Hello, Birdie.

I hate birds.  Well, with one exception:  Hummingbirds.  Those little suckers fascinate me. 

So it should have come as no surprise to me at all that I did not immediately jump on the Twitter bandwagon.  When that little Tweety Bird hit the air waves, I seriously thought it was Looney.  Mel Blanc had to be at least a little pissed, taking a roll around his newly dug home.  I can hear him now - I'm a tweet wittow biwd in a diwded gwave...

Ok, that's just craziness.  But much to my chagrin, twitter is not.  It's new and interesting and fun to me.  I couldn't possibly enjoy learning about it any more than I have this past week.  And on some level, I maybe even want to know every last thing about it.  Haven't quite decided yet.  As they say, the jury is still out.  In serious deliberation, mind you, but undecided nonetheless.

While I've learned some important etiquette such as it's polite to thank someone for a RT (retweet, losers) and DM's are fun - the most important piece of background twitter information told to me by an expert in the field is that it originated with the intent of being similar to text messaging.  Now I'm not sure if that is exactly true or he - inexplicably and almost immediately- figured out how my brain works and gave me a meaningful correlation to hush up my line of rapid fire questioning.  In either case, I got it.  It's kind of like texting.

Texting...that is a whole 'nother thing I could go on about.  I have no idea how many texts I send and receive on a daily basis.  65?  70?  Who knows.  It may even be well over 100.  I communicate all day long.  This week, however, I'm quite certain it has exceeded whatever constitutes my standard number. 

Which leaves me feeling a bit hypocritical.  I'm constantly ordering Liv to put that $!*@ phone down and STOP TEXTING.  Please, for the love of all things holy, would you stop acting like a teenager?!

(That wasn't directed at her.)

Yo.

This is what I start most texts, emails, or greetings with when I chat with one of my very best friends.  Truth be told, I have no idea why we're still friends, in that he scolds me on a regular basis.  Today when I divulged a little nugget to him it was, "Oh god."

He's from the South.  A little Southern bell.  Polite, those people.  All except this one.

The other scold today came in the form of this question:  "Are you ever gonna write again?"  So I sent him a link to another blog which will commence on February 13th and have daily entries through April 26th.  He read it.  I got no response until I inquired.

Yeah, I read it.

Good concept?

That is "public" Beth.  I miss the side you show on your personal blog.

You just miss ME.

I do miss you!

It's almost 10:00, dude.  I'm boxing at 4:30 tomorrow morning.  The race is in 18 days.  Liv is upstairs in my bathroom (renovated hers for her B-day) jamming to One Direction.  I got nothin' and I need some sleep.  I know you'll understand because not only do you miss me, you love me!  I promise to write more on this blog and also come visit soon.

Damn, you're high maintenance.  Friggin' southerner.

Dorian Gray: Part 2

“When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.”   
                                                                                  --Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

I wrote about Lance Armstrong back in August when the "shocking" revelation hit the airwaves like he had just pedaled over a cliff bigger than the fiscal one.  Back in August, I was much more tolerant of that revelation than I am now.  Back in August, I still kind of liked and admired the guy and felt only slightly, not fully, bamboozled. 

Today, five months later, I no longer like or admire him and in fact am on the verge of wishing I would have never laid eyes on the man.  Never worn his yellow bracelet.  Never secretly wished I could emulate him.  And certainly, unequivocally, never put him up on a pedestal which he did not deserve to be hoisted upon.

You see, Lance suckered us big time.  He lured us in and then spat us out the moment he no longer needed us to fawn and drool and ooh and aah over him and his accomplishments.  His accolades.  His smart, rich, and sexy.  The moment he was done impressing us with his fiction, he left us high and dry.

Was Oprah really surprised that "Lance did not come clean in a manner she expected?"  I know I'm a faster marathoner than the woman (thank god), but I truly didn't think I was smarter.  (Fine, I may have thought it but my bank account proves otherwise.)  She said she studied for that interview like it was a college exam, reading everything she could get her hands on and compiling a list of 112 questions to ask His Highness, but they didn't much matter.  And to that I say two things:  one, it confirms O did not attend college because no one is sober long enough to study that much and secondly, what a waste.

What a waste of her time on a man who did not deserve her intrigue.  What a waste of American athlete's time everywhere - thinking here is an individual on the up and up, who is totally above board, who we should all befriend and bend over backwards to love and cherish.  We should have genuine concern for him, his family, his life, his interests, his needs, his experiences.

You know what Oscar Wilde said about experience?  He said "Experience is merely the name men give to their mistakes."

Screw you, Lance.  You are and were and will forever more be a phony. 

The romance is over. 

Yet, I would be remiss if I did not thank you for being such a disheartening experience.  Truly.
Because just as one of your many ex-girlfriends once sang:  You're My Favorite Mistake.


 

Beth's Top Ten List of Reasons Why Pneumonia Can Help You Realize Previous Unknowns

One of my best buddies told me, after sending him the below list, that boredom has full onset.  Not necessarily.  I am working by tail off from home.  I just like lists.  And, I like a little empathy when I have pneumonia.

10.  Being the one in the Dr.’s waiting room receiving the dirty looks instead of giving them is way more refreshing than the collective airflow.

9.  Shallow sighing at people is not nearly as fun as full sighing at people.

8.  The dog doesn’t sleep all day nor have a bladder the size of Texas?

7.  Skipping 2 high-mileage weeks 41 days before the marathon won’t be a problem at all.  Fresh legs. 

6.  The number of ways in which to wear nasty unwashed hair in a pony-tail is virtually endless.

5.  Edy’s may be “slow churned,” but when your throat and lungs are on fire, it most certainly does not have to be consumed in that manner.

4.  Wearing sunglasses inside your own home to avoid the light makes you feel like a Kardashian.  And no matter how bad one may look at that given moment, they'll still be smarter.

3.  Saying “Why yes, more soup, a gallon of milk, the mail, and gas in my car if you don’t mind” has a certain ring to it.  My standard guilt has also been temporarily sidelined.

2.  Who knew Erica Kane is finally off the air?

1.  Running 7 miles with pneumonia is nothing if not helpful come race day.  (Oops.  Pre-diagnosis).

 

 

 

 

New Year = New Everyone?

 

I've never understood it, frankly.  And this "new" year was even on a Tuesday.  It's not like our new year began the week afresh.  So why in the world was I reduced to reading everyone's "New Year's Resolutions" on Facebook like I was going to have to add brand new friends by the end of the News Feed?  People, please.  We are people.  We don't change.  At least not much and certainly not in the span of Monday-Wednesday.

When I walked out of the hospital after being in there for 35 days after intense chemo and other modesty-stripping procedures, people continuously asked me if I was "changed."  Do you stop and smell the roses now?  Do you give thanks for everything around you each and every moment?  Does butter taste creamier than ever?  I was 25.  My secretions had been measured to 1/4 of a fluid ounce every day for over a month.  I had been poked, prodded, plucked, and all other medically necessary Harlequin-like things by total strangers.  NO, I was not instantly changed.  Sure I was glad to be the hell out of there, but I was still me.  What I was lighter from in missing hair, I more than made up for in heavy guilt from the constant inquisitions of whether or not I was a new and improved me. 

(Note to naive 25-year-old me:  YES.  Cancer-free was enough.)

So call me jaded (again), but I find the whole New Year's Resolution thing revolting.  People are people.  Some are well-intentioned, some are not.  Some vacillate between the two on a regular basis.  No matter - not for me to decide.  I've gotten burned by trying to convince myself I know someone one too many times to render myself an expert. 

But what I do know with absolute certainty is that God puts people in our paths at exactly the right time.  For example, last week in tradition fashion, we met at Chels' house in Columbus.  And by "we" I mean the four of us:  Beth, Beck, Chels, and me.  Friends for over 35 years.  There's no bullshit, there's no pretense, there's no hiding a thing.  It all comes to the forefront whether you want it to or not.  The wine helps a little too, but honestly, we were completely sober the entire time which outsiders would not have believed given the increase in decibel levels over the course of the evening.

The boyfriends we'd rather never remember, the flings we wish we could, the Oh My God you screwed him...really? conversations (full disclosure:  I was the one asking that question, not answering) - it was all very refreshing.  Trips down memory lane can do that to you in a matter of minutes.  More importantly, they can alleviate the here and now, which as you may have guessed by now my astute readers, won't cause any backlash from yours truly in this season of life.

After spending genuinely accepting and loving time with them, I finally made the connection between my self-conscious struggle in being satisfied (i.e. stop setting higher and higher goals) and my equivalently self-conscious struggle in being well...in this season of life.  My friend Beth literally just got married for the first time 3 years ago.  She was the most experienced dater among us.  Without going into too much detail about her, let's just say it is rare when she speaks up and even rarer to hear her say anything negative about anyone.  Out of no where she turned to me and said, "Stop liking the wrong ones.  You've always liked the wrong ones.  The ones who treat you like crap, the ones who are emotionally unavailable.  Me too.  But trust me, there are better ones out there.  And for god's sake will you SLOW DOWN?  It just delays everything." 

I teared up and sipped another gulp of my wine.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.  At least that's what $110 bucks an hour would insist upon repeating like some kind of marathon mantra.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.

Please.  Who am I kidding and why am I throwing money around like I should have something entitled "Writ" after each session? 

We are all just people.  And we are all gonna be just fine.

Happy 2013.  Including all four of its seasons.