You are currently browsing the monthly archive for December, 2008.
Over the past twenty years Mr. Moose and I have been blessed with some pretty fabulous life events – the births of two healthy moose calves, the purchase of a woodsy, cozy Moose Cave, and - last but not least – the acquisition of myriad War Hammer miniatures. (No, I am NOT making this up. He has thousands of little men, which he lovingly paints and sometimes provides with deep, scary voices. But whatever you do, do NOT refer to said miniatures as “dragons”…’Cause clearly grown men do NOT play with dragons…whereas playing with “Orcs”, “Goblins” and/or “Space Marines” is rugged, manly behavior. I can almost SEE him become more virile and sperm-filled as he painstakingly applies a thin coat of iridescent paint to each little man’s cod piece. But I digress…) Through all our good fortune, though, I have NEVER seen Mr. Moose grin as hugely as he did yesterday. The UPS man finally came, you see, and delivered the much awaited box o’ kinkwear. Mr. Moose tripped over his own hooves as he RACED to the bedroom to check it all out. I got there just in time to see him cramming his gargantuan thighs into my new stockings, and I yelled,” Back off, Moose! This is for ME to wear!” …Ha! I jokes, I jokes. He did try to cram ME into said kinkwear, though, and I’ve got to say it may have been slightly disappointing for poor Mr. Moose.
Because kinkwear is just NOT made for the typical runner. The hos skanks models hos who appear on the packaging are HUGE of breast, and round of ass and they look vaguely constipated. I, however, am flat of breast and concave of ass and at any given time am sporting a cocky expression and a noticeable turtle head. This is less than appealing. My ass was much rounder, I think, before thousands of miles of running made it just give up in despair. And I believe my breasts USED to be perky, but years of compression beneath 2 – 4 bras has trained them to double as flesh colored pancakes. It’s my Veinessa, though, that is especially unattractive in my new kinkwear. When encased in fishnets, she resembles a dozen garter snakes furiously pushing their way through a spaghetti strainer. Again, this is surprisingly unappealing. Also, those damned poor, confused pre-pubescent Chinese laborersmanufacturers of “Dream Girls” corsets never took into account my massive permachafe. Because the damned underwires of the corset land directly on my oozing bra welts. What’s that? “Dream Girls” hos skanks models hos do NOT have a permanent oozing welt of horizontal chafe right beneath their ginormous fake fun bags? Surely you jest.
All this self loathing did NOT prevent me from going out for a run today. I ran 5.14 miles at a slow, snow-cursing pace of 9:11. Along the way I looked for my ass – to no avail. Sorry, Mr. Moose.
This winter running has been kicking. My. Ass. Even with Yak Trax, it’s hard work to run on slippery, uneven surfaces, and occasional wind gusts of over 40 miles per hour aren’t exactly helping things. My body has been telling me to take it easy, so yesterday when I finished my run I took my sweaty, stanky running clothes and did something unprecedented – I threw them in the hamper. The hamper, people! What’s that you say? Isn’t that what I always do following a run? Hell, no, I don’t. Duh…Following a run, running clothes are typically laid over radiators throughout the house . This allows them to air out/dry out a bit, while also spreading my particular scent throughout the Moose Cave. I like to call it Eau de Moose. And it does NOT smell surprisingly like skunk scat, despite what Mr. Moose may claim. And who are you people, anyway – the Clean Freak Patrol? I have neither a laundress, nor an endless supply of clean running clothes. Truth be told, I don’t even have a working dryer. This means that I have developed the ability to completely disregard normal standards for human hygiene. I know that most runners are a bit ripe at the end of a run, but I am fairly foul right from the get go. That’ s because I’m generally wearing clothes that are a bit past their prime. Meaning that they’ve already been worn…and befouled…sometimes several times. Before you shudder in revulsion and take me off your Kwanzaa card list, you should know that I have SOME standards. I never re-wear socks and underwear, and I rarely partake of this putrescent practical practice in the summer. During the colder months, however, I have been known to get anywhere from three to five runs out of the same pair of pants, and two to three runs out of my bras and shirts. I’m recycling, people, so stop grimacing at your screens while furiously deleting me from your blog rolls. And no dry heaving, either – that’s just uncalled for. It’s not like I’m a complete pig, after all. I faithfully give each article of attire my tried and true “Sniff Test.” If I don’t gag after deeply inhaling from the crotchal and pittal areas, then those clothes are clearly NOT yet ready for the hamper. Smart, yes? Yes.
So yesterday when I threw my running clothes in the hamper after just a few wears, I was giving myself permission to take today off. I woke up to a balmy 34 degree day, though. And believe it or not, it was NOT snowing! This meant that I had to run, even though that now entailed a trip to the underbelly of the hamper. I switched the order of my bras, so that the one that had been on the outside yesterday…and the day before…and the day before that…was now on the inside. This reduced the grotesque factor just enough for me to actually proceed with my ill advised plan. The pants weren’t too foul, but only because I may have exhaled rather than inhaled whilst doing the Sniff Test. Stop judging me, people. I’m only hurting myself here. And the structural integrity of my running attire. And those do gooders at the EPA and the Clean Air Council. And everyone in the greater Frostburgg area who does not currently obtain all of their oxygen via a tank.
And my “recycling” has NOTHING to do with my inability to attract and keep a running partner – nothing, I tell you.
Miles: 5.14
Pace: 8:17
Stank: Legendary
What is WRONG with you people?! It’s Christmas, and you should be spending time with the family/praying to lil’ hay-smelling baby Jebus, NOT visiting the disturbing, profanity riddled blog of Loose Moose. Jeez, people…Keep this up and I’m going to have to think about replacing you with eleven sensible readers. (Sorry – I may be even crankier than usual. Mr.Moose woke me up reeeally early this morning to give me…um…a “present”. The alarm clock was blinking the wrong time because we’d lost power in the night, and I barely even had my wits about me as that sneaky bastard defiled me gave me my “gift”. Upon completion of the…um…gift transaction, Mr.Moose scampered away while gleefully informing me, “It’s only 6:15!” Sick scampering bastard. I’ll get him someday.)
Not much running news here today, only because I’m afraid to incur the wrath of the Frostburggians. Those Guardians of Goodness will stone me for sure if they see me out running, rather than celebrating Jebus’ b-day. “Look at that heathen!”, they’ll say while shaking their heads in disgust. “She probably hasn’t even gone to church today. Or made a birthday cake for the son of God.” And then they’ll sic their mean ass dogs on me and cackle while I slowly exsanguinate. Which is probably not what Jebus would do, but whatever…
I figured Christmas Eve day was safe for running, though, so yesterday I ran 5.33 miles at an 8:35 pace. This has earned me manyvisits to the cookie trough. Currently, while I blog and the ham bakes, the Moose Family is watching a holiday movie . It’s one of those wholesome, family classics that leaves the viewers feeling all warm and fuzzy. Truly, it’s one of those sickeningly sweet holiday flics that harkens back to a more innocent era. No, it’s not “It’s A Wonderful Life”, you freakin’ ass-hat. Clearly, the movie of which I speak is “Tropic Thunder”. (You must be some kind of Simple Jack/Jacqueline to not have picked that up from the clues provided.)
Anyway, happy holidays, Eleven Readers. I hope your day was pleasant and that your “gifts” were all the right size. 
Blizzard-like conditions continue. It’s twelve degrees but much, much colder than that with the wind chill factored in. There are wind gusts of up to 45 miles per hour. The visibility is exceedingly poor. All area schools and many local businesses are closed. Even the plows are sliding on the snow covered roads. And so I ran.
A neighbor called out, “That can’t be fun.” and I immediately contradicted him. “Heck yes, it’s fun!”, I maniacally yelled back to him. Then I chipped the icebergs from the lenses of my glasses, and discovered that I’d actually yelled that to his mailbox and not to him, but I’m sure he got the point. Because winter running, is indeed, a ball of fun. Not only do you feel intrepid and fearless and bold (NO, Mr.Moose – not foolish and suicidal and foolhardy), but there’s a certain anonymity to winter running that really appeals to me. Hidden beneath my baklava and my myriad layers of outerwear, I am mysterious and stealthy. My seventeen shirts keep in the stank of my fear, so the dogs don’t menace me. I am genderless and asexual, so the perverts don’t take notice. I am Incognito Runner Thang.
My newly recharged (but still highly suspect) Vic says I did 4.1 miles today at an 8:46 pace. I’m thinking that deserves a visit to the Island of Misfit Cookies.
I don’t know the exact location of all of my eleven readers, but I think I can safely claim that it is waaay snowier here in Frostburgg than wherever you happen to be…Even if you live in Reykjevik…or the Arctic Circle. Virtually every school in this part of the state was closed or dismissed early on Friday, and the snow and wind haven’t let up since. As I scrape the ice off my window to peer outside, I’m convinced that I am trapped within a giant snow globe that is being constantly shaken by a malevolent giant…Stoopid, mean ass giant. I wish he’d go someplace balmy and tropical, like Reykjevik, and leave the good people of Frostburgg in peace!!
This morning while impatiently waiting for the snow to stop, I baked (and sampled) dozens of cookies. It continued snowing. I did a bit of housework. It snowed even harder. I furiously shook my flour covered fists and cursed the fates. Believe it or not, even THAT didn’t work. Finally, I realized that if I was going to get in my run today, I best just strap on the Yak Trax and do it. After bullying the Moose Family into ONLY eating treats relegated to ”The Island of the Misfit Cookies” (You know those “treats” – the gingerbread men with sooty,gimpy, withered legs… the bells with larger cracks than an obese belt-less plumber…the Santa faces that look as if Mr. Claus was ravaged by psychotic, ax-wielding elves), I hit the road.
What a great run! My layers of clothing kept me warm and dry. My Yak Trax and my reflective vest kept me safe and sound. I was menaced by no dogs, and heckled by no perverts. I was cheerfully greeted by name by a neighbor who was shoveling off her car. (Yes, shoveling off. “Brushing off” is for you pussies who live in WARM places – like Reykjevik) The plow dudes gave me a friendly wave and a wide berth as they went by. I haven’t charged Vic in eons, so I’ve no real data but I’d guess that I ran about 4 1/2 miles at around a 9:00 min./mi. When I arrived home, I discovered that the neighbor’s absurd shitmas decorations had been poned by the snow. HA! The polar bear was lying on his back, four plastic limbs waving in the frigid air. The carousel of idiocy had also toppled over, and was stuck between the bear’s legs. It kind of looked as if the bear was having his way with it. I smugly observed this little shitmas rape scene for a bit, then shed my snowy clothes and hit the shower. Have I mentioned that I really enjoy winter running? Those poor bastards in Reykjevik don’t know what they’re missing.
The past week at work has been highly unproductive, mainly due to my colleagues’ obsession with “Secret Santa”. For the uninitiated, this is a disturbing game whereby grown adults, who really should know better, hang exceedingly tacky X-mas stockings for the sole purpose of distributing and soliciting treats from others. Each day, the “Secret Santa” provides a retarded clever retarded clue as to his or her identity.
I can almost hear you sickeningly sweet ass wipes asking, “What’s the problem, Loose Moose? This sounds like good, clean, wholesome holiday fun. Count me in!” And to you I would reply, ”Go fuck yourselves – rather hard.”
…Because apparently I work with people who have no sense. These nut balls shop ONLY at Bath and Body Works, then merely exchange the putrid smelling candle that they purchased for the equally putrescent candle purchased by a coworker. ”Mulberry Christmas”? “Cool Citrus Basil”? “Candied Yam?” Seriously, people. You’ve caused our workplace to reek like a bordello in the North Pole. If Mrs. Claus was to get all dolled up before pulling a train with the elves, THIS is what it would smell like. And surely there are laws against that.
…
…
….Oh, yeah. This is supposed to be a running blog, huh?
All I can say in my defense is that if my candle-loving colleagues ever decide to shop at Fleet Feet or Sports Authority they can count me in. ‘Til then, I’ll just retch quietly whilst trying not to be too arouseddisgusted at the thought of a North Pole gangbang.
I have few interests, and Christmas is definitely NOT on the list. Unfortunately, I am currently sandwiched between two neighbors who are manic in their quest to outdo one another with the holiday cheer. Neighbor A (AKA “The Interlopers”, as they moved into the house vacated by M. and her hubby B. Adios, Bradeline. Hello, Interloping Douchebags.) presently has two ginormous inflatable pieces of holiday shit littering up their front yard. One appears to be a giant snow globe containing a moving carousel of idiocy. The other is the scariest freaking polar bear you’ve ever seen. Never before has plastic been used for such nefarious purposes. Neighbor B (AKA “Orphan Exploiters” for their penchant for running a Dickensian workhouse) is more subtle - they just blare tinny, atonal Christmas music. All. Night. Long.
What has this to do with running, you ask? Behold in awe and wonder, eleven readers, as I skillfully tie together my loathing for Christmas with my ambivalence love for running. Because let’s remember who Neighbor A and Neighbor B are welcoming into our midst – none other than that fat bastard Santa Claus!! And, clearly, given Santa’s BMI, he needs to…you guessed it!…RUN!!! Santa, though, is an indolent bastard. Every small child knows that he just whips his helpless, captive reindeer when he should clearly just shed a few lbs. and RUN from house to house. And you people aren’t helping matters any by leaving him plates of fattening cookies. Screw the cookies! The dude is morbidly obese! Leave him celery stalks if you must, but no more cookies. Hell, he doesn’t even deserve celery, because speaking of Dickensian workhouses what about those poor, exploited elves?! They never asked for any of this.
If you people care one whit about SatanSanta, you will immediately e-mail him at the North Pole. Let him know that a BMI of 45 is not exactly healthy. Tell him, too, that a diet of cookies, candy canes and cocoa will take years off his life expectancy. You should probably include a training schedule for Santa Slob, as well as registration information for his first run. He’d probably like this one
.
PS : Santa? If you’re reading this, you should know that I have been VERY good all year. And all I want for Christmas is the fiery, violent immolation of my neighbors’ scary ass inflatable polar bear. And a new Garmin.
Recently bbmom kindly provided me with my first tagging.
Well, somehow Mr. Moose managed to disregard all items on that tagging wish list with the exception of…
(wait for it…)
…”Comfortable kink wear – the kind that does NOT scratch up my nether regions.” Can you even BELIEVE that he honed in on this item, rather than on the working time machine or the cottage by the sea? Go figure.
I am not even kidding when I say that he IMMEDIATELY went online and ordered me several outfits like this one:
…only sluttier. Much, much, MUCH sluttier. And skankier. Much, much, MUCH skankier. WTF, Mr. Moose? Do you seriously expect me to run in THAT?!? ‘Cause obviously the comfy kink wear was just to make me feel sexy while I run. Duh! (And for God’s sake, do NOT suggest a running skirt as a viable compromise between sexiness and athleticism, as I will eagerly remove my own ovaries with plastic sporks before ever donning a running skirt. And then eat them – the ovaries, not the skirt and/or sporks. Yummm…ovaries.)
Mr. Moose ordered the kink wear with incredible speed and urgency, almost making me believe that he finds my typical clothing choices unappealing. That can’t be true, though. Because what’s not to love about flannel sleep pants paired with oversized, stained running shirts, that’s what I would like to know. Silly, silly Mr. Moose.
As I am nothing if not practical and waste-loathing, I have no choice but to don the ordered items when next I run. The bra doesn’t seem to provide very good support, but I suppose it’s a bit better than the nipple-less version that has also been ordered. And those fishnets will likely yield some interesting chafe marks in even more interesting places.
And please, please, please, my 11 scandalized readers: Absolutely no comments/puns about Gu/goo, ‘kay? Because amidst all this moose horniness, I need to believe that somewhere in the world there is a haven of wholesomeness. And underwear without strategic genital cutouts.
It’s official: I am now a substandard runner. While I have never been the definition of speed, I did once possess a very strong work ethic. I was out there daily, sometimes even twice a day, smugly ignoring injuries, adverse weather, and those pesky, virulent time suckers like “family” and “work”. Despite my near phobia of all dogs (except for half dead Golden Retrievers named Babe) I ran through canine packed regions, bravely packing Pupperoni to appease those who would maul me. I was the lunatic runner out there in sub zero temperatures, in blinding snowstorms, frantically dragging my wounded, ice encrusted limbs behind me. Not. Any. More.
Today I went out for a run, and before I’d even made it half a mile I began inventing reasons to stop. My internal Wendy Whiner voice complained incessantly about the cold, the wind, the incipient turtle head, the high probability of canine attack, the chapped lips…Still, though, I planned to tough it out. After all, I am a Boston Qualifier. And an ice road trucker. And a highly decorated Navy SEAL. Okay…I’m only actually one of those things, but still.
“Man up!”, my internal Chuck Norris voice commanded. Just as he was getting ready to bitch slap Wendy Whiner senseless, I heard it… a sound that chilled me to the core. It was the quiet but deadly metallic ringing of a loose dog’s leash. Fuck. Me. This was definitely reason to call it quits. I braced myself for the attack, while Wendy – no longer internal – whined audibly. That cowardly Nuck Chorris, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found. Still whimpering, my eyes scanned wildly, trying to determine the direction of attack. I slowly realized, though, that the metallic ringing sound had stopped – completely. WTF? I ran a few more tentative steps and it began again. I stopped – the noise stopped. WTF, indeed. Terrified of my own zipper.
So it’s my first tagging, people. (And unlike one’s first shagging, this one does not leave unsightly hymen blood all over the place.) I am ONLY doing this because bbmom requested it, and as the mother of the Great and Powerful M., she swings much weight. Don’t get on bb’s bad side, people, or she WILL sic her wooly ass sheep on you.
Eight Favorite TV Shows…’cause God forbid I should read a book or somethin’.
1. Survivor
2. Grey’s Anatomy
3. The Office
4. Samantha Who?
5. Wife Swap
6. The Bachelor
7. Desperate Housewives
8. Corner Gas
Eight Things I Did Today…again, in lieu of actually bettering myself or the planet.
1. Cursed a Great Lake for causing piles of snow to be dumped upon me and mine.
2. Ate Italian takeout for dinner.
3. Regretted/berated myself for not running.
4. Muttered “Idiot!!” in my best Napoleon Dynamite voice.
5. Shouted “Great success!” in my best Borat voice.
6. Witnessed a colleague cat fight – goood shit.
7. Called my mom and my sister.
8. Surreptitiously picked my nose.
Eight Things I’m Looking Forward To…
1. My trip to Rome with Mr. Moose!!
2. Girl Moose’s/Boy Moose’s winter breaks from college.
3. SPRING!!
4. Running at the Circus Maximus/My first gelato. (See #1)
5. President Barack Obama.
6. A new garden. (See #3)
7. Retirement/Grandbabies…decades away, but I AM a planner.
8. Borat II.
Eight Favorite Restaurants…
1. G & F – the aforementioned Italian place.
2. Red Lobster (Pronounced “Red Lomster”)
3. *Eat-Your-Face-Off Chinese Buffet… *This might not be the actual name of the establishment, but it IS how I conduct myself while patronizing said establishment.
4 – 8. We moose don’t get out much.
Eight Wish List Items…
1. A larger share of the moose bed. (That Mr. Moose is a known bed hog. I’m considering calling the law.)
2. Such as…world peace…and maps for all…such as…
3. A working, friendly Garmin…one withOUT an attitude problem…stupid Vic.
4. Continued health and happiness for me and mine.
5. A tiny cottage/hovel/shack near water.
6. Magic jeans – ones that will make it appear that I have a high, round ass instead of just an ass-shaped concave hollow where an ass SHOULD be.
7. Comfortable kink wear – the kind that does NOT scratch up the nether regions.
8. A working time machine.
Fear not – I will NOT be tagging others. (Mostly because bbmom already took the only two other bloggers I personally know . And I sure don’t expect you psuedo interwebs “friends” to submit to this tagging nonsense.)
