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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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)

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."

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.

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.

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!

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!

Ibuprofen.

Why is it that when we each say, "I will never do that again!" we mean it with the utmost sincerity, but given the right set of circumstances, it goes immediately out the window along with the fantastic dinner you just consumed?

I am not 19 anymore.  Clearly.

The perfect storm.  Super fun friends, off the charts humor and laughter, a fair amount of amiable competition, and way, way too much wine.  Or whatever it was.

Oddly, all I can think of right now is that I'm sure they're all still sleeping - snug as little bugs in rugs - and will wake up and go on about their days like any other.  All the while, I can barely spell and am feeling like a Red Cross volunteer in my own home. 

My ex-friend's birthday is in 11 days; her birthday party is in 13 days.  Here's hoping she likes the blue-plate special and shuffleboard tournament we're having.

We Have a Quorum

I had lunch today with couple friends of mine at a Mexican restaurant.  That woman could eat Mexican food 21 times a week and never get sick of it.  I already feel nauseous.  Too much cheese and it's rare I ever say those words.

So this couple has been married for oh...4 years maybe?  They were each married once or twice before and are totally in love.  It's sickening cute.  Finishing each other's sentences and stuff.  Eye contact, she throws her head back when he makes her laugh, light touches on the arm, whatever.  I have no idea why I tolerate it.

Wait.  Yes, I do.  They are fantastic friends.  He was (is) a customer of mine and, after getting to know me, insisted I meet his wife.  So thankful I did because she and I laugh like crazy (well, mostly she laughs at me with my sagas but more on that in a minute).  Additionally, she has a shoe problem.  Far be it for me to "fix" anything with a fairly new friend - I kind of suck at that anyway - so I allow her to buy many more pairs of shoes than her feet could ever possibly feel like wearing.  Oh, and I got her into running.  She's officially hooked and participating in the Indy Mini next weekend.  Wish I could go!  Next year.

It's been a while since we've all seen each other.  Work, kids, and life have been getting in the scheduling way.  So we carved out 90 minutes to slam some chips, salsa, and cheese together. 

Yeah...(smirking)...what's new, Beth?

I totally know what they mean every time they ask this.  They want to know about any miserable dates I've been on recently.  For several months I've had zero stories for them, so their vicarious nosey little lives have been dull.  However, today I didn't disappoint.

You won't believe it, so let's just have a beer, shall we?

I tried.  I tried to avoid the whole recap of what was perhaps, the most ridiculous way I've spent a Friday night since 1989.  But alas, they know me too well.  They know I cannot keep funny stories inside for long since my hands want to move along with my speech at a hundred miles an hour as I recount the festivities.

Short version:  a friend of "friends" who non-psychotically asked if I would be so kind as to tag along and attend a "quick Birthday cocktail party," then we'd meet up with our mutual friends shortly thereafter.  Wasn't so much that.  More like a dinner with people I wouldn't normally hang out with.  Sitting next to a guy that I wouldn't normally hang out with, and don't want to ever again. 

Fine if the story ends there.  There were some highlight film comments which I skipped because I've worked hard this past week to cause permanent amnesia.  But the story continues because Mr. Get A. Clue hasn't left me alone all week.  Message after message after message.  Today was the first day of silent bliss.  TGIF.

Additionally, he even sent messages to our mutual friends asking "what's wrong with Beth?"  Funny.  In my earlier dating career, I may have asked the same question.  He's apparently a little shocked that I'm not interested because "most women are."  I'm not most women.

This woman is learning from her mistakes.

(Aside:  Some things I'm just a little slower at than others.  And as long as I am not one second slower than 3:40 in Cleveland, I promise not to dwell on the fact it has taken me roughly 40 years to (almost) figure out the other.) 

The Rose of Tacloban

I have a shoe problem.  I have an undeniable, innate obsession with shoes.  Always have.  My Dad used to call me "Imelda"when I was little, although I just smiled and thought it was synonymous with "sweetie," or "honey." 

My realization of this is not profound; rather, I realize it all the time and don't care.  To coin my least favorite phrase in the history of overused stupid statements: it is what it is. 

I do however, remember when it became absolutely essential that I own a certain pair of shoes.  I HAD to have them; I would DIE without them.  ...Clogs.  Wooden clogs.  We were visiting my grandparents in Ashtabula and we drove around that entire town until I found the exact pair I wanted.  Two-toned.  Strap around the ankle.  I insisted we look while we were there because my friends would not be able to shop in the same store and thus, could not have the same ones.

That was second grade so you'd think my parents would have known it wasn't going to be an easy path ahead of them.  Of course I was more than willing to walk or run that path as long as my kicks were appropriate, new, and no one else had them.  That was key.  The comfort part came later.

Fast forward to the summer between 8th grade and High School.  Chels and I were all consumed that summer - as we laid out in her backyard sandwiched between baby oil and sweat-smelling terry cloth beach towels - with what we'd be wearing on our big day.  Our big day when, indubitably, the red carpet would be rolled out for us by some letterman-jacket-wearing heartthrobs. 

Think stonewashed jean skirts, button down shirts, Swatch watches, big permed hair complete with penny roll bangs, and....what shoes?!  No way, no how could I walk into that high school with older boys standing there all Fast Times at Ridgemont-ish wearing the wrong shoes!  I lost sleep over it until my ever understanding Mom took me back to Belden Village Mall for the umpteenth time and we purchased...wait for it...white boat shoes that I "tied" in curly-Q's on the side.  No lacing.  Don't be absurd. 

I went to Israel 4 years ago and one of my favorite stops was the Naot Shoe Factory.  When our pastor announced we were going there for "a little bit," my friend Erin looked over at me and asked, "Is that possible for you?"  Turns out yes (since it was a loooong walk home), and I successfully purchased two very cool pairs.  Summer sandals and black and tan look-like bowling shoes. Both are off the charts comfy with Velcro closures.  Wear them all the time.

I honestly don't know what it is, this inherent love of footwear.  It is the thing I notice first about people when I meet them, right after the hands.  This cerebral information provides me with everything I need to know about a person in the first 10 seconds.  Spot on every time.

Basketball shoes, track shoes, cross country shoes, softball shoes, pool shoes, dressy shoes, funky shoes, two-toned shoes, tall shoes, summer shoes, warm and fuzzy slipper shoes, and lots and lots of boots...I guess not much has changed.  Except my closet is much more organized.  Oh, and my taste in flooring. 

Two for Tuesday

Training not only continues, it has officially been ramped up.  Kind of like that presentation you've known for over a month you have to give and all of a sudden it's tomorrow, so it's crunch time.  I am in official Cleveland crunch time.

Personal training at Absolute Results is happening 3 days a week rather than the twice a week it has been since late November.  Two of the days consist of isolated arms and core; the other day is nothing but legs.  Inevitably, inside of 30 minutes instead of breathing like a horse, I'm hobbling around like I have just ridden one cross country delivering some mail.  But not this past Tuesday.  Tuesday I was on fire.

It was a two-a-day for me, as I ran a speed workout at 5:00am (8 x 800's @ 6:50 pace, 1:30 rest) and hit AR at 4:00pm.  Usually my workouts there with Evan are 90 minutes.  But not Tuesday.  Tuesday lasted 2 hours. 

Oh yes.  2 full hours of non-stop, heart-thumping, sweat-pouring competition against poor, unaware fellow attendees.  I started with a 10 minute warm up on the elliptical since Evan gave me the death look when I started to move towards the treadmill.   (My heel is hanging in there, but pounding out 2 fast laps at a time on the track for 4 miles never does it any favors.)

There are 3 ellipticals and 3 treadmills all in a row, directly in front of a mirror.  To my left was a very pale woman who, as my friend Angela would say, needed to tone it down a bit because the personality explosion was distracting.  I tried to crack some jokes with this newbie, but she was looking at me with disdain which is always nano-secondly hurtful.  She apparently had become an aware attendee.

To my right was some guy that Evan should have first hooked up to an EKG and had sign numerous disclaimers so as to avoid future legal ramifications after he plunged to his death from walking at 21 miles an hour for 30 seconds.  Yes, I do realize this all sounds arrogant and harsh but come on - I was not the only person thinking it AND...let's all just stick to what we're good at, shall we?  I'm not going to actuary school anytime soon either.

And then...then there is Leslie.  Leslie is about 17, obvious cheerleader and narcissist, and clearly dumb.  Ok, I'm trying here.  Let me rephrase.  Clearly naive.  As she struts around, she sizes me up.   Really? Really, seriously?  This is the second time she's done it; the first time I acted my age. 

In that moment, as we were side-by-side on the ellipticals, the place could have been teeming with Olympians chanting "Cleveland!  Cleveland!  Cleveland!" while Springsteen's Born to Run was blaring and it would not have even registered with me.  I was on a mission.  No way was whatever her little brain mustered going to happen.

[She "had to go to the bathroom" and hopped off after roughly 3 minutes.  Mission accomplished.  Adult 1, Child 0].

So that was the first 10 minutes at AR on Tuesday.  Let's just say I was ready for the next what was supposed to be 80 minutes.

Rep after rep after rep with those stupid weights.  15lbs, 20lbs, 25lbs.  No rest in between.  I was drenched and loving every minute of it.  My arms were so spent by the end of that hour and a half that when Evan said, "Last thing.  Take those 5's and do arm circles.  30 forward, 30 backwards, 3 sets," I wanted to kill him.  It is nothing if not embarrassing when you can't even move 5lb weights 180 times. 

Whew.  Done.  Well...almost.

After the other newbies had left ("Hey Evan, when those little scamps come in here, they're worse than a sewing circle,"  I might have said), he reminded me that I told him I wanted to box.  And I did want to box.  Just not right then.

"Put these on," demanded Evan. 

I can honestly say I've never actually put on a pair of real boxing gloves.  Never curled my fingers up tightly at the top where they seem relatively safe and then locked-in with Velcro around the wrists.  I started hopping left and right with that boxer rhythm thing, clinking the royal blue gloves against one other while bobbing my head around in a facade of cockiness. 

My tiredness was completely gone!  It was like the previous 90 minutes had not even taken place.  I knew even before the first punch was thrown that I was in love.  So much for fixing my impetuous problem, I thought.

Evan put on some hand pads, we moved out into the open, and Eye of the Tiger came on (it's all about the timing...look out Laila Ali!).  He told me to start punching and I just stood there like, well, show me how exactly.  One, I like to do things correctly and two, I wanted to make the most out of this extra innings workout.  Preferably while keeping my back intact and spasm free.

Punch!  Punch!  Punch!  Left, Right, Left, Right...out wide, out wide, inside, inside, inside, quick, quick, quick!!! 

I went kuh-RAZY.  Several 3-5 minute rounds of punching was THE most invigorating, most fun, most I can't WAIT to do this again feeling I've had in a long time while exercising.  I could hear my fists hitting those pads.  I could hear 5 months of lifting coming to fruition.  I could hear Evan realizing he'd found a way for me to push past my pain, push through the tired, push to the end with fierce effort and concentration.  Come on, May 20th.  It's crunch time.

We stopped at 6:00.  I un-strapped the gloves, smiled, wiped my face, and started towards the front to leave.  Instinctively, I turned back around, marched directly to a 25" square and completed one box jump in perfect CrossFit-like form.

It was the cherry on top of a box full of sugary sweat-ness.

I Love Dicks

Sporting Goods, that is.  Specifically, the new commercial that makes me want to run even more than I usually do...if that's possible.

Inspirational runners.  Running in rain, over bridges, in groups, all fast and furious. 

As another pair of running shoes with too many miles are retired into their box, and the decreasing race finishing time is Sharpied on the outside of it making the viewers (ok, me) tear up in vicarious victory, these are the words that pop up on the screen:

Get Out There

Every Morning

Every Mile

Every Marathon

Every Season

Thank you to Dicks everywhere for inspiring me with less than a month to go.  Bring it.

Four!

I bought some new golf clubs a couple weeks ago.  And by new I mean a full set.  The whole shebang.  Figured the lavender Spaldings had seen better days.  Just to say Spalding and golf in the same sentence must surely be offensive to those who know what they're doing out on the links.

Actually, I'm not that bad.  My very first job was at Great Trail Golf Course.  I really loved it.  You drove up this "back road" hill to get there.  First, you went by the corner cemetery with the old-fashioned red water pump that we drank out of mercilessly after riding bikes or playing ball, and THEN you drove on past hottie hot hot Fred Bay's house. 

(It's ok that you don't remember dating me, Freddy.  You were a Senior when I was a Freshman.  I just wanted your picture and football jersey to show Chels.  And clearly, since your Dad was a Reverend and I liked rock n roll, I was never going to be able to call you Ren so we were doomed from the start.)

Anyway, at the top of that back road hill was a fork.  Left was the route we ran for cross country practice.  Right, and you wove around pretty trees and cool houses as you looked at the tee boxes which always needed watering.  Finally the club house appeared and out I would jump from my parent's car ready to begin the grueling work day as a cook, cashier, maid, golf starter and pretend golf "pro."  Something about being in that musty club house peering through the huge rectangular smoke-stained picture window at all the guys in their clashing plaid attire made me want to be out there.  They were always laughing, always drinking beer, and always swinging clubs.  How bad could a game like that be?

My parents would occasionally take my sister and me out on the course.  I think they thought we just liked to ride along in the carts (which, we did) but I always wanted to play.  Come on - there was a score involved and someone won. 

Can I hit one, Dad?  I can't really remember the first time I actually swung a club but I do remember the first time my ball went OVER the water on that par 3.  And landed on the green.  Hook.  Line.  Sinker (not literally obviously, I birdied that hole as I got better).  I can still picture that whole scene like I played the course yesterday.

I DID play Sunday afternoon!  18 holes at Brookwood.  Supposed to be a foursome but turned into a twosome.  It was the most fun I've had golfing maybe ever.  No matter that his Uncle used to own the course (divulged to me at hole #4ish).  No matter that he plays in the City tournament every year (divulged to me at hole #12ish).  No matter that there wasn't a person within a 6 mile radius that didn't call him by name the entire day.  And no matter that he stole my thunder on the back nine after it was all just starting to come back to me.  

I had three or four 4's on the back nine.  Respectable.  I out drove him at least three times (What?  Blue and Red tees you say?  Did we not play in America?  Interchangeable.)  But it was that stealing of thunder thing that really did me in. 

Par 4, laying 3 on the green, 25 or so feet from the cup.  I listened intently as he read the green, told me the break, pointed at where to aim.  Got it.  Lined up...for par...back goes the new putter...looks good...looks good...and it's in!  Woo-hoo!  I danced around like I was back at Great Trail after just hitting the ball over that ginormous pond!  I LOVE THIS GAME!

And 5.6 seconds later he sank his 23 foot putt for birdie.  Like it was as usual as breathing.  Good thing we're partners when those other two show up next time.

Cancer Free

Today is my birthday. No, not the actual one when my Mom gave birth to me, but my "born again" birthday. 13 years ago today I had a Bone Marrow Transplant which saved my life. Literally. Had I not gone through that process to rid my body of leukemia, I would not be sitting here writing this.

I tear up every year on this day. Things come to mind which I don't think about all year really, until this day. The smells and tastes which made me throw up, the hair falling out, the constant lethargy, the battle, the love and support...all of it. But most of all what comes to mind is the entire process.

Not only do I become highly emotional every year on this day, but no matter what day of the week it falls on - the church service closest to it always speaks to me in some very specific way about the entire experience. God had a way then, a way during, and a way now. Incredible.

Yesterday in church, we listened to a sermon on the well-known story of the parting of the Red Sea. We've been camping in the book of Exodus lately, and I couldn't love it any more. Big fan of the Old Testament. There are many who continue endless, unsuccessful pursuits to discount the entire Bible. They do this by questioning things that seem too unbelievable to fathom. Well there's no way THAT could have happened...

Some try to suggest that this Exodus excerpt did not actually take place in the massive body of water known as the Red Sea and instead, happened in the Sea of Reeds. The latter is a marshy, itty bitty body of water and so of course a strong wind may have been able to part a tiny sea, they allow. Exodus 14:29 says that the Israelites went through the sea on dry ground, with a wall of water on their right and on their left. Ok...let's pretend this all went down in the Sea of Reeds. When you hear "wall," do you think like, 18 inches? 2 feet maybe?

Doesn't matter. Those discounters say it was no miracle since it was only a little bit of water. And to that, I say...it's still a miracle! God either drowned those miserable Egyptians in the Red Sea or in 18 inches of water.

But more than that, the point is this: even as the Israelites were sarcastic to Moses, afraid of the 600+ chariots in Pharaoh's army coming in full force after them, they were perfectly in the center of God's will. They just didn't know it in the middle of their incredible hardship.

And so it was with me 13 years ago. God uses our experiences, our free will choices - both the good and bad ones - to put us right where He wants us to be. We need to be receptive to the teaching and lessons we are receiving in the midst of adversity, distress, and fatigue. As God instructed Moses while simultaneously scolding him...we need to "move on" (Ex. 14:15) which, in the Hebrew is better translated to "move forward."

In their case, they had no place else to go - another step and they were in the water facing certain death.  I didn't want to step foot into that hospital in 1999 either.

Just as He saved the Israelites from the Egyptians, He saved me from cancer. It's funny how when we read Facebook posts or listen to others recollect their stories, God is only said to be "good" when they get that promotion or when their cancer is cured or when their relationship is restored.

But what if those things never happen? That answer is easy. God is good always. He is an all-knowing, always in control, never changing God.

It's a little thing called life that is none of those things. And I give Him thanks for that, too.

Happy Cancer Free Birthday!

Either Way

I took the pictures in this post one day on my way home from work.  It was maybe 3 weeks ago.  I literally stopped in the middle of County Line Road, which is not shocking except when you do it for a non-train related reason.

Driving and singing along, I looked out the passenger window and was mesmerized.  It was kind of like watching a movie or commercial where you instantly start laughing because the background looks so fake.  Too perfect.  So I did what any responsible driver would do - went from 60 to zero and started snapping pictures.  They've been on my phone ever since and I didn't know what to do with them until now.

Maybe the sun will shine today
The clouds will blow away
Maybe I won't be so afraid
I will understand everything has its plan
Either way

Those are lyrics from a decent song with a pretty simple message which is:  things will either be right or they won't.  It's really just a matter of how much darker and drearier we allow those clouds to become.  And how much we each can, will, and choose to tolerate in our lives in the meantime until we realize no more!  You can leave all that rainy stuff in Seattle!  Don't you go bringing it all back here, we've already had that rain!   

Simple lyrics convey the simple message.  We have absolutely no control over the weather and we have absolutely no control over people.  Things will either be right or they won't, but one of those two outcomes is certain.  No amount of talking about the inevitable clouds will make them move until (and if) they are good and ready.    

In the meantime, I'm gettin' out in my own little sunshine that's breaking through.
(with both the new Adidas and the new clubs!)  No more rain!

Take-Advantage-Rent-A-Car

It's taken me over 2 weeks to cool off enough in order to write about my 'lil mishap in Florida over Spring Break.  It will take much longer before Olivia is able to convince (read: teenage manipulate) me again to go on a "girl's vacation."  My idea of a girl's vacation varies grossly from whatever she was thinking.

While I really like Liv's best friend and her best friend's mother, it is difficult to share a vacation with others, as we are all undoubtedly aware.  Trying to align interests, relaxation styles, spending habits, Final Four Buckeyes viewing, how much talking is permissible before coming up for air...it's all very tricky.  Requires patience.

(Fine, yes.  I could end this post here and enough would be said, for my idea of patience also varies grossly from its actual definition.)

So, Florida.  Liv and I arrive roughly 6 hours after the other two.  They pick us up in my rental car at the Advantage-Rent-A-Car kiosk, which is in a strip plaza about 3 miles away from the airport.  It's roughly 8:45pm, and I'm spent from watching Liv ignore me the last several hours. 

Immediately after descending the shuttle bus steps, I am greeted with, "Um, Beth, I need you to fix this.  Instead of the $350 it was supposed to cost for the rental car, it's now around $900."  Apparently the employee who came up from down south (?) and normally doesn't work at this location strong-armed her into taking the unnecessary insurance.  The infamous insurance scam, as if there is just one.  Oh, and a couple of tanks of gas were added for convenience.  $6.18 a gallon is nothing if not convenient.  The usually-not-there employee indicated she could easily remove these options once I arrived if we decided against them, presumably also in the name of convenience.

I explain, calmly at first, what needs to occur.  Please remove this insurance which we do not need, add me as driver (we'll pay the extra $10 bucks a day) and if you can, please also remove the 36 gallons of convenient fuel.

No, I can't do that I'm afraid, says VeJa (Vee-Jay). 

This is going nowhere quickly.  Oh I think you can VeJa and yes, be very afraid.

"Why not?"  I ask, still maintaining a semblance of composure.

Because it would require closing this entire reservation which would cost you another $200 security deposit, then reopening a new reservation which would also require a $200 security deposit.

VeJa and I were locked in a two-fold battle:  as tired as I was, as dry as my contacts were, I was not about to blink. 

Do you understand, ma'am, that if you don't have USAA or State Farm Insurance that, should you get in a wreck, it will cost you over $10,000 to...blah, blah, blabbety blah...and do you have USAA or State...

"Ok.  Here's the deal.  It will NOT cost us one penny more.  We are NOT paying the insurance you, or some impostor Southerner employee, forcefully and unnecessarily talked my friend into purchasing.  Do you understand?  Because if you don't understand, understand this:  I will stand outside of this drug ring front and make such a scene for these incoming renters to see that they will shuttle on over to Avis and you will need to call the police and have me incarcerated for disturbing the peace."

I understand (no "ma'am" anymore and I'm using the eyes in the back of my head now).  But I really can't do this tonight because my computer won't allow me.  It just won't.  Do you know how computers work at all?

[Like toothpicks are holding my eyelids open]

Here is the phone number of my Regional Manager.  His cell phone number.  You can call him in the morning and he will take care of this for you.

With that, I ride shotgun back to my hotel and can't think of any other place I'd rather be.

I call the Regional Manager in the morning, poolside, Mich Ultra in hand.

VeJa told me all about this.  What would you like me to do exactly?

I exactly tell him.  Succinctly, reasonably, nicely even.

We can't do that.  It would require another security deposit and furthermore if you were to get in a wreck and unless you have USAA...

"I have had it.  I am on vacation.  You are interrupting it.  Your idea and my idea of taking care of this as VeJa said you would....not the same."

I don't know why he would have said that.

"I don't know either, Mike, and I really don't care.  What I care about is that you are causing me to lose my patience and neither of us can afford for that to happen right now.  You and I both know that what your not-usually-there employee told my friend was borderline fraudulent."

Are you threatening me, ma'am?

"Not yet, Mike, no."

(Raising his voice...as I'm raising my game)  Well then WHAT would you like me to do?

"Same thing I answered when you asked me the first time.  Your not-usually-there employee told my friend she could opt to remove the incontestably extraneous insurance once I arrived if we decided against it and, if you pull up the original reservation, you will see that it is not on there."

Well I'm not sure why she would have said that either.

"So what I hear you really saying, Mike, is that this is your fault?"

What?  My fault?

"For improperly training your employees."

(Yelling now...)  I don't know WHAT you want from me!  I don't KNOW!  But if you come back to our location, ask for Sam and bring your original contract, we will start over and remove the insurance.

"We'll be there at 5:30."

---------------------------

We arrive at 5:30 that afternoon and all goes shockingly smoothly.  Sam is nice-ish, handling the barrage of questions I throw at him for clarification purposes rather patiently. 

So sir, I highly recommend you do NOT turn down the insurance because it would cost you $10,000 if you were to wreck...and do you have USAA or State Farm...

"Helloooo (in my best Jerry to Newman impression) VeJa."

Ladies.  Did you get everything taken care of?

"You Mothe...Yes, we did."

You're all set.  Have fun the rest of your vacation and see you Tuesday.

"Thanks, Sam.  See you then.  <fire him>"

With our chests puffed out, we strut back to the Toyota Camry.  No matter that we just made an unnecessary trip back to the airport less than 24 hours after Liv and I arrived.  No matter t'all.  No insurance at all.  No worries at all.  Off to dinner we went.

The rest of our trip was as expected.  I ran in the mornings, came back to the ridiculously too-small- for-four-females room, showered off the Florida sweat, put my suit on, grabbed my books and headed to the beach.

By Monday morning, I was counting the hours until our Tuesday afternoon flight back home.  I'd had enough sun, the Buckeyes had lost, and I...I was just ready.  The girls asked if we could go to Busch Gardens through closing time.  Sure, why not.  What's another $100 bucks at this point?  Especially after we saved a ton at Advantage.

The park closed at 7:00.  I was taking back seat driving instructions from a 15-year old who consulted her iPhone for directions to the closest Mexican restaurant.  The music in the car was loud and the conversation coming my way was even louder.  Going home tomorrow, going home tomorrow...

SMACK! into the car in front of us I collide.  There is NO way that just happened.  None.  Are you _______________________________kidding me?

Ha!  I guess VeJa was right about that insurance, huh, Beth?!?

There is NO way she just said that.  There is no Murphy.  There is no Law. 

And thankfully...there is no damage.  Whew.  Dodged a bullet, an almost drug addiction and an involuntary manslaughter conviction on that one.

The kid who gets out of the car is just that - a preppy 22-year old wearing Sperry's, a yellow polo with the collar flipped up, and some plaid shorts.  He's driving a brand new Camaro his Daddy just bought him which I'm certain is usually parked in their driveway next to the family yacht.  I half expected Rodney Dangerfield to pop out of the trunk.

"Sorry.  We're good here, right?"

Um, well, yeah, there's like, no damage, so um, I guess so.

"Thanks, sorry about that."

But I'm gonna need something from you.   I mean, like your insurance information.

"I'm on vacation.  We're leaving tomorrow.  Here is my business card and cell phone number.  Call if you have any issues, but I'm sure you won't."

We drive away.  The car is silent until I burst into hysterical laughter.  Oh yeah, I'm definitely on the other side of my there's no going back.  Until my phone rings and it's Sack Lodge.

Hello, ma'am, this is Chris.  I'm gonna need you to text me a picture of your Driver's License and Registration.

(Whatever) "Chris, when I get back home tomorrow night, I will text you my insurance agent's name and policy number and they'll handle it, mmm-k?  After all, that's what insurance is for."

I spoke to him again briefly the next day.  He assures me during that conversation there is "no internal damage."  His family butler had crawled under the vehicle to take a peek.  No worries.  Nothing to see here.

Oh, except this:

I can't wait to see my Mother's Day present this year.

Familiarity

My Mom's 60th Birthday is coming up and we are having a family celebration in Ohio at a local winery.  I'll be bringing back some Buckeye reds for one of my favorite Hoosier wine snobs, and I'm sure some flavorful whites for yours truly.  Conversation and laughter over vino is the best, pretty much regardless of venue.

My sister and I decided that we wanted to purchase some emerald earrings for our Mom from us.  "Us" equals Sarah Beara, her husband, my two nieces, Liv and me.  Our Dad already bought an emerald necklace for Mom, so now he's just got to figure out a special place to take her so she can wear it (hint, thank me later).  I'm looking forward to family time with everyone as I don't see them nearly enough.

Sarah looked in Ohio for a pair of emerald studs but had no luck.  They are for Mom's second ear piercings - the double piercings on top - as she will not ever wear anything other than the hoops Dad got her forever ago on the bottoms. 

Our Mom is wonderfully simple like that.  It's the little things that please her:  dish towels, Hallmark cards, lilac anything, and home decor.  I realized this today as I was texting Sarah back and forth with pictures of the four pair of available emerald studs, trying to determine which to purchase.  The girl behind the counter said:  "I like these the best."  To which I instantaneously replied, "She won't like them.  Too shiny." 

Sarah and I agreed in less than 30 seconds which ones looked like Mom.  I paid, text my sis back a "Done!" and answered an affirmative to the girl when she asked if I would like them wrapped.

"Here is our old wrapping paper, I have one piece left of that print which I like the best, and here is our new wrapping paper."

"Oh, definitely the new.  She'll like that better." 

Sure I was in a hurry and on a mission, but I even had to correct the cheap blue bow she tried to put on top of the pretty paper.  Mom would have cringed.  It dawned on me as I left the store that I just rattled off careful observations about a tiny pair of earrings and some patterns on wrapping paper.  And it somehow made me happier than the purchase itself.

Guess I got some of Mi Madre's genes after all.

Girl Crush

A couple weeks ago I was in the kitchen making dinner while Liv was sitting at the table.  Why I'm not sure, since there was zero indication food was nearing ready.  Of course nothing like an unset table, clean dishes in the dishwasher begging to go back to their homes as if they had been on vacation, or a Mom rushing about the fridge, stove, sink triangle could have possibly indicated otherwise to a 15 year old. 

20 minutes later after competing with her iPod for communication, dinner was on the table.  I prayed, she grunted, we ate, rinse, repeat.

But for some reason, she did not pull her typical Anne Frank on me and instead pulled up a stool and sat at the bar while I cleaned up.  Let's not go crazy people, she was in the room...I was not about to push my authoritative luck by asking her to dry.

She turned on the TV (puke).  A new show called Missing was on some channel; no, I never have any idea which one unless it's Modern Family or HGTV anything (1290).  It was the premiere of Missing, with Ashley Judd as the lead character.  I've always thought Ash was super cool.  I call her Ash because obviously we non-famous people know intimate details of actor's lives by reading their bios in the likes of STAR, US Weekly, OK! Magazine and my personal favorite, National Enquirer.

The plot is about a stay at home Mom who is married to some CIA guy who blows up in the second scene while he's out of the country with their only son.  Their son had gone back into the hotel to retrieve his teddy bear when BOOM!...Dad's car ignites.  Ash is understandably a mess; she meets their son at the airport back in the States and 10 years pass.  She's out jogging with girlfriends daily, her son is about ready to enroll in college, and they have a quaint little home which Ashley can afford on her new gig as a floral arranger and some understood life insurance money. 

I'm watching this as my hands are pruning up in the scalding Dawn water, I haven't showered since the squeezed in elliptical session 3 hours earlier, and my kid's eyes are going to roll right out of her head at any moment.  Yet, what is Ash doing on my screen?  Why she's conversing (and gasp! laughing!) with her kid as they are running together at a fast clip on their perfectly manicured trail system, her pony-tail is maintaining its form and health beautifully, and once she showers off her almost-broke-a-sweat, she drives her completely clean vehicle to her dream job where she begins to position Blue Orchids in glass blown vases for happy customers who never complain.

I hate her.

Actually no, I don't.  I am making fun of the show, yes, but now it's interesting to me because I'm laughing at the premise.  We learn that Ash met her husband in the CIA (or whatever acronym of scary they were employed) and she too is trained and dangerous just like her dead husband.  We find this out because (shocker) her son goes missing.  It's all very involved and I'm thinking...well, as soon as they find him isn't the show cancelled?  Kaput?  Finito?

Hold your horses.  The husband is alive!

Ok, at this point I really don't care.  My pots and pans are finally clean, Liv has stayed in close proximity to me for more than 15 minutes without brute force, and I'm tired from real life.

The next morning I read a review of the show and was immediately intrigued to learn that Ashley Judd had been ridiculed for having a "puffy face."  I reread that line about 4 times.  She was eloquently described through the use of nouns misused as adjectives such as "cow" and "pig."  Really?  Um, ugly she ain't.  Ah, but the critics messed with the wrong chick.  Super cool has a little something to say about this...

Ashley is a Harvard scholar, she serves as a global ambassador for YouthAIDS, and has testified before the U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee.  Oh, and I think her Mom is Naomi Judd and her sister is Wynonna.  I could have that backwards in that country music is not my favorite genre (no, Tom Petty is most certainly NOT country, he's iconic...listen to The Waiting or American Girl sometime).

Anyway, the girl is well read.  She's multi-lingual and exceptionally well-spoken in any language.  She came back swinging in The Daily Beast with an essay she dubbed "The Conversation" and used the opportunity to influence women and men alike in the on-going damaging and self-destructive link between our outer presence and inner self-worth.  She said the following:

"The Conversation about women happens everywhere, publicly and privately.  We are described and detailed, our faces and bodies analyzed and picked apart, our worth ascertained and ascribed based on the reduction of personhood to simple physical objectification."

Tell 'em, Ash.

This scholar from the University of Kentucky with a post-graduate degree from Harvard understands that we minimize ourselves by allowing other people's appraisals of our outer shell define our inner core.  She discusses how her psyche has evolved as she matured, saying, "I do not want to give my power, my self-esteem, or my autonomy to any person, place, or thing outside myself." 

Oh how I love her.

Here's an enlightened human being who has learned to rid herself of what she calls "otheration" --  tying our inner self-worth to others' criticisms and bullying.  Ash correctly attests in her essay that this is often a woman-on-woman crime.  No question.  Women frequently disassemble and criticize other women's appearances as sport, much like men do in their sizing up of the titles on business cards.  In fact if we're honest, we all do quite a bang up job of clinging to the false hope that a layer of war paint or a fancy ride will mask our secret feelings of unworthiness.

The truth is that we actually undermine our own integrity and dignity when we define ourselves and others by this stupid outer presence thing. 

Without question, we've got it all wrong.  The real skinny is that our presence is how we make people feel.

Somehow Ashley made the conversation I didn't have in the kitchen with Liv all better.  The show still kind of sucks, but her character does not.  She reminded me that having a brain far surpasses any superficial outer presence.  Development of a peaceful, purposeful inner core is what matters.  We are all works in progress.  And I for one, like it that way.  Stagnant anything is horrid. 

All this and Ashley Judd is a huge basketball fan!  Yeah, that woman isn't missing a thing.