I'm chatting with my-se-helf hooHOO.
Hey you in your new blue pants and your sharp red shirt. You're sexy.
Me? I'm not sexy. I'm just chowing down on my Spam and brown rice trying to plan an evening.
Nah. You're cherry man, you're one small leap away from having it all. You're going places.
Come on. I'm not going anywhere. I've still got pictures to develop and bikes to paint. I can't go anywhere yet. I need a Presta valve.
Aw, babe. You can do it all, man. You're running around. You're robbing banks all whacked out on scooby snacks.
Are you sure it was "whacked out"?
Are you sure it wasn't?
No.
Ok then.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Can't afford to go. Can't afford to stay.
When did camping become a 30-dollar-a-night activity?
I thought it was just KOA with their overpriced ground space, but it's almost everybody. I just want some ground, people. I just want it for a night or so. Why, they're selling whole mountains for cheaper than they rent tent sites. No wonder people are falling asleep at the wheel. They can't afford to pull over. Next thing we know gas prices will be more than 2 dollars a gallon, or, uh, more. Talk about intense, no, wait, that was the first bit.
Maybe everybody should just stay home. Too bad we can't afford rent or a mortgage either...
When did camping become a 30-dollar-a-night activity?
I thought it was just KOA with their overpriced ground space, but it's almost everybody. I just want some ground, people. I just want it for a night or so. Why, they're selling whole mountains for cheaper than they rent tent sites. No wonder people are falling asleep at the wheel. They can't afford to pull over. Next thing we know gas prices will be more than 2 dollars a gallon, or, uh, more. Talk about intense, no, wait, that was the first bit.
Maybe everybody should just stay home. Too bad we can't afford rent or a mortgage either...
One more for the kiddies
So I've made eye contact with this woman three times already. The third time she says hello and I might have said "hi" back or grunted or given her a nod. Then I see her a fourth time and we make eye contact again.
She says, "See you later."
I can't just leave it at that. Four times we've made eye contact. I've fallen in love, gotten married, had babies and been tragically widowed in less eye contact than that.
So I throw out a question for her, one that pertains to the context of our setting. She answers and asks me the same question. I answer. She tells me about the setting last year. We laugh, sorta. And then we say see you. I don't know that we will though.
As I drive away, I'm thinking about the "Celestine Prophecy" and I'm wondering. Was I supposed to talk to her to find out that it rained at this time last year? Or did I just miss something bigger?
And then it hits me. And then I forget what hits me. And the next thing you know I'm blogging about it and you're reading it and searching for the punchline or the moral and find...nothing.
Sometimes that's the way it is kiddies. Sometimes that's the way it is.
So I've made eye contact with this woman three times already. The third time she says hello and I might have said "hi" back or grunted or given her a nod. Then I see her a fourth time and we make eye contact again.
She says, "See you later."
I can't just leave it at that. Four times we've made eye contact. I've fallen in love, gotten married, had babies and been tragically widowed in less eye contact than that.
So I throw out a question for her, one that pertains to the context of our setting. She answers and asks me the same question. I answer. She tells me about the setting last year. We laugh, sorta. And then we say see you. I don't know that we will though.
As I drive away, I'm thinking about the "Celestine Prophecy" and I'm wondering. Was I supposed to talk to her to find out that it rained at this time last year? Or did I just miss something bigger?
And then it hits me. And then I forget what hits me. And the next thing you know I'm blogging about it and you're reading it and searching for the punchline or the moral and find...nothing.
Sometimes that's the way it is kiddies. Sometimes that's the way it is.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Is that how distance runners get their thrills?
I raced a 5k on Sunday. Pre-race I had talked myself into slowing the pace down to just get a feel for what it would be like to run with people around- like it will be in the marathon. I was even prepared to run my slowest timed 5k ever.
"Ready. Set. GO!" I sauntered off the starting line somewhere near the middle of the pack content to let the leaders leave me far behind. Not real content though. I slowly picked up the pace as we cruised along. I was picking off people left and right until I moved into some open space. The leaders were out of sight on the windy roads, but I had found a more suitable, not to mention more familiar and eventually more physically painful, pace and so I focused in on the back of an older gentleman in a white jersey. I noticed that he looked at his watch as we crossed the mile. I thought I might just speed up and ask him what we ran, figuring I could add 5 or 6 seconds to his time. The move proved a difficult one. Actually, it didn't really materialize at all and near mile two I had lost a few seconds on the fellow.
About that time, a club runner came up on my shoulder intent on passing me. Still feeling relatively strong, I was just as intent on not letting him pass. He surged up into my peripheral vision and I surged forward. He let up slightly and I let up slightly. He surged again, not into my vision, but I could hear him. So I surged again. This time I didn't stop my surge until he was out of earshot. I never looked back, but the next time I looked up I was near the man in white. As we neared "Heartbreak Hill" I overtook the gentleman. And then the heartbreak began. I slowed and he passed me. Inside my head it sounded like a convention for losers "I don't care if he beats me. I don't care if everybody beats me. Who cares?" My pace slowed accordingly. White jersey man began to pull away, when some positive thinking kicked in. "I CARE. LET'S GO." I charged up the hill after the man. I passed him again and again I slowed.
As we crested the hill there were 300 meters left. White jersey man was closing on me again. My legs were slowing. I dug down once more and got my legs moving as fast as I thought they could go for 40 more seconds. I didn't catch the next guy, but I pulled away from my rival for the day.
I'd improved on my previous 5k time because of those two guys, my training, and perhaps because of a slower start.
5k's are familiar territory, though. I've got a lot to learn before the marathon. Like patience.
I raced a 5k on Sunday. Pre-race I had talked myself into slowing the pace down to just get a feel for what it would be like to run with people around- like it will be in the marathon. I was even prepared to run my slowest timed 5k ever.
"Ready. Set. GO!" I sauntered off the starting line somewhere near the middle of the pack content to let the leaders leave me far behind. Not real content though. I slowly picked up the pace as we cruised along. I was picking off people left and right until I moved into some open space. The leaders were out of sight on the windy roads, but I had found a more suitable, not to mention more familiar and eventually more physically painful, pace and so I focused in on the back of an older gentleman in a white jersey. I noticed that he looked at his watch as we crossed the mile. I thought I might just speed up and ask him what we ran, figuring I could add 5 or 6 seconds to his time. The move proved a difficult one. Actually, it didn't really materialize at all and near mile two I had lost a few seconds on the fellow.
About that time, a club runner came up on my shoulder intent on passing me. Still feeling relatively strong, I was just as intent on not letting him pass. He surged up into my peripheral vision and I surged forward. He let up slightly and I let up slightly. He surged again, not into my vision, but I could hear him. So I surged again. This time I didn't stop my surge until he was out of earshot. I never looked back, but the next time I looked up I was near the man in white. As we neared "Heartbreak Hill" I overtook the gentleman. And then the heartbreak began. I slowed and he passed me. Inside my head it sounded like a convention for losers "I don't care if he beats me. I don't care if everybody beats me. Who cares?" My pace slowed accordingly. White jersey man began to pull away, when some positive thinking kicked in. "I CARE. LET'S GO." I charged up the hill after the man. I passed him again and again I slowed.
As we crested the hill there were 300 meters left. White jersey man was closing on me again. My legs were slowing. I dug down once more and got my legs moving as fast as I thought they could go for 40 more seconds. I didn't catch the next guy, but I pulled away from my rival for the day.
I'd improved on my previous 5k time because of those two guys, my training, and perhaps because of a slower start.
5k's are familiar territory, though. I've got a lot to learn before the marathon. Like patience.
This quote about s-e-x amuses me
From Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides, “So do boys and men announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love.”
Knitting is being compared to golf on NPR
Something about fetishes. I'm very confused. I might have understood if it had been about frustrations.
Now you have more time to train, Justin
From Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides, “So do boys and men announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love.”
Knitting is being compared to golf on NPR
Something about fetishes. I'm very confused. I might have understood if it had been about frustrations.
Now you have more time to train, Justin
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Special Message to Justin
It's time. Or it will be the weekend we celebrate our independence. Any chance everyone isn't leaving town?
It's time. Or it will be the weekend we celebrate our independence. Any chance everyone isn't leaving town?
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Father's Day is Sunday
My pappy, as I've never called him, is a rather smart man. I read something today that said at about age 6 you realize your dad doesn't know everything. I think it took me until at least 13, and sometimes I still forget. At 13 I was in my dad's science class, he being a teacher at the middle school and me being a student. It wasn't his class that made me question his wealth of knowledge. It was Algebra. He could do Algebra, certainly. Every so often though it took him some time to figure it out. Ten years of school and this was the first time my father had paused to figure something out. That's smart. He could probably kick your tail at Scattergories.
Dad is an athlete too. He might tell you that he wasn't. He sat the bench in high school football. He wrestled, or played table tennis, or racket ball, or whatever else they needed another man for to score another point for his fraternity. There were no letters, no accolades, no trophies to show off. Like the tortoise and the hare fable, the longer the race went on, the closer he moved to the front. The star athletes developed their beer bellies and love handles and soon just stopped playing. Their exercise was swinging a club and riding a cart. His was riding a bike. Everyday. To and from work. And so his average basketball skills suddenly seemed top notch, especially since few other dad's even found their way outside. And still he rides into retirement, still able to hop off and get in a basketball game, or go for a run, or most anything else. His game hasn't fallen off much as far as I can tell, but everyone else around him has.
Dad is part nomad. He likes to go. Camping is the cheap way to spend the night on your way somewhere. My uncle tried to explain that he and my dad had differing opinions on camping. For Dad, it's a means to an end. For my uncle, it's an end. I told my uncle that I understood, but that my dad's opinions had a funny way of becoming my opinions. And they have. My approach to sports, to camping, to religion, and probably to life are pretty similar. We have a few differences, but they seem to get fuzzier the farther along we get in this little journey.
Dad is clever. It's a kind of a bad pun, silly poetry sort of clever. The kind that's sometimes too clever for it's own good. That may seem familiar to you.
Dad can teach. There's a reason we share so many opinions. He's been teaching me since before I knew it. He did it with style. Some of the kids fondly called him "Crazy A". He liked his experiements, and his accents. I remember a Swedish Cross Country skier teaching us about force. And I'm pretty sure the lesson on hypothesis was set to the tune of "Things that make you go Hmmm." Thank you C&C music factory. I was bound to pick up a few things along the way.
Was dancing one of them? Dad can dance. This is a more recent development. Last weekend as I'd ask a young woman to dance, I'd have to point to my father and say, "I can't dance like that, you know?" The young ladies didn't seem to mind.
Maybe it's because I've started to look like him too.
My pappy, as I've never called him, is a rather smart man. I read something today that said at about age 6 you realize your dad doesn't know everything. I think it took me until at least 13, and sometimes I still forget. At 13 I was in my dad's science class, he being a teacher at the middle school and me being a student. It wasn't his class that made me question his wealth of knowledge. It was Algebra. He could do Algebra, certainly. Every so often though it took him some time to figure it out. Ten years of school and this was the first time my father had paused to figure something out. That's smart. He could probably kick your tail at Scattergories.
Dad is an athlete too. He might tell you that he wasn't. He sat the bench in high school football. He wrestled, or played table tennis, or racket ball, or whatever else they needed another man for to score another point for his fraternity. There were no letters, no accolades, no trophies to show off. Like the tortoise and the hare fable, the longer the race went on, the closer he moved to the front. The star athletes developed their beer bellies and love handles and soon just stopped playing. Their exercise was swinging a club and riding a cart. His was riding a bike. Everyday. To and from work. And so his average basketball skills suddenly seemed top notch, especially since few other dad's even found their way outside. And still he rides into retirement, still able to hop off and get in a basketball game, or go for a run, or most anything else. His game hasn't fallen off much as far as I can tell, but everyone else around him has.
Dad is part nomad. He likes to go. Camping is the cheap way to spend the night on your way somewhere. My uncle tried to explain that he and my dad had differing opinions on camping. For Dad, it's a means to an end. For my uncle, it's an end. I told my uncle that I understood, but that my dad's opinions had a funny way of becoming my opinions. And they have. My approach to sports, to camping, to religion, and probably to life are pretty similar. We have a few differences, but they seem to get fuzzier the farther along we get in this little journey.
Dad is clever. It's a kind of a bad pun, silly poetry sort of clever. The kind that's sometimes too clever for it's own good. That may seem familiar to you.
Dad can teach. There's a reason we share so many opinions. He's been teaching me since before I knew it. He did it with style. Some of the kids fondly called him "Crazy A". He liked his experiements, and his accents. I remember a Swedish Cross Country skier teaching us about force. And I'm pretty sure the lesson on hypothesis was set to the tune of "Things that make you go Hmmm." Thank you C&C music factory. I was bound to pick up a few things along the way.
Was dancing one of them? Dad can dance. This is a more recent development. Last weekend as I'd ask a young woman to dance, I'd have to point to my father and say, "I can't dance like that, you know?" The young ladies didn't seem to mind.
Maybe it's because I've started to look like him too.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Sisterella
As she stood up in that gazebo holding hands with her soon-to-be husband, it all looked so natural. The strapless white dress was her innocent skin. The veil and the tiara a part of her hair as far back as I could remember. Although the bridesmaids and groomsmen have two, three, or ten inches on the couple in the pictures, that day no two were taller. They fit like they'd always been together at once larger-than-life and tiny perfect puzzle pieces. Smiles shown like sun and stars. My beautiful little sister was growing a family before our eyes and connecting each of us as she did.
The night before at the rehearsal dinner, almost everyone cried, but on this day fewer tears fell. It was quiet, a calm sort, perhaps the sort that only an outdoor wedding not far from the Rockies can have. The earlier rain shower which had elicited some sobs itself, now did seem to bring "good luck" as so many claimed it would. For what better luck than to watch two wonderful kids become one wonderful couple in front of friends and family.
The reception was in the style one would expect of those less accustomed to the grandeur that the ceremony had promised; for ceremonies are about an elegant ideal of love, but receptions are about a crazy little thing called fun. The transition from elegance to fun was a touch rough, but when the crowd finally found its middle-class stride it soared. Through country and R and B that crowd took Backstreets all N'Sync. They swung until they landed right back in the land of elegance, or as close as anyone can get when they take away the whistles. And so,
with all the trappings of a fairy tale, their court cheered as the Mr. and Mrs. kissed and were carried off in a horse drawn carriage.
As she stood up in that gazebo holding hands with her soon-to-be husband, it all looked so natural. The strapless white dress was her innocent skin. The veil and the tiara a part of her hair as far back as I could remember. Although the bridesmaids and groomsmen have two, three, or ten inches on the couple in the pictures, that day no two were taller. They fit like they'd always been together at once larger-than-life and tiny perfect puzzle pieces. Smiles shown like sun and stars. My beautiful little sister was growing a family before our eyes and connecting each of us as she did.
The night before at the rehearsal dinner, almost everyone cried, but on this day fewer tears fell. It was quiet, a calm sort, perhaps the sort that only an outdoor wedding not far from the Rockies can have. The earlier rain shower which had elicited some sobs itself, now did seem to bring "good luck" as so many claimed it would. For what better luck than to watch two wonderful kids become one wonderful couple in front of friends and family.
The reception was in the style one would expect of those less accustomed to the grandeur that the ceremony had promised; for ceremonies are about an elegant ideal of love, but receptions are about a crazy little thing called fun. The transition from elegance to fun was a touch rough, but when the crowd finally found its middle-class stride it soared. Through country and R and B that crowd took Backstreets all N'Sync. They swung until they landed right back in the land of elegance, or as close as anyone can get when they take away the whistles. And so,
with all the trappings of a fairy tale, their court cheered as the Mr. and Mrs. kissed and were carried off in a horse drawn carriage.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Hypothetically, how did it go?
Perhaps the expectation level had already risen a tad too high when I returned from her place of employment, flashed my poolside family a thumbs up and then cowered as they erupted in cheers. The whoops were deafening as they bounced off water and tile.
I slept fitfully and no one will ever know if it was because my sister was about to get married or if it was due to the date that may or may not count. Looking back, I'm a little embarrassed that it may have been the latter. A crush that lasted longer than a Metro stop has to be some sort of modern-day record for me. Admittedly, it was probably fueled by the fact that for once I had taken at least some action rather than sitting silently averting my eyes. Or maybe my mule into the Grand Canyon had jarred feeling loose again. Whatever it was, I created a drama that wouldn't unfold, at least not in a night where the eyes were deservedly on my sister and her new husband.
Once seating worked out and the lovely woman was eating dinner beside me, my conversational wizardry was unable to hold her interest for long. I was painfully aware that I was no match for her orthodontist*. When the much anticipated dancing finally arrived, I had already conceded that there was no reason for me to hang around her end of the dance floor and hope like a 7th-grader that maybe we'd dance. I felt a twinge of guilt that soon passed as I managed to find dance partner after dance partner. In a rare move for me, I abandoned "riding the pony" and the infamous "Stayin' Alive Disco manuever" for partner dancing. The moments of silliness were still there and I stepped on more feet than usual, but I had a good time and I have to think that others did too. I rhumba-ed with former neighbors, tango-ed with long lost pals, dipped cousins, do-si-doed Uncles, butt-bounced Aunts, and spun anyone I could, even the beautiful bride.
Lest you think I completely forgot my date, I did squeeze in one, a little swing that made it all worthwhile. Somewhere there while we were spinning to Glenn Miller, I caught that smile- the real genuine fantastic sort of smile that melts yours truly. How did it go? In that instant, with those big brown eyes about to spin away and those fine pearly whites gleaming (my thanks to the orthodonist after all) it went splendidly, thank you.
*That's no metaphor, he was the Maid of Honor's Dad.
Perhaps the expectation level had already risen a tad too high when I returned from her place of employment, flashed my poolside family a thumbs up and then cowered as they erupted in cheers. The whoops were deafening as they bounced off water and tile.
I slept fitfully and no one will ever know if it was because my sister was about to get married or if it was due to the date that may or may not count. Looking back, I'm a little embarrassed that it may have been the latter. A crush that lasted longer than a Metro stop has to be some sort of modern-day record for me. Admittedly, it was probably fueled by the fact that for once I had taken at least some action rather than sitting silently averting my eyes. Or maybe my mule into the Grand Canyon had jarred feeling loose again. Whatever it was, I created a drama that wouldn't unfold, at least not in a night where the eyes were deservedly on my sister and her new husband.
Once seating worked out and the lovely woman was eating dinner beside me, my conversational wizardry was unable to hold her interest for long. I was painfully aware that I was no match for her orthodontist*. When the much anticipated dancing finally arrived, I had already conceded that there was no reason for me to hang around her end of the dance floor and hope like a 7th-grader that maybe we'd dance. I felt a twinge of guilt that soon passed as I managed to find dance partner after dance partner. In a rare move for me, I abandoned "riding the pony" and the infamous "Stayin' Alive Disco manuever" for partner dancing. The moments of silliness were still there and I stepped on more feet than usual, but I had a good time and I have to think that others did too. I rhumba-ed with former neighbors, tango-ed with long lost pals, dipped cousins, do-si-doed Uncles, butt-bounced Aunts, and spun anyone I could, even the beautiful bride.
Lest you think I completely forgot my date, I did squeeze in one, a little swing that made it all worthwhile. Somewhere there while we were spinning to Glenn Miller, I caught that smile- the real genuine fantastic sort of smile that melts yours truly. How did it go? In that instant, with those big brown eyes about to spin away and those fine pearly whites gleaming (my thanks to the orthodonist after all) it went splendidly, thank you.
*That's no metaphor, he was the Maid of Honor's Dad.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Does it count?
Fort Collins, CO- In 2004, I have been challenged to go on a date. It's June. Six months have passed, six months are left. Let's check in.
First, we have to ask, "What is a date?"
Or as my young cousin who I call Tedward would say, "What isn't a date?" He's very helpful that way. A date isn't two friends going to dinner and a party. A date isn't making a dancing buddy while watching a Denver-based band "12 cents for Marvin", no matter what that dancing buddy looks like. That does seem like it's getting closer though, doesn't it?
Here's a hypothetical for you:
Let's just say that two people were going to the same wedding at the end of a week. And let's say that one of them is really cute, gorgeous even, and the other one is me, and all of the good that comes with that. And let's just say that the me one overheard a conversation that involved the gorgeous one trying to decide if she should bring a date to the wedding. And let's say that the me one jumped in and said, "I'll be your date." Moments later the me one realized that perhaps, asking would be a better tactic and amended the previous statement by shouting up the stairs, "K__, will you go to the wedding with me?" And let's say that K__ said, "sure." Then we'll say that my sister chimed in and said, "You can still bring someone if you want." Then after the door was shut the me one might have said sarcastically, "Thanks, alot. As if I don't have enough trouble anyway."
Is it a date, hypothetically of course?
Fort Collins, CO- In 2004, I have been challenged to go on a date. It's June. Six months have passed, six months are left. Let's check in.
First, we have to ask, "What is a date?"
Or as my young cousin who I call Tedward would say, "What isn't a date?" He's very helpful that way. A date isn't two friends going to dinner and a party. A date isn't making a dancing buddy while watching a Denver-based band "12 cents for Marvin", no matter what that dancing buddy looks like. That does seem like it's getting closer though, doesn't it?
Here's a hypothetical for you:
Let's just say that two people were going to the same wedding at the end of a week. And let's say that one of them is really cute, gorgeous even, and the other one is me, and all of the good that comes with that. And let's just say that the me one overheard a conversation that involved the gorgeous one trying to decide if she should bring a date to the wedding. And let's say that the me one jumped in and said, "I'll be your date." Moments later the me one realized that perhaps, asking would be a better tactic and amended the previous statement by shouting up the stairs, "K__, will you go to the wedding with me?" And let's say that K__ said, "sure." Then we'll say that my sister chimed in and said, "You can still bring someone if you want." Then after the door was shut the me one might have said sarcastically, "Thanks, alot. As if I don't have enough trouble anyway."
Is it a date, hypothetically of course?
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
It could be the brewery tour talking
Fort Collins- I went through my old home town of Granby and it brought back a lot of memories. Like the time I walked half a mile to 7-11, just so I could call the stupid phone company and tell them to fix my phone. Or my first visit to the local bar where a 60+ year old local schooled my new friends and I in pool. Or the time my friends stole a golf cart and ended up in prison for Grand Theft Auto. It felt a little like my insides were exploding part of the time. Then again it was nothing like the rampage of this angry Granby resident.
Fort Collins- I went through my old home town of Granby and it brought back a lot of memories. Like the time I walked half a mile to 7-11, just so I could call the stupid phone company and tell them to fix my phone. Or my first visit to the local bar where a 60+ year old local schooled my new friends and I in pool. Or the time my friends stole a golf cart and ended up in prison for Grand Theft Auto. It felt a little like my insides were exploding part of the time. Then again it was nothing like the rampage of this angry Granby resident.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Creepy guy at the mall?
I spent a fair amount of time at the mall this evening. I divided my time between three pursuits: 1. Pants shopping 2. People watching 3. Shake drinking.
1.I am finding it very difficult to find pants that fit at the right price. I am having the same trouble in other areas of my life.
2.I've been noticing heels lately. I don't know if there is an outburst in heel wear, or if I'm suddenly aware of it for different reasons. Are there more summer heels than winter heels? Does ice have anything to do with that? I would like a grant to study heels. I'm not clear what they do exactly. I mean I can see the vertical assistance they provide, but I sense that their appeal goes deeper than that. How much deeper? or how much shallower? I would be interested to compare men's reaction to women in heels vs. women in flats. I'm not sure how I would study this exactly. I then would like to study whether the height of the heel affected perception. This all sounds very foot fetishist, but it isn't.
To prove that I didn't just watch heels, I would also like to mention the middle-schoolers who congregated in front of the bench where I rested. Middle-schoolers are like real people, only smaller and with funny attitudes. Hmm. Amend that to middle-schoolers are like real people, only smaller.
3.Your milkshake might be better than mine, but mine cost 6 bucks. That's highway robbery.
I spent a fair amount of time at the mall this evening. I divided my time between three pursuits: 1. Pants shopping 2. People watching 3. Shake drinking.
1.I am finding it very difficult to find pants that fit at the right price. I am having the same trouble in other areas of my life.
2.I've been noticing heels lately. I don't know if there is an outburst in heel wear, or if I'm suddenly aware of it for different reasons. Are there more summer heels than winter heels? Does ice have anything to do with that? I would like a grant to study heels. I'm not clear what they do exactly. I mean I can see the vertical assistance they provide, but I sense that their appeal goes deeper than that. How much deeper? or how much shallower? I would be interested to compare men's reaction to women in heels vs. women in flats. I'm not sure how I would study this exactly. I then would like to study whether the height of the heel affected perception. This all sounds very foot fetishist, but it isn't.
To prove that I didn't just watch heels, I would also like to mention the middle-schoolers who congregated in front of the bench where I rested. Middle-schoolers are like real people, only smaller and with funny attitudes. Hmm. Amend that to middle-schoolers are like real people, only smaller.
3.Your milkshake might be better than mine, but mine cost 6 bucks. That's highway robbery.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Making up for lost time
I finished Middlesex last night. I slogged through three-fourths of the book, but when I finally hit that last fourth it was great. I can't decide if it was good on its own and I should recommend the last fourth, or if it was good because I battled for so long. All I know is hermaphrodites. I also had a quote from the book I wanted to share, but I can't find it. It was something about men showing their affection by trying to crush women, only it was much better than that.
Imposters
Kate alerted me today of someone carrying on with my name and a mullet. This just won't do. Although, the photo which now decorates the fridge has already received big laughs. Thanks, Kate.
Things that deserve their own posts but have not received them
*My younger sister is getting married next week. It doesn't seem real.
*World War II vets
*Couscous Medley
*The guy that won that Sports Channel Job and went to a familiar university- I've played Ultimate with him. in Texas. without a shirt. Or anything else.
*The price of convenience
*A positive rant. There has to be something...
I finished Middlesex last night. I slogged through three-fourths of the book, but when I finally hit that last fourth it was great. I can't decide if it was good on its own and I should recommend the last fourth, or if it was good because I battled for so long. All I know is hermaphrodites. I also had a quote from the book I wanted to share, but I can't find it. It was something about men showing their affection by trying to crush women, only it was much better than that.
Imposters
Kate alerted me today of someone carrying on with my name and a mullet. This just won't do. Although, the photo which now decorates the fridge has already received big laughs. Thanks, Kate.
Things that deserve their own posts but have not received them
*My younger sister is getting married next week. It doesn't seem real.
*World War II vets
*Couscous Medley
*The guy that won that Sports Channel Job and went to a familiar university- I've played Ultimate with him. in Texas. without a shirt. Or anything else.
*The price of convenience
*A positive rant. There has to be something...
So this is how it's gonna be
I joined a very low key, come-if-you-want running group at work today. We ran pretty slowly, but having company was really nice. There was one little topic that made me uncomfortable. It's not really their fault, but it went like this.
"So, like, have any of you guys ever run a 4-minute mile?"
At this point we must be churning along at 10 minutes per mile.
We let out a small chorus of nearly scoffed No's.
"Have you been close?"
I kind of mumble, "relatively". I think I was ok with leaving it at that until somebody said "Under 5." I don't know if it was his statement or a question, but I couldn't leave it alone anymore.
"Well, yea, under 5," I said.
"Yea?"
"4:18," I said. I'm proud of the time, don't get me wrong. Those of you that knew me back when, know that's three 100ths slower than I used to say was my best mile time. It's just... I don't know what I'm feeling. And I don't know when it became not ok to be really proud of what I have accomplished.
I joined a very low key, come-if-you-want running group at work today. We ran pretty slowly, but having company was really nice. There was one little topic that made me uncomfortable. It's not really their fault, but it went like this.
"So, like, have any of you guys ever run a 4-minute mile?"
At this point we must be churning along at 10 minutes per mile.
We let out a small chorus of nearly scoffed No's.
"Have you been close?"
I kind of mumble, "relatively". I think I was ok with leaving it at that until somebody said "Under 5." I don't know if it was his statement or a question, but I couldn't leave it alone anymore.
"Well, yea, under 5," I said.
"Yea?"
"4:18," I said. I'm proud of the time, don't get me wrong. Those of you that knew me back when, know that's three 100ths slower than I used to say was my best mile time. It's just... I don't know what I'm feeling. And I don't know when it became not ok to be really proud of what I have accomplished.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Look Marathon,
I respect you. I understand that you're 26.2 grueling miles. I used to fear that, but it's not so much the distance I fear anymore. I mean, come on, you let P-diddy and Oprah finish, so given enough time I'm pretty confident that I can finish. It's just that I want to do more than finish. I want to shine. I want people to say, "that was your first? wow."
Here's the thing. The marathon is not a mile. It is not a 5k. I might be able to gut out a marathon, but it won't be pretty that way. So, I've got to plan ahead. I've got to be patient. And, my gosh is that hard. It's what planning a career must be like, or maybe getting married. It's not something that just goes "POOF" (unless you're in Vegas, maybe I should run the Vegas Marathon). I'm not that great at planning ahead or being patient.
So Marathon, if you can help me out a little, keep things interesting, make things fun. I would really appreciate it. That way when I crush you or you crush me, we can still be friends.
I respect you. I understand that you're 26.2 grueling miles. I used to fear that, but it's not so much the distance I fear anymore. I mean, come on, you let P-diddy and Oprah finish, so given enough time I'm pretty confident that I can finish. It's just that I want to do more than finish. I want to shine. I want people to say, "that was your first? wow."
Here's the thing. The marathon is not a mile. It is not a 5k. I might be able to gut out a marathon, but it won't be pretty that way. So, I've got to plan ahead. I've got to be patient. And, my gosh is that hard. It's what planning a career must be like, or maybe getting married. It's not something that just goes "POOF" (unless you're in Vegas, maybe I should run the Vegas Marathon). I'm not that great at planning ahead or being patient.
So Marathon, if you can help me out a little, keep things interesting, make things fun. I would really appreciate it. That way when I crush you or you crush me, we can still be friends.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Spinning my wheels and shuffling along
Perhaps cross training on the bike was not so wise after the mule ride.
The mule ride?
You know the one.
It descended into the fiery pits of hell.
No. No. NO. Not that mule ride. The one that descended into the Grand Canyon.
Ohhh. Yea. So I've just seen the sun rise over the Grand Canyon. It's pretty neat,though I hear it does that almost every day. It's funny though, when that bright shiny orb becomes fully visible people stop squinting into the sun and start to look around at one another. They don't look directly at each other for fear that they will burn their eyes and go blind, but there is a certain restless wandering of the eyes and body. They, and me for that matter, are starting to wonder exactly when sunRISE ends and becomes just plain sun. It turns out, that's very much a personal decision.
Jack Palance, or his third cousin twice removed, introduces us to the mules and the dangers of the Grand Canyon. "This is not a ride at Disney World" he tells us. 45 minutes of safety dance, er talk, later and he's put the fear in me. One woman nearly backs out. My heart titters a bit, but I steel myself, pump testosterone through my veins, and await my mule assignment.
Randy, the guide, just got out of jail yesterday, Jack's cousin mentions in passing. Randy laughs it off and tells us, "You're going to have a good time if you stick with me. I have a great sense of humor." Sticking with our guide was the gist of the previous 45 minutes; I'll be stickin' I think.
Nora lets me on and we begin our day together. Nora is an ass. Well, not entirely of course, she's also part horse. I spend the first half an hour, taking quick glances at my vast surroundings and long hard stares at my clenched fist on the saddle. Sometimes Nora trips and stumbles a bit. Sometimes Nora thinks the easiest path is also the one that puts my side slightly over the edge of a large precipice. This takes a little getting used to, but eventually I do. I start to look around more. The Grand Canyon is big. I might have guessed from the name. It's really so vast, that I don't think I was ever able to grasp it's size.
We're clomping along when all of the water that I've been drinking from my canteen realizes that in a dry heat, it cannot escape from my pores. So, it wants to escape the other way. It really wants to escape that way. And I'm bouncing along, clomp,clomp, just bouncing and trying to figure out how I'm going to let the water escape. I hate to stop our procession. Maybe I can hold it. Bounce, bounce, bounce. I have to go. BAD. At the next turn, I'll ask our guide to stop. Bounce, bounce, bounce. The next turn, er, the turn after, er, bounce, bounce, bounce. It'll dry quickly if I just let loose. No. That's ridiculous.
"Randy. I need to relieve myself."
"Can you hold it?"
"I've been trying."
"We'll stop up ahead."
This is the most Randy has said. I don't find it funny. When I dismount though, oh man, what a relief. I empty a canteen on the trail. It'll dry soon. I'm serious, I'm pissing like a race horse, or at least a Grand Canyon mule. It's impressive. Not really, but at least I proved that I really had to go. And I proved it to everyone in my group, because I basically just turned and went. Ok, that's enough...
So, there's more canyon and there's more bouncing, but now it's all very vast and beautiful and enjoyable. We get to our stopping point and I tell Randy, "When do I get to hear that sense of humor? It's been pretty subtle so far." I think people who claim they are funny, should have to prove it. Randy makes excuses. Maybe he's having an off day. It turns out, it is his first day back since he got out of jail last week. I'll cut him some slack. I'm sure he kicked the crap out of one of those wimpy park rangers. They're hard on the locals, he tells me. I don't think I offer the necessary sympathy, but he lets it pass. We've come down 3,000 feet. It's 1,400 more to the river. We turn and head back up.
More bouncing, more views. Uphill is easier than down. Or else I've got the hang of this whole thing. It's also like being on a whole different trail. Looking up at the Grand Canyon does not reduce it's Grand effects, but it's different.
My thighs are chafing. The middle of my back is starting to hurt. Nora is starting to drag a bit. I have to use "the motivator" a little more often. The rest of my group is too tired to even use "the motivator". And so they fall farther and farther behind. The view starts to look the same and the whiners start to get louder. I'd like to use "the motivator" on a few of them.
I AM TRYING TO ENJOY A GRAND CANYON EXPERIENCE HERE. PLEASE SHUT YOUR GIANT HOLE SO I CAN ENJOY THIS ONE.
I say nothing. I can understand their pain. It's hot. My back hurts. I'm ready to get off the mule and my ass, but I'm not whining. Geez.
We make it to the top. I say goodbye and thank you to Nora. I graduate as a Master Mule Skinner of the Grand Canyon. It is the greatest honor since the last not great honor I received. I have the certificate to prove it. Better than that, I have an experience. I took a mule part way down the Grand Canyon and I survived. I never could wrap my brain around the size of the G.C., but maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe that's what makes it a wonder of the world.
Perhaps cross training on the bike was not so wise after the mule ride.
The mule ride?
You know the one.
It descended into the fiery pits of hell.
No. No. NO. Not that mule ride. The one that descended into the Grand Canyon.
Ohhh. Yea. So I've just seen the sun rise over the Grand Canyon. It's pretty neat,though I hear it does that almost every day. It's funny though, when that bright shiny orb becomes fully visible people stop squinting into the sun and start to look around at one another. They don't look directly at each other for fear that they will burn their eyes and go blind, but there is a certain restless wandering of the eyes and body. They, and me for that matter, are starting to wonder exactly when sunRISE ends and becomes just plain sun. It turns out, that's very much a personal decision.
Jack Palance, or his third cousin twice removed, introduces us to the mules and the dangers of the Grand Canyon. "This is not a ride at Disney World" he tells us. 45 minutes of safety dance, er talk, later and he's put the fear in me. One woman nearly backs out. My heart titters a bit, but I steel myself, pump testosterone through my veins, and await my mule assignment.
Randy, the guide, just got out of jail yesterday, Jack's cousin mentions in passing. Randy laughs it off and tells us, "You're going to have a good time if you stick with me. I have a great sense of humor." Sticking with our guide was the gist of the previous 45 minutes; I'll be stickin' I think.
Nora lets me on and we begin our day together. Nora is an ass. Well, not entirely of course, she's also part horse. I spend the first half an hour, taking quick glances at my vast surroundings and long hard stares at my clenched fist on the saddle. Sometimes Nora trips and stumbles a bit. Sometimes Nora thinks the easiest path is also the one that puts my side slightly over the edge of a large precipice. This takes a little getting used to, but eventually I do. I start to look around more. The Grand Canyon is big. I might have guessed from the name. It's really so vast, that I don't think I was ever able to grasp it's size.
We're clomping along when all of the water that I've been drinking from my canteen realizes that in a dry heat, it cannot escape from my pores. So, it wants to escape the other way. It really wants to escape that way. And I'm bouncing along, clomp,clomp, just bouncing and trying to figure out how I'm going to let the water escape. I hate to stop our procession. Maybe I can hold it. Bounce, bounce, bounce. I have to go. BAD. At the next turn, I'll ask our guide to stop. Bounce, bounce, bounce. The next turn, er, the turn after, er, bounce, bounce, bounce. It'll dry quickly if I just let loose. No. That's ridiculous.
"Randy. I need to relieve myself."
"Can you hold it?"
"I've been trying."
"We'll stop up ahead."
This is the most Randy has said. I don't find it funny. When I dismount though, oh man, what a relief. I empty a canteen on the trail. It'll dry soon. I'm serious, I'm pissing like a race horse, or at least a Grand Canyon mule. It's impressive. Not really, but at least I proved that I really had to go. And I proved it to everyone in my group, because I basically just turned and went. Ok, that's enough...
So, there's more canyon and there's more bouncing, but now it's all very vast and beautiful and enjoyable. We get to our stopping point and I tell Randy, "When do I get to hear that sense of humor? It's been pretty subtle so far." I think people who claim they are funny, should have to prove it. Randy makes excuses. Maybe he's having an off day. It turns out, it is his first day back since he got out of jail last week. I'll cut him some slack. I'm sure he kicked the crap out of one of those wimpy park rangers. They're hard on the locals, he tells me. I don't think I offer the necessary sympathy, but he lets it pass. We've come down 3,000 feet. It's 1,400 more to the river. We turn and head back up.
More bouncing, more views. Uphill is easier than down. Or else I've got the hang of this whole thing. It's also like being on a whole different trail. Looking up at the Grand Canyon does not reduce it's Grand effects, but it's different.
My thighs are chafing. The middle of my back is starting to hurt. Nora is starting to drag a bit. I have to use "the motivator" a little more often. The rest of my group is too tired to even use "the motivator". And so they fall farther and farther behind. The view starts to look the same and the whiners start to get louder. I'd like to use "the motivator" on a few of them.
I AM TRYING TO ENJOY A GRAND CANYON EXPERIENCE HERE. PLEASE SHUT YOUR GIANT HOLE SO I CAN ENJOY THIS ONE.
I say nothing. I can understand their pain. It's hot. My back hurts. I'm ready to get off the mule and my ass, but I'm not whining. Geez.
We make it to the top. I say goodbye and thank you to Nora. I graduate as a Master Mule Skinner of the Grand Canyon. It is the greatest honor since the last not great honor I received. I have the certificate to prove it. Better than that, I have an experience. I took a mule part way down the Grand Canyon and I survived. I never could wrap my brain around the size of the G.C., but maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe that's what makes it a wonder of the world.
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