Thursday, December 6, 2012

A quiet mind

lazy dinner for a lazy girl
My sister emailed me to remind me that I haven't posted here in a long time. She's right. So, I creaked open the blog box, wiped away some dust, and discovered a few drafts I never published. It's lazy, true. But, I think we've established pretty well that I'm lazy. Well, I'm lazy about eating right and working out.

Aw hell. Let's be honest. I would choose a nap on the couch over pretty much anything. Tonight, I have a bunch of work to do so I plopped on the couch with some Annie's Mac and Cheese with frozen peas and arugula. A whole pile of non-local. All in one bowl. That I'm eating with a shovel.

Here's one of my old drafts: 

I have no idea where I heard "A quiet mind lives in the present" or something similar--I'm pretty certain it was on a sitcom--but it weirdly resonated with me. But, no. My brain doesn't like to be shut off, unless it's been shut down by copious amounts of bourbon, in which case it loves it.

While it's true that the more exercise and activity I see, the better I feel and the more I can accomplish. It's like perpetual motion. My muscles are stronger since partaking in this new "daily exercise" routine and I stand taller. My ass is slightly higher too, and I'd be lying if I said I don't enjoy looking in the mirror and noticing my ass has moved closer to where it's supposed to be as opposed to resting comfortably on the backs of my knees.

But, overall, the laundry gets folded, the trash gets picked up, and I'm more likely to hop up and run upstairs to grab something I want when I want it, rather than making a list of all the things I need on the second floor and finally trudging up the stairs out of necessity.

But a quiet mind? No. I was just folding laundry and had that moment of quiet. I have a list of things I need to do today, both personally and professionally, but I wasn't thinking about any of it. I wasn't thinking about anything. Just folding.

And then I realized I wasn't thinking about anything. The only other times that happens are 1) when I'm super drunk and 2) when I'm utterly exhausted. I'm neither of those things.

(Aside: "The only other times that happens..." That clause right there is a hot mess.)

And then I thought...well, what am I missing? What needs to be cataloged that I'm not cataloging in my brain? What am I going to forget to do today? Hunh...Oh, I need to email that guy about the newsletter and I really need to finalize that web copy today and I have to call that woman about some A/V requests for an upcoming conference...crap I gotta go to the bank and the dog is out of food and you know what? I'm folding only jeans here. I should wear skirts more often. I'll buy some tights this afternoon, and while I'm out I'll pick up a pound of coffee....this shirt has a stain. Do we have any of that rubby-rub stain remover? I'm going to bake some cookies tonight. How much data usage is Groom using when he listens to his sport podcasts?

Aaaah. I was back. Slightly anxious, slightly overwhelmed, and slightly annoyed. Much better.

My mind will never be quiet.


Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Lady or the Tiger

I went to my 25th high school reunion with my friend Amy this past weekend. And, after spending a little over 12 hours with her, I started writing. She is an absolute delight to be around and, I'm realizing, acts as a bit of a muse. I started writing the following in my post about the reunion, but things were running long so I saved it to post later. It seems a waste not to share.

***

Amy is always sardonically cheerful and brutally truthful. She has an open, honest, pretty face that allows her to ask unapologetically and without retribution for what she wants--a window booth at a restaurant, a better parking space, a reasonable discount on her car insurance (I made these up, but you get the point)--while earnestly asking pointed questions and observing her surroundings with a critical yet unassuming eye--wondering who catered a party, noticing a man who seems to be looking down a woman's shirt, quietly suggesting you "lose the sweater" when, say, you're getting ready for your 25th high school reunion. In short, I adore her and I adore her ability to come across as a really sweet lady when deep down she is the tiger.

To her credit, when aforementioned sweater-wearer ignored her sage advice, Amy did not mention it again.

One of her most admirable traits, however, is her ability to know the right thing to do. I have many friends like this, but Amy has perfected it. She knows how to dress; she knows to offer a cocktail to someone who is anxious at a party; she knows to ask the right questions. And, when someone is not acting with manners or good grace, she flutters her eyes in slight indignation, sighs quietly, and either laughs appreciatively in the case of someone flirting with a dangerous proposition like sleeping with her high-school boyfriend--something we witnessed--or walks away in disgust, such as when someone asks her what she does and continues to push her for answers until she really answers him. "This is what I do..." And, he starts glancing over her shoulder, disinterested, unaffected.

She was irritated by that. Not because he wasn't interested, but because he feigned interest and then ignored her.

Her irritation always intrigued me but also acted as a compass in social situations. Case in point: At the end of a very long high-school reunion night, we got off the elevator in our hotel after last call to discover a pack of our old high school peers--most of them popular in high school, I had recently discovered. They seemed excited to see us and asked whether we had any alcohol in our room. The answer to that question was no, said with a smile and a laugh.

"Oh well," they said and molded back into an impenetrable wall of gorgeous hair, nice watches, and Spanxed bellies. As we walked down the hall, fully aware that we no longer existed for them, we heard someone announce within the group they should all pile back into their cars and head to someone's house for more partying. We, as you can imagine, were not invited.

We got back into the room and Amy was irritated. "Can you believe them?"

"What," I said. "They're going drinking....?"

"No. They asked us whether we had booze and when we didn't, they ignored us. They didn't even have the grace to ask us whether we wanted to come with them. They didn't even pretend to ask us."

"Would you have wanted to go drinking with them?" I asked incredulously.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she smiled slightly as she shook her head.

"Sarah."

She sighed.

"That isn't the point."

Monday, November 26, 2012

Realization Nation

I don't remember high school. The space reserved for my high school memories was long ago filled with vats of bourbon, tequila, and wine. Anything that didn't immediately float to the top drowned a dismal and dark death.

This past weekend, as I headed to my 25th high school reunion, I briefly considered claiming I had suffered a head injury in order to avoid those blank moments while someone reminisced at me about something we did at the mall or during math class. And, I really wanted to avoid sneaking a peak at someone's name tag when they took a sip of their drink and looked over my shoulder to search for someone more engaging to talk to.

I'll admit I was a little angsty leading up to the event in the "what should I wear, aw nuts I didn't pack anything, am I successful?" kind of way, not in the "I need to get my teeth whitened and visit a tanning salon after I finish my fasting diet" kind of way. But, angst is angst. I did have a fleeting moment where I realized I would probably be one of the top 10 fattest people in the room. Did it bother me? Yes. Did I plan to do anything about it? No.

Prior to heading over to the school cafeteria where a cash bar, some '80s music, and a catered buffet awaited, I mentioned to my friend Amy, with whom I was attending the reunion, that I didn't remember there being cliques or factions in high school. In fact, if you had held a gun to my head, I would have crapped my pants because I'm scared of guns, but also I wouldn't have been able to name a single "popular kid" from school. I just didn't know who they were.

When we arrived at the party, I felt some anxiety--I'm not embarrassed to admit I asked Amy to hold my hand--but for the most part, I was fine. Could use a cocktail, but otherwise fine. I chatted with people about how they're doing, what they're doing, where they're living, and was stumped when someone asked me, "What do you do for a living?"

Why hadn't I worked this out in my head? I went through all the ways I see myself as successful. I love my husband. I love my friends. I live a happy life. But, in normal yet awkward social gatherings, none of that makes a difference.  I was able to answer only one question with confidence, and then I was lost.

Where do you live?

In Maine!

Where in Maine? 

Oh. Ummm.... I live...ummm... I guess I live on the coast in the summer and then in the mountains in the winter....

What do you do?

Ummm.... I'm a writer?

Who do you write for?

Ummm.....I write boating....stuff...for...ummm...boating magazines and people who work in the boating....industry? And I do some communications and PR at a ski resort? I do some PR for some boating clients, too...yes.

So, yeah. A "PR" person talked like that. I was about as credible as a woman with huge boobs, bleached white teeth, and no body fat. Bitch, please.

Eventually, when the question would come up, I would simply say, "I...don't...know, frankly." That usually ended the conversation quickly enough to fill my cup with more bourbon so I could discover more things about my friends and myself that I had simply forgotten or ignored.

It was a night of realizations more than remembrances. Although I knew my high-school boyfriend was smart, it was an absolute treat to realize he is also very sweet. I was delighted to realize my best friend (who wasn't my best friend senior year and I can't remember why) had become a beautiful, successful, interesting woman. And, I watched with pleasure as my very crowd-anxious old friend walked into the room with his wonderfully supportive and kind husband and took that room over; even though he didn't realize how happy every single person was to see him, I realized how happy everyone was to see him--except one person who didn't hug him, but whatever. Popular kids are asses sometimes.

band practice with Bill Cosby's sweater
Which brings me to the popular kids. As it turns out, there were popular kids in high school and let me be very clear: I was not one of them. But, the truth is, I never noticed because I was both completely self-absorbed and 100% a snob.

I had no idea.

totally rocking the stripes as a drama club officer
By the end of the evening, however, I realized I never wanted to hang out with those kids. I'm sure they were (and are) nice and fun and interesting, but I just didn't want to.

But, I always felt like I should want to. Hence a very oddly tortured high school existence. As a 43...44? How old am I? As a 40-something woman with too much back fat, terrible hair, and disgustingly puffy eyes, I can discern between what I want and what other people want. As a teenager with the occasional pimple, very thick hair, and a 14-inch waist (I'm not even kidding with that fact; I still think back on that and shake my head at my love of french fries), I knew only that I had to live to some specific standard of popularity and getting in with the kids who were skipping class to go get a Chilly Willy was very important.

For whatever reason, I do remember some kids getting grounded for getting Chilly Willies, and though I had no desire to be part of what they were doing, I wanted the inside story and I wanted my questions answered. For instance, what the hell is a Chilly Willy? Is it a real thing? Is it a metaphor?

But otherwise I just wanted to be left alone. But I wanted to fit in. But I didn't want to talk to anyone. And why did I feel like I needed the approval of a bunch of people who spent their Friday nights having more fun that I was having? How did I even know they were having more fun?

knob-jiggling zombies
At one point in the evening, high-school boyfriend, disgustingly awesome Amy, and I wandered the halls of our old school. High-school boyfriend (I'm just going to refer to him as HSB now) was jiggling the doorknobs (not a metaphor) to all the classrooms until eventually we found an unlocked classroom, flipped on the light, and stood around--nostalgic and a little freaked out. (I'm talking about me. I can't speak for my pals.)

Within moments, a crowd of others walked through the classroom door. I was surprised. Where did they come from? Couldn't they find their own room? Why were they in here with the three of us?

"I guess I'm glad those guys came in here," I said. "But now I want them to leave."

HSB laughed. "You haven't changed a bit since high school."

I'm blurring out her face b/c
I didn't ask her permission to post this image. She's
actually quite pretty.
The photo to the left, which I totally stole from this woman's Facebook page because it made me laugh, is exactly how I think high school went. That's me in the black sweater. I sat in the back, laughing with my friends while the more popular and significantly prettier girls held everything together, all of us oblivious to one another, but I suspect pretty girls more oblivious to me.

God, I love this picture. I blurred out her face, but I can assure you, she is really pretty. I don't want her to be upset that I posted an image of her in here without her permission, though.

Another bit of trivia, which came as news to me, was that I had written a large chunk of the yearbook copy. (Our yearbook was called "The Lance." I'm going to let you allow that to sink in for a moment. Our yearbook was called...The Lance.)

Anyway, my byline is everywhere. According to Amy, that over-achieving wench who was in all the honors classes and was editor-in-chief of the yearbook and is now a partner at a law firm, I must have been on the yearbook staff.

No...no, I was certain that I wasn't. I don't remember much, but I think I would have remembered that. A quick flip through the old yearbook and my objections were confirmed. I wasn't on the staff. I wrote those pieces as a free agent. Amy laughed.

"Even then, you really wouldn't commit to anything."

I drove back to my world of freelance writing and seasonal jobs with the oddly comforting realization that, other than my ever-increasing waist size, nothing has really changed. Somehow, through it all, I've remained. Uncommitted, unintentionally snobbish, and absolutely aware that someone, somewhere, is having much more fun than I am.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Anniversary

As of today, I've been married to Groom for eight years. Many people have heard stories about our wedding; I don't know whether it's worth getting into it here. Let me make a quasi word cloud for you:

rainy windy burgundy warehouse COCKTAILS music curtains food costumes gold CARNIVAL smoke chocolate feathers blackness pantomime skeletons MASKS old-boats fabric halloween diamonds pirates cream-puffs DARKNESS sex

The entire affair was decadent and luxurious, brought together by one of the most talented designers I know, Richard Reitz Smith. He had the vision to transform a giant wooden waterfront warehouse into an intimate Masquerade Ball. I will never be able to repay him and his partner for their blood, sweat, stress, and skill. Sara Cox debuted a new song and King Memphis rocked the party. It was over-the-top fabulous, and to say we had a nontraditional wedding would be an understatement. These photos taken by Derek Jackson are some of my very favorites.




Plus, the Red Sox had just broken the curse, so Groom-To-Be was happy. And, I'm pretty certain there were rats scurrying about, so I was happy

What I like about being married to Groom, other than the fact that he is now and forever legally obligated to deal with this pile of crazy, is that he makes me feel like we just got married. Honestly, I don't feel like it's been that long.

me and the sibs
Just before I got married, my friend Dave--who I did not invite to my wedding and I still regret it--asked me whether I thought things would stay the same between Groom and me. I said, of course, I knew things would change.

I said that because Dave was clearly looking for that answer; I didn't really think things would change. To this day, I think about his question and to this day I appreciate that he asked it.

Everything changed; everything continues to change. We went from being a long-standing couple to being married. Coupled and married are two entirely different things.

Things settle. Things get safer. I make decisions based on what we both feel as opposed to what I feel. Before I married Groom, I would say these same things, but no. No. It's different. I can't explain it. It's just different to know he can't walk out when I'm over-the-top insane. I can't walk out when he decides to disappear.

I thought I would hate it.

I love it.

So now I have to ask--as an aside, until recently I would have written "which begs the question," but I have discovered that would be the incorrect use of that phrase thank you Jay--I have to ask, why don't we allow everyone to have this safety, this comfort, these four shoulders to bear the weight? (Thank you again Sara Cox for the origins of that phrase.)

Groom was in the hospital a couple of years ago and I could come and go as I pleased because I'm his wife. I know that would be true of any couple, married or not, but what if he were in intensive care? I took care of him when the nurses were busy--and they're always busy because they are understaffed, but that's a topic for another day, keep up the fight nurses....

Wait, I have to say. I would choose a nurse practitioner over a physician's assistant because I truly trust that nurses pay attention to the whole body. Enough. Topic for another day.

But what if Groom were in intensive care and we weren't married? I'd be SOL. Now imagine we're a gay couple and he's injured and I would have to have his family's permission to be there. That is so demoralizing.

NOW imagine his family doesn't like me. (I'm super lucky, by the way. I love Groom's family like my own and I flatter myself by hoping/thinking they like me all right themselves.)

I recognize I'm being extreme here, but not really. I love my husband. I would tear down walls for him. Because I can. When he was in the hospital, I changed the bedding; I cleaned his room; I monitored the machines; I went all Shirley MacClean when he was uncomfortable. How is it fair that just because I have ovaries and he has a penis that I am allowed to fight for him and he's allowed to fight for me? I was born hetero (please do not call me a breeder; loved the band, hate the term) so somehow that gives me special rights? How is that fair?

And here it comes: I believe in equality. If two people have found each other, are willing to stick around forever, and want the legal right to sign the scary dotted lines when necessary, those two people deserve the right to be recognized as a married couple.

Yup. You guessed it. I'm voting Yes on Question 1. 

Oh, and happy anniversary, Groom. 

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Kelsey Grammer

he hates these stairs
I haven't been getting any exercise, unless you count walking the dog a couple times a day, and that's just so boring. I'm still trying very hard to stay away from processed and non-local foods, but I do work within striking distance of a vending machine that is always stocked with kettle-cooked BBQ potato chips--my Achilles Heel.

And, I am a sucker for candy corn because it's really fun to put them in my mouth and pretend they're my teeth. My friend's son was smart enough to put them in his mouth upside down so they looked like fangs. Dammit. I can't believe I didn't think of that. I always go for funny and not scary. Sigh.

not even that funny
I should put a transition here, but I'm not going to [editor!]. I went to see Argo at the Nickelodeon this weekend. It's a great movie. Ben Affleck's stupid quivering chin is completely covered in a beard and he's learned to stop breathing through his mouth, so he doesn't look like he's about to cry in every scene. I hated the long meandering handjob scenes in Gone Baby Gone, but wow is he an amazing director now. Holy crap. Awesome movie.

I will have to see it again, however. See, I went with a friend who always talks through movies. And, it isn't "What did he say?" kind of stuff. It's "Did I tell you what my son did yesterday?" kind of stuff.

I'm always prepared. I know how to watch the movie and acknowledge her talking without getting pulled from the story. This weekend, though, was Olympic-level chatting--all my training, all my focus was put to the test. While the movie played, she chatted about her son, her most recent exam, her plans for the weekend, etc. I was able to field her chatter while keeping track of the various characters walking across the screen and the multiple story lines and trying to remember the history of the hostage crisis in the late '70s, early '80s. I had this. I was about to get the gold medal in "watch the movie while I distract you with my random thoughts."

Then, as Ben Affleck's character was driving the streets of Tehran heading into a possible volatile situation, I hear her lean over and ask, "Isn't Kelsey Grammer dead?"

I tilt my head toward her, my eyes never leaving the screen. "No," I whisper.

I'd like to point out that Kelsey Grammer is not in this movie.

I hear, "I think he killed himself."

"No, no he didn't..." I lean in, curious but still my eyes are on the screen. "Did...what? When?"

"A few years ago."

"No. He's alive," I say dismissively and lean back in my chair, confident that the questions are over.

"Yes. It had something to do with his wife.""

Finally, she has me. This line of questioning is so bizarre, I feel myself get pulled from the movie and thrusted into her weird chatty realm.

"No," I look straight at her. "His wife is on Housewives of Beverly Hills."

There's a pause. I wait.

Nothing.

I settle back into the movie.

"You mean his ex-wife," she says.

I don't respond.

"I'm thinking of Phil Hartman," she continues.

"No," I say. "Phil Hartman didn't kill himself. He was murdered by his wi...fe...." Ugh. I roll my eyes. Sigh.

"OH, right, yes," she says and leans back in her seat to continue watching the movie, but I am plagued with questions. What made her think of Kelsey Grammer? Why did she ask the question if she knew Kelsey Grammer's ex-wife was on that reality show? How could she get Kelsey Grammer confused with Phil Hartman? And, why is the housekeeper at the Canadian Embassy so important to the Argo story? Why is Ben Affleck drinking alone in his hotel room?

After the movie, I left my friend and wandered town, picked up some yumminess at Standard Bakery, got a pound of coffee at Coffee By Design, browsed the racks at Bliss. But, really, I needed a drink. So, I met a couple of friends at Nosh.

i don't remember taking this picture at nosh
I don't know why I sometimes find myself at Nosh. It's generally because someone else wants to go there and I never fight hard enough to say "No, let's walk across the street to Taco Escobarr or a block up the street to LFK or Local." (I had lunch at Sonny's, Local's sister ship, earlier in the day, but I totally prefer Local. I don't know. Maybe it's the clientele. The food is always, always, freaking delicious at Sonny's but the people kind of bum me out.)

But back to Nosh. Nope. I just go, thinking it will be yummy. And, I suppose it is--who can be unhappy with fries covered in bacon dust? But, this Friday night? The median age in that place was somewhere between 50 and 70. Did it get written up in DownEast or in Yankee or something?

Sorry for the digression. I'm not linking Nosh here because I'm not saying anything positive about them and there's no reason for them to get a Google alert about it. Just because I don't like it, that doesn't mean it isn't a perfectly nice place. Either way, my mission was accomplished. I left there well in my cups and had to spend the night at a friend's house before limping home the next morning with very puffy eyes.

A hangover walk on the beach at Popham with a lobster stew reward from Spinney's and I was right as rain. I could even join Groom at a friend's house for supper last night and keep track of a  conversation that wandered through everything from stereo systems for iPods to the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator to the upcoming election to the cost of dinner in New York City to David Brooks.

Yes, I just reread what I wrote. I'll put a dollar in the douche tin for being such an elitist weenie. And, yes, NPR did come up in conversation last night.

That reminds me. Did anyone catch Governor LePage's weekly address on MPBN yesterday (Sat., Oct. 27)? Did he really haul out 9/11 and a Pat Tillman reference? One word: pandering.

Today, I swear to spend a number of hours on some freelance work, but Sandy is on the way and Groom and I really need to batten down the hatches and whatnot. Since our house is pretty well protected and on high ground, we rarely see a lot of damage, but our place was crushed by the Patriot's Day Storm back in 2007, so I'm feeling cautious.

I should put some type of conclusion here, but I'm not going to [editor!]. Blah blah blah, at the end of the day, blah blah blah, feel better after exercise, blah blah blah, funny snarky comment.






Monday, October 22, 2012

Secret shopper

been doing a lot of this but not much else
I think I may have come up with the best new job.

First of all, I'm sorry for being so quiet lately. I worked something like 70 hours the week before last and about 55 hours last week. Quick recap: I've walked the dog quite a bit, but that's all. Groom took the dog birdhunting this past week, so I didn't even get some dog-walking exercise--though I did get to eat fresh grouse for supper tonight.  Local, traceable.

I went drinking and partying in Portland Friday night and, to be perfectly honest, I remember only about 15 minutes of it. (But the feeling that I had a great time continues to resonate through my marrow.)

I went to sleep Saturday at about 4 in the afternoon, woke up a solid 17 hours later, and worked out.

Heh-heh. No I didn't.

I volunteered my time at a soup kitchen and washed some dishes that were already clean.

No, no, sorry, no. I'm an asshole.

I went shopping.

While I was browsing the racks at TJ Maxx (I can make a rhyme any old time, and yes I know TJ Maxx isn't local but the only thing I can afford at Bliss is a scarf, as much as I love that place), I overheard a woman struggling with her daughter. It was the worst case of stereotypical mom and teen ever. The girl...I'm sorry young woman...was shuffling around, trying to distance herself from her mother, and mumbling inaudibly in response to the incessant "How about this? This color is good for you...." from her mother.

I was working the rack next to them (i.e., they were in "Juniors" and I was in "Old Ladies"), but I noticed a sweater the girl...I'm sorry young woman...had picked up and found one in my size. It was a cute little turtleneck. So, I grabbed it to try it on.

The girl...no, seriously, I'm sorry, young woman...saw me pick up her sweater and she put hers back. I'm not even kidding.

I pretended not to notice.

And then I went around grabbing items identical to hers--not all items, just a select few that I might plausibly wear--and she put every single one back on the rack. Every. Single. One.

Her mother was very much unhappy with her daughter's choices and I believe was very much relieved when she put some of those clothes back. I couldn't do anything to help the mom in the fitting room, however, when I overheard her mother say, "Honey, that's cute, but it's far too big."

The girl...it was a girl, come on...mumbled something in response that sounded like, "But I liiiiiiiike it this waaaaaaay."

Since everything I tried on was far too small, I knew I and my fat ass would be of no help. In other news, a turtleneck on my body, no matter how ironic I am trying to be, looks like hell.

I left them and went to another store. I was feeling pretty good as I squeezed into a pair of dressy pants and envisioned the type of boots I might buy to pair with them, when I overheard a woman...a real woman...in an adjacent fitting room ask the attendant to bring her "something a little smaller, maybe a size zero?"

Demoralizing.

I looked down at the size 14 loose-cut trousers I was wearing (damn you skinny jeans), with the cuffs extending about four inches past my feet and wondered how tall Miss Size Zero might be. I'm 5'8". I remember when I was in my 20s I wished to be taller, more filled out, bigger. I wanted curves.

You see, that was when I wore a size 0. And, I remember being pissed that clothing manufacturers thought I must be 5'3" to fit into their clothes; everything was too short. These days, I'm guessing those same manufacturers think I'm 6'4".

Oh! But, my new job. Yes, that was the point of this post today.

I'm going to follow moms shopping with their teenaged daughters and get those girls to stop picking terrible clothing, just by virtue of the fact that I am carrying it.

Monday, October 8, 2012

turkey run

Do you know, writing this blog makes me feel the way a good workout must make athletic people feel? It cheers me up and it calms me down. Add a glass of wine, and we're looking at a perfect evening. But, here's the thing. In the morning, I write emails to people about marina stuff. All day I write copy about skiing and snowboarding. In the evening I write materials on sailing and boating and more marinas. By the time I have a moment to write anything in here, I am completely written out. It's like trying to get up the energy to run a few miles after spending the day waiting tables.

I'll apologize in advance for the staleness of this post. But, I do feel compelled to continue posting even when I'm a little tapped out because I have to keep myself honest.

on the clock
I've been getting some form of activity every day, mostly because I'm drinking again so I really have to do something. That, and I live with a dog who requires a lot of walking. And, I live in a four-story walk-up now.

I do have something exciting to report. Last week--has it really been so long since I've posted?!--I was sitting in my office and was asked to take a picture of something up on the hill. Everyone was stupid busy so it made sense that I should hike up and take the shot. I'm mostly dispensable, and I say that without any displeasure or disgruntlement.  In fact, being dispensable can be one of the most awesome things to be.

i swear there were turkeys up there
So, I hiked up to get this picture that we needed--I don't know that it's worth going into what I was taking a picture of, mostly because it's not very exciting, a construction shot of something on the mountain--and I realized about halfway up, the loop I was walking was the very same loop that kicked my ass the day I started this blog.

Not only did I walk up the trail without feeling like I might die, when I reached the top of the walk, I saw some turkeys and I ran--let me reiterate, I ran--up the hill to try and get a picture of them. Of course, they bolted before I got to them.

not high, but pretty
I should make it very clear that I was walking along a ski trail that, for most skiers, isn't really even considered part of your ski run. It's the part of the trail that you start unbuckling and unzipping and generally stop paying attention. So, it's not like I'm hiking the Matterhorn or anything.

And, a guy on a mountain bike pedaled past me. Uphill. Sooo.... though I'm stronger than I was when I started this blog, I'm not exactly strong.

Still, I'm pretty happy about it.

The BBQ potato chips in the vending machine down the hall, however, continue to menace me. And, I saw a Dunkin' Donuts Munchkin box in the office and even though I knew the box had been there since Saturday, I still walked over to eat one. Then, when I discovered the box was empty, I was actually disappointed. I don't know what's worse: diving in to eat a two-day old, stale Munchkin or looking forward to eating a two-day old, stale Munchkin and feeling bitterly disappointed when it doesn't happen.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

afternoon delight


tragic
delicious
You want honest? I'll bring you honest. No activity today and I ate a bag of Bugles. And they were delicious. I was eating an orange but it was so tragically dry and sad, I needed to make myself feel better by eating a bag of processed sodium. Don't judge.

We drove from the mountain to the shore today--oh my god that sounds so glamorous and douchie, I'm putting a dollar in the douche jar, I swear it--and had supper at home, not to be confused with condo on the mountain.

Aw nuts. That's another dollar.

Groom promised he would make me lunch tomorrow if I walk the dog and then maybe take another loop solo because dog is old and sick and can't really walk that far. So, if I go home with Groom at around noon tomorrow and "get some exercise," he will make me lunch. Seriously? (Frankly, I wanted to link an Arrested Development scene with Maeby and Michael there, but I couldn't find it. Made me feel a little bit like this. I don't wanna finish this stupid blog post now.)

too excited for this
and this
Tonight, after no exercise, but two hours of driving, we ate a bunch of vegetables from Blackie's along with some leftover chowder that Groom made last night. I was supposed to make some croutons from leftover Borealis Bread, which makes me wanna get all Nicholas Cage, but I got so distracted by how excited I was for asparagus and cucumbers and tomatoes from Blackie's, and arugula from Squire Tarbox Farm, and feta from Pineland Farms, that I burnt the wheat croutons until they looked like pumpernickel croutons.

to worry about these
They were still good though.

You know that joke, right? A bunch of cowboys are traveling out west in a giant convoy and they're complaining about the food. And it was getting on the nerves of the lead cowboy.

So, the lead cowboy says, "Anyone complains about the food one more time, he has to be cook for the rest of the trip!"

The cook is super psyched because he's sick of preparing meals so he gathers up a bunch of cow patties, fries them up, and serves them to the gang.

final presentation
Each cowboy takes a bite, grimacing all the while, until finally one guy shouts out, "What the hell?! This tastes like a bunch of cow sh*t!"

There is a moment of silence before the guy then says, "Tastes good though."

See, my dad told me that joke when I was a kid. I think there's more to it than that. Like, maybe, the next person to complain gets a hot poker up the ass or something. But, whatever. I grew up saying, "Tastes good though."

Tonight, I also cooked up some hard-boiled eggs, which we never ate, but I'm really looking forward to busting into a certain colleague's office to peel said eggs and stink up her whole work space.

Tomorrow is officially going to be hilarious.

Monday, October 1, 2012

slippery shame slope

I was feeling so proud of myself today because I managed to get my car registered with only a few mishaps and then I saw on Facebook that an acquaintance of mine ran 50 miles this weekend.

But you know what? Considering she looks like Sarah Connor and I look more like Pizza the Hutt, I'm going to consider us even.

yea, that's a glass of wine
I'm on a slippery slope of no activity and processed food right now. Groom saved the day yesterday with a delicious fish chowder he made with cod he caught himself, potatoes from Squire Tarbox Farms (they always have the best arugula too), herbs from our garden, and corn from...jeez, I don't know what farm supplied the corn because we bought it at the farmers market and I wasn't paying attention. (By the way, I played "jeez" in Words with Friends the other day and earned 77 points. Hello!)

This morning, I lazed out and got a venti iced coffee from Starbucks, instead of going to locally owned Cafe Creme. I also got one of those weird over-processed turkey bacon sandwiches and a yogurt parfait.

And then this afternoon, I wandered down to a vending machine and bought a bag of BBQ potato chips. I have no willpower. They were just calling me.
I'd like to know what's missing

Groom saved the day again by bringing home some broccolini, quinoa, and Moroccan Chicken from What's Happening, aka Good Times, aka Good Food Store for supper.

I've made Groom promise me he'll walk to work with me in the morning to get some kind of something that sort of resembles exercise. He did walk the dog tonight for a really long time while I worked on some freelance. I'd like to say I'm jealous that he was able to get out when I couldn't, but I promised I would be honest.

I'm not jealous even a little bit.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Angry little swedish fish

closed
I was feeling sorry for myself because I closed my computer on work stuff and looked at the clock to see it's 4 in the afternoon. It's Sunday and I've been working all day. I shouldn't complain. There are so many people who can't find work and I'm complaining because I have too much work. That's...what is that? Ridiculous, that's what that is.

I was considering a blog post because I've been lax about posting, mostly because I have nothing to report and partially because I consider myself to be too busy (see pity party above). I decided to scroll through some photos on iPhoto to see what the hell I've been up to...you know... in the daily activity/local foods arena. It's pretty abysmal, but I seem to have had a pretty nice day yesterday.

closed
open
Groom and I took the car to Cundy's Harbor for lunch where everything was closed for the season except Gurnet Trading Company, which is this funky little roadside seafood shack along the Gurnet River. It makes me think of old-time-y Florida. Then we drove back to Bath to eat lunch underneath the bridge bridge. I love industry and steel.

After that, I did a little freelance and then headed to Brunswick to see Sara Cox play at CLZ's Singing for their Supper to raise money for the Mid Coast Hunger Prevention Program and then cocktails at El Camino (oh, I'm drinking again and I feel a little like Harvard Jim after he snacks on the funny brownie). Local music followed by local food and all for a good, local cause.
under the bridge

I do have to say... oh lordy here we go... Okay. You know what? I'm a lefty, bleeding-heart, party-line liberal. I vote D all the way down the ballot--though I should admit I once voted R because, frankly, I believed in the R candidate more than the D candidate in one election. Oh! Did you feel that? It was like an earthquake. My dad totally just rolled in his grave. Sorry pop. You were alive when it happened but I never told you.

In my defense, I've never voted for Jerry Brown or Nader... Aaaahhh...that settled my dad down some. He couldn't abide a Nader vote either.

Back to the thing. Okay. This CLZ event was a lefty liberal "feed the hungry" thing. It was at the First Parish Church, outside on the lawn, in misty rain. The radio station was giving away reusable grocery bags as the freebie collateral. You can probably imagine the crowd. A lot of wet wool, plenty of hand-knit scarves, mud boots, long gray hair, long earrings... I think you get the picture.

I am on the same team with these people. I believe in marriage equality, miss muck boots in the poncho. I believe in a woman's right to choose, ms short hair/long earrings. I believe in supporting local farmers, mr twig sweater and dreadlocks. But for the love of all that's holy, can you please stop thinking about yourselves for one moment and stop talking while there is a performance going on and watch your damn kids because we are not a village that wants to raise your child.

One woman was up front and center openly and elaborately stretching her legs and rolling her neck before engaging in one of the loudest gossipy conversations, not 10 feet away from Sara. (People conversing during a movie or performance or while in a meeting? That's a huge pet peeve of mine. What makes you so important that you can't walk away or leave the room for your conversation?)

Sara was playing on a little stoop on the church steps. Not two feet away from her were two children playing on the handrail. They were yelling and shouting and leaning into the amplifiers. I wondered to Groom, "That is so weird. Where are those kids' parents?"

After about 15 minutes, one of the children walked toward "I need to stretch in front of people and show how comfortable I am within my own skin" loud talker and addressed the man to whom loud talker was shouting. That was the boy's father or guardian or whatever.

This weird antisocial behavior is why the left side of the argument gets a bad rap. To get anything done these days, you have to work within the confines of social order. Newsflash: This isn't about you and your needs. This is about society and society's needs. I'm not on welfare, never have been. And I still most definitely believe we should take care of those who live outside the margins of our money-making society. But god as my witness if you...you self-absorbed, self-congratulatory, self-righteous, ill-mannered so-and-so...if you're on welfare? I'm going to start voting Libertarian.

No I'm not. Who am I kidding? I think everyone, no matter who you are, deserves to live at a certain standard and in good health. That comment I made above about confines of social order... That might be extreme because sometimes I don't agree with what's considered the "norm." Some of the quote craziest characters are, in my opinion, some of the best people. Brother Boy from Sordid Lives comes to mind.

Just...just be a good person.

Damn it.

Is it weird I use a totally fictional character to make my point? Probably.

I haven't worked out in a month. I think the pneumonia germs have left the building so I can't use that as an excuse anymore so I'm giving some thought to hopping on the elliptical, which will definitely get rid of some of this anger I feel toward these ridiculously self-involved personalities.

But, frankly, I'm far more interested in eating the Swedish Fish sitting on my desk, beckoning me with their chewy delicious sweetness, before I dive into a bowl of homemade fish chowder, courtesy of rainy-day Groom.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

hey helen

After a summer of house arrest with no car, I realize how lazy I really am. I'm back for my fourth season working full time at a ski mountain and it's simply exhausting to go to an office. I don't know how you people do it.

In the summer, I walk downstairs, make some coffee, feed the dog, wander over to my computer, work. Sometimes I might put on a pair of pants. Occasionally, a bra.

These days, I get up early, get the coffee going, iron a shirt or a pair of trousers, hop in the shower, put on my freshly pressed clothes, decide I look terrible, throw the clothes on the bed, pick something else, try it on, repeat.

Sip some coffee, blow dry my hair, put on some makeup, decide I have VPL, change my trousers. Again.

Make a lunch, pack a small cooler, realize I haven't eaten breakfast.

Grab a yogurt, toss an orange in my bag, leave the condo.

Go back inside the condo to grab my damn to-go mug because I forgot the damn thing, walk four flights of stairs to the parking lot, see the dumpster.

Walk back upstairs, bundle up the stinky trash, walk back downstairs, discard trash in dumpster.

Drive to work, park the car, walk across the parking lot (uphill both ways), walk three flights to my office.

Work a normal day, walk back down to my car, drive back to the condo, climb four flights of stairs. Open my computer, work on freelance.

Help myself to a slice of pecan pie, set alarm, crawl into bed.

All I can think is, please dear god, let this count as exercise. Can you imagine if I had kids? I am a top candidate for leaving an occupied child seat on top of my car.

But, today, something motivated me to get my ass into gear after this spate of busy work time. How many times have I had something motivate me and how many times have I come up with excuses to avoid exercise? Well, here's another.

I saw a video of myself today and as funny as people think it is, all I see is my BINGO arms, otherwise known as "Hey Helens," and my floppy abs.

And why do I keep touching my boobs?

Hey, the team I helped for Reach the Beach is hoping to win a video contest in order to maybe get a free entry in next year's race. So, if you have a moment, can you like their video? I'm unclear as to where the video needs to be "liked," whether it's Facebook or YouTube, so like it on Facebook and we'll hope for the best. Here is the page; the video was posted by Kate Crooker.

Oh my god that's complicated. If you do it, I'll buy you a beer. I'm still pretty much on the wagon, but for this? I suppose I can sacrifice myself and have a beer with you.

Monday, September 24, 2012

The booze post: local fat girl falls off a wagon

Gosh, I've been lax about posting. And, we all know what that means. It means I've been lax about eating right and getting exercise.

outta here!
I got a car on Friday after being without a car all summer and I just wanted to drive. As I may have mentioned, Groom is a fishing guide. He fishes for mostly striped bass and bluefish here in Maine. In September, however, he hightails it to Cape Cod and chases false albecore (called "albies" in fishing slang, or if you're me and not paying attention, "falsies"). Groom practices catch and release, which means unless he plans to eat the fish, he releases it back to the water. Falsies, when they are released, will fly into the water and flip their tail as they head back to their school of friends.

I got that car on Friday afternoon and all Groom saw was the flick of my tail as I headed back to my school of friends. So, I haven't had time to post. But I can tell you, I stuck to local venues.

this is blurry because I was so excited
Friday night, I celebrated with a friend at Robinson's Wharf before heading back to her cabin and eating some type of concoction her husband made. Saturday, I spent the morning trying to locate a mechanic because my newly purchased car was making a bad noise. While I waited for the mechanic to verify it was merely a backing plate and it wasn't my axle pulling away from my transmission...sorry wait whaaaat's that now?...I joined my friend for lunch at Under Currach Tavern for the most amazing bloody mary and a split order of the most delicious fish and chips. Seriously. I'm going back there as soon as I can.
local pet store = local cuteness.

After spending some quality time at Two Salty Dogs, where I saw my fair share of cute as hell little dogs, I picked up my car and met another friend so we could go to a local show at SPACE Gallery in Portland, but we ended up stopping first at Katahdin where Winnie the bartender made us feel beautiful and valid while getting us liquored up on vodka for my friend and bourbon for me.

that's the stuff
Here's where I need to stop the a-to-z details of my weekend. This friend I was meeting in Portland, she mentioned that I seem to be talking in exclamation points. I took one sip of my manhattan made with delicious Maker's Mark and I actually felt those exclamation points slide out of my head. The world went from being a local cable station with bad sound and bright greenish hues in a loud studio filled with pasty and miserable beings to a softer digital golden-hued living room filled with smiling beautiful people--all of whom found me to be delightful.

I don't want to glorify drinking, but my god was it glorious.

We missed the show at SPACE and ended up at Empire to see a young angsty rock band with one young groupie swaying in the front of a largely empty room. They were followed by Murcielago, a band comprised of some old Portlandites, including Matt Robbins (of King Memphis fame) who is both a great photographer and an amazing guitarist. If he were in a double bill with Nate Schrock from The Coming Grass, I might just fall into a puddle on the floor.

Was that too honest? I guess I can console myself with the knowledge that only a handful of people read this blog. And the fact that I love my husband...who I know for a fact reads this blog. So....

Annnyyyywaaaayyy.... the rock show--seriously, it was the kind of music that keeps going with, like, this always-present undercurrent of guitar--ended and we took a trip over to Otto's pizza for a little late-night what-what hangover stop gap. It didn't do its trick sadly because my friend needed to nurse her hangover on the couch Sunday with her half awesome half evil cat Frank.

I took the opportunity Sunday to wander town (exercise?) and pick up a pound of coffee at Coffee by Design and some cupcakes at Two Fat Cats for a potluck cocktail party I planned to attend on Sunday night.

I also bought a pecan pie. I think of my friend Nat every time I eat pecan pie. About...oh dear...10 years...ago? No. Ugh. About eight years ago (oh, that's much better), I was eating lunch with Nat at Norm's on Congress (now called Congress Bar and Grill, not to be confused with what used to be called Norm's and then Downtown Lounge) and he ordered pecan pie. I crinkled my nose. Yuck. My mom had given me a bite of pecan pie when I was a little kid and I remember thinking it was the grossest thing ever, tasted like...meat...and had the skeeviest consistency, like...raw...meat... Blech.

When it arrived, he offered me a bite and swore I would love it as an adult. I reluctantly complied.

It was amazing. Delicious! Who knew! It dawned on me that my mother hadn't given me a bit of pecan pie. She had given me a bit of raw hamburger.

always a hit
When I brought this story up at a family dinner a few years ago, speculating that perhaps mom didn't want me to enjoy pecan pie, my sister said, "Well, sure she didn't want you to like it. There were only six pieces to a pie but there were seven of us in the family."

Oh, to be the youngest of a large family.

Right now, I am not having a piece of delicious pecan pie from Two Fat Cats. The cupcakes, however, were a big hit at the potluck. I mean, who doesn't love cupcakes?

I will say, however, yesterday between wandering Portland and racing to the potluck cocktail party (that really is begging for a joke, but I don't have one), I threw in a load of laundry and instead of crawling onto the couch to watch an episode of United States of Tara (thanks to Shanta for turning me on to that show), I drove down to Popham and walked along the beach for over an hour. Exercise!

Today, my exercise hour was eaten up by a trip to Auburn to get a headlight fixed in my new car.

Maybe I do deserve a slice of pecan pie after all.

Of course...it would be better if it had bourbon in it.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Here fishy fishy

sunrise
This week has been a bit of a whirlwind and I have to admit I haven't done anything to slow it down. After the Reach the Beach relay, Groom bundled me into the car and brought me to his parents' house in southern Massachusetts where I slept for something like 13 hours. He then wrapped me up, dropped me onto his father's boat, and whisked me down to the Cape for a few days of early morning boat rides. We were supposed to stay down there until the middle of next week, but weather and worries brought him back to Maine.

While we were on the Cape, we stayed with some friends who are active without being all "Look at us! We do stuff!" about it. While I slept off a long morning on the boat, this couple packed up their tennis gear and headed to the courts. And, while I sat on my computer cursing my inability to keep a good file system instead of scrolling through the new Mac Mail program for emails related to one of my freelance projects, the woman we were staying with threw on some running clothes and went for a jog before picking up her daughter at dance class and just before her husband left for his hockey game. I imagine he plays some sort of forward, but I don't know. He's kinda wirey, strikes me as quick on the skate.

breakfast of champions
My point is, I really have to stop talking about it and do something already. I mean, people work out all the time and I feel special enough to start a blog? That's just crazy. I had a mild "p" for "pneumonia" setback the other day and had to sleep away my afternoon while Groom stayed on the water and caught us some dinner, but otherwise I'm pretty much back to fighting form. And by "fighting form," I mean "sumo wrestling" form. I'd like to count sitting in a boat as exercise--you really do work the core in rough water--but I know that's cheating. Enough with the excuses, already.

well worn recipe
Since I haven't gotten any exercise, I'll talk about local foods. It's tough to eat locally when you're constantly on the road and you don't have a schedule, you don't know when you'll be hungry, you're at the mercy of others. I did eat some Pringles, but only a couple of them and it was because I wasn't paying attention. And I had way too many Kit-Kats, but that's because Groom bought a variety pack of white chocolate, milk chocolate, and dark chocolate Kit-Kats and I got carried away with the taste tests.

Most of my meals were eaten at the active friends' house or at Groom's parents' house. For breakfast one morning, I had some leftover delicious fish stew, courtesy of my father-in-law with a modified recipe from...I don't know...1840, as far as I can tell from looking at the dog-eared recipe page. It was fish, scallops, potatoes, wine, and cream and butter and fat. Holy goodness.

by all accounts, that's a great view
Then, Groom and I headed out on the boat with some roast beef subs from Maria's in Scituate. For as long as I've known Groom, we've had this debate over which is better: A Kelly's roast beef sandwich with extra sauce or a Maria's roast beef sub with tomatoes, pickles, hots, mustard, and mayonnaise. He almost has me convinced, but I'm a North Shore girl through and through. I will admit, however, riding through the Cape Cod Canal with a Maria's roast beef sub? Pretty much 100% awesome.

Last night was leftover lentil soup that my mother-in-law left on the stove for us. Again, delicious and I have to assume mostly local since she's a really good shopper. Tonight, Groom cooked up a black sea bass that he caught down on the Cape; he stuffed it with lemon, garlic, parsley, and basil and brought out some asparagus he had frozen fresh and tossed in the oven. Pretty smart, that guy.

I'm looking at my list of foods and I realize I've been eating a lot of red meat and fish. I don't normally eat so much red meat but I've been craving it. I should probably take a vitamin and eat more kale instead. The fish, however? It's funny. It makes me think of my mom who could never get me to eat fish. Scallops? Yes. She would broil up some bay scallops and eat them like popcorn while watching Days of Our Lives when I was a kid and I would sit right next to her, psyched beyond psyched for some of those little pencil erasers of goodness.

I had a psychic tell me once that my mom was telling her from beyond the grave that I wasn't eating enough fish. This same psychic told me I would have a spiritual awakening with a woman who had a name with a long-sounding "e" in it like...Kathleen or Sheila or Colleen. Oh, and I am supposed to be obsessed with a certain pair of twins and I should be married to someone named "John John." This was when John Kennedy Jr. was alive so I was psyched. Psyched about the psychic. Nice.

My mom would be psyched that I'm eating so much fish. My dad would be psyched I'm not a vegetarian. My grandmother would be disappointed I'm not more active. And, I don't need a damn psychic to tell me any of that.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

The amazing race

race start, the pretty girl in front with the bib ran the first leg
I just had one of the most amazing weekends. I'm going to try to stay on track here (you'll see, that's a play on words, heh) but as I've stated before, I don't edit these posts--mostly because it keeps me honest but I'd be withholding if I didn't also admit it saves me time. If I get off track (there's that play on words again), I'll do my best to reel it back in (that's not a play on words; that's a metaphor). I tend to watch people, so I suspect I'm about to head into a "personality type" post rather than a "running is so inspirational" post. Also, I really dislike the word "inspirational," so...no...I probably won't end up there.

This past weekend, I drove one of two vans for a team competing in Reach the Beach, a relay race--I mentioned it briefly here--that started in Franconia, at Cannon Mountain, and ended at Hampton Beach. It was a little over 200 miles in a little over 24 hours.

The team for which I was driving--"Sunday River Twisted Sisters" with Black Bear Energy in parentheses--consisted of 12 runners (hence the two vans) running relay legs ranging anywhere between two miles and nine miles. I had trouble wrapping my head around this before I got involved so I'll try to explain it here so you can understand.

Fri morning pre-race breakfast in NH
In a nutshell, one runner started the race at Cannon Mountain and one van (holding five more runners) would check in with that runner along the course before driving ahead to a transition area. At the transition area, the first runner passed the baton onto a second runner from the team and hopped into the van. This repeated until all six runners from the first van finished their legs, at which point a second van (the van I was driving) met the final runner at a transition area and the sixth runner of the first van passed the baton to the first runner of the second van. The second van of runners completed its first six legs. Then, the first van met the second van at a transition area, picked up the baton, and carried on. Each van of six runners completed three running courses, which translates to 36 individual relay legs per team.

The final push of the final leg, by the way, was on sand. Imagine getting into a van on a Friday morning and running and sleeping for the next 24 hours, all within reach of that van. How do you think you'll feel? Kinda shitty, right? Now imagine getting out of that van Saturday afternoon and running a few miles to the finish line. You're almost done. How do you feel now? Kinda psyched, right? Now imagine the course directs you into a sandy beach. That's just cruel.

getting breakfast Sat morning while I napped in van
Our team seemed to average about an 8-minute mile. I could be wrong. And I suspect if any of the team members are reading this, they will correct me. You know how I know that?

Let's go back to my "imagine" scenario. Now, I'd like you to imagine the type of person who might get involved in this type of race. Multiply that mental image by 12. This was a tough, focused, competitive, and driven group of ladies. I'm pretty sure at least one member of this team knows precisely what the team average mile is.

Aw nuts. I wanted to get through this post without using the word "inspirational," but I'm already failing. This was an inspirational experience. These women inspired me. Most of the team had never done anything like this. Many of them were not "runners," per se and had just started training within the past couple of years. And a bunch of these women are over 40. I mean, come on.

You ready for another? One of the women is five months pregnant. If I were five months pregnant, I wouldn't get up from the couch to refill my bowl with ice cream (thank you Groom), never mind get into a van with five other stinky ass ladies and go running at all hours of the night.

check out the body on this one. jesus.
Speaking of stinky asses, the smell in the van was never all that bad. I suspect, along with being intensely driven and focused, these ladies were highly adept at privately freshening up all that had gone sour. But, even if it did get a little ripe, I'm okay with that. Bodies are bodies. I'm not like some weird hippy who thinks dirt is cleansing, but I'm not going to criticize someone who is 18 hours into a 30-hour car ride for pooting.

Let me get back to this van of women. First of all, I knew six of the runners personally, one I had met once while hammered on red wine at a work party, and the rest I had never even seen before. Within my van of runners, I knew two runners plus the one from the work party, and the rest were just strange faces. My role was solely to make sure my group of runners got where they were going on time. A daunting task, especially considering the level of adrenaline and estrogen cruising atop those four wheels. This was a group of leaders being led by...me. Son of a bitch.

As I mentioned to the women in my van, I grew up the youngest in a large family of alpha personalities. I'm comfortable recognizing the difference between reasonable expectations ("make sure I'm hydrated") and unreasonable demands ("bring me a glass of cool water with three ice cubes at mile marker 3.7"). If the situation warrants it, I'll put up with an unreasonable demand because those demands tend to stem from anxiety, but when you have six people relying on you to take care of business, it felt a lot like juggling, except... instead of three uniform balls (heh-heh..balls), I had an axe, a flaming torch, one rubber ducky, a bowling pin, and two pairs of scissors.
Sat morning rest stop
My solution? Remove all my expectations (which makes me think of my favorite song by the Coming Grass but I can't find a link to it, so I'll just link their MySpace page). I can't juggle scissors so I let them drop. And all was good. It doesn't hurt that I found myself liking this team of women. I really like them.

It's a physical and mental challenge to compete in this race. At the starts, there was a lot of gig head--that moment when someone grows introspective and slightly bitchy just prior to performing. I have plenty of friends who play live music and hold art openings and perform in theater, and I've managed my fair share of speakers at corporate seminars, so I recognize the signs. It's totally normal to forget everyone else in the room when you're so focused on your own needs. And, at the finish line, there was plenty of crying and hugging and smiling--we even witnessed a few people drop, like all the famous footage of people shitting themselves at marathon finish lines and such. Full disclosure, I suspect most of the crying came from me. I was so proud of these women, so (ugh) inspired.
the finish line

I should point out here: I'm a team player, but I'm not a team person, if that makes sense. I don't smack talk other people and I don't fight in battles just because your flags are orange and mine are green. This shouldn't be confused with being competitive (I take pride in my work and I notice when others outperform me) and it's quite different than my ability to hold grudges and dislike people who have done me wrong. I'm just not all "same jacket, rah rah siss boom bah, we are the champions" about things.

I was okay getting involved with this team because running is an individual sport, in my opinion. It's human nature to want to pass people on the track, but for the most part, it seems, runners track their own progress and speed. Don't get me wrong: There was plenty of team spirit and some smack talk, but for the most part, people were really supportive of other runners on other teams, cheering them on and offering water if someone seemed to be fading. But, we did have team jackets and shirts and all the material trappings of group think. I suppose it was necessary.

For me, I stopped running about four years ago--a pulled IT band and a twisted ankle were too much for me to bear because I'm a big wimp. But, last night, I had a dream I was running again with that raging slab pulling me forward while I listened to my breathing and a little more rage to keep me going. I didn't have anyone around me in the dream, but I know who inspired me.

Woo hop, Twisted Sisters. This weekend, I was proud to wear a team jacket.

Hold the phone! I just heard Twisted Sisters came in 4th out of 18 all-women teams and came in 277th out of an overall 418 teams. Not even a bronze, ladies. What a bunch of slackasses. I take all this pride and "inspirational" nonsense back.