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| Saturday night, and the music bursting from the tapas restaurant outside my window means I won’t be sleeping soon. It’s a live band, with singers and guitars and drums and definitely, most definitely, a cymbal, which is crashing loudly and at regular intervals. I’ve moved from my inconvenient suburb apartment to a more convenient quasi-city apartment. The daily commute is better, and I can walk to several grocery stores. But on weekend nights I sometimes long for the rustle of leaves and the quiet of outside-the-Beltway life. My day was full of hiking and movie-watching fun. But now I’m tired, and don’t want to hear other people having fun. Oh, good grief, they just started “La Bamba.” And there’s a sing-a-long. I never thought the day would come when I thought longingly of the colored plastic ear plugs they gave us during law school final exams. Moving on. I haven’t done much writing in the past year, but I’ve done a great deal of living. And I have been thinking of writing very much this past week. I even went so far as to attempt a few sentences on the train ride to work. But I felt that everyone could read my notebook over my shoulder, sniggering, and so I put it away without writing a word. (Pathetic.) My goal is to do better and write more, but I’m disillusioned with promises. Whenever I promise myself I’m going to do something, it never gets done. So I’ll just write when I want, and not make promises I know I won’t keep. Like tonight. I wanted to whine immaturely about the mariachis outside my window, so I did. Hopefully such a shallow post will at least get my literary juices flowing again. And a year of good living does mean I have a year of good stories to tell! But now, I’m going to (try to) sleep. And I have a letter to re-read. - Mood:sleepy
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| I had planned to write about the marathon this afternoon. Thanks to a first round loss in today’s single-elimination tournament play, the time was available. Unfortunately, however, some rather sad news has distracted me. Yesterday, my parents had to put our cat to sleep. They called to tell me this morning. Bobo’s rear legs had become paralyzed. He was fine when my parents let him out Wednesday night, and bounded away into the darkness as usual. But hours passed, and he didn’t return. Thinking that maybe he’d been trapped in a neighboring garage overnight, my parents looked for him the next morning. But no Bobo. They didn’t truly worry, however, until Thursday night came and there was still no sign of him trotting nonchalantly up the driveway. On Friday, my dad biked the street looking for him. My mom called from the porch and banged our screen door, the echoing noise that usually summoned him home. Still nothing. Friday afternoon, they finally saw his white head peeking up from our neighbor’s barn and breathed a sigh of relief. But when they approached, something was clearly amiss. Bobo was half-laying, half-sitting, and didn’t appear capable of walking. His belly was coated with mud, indicating that he’d been trying to drag himself home. My parents bundled him up and took him inside, hoping he’d soon recover. But a day passed with no improvement, and when my dad tickled the bottom of his rear paws with a needle, he didn’t hiss and pull away. Something was dreadfully wrong. - Tags:cat
- Mood:sad
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| This is not nearly as in-depth as I would want. But hopefully there will be time tomorrow to elucidate further.
Marines Corps Marathon Finishing Time: 3 hours, 20 minutes
Average Mile Pace: ~ 7 minutes, 40 seconds
Level of Pain: Off the Charts
Level of Personal Satisfation: Also off the charts!
Boston Marathon 2008, here I come!!!
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| The Real Meaning of an Invitation to a "Wine & Cheese" Party: Don't expect us to feed you. No, really, I had a great time. There were friends old, friends new, and one very frisky miniature pinscher. I even borrowed what hopefully will be a good book from the hostess! Fun times for all. *grins* Weekend Summation and Forecast: Friday Night: Improv Comedy Show Saturday: Ultimate Tournament Saturday Night: Wine & Cheese Sunday: Ultimate Tournament Monday: Hike Old Rag MountainThe time keeps flying by. | |
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| Reason #3 for my busy summer is not nearly as exciting as the traveling I've done. (Reason #2 will be discussed later, most likely within the next two weeks) I’ve merely been running…a lot. Several months back I registered to run the Marines Corps Marathon, my first marathon. Even though it’s still three weeks away, I’ve spent a great deal of my summer alone on various roads and trails, running running running. My long runs started at 10 miles and have slowly been increasing. Last weekend, I finished my first 20 mile run. This Friday, I’ll be going 22. Today I ran 16, which, combined with the Army Ten Miler I raced yesterday, is 26 miles in 24 hours. Cool. : ) Currently, much of my life revolves around running. Running dictates what I eat and when. It makes me wake up at 4 A.M. so I can have a bowl of pasta, fall back asleep, and get up at 7 A.M. for my long weekend run. The marathon is all I can talk about with certain friends. We compare training regimens, mile splits, and injury woes. Whenever I come across someone who’s run a marathon in the past, I pump them for information and advice. When I stagger into work on Monday mornings, I’m often groggy and sore from the long run the day before. I sleep a lot more than I used to. I’ve spent hours calculating interval splits. I've become an energy gel connoiseur. I’ve run a half-marathon…on a treadmill. My calves and quads are blocks of muscle. I’ve never felt stronger or faster. My initial marathon goal was merely to finish without puking my guts up. But in past weeks, a different aspiration has slowly formed in my mind: I want to qualify for Boston with a sub-3:30:00 finishing time at Marines Corps. It’s an ambitious goal, which I’m not sure I can achieve. But I’m shooting for it anyway. Because while training for the marathon has been incredibly rewarding…I don’t think I want to make such intensity the norm in my life. I’d like to run Marines Corps, qualify for Boston, run Boston next spring, and then never fret over a marathon again. Once I run Boston, I can do that. I’ll know that I have achieved the Big Goal for recreational runners such as myself. I won’t have that big floating question mark over my head – what if? I hate big floating question marks. For those interested, here are the numbers I’ve been crunching. (The calculator has become my new best friend.) Last year, I ran the Marines Corps 10k (6.2 miles) at somewhat below 7:30/mile pace. Yesterday, however, I finished in the top-50 women at a very hot and muggy Army Ten-Miler, with an average mile pace a little over 6:50. For the marathon, I’m hoping to maintain 8:00 min/mile pace for at least the first 20 miles. That’ll be 2:40:00, leaving me an hour to run the last 6.2 miles (women’s qualifying time for Boston is 3:40:00). I could make that even if I ran those last miles at 9:30. But I’d like to keep 8 min/mile, or at least finish with an average pace below 8:30. Ambitions aside, I’m just excited to be running this marathon! I’ve worked hard over the summer, and deserve to have fun on race day. Even if I don’t make my goal, I’ll be happy simply being there. Because what’s the point of running 26.2 miles if you don’t enjoy it? : ) | |
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| Good grief. Almost three months without posting! It’s inexcusable, I know. The only defense I can offer is that this past summer has easily been the busiest, most adventurous, and most wonderful summer I’ve ever had. Yes, it was that good. *beams* There are three primary reasons for why I’ve been in absentia for so long. One is the extensive domestic traveling I did this summer. Separate, more indepth posts on my adventures might appear in the future, but until they do (and in case they don’t), I’ll provide here a brief list of the places I visited this summer. Read it and weep. - Dallas, Texas – Friend visiting. Stood upon the Grassy Knoll, frolicked through the Dallas Botanical Gardens, and battled against one hellacious demon cat. Had my services as a bridesmaid requested. Good times.
- Raleigh, North Carolina – Kudzu Ultimate tournament and friend visiting. Got sunburnt.
- Outer Banks, North Carolina – Fourth of July outing with friends. Pretended I was a sea goddess frolicking in the waves. Drank beer in the hottub. Swam with water moccasins. Climbed sanddunes and looked for crabs. Dunked KESH.
- Wildwood, New Jersey – Ultimate tournament…ON THE BEACH! Swam in the most seaweed clogged ocean I’ve even experienced. Bought a pink Yankees cap solely for shade purposes, and was relentlessly mocked. Walked the boardwalk. Ate disgustingly greasy and delicious pizza. Made great new friends. Played in mortal fear of cutting my bare foot on either shells or glass. Returned with a painful discrete callus on the bottom of my foot that may have to be professionally removed…after the marathon. Will heartily recommend sandsocks to anyone considering playing beach Ultimate.
- Home – 3 to 4 visits for professional purposes, family purposes, and to subject myself to a bizarre meteorological phenomenom (reason #2 for my busy summer, which will be divulged later).
- San Diego, California – Friend visiting. Walked on a nude beach…but did not get nekkid. Swam in the Pacific and shuffled my feet to scare away the stingrays. Battled waves! Ran along another boardwalk. Watched surfers. Hung out at the local dive bar. Ate the best sushi and steak I’ve ever tasted. Went to the Gaslamp district…where drama ensued. Visited the San Diego Zoo (I love monkeys) and Balboa Park. Ate gelatto. Watched rabid bunnies attack (it’s a Wii game).
- Ensenada, Mexico – sidetrip while in California. Discovered that crossing the border into Mexico is as easy as entering any high school stadium – simply walk through the metal turnstile. Sat silent and wide-eyed while my friend’s boyfriend got in an argument with the busdriver over our fare. Watched “You, Me, & Dupree” in Spanish on the bus (it’s still a stupid movie). Ate tacos, drank Coronas. Walked 1.5 miles through dust and dirt and construction sites to reach the beach…only to realize it was the wrong beach. Saw a dead seagull and a dead jellyfish. Did not go swimming in the water. Drank more Coronas. Bought a toy penguin for the bizarre meteorological phenomenom. Discovered I am helpless and embarrased when bargaining. Ate churros in Tijuana.
- New River Gorge, West Virginia – camping and rafting trip with friends old and new. Drank my first sips of whisky. Roasted s’mores. Screamed happily while helping to paddle through Class 5 rapids. Grinned happily while floating down less intense rapids. Flailed my arms and legs happily when jumping from a high rock into river. Tried unsuccesfully – yet happily -- to dunk the rain. Laughed happily with the very excellent company I found myself in. Frolicked happily in a lake populated with gigantic floating climbing toys and one very tall canvas slide that you could hurl yourself down in a wonderfully reckless fashion. Climbed rocks!!! I mean, really climbed rocks…with a harness and belayers and cliffs. Met Crazy Larry from Arizona...he deserves that name. Happily cut and bruised my knees and shins and thighs. Completely wiped out when running a trail – bruised hip. Learned all over again why I detest frat boys and sorority girls…particularly when they have the camp site next to me and shout things like, “Eric, there’s a f’ing horse in the f’ing campground!” Classy. Attempted to poison one of my fellow human beings with chili powder. Attempt was unsuccesful, yet memorable. Gazed at stars. Had one of the best weekends ever.
So that's it. That’s one-third of what made this summer so fantastic and busy. *beams* Another post explaining Reason #3 for the crazy summer will be up shortly. | |
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| This will have to be brief due to the lateness of the hour, but I needed to write it down officially before Friday night. The following are my predictions for what transpires in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, accompanied with succinct supporting explanations when needed. And I’ve pretty much been reading nothing about the book on the internet, so these may be popular predictions. I wouldn’t know. Oh, and I could also be a good little reader and say that I'm interested only in reading the book and seeing where Rowling takes me, and that prediction-making is silly and could ruin the reading experience. Whatever, It's fun, I like it, and I'm too weak to resist the temptation. So here we go!
So there they are. Those are my predictions. We’ll see what happens!
In other HP book news, I’m officially bowing out of the race to see who finishes before everyone else and gets to scream “First!” I thoroughly intend to be occupied by other far more interesting matters on Friday night/Saturday morning. And I don’t regret the loss at all : ). If I’m extremely dedicated, I might be able to start the book on Monday morning. But even then, my head will probably be somewhere else entirely. Still, happy reading, everyone! And now, sleep calls… | |
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| Read about it here. *grins* Ok, so I don't really have the energy to gripe. The title for this post jumped into my head, however, and I simply couldn't let the opportunity to immortalize it slip by me! *yawn* | |
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| The Washington Post recently ran an article bemoaning the meagre amount of time children spend outside nowadays. It's a common complaint, but one I fully support. Take a walk through the suburbs. You might hear the songs of birds and the barking of dogs, but seldom the sound of children shouting. Reading the article made me reminisce. I was fortunate enough to have a wonderful childhood growing up in the country, with parents who understood that kids were meant to fight and get dirty. My brother and I battled like demons, either wrestling or "sword" fighting nearly every day. But instead of yelling, Dad tought us jujitsu moves -- and gave us rules. No swinging sticks at each other's head. If someone called "Uncle," the wrestling match was over. Immediately. And Mom forbade us from playing with toy guns. Even Nerf was verboten. Our backyard was a paradise. We had a pond teeming with fish and frogs, both of which we hunted mercilessly. Dragonflies buzzed about our heads. Every summer day, we'd eat watermelon on the dock, holding spitting contests with the seeds. We'd paddle around the surface in tubes, and flip off the dock into the water. We held swim races. Turtles watched us from the banks, but the black water snake always hid. Dad built us the tallest swing set I've ever seen, tall as a two-story house. We'd fling ourselves from the seats, roll in the grass, and somehow never broke a bone. During the summer, we'd eat strawberries, currants, beans, and tomatoes from the garden, and they would be warm from the sun and taste real. Sometimes, we'd help Dad mulch and prepare the soil, rubbing the Midwest clay through sieves and mixing it with sand and manure until it was rich and fine. My brother and I would play badmitton, dreaming of the day we'd be the first American brother-sister team to take home Olympic badmitton gold. In fact, we played everything -- soccer, football, basketball. Even baseball wasn't impossible for two children as determined to have fun as we were. ("My ghostman just stole third!!! Yeah!" "What? No! Hey, that's not fair!") We had mudfights. But the cattail fights in the fall were best, when the seeds would scatter in a puff if you got the perfect whack in upon your opponent's back. Once we were older, we wandered everywhere. We explored the acres of woods throughout my neighborhood, woods full of vines to swing from and trees to climb. We made forts from trees that tornadoes had blown down, and old canvas shoes protected our feet from crayfish when creek-walking. Irate landowners sometimes yelled at us for trespassing, and one tried to scare us away by pretending to be a ghost. (Didn't work....we thought it was a sick cow that had escaped and ambushed him with our "swords.") But mostly, we were welcomed anywhere. We were wild, but not rude or destructive. We got hurt. I walked a friend home one day, weeping, after he'd pitched head first over the handlebars of my bike, cracking his skull. (He had a concussion, and never remembered a second of that walk afterwards.) We fell when vines we were climbing snapped, slipped from branches we were balancing upon. Our knees and elbows were permanently scraped. Bee stings made our feet swell. Toenails fell off. Mom and Dad pulled splinters from our hands as we squirmed. Neosporin, calamine lotion, and rubbing alcohol were continuously stocked in our medicine cabinet. But, hey, we lived. And thrived. It sounds ideal. Maybe it was. I loved it. Do children today not understand what they're missing? Do their parents not care? Computers are great -- hell, I'm clearly a huge fan -- but Facebook isn't an adventure. Video games don't involve real risks. A valuable childhood cannot be found in television. I hope things change. | |
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| What a lousy day. A required legal conference has called me away from D.C. and back to my native state. Normally, while such a trip would be irksome, it thus far has reached unanticipated levels of annoyance. I haven’t really slept in a week. (“Sleep” being my requisite 8 hours of sweet slumber.) I didn’t leave D.C. yesterday until after work, so I drove through the mountains last night in darkness, something I never like. I arrived well after midnight at a friend’s apartment, where an air mattress briefly served as my place of blissful repose. Sunrise and 6 A.M. saw me awake again, back on the road so I could reach the conference on time. My day was then spent slouched in a folding chair, gaping vacantly at some talking head in a suit who was preaching either about ethics or professionalism or life values. Bleared vision and a headache told me I was beyond the point where sleep deprivation manifests itself physically. And I have to return again tomorrow for another interminable day of being lectured at. I arrived in town without a hotel for tonight. My plan was to drive along the highway once they released us until I saw some nice little Super 8 in a neighborhood where I didn’t feel my life and virtue would be in peril. Problem? I didn’t factor the gridlock of rush hour traffic, which makes zipping from exit to exit rather … maddening. After half an hour of stop-and-go driving, I decided to give up, turn around, and book a room near my conference. It would be pricier than I’d wanted, but my sanity at that point was already hanging by a thin thread. I calculated that not spending the rest of my living days drooling in a straight jacket was worth the extra money. I exited the highway, expecting to buzz around and re-enter easily in the other direction. Didn’t happen. I sat on that entrance ramp for an HOUR. The dreadful expletives that left my lips during this wretched time are unrepeatable. Worst of all, I could SEE that most of the highway lanes were moving along just fine. Only the far right lane was jammed, completely blocking anyone who wanted to get on. It was nightmarish. Even Tantalus was never so tormented. I’d gripe more, but I’m tired enough that typing has become difficult. Plus, the Cavaliers are playing, and they demand my full attention. Besides, the trip’s only going to get better. My brother’s coming down tomorrow, and we’re going to be able to spend Friday night and Saturday hanging out together. And then I’m planning to stop at my friend’s again on the way back, so we can have brunch and actually talk (my communication skills Wednesday night/Thursday morning were limited mostly to grunts and moans). And then I’m thankfully done traveling…at least for a while. Maybe I'll actually have time -- gasp! -- to write on LJ again!
- Tags:gripes
- Music:Cavaliers v. Spurs
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windrunner1981's journal
