You are currently browsing the monthly archive for February 2009.
Bear with me here, people. You know we Frostburggians don’t get out much, so I really have to make the most of my recent trip abroad. Very soon I’ll be back to writing those shorts-shitting, dog-dodging moose mileage posts that you know and love tolerate.)
Mr. Moose and I knew that we wanted to save our visit to the Colosseum and the Roman Forum for our last full day in Rome. We were in a dilemma, then, as to what to do on our next-to-last day. Mr. Moose was hoping for Ostia Antica, but the thought of another train ride (along with our inevitable humiliating ejection from first class) left both of us less than enthusiastic. There was also still MUCH in Rome we were eager to see, and so we solved this dilemma the way that any rational beings would – we let a chicken carcass decide our fate. (Oh, pleeze! Don’t even pretend that animal carcasses have never served as oracles when you need to make those important life decisions, things like “Who should I marry?”, “Is this the career for me?”and “Do these pants give me obnoxious camel toe?“) We used the wish bone from a recently consumed sma roasted chicken, deciding that if I had the bigger piece we’d stay in Rome, visiting the Vatican and other sites we’d missed, and if Mr. Moose had the bigger piece we’d be off to Ostia. Guess what? My piece was bigger. (And no, Glaven, this is NOT an invitation for you to expound on the size of your own piece.)
We got on the subway, headed for Vatican City. We easily made it through security, despite the presence of Mr. Moose’s much beloved Opinel pocket knife (A souvenir that he acquired in a small shop near the Pantheon – I hate it, ’cause he loves it more than he loves me). Once through security, I just gaped at the enormity and beauty of the Piazza San Pietro. St. Peter’s Basilica is HUGE, and so were the crowds gathered up front. You could feel the anticipation in the air, and when we realized it was Wednesday we knew why – the Pope appears each Wednesday before the crowd and gives his papal blessing. Holy. Shit. The Pope – that’s like God’s Vicar here on earth, people. I’d like to impress Sissie Sue right now with my complete and utter disregard or even contempt for such nonsense, but those nine years of Catholic school education completely warped my psyche. Sissie Sue commented that should I see the Pope, I should flip him off. I’m thinking if she was there with Mr. Moose’s Opinel she might contemplate something worse. Not me, though – I worked myself up into such a frenzy that I very nearly threw my sticky panties at the Big Guy. He’s pretty damned hot for an old geezer, and he IS the Vicar of Christ, after all – imagine the orgasms.
After receiving our papal blessing, we did loads of other great shit. We went to Trevi Fountain, which really made me have to pee. We saw the Bocca della Verita, at the Church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, and told outrageous lies while bravely shoving our hands into its gaping maw. We went to the Circus Maximus, which was quite possibly the lamest circus EVER, given its total lack of clowns and elephants. I’d heard rumors, though, that during the height of the Roman Empire this was one kick ass circus, so I was determined to run there, while pretending that scary ass cotton candy vendors were chasing me. There was another runner there, probably Barnum or maybe Bailey, and I had great fun chicking his sorry ass even though I was wearing corduroys. Take that, Barnum!!
After my conquest at the Circus Maximus (those Romans better be building me some sort of monument or arch), Mr. Moose and I and my now putrescent smelling corduroys visited San Clemente. I KNOW that you people are far too lazy to actually click on the links I’ve so thoughtfully provided, so I’ll summarize for you: This is a 12th century church built atop a 4th century church built atop a 2nd century pagan temple. The god Mithras was worshipped underground here by an all-male militaristic cult – which is not at all gay. It is the original Man Cave, and my vajango and I felt privileged just to see it.
Pretend to be interested in the following related pictures, please:
The inscription is Latin for “Do not throw undergarments at the Pope, despite his inherent sexiness. Violaters will be excommunicated.”
My lie? “I qualified for Boston on my first attempt!!” Stupid omniscient manhole cover.
Xenia: WTF IS this thing? Mr. Moose believes that the finger signifies an ancient gynecological office. I maintain that it is a hastily erected monument to ME, as I am clearly the #1 runner at the Circus Maximus. Did I mention I was wearing corduroys, people?
To be continued: Tune in next time (last Rome post – I promise) when Mr. Moose and I visit the Colosseum, the Forum and a gigantic severed foot.
(You do realize that this tale will likely NEVER end, yes? Because when it does then that means that I am no longer a worldly European traveler but just another bitter wife/mother/source of incredible running-induced stank. So do me a favor, please, and kindly fake some interest. Faking can be very good for a relationship, you know.)
Our recent visit to Rome included a day trip to Pompeii. Mr. Moose and I were both really excited about going to Pompeii, as we had both done a fair amount of reading about the site during an anthropology class we took a few years back. I’d like to say that we were eager to gain some detailed insight into the life of a city at the height of the Roman Empire, but mostly we just wanted to see some kinky ass brothel frescoes. Because porno from A.D. 79 is hot, and I’ve always wondered just how heavy Priapus’ wang was, anyway.
If you’re ever in Rome, just do one of those overpriced chartered bus tours to Pompeii – the kind where they lead your lame ass around like you are a blind, retarded toddler. This place is NOT easy to find, people. Getting to Naples is a piece of cake, but the trip from Naples to “Pompei Scavi” is more than a little tricky. And actually, I lie – getting to Naples is a piece of cake only if you’re all about being bodily ejected from your first class train seat. Silly Italians – they don’t even print those bigliettos in English, for Christ’s sake. (I know – I was shocked, too. ) But the smug, expensively attired man who actually BELONGED in first class did not seem the least bit surprised to see us depart. Go figure. After being forcibly relocated to the back of the train with the rest of the dirters, we settled down to enjoy the rest of the ride. The scenery was unique – we saw palm trees beside freakishly shaped pine trees beside cactus. It seemed to this moose that such plants could not all thrive in the same habitat, but I guess that’s why I am not a botanist. (Damn!! I just gave a clue as to my profession. Well, Potential Stalkers, give it up because that’s all you’re getting out of this Not-A-Botanist.)
Once in Naples, confusion reigned. We had NO idea how to get from Naples to Pompei Scavi. Once again, everything was in Italian, even the voices of the myriad other tourists. Where the hell are some abrasively loud Americans when you need them? We initially took the wrong train, hopped out after several miles, then waited to catch a train BACK to Naples to try it again. Mr. Moose was not amused. The cackling geriatrics on the train WERE amused, mostly by my feeble attempts to communicate. I actually – true story – made a volcano shape with my fingers and made it erupt as I made spouting lava noises. It sounds like this in case you’re interested: PSH! FWWTT! FWW!! PSHOW!!!
Back at the Naples station, we clung to a couple from Paris who seemed to be much savvier than us. With their assistance we finally made it to “Pompei Scavi”, the excavation site. It is HUGE, people, much bigger than I had imagined. Bigger, perhaps than the wang of Priapus, and THAT is pretty damned large. Mr. Moose and I spent HOURS at Pompeii, and still did not see it all. It is truly an impressive place, despite its lack of toilet seats in the public restrooms. (What’s up with a culture that managed magnificent feats of engineering, architecture and art but somehow can not produce a simple toilet seat? And I realize that I sound like the typical Ugly American now, but daaamn.)
I loved Pompeii, plain and simple. Parts of it are so well preserved that you can vividly imagine people going about their day. It was tuly amazing to be there. Continue to feign interest, please as you check out the following pictures.
I think this guy is reaching for Priapus’ wang. He better get a wheelbarrow.
Another fixer-upper. Damn, people. Invest in some vinyl siding already.
Is it mean to say, “HA!! That’s one dog that won’t be chasing a runner anytime soon.” ?
These may or may not be parts of aqua ducks aqueducts. I’d know for certain, but I was too much of a cheap ass to get the audio guide.
To be continued: Tune in next time when Mr. Moose and I visit tons of crazy cool shit, including the Circus Maximus, San Clemente, and Bocca della Verita. Oh, yeah and the Pope, too.
(While I’m certain that you are all sick and tired of reading about my recent trip to Rome, you’re really just going to have to suck it up and deal. That’s because Glaven’s recent post has catapulted me into blogulatory fame and fortune, and now I have readers to spare. I’m thinking that Glaven is like the Oprah of the blogosphere – one kind word and I’ve a guaranteed following. Eleven Original Readers, you were joined yesterday by NINETY profanity-seeking unknowns. One hundred and one readers in one day! This will likely go to my head, people, so be warned.)
On several different occassions during our trip, it occurred to me that I was a runner, albeit a lazy indolent one. On only one occasion, though, did I “formally” run. I got up bright and early, hoping to reduce my chances of becoming a bumper sticker on one of the countless Smart Cars that congest the streets. The concierge seemed appalled/concerned upon seeing me head out into such “cold” temperatures. (Alright – you caught me. One does not find actual concierges at establishments frequented by cheap, bargain hunting moose. I’m clearly just trying to impress you. He was less of a concierge and more of a sullen counter person hired to sneer at tourists) Why was sullen Counter Man appalled, you ask? It’s because Italians are pussies, the lot of them. It averaged about 54F our entire trip, but they just kept shivering and piling on even more layers of black, fashionable clothing. I assured the sullen Sneerer that I’d be fine, and off I went.
I have a ridiculously poor sense of direction, sometimes getting lost in my own 1,500 square foot house. I decided to stay close to the hotel, running only on streets that we had walked on the day before. I ran past the Forum and past the Colosseum, and I don’t think I closed my mouth once. A. Maz. Ing. I ran for half an hour before heading back to the hotel, where Mr. Moose and I enjoyed breakfast on the roof top terrace of the hotel. Nutella-smeared croissants, a bird’s eye view of Rome, and the sun on our faces – a perfect day.
That same day we learned to use the Metro and our lives changed dramatically. Now our hooves would be only extremely sore, rather than blister covered and caked with blood-pus sore. (We had been walking a LOT. Did I mention that we both developed inner thigh chafe, of the sort unheard of outside the ultramarathon or swinger set? And I have no freakin’ idea how to say “Where is the BodyGlide?” in Italian) Using the Metro, we went to the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps, Piazza del Popolo, Villa Borghese, and the Pyramid of Cestius. We also saw several Egyptian obelisks with cool ass hieroglyphics. The Pantheon was absolutely breathtaking, and so were the Spanish Steps, but in an entirely different way – Mr. Moose and I raced up them and somehow that ordinarily sedentary bastard kicked my ass. I suspect steroid abuse. At the Villa Borghese we finally remembered that we’d not yet licked any monuments, so we got right to work. Mr. Moose and I really went to town on some random dude’s head. And I know that sounds filthy, but that IS why you’re here, yes?
Silly, silly Italians. They’re all so proud of their Pantheon, just because Raphael is buried there, but everyone KNOWS that he was always the lamest of all the Ninja Turtles. And they’re all completely oblivious to that big gaping hole in the ceiling. HELLO? I’m thinking some remodeling is called for here. Back in Frostburgg, we’d cover that hole with a sleek ass shiny blue tarp, with maybe a few tires to hold it all down.
To be continued…Tune in next time when Mr.Moose and Loose Moose are bodily thrown out of first class on the train to Pompeii.
When last I left you, Mr. Moose and I had just landed in Rome where we were promptly spanked by the polizia for using the airport floor as a bed. Little did those silly Italians know that our bad manners would soon compel us to use our hotel room as a restaurant, as well. This was not our original intention, as we had truly been looking forward to dining out. Food here, however, is ridonculously expensive. 
We spent just as much time gaping in open mouth wonder at food prices, as we did at ancient ruins. We moose are a resilient species, though, and so we quickly found a solution – the grocery store! We discovered that just around the corner from our hotel was a subterranean grocery called Sma. (We’ve no idea what Sma means, but I’m leaning towards “Sustenance for Miserly Americans.” ) At the sma, we picked up bread, cheese, pepperoni, and biscotti for our lunch, which we packed into a backpack and ate while traipsing about Rome. For dinner, we would again visit the sma for a roasted chicken, more bread, gelato and absurdly cheap wine. Sometimes we’d pick up food to go at a pizza al taglio or a tavolo caldo, where prepared food is sold by the pound, and stupid foreigners like Mr. Moose and I can just point and grunt at what we would like.
On our first full day in Rome, Mr. Moose and I saw the following: Santa Maria Maggiore (one of the oldest churches in Rome, built around 440. They say the ceiling is gilded with the first gold brought over from the New World. It’s unbelievably opulent, with gold and marble oozing all about the place), the Roman Forum, Trajan’s Column, the Tiber River and the Colosseum. We didn’t go into the Forum or the Colosseum until our last day, but just viewing the outside left me awe struck. It’s big, people. And historic. And in dire need of some vinyl siding to spruce it up just a bit. I’m thinking a nice Colonial Blue would be lovely.
We retired early on our first day, and I demonstrated my vast love for Mr. Moose by gnawing off his toe nail and not berating him for forgetting the nail clippers…but no anal.
To be continued… Tune in next time when I actually discuss running on this here running blog.
Santa Maria Maggiore
I’m pretty sure that this dude is praying for some affordable food.
Now introducing my first guest blogger: Mr. Moose!!!!
(I promise not to feel too badly if you like him more than me – he’s pretty damned hilarious.)
I am peripatetic fungus. It’s true, all this time I’ve been happily cannibalizing mushrooms never realizing that they were kin until I went to Rome. Why am I fungus you may (or may not) ask? I’ll enlighten you.
#1.) I don’t wear cologne (“man” perfume).
#2.) I don’t care about fashion (If the clothes cover my fun bits, are comfortable, cheap,and durable then they’re just fine.)
#3.) I find a 50 F day a reason for short sleeves and no jacket.
In Rome, however, these attributes draw derisive stares and a general attitude of disgust. I have never seen a more vain group of people in my life. Most every Roman I saw seemed to wander about in a miasma of cigarette smoke and perfumes, dressed as though they are (or wish to be) Frederico Fellini’s stylist or as if they are going to a singles bar. In the arctic circle. One gets the idea that a Gaetano Navarra clad axe murderer who drinks espresso made from the blood of kittens would likely be welcomed into the over-perfumed bosom of the city whereas Jesus would get dumped on for his non-Dolce & Gabbana grubby robes. In short, Jesus too is fungus. I spent a lot of time wishing for political immunity (or an indulgence from the Pope) so that I could remove haughty sneering looks, and the faces on which they were displayed, with the sole of my unstylish boots. How do you say “Bite the curb motherfucker!” in Italian? Jesus would understand.
In addition to being unfashionable and, apparently, smelly, was the tremendous faux pas of not wearing a coat in weather which, to a Frostburggian, was quite nice. Everyone stared as if I were naked and unperfumed while they were dressed for a fashion show… in Spitzbergen. Man the fuck up! How in hell did you ever establish the Roman Empire (although you may note that, with the exception of Brittania, the Empire limited itself to warmer areas). No wonder those fur wearing, smelly Ostrogoths, and later, Huns whipped Roman ass. The Romans were likely organizing fashion shows, squeezing flowers for perfume, inventing lung cancer, and shivering too much to defend their empire while those fashion deprived barbarians concentrated on curb stomping, baby impaling, and looting.
I really loved Rome but it might have been better in the absence of Romans. Vaffanculo, testa di cazzo!!!! Stronzos! Si può intercettare miei non fungo. (Go fuck an ass!!! Assholes! You may sniff my unperfumed mushroom. )
We’re baaaaack!!
Five and a half days in Rome, Italy with Mr. Moose is more exhausting than running an ultramarathon…while wearing a suit of armour and weighted moon boots. But if anyone out there is looking to appear on “The Amazing Race”, then look no further for your partner. While I would suck at that game, Mr. Moose would kick some serious ass. Thanks to him we rarely slept or respirated, but, man, did we cover some ground and see some amazing shit. (That’s right – I’m such an ugly, ignorant American that majestic, ancient monuments, architecture and artwork = “amazing shit”.)
We headed out on Valentine’s Day. This was pretty smart thinking, because who can possibly expect the traditional gifts of roses, chocolates or anal sex when a small fortune has already been spent on a European vacation? We moose are both practical and economical, no?
We flew for HOURS and HOURS and HOURS, fighting nonstop for control of the arm rest while bitterly loathing the bastardos in first class. (We later learned that an upgrade to mere business class would run us 435 Euros…which is about six hundred visits to my nearest Dollar Store. Fuckin’ rich people.) When we FINALLY landed at Fiumicino Aeroporto, we were ridonculously tired. While waiting at the baggage carousel, Mr. Moose sat on the floor, leaning against his carry on bag. Within seconds a carabinieri was ON Mr. Moose, fondling his submachine gun with one hand while sternly shaking his pointer finger in the universal “Oh no you didn’t!” manner. To really drive home the point, he added “This is not a bed.” Mean-ass carabinieri…I hope his personal machine gun went unfondled all Valentine’s Day.
To be continued…
(This could take MANY posts, as I fully intend to milk this trip for all it’s worth. And my apologies to those of you who just want to read about running, as there will be precious few references to that.)
Here’s a picture to tide you over while I recover from jet lag:
LooseMoose: “Holy crap! Check out all the amazing shit around here!!
Mr.Moose: “Yeah, yeah. But does this whole trip to Italy mean that a little anal sex is out of the question?”
Stuffed moose: “Good Christ. You two disgust me.”
I have been quite the running slacker this week, logging just eleven miles so far. This brings my yearly mileage up to a meager 165. Woo. Hoo. Hot. Damn. But I’m as energetic as a red squirrel on crack compared to you people. Hello? Can you say “slackers”? Probably not, I guess, as I’m fairly certain that you’re too freakin’ lazy to even form audible words. So I’ll say it for you: SLACKERS!!!
Why the wrath? I’ll tell you: Despite my pathetic pleas for suggestions and advice about my upcoming trip, I received just 13 comments. Thirteen… six of which were from ME. Xenia really came through, though, providing me with a customized Google map marked with favorite spots. So she and her family are safe.
My other advice? Don’t eat the meat. Don’t get robbed. Don’t lick stuff. Good Christ. Don’t you people want me to have any fun?
Mr. Moose and I leave this Saturday. I intend to visit all of Xenia’s favorites, but just to fuck with the rest of you I’ll probably eat meat/get robbed/lick stuff at every stop. Even at the gelateria, where I will belligerently order a pork chop gelato, shake my ass suggestively at a pick pocket and then give the nearest antiquity the licking it deserves.
And now on to my uterus. (I know that you slacker types are always eager for updates about my uterus. Just admit it and save us both a lot of grief here.) You’ll be happy to know that Aunt Flo has arrived in earnest, meaning she will likely NOT be accompanying us to Rome. This, of course, is stellar news as it seems very impolite to sully all of Italy with my drippings. And now when I run at the Villa Borghese, at the Circus Maximus, and along the Tiber I will NOT genitally exsanguinate, nor will I be crotchally assaulted/abraded. This also means that Mr. Moose might get to lick something other than filthy, virulent monuments. Niiice.
I’ll post when we return. Be ready, people.
Today J., niece-’o-J., L., Boy Moose and I all assembled together in one very motley crew to run our fist official 5K of the year. The event was held in the ritzy, lakeside community of Snoblius, where boutiques, BMWs and meticulously dressed yuppies abound. Did I mention we were motley?
There were over 1,000 runners out today, and I swear that they were ALL in front of me at the start line, even though signs were posted so that runners could seed themselves accordingly. According to the chili pepper themed signs, I (suprisingly enough) should have been up there with the “Hot” runners, but instead I was relegated back to the “Mild” section. Among the ”mild” runners one could find pedigree dogs on bejeweled leashes, Rolex’s instead of Garmins and stick thin women wearing full makeup. That’s right – FULL MAKEUP. I expended lots of energy getting the fuck away from that crowd.
I ran hard, hoping to beat as many Republicans as I could to the finish line. Did I mention that jewelery is the award at this race? Yeah, Snoblius Jewelers is in charge of the awards, and I’m thinking that they give out actual jewelery – the stuff that doesn’t make your neck all greenish and waxy. Showoffs. So I ran REALLY hard, hoping to deprive some rich woman from possessing one more bauble that she doesn’t need. When it got hard I reminded myself that while She was meeting with her personal trainer, shopping, lunching and tanning, I was working, working, working and oh, yeah – WORKING!! I worked myself up into quite the indignant rage, but it was only good enough for a 24:13 finish. Hence, no jewels or gems for me.
The rest of my motley crew did themselves proud, though. J again proved herself to be an awesome friend, motivating and encouraging L. for much of the race. L easily met her goal of “not coming in dead last,” and Boy Moose finished in a blistering 26:44. We rewarded ourselves with chili at the after party, lots and lots and LOTS of chili. While waiting in line we were quite bitter because we saw tons of people leaving holding tiny little Dixie cups full of chili. DIXIE CUPS, people. Don’t these silly Snoblius race organizers know that real runner women not only do NOT run in full makeup, but that they also consume more than seven calories per day? We learned, though, that while ONE Dixie cup holds very little sustenance, 839 Dixie cups really do the job.
I’m certain that the after party of chili, beer and a live band were just for the benefit of us out-of-towners. Once we dirters left to return to our trailer parks, those Snoblians likely brought out the pate foie gras, the Dom Perignon and the orchestra. And laughed haughtily while fingering their baubles. Bastards.
174/1,016 total runners
9/77 age group
7:48 minute/mile
O jewels and/or baubles
Right about this time next Sunday, Mr. Moose and I will be landing at Aeroporto Leonardo da Vinci di Fiumicino!!!! (This is provided, of course, that TSA decides that our antlers are NOT cleverly disguised anthrax containers, and that Mr. Moose’s beard and swarthiness are not considered too great an international security threat.)
This will likely be a once in a lifetime trip, and I want to make sure to experience all that we can in the five and a half short days that we have. So I’m looking for some assistance here, Eleven Readers. What would you do in Rome, Italy? I’m interested in both the runner and the non-runner perspective.
As a runner, here are some activities that are high on my list:
I will definitely be running at the Circus Maximus. ‘Cause what runner doesn’t enjoy a jog through history? And imagining the agonized death cries of all who perished there will surely make my own sore legs feel better in comparison. I might get a calf cramp or two, but I’ll likely not be impaled on any spiky chariot bits or trampled by a thousand-pound horse, so that kind of puts things in perspective.
I will definitely run along the Tiber, and then maybe visit a gelateria or two to refuel. Who needs Gu Roctane when there is Italian gelato made from a 16th century recipe close at hand? (Sorry, Devon.)
I will definitely be on the lookout for an organized race. I would LOVE to race in a foreign country. I know, Eleven Readers, that you were amazed as I was with Xenia’s account of the Florence Marathon. Unfortunately, it looks like we leave just TWO days before the Roma Ostia Mezza Maratona, and a month before the Maratona di Roma. Damned Romans! They clearly did NOT lend me their ears when I told them my itinerary.
I have, however, thought of a way to make it seem, however briefly, that I am participating in a real race – I can get people to chase me!! This is not as challenging as you might imagine. One can just head on over to Vatican City and obnoxiously bellow, in one’s best Ugly American voice, “Galileo was right!! Poned! In your face, you silly astronomically challenged Catholics! And what about that Inquisition, anyway? You people have a lot of explaining to do!!” This will surely inspire the Swiss Guard to take chase, and there you go – a race! It will be great fun until they eventually catch me and beat me down.
One can also create race conditions by licking a monument or two. I’m thinking that the Italian polizia might frown upon this practice, and so they, too, might give chase. (Little known fact: Mr. Moose and I plan to treat the Colosseum and maybe the Pantheon, too, as giant, historic salt licks. Because while it is cool to be able to say, “I’ve been there!” or “I’ve seen that!” in regards to ancient ruins, it has got to be waaaaay cooler to say “I’ve LICKED that.” ) The polizia can chase us all the way to the American Embassy where we will seek both protection and toilet paper.
Still one more way to encourage race conditions is to employ mass hypnosis while on our day trip to Pompeii. If I can just convince my tour group that it is A.D. 79, those poor slobs will definitely run. Because while one can almost bear being “chicked”, “strollered”, and/or ”henned” one NEVER wants to get “lava-ed”. (Sorry, Nitmos. I can’t seem to find this particular post. You should probably consider coming out of blogging retirement to lend me a hand. Slacker.)
So, help me out here. What am I missing? What MUST one do on a trip to the Eternal City? Leave me lots of comments and suggestions. I’d like to say that I’d reward a randomly selected commenter with a Popener, but Xenia is waaay nicer than me, and I wouldn’t want this guy to get too excited.
(And kudos to this moose for a record number of links, a few of which might actually work!)
It is much too cold to run. It’s too cold to even consider running. I’ve accumulated a whopping 17 miles so far this week. Seventeen miles! That used to be a short-ish long run. I officially disgust myself.
Stupid fucking groundhog – I blame him for all this. He’s probably sitting snugly in his burrow laughing his hairy ass off. This is what we get, though, when we allow a burrowing member of the rodentia family to serve as our chief meteorologist. And a groundhog from Punxsutawney, no less! Such a town makes even Frostburgg seem cultured and sophisticated. What does that stupid groundhog care if he’s stuck in the burrow for six more weeks? It likely beats coming up to enjoy the spring air in PunxsuYawney.
It’s currently 10F. I’ve definitely run in colder weather, but not without coughing up a streak or three of bloody phlegm. And that’s only fun the first few times. It’s unprecedented that I not run on a Thursday, however, as I always take Friday off. (Friday is the day that Mr. Moose, Boy Moose and I visit my mom – and her colostomy bag. I used to be grossed out by that bag, but now I think it’s pretty cool. I’m thinking that if I had me a sweet, sweet colostomy bag I’d run faster and my shorts would be a whole lot less muddy. I could concentrate on actually mustering up some speed, instead of expending so much energy on tightening my sphincter. Haile Gebrselassie has a colostomy bag, I’m sure of it. Don’t be naive, people. One does not acquire speed and endurance through rigorous training, but through the diligent use of crap bags. Duh.)
Meteorologists (human ones, not those dastardly groundhog-types) have predicted a pleasant day on Saturday, with temps in the high 40s. They better be right, because I’ve had just about enough. And you really don’t want to piss off an angry runner with access to her mother’s intestinal contents.
Yealr mileage: 149
