Maine Road Trip: Day Four

Just suck it up and deal, people, because I’m not stopping until I’ve related every single boring detail of this trip.  If you’re VERY good to me I might condense things a bit, or just post more pics and fewer words.  But only if I’m feeling especially magnanimous.  So you better hope I got some last night.

Monday, June 29, 2009:

We left Bar Harbor, Maine in hopes of finding some moose activity.  Bar Harbor is an excellent location from which to view rich people in their natural surroundings, but it lacks moose, so you wouldn’t want to hang around there for any length of time.

We headed north to a tiny little town called Greenville, Maine.  It’s on the shore of Moosehead Lake, and the yokel concierge at the hotel told us that the town is so isolated that it’s seventy miles from the nearest dentist.  I saw his tooth  teeth  tooth and I believed him.  He also told us that moose outnumber people three to one.  What a town! 

We knew we were getting close to moosey areas because there were warning signs with flashing lights everywhere.  “Use extreme caution!!!!!  High rates of moose collisions next 6 miles” read the signs.  I became seriously vigilant, desperate to see a moose.  Or desperate to collide with said moose – either way. 

As we headed into Greenville, we saw a few cars parked by the side of the road. Sure enough, when we stopped to see what was drawing a crowd, we saw that there was a moose!!! I was fairly giddy - an actual moose!!!  It was of the girl variety, I believe, as I did not see any antlers.  Or any moose cock. 

We photographed that moose, but the pictures were less than fantastic given the foggy conditions and the distance.  

You’re just gonna have to trust me on this.  I SWEAR it’s a moose.

We decided to come back later for additional moose viewing.  We knew that moose are most active at dawn and at dusk, so we checked into our hovel  hotel  hovel and kept busy ’til dusk.  Mr. Moose and D. kept busy by scoring an out-of-state fishing license and menacing some perch in a pond down the road.  I kept busy by babbling in absolute terror over the scariest photograph EVER.   OH MY GOD!!!  What on earth possessed someone to photograph this psychotic fox-beast?  And then to frame it and hang it??!!   That fucker was staring at me all night long.  I didn’t sleep a wink.

AHHHH!!!!  I’m ascared outta my mind here!!

Mr. Moose and I sexiled D. in the afternoon, leaving him fishing in the village while we made the moose with two backs.  But that stupid fucking fox just kept on looking smugly down on us.  I tried all my bestest tricks to speed things along because I swear that fox was gonna lunge right out of that resin frame and gnaw off Mr. Moose’s man taters. Scare-y.

Later, Mr. Moose rejoined D., likely with a smug look of his own.  There was NO way that I was staying alone with the fox, though, with nothing but some love juice and stray pubes to protect me, so I went for a run.  

My intestines were NOT amused.  Remember that restaurant back in Conway, New Hampshire?  The Muddy Moose?  Well, that was nearly me. My guts were audibly churning, and I knew there was no WAY I’d make it back to the hotel.  And so I did something I’ve never done before.  And I’m vaguely disgusted but also a tad bit pleased with myself.  Yup – I’ve now shat in the woods.  I had to go SO, SO, SO badly that I wasn’t even afraid of moose or bear or fox attacks.  I wiped with a wet, yellowish leaf, maybe an elm, and finished up my run.  Back at the hotel, I showered most vigorously and discovered a small twig in my ass crack.  Interesting…

At dusk we went back out for some moose viewing. It was raining, as always, but we did not let that deter us.  We also did not let this sign deter us.  Screw you, Mainers!  We view where we want!!

So stop being lazy and just turn your head, already.  You KNOW I have little to no computer skills, right?   

Alright, you lazy bastards – I’ll translate for you.  It says,” Teh Loose Moose rocks.  Mail her cash gifts.  And also motor vehicles.” 

  Mr. Moose blatantly breaking the no-moose-watching law.  Or maybe this is Crocodile Dundee.  I couldn’t say for sure.

We waited for about an hour and a half in the rain to see some moose, but it was not to be.  D. was with us, and he looked SO bored.  He’s Canadian, after all, and therefore moose not not interest him.  Before coming to the US and A, the greatest god fearing country in the land, D.’s whole Canadian childhood was just littered with moose.  His kindergarten teacher was a moose, as was his mail carrier and his first girlfriend. His family dog was part moose, too.  So he thought we were fairly nuts to be sitting in the rain for a moose glimpse.  I’m fairly certain that the only reason he stayed with us so long was because he was too afeared to go back to that fox riddled hotel room.  Can’t say as I blame the poor guy.

Tune in next time when our diligent moose viewing pays off…and I nearly capsize a canoe. 

Maine Road Trip: Day Three

Yeah, that’s right – I’m still yammering on (and on and on) about our trip.  Just be thankful you don’t live nearby, ’cause I’d surely show up at your front door with a big ol’ pile of boring, fuzzy photographs. And the only way you’d get free of me is to feign death…or to shart really, really nastily.  And I mean REALLY nastily, with corn-loaded fecal rivers pouring out the leg holes of your shorts. That might  drive me away, but only if it was one of those oddly percussive sharts that sprays all over. I hate that kind.

  Sunday, June 28, 2009:

We stayed at the Bar Harbor Best Western for two nights, and they are way better than those suckholes back in New Hampshire, because at least they gave us a continental breakfast.  We lingered over said breakfast for a LONG time, hoping the weather would clear up.   The Weather Channel, however, reported that there was nothing but rain, rain and more rain for the next several days. Resigned to our fate, we donned our very attractive rain gear, and hit the road for Acadia National Park.

I’m the one in black…with the antlers. 

 Once at Acadia, the weather cleared for a bit.  We went to Sand Beach, which, as the name indicates, is a beach comprised of – you guessed it – SAND!! To us non-Mainers, “Sand Beach” is a dumb ass name.  It’s like naming a forest “Tree Forest”.  But sand is an anomaly on most Maine beaches, as Maine beaches are primarily comprised of rocks, boulders, and the frozen corpses of children too dumb to get outta their swim suits and into their parkas.  Sand Beach was cool.  We walked the beach, and I saved a crab from dismemberment by a voracious seagull.  Am I not a Great American Hero?  (I chased that seagull up the beach, waving my arms at him.  It was all bravado, though, as I find seagulls to be rather terrifying. If he’d come at me, I’d have given up that crab in a heartbeat.)

Good Christ!!  Where have our antlers gone?!?!? And why are our heads magneted together? Mr. Moose – methinks you are a noodleneck!!!

We got back on the bikes and headed up to Thunder Hole.  (And I  KNOW I’m taking an awful risk here, using the word “hole” with Glaven out there.  But it can’t be helped – it was a hole!) Thunder Hole is this amazing cave carved into the rocks.  When waves pour in, it sprays like crazy and makes this thunderous clap. Kinda like the aforementioned shart, but with ocean water instead of corn-loaded fecal material. 

  

  Thunder Hole.  Don’t talk shit about it.

After Thunder Hole, we hiked up a mountain to see Bubbletop. It was pouring on us, and we climbed in our rain gear, sliding up the muddy mountain side. Once at the top, we saw Bubbletop, this enormous  boulder, which just seems to hang precariously in space.  We, of course, attempted to push it off the side of the mountain.  Because we’re all mature, responsible grownups, that’s why.  And also because we foolishly left our spray paint back in the saddle bags.  Bubbletop would NOT budge, though.  Next time I’m bringing a lever. And fifty-seven cans of spray paint.

D. is far too Canadian to really  try to crush people with this here Bubbletop. American Man up, D!  Find your man taters and crush some people already!!   Rape! Pillage! Destroy!

While descending Bubbletop (Pay attention, now, as this is the one and only running reference I’m giving you today) we saw a group of people beginning their ascent.  One of the hikers was wearing a Boston Marathon jacket!!  I immediately fell in big lust with her, or maybe it was with her jacket, but I somehow exercised a bit of self control and did not start humping her leg. 

We got back on the bikes and headed towards Cadillac Mountain.  My original plan had been to leave Mr. Moose and D. fishing somewhere while I ran up Cadillac.  I completely wussed out, though, due to ZERO visibility. The higher the bike climbed, the worse the weather became.  It was HORRIBLE.  We were inside a cloud.  Seriously – completely enveloped within a cloud.  And while this seems like a cool thing when you’re four years old, it’s actually not that awesome.  Because clouds are NOT bouncy and spongy inside.  And they do NOT taste like warm mashed potatoes or sweet soft marshmallows.  Instead, they are windy and wet and gray, gray, gray.   I figured if I ran up that mountain, I’d either run right off the edge and plummet to my death OR I’d get creamed by a car.  Neither option seemed like fun, so I stayed on the back of the bike like cargo.   

At the top of Cadillac, we met two other biker couples.  One was from Connecticut and the other was from England.  Their presence there made me feel slightly less intrepid.

AHHH!!  A biker gang!  Lock up your daughters!  Sew shut your dogs’ sphincters!!

Tune in next time when we see our very favorite mammal and then sexile D. (But not so that we can have sex with our very favorite mammal – ’cause that would just be gross.)  

Maine Road Trip: Day Two

 I realize, Eleven Faithful Readers, that this travel account is not nearly as exciting or as interesting as the one I shared following our trip to Rome.  I’ve no pictures of the Circus Maximus, and no exuberant gelato reviews. But too freakin’ bad, because the economy is in shambles and Maine is about as exotic as it gets for us nowadays.  Just consider yourselves lucky we didn’t decide to go to Delaware.  

Saturday, June 27, 2009:

 I woke up bright and early on Day Two to go for a run.  Ever run in Conway, New Hampshire?  It’s a great town – very runner friendly.  They have a whole lane devoted to us runners.  Or maybe that lane was meant for those silly “bikers”, the ones who ride those pitiful little machines without engines. Either way, I claimed it as my own and ran five miles. 

I’d hoped to score some continental breakfast once back at the hotel, but it was not to be.  WTF, Schoolhouse Motel of Conway, N.H.?  Can I not has muffins and fruit?  We were afraid to ask, thinking they’d just respond with, “Live free without breakfast or DIE!!!”  so we hit the road. 

We rode for 200 miles before reaching our destination of Bar Harbor, Maine. TWO HUNDRED MILES, people!!   On already-sore hienies.  It takes a long time to cover 200 miles on bike, so I amused myself in the following ways:

• punching Mr. Moose in the arm for every VW Beetle and PT Cruiser I saw.
• whining and pouting when Mr. Moose got me first.
• boisterously singing my ZYX’s into my helmet.
• fantasizing about the lobster I’d soon consume.
• adjusting my seating position to make the most of the vibrations. 
• mentally writing this blog post.  (I know, I know – you’d think it would be better written, given that I’ve spent so much time on it.  But I can not has much writerly skillz.)

Once in Bar Harbor, Mr. Moose and I were insufferable.  Have I mentioned that we went to Maine via motorcycle on our honeymoon almost 21 years ago?  Well, we did, and so poor D. had to feign interest as we pointed out EVERYTHING we remembered.  We began all conversations with, “Twenty-one years ago on our honeymoon we…”  We got more than our fair share of funny looks from passersby, and I finally figured out that people might be thinking that “OUR” and “WE” meant Mr. Moose, me and D.  Which would make me a skanky, nasty polyandrist - which is a bad, bad thing to be.  Right?  RIGHT?? Um, uh…right. Yeah…

        

  I swear that I’m only married to one of these men. HINT: He’s the one covered in tomalley.

 

Bar Harbor was cool.  We visited a neat whale museum, and then ate $15.95 lobster dinners.  Mr. Moose gave me his lobster claw, because I love them so much and he is very good to me. I gave him my coleslaw because I hate it so much and he is very good to me.  We all wore lobster bibs, which made us look like real jackoffs, but somehow Mr. Moose still managed to befoul himself with butter and tomalley. This shirt befouling became a recurring theme, as Mr. Moose spilled all manner of food on himself for the remaining days.  And yes, it was the same shirt because – hello? – one has little regard for hygiene whilst on a motorcycle road trip.  Besides, a certain amount of bodily funk and tomalley stain is a good thing.  It keep those nasty polyandrists away.

 

I forgive him the bunny ears only because I’m still

digesting his lobster claw.  No, his actual lobster claw!

NOT a euphamism for fellatio, I swear.

 

After dinner, we took a cruise on a 151′ four masted schooner called the Margaret Todd. We saw a few porpoises, but little else because it was really, really foggy.  There were two dogs on board and I didn’t even fear them, as they were that benign sort of RugDog that rarely attacks. 

Margaret Todd. 

  Tune in next time when we become one with a cloud in Acadia National Park.

 

 

Maine Road Trip: Day 1

So first and foremost let me just say for the record that I am neither a whoo-er nor a swinger.  When Mr. Moose planned this motorcycle trip to Maine, we’d intended to go with another couple and we’d intended for each couple to have separate hotel rooms each night.  But then L. couldn’t go, and Mr. Moose is a novice at the whole trip planning thing and next thing you know – Voila! – it’s me and two hairy biker dudes sharing hotel rooms from here to Maine and back. 

Shit.  I just reread that first paragraph and it appears that I might just be a whoo-er.  Damn. 

Friday, June 26, 2009:

Motorcyle road trips always sound  fun, but then there’s the cruel reality of  “OWW!!  My ass is freakin’ KILLING me!”.  I whined – a lot.  All the way from Frostburgg, ??  to Conway, N.H. as a matter of fact.  I whined about my helmet being too tight, about my insides being pounded and liquefied on the ridiculously pot-holed roads, about having to go to the bathroom, and about the tragic and untimely death of Jacko. Somehow Mr. Moose exercised restraint and did not bodily eject me from the bike. But only, I think,  because our full face helmets prevented him from actually hearing 90% of my grumblings.  Lucky bastard. He should just imagine how I felt, trapped in that ill fitting helmet with no chance of escape, just listening to a crazy woman bitching and moaning for 400 miles.  It was not pleasant, people. 

I didn’t whine ALL the time, though, because the amazing scenery often distracted me.  We rode 400 miles on some of the prettiest roads imaginable. We went through the Adirondack Mountains in New York State, through the Green Mountains of Vermont and into the White Mountain National Forest in New Hampshire.  We spent a lot of time on the Kancamagus, too. And while “kancamagus” might sound like a skin disease peculiar to marsupials, it is actually a fantastic road for motorcycles – twisty and turny and gorgeous.  There were mountain ranges and forests and rivers and pristine lakes, rivers and water falls around every curve.  Good stuff.

We saw lots of other bikers on the roads, but mostly they were the kind that rode that silly sort of “bike”  – the “bikes” without engines.  We easily and effortlessly outperformed those losers.  Silly, silly “bikers” – they buy all these crazy accessories for their machines but never give them the one thing they need most – a four cylinder 1000 cc Kawasaki.

Once in New Hampshire we saw plenty of moose signs but no actual moose. This was disappointing, but it was only Day One so I decided to not add “lack of moose” to my litany of complaints.  There are other cool signs in New Hampshire, as well, and they say, “Live Free or Die”.  Is that not the best state motto EVER?  It makes me want to go right out, burn my Social Security card and move to Montana with a shackful of M16s.  “Live Free or Die” is printed on every NH license plate, replacing the earlier state motto of “Scenic”.  “SCENIC”????  I’m thinking some monumental sort of coup must have occurred in N.H. to change a peoples’ mindset from the pussified “Scenic” to the aggressive “Live Free or Die”.     

At any rate, there is no helmet law in New Hampshire so for ten blissful miles or so Mr. Moose and I went crazy.  After discovering that “The Muddy Moose” was filled beyond capacity, we rode sans helmet to a Subway and then to a liquor store to pick up dinner. We ate $5 footlongs and drank Mike’s Hard Berry while gazing at the mountains, and if that sounds at all dirty to you it’s just because you’re paying attention.

If there is no mention of running in this here post, it’s only because I didn’t actually run.  At all.  Not even a step.  But I do run on Day Two, so please don’t give up on me yet.

Tune in next time: Bah Hahbah, ME, lobster bibs and four masted schooners.   (And a leetle bit of half assed running, too.)

If You Take A Moose To Maine…

If you take a moose to Maine, he’ll probably NOT get muffins with some of your mother’s homemade jam.  Instead, he’ll likely get a .375 right between his lil’ moosey eyes.  And then the hunter, most likely a white Republic in a red flannel shirt, will haul said moose carcass to the taxidermist.  The taxidermist, also a white Republican, will mount that moose head. He won’t mount the moose in a sexual way, though, because that’s a tad twisted and that’s just not how Republicans roll.  Instead, he’ll saw the moose’s head off, preserve it using some magical taxidermy supplies, then attach it to a board. That’s good, clean all American fun, right there.

I tell you this cautionary tale because Mr. Moose and I are on our way to Maine this weekend.  And we REALLY don’t want to get mounted, at least not by a taxidermist. Our plan is to be gone about a week, so if there’s no new post after that you really might want to investigate. Call Lisa Ling and have her haunt the area around Bar Harbor, Maine. Please do NOT let Loose Moose and Mr. Moose become wall trophies/hat racks.  ‘Cause we hate it when that happens.

Incidentally, I know that Glaven is chomping at the bit right now.  He’s got to be more than a bit jealous that I’ll be in such close proximity to the recently relocated Teh Marcy.  All I can promise, Glaven, is that I’ll keep my eyes peeled.  And I’ll warn Mr. Moose to wear a protective cup to guard against any sneaky Fauxlipino meat punches.

I’ll try to run whilst in Maine, but I’m not promising anything. We’ll be going on the motorcycle so I’m already anticipating a sore ass. (NB, Glaven: This is NOT anal induced soreness. ‘Cause it’s not even our anniversary for another two months or so.) So a sore ass coupled with the mountains of Maine might mean that I wuss out on the running.  There is this big ass mountain in Acadia National Park that I’d love to run, though.  Mr. Moose and I rode up it on our honeymoon, back when I was a sedentary Veinessa-free nonrunner.  We saw a few runners going up that mountain and I remember thinking to myself that they were CLEARLY not right in the head.  I still think that, but I want to run up that mountain just the same.

On another note, J., Boy Moose  and I just returned from the weekly Fun Runs sponsored by a local running club.  The runs occur at the same location as the River Rat 5K/10K and follow the same route.  But I don’t know why they persist in calling them “fun” runs because it was just agony.  It was 86F and humid this evening, and the 10K route that I did in 46:29 on Saturday I now did in 50:07.  And what is fun about sucking that hard? – That is what I would like to know. It’s kinda like those “fun” sized candy bars.  There is absolutely no “fun” in denying me 90% of my original full size candy bar, leaving me with just enough to get a taste for more.  NOT fun, people.  Decidedly un-fun.  I’m thinking that if you have to add the word “fun”, you can pretty much count on  something being full of suck.

Okay. Off to Maine soon – I’ll be thinking of you all as I eat my weight in lobster and then do little to burn it all off. 

Fondly, Teh Fun Loose Moose

Yearly mileage: 713

River Rodent 10K Race Report

The River Rodent 5K/10K may be the best race ever.  But I might just think that because I’ve run it three times now, and each and every time I have managed to eke out both a PR AND an age group award. That means that I now have a fairly impressive collection of rat themed mugs.  Currently, age group awards consist of ceramic coffee mugs emblazoned with a scarily skinny, running rat. Said rat demonstrates impressive form, but for some unknown reason he’s wearing a wrestling singlet – which is NOT a good look for members of the rodentia family.  Still, I LOVE these mugs.   I love them so much that all members of the moose family are strictly forbidden from drinking from them.  They’re just fer lookin’ et, kinda like my resin moose collection, my highly coveted collection of brown glass Lysol bottles and my myriad other tasteful objets d’art. 

I had lots of good company at the run this year.  J. and her family were there, as were  Bradeline and their three kids.  Five of the six kids ran, either in the kid’s fun runs or in the 5K.  M. finished the 5K in a speedy, speedy fast 27:00, despite the fact that she had to stop to tie her shoe. J.’s daughter finished her first 5K ever, which was wildly exciting, and her six-year-old son finished the one mile fun run in 10:20.  And that kindergartner never even trains!!  Like, at ALL.  I’m fairly certain that J.’s been slipping performance enhancing drugs into little A.’s after school milk and cookies.  She’s a good mom like that.

I had a couple of different goals for today’s 10K.  First and foremost, I wanted to avoid befouling my shorts.   To ensure meeting this goal, I took Immodium prior to the run.  When one fell into the toilet I considered going in after it.   But the damn toilet water dissolved the pill before I could get it out.  I just don’t know why the makers of pharmaceuticals do NOT have the common sense to apply urine resistant coating to their pills – Gawd!!  I cussed mightily and popped another Immodium in my mouth. 

My second goal was to come in in under 47:00, which is my 10K PR and my time at this run last year. To ensure meeting this goal, I hoped and wished and crossed my fingers real, real hard. Because hoping, and wishing and finger crossing is WAY easier than actually working for it – training sucks, people.  I kid, I kid.  I have actually been doing some speed work.  Not enough and not consistently, but some.  J. and I went to the track on Tuesday and I abused myself with some 800 repeats, and we’ve decided that this needs to be a weekly event. We’re masochists like that.

There is no starting mat at this race,  so I decided to push my way up towards the front.  It’s a whole different world up there, people. Everyone is silent and serious. They ALL have Garmins and they actually get into position when the announcer says, “On your mark”.  I usually take the “On your mark” statement as a fine time to dig the underwear outta my butt, but today I copied my fellow runners and tried to look legit.  

I ran hard the whole way, only stopping briefly to drink at the three water stops.  (I just can NOT master that whole drink-while-you-run thing.  With every attempt I just get better and better at the whole choke-and-gag-and sputter-and-vomit-while-you-run thing.) I knew I was doing fairly well because Vic was reading a 7:3x pace much of the time.  Near the end I sprinted for all I was worth.  It felt like I was flying, and I know I was covering lots of ground with each step but some douchebag STILL passed me at the end.  I hope his testicles wither and drop off.  

I heard lots of cheering at the end, thanks to J. and Bradelineand their noisy offspring. I tried to express my appreciation, but that would have required energy and the ability to talk/smile/give a thumbs up, and I just didn’t have it in me. Winning a rat cup takes a whole lot outta ya. They told me later that they were chanting “Barf! Barf! Barf! Barf!”  in honor of the incessently vomiting 5K finisher who completely befouled the finish line area.  In my confused and exhausted stupor, I thought they were telling me that I was sitting in a pool of vomit, but I just couldn’t muster up the energy to relocate. ‘Cause what’s a little vomit residue among runners?   

 Behold my stats, people:

46:29

7:29 pace

61/220 overall

8/94 females

1/16 age group

Hopefully, that silly race committee will expand their rat themed awards in the future.  My fervent wish is to acquire a complete service for eight of rat themed dishware.  Mugs are just the beginning.  I’m thinking plates, gravy boats, salad bowls - all emblazoned with that skinny, singlet wearing rodent. This will make a fine heirloom to bequeth to the Girl Moose.  ‘Cause the Boy Moose has already called dibs on those glass Lysol bottles.

I Don’t Need No Steenkin’ Tee Vee…

                

…’cause Xenia has introduced me to the amazing Failblog.

Failblog, where have you been all my life? 

Yearly mileage – STILL 663 ’cause I just can’t drag my lazy ass away from this.

I Can Has Tee Vee?

I like television – a lot.  I watch smart, informative shows like “Nova”, “Bill Moyers Journal” and “Masterpiece”. (By which I might mean “The “Bachelorette”, “Wife Swap” and “Family Guy”.) I like nothing better after a hard day at the not-a-greenhouse than to just mindlessly veg  challenge my mind and expand my outlook in front of the television. Imagine my horror, then, upon discovering that a vicious plot, probably Canadian, has rendered my favorite shows unwatchable. 

There is a frenzied ant race occurring on every single channel of my television. It is my worst nightmare. (Except for that recurring one where Pennywise the Dancing Clown keeps filling my ears with gobs of scrambled eggs.) And it would have been different if there had been some sort of warning, perhaps from the government,  of the antification of Stewie Griffin  Bill Moyers, but nooooooo.  It just came out of the blue, people.

What’s that, Mr. Moose?  You say there WERE government warnings about this? Bajillions of them over the course of a year or more? Oh.  Alrighty then.  And that I’d currently have ant-free television if only  I’d agreed to purchase that expensive antennae along with those converter boxes?  Hmmm…interesting.  And that we could solve this dilemma completely by just getting cable TV? Well, fuck you, Mr. Moose!!  Who died and made YOU moosident? 

Maybe this whole Canadians-scrambled/stole-my-television-signal will turn out to be a GOOD thing in the end.  It should free up loads of time for me, so that I can pursue other passions.  Hey!  Maybe I can even start running again, so that I can actually write about  – call me crazy, here – running on this here running blog! 

But when Jillian (who is Canadian, by the way, and likely the evil mastermind behind this whole  antification event) discovers true love in the most remarkable and shocking rose ceremony ever, will someone out there please just let me know?  Thanks.

Yearly mileage: 663

The Magnificent Mr. Moose…MY Mr. Moose, and Not That Idiot Puppet From Captain Kangaroo

Everybody give it up for the great and talented Mr. Moose.  He was just hired for his dream job!!!!!

(Ahem)  I SAID, Everybody give it up for the great and talented Mr. Moose, already. 

You damned interwebs friends.  It’s just so unsatisfying to not hear you when you applaud wildly. (You ARE  applauding wildly, yes? And stomping the floor?  And going, “Woo!  Woo!  Woo!”  in the manner of a  mentally challenged Marine?  Well, keep it up, people, because Mr. Moose definitely deserves these accolades.)  

Back to the Mister.  For five long years he’s been working towards this day.  Like me (Fuckin’ copy cat),  he’s chosen the profession of Not-A-Botanist.  But the not-a-botanist field has been experiencing massive layoffs as of late.  Our local not-a-greenhouse, in fact,  just eliminated countless positions.  We were not optimistic that he’d find anything this year, thinking that he’d need to continue interning and accepting temporary positions.  But alas, his magnificence has been recognized and he’s procured his dream position. (By which I do NOT mean anal, Glaven.  ‘Cause that’s more an orifice  than an actual position.)

This dream job is good for many reasons.

1. Not-a-botanists perform a very important job.  It is both crucial and socially significant, and Mr. Moose is into all that nonsense.  (I just wanna pollute shit and exploit the down trodden, but not that guy.  He’s like some kinda crusader for good.)
2. Our income just increased a fair amount.  In fact, I can probably afford a new running bra now, instead of just layering on three fagged out bras which make elastic crunchy noises if I do so much as exhale.
3. Not-a-botanists need a LOT of energy to effectively perform their jobs. In anticipation of this fact, Mr. Moose said to me, “Loose Moose,  I guess I better start running.” 

So there you have it, people.  Mr. Moose gets to save the world, while I get to accumulate wealth, ruin his knees, and be protected from dogs.  Win-win, yes? 

We went out today for our first run.  It was AWESOME.  We generally walk about a mile and a third several times a week. This time we did our same route, only we added short bursts of running into the mix.  We’d run to the next corner or mailbox or rusted, dilapidated trailer home.  Mr. Moose performed admirably, especially given the fact that he wasn’t exactly dressed for it.  (Elite runners eschew blue jeans and flannel shirts for a reason, I’m guessing.)

My plan (Don’t tell the Mister) is to gradually increase our distance ’til I’ve turned that moose into a real runner.  But not so much of a real runner that he becomes all skinny and shit, ’cause then his penis will get huge and make me wince. 

Yearly Mileage: 646

Race Report: Madison’s Monarch Run

Today J., niece-o’-J. and I all went to the big city to run Madison’s Monarch Race.  This is a 5K in memory of  a local girl who passed away from leukemia 13 years ago. The run raises money for an area children’s hospital and for pediatric cancer research.  There were butterfly decorations everywhere, and in one field there were hundreds of paper butterflies, each recorded with the name of a child who had died of cancer. So that’s cheery, huh?

Somehow, though, it was.  Yes, the now expired Madison’s picture was everywhere, staring at us with her big cancerous eyes, but SO many happy people gathered in her memory, with the common goal of eliminating a terrible disease.  I’m sure her parents can take some solace in the fact that she is remembered, and that some good will come from her passing.  I was just there for the shirt.

Unfortunately, said shirt has been defiled by a big ass MallWart logo right on the back. Have I ever mention how much I hate, hate, double hate, LOATHE  MallWart?  They are one scummy corporation, people, and if Madison’s parents had worked there MallWart would probably have denied them health coverage just when Madison needed it most.  Then they’d probably ship her off to China and force her to make American flags.   

Despite the heinously offensive shirt, this was a GREAT race.  I did not PR, but I came close.  I was nineteen seconds slower than at the 5K that I did on Memorial Day.  I attribute this 19 second loss to the fact that I did not have my lucky hat.  This is a hat that M. and I got at the one and only ultra we ran a couple years back.  That hat has serious mojo, people, and if it doesn’t turn up soon I’m going to be grieving nearly as much as…Never mind.  I was going to write “Madison’s parents“,  but that would be callous and insensitive. What kind of monster would even THINK to compare the loss of one’s beloved child  to the loss of a hat?  But I guess it’s already out there now, and you’re not likely to think any worse of me, so what the fuck, huh?  I’ll grieve nearly as much as Madison’s parents.  There – I’ve said it. I’m going to hell for sure.  But I’ll likely meet the CEO of MallWart while there, so that might be interesting.

Race stats:

22:42

7:16 pace

3/50 age group

17/403 females

115/777 overall