A posse ad esse, from possibility to actuality. Twenty-six weeks ago I started training for a marathon; this week I completed one. I'm not quite sure how to feel about the whole thing other than being convinced that I will run another one and probably several shorter races in between. For lack of a more creative introduction, here is how the race went:
I have never checked a bag before at a race because it seems like such a colossal pain in the ass. For the marathon however, I decided to suck it up and bring some dry clothes along; I decided this at 3 AM when I woke up to the pouring rain. Fortunately, it wasn't raining when my running partner, Vonie and I arrived in downtown Portland a few hours later. We stood in line first for the port-a-potties since those lines are always very long, especially at an event with 12,000 runners. This turned out to be a tactical mistake once we saw the lines for the bag check. I seriously contemplated donating my dry clothes to charity on the spot, but I am rather fond of the hoody I packed. At the last minute I threw my cell phone in the bag and jammed my energy gels in the small pocket of my running capris where I had intended to carry my phone. I had planned on pinning the gels to my shirt as I had seen other runners do, but since I have never run with gel packets slapping me on the ass before, I decided to follow the coach's "no new is good new" advice and pocket them instead. I could only cram three of them in there, but I figured I could pick up two more on the course at the designated stations. The whole need for gel was annoying, frankly; I'd trained with a carbohydrate/electrolyte product called Glucose throughout the season because that is the product that was supposed to be on the course. Well, a little less than two weeks prior to the race we found out that Ultima would be on the course instead. Ultima is electrolyte only, hence the need for me to add carbohydrate gel. There was a lot of discussion about this on the Portland Fit forum. Some runners were planning on bringing little packets of glucose and mixing their own during the race. This sounded like a huge time suck to me; little did I know....
At first, I lined up with the five hour (my stated goal) Red Lizard pacer. Then I got a little more optimistic and scooted up closer to the 4:45 (my secret goal) wave-start line. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon and it was a beautiful morning. I was thrilled to finally be running in my first marathon. Then we were off. I went slow, slow, slow for the first little while, trying to remember not to expend too much energy at the beginning. About ten minutes after we started running, I spotted a bank of port-a-potties that was miraculously vacant. I decided to take advantage of this anomaly and was quickly back out on the course. About this time the elite runners went racing by in the other direction - nearly finished and I had barely started. I was feeling good and smiling wide. I was only a few minutes off my goal pace and figured I could make that up later - I was keeping something in reserve for a reason, after all. There were some interesting sights along the course, not the least of which was a smushed rat. I pictured its last moments alive, frozen in the middle of the street as a knot of crazy humans mowed it down in their enthusiasm to test the limits of human endurance. More likely, it was roadkilled in the more traditional manner before traffic was blocked for the marathon, but it's always fun to speculate.
The water stations were going by quickly and I was drinking Ultima and water at each one. I had to pee again by mile six, but ignored the urge until mile eight hoping for shorter lines. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I lined up. There were two lines and I got in the wrong one. Everyone in my line was apparently carbo unloading. Finally, I was back on the course, but I had stopped for so long my left leg was tweaking badly I was limping pretty obviously. I stopped twice to rub out the cramp or whatever it was and was off again hoping I had seen the last of the inside of a port-a-potty until after the finish line; I had definitely seen the last of the 4:45 pacer.
I had already eaten two of my gels and was contemplating the third. I'd saved the best (apple pie) for last and decided to bust it out when I started to flag a bit at mile 15. I ripped the packet open with my teeth, and immediately dropped it on the ground. Horrified, I scooped it up and in the process squeezed gel all over my hand, watch and shirt. I started to lick it off my fingers until I realized that even the delicious* taste of energy gel cannot overcome the nasty taste of double-strength hand sanitizer. Abandoning that plan, I squeezed every last drop from the packet.
*Everything's relative
I reached Highway 30 and there was indeed a bit of a headwind as promised in the pre-race materials I had read diligently the night before. The helpful article had suggested finding another runner to run directly behind in order to conserve up to five heartbeats per minute. I dutifully found a strapping young man and slipped in behind him; then something slipped out of his behind and I had to veer off, gagging on the stench of too many pre-race protein bars. Oh well, nothing ventured...
I had to pee again. I couldn't believe it! I'd already peed four times more frequently than I had during my 21 mile training run. I took advantage of a vacant gas station bathroom I knew about and was pleasantly surprised to find it equipped with toilet paper. I also got to wash the crystallized gel from my hands in a real sink.
Speaking of gels, an aid station equipped with gels finally showed up. I was horrified to observe that instead of convenient little packets, they were pouring the gel from a gallon jug into paper cups. I grabbed one anyway, trying to figure out how to get it into my mouth and not my face/hands/clothes. I normally like to portion out my gel over the course of a mile - a carbohydrate miser. A Dixie cup isn't the best means of convenience for this technique, so I decided to go for broke and downed as much as I could by squishing the cup from the bottom. I immediately regretted the decision as soon as the foulness hit my taste buds. It tasted like someone had swished out a honey bear with Pinesol. (You think I'm kidding.) At least I had something to focus on besides the dull ache in my feet and the many miles left to cover. I thought wistfully of the two fruit-flavored gels I'd left behind in my checked bag and thought maybe I could have used a slap on the ass right about now...
Up and over the St. John's Brige and past the seventeen mile marker now. I was still feeling pretty good and looking forward to getting at the chips and Glucose that Aaron and Gemma had waiting for me at mile 20.5. I stopped to pee one more time (seriously!?) and had begun to suspect it was that damn Ultima that was causing the problems. I vowed to only drink water for the rest of the race as I once again sprinted to catch up to the five-hour pacer. I had been doing this at every water station for the last several miles. I was hanging on to my five hour goal like grim death. Finally, I saw the balloon arch that marked the Portland Fit cheering station and started scanning the crowd for Aaron. I saw him wave at me then I saw Gemma with a big smile on her face. I had planned on stopping to chat with them for a minute and give Gemma a hug, but I couldn't stand the thought of that stupid pacer getting ahead of me; I swooped past, grabbing the chips and Glucose as I went. I ran maybe a hundred more yards and all the engergy left my body like it had been siphoned off by one of the Dementors from Harry Potter. I had been focusing so hard on getting to the cheering station that another six miles seemed unattainable. I slowed way down and watched the Red Lizard pack run past and out of sight. I wanted to cry. And I had to pee again. Goddamnit.
The rest of the race (after giving up any goal aside from just finishing) is sort of a blur. I don't even remember crossing the Broadway Bridge. The only good thing I can say about those last few miles is that the port-a-potties were generally vacant. Of course, this was a philosophical observation since I hadn't had to pee since I stopped guzzling that stupid diuretic they were passing off as a sports drink. It's a good thing I had checked my cell phone, because if I'd had it, the temptation to call a cab would have been very enticing.
I found my focus again maybe a half a mile from the finish line when the throng of spectators started to thicken. I had my ipod on and meant to remember the song I crossed the finish line with, but it turns out my capacity for thought was distilled down to just figuring out where the end was and getting there as soon as possible. I didn't hear Gemma and Aaron cheering for me as I rounded the final corner; I'm pretty sure I didn't hear anything at all. I managed to throw my arms up in a victory "V" as I crossed the finish line. The pictures will soon tell if that looked as good as it felt.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Glutton for Running
Through a happy set of coincidences, I found myself on a Hood to Coast team. Hood to Coast is a relay that covers 197 miles and 6000 feet of elevation from Mt. Hood to Seaside. There are 1000 teams of twelve runners each plus a Portland to Coast walk and High School Challenge. Since this is my first running season, I was a HTC virgin and didn't know any better when I was assigned slot nine (ranked first for distance and second for difficulty). Or rather, I was suspicious but grateful for the opportunity and did not complain. I really have to say that runners as a group are really the most masochistic people; who else would devise a run that can last the better part of a day and a half and requires the runners to also sit in gridlocked traffic on narrow country roads in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Since I am new to this running game, I had to guess what my 10K time would be (in order to estimate what time the next runner would need to be in position). I rather flippantly told the coach that I could run a ten minute mile (which is occasionally true). I have run two half marathons at about a 10 minute pace, but since I have been working more on distance for the full marathon in October, I have been getting slower and slower. To see my name on a spreadsheet with an estimated time (that was already way over everyone else's pace) was a bit nerve racking. Here is a breakdown of how each of my legs went:
The Leg of Despair
Leg 9 - 6.89 miles, moderate difficulty.
As I was waiting near the hand-off shoot, the runner who came in just before my teammate was white as a sheet and puffing like a freight train. Lynn, my teammate, tactfully warned me to get out of the way so as not to be in the line of fire should this guy loose his lunch. Just about that time Tanya came sailing up and tagged me with the "baton" (one of those contraptions that starts out flat and curls itself around your wrist when you slap it against said appendage - I remember these from Jr. High, when it was fun to see how hard you could slap it onto someone else's wrist. I seem to recall they got taken away from us for having sharp edges. Hmmmmm...) Shortly after I headed out for my leg an ambulance passed me going the other way - presumably to rescue the runner I mentioned) . Awesome; I had already witnessed a casualty and was less than a quarter mile into my first run. The route quickly took me onto the Spring Water Trail. My biggest fear with this race was getting lost; I am rather talented at going the wrong direction. I was assured that it was next to impossible to get lost because a volunteer would be posted at every turn to direct me. I needn't have worried - if I started to get lost, I could always follow the person behind me. That's right, I got passed 26 times. Some of these runners blew by me like I was running backwards. Unlike a regular race, there were no mile markers along the route so I had no idea what my pace was. After getting passed so regularly, I started to worry that I was running at a 12 or 13 minute pace and began devising my excuses. Here are a few I came up with:
- I stopped to chat on my cell phone (it did ring twice and I was tempted...)
- I stopped to pick blackberries for the team
- I stopped to chat with some homeless people
- I unwisely looked for the source of the smell that was emanating from the bushes and got tied up in a homicide investigation.
- I stopped to collect litter (it did occur to me, especially race-related litter like those little packets of Gu)
- I got caught in the slipstream of some of the runners who passed me and was blown off course
The Leg of Darkness
Leg 21 - 5 miles, moderate difficulty
Some things I learned from the last leg - check the map for a landmark so you know when you are halfway done and don't count the people who pass you, only those you pass (roadkill). I should take a moment to expand on roadkill - this is any runner you pass. It's not particularly scientific as just about anyone counts as roadkill - runners (of course), runners who are unfortunate enough not to be met by a teammate and are waiting around anxiously at the hand-off while there van is stuck somewhere in traffic, lost or getting a ticket for not wearing seatbelts (which happened to be the situation with my first roadkill), walkers, people who eventually pass you, homeless people, passed-out drunks..... This is serious stuff at Hood to Coast, and nearly every van has their roadkill numbers prominently displayed. I was represented on dozens of vans by now - my little contribution to someone else's self esteem.
There were not a lot of landmarks on this leg - a house about halfway through the course. It was the middle of the night (around 2 am) and watching the runners ahead of my get quickly swallowed by the darkness did not bode well. I was equipped with a head lamp and a reflective vest. There were two runners in the shoot whose teammate that they were supposed to hand off to had not shown up. This was kind of emotionally stressful for me to witness; I was very glad when Tanya showed up and I was off following the others into the dark. Right away I nearly turned my ankle. The road was gravel and there was a big berm of it pushed up along the left shoulder. This was the same route the vans take to the next hand-off, so I had to run a fine line between getting run over by a van and getting mired in the gravel. It was like running in sand. There were stretches where I was totally by myself. It was as dark as the womb. There was enough cloud cover to obscure the moon and stars and my headlamp cut a weak swath through the night. There was a little moisture in the air so the light caught the reflection of the tiny droplets and it looked exactly like driving through the snow at night. I couldn't see far enough ahead with just my headlamp to really see what direction the road was curving. It was an incredibly surreal feeling to be basically be taking it on faith that there was a road beneath my feet. Every few minutes or so a van or group of vans would pass me, illuminating the road so I could see where I would be going. Then they would pass by and I would be plunged back in to the night that seemed darker than before. I was passed frequently again and actually passed four people. It was nice to be able to see the other runner's lights and reflectors in the distance. Like those lights in The Great Gatsby (I read that book on my own a long time ago and now I'm thinking maybe those lights were a portent of death so possibly not the best metaphor, but they were comforting at the time and I hated to see them wink out as the runner curved with the road or simply got too far ahead to see.) I was starting to worry about my pace again and thinking I would never finish when a girl sailed by me and said "two more minutes". Her reflective vest looked like wings and I couldn't help but think I had been visited by Mercury, the messenger of the Gods. I poured on a little speed and beat my estimated time by five minutes. Hallelujah.
The Leg of Disco
Leg 33 7.72 miles, difficulty hard
After a shower in a high school gym, an overpriced, under-good pancake breakfast and a few snatches of sleep, I was feeling somewhat human for this last leg. Mostly I was looking forward to being done. This was a really beautiful part of the course (the last leg was too, but I couldn't see the beauty for the dark). Rolling hills through the countryside. The cool thing about this leg was that there was good van access the whole way so my team stopped twice to cheer me on and give me water. That definitely gave me a little kick each time - especially when they started dancing to Stayin' Alive; I must say they have some fine moves and there is Youtube evidence posted on Facebook. I even got cheered on by another van or two, "Keep it up Red!" from the Maple Bar team was a nice boon, though I would have preferred an actual maple bar. There was a guy sitting in his lawn chair watching the spectacle. He told me I had two miles to go, though I suspect he was rounding down. I even had five roadkills this leg, of course one of them passed me again and the other was a walker, but I'm claiming them. I beat my estimate by seven minutes.
All in all, it was an interesting experience. I suspect that much like childbirth, after I recover from the aches and pain I will revise my assessment from "interesting" to "fun!" and come back for more next year.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Running for Distance
Apparently, running and chaffing go together like tequila and hangovers or flight attendants and polyester - always think this time will be different, but it never is....
I've made the acquaintance of Body Glide. In fact, we're on intimate terms - it's definitely been between my legs more frequently in the last six months than anything else has. The trouble with Body Glide is that you have to guess where to apply it like some sado-masochistic game pin the tail on the donkey. Sure, there are the obvious spots (I believe I just mentioned the most obvious one since my thighs stubbornly insist on rubbing together); also under the bra strap (learned that one the hard way) and my arm pits where the seams of my shirt tends to dig in a bit. Well, this week I discovered a new place to chafe and I have the welts on my back to prove it. I bought a pair or running capris last week to replace the other new pair I had to return after running for exactly two blocks in them and discovering that the crotch preferred to reside somewhere near my knees instead of where it belonged -- you know, at my crotch. They were made of some kind of magical fabric invented by frat boys that literally pulled off of my body with the slightest friction. An interesting reason to abort a run; I'm adding it to my list of logical excuses for when my bed is just too warm and the morning just too early.
Anyway, last Sunday was my 30K benchmark. That's 18.6 miles for you non-runners (and/or non-Canadians). I have a nifty hydration system that once I figured out how it worked, has stood me reasonably well. On Sunday however, it failed me - or rather I failed to fill it correctly, I'm not exactly sure. The end result was that around mile 15 or so I realized that I was literally soaked in Glucose (fancy sport beverage). I'm not sure if it actually leaked or if I simply filled the backpack portion up with liquid electrolytes instead of the pouch itself at the last water stop. The fancy tech fibers I was wearing did their best but when confronted with liquid from both sides but they were no match from the duel assault. It made for an interesting wet mark - sort of like I stood on my head and wet my pants. Awesome :l I had to forewarn the delightful massage therapist who worked on me after the run. That was an interesting conversation, "So, if you have to actually touch my thigh here where I'm tight, you're hands might get sticky."
I'll have to try running in those tights again to see if it was actually the waistband itself that was the issue or if it was the soaking it in liquid portion of the fun that caused the issue. This would be good information to have before I decide what to wear for the marathon in October. Either way, I'm adding yet another part of my anatomy to the list of Body Glide destinations.
I've made the acquaintance of Body Glide. In fact, we're on intimate terms - it's definitely been between my legs more frequently in the last six months than anything else has. The trouble with Body Glide is that you have to guess where to apply it like some sado-masochistic game pin the tail on the donkey. Sure, there are the obvious spots (I believe I just mentioned the most obvious one since my thighs stubbornly insist on rubbing together); also under the bra strap (learned that one the hard way) and my arm pits where the seams of my shirt tends to dig in a bit. Well, this week I discovered a new place to chafe and I have the welts on my back to prove it. I bought a pair or running capris last week to replace the other new pair I had to return after running for exactly two blocks in them and discovering that the crotch preferred to reside somewhere near my knees instead of where it belonged -- you know, at my crotch. They were made of some kind of magical fabric invented by frat boys that literally pulled off of my body with the slightest friction. An interesting reason to abort a run; I'm adding it to my list of logical excuses for when my bed is just too warm and the morning just too early.
Anyway, last Sunday was my 30K benchmark. That's 18.6 miles for you non-runners (and/or non-Canadians). I have a nifty hydration system that once I figured out how it worked, has stood me reasonably well. On Sunday however, it failed me - or rather I failed to fill it correctly, I'm not exactly sure. The end result was that around mile 15 or so I realized that I was literally soaked in Glucose (fancy sport beverage). I'm not sure if it actually leaked or if I simply filled the backpack portion up with liquid electrolytes instead of the pouch itself at the last water stop. The fancy tech fibers I was wearing did their best but when confronted with liquid from both sides but they were no match from the duel assault. It made for an interesting wet mark - sort of like I stood on my head and wet my pants. Awesome :l I had to forewarn the delightful massage therapist who worked on me after the run. That was an interesting conversation, "So, if you have to actually touch my thigh here where I'm tight, you're hands might get sticky."
I'll have to try running in those tights again to see if it was actually the waistband itself that was the issue or if it was the soaking it in liquid portion of the fun that caused the issue. This would be good information to have before I decide what to wear for the marathon in October. Either way, I'm adding yet another part of my anatomy to the list of Body Glide destinations.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Running Rural
I'm back home in St. Ignatius, Montana for the annual family visit. I grew up here in this tiny town of about a thousand people in the Mission Valley of the Rocky Mountains. It's beautiful here. I had a twelve mile run on the training schedule for the weekend so I struck out at 6:30 AM for what turned out to be a jog down memory lane. I decided to run around the town a bit and then head out towards farm country to crank out the miles. I was nearly to the high school when I came upon a road that I have never been down before. I don't know why in the seventeen years I lived in Mission that I had never had cause to travel down Griffin Lane. I guess I don't know any Griffins. In any case, it was a dead end and I turned around rather quickly, but not before a lady drove past me with her window down smoking a cigarette. The smoke combined with the smell of fresh grass made me think of Ireland, where the Irish need there morning cigarette the way Americans need their morning coffee. I ran past the Methodist Church, where I spent many Sundays growing up, and my whole Forth Grade year with Mrs. K while the new elementary school was being built. It is a private home now, with significantly better landscaping and (I hope for the new owner's sake, better plumbing). I proceed past the school which has grown in size somewhat, but not in personality. The whole thing is beige now, without a bit of blue or red trim to be seen and not a mural in sight. Beige paint must have been on sale or else there was some obscure catch in the latest round of grants, or maybe they just cut the art department. I guess they cut the track and field program too, because as the track comes into view, I see that there are waist high weeds growing out of the track itself. You'll be glad to know the football filed in the center is weed free and green (owing to the irrigation pipes I would have to leap across if I run the track). Every school has its priorities. Giving the track a pass, I head down the hill and over the bridge crossing Mission Crick (that's Creek to those of you who didn't grow up here). I spent lots of hot summer days playing in the creek and wishing I had a cool girls name like Samantha that could be shortened to a cool boys name like Sam. Christina/Chris and Andrea/Andy also fit this scenario depending on my mood. From here, I headed out of town on St. Mary's Lake Road. The 35 mph speed limit on these rural roads is really just the faintest suggestion. Fortunately these speed demons are also exceedingly polite, scooting to the other side of the road at least a half mile away and giving me a wide berth (and usually a return wave). Very peaceful out here running towards the Mission Mountains with the sun just peeking out from behind Mt. Harding. There is also a lot of tall grass that might make a convenient screen should a girl have to pee. Just sayin'. Oddly, the dogs out here are all chained or fenced, while the dogs in town seem to run wild through the streets. I see a sign in the distance with what looks like two pieces of burnt toast. As I get closer, I see that it is depicting the Ten Commandments. Surely this is a joke I think, as it appears to be in front of a post and timber business and not say, a church. Then I catch the subtitle, "The Wages of Sin are Death" and decide to run a little faster past this place lest they decide to take their shotgun to this heathen Sunday runner. I turn on to Airport Road and head through recetntly minted Amish Country. There were no Amish here when I graduated, but a colony has since settled in the area. Though I don't see anyone today, I have seen them biking to town or riding along in a wagon this trip. I finally pass the airport for which the road is named, and there are several shiny new hangers. At least, I think they are hangers. I suppose they could be storage units, which seems to be the latest cottage industry craze around here. Even my Dad got in on that one (or maybe he started it). Dismayingly, I also see signs offering the surrounding fields up for development, complete with an artist's rendering of a big shopping center and planned neighborhood. This makes me terribly sad. I don't want to think about the day when I come back for a run down memory lane, and find out it is a paved four-lane highway.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Running Hot
Today, I ran in Phoenix, AZ. It was quite possibly one of the dumbest things I've ever done (well, okay I have done much dumber things, but we're just talking about running here...).
I brought all my gear with two glaring exceptions - my hydration pack and sunscreen. This was almost enough (and would have been, given a smarter person) to derail my plans, but I missed my run yesterday in favor of Thai food, and tomorrow isn't looking so great. It was 90 degrees when we landed and fairly humid. No problem. HA!
I quickly threw my running togs on and got started. My plan was to run until I realized the futility of the endeavor, or to the shopping center across the highway, whichever came first. There's not a lot out in this direction, so I was hoping to get to the shopping center and rehydrate before I headed back. On that note, I stuffed a five dollar bill in my bra (wearing the stupid skort with an upside down pocket). I figured my cell phone would short out under those conditions, so I left it behind.
The first half of the run was fine. I did notice that empty cigarette packets were far more prevalent on the sidewalks than dog turds. I guess dogs are smarter than smokers and stay in out of the heat. I was going to turn around at the big curve in the road with the creepy bird art, but I could see the shopping center rising up out of the desert and I really did need some water. Then I remembered that there was a Chick-fil-a in that shopping center, and suddenly I had all the incentive I needed. I got hooked on their tasty sandwiches, and then suddenly all the Portland area locations closed and left me with an addiction I had no way to feed (except by making trips to Phoenix, which is almost worth the trip). Anyway, it's possible that a handbreaded chicken breast cooked in 100% peanut oil on a whole grain bun isn't the smartest option for a mid-run snack, but if Chipotle, Jamba Juice and PF Chang's can sponsor marathons and Tours de France, surely I can have one chicken sandwich. I got to the restaurant and retrieved my money, which I helpfully dried off with a napkin, much to the delight of Jackie the cashier. I ate my original on whole grain (after picking off the pickles, of course) and drank an enourmous cup of water. As I headed back, the change in my bra (Chick-fil-a really needs to get a tip jar...) was jangling, making me laugh, but the coins quickly became sweat-welded to my breasts and weren't an issue for long.
It was noticably hotter (by 10 degrees, it turns out) when I headed back. I did fairly okay until I realized the building I had been aiming for that I thought was ours was in fact not the one I was looking for. Fortunately, I knew I wasn't lost, just disoreinted enough to have no idea how much further I needed to go. By this point I had taken off my shirt and the shuffling I was doing barely qualified as a run. I knew I was close to the terminal, maybe half a mile at the most, but I also knew I was headed quickly toward dehydration, so I started thumbing for rides. Apparantly, people in Arizona suck, because no one stopped. I did have one guy I corralled in a parking lot ready to give me a ride, but then he remembered some "corporate policy" about giving strange, panting, half-naked women rides and reconsidered. I finally dragged myself in the door of the building, vowing never, ever, ever to venture out to run in triple digits again. Those were quite possibly the longest six miles of my life (well, the last two anyway). PS. I'd like to give a shout out to the fine people at Body Glide.
I brought all my gear with two glaring exceptions - my hydration pack and sunscreen. This was almost enough (and would have been, given a smarter person) to derail my plans, but I missed my run yesterday in favor of Thai food, and tomorrow isn't looking so great. It was 90 degrees when we landed and fairly humid. No problem. HA!
I quickly threw my running togs on and got started. My plan was to run until I realized the futility of the endeavor, or to the shopping center across the highway, whichever came first. There's not a lot out in this direction, so I was hoping to get to the shopping center and rehydrate before I headed back. On that note, I stuffed a five dollar bill in my bra (wearing the stupid skort with an upside down pocket). I figured my cell phone would short out under those conditions, so I left it behind.
The first half of the run was fine. I did notice that empty cigarette packets were far more prevalent on the sidewalks than dog turds. I guess dogs are smarter than smokers and stay in out of the heat. I was going to turn around at the big curve in the road with the creepy bird art, but I could see the shopping center rising up out of the desert and I really did need some water. Then I remembered that there was a Chick-fil-a in that shopping center, and suddenly I had all the incentive I needed. I got hooked on their tasty sandwiches, and then suddenly all the Portland area locations closed and left me with an addiction I had no way to feed (except by making trips to Phoenix, which is almost worth the trip). Anyway, it's possible that a handbreaded chicken breast cooked in 100% peanut oil on a whole grain bun isn't the smartest option for a mid-run snack, but if Chipotle, Jamba Juice and PF Chang's can sponsor marathons and Tours de France, surely I can have one chicken sandwich. I got to the restaurant and retrieved my money, which I helpfully dried off with a napkin, much to the delight of Jackie the cashier. I ate my original on whole grain (after picking off the pickles, of course) and drank an enourmous cup of water. As I headed back, the change in my bra (Chick-fil-a really needs to get a tip jar...) was jangling, making me laugh, but the coins quickly became sweat-welded to my breasts and weren't an issue for long.
It was noticably hotter (by 10 degrees, it turns out) when I headed back. I did fairly okay until I realized the building I had been aiming for that I thought was ours was in fact not the one I was looking for. Fortunately, I knew I wasn't lost, just disoreinted enough to have no idea how much further I needed to go. By this point I had taken off my shirt and the shuffling I was doing barely qualified as a run. I knew I was close to the terminal, maybe half a mile at the most, but I also knew I was headed quickly toward dehydration, so I started thumbing for rides. Apparantly, people in Arizona suck, because no one stopped. I did have one guy I corralled in a parking lot ready to give me a ride, but then he remembered some "corporate policy" about giving strange, panting, half-naked women rides and reconsidered. I finally dragged myself in the door of the building, vowing never, ever, ever to venture out to run in triple digits again. Those were quite possibly the longest six miles of my life (well, the last two anyway). PS. I'd like to give a shout out to the fine people at Body Glide.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Running Out Front
It's possible that running out front and being directionally challenged aren't such synergistic qualities. I'm just saying it's possible. Today, during the group run I more or less accidentally ended up leading my color group through our eight-mile run. The red group is significantly smaller now that the Helvetia Half Marathon has come and gone. Not too many Clydesdales left (or whatever lady Clydesdales are called - Shetlands?). Fortunately, I planned ahead this time and grabbed a map off the water table before taking off.
Pete, the coach, told us "It's the same route we've done a dozen times." Well, I could have done it a thousand times, and I still would have no idea where to go. I seem to by lacking an important gene that governs sense of direction. I could get lost in a room with one door; I believe I may have mentioned that before.
When I passed the last coach, I asked him where to turn.
"The Safeway."
"Oh, the one on Chakalov?"
"No, that's a Fred Meyer, the one on Andresen."
"Oh, okay. And I turn left?"
"No, turn right."
"And then to Brandt?"
"No, we already ran on Brandt, you're looking for MacArther. - you have a map, right?"
"Yeah, I guess I should use it..." and off I ran, clutching my map, and consulting it every 30 seconds to make sure I was still going the right way.
This is why I like races. Because unless the event is sponsored by say, the Buffalo Wing Association, I am definitely not going to be out front, and in any case, they have those nice, clear directional signs and mile markers. What I really need, of course, are affirmation signs. After I make a turn, I want to see some kind of validation that I have gone the right way. Not just in running, but driving too. Would it be too much to ask for a sign that says, "Congratulations! you are still heading toward the airport..."
I had worn a loaner heart rate monitor that morning, and when Coach Eric brought up the information and was analyzing it, he asked me if the little spikes were stoplights. "Yes" I replied thinking (in a manner of speaking...) I spiked every time I had to make a turn because I was sure I was going to go the wrong direction.
Pete, the coach, told us "It's the same route we've done a dozen times." Well, I could have done it a thousand times, and I still would have no idea where to go. I seem to by lacking an important gene that governs sense of direction. I could get lost in a room with one door; I believe I may have mentioned that before.
When I passed the last coach, I asked him where to turn.
"The Safeway."
"Oh, the one on Chakalov?"
"No, that's a Fred Meyer, the one on Andresen."
"Oh, okay. And I turn left?"
"No, turn right."
"And then to Brandt?"
"No, we already ran on Brandt, you're looking for MacArther. - you have a map, right?"
"Yeah, I guess I should use it..." and off I ran, clutching my map, and consulting it every 30 seconds to make sure I was still going the right way.
This is why I like races. Because unless the event is sponsored by say, the Buffalo Wing Association, I am definitely not going to be out front, and in any case, they have those nice, clear directional signs and mile markers. What I really need, of course, are affirmation signs. After I make a turn, I want to see some kind of validation that I have gone the right way. Not just in running, but driving too. Would it be too much to ask for a sign that says, "Congratulations! you are still heading toward the airport..."
I had worn a loaner heart rate monitor that morning, and when Coach Eric brought up the information and was analyzing it, he asked me if the little spikes were stoplights. "Yes" I replied thinking (in a manner of speaking...) I spiked every time I had to make a turn because I was sure I was going to go the wrong direction.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Running for Form
This week, I ran 10 miles for the first time, and I did it at my best pace ever - 9:36 / mile. I have discovered a new technique that has been working quite well for me - I pass anyone who I can't stand to see run. To be fair, I have no idea if I have good running form or not. For all I know, I run like Elaine dances. I do know that I can't stand to run behind someone who just doesn't look like they are propelling themselves forward with any sort of efficiency or even any sort of muscle control at all. Here are some examples:
1) The Arm Flailer: There are really two sub-sets to this category. The people who hold their arms up like they are doing the doggy paddle or their arms are just useless like those little nubbins on a t-rex; and the ones who's arms hang down at their sides as though they are completely useless. Those people look like chickens, leading with their heads and their ass's are at least a foot behind. I keep expecting them to cluck.
2) The Sweet Valley High. These girls are gorgeous and lithe and look great in their tiny running shorts and bra tops, but they run like they have yet to refine any of their motor skills. Their legs are all over the place, as is the rest of them, like a noodle being flung against a wall to check for doneness. I am afraid one of these types is going to trip over her own feet (or maybe even her own arm) right in front of me and I will fall ass over tea kettle on top of her.Of course, if anyone stops, guess who is going to get the sympathy first? Maybe I should get a tiny bra top...
4) The Gossip Girls. Granted, it's fun to eavesdrop on the latest slutty thing Debbie did, or how successful the surgery went on poor Cindy's teacup poodle, but these girls are usually running triple-wide and are too absorbed in their riviting converstions to scoot over, even with my repeated (polite!) notifications that I am "ON YOUR LEFT". I am a huge running safety advocate, and I hate watching someone basically put themselves in the path of cars, bikes and wild cayotes from sheer inattentiveness.
3) The Lumbering Clydesdale. Nothing against Clydesdales, I've seen some big guys run very gracefully. Mainly, I can't stand think I am slower than someone who easily outweighs me by 200 lbs, so I am compelled to pass them. The hell of this type is that inevitably, they pass me three miles down the road. But then I have a new goal - to pass them again - so I guess it works itself out.
Well, that covers my pet peeves for today. Not bad for someone who is basically a virgin runner. I am sure I will refine my list of irritations once I have a marathon or two under my belt. Stay tuned.
1) The Arm Flailer: There are really two sub-sets to this category. The people who hold their arms up like they are doing the doggy paddle or their arms are just useless like those little nubbins on a t-rex; and the ones who's arms hang down at their sides as though they are completely useless. Those people look like chickens, leading with their heads and their ass's are at least a foot behind. I keep expecting them to cluck.
2) The Sweet Valley High. These girls are gorgeous and lithe and look great in their tiny running shorts and bra tops, but they run like they have yet to refine any of their motor skills. Their legs are all over the place, as is the rest of them, like a noodle being flung against a wall to check for doneness. I am afraid one of these types is going to trip over her own feet (or maybe even her own arm) right in front of me and I will fall ass over tea kettle on top of her.Of course, if anyone stops, guess who is going to get the sympathy first? Maybe I should get a tiny bra top...
4) The Gossip Girls. Granted, it's fun to eavesdrop on the latest slutty thing Debbie did, or how successful the surgery went on poor Cindy's teacup poodle, but these girls are usually running triple-wide and are too absorbed in their riviting converstions to scoot over, even with my repeated (polite!) notifications that I am "ON YOUR LEFT". I am a huge running safety advocate, and I hate watching someone basically put themselves in the path of cars, bikes and wild cayotes from sheer inattentiveness.
3) The Lumbering Clydesdale. Nothing against Clydesdales, I've seen some big guys run very gracefully. Mainly, I can't stand think I am slower than someone who easily outweighs me by 200 lbs, so I am compelled to pass them. The hell of this type is that inevitably, they pass me three miles down the road. But then I have a new goal - to pass them again - so I guess it works itself out.
Well, that covers my pet peeves for today. Not bad for someone who is basically a virgin runner. I am sure I will refine my list of irritations once I have a marathon or two under my belt. Stay tuned.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Running with Child
I ran with the jogging stroller today. For those of yo u who are unfamiliar, a jogging stroller (jogger) is an expensive piece of equipment ostensibly designed to push your child around while still getting in a run. In reality, it is a slightly more stable, three-wheeled version of a regular stroller that gets harder to push exponentially with every pound your toddler gains.
I had to bribe my daughter with a trip to the park to get her into the stroller. The big park with
the nice playground is only a small detour from my regular three mile route. Of course, my regular three mile route contains two hills, one of which I consider "significant".
It wasn't so bad at first; I had my own little cheering section. "Faster, Mama!", "We're going fast!". Of course, she turned into the peanut gallery halfway up the first hill, "Are you still running, Mama?". No, Gemma Claire, I am not still running. We got to the park without incident, despite the City of Vancouver's penchant for curving sidewalks around trees and offset curb ramps. I think my jogger needs an alignment. Who knew running with a stroller would end up as a great forearm workout?
The park was a welcome break, though I wouldn't necessarily call tearing through a playground after an exuberant two-and-a-half year old, a rest. I wore my running skort, and the synthetic fabric was not a great combination with the composit slides that Gemma insisted on sliding down with me. She's got a mean accusing glare that she would bust out each time I would shock her with the built up static electricity. Such indignation looks good on my daughter, I have to admit.
The run home was a lot harder, not even counting the inevitable "I don't want to leave the park" tantrum. As a fellow runner recently pointed out, the best part of running is being done with the run. An hour break in the middle gives the body a little false hope. But, we made it home in one piece, and I'm proud of myself for running today, no matter how short a distance. (Though I'm considering doubling the mileage for my running log as a sort of bonus for pushing the stroller. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pick wood chips out of my socks.
I had to bribe my daughter with a trip to the park to get her into the stroller. The big park with
the nice playground is only a small detour from my regular three mile route. Of course, my regular three mile route contains two hills, one of which I consider "significant".It wasn't so bad at first; I had my own little cheering section. "Faster, Mama!", "We're going fast!". Of course, she turned into the peanut gallery halfway up the first hill, "Are you still running, Mama?". No, Gemma Claire, I am not still running. We got to the park without incident, despite the City of Vancouver's penchant for curving sidewalks around trees and offset curb ramps. I think my jogger needs an alignment. Who knew running with a stroller would end up as a great forearm workout?
The park was a welcome break, though I wouldn't necessarily call tearing through a playground after an exuberant two-and-a-half year old, a rest. I wore my running skort, and the synthetic fabric was not a great combination with the composit slides that Gemma insisted on sliding down with me. She's got a mean accusing glare that she would bust out each time I would shock her with the built up static electricity. Such indignation looks good on my daughter, I have to admit.
The run home was a lot harder, not even counting the inevitable "I don't want to leave the park" tantrum. As a fellow runner recently pointed out, the best part of running is being done with the run. An hour break in the middle gives the body a little false hope. But, we made it home in one piece, and I'm proud of myself for running today, no matter how short a distance. (Though I'm considering doubling the mileage for my running log as a sort of bonus for pushing the stroller. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pick wood chips out of my socks.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Running Raw
As I write this entry, I am sitting cross-legged, and my thighs look like some kind of pornographic Rorschach Test - hey, is that a butterfly? A patch of four leaf clover? Tire tracks? Of course, I had heard of runners chaffing, but I thought that was limited to men's nipples. Boy was I wrong. First of all, a pox on the asshole who invented the skort. I'm sure he is in hell laughing it up with his buddies, the inventors of the underwire bra and the high heeled shoe. All of which I wear because I am product of the American commercialistic, media driven society, and thus a slave to fashion. Of course, I am also my father's child and purchased the cheapest skort I could find - $10.48 on clearance at Target because the pocket was sewn on upside down. Now, to reinforce the comparison, I will go and purchase an expensive tech version of the same thing, which is what I should have done in the first place - it would have saved me $10.48 and possibly some pain and suffering.
I ran nine miles this weekend, you could say I finished in a blaze of glory. Well, that is, if you are talking about my thighs - they were sure blazing. I seriously ran past the finish of the run and straight to the Portland Running Company's table to purchase as much Body Glide as I could fit in my hydration pack. This delightful product is a natural lubricant that looks like a deodorant stick. You smear it anywhere there is potential for chaffing. If I could dip my body in this stuff like paraffin wax, I would. I think it is the product that the character Pauly Bleeker uses on his thighs in Juno. Of course, I have my doubts that Michael Cera's thighs have ever made each others' acquaintance, but still, I wish I'd been taking notes. I heard about this product just a few miles before I desperately needed it. Of course my timing is terrible, it's sort of a chronic issue.
I ran nine miles this weekend, you could say I finished in a blaze of glory. Well, that is, if you are talking about my thighs - they were sure blazing. I seriously ran past the finish of the run and straight to the Portland Running Company's table to purchase as much Body Glide as I could fit in my hydration pack. This delightful product is a natural lubricant that looks like a deodorant stick. You smear it anywhere there is potential for chaffing. If I could dip my body in this stuff like paraffin wax, I would. I think it is the product that the character Pauly Bleeker uses on his thighs in Juno. Of course, I have my doubts that Michael Cera's thighs have ever made each others' acquaintance, but still, I wish I'd been taking notes. I heard about this product just a few miles before I desperately needed it. Of course my timing is terrible, it's sort of a chronic issue.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Running Blind
It is raining today, a veritable downpour, a thoroughly soaking rain that dashed my hopes of working in the garden, and swirled them down the drain. So no weeding, or clearing or sowing today, but I still had to run. I have a training schedule that I am following in order to be prepared to run a marathon in October. That means no wimping out today, whatever the weather. All the same, I still had to work up the gumption to suit up and head out into the wet, gray day. After a flurry of motivational text messages (thanks, Monkey!), I was out the door.
Almost immediately, I realized that I wasn't going to be able to see. I have been unable to wear contact lenses due to a corneal issue for nearly a year and a half, so I had my trusty pair of librarian glasses on, which managed to both steam up and collect water droplets, conspiring to completely obscure my vision. About half way up the hill toward McLoughlin (less than half a mile into my run for those of you who don't live in the 'Couve') I just took my glasses off. Keep in mind, I am hopeless without them, but how much trouble could I get into on city sidewalks? Worst case scenario, I step in dog shit, which I wouldn't notice anyway (not being able to see), and would wash off in a matter of minutes in any case. And yes, Husband Dear, I did put my glasses back on for crossing the streets (well, most of them).
Not being able to see anything has its advantages. There are a lot less distractions, for one thing. I was able to turn my vision inward, and take stock of what my body was up to. I focused on my breathing - in through the nose one, two, three; out through the mouth one, two, three. I took stock of my ankles. They felt fine - it is amazing what good shoes can do for a runner. Knees good; hips, fine; even my neck, that I had stupidly locked up stretching for heavens sake, felt fine. Okay, good to know.
My plan was to run to the high school track, a a mile and a half away, do a mile on the track and head home. I had been more or less been avoiding puddles on the way there, but after my descent through the clover to get to the track, my shoes were thoroughly soaked, making me extra appreciative for how light they are - when they're dry. I made it to the track and started my laps, marveling at the painted lines, which meant as little to me as hieroglyphs. Why on earth they can't use numbers and letters that make sense, say "start", "200", or "400" is beyond me. Guess I won't be timing any 200s with much accuracy any time soon. I was all alone on the track, as no one else was crazy cakes enough to be out in the downpour. By this time, I was a symphony of sound - the slap of my soles, the squelch of my uppers, the whisper of my thighs in their running tights (which, let's face it, was more like girl scouts trying to start a fire), and the slap of my sodden jacket sleeves thawacking my forearms as I ran.
I felt so good three quarters of the way though my laps, that I decided to do another mile, which smacks of masochism*, but which I accomplished, none the less. After completing two miles on the track, I headed back up the hill. By this time I was soaked to the skin, or perhaps, my sweat met the rain halfway, but the result was the same. I had noting to loose, so I splashed through the puddles as wantonly as a toddler. As I ran through the neighborhood, idly taking in the impressionistic colors of spring as the pink of the cherry blossoms blurred into the emerald lawns, the smell of woodsmoke and laundry exhaust hung in the air. Those are very cozy smells, bringing to mind my plan to take a hot shower, throw on my gray sweatpants and curl up in a blanket to write this post with a mug of Evening in Missoula tea by my side. God, I love running. (But give me rain over hills any damn day of the week!)
*this turn of phrase was shamelessly stolen from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, but I fervently wish I had thought of it myself.
Almost immediately, I realized that I wasn't going to be able to see. I have been unable to wear contact lenses due to a corneal issue for nearly a year and a half, so I had my trusty pair of librarian glasses on, which managed to both steam up and collect water droplets, conspiring to completely obscure my vision. About half way up the hill toward McLoughlin (less than half a mile into my run for those of you who don't live in the 'Couve') I just took my glasses off. Keep in mind, I am hopeless without them, but how much trouble could I get into on city sidewalks? Worst case scenario, I step in dog shit, which I wouldn't notice anyway (not being able to see), and would wash off in a matter of minutes in any case. And yes, Husband Dear, I did put my glasses back on for crossing the streets (well, most of them).
Not being able to see anything has its advantages. There are a lot less distractions, for one thing. I was able to turn my vision inward, and take stock of what my body was up to. I focused on my breathing - in through the nose one, two, three; out through the mouth one, two, three. I took stock of my ankles. They felt fine - it is amazing what good shoes can do for a runner. Knees good; hips, fine; even my neck, that I had stupidly locked up stretching for heavens sake, felt fine. Okay, good to know.
My plan was to run to the high school track, a a mile and a half away, do a mile on the track and head home. I had been more or less been avoiding puddles on the way there, but after my descent through the clover to get to the track, my shoes were thoroughly soaked, making me extra appreciative for how light they are - when they're dry. I made it to the track and started my laps, marveling at the painted lines, which meant as little to me as hieroglyphs. Why on earth they can't use numbers and letters that make sense, say "start", "200", or "400" is beyond me. Guess I won't be timing any 200s with much accuracy any time soon. I was all alone on the track, as no one else was crazy cakes enough to be out in the downpour. By this time, I was a symphony of sound - the slap of my soles, the squelch of my uppers, the whisper of my thighs in their running tights (which, let's face it, was more like girl scouts trying to start a fire), and the slap of my sodden jacket sleeves thawacking my forearms as I ran.
I felt so good three quarters of the way though my laps, that I decided to do another mile, which smacks of masochism*, but which I accomplished, none the less. After completing two miles on the track, I headed back up the hill. By this time I was soaked to the skin, or perhaps, my sweat met the rain halfway, but the result was the same. I had noting to loose, so I splashed through the puddles as wantonly as a toddler. As I ran through the neighborhood, idly taking in the impressionistic colors of spring as the pink of the cherry blossoms blurred into the emerald lawns, the smell of woodsmoke and laundry exhaust hung in the air. Those are very cozy smells, bringing to mind my plan to take a hot shower, throw on my gray sweatpants and curl up in a blanket to write this post with a mug of Evening in Missoula tea by my side. God, I love running. (But give me rain over hills any damn day of the week!)
*this turn of phrase was shamelessly stolen from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, but I fervently wish I had thought of it myself.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Running Uphill
Today, I walked. It's true that in orientation for the marathon training club I joined, the keynote speaker stated that, "the only difference between a runner and a walker is that the walker knows before hand when he is going to walk". I figured it would eventually happen to me on a group run, but not at the seven mile mark, barely a quarter of the distance to my goal. It was hard to have such a crappy run today, just when I needed to reaffirm my dedication Instead, my faith in running was shaken.
So far in my journey towards completing a marathon, I have had a relatively easy time of training. Each week, I run further than I have ever run. (Of course that isn't hard, not having run more than a mile at a time since high school gym class, sometime in the last century.) It is very affirming every weekend to think to myself, "okay, that was easy. I can do more". This week, during the run, there was not much thinking going on, much less positive, goal affirming thoughts.
I should tell you about my run. It was uphill. Seriously UPHILL. For those of you who know Portland, we ran the Leif Erickson Trail in Forest Park. The first six blocks or so were fine. From there, Thurman street begins to incline. During our pre-run pep talk, our group leader said he preferred to think of it as WEST, but what he meant was UP. Straight up. For over three miles. On a trail. A rocky, muddy trail. That went uphill. Steeply. Did I mention this run was uphill?
I got passed a lot on the way up. It didn't help that I was wearing a new Platypus hydration system that I had failed to read the instructions for and optimistically filled with (a very heavy) 64 oz of water. Since I hadn't set it up correctly, the pack kept unzipping, and the bladder wanted to slip out of the backpack. I had to stop twice to fix it, and eventually just zipped the damn thing up completely. Hydration schmydration. Speaking of bladders, I really have got to work on those damn keigel exercises. Stupid childbirth.
I ended up walking about 3/4 of the way up the hill. I ran through all my motivations, repeated my latin mantra (A posse ad esse - from possiblity to actuality) a dozen times, and still couldn't find it in myself to keep running. At least I had an interesting conversation while I was walking. So much better than mentally flagulating myself. Nick is a cool black guy, probably somewhere North of 300 lbs. I've seen him before. He commented on my skort two weeks ago, -claimed to have almost worn the same outfit. I'm so impressed that he joined Portland Fit, and even more impressed that he went for a running group instead of walking. He told me he started making life changes - eating better, sleeping more. It occured to me that he's right. Running is about more than just races and pace. It's about making choices and changes. Running is about taking an active role in your own life, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. At least that's what it's about for me.
After that reality check, I resumed running, and hit the halfway mark about a quarter mile later. Let me tell you, that halfway mark is always sweet, but to know that the rest of your run is down hill, is downright delicious. I sailed through the rest of the run, passing lots of people (always a pleasure - I'm so damn competitive, there were 48 of them, I counted) and still getting passed (16, for truth in journalism). I finished the run running, my faith restored.
So far in my journey towards completing a marathon, I have had a relatively easy time of training. Each week, I run further than I have ever run. (Of course that isn't hard, not having run more than a mile at a time since high school gym class, sometime in the last century.) It is very affirming every weekend to think to myself, "okay, that was easy. I can do more". This week, during the run, there was not much thinking going on, much less positive, goal affirming thoughts.
I should tell you about my run. It was uphill. Seriously UPHILL. For those of you who know Portland, we ran the Leif Erickson Trail in Forest Park. The first six blocks or so were fine. From there, Thurman street begins to incline. During our pre-run pep talk, our group leader said he preferred to think of it as WEST, but what he meant was UP. Straight up. For over three miles. On a trail. A rocky, muddy trail. That went uphill. Steeply. Did I mention this run was uphill?
I got passed a lot on the way up. It didn't help that I was wearing a new Platypus hydration system that I had failed to read the instructions for and optimistically filled with (a very heavy) 64 oz of water. Since I hadn't set it up correctly, the pack kept unzipping, and the bladder wanted to slip out of the backpack. I had to stop twice to fix it, and eventually just zipped the damn thing up completely. Hydration schmydration. Speaking of bladders, I really have got to work on those damn keigel exercises. Stupid childbirth.
I ended up walking about 3/4 of the way up the hill. I ran through all my motivations, repeated my latin mantra (A posse ad esse - from possiblity to actuality) a dozen times, and still couldn't find it in myself to keep running. At least I had an interesting conversation while I was walking. So much better than mentally flagulating myself. Nick is a cool black guy, probably somewhere North of 300 lbs. I've seen him before. He commented on my skort two weeks ago, -claimed to have almost worn the same outfit. I'm so impressed that he joined Portland Fit, and even more impressed that he went for a running group instead of walking. He told me he started making life changes - eating better, sleeping more. It occured to me that he's right. Running is about more than just races and pace. It's about making choices and changes. Running is about taking an active role in your own life, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. At least that's what it's about for me.
After that reality check, I resumed running, and hit the halfway mark about a quarter mile later. Let me tell you, that halfway mark is always sweet, but to know that the rest of your run is down hill, is downright delicious. I sailed through the rest of the run, passing lots of people (always a pleasure - I'm so damn competitive, there were 48 of them, I counted) and still getting passed (16, for truth in journalism). I finished the run running, my faith restored.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Old Friends, New Friends
Just call me Stawberry Shortcake.
I recently traveled to California to attend a good friend's wedding. I was exceptionally fortunate to be able to stay with some friends of the bride and groom in a beautiful rental house
overlooking the ocean in Bodega Bay. It was a gorgeous location, but the best part of the whole deal was making new friends. Debbie, Diana, Dana, Steph, Tony and Dave. Great people - it was like having an instant family. Sort of like Sea Monkeys, but SO much better. Everyone was so relaxed and easy with each other, I felt embraced. They didn't even make fun of me when I lost my rental car keys. And I mean I LOST my rental car keys. They helped me turn the house upside down, quizzed everyone who had stopped by to see if they had picked them up by mistake, and didn't strangle me when I found them fifteen hours later in my own purse. If that isn't friendship, I don't know the meaning of the word. I also got a killer nickname out of the deal.
So those are my new friends, moving on to old friends... I knew Eric for about 25 seconds in 1993. How is it that slender connections like this can last through decades? Equally intriguing, how is it that when I showed up at his apartment and talked to him in person for the first time in fifteen years, it was like we had been active friends for years. Perhaps the best thing about this trip was meeting his wife, Laurel. I'm used to being the blunt one in the room*, so when Laurel said, "you're prettier than I thought you would be", I knew I'd met my match.
I suppose it's crass to compare people to old slippers, but hanging out with the Palmers was like finding my favorite pair of fuzzy footgear under the bed. We curled up on the couches in the living room and chatted while Laurel drew amazing magical unicorns for Eric's website www.bionicpencil.com, I wrote bad haiku, and Eric egged us both on. If we had had group sex, it couldn't have been more unexpected. The best case scenio I imagined while driving down to Monterrey was a semi-awkward lunch, a little reminicing and a quick goodbye. I'm so glad I was wrong. I'm so glad I made the trip. Through a slightly bizarre twist in the conversation, we ended up talking very frankly about love and marriage, and what it takes to stay together. It was exactly what I needed. Thank you.
*On the second date with my future husband, I asked him earnestly, "Are you defective?" when he told me he couldn't get into the army. Still surprised he asked me on a third date....
I recently traveled to California to attend a good friend's wedding. I was exceptionally fortunate to be able to stay with some friends of the bride and groom in a beautiful rental house
overlooking the ocean in Bodega Bay. It was a gorgeous location, but the best part of the whole deal was making new friends. Debbie, Diana, Dana, Steph, Tony and Dave. Great people - it was like having an instant family. Sort of like Sea Monkeys, but SO much better. Everyone was so relaxed and easy with each other, I felt embraced. They didn't even make fun of me when I lost my rental car keys. And I mean I LOST my rental car keys. They helped me turn the house upside down, quizzed everyone who had stopped by to see if they had picked them up by mistake, and didn't strangle me when I found them fifteen hours later in my own purse. If that isn't friendship, I don't know the meaning of the word. I also got a killer nickname out of the deal.So those are my new friends, moving on to old friends... I knew Eric for about 25 seconds in 1993. How is it that slender connections like this can last through decades? Equally intriguing, how is it that when I showed up at his apartment and talked to him in person for the first time in fifteen years, it was like we had been active friends for years. Perhaps the best thing about this trip was meeting his wife, Laurel. I'm used to being the blunt one in the room*, so when Laurel said, "you're prettier than I thought you would be", I knew I'd met my match.
I suppose it's crass to compare people to old slippers, but hanging out with the Palmers was like finding my favorite pair of fuzzy footgear under the bed. We curled up on the couches in the living room and chatted while Laurel drew amazing magical unicorns for Eric's website www.bionicpencil.com, I wrote bad haiku, and Eric egged us both on. If we had had group sex, it couldn't have been more unexpected. The best case scenio I imagined while driving down to Monterrey was a semi-awkward lunch, a little reminicing and a quick goodbye. I'm so glad I was wrong. I'm so glad I made the trip. Through a slightly bizarre twist in the conversation, we ended up talking very frankly about love and marriage, and what it takes to stay together. It was exactly what I needed. Thank you.
*On the second date with my future husband, I asked him earnestly, "Are you defective?" when he told me he couldn't get into the army. Still surprised he asked me on a third date....
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Vegetable Slayer
I am a sucker for in-home salespeople. I don't know if it's because people in that line of work are ridiculously good at their job, or if I am just too tender-hearted to turn them away empty handed. Either way, my checkbook always takes a hit. You would think that after coming to this conclusion I would never let another salesperson in the door. Sadly, my ability to say "no" does not match up with my ability to self-analyze.
And that is why I let the Cutco Guy through the door. Oh sure, he was just going to sharpen the knife set we got as a wedding present, but inevitably, his shiny wares made their way onto my kitchen table. "Try them out" he said, with a glint in his eye. My husband and I had discussed the possibility of upgrading our Santoku knife before hand, and even set a dollar limit, so I was feeling pretty responsible. I got out my cutting board and a few vegetables and went to work. "Oh, carrots? Here, try this peeler", the Cutco Guy offered with faux innocence. Of course, the peeler was amazing. It didn't hurt that my current peeler is a relic from college, back when I purchased kitchen implements from the supermarket aisle. And of course, the new peeler made short work of peeling the carrot, sliding through the flesh like a hot knife through butter.
I tried the Santoku, and was secretly pleased that I didn't like it, especially when the Cutco Guy quoted a price that was one and a half times as much as we had secretly agreed on. "Hmmm", I thought to myself, "maybe I'll make it out of this with just a peeler." Then I moved on to the cheese knife. Our old plastic cheese slicer had recently been eaten by our dog. (In his defense, it was covered with delicious cheese residue and handed to him by our two year old when I wasn't looking.) It was even better than the peeler, a pure delight to use. Soon I had turned the whole block into a stack of perfect half-inch squares of cheese.
Okay, so a cheese knife and a peeler. Surely that is under what we were planning to spend anyway, right? And then I saw it - The Vegetable Slayer, a knife so beautiful, so perfect, that it was practically calling my name, "Come on, you know you want to....feel my perfect balance, admire the way the light shines off my snubbed blade". It was fabulous, I felt so deliciously chef-like wielding a specialty knife. Sort of a cross between a Chinese cleaver and a Japanese sashimi knife, the Vegetable Slayer sliced my carrot like it wasn't even there.
Now, I need a new knife like I need a new car, that is to say the one in the garage runs fine, it's just a little old and lacking in style - certainly no reason to replace it. The knives in my drawer do all the things knifes are supposed to do, they are just a little old and lacking in style. "So how much is this one?" I casually inquired. I'm pretty sure I managed not to drop my jaw at his response, but it was a close thing. Well, that settles it I thought. The Vegetable Slayer will have to remain a mythical beast, at least in the Jackson household. The Cutco Guy, being very good at his job, must have seen me start to close down, because he quickly started offering deals. "Sooooo.......I see you like that knife.....hows about I throw in the peeler if you also buy the cheese knife?". Hmmmmm, tempting. "We did just get our tax return", whispered my husband, not helping at all.
Needless to say, I am now a few hundred dollars poorer. But I have two bitchin' knifes, a really sharp peeler....and a 2 quart saucepan. I am so easy.
And that is why I let the Cutco Guy through the door. Oh sure, he was just going to sharpen the knife set we got as a wedding present, but inevitably, his shiny wares made their way onto my kitchen table. "Try them out" he said, with a glint in his eye. My husband and I had discussed the possibility of upgrading our Santoku knife before hand, and even set a dollar limit, so I was feeling pretty responsible. I got out my cutting board and a few vegetables and went to work. "Oh, carrots? Here, try this peeler", the Cutco Guy offered with faux innocence. Of course, the peeler was amazing. It didn't hurt that my current peeler is a relic from college, back when I purchased kitchen implements from the supermarket aisle. And of course, the new peeler made short work of peeling the carrot, sliding through the flesh like a hot knife through butter.
I tried the Santoku, and was secretly pleased that I didn't like it, especially when the Cutco Guy quoted a price that was one and a half times as much as we had secretly agreed on. "Hmmm", I thought to myself, "maybe I'll make it out of this with just a peeler." Then I moved on to the cheese knife. Our old plastic cheese slicer had recently been eaten by our dog. (In his defense, it was covered with delicious cheese residue and handed to him by our two year old when I wasn't looking.) It was even better than the peeler, a pure delight to use. Soon I had turned the whole block into a stack of perfect half-inch squares of cheese.
Okay, so a cheese knife and a peeler. Surely that is under what we were planning to spend anyway, right? And then I saw it - The Vegetable Slayer, a knife so beautiful, so perfect, that it was practically calling my name, "Come on, you know you want to....feel my perfect balance, admire the way the light shines off my snubbed blade". It was fabulous, I felt so deliciously chef-like wielding a specialty knife. Sort of a cross between a Chinese cleaver and a Japanese sashimi knife, the Vegetable Slayer sliced my carrot like it wasn't even there.
Now, I need a new knife like I need a new car, that is to say the one in the garage runs fine, it's just a little old and lacking in style - certainly no reason to replace it. The knives in my drawer do all the things knifes are supposed to do, they are just a little old and lacking in style. "So how much is this one?" I casually inquired. I'm pretty sure I managed not to drop my jaw at his response, but it was a close thing. Well, that settles it I thought. The Vegetable Slayer will have to remain a mythical beast, at least in the Jackson household. The Cutco Guy, being very good at his job, must have seen me start to close down, because he quickly started offering deals. "Sooooo.......I see you like that knife.....hows about I throw in the peeler if you also buy the cheese knife?". Hmmmmm, tempting. "We did just get our tax return", whispered my husband, not helping at all.
Needless to say, I am now a few hundred dollars poorer. But I have two bitchin' knifes, a really sharp peeler....and a 2 quart saucepan. I am so easy.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Mr. Observant Man and his Sidekick, Oblivious Girl
I was once asked what superpower I would like to have if such a thing were possible. Possible? What are you talking about sister, I do have a superpower! I am Oblivious Girl! Sure, if given a choice, I might like some other power - telekinesis, flying, x-ray vision, but I've been endowed with something else - the ability to remain completely and totally oblivious to my surroundings no matter how interesting or perilous they might be. This is remarkably good for my stress level. "What? I almost hit a bus? Really?", "What? There was a pervy guy staring at me menacingly? Really?, "What? My toddler just climbed to the top of the refrigerator and came back with a cookie? Really?
One might think that obliviousness is a liability. I say it's an asset. There are many things in life I might never have attempted had I not been oblivious to the level of difficulty. "What? It's over-ambitious to enter 47 projects in the county fair? I got all blue ribbons (and three purple!).""What, most people don't graduate in four years with a double major in two totally different disaplines and study abroad. Really?""What, it's insane to coordinate and cater a wedding for 100 people at a site with no electricity or running water? I think I pulled it off pretty well."
My power is most noticeable in relation to my complete lack of a sense of direction. I get lost a lot. I tend to build it in to my schedule now, although these days Google Maps has significantly cut down on the time I allow for aimless wondering. I've happened across some interesting things this way (not that I noticed). I could get lost in a town of only 900 people (done it!). I could get lost in a shopping mall I had been two at least once a month for 18 years (done it!). I could get lost in a room with one door (done it!). My husband misunderstands my ability. He is sure that I am willfully ignoring my surroundings in a strange campaign to irritate him. Of course, he is Mr. Observant Man.
Mr. Observant Man lets nothing slip by him. Details stick like insects on the flypaper of his mind. "Did you see that woman in the purple tube top, pink sequined shorts and wraparound shades? She has a nose ring shaped like a ladybug." "I must have missed her." replies Oblivious Girl. Mr. Observant Man points and says, "Look Out!" "For what?" says Oblivious Girl, looking in the opposite direction.
Sure, we're an unlikely match. But after all, opposites attract. If you think about it, we compliment each other nicely. Can you imagine two oblivious people together? They would surely get lost, never to be seen again. Or two observers? That just sounds boring.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Absolutely True Stories from 350
The very best thing about having been a commercial flight attendant is that I have a enough crazy stories to last through a lifetime of cocktail parties. Here is a sampling.
We must have been having a fare sale, or this woman would have been on a Greyhound bus. I knew she'd be trouble as soon as she walked up the airstairs. She had teased brunette hair, skin-tight jeans and a crazy gleam in her eye. She also had a huge faux leather shoulder bag that looked like she'd taken her Bedazzeler to it during a drinking binge. I mentally rolled my eyes as I watched her stuff the thing in an overhead bin, unable to intervene while passengers were still boarding. We happened to be on an aircraft (DH-8 100) whose overhead bins were devised to appear larger than they really are. I can picture the engineer who designed them - the same one who made cart bins that do not hold an even number of soda cans and thought giving exclusive control of the cabin temperature to the pilots was a brilliant idea. Idiot. Anyway, when I "attempted" to close the overhead (for show - I knew it wouldn't close) and told her the bag was too big, she had trouble pulling it out of the bin where it had been so tightly wedged. A very nice gentleman got up to assist her, an action I am sure he immediately regretted when she started making groaning noises as though she was giving birth. After a solid minute of this embarrassing spectacle, the bag finally popped free. She actually cradled it in her arms and beamed up at the now beet-red gentleman, who quickly resumed his seat.
My summer uniform as a Horizon Flight Attendant was designed by a dirty old man. Or maybe for dirty old men, either way, it was so embarrassing I had to slink through customs in Vancouver BC, lest I find myself in the pitying gaze of an impeccably dressed British Airways or Korean Air flight attendant. The uniform consisted of black shorts (polyester, of course), a white short-sleeved aviator shirt with black epaulets, black heeled shoes and the piece de resistance - white knee socks. There was also a multi-colored scarf that, while horribly unattractive, was actually pretty good at hiding coffee stains and improving a pasty, hungover complexion. I don't really have any interesting stories about the uniform itself aside from its total inability to flatter anybody, although once I did spill wine on an afternoon flight. I leapt back from the galley counter and looked down to see if I had gotten any on my white shirt. Fortunately, I had escaped - or so I thought. That night, after having completed several more flights in a row, I looked in the hotel mirror. I had a broad red wine stain striped across my midsection. I hadn't been able to see it beyond what some might call my "rack". And speaking of boobs, the one time I wore the tuxedo style shirt with the tiny buttons, I released myself from the shoulder straps of my jumpseat and noticed the guy in front was staring at me. I looked down. The maneuver had caused my buttons to come undone all the way down to my waist.
On overnights, crewmembers rely heavily on the hotel shuttle vans for transportation. This is generally included in whatever contract the airline has worked out with the hotel, undoubtedly to the airline's advantage. We are definitely on the bottom of the totem pole when it comes to the van drivers' pick-up schedules. Traditionally, the captain tips for the whole crew. Captains are notoriously cheap, a habit ingrained from their days building time in rinky-dink cargo operations and flight instructing for next to no pay. This doesn't help our cause. On one particular evening in BFE, America the captain from our trip bailed out on us to meet some friends, so the first officer and I were left to wait (in the rain!) for the hotel van. And wait...wait... Finally, a van pulled up. Naturally assuming it was the hotel van, we waited a beat for the driver to get out and then just opened the back ourselves and threw in our crew bags. We clambered in to the rear bench seat and headed out. For the first part of the ride, I joked with the first officer a bit, negotiating who was going to tip since the captain wasn't there. Gradually, we started taking in our surroundings. What should have been a ten minute ride down the main strip had become a 15 minute drive through neighborhoods that kept getting more and more run down. By the time we crossed the railroad tracks, we were holding hands. By the time we started seeing trees, the first officer was practically in my lap. We were seriously worried that we had haplessly fallen into an axe-murderer's clever snare. About the time we began to plan our escape, "....sshhhhhh! When he slows down for the next pothole, we'll open the door and jump out. Don't forget to roll when you hit....", we pulled up at the hotel.
Neither one of us tipped.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Why you buggin'?
Okay, so I've been "tagged" to write a list of 10 things that bug me. Let's see...CNN, "Only God" mugs, shrink-wrapped vegetables, those fake testicles that hang from the back of pick-up trucks....clearly these things must bug 90% of the population and simply aren't funny (well, maybe shrink-wrapped vegetables..) So, I will narrow it down to 10 things that bug me about passengers. A little background information: I am a flight attendant for a corporate air shuttle. All of my passengers are professional men and women. We don't accept kids, pets or people who are unable to move expeditiously to an exit in the event of an emergency. This eliminates 99% of the most annoying things about being a flight attendant, so I am forced to complain about minutia. I hope you enjoy the list.
1. ICE. Ice is an integral part of the in-flight service. Seriously. By weighing an open can of soda in my hand, I can tell precisely how much ice to put in the cup so that all of the liquid will fit and there won't be any leftovers to spill later. Ice varies by location. I hate the ice from San Jose the most. They don't have a filter on their ice machine, so whatever minerals are lurking in the tap water make the soda fizz uncontrollably, adding at least 10 minutes to my service over the course of the flight. I also hate ice that is round with divots in the top. This creates a ski-jump like surface, allowing the first pour of soda to leap out of the cup onto some unsuspecting person. I actually concentrate on pouring between the ice cubes when I am unfortunate enough to encounter this evil, irritating ice. The thing I hate the most about ice though, is when someone says, "No ice" AFTER I have scooped the ice and am just about to pour the drink. @#%%# is it so hard to say, "I would like a Coke with no ice please" in the same breath!? Is it?!
2. I'LL HAVE THE STEAK/MARTINI/HAM & EGGS. Hahahaha you are so funny Mr. Passenger, I have NEVER heard that joke before, how clever you are. Here's your minuscule bag of pretzels and a water - eat up.
3. HERE YOU GO (While handing me an sick sack full of vomit). This almost always occurs as someone is leaving the aircraft, like it's their parting gift to me. I am usually suckered into taking it, too. A lot of people think the sick sacks are their own private garbage bag for apple cores and chewing gum (they aren't!), so it's not that uncommon to have some "helpful" individual hand you a bag as they leave. Of course, now I look for steam and leaks before accepting any packages. So you think this is gross? You're right. The correct way to handle airsickness is to ring your call button and -this is important!- tell the FA you were sick WITHOUT handing her the nasty bag of vomit. At that point, she will put on gloves and get a plastic bag for you to deposit your lunch. This can actually be a pleasant transaction. I always reward people who do it right with a small glass of water, a wet wipe and a breath mint.
4. PILOT ANNOUNCEMENTS. Is there anything more boring in the world than a pilot announcement? No, they all stink. You can almost guarantee that it will be too loud, too long and too garbled to even make sense. I have had to get on the PA system after a pilot has made an announcement to "translate" into something resembling sense. There is a reason pilots have limited interaction with the passengers.
5. SNACK GRABBERS. We offer three snacks on each flight. I make a general announcement advising passengers of their options for the day. Guaranteed, 95% of people aren't listening. Fine, I'm resigned to that (I could stand up in front of the cabin and proclaim that I was wearing purple panties and nobody would notice). However, when I tell someone in seat 2A what the snack options are, and then the person sitting in 2B RIGHT NEXT DOOR asks what the snacks are, it makes me absolutely crazy. The only thing worse is when they just reach their hand in and snatch the snack. Or even worse than that - ask what the options are and then make a grab. Someday I will snap and slam someone's hand in the drawer.
6. COMMENTS ON MY WEIGHT. One of the nice things about my job that is unusual is that I have quite a few "regulars". Unfortunately, this tends to breed false chumminess. Hey, you noticed I lost some weight? Guess what, I was pregnant, not fat. (Well okay, maybe a little fat) but seriously, it has been two years! Comments like that only serve to remind me that I must have looked hideous for you to have noticed. Lately I have been telling people I have a wasting disease.
7. COMMENTS ABOUT MY HAIR. That's right, I'm not a natural redhead. Shut the hell up.
8. IMPROPERLY STOWED BAGS. News flash - I'm not blind (the FAA frowns upon visually impaired crew members). The response, "It's okay", in reference to the enormous purse sitting on your lap, as though I am concerned with your comfort and not my job, is ridiculous. How many times have you flown on airplanes? PUT IT AWAY. And if you think you're clever wrapping the purse strap around your ankle, I have one word for you: Darwin.
9. WRAPPER STUFFERS. You may think that my beef regarding garbage is that I have to thank you for handing me trash. Not so, I am thankful, because it means I won't have to pick it out of the seat pocket later. No, my issue with trash is when people consolidate by wadding up their snack wrapper and then stuffing it in their empty cup. This effectively spring loads the cup so that when the next passenger tries to be helpful by stacking their cup with one already on the tray, it tumbles over and knocks two more cups off the tray. Sure I could pick up with a garbage bag, but that's for low-class commercial flight attendants.
10. NO MORE GOOD STORIES. When you think about it, this list is actually quite petty. I had much better things to complain about when I was a low-class commercial flight attendant. Like the time I basically carried a ninety year old man to the lavatory and held him up while he peed. Or the time a woman got her ridiculously overstuffed carry-on bag stuck in an overhead bin and then started making noises as though she were in labor while trying to pull it back out. Or the time I unintentionally read the riot act to the CEO of the company while he was disguised as a ramp agent and said something particularly stupid. Or the time......
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Corn Bread Eatin'
I am pathologically incapable of making cornbread. I can't even make bad cornbread. The bricks I turn out are barely capable of being categorized as food. I've tried yellow cornmeal, white cornmeal, medium grind, fine grind, recipes with buttermilk, sugar, no sugar, honey, cheese, jalapeno peppers, and in one particularly unfortunate batch, corn kernels. I have tried every conceivable ratio of flour to cornmeal. I've heated butter in a cast iron skillet and then fastidiously poured in the batter. I've kept copious notes on attempts since I got my first apartment in 1995 - always with optimistic suggestion for future trials (add an egg! increase sugar to 1/2 cup!) confident that the next try will yield results.
What is so irritating about this predicament is that I consider myself a fairly accomplished home cook. I can make baklava and chicken cordon bleu for crying out loud! Why the perfect (or even the marginal) cornbread continues to elude me is a complete mystery. I guess I'll just keep making biscuits.
Amy's Biscuits
2 cups flour
1 Tbsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda 2 Tbsp flax meal*
1 tsp kosher salt
6 Tbsp cold unsalted butter
3/4 cup buttermilk
Preheat the oven to 450 F. Whisk the dry ingredients together in a medium bowl. Grate the cold butter into the flour mixture using a course kitchen grater. Rub the butter into the flour until evenly distributed. Do this quickly so your finger warmth doesn't melt the butter. Add most of the butter milk and stir with a wooden spoon until a stiff dough forms. You may or may not need the rest of the buttermilk. Pat the dough into a 6 to 8 inch square and wrap in plastic wrap or parchment paper. Let rest in the refrigerator for 20 minutes while the oven continues to preheat .
Unwrap the dough and place on a cookie sheet. Using a very sharp, non-serrated knife and even downward pressure, cut the dough into nine squares. Resist the urge to use a sawing motion - just go up and down, guillotine style. Do not separate the biscuits.
Bake for 10 minutes, then eparate the biscuits by about two inches (I usually burn myself at least twice doing this maneuver) and continue to bake until they are golden and the sides no longer look moist. About three more minutes. Serve piping hot with butter and honey. Who needs cornbread anyway?
*Optional. To offset the guilt of using white flour. You can also replace up to half the white flour with whole wheat pastry flour if you prefer, but the biscuits will be somewhat heavy.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Confessions of a Weaning Weenie
I once heard someone say that the intensity of labor prepares you for the intensity of breastfeeding. Maybe, but the difference is, I was only in labor for 10 hours. I have been breastfeeding for over two years. The first time my daughter latched on and really got to work after my milk had come in, I felt like I wanted to jump out of my skin. Like that scene in the movie, "Underworld" when the blond vampire realizes there is a lycan in her house and leaps onto the ceiling and hisses like a cat. Yep, that's exactly how I felt.
After the first week or two, it got better. I could really get in to the Earth Mother thing, and was proud to be nourishing my child, providing her with the best possible sustenance. And my breasts were still looking relatively normal. Now, I need the most supportive underwire to cantilever them up to where they ought to be, and plenty of lace to restore them to something of their former glory. Oh, and they were glorious!
The first hint that the whole thing was going down hill was when Gemma started biting me. Prior to that moment, I couldn't imagine a scenario when a parent would curse an infant. Surely that is reserved for hookers and dirtbags. Nope, it's all butterflies and roses, until a brand new tooth clamps down on an already overworked nipple. Then all the beautiful pictures of mother and babe turn to ashes. And to rub salt in the wound, my daughter thought my reaction was the funniest thing in the world. Clearly, she had inherited her parents' sadistic sense of humor.
She doesn't bite me anymore, but it's almost a shame, because then I would have a justifiable reason to pack it in (or in this case, them). I just can't bring myself to wean just because I am sick of being awakened several times in the night by my insatiable daughter, because she plays "Tune in Tokyo" with the other nipple when we are nursing on the couch, or because I hate being the only one in the house who can answer the call of "BOOBIE!!!!".
I've gotten all sorts of advice (solicited and unsolicited). It ranges from the totally unhelpful, "just stop" to the tried and failed, "wear a shirt to bed". (I could wear a parka to bed, and Gemma would find a way to burrow under there and hijack my breasts). I've also heard "skip a feeding everyday until you are down to zero." Well that is just asinine from the perspective of an on-demand nurser.
So, here I am, still nursing away and dreaming of the day when I can keep my boobies to myself. It will probably happen right around the time I have another kid. Damn.
After the first week or two, it got better. I could really get in to the Earth Mother thing, and was proud to be nourishing my child, providing her with the best possible sustenance. And my breasts were still looking relatively normal. Now, I need the most supportive underwire to cantilever them up to where they ought to be, and plenty of lace to restore them to something of their former glory. Oh, and they were glorious!
The first hint that the whole thing was going down hill was when Gemma started biting me. Prior to that moment, I couldn't imagine a scenario when a parent would curse an infant. Surely that is reserved for hookers and dirtbags. Nope, it's all butterflies and roses, until a brand new tooth clamps down on an already overworked nipple. Then all the beautiful pictures of mother and babe turn to ashes. And to rub salt in the wound, my daughter thought my reaction was the funniest thing in the world. Clearly, she had inherited her parents' sadistic sense of humor.
She doesn't bite me anymore, but it's almost a shame, because then I would have a justifiable reason to pack it in (or in this case, them). I just can't bring myself to wean just because I am sick of being awakened several times in the night by my insatiable daughter, because she plays "Tune in Tokyo" with the other nipple when we are nursing on the couch, or because I hate being the only one in the house who can answer the call of "BOOBIE!!!!".
I've gotten all sorts of advice (solicited and unsolicited). It ranges from the totally unhelpful, "just stop" to the tried and failed, "wear a shirt to bed". (I could wear a parka to bed, and Gemma would find a way to burrow under there and hijack my breasts). I've also heard "skip a feeding everyday until you are down to zero." Well that is just asinine from the perspective of an on-demand nurser.
So, here I am, still nursing away and dreaming of the day when I can keep my boobies to myself. It will probably happen right around the time I have another kid. Damn.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A Challenge Answered
I wasn't planing on starting a blog when I woke up this morning. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was, "Man, my nipples are killing me!" - but that's another post.
No, I started this blog because of a challenge from an old friend. Granted, it sounded more like an assignment than a challenge, but I suppose that is to be expected since he is now a college professor. This whole thing started after penning a list of 16 random things about myself on Facebook. Here is a little story that was far to long to make the list, but still one of the funniest things that has ever happened to me. (Of course, it wasn't funny at the time.)
My best friend Katie and I moved to a three-bedroom apartment just out of college. We needed a roommate to help with the rent, and we weren't too picky. We ended up with Karl (names have been changed to protect the moronic). Karl had one of those white-boy fros that only a select few can really pull off - sadly, Karl was not one of them. His hair looked like a cross between a mad scientist and a poodle with a skin problem. Puzzlingly, he kept volumizing shampoo in the shower.
Anyway, when Karl moved in, he came with an enormous frozen turkey. There was no room in our minuscule freezer to put it, we decided to defrost it in the refrigerator and have a nice "welcome to the apartment" dinner. Now, I love to cook, so this was an unexpected windfall - a 20 lb turkey just dying for some attention. I envisioned the table laden with a golden roast bird, stuffing and mashed potatoes. I would get to take my much loved, but rarely used Cuisinart out of storage! I would get to spend a leisurely day puttering around in my new kitchen! Fantastic! We planned the dinner for that Tuesday at 3 o'clock. I had to work a dinner shift at the restaurant where I was a server, but should have plenty of time to get to work, well-fed and glowing from what was surely going to be the best meal I had ever cooked.
Tuesday morning arrived. I got up early and prepared the stuffing. I seasoned the bird, and lovingly gave it a melted butter massage. I stuffed it and trussed it and heaved it into the roasting pan. Just as I put it in the oven, the electricity went out. Not just a blown fuse - every light in the apartment. Bloody. Freaking. Hell. Okay, okay, just a temporary set back. I wedged the turkey back into the refrigerator and closed the door. I started pacing. I checked to see if the traffic light on the corner was working to get a feel for the scope of the problem. Nothing. I paced and paced and paced and muttered and fretted and paced some more. I paced my way to 4:30 PM, and had to set out for work. Literally, the second I took my car keys off the hook, the power came back on. I left for work in a foul mood.
I don't remember much about that shift, except rationalizing that if I could get out of there early, my dinner would be salvaged. It was okay to eat at midnight, right? We were young and foolish, a midnight dinner party had a certain charm, right? Well, I did make it out of there at a reasonable , even after the bastard of a manager in charge found fault with all of my sidework and made me do it over.
When I got home all ready to prepare my feast, Karl greeted me with a casual, "Oh, I cooked the turkey for you, it's in the fridge." Asshole. But that's not all, it actually gets better. Or worse, depending on your perspective.
I trudged into the kitchen to make myself a consolatory turkey sandwich. As soon as I opened the refrigerator door, it literally came off in my hand and landed on my big toe. The whole door. The whole 20-pound refrigerator door. All of the improperly stored eggs, and half the collection of condiments in the door crashed to the floor and exploded.
I cried myself to sleep.
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