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.

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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.

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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.

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I’ll Make My Own Lemonade

I got back to NYC late last night. Woohoo!  Now I can catch up with my blog reading and commenting and you can catch up with commenting on mine (comment-whore hint).  Although Mom kept me busy shopping, cleaning out gutters, and installing an Odd Boy alert system, I managed to stick to my running schedule.  But not without mishaps.

I went for a run yesterday and got lost.  In a subdivision.  What was supposed to be a three-mile run turned into a four-and-a-half-mile slog through a tangled knot of streets with names like Dancing Deer Lane, Dancing Deer Lane Court, and Dancing Deer Court Lane Partridge in a Pear Tree.  Is it any wonder I got lost?  I bet even Santa, being the deer expert that he is, loses his way in this neighborhood. I would feel bad for the poor toyless tykes of this neighborhood except not one of those little fuckers had a lemonade stand set up yesterday in the ninety-degree heat.  What’s up with that?  How do these kids make money?  They can’t all be mowing lawns at $65 a pop. So, no lemonade yesterday, and thus I made sure that Santa will get lost in this neighborhood by switching all the street signs.

My running times were slower this week.  It could have been because of the god awful humidity but it’s more likely the lack of snark material on my run.  There was no one to distract me from my collapsing lungs.  And the only change in scenery from one cookie cutter house to the next was the color of the Honda Civic in the driveways.  I did not come across any other runners this week.  There were kids on bikes, a few skateboarders, and one rollerblade.  No, not someone on a pair of rollerblades but a kid peg-legging his way down the street on one rollerblade.  It was so pathetic that I can’t muster a snide aside even now.  Okay, I snarked a little at the time but it was so lame, I’m not even going to share it with you.  I did see one old lady with a cane walking on the sidewalk.  She did not look like she posed an OLWW-type threat.  She was just going to the mailbox but I made a note to myself to keep an eye on her just in case.

I should’ve brought my iPod to help me pick up the pace but I’ve been running without it lately.  Trying to keep the earbuds in my tiny ears was just too distracting and I like being able to hear my footsteps and my breathing.  I can also hear the water sloshing around in the water bottle strapped to my waist.  The fact that I have to use a bungee cord to get the thing around my waist is a drawback.  It feels like a corset or an external gastric bypass.  The waist belt is so tight that I can’t breathe much less drink. And if I’ve had any liquids in the last month or so, the pressure of the belt as it jostles my waistline sends ripples to my bladder making sure that I have to pee when I am at the furthest point away from home.  Being one to plan not only for zombie invasions but other worst-case scenarios, I have this potentially embarrassing situation already figured out.  First, drink all the water.  Then, pee in the water bottle, relieving my bladder, and, finally, make some money in the process by selling it as lemonade to some unsuspecting runner.  These suburban kids may not know how to turn a buck but I am a survivor. 

So, why did I buy a waist belt that was too small?  It was on sale at Target.  Duh! 

Speaking of Tar-zhay — and I always seem to be speaking of Tar-zhay — as Mom and I were walking to our car at the very back of the parking lot earlier this week, I made the non-judgmental observation that the people here seem very, very out of shape.  Especially compared to the people in NYC.  I think it’s because the people in NYC walk so freakin’ much.  And then there’s running after cabs, so even if you do end up taking the cab across town, the brief sprint to beat out the guy on crutches trying to carry two bags of groceries counts as both cardio and strength training — and you get some resistance training in there too if you have to hold the door closed as he tries to yank it open.  No, this did not happen to me.  I just saw it happen to others a few times.  Really!  And if it had been me, I would’ve pushed the guy down on the way to the cab so that there was no chance he could come after me.  And that counts as contact sport training, too.  Anyhoodle....

You know, one of the most humbling and encouraging lessons that I’ve learned is that fat does not mean unfit.  I have about @&! pounds to lose and when I started running I thought that people would wonder what this chunky monkey was doing taking up space when there were real runners trying to get by.  And you know what?  Some of those real runners were much, much bigger than I was and they blasted by me on the running trail without even breaking a sweat or breathing hard. It boosted my confidence in a fucked up kind of way because, as they zoomed by me, I wondered what those chunky monkeys were doing taking up space when there were real chunky monkey’s trying to get by.  Even though I haven’t lost much weight, I feel so much stronger and more confident.  In fact, I am confident that, if ever faced with a cab duel with a guy on crutches carrying two bags of groceries, I could not only beat him to the cab but I could hold the door closed without so much as breaking a nail in the process. 

The second most important thing I’ve learned from running is how to spit.  Oh, don’t twist your face up like that.  Before I began running I would throw an undisguised look of disgust at runners who spit.  I usually watched the Ironman from the comfort of my couch, but occasionally cheered marathoners as they passed by during an early happy hour.  As I double-fisted a high quality brew like Natural Light while maintaining my balance on a bar stool barely bigger than one ass cheek, I was certain that, while I may not have been fit, at least I had class. Now, however, I understand.  No matter how dry your throat feels or how dehydration has caused your eyeballs to shrivel up like raisins and rattle in their sockets, there will be a nasty loogie waiting at the back of your throat.  It must be expelled.  Yes, that’s gross, but so is swallowing the loogie.  Do you want to swallow the loogie?  No, I didn’t think so.  I’ve learned two cardinal rules of spitting: 

1) Do not spit directly in front of you, especially if it is windy.  It is very important that you turn your head to your side. 
2) Make sure there is no one running by your side.

This wasn’t such a concern here in the ‘burbs but it’s something to keep in mind if you ever run the loop around the Reservoir in Central Park.  Helpful tips, I gots ‘em.

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If Miles Were Measured in Donuts

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because most of it consists of things like, “Oh my holy hell, it’s hot y’all!” and “Someone talk me out of this madness!” But overall it’s going well.  I have about seventeen weeks until the marathon.  Yes, seventeen.  I had to make a wee change in my plans.  I am not going to Florence for the marathon.  Now, before you get your panties in a bunch, I am still running a marathon.  It’s just not in Italy.  It’s in Massachusetts. Cape Cod, to be exact.  Racing in Florence with a weak dollar and the cost of everything rising due to oil prices seemed like a big burden right now.  So, instead, I decided to race in Cape Cod, which is just like Italy with fewer popes.

Why Cape Cod?  Well, everyone knows that Italy is shaped like a boot, but did you know that Cape Cod is shaped like an arm?  Check it out on a map.  I am all into running in places shaped like extremities, so Cape Cod and Italy were the natural next choices after my first race in Manhattan.  Hey, if any of you are truly disappointed by this change in plans, I will reluctantly accept donations of cash, air miles, free drink coupons, duty free discount certificates or, hell, any old thing, toward the Send Dingo to Florence fund. 

The Cape Cod Marathon is sponsored by Dunkin Donuts because, you know, donuts and exercise go hand in hand.  I’m counting on them to have donut holes at every water station.  Or even instead of water stations. I can bring my own freakin’ water, but I want to make Dunkin Donuts put their “America Runs on Dunkin” money where my mouth is.

While my race training has gotten tougher and the hills don’t seem to be getting any easier, I have reached a running milestone.  The other day, I finally passed the old lady with a walker I see on the park track all the time when I run.  And I did it with style and only a small amount of gloating because I’m just humble like that.  When I first started running, Old Lady With Walker would kick my ass.  She would come out of nowhere and I’d think, “I may be slow but at least I can beat Old Lady With Walker.” Only, I couldn’t.  I could never catch up to her.

At first, I thought I had the upper hand.  OLWW is always dressed from head to foot in a white calf-length puffy coat — the kind you wear when the New York winter is at it’s worst and the mayor is telling everyone to stay home from work so the snow plows can do their job — and leather gloves.  She looks like the Michelin man, except I don’t recall ever seeing sweat stains under his armpits.  Anyway, I figured if I couldn’t catch up to her on my own power, she’d eventually fall out from heat stroke and I’d be able to hurdle over her prone body and claim victory.  Unless I was really tired from running.  Then I would have to step on her.  Gently. 

But I think OLWW has a tricked-out walker.  It’s sort of the Sports edition of walkers.  It has thick SUV wheels on the back legs and tennis balls on the front ones.  Tennis balls!  How could I compete with that?  She pushes this walker up and down the hills of Central Park like she just won a $5000 shopping spree at Tar-zhay and has only five minutes to reach the check-out line.  I thought, “Day-um!  I should be able to beat OLWW!” But I just couldn’t.  The distance between us would continue to increase until finally she came around behind me. 

And then.... this week, the impossible happened.  I passed OLWW.  I didn’t just pass her.  I passed her going uphill!  I was ecstatic.  Rocky Balboa couldn’t have been more pleased when he reached the top of those famous steps than I was at that moment.  I heard his theme music in my ears, danced a jig and did a couple of fist pumps in the air before becoming so out of breath my vision began to blur.  But I wanted to savor my victory.  So I turned around to see if she was choking on my dust.  Folks, I am just mastering the art of forward movement.  Running backwards is the Ph.D of coordination and apparently I don’t have that gift.  I tripped.  And fell. 

The world looks completely different when you are only six inches off the ground.  I did not relish having the Nike Swoosh tattooed onto my forehead by the approaching runners who did not stop.  Yeah, no one stopped.  They just kept on running although I think I heard one woman say something to her running buddy about stepping on me gently.  Through my haze of embarrassment, I swore I could hear OLWW’s wicked cackle as she anticipated leaving walker tracks across my outstretched body, so I quickly jumped up and continued my run. 

You would think making a complete ass of myself would dial back my snarkometer to acceptable leveIs, but you would be wrong.  The only thing that can make you feel better after an incident like that is to make fun of someone else.  It’s really not hard to do.  At my pace, there is plenty of snark material running right past me every few seconds.  The normal people pass me too quickly to fully engage my Bitch Vision, so all I’m left with is the freak parade.  Now, I know what you are thinking, and shame on you.  I am not a freak.  I just run like one.

I was not disappointed.  Two of my favorite runners appeared up ahead and instantly lifted my mood.  First there was the guy who runs like he’s on his way to a Broadway audition or the Extreme Cheer Challenge competition.  Arms bent at the elbow, fingers fully splayed, he has the perfect jazz hands. My internal iPod doesn’t know whether to start humming tunes from A Chorus Line or reciting dialogue from Bring it On: In It To Win It .  (Shush!  Don’t judge me! I’d like to see your DVD collection!) I always want to slap a Spirit Stick into his hands just to see what happens. 

Speaking of flashy numbers, did you know they make gold lamé running shorts?  Well, they do!  And my second favorite runner, Lame Lamé, has a pair for every day of the week.  Either that or she wears the same ones over and over again, but that’s just too nasty to think about.  Luckily, they make gold lamé running shorts in various sizes so you can choose ones that are two sizes too small, allowing everyone to see the shape of your girl bits.  I am glad I wear sunglasses because the reflection off her ass can scorch your corneas.  When she passed me the other day, the heat from her vulva-laser caused me to stumble, but I somehow maintained my balance.  Not only would falling twice in the same run have been mortifying, but it would be a sad day indeed if the last sight I ever had of this world was a pornographic baked potato and OLWW tennis balls approaching my forehead.

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