I get the more I am realizing the things in life to treasure above all else.  God.  Family.  Genuine friends.  Real relationships.  Laughter.  Support.  Unconditional love.

13.  No matter that I didn't hit my goal time today.  I finished.  Upright.  I didn't quit, nor will I.  Boston will see me someday and in the meantime, I vow to continue to enjoy every minute of it. 

.1.  Liv walked right up to me after the race, gave me the longest, tightest hug I've had in years and said, "Good job, Mom."  She even allowed me to kiss her on the cheek in response and tearily whisper, "Thanks, sweets." 

And for that...I would have turned right around and run that sucker again.  Off the clock.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Today I Run

In honor of the big day, I'm posting a poem I wrote in February. 3:40. Let's go.


MOVE ALONG

Running after dreams,
shattered, brand-new
Running to cross the inevitable finish line,
hurting and bruised
Running for the glory only seen and celebrated in reflection


Running from fears, running from pain
Today I will run and I will run without gain
I will run today, with a power to live!
With my love and my pride and my hate
I will not think - the noises and thoughts will my legs overtake


My muscles will pump and the blood will flow through
My joints will ache and my emotions will drain
My heart will pound as broken it cries
But through all of this I will run on, pushing the verge
Knowing that where I’m going is better than where I’ve been


Change, grow, move, shape
My body has limits
But my mind is doing the work
And my mind is strong
Run today, today I run

















Thursday, May 17, 2012

Seriously?

...is exactly what I said running east down Broad Street at the start of the Columbus Marathon in October 2009.  I know this because my running partner made fun of me after the race.  At lunch, while I was literally curled up in a ball in a booth, we all recapped the 26.2 miles worth of festivities and he said, "We weren't even .5 miles into it and she was going crazy."

I wasn't going crazy.  There was a wall of women walkers locked arm in arm singing to the birds or some shit.  All I wanted to do was get around them.  So I apparently uttered, "Seriously?!" loud enough that they might comprehend and move aside as any considerate non-athlete would do.  They must have, because it was the first time I broke 4 hours in a marathon.

Hopefully Sunday will be the first time I qualify for Boston with a slightly faster - ok, 12 minutes or so faster - finishing time.  I know what needs to be done, I just need to go do it.  Not only so I can get to Beantown next April, but so I can have my life back.

Because I need some serious sleep.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

I'll Take Single for $100, Alex

I've been receiving a lot of messages the last couple days and I must admit - I'm torn.  Half of me gets totally pumped when I read the "good luck!" and the "you can do it!" well wishes, and the other half wants to pretend this is any other week with any other long run coming up this weekend.  Appreciation and avoidance all wrapped in one neat little post-race aluminum foil blanket.

Welcome to my brain's typical inner workings.  Yes...No.  Do it...Don't. Go...Stay.  Why...Why not?  If I didn't know my Irish-Italian family, I'd go Jewish.  Yep, I would peg me for a Jew as I question the hell out of everything.  I would kill it on Jeopardy.  Even if I didn't have the right answer, I'd at least ask it the right way.

Once when I was on trial in Columbus, I remember asking the lawyer why he wanted an answer to whatever question he posed.  There were chuckles in the jury, but I wasn't laughing.  I was serious (and quite young so I'm sure it seemed disrespectful, but whatever, he was an old idiot). 

So imagine my surprise and subsequent restraint when one of my girlfriends asked me last weekend if I was going to watch the new season of The Bachelorette.  "Are you kidding me?" is what I wanted to ask her, followed by, "Are you sure we're friends?  Aren't friends supposed to like, oh I don't know...know each other?" 

Yet in true kismet of my sarcasm form, last night when I was unable to sleep or concentrate on any words on a page, I grabbed the TV remote and there it was.  And it was even more painful and unimaginable than previously assumed. 

There was this very pretty (albeit, a bit Jiminy Cricket-eyed and too much gloss on the lips) blond woman in a very pretty (albeit, way too crazy ornamental for any non-Taj Mahal establishment) evening gown welcoming all the bachelors to the show.  Ok, really?  Just the premise makes me want to puke wedding mints.

This reason-stereotypes-exist-woman is standing at the end of a promenade under an of course gigantic crystal chandelier that made the sparkly sheen on her augmented lips even more blinding.  I was looking for any indication that the prop people are as dumb as the "actors" so maybe the thing would come crashing down on her head and put us all out of our misery.  Except my friend, who would be so bored she'd probably have to re-read Fifty Shades of Grey.

So out of some form of transportation come the potential suitors to introduce themselves to a pretty woman that they want to marry.  Oh, yes.  Of course they want to marry her.  Don't be silly.  Why wouldn't they want to marry a total stranger that they meet for the very first time under an unfortunately sturdy crystal chandelier?  Every keeper's dream.

Contemptuously I'm watching this, wishing I had my iPhone near by to un-friend my moron friend.  The first guy, kinda cute, rolls up in a limo and is shockingly normal.  Dressed well, nice smile, reasonably genuine, he introduces himself, gives her a quick hug and departs.  Fine.  Tolerable. 

The second guy, however, rolls up in a skateboard.  Totally out of place.  Sure, if there were ramps and chain link fences and dogs barking and a the only glass was from a bong instead of a giant light fixture, it would have been appropriate.  If the dude would have yelled, "Veni-Vidi-Vici!" I may have been interested.  Instead, my bitterness was affirmed.

And then.  Then there was the guy who comes in walking as if he had just tossed back 62 shots of protein shake, maintaining such forced eye-contact that you expected his future bride to immediately transform into an alien and a giant "V" come flashing up in PowerPoint transition style across the screen.  He immediately drops to one knee, kisses her hand and says the following in a Barry White meets 900# telemarketer voice:  It's not the number of breaths you take, it's the moments that take your breath away and this is one of them. 

Sometimes, I burst into laughter at such stupidity.  And other times, I just give thanks for finally being able to fall asleep.  Alone.  No questions asked.





Sunday, May 13, 2012

Irreplaceable

Today is the day Mothers everywhere are celebrated.  I've already received my first text and I am about to go to church where I've already prepared for crying.  No eye make-up can be worn on Mother's Day.

Today is the day I remember on an even deeper level just how blessed I am.  I have a Mom and a Daughter that I could not possibly love any more than I do.

Today is the day I recognize and appreciate the innumerable things my Mom has given up for me, and value that she knew me first - before life and all its innocence-stealing occurred.

Today is the day I feel bonded and connected to an entire Mothering community; one in which we all tip our hats to each another and acknowledge the sometimes thankless job it is.  We acknowledge the heartbreak, the frustration, the exhaustion, the joy, and the utter willingness to do it all over again.  And we reluctantly acknowledge that when the day comes when our children will no longer be under our roofs, those wings we gave them to fly will work.  Through mascara-free tear-filled eyes we will watch them soar, with trembling smiles on our faces.

Today all kids - young and old alike - will say only nice things about their Mothers.  They will talk to their Mothers. They will be with their Mothers.   Some will miss their Mothers and Grandmothers alike. They will respect the circle of life and all its underrated serenity.

On this day, I both celebrate and am celebrated.  On this day, I will listen as Liv talks with me more than usual, allows me (maybe) to hug her, and will sit next to me for at least 90 minutes eating pizza and watching a movie as per yearly ritual. 

And on this day, I will look at her and pause -  remembering that a sickness which threatened to prematurely annul my role as a Mom almost made me miss the best job I will always love.  Then I'll hug her a little tighter  - even if she does the teenage squirm shuffle.



The one I celebrate and the one who celebrates me (I know it)

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Pride and Prejudice

It was with reluctance that I started having someone come in once a month to clean my house.  Most probably, it was due to a combination of pride (I can run a sweeper), frugality (I already own one), and a don't-invade-my-personal-haven sort of thing (why are you going to know where I keep it?). 

But as with all things in life, something had to give.  I simply could not keep up the frenetic pace in which I operate and simultaneously manage to stay off the Health Department's Most Wanted Inspection List.  Plus, tooth paste-speckled mirrors and ring around the loo are public enemies #1 and 2 to me.

Enter Sara.  Sara came highly recommended by a friend at church.  I was told that they "bus them in" every morning and they clean like banshees.  I had no idea what either one of those things meant but I needed some help, so I called her.  No...wait. I take that back.  I called her driver.

Sara is Amish.  She was an 18-year old Amish girl when she began coming the last Thursday of each month, and she is now a 20-year old married Amish girl.  I know this because last night I attended her "English" reception in Decatur with Liv and her best friend in tow.

A few months ago, Sara told me with a beaming smile that she and "John" were getting hitched.  Good luck with that, darlin'.  I returned the smile and congratulated her as any non-bitter divorced human being would do.  And then she asked me.

Are yous a comin' to the weddin'?

Um, sure.  I mean, are we allowed?  Obviously, I had no idea what their cultish beliefs are, other than the whole stereotypical no electricity, no deodorant thing.

Of course you can come!  It's my dream that all my English ladies I clean for will be there.

Well then, it was settled.  To an Amish weddin' I was a goin'.  Sara is the sweetest and I'm always up for new experiences.  Once I attended a Kingdom Hall with my buddy, Yaves.  It was interesting, enlightening, exceptionally long and dare I say, fun on some level.  I left there feeling totally welcomed, but still an Evangelical Christian nonetheless.  Similarly, I was confident my religious beliefs were not in jeopardy when Liv, Mariam, and I hopped in my engine-powered car and headed to Amish country.

I had no idea she rides as far as she does to clean homes.  The drive took forever.  Once we past Arnold's Drive-In on the main drag in Decatur, it was easily another 30 minutes through no man's land.  The GPS shockingly directed us correctly, otherwise there would have been no way to discern one house from the other.  Barn after barn after laundry-out-back barn we passed until we came to the house where Sara grew up.  It's the same house she and John will live in with her parents and gaggle of siblings until they save enough money to buy their own horses and such.

After passing numerous buggies, horses and the glamorous remnant droppings, we slowly drove down the long gravel driveway to a very large and quaint homestead.  Everything before our eyes was as expected; well, other than the BMW's, Mercedes, and Caddy's lining either side of the gravel.  That was just plain weird and wrong, kind of like seeing a big yacht or mobile home parked in a neighborhood where you instantly know covenants are being broken.  Sara's English customers have nice rides...

I kinda wanted to jump out of the car and yell, "Are you excited to see us, Clark?"  But it was awkward enough and it's zero fun wasting classic movie lines.  (I did hear someone call one of the zillion kids "Eddie" - which made me smile and an Amish guy end up inadvertently confused).

After entering the pole barn, we were immediately greeted by Sara's excruciatingly shy but kind and hospitable mother, who asked us if we wanted to fix our plates.  The barn was segregated into two areas:  the right side was a well-oiled assembly food line manned by all women; the left was the eating area with plastic covered picnic tables lined up horizontally.  It was a big crowd on both sides, and unlike the yard out front, people were mixing well inside.

I took it all in, including the food.  Oh, that food.  Homemade noodles, ham (which I even ate), and mashed potatoes (ditto) scooped from a pot as deep as an Olympic-sized swimming pool via a ladle as heavy as the weights Evan insists I try to heave above my head.  The girls were unbelievably attentive, informing us that more "lettuce" was coming.  (I'm on high alert with the lettuce lately, given my Digger neighbors installation of a life-sized plastic ornamental rabbit on the border of our lawns).  The salad came out and I took that in, too.  Good thing I only know one Amish person and run a lot.

As we took our seats at the picnic table, I sat quietly and ate - completely soaking in every bit of what was happening around me.  This new environment.  This lifestyle which we English construe as bizarro world, shut off from reality.  But is it?  Or are we the strange ones?

Some days I could argue either point.  That community functions on a level most of us run ragged every day to accomplish.  Every person I encountered treated me, upon introduction, like I had just given them a basket full of puppies and some gold bullions.  Their roles are clearly identified, and even if a woman aspires for more, you wouldn't know it.  The men are respectful of their wives, their children, and one another.

They are happy people living in a happy little world, enjoying each other and the simple things in life.  And to that, I raise my flute filled with not champagne and say, "Kudos to you, Sara and company."








Monday, May 7, 2012

Wake Up Call

2am.  That is exactly the time, give or take 3 minutes on either side, that I awaken every single night in a flash of heat.  It doesn't matter what I eat, what time I have gone to bed, or where I am sleeping (let's not get too excited - my house, my parent's, or a hotel while racing/vacationing alone). 

This has been occurring since November 2010 when the magic medicine which I consumed to alleviate the hackneyed annoyance had to be stopped.  Fine, it's not like it's the end of the world or anything.  Except it sort of is when I can't fall back asleep.  My brain has a tendency to continue to swirl on high alert even during resting hours.  That too, would be fine if I was solving our economic or health care crises, thinking of ways to bring fresh water into remote areas of the world, or even figuring out my second and third shots on a par 5.  But alas, I just think about stupid stuff. 

(At least last night drummed up some laughter as I recalled my shopping spree in Qwonset Hut yesterday where, as the aromatic combination of incense and weed burned, I purchased a magnet for my office which reads:  I am one bad relationship away from having 30 cats) 

My Mom sleeps with ice cubes next to her bed and sinks a wrist into them when she's awakened.  Some women sleep with a fan spinning above them.  Some women just deal with it. 

I suppose I fall into the latter category.  Frankly, there's really no other choice than dealing with whatever comes our way.  Death, taxes and...morning.

The Best Part of Wakin' Up...

Happily, coffee also helps me run faster.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

On Being A Dude

If I had balls (literally...metaphorically I'm well-equipped), I would be able to state the following idiom tonight:  I was sweatin' my balls off while grilling out. 

In an effort to eat as much protein as humanly possible before the 20th, I bought enough chicken to make Colonel Sanders look silly.  If you ask me, the only proper way to eat chicken is doused in Sweet Baby Ray's and charred black and grill-striped. 

Grilling is not my strong-suit, mind you.  I have discovered and embraced a myriad of household deficiencies over the past 16 months.  Weeds.  Stupid they need pulled so often.  Gutters.  Someone really should invent an automated mechanism which sends the crud out along with the water.  TV.  Who cares.

How hard can it be to operate a grill?  I can start it just fine.  Turn the nozzle on the tank to the Open position as the helpful arrows indicate.  Check.  Lift the cover.  Check.  Turn on all four burners.  Got it.  Hit ignite.  Flames.  Good.  Close the cover to let it get all nice and hot.  I even remembered to clean it first, scraping off the remnants from the Fresh Market burgers I grilled the other night. 

The problem I faced with the plump and juicy BBQ breasts was the doneness.  They looked Cooking Light worthy from the outside, so I smugly took another sip of my Riesling and looked around at the insane amounts of green in my backyard.  I felt like a true manly-man for a brief second - sans the wine, I think a Growler is the dude thing to drink before spatting over a shoulder.  Just as I was about to tong them on over to a fresh plate, I simultaneously noticed a bee hive under the deck railing and the pink inside the centers.  Great.  Like I need an Epipen injection or salmonella poisoning 17 days before my face becomes splotchy enough and my stomach explodes all on its own.

I cannot seem to figure out which way to turn those ADA compliant dials to make the flames become hotter.  I know...I know, you'd think all you would need to do is turn one all the way to the right or left and visually inspect the flames underneath to see if they shoot up any higher.  No luck.  And I was too hungry to attempt any further troubleshooting.  So I just stood there patiently, deciding what kind of pizza I'm ordering tomorrow night.

All this - and last week after I broke some pottery Liv made me when she was little, I had no choice but to march into Lowe's and purchase some JB Weld. 

I'm wearing heels tomorrow.  Begrudgingly.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

May Flowers

Yesterday I awoke in a slight panicky mist.  May 1st.  Uh-oh.  It's May.  May is here!

Less than three weeks and I'll be lining up in downtown Cleveland.  The place I used to go when I was a little girl to watch my beloved Tribe play baseball.  The place I used to (and still do) proudly display on jerseys, T-shirts, and hats.  Browns, Cavs, Indians.  It's the place Chels and I used to drive, like Thelma and Louise, when we'd skip school.  Hello?  Tower City Mall?  Yes, we are on our way.  We'll smell the perfumes in Neiman's and give a shout out to Chemistry. 

It's the city in which she and I had dinner and drinks before flying out the next morning to go on a Carnival Cruise four months after Liv was born.  The city I'm hopefully going to rock and roll through on May 20th - remembering along the way that it is also the exact same place I spent 35 days in a hospital going through a healing process.

Ah, the process.  Isn't everything a process?  This marathon training has been a 5 month process.  It will have a conclusion (hence, the slight panicky mist).  Boston or not.  The sales process.  Sold or not.  The relational process.  Solid relationship or not.  The parenting process.  A productive kid or a tat-bearing delinquent who decorates the basement till their late 40's.  The life process.  Lots of ways that one can go, isn't there?

Life goes on all around us whether we choose to actively participate or not.  As this morning's dense fog begins to lift, I see van Gogh-like irises staring right back at me.  Looking at me as if to say, "Yep...here I am again.  Like perennial clockwork."  Sure they're dormant for a season, but then up they come, reminding us that we love sweet smells, beautiful colors, and the anticipation of summer warmth.

Later April showers.  Time to enjoy this month!

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Now What?

For the third time in my life, I graduated on Sunday.  It is my first Master's Degree, although I wore a black gown complete with a non-Aeropostle hoodie signifying the College of Theology instead of a green jacket. 

I  used to loathe people who were "professional students."  You know, the kind that have 27 initials and dots after their name and are forever writing "dissertations."  But now - now I sort of want to become one of those people, if I'm not unawarely doing it already.

At least that much I know with certainty.  I can neither imagine the cessation of learning nor the idea of staying quiet about what we've learned.  Whether it's from textbooks or real life experiences, sharing knowledge with others is paramount. 

How remiss are we if we don't look out for one another?  We're all in this great big thing together, and we have been placed exactly where and when we are for a specific purpose. 

People who walk around this world aimlessly amaze me.  While I am certainly not exempt at times, I am fully aware that there's some calling I've yet to answer.  As we marched triumphantly (obeying our Master of Ceremonies in Biblical reenactment) across campus to the gymnasium for commencement, I was overcome with joy.  As tired as I was, as lost as I sometimes feel, as difficult as some of that coursework was...it was a serenely peaceful walk. 

Church bells were producing a beautiful rendition of Amazing Grace (my favorite), which of course caused me to tear up for the first of about six times that afternoon.  Liv thinks it's funny; she purposely makes it her teenage mission in life to purchase the most gut wrenching sappy-sap cards she can find, as I'm relatively certain she's become a bookie on the side and has an over/under going on somewhere.  I bet she cries harder than the time she did at church on Mother's Day when they flashed pictures up on the screen...and it wasn't even me...

We were met in the auxiliary gym by an applauding choir, lined up on both sides.  Teary eyes number two.  I still can't quite gauge with accuracy if it was due to the impending graduation or a trip down basketball memory lane.  Either way.  Less mascara.  Walking into the filled-to-capacity gymnasium, I made the trek down the middle aisle to the third row.  My parents and Liv were seated exactly where they knew to be (following in Dad's Master's footsteps; he has a hoodie, too).  I waved, smiled, and was thankful for my Catholic roots which taught me how to sit and stand on queue like a champ.

Dr. Sarah M. Kilemi was the brilliant guest speaker from Kenya.  She, along with her loving and supporting family, traveled 24 hours across the oceans to receive an Honorary Doctorate Degree and deliver a speech that moved me to tears (three through six).  At a very basic level, she discussed the need to help people.  To give more than we receive, to love more than we need to be loved, to be humble, and to serve. 

Lots of people say that stuff.  Lots of people agree with that stuff.  Very few people do that stuff.

I don't know if a Master's Degree will help me to be more of a doer than I already am or not.  I don't know the answer to "What are you going to do now?" when I'm asked.  And I don't know exactly what road I am supposed to be on...just yet. 

But thankfully, I do know how to spot roadblocks from a much greater distance than when I was younger.  You won't hear me argue about whether it's from the degree or the (seriously?) experiences, just as long as they get out of my way.  There's lots to do.

They've been to all three  (More tears)
The only time all day she wasn't texting (More wine)




From my loving sister...
Who knows me well!