Conversations with my mother that make me uncomfortable . .

My mom is on Facebook. She's made some friends on Facebook. They have some conversations and she learns some new things.

Things that I know about but maybe either think that my mom should already long know about such things and that we absolutely do NOT need to talk about. Or rather, more specifically, at this point in my life think these sorts of conversations are ones that she and I no longer need to have. Like, maybe we could have discussed these things when she was the teacher and I was the student, but definitely not vice versa. And DEFINITELY not conversations I want to have with my mother on the near eve of when I will soon be having such conversations with my own daughter.

But then I drink beer (of course) and she drinks too much wine (of course) and my dad is cooking fish and she gets tipsy from too much painting and too little food and too much wine and too much boredom and she calls me. And the conversation evolves from the Torres Tire Store fire and Beau's tutoring to something else entirely.

That's right baby. I'm talking about sex. Or really, the vajayjay. . .

So my mom has gone and gotten herself a lesbian friend. And this lesbian friend shared this site with her.

My mom wants to know why in the world would a woman spend that kind of money on their vajayjay when they could be spending it on something that people would see--like their face? Why???!!!! When no one is ever going to see that?

I have no answer for her. Okay, I might have a thought or two on why but really, with my mother? I don't want to go there.

So then, we-- over the phone-- look at some of the other procedures. . .

She jokes that if she were to become a "born again" virgin (like this one friend of mine who claimed way back in college to be one) that she would totally have the hymenplasty. But then we talk about, "why would anyone want to have that?"

Awkward!

Especially extra awkward when we then swap the extra stitch episiotomy stories.

Oh.MY.Gawd!!!!

To change the subject, I joke that maybe dad would like it if she would have the G-shot/G-spot Amplification done. And she responds that she doesn't know what the G Spot is and that Dr. Geard probably removed that part too. According to her, "he removed a lot."

Oh MY Gawd.

So of course the awkwardness is too much and her fish is now ready and Ryan is embarrassed listening in on my phone conversation anyway, so we hang up. Ryan cautions me against blogging about it, listing ramifications, but really, keeper of good judgement I am not. . .

For tomorrow, I am going to go run for a few hours in a snow storm with the ultra runner Jon Obst who will be running for 27 HOURS in a snow storm to "celebrate" his 27th birthday.

So you would think, when my mother wants to call me and discuss possible procedures on one's vagina? She knows what the fall out might be.

Soul Singing

Home bound
Tired of running town to town
Tired of my heart turned upside down
Now my life's a smile not a frown . . .

You got my soul singing my soul singing . . . from Soul Singing by The Black Crowes

Yesterday I ran my long run. No big deal and nothing really blog worthy about that fact. Last few years I've been doing a long run about every week of the year except in the summer months then maybe it was one every few weeks. This past fall though I started doing the 3 hour run sometimes twice a week and well, that just didn't work out so well for me. Not saying it wouldn't work for some people but for this late-to-discover-running-thirty-eight-year-old-mother-of-two-who-once-shattered-her-pelvis-and-still-a-bit-crooked it just didn't pan out.

But I do so love the 3 hour run. It is what gets my "soul singing".

Okay, not totally true. I really, really hate the first hour of the 3 hour run. I will procrastinate the heck out of starting it and then for the first seven miles I think about not doing it, cutting it short and sometimes just calling this whole running thing quits. I obsess during those early miles about every little thing: I might be too cold, this or that hurts, I am running too slow, I am tired, my outfit is all wrong, the hills are, somehow, steeper today than they were last week, I hate all my ipod music, and nothing feels quite right. But then I am at Walgreens and run in, pee, have Gu, some water from their fountain and I return to the sidewalk feeling better than when I started and now with a "can do!" attitude. For that second hour I run a little too fast and only worry a little about how much that is going to hurt me in the final hour.

Usually in that second hour I stop to buy Gatorade and the man behind the counter at the gas station on Johnson Ferry and Roswell Road alternately will either call me crazy, tell me I am beautiful or suggest that I should run to his house in Lawerenceville (which according to him is 24 miles from the store)and be his wife. On days when I look a little miserable he offers me a ride to his house in Lawerenceville. I don't know his name and he doesn't know mine but for once a week for over the past two years he has been a staple of my 21 mile weekly run.

By the end of the second hour or beginning of the third I usually have a low point. Sometimes, when I don't have it, I worry. I worry because that means catastrophe could be just around the corner. Like earlier this year when in the middle of mile 20 my ankle started hurting and it took me over 20 minutes to limp the final mile home. Agony.

So there is a little bit of comfort when the discomfort comes. Sure I have a bit of a pity party when it arrives but then I get "done" with myself and dig in. I know the best is about to come once I climb out of the valley of darkness. I know this is all self created but getting to triumph over adversity once a week really does help me deal with everything else that comes my way in the rest of my life. So yeah, basically, the long run helps me cope. Once upon a time Ritalin was the drug that made me right; now running is that drug. But that is a boring story for another time.

I love arriving at mile 17. Four miles to go. And now, it is mostly downhill until the final mile and half and at that point I won't care about running up a hill or three. It is always (unless catastrophe strikes) in the those final 30 so minutes that my soul starts its song. Sure I am spent, my hips a little achy, my hamstrings beyond annoyed with me and it would be completely impossible for me to make a sudden movement right or left but it is like my body is locked into running and it isn't going to stop until I get home. I love everything and I am so freaking happy! And it is so funny because at this point I am running on the same road I ran out on and only a few hours earlier I really, really hated this road and everything in the world. Funny how much your perspective can change on a three hour tour.

And always, always-- no matter if it is my regular 21 or I went crazy and ran 25 miles-- I run as hard and fast as I can manage up the final hill to my house. And, I will admit, many times to throwing up my arms and inwardly, okay sometimes outwardly, cheering for myself. And nearly every time as I get to my house I think about cartwheeling across my lawn to my front door. But, again, I am not too sure about my coordination for any movement other than running. So of course, I just slow down and walk happily into my house. But the cartwheels, or if I am really ambitious, the aerials? In my mind I did them. That is how I feel. And I guess if you have never cartwheeled or done an aerial or a flip then you just don't know how awesome and cool that feeling is: that spinning, for a split second, sideways, upside down and all round through the world feeling. That is how I feel after a long run.

But now I am sad.

The major artery that makes my perfect 21 mile run possible is closed. They are taking the bridge out on Sewell Mill Road. It will be out until June. They have a detour but if I follow it puts my run over 22 and I will have to run along Roswell Road. And that means I will have to switch sides just so I can be on the sidewalk to get to Old Canton (which a small portion of right there doesn't have sidewalk). That's no good. Never mind that is a just an ugly stretch to have to run along. Plus, I really like running down Providence Rd and Bill Murdock Rd and past the neighborhood I grew up in before I moved to Roswell. I always have a new memory from when I was little pop in my head. It is a nice little surprise and a great diversion.

So I've been searching for a new route. I tried one out yesterday. And it was too long--just over 23 miles. I was thinking though if it worked out I could just do it every 2 weeks and do a 16 mile run on the week in between.

The route took me from my house in East Cobb to Historic Roswell and back. But the Roswell stretch of Shallowford Road has no sidewalk and the soft shoulder is scary. Too many big trucks never mind the big hills. The hills though would be find if I had sidewalk. But running up that big of hill and having to look at the ground so I don't twist my ankle and fall into incoming traffic is just too stressful. Then the coming back along highway 92 is just sucky. 92 is always a wind tunnel. So this route is, sadly, no good.

For me a good running route-- from my house-- will be side walked and it needs to be a big loop that forces me to do the run (if I have to run past my house or have the opportunity to cut it short I probably will.) It also needs to have places I can stop to pee and get water. I don't like having to carry stuff and this is the suburbs; I can't just pee in someone's front yard. But those are just the basics. Ideally a good route will be somewhat scenic. Running along a 4 lane road past strip malls is not scenic in my opinion.

So I am still searching. I haven't looked into a route that will take me out towards Marietta or Woodstock so that could be an option. . .

Pet Peeve

Oh, surely I have many but on facebook my friend Lin asked today "What really annoys you?" in his status update. Of course, probably not unlike most people, a lot of stuff annoys me. Some stuff more on some days and then on other days I can be pretty mellow about most things.

No really, I can be.

Believe it or not I've actually had people describe me "as laid back." I know, I too just assume those people--the ones who think I might be laid back-- are really bad at reading people. But, I'm just making a point that, I--moi-- have come across as laid back. That there are apparently some people in this world that think of me as easy going. And to me that suggests that those people--the ones who think of me as "laid back"-- probably think I don't get annoyed about much. And of course, they would be wrong. But again, I think we already agreed that these were not the most astute people ever anyway.

Wait.
Did you see that?
Did you see how I was sort of polite about basically calling some people stupid?


Wait.
Was that annoying?
A little?

Well, truthfully I too find that annoying but I am use to it. It is a Southern woman thing after all. Southern women are awesome at insulting someone in such a way that it sounds exactly like a compliment but really what just happened is that they called you a slut when they said "You are such, a (insert thoughtful seeming pause) free spirit."

Right, I know. I'm not really all that good at it and admittedly I am often tricked by it too. This is why I avoid ladies luncheons and anything that involves a committee of women. You know they are speaking English but you are never sure what is really being said because it is smushed under some pleasant adjectives and said in polite and syrupy voice. But one quick trick in helping you decode the intention is be on the look out for conversations that start with "Bless her heart". You hear that and just know that something unkind is about to be said about someone.

Okay but that isn't what really annoys me. I know, the whole tangent thing I do can be very annoying. I can't help it. I just have so many useless things to convey! I would hate for you to miss one single thing. Do you know my nickname is Pooh? No? Well it is and there really is a Tao of Pooh and all I am saying is that later? There might be a quiz. So yeah, all these tangents are key information. So pay attention and don't skip ahead.


So anyway. . . as soon as I read Lin's question I KNEW what really, really annoys. I mean, this is something that never fails to annoy me. More so than when someone nearly causes me to rear end them when they pull out in front of me and then proceed to drive 10 miles under the speed limit. More than that.

My number one pet peeve is the cult of the little dog. And maybe this is just an Atlanta thing, or a northern suburb thing but it seems like every single time I am in a TJ Maxx or Target or Trader Joes there is some woman--and no it is never the same woman--in there with her little scraggly haired with bows lap dog in a shopping cart. And no, it is not the same dog. Just the same type of dog. You know it: the little dogs, the lap dogs. The ones with an outfit on and a froufrou hair cut and most likely they have that nasty black stuff under their eyes that little dogs all seem to have. More often than not the little dog is sitting on a pillow.

To be clear. I don't have a problem with people owning these types of dogs or wanting to dress them up or fix their hair (you know some people put colored streaks in their dog's hair?) or essentially treat them like a child. I don't even mind little dogs. I don't want one for myself but little dogs aren't the problem. I've decided that what I really have issue with is the women who own these dogs and treat them like an accessory to their outfit.(I have NEVER seen a man out shopping with his little dog and I have yet to see anyone pushing their Boxer or Golden Retriever dressed up in a shopping cart at Trader Joes.) I don't understand why they think it is okay to bring these dogs where it is totally inappropriate to have an animal. Aside from a service dog I can not find a single reason at all why you would take your dog to shop for clothes or groceries (or, for that matter, why you would want to.)

It is totally obnoxious and presumptuous to bring your dog into a clothing or grocery store and subject people who maybe don't want to be around dogs to be around dogs. And don't even try the "I feel the same about your loud and wild children in public" argument. No way. Not the same. At all. Unlike a child you can leave your dog unattended at home. You can even put them in a crate. My understanding is that DEFACS has some issues with crating children so that is not an option for parents like it is dog owners. Also, some people are highly allergic to dogs. People, while highly annoyed by children, are never allergic to them.

I am so tempted to dress up Lola and put bows in her hair and put her in a shopping cart and peruse the racks at TJMaxx. Wonder what would happen? Forget that it would be totally impossible for me to sneak my 60lb husky under my jacket and quietly squire her into a shopping cart as I imagine the little dog ladies do. I am fairly certain I wouldn't make it cross the store's thresh hold with Lola. Pretty sure if I show up with Lola at Trader Joes, or any store other than Pet Smart, we would be asked to leave the moment we entered. And I think if they wouldn't let me shop with my big dog then that would be discrimination if they are allowing customers with little dogs to shop with their dog. I mean, come on! What about the shopping rights of big dogs and their owners? Certainly, as a US citizen, nothing should annoy me more than discrimination!

And I guess maybe that is the crux of what annoys me about the cult of the little dog, or rather their female owners. These women, in toting their little dogs everywhere with them, suggests to me that they believe they are above the rules. That smacks of self proclaimed elitism and elitism-- especially unearned and assumed-- is always distasteful to me: always, annoying.

Feel free to list your pet peeve.

Some stuff that I've been liking . . .

I am taking the day off--from running and exercise. I did actually do some work today (Carrie 4th quarter stuff coming your way!) and did some laundry, cleaning and other totally uninteresting and non self-rewarding activities. This is my planned cut back week but I have some tendonitis (hopefully nothing serious) and am going the way of less is more; but this is way less than I even planned. Plus, I just feel kind of crappy today. My goal for the year is to run healthy so a day off it is.

I am, however, trying to be a consistent blogger so I am going to post even though I ain't got much to say.

But you know me.

I can always figure out something to say (past few months notwithstanding) . . .

I thought I would list some of the random stuff I have been using lately and really like. This is probably more girl directed but you never know, might be something here for the boys-- or at least maybe some gift ideas for the most awesome women in your lives.

I mentioned in my Poodle Revisited post that I had a MRSA infection under my eye. This happened because I scratched the skin on my under eye (right along the socket, just above the cheekbone). Tiniest scratch ever. This was at the end of October when I was nursing that ITBS and was at the gym a lot. My doctor thinks I probably picked up the infection there. So what started out as a tiny scratch turned into a very scary infection that the doctor was afraid that if I had I waited any longer to treat it I would have been in danger of losing my eye. The whole left side of my face was so swollen it obstructed my vision and I had a fever. Despite this I still argued with him when he tried to prescribe me Levaquin . I just couldn't risk tendon rupture after all my ITBS woes. He agreed to give me Omnicef for 2 weeks so long as I came in every few days so he could check my eye. Luckily the Omnicef worked. But man what a pain in the ass to go to the doctor that much.

While the infection completely cleared up it unfortunately left an ugly, raised, red and bumpy mark. My friend Chris (Oh no! The pressure to update your blog!) advised me on using some eye cream (I was all what is this eye cream stuff you speak of?) but ultimately all the eye cream I tried made my eyes really puffy and didn't help the scar. I was afraid to try Mederma so close to my eye--especially since the skin is so thin there. I also hate spending lots of money on face products that I don't know if they will work and will probably give me an allergic reaction.

See, here is me and Chris at The Cult (awesome concert by the way) about a week after my eye infection healed. Right eye, red mark. I deleted all the pictures where it looked really scary.

On a whim I decided to try a moisturizer instead. I know it probably sounds crazy but I have never used moisturizer. At least not regularly. Crazy, because a woman my age should probably have found "her moisturizer" 20 years ago. But no. Not me. See, ever since I became an adult I have been plagued by adult acne (oh, the irony). The older I get the worse it seems to get (wrinkles and zits! Awesome!) So the idea of adding to the oil factory on my face wasn't something I thought wise. But let me tell you I've been using Aveeno Positively Radiant Daily Moisturizer for almost 2 months now and my skin looks better than it has in, well, forever. And, best of all, I have not had to use any other acne products (and believe me, I've tried them all except Acutane) and have had no significant breakouts either. It's crazy. Ryan also loves this stuff too. Best of all the mark under my eye from the infection has gotten so much better. I can hardly see it. There is still a mark but it isn't raised or bumpy or as dark. For less than $16 this stuff is totally worth a try. I use it twice a day.

Next up is Phubby. This is a wrist "cubby". Carmella gave this to me. Totally her find. She picked it up at a gift shop in Callaway Gardens. She and Beau went for the weekend last spring with Bubbles and Poppy and she wanted to get me a present since I always bring her gifts when I go on vacation without her. How sweet is she?

Anyway, I have used this to death. It is awesome to carry Gu's, phone, lip stick, ID, money etc. I can stuff a lot of stuff in there! It has totally opened up my running wardrobe since I am no longer pocket dependent. However, a word of advice, you might want to put your cell phone in a ziplock. On a long trail run this summer-- when it was like 95 degrees-- I sweated so much I shorted out my cell phone that was in the phubby. That may have been a fluke thing since I always forget to bag my phone and I haven't had any issues with sweat or even rain. But just saying I don't think it is water proof.

Next is the second best Christmas gift I received this year.

Oh, what was first?

Why, my Frye Belted Harness boots of course!(I have a boot fetish.) My other boots are sad cause they aren't getting any play time.
But my 2nd favorite is just as great and is a hit at parties. My most thoughtful sister-in-law and brother-in-law gave Ryan and I our own personal breathalyzer for Christmas. My other brother-in-law (Wes) currently holds the high record of .26. The record, which I am sure won't hold, was set at the Band of Horses concert on Dec 30th. Which I should say the best part of that concert was for final encore they sang We are the World with a bunch of other local musicians (I think I saw the guy from the Whigs up there) and it was totally lost on the young hipsters that dominated the crowd.
I found this video from the following night:


My final current love of late is the Ulta make up kit Bubbles gave me for Christmas. I am pretty boring when it comes to make up: always with the nudes and the neutrals. But this kit is awesome! It has so many colors and they go on really nice--not flakey. My only complaint is that it doesn't have a mascara and that I can't take the lip gloss with me. But a really great kit if you want to experiment with different colors and not for a bad price either since it is just under $20.

No list of likes would be complete without at least one dislike.

Okay. So this is a pretty unusual thing. I had never even heard about it-- never mind seen one in person until New Year's Eve when I was out for my final run of 2009.
Have you seen one before?

Know what it is?

No?

Well, it is a runner's trap.


Horrible, horrible contraption.

I know, I KNOW, it looks totally innocuous. All simple in it's circular design. Don't be fooled. It may look like a metal ring but make no mistake. This trap can cause some serious damage. At all costs you must avoid the runner's trap and under no circumstances try to step through the circle. If you attempt this your front toe may lift part of the ring and it will effectively (and swiftly) lasso your ankles and bring you down. Hard. One second you are enjoying, wait, celebrating your final miles of 2009 and the next second your chin is within a mila inch of the concrete and your entire body weight is supported by your right knee and thigh and wrists. Oh believe me, you get up fast. It is a crowded intersection. And you try to act all cool and not freak out about the blood streaming down your legs, possible broken wrist and jog tuck tailed home. Oh yeah, you are going to be feeling that tomorrow and for weeks after wards. But don't worry, by some time mid month the bruises and scabs on your hands, knee and wrist will almost all be totally gone.

Good, f-ing riddance 2009.

Number One Reason NOT to Drink the Coffee at My Parent's House

Warning:
Possible offensive or at the very least crude content that might leave some scarred for life (especially if you have actually drank coffee at my parent's house.)


A week and half ago Atlanta got hit with a "snow storm". The quote marks are for the readers who live in areas where they actually have snow storms with snow. (I wouldn't want to offend anyone having just started back blogging and all.) But those who have not ever experienced a southern snow you need to know that in Atlanta any amount of snow, no matter how little, is reason for the world to shut down and for people to forget all driving skills. This year, though the snow accumulation was laughable, there really was ice on the roads and it made for some pretty scary driving over in my parts.

Exhibit A: Carmella and Beau playing the street across from my house. Complete sheet of ice.

As the member of a family where it is genetically ingrained that you must attempt to drive in all adverse conditions no matter how ill advised I drove over to my Mom's to pick her up so we could run at the Leita Thompson trail. The Leita trail is about 2 miles from her house and 7 miles from my house. I had contemplated running to the Leita but it did seem a little crazy to run 14 miles (round trip) just so I could run a few loops on the soft, groomed, snow covered Leita trails (longest loop is 2.5 miles and the max I can stand to run that loop is 4 times, usually I'm just good for 2 though). Plus, as I discovered the next day when I did run from my house that the sidewalks were very treacherous. So driving actually proved a better choice. I know many people chose to take the "snow" day off from workouts or opted to go to the gym as the temps were in the single digits but we so rarely get "snow" that I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to run in it. Who knows when Frosty is gonna show again. Gotta run and have some fun before it all melts away, right?

Snow, for us Southerners is a precious novelty. I feel like I am in a fairy tale running through the snow. Silly, I know, but don't forget: I've lived here my whole life and have been logging 50+ miles a week on the same roads for over 4 years now. Snow is a free change of scenery.

Leita trail about a mile in (clockwise):

Me and Lola heading out:

Frozen pond at the midway point on the trail:

Mom and Lola:

Mom and I had a lovely run and on the way back to her house I asked her if she had any coffee. I was out and didn't feel like stopping at the store. She only had whole beans. Oh, never mind I said, I don't have a grinder. . .

Oh, she said, I have a back up coffee maker with a grinder. You can have it. (Score!)

I know you are thinking, "back up coffee maker"? Okay, so there are 4 important things to know here about my parents:

1. They are very serious about their coffee. Annoyingly serious. Growing up 2 things we were never out of were coffee and wine.

2. My dad LOVES to buy kitchen appliances and gadgets.

3. They actually have another "back up coffee maker".

4. Yes, this makes it damn near impossible to ever buy my parents gifts. Except wine. You can, apparently, never have too much wine.

Said "back up coffee maker" that I scored:

After a lesson from her how to make a great cup of coffee, I left Mom's happy from my run and with a bag of coffee beans, a new coffee maker, a waffle iron, some beer, some potatoes, and some ketchup. (Yeah, so I remembered there were a few other things I needed to get at the store.)

I tell you what.

The shopping at my parents is good! And cheap. (Hello free! Pleased to meet you!) However, it does require some patience; like how I am waiting for them to decide that they don't really want that big flat screen that they just bought or for mom to figure out already that the wardrobe in their room really isn't the right piece for them. . .

Ryan was really excited about our new coffee maker too; especially once he figured out he could program it. And while I love that I can wake up and have coffee hot, ready and waiting--the thing sounds like the space shuttle taking off in my kitchen and serves dually as an alarm clock. The not so good part about that is at 5:30 am when I don't need to get up until 6 am. Why 5:30 am? Because Ryan ambitiously thinks he is going to be ready and leaving the house before 6 am. But typically at 5:30 am I am in the process of smacking him for the 3rd time in 27 minutes to get up and turn off the f-ing snooze.

Ryan also has been a little frustrated by the coffee but for a different reason. He thinks the coffee is weak. Therefore, I am of the belief that he is just not adding enough beans but he isn't convinced. When he found out today that my mom was coming over because my sister was coming over to do my hair he told me to ask her again how to make a "great cup of coffee." But then he changed his mind and said, never mind, ask your sister. Then he when out to do boy stuff since there was going to be a bunch of women coloring their hair here.

I totally had forgotten the story until, in mid foil and in all seriousness, I asked my sister how to make a great cup of coffee. I was thinking Ryan had told me to ask her because she and Wes have a similar coffee maker (also a previous back up coffee maker's of my parents.) But when she busted out laughing and commented that she hadn't ever told the story to mom; I suddenly remembered.

And so now we have reached the part of my story where an alternate title for this post has occurred to me: Reason #4,602 Why Not to Live in Your Parents House After College.

Pookie was about 24, doing the moved-back-into-Mom-and-Dad's-house-what-am-I-going-to-do-after-college bit. Now, first you must understand that my parents do not by any means have a small house but even though it is a larger house you are able to hear everything going on in the kitchen no matter where you are in the house. You actually come to believe, if you are in another area of the house, that once people enter my parent's kitchen they begin screaming at each other to converse. It is that clear and that loud. Pookie's bedroom at the time was at the farthest upper most point from the kitchen and one morning, surely fresh in from a hard night of partying most clearly overheard this unfortunate exchange between my parents:

Mom: Beau! This coffee is amazing! What did you do to it?

Dad: I put my dick in it.

Poodle Man Revisited

The other day I was driving down the road that leads to my parent's house in Roswell and I saw Poodle Man. I almost didn't recognize him since he wasn't with Poodle but was with Indeterminable Breed of Dog(for short I will call him Tan Dog). Admirably, Tan Dog was leashed. So different from the Poodle days... Poodle Man waved and I noted that he was even slower than he use to be but there he was, still out there putting on foot in front of the other.

Seeing him reminded me of that blog post I wrote nearly four years ago and when I got home I reread it. And there it was: six minutes and fifty-nine seconds. A one mile personal best. . .

Fast forward nearly four years later: The past six months have in particular been a bit torturous for me. I've been trapped in the real life "valley of darkness" as Steph and I say--referring to the low point one always experiences in any long endurance event. You know you will have your turn there and you have to get yourself through it. And if you've ever been with me in a race and seen me in throes of the valley of darkness then you know I like to be left alone.

But this turn in the real life valley of darkness has just been too long. It has been riddled with injury after injury (ITBS, ankle tendonitis), sickness (pluerisy, bronchitis, asthma and a MRSA infection under my eye), a do not start (Mystery Mountain Marathon), a shameful do not finish (the Atlanta Marathon at mile 17) and just some personal minutiae that individually isn't so terrible but poo piled up on poo? Well, the stench will near cripple you.

So yeah, I've been pitiful and feeling sorry for myself and haven't been writing because I personally don't appreciate listening to those type of people much less being one of them. I have long said that I think one of the best traits a person can have is the ability to laugh at themselves. But I found, quite unhappily, that I was no longer able to laugh at myself and well, I didn't want anyone to know. Besides, why write about what I myself didn't want to read?

I have been told that I'm kind of funny. And really, next to being called skinny, I think that is the best compliment ever. I love being funny and making people laugh. I mean, really, what's better than spreading joy? But all that stacked up poo? It has eaten away at me and I have definitely lost my sense of humor. I found I could no longer fake it. It was too hard to pretend the light, the funny and the witty when I absolutely haven't been feeling it. So I quit blogging.

But I have really, really missed blogging. I compose blog posts in my head all day long yet for some reason can never bring myself to actually write them. Scared that stinky poo would find itself in and I would, possibly, reveal too much (not sure I believe that). Maybe I've been scared that I've lost "it" or, worse, that I never had "it" and really, after all, I am not that interesting or even all that funny (little more likely). I suppose it doesn't matter what the precise reason was why I wasn't, couldn't blog I just know that I wasn't up for facing any more poo when I was already down. I just couldn't be the Bob Mould of blogging. (No offense to Mr. Mould. I am a huge fan. Just not so much into the dark writing myself these days.)

I have decided though; fuck it. I don't care if it sucks. I am not going to care if I am not funny, not witty, not interesting because I am still here. I am still, like Poodle Man, putting one foot in front of the other. So, I might be a little less bright, a little slower but you know what? Even my crappy 5k a month ago (en costume, no less)was at a six fifty EIGHT average pace and that is still better than I was 4 years ago. And well, I know it ain't much but it is just enough to inspire me to keep on keeping on with it all.

An Anatomy Lesson a la Carmella

Today as I was driving the kids to gymnastics I told them that I would be running while they had their classes. I reminded them that if I was late they were to STAY IN THE BUILDING and wait for me. I started in on the not talking to strangers and no matter what anyone said they were not go anywhere with anyone but Carmella interrupted me:

"Mommy don't worry," she said "Beau and I have discussed this. If it is a woman we punch her in the stomach and if it is a man we kick him in the shins . . ."

Now it was my turn to interrupt. "Not the shins," I said. "If it is a man you kick him as hard as you can in the nuts and run as far and fast as you can!"

Carmella confused asks "His nuts? Where are a man's nuts?"

Beau and I together answer: "His balls!"

Carmella still has a blank look and blinks her wide brown saucer eyes. So I clarify it for her: "His penis babydoll. You kick him as hard as you can in his penis. Got it?"

"Oh, right," she says getting it. "His shins. Same thing."

Oh my God! This is way better than the time when Carmella was 3 and asked why Beau's bottom was different than hers. I told her that he was a boy and he had a penis and she was a girl and she had a vagina. Then for weeks after wards all she talked about was her "china" and Beau's "peanuts". And no I never corrected her but somehow she figured out all on her own what shins are on a man.

Is it wrong that I immediately wished that I had shin splints as an injury instead of ITBS and I could go around complaining how much my shins hurt? That would really mess with her head! But even better than that it would make this conversation come full circle for Beau.

Ah kids. Even when you're knocked down they give you reasons to get back up and just laugh.

Puffed Up and Pouty Like a Swollen Creek

I can't talk about Fight Club yet. I am sour on things; bratty and really don't have a lot nice to say. Everything is off, out of place and just plain not copacetic in my little corner of the universe. Yes, I am hiding--throwing sticks and tossing stones and just not ready to come out. Maybe when it is sunny here again I will.

I do feel guilty for neglecting the blog. I haven't written because I am so negative lately. I can hardly stand to be around myself; much less spend time, thought, and words giving it a name, labeling and cataloging it here for you. I can't even find humor at it--at myself and well, that almost never happens. The yuckiness that I feel lately is thick and chewy and I want nothing to do with it and trust me, neither do you.

Yesterday though, when the sun peaked out a tiny bit, I did go for a little run in the morning and while not fantastic it was okay because it didn't hurt, I could breathe and of course, I was getting to run. But I didn't feel great and it was totally disgusting down by the river where I ran: sewer smell, gray and red mud slicks, twisted and broken trees, mushy gravel and occasionally, an impassable flood pool. All that on a mostly paved path.


In the afternoon I was feeling even better and really wanted to get another workout in. But Tuesdays Beau has his theater class . Typically, while Beau is in class, Carmella and I go shopping or go down by the river and she rides her bike and I run along side her. However, having seen the condition of the trail that morning and knowing Carmella's sensibilities I knew that wasn't going to work out. And because of the general lack of resources, as discussed in the previous post, shopping was out too.

So I convinced Carmella to go on a hike.

I convinced her by telling her we didn't have to run and that we could bring Lola.

Beau's theater class is in the historic section of Roswell and right near the old mill.
The mill area has been completely transformed in the last 10 or so years. When I was younger I thought of the area as a bit sketchy but now I am not even sure if I can afford to breathe the air over there it is so fancy and cute in it's pretentious small town quaint. (Hmm, that sounded a bit snarky. See, I told you I am not nice lately.)

I have heard that there are hiking trails over there and I have been wanting to check them out as I am always looking for new places with new sights to put the miles in. I have no idea how long they have been there but as far as I know they were not there when I lived over in that area during grad school. (I lived a block over on the street with all the churches. A huge 2 bedroom for $500 a month with hardwood floors that I had all to my little lonesome. It was cheap and wonderful and that is where I lived when I very first started running. Ah, nostalgia. . . )

At any rate, for those who have not been there and are also in need of a new place to run it looks like there are quite a few trails and they go all the way down to the cliffs at Allenbrook . How long the trails are I don't know-- the maps I saw didn't say but I am really really bad at reading maps. You go and figure it out and report back to me.

The trails are a little technical, probably most like the ones at Sope Creek. I don't know if you can mountain bike on the mill trails or not. I did not see signs saying one way or the other and I did not see any mountain bikers or really anyone else on the trails.

I brought my camera and we took pictures along the way.

This is the waterfall at Vickery Creek.
I am not totally clear on the names since I saw that it was called Big Creek in a few places. All I know is that I use to hang out a lot down at the waterfall off Sloan Street in high school and we called it Vickery Creek and we could walk straight across the top. And sometimes, never me, people jumped off the waterfall.

This is how it looked yesterday. I was kind of scared just to stand near it. Betting no one is jumping off it or walking across the falls this week.
There are mill ruins all over. Most people hate kudzu but one of the things I love about the landscape of the South is seeing the battles between the vines and the architecture. It is a war in slow motion.


Even though she made me promise we didn't have to run. She ran most of the time. Seriously. She is so silly. Running? It is what kids do. That walking crap is for old people.

I have never seen so many mushrooms in the area as I have this summer/fall. In fact, I have been wanting to make cut outs of Smurfs and put them under the mushrooms on the trails I run on. I think people would like that.

In my not so scientific study of local trails in the area and mushroom life the ones at the Lieta trail are the most interesting: bright pink, red or the spotted variety. At Kennesaw Mountain and at the mill trails all I've seen are the brown and white kinds and toadstools.

We walked down Sloan Street to check out the Founder's Cemetery.
I could stand it only long enough to take few pictures. I got chewed to pieces by mosquitoes if I didn't keep moving. I can't believe how bad the mosquitoes are and here it is mid fall.Aren't they usually gone by now? It it terrible. My legs look like I have the pox!

Do you see it? In this picture?

The ray of light? The sun? It is what I am hoping for these days. Trying not to read too much into it that I saw it, however briefly, in a cemetery. However, it is October so I suppose that makes sense. . . somehow.

Maybe?

A Relative Economic Problem

Special principle of relativity: If a system of coordinates K is chosen so that, in relation to it, physical laws hold good in their simplest form, the same laws hold good in relation to any other system of coordinates K' moving in uniform translation relatively to K.
--Albert Einstein

Or, in simpler terms: everything is relative, at the very least tangetically related.

So. I think I have figured out what my problem is (well at least one of them); I have never really understood economics. None of it. Clearly this is the key to most, if not all of my problems.

And yes, I am even going to blame my lack of blogging on it because in essence it boils down to a supply and demand issue. In this particular economic scenario time is the commodity. Demand for it is high and supply is low. The resource is low. There is a scarcity. Choices have to be made people!

But I think "choice" is a bad word because really, most times I don't actually get to "choose". The choice is already made for me. And ultimately this is my problem with economics. I have a problem with the whole "want" versus "need" aspect of the "choice" theory. For example; I want to spend my time running, writing and shopping. But my resources--my uncooperative IT band, lack of time, lack of money--cannot meet my demands or, really let's just be honest--ever satisfy my "wants". So, this use of the word "choice" in economics really doesn't apply to me. I don't have a choice. Oh my God!<>--am I existing outside of Capitalism? Help!!! I'm trapped in a commune!!

My lack of grasping the economic obvious really wasn't too big of a problem until yesterday. Or rather I should say it wasn't a problem I really paid much attention to if I could get away with it. Denial is not just a river in Africa when it comes to me and economics. However, yesterday I was forced to think about it because my third grader had to study for an "Econ" test.

That's right.

Economics test.

In third grade.

I don't think the word economics was even in my vocabulary until middle school and in that case it was proceeded by the word "home" and was a super fun class where we got to sit at big round tables and make cookies and sew aprons. Imagine my dismay freshman year of high school in Economics when Coach Manus screamed at the class as he ground the chalk into the board writing "THERE ARE NO FREE LUNCHES!!"

(seriously, can't there sometimes be free lunches? )

That was a really, really sad day for me. Then he handed out copies of the Wall Street Journal stock listings and told us to pick a stock to invest in for our first assignment. I've been traumatized about money realities ever since. I remember thinking: This is economics? Where are my cookies? My appliques to sew on my apron?

Taking my required economics 101 class in college was no better and is probably the exact reason why I never wanted to be a business major or even take another business class. I have taken a lot of courses ( I graduated from undergrad with 90 extra hours because I changed my major 3 times) but economics across the board was the only class/subject that I really really hated. Everything else--Statistics and Organic Chemistry included--I could find something interesting, something that I liked.

So yesterday when I came across a white typed flyer that said Econ Lessons at the top of the page in bold print I immediately felt that same confusion and stress I felt in freshman economics. There were these bolded titles:
Lesson 1: Scarcity (no coincidence that the word "scar" is in there)
Lesson 2: Opportunity Cost (doesn't that just sound ominous?)
Lesson 3: Consumption
Lesson 4: Production
Lesson 5: Interdependence (this doesn't sound so fun either)

All with neat bullet point definitions below them. At first I thought maybe it was a political flyer from the mail that had gotten mixed up with the kids school papers. I turned it over expecting to see a political agenda but it was blank.

"I need to study that Mom," Carmella said as she snatched the paper out of my hand. "I have an Econ test tomorrow," she explained.

"Huh?!"

I have to admit. A little bit of me died then. For the first time since my kids have been in school I was scared (see, there's that word again) of their homework. I feel pretty confident I can explain most subjects to my kids but economics is the one class I always hated with a passion. It was like every time the instructor talked I heard Charlie Brown's teacher and when I tried to read the textbook I suddenly had dyslexia.

Truthfully though, it is not just economics homework. I really don't like any homework--never really was my thing. I made it my mission when I was in school to do all my homework at school (with the exception of reading or writing research papers. And that was because I didn't view that as work. I liked reading. I liked research. I liked writing-- of course the caveat being: so long it was a subject I actually liked.) If that meant skipping lunch or getting to school an hour early that is what I did. If I couldn't get it done on school property during school time? Yeah, it pretty much didn't get done then.

That said I am stickler about my kids doing their homework and I even help them with it every afternoon and make sure all their assignments are done. I even encourage them to turn stuff in early.

Lucky for me my third grader likes homework and does not make too many "help me with my homework" demands. This is particularly extra lucky for me this year since my first grader's homework is using up most of the available resources (my time).

I knew there were going to be issues with the resources (my time) this year having both a first grader and third grader. I have long heard people saying "third grade is tough." And after my experience with Carmella in first grade I knew it was going to be really hard for Beau this year and his homework would take up a huge chunk of time everyday. So I hoped third grade wouldn't prove too hard for Carmella since there is only so much time (and so much of my patience) in any given afternoon. And so far Carmella has managed all her home work fine. Meaning I have not had to do any of her homework. Maybe once or twice a week I have to answer a question or quiz her on something but otherwise she is on top of it.

First grade homework though. It is killing me! More so than my inflamed It Band is aggravating my left leg and messing up my training. And that, my friends, is a lot.

I found out when Carmella was in first grade just how much first grade had changed but now, if it is even possible, I think it has gotten even harder. Either that or I am just not remembering 2 years ago correctly. Maybe I got too complacent in second grade when the demand (for my time) was low and the supply (my time) was high. Or, even more likely, I am dumber.

My brain cells were compromised the day I found out I was pregnant and have been shrinking exponentially ever since. I thought by giving birth it would have stopped the shrinkage and early on had hopes of gaining some of what I lost back--you know like how your hair fell out and it eventually grew back or your stomach shrunk back--but no such luck for me. My brain is damaged beyond repair.

And just to give you a taste of what I am talking about here is a sampling of stuff my first grader-- wait let me be more specific-- my first grader who HATES to do homework because he HATES to write is assigned: Research Benjamin Franklin. Create a fact book about him." Or, "Write a math subtraction story about fruit. Include three things: a colored illustration, a written story, and a math equation to show the solution." Those are some of the more challenging (time consuming) assignments we have yet to tackle (we get to pick and have to do one every night for the quarter). The easier ones we have accomplished were: making a list of 10 contractions and writing the words that make up each contraction and making 10 addition sentences and writing the inverse subtraction sentence. We also made a "comic book with two characters, one who eats healthy and one who doesn't." We even did a science assignment showing the "water cycle" and listed the different forms of precipitation and drew a picture to go along with it. Seriously, my son with a speech problem can barely say the word "precipitation" never mind write it out. I motivated him to do that assignment by helping him create a word document on the computer. Typing, Googling, and my personal favorite "cut and paste" skills added to the lesson. Thinking this is how we will get that Ben Franklin book done too.

I had to shuffle Beau's homework aside yesterday and gave him a math sheet I printed out. He will do addition and subtraction all day long so long as I do not make him write any pesky words. I sat down with Carmella to go over her "Econ" homework.

Clearly, lack of understanding economics is genetic. Finally! Something Carmella and are have in common. No. I am seriously not happy about this but I did find it funny when I asked her to define "scarcity". The handout says "scarcity happens when there's not enough of something you want." And she just could not wrap her mind around that. No matter how many examples I offered. When I tried to discuss "economic problem" with her--which according to her handout is defined as people having to make choices because of scarcity well, let's just say it was challenge and severely muddied the waters. Like I said, I too have a lot of troubles with those so called "choices".

Her little friend Reina was here playing so I sent them out to play teacher and study the sheet. I told Carmella that I would quiz her when she got home from ballet. But either she was too tired from ballet or there is just a huge mental block in our genetic makeup against economics because she had no clue. I sent her to bed--very stressed out about her test I should add-- and told her I would get her up early to so she could get to school and have extra time to study.

Carmella was ready this morning to leave for school at 6:50 am. As we packed her assignments up and I signed important forms I happened to glance at her agenda. It said "Econ test Friday."

"Carmella," I said. "Your Econ test is when?"
"Today, " she groaned and also looked answered looking at her agenda.
"Really? You wrote that it is on Friday."
"Yeah. Friday" She answered gloomily.
" And today is . . " I ask her.
Her eyes get huge and excited, " Thursday!"

Thank goodness the child has another day to study! Maybe since it is third grade economics this time I-- I mean Carmella-- will finally get it.

So here is what I am thinking. Maybe if I can figure out economics I will in turn be able to figure out how much of a demand I can put on my It Band and still be able to run Mystery Mountain Marathon next Sunday without injury (or pain). I am sure there is some fine economic equation of rest, running, tapering, rehab-ing, stretching and foam rolling and if I can just figure it out then I will be able to satisfy my needs and my wants. I do think, possibly, like how I have a tendency to read too much into a metaphor, I might be reading a little too much into economic theory. Really, it doesn't matter the system, the theory or the law; in the taper the coordinate is always defined by madness.

Summer's Sweater

Really.
Who wants to wear a sweater in the summer?
Especially if you live anywhere in the South. The only places more terrible than Georgia for summer sweaters is lower Alabama and central Florida. Places near the beach don't count because they have the breezy air that sometimes at night makes a summer sweater kinda nice. But nothing, I mean nothing, is worse than a sweater in the still hot air. It is called waiting on a hurricane air but the hurricane and its wind never comes and neither does the cooler air. Instead you are stuck with a sweater that you don't need or want.

Even as the summer heat begins to dissipate and the threat of hurricanes wane the sweater stays. If only you could return it like you can an impulse buy. But that isn't even a possibility.

I know you Southerners are smart and know exactly what I am talking about but for all you Yankees and cool West Coasters I am talking about humidity. I have decided, after my runs today and yesterday that it isn't the heat that is so terrible about the South--it is the humidity. I hate it the most of all conditions to run in. I am just sharing this with you because I just made my decision about it today and I wanted everyone to know.

Certainly I complain about a lot of things. And yes, I can be a bit of a Goldilocks runner. I do, I'll admit it. Just like how one can be particular about how they like their coffee; I want my running weather just right. And, not to split golden locks here but I am pretty easy when it comes to my coffee: I take it black but will deal with it however it comes: hot, cold, milky, cream, sugar etc. Most importantly I would just like it to be of the caffeinated variety. Similarly when it comes to running-- as I have proven many times over, I will suck it up and deal with whatever weather hand I am dealt as I am just happy that I have the opportunity to run.

Of course, this does not mean that I won't complain about having to suck it up. Just like if you bring me coffee that is tepid I won't be able to help to myself and will point that out. I will admit, that if nothing else, I can be counted on to complain. You know, everyone has at least one constant in their lives and my knack for expressing my disdain at the less than prefect is mine. As Carmella says "What ev's"

However, I just want to make it known, for the record, that I hate the humidity most of all. It tops the list. And sure, it is a long list. What can I say? I know what I like and what I don't like.

All summer I have been kind of blaming the heat--especially for the suckiness on my 3 hours runs in 90 degrees. Around here I have to think a low humidity day would be around 50-60%. Now whether or not that is actually low I can't say. I only think that if the humidity was below 60% it would probably feel pretty darn awesome. But since every time I go for a run--no matter the temperature-- it is never less than 65% and most times is closer to 90% humidity I can only guess that anything less would be fantastic. But no. I don't know for certain.

But you can criss cross bless yourselves that every single time I go out for a run I am thinking about how I wish it was a cool and dry 55 degrees. I do: I try to channel it. Heck, at this point just the suggestion of 65 degrees and for the air to not be out-sweating me keeps me going through all these runs that feel like I have a heavy wet sweater wrapped around my head.

I am going to admit that I was pretty excited that we finally made it into the 70's and out of the high 80's this week. But I have been nothing but disappointed by the 70's (I bet there were a lot of people that said that 30 years ago too).

Let me tell you, in case you aren't lucky enough to experience it for yourselves: 75 degrees and 90% humidity is still kind of crappy. Definitely, no doubt about it, definitely much better than it being really hot and humid but still not good. No where close to even being okay. Never mind ideal.

I don't know. I am just let down, that is all. I was expecting the 70's to be good. (again, 30 years ago--probably the same thing)

I know. I know. I have been told many times that is what expectations do: they disappoint. I'll never learn.

I just want to say here and now that I want summer to take her damn sweater and leave for several months. Because you know what? I want to wear my sweaters and my jackets and my cute boots and blue jeans. I want to run and not be grossed out that yes-- I do really sweat that much. I don't want to have to worry any more that when I pass people on the sidewalk or on the trail that I might be slinging some of my sweat on them. Beause, really, no matter how cute a person is you don't want their sweat on you. Well, okay. Qualifier: you don't want their sweat on you unless you are naked together. But in that case, there is probably a whole bunch of other, er, "human" things you have committed yourself to and swapping a little sweat, I would think: not really a big issue. Might even be a good thing. At least, that is what I hear. --Mom, Dad.

Okay now. Anyway, I am getting myself excited again-- and it has nothing to do with the aforementioned sentences--well, maybe a little. No really. I just checked 10 days out weather forecast and guess what?

That's right: 50's.

The 50's will be invading Hotlanta next week. Sure it is high 50's and yes it still looks kind of humid but you know what?

That's right: People do need a sweater when it gets in the 50's. So it should be good.

Oh, but what will I do if have no weather excuses to complain about and blame my crappy runs on? No worries. I am certain something will come up. . .

So here it is: 18 miles in the humid, misty and rainy 75 degrees yesterday and 12 miles in the stale humid air today. I am looking at similar conditions for my long run and other runs the rest of this week too. And man, it sure does feel like we are waiting on a hurricane-- and at this point I might welcome it because then at least there would be a breeze.

Oh, but next week. It will get me by-- just the promise of it. You know you can always depend on the forecast 10 days out (Sarcasm people. Love it.)
Fall is closing in.
(I hope.)
Bring on the marathons!!!

Releasing the Clamp

Now, in Vienna there's ten pretty women
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows
There's a tree where the doves go to die
There's a piece that was torn from the morning
And it hangs in the gallery of frost
Ay, ay, ay, ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
Take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws
--from Take this Waltz by Leonard Cohen

If nothing else I have learned of tragedy is that one never knows what is the right thing to say. Or for that matter what is the right thing to do. So we walk around with clamps on our jaws. Some of us-- and I am talking about me-- puts a clamp on our hearts too.

Of course, generally speaking, I have a lot say. But I have been overwhelmed by it lately. Mostly what I have wanted is for it to go away. It isn't going to go away. I know that. It will just dim but I think it is going to pull at my insides until I unclamp my jaw, my heart.

Last Saturday I did my regular 3 hour run. This is my favorite run of the week usually. I get to spend 3 hours doing what I love to do and listening to my favorite music. Certainly being tired or something hurting or crappy weather can put a kink in my good times but generally if I can find my rhythm and get my head in the right place it all works out. On Saturday, the song Take This Waltz by Leonard Cohen found it's way in my 400 song shuffle. I love this song. It is one of my favorites. Here listen, if you like:
What I love most about the song is the amazing poetry. The song is actually Cohen's very liberal translation of Lorca'spoem Little Viennese Waltz. Straight translations from Spanish to English rarely work so it is hard for me to compare fairly but I actually prefer Cohen's song to the straight English translation of Lorca's poem.

I have long puzzled over the precise meaning of Cohen's lyrics but have mostly assumed it a love song about a passionate and tormented love affair. Basically I have long thought it was just a "smarter" version of this song by James. I like that song a lot too.

But on my run the other day I kept listening to Cohen's song over and over several times, compelled by the complex imagery and metaphor-- wanting to figure its meaning out. I'm a Lit nerd; poetry in particular. I like to do stuff like that. Besides, it certainly made the miles fly by having something to occupy my mind and distract me from how tired and sore my legs were after all my runs earlier in the week. It began to occur to me that perhaps it wasn't a love affair with another person but maybe it was just about life and the struggles we all face there--passion, despair. Certainly, as is the case with many great poems, there can be multiple meanings and only Cohen-- and I guess, ultimately Lorca-- know the true meaning. I just get to have fun trying to figure out the metaphor puzzle but never really get to know the true answer. Huh, just like everything else in life. . .

On Sunday afternoon I came home from a happy afternoon with my family to learn some very tragic news about an old classmate from high school. And ever since then I have grappled with the death of my old friend Spanky. I haven't seen Spanky since high school and had no idea of his struggles. The more I heard from friends who were close to him the more saddened and more horrific the news became. Emails and phone calls have flown back and forth all week. Everyone who knew Spanky is heartbroken for his family. My good friend Dogwood Girl blogged about it too. I will direct you there for specific details as I don't want to repeat what she has already said better than I could.

This morning I woke up, shuffled my kids to school and went straight out to run in the wonderful misty gloom on this eight year anniversary forever and always sad day of September 11th. Today's weather is my favorite kind of weather to run in and you would have thought my heart would be singing with every footfall.

My heart, my mind though were heavy; bereft even and mostly I was just trying to keep it together. I've been running with this despair all week. I've been methodical about it though. Keeping it locked down. I will feel the urge to cry rising and I will think: I will go run 20 miles and that will make me feel better. You know: just shake it off my shoulders; right out of my head. I'll leave it in the sweat; I'll liter it on the side of the road; toss it in the woods and wring it right out of my clothes afterward. However, whatever-- I will rid myself of it.

(I guess I just like to think that I have a better handle on my emotions than other people. And you know, if you've read anything on this blog, that I tend to think that a little running can solve just about every problem. Hence: because I run I've got it all figured out. Completely laughable. Not the running part--the part that I would have anything figured out.)

I didn't want my run to end. I wanted to keep running until I ran myself out and left once and for all this heaviness on the shining wet road. Leave it for the rain and the mist to carry and dissipate. I wanted most of all to find myself a few hours later sweaty, spent and hot in the sun. I wanted to be so exhausted, so bodily wasted that I could no longer cry, be sad or held in this tragedy's embrace. I know. That sounds like a lot to ask from an act as simple as running but sometimes the miles they can do it. It is rare that they have let me down. It is, after all, the thing that I do. Unfortunately I couldn't run myself out of the darkness today. Instead, I had to cut my run short and quickly dress myself for Spanky's funeral.

And I was so grateful that Leigh sat with me at the funeral. I had thought it didn't matter if I didn't have anyone to sit with. I would be okay. Let me just say this--if you go to funerals alone you are an insanely brave person.

I don't get to see Leigh much but she is always a comforting and calm person to be around. Pretty much the antithesis of me. Leigh and I managed to find some of the last seats at Roswell First Presbyterian in the balcony. Below and above it quickly became a standing room only funeral. And to that I can only say that when death finds me I hope the community will rally together for my family as it came together for Spanky's. Roswell has become such a big town but it is nice when you find those small town roots triumphing over the sprawl.

Since Spanky and I were not close and I had thought I had gotten my self purged of tears on my runs this week I thought I would hold it together. Also, admittedly, I do have a hard time keeping my mind focused in church; no matter the occasion. But as soon as the family filed in my stomach started knotting up and I began tying to think of other things to keep it together. It sometimes is easier to put and keep that clamp on when you just read words in an article or think of the tragedy in removed terms.I was no longer removed.

As soon as the readings began I began sniffling. I fanned my eyes with the program. And suddenly, Cohen's song was in my head. I have listened to it so much this week-- trying to divine the precise meaning-- that I am constantly hearing it, even seeing the lyrics. That first stanza in particular read like the scene I was looking at: Except instead of Vienna it was Roswell. And instead of 10 pretty women there was over a hundred women weeping, dotting tissues on the corners of their eyes--leaning on shoulder's, pews. And not quite a lobby with nine hundred windows but a church with many giant windows. And not a tree but a cross. But clearly to me was the piece that was torn from the morning; Spanky and his father. A family torn in half, not just a piece. And there I was with that damn clamp.

Too much. Too much. Understanding suddenly and not understanding it at all. How is that possible? It knocks the breath out of you.

Bless Leigh for passing me that tissue when the jaw, the heart came unclamped. You'd think that I could have at least brought my own tissues with me to a funeral but again, I had thought I would be okay.

Yes. I know I will be okay but I am forever heartbroken that Spanky was so consumed by an addiction and that addiction has irrevocably taken and damaged the lives of the people I know he loved. I am just sad. So sad and I feel terrible that I couldn't stay long after the funeral to say hello to all my old classmates or give proper sympathies to Spanky's family or even really say goodbye. It was just too hard. It was too hard to see so many people I have not seen in a decade or two and smile when I was so crushed; so undone by it all.

I can say no more about this. Cohen is right; it is all that there is.

Underachievers of the World Unite: A New Leader is Found

I imagine that if the underachievers of the world could motivate to get themselves organized and were to set out on a search for their leader as the Buddhists do for the Dalai Lama then I would come home from a run one day and find them all lined up outside my house; ready to administer a series of uncomplicated and incomplete tests on Beau to see if he is indeed the chosen one.

And undoubtedly he would be deemed the chosen one.


After all, I have to think, as the youngest child of parents, both classic underachievers themselves one with ADD (me) and one with Dyslexia (Ryan) it is his destiny. It is Carmella who is the surprise and if she didn't look so much like us I would think there was some kind of mix up at the hospital.


Two months ago I mentioned that I was going to make a "chore chart" and they would have to follow it. Beau's only comment was that the idea was "lame" but Carmella perked right up wanting to know how I was planning on organizing it and could she help? Would it be a big chart or a small chart? And she had lots of ideas of what could go on the chore chart and expressed how much fun it was going to be to have one. And at least once a week she asks me about the chart; when am I going to make it.

And just in case there are any other underachiever parents out there I found this website and the kids can earn points by doing chores and buy clothes for virtual kitties--or something like that. (Sort of like Webkinz world but you don't actually have to buy and populate your house with bazillions of stuffed animals.) I figure, hey, whatever can get Beau to brush his teeth, make his bed and pick up his toys. And yes I think this website is more of a motivator for the already motivated child but I couldn't find a "purchase arms and take over the world" reward chore chart. Weird how they wouldn't make something like that because that would totally motivate Beau.

I know I am being one of those parents who compare their children but really they are so vastly different it completely boggles me. I just don't even understand how I ended up with Carmella. She is an absolute mystery to me (and clearly an example of recessive genes.) I spent my life being threatened with "someday I hope you grow up and have a child just like you!" And then I get Carmella. The joke there isn't on me; it is on Lala. But then I had Beau and the universe evened stuff out and Lala got her karma.

Parenting Beau is like getting to watch a movie of my childhood but to protect my identity the role has been changed to a blond boy instead of a scragally haired spaztic little girl. And as frustrating as it is to deal with Beau at times I will admit there is bit of a comfort zone there for me; I wholly understand the grain from which he is cut.


By far the most frustrating aspect of parenting Beau has involved school. Unless you have a learning disability or you have a child that has a learning disability you can't begin to understand what it is like to have to deal with academic institutions. And, I have to admit that I feel like I am getting the short end of the stick here. I mean, I spent most of my life fighting an uphill battle in the school system because I am not one of those "traditional learners" and now I have to do it all over again with my kid. Big huge sigh.

I have known since Beau was 2 and we first discovered his speech problem (phonological processing disorder) that school was probably not going to be easy for him (or me). Add to that being one of the youngest in the class and you compound the problem. Red shirting him-- as many parents of boys with summer birthdays choose to do-- just wasn't an option since speech therapy was a priority--and academically he was "ready". Even socially, I was told, he was head of the curve.

Just to be clear, I absolutely do not regret sending Beau to kindergarten a few weeks after he turned 5 because we are now able to understand 100% of what he says. He made massive progress last year. More progress than he made in speech the previous 3 years combined. Beau going to kindergarten when he was 5 was the absolute right choice and so far not one single person at that school has told me otherwise.


So, to be clear, Beau's problem is not one of immaturity or not being smart enough and while there may very well be the ADD diagnosis looming in our quickly approaching future his immediate issue is one of compliance. And whether that is an aspect of ADD or just personality the fact of the matter (that I know all too well) is that in the school setting it does not matter. It won't matter if I hold him back a year or send him to a pricey private school or pump him full of Ritalin. He will have to learn to follow the rules.

I know and his teacher knows that he knows what to do; what is expected of him but often flat out chooses not to do it. Absolutely he is a high energy kid but I have seen him sit still; I have seen him listen and follow directions. But for who knows what reason, sometimes he really just doesn't want to do as told and often will expend more energy trying to convince some one else to do it for him or even better; argue why he shouldn't have to do anything at all.

The beginning of every school year is the worst. I view it as Beau's "breaking in period." He is trying to figure out right away what and how much he can get away with. You'd think he would just know that every year the rules are basically the same; i.e: sitting still, following directions, picking up after yourself, doing your work etc. But he just can't help himself and has to try to see how little he can get by with. He even told me the first week of school that "the teachers go easy on the kids the first few weeks. I don't have to try so hard yet."

Every year I warn his teachers about his lack of compliance (along with the potential ADD possibility) and to please be extra strict with him. Boundaries and structure are Beau's best friend (and worst enemy). I warn them that he will try to charm them with kisses and hugs and by being funny. Don't fall for it, I tell them. But mostly importantly I explain: do not laugh or smile if you are cross with him. He reads body language before he hears words so you must not contradict what you say with your face. He will not take you seriously if you are fighting a smile.

I assure them that I will "fight the battles" at home but tell them that they will have to fight the battle at school with him. He isn't a bad kid but he is manipulative and likes to feel he is in control. Some how he figured out early on that just because you have to follow the rules with one person doesn't mean you can't try to do it your way with another.

Nevertheless here we are a month into the new school year and Beau is back to his usual ways. He learned in preschool (and kindergarten) that you can get away with one naughty day a week so long as you are gold the other 5 days. The idea of being golden all 5 days just has never occurred to him. If you can still get rewards on 4 days of good behavior why would you bother to be compliant all 5 days? That's just dumb.

I had to explain this to his teacher when she called me on Tuesday because Beau was on a "4". In his class they have a banana. It moves up and down the tree branches (numbered 1-5)based on their behavior that day. They start out each day at a "2" and if they stay there that means they had a "great" day. If they do something extra special they get to move up to a "1". The teacher explained that "1" is a rarity. Beau has been on "1" once so far. A 3 means they are not making the best choices and is a warning. You can redeem yourself and move back to a 2 by correcting your poor choices. I think most days Beau has to spend some time correcting his choices. A 4 means the choices were not corrected and you miss some of minutes from recess and you will get a note or a phone call home. 5 is just really bad and means a trip to the principals and possible being sent home.

Beau got on 4 the other day because all day he flat out refused to do his work. By the end of the day he knew that he was going to be in trouble when he got home and knew would have extra homework. Being on anything but a 2 means no Nintendo Ds and extra homework. My thinking is that if you are getting in trouble at school then you are not doing work and therefore need to make up for that at home. How much extra homework you have to do depends on how much trouble you got in at school. Beau knew he was looking at a long time of homework. For the record I do not take away playing outside. I think it is important for high energy people to get to run around. Instead I take away the privilege of being able to play with his friends on the days he gets in trouble. Playing alone is punishment for Beau. He loves his little friends.

Anyway, on Tuesday his teacher called me because Beau was very upset by the end of the day because he was still on 4 and knew he was in deep do-do. She explained what happened and even told me that he tried to bribe the student teacher with money to move his banana back up the tree. My first concern was that maybe the work was too hard for him but she assured me it wasn't--that he has been doing fine. I then addressed the ADD angle and that having to sit still can be incredibly difficult for him. She told me that she recognized that and allows him to move around the classroom provided that he is listening and not distracting other children.

So I sighed and apologized for him "taking more than his share of the teacher's attention" and assured her that he and I would be having a conversation. I also told her about his 4 "on" days and one "off" day each week. I told her I didn't support it but that has so far been his credo. And she said she could concede to one bad day a week with Beau. I think that is pretty terrible that Beau has manipulated not only me but also his teacher into accepting that he gets an off day. Do they have military school for six year olds? Cause I think that is what we need.

Well at any rate Beau made it through the rest of last week all on "2" so he was true to form with his one bad day. At dinner on Friday he further supported his "aim low" credo with this conversation:

Ryan, noticing a hand out on the refrigerator about the upcoming CogAT test. "Looks like you are going to have test next week Beau. You better try your best."

Beau, immediately stressed and surprised "What?! I got no test. First graders don't take tests!" hmm maybe he isn't paying attention . . .

Carmella pipes up, "It is for Target. If you do good on it you get to go to Target." Target is the talented and gifted program. A program I was never a part of and yet I am so clearly not only talented but also gifted. Extraordinarily so, I would add. Emphasis on the "extra" not the ordinary.

Beau, wide eyed and about to pee in his pants says, "You mean I get to shoot stuff?"

Carmella starts to explain that you get to go to extra projects and stuff but Ryan, stifling laughter quips "No, it means you have to do more work." Ryan was also not in Target either.

Beau, shrugs and says" Oh, well I am not going to try and do good on that test then."

I'm telling you, it has got to be genetic but I am trying to break the cycle. Granted, not with grand gestures; but baby steps--so to speak. This card carrying lifelong underachiever pushed the envelope with training and finished last week just over 73 miles. For the past six weeks I've been pushing my miles over my "50 miles per week" comfort zone and finally made into the 70's. I've tried the less is more approach to marathoning and now I am giving the more is more approach a try. Whether or not that equates success at Rocket City in December remains to be seen but hey, it is worth a shot. Maybe Beau will adopt a similar attitude. Hopefully it will be sooner for him that it has been for me.