Yeah, I'm totally lame. I rarely blog here anymore. But long-form blogging is so 2007. I throw something up on Tumblr every day, though. So put that in your bowler hat and smoke it.
But a quick note here, for all those people that keep Googling "ASW invites" (FYI: I don't have invite privileges and I think I last logged in 6 months ago) and finding this treasure trove - since I missed my goal time at the AFC Half Marathon by three stupid minutes, I'm running the Long Beach half on October 12. Since I'm still running, we might as well keep the fundraising going. I know how many of you were so upset that you couldn't donate in time. Your prayers have been answered.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Monday, September 01, 2008
Come Out of the Cupboard, You Boys and Girls
On one of the approximately 1,500 blogs I read, someone astutely pointed out that blogs are not unlike reality shows. There's familiar characters, the mundane details of life,the occasional overhyped "scandal" that can only be explained to outsiders using a convoluted web of hyperlinks and the six degrees of blogger separation. That was a toaster oven "ding!" moment, because someone had finally drawn the obvious conclusion for me and connected the two things I love most in this world: television and the internet (cheese bread runs a close third).
But it doesn't explain why I've been blogging so infrequently lately. I mean, I can explain it: I've felt like keeping my personal shit personal. But this is cheating as a blogger. Not everyone that consumes internet product should be required to produce it as well, but as I discover each day around 4:00, there can never be enough product on the internet. Jezebel and all the NY-based blogs stop posting around 3 or 4 and I'm left trapped in front of my computer, vainly hitting "refresh" at all my usual haunts. So I trip back and forth between Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr at a rapid clip, bemoaning the fact that the people I know in real life don't tap the vein of the internet as addictively as I do. When I'm in a bad way, even Julia Allison serves as a fix.
Yet I don't have it in me to contribute a lot right now. You cannot blog and write a book at the same time without one suffering. (There might be indeed a finite combination of words, at least the kind of combination that is more than serviceable.) And I've learned my lesson about talking about things that are still hypothetical. Because I'd look kind of stupid talking about the most tenuous and hardly-conceived plan to pick up and move to London with the guy who has yet to prove his worth, especially if that plan falls apart because the guy, you know, doesn't prove his worth. (Q: Does this mean I'm growing up, obsessing internally instead of online? A: No, posing the question online negates any maturation.) I don't even tell my parents about what I'm working on anymore, because that idle chit-chat leads to questions about how and when and most importantly how and when and why I don't get a real job. Talking about things that haven't happened only produces questions without answers.
I just realized what the internet has confirmed: that The Secret is total bullshit. Think positive thoughts, yes. Do it all the time. But don't throw your wishes into the vast wasteland of the internet where they become toilet paper for people (like me) desperate for content.
But it doesn't explain why I've been blogging so infrequently lately. I mean, I can explain it: I've felt like keeping my personal shit personal. But this is cheating as a blogger. Not everyone that consumes internet product should be required to produce it as well, but as I discover each day around 4:00, there can never be enough product on the internet. Jezebel and all the NY-based blogs stop posting around 3 or 4 and I'm left trapped in front of my computer, vainly hitting "refresh" at all my usual haunts. So I trip back and forth between Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr at a rapid clip, bemoaning the fact that the people I know in real life don't tap the vein of the internet as addictively as I do. When I'm in a bad way, even Julia Allison serves as a fix.
Yet I don't have it in me to contribute a lot right now. You cannot blog and write a book at the same time without one suffering. (There might be indeed a finite combination of words, at least the kind of combination that is more than serviceable.) And I've learned my lesson about talking about things that are still hypothetical. Because I'd look kind of stupid talking about the most tenuous and hardly-conceived plan to pick up and move to London with the guy who has yet to prove his worth, especially if that plan falls apart because the guy, you know, doesn't prove his worth. (Q: Does this mean I'm growing up, obsessing internally instead of online? A: No, posing the question online negates any maturation.) I don't even tell my parents about what I'm working on anymore, because that idle chit-chat leads to questions about how and when and most importantly how and when and why I don't get a real job. Talking about things that haven't happened only produces questions without answers.
I just realized what the internet has confirmed: that The Secret is total bullshit. Think positive thoughts, yes. Do it all the time. But don't throw your wishes into the vast wasteland of the internet where they become toilet paper for people (like me) desperate for content.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Sometimes When We Touch, the Honesty's Too Much
Inspired by Defamer's intrepid Molly McAleer, who makes adorable videos about the daily to-dos in Los Angeles (like today's), I wondered who among you would be interested in the contents of my refrigerator. The answer to that question is, I believe, approximately three people (the sum total readership of this blog).
1. My Twin, who has requested that I begin sending her a daily report of what I eat. This isn't some fucked up eating disorder shit; she's mostly confused as to how I manage to stay nourished on a mostly vegetarian diet and also desperate for a glimpse into the life of someone who understands the concept of "meal planning" and "food preparation". For example, last night, we had a long talk about what constitutes a "staple" you might shop for every week. My list: bread, eggs, milk, juice. Her list: sour cream, Parmesan cheese, shallots. She has the makings of a delicious dip, perhaps.
2. Dudes who may or may not be in love with me and who are looking for glimpses into my soul. It's okay, dudes who are in love with me are people too. And actually, I guess the contents of my fridge could give you a glimpse of my soul - perhaps a certain willingness to let things fester for a while. Spy away, voyeurs.
3. The person who had the misfortune of Googling the lyrics to the song I used as the title of this post.
I have to admit that I'm the beneficiary of a Spud delivery a couple days ago and a trip to the grocery store yesterday. Had I taken this picture on Monday, you would have seen a Pizza Hut box and empty shelves.
The top shelf is kind of questionable. Leaving half a serving of pasta sauce in a giant Gladware tub isn't the most prudent use of space and insures I won't dispose of the remnants until I need the container, because when will I want half a serving of pasta? The refried beans, cream cheese and hummus on the right have been in there for an indeterminate amount of time. But the yogurt, wet dog food and log of goat cheese (sitting on top of the pasta sauce) are still good! A RedBull lurks in the back.
The second shelf makes me look healthy. Heirloom tomatoes, apple juice, bagged salad and cage-free, vegetarian fed chicken eggs also scream aspirational young lady. The salsa will soon become more evidence of my willingness to let things fester, because that's gross salsa and I don't intend to eat any more of it. There's cheese and creepy veggie bacon that looks to be fashioned out of Play-Doh in that transparent drawer. I do not eat Polaroid film or baking soda, but that's where these things live.
The third shelf - all carbs, all the time.
Not pictured: the salad dressing graveyard on the door. I've held onto the BBQ marinade that hangs out with the salad dressings for sentimental reasons. I don't marinate things anymore but I really like BBQ sauce. I'm hoping to come across some recipe for eggs with BBQ marinated veggie bacon. Also not pictured: a nearly empty bottle of a mystery Spanish white wine that was on sale at Albertson's, and a giant head (?) of bok choy.
Survey says: a healthy dose of lazy.
1. My Twin, who has requested that I begin sending her a daily report of what I eat. This isn't some fucked up eating disorder shit; she's mostly confused as to how I manage to stay nourished on a mostly vegetarian diet and also desperate for a glimpse into the life of someone who understands the concept of "meal planning" and "food preparation". For example, last night, we had a long talk about what constitutes a "staple" you might shop for every week. My list: bread, eggs, milk, juice. Her list: sour cream, Parmesan cheese, shallots. She has the makings of a delicious dip, perhaps.
2. Dudes who may or may not be in love with me and who are looking for glimpses into my soul. It's okay, dudes who are in love with me are people too. And actually, I guess the contents of my fridge could give you a glimpse of my soul - perhaps a certain willingness to let things fester for a while. Spy away, voyeurs.
3. The person who had the misfortune of Googling the lyrics to the song I used as the title of this post.
I have to admit that I'm the beneficiary of a Spud delivery a couple days ago and a trip to the grocery store yesterday. Had I taken this picture on Monday, you would have seen a Pizza Hut box and empty shelves.
The top shelf is kind of questionable. Leaving half a serving of pasta sauce in a giant Gladware tub isn't the most prudent use of space and insures I won't dispose of the remnants until I need the container, because when will I want half a serving of pasta? The refried beans, cream cheese and hummus on the right have been in there for an indeterminate amount of time. But the yogurt, wet dog food and log of goat cheese (sitting on top of the pasta sauce) are still good! A RedBull lurks in the back.The second shelf makes me look healthy. Heirloom tomatoes, apple juice, bagged salad and cage-free, vegetarian fed chicken eggs also scream aspirational young lady. The salsa will soon become more evidence of my willingness to let things fester, because that's gross salsa and I don't intend to eat any more of it. There's cheese and creepy veggie bacon that looks to be fashioned out of Play-Doh in that transparent drawer. I do not eat Polaroid film or baking soda, but that's where these things live.
The third shelf - all carbs, all the time.
Not pictured: the salad dressing graveyard on the door. I've held onto the BBQ marinade that hangs out with the salad dressings for sentimental reasons. I don't marinate things anymore but I really like BBQ sauce. I'm hoping to come across some recipe for eggs with BBQ marinated veggie bacon. Also not pictured: a nearly empty bottle of a mystery Spanish white wine that was on sale at Albertson's, and a giant head (?) of bok choy.
Survey says: a healthy dose of lazy.
Monday, August 18, 2008
And I Ran, I Ran So Far Away
I learned a valuable lesson about style over substance this weekend. Instead of something sensible, corporate (and probably quiet), I booked a room for the night before my 1/2 marathon at The Keating, a hotel known for its modern, Italian design and location in party central, San Diego, aka, the Gaslamp Quarter. But since I had decided to take Amtrak down in order to avoid the hassle of parking overnight and at the race site, I needed a hotel within walking distance to both the train station and the race shuttle loading area. And I was feeling quite satisfied with my choice - the concrete floors and furniture that looked like meat lockers were tres chic - until about 3:30 a.m. While I had been in and out of a Sominex-heavy sleep since about 10 p.m., waking up to the muffled sounds of drunks on the sidewalk below, now I could very clearly hear what sounded like a rave taking place either in the room above or next to me. There was house music and a girl yelling, "Feeeeeeeel this! Oh, my God! Feeeeeeeeeeel this!" Then the drum and bass would be turned up and I imagine the guests of this party began playing with each other's hair and clenching their teeth. Though I had no problem being that totally lame old lady that called the front desk to complain about the noise, someone else must have beat me to it, because I soon heard a collective groan and a silencing of the music. The next thing I heard was my alarm going off at 4:30.
Yes, while the other guests of the hotel had done the reasonable thing by going out and getting drunk on a Saturday night, I had cruised into town in order to catch a 5:30 a.m. shuttle to Cabrillo National Monument on Sunday morning and then run 13.1 miles with 6,500 of my closest friends. And after the gun went off and we began shuffling toward the start line, I still thought this was a good idea, and would continue thinking that until about mile 9, when I began wishing for the sweet mercy of death.
Mile 1: Off we go, a sea of shoulders, elbows, backs and feet. Pink and brown flesh is everywhere, and I can hear thousands of footfalls even over the sound of my music.
Mile 2: I was 20 seconds behind my 9-min/mile because I was walled in by all the pink flesh. But a hill here weeded out some people and I was back on pace.
Mile 3: I had drilled a race plan into my head before I started - easy 9-min/miles for the first 5, as close to 8:30 as I could muster for the next 5, then try not to die on the last 3. It seemed simple enough, except that this mile and the next were downhill and I decided to hustle down them in order to bank time for later. My legs would be cross with me later as a result of this decision.
Mile 4: The drivers trying to pull into a strip mall for breakfast sat slumped at the wheels of their cars, knowing that thousands of us would have to pass before they would be allowed to turn.
Mile 5: Way ahead of pace here, something like 42 minutes. I would have been more pleased about this had I not noticed that I was starting to feel a little fatigued. I didn't do well in calculus, but I can do simple math. 13 - 5 = 8 miles left.
Mile 6: Here is where I was officially notified of the fact that I went out too fast - my 10k split was faster than my race time from the Santa Monica Classic. This is also when I started to chug both water and Gatorade and ran through the water mist tunnel, marking the onset of what I like to call the "drowned rat" portion of the race.
Mile 7: Under the best of circumstances, energy gels are disgusting. No flavor can really be considered tasty, there are just some that are less disgusting than others. Imagine the fluoride that your dentist used to shove in your mouth in foam trays, but thicker and tinged with something resembling strawberry-banana or cinnamon-apple flavor. I had enjoyed an cinnamon-apple packet 20 minutes before start time and pulled out the tri-berry at the mile 7 marker. So now that you have the image of the fluoride in your mind, imagine a dry mouth, 85 degree heat and trying to breath through that mouthful of gel. Yeah.
Mile 8: Here is where the real problems started, and by "here" I mean the San Diego International Airport rental car parking area, the unshaded asphalt of which was the dramatic setting for mile 8. The Hertz and Avis shuttles cruised by us as we headed for the harbor, their passengers, unlike me, were probably not the color of a ripe tomato and wearing a tank top soaked with a cup of cold water.
Mile 9: The official race photos have me trotting by a giant pirate ship. I have no recollection of this. I think I spent most of mile 9 staring at the ground trying not to think about how much I wanted to jump into the harbor and letting the current take me out to sea. Honestly, I think the only thing that got me through this mile was that Pussycat Dolls song about wanting to be famous when they grew up. That beat is hotter than San Diego in August.
Mile 10: If I was going to lie to you, I'd do it here, because mile 10 is where the walk breaks began. Things were not good. I had begun taking two cups of water at each aid station - one to drink and one to dump over my head (I could be imagining it, but I think I heard the sound of sizzling when I did this). Earlier in the race, the mile markers would appear and I'd be pleasantly surprised. Now I was desperately peering into the distance, looking for the yellow signs that would mean that I was more done with this than I was a mile ago. So when I hit the 10-mile marker, I gave myself a one-minute walk break, feeling like a loser. (Also of note in mile 10: Burger King, who had provided thousands of cups for the aid stations, was handing out cheeseburgers. There weren't many takers.)
Mile 11: The final runner instructions had said that the later runners (those closer to 3 hours) might be held up at mile 11, as the trolleys resumed their normal service. So there we are, crossing the tracks, rounding the corner, heading away from the station, and still no mile 11 marker. I felt cheated. Misled. I had been told mile 11 would be at Kettner and Broadway and it was not. Those yellow signs were the only thing keeping me going, not because I was closer to the finish line and a sense of accomplishment, but because I'd be closer to this being over. Despondent, I took another walk break.
Mile 12: You have got to be fucking kidding me. A hill? A hill that doesn't seem to end, that began in mile 11 and shows no mercy? What is this, fucking San Francisco? Oh, this is just rich. The walk breaks became regimented here; I was running two minutes and then walking one. My wet shirt had stretched into what would have in other circumstances been a sort of cute mini dress and I suspect my face was the color of an eggplant.
Mile 13: 20 k sign? Is that you? Oh, man. I've been waiting for you. One km left. One km is certainly less than a mile. I can run less than a mile. I think. There's an archway up ahead. Maybe that's the finish line. No, people seem to be running beyond it. Fuck. I don't think I can run much farther. I'll just walk for a second. "So close to the finish!" Yeah, that guy's right. I need to suck this up. Okay, so maybe it's around the corner. No. Huh. This turn? No. WHERE IS THE MOTHERFUCKING FINISH LINE? Oh, okay. Up ahead. Get your foot on the touch pad, just put your throbbing right foot (the one with the timing chip on it) on the touch pad. Is that it? Am I done? 2:03. Dammit. I wanted to be under 2 hours. Water, yes, GIVE IT TO ME. Finisher's medal? Thank you. Water. Grass. Lean over and stretch. Oh, wow, I just noticed how much my hips hurt. Perhaps I'll just sit here, glowing red, breathing hard and regaining feeling in my legs.
I thought I was so clever leaving my car at home, but this meant I had to limp back to the hotel, whimpering every time I had to tackle a curb. Sitting on the bed, taking off my shoes, was the best feeling ever. Taking a shower was the best feeling ever. This morning, doing things like walking Riley or lifting my foot off of the accelerator and depressing the brake - not the best feeling ever. I am acutely aware of every muscle in the lower half of my body, from the arches of my feet to my hips.
Everyone is congratulating me for finishing, but I'm pissed at myself for the walk breaks. Which means I'll see you back here in October, after the Long Beach half marathon.
Yes, while the other guests of the hotel had done the reasonable thing by going out and getting drunk on a Saturday night, I had cruised into town in order to catch a 5:30 a.m. shuttle to Cabrillo National Monument on Sunday morning and then run 13.1 miles with 6,500 of my closest friends. And after the gun went off and we began shuffling toward the start line, I still thought this was a good idea, and would continue thinking that until about mile 9, when I began wishing for the sweet mercy of death.
Mile 1: Off we go, a sea of shoulders, elbows, backs and feet. Pink and brown flesh is everywhere, and I can hear thousands of footfalls even over the sound of my music.
Mile 2: I was 20 seconds behind my 9-min/mile because I was walled in by all the pink flesh. But a hill here weeded out some people and I was back on pace.
Mile 3: I had drilled a race plan into my head before I started - easy 9-min/miles for the first 5, as close to 8:30 as I could muster for the next 5, then try not to die on the last 3. It seemed simple enough, except that this mile and the next were downhill and I decided to hustle down them in order to bank time for later. My legs would be cross with me later as a result of this decision.
Mile 4: The drivers trying to pull into a strip mall for breakfast sat slumped at the wheels of their cars, knowing that thousands of us would have to pass before they would be allowed to turn.
Mile 5: Way ahead of pace here, something like 42 minutes. I would have been more pleased about this had I not noticed that I was starting to feel a little fatigued. I didn't do well in calculus, but I can do simple math. 13 - 5 = 8 miles left.
Mile 6: Here is where I was officially notified of the fact that I went out too fast - my 10k split was faster than my race time from the Santa Monica Classic. This is also when I started to chug both water and Gatorade and ran through the water mist tunnel, marking the onset of what I like to call the "drowned rat" portion of the race.
Mile 7: Under the best of circumstances, energy gels are disgusting. No flavor can really be considered tasty, there are just some that are less disgusting than others. Imagine the fluoride that your dentist used to shove in your mouth in foam trays, but thicker and tinged with something resembling strawberry-banana or cinnamon-apple flavor. I had enjoyed an cinnamon-apple packet 20 minutes before start time and pulled out the tri-berry at the mile 7 marker. So now that you have the image of the fluoride in your mind, imagine a dry mouth, 85 degree heat and trying to breath through that mouthful of gel. Yeah.
Mile 8: Here is where the real problems started, and by "here" I mean the San Diego International Airport rental car parking area, the unshaded asphalt of which was the dramatic setting for mile 8. The Hertz and Avis shuttles cruised by us as we headed for the harbor, their passengers, unlike me, were probably not the color of a ripe tomato and wearing a tank top soaked with a cup of cold water.
Mile 9: The official race photos have me trotting by a giant pirate ship. I have no recollection of this. I think I spent most of mile 9 staring at the ground trying not to think about how much I wanted to jump into the harbor and letting the current take me out to sea. Honestly, I think the only thing that got me through this mile was that Pussycat Dolls song about wanting to be famous when they grew up. That beat is hotter than San Diego in August.
Mile 10: If I was going to lie to you, I'd do it here, because mile 10 is where the walk breaks began. Things were not good. I had begun taking two cups of water at each aid station - one to drink and one to dump over my head (I could be imagining it, but I think I heard the sound of sizzling when I did this). Earlier in the race, the mile markers would appear and I'd be pleasantly surprised. Now I was desperately peering into the distance, looking for the yellow signs that would mean that I was more done with this than I was a mile ago. So when I hit the 10-mile marker, I gave myself a one-minute walk break, feeling like a loser. (Also of note in mile 10: Burger King, who had provided thousands of cups for the aid stations, was handing out cheeseburgers. There weren't many takers.)
Mile 11: The final runner instructions had said that the later runners (those closer to 3 hours) might be held up at mile 11, as the trolleys resumed their normal service. So there we are, crossing the tracks, rounding the corner, heading away from the station, and still no mile 11 marker. I felt cheated. Misled. I had been told mile 11 would be at Kettner and Broadway and it was not. Those yellow signs were the only thing keeping me going, not because I was closer to the finish line and a sense of accomplishment, but because I'd be closer to this being over. Despondent, I took another walk break.
Mile 12: You have got to be fucking kidding me. A hill? A hill that doesn't seem to end, that began in mile 11 and shows no mercy? What is this, fucking San Francisco? Oh, this is just rich. The walk breaks became regimented here; I was running two minutes and then walking one. My wet shirt had stretched into what would have in other circumstances been a sort of cute mini dress and I suspect my face was the color of an eggplant.
Mile 13: 20 k sign? Is that you? Oh, man. I've been waiting for you. One km left. One km is certainly less than a mile. I can run less than a mile. I think. There's an archway up ahead. Maybe that's the finish line. No, people seem to be running beyond it. Fuck. I don't think I can run much farther. I'll just walk for a second. "So close to the finish!" Yeah, that guy's right. I need to suck this up. Okay, so maybe it's around the corner. No. Huh. This turn? No. WHERE IS THE MOTHERFUCKING FINISH LINE? Oh, okay. Up ahead. Get your foot on the touch pad, just put your throbbing right foot (the one with the timing chip on it) on the touch pad. Is that it? Am I done? 2:03. Dammit. I wanted to be under 2 hours. Water, yes, GIVE IT TO ME. Finisher's medal? Thank you. Water. Grass. Lean over and stretch. Oh, wow, I just noticed how much my hips hurt. Perhaps I'll just sit here, glowing red, breathing hard and regaining feeling in my legs.
I thought I was so clever leaving my car at home, but this meant I had to limp back to the hotel, whimpering every time I had to tackle a curb. Sitting on the bed, taking off my shoes, was the best feeling ever. Taking a shower was the best feeling ever. This morning, doing things like walking Riley or lifting my foot off of the accelerator and depressing the brake - not the best feeling ever. I am acutely aware of every muscle in the lower half of my body, from the arches of my feet to my hips.Everyone is congratulating me for finishing, but I'm pissed at myself for the walk breaks. Which means I'll see you back here in October, after the Long Beach half marathon.
Monday, August 11, 2008
In the Backseat
I think Belize and I could really make it work, someday. I mean, we have so much in common. We're both small and relatively unknown. English is our official language. And we both tend to get sand stuck in the most inconvenient places. But timing is everything. Maybe someday we'll be able to come together, to put aside our financial issues and the fact that no one seems to support our union. I dream of that day, but until then, goodnight, my sweet prince. You're too good for me.
Since I have this unfortunate need to be realistic about things, I'm in the planning stages for a working vacation in New York, where a kind soul has offered a place for my laptop and collection of moisturizers. I guess "vacation" isn't really the right word. "Experiment in transplant living" might be more appropriate. As much as fate has pulled Belize and I apart, it's pushing together me, New York and a handful of people I know from LA. My goal - and I think I can pull it off - is to recreate my life in LA in Manhattan.
- Hours spent in front of the computer, hitting the backspace key more frequently than any other: I think they have both electric outlets and internet in the tri-state area
- Copious amounts of caffeine: I hear Starbucks is a national chain
- Running just as fast as I can: there is a square of green in the center of the city that I hear people trot around, and also around the perimeter of the island
- Booze: most would argue it's more readily available, more hours of the day
- Carbohydrates: I recall a local delicacy of bread with its center cut out and a spreadable cheese smeared thereon
Meanwhile, and by coincidence, assorted characters from LA would be assembling in NY at the same time, allowing me to maintain what I cherish the most - routine. It's like I'm assembling a diorama of my life on the east coast and the idea amuses me to no end. I'm not sure why. Probably because I really, truly have the curmudgeonly, misanthropic, difficult personality of a writer. One whose idea of a vacation involves working.
Since I have this unfortunate need to be realistic about things, I'm in the planning stages for a working vacation in New York, where a kind soul has offered a place for my laptop and collection of moisturizers. I guess "vacation" isn't really the right word. "Experiment in transplant living" might be more appropriate. As much as fate has pulled Belize and I apart, it's pushing together me, New York and a handful of people I know from LA. My goal - and I think I can pull it off - is to recreate my life in LA in Manhattan.
- Hours spent in front of the computer, hitting the backspace key more frequently than any other: I think they have both electric outlets and internet in the tri-state area
- Copious amounts of caffeine: I hear Starbucks is a national chain
- Running just as fast as I can: there is a square of green in the center of the city that I hear people trot around, and also around the perimeter of the island
- Booze: most would argue it's more readily available, more hours of the day
- Carbohydrates: I recall a local delicacy of bread with its center cut out and a spreadable cheese smeared thereon
Meanwhile, and by coincidence, assorted characters from LA would be assembling in NY at the same time, allowing me to maintain what I cherish the most - routine. It's like I'm assembling a diorama of my life on the east coast and the idea amuses me to no end. I'm not sure why. Probably because I really, truly have the curmudgeonly, misanthropic, difficult personality of a writer. One whose idea of a vacation involves working.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
You Just Might Get It
It should tell you something about my social life that one dinner at a quiet, Thai restaurant on Saturday has caused the loss of my voice. It's not like I had to shout over the din of conversation and utensils scraping plates. No, in fact, we were the only people on the patio, and if I raised my voice, it was only because I got pretty excited about my spicy noodles. Now, I have this awesome raspy thing going on that makes it seem like I spent Saturday night backstage at some sort of rock n' roll concert, chain smoking and taking pulls of Jack Daniels from the bottle.
But no, I speak to other humans so infrequently that three hours of conversation causes vocal cord failure.
Someone asked me how my summer was going and I was like, "I look forward to soon having one of those 'social lives' that I always hear people talking about." Because it's been all running/training and writing thus far, but the Big Race is less than 2 weeks away and I'm finished with the partial of my historical fiction project, awaiting the verdict on its quality. So maybe this weekend I actually will lose my voice in a more respectable way. Hahaha, just kidding. I'll probably stay home and Twitter.
But no, I speak to other humans so infrequently that three hours of conversation causes vocal cord failure.
Someone asked me how my summer was going and I was like, "I look forward to soon having one of those 'social lives' that I always hear people talking about." Because it's been all running/training and writing thus far, but the Big Race is less than 2 weeks away and I'm finished with the partial of my historical fiction project, awaiting the verdict on its quality. So maybe this weekend I actually will lose my voice in a more respectable way. Hahaha, just kidding. I'll probably stay home and Twitter.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
If You're Sexy and You Know it, Clap Your Hands
Baby's first second meme. I totally stole this from Melissa.
Ten years ago, I was doing the following five things:
1. Going into my sophomore year of college
2. Annoying people with my militant animal/environmental activism
3. Dying my hair (myself) a different color every month
4. Writing bad, Sylvia Plath-inspired poetry
5. Teaching swim lessons
Five things on today's "to do" list are to:
1. Send the rent check I should have sent two days ago
2. Laundry
3. Restrain myself from shooting my boss in the head
4. Apply facial mask
5. Prevent forest fires
Five snacks I enjoy are:
1. Salt & pepper kettle chips
2. Jalepeno cheese bagels w/ an excessive amount of cream cheese
3. Fruity Pebbles cereal
4. Cheesecake
5. These spicy Japanese rice crackers that I don't know the name of
If I were a millionaire, I would do the following five things:
1. Tell my boss how incredibly lame and offensive his jokes are before walking out in a hail of Post-It note fire
2. Eat/drink ridiculously good food and wine everyday
3. Live abroad 6 months out of the year
4. Buy an apartment in NY, lease a house on the beach in LA
5. Install a Starbucks and panic room with high speed internet access and chaise lounge in both dwellings
Five places I have lived:
1. Sandy, UT
2. Sydney, Australia
3. New York, NY
4. Tokyo, Japan
5. Los Angeles, CA
Ten years ago, I was doing the following five things:
1. Going into my sophomore year of college
2. Annoying people with my militant animal/environmental activism
3. Dying my hair (myself) a different color every month
4. Writing bad, Sylvia Plath-inspired poetry
5. Teaching swim lessons
Five things on today's "to do" list are to:
1. Send the rent check I should have sent two days ago
2. Laundry
3. Restrain myself from shooting my boss in the head
4. Apply facial mask
5. Prevent forest fires
Five snacks I enjoy are:
1. Salt & pepper kettle chips
2. Jalepeno cheese bagels w/ an excessive amount of cream cheese
3. Fruity Pebbles cereal
4. Cheesecake
5. These spicy Japanese rice crackers that I don't know the name of
If I were a millionaire, I would do the following five things:
1. Tell my boss how incredibly lame and offensive his jokes are before walking out in a hail of Post-It note fire
2. Eat/drink ridiculously good food and wine everyday
3. Live abroad 6 months out of the year
4. Buy an apartment in NY, lease a house on the beach in LA
5. Install a Starbucks and panic room with high speed internet access and chaise lounge in both dwellings
Five places I have lived:
1. Sandy, UT
2. Sydney, Australia
3. New York, NY
4. Tokyo, Japan
5. Los Angeles, CA
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
July
The hotel has been booked. A plan to take the Amtrak Pacific Surfliner from LA down to San Diego has been hatched (it will give the trip a more European feeling). I've stocked up on energy gels to ingest before the race and at mile 7, as well as "recovery" drink mixes that will allegedly help my muscles recover faster and with less pain.
I've been training for five months and I really think I'm ready for this thing. I've gone from being able to a run a single 10-min mile to 10-mile runs at an 8:30/mile pace. I've survived strained Achilles and have iced my knees into submission. I've scheduled my social life around workouts. I've had people poke at my new leg muscles and ask where that came from. (New leg press max: 255 pounds.) I've spent 48 hours running 340 miles; spent 10 hours in the gym lifting weights. I've come to love the taste of grape Gatorade G2. I own something called "Body Glide" (it's not nearly as fun as what you think). I can talk to you about 4:1 carbohydrate to protein post-workout replenishment. All that is left is jiggering my iPod shuffle to feature only the creamiest of the pop crop and starting to taper next week.
Barring unforeseen circumstances (injuries, hurricanes dropping houses on my head, not receiving any of the four wake up calls I will request), I intend to run 13.1 miles in less than 2 hours on August 17.
Yet oddly, my running back and forth and applying Body Glide has not solved the world water crisis. Strange how making myself thirsty hasn't done much tangible good for anyone. But you can still donate in my name and make happen what gallons and gallons of sweat have not.
I've been training for five months and I really think I'm ready for this thing. I've gone from being able to a run a single 10-min mile to 10-mile runs at an 8:30/mile pace. I've survived strained Achilles and have iced my knees into submission. I've scheduled my social life around workouts. I've had people poke at my new leg muscles and ask where that came from. (New leg press max: 255 pounds.) I've spent 48 hours running 340 miles; spent 10 hours in the gym lifting weights. I've come to love the taste of grape Gatorade G2. I own something called "Body Glide" (it's not nearly as fun as what you think). I can talk to you about 4:1 carbohydrate to protein post-workout replenishment. All that is left is jiggering my iPod shuffle to feature only the creamiest of the pop crop and starting to taper next week.
Barring unforeseen circumstances (injuries, hurricanes dropping houses on my head, not receiving any of the four wake up calls I will request), I intend to run 13.1 miles in less than 2 hours on August 17.
Yet oddly, my running back and forth and applying Body Glide has not solved the world water crisis. Strange how making myself thirsty hasn't done much tangible good for anyone. But you can still donate in my name and make happen what gallons and gallons of sweat have not.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Under The Moonlight You See A Sight That Almost Stops Your Heart
On my drive to work this morning, I was repetitively, lackadaisically poking the buttons on my car radio in a vain attempt to find music and found instead someone who referred to himself as the "Rock n' Roll Astrologist" on Indie 103. I was hoping to hear whether the singer of some band I've probably never heard of because I was too busy learning the words to Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" so I can one day karaoke it (and why does NO ONE remember Jill Sobule's song of the same name?) would be lucky in love this week. Instead, I hear a lot of garbage about the full moon last week and how he hoped we all survived it, as things can get kind of intense around that time.
Usually, I ignore that sort of garbage, the same way I ignore most girls when they talk about their raging PMS symptoms. (Personal, biased opinion based on the fact that I don't really have much in the way of PMS symptoms: I think a lot of bitches exaggerate.) But then I thought back to the time around that full moon, and I was kind of intense. I got paranoid when people didn't return texts/emails within 5 minutes. And when I still hadn't received a reply 7 minutes later, I wrote, "I fucking give up on you." I mentally wrote off like 3 people, even though they were being as annoying as they usually were, no more. I was done with LA, moving back to NY.
I don't usually ride this roller coaster of emotions because I am dead inside. But according to Lunar Lore, all sorts of nasty things can happen during a full moon. Like:
- Arson attacks increase by 100% at the time of the full moon.
- A higher number of mental patients become highly disturbed around the time of full moon.
- According to a US study, murders - many apparently motiveless - trebled around the time of the full moon.
- Alcohol consumption rises at the start and end of the lunar cycle. (Every day is a full moon for me, it seems.)
- Air stewards report that passengers on aircraft flights are more difficult to handle and there are more incidents at the full moon.
So when I move to NY, after having written off everyone I know, I will be justified in burning the city to the ground after making trouble on my flight over (probably because I was drunk on bad Merlot).
Usually, I ignore that sort of garbage, the same way I ignore most girls when they talk about their raging PMS symptoms. (Personal, biased opinion based on the fact that I don't really have much in the way of PMS symptoms: I think a lot of bitches exaggerate.) But then I thought back to the time around that full moon, and I was kind of intense. I got paranoid when people didn't return texts/emails within 5 minutes. And when I still hadn't received a reply 7 minutes later, I wrote, "I fucking give up on you." I mentally wrote off like 3 people, even though they were being as annoying as they usually were, no more. I was done with LA, moving back to NY.
I don't usually ride this roller coaster of emotions because I am dead inside. But according to Lunar Lore, all sorts of nasty things can happen during a full moon. Like:
- Arson attacks increase by 100% at the time of the full moon.
- A higher number of mental patients become highly disturbed around the time of full moon.
- According to a US study, murders - many apparently motiveless - trebled around the time of the full moon.
- Alcohol consumption rises at the start and end of the lunar cycle. (Every day is a full moon for me, it seems.)
- Air stewards report that passengers on aircraft flights are more difficult to handle and there are more incidents at the full moon.
So when I move to NY, after having written off everyone I know, I will be justified in burning the city to the ground after making trouble on my flight over (probably because I was drunk on bad Merlot).
Friday, July 18, 2008
Join Me in the Middle of Ecstasy
You guys, it's really hard to get anything done, let alone maintain excellence in blogging, when you've had Chris Brown's "Forever" stuck in your head for a full week.
It's gonna be me, you and the dance floor...double your pleasure, double your fun, and dance forev - ev - ever, forev- ev -ever, forever on the dance floor
And in my mind, I'm on a Billy Jean-esque dance floor that lights up as I soft shoe across it. Or maybe I'm thinking of Dance Dance Revolution, which I've inexplicably never played. Either way, I'm on mental vacation. I shouldn't be, of course. I should be present and accounted for, beginning some revisions on my historical fiction partial, which has come back with notes saying my characters are unsympathetic. I'm sure this is true because as the old adage goes, we write what we know (and in rhyme!). I know me and I'm unsympathetic, so it's no surprise that my characters read that way. I don't like to trouble them with "feelings" or "warmth" because I'm not troubled by those things, so why should they be? I'm actually just being protective.
Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit for comedic effect. But as I've had this problem before, I guess I can figure out how to fix it. Why I wouldn't just write it right the first time around is a question for the ages, but it might have something to do with that light up dance floor, Chris Brown and my image of me tossing a full head of extensions in time to the music while wearing some sort of shiny jumpsuit.
It's gonna be me, you and the dance floor...double your pleasure, double your fun, and dance forev - ev - ever, forev- ev -ever, forever on the dance floor
And in my mind, I'm on a Billy Jean-esque dance floor that lights up as I soft shoe across it. Or maybe I'm thinking of Dance Dance Revolution, which I've inexplicably never played. Either way, I'm on mental vacation. I shouldn't be, of course. I should be present and accounted for, beginning some revisions on my historical fiction partial, which has come back with notes saying my characters are unsympathetic. I'm sure this is true because as the old adage goes, we write what we know (and in rhyme!). I know me and I'm unsympathetic, so it's no surprise that my characters read that way. I don't like to trouble them with "feelings" or "warmth" because I'm not troubled by those things, so why should they be? I'm actually just being protective.
Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit for comedic effect. But as I've had this problem before, I guess I can figure out how to fix it. Why I wouldn't just write it right the first time around is a question for the ages, but it might have something to do with that light up dance floor, Chris Brown and my image of me tossing a full head of extensions in time to the music while wearing some sort of shiny jumpsuit.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Finally, It's Happened to Me
Yes, I'm twittering now. Tweeting. Terwilligering. (Gotcha! See how I just replaced a made up verb with what sounds like the made up name of a street in Portland, Oregon?)
Don't blame me that my posting habits have become single sentences or links to articles. Blame internet trends like everyone else.
Don't blame me that my posting habits have become single sentences or links to articles. Blame internet trends like everyone else.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
[Untitled Historical Fiction Project]
Elizabeth began hearing voices, low murmurs and whispers that sounded not like they were from the room but of it, as if the walls and foundation of the building had found their voice. These voices were soon joined by those of the mediums in the audience, who claimed that they could see their spirit guides appearing in the room. Elizabeth strained to see in the dark, almost positive that she could see something or someone swaying at the front of the room, undulating and almost slithering like a snake near the cabinet into which Eddy had disappeared. But the form was so vague, appearing first on one side of the stage and then the other without having actually crossed it, that Elizabeth didn’t know exactly what it was she was looking at.
Behind her, a woman cried, “Is that you, Papa?” and Elizabeth’s heart began to pound in her chest. The indistinguishable shadows, the whispers, the slight hysteria in the air combined to form a feverish cocktail. With the heat of so many bodies packed into one room, beads of sweat formed on the back of Elizabeth’s neck, and as they crept toward the collar of her dress, she swatted at her skin, mistaking the moisture for the caress of ghostly fingers. When the floorboards next to her creaked, she started in her chair, settling back with relief when she realized it was only Madame, leaning forward to peer into the darkness.
“Michalko,” Madame said, loud enough for the row of people in front of and behind them to hear.
Elizabeth reached out to clutch her arm. “Who?”
“Michalko Guegidze,” Madame replied, matter-of-factly. “My aunt Katherine’s servant. Why, the last time I saw him he was in Kutais.”
“Kutais?” The word sounded like a kind of paste coming from Elizabeth’s mouth.
“Georgia,” Madame clarified. “It was a town I passed through years ago, perhaps 1861. No, 1862. Those years blend together for me, I was extremely ill after Yuri’s birth.”
“Birth?” Elizabeth practically choked on the word. “You have a child, Helena?”
“I had a child,” she said and then continued, glossing over the subject. “Do you see him, Henry?” Madame continued to peer at the platform and now Olcott joined her, leaning forward at an identical angle.
“Yes! I see him.” Olcott’s voice was filled with satisfaction, as if he were proud to be able to see Madame’s same vision. “He’s dressed in some sort of native clothing, isn’t he? He has loose sleeves, a longer outer coat, baggy trousers, leggings of yellow leather and a white fez with a tassel.” He rattled off the spirit’s wardrobe triumphantly, but Elizabeth, also peering at the platform, could only make out a vague shape.
Olcott, meanwhile, was leaning so far forward that he was nearly out of his chair and panted with the kind of excitement and panic normally reserved for some sort of cardiac arrest. When the séance concluded, he leapt up and announced, “Now this is something worth writing about,” as he grasped both of Madame’s meaty shoulders in his hands.
Behind her, a woman cried, “Is that you, Papa?” and Elizabeth’s heart began to pound in her chest. The indistinguishable shadows, the whispers, the slight hysteria in the air combined to form a feverish cocktail. With the heat of so many bodies packed into one room, beads of sweat formed on the back of Elizabeth’s neck, and as they crept toward the collar of her dress, she swatted at her skin, mistaking the moisture for the caress of ghostly fingers. When the floorboards next to her creaked, she started in her chair, settling back with relief when she realized it was only Madame, leaning forward to peer into the darkness.
“Michalko,” Madame said, loud enough for the row of people in front of and behind them to hear.
Elizabeth reached out to clutch her arm. “Who?”
“Michalko Guegidze,” Madame replied, matter-of-factly. “My aunt Katherine’s servant. Why, the last time I saw him he was in Kutais.”
“Kutais?” The word sounded like a kind of paste coming from Elizabeth’s mouth.
“Georgia,” Madame clarified. “It was a town I passed through years ago, perhaps 1861. No, 1862. Those years blend together for me, I was extremely ill after Yuri’s birth.”
“Birth?” Elizabeth practically choked on the word. “You have a child, Helena?”
“I had a child,” she said and then continued, glossing over the subject. “Do you see him, Henry?” Madame continued to peer at the platform and now Olcott joined her, leaning forward at an identical angle.
“Yes! I see him.” Olcott’s voice was filled with satisfaction, as if he were proud to be able to see Madame’s same vision. “He’s dressed in some sort of native clothing, isn’t he? He has loose sleeves, a longer outer coat, baggy trousers, leggings of yellow leather and a white fez with a tassel.” He rattled off the spirit’s wardrobe triumphantly, but Elizabeth, also peering at the platform, could only make out a vague shape.
Olcott, meanwhile, was leaning so far forward that he was nearly out of his chair and panted with the kind of excitement and panic normally reserved for some sort of cardiac arrest. When the séance concluded, he leapt up and announced, “Now this is something worth writing about,” as he grasped both of Madame’s meaty shoulders in his hands.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
It Felt So Wrong, It Felt So Right
A funny thing happened on the way to the half marathon: I started eating like a 16-year-old boy.
Let's review yesterday's comestibles, shall we?
Orange juice/coffee
Everything bagel with cream cheese and scallions
Grilled vegetable panini from Famima (sounds healthy until you inspect the label - 65% saturated fat, which probably comes from the entire can of Pam they use while heating the sandwich up for you)
Regular Coca-Cola
Blueberry and cheese danish
Hot and spicy peanuts
Fried rice
Another half of an everything bagel (sans cream cheese)
One ear of corn with butter and salt
Those are in order, but I don't even know where lunch ended and dinner began. The day before, while enjoying some fine cable television, I ate a handful of croutons and half a pint of cherry tomatoes. Separately, as if I was trying to make some sort of salad in my stomach. It's gotten to the point where I think about my feedings (every two hours) more than I do how much wine I have at home. And I'm a wino.
It's only a matter of time before I start pulling dusty butterscotch candies out from the bottom of my bag. No, wait. Butterscotch doesn't have the carbs I need to get me through my training runs. So maybe I'll just start carrying crusts of bread in a Ziploc bag like a crazy pigeon lady.
Let's review yesterday's comestibles, shall we?
Orange juice/coffee
Everything bagel with cream cheese and scallions
Grilled vegetable panini from Famima (sounds healthy until you inspect the label - 65% saturated fat, which probably comes from the entire can of Pam they use while heating the sandwich up for you)
Regular Coca-Cola
Blueberry and cheese danish
Hot and spicy peanuts
Fried rice
Another half of an everything bagel (sans cream cheese)
One ear of corn with butter and salt
Those are in order, but I don't even know where lunch ended and dinner began. The day before, while enjoying some fine cable television, I ate a handful of croutons and half a pint of cherry tomatoes. Separately, as if I was trying to make some sort of salad in my stomach. It's gotten to the point where I think about my feedings (every two hours) more than I do how much wine I have at home. And I'm a wino.
It's only a matter of time before I start pulling dusty butterscotch candies out from the bottom of my bag. No, wait. Butterscotch doesn't have the carbs I need to get me through my training runs. So maybe I'll just start carrying crusts of bread in a Ziploc bag like a crazy pigeon lady.
Monday, June 30, 2008
June
When I started this training nonsense, I had the idea that after I did the 1/2 marathon, I'd train for a full marathon. Of course, that was back when my distance run was 5 miles. Ah, those were the days. Working up to a 5-mile run. So cute! 5 miles is now my meat-and-potatoes training run, so much so that I've fallen into a 42-minute rut I can't get seem to get out of. (I suggested running toward something, like booze or sushi. Heartbreaker gave me some "logical" advice about varying my pace. Whatever.) and this evening my distance run became 10 miles and that idea about training for a full marathon evaporated. It's two hours later and the lower half of my body - from my low back to my ankles - aches.
Of course, even though I just spent the last half hour with a bag of ice on my knees, I also did run 10 miles in 90 minutes. That's kind of impressive coming from someone who couldn't run more than 2 miles without walking when she started. See, kids? Dreams can come true! And by "dreams", I mean back and knee pain.
Anyway. Onward and upward. The month in numbers:
Miles on foot: 74 (My concession to my knees was 4 measly miles.)
Miles on bike: 96 (Is gas still expensive? I thought so.)
Weight sessions: 3 (my joints would have appreciated some more of those instead of all those meat and potatoes)
Shoes through which my freakishly larger-than-the-other-foot foot busted: 1 (my left foot wears a size 9, my right foot has now announced that it would prefer a 9.5)
Number of people in my life who are tired of hearing "I can't, I have to go for a run": 3
And the other thing? This healthy living thing has gotten out of control. I'm not eating any meat except fish, a box of local, organic produce arrives at my door every week and the taste of tofu is growing on me. Someone send help. Something is clearly wrong with me and I need an intervention. On second thought, don't send help. Send processed foods.
As always, rock with me, join my anemic online community and build some wells.
Of course, even though I just spent the last half hour with a bag of ice on my knees, I also did run 10 miles in 90 minutes. That's kind of impressive coming from someone who couldn't run more than 2 miles without walking when she started. See, kids? Dreams can come true! And by "dreams", I mean back and knee pain.
Anyway. Onward and upward. The month in numbers:
Miles on foot: 74 (My concession to my knees was 4 measly miles.)
Miles on bike: 96 (Is gas still expensive? I thought so.)
Weight sessions: 3 (my joints would have appreciated some more of those instead of all those meat and potatoes)
Shoes through which my freakishly larger-than-the-other-foot foot busted: 1 (my left foot wears a size 9, my right foot has now announced that it would prefer a 9.5)
Number of people in my life who are tired of hearing "I can't, I have to go for a run": 3
And the other thing? This healthy living thing has gotten out of control. I'm not eating any meat except fish, a box of local, organic produce arrives at my door every week and the taste of tofu is growing on me. Someone send help. Something is clearly wrong with me and I need an intervention. On second thought, don't send help. Send processed foods.
As always, rock with me, join my anemic online community and build some wells.
Friday, June 27, 2008
You'll Be My American Boy
I used to slip out of bed, around, over like a spider, trying hard not to wake him. There wouldn't be a shower, only the gurgle of water in the sink as I rinsed and spat and the spray of sunscreen. My stifled cough when the SPF 45 had nowhere else to go in my tiny bathroom and made its way into my lungs.
Then I'm slipping out of shorts and a sticky tank top and onto a towel, molding the sand under the terrycloth into the shape of my body. This is the reason I moved LA - maybe not the sweat and the sand stuck to the back of my knees, but the sound of water instead of traffic and the smell of sunscreen instead of sewage on a Saturday morning in June, July, August.
When I first got here, men who decided I looked lonely (though otherwise occupied with a book or a sandwich hanging half out of my mouth) asked if they could sit next to me, and not knowing there was more than one way to answer that question, I kind of shrugged and hoped that my monosyllabic responses to their inquiries would repel them quickly. They didn't, and eventually when I replied "uhmm" like I had some sort of speech problem to a question like, "What do you do?" they pretended to remember that they had to meet someone. Now I know better, arriving at 9 and leaving an hour or two later when my would-be companions are just getting up. And if an early riser does get past having to speak with his reflection in my aviators, I have a different answer when he asks if I mind if he sits next to me.
"Yes, I do mind."
Then I roll over with my book, the same way I roll over in bed now, not careful or considerate.
Also: happy 500th post, my loyal subjects.
Then I'm slipping out of shorts and a sticky tank top and onto a towel, molding the sand under the terrycloth into the shape of my body. This is the reason I moved LA - maybe not the sweat and the sand stuck to the back of my knees, but the sound of water instead of traffic and the smell of sunscreen instead of sewage on a Saturday morning in June, July, August.
When I first got here, men who decided I looked lonely (though otherwise occupied with a book or a sandwich hanging half out of my mouth) asked if they could sit next to me, and not knowing there was more than one way to answer that question, I kind of shrugged and hoped that my monosyllabic responses to their inquiries would repel them quickly. They didn't, and eventually when I replied "uhmm" like I had some sort of speech problem to a question like, "What do you do?" they pretended to remember that they had to meet someone. Now I know better, arriving at 9 and leaving an hour or two later when my would-be companions are just getting up. And if an early riser does get past having to speak with his reflection in my aviators, I have a different answer when he asks if I mind if he sits next to me.
"Yes, I do mind."
Then I roll over with my book, the same way I roll over in bed now, not careful or considerate.
Also: happy 500th post, my loyal subjects.
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