98 Degrees and No Nick Lachey

I ran a 10K today.  And oh my holy hell, did I feel every K. As Marian the Librarian and I lined up for the start, I was worried.  It was only 9am and it was hot.  Sorry, let me rephrase that.  It was only 9am and it was so hot I was sweatin’ like a whore at bible camp.  And that was just from standing at the starting line! 

When the race started there was a large mass of forward movement.  From where I was positioned, I could see the thousands of racers in front of me stretched up Central Park West like a giant centipede.  It undulated and swayed in a multicolor array of bodies, clothes, and feet.  It was at that point that I decided I was either already dehydrated and hallucinating, or I was part of something big.  I chose to believe the latter.  Did I mention it was hot?  Hotter than the hinges of Hell.

Once we got into the park the shade provided some relief.  Not much, though.  I was so glad that Marian the Librarian was with me.  Chatting with her helped distract me from the heat.  Well, it only provided a little distraction because almost all we could talk about was the heat.  And beer.  Talking about the beer we planned to chug at the end of the race was definitely helpful.  The first fluid area came none too soon.  The stampede to the water tables reminded me of the westerns I watched as a kid when all the buffalo would suddenly startle and go running pell mell toward the cliff.  I swear, if the water table had been at the bottom of a cliff, I would’ve taken a swan dive into a Dixie cup.  Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary.  In addition to the water tables, the race organizers had someone with a huge fire hose spraying water over the runners as we passed by.  Blessed brief relief!

Although I was pretty confident that the heat would take some of the people out of the race, I was also upset that some people weren’t instantly disqualified over poor fashion choices.  Now, I do not have fancy running duds.  I have running/bike shorts that eliminate the chub rub and a t-shirt.  However, I feel very strongly that if you are going to buy fancy running duds that you should buy a racer back bra to go with your racer back running shirt.  How many times do I have to say this folks?  Athlete or A-list superstar, No. Exposed. Bra. Straps!  I asked Marian the Librarian if she would mind if we picked up the pace a bit so I could issue a citation to the fashion wreck a few paces ahead of us.  She was against the idea.  I really think I need to have a chat with Obama and see if he can add this to his platform for the upcoming election. 

Things went along well for a while.  Until today, my longest run had been a little more than 40 minutes.  As we approached the five-mile mark, my race time was about an hour.  I was really proud of myself but could feel the effects of the heat and humidity setting in.  My legs felt great but I could feel my face was flushed and an overall exhaustion began to set in.  I also felt kinda dizzy.  Immediate warning sign of dehydration.  Although Marian the Librarian and I had water at every fluid station, it wasn’t enough.  It was about this time that I questioned the whole intelligent design theory.  Wouldn’t a truly intelligent design have us store water in our thighs like camels?  I mean, if my thighs are going to jiggle anyway, wouldn’t it be better to have that jiggle come from a useful function like water storage than as evidence of my peanut M&M addiction?  At the very least, there could be a place in my thighs to store M&Ms.

Marian the Librarian could see that I was faltering and kept me going with encouragement and threats.  Okay, so maybe she didn’t threaten me, but I honestly can’t tell you what we talked about the last mile.  We passed other runners who had passed out or who just plain ol’ couldn’t make it.  Paramedics and ambulances were almost as prevalent as the racers at this point.  Before I knew it, the finish line was in sight.  There were a lot of people cheering us on the last ¼ mile and it made such a difference.  Between the people at the side of the road cheering for us and Marian the Librarian telling me that she was not going to drag my sorry, sweaty ass across the finish line — Okay, maybe those weren’t her exact words; she might have said something like, “You’re almost there!  You can do it!” but I know she meant, “You’d better do it because I’m not going to drag your sorry, sweaty ass across the finish line!” — I crossed the finished line!  Woohoo! 

It was amazing feeling!  I can’t wait until the next race.  I enjoyed this race but it has made me realize that training for the marathon is going to suck like a Hoover.  Or maybe even a Dyson.  Does anyone even buy Hoovers anymore?  After beer and mozzarella sticks, our traditional post race fare, I made my way home.  Shower, nap, and mindless TV were the order of the day, although I dragged myself to a nearby salon for a pedicure and foot massage.  Heaven!  I called Marian the Librarian later in the afternoon.  While I had been basking in my accomplishment from the comfort of my couch, she had vacuumed her apartment, organized her upcoming vacation, written a novel, and developed a ground-breaking open-heart surgery technique.  It made me tired.  So I took another nap.  And then wrote this post.  The end.

Leave a comment....

The Amazing Race

The last time I ran in downtown New York I was trying to avoid falling glass and concrete. Tripping over dropped purses and briefcases, my gait was anything but smooth.  My breath erratic, harsh, and shallow.  Believe it or not, I’d forgotten about all of that until this past Tuesday when Marian the Librarian and I got off the subway and headed to the starting line at the World Financial Center for the American Heart Association 5K.  My constant stream of chatter was due as much to a case of pre-race nerves as to the jarring influx of memories.  With all the mental jump cuts, it was almost like watching MTV back when they actually showed music videos.  While passing new stores, restaurants, apartment buildings and bars, my mind was working like a flip book; scanning back and forth trying to remember what used to be there.  My hands started to shake a bit and I wondered what would happen if the starting gun went off and I just started running, and running, and running somehow ending up in Central Park like I did almost six years ago.  I knew what would happen: Marian the Librarian would never run another race with me again.

Once I got over the initial not-quite déjà vu, the newness of the downtown area was actually stimulating.  “Fuck you, terrorists!  We’re still here.  I’m still here and I’m about to run a race.” And then Marian the Librarian said something about going to a bar after the race for mozzarella sticks and beer and my walk down patriot lane was over.  I get all fired up about messin’ with the US but I’d sell national secrets for a plate of mozzarella sticks and an ice cold Smithwicks.

I had a lot of questions for Marian the Librarian:  Will the route be clearly marked?  What happens if I lose my racing number?  Will Meredith get back together with McDreamy and is Callie really a lesbian?  While she answered all my queries patiently I could tell she was reconsidering her promise to not leave me behind and run at her own pace.  We got to the starting line, well, we got near the starting line.  There were thousands of people packed into an area the size of my bathroom.  While I am used to maneuvering around Mr. Dingo for sink space in the mornings and doing some fancy footwork to avoid stepping on Not a Dingo and Dingo Girl as they work their furry wiles to prevent our heading off to work, I was not used to the organized chaos at the starting area.  The starting line looked less like a civilized group of racers and more like a cattle call for the new Fox reality series, So You Think You Can Run?

We stood in place for at least thirty seconds after the starting gun went off.  The bottleneck gradually eased and we were finally able to run.  I was running!  I was running in my first race!  See Dingo run!  Run, Dingo, Run!  I used my Nike+ Sportband (best running gadget EVAH!) to check my starting pace.  Marian the Librarian assured me that while it seemed as if everyone was passing us by and the wheelchair and crutches contingent would soon be nipping at our heels, it was best to pace ourselves.  Most of those zooming ahead and elbowing us out of the way would soon be gasping for breath. I believed her but I still had to resist the urge to accidentally blind them with my long flowing locks nudge them back.  The whole talking while running thing?  Not a problem.  Marian the Librarian and I chatted and before I knew it a mile had passed by.  I kept checking my pace.  Wow!  I was doing great!  I was clipping along at a pace much faster than anything in my training runs.  I mentioned this to Marian the Librarian and we both attributed the faster time to the lack of hills in the race course.  Do not be fooled, folks.  Central Park has its own mountain range.  Yes, it does!  It has to, otherwise how can I run uphill both ways on both the east and west side of the park?  Somehow I never seem to be running downhill.  Just up, and up, and up.  As I’ve bitched before, I haven’t lost much weight but my calves, lord!, my calves have gained about thirty pounds of muscle.  It was a bit cool today so I thought I’d give my kick-ass and takin’ names boots one last hurrah before summer.  No dice.  I couldn’t zip them over my King Kong sized calves. So, sexy boots are out, but if you need someone to climb a building, I’m your gal.  Anywaaaaaay....

No sooner had we said, “No hills!” than the course began a gradual incline.  Are you freakin’ kidding me?  Hills in lower Manhattan?  But you know what?  I flew over those hills.  And you know what else?  We started passing some of the smart asses who had bolted out of the starting area.  I resisted the urge to turn around as I passed them and taunt, “In your face! In your face!” This nod to decorum was not because of any humility on my part but simple recognition of my limits.  I lack grace and coordination.  I am fortunate enough to be able to run in a straight line.  To run backwards, even with the incentive to serve some humble pie, would surely result in having a pie thrown in my own face.  So, I plodded on. 

It was fantastic to see the city from the street and note all the reconstruction that had taken place.  There were parks and gardens.  Stores and vendors.  Even Ground Zero had finally lost its death pall and taken on a new vivacity.  As we ran through the streets people cheered for us.  It was an incredible feeling. 

Marian the Librarian kept checking in with me to make sure I wasn’t pushing myself too hard and to discuss our options post-race.  We’d passed a bunch of bars but there were also some shoe stores that looked inviting and Century 21 (a massive designer discount store) was still open.  You know, it’s one thing to run a race, it’s another talent altogether to scope out store hours while dodging potholes and sewage grates.

As we rounded the corner to the finish line I could hear loud clapping and cheering.  As we got closer we discovered it was a group of children, probably between 7 and 9 years old, who were cheering on the runners and giving high fives.  Chalk it up to being tired or overly emotional at nearly accomplishing my goal, but I found it incredibly moving.  I nearly knocked Marian the Librarian over in order to reach the kids before we passed them.  Hey, I wanted my high five! 

And then, it was done.  I crossed the finished line.  I wanted to cry.  I felt great!  I felt light.  I felt happy.  I felt hungry.  It was time for food and celebratory beer.  Marian the Librarian is the perfect race companion.  She cheered for me and encouraged me all the way.  Although we’ll see what I have to say about her in a few weeks; at her urging I signed up for a 10K. 

Leave a comment....

Mullet Over

So I took my punkin’ headed self back to the salon today to see what could be done with the disaster that had been wrought upon me.  When the owner of the salon came to greet me in the lobby, her eyes got all wide and she said, “Oh Lord, someone here did that to you?” An offer for free services was not forthcoming (I tried, Brookem! I really did!).  No, she wanted to try to fix it.  I had lots of things to say about that but because I was raised a good Southern girl, I remembered my Mama’s advice:  If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all where they can hear you.  So, while I wanted to tell the salon owner what I thought about the suggestion, I didn’t.  And because I’m a wuss, I sat down in the chair, closed my eyes, and envisioned buying lots and lots of pretty sparkling earrings.  (Thanks for the suggestion, Ree!). 

When I told her what I had asked the hair stylist to do, she said the only way to get that look now is to cut more.  I put the kibosh on that.  If she cut any more I would have to resort to that spray on hair that you see advertised at 3am.  Then she said that she could fix things up a little bit without taking off more length.  I know, I know, looking back on it now it doesn’t make sense that one second she’s saying that it needs to be cut and the next she’s saying that she can fix it without cutting it, right?  But I have little ears, remember?  I thought maybe I heard her wrong.

So several snip, snip, snips later and I am the proud owner of a retro look.  You may remember a little hairdo call the mullet?  Oh yeah, I’m bringing mullets back.  In fact, I’m sure it’s going to be the latest craze.  Because I am da shit.  Yes, I am. 

Also, ear reduction surgery is going to be all the rage.  You wait and see.

The only other bit of news I have is that I am running in a 5K on Tuesday.  It’s my first race and I’m nervous.  My friend, Marian the Librarian, is going to run with me. She runs several races over the course of the summer and while we both like to do our daily runs on our own, it will be nice to do races with someone else.  I will be able to put into practice all the training advice I’ve been reading and getting from friends and family like, “you should run at a pace that allows you to carry on a conversation.” As I’ve told you, I can sing and run but talking and running?  I’m afraid the only things Marian the Librarian will hear me say are “Water! Waaaatttteeeerrrr!” and “Port-o-potty!  Poooorrrttt-oooo—pooottyyy!”

But I will be rockin’ the mullet and making all the other racers wish that they had hair like mine.

Leave a comment....

I’m Sm’all Ears

I have small ears.  Tiny ears.  Bat-sized ears.  No, fish size ears.  Have you ever seen a fish’s ears?  No, because they’re too small.  That’s how small my ears are.  In college, after a night of drunken revelry, my inebriated friends used to like to take out a ruler and measure my ears.  Boy howdy, what passed for fun in my Texas college town would fill a book, or at least a small Post-it note.  So here I am, many, many years later with my tiny ears.  To tell you the truth, until now these ears o’ mine have never been a problem.  However, lately, I’ve been cursing these tiny flaps of cartilage attached to the side of my head.  Wouldn’t it be great if we could exchange facial features like Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head?  Sometimes, just for kicks, I would put my eyes in the back of my head.

The problem I’ve encountered in the past few weeks is finding headphones that fit.  I’ve tried every size of earbuds imaginable but they always fall out of my tiny ears.  Well, they don’t actually fit inside my ears so I have to sort of wedge them along the outer ridges.  But I spend an unreasonable amount of time pushing my earphones back in while I’m running.  I am sure that people I pass think, “Why does she keep hitting herself in the side of her head like that?” No, you dumbasses, I am not a high-functioning autistic, I am just trying to keep my earphones from falling out of my eraser-sized ears.  On the other hand, I’ve also collected a lot of change from tourists who think I’m a street performer doing the Macarena.  That knowledge will come in handy when I’m in Europe and I’ve run out of coins for the public restrooms.  Anyway, I’ve looked for smaller ear buds but can’t find the right fit.  Probably because if I get them any smaller than the ones I have now, they’ll be the size of Tic-Tacs. 

Apparently my ears are so small that the woman who cut my hair this weekend decided that my ears should be liberated from the prison of my unruly locks.  For some reason the woman insisted on blow-drying my hair, although I never wear it straight, and then cutting it.  She said something about being able to see the lines and angles or whatever.  Um, I have curly hair.  No lines, no angles, just curls, waves, corkscrews, and general mayhem.  I should’ve stabbed her with her scissors and made a break for the door, but I didn’t.  I’m only big, bad, and confrontational in my head.  My big ol’ punkin head.  Yes, I have a big head.  Tiny ears.  Big head.  Sounds like a Discovery Health documentary, doesn’t it?  Something that’s aired right after the touching family saga about the midgets little people people shorter than everyone else.

Anyway, I told Sweeny Todd that if she insisted on cutting my hair while it was straight to remember that my hair shrinks up A LOT when it’s curly and dry.  She didn’t listen.  And so now everyone can see my tiny ears.  Oh, and the hair cut?  Yeah, it accentuates my ginormous punkin’ head.  It sticks out from my head like a nimbus, or rather, a giant dandelion puff.  I wish I could borrow Mr. Potato Head’s hat.  Hey, if the hat can fit Mr. Potato Head, it should be able to fit Ms. Dingo Punkin’ Head, right?  I bitched and moaned all day yesterday.  Mr. Dingo said that it wasn’t that bad but the sideways glances he kept taking at my noggin had me convinced that he was either looking at my tiny ears or trying to gauge how long it would take my hair to grow back so that he could be seen with me in public.  He kept saying that it wasn’t that bad but when I went to take Dingo Girl for her walk he urged me to wear my hat. 

So, I called the salon and bitched, bitched, bitched.  I’m supposed to go see the owner who will try to fix what can be fixed and maybe offer some consolation for the loss of almost four inches of hair — free coloring or deep conditioning would lessen the pain.  But you know what?  Life can be a sneaky bitch.  I washed my hair this morning and didn’t look at it again until later in the evening when I was on my way to meet a friend for drinks after class.  I was trying to decide whether to go with the baseball cap or the Jackie O type scarf when I looked in the mirror.  And holy hell y’all, my hair looked kinda cute.  Tiny ears n’ all. 

So what am I supposed to do?  I mean, my hair does not look like I expected or wanted it to, and yes, it does need to be evened out where Edward Scissorhands decided to use the back of my head as her fantasy playground, but it doesn’t look as bad as I made it out to be when I called them yesterday.  If I get out of the shower tomorrow morning and my hair looks even better than it did today, do not think that I am above saving face by having Mr. Dingo take a kitchen knife to my ‘do.  Oh yes, I’ll go there.

Leave a comment....

It’s the DNA

I don’t think a balanced diet means hoovering one Entenmann’s Fudge Iced Golden Cake for every veggie that I manage to force down my gullet.  I could just kick myself.  I’m going to blame it on Mr. Dingo, though. 

Yesterday when I made my grocery list laden with yucky boring healthy foods like zucchini and grapes, Mr. Dingo asked if I wouldn’t mind picking up an Entenmann’s Fudge Iced Golden Cake for him.  Let me take this moment to inform you that Mr. Dingo is buff and he doesn’t have to break a sweat to maintain his David-like physique.  (Mr. Dingo wants me to insert here that I have changed the subject from vegetables.  I am referring his six pack abs, muscular legs, and great ass, not the baby-carrot-looking boybits Michelangelo’s David so proudly flaunts). 

Anyway, I think the only exercise Mr. Dingo gets is when he loses at Rock, Paper, Scissors and has to take Dingo Girl out for her potty breaks during a Class 5 hurricane while I remain inside keeping an eye on the weather channel and making a mental list to take stock of our bottled water and other perishables; namely, Swedish Fish — so yummy, yet so nasty when they get hard and stale.  So yeah, he’s genetically gifted with hotness. 

Unlike me, Mr. Dingo lacks the congenital defect otherwise known as a Sweet Tooth.  While the failure to have a fresh stash of Swedish Fish during a state of emergency would render me a blubbering mess languishing on the kitchen floor bemoaning our imminent demise and mentally calculating the amount of protein on Not a Dingo’s six- pound frame, Mr. Dingo would be completely satisfied surviving off of hardtack and MREs.  Sometimes, however, he likes a little dessert and will ask me to pick something up for him.  Come on, man!  Asking me to go to the grocery store and roam the candy aisle is like asking a pedophile to go to your local elementary school to pick up your daughter.

So I went to the grocery store and filled my grocery cart with things like apples, a block loaf of whole grain bread, and the Entenmann’s cake.  You will be proud of my fortitude.  I waited until Mr. Dingo got home from work so he could see the cake in its entirety before I dove into it face first. To be fair to myself, it was a very difficult day and if downing an Entemann’s in three bites was an effective form of self-medication, then cut me some slack. 

Yesterday was my niece’s birthday.  I’ve never mentioned my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother and, other than in today’s post, you will most likely never hear about him again.  His only redeeming quality is that he has four of the most beautiful, intelligent, funny, and loving children evah!  I have three nieces and a nephew.  I haven’t seen them in two years.  I’m not going into details, not out of any respect for his privacy because I don’t give a flying fuck about that.  It’s out of respect for my nieces and nephew that I can’t tell you more.  But in spite of the fact that I haven’t had any contact with them, I still send cards and letters on holidays and birthdays in the off chance that one of them will get them and know that my Mom and I have done everything we can to protect them.  That’s so much more than the circus courts ever did.  It is my greatest fear that one day they will contact me and hate me for not doing more. 

So I called Niece #2 for her birthday.  My heart was in my throat when some woman (this may be wife three or four, lord knows my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother cannot pick, or keep, a sane woman) answered the phone.  I said, “Hi, this is Aunt Dingo.  I’d like to wish Niece #2 a Happy Birthday.” There was silence as I heard her put the phone down and I could hear the kids in the background.  If this were a Lifetime movie, you know I would’ve been screaming into the receiver so that they could hear me.  But this wasn’t a Lifetime movie and I lost my chance when my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother got on the phone.  I would like to say that I conducted myself with maturity and restraint so I’ll say that.  But that’s not how it went down.  No, in reality the moment was much more like me trying that cartoon maneuver of sticking my hand into the mouthpiece of the phone so it would come out of the earpiece at the recipient’s end.  Just so you know, it doesn’t work on cordless phones.  So, what it actually came down to was, two hours later, me wolfing down Entenmann’s with a knife and my bare hands.  But hey, at least I wasn’t smoking!!

There are so many times when something happens that reminds me of the kids and something they said or did.  I decided though, that just because I can’t see my nieces and nephew doesn’t mean that I can’t remember them.  It doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you about the time that Mom and Niece #2 were standing in the grocery store check-out lane when Niece #2 proclaimed, in a loud, proud three-year-old voice, “Grammy, I LOVE your titties!” while giving them a lurid squeeze.  It doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you about the beautiful summer day that the kids and I drove around with the windows down and bags full of candy and pumped up on soda singing songs from Maroon 5’s Songs about Jane.  Hmmm.... Maybe the fact that I returned them to my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother on a sugar and caffeine high with suggestive lyrics in their little heads is an indication of why my parents and I can’t see them.  Nah.  He’s just an ass.  But if you’ve read this, you know that he comes by it naturally.  It’s in the DNA. 

Thank you, my loyal readers reader Mom, for being here for me.  After yesterday, I figured the best way to deal with this was to write about it.  And eat Entemann’s.  Lots and lots of Entenmann’s.  So, thank you also Entemann’s .  And thank goodness today was one of my running days. 

Leave a comment....