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If you take a moose to Maine, he’ll probably NOT get muffins with some of your mother’s homemade jam. Instead, he’ll likely get a .375 right between his lil’ moosey eyes. And then the hunter, most likely a white Republic in a red flannel shirt, will haul said moose carcass to the taxidermist. The taxidermist, also a white Republican, will mount that moose head. He won’t mount the moose in a sexual way, though, because that’s a tad twisted and that’s just not how Republicans roll. Instead, he’ll saw the moose’s head off, preserve it using some magical taxidermy supplies, then attach it to a board. That’s good, clean all American fun, right there.
I tell you this cautionary tale because Mr. Moose and I are on our way to Maine this weekend. And we REALLY don’t want to get mounted, at least not by a taxidermist. Our plan is to be gone about a week, so if there’s no new post after that you really might want to investigate. Call Lisa Ling and have her haunt the area around Bar Harbor, Maine. Please do NOT let Loose Moose and Mr. Moose become wall trophies/hat racks. ‘Cause we hate it when that happens.
Incidentally, I know that Glaven is chomping at the bit right now. He’s got to be more than a bit jealous that I’ll be in such close proximity to the recently relocated Teh Marcy. All I can promise, Glaven, is that I’ll keep my eyes peeled. And I’ll warn Mr. Moose to wear a protective cup to guard against any sneaky Fauxlipino meat punches.
I’ll try to run whilst in Maine, but I’m not promising anything. We’ll be going on the motorcycle so I’m already anticipating a sore ass. (NB, Glaven: This is NOT anal induced soreness. ‘Cause it’s not even our anniversary for another two months or so.) So a sore ass coupled with the mountains of Maine might mean that I wuss out on the running. There is this big ass mountain in Acadia National Park that I’d love to run, though. Mr. Moose and I rode up it on our honeymoon, back when I was a sedentary Veinessa-free nonrunner. We saw a few runners going up that mountain and I remember thinking to myself that they were CLEARLY not right in the head. I still think that, but I want to run up that mountain just the same.
On another note, J., Boy Moose and I just returned from the weekly Fun Runs sponsored by a local running club. The runs occur at the same location as the River Rat 5K/10K and follow the same route. But I don’t know why they persist in calling them “fun” runs because it was just agony. It was 86F and humid this evening, and the 10K route that I did in 46:29 on Saturday I now did in 50:07. And what is fun about sucking that hard? – That is what I would like to know. It’s kinda like those “fun” sized candy bars. There is absolutely no “fun” in denying me 90% of my original full size candy bar, leaving me with just enough to get a taste for more. NOT fun, people. Decidedly un-fun. I’m thinking that if you have to add the word “fun”, you can pretty much count on something being full of suck.
Okay. Off to Maine soon – I’ll be thinking of you all as I eat my weight in lobster and then do little to burn it all off.
Fondly, Teh Fun Loose Moose
Yearly mileage: 713
The River Rodent 5K/10K may be the best race ever. But I might just think that because I’ve run it three times now, and each and every time I have managed to eke out both a PR AND an age group award. That means that I now have a fairly impressive collection of rat themed mugs. Currently, age group awards consist of ceramic coffee mugs emblazoned with a scarily skinny, running rat. Said rat demonstrates impressive form, but for some unknown reason he’s wearing a wrestling singlet – which is NOT a good look for members of the rodentia family. Still, I LOVE these mugs. I love them so much that all members of the moose family are strictly forbidden from drinking from them. They’re just fer lookin’ et, kinda like my resin moose collection, my highly coveted collection of brown glass Lysol bottles and my myriad other tasteful objets d’art.
I had lots of good company at the run this year. J. and her family were there, as were Bradeline and their three kids. Five of the six kids ran, either in the kid’s fun runs or in the 5K. M. finished the 5K in a speedy, speedy fast 27:00, despite the fact that she had to stop to tie her shoe. J.’s daughter finished her first 5K ever, which was wildly exciting, and her six-year-old son finished the one mile fun run in 10:20. And that kindergartner never even trains!! Like, at ALL. I’m fairly certain that J.’s been slipping performance enhancing drugs into little A.’s after school milk and cookies. She’s a good mom like that.
I had a couple of different goals for today’s 10K. First and foremost, I wanted to avoid befouling my shorts. To ensure meeting this goal, I took Immodium prior to the run. When one fell into the toilet I considered going in after it. But the damn toilet water dissolved the pill before I could get it out. I just don’t know why the makers of pharmaceuticals do NOT have the common sense to apply urine resistant coating to their pills – Gawd!! I cussed mightily and popped another Immodium in my mouth.
My second goal was to come in in under 47:00, which is my 10K PR and my time at this run last year. To ensure meeting this goal, I hoped and wished and crossed my fingers real, real hard. Because hoping, and wishing and finger crossing is WAY easier than actually working for it – training sucks, people. I kid, I kid. I have actually been doing some speed work. Not enough and not consistently, but some. J. and I went to the track on Tuesday and I abused myself with some 800 repeats, and we’ve decided that this needs to be a weekly event. We’re masochists like that.
There is no starting mat at this race, so I decided to push my way up towards the front. It’s a whole different world up there, people. Everyone is silent and serious. They ALL have Garmins and they actually get into position when the announcer says, “On your mark”. I usually take the “On your mark” statement as a fine time to dig the underwear outta my butt, but today I copied my fellow runners and tried to look legit.
I ran hard the whole way, only stopping briefly to drink at the three water stops. (I just can NOT master that whole drink-while-you-run thing. With every attempt I just get better and better at the whole choke-and-gag-and sputter-and-vomit-while-you-run thing.) I knew I was doing fairly well because Vic was reading a 7:3x pace much of the time. Near the end I sprinted for all I was worth. It felt like I was flying, and I know I was covering lots of ground with each step but some douchebag STILL passed me at the end. I hope his testicles wither and drop off.
I heard lots of cheering at the end, thanks to J. and Bradelineand their noisy offspring. I tried to express my appreciation, but that would have required energy and the ability to talk/smile/give a thumbs up, and I just didn’t have it in me. Winning a rat cup takes a whole lot outta ya. They told me later that they were chanting “Barf! Barf! Barf! Barf!” in honor of the incessently vomiting 5K finisher who completely befouled the finish line area. In my confused and exhausted stupor, I thought they were telling me that I was sitting in a pool of vomit, but I just couldn’t muster up the energy to relocate. ‘Cause what’s a little vomit residue among runners?
Behold my stats, people:
46:29
7:29 pace
61/220 overall
8/94 females
1/16 age group
Hopefully, that silly race committee will expand their rat themed awards in the future. My fervent wish is to acquire a complete service for eight of rat themed dishware. Mugs are just the beginning. I’m thinking plates, gravy boats, salad bowls - all emblazoned with that skinny, singlet wearing rodent. This will make a fine heirloom to bequeth to the Girl Moose. ‘Cause the Boy Moose has already called dibs on those glass Lysol bottles.
…’cause Xenia has introduced me to the amazing Failblog.
Failblog, where have you been all my life?
Yearly mileage – STILL 663 ’cause I just can’t drag my lazy ass away from this.
I like television – a lot. I watch smart, informative shows like “Nova”, “Bill Moyers Journal” and “Masterpiece”. (By which I might mean “The “Bachelorette”, “Wife Swap” and “Family Guy”.) I like nothing better after a hard day at the not-a-greenhouse than to just mindlessly veg challenge my mind and expand my outlook in front of the television. Imagine my horror, then, upon discovering that a vicious plot, probably Canadian, has rendered my favorite shows unwatchable.
There is a frenzied ant race occurring on every single channel of my television. It is my worst nightmare. (Except for that recurring one where Pennywise the Dancing Clown keeps filling my ears with gobs of scrambled eggs.) And it would have been different if there had been some sort of warning, perhaps from the government, of the antification of Stewie Griffin Bill Moyers, but nooooooo. It just came out of the blue, people.
What’s that, Mr. Moose? You say there WERE government warnings about this? Bajillions of them over the course of a year or more? Oh. Alrighty then. And that I’d currently have ant-free television if only I’d agreed to purchase that expensive antennae along with those converter boxes? Hmmm…interesting. And that we could solve this dilemma completely by just getting cable TV? Well, fuck you, Mr. Moose!! Who died and made YOU moosident?
Maybe this whole Canadians-scrambled/stole-my-television-signal will turn out to be a GOOD thing in the end. It should free up loads of time for me, so that I can pursue other passions. Hey! Maybe I can even start running again, so that I can actually write about – call me crazy, here – running on this here running blog!
But when Jillian (who is Canadian, by the way, and likely the evil mastermind behind this whole antification event) discovers true love in the most remarkable and shocking rose ceremony ever, will someone out there please just let me know? Thanks.
Yearly mileage: 663
Everybody give it up for the great and talented Mr. Moose. He was just hired for his dream job!!!!!
(Ahem) I SAID, Everybody give it up for the great and talented Mr. Moose, already.
You damned interwebs friends. It’s just so unsatisfying to not hear you when you applaud wildly. (You ARE applauding wildly, yes? And stomping the floor? And going, “Woo! Woo! Woo!” in the manner of a mentally challenged Marine? Well, keep it up, people, because Mr. Moose definitely deserves these accolades.)
Back to the Mister. For five long years he’s been working towards this day. Like me (Fuckin’ copy cat), he’s chosen the profession of Not-A-Botanist. But the not-a-botanist field has been experiencing massive layoffs as of late. Our local not-a-greenhouse, in fact, just eliminated countless positions. We were not optimistic that he’d find anything this year, thinking that he’d need to continue interning and accepting temporary positions. But alas, his magnificence has been recognized and he’s procured his dream position. (By which I do NOT mean anal, Glaven. ‘Cause that’s more an orifice than an actual position.)
This dream job is good for many reasons.
- Not-a-botanists perform a very important job. It is both crucial and socially significant, and Mr. Moose is into all that nonsense. (I just wanna pollute shit and exploit the down trodden, but not that guy. He’s like some kinda crusader for good.)
- Our income just increased a fair amount. In fact, I can probably afford a new running bra now, instead of just layering on three fagged out bras which make elastic crunchy noises if I do so much as exhale.
- Not-a-botanists need a LOT of energy to effectively perform their jobs. In anticipation of this fact, Mr. Moose said to me, “Loose Moose, I guess I better start running.”
So there you have it, people. Mr. Moose gets to save the world, while I get to accumulate wealth, ruin his knees, and be protected from dogs. Win-win, yes?
We went out today for our first run. It was AWESOME. We generally walk about a mile and a third several times a week. This time we did our same route, only we added short bursts of running into the mix. We’d run to the next corner or mailbox or rusted, dilapidated trailer home. Mr. Moose performed admirably, especially given the fact that he wasn’t exactly dressed for it. (Elite runners eschew blue jeans and flannel shirts for a reason, I’m guessing.)
My plan (Don’t tell the Mister) is to gradually increase our distance ’til I’ve turned that moose into a real runner. But not so much of a real runner that he becomes all skinny and shit, ’cause then his penis will get huge and make me wince.
Yearly Mileage: 646
Today J., niece-o’-J. and I all went to the big city to run Madison’s Monarch Race. This is a 5K in memory of a local girl who passed away from leukemia 13 years ago. The run raises money for an area children’s hospital and for pediatric cancer research. There were butterfly decorations everywhere, and in one field there were hundreds of paper butterflies, each recorded with the name of a child who had died of cancer. So that’s cheery, huh?
Somehow, though, it was. Yes, the now expired Madison’s picture was everywhere, staring at us with her big cancerous eyes, but SO many happy people gathered in her memory, with the common goal of eliminating a terrible disease. I’m sure her parents can take some solace in the fact that she is remembered, and that some good will come from her passing. I was just there for the shirt.
Unfortunately, said shirt has been defiled by a big ass MallWart logo right on the back. Have I ever mention how much I hate, hate, double hate, LOATHE MallWart? They are one scummy corporation, people, and if Madison’s parents had worked there MallWart would probably have denied them health coverage just when Madison needed it most. Then they’d probably ship her off to China and force her to make American flags.
Despite the heinously offensive shirt, this was a GREAT race. I did not PR, but I came close. I was nineteen seconds slower than at the 5K that I did on Memorial Day. I attribute this 19 second loss to the fact that I did not have my lucky hat. This is a hat that M. and I got at the one and only ultra we ran a couple years back. That hat has serious mojo, people, and if it doesn’t turn up soon I’m going to be grieving nearly as much as…Never mind. I was going to write “Madison’s parents“, but that would be callous and insensitive. What kind of monster would even THINK to compare the loss of one’s beloved child to the loss of a hat? But I guess it’s already out there now, and you’re not likely to think any worse of me, so what the fuck, huh? I’ll grieve nearly as much as Madison’s parents. There – I’ve said it. I’m going to hell for sure. But I’ll likely meet the CEO of MallWart while there, so that might be interesting.
Race stats:
22:42
7:16 pace
3/50 age group
17/403 females
115/777 overall
Good gravy, people. I had not intended to post at all today but then I noticed something very cepuliar peculiar on my stats page. (Please note that by “cepuliar” I do NOT mean oddly arousing.) And then, just like that, I felt compelled to post, so that we can all band together to locate and congratulate incarcerate the disturbed individual who googled the following:
dude fucking a moose
Really and for true, someone found my blog by googling that very phrase. It seems strange that anonymous perverts are THAT interested in me and Mr. Moose, but there you have it.
That’s it, people. No running stories, zero almost-shat-myself tales, and nary a put-down-your-fucking-dog rant. Just dude fucking a moose.
Yearly mileage: 624
