To the Colleague Whose Sanitary Pad I Stole Today

Um?  Sorry?  Hope you’re not currently menstruating, and in need of that pad that you so thoughtfully placed in the bathroom cabinet.   I, myself, AM menstruating which is just a little bit ridonkulous because I JUST stopped, like, 23 short days ago.  And that evil Aunt Flo just kinda snuck right up on me this time.  Because – HELLO?!?!  What about the oozing zits?  And the painful cramping?  Gawd!  Just blood and clots? Where’s the fun in that, I ask you?

Now, I’m not generally the kind of person who takes things that do not belong to me.  And if we worked in a real work place, we’d have access to a machine chock full of “feminine products”, yes?  So, really, you should be blaming Teh Man, and not me if you are currently hunting around for your stolen pad while you create bloody spin art in the workplace toilet bowl.

I never would have pilfered your pad, Nameless Colleague, unless I had REALLY needed it. Before stealing your pad, I considered cramming my undies with wads of toilet paper. And I also considered cramming my vajango with wads of toilet paper. Neither option seemed viable. Or comfy.  Hence, my crime spree. 

Rest assured, Good Colleague, that I always return what I borrow.  So tomorrow you will find a new pad in place of the one that I stole. (Yes, Glaven - a NEW pad.  Don’t even go there.) Know, too, Cheap Colleague, that the replacement pad will be of finer quality.  Because – HELLO?!?!   No wings?  What the fuck is WRONG with you?  Where did you even purchase this cheap ass piece of shit? I sure hope you don’t have me for Secret Santa because it appears you are one miserly, penny-pinching bitch.

But thanks for the pad.  Seriously.  

Yearly mileage: 1,257

…but don’t expect any mileage tomorrow, people, because running on Day Two?  Generally not the best idea for this here moose.

True Confessions, Part Deux

I shouldn’t be talking to any of you bastards, really.  Because never, never, never have I received quite so many hostile, belligerent comments.  Gawd!  Stupidly embrace evil sexist stereotypes buy one running skirt and the Eleven Faithful Readers go all crazy on ya.   Not so faithful, are you? 

Whatever.  Faithfulness is highly overrated, anyhow.  If everyone was faithful, I’d enjoy far fewer “Maury” episodes and I’d have two fewer half siblings, but that’s a story for another day. I’ll forgive and forget your vitriol, people, mostly because I’m desperate for attention, even the hostile, belligerent kind.  So I’m going to tell you about yet another completely out of character purchase. It’s a shock. So try real hard not to shit yourselves.

The Moose Fambly has acquired a new car.

Yup.  A very nearly BRAND new car.  It looks kinda like this:

 Only bigger, so that I can fit my entire moosey self within.  There’s even a moon roof so that my antlers can get some air! It’s got other crazy high tech shit going on, too, by which I mean that ALL of its doors open!!!  As in, the door handles have not yet snapped off in the extremely frigid Frostburrg air, like two of the Tracker’s handles and  three handles of Teh Boy Moose’s Suzuki.  Door handles, people, are like a dream come true for some people. Never take them for granted.

So I showed up in J.’s driveway this morning and her jaw kinda dropped.  “Wow”, she said, and then just stood there speechless.  I wasn’t sure if the “Wow” referred to the new haircut, the new running skirt or the new vehicle.  So I kinda  fluffed what’s left of my hair, sexily stuck my hand on my spandex clad hip and leaned across the hood of the car.  Which looked EXACTLY like this:

 

Oh, okay.  Maybe it looked  more like this:

 

But I digress.  The point is that J. was looking at me like I was someone she didn’t even know.  So I had to show her it was still the same ol’ LuMu - running skirt, hairlessness and working door handles, be damned!   And so we ran.

J. is having knee surgery soon.  Really soon, as in tomorrow.  So a kinder friend would have given her the day off.  All of my kindness got trimmed off by a maniac from SuperCuts, however, and swept away like so much garbage.  That meant that I got seven hard miles out of J. today, including two times up the world’s steepest hill.  I ran while she rode her bike and monitored for potential dog attacks.  It was my first time ever in the new skirt, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but I LOVED it.  It really was seriously comfortable, and I swear that it made me run faster, just so that I didn’t look TOO much like a “girl”. And thanks to its magical “antimicrobial” action, I could barely smell myself.

Which is likely a claim that Bachelorette #2  there can rarely make.

Yearly mileage: 1,249

True Confessions

So last night Mr. Moose and I were sitting around watching television, and I was thoroughly pissed off with the utter dearth of intelligent, quality programming available. I mean, where the hell was “My Name Is Earl” or “Teh Family Guy”? In despair, we finally turned to PBS and watched this lame ass “Becoming Human” episode of “Nova”.  Gawd! I might as well have picked up a (shudder)  book or somethin’.

I learned something in spite of myself, and it was this: Those dirty Evolutionists should all be beaten, preferably with a Bible or a really solidly made crucifix.   Those Lil’ Baby Jebus haters actually believe that we’re nothing more than hairless apes. Fools, I tell you!  One “fact” that they presented gave me food for thought, however.  They said that when our ancestors became hairless they developed the ability to effectively sweat. This let them become endurance runners, able to run for up to four hours under the brutal African sun to hunt down prey.  The computer generated simulation showed  a barely fuzzy ape-like dude running down an African antelope.  The antelope, unable to shed heat, eventually grew exhausted and overheated and was felled by the ape dude. The ape dude did a few celebratory pelvic thrusts and then ate his weight in antelope.

 Seems kinda crazy to run for four hours just to go “nom nom nom” on a stringy ol’ antelope.  I, myself, will only run four hours for bagels, fruit and GU.  And also cheesy marathon medals on colorful ribbons. 

Those devil-worshipping Evolutionists got me to thinking, though.  If the hairless state of our ancestors allowed them to become better runners, perhaps the best runner of all would be completely, totally, unapologetically bald.  I shared this thought with Mr. Moose and his eyes lit up.  I could just tell he was imagining a bare, denuded sexy vajeen. 

As if, Mr. Moose, as if. The bush stays, and I’m actually looking into purchasing products to make it coarser, darker and thicker. But I did make a decision right then and there to shave my head. You’re welcome, Mr. Moose, you’re welcome.

Today is Veteran’s Day, so Mr. Moose and I used our day off  to head to SuperCuts.  (Don’t begrudge me the day off, people. I’ve sacrificed plenty for this country.  Why, I dated Mr. Moose 25 years ago when he was in the reserves.  He had a government mandated stupid looking haircut, but I did not turn my back on him. Some pussies whine and moan about the shrapnel still lodged in their spinal cords, or the “torture” they endured as a POW, but I think we all know that dating a man with a very bad haircut if a far, far, far greater sacrifice.  I’m a Great American Hero, I tell you, and it’s just a matter of time before I’m up there on Mount Rushmore where I belong.)

So off we went to SuperCuts for the embaldening.  The stylist  (I mean, the “stylist”.  This was SuperCuts, after all) looked alarmed at the condition of my hair.  Because have I mentioned that I’m a bit of a dirty hippie?  And that I NEVER get my hair professionally cut?  And that I believe that conditioner is a useless, unnecessary expenditure? And that I own no hair dryer, and also that I buy ”Made in China” shampoo at Teh Dollar Store?  And that every single time I buy said shampoo, Mr. Moose says, “Now, fortified with 100% more ground up girl babies!!”

Yeah… So I’ve kinda got a Cousin It thing goin’ on here, but whatever. I told her to shave it all, every last single hair, so that I could become the fastest, sweatiest, antelope nomming-est runner that ever was.  She did not oblige. She did cut plenty of it, though, and I can’t wait to get out there tomorrow to catch me an antelope.  Nom, nom, nom…

After the near embaldening, we headed to Target to pick up a Christmas gift for Teh Girl.  (I feel safe in reporting that said gift is yoga pants and a matching top.  My secret is secure, as  Teh Girl will NEVER again read this blog.  She read one time and I guess I might have written something about Mr. Moose wrapping my ankles around my antlers or some such thing.  And she freaked all out on us, because apparently we’re much too decrepit to be engaging in such antics.  Whatever, Girl Moose, whatever. Sometimes we even do it on your bed, and we make your Hello Kitty watch us.)  

And it was while at Target that I did the horrible, shameful, shockingly disgraceful deed. I’m almost too guilt stricken to write about it, but I feel that I must.  Here goes: I bought a ….gulp….um…..well…..uhhh….

I bought a running skirt.

Man, that was hard to write.  But I feel better.  Yeah, the clearance rack in the sporty section is my downfall.  I often score $3 running bras there, or  $2 tech shirts.  Today I found row upon row of   size medium running skirts.  I flicked them aside, haughtily muttering to myself about those vapid women who think that even while running one must take great pains to look “hawt”. On this very blog, I have dismissed such women as insipid fashion plates, rather than as intelligent, competitive athletes.

But that was before I felt the spandexy goodness. And saw the price tag marked down from $24.99 to $4.98.  FOUR NINETY-EIGHT, people!!  I can’t buy a pair of running shorts for that, particularly ones that are  “antimicrobial”.  Yup, that’s right – this magic skirt promises to “Defend against odors”.  And as it was my head that I shaved and not my pubes, I really, really need me some antimicrobial action. So stop judgin’ me, already.

I snuck the running skirt into the fitting room, half expecting for Storia Gleinem to stop me.  I made it there unmolested, though, and once I put that skirt on I fell a little bit in love, I think.  It looked great.  And much more importantly, it FELT great. I ran around and around that tiny little fitting room, humming “I Will Survive”, in a futile attempt to negate the sexist message that one conveys while wearing a freaking running skirt. But did I mention that it was $4.98?  And antimicrobial besides?

I going out tomorrow morning to run me down an antelope.  And I’m gonna look hawt while doing it. 

Bald, but hawt.  

Yearly Mileage: 1,229

My Pajama Pants

Generally on weekends I am a real slug.  I wear the same stale-smelling, fleece pajama pants from Friday evening right through Monday morning.  I take them off only for special occasions like running, showering, toileting or sex.  And for more than one of those activities I just pull my pajama pants down a bit or push them aside, rather than going to the bother of actually removing them.  ‘Cause everybody knows that undressing can be a real hassle.

Every now and then Mr. Moose will deign to walk with me or attend to shopping or some other errand on the weekend, but he’s always insistent that I “put some pants on.”  That man can be a real priss, I tell ya.  “Gawd!”, I shriek at him. “Why don’t I just put on a freakin’  ball gown and a tiara!!” I usually acquiesce to Mr. Mooses’s demands, however, reluctantly changing into “real” clothes. The second we return home , though, I’m back in my cozy pajamas, trying not to act too delighted upon seeing Mr. Moose’s aggrieved expression. 

I’ve been anxiously anticipating Daylight Savings Time for weeks now, as it affords me a whole extra HOUR inside my pajama pants.  I know some people would think carefully about how best to use their extra hour.  They might choose something meaningful or productive like family time or home improvement projects. Me?  I just sat there for sixty minutes straight, absent mindedly petting my fleecy ass cheeks while staring vacuously at absolutely nothing. And it was good.

I deserve this down time, though, because just yesterday I was incredibly productive.  Behold in wonder all that I accomplished:

• I ran seven miles at a 8:09 pace.
• I cursed myself for not maintaining a 8:00 pace. 
• I brought my car in for its annual inspection.
• I heaved an enormous sigh of relief when said car actually passed its inspection, despite the fact that it’s got some issues.  But who needs a driver door handle anyway, huh?  I mean, virtually EVERYONE climbs in their car from the back seat, yes?  Yes?  YES?!?!
• I made homemade vegetable beef stew.
• I baked two loaves of homemade bread.
• I made a large batch of homemade applesauce, using apples that Mr. Moose and I picked ourselves a couple of weeks ago.  
• I wondered why the hell Martha Stewart has her own show, when I am clearly more domestic and rarely engage in insider trading.
• I cleaned my house, but only in a superficial fashion.  It looks really tidy but the bathroom and kitchen are still bathed in bacteria, germs and invisible filth, just the way I like it.
• I readied the Halloween candy, kinda like this: One for the bowl, two for the LuMu.  One for the bowl, two for the LuMu…
•  I wondered where the hell all the freakin’ Halloween candy went, and also why my stomach hurt, and I decided that teh Boy must’ve gotten into teh candy, then sucker punched me.  He’s sneaky like that, teh Boy.

Yearly mileage: 1,186

Never, Never, Ever Again…At Least Until the Next Time

AKA: “Halloween 5K Race Report”

Last year I ran this race dressed as a bagel, a nefarious breakfast food if ever there was one.  The year before that I was a giant  M & M, and not that sultry green one with the “cum come hither” expression, either, but the boring, asexual blue M & M.  This year I decided to be REALLY crazy and dress as a middle-aged runner.

The race began in a very wide open field, which then narrowed down to a tiny path in the woods. When the gun went off, it was absolute mayhem – elbows flew everywhere as people pushed hard to avoid the bottleneck traffic jam at the trail head.  I took a solid elbow shot in the ribs, but I couldn’t determine the culprit. Lucky for him, too, ’cause I was pretty close to doing something really dangerous, like whining, “Excuse me, please.  Sorry to have placed my misbehaving ribs in the path of your wildly akimbo elbows. ” Sad but true – I’m awfully obsequious in real life. I’m only a  belligerant tyrant when hiding behind the anonymity of these here interwebs.

The course was absolutely gorgeous, and the day was perfect.  It was sunny and 54 degrees. The leaves were brilliantly colored,  and carved pumpkins lined most of the path.  Raucous, honking geese flew by overhead and the occasional squirrel scampered about in the woods.  We passed a small lake, and the reflection of the autumn leaves on the water was just stunning.  I don’t really give a corn-packed fecalith about ANY of that nature shit, however, when I’m enduring the agony of running.  Because running SUCKS, people!!  That’s why two out of every three children who had participated in the “fun” run were bawling their freaking eyes out!! And we all know that running sucks, but for some fucked up reason we continue to torture ourselves.  As I’ve done in about 90% of all the races I’ve ever run, I made a deal with myself.  “Self“, I said, “Never again.  Gut it out to the finish line, unlace those shoes and never engage in this painful, aberrant behavior ever again.”  Self readily and eagerly agreed to the plan. “Never again, never again, never again” became my mantra.

I was a hurting unit, but I ran hard to reach the finish line so that I could – Hello?? – never run again.  There were a few steep hills, and I got dicked going up every one. Stoopid men and their stoooopider testosterone. (Or maybe they’ve just trained harder than me, and want it more and so I deserve to get poned. .. Nah – couldn’t be.)

I heard cheering and a faint cowbell off in the distance, so I picked it up as best I could to sprint to the finish. I saw my BFF amidst a group of spectators near the finish line. She yelled my nickname (which, oddly enough, is NOT LuMu) and I ran even faster.  I crossed the line and commenced with my melodramatic death throes – heavy breathing, lying prone on the ground, clutching my side and groaning piteously.  It’s tradition, after all, and I sure wouldn’t want to disappoint my public.

My BFF found me and together we cheered in Teh Boy.  He was ridonculously fast as he sprinted to the finish line, easily passing about a dozen other runners.  When I looked at the clock I became seriously alarmed.  That rotten boy had finished a measly TWO MINUTES and three seconds behind me!!! And he NEVER trains, ever, ever, ever.  Have I mentioned how much I’m hating on that stooopid testosterone?  And also on youth?  Because testosterone + youth + zero effort= a deadly combination, sure to one day surpass the lamer equation of waning estrogen +  impending crone-dom + enormous effort.  

Stats:

23:54

7:42/mile

79/495 overall

8/267 females

1/62 age group (Yup – won myself a seriously cheesy trophy and also lots of bagel coupons, I did.  So, um, that whole “never again” thing?  Yeah…don’t hold me to that, ‘kay?)

Yearly mileage: 1, 162

Hometown 5-Miler Race Report

So I’ve been excited about this since May, and the big day finally arrived! Yesterday I coerced two of my cigarette-loving, Mountain Dew-addicted, exercise-loathing siblings into running a five mile race in the neighborhood where we all grew up! And did I mention that my brother has an abysmally fucked up back? And that my very thin sister doesn’t respond politely when I repeatedly scream “Run, fat girl, run!” ? They might not speak to me again until Thanksgiving Day, when familial obligations next force us together.  Or maybe they’ll shun me even then, and shake their still sweaty fists at me over the mashed potatoes.  But I had a good time, and that’s all that’s important, yes?

I knew that we’d be walking the whole time, but I dressed for a sunny, 45 degree running day nonetheless.  My brother arrived, however, clothed in blue jeans and Pittsburgh Steelers winter accessories.  He had the hat, the gloves, the scarf.  I think that pansy might even have had Steeler long johns and a hand muffler, too, but I can’t be certain. My sister wore sweats and a matching  fashionable sweater.  To make matters worse, they both pinned their race bibs to their backs. That’s right – I said THEIR BACKS. We’re talking real amateurs here, folks. But somehow I was the one who looked like an imbecile. I was like that loser whackjob who dresses up for Halloween, only to stay home to pass out the candy.  There I was – all dressed up but nowhere to run.

We started out in the back of the pack and worked hard to maintain our postion. There were three women who were with us initially, an older woman and her two adult daughters.  The daughters asked us if we intended to walk the whole race.  I told them that one should NEVER assume that a race participant is walking, even if all evidence points to this fact.  Because TRUE STORY: During our first marathon, Madeline overheard the following exchange near Mile 15:   

Nice, friendly 50-year-old man to WALKING 70-year-old man: “Hey, there!  Looking good!  So have you been walking the whole time?”

Angry, hostile, enraged 70-year-old walker: “Walking?!  WALKING???!!  Why, I oughtta bash yer brains in!!!”   

Yup…So you know how one should NEVER assume that a woman is pregnant, even if she is wearing a “Baby Aboard” maternity shirt and leaving a trail of fresh amniotic fluid?  So, too, one must  NEVER assume that a walker is walking, even if said walker never moves above a 15:57 pace and is chain smoking Marlboros.  Not if you don’t wanna get yer brains bashed in anyways.

 We pretended that we were afflicted with an incurable  condition that made our speediest running look much like slow ass walking. And then I think that trio of walkers felt badly for hurting our feelings.  Serves ‘em right, too, because further conversation revealed that they were just terrible, evil, bad people.  One of the daughters was banditting this very race, and the other proudly admitted to banditting the Boston Marathon the year before.  My brother’s ears perked up beneath his Steelers hat: “Ya mean I didn’t have to pay for this shit?  ‘Cause I just spent $25 and those bastards didn’t even give me a shirt.” I tried to mentally tell him that bandits suck, and that his race fee was going to a good cause.  But I think his woolen Steelers hat and the miasma of cigarette smoke blocked my message. 

We walked and walked and walked and around the second mile marker my brother finally reported that one lone bead of sweat was beginning to form on his forehead.  Fear not, though, because we never moved fast enough for said bead of sweat to actually fall.  

At one point my sister wanted water and darted off towards a corner store, even though the route had several water stops. I’m thinking she just enjoyed hassling the Pakistani store owner: “Hurry, Hassan!!   Can’t you see I’m in a race!”  As Hassan is the person who sells her her daily 24-pack of Mountain Dew and carton of Marlboros, he was both skeptical and unimpressed.  

We saw several dogs along the course, all of whom were warmly received by my siblings with much petting and cooing of “Who’s da puppyface?  Yes!!  Him is!! Him’s da cutest puppyface ever!!”  It was seriously disturbing. At one point we passed the street where another sibling lives.  We shouted out kind terms of endearment in the general direction of his house, things like, “Lazy prick!”, “Asshole!” and “Loser!” ‘Cause apparently we’re much fonder of strange dogs than of our own flesh and blood. 

I felt kinda bad for my brother a couple of times.  Let’s just say that the conversation wasn’t always brother-friendly.  He winced as my sister happily pointed out the home of HorseCock, a former boyfriend. I, myself, did not wince, but I did take note of the address just for …um…scientific purposes.  

Around Mile 3, Teh Boy Moose came running towards us.  Seems that he was already done with the race and had come back to find us.  I felt both proud and demoralized.  I’d let Teh Boy  use my Garmin for the day, and so I immediately grabbed his wrist to see his finish time. “44:00?  You ROCK, Boy!!  That’s less than a nine minute mile!” His uncle, however, did NOT congratulate him.  Instead he came out with “So, you slammin’ any?” Yeah. Mock Teh Boy’s virginity, why don’tja, just because his youth, his unmangled spine and his non-blackened lungs have propelled him to the finish line before us.  Niiice.  

Shortly thereafter we noticed that the  bandito family was no longer behind us.  If they DNF’d, this would be very bad news, as it would mean that WE would be in last place. We began hungrily eyeing the two old women in front of us, and vowed to pick it up at the end to beat them. We decided to take extreme measures if we had to, including jogging a step or two. My brother smoked yet another cigarette, to give himself strength for the ordeal ahead.

Near Mile 4, we saw my sister-in-law and Xena, the much-beloved and pampered dog that she owns with my brother.  I’ve recently made friends with Xena, but it’s a tentative friendship at best.  Because, hello?  She’s part pit bull, people. As soon as Xena saw my brother and my sister, she slipped her leash and came CHARGING towards us.  My siblings began their crazed “puppyface” babble, eager to pet Xena and remind her that SHE is “Da cutest puppyface ever“, and not those other interloper dogs whom we’d befriended along the way.  I, however, cringed in terror and prepared for canine attack.  Because dogs are crazy perceptive, that’s why.  And what if Xena could sense my brother’s pain?  He was limping by this point, and in obvious discomfort, and Xena might just think it’s all my doing.  Which of course, it WAS, but don’t try to pin all this on me, dog.  Fortunately, though, Xena was content with slobbering all over the sibs and leaving me in one, unmangled piece.  I later learned that she sprained her tail from all the wagging.  True story.  And I should probably feel just a tiny bit ashamed for fearing a dog so stupid, friendly and harmless that she sprains her own tail from wagging it too aggressively.  But I’m not.

Just then the bandito family reappeared behind us, so we knew we wouldn’t be dead last. Our competitive spirit had been awakened, though, and we decided that we’d beat them AND the two fat, old women just ahead of us.   We power walked up the steep ass hill, then began our lap around the high school track.  Just a few yards away from the finish line, we jogged for the first time all day, and overtook the two women in front of us. My brother, my sister and I crossed the finish line almost simultaneously.  I felt SO proud of them!  What an accomplishment!  They persevered and completed the race, and it was a great family experience that I’ll always remember. I turned to give them each high fives.  But they were too busy lighting cigarettes and flipping me off to respond in kind.

Scariest stats ever:

1:19:43

15:57/mile

219/223 overall

107/111 females

25/26 age group

There’s Something About Half Marythons…

Virgin half marathoner no more!!! Ya know those shirts that say something corny like “13.1: Half the Distance, Twice the Fun”? I used to consider that the slogan of unmotivated, Augustus Gloop-like runners.  “Man up,”  I once thought to myself. “Step away from the chocolates, you pansies,  and run the full distance. ” Now that I am Gloopesque,  however,  I completely understand the appeal. I mean, check out that picture, for dog’s sake.  I’m SMILING.  This is something that just does not occur during full marathons, not ever, ever, ever. Not even when I cross the finish line, and not even when my shorts seam rubs me in just the right spot.  Never, ever, ever.  But half marathons?  They make me smile. 

J. and I met around 5:30 to drive the short distance to FoolTown.  I’d already ingested half a bottle of Immodium and smeared all my chafe-susceptible bits with Body Glide. Truth be told, I even smeared Body Glide on other non-chafing  bits, just because it felt so nice.  I’d eaten a PBJ on wheat bread, but accidentally left behind the granola bars that I’d intended to eat. “No worries”, said J.  “I’m sure they’ll have donuts or something for the volunteers, and I’ll be sure to grab you one.”   

Silly, silly, J.  There were no donuts.  In fact, she didn’t even get a SHIRT, which pretty much sucks, given that she stood outdoors for hours on a crazy chilly, windy Sunday morning.  And I’d like to say that, as a kind and caring friend, I gave her MY shirt.  But I think we all know that that was NOT the case.  In my defense, however, it was a long sleeve red tech shirt, and I loved it at first sight.  Red is a go-fast color, ya know.   

We had plenty of time before the race began so we scoped out the course, and drove by Mile 8, where J. would man a water stop.  (As this race involved two loops of 13.1 miles, J.’s Mile 8 would also be Mile 21 for the full marathoners.)  It was still dark out, but not so dark that I missed the GINORMOUS hills that comprised the majority of the route. I began my pre-race whining ritual, complete with moaning, rocking and hair pulling.

This race is run in honor of a resident of FoolTown. Said resident is a breast cancer survivor, and  her 100th marathon was last October, which was this race’s inaugural year. She designed the course herself, to symbolize her fight against breast cancer.  “Well, that explains the mountains”, I bitched to myself.  “If only this poor slob had gotten cancer of some nice, flat organ, like the pancreas, we’d all be running a smooth, flat course.  But, nooooo.  Now we’ve gotta run up all these steep ass hills, and just when we think we’re at the top, there’ll be yet another climb – to represent her cancerous nipples, no doubt.  Gawd!!  These inconsiderate cancer survivors really have a lot of nerve.  Running is hard and painful.  They really wouldn’t understand.”    

I hadn’t properly trained for this half marathon, and like the fucktard that I am I went out too fast. I passed the first mile marker in 7:56 and was #3 female.  And then it all went to hell.  By Mile 7 I was really hurting.  I couldn’t believe how tired and sore I was.   I told myself that there would be no walking until I got to J. at Mile 8.  I tried to zone out and listen to my iPod, but the wind was so strong that the buds would not stay in my ears.  I eventually gave up on the idea of music and just carried my iPod. At the Mile 8 water stop I encountered not J., but Stranger Danger 1 and 2. ”Where’s J?” I asked them.  “Was she here?”  They looked at me like I was a lunatic, and mutely offered me GU.  I was so miserable and tired that I just stopped moving.  Just then K., a sometimes running buddy, caught up to me.  “I can’t find J.”, I told her.  She responded “Get moving”, and I half heartedly took off after her.

For the next mile, K. did most of the talking while I did the majority of the heaving and the whining. I took a Roctane GU (Blueberry Pomegranate – most delicious)  and wondered where the hell J. had gone.  Finally at Mile 9 I heard her call my name.  J. started running with me and even though she is currently in physical therapy (Diagnosis: Running induced gimpiness) she had no trouble keeping up with me.

Miles 9 – 13.1 were not so terrible, though I got passed by lots of people. I somehow didn’t mind too much, though.  Around that time I remembered that I was going to get a medal, and also that the post-race party had dozens and dozens of homemade cookies.  Mmmm…cookies. K. had left me in the dust during my reunion with J., but I could still see her. I decided that I’d run fast enough to keep her in sight or die trying. 

STATS:

1:52:46

8:36/mile AKA several seconds SLOWER than my last marathon time. :(  

41/105 overall

12/57 female

2/6 age group

I suffered from my typical Oh-My-God-I’m-Fucking-Dying melodrama after crossing the finish line, and once again had to assure another race director that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I really was not at death’s door.  She looked skeptical, and hovered around me until my breathing finally returned to normal.  Have I mentioned I’m a drama queen?  It’s a darned good thing for all those around me that I’m just a runner and not a cancer survivor.

J. drove in from her water stop and collected me at the finish line.  We ate some cookies and headed back to her stop.  I cheered for the half marathoners, and it wasn’t too long before we were able to cheer for the FULL marathoners.  We were the best volunteers EVER.  Two high school girls invaded our stop, performing school-mandated community service, I think. I instructed them to use the cow bell, and to cheer raucously.  They declined.  

Now that I’d stopped running, I realized just how cold and windy it was.  J. and I waited in her car, only coming out when we saw runners approaching.  We cheered for all we were worth, passed out water and collected used cups.  At one point, I even ran a mile with a J.’s colleague who was running the full.  I like to think that I inspired him to run faster and stronger, but I’m sure he was just trying to get away from me and my incessant rambling.

It was around that time that Merv Teh Perv arrived.  He drove up in a white Corvette convertible, looking very proud of himself. He was somehow involved with the race, but he immediately creeped me out. J. and I gave him a wide berth.  A running couple approached our water stop, and the woman looked completely devastated when she learned that we had no Gatorade or GU, and merely water. I felt so badly for her, but then I remembered that I was still carrying a GU in my bra.  “I have GU!” I yelled.  “It’s in my bra. Vanilla Orange!  Do you want it?” I asked.  She politely declined, although I’ve no idea why. Gawd! Like there’s something cepuliar about accepting the sweat soaked GU from a stranger’s undergarments. While the woman was polite, though, Merve The Perv was NOT.  “It’s in your bra?  Can anyone get it out?  Tell me it’s self serve!!’

Ewww, Merv.  Ewww.

Just then another man drove up and parked near our water stop.  He peeled a banana and made small talk with us while waiting for his son to arrive.  When the son arrived I was surprised by his appearance.  He looked FAST, as if he could run a 3:00 marathon, yet here he was on track to come in in about 4:15.  He nommed on the banana and continued on his way.  Afterwards his dad told us that his son had run a FIFTY  ”>MILER – YESTERDAY!!!  Daaaamn.  Here I’d been so proud of myself for finishing a half marathon, plus two additional miles from running with J.’s colleague.  Woo hoo -fifteen miles.  But this banana-nomming madman had run 76.2 miles in two days.  Some people are just not right in the head, I tell ya.

All in all, I’ve gotta say that I really think I like this distance.  13.1 miles is long enough that you feel as if you’ve accomplished something significant, yet not so long that it leaves you broken and debilitated. I got  me a shiny medal, for dog’s sake, even though most of my “long runs” were less than eight miles.  And did I mention I was able to run the very next day?  Yeah…half marathons rock.

Half Marathon Eve

So I’m now enjoying the sweet, carb-loading, no-running taper period that occurs right before the big race. Which is kinda cepuliar peculiar, given that I didn’t actually train  for said big race. I’m thinking it’s going to be a very poorly attended event, though, so even if I’m supremely sucktastic I might just manage to eke out an age group award.  Also, a certain PR, as I have never before run a half marathon!!  I was starting to feel almost optimistic about tomorrow’s race, but then I happened across this little gem from the race website: 

“Pay attention to what is going on around you during the race. Just as in real life, expect the unexpected. Think loose dogs, low branches, looming potholes and most importantly, inconsiderate automobiles.”

What? WHAT??!!  Are you people SERIOUS??  Did you really say “loose dogs”?  This is a certified RACE, people, meaning all dogs should be put down, all branches should be trimmed (preferably into Edward Scissorhands-like topiary), all potholes should be filled and all automobiles should be made, um…considerate. The only “loose” thing I should have to worry about are my own bowels and morals, damn it. 

So now I’m completely flipping out, imagining the following scenario:

There I am, limping down the road at an impressive 10:30 pace when a very inconsiderate automobile, most likely a Hummer or an Expedition, veers towards me.  I dart out of the way, only to find my eyeball impaled on a branch. I free myself, and ineffectively dab at the intraocular fluid pouring down my face. Just as my vision begins to clear, I stumble into a chasm-like pothole.  I fall for MINUTES, eventually hitting bottom. Dazed and confused, I sit up and curse - “Fuck!!  There goes my stinkin’ age group award!”  I quickly discover, though, that a lost AG award is the least  of my problems.  Seems that this particular pothole is home to hundreds of rabid Rottweilers and pissed off pit bulls. They savage me.  I die.  

I seriously don’t know what is wrong with me.  It’s a three-day weekend, people. I should be enjoying the fall foliage or reading books on the couch or baking apple pies after trips to the orchard. Instead, I just can not WAIT to be maimed, mauled and mutilated.

For the record, though, I’m not nearly as sick as this deviant bastard. Canadian Keith has now accomplished something that no one else has ever done – he has read (and commented upon) every single one of my posts.  Turns out that Keef was a bit under the weather and while he was home convalescing he buried himself in the LuMu archives.  (And, NO, Glaven- “burying oneself  in the archives” is not a euphemism for anal.  And, anyway, they don’t even do that in Canadia. Well, Teh Mounties do, but it’s a job requirement for them.  They take no pleasure in it, believe you me.)

And here’s the really interesting part – after reading all 168 posts, Keef is now better!!  Meaning, of course, that this here blog cures the common cold!!!!  And also cancer and Teh HIV and nearsightedness, no doubt.  It also increases penis length by 200%, meaning that this guy now has a 3″ wang.  Good for you, Needle!

Yearly mileage: 1,095

The Threesome Is Off

A few months back I wrote about my intention to participate in a girl on girl on girl threesome.  I’d never done a threesome before, but I had two hawt and eager partners ready to go for it, and all three of our husbands even thought it was a fine idea – although they did demand pictorial documentation. The much anticipated event was to occur today, but, alas, our plans have changed and so I remain as unsatisfied as Needle’s wife on date night.

That’s right – Teh Wineglass Marathon is occurring right this minute, but J. and M. and I are not there running as a three-person relay team. J. mangled her knee a while ago and is now in physical therapy.  M. or I could’ve scrounged up a third runner, but it just wouldn’t be the same – ’cause we don’t do threesomes with just anyone, you know.  We may be whoo-hers, but we’re not the filthy, extra dirty I-do-it-with-just-ANYONE kind. Gawd.

Since J. can’t run right now, she’s taken up biking.  A couple of times now we’ve gone out together to get in some mileage.  I run while J. bikes, which must make us look fairly fucktarded. I’m sure people think that J. is a developmentally delayed adult who is just now learning to ride a bicycle, while I am the poor sap hired to run along beside her to remind her to pedal and to keep her eyes open. She is Simple Jackie and I am her wheezing, out of breath keeper. And this mm..mm….maaa…makes us haaaappy.

See, I want J. to get a good workout, too, so I’m running my fool head off. I feel like a loser if I notice that she’s just coasting, so I run harder than I otherwise might. Today nearly did me in.  We did eight hilly miles, and after that European 5K-tion yesterday, my legs were feeling like jello.  Wet jello, because of course it is raining – AGAIN.

We had one scary dog incident when Cody, a yellow lab, came bounding out of his yard to eat greet us. Said dog was MOST interested in my crotch, and he did a lot of sniffing and nuzzling, whilst I covered my vag and grimaced in terror.  His owner eventually came and dragged the dog away, but I’m fairly certain that Cody knew that we were open to the idea of a threesome, and so was feeling us out. As if, Cody – As.  If. 

In other news, I am running my very first half marathon a week from today.  Yeah, it seemed like a good idea at the time, as the race is close to home, and I’ve the next day off for Native American Annihilator Day. Also, I thought that my portion of the Wineglass Marathon would be a last, good long training run before the taper.  But now I’ve done NO TRAINING, and am growing increasingly alarmed.  I’ve definitely been running, but I’ve followed no real training plan whatsoever, and long runs are a thing of the past. This whole year I’ve focused on getting faster at shorter distances, and I’ve PR’d at the 5K, the 10K and the 4-miler.  My endurance, though?  Gone.  Nada.  A thing of the past. The one 15K I did this year almost proved the death of me.  The good news is that since I’ve never done a 13.1, I’m sure to PR.  And also, J. will be there volunteering and cheering me on.  And she’ll probably save me from canine sexual assault, if it comes to that. Thanks, J.

Yearly mileage: 1,088

European 5K-tion

This morning I ran a crazy small 5K which bills itself as “a challenging European style cross country ” race. Now I’ve been to Europe exactly once, and so I am a real expert on all things European.  My time in Rome taught me that “European style” consists of the following characteristics:

• breathtaking monuments, art and architecture.
• rude, smoking, fashionable people.
• delicious but unaffordable food.
• use of the word “Prego!” to mean most anything.

Clearly, then, when I imagined this race it went kinda like this: A pompous race director would snub those of us not attired in the latest moisture wicking designer clothes from Milan. He’d blow smoke in our faces and refuse to provide us with a course map. At the countdown, he’d snootily say, “Uno, due, PREGO!” and off we’d go.  We’d run past obelisks and museums and quite possibly the Colosseum.  It would all be very civilized and we wouldn’t pass a single Pizza Hut or Big Lots.  No one would conduct themselves as an Ugly American, meaning no sweating, spitting or sharting. Near the finish line spectators would yell, “Prego!  Prego!  PREGO!!!”  which could mean “Nicely done!  Way to go!” or “You’re filthy and I find you repugnant”, depending on how each runner was attired. The post race food would be Calamari Fritti,  Biscotti all’Anise and wine, but I’d get none, ’cause I’m a bit too much of a dirter. 

I was a bit off base, however.  Turns out that when it comes to running, “European style” means none of the above. It actually means “Littered with obstacles and completely lacking in water stops.”  WTF, Europe??  Now I know why all the smart people left  your continent and came to Teh New World – religious persecution and lack of opportunity, my ass!  Those poor slobs just wanted to run a decent 5K .

The race was completely off road.  We started in a field that was absolutely saturated.  Today is a beautiful, sunny day but it’s rained here in Frostburgg for about an eon straight, and so just standing in the field completely filled my socks and shoes.  When we began running, the splashing was insane. The backs of my legs were covered with mud and filth in about a nanosecond, and I hadn’t even been visited by Teh Poop Fairy yet.  We ran across all sorts of bizarre terrain, mostly around the fields of a local high school. At one point, we entered the woods behind the high school and I became VERY alarmed – because I think we all know what goes on in the woods behind high schools.  Yeah, that’s right – Ecology classes!  AHHH!!!!   

We also had to hurdle three hay bales.  While running up hill.  I was not amused.  I was even less amused when I realized that we had to run the same crazy route twice.  Stoopid hay bales.  Stooopider Europeans. I barely hauled my bulk over the hay bales the first time, and the second time over nearly did me in.  I was stumbling over tree roots, through muddy ooze, up steep ass hills, and around other filthy runners who also seemed alarmed over this “European” experience. I wanted to stick my muddy shoe right up the race director’s prego.

I finished in 24:30, which is no PR, but it was good for #2 overall female.  The #1 female, though?  Kicked. My. Ass.  There’s $150 prize money for the overall male and female finishers, and so this race, although fairly small, still draws in some pretty fast people.  That #1 female finished SIX MINUTES ahead of me.  Yeah…She probably has a prego, though. 

Turns out there’s no prize for second and third overall, but they did do #1 in each group, so I won in the Female 36 – 45 group. And I got $20! TWENTY DOLLARS!!!!  So I am now officially considering myself a professional runner.  I have been paid to run, people, and paid quite handsomely.  Let’s see: $15 registration fee + $2 gas to get there = $17.  That is a clear THREE DOLLAR profit, and let’s not forget my sweet new shirt and my belly full of bagels and bananas.  Yeah, I’m probably just gonna quit my day job and do the whole “professional runner” thing for a while, see where it takes me.  You bet yer sweet prego, I am.

24:30

7:53/mile

?/? overall

2/? female

1/? age group