Dreams, Ponderings, and Mindless Wanderings

I'm not a great runner, but I have potential

This post is not for the faint of heart. There's cussin' and pooin'.

Consider yourselves warned.

I am more than a little nervous about the upcoming Gold Coast Half Marathon. It is not because it's my longest run since my hip surgery. It is not because I have set unachievable goals. It is because I have the potential to run like a great runner. This is not a good thing.

Are you confused? Let me explain.

I've never been a fast runner. I've never been better than average if we consider every runner out there. I'm heaps better than average if we can figure in the couch potatoes, but I'd like to stay honest here. I'm just not that good. I'm okay with my sub-mediocrity. I've never wanted to be a great runner. I never wanted to run the Boston. I've been to Boston. I'd rather run Vienna, London, Berlin, Paris, Singapore... You get the idea. I'm a tourist, a zen runner. I run to support my eating habit and to think about things without being able to fire off an e-mail with "You annoying little shit!" in the subject line. I run for my mental health and for that of others.

But there are times when I try. I do. I try to be a different runner. I try to be a morning person. I try to act like running is what I live for. A few weeks ago, I was on vacation with my mom in the Mary Valley. We went first to see the Lervemunkee Race the Rattler, then we stayed on at the Lagoon Pocket B&B with Tamale. Although I did not race, I packed my running gear for daily runs. I was surrounded by hills; I could do shorter runs and get more out of them because of the hills. I mapped my markers for various turnarounds. I was ready. I would run at the end of each day. It's a B&B. I wasn't going to ruin a good B with a run. I pay more for a glorious B, and no way was I going to just have a muffin.

On Tuesday, my plan was for a 12 kilometre run. I'd start my run with a short dogleg that had a steep hill, go out on to the Mary Valley Highway and run on the shoulders, then return with another hill run. I was ready. I had no problem with the hill. I did much better than those poor saps racing the rattler. Of course, I hit the hills after 200 metres--not 8000.

In the subtropics, there is no twilight. The sun goes down with a boom. After 10 minutes on the highway, the sun had left me. My only light was from the headlights of the cars flying by at 100 kilometres and hour. I had to hop off the shoulder, over the ditch, hop back and continue after every car. Unfortunately for me, it was rush hour out of Gympie (rhymes with limpy). I wear loud running gear to be seen, but I worried about people seeing me, then driving into me. After I slipped on the gravelly shoulder on a return hop and skinned my knee and hand, I decided to give up this run and return. Oh well. I did seven kilometres. Tomorrow I'll do more. I'll map out the country roads and just put up with doglegging.

The next day I mapped out some doglegs. My plan was to go away from the highway and run down Lagoon Pocket Road to Butler, up Butler and back. It wouldn't be as long, but I'd have nothing but hills. Shorter but more heinous. I knew I'd have bragging rights.

I changed into my running gear and went out a little earlier. It was completely different. I didn't see one car. I did see an echidna. Rats! No camera. I finally see an echidna outside of a zoo setting and where was my camera? I might have been on a run, but I was also on vacation. There is no excuse for missing a critter shot. I stopped to watch the echidna for a few minutes and then went on. Isn't this beautiful? See the cows? The sunset? The Mary Valley is gorgeous. I love it here. I don't think my head faced forwards once. More than once I held my arms out and did a few Maria von Trapp country twirls. I was in heaven.

Or I was until my brain received a message from my bowels. I had to turn back. Rats! Double rats!! I cut another run short because I was a moron and ate too much. Don’t give my blog that look. This is vacation. I don’t diet on vacation. After a few minutes into my return jog, I had to make it a return run. Or rather a return skip-clench-walk-sprint-clinch. I was in the runner’s dilemma. Do I walk and clench, which takes longer? Or do I run and endure the tap-tap-tapping, quoth the raven “Poo some more”? Let’s just say that it was a special medley. When I got to the B&B, I did my best sprint with a tail tuck (much harder than the triple lutz and salchow) across their front lawn.

It was back to the war room to come up with a better plan for Thursday. The positive so far was that I had run every day. The negative was that I hadn’t been able to do the runs I wanted.

I pulled all my faculties together for a meeting. Country roads? Yes. Let’s keep that. Eat lots? Sure, why not? But let’s eat earlier, have a few more cappuccini to get the system going. After I know the little brown Elvises have left the building, I’ll go out for a run with a camera. What could go wrong?

Thursday was going to be my day. We had a large breakfast and planned for an early dinner at 2 pm; I would not run until 5 pm. Between dinner and the run, I’d relax, read a book, stitch, and ponder my navel.

And it all went as planned for a while. We had our meals as scheduled. I relaxed as scheduled. Nothing says “relax” like a rigid schedule. After my second trip to the boardroom, I got dressed for my run. It was darker, so I had to make sure I wore my high viz stuff. I had on some tights that were multicoloured and a bright blue long-sleeved shirt over my jog bra. No black on me. I put on my red Greyhound Adoption Program hat to add a little contrast. My iPod was strapped to my sleeve and the ear buds taped to my ears. No buds fit me, so I have to tape them to my ears. I was ready. This is it. Eight kilometres of mountains ready to become molehills. I might not have been running much this vacation, but my effort was, if not of Olympic calibre, worthy of honourable mention at a small track and field contest in some remote part of Queensland. Eat. My. Dust.

I took off with a camera in hand and Oingo Boingo’s “Nothing Bad Ever Happens to Me” in my ears. Would I appreciate the irony later?

I ran down Lagoon Pocket Road and turned right onto Butler Road. I passed where I saw the echidna. No echidna. Too bad. I passed the point of turnaround from the day before. No drama. Too glad. I pass a bunch of country homes and wave at the cows. I might have mooed. I ran all the way to where Butler Road meets the Mary Valley Highway. Awesome. Four kilometres of hills down, four more to go on the return.

As I approached the row of farm houses on my return, I had the rumblings again.

No way. NO WAY! I’ve done it twice. How could I have more? I wasn’t too worried. I made it back at this point the day before. I just had to focus. I think Bonnie Tyler was singing about being someone’s “Angel of the Morning”. Keep it mellow, just don’t “touch my cheek before you leave me.”

This isn’t good. I need a plan. I always have a plan. I told my mom after yesterday’s fiasco that I always run in undies, even if my shorts have built-ins. If I get into a situation, I have my undies for toilet paper. So no big deal, I think to myself. I have my undies if I have to stop and go. But wait. I’m wearing tights.

I would have to take off my shoes and socks to get my tights off to get my undies off. This is not good. I look around. It’s getting dark. Maybe I should just go now before I lose whatever light I have now. I look around. Hm. I didn’t see any cars yesterday, but already a few have passed me. They might be the last, but they might not. I couldn’t just go on the side of the road; I’d have to scoot further back. No, I couldn’t do that. If I got far enough off the road, I’d be in the front yard of these country homes. I was sure to be spotted spotting.

I ixnayed the undies. My jog bra! I could take off my shirt and use the jog bra. Not an ideal plan B, as I’d have to jog home with the girls unrestrained. But I am focusing on the negative here. I must concentrate. I made it the day before. This day should be no different.

But it was. I had to walk.

This is unfair. I wanted to run every day. I looked forward to it. I didn’t have the Lervemunkee to lead me. I was doing this on my own. For once I was proud of myself as a runner, and I blew it.

Concentrate. Think unpooey thoughts. Turn up the music full blast. Don’t listen to your bowels. They can’t be full. You did it twice. Twice! Some people only dream of that kind of regularity. I felt better.

I started to run again. Or rather I jogged with a clench. I could see Lagoon Pocket Road. When I got there, I’d have only one kilometre left. Piece of cake.

As I reached the intersection, I doubled over with a cramp. Where did that come from?! To make things worse, “In the Hall of the Mountain King” started on the iPod.

I gathered up all I had to make the last charge home. One step, two, three. Before for I hit ten, I was feeling my way over a ditch.

The sudden switch in activities (running to ditch climbing) caused a break in communication within my faculties and I was left with a little harbinger of doom in my undies.

I got far enough off the road without being too close to the barbed wire and yanked down my tights. I gave my undies a little whack to send the offending fella on his way.

And the music gets slowly faster.

I need toilet paper but have to use the jog bra instead. I pull my shirt and jog bra over my head but they get stuck. I can’t get them off. I pull and tug but no. I panic and lose my focus. The violinists pluck faster.

If I ever wondered if life could suck, this was it. My tights and undies were down below my knees, my shirt and jog bra were stuck inside out over my head, and my bare ass was up in the air shitting a small country. I just knew that I, in my flashy tights and bright blue top, was starring in Angus McYoutube’s latest production.

As the bassoons kicked in, I was emptied. Emptied of pride and poo. Now if I could just get my tops off. What is wrong!? Oh, my glasses. I pulled them off, but still couldn’t get the wad of clothing over my head. Shoot, the earbuds are taped in. Brilliant! I tried to paw at my ears over the shirt. I even tried to pull the shirt back on, but the jog bra was too tight over my head. I was tangled. I was able to find the cords to the iPod and just yanked. The earbuds and half my hair came off, but I still couldn’t get the shirt or bra off.

If I wasn’t sweating after seven kilometres of hills, I was now. My arms are flailing. Every creature in Australia could kill me. My middle-age ass is still in the air. I’m going to get bitten by a snake or spider. There will be swelling where I least want it. I even worried that I’d be impaled by the cute echidna I saw. I was sure my anxiety was eating me away from the inside just to give me another load to lose. This would never happen to a European runner.

I can still hear the Peer Gynt Suite being cranked through the earbuds that are on the grass. My panic builds with the music’s crescendo. I find no joy in knowing I have a soundtrack to crapping in the country.

Eventually my right hand hits something on my arm, something hard. The iPod! It’s strapped around my arm still. That’s why I can’t take my shirt off.

I struggle to get my right arm up the inside out left sleeve. I could feel the iPod, but it’s not budging. Velcro! I found the tab and pulled it off with my shirt and jog bra.

I untangled the bra from the shirt, did what had to be done, and tossed my jog bra over the fence. As the music wound down, I pulled on my shirt and pulled my tights and undies up to halfway up my thighs. I felt around for my glasses, iPod, and camera, making sure not to feel behind my feet, and got back onto the road to walk back to the B&B.

But wait. I’m done. Nothing more can happen. This is as low as it can get. Why not end the evening with a run.

So I did. With my tights and undies half way down my thighs and no jog bra, I ran the last kilometre back to the B&B.

When I entered the room, my mom asked about my run.

“I crapped myself,” I said.
“You what?” asked my mom.
“I pooped in my pants. I’ll explain later.” I started to undress.
“Do you want a bag?” But before I could answer her, my mom went out to where we kept the dog’s leash and got a bag.
“I didn’t bring it back! Gaaah!”

I have told the story a few times since the famous Cassidy Craptacular 8 km Fun Run; I cannot tell you how many people comfort me with tales of famous runners who piss or crap themselves during a race. Gawblessim. Those runners were winners. They made a mess of themselves to get the gold medal or the 10 grand in prize money and put their bodies through hell to win. I just ate too much.

No. I’ll never be fast. I’ll never win or even place in my age group, but I have pooped in my pants. I have potential for greatness.

Nuh-night, Puss Puss!

Sometimes I just want the plastic bag

I have done a first.

A few days ago, the women I work with asked me to take the mail to the post office if I wanted to go for a walk. I'm always up for a walk. Out there are people to be watched, and I am just the woman to do the watching. I also had to get a box of girly things. I mistakenly thought that Aldi's girly things would be just fine. And they are. They do the job. They just do the job while feeling like I have press board betwixt* my gams. I've taken to resting my cappuccino on the bit that pokes out front. Really it's quite handy. I just think other people stare too much, and no one likes it when I refer to my Twaticcino.

I delivered the post and headed into the IGA. I was looking forward to a good read. I like graphs. Girly things are all about charts and graphs. Across the top is the flow; down the side is the product. Somewhere in the middle is the dot that says "Your period is here." One brand even had a chart for the length of the girly thing. That threw me--and not because I had to think in metric terms. I had never thought of my needs in terms of length of Girly things. Do I need to know this, too? Will I ever shout to the Lervemunkee, "Hun, be sure to get the 23-centimetre ones. No more of those 28ers. I mean really. What do you think I have? Pythonbits?" I can also choose the decoration of the box. Cool. I hated walking through a restaurant with a box of Girly things. It's so obvious. The air-bushed pastoral scenery. The dewy rose. When I get a job with Design-a-Pad, I'm making all boxes black with a big, green witch on the cover giving you the bird. I chose the box that looked most like a hotel painting.

I walked up to the counter with my box and $10 note. He scanned. I paid. We stared. What? No bag? Most chemists (drug stores) put these babies in brown paper bags. Sure, the world knows what you've bought, but they don't know exactly what. It's the guessing that makes life so fun, right? No bag. Too chicken to say, "Can I please have an eco-horrid bag to make it tougher for everyone to guess what is going on in my life right now?", so I grabbed my box and walked out of IGA. Yup. Just me and my subtle box of Girly things. I'm cool. I'm mature. Everyone knows that women do this stuff.

By the time I left the parking lot, I had tucked the box under my shirt. The world does not need to see that bought the 21-centimetre, thin, be-winged variety of Girly things lovingly packaged in faux Monet. Instead they can think that I'm due any minute to give birth to a cube. Call it performance art.

Race the Rattler: Mark v. Machine

Machine kicked his booty.
My mom and I parked here:

stood here:
and cheered here:

Nuh-night, Choochoo Puss.

A running-theme meme, silly bean!

21st-century mom and Runner Susan tagged me. I think she pushed a little too hard. She didn't mean to. I think she was going for my tocular region and just tripped when my jiggulaciousness temporarily confused her. I answered her right away, but am so clever that I am having this go up while we're driving up to watch the Lervemunkee Race the Rattler. My mom and I will stay on at a bed and breakfast called Lagoon Pocket B&B. I've praised it many times. I found it ages ago while searching for a place that will take dogs. How much do I love this place? We're going and not taking the dogs this time. I will run while I'm there. I have to. I have to worry about question #2.

First the 5 questions:

1. How would you describe your running 10 years ago?
Um, now I have to subtract. I put out 40 bears. Take away 10. I'm 30. No, that doesn't help. Okay, it's 2008. Take away 10. 1998. Yes. Okay, that was my second year of teaching at Lamb-plighter School. No, they didn't hurt lambs, but they did have goats and cows. None of them were plighted. I am just keeping the blog unfindable if one searches the school. So. 1998. I don't think I had started running again by then. I ran all the time as a kid. In school I ran x-c and track. By college it hurt my back to run, so I quit. Then one of my besties, Poo, got me to run again by getting me to just run a bit while she trained for a tri. I think 10 years ago, I was wishing I was running again, talking about it, and just about to start.

That's a long answer for "nuthin".

2. What is your best and worst run/race experience?
My best was beating my previous peebie for the half mary at the Noosa Half 2006. I finally broke two hours. Jeepers, I am slow. It's a good think I dress flash. Ha!

Worst? The last bit of the Honolulu Marathon after I broke my hip. If I had known that I was running on a broken leg, I'd have a different answer. As it was, I just thought I was slow and had an ITB thing. I was bummed that It took me an hour to run the last 3 miles.

I think I'll replace that worst with this upcoming Gold Coast Half. Uni and strep have interfered with my running. I've had to cut back. This half will be a training run and walk. I'm a little uncomfy about adding too much time to a half, but I have a few more half marys lined up for this year.

Oh, spelling question. It's one half and two halves (I get it); however, for some reason, I want to say halfs for more than one half marathons. Do slang terms follow the same rules for making words plural? Are two thingies for the computer mouses or mice?

3. Why do you run?
I run to support my eating habit.

I also run to give me alone time with my podcasts: various history lessons from the Byzantines to Matt's Today in History, NPR's Wait Wait! Don't Tell Me and This American Life, Grammar Girl, Writing Challenges). By the way, this blog is rarely proofread and never edited unless I spot something such as "pubic display of affection" (oh hell, I'd leave that). I never let three days go by to allow it to simmer. If I had to do that, I'd never write. This is not my job; this is my candy bar.

I run because the Lervemunkee runs. It's the only hobby we have in common until I teach him to knit or spin.

4. What is the best or worst piece of advice you've been given about running?

Participate in the Pat Carroll's speed session. Hey, I just realised that I do not know if he's Pat CarrollS or Pat Carroll. Where do I stick my apostrophe? Hm. I could check, but then the mystery is solved and I'll be sad.

Oh, also to carry an anti-inflammatory to take mid-way through the half or full marys. Brilliant.

Worst wasn't advice. It was just me not thinking: No Thai curry before a race.

5. Tell us something surprising about yourself that not many people would know.
I don't think I could surprise you. Hm... I have to tell myself not to fall apart when things go wrong. I break down quite easily. Just ask the Lervemunkee. I love Ethiopian and Eritrean more than Mexican food. I find non-fiction dull beyond belief. I don't really like milk chocolate. Anything less than 70% cocoa is lame.

I'm tagging Brooke. Brooke is one of my greyhound peeps. She has four greys and still insists that I bring my two over when we go away. She used to tease me for running. She's now a running beastlet who has lost 22-24 killergrams (~50 pounds). I admire her a lot. I also feel better just being around her. She's a cupcake to my soul.

I'm tagging the Lervemunkee because I like to tag the boy and he compares snot to grilled cheese.

I'm tagging Runs with Dog because she runs with greyhounds and one looks like my limpy GuacOmo. She also knits, but unlike me she's into the f-word big time. She finishes projects. I've not finished anything. I just start. Mother finisher!

I'm tagging The Cynical Mud Babe. I've not been online much (see strep and uni issues above) and this CMB used to be Running on Strawberry Hill. I'm 10 posts behind. I wonder what happened. Hm... I'm tagging her because her first mary was a trail one. She's not right in the head.

I'd like to tag a few more, but my mom is here and we need to find pomegranate syrup to make this dip. I've been everywhere. I'm losing hope. If the Greek grocer and African grocer don't have it, we'll have to resort to cranberries. I've adjusted the rules to say tag three to five. These are really guidelines.

Here are the rules guidelines:
If you have been tagged, you will find your name at the end of this post. You should then, copy the rules (or your version of them), and the set of questions onto your blog post, provide your own answers, and then tag 5 new people.

In this case, all 5 questions are all about RUNNING. How easy is that?

Just to be sure that everyone tagged knows they have been invited to play, go to their blogs and leave them a special comment letting them know, and refer them to your blog for details.

One more thing, once they've answered the questions on their own blog, they should come back to yours to tell you.

I don't usually do this but 5 questions is easy, and who can't use a little blog fodder once in a while? I find the memes are great for pre-writing.

Now, for the ever elusive scarlet pomegranate.

Nuh-night, Pomepuss-puss.

This gene skipped my side of the family

Gordon Hayward is my cousin. As you can see, the tall gene was not passed down on my side of the family.

For those of you who aren't from the US, winning the Indiana state championship in basketball is big stuff.

The semester is over. I should be able to run, blog, read, pick daisies, knit, tat, stitch, spin, pump, plié all day long. Why did I decide to go to uni?

Nuh-night, double major in physics and engineering Puss-Puss!

It wasn't viral

It's been a month. More than a month. More than a feeling. More than a lady.

I have been knocked out and am still not 100%. Let's recap, shall we?

Four score and a few Mondays ago I got up from the computer to close the windows. I was feeling a bit chill. Before I finished, I couldn't walk. Every muscle was tense. I was shaking. The Lervemunkee, thinking I was just too cold after being under dressed literally tossed me into bed. Okay, he literally tried to toss me into bed. He literally lobbed me and I almost made it.

That night I broke my fever. Sweet. I didn't plan on doing the time trial, but at least this shaking is over.

Ha! Not so fast, my little dumpling I call "myself". I was at work when the shakes got me again. These are shakes that would require a bra made whale baleen. My doctor's day was full, but I got on his waiting list. I was on everyone's. I am not a rock star.

A little after noon, I heard from Dr Slackarse's office. You might want to see if you can detect my subtle clues as to which doctor I like. Dr Slackarse's waiting room was cold. There was no carpet and all I could do was watch Days of Our Lives. Like sand up my clacker, so vexes the days in the waiting room. Dr Slackarse saw me and was sure it was viral. He gave me antibiotics just in case. If I'm not better by Thursday morning, I should go to the pathologist on for a blood test.

Excellent. I go home to wait for Wednesday. Between then and Wednesday afternoon, I had several bouts of 39.7 (~103.5) degree temperatures. I had a routine:

• Get a fever and bake the brain in bed
• Shake uncontrollably and repeat "I'm freeeeezing" to no one
• Break fever and get the towel for flood of sweat
• Repeat as necessary.

These were good times. I couldn't read or work on my university assignment. I couldn't watch Fawlty Towers because it hurt my head to laugh. All I had was crappy daytime soaps and talk shows.

Before Wednesday afternoon, I had my Lervechauffeur take me to the path lab for tests. I called Dr Slackarse after he got the results. "It's definitely viral. There's no need to take the antibiotics."

"Dr Slackarse, what can I tell my mom? She's a doctor and will want to know terms and numbers."
To that complicated question, he said, "Just tell her the film said it's viral." Click.

Thank you, dear underpaid professional.

More fever, more shakes, more crappy telly. Two days later, the Lervemunkee is not satisfied. He got me into my doc where he showed me the path results and wrote down the numbers for my mom. Of course. Why did I go anywhere else? He's around the corner and is the softest cuddle muff ever. He showed me the report. Not viral. Bacterial. I should not be off the antibiotics. I have nasty-ass strep. I think that was my term. I don't know. My brain had been baking for five days now.

By the following Monday, I was my own temperature; however, after a week like this, I was weakened. I lost 4 kg. that's almost 10 pounds. I'd have jumped for joy, but I had no muscles.

Running, spinning, pumping? Taking the back seat to "assignmenting". My advice to you? If you're going to get whopping sick, do not do it in the last month of the semester. That's not to mention my first month as editor of the Queensland Spinners, Weavers & Fibre Artists Ltd newsletter, Clippings.

So that's where I've been. It's taken me 3 weeks to get my strength back. I am running a bit. I did 3/5 of the Warwick Pentath: 4.6 km cross-country, 5 km road race, 1.5 km sprint. Between races, I was typing away on the laptop about historical detective fiction. Good times!

Tomorrow is the time trial, but I can't afford (academically) to be tired this week. No. All day tomorrow, I'll try to figure this MS Word 2007 thing. I have to write. I am the chicken on the high dive when it comes to writing. One, two, two and a half, two and three quarters... What? You messed me up. One, two, two point one, two point two... aaaachooo! Oh drat. One..." Once I start typing, the paper is as good as finished. Too bad I can't count typing as cross training.

The paper is due 2 June. Two more classes after this. I am over being old and in school.

Revised goals:
Gold Coast 1/2 Marathon - Just run it like a long run. I won't be up to two plus hours by then. I can't race it. I'll just go and enjoy it.
Jetty to Jetty 1/2 - This one I'll race.
Bridge to Brisbane 10 km - Should be comfy with this distance.

Other goals:
Figure out when I can visit friends and family back home.
Catch up on blogs.
Keep my lovely strep weight off.

Nuh-night, Puss Puss!

A waiting game

Didn't make it to the speed session today. Perhaps it was a night wide awake shaking under one comforter and four blankets. Poor Lervemunkee. He thought someone put a quarter in the machine by the bed.

Now it's a waiting game. If I feel better in 48 hours, I have suffered and survived tonsilitis. If I'm not, I have to go in for tests for ...

ba bammmm

GLANDULAR FEEEBER!

We yanks call it mono. Doctors call it infectious mononucleosis. I like mono better. Something about the word "glandular" that puts me off.

My main concern is not that I've missed a speed session or might not be upright long enough to train for a half marathon. My main concern is that I won't be well enough to go to Freestyle with my trusty sidekick Lil Shaz. Actually, I'd be her sidekick because she's much scarier than I ever hope to be. Unfortunately for her, superhero costume fitters don't make hero tights in her size. YET!

Oh, wait. The other thing. The thing that makes me most nervous is that my Lervemunkee has had a big chunk-o-mole removed for biopsy along with a bit of his nose. We've made a deal. I go first. He must be around for me.

Two days. Both of us will have a clue in two days. I'll give up running if it means my Lervemunkee's moles are just silly little buggers.

Sigh.

Tick tock...

Nuh-night, microbial Puss-Puss

It's time

I've been researching historical detective fiction for a class. It's one of the most popular sub-genres of detective fiction. Many people wonder why. My favourite answer is that you can go back to motives that are almost pointless now. In the age of blogging, can blackmail really bother most of us?

"Katy, if you don't pay me $1500 by noon tomorrow, I'm going to tell your friends and family that you snipped your cheeks and it made your pants look like poopy diapers."

"Go for it, paco."

Maybe the way to stay clear of blackmailers is to put it all out there. Okay. I'll do just that. Mark and I get our jollies dressing up in spandex, sequins, and boots. We don't just dress as women. Now that I'm nearing total estrogen stoppage, we take advantage of my facial hair and dress like men together. We have a special love. I'M NOT ASHAMED!

Our first costume for the Canberra Marathon (~ 2 km point):

Katito and Marquito (left) and Marquito as el Diablo (right)

Katito showing her game face (left) and the two showing you how to fit sombreros in one photo.

Our second costume for us isn't really seen. We forgot to take photos. Think spandex flames. I added side burns and some bad ass brows. (~ 10 km point. We don't move, but the runners come back. Suckers!)

It's very cold and raining. Mark is not thrilled at being forced to strip, but I take this cheering thing seriously.

Our last costume was as some glitter tarts (~ 25 and 40 km points). Because the spacing of the runners and the course having a section of two loops, we decided not to change costumes but to add a bit. This is how we looked before the extra bit:

I don't think I'll leave captions. I'm sure you can figure it out. Oh, and let me tell you something. Busting my rump to nearly match my 10 km time from before I broke my hip was nothing. Jumping around in heels for two hours nearly did me in. I was limping around like a dead marathoner. I felt like such a poser. Next year's costumes will include flats!

So what does it look like in motion? Here you go. Thanks to Quentewen Tewentino for the video shots from his mobile phone.

Nuh-night, glamour Puss Puss.

What not to do when preparing to run a 10-km race

On April 12, the Lervemunkee and I flew down to Canberra for the marathon. The Lervemunkee had to pull out of the marathon due to a grumpy calf, but I had registered for the 10 km race on "marathon eve". By the way, "marathon eve" does not compare well against Christmas Eve. Getting back to the topic, we were committed to come to Canberra: one as a runner, and both as cheer beasts from Hell.

Let me first start off with a description of what I wore. No, I can't be bothered. I'll just show you. Can you see that I'm wearing a skirt? Can you see my scar? Nice, huh? I'm 40. I have no pride. It's important to know that I'm going to run in a skirt and that the next day will involved two costume changes. I'll give you a minute to let that sink in.

What you need to understand is that I had to be concerned about personal grooming. I couldn't bring myself to throw the wax in the microwave and risk another case of monolips. I learn lessons. Lessons are for learning. After I sit through a few of the same lessons, I lernz. So instead of risking scalding my bits in the name of beauty, I just took a small pair of scissors to the bathroom. All I need is to get through the weekend, right?

There was a little pinch and yelp, but I got the job done.

We left for Canberra on the same day as the 10-km race. After we arrived at the motel, we walked around to stretch our legs. The Lervemunkee went for a run, and I had a lunch. After lunch, I went back to the room to finish making the costumes (next post) and to get ready to run. When I was putting on my socks, I noticed I had a sore spot. It felt like a blister. Swell. I saw a white thing and thought the blister had popped and the skin rolled up. I couldn't pinch it off and I couldn't find the pink blister. What gives? I then saw that the white string thing continued up a bit, about 1.5 cm. I brought my foot closer to get a better look and recognised a hair. One dog hair had gone through my skin, traveled 1.5 cm, and exited. It did not want to be pulled out. I know we have a lot of critters, but come on! I won that battle and put a bandage over it just in case.

Now that I'm free of fuzz by the bikini line and the foot (of course), I headed to the school where the race started.

I stretched and did some strides. I was ready. No, I wasn't, but I played "ready" on T.V. I had just made it to 10 km in my long runs. I was going to do 10 km and have nothing left, but my outfit was perfect. I would at least look like a running hipster. Putting my number over my gut was part of my fashion strategery. Having the wind blow my skirt against my mound-o-Venus was not.

Before I lined up, I thought I should visit the loo. When I pulled down my undies, I saw all these brown smears. I freaked. All I could think of was "Holy shit, I'm 40 and already I'm crapping myself!" How could I not notice this? Am I at the age where I can't trust a fart? NO! I'm too young. This isn't fair.

But wait. This doesn't stink. What gives? Oh. The yelping. Do you remember the yelping? Seems it was more than a pinch. It seems that I cannot be trusted with wax or scissors around my bits. It must be a goal of mine to become Frankengina. I finish my bidness and pull up my undies to notice that the blood has gone through to the built-in undie of the running skirt. No! Now I can't stretch my hamstrings. People will think I've pooped all over or that my undies are see-through and I have the world's most mole-covered ass.

I'm okay. I'll cope. I don't live here. If anyone asks, I'll say my name is Tesso. Oh wait. I'm an American. I'll say my name is Susan.

If you remember, this was my description of the course:

go down, turn right
go straight, turn right
go up and up and up, follow curve to the right
go down whee and down whee and down, oh my knees, and down, turn right
go straight, turn right
go up and up and up, follow curve to the right
go down whee -- oh my knees, and down, can I hold my pee?, turn left
go out there and around here and turn there and blah blah, turn right
go up and up and up, note time, realise you're much slower than last time
push it all the way, don't think about the scabs you'll have from jog bra chafe
finish, eat weight in food.

What I was trying to describe from my steel-trap memory was this:

Unfortunately, this is what it was:

How could I forget that it was two loops around the school and three around the school and the hood? Holy moly. I was so bummed. When I hit the 5 km mark, I thought, "Having taught math, I know that 5 is often considered half of 10. I think I'm done when I turn that corner, but is that 5 km?" Can a half of a watermelon and a half of a kumquat make a whole 10 km race?

I was so bummed for the next loop. That's 2 km of bummed running. I sagged. Doubt me, you do. The Lervemunkee photographed it.

I was over it. Over over over überover it! I didn't feel tired. I was just bummed. However, the sooner I finish, the sooner I'm out of my poopy-looking undies. I couldn't afford to walk or slow down.

When I saw the 7 km mark, I knew what I had to do and what was left. I picked it up and came in at 55:51.

In 2006, I came in at 54:26. I am not far off my time. Considering I ran on a post-op hip and with a Frankengina, I was thrilled.

I have not been too sure about where I stood. This was my first race really. There was Warwick, but that was just three months after the operation. I knew that'd be slow. Running speed workouts with Pat Carroll's Running Group and doing three spin or cycle classes a week has helped a lot. Gold Coast half mary, I fear you not!

Next year, the Lervemunkee hopes to run the full mary, but I? I will always cheer it. I love going to Canberra. It has a great race, wonderful food, and neato peepos:

(Lervemunkee, Ew the Dewd, CJ the Peanut) Do note the 'tude.

Photos and a video montage of greatness coming soon. Let's leave you with a teaser:

Nuh-night, Puss Pussitos!

Code name: "Ghandi"

Where to begin?

I can get over the missing hyphen. I can handle the missing noun after "australian made".

I just can't get over the quotation mark stuff up and the spelling of Gandhi.
Was it said by someone named ...be the Change you want to see in the world? Did they say, "Ghandi!"?

I've seen apostrophe errors and incorrectly used quotation marks before. They're almost too predictable to be funny. I know that I'm sounding uptight; we all make mistakes, but I think signs, published materials, and tattoos need to have higher standards. Putting quotation marks around the author is a new one for me. I kind of like it. I hope it stays. I like to tell myself that Mertyl B. Jenkins said that while she was working for the CIA and was stationed in India. Her code name was "Ghandi", no relation to the Gandhis, of course.

Perhaps we are witnessing a revolution.

Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint. -"Mark Twain"

Nuh-night, Puss Puss. -"Katy"