Monday, March 31, 2008
My Blog Got Lasik
No, there's nothing wrong with your computer display. The Tortfeezor has been updated to a new, more user-friendly template. There have been complaints by some of the older readers that the font is too hard to read. Now the whole world can effortlessly enjoy The Tortfeezor. With or without their bi-focals.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
8 Simple Rules for Dating My Kid Sister
Hey boys, get out your Axe body spray and Applebees gift cards, my little sister is on the prowl.
For the first 23 years of my her life, she has stayed remarkably focused on her school studies and now her career. She's a cute girl and holds a couple of degrees. Any guy would be lucky to have her. But she's stayed away from the scene for whatever reason.
Until now.
You see, she made the big mistake of telling me that she's starting to date. She even solicited some advice from me. As if I know. I haven't dated since the nineties. My idea of a romantic night out was appetizers at the Ground Round and thumbing through the clearance bin at the used CD shop. That was cool then. I think. Now it's all Facebook and Napster and MySpace. I know nothing of these things.
Back then, my only access to the Internet was the free 3-month AOL subscription mailed to my parent's house on a trial disc. You had to change screen names every 90 days and steal a different credit card from dad's wallet each time, but it was totally worth it.
Now kid sister has put a profile on an Internet site and is finally starting to make some friends of the opposite sex. This has generated a lot of excitement about this in our family. All those awkward 'is she/isn't she?' moments can be laid to rest. Our ultraconservative parents can breathe a sigh of relief and feel totally comfortable when she shops at Eddie Bauer with her unmarried twenty-something girlfriends.
And I instictively gave her some grief over the whole e-dating scene (Desperately seeking Desperate?), but that was more obligatory sibling ribbing than anything else. She's smart and careful, so I'm not concerned, but that doesn't mean that I can't still be fiercely protective of her.
So, potential suitors, how will this date go, you ask? Well, with your hands to yourself, preferably at church, thank you very much. Common sense goes a long way, fellas. Be mindful of this because you could start in the backseat of her car and end up in the trunk of mine real quick.
But there's absolutely nothing wrong with, oh say, riding matching penny-farthings around the local police station parking lot while remaining three arm-lenths apart followed by a quiet picnic lunch in my backyard. With me there in-between keeping watch. I like pimiento loaf. Make a note of it. Bring some.
But while you're planning your well-lit, chaperoned evening, consider the following parable. Actually it's not a parable, because it's true. But you'll get my point soon enough:
When I was around 10 years old, I bashed my little sister in the face with an aluminum baseball bat. It was a complete accident - she stepped into my swing as I was goofing around practicing. Blood was everywhere; I was sure I'd killed her or permanantly scrambled her brains. I didn't, but I felt truly awful. Still do.
Two decades and dozens of stitches later, she's no worse for the wear. But she still has a hint of a scar between the bridge of her nose and her eye socket.
So, pure-minded potential brother-in-law, as you gaze into her eyes on a date, let that small reminder of a scar serve notice: I'm 18 years older and stronger, I still have the bat, and I'm not afraid to use it. That incident may have been unintentional, but you hurt her and you'll meet the business end of that same slugger.
So have fun!
And have her home by 8:30.
For the first 23 years of my her life, she has stayed remarkably focused on her school studies and now her career. She's a cute girl and holds a couple of degrees. Any guy would be lucky to have her. But she's stayed away from the scene for whatever reason.
Until now.
You see, she made the big mistake of telling me that she's starting to date. She even solicited some advice from me. As if I know. I haven't dated since the nineties. My idea of a romantic night out was appetizers at the Ground Round and thumbing through the clearance bin at the used CD shop. That was cool then. I think. Now it's all Facebook and Napster and MySpace. I know nothing of these things.
Back then, my only access to the Internet was the free 3-month AOL subscription mailed to my parent's house on a trial disc. You had to change screen names every 90 days and steal a different credit card from dad's wallet each time, but it was totally worth it.
Now kid sister has put a profile on an Internet site and is finally starting to make some friends of the opposite sex. This has generated a lot of excitement about this in our family. All those awkward 'is she/isn't she?' moments can be laid to rest. Our ultraconservative parents can breathe a sigh of relief and feel totally comfortable when she shops at Eddie Bauer with her unmarried twenty-something girlfriends.
And I instictively gave her some grief over the whole e-dating scene (Desperately seeking Desperate?), but that was more obligatory sibling ribbing than anything else. She's smart and careful, so I'm not concerned, but that doesn't mean that I can't still be fiercely protective of her.
So, potential suitors, how will this date go, you ask? Well, with your hands to yourself, preferably at church, thank you very much. Common sense goes a long way, fellas. Be mindful of this because you could start in the backseat of her car and end up in the trunk of mine real quick.
But there's absolutely nothing wrong with, oh say, riding matching penny-farthings around the local police station parking lot while remaining three arm-lenths apart followed by a quiet picnic lunch in my backyard. With me there in-between keeping watch. I like pimiento loaf. Make a note of it. Bring some.
But while you're planning your well-lit, chaperoned evening, consider the following parable. Actually it's not a parable, because it's true. But you'll get my point soon enough:
When I was around 10 years old, I bashed my little sister in the face with an aluminum baseball bat. It was a complete accident - she stepped into my swing as I was goofing around practicing. Blood was everywhere; I was sure I'd killed her or permanantly scrambled her brains. I didn't, but I felt truly awful. Still do.
Two decades and dozens of stitches later, she's no worse for the wear. But she still has a hint of a scar between the bridge of her nose and her eye socket.
So, pure-minded potential brother-in-law, as you gaze into her eyes on a date, let that small reminder of a scar serve notice: I'm 18 years older and stronger, I still have the bat, and I'm not afraid to use it. That incident may have been unintentional, but you hurt her and you'll meet the business end of that same slugger.
So have fun!
And have her home by 8:30.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Elephant
Fourteen days ago my wife was diagnosed with cancer.
And that's officially the toughest sentence I've ever written.
She has an illness called Hodgkin's Disease. Which, as far as I'm concerned, sounds pretty poop-your-pants scary, but it's actually a fairly favorable diagnosis. There's a 93-98% cure rate and it rarely relapses from remission. If it's caught early (which is was), is asymptomatic (which it is) and is found in a female patients, those percentages only increase.
Still, it's cancer. And with it, comes all the unpleasantries associated with the treatment. The chemo, the hair loss, the fatigue, the nausea. Some of these are mitigated with other medicines, but every individual responds differently.
So even though we're all optimistic about a full recovery, I needed to take some time before posting about this. If anything, out of respect for my wife and our family and friends who needed some privacy and time to digest this. But a couple days ago she gave me the go-ahead because she knew that it would be cathartic for me to write about it. Still, somehow a post about cancer felt out of place between musings about Oreos and Baked Cheetos (both of which are drafted and will be forthcoming, BTW).
So no, faithful readers, the Tortfeezor will not become a weepy cancer blog. Yes, sometimes life throws you a sucker punch. You're down for the count and you have to pick yourself up off the mat and get back into the ring. You confront this with a bit of faith and a horribly cliched boxing analogy.
I think a lot of times with news like this comes hand-wringing and worry. As moody and irritable as I can be, I'm not much of a 'woe is me' person. I've lapsed a bit into that mode a couple times in the past two weeks, but I've come to a comforting conclusion: This may be the best thing to ever happen to us.
Think about it, we've been given the opportunity to totally reassess our values, our relationship and our faith. We've talked a lot about it a lot and decided that we're going to face this head-on, full-bore with hope and optimism. It's a call to action, a challenge. I'm a full supporter of the mind-over-matter mentality. How can you possibly endure six months of chemotherapy with a scowl on your face and a 'Why me?' attitude?
My wife opted early on that she would smile her way through this process. We've been able to put our priorities in perspective and come to the realization that we couldn't be more blessed to be where and who we are today. Our friends and families happen to be fantastically supportive and this is an opportunity to grow closer to them. This is merely a speed bump.
When people are in a conversation with a cancer patient or their families, I think there's a tendency to treat it as the elephant in the room. They talk about everything but. We've already experienced this to a degree. And it's not like we're downplaying the seriousness of the ailment or treating it lightly. But if you let it get you down and depressed, what's the point of the fight in the first place? We like to look at it as when-good-people-happen-to-bad-things. Not the other way around.
So we'll save the pity party for another time. Life's too short to spend it feeling sorry for yourself. Because in the end, we'll be okay. We'll be better than okay.
We'll be better than ever.
And that's officially the toughest sentence I've ever written.
She has an illness called Hodgkin's Disease. Which, as far as I'm concerned, sounds pretty poop-your-pants scary, but it's actually a fairly favorable diagnosis. There's a 93-98% cure rate and it rarely relapses from remission. If it's caught early (which is was), is asymptomatic (which it is) and is found in a female patients, those percentages only increase.
Still, it's cancer. And with it, comes all the unpleasantries associated with the treatment. The chemo, the hair loss, the fatigue, the nausea. Some of these are mitigated with other medicines, but every individual responds differently.
So even though we're all optimistic about a full recovery, I needed to take some time before posting about this. If anything, out of respect for my wife and our family and friends who needed some privacy and time to digest this. But a couple days ago she gave me the go-ahead because she knew that it would be cathartic for me to write about it. Still, somehow a post about cancer felt out of place between musings about Oreos and Baked Cheetos (both of which are drafted and will be forthcoming, BTW).
So no, faithful readers, the Tortfeezor will not become a weepy cancer blog. Yes, sometimes life throws you a sucker punch. You're down for the count and you have to pick yourself up off the mat and get back into the ring. You confront this with a bit of faith and a horribly cliched boxing analogy.
I think a lot of times with news like this comes hand-wringing and worry. As moody and irritable as I can be, I'm not much of a 'woe is me' person. I've lapsed a bit into that mode a couple times in the past two weeks, but I've come to a comforting conclusion: This may be the best thing to ever happen to us.
Think about it, we've been given the opportunity to totally reassess our values, our relationship and our faith. We've talked a lot about it a lot and decided that we're going to face this head-on, full-bore with hope and optimism. It's a call to action, a challenge. I'm a full supporter of the mind-over-matter mentality. How can you possibly endure six months of chemotherapy with a scowl on your face and a 'Why me?' attitude?
My wife opted early on that she would smile her way through this process. We've been able to put our priorities in perspective and come to the realization that we couldn't be more blessed to be where and who we are today. Our friends and families happen to be fantastically supportive and this is an opportunity to grow closer to them. This is merely a speed bump.
When people are in a conversation with a cancer patient or their families, I think there's a tendency to treat it as the elephant in the room. They talk about everything but. We've already experienced this to a degree. And it's not like we're downplaying the seriousness of the ailment or treating it lightly. But if you let it get you down and depressed, what's the point of the fight in the first place? We like to look at it as when-good-people-happen-to-bad-things. Not the other way around.
So we'll save the pity party for another time. Life's too short to spend it feeling sorry for yourself. Because in the end, we'll be okay. We'll be better than okay.
We'll be better than ever.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Following Suit
Working in a white-collar job necessitates business attire nearly everyday. Unfortunately ties and jackets are not optional except on Hawaiian shirt Fridays and the occasional sweater vest Wednesday when I'm feeling exceptionally bold.
This means that my wardrobe consists of a constantly rotating suit and tie combo. This also means that they wear out rather quickly and need replacing. My wife noticed last week that my standby black suit was looking a little worse for the wear. I don't mind the rumpled sportcoat with the hem hanging out and the chowder stain on the lapel, but I can see how it might be considered slightly unprofessional. When you instinctually use your sleeve as a napkin/kleenex/quicker-picker-upper, there's only so much Martinizing can fix.
But I have a big issues with suit shopping due to my circus freak measurements. Do you know how hard it is to find a 44 short? Nearly impossible. And forget about cherrypicking a matching pair of pants from the rack with a 36 inch waist and a 28 inseam. No Alice, Tweedledee wasn't a figment of Lewis Carroll's imagination, it was based on yours truly.
Think barrel-chested midget.
You see, the seamstress I usually go to is an extremely judgmental Asian woman. Other than the hacks at Men's Wearhouse (sic) and the cheap-o dry-cleaners, she's the only one in town. And she's good, but makes you feel like crap during the fitting:
"You rearry, rearry fat," she sighs, shaking her head in disapproval. "This no good. My tape measure too small. You shape like beach ball. I not magician. Where your self-disiprine?"
I just nod and hang my head in shame while she lets a out little more fabric.
So to avoid the humiliation, I do my best to find clothing that doesn't need alterations and doesn't involve an elastic waist. But this usually devolves into a lot of rolled-up sleeves and wet dragging pant legs. The do-it yourself fashion sizing never took off and safety pins never caught on as an accessory outside the punk goth crowd.
But on Saturday evening, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine illuminated an anchor store clearance rack. Like a fashion miracle, it appeared before me amongst the cursed athletic thin fits, nestled between a 40 tall and a 46 regular. The elusive 44 short! My holy grail of jacket sizes. And what would be coupled with it? A 36-30 pair of trousers. Not perfect, but they'll do.
It was as if James Cash Penney himself descended from heaven, gave me a wink and whispered in my ear, "Thank you, faithful shopper, I made this just for you."
No, thank you J.C. (we're on a first name/initial basis).
It was a rearry, rearry good day.
This means that my wardrobe consists of a constantly rotating suit and tie combo. This also means that they wear out rather quickly and need replacing. My wife noticed last week that my standby black suit was looking a little worse for the wear. I don't mind the rumpled sportcoat with the hem hanging out and the chowder stain on the lapel, but I can see how it might be considered slightly unprofessional. When you instinctually use your sleeve as a napkin/kleenex/quicker-picker-upper, there's only so much Martinizing can fix.
But I have a big issues with suit shopping due to my circus freak measurements. Do you know how hard it is to find a 44 short? Nearly impossible. And forget about cherrypicking a matching pair of pants from the rack with a 36 inch waist and a 28 inseam. No Alice, Tweedledee wasn't a figment of Lewis Carroll's imagination, it was based on yours truly.
Think barrel-chested midget.
You see, the seamstress I usually go to is an extremely judgmental Asian woman. Other than the hacks at Men's Wearhouse (sic) and the cheap-o dry-cleaners, she's the only one in town. And she's good, but makes you feel like crap during the fitting:
"You rearry, rearry fat," she sighs, shaking her head in disapproval. "This no good. My tape measure too small. You shape like beach ball. I not magician. Where your self-disiprine?"
I just nod and hang my head in shame while she lets a out little more fabric.
So to avoid the humiliation, I do my best to find clothing that doesn't need alterations and doesn't involve an elastic waist. But this usually devolves into a lot of rolled-up sleeves and wet dragging pant legs. The do-it yourself fashion sizing never took off and safety pins never caught on as an accessory outside the punk goth crowd.
But on Saturday evening, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine illuminated an anchor store clearance rack. Like a fashion miracle, it appeared before me amongst the cursed athletic thin fits, nestled between a 40 tall and a 46 regular. The elusive 44 short! My holy grail of jacket sizes. And what would be coupled with it? A 36-30 pair of trousers. Not perfect, but they'll do.
It was as if James Cash Penney himself descended from heaven, gave me a wink and whispered in my ear, "Thank you, faithful shopper, I made this just for you."
No, thank you J.C. (we're on a first name/initial basis).
It was a rearry, rearry good day.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Phantom Limb
This should be a happy day. I've been looking forward to this for the better part of five years. So why do I feel so horrible?
Today is the day that I finally have to put my dog down. After half a decade of battling that antagonizing ball of fur and rage, the camel's back was broken after she sent me to the immediate care clinic Saturday night by taking a few chunks out of my arm.
I reached for one of her treats when I thought she wasn't looking and she sprang 20 ft. in about half a second and latched onto my forearm. If I wasn't wearing a thick fleece sweatshirt, I may not be able to type this today. Instead, my right hand and arm is coated in bactine and wrapped in bloody gauze.
As I've written before, we've had a love-hate relationship since the day we brought her home from the pet store. She could be painfully cute and sweet one moment, but her mood could swing to become a snarling beast the next.
I remember as a puppy when she would sleep on my chest as we napped. I remember taking her to behavior classes and she was the star of the show. She could be smart and intuitive and she was a beautiful dog.
But she could also be fiercely territorial - obsessively possessive about her toys, treats, food and personal space. She would turn in a minute if she thought you were threatening her. And it didn't take much. It wasn't just me, however. She went after my grandfather once and always tried to attack the neighbors through the fence. Other dogs weren't safe and neither were guests. I would always imagine how nice it would be to have a pet that we could enjoy and not live in fear of.
But now it's time to say goodbye. And it's not as easy as I'd anticipated.
I'll load her in the cargo hold of my SUV where she loved to rest her snout between the headrests. We'll have one final ride through the country with the backseat windows down and she'll pant and smudge up the rear glass windshield. I'll rub her floppy ears and pat her head in the parking lot of the animal countrol building. I'll take off her leash, hand her over to the warden and never see her again.
I won't hear her furious bark anymore. I won't be afraid when I try to take her out in the morning, only to be reproached by her deep gutteral growl. She'll never again snap and snarl at me when I yell at her for eating the trash from the wastebasket. These are the things she enjoys the most.
And strangely, I'll miss them.
Because dogs, good or bad, become part of your life. I don't think they really are man's best friend, but even the bad ones have some redeeming qualities. When I send her off for the final time tonight, I'll need to focus on the pain and grief she caused. Like a pulling off a band-aid, you have to do it quickly and it'll hurt less.
Because despite her many, many flaws, saying goodbye is going to break my heart.
Farewell friend.
Today is the day that I finally have to put my dog down. After half a decade of battling that antagonizing ball of fur and rage, the camel's back was broken after she sent me to the immediate care clinic Saturday night by taking a few chunks out of my arm.
I reached for one of her treats when I thought she wasn't looking and she sprang 20 ft. in about half a second and latched onto my forearm. If I wasn't wearing a thick fleece sweatshirt, I may not be able to type this today. Instead, my right hand and arm is coated in bactine and wrapped in bloody gauze.
As I've written before, we've had a love-hate relationship since the day we brought her home from the pet store. She could be painfully cute and sweet one moment, but her mood could swing to become a snarling beast the next.
I remember as a puppy when she would sleep on my chest as we napped. I remember taking her to behavior classes and she was the star of the show. She could be smart and intuitive and she was a beautiful dog.
But she could also be fiercely territorial - obsessively possessive about her toys, treats, food and personal space. She would turn in a minute if she thought you were threatening her. And it didn't take much. It wasn't just me, however. She went after my grandfather once and always tried to attack the neighbors through the fence. Other dogs weren't safe and neither were guests. I would always imagine how nice it would be to have a pet that we could enjoy and not live in fear of.
But now it's time to say goodbye. And it's not as easy as I'd anticipated.
I'll load her in the cargo hold of my SUV where she loved to rest her snout between the headrests. We'll have one final ride through the country with the backseat windows down and she'll pant and smudge up the rear glass windshield. I'll rub her floppy ears and pat her head in the parking lot of the animal countrol building. I'll take off her leash, hand her over to the warden and never see her again.
I won't hear her furious bark anymore. I won't be afraid when I try to take her out in the morning, only to be reproached by her deep gutteral growl. She'll never again snap and snarl at me when I yell at her for eating the trash from the wastebasket. These are the things she enjoys the most.
And strangely, I'll miss them.
Because dogs, good or bad, become part of your life. I don't think they really are man's best friend, but even the bad ones have some redeeming qualities. When I send her off for the final time tonight, I'll need to focus on the pain and grief she caused. Like a pulling off a band-aid, you have to do it quickly and it'll hurt less.
Because despite her many, many flaws, saying goodbye is going to break my heart.
Farewell friend.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A Thank You Note to My New 7" TV
Dear 7" Color LCD TV that will be placed across from my toilet,
Thank you so much for allowing yourself to be bought off of Amazon.com at a reduced rate and Super-Saver shipping from a reputable third party seller. Your stellar combination of being reasonably priced and having a 4 star rating will no doubt provide me, your new owner, with a highly enjoyable bathroom experience for many years to come.
So kudos. And welcome.
I know what you're thinking. You're probably worried that some vain, pretentious buyer snatched you from an online clearance sale and will take you for granted. Well, worry no more. You'll find no pretention or vanity here. Except for the vanity under the sink. You see, that pun was intentional. Get used to it. Puns are kinda my thing. A big reason why I'm not published and you're a 7" screen instead of 27".
How could I take you for granted when I'm so super-psyched that you're here? You can expect to be mounted on the wall directly across from the porceline commode. Just south of the towel rack and just north of the toilet tissue dispenser.
But don't worry. You won't be used exclusively when I'm making twosies. In fact, you'll be positioned strategically so that I can still watch your reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror when I'm taking my baths. Because if you weren't, I'd have to sit uncomfortably on the drain stopper where the faucet juts into my back. And that's just not conducive to relaxing viewing. Or for making bubble beards while pretending to be Santa.
Think of all the fun we'll have! I'll shave, you'll broadcast the morning news. I'll floss, you'll scroll the sports ticker. I'll pee, you'll try not to get any on you. We'll make a great team!
Sure they'll be some tough times. I can't use the channel program guide like advertised because your manual is written in Korean. Also, you're an electrical device so I can't get you wet; I'm a splasher in the tub. We'll work on it.
But in the end, I fully anticipate a fruitful and successful relationship. They say that the average human spends 3 years of their life in the bathroom. I'm kinda irregular and spend a little more than most, so we'll have a long time to get to know each other.
C-ya soon,
Duke
Monday, March 10, 2008
Happy Trails
I need fatter friends.
Skinny friends encourage me to do stupid things. Like running grueling five mile trail runs in six inches of snow.
Fat friends would talk me into sleeping in, having a pancake breakfast, ordering sausage links at said breakfast. They wouldn't persuade me to enter a race that was destined to humble and embarrass me in front of my peers.
Granted, this was my idea, so I'm partially to blame. And I did escalate the situation by inviting a buddy co-worker to run the race with me. A lithe, rail-thin, in-shape buddy with a stride the length of three of mine.
So when I began having second thoughts last week about my ability to get up at 7:00 on a Saturday morning and drive through a blizzard to make it to the event (let alone finish it), he wouldn't let me live down my promise to do it. Or let me stop for doughnuts on the way.
Thus I found myself in 12 degree weather, face frosted with ice and snot, barreling down a slick snow-packed path trying to keep my feet from slipping out from under me. All the while, my gazelle-like friend bounded effortlessly through the forest leaving my puffing red face in his dust.
He left me behind after the first mile and a half, calves cramping and lungs burning from the cold wintry air. I drifted toward the back of the pack of over 300 or so participants. Here's a quick sampling of a few of the 250 folks who beat me (This is absolutely true, BTW):
1 64 yr old man.
2 50 yr old women.
2 13 yr old boys.
2 16 yr old girls.
I tied with this person:
Finally, I skated through the finish line, hungry, lonely, aching, feeling like I just spent an hour as a Jack London protagonist. Craving dry clothes, warmth, and, strangely, a meatloaf sandwich, I discovered my time:
A thirteen minute mile.
No, your eyes do not decieve you. THIRTEEN MINUTES!?! This was my third grade phys. ed. mile-run time. And I haven't improved since? I'm honestly quite surprised that the clock counted this high and my time didn't register ######### on the final result sheet.
What was even more surprising was the fact that my antelope friend only finished a couple minutes ahead of me. In fact, I wasn't all that far behind the average pace. Given that I was stricken with shin splints, cramped hammies and a large blood blister on my left third little piggy, I was fairly content with actually finishing (I also spent the last two miles having to go twosies, but there were no port-a-potties and the pre-spring deciduous tree line provided little cover).
Fat friends would never allow me to put myself through this.
But excuses aside, the event brought to light a harsh truth that I've been avoiding here the last few months: I'm not getting any younger. I used to be able to pick up and run these types of things with little or no training, relying on my youthful stamina to see me through. That is the case no longer.
In two shorts months I will be participating in a 13.1 mile mini-marathon. Granted there won't be any snowy fallen trees to hurdle or slick, steep hills to ascend, but I need to recognize the need for practice.
And I guess I'll keep those foolish skinny friends of mine.
Skinny friends encourage me to do stupid things. Like running grueling five mile trail runs in six inches of snow.
Fat friends would talk me into sleeping in, having a pancake breakfast, ordering sausage links at said breakfast. They wouldn't persuade me to enter a race that was destined to humble and embarrass me in front of my peers.
Granted, this was my idea, so I'm partially to blame. And I did escalate the situation by inviting a buddy co-worker to run the race with me. A lithe, rail-thin, in-shape buddy with a stride the length of three of mine.
So when I began having second thoughts last week about my ability to get up at 7:00 on a Saturday morning and drive through a blizzard to make it to the event (let alone finish it), he wouldn't let me live down my promise to do it. Or let me stop for doughnuts on the way.
Thus I found myself in 12 degree weather, face frosted with ice and snot, barreling down a slick snow-packed path trying to keep my feet from slipping out from under me. All the while, my gazelle-like friend bounded effortlessly through the forest leaving my puffing red face in his dust.
He left me behind after the first mile and a half, calves cramping and lungs burning from the cold wintry air. I drifted toward the back of the pack of over 300 or so participants. Here's a quick sampling of a few of the 250 folks who beat me (This is absolutely true, BTW):
1 64 yr old man.
2 50 yr old women.
2 13 yr old boys.
2 16 yr old girls.
I tied with this person:
Finally, I skated through the finish line, hungry, lonely, aching, feeling like I just spent an hour as a Jack London protagonist. Craving dry clothes, warmth, and, strangely, a meatloaf sandwich, I discovered my time:
A thirteen minute mile.
No, your eyes do not decieve you. THIRTEEN MINUTES!?! This was my third grade phys. ed. mile-run time. And I haven't improved since? I'm honestly quite surprised that the clock counted this high and my time didn't register ######### on the final result sheet.
What was even more surprising was the fact that my antelope friend only finished a couple minutes ahead of me. In fact, I wasn't all that far behind the average pace. Given that I was stricken with shin splints, cramped hammies and a large blood blister on my left third little piggy, I was fairly content with actually finishing (I also spent the last two miles having to go twosies, but there were no port-a-potties and the pre-spring deciduous tree line provided little cover).
Fat friends would never allow me to put myself through this.
But excuses aside, the event brought to light a harsh truth that I've been avoiding here the last few months: I'm not getting any younger. I used to be able to pick up and run these types of things with little or no training, relying on my youthful stamina to see me through. That is the case no longer.
In two shorts months I will be participating in a 13.1 mile mini-marathon. Granted there won't be any snowy fallen trees to hurdle or slick, steep hills to ascend, but I need to recognize the need for practice.
And I guess I'll keep those foolish skinny friends of mine.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Cool Runnings
The worst thing about working out is the jock itch.
It's inevitable every time I run. And since I just returned from a cold winter's jaunt through the suburban streets, I'm feeling the burn.
Do you know how difficult it is to type this while rubbing Tough Actin Tinactin on your inner thighs? It's not pretty. It's terribly greasy and your fingers keep slipping off homerow.
Do you know how difficult it is to type this while rubbing Tough Actin Tinactin on your inner thighs? It's not pretty. It's terribly greasy and your fingers keep slipping off homerow.
(Yes, I just dropped some QWERTY knowledge on ya. Up to 55 wpm. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mrs. Buck. I've never forgotten that D+ you gave me in Applied Keyboarding. I don't care that you were kinda hot in that thirtysomething-pixie-sprite kind of way, I know you were holding me to a higher standard because I was the only junior in that all-freshman class. I at least deserved a C. Do you know what they do to the D kids? They make them go to the vocational school and they end up working at the car wash on Saturday mornings in January (Props to my boys Kevin and Greg at the Soap N' Suds in Whiteland though. Yalls make my Mariner shine. No disrespekt. Holla!)).
Okay, we need to get this pony back on the trail. Where was I? Oh yeah, my evening workout. I've been pounding the pavement because I have a five-mile trail run on Saturday. I've mentioned this in previous posts, but as it is emminent, I felt I must update you all on my progress:
I will likely die at this event.
I'm just not built for running. You don't see too many 200 lb. marathoners who stand 5'7. I would probably finish faster if I just rolled instead of jogged. Instead, the event coordinators will have long since packed up by the time I limp to the line. I just do it for the pre-race pasta dinners anyway.
And the running gear. I love running gear. I have the hats and the gloves and the shorts and the stopwatches, but the best part is the compression tights. My favorite thing to do is see how long my wife can keep from vomiting when I'm wearing nothing but the tights during my pre-run stretch.
For a visual:
So wish me luck, we're expecting 6-10 inches of snow. I'll be huffing and puffing and slipping and sliding.
Cue the theme from Chariots of Fire.
Fade out.
Monday, March 3, 2008
I'm Not Gay, But...
I spent the entire weekend hunting for balls.
Brown ones, white ones, black ones, orange ones. I needed balls. For decorating. Our bedroom. Get your mind out of the gutter. This is a family website.
These kind:
As far as interior design goes, accent balls are in. Trust me. I know these things. Why do I know these things? Because I'm a devotee of one Nate Berkus. Who is Nate Berkus?
Nate is the design mastermind featured on Oprah and host of her new show The Big Give. He's brilliant. Equal parts modern minimalism and artful classicism, he inspires all those who strive for a step-above the cookie-clutter-accoutrement so common in today's home decor. He believes in layering, clean lines and tasteful bric-a-brac. Like I said - brilliant.
He's also seriously homo, which is unfortunate for us not-so-queer eyes focused on breaking the stereotype associated with interior design afficianados.
So you might think it's gay for a man to be super excited when his wife hands over part of her bonus check entrusting him to re-do the bedroom from the bottom up. "Go nuts," she said. Unfortunate choice of words.
Armed with big ideas and a Mastercard, I set out to turn the bedroom into a haven for relaxation. The theme was zen. As in, first I'll go to Pier One and zen I'll go to Bed, Bath & Beyond.
Finding bargain after bargain, deal after sweet deal, I transformed our hopelessly out-of-date bedroom (palm trees and beach theme? that's so 2003) into a spa-like sanctuary of rest, meditation and self-contemplation. Of course, being ever mindful of the importance of efficient organization and Feng Shui. Nate would be proud.
A window treatement here, an ultramodern tabletop lamp there - I was a man on a mission. Cobbling together elements of bamboo, river rock, tea leaves; I mixed and matched like the professional I so long to be. Top that off with some green chartreuse accents and you've got yourself a bedroom, sister. Did someone say matching wall sconces?
Mission accomplished.
So anyway, even though I'd much rather watch Small Space, Big Style than SportsCenter, I'm a straight shooter. No debate there, even though I starred in my college musical, I shop at the Gap and love to dance. Oh, and my favorite outfit is a crushed velvet jacket over a pink button-up.
But that's not gay, that's just fashionable.
I'm not interested in coming out of the closet. Just in organizing it.
Brown ones, white ones, black ones, orange ones. I needed balls. For decorating. Our bedroom. Get your mind out of the gutter. This is a family website.
These kind:
As far as interior design goes, accent balls are in. Trust me. I know these things. Why do I know these things? Because I'm a devotee of one Nate Berkus. Who is Nate Berkus? This guy:
Nate is the design mastermind featured on Oprah and host of her new show The Big Give. He's brilliant. Equal parts modern minimalism and artful classicism, he inspires all those who strive for a step-above the cookie-clutter-accoutrement so common in today's home decor. He believes in layering, clean lines and tasteful bric-a-brac. Like I said - brilliant.He's also seriously homo, which is unfortunate for us not-so-queer eyes focused on breaking the stereotype associated with interior design afficianados.
So you might think it's gay for a man to be super excited when his wife hands over part of her bonus check entrusting him to re-do the bedroom from the bottom up. "Go nuts," she said. Unfortunate choice of words.
Armed with big ideas and a Mastercard, I set out to turn the bedroom into a haven for relaxation. The theme was zen. As in, first I'll go to Pier One and zen I'll go to Bed, Bath & Beyond.
Finding bargain after bargain, deal after sweet deal, I transformed our hopelessly out-of-date bedroom (palm trees and beach theme? that's so 2003) into a spa-like sanctuary of rest, meditation and self-contemplation. Of course, being ever mindful of the importance of efficient organization and Feng Shui. Nate would be proud.
A window treatement here, an ultramodern tabletop lamp there - I was a man on a mission. Cobbling together elements of bamboo, river rock, tea leaves; I mixed and matched like the professional I so long to be. Top that off with some green chartreuse accents and you've got yourself a bedroom, sister. Did someone say matching wall sconces?
Mission accomplished.
So anyway, even though I'd much rather watch Small Space, Big Style than SportsCenter, I'm a straight shooter. No debate there, even though I starred in my college musical, I shop at the Gap and love to dance. Oh, and my favorite outfit is a crushed velvet jacket over a pink button-up.
But that's not gay, that's just fashionable.
I'm not interested in coming out of the closet. Just in organizing it.
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