My dinner with…

Last night I had dinner with Stoogepie of stoogepie.com. 

One of the best things to come from blogging is that I have gotten to meet so many people that I wouldn’t have known otherwise.  Including people who, like Stoogepie, if not already on a sexual predator list. probably will be someday.  You see, Stoogepie is some kind of pervert madman writer and artist.  It was with some anticipation and trepidation that I met the famous, or infamous, Mr. Stoogepie.  I took Mr. Dingo with me.  And left detailed information with family and friends if I did not text, Tweet, or call the next day.

The point of this meeting was to witness the choice of the winner of Stoogepie’s Nude MILF Sweepstakes.  Yesterday, the winners of the Blogger’s Choice Awards were chosen, so the contest ended.  Crissy won the Hottest Mommy Blogger category!  She won with 578 votes, beating Dooce by 86 votes!  Fantabulous! Oh yeah!  Who’s your Hottest Mommy Blogger?  Say her name…say it!

Stoogepie had to select a winner for better than $1,250 worth of camera gear.  And, because the asshats at Blogger’s Choice decided not to show the votes, Stoogepie needed a witness to demonstrate that he picked the winner fairly.  When I got the e-mail from Stoogepie asking me to play Heidi Klum to his Tim Gunn, I almost deleted it as spam.  The message was from Stoogepie but the subject line said something like, “Night of XXXtacy.” I opened it with hesitation – meaning I opened it at work just in case there was a virus attached – and was delighted to discover that he wanted my assistance in choosing the winner of the camera package.  Apparently, I have mentioned on my blog that I used to be a lawyer but I suspect I was also chosen for this perilous assignment because I am also anonymous and happen to live within walking distance of Stoogepie.  Then again, I’ve also mentioned that I have great ta-tas.  No, no, it’s not that; I’m convinced Stoogepie loves me for my mind.

We were supposed to meet October 16th because he expected the winners to have been announced by then.  Because that’s what the website said.  But, again, the asshats at Blogger’s Choice messed up that plan by announcing the winners after midnight.  So, Stoogepie cancelled and rescheduled for last night.

So, I waited on a street corner with a shivering Mr. Dingo.  It really wasn’t all that cold, but Mr. Dingo had been given a crash course in stoogieness the day before via Stoogepie’s latest barfably disgusting post.  I think he was a little worried.  Mr. Dingo has never been worried about my blogger meet-ups before but, for some reason, he really wanted to go on this one.  I think he was concerned that steak was not the only meat on Stoogepie’s menu for the evening.

Stoogepie approached me and I immediately knew it was him.  He didn’t say anything.  He didn’t say “hello.” He didn’t say, “Dingo!” He circled me a few times, and I could almost see a Mister Shorts style balloon over his head saying, “Well, I’ve got a contest in my shorts I’d like for you to monitor,” or something similar.  He did not look like his cartoon.  His hair is shorter and darker and his features are sharper.  Brookem, I think you have your next HOH.  He’s thin but muscular, and was wearing a gray coat so long that it looked like it had been stolen from the set of the Matrix.  In other words, he’s delish.  In that bad boy type of way.  Not a poser bad boy but a REAL bad boy.  The kind of bad boy that you just know is going to break your heart but that you will gladly wait in line for the privilege.  I’m paraphrasing a little, but he finally said, “Dingo!  You’re different from what I was expecting.  All I got right in my mind were the boots and the tits.” Then he turned to Mr. DIngo and said, “I didn’t really have a picture of you at all.  I’m Stoogepie.”

We then went to his apartment, which was-oh-my-fucking-god: spacious, lots of art, lots of books, a fireplace in the living room and the kitchen (yes, I asked to see the kitchen), and the most beautiful coffee table I have ever seen.  I tried not to gape like a tourist in Times Square.  Sadly, I didn’t see the Stoogepie pig.  Or his cat for that matter.  He also had the biggest flat-screen computer monitor I have ever seen.  And given from what Stoogepie has said about his extracurricular activities, it was notably free of, ahem, let’s say, debris. Mr. Dingo’s monitor envy was thinly concealed.  Stoogepie said something like, “Well, you know what they say about dudes with big monitors....” Mr. Dingo laughed nervously.  Mr. Dingo has a 17” monitor.  The whole night was like that.

Stoogepie wanted to get right down to business.  There were 578 votes cast.  He went to random.org and chose a number between 1 and 578.  The number was 277.  He had printouts of the first eighteen pages of votes, so he flipped to page 14 and the winner was Soapbox.  (If it had not been in the first eighteen pages, he would have had a problem, but intended to email to Blogger’s Choice to ask them to tell him the username.) So, we had chosen a winner and it was all perfectly legal.  It was easy.  But the night was still young and the wine was flowing.

For dinner, we went to Uncle Jack’s in Midtown, a fancy schmancy steakhouse, but Stoogepie was treating. Gun running and drug smuggling must be really lucrative.  We each ordered a steak and then Stoogepie ordered stuff for the table, including wine and seafood and Kobe beef.  I had never had Kobe beef before.  It’s ridiculously expensive and I have to admit, it tasted like hamburger to me.  It’s tender all right, so it had the consistency of potted meat food product and it disintegrated in your mouth.  It had the texture of Spam that had been put in a blender and then pushed through a sieve.  Mr. Dingo, however, liked it and, overall, the food was great.  The wine was great, too, and I had way, way too much.  Not enough to enter Ben’s contest perhaps—because, as NPW and blakspring can tell you, I’m a lightweight—but enough so that being with Stoogepie while also feeling like a rich kid’s birthday piñata might have been a mistake. Because Stoogepie, in case you don’t follow his website, can be nauseatingly explicit.

Truth is, Stoogepie is really funny in person, especially after a little wine.  After about the first bottle, he looked across the table at Mr. Dingo and said, “This is always awkward.  Do I raise the possibility of a threesome now, while you have time to mull it over, or do I wait until you get to know me better, but forcing you to make a snap decision?” Mr. Dingo just stared past him blankly, his mouth agape, Kobe beef semi-dissolved, until I started to laugh.  I think Mr. Dingo shaved about a year off his life just then, though.  Then Stoogepie proceeded to shave a year off mine.

I consider myself a pretty well-rounded person, and I don’t mean just my ass.  But Stoogepie is positively a fount of disturbingly funny knowledge.  About bondage. And domination. And bizarre sexual practices. And pornography and biblical tales of people killing other people so they could collect their foreskins.  For instance, did any of you know that Sir Henry Norris, alleged lover of Anne Boleyn who was executed with her by Henry VIII, was also royal groom of the stool?  And did you know that the groom of the stool’s job was to wipe the king’s ass?  Yes, look it up.  I did after dinner.  According to Stoogepie, “I would kill my wife if she screwed the dude who wiped my ass, too.  Show a little discrimination!  At least screw around with the royal piss aimer or the royal wanker.” The Kobe beef was tasting nastier and nastier.  And Stoogepie carries a little notebook with him, often illustrating these glorious stories as he goes.  It was like a game of Pricktionary.  Not everything he says is dirty.  We did talk a good deal about politics.  If you haven’t read his political posts because the sex and blasphemy posts have gotten your internet privileges banned at work, find a computer in a library somewhere and read President Sarah Palin, Modern War Toys, and No Country for Young Men.  Warning:  Electoral Buttplugs may get your ass banned from the library.  Politically we agree on most everything, but Stoogepie had his own take on some things:  “People really need to think about what a Palin presidency would look like, because McCain is at that age when dying does not even qualify as a turn of events.”

Really, I haven’t felt like talking much since dinner.  Mr. Dingo and I have hardly anything left to talk about.  We covered it all.

Stoogepie never did cough up his real name but the waiter happened to let it slip when he returned Stoogepie’s credit card.  “Thank you, Mr. ____,” he said.  I just about flipped out.  That’s like knowing James Bond’s real name!  Oh wait, James Bond is 007’S real name, isn’t it?  Anyway, I am sworn to secrecy or Stoogepie will kill me.  And I’ve seen Stoogepie’s collection of play toys.  There will be no killing me softly.  As a result, that’s all I have to say about my dinner with Stoogepie.

Oh, wait!  One more thing.  He didn’t advertise it or promote it in any way but Stoogepie won second place as the Hottest Celebrity Blogger in the 2008 Blogger’s Choice Awards!  He got beat by some woman named Rosie O’Donnell.  Who the hell is that?

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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. 

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West Nile is not a Vacation Destination

I haven’t been sleeping well lately.  Yes, my To Do list is longer than this election process feels and I am under no delusion that I will complete everything before we somehow manage to eliminate our national debt. In other words, I’m screwed.  Mr. Dingo is always telling me that I take on too much.  To prove his point he sent me an email that listed all the things I said I was going to accomplish that day, all the things I wished I could accomplish that day, and then, for kicks, because he’s silly like that, he added on a few things that no one in their right mind would think was doable in the amount of time that I have.  I, never claiming to be in my right mind, added them to my To Do list.  Yes, it is possible to learn Italian before I go to Florence, to train Dingo Girl so that we can win the Obedience Competition this Fall, and to find Osama Bin Laden before summer break begins.  I. CAN. DO. IT. ALL!!! 

I feel as if I am in a constant state of motion.  I can’t slow down or I’ll fall behind.  I don’t even know who or what this thing is I’m afraid of falling behind.  Whatever it is, though, all I know is that I don’t want to get behind it.  Maybe it poops a lot. Or drives down the highway with its left turn signal on.

The other night I woke up from a nightmare in which I dreamt that my English Literature Subject Matter test was in November and not only had I not started studying for it but I hadn’t even begun working on my applications to Ph.D. programs.  And then as the blood started pooling on the bed as I frantically pinched my arm harder and harder to wake up from the nightmare, I realized it was not a nightmare. 

For those of you who don’t know about the English Subject Matter test, it’s a test that you have to take to get into most English Ph.D. programs.  It doesn’t test you on the things that you’ve learned in undergrad or grad school.  Oh, no, that would be too easy.  Instead, it tests you on arcane literary devices and novels, essays, and quotes that no one who wasn’t alive to smoke opium with Poe would ever know.  Things added to my To Do list this past week: read every single Norton Anthology; write a personal statement for my Ph.D. applications worthy of the Pulitzer Prize, memorize and/or tattoo onto my inner thigh esoteric poetic devices; break into a big blubbering puddle of tears; eat Entemann’s.  I’m pretty sure I can accomplish the last two without much effort.

If my To Do list was all I had to do, I could do it.  I would be a raving, foaming at the mouth, hopped up on amphetamines unwashed, disheveled bitch, but I could do it.  I would not be happy, Mr. Dingo would not be happy, Dingo Girl would put herself up for adoption, and Not a Dingo would go on as usual, sleeping on my keyboard and only waking occasionally so that I could drop a treat into her mouth.  I. CAN. DO. IT. ALL!!!  But I can’t do any of it without sleep and I haven’t been getting much of that. 

No, it’s not these worries keeping me up at night, Valium Xanax meditation helps me with that.  It’s the damned mosquitoes.  Yes, you read that right, mosquitoes.  I am a magnet for bloodsuckers. 

As I sat down to write this, I counted 31 mosquito bites on my body.  No, I am not exaggerating.  No doubt by the time I hit Submit, there will be more.  The itching and scratching keep me awake at night and no amount of hydrocortisone or calamine lotion helps. 

During the day the itching is bad but I can sometimes forget about it in the frenzy and activity of my life.  At night, when the world is silent except for the mosquitoes buzzing above my bed like a cult of Satanists ready to drive their knives into my veins to bask in my blood, it’s all I can do not to climb out of my own skin.  It’s not just summer, although that’s when the fuckers are at their worst, but year round.  Mr. Dingo thinks that it’s somehow a point of pride that I am the only person in New York City who can be bitten by a mosquito in December.  By the way, Mr. Dingo never gets bitten.  Ever.  Mosquitoes find him thoroughly unappetizing.  He is the rice cake of the mosquito world.  Sometimes I wonder whether he is one of them.

The mosquitoes can’t just bite me and be done with it.  Oh no.  As it happens, I am allergic to mosquito bites.  Whereas most people get bitten and have a small red bump to show for the experience, I swell up like a bloated corpse.  By the end of the summer, I will be covered with enough mosquito bites that people will think I am in a Tyler Perry movie.  And because I can’t stop scratching, I have a scab or two.  And then, because my skin hates me, I don’t heal well so I have scars that will not fade until the next appearance of Halley’s Comet.  Am I creating a lovely visual image for you?  Aren’t you just picturing a misshapen mass of a woman with enormous bags under her eyes from lack of sleep plugging away at her keyboard stopping occasionally to pick her scabs and shoo away a swarming mass of nature’s vampires between bites of Entemann’s?

Mr. Dingo and I have done everything short of having me bathe in Off.  I am hesitant to wear a chemical barrier to mosquitoes 24/7 because that can’t be good for your skin and it smells.  But I’m running short on options and on unbitten skin.  Then, this morning, in an answer to our burnt offerings (my last two turns at the stove ended short of calling the fire department but that’s a story for another post), I received an email from a friend about how to get rid of mosquitoes.  This is the text of the email:

The best way of getting rid of mosquitoes is Listerine, the original medicinal type. The Dollar Store-type works, too. I was at a deck party awhile back, and the bugs were having a ball biting everyone. A man at the party sprayed the lawn and deck floor with Listerine, and the little demons disappeared. The next year I filled a 4-ounce spray bottle and used it around my seat whenever I saw mosquitoes. And voila! That worked as well. It worked at a picnic where we sprayed the area around the food table, the children’s swing area, and the standing water nearby. During the summer, I don’t leave home without it.....Pass it on.  Also can be used to dab any bites you receive. It will stop the itching quicker and go away faster.

Really?  Listerine?  As it so happens, we have Listerine on hand.  Is the orange-flavored kind okay?  I’m not sure exactly where we should spray it.  We have already saturated the areas around our doors and windows with Raid, Off, and any other chemical repellant that, in two years, will be found to cause irreversible brain damage.  But I am open for anything at this point and have spent the day dabbing at my skin with the mouthwash.  Should I make a body spray out of it and douse myself with the mediciney smelling concoction?  I didn’t wear Off because I didn’t want to smell like a chemical factory, but will wearing Eau de Listerine make me smell like an alcoholic trying to hide her addiction?  Because really folks, if I can’t find some relief and get some sleep, I’m going to have to bring my buddies Jim and Jack out of retirement just to get some shut eye.  And then I would have to add another task to my To Do list: Rehab.

Update:  Several bottles of Listerine later and I have discovered that the email I received about repelling mosquitoes with Listerine is all a hoax!  Snopes.com, that faithful debunker of urban legends, has dashed my only hope of emerging from the summer months without looking like a life-size Connect the Dots.  They don’t say who started this rumor but I’m eyeing Pfizer.  Mouthwash sales down?  Start a rumor that has people filling their swimming pools with your product.  I smell a conspiracy.  And Listerine.

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Animal, Vegetable, Mineral

Breaking news!  I ate a vegetable for dinner! 

I quit smoking two months ago (go me!), started running, and now, now I’m eating veggies?  What’s next, a cure for cancer?  Don’t roll your eyes, I’m sure whatever is growing in the Petri dish that is my bathtub has medicinal properties.  Mr. Dingo and I are trying to adopt healthier eating habits and so far, of all the changes in my life, this one that has been the toughest.  I mean, I was raised in a family where “fried” is the fifth food group.  If the food wasn’t fried it had best be smothered in gravy.  My culinary role models were not Julia Child or the Cajun Chef and his “un-yones.” I was more cosmopolitan in my tastes, preferring the exoticism of Outback Steakhouse and the intercontinental flair of The International House of Pancakes. 

Obviously, I am not a foodie.  Which, by the way is a pretentious label.  Do people actually go around calling themselves “foodies?” Wait a minute, let me ask my friend Google.  Oh my God, Google says, “Yes!” What does one wear to such an “intimate” event that the information on location will only be given to those who RSVP to the tasting?  Would my Red Lobster bib be completely out of place?  When should one use the finger bowl and when should one just lick one’s fingers and why does one always use the pronoun “one” when trying to sound high-falutin?  I would go to an event like this if just to report back to you but $85 is a lot of money to shell out just to make fun of people when I can get that sort of amusement for free just by walking down the street.  Or teaching my class. 

Speaking of class, yesterday — only two class meetings away from the end of the semester — I was informed that I have to give a final exam in the class.  As part of some new (“new” as in only TWO class meetings from the end of the semester!!) assessment program, all freshman literature classes must have a final exam.  My class took it rather well.  I softened the blow by telling them that I would only use the highest test grade, whether that was their mid-term or their final, when calculating final grades.  I was immediately hailed a hero.  I basked in the praise — “You are soo cool!” and “You rock!” — while secretly patting myself on the back for figuring out a way to avoid creating a new grading rubric.  Oh, and the students that the assessment team chose from my class to assess?  You guessed it, the plagiarist.  Also included in my assessment:  a student who hasn’t turned in a paper the entire semester and someone who has been featured quite regularly in my rants here.  They couldn’t pick my rock stars?  They couldn’t pick the students who amaze me daily with their insights and ability to discuss issues and the complexities of literature and life?  No, they pick the two students who I can’t tell whether they are vegetable or mineral. 

It’s enough to make me want to drink except that, after reading that foodienyc.com web site, I’m beginning to doubt my ability to taste and assess food and wine.  Maybe I should put together an assessment team for food and wine.  We could all meet at my apartment and eat fried food and drink my favorite wine.  I would even spring for one can for each of us.  Of course, since it would be such an intimate setting, I won’t be able to tell you the location until you RSVP.  And please, bring your own Red Lobster bibs.  My set is currently in the laundry hamper until the maid gets around to cleaning them.

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Beer, It Isn’t Just for Breakfast Anymore

Oh my holy hell, y’all, I have a stock tip for you.  Ibuprofen.  Yes, sales of ibuprofen are going to go through the roof within the next few months.  When I’m lying on the apartment floor after a run, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m practicing my visualization — you know, “seeing” myself completing the marathon, imagining having a great workout, all that New Age mumbo jumbo that scientist begrudgingly admit is important in helping us achieve our goals.  So far, my visualization has included picturing myself getting off the floor and going into the kitchen for a beer.  What usually happens is that I end up begging Mr. Dingo for some ibuprofen with a beer chaser.  What, you think that beer is not an appropriate workout beverage?  I should be swilling Gatorade perhaps?  You forget, my friends, that I will be running this marathon in Florence.  Beer is just the first step in my post-marathon training.  I need to be able to hold my liquor when I go out for the celebratory binge meal after the race.  I would hate to embarrass you, my fellow countrymen, by falling face first into my plate of pasta after only one cask bottle glass of wine.  So, in order to prepare for the post-race festivities, I am chewing ibuprofen and chugging beer.  Why beer?  Because, really, who drinks wine at 7:30 in the morning!?  What, do you think I am an alcoholic? 

My training plan is great.  Before actually training for distance, the training manual I’m using prepares your body and your mind for the rigorous workout to come.  Visualization and gradual increases in running time are on my agenda for the next few weeks before training for distance and speed.  Right now, I’m running for five minutes and walking “briskly” for five minutes.  I think briskly means slightly faster than a zombie lurch but slower than the mad dash during the Pamploma Running with the Bulls.  Next week I jog for ten and walk briskly for five.  You see the pattern here?  This is the training plan that Wheaties used and now look at her — she’s competing in the Ironman in October.  While I am immensely proud of her, the only Ironman I wanna do is Robert Downey, Jr.

Anyway, I’ve discovered that ibuprofen is my friend.  I’ve already gone through a bottle and have sometimes wondered if it would ease my aches and pains faster if I ground it up first and snorted it through a dollar bill.  Side note:  I read that 80% of all paper currency in the US contains trace amounts of cocaine.  Think about that the next time you are going through airport security and one of those friendly looking drug sniffing dogs comes your way

As I’m lying on the floor visualizing the ibuprofen levitating from the medicine cabinet into my hand, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m meditating.  But I’m not.  I’ve found religion.  Yes, those “visualization” moments on my floor are actually prayers.  I’m bargaining with God. 

Me:  God, if you just let me move my legs, I promise I’ll stop making fun of the woman who runs in high heeled sneakers.  But I can’t promise that I won’t stare. 

God: 

Me:  Just a toe, God.  If I could just move my right big toe, I’ll stop cursing the stroller mom who thinks it’s okay to talk on her cell phone while pushing her damn double stroller in the running lane taking up the entire path so that I have to go into the grass to go around her. 

God:

Me:  Okay, since you’re God, you know that I’m lying.  I won’t stop cursing her, but I will stop cursing in that fake under my breath way that’s loud enough for her to hear it.

God:

Me:  I got nothin’ else.

God:

So, marathon training is going well.  I’m actually enjoying it.  To tell you the truth, I never thought I could run for five seconds and now I’m zooming along at the speed of erosion for five minutes at a time.  I freakin’ rock!

(Get it?  Erosion?  Rock?  Oh come on!  That was funny!)

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