Rainy Days and Mondays

Forgive me for my absence, Innernetz.  I’ve been in a funk lately (two points for everyone that just started singing “Give up the Funk” by Parliament) and kicky new rain boots just haven’t been able to lift me out of it.  In fact, my kicky new rain boots mock me.  They mock my pain.  Mockers.  Mocky McMoccasins.  You see, my new rain boots are Chooka’s rockin’ turquoise Tattoo City.

For those of you too lazy to click over or who get distracted by the champagne fountain of never ending linkage on every web site, I’ll describe them for you.  What?  Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.  The champagne fountain?  If you’ve ever been to a wedding with a champagne fountain you know that it starts innocently enough.  You take a glass from the top of the cascade and two hours into the wedding reception after you’ve slaked your thirst following the Electric Slide, deftly dodged the bouquet toss, and worked your way to the bottom tier of glasses, you are so drunk that you forget where you are or why your tongue is down the throat of a guy dressed in a valet parking uniform.  That’s not just me, is it?  IS IT?! 

Anyway, to prevent a linkage meltdown that will have you on some page featuring ambiguously dressed boy bands from Thailand, I’ll describe them for you.  They are turquoise.  They have various tattoo related images stamped all over them.  Oh hell, that description doesn’t do them justice.  Just go look at them but come right back.  No linky-linky!

Well?  What did you think?  They rock, right?  How could they not cheer me up, right?  Because, Innernetz, they remind me of the tattoo that I’m not going to get.  You see, I told myself that after I finished the marathon I would get myself a tattoo.  I have a cool one designed by Mr. Dingo himself.  He rocks almost as much as my rain boots.  I don’t have any other tattoos and this tattoo, this post-marathon tattoo, was going to have a lot of meaning for me.  Alas, I don’t think it’s meant to be.  My short runs (eight miles or less) have been great. I feel strong, I feel invincible!  However, for the past three weeks my long runs have been disastrous.  I’m not going to give you a blow by blow of my 14 mile run because, basically, it blew.  Determined to finish the run, I hobbled the last 5 miles.  I got to the front of my building and had to call Mr. Dingo to help me up the stairs to the apartment.  He swooped down and carried me away.  It was an Officer and a Gentleman moment.  Without all the kissing.  I can’t really blame him.  With my face red and puffy from crying and snot hanging from my nose, I made a less than attractive romance movie heroine. 

My leg was a mess.  With my knee swollen to Saturn-like proportions and unable to bend, I dashed off a poor me e-mail to Lesley, my bloggy running guru, at JustRunJustLiveJustBe.  Lesley gave me some great advice and even helped revise my training schedule.  A week to recuperate, a few fantastic short runs, new running shoes, stretching exercises, Advil, and a mental pep talk and I was on my way!  NOT.  My 16 mile run tonight was aborted at mile 9.  Mile 9!  For those of you not mathematically inclined, that’s 7 miles short of tonight’s goal and 17.2 miles short of an actual marathon.  Yes, it was my knee again.  Not only that, but in my obstinate persistence to complete the 14 miles from the week before, I think I sustained a stress fracture to my foot.  I’ve had stress fractures before.  Years of soccer, horseback riding, and lodging my size 8 ½ up people’s asses has made me thoroughly familiar with the throbbing and sharp pain associated with the injury.  In short, Innernetz, my marathon dreams are fucked.

I have only four weeks left until the marathon and it’s simply not enough time to recover.  I knew after my 14 mile run that things were not looking good and it sent me into a mild depression that I have been trying to fight all week.  I was depending on tonight’s run to give me the mental and physical boost I needed to make it to the marathon.  Instead, after having Old Man With Walker almost lap me on tonight’s run, I’ve been sitting in my nasty running clothes crying, “Why me?! Why me?!” wondering if Tonya Harding had somehow managed to whack my knee with a tire iron when I wasn’t looking. 

This past week, none of my usual storm cloud dispersers have been able to lift me out of this funk.  Not my favorite massacre scene from 30 Days of Night, not teaching, and not even walks with Dingo Girl.  For some reason Dingo Girl has decided to turn over a new paw and instead of having to beg and plead just to get her to walk around the block, she wants to RUN!  Run everywhere.  Run downstairs.  Run around the block.  Run to the park.  Run, run, run.  See Dingo Girl Run.  Run, Dingo Girl, run! 

So, that’s where I am these days.  It’s not like good things haven’t happened to me this week.  The Cougar came for a visit, I got a gift certificate to a fantastic spa, blah, blah, blah.  I didn’t want to write a whiny post but that’s just where I am right now.  I feel defeated.  I feel like a quitter. 

And now Dingo Girl needs to go for a walk run.  It’s raining.  And my new rain boots are still mocking me.

Leave a comment....

I Should Run With A First Aid Kit

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because, well, it just sucks.  Trying to fit it into my schedule has meant running in 80-degree heat and pouring rain.  But, on a good note, I bought new running shoes!  They’re the same brand as my old shoes but instead of the run-of-the-mill (what the hell does that mean anyway?) blue and white, I got silver and yellow!  Oh yeah, I’m looking like Flash Gordon these days.  Although sometimes I wonder, if I looked like Commissioner Gordon would Christian Bale come rescue me around mile 12 when I’m floundering and my pace has the waddling, decrepit gait of The Penguin instead of the breezy gazelle like leaps of a jogger? 

Mr. Dingo mocks my running belt, which holds 40 ounces of water and fruit-punch-flavored Gator-Aid, four packs of energy Gu (delicious Vanilla Bean), keys, and my homemade emergency contact information card.  Well, it’s not really a card.  More like a post-it note with my name, address, and a message that says, “If my prone, desiccated body is found sprawled on the side of the road, please touch up my hair and make-up before contacting the media.  Oh, and call Mr. Dingo.” But the running belt really is cool, if a bit heavy with all that liquid.  In fact, although Mr. Dingo mocks my belt, he admits that there may still be enough room between some of the water bottles to attach a grappling hook and a flashlight that would emit the Bat Signal.  He laughed but I am scouring the internet for just such a thing.

Since my running schedule has changed, I haven’t seen the usual freak parade.  Mr. Jazz Hands has been absent but he could just be off mourning the closing of Rent.  OLWW hasn’t been seen for weeks.  She probably finally succumbed to heat stroke.  In her place, however, is some guy who looks as if he was trying to get to the Bingo tournament at the Home for the Aged and Infirm but made a wrong turn at the cafeteria and ended up at the hilliest part of Central Park.  Unlike OLWW, his walker is motorized.  He just can’t seem to find the speed controls.  The last time I passed him going downhill, his walker was about three steps too far ahead of him.  He had a panicked look as his sweaty, gnarled fingers began to slip off the handles.  I would’ve offered to help (Shut up!  I would have!  Maybe.) but just then his walker decided to veer off to the right into the curb effectively stopping his downhill plummet.  I figured if he was still there on my second lap I’d steal his walker because by then I’d need it I’d offer some assistance. 

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, that I’ll stop to help a dog but I won’t stop to help another human being.  I suppose this isn’t the time to mention the guy who had a dufflebag and picnic basket precariously attached to the back of his bike.  As he slowly pedaled up the hill the picnic basket would swing widely to the left.  And then widely to the right.  The guy looked like a tightrope walker as he swayed back and forth trying to keep his balance.  All the other runners gave him plenty of room because it was just a matter of time before he fell over.  And he did.  The picnic basket spilled all over the road and the dufflebag made a loud CRACK! sound.  Oh!  Did I mention that there was also a little girl strapped into a child seat on the back of the bike?  And I do mean strapped.  In lieu of a seat belt the guy decided that duct tape was an appropriate restraint.  The little girl wasn’t hurt so I didn’t stop.  No, really!  She wasn’t hurt!  In fact, she was laughing so hard she was crying. 

The fact that I was close to tears myself made me a little less open to whatever terror she was feeling.  Brat, you don’t know the meaning of terror.  Terror is having already gone eleven miles with your legs aching, blisters forming, and knowing that you have two more miles to go.  That, my dear whiny kid in your Hello Kitty bike helmet, is terror.  Pick up your spilled apples and smushed PB&J and shut up.  Get back to me when life gets really hard and then we’ll talk.

So, the marathon is a little over a month away.  Mr. Dingo and I have made our reservations at a cute little bed & breakfast.  I don’t know how much I’ll be able to enjoy either the bed or the breakfast as I’ll be too nervous to eat and then too sore to care.  I’m excited though.  I never thought I’d be able to get this far and I don’t think I would have if it weren’t for Mr. Dingo and you, my dear Innernetz.  I keep thinking of the great party and all the gifts and money you are going to shower me with when I complete the marathon.  Gifts + Money = motivation.

I’m right about the gifts and money, right?

Leave a comment....

At Your Cervix

I got a letter from my ob/gyn yesterday notifying me that it’s time for my semi-annual poke and grope.  I like my ob/gyn.  She’s funny, pretty, and best of all, she doesn’t pressure me to pro-create.  And since she can actually find my cervix, I will continue to see her twice a year.  What?  You’ve never lost your cervix?  You’ve never been a little absent-minded and left your cervix in the back of a cab or perhaps accidentally dropped it in the mail slot while mailing your electric bill?  Um yeah, me neither, but that didn’t stop my first doctor from asking me, “Where’s your cervix?” I looked at her to see if she was kidding.  She wasn’t.  “Well,” I said, “You were the last one to see it, you tell me!”

After more hemming and hawing on her part and oooching and owwwing on mine, she decided to bring in the head doctor, well, not the head doctor.  I do have issues but those issues would increase astronomically if my therapist started poking around my nether regions.  This doctor came in wearing one of those headbands with a mirror attached to the front and a flashlight.  A flashlight?  With all the high-tech gadgets sitting in the exam room, the best they could come up with is a miner’s hat and a flashlight?  I was getting a little nervous that there would be a knock on the door and seven tiny men with pointed hats would come wandering into the room singing an annoying ditty about going to work.  Given my relationship with little people that is not a scenario I envisioned ending well.

The head doctor asked me all kinds of questions like:

Have I had this problem before?  The only problem I could see was the fact that two doctors with umpteen medical degrees between them can’t find something that I’m sure was there the night before.  Should I call Mr. Dingo to verify this?

Is my pelvis tilted? Only on the dance floor after several Jack and Diet Cokes and some really bad 80’s retro music.

Have I had children? WTF?  Did they not read my gazillion page medical history?  No, I have not had children. Why?  Are they prone to taking cervixes and hiding them in their diapers or something? Just another reason why I am not going to pop one out.  Apparently, they like to hide internal organs!

After the exam room became too small for all the doctors and nurses who gathered to look at the wonder of science that is my hoo-ha, we decided that I should go see a specialist.  I don’t know if there’s anything worse than having someone look at your hoo-ha as they shake their head and mutter, “We’d better send you to a specialist.” And you know how I KNEW my cervix was where it was supposed to be?  Because upon hearing those words, it shriveled up in fear and ended up somewhere near my throat.

So, I went to see the specialist who, without any flashlights, miner’s caps, search and rescue teams, or CSI crews, was able to find my cervix right where it was supposed to be.  And I’ve been going to her ever since.

Leave a comment....

All That Glitter

Is it possible to ask for a do-over for an entire week?  No, really, I need to do this week over.  Whom do we talk to about this? 

Monday got the week off to a great start. I managed to ignore the snooze button on my Talking Al Gore alarm clock ("Time to wake up and contribute even more to the destruction of the planet") to stumble out the door for an early morning run.  I managed to knock an entire minute off my three-mile run!  While basking in the heat, humidity, and painful glow of this milestone during my post-run stretch, I noticed a flash of white down by my little girl bits.  Huh? I had worn my black running shorts so the flash of color took me by surprise.  It didn’t take Horatio Kane to figure out that I’d committed a fashion crime.  My running shorts were inside out.  So while I was burning up the miles, the white cotton crotch sewn into my shorts was burning the corneas of my fellow runners.  Tell me, who in the world makes black running shorts with a white cotton panty?  Who!?  Some of you may be asking, “Who wears their running shorts inside out?” To you I say, shush and get back to your spreadsheets and donuts.  You shouldn’t be reading blogs at work.

The rest of the week fell into a familiar pattern:  I dropped my make-up brush into the toilet. Twice.  After spending hours preparing for class, I left my lesson plans, attendance sheet, and Red Bull at home. The lesson plans and attendance sheet were trivial matters compared to the distress of not having my liquid energy.  I put my hand through a hole in the poopy bag while picking up Dingo Girl’s evening offering and got a handful of recycled dog food organic waste dog shit. And that was just Monday.  All week long, I felt as if I were the subject of a Punk’d all-Dingo special.

But Friday finally rolled around.  Marian the Librarian and I had an appointment for a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, that is if your idea of Ladies Who Lunch consists of cold pints and plates of fries.  And if that is not your idea of a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, then la-di-da, look who’s puttin’ on airs!  After pounding down a few brews we stumbled into Sephora.  It wasn’t our original destination but the sign outside advertising a free color consultation and make-over was a sign from the Make-Up Gods that we dared not disobey.  It was fate.  It was destiny.  It was the signpost leading to another disaster.

Marian got whisked away by an edgy platinum blonde with asymmetrical hair and a fun, hip vibe.  I was corralled into a chair by a woman whose sole experience with make-up application consisted of painting the detached Barbie Styling Head she got for Christmas with a floor mop.  Side note:  Did you know that they now make the Make Me Pretty Talking Styling Head?  Is it just me or does everyone else find that unbelievably disconcerting as well?  There’s nothing like trying to put glitter on your doll’s eyelids while she’s sassing you about how Glitter Glam Green is sooo not her color and did you make sure to moisturize first?  Shut up, Be-otch!  Anatomically Incorrect Ken is going to be here in ten minutes to take your disembodied self to the prom and you want to be ready, don’t you?

Okay, okay, where was I?  Oh yes, as I was leaning back in my chair futilely telling Commandant Clueless that Glitter Glam Green is sooo not my color.  She kept telling me to lean forward and to stop squinting.  I couldn’t help it.  The way she wielded that make-up brush I thought for sure I was going to lose an eye.  And she used enough frosted shadow to make me look like a three-tiered Betty- Off-Her-Crocker cake.  Between glimpses of myself in the mirror, I tried to make a run for it but she body blocked me.  I think I still have bruises. 

Realizing that resistance was futile, I humbly submitted to her will.  Forty-minutes later, she was done with my eyes.  Forty-minutes!  I asked about concealer and mascara to complete the look.  The sigh she gave me made me feel as if I’d just asked her to donate a liver to the Pâté Makers Association. Just then, Marian the Librarian appeared at my elbow.  She. Looked. Stunning.  Now, Marian the Librarian is a pretty woman in ordinary circumstances but her make-up person had accentuated her natural beauty.  She looked like she wasn’t wearing any make-up at all.  I can only imagine all the horny kids coming to her desk at the library asking for assistance.  “Excuse me, Ms. Marian the Librarian.  Can you help me?  I’m looking for Looooooove.” And then Marian the Librarian, who takes no sass from anyone and who has an incredible right hook, would knock them into the reference stacks.  They’d feel as if they’d been hit by Cupid and go away happy.

Marian the Librarian took one look at me and said, “I like it.  It’s summery.” I think it was because my face looked like a bowl filled with tropical fish.  Commandant Clueless looked at me expectantly.  Um, did she really expect me to buy any of this crap?  I didn’t buy any make-up but I did buy a nice face wash and travel chisel to help remove the layers of spackle.

I should’ve ended the evening right there and gone home to console myself with Grey’s Anatomy re-runs.  Dr. McSteamy, with all his plastic surgery prowess, would make things okay.  Hell, as surreal as my day had been, he might have even reached through the screen to tell me how to fix the hot mess on my eyes.  But no, I headed to H&M where I tried to fit into clothes made for people as thin and boobless as a Barbie Styling Head. 

But the day and the week wasn’t a total wash.  I got home to find out our A/C was on the fritz and the make-up soon melted right off.  Thank heaven for global warming.

Leave a comment....

I’ve Gathered Moss

As I sit here drinking my beer — the beer that almost caused Mini-Meltdown II — I think, “I’m going to shamelessly appeal to my readers for support and butt-kissing.” I’ve got a big butt folks, so pucker up real good.  Your facial muscles have had sufficient preparation after all the long-necks you’ve thrown back this weekend.  So, if you want to skip reading this long post, just jump down to the comments and leave something like, “My, your hair looks great today!” or “Have you been working out?  Your ass looks great in those jeans!” Or just, “I’m behind you and your behind all the way!”

But first:  Mom’s divorce proceeding against Jackass I is coming up and he’s accelerated the intimidation and jackassedness.  He even went so far as to break into Mom’s house to take things that weren’t his. In his usual, caring-for-no-one-other-than-himself modus operandi, he left the broken door wide open so the neighborhood thugs could do their own broken-window shopping.  Fortunately, that didn’t happen, but he just didn’t give a damn whether it did.  And yes, as the mascara streaked faces of Susan Lucci or Melissa Gilbert will attest in, oh, just about every Lifetime movie ever made, the police can’t and won’t do anything until he actually, physically harms her. 

And now, there is also the Jackass Spy — it would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic — who goes around impersonating Mom.  Yes, there is one family fruitcake who, perhaps because she believes Dad’s lies or — giving her credit for some semblance of intelligence — maybe because she just enjoys being malicious, actually goes around saying she is Mom trying to get info to use against her.  Jackass Spy, I know you are reading this and SHAME ON YOU!!  Oh, and Jackass Spy?  Remember that book you wrote a few years ago?  The one about integrity?  Yeah, um, maybe you should read it in between lying to people about your identity. 

So, readers, send all good thoughts Mom’s way this coming week.  She got a real kick out of your comments on my Cougar post and I know she’ll appreciate your support this week.

But what caused my meltdown, you ask?  (Okay, maybe you didn’t ask, but you got this far into this post.) No, it was not Jackass I or even the fact that my dickhead, may he rot in hell, piece of shit brother Jackass II is back in the picture causing the kind of mayhem you’d only expect from comic book villains.  I’m pretty sure Jackass II is out there destroying entire city blocks with breath fetid from devouring the souls of his own children.  That is, of course, when he’s not out biting the hands that feed him or turning his back on those who’ve helped him. 

So, was it lack of sleep that caused my meltdown?  Family drama?  School stress?  Dishes piled so high in the sink at home that God got worried and made Mr. Dingo and I speak different languages until we washed them? 

No.  It was vanity.  Pure, simple, beautiful, ever virtuous vanity. 

While helping Mom organize her home office I came upon my old modeling portfolio in one of her file cabinets — the one Jackass I didn’t ransack — and decided to take a leisurely trip down memory lane.  It turned out to be the Autobahn to Hell.

I remembered preparing for one photoshoot and worrying that I was too fat, too ugly, and too old.  And now, I would give anything to look like the girl in those photos.  Before I even knew what was happening I started bawling.  Great, big, heaving, snot-filled sobs.  Then I started laughing at how ridiculous it all was.  And then crying again. 

I had goals for this summer.  I wanted to fit into the sassy pink bikini I wore three years ago.  I wanted to wear the sundresses I bought last summer.  None of that has happened.  My skin doesn’t even fit.  I am a ten-pound sausage in a five-pound skin.  With a couple of eggs and, oh, what the hell, bring me some pancakes, too.  Although I’ve run a 10K, I’ve had a successful legal career, and I’m loving my new life in academia, at that moment on that floor, I just wanted to be pretty. 

Pretty like you’re pretty.  Pretty like all those people in People magazine are pretty.  I mean, it’s called People magazine.  Those are just people, people.  Regular, average people.  And they’re all drop-dead gorgeous.  You’re all people, too.  And you’re goddamn gorgeous, too.  Hey, I’ve seen your blogs!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the biggest hypocrite of all? 

I’m always telling my students to accept themselves and love themselves as they are.  Many of our class discussions are about cultural conditioning, prejudice, tolerance, and acceptance of ourselves and others.  When I am teaching, I truly believe the Deepak Chopra/Dr. Phil armchair psychology stuff I espouse.  But when I am teaching, I am not a pathetic puddle of tears because my size eight jeans no longer fit over my thighs without the assistance of our local EMT’s Jaws of Life.  When I am teaching, I feel more self-assured and whole than I ever did in my twenties.  Teaching also has a way of making me feel young.  Except for the occasional chill wind whipping through the generation gap.

Near the end of the last semester, while talking to one of my students about his final paper, he asked me an unexpected question.  He asked me if I’d ever heard of The Rolling Stones.  The.  Rolling.  Stones.  I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.  Did he think I was too old for The Rolling Stones?  Was Glenn Miller more my speed?  Or, hell, maybe he thought I sat around at one time waiting for Mozart’s latest opera to open?  Or did he think I was so unhip that I would have no idea who The Rolling Stones were?  No, that couldn’t be it.  I am most decidedly hip.  And hop, too.

Me:  Um, yes.  Duh!

Student:  Really?  Do you know the names of anyone in that band?

Me (okay, now the kid is just fucking with me and I’m going to have to give him a smack down):  Are you kidding me?

Student:  No, someone said that I looked like someone in the band and I was just wondering.

Me:  Who did he say you looked like?

Student:  Is there someone named Mack?

Me:  Mack?  No.  There’s a Mick as in Mick Jagger. 

Student:  No, I’m pretty sure it was — Is there someone with a last name McJagger?

Me:  No, the lead singer of the greatest rock and roll band in the world is named Mick Jagger.  Two names.  First.  Last.  Mick.  Jagger.  Are you serious?  You’ve never heard of Mick Jagger?

Student (still not convinced):  I think I’ve heard their stuff on a commercial or something.  Is there someone else?

Me:  Keith Richards? Charlie Watts?

Student:  No, I’m sure it was Mack something or other.

Me (incredulous):  Okay, you know what?  You’ve failed this course.  Off with thee now and don’t return until thou can namest all the members of The Rolling Stones and recite the unabridged history of Led Zepplin.

The fact that at least I know who The Rolling Stones are did not make me feel better as I sat on the floor in Mom’s office.  The tears, puffy nose, and wild frizzy hair reflecting back at me from the glass in the computer monitor was a far cry (and cry, and cry) from the fresh, skinny, young woman in the photos I held in my hands.  Those should have been size-four tears streaming from my face!  Maybe size two!  It’s been a long time.

Instead, I looked like one of the Honkey Tonk Women the Stones’ growl about.  I looked like a Beast of Burden.  I looked like Keith Richards on a bad, bad, bender.  Or just normally.  Or Mack something or other.  Actually, I looked like either one of them.  On a good day.

So, that was Mini-Meltdown I.  No, there was no epiphany.  No realization that I am wonderful just as I am.  Just the cold hard fact that should we avoid getting hit by frozen urine falling from airplanes on our way to work or dying from toys made of dog food from China, we’re all dying a little bit each day and sooner or later we all turn to ashes and dust — and some people’s ashes will be better looking than others.  And I’ll need a larger than average urn to fit my ash in it.

Mini-Meltdown II was less dramatic and, as this is already a long post, I’ll make it short.  I didn’t get carded buying beer this weekend.  I know, I know, I am weeeellll over the age limit for carding but I ALWAYS get carded.  This time though, the kid at the register gave me a cursory glance, a dismissive nod, and rang up my six pack with nary a raised eyebrow.  I was tempted to giggle like a teenager and throw a pack of condoms on the conveyor belt next to an issue of Teen People, but I didn’t.  I went home, popped open a beer to wash down my Geritol, and settled into my rocker for the Matlock July 4th Marathon weekend. 

Our country turned 232 years old this weekend.  And so did I.

Leave a comment....