"I think you're all fucked in the head. We're ten hours from the fucking fun park and you want to bail out. Well I'll tell you something. This is no longer a vacation. It's a quest. It's a quest for fun. I'm gonna have fun and you're gonna have fun. We're all gonna have so much fucking fun we'll need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles. You'll be whistling 'Zip-A-Dee Doo-Dah' out of you're assholes! "

56.

1. Direct flights. The less take offs and landings, the more skin left on my lips.

2. Online check-in.

3.  A fresh new outfit. Nothing distracts from imminent death quite like a crisp flattering shirt. If I feel good walking through the airport, I'll feel better when everyone stares at me while I'm crying during takeoff. Small comforts, people.

4.  Arriving at least 2 hours before takeoff. Minimum. This allows me to do my weird rituals like, buying a magazine I won't read, scoring gum I'll use to cover up my booze-breath (see #5), go to the bathroom 2 or 3 times to do my breath exercises, hit the ATM for cash for yes, in-flight booze!

5. Taking my time at the bar. Ritual requires two scotch on the rocks. Neat if I'm feeling especially vulnerable. (None of this is logical, I know).

6. Comfortable shoes.

7. Podcasts on my ipod.

8. A soothing scent. Sometimes I like to try out something new for a trip. There's something about catching a whiff of nice that makes everything OK. Not quite as OK as say, being tucked in my bed on land, but hey. The upcoming flight to Hawaii is all about this.

9. Sitting next to people who hate flying even more than me. I feel so much better about myself! What weaklings.

10. Sitting next to people who care so little about flying, they barely notice they're on a plane.

11. Having a lot of kids on the plane. What are the odds of them all being struck down in their youth?

12. Lots of empty seats. In my (totally delusional, again, I know) estimation, it makes the plane lighter and therefore less likely to plummet from 30,000 feet.

13. Having a seat that allows me see the flight attendants. The reasoning being, if they're chuckling about last nights escapades at the Best Western Deluth Airporter Lounge or blissfully catching up on their knitting while waves of turbulence twist the plane, I probably have nothing to worry about.

14. New planes. There isn't anything worse than realizing you're about to board a plane from the late-80's. The exterior paint job may be shiny but the fixtures will give it away. The yellowed plastic cabin siding. The old-school orange/white attendant call buttons. Ashtrays. Nothing says, "Last Voyage" quite like re-re-re-upholstered seats.

15. Easy access to my emergency copy of The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Just in case.

Aloha.

I am such an idiot when it comes to my medication. The fact that I even have to type 'my medication' is embarassing. I think I'm still in denial that I'm on anxiety meds. Like, I don't believe that I really need them. Which, who knows, maybe I don't. But at this point I can tell you that withdrawal from this medicine is in itself anxiety-inducing. So which came first, right? Partly as an oversight and partly I think out of sheer spite that I refuse to believe I need these pills, I failed to refill my prescription in time. So for the last 4 days, I've been off the Celexa. Inadvertently. Actually, that's not true. I called the pharmacy in time but some jack-off named Jeffrey forgot to pop the pills in the mail on Thursday otherwise I do believe they would have showed up Friday. And since nothing came on Saturday I'm pretty sure I'm going to just white-knuckle it on through to Monday. Yes, yes, I'm sure I could do the sad Emergency Call to the on-call doctor and have them refill my purin tablets in no time but I just don't want to be that guy. I was that guy when they forgot to call in my valium for my airplane ride. I felt like such a nutjob crying and asking Martin to please help me find my airline drugs! I was so distraught, I could have easily gotten on the phone and cursed the doctors unborn children. It was that big of a deal to me. Je. Sus. Sometimes I wish I would just get a grip. On the other hand, who is this Jeffrey-douche who forgets to send people their pills? What if they were my cancer pills or something? My insulin? Something life-threatening. God, what an asshole. As it stands so far, I'll just be incredibly, miserably, dizzy for the rest of the weekend. As long as I don't start Web MD'ing and convince myself I'm having a stroke, I should be fine. If I had known this medicine would be so hard to get off of, I never would have started it. I remember asking the Dr. about that, too. He assured me it was very easy to stop. Yeah right, Jeffrey.

In other news, I got a bunch of books today in preparation for the Hawaii Trip. In no particular order:

Hunting and Gathering - Anna Gavalda

Stumbling On Happiness - Daniel Gilbert

Excel 2007 for Dummies - someone who knows Excel

Moral Disorder - Margaret Atwood

Think I'll read all these while I'm away? Me neither. But it's nice to have some variety. I asked my sister for some book recommendations and she gave me the thumbs up for Margaret Atwood. I said, "Wasn't the Handmaid's Tale a really bad 80's Lifetime movie?" and she said "Yes but the book was pretty good". Then she recommended some Salmon Rushdie. And we joked about how you have to do some brain warm-ups before diving into anything Rushdie. Limber up the ol' gray matter. Some deep-brain lunges. Seriously, that shit is dense. I tried reading The Moor's Last Sigh and I think I sprained my frontal lobe. Maybe not good beach reading. Who knows.

After an invigorating (and when I say invigoration I mean really, really mellow) walk down to the Seattle waterfront from our house last Sunday and satisfying a viscous craving for fish and chips at Red Robin, Shelley and I were discussing the merits and pitfalls of fast food. Specifically, after seeing what some folks at a nearby table were having Shelley said something to the effect of, "I bet these burgers have way more fat than one from McDonald's." I was like, "No way..." So Shelley did the math.

McDonald's Quarter Pounder w/cheese: 510 cal. 23g of fat
Red Robin cheeseburger: 850 cal. 49g of fat

McDonald's Crispy Chicken Ranch BLT: 600 cal. 23g of fat
RR's Crispy Chicken Burger: 929 cal, 56g of fat (and that's without bacon)

Finally, the ultimate, what the two people next to us ordered today.
Red Robin's A1 Peppercorn Burger: 1400 cal, 94g of fat!!!!!!

Holy Shit.

The most calorie-packed item on McDonalds menu was the Double Quarter Pounder which is only 740 calories. You could eat 2 of those to equal the Peppercorn burger. Sort of eye-opening, isn't it?

It sure is. And I stand corrected.

After a stressful week I thought I would treat myself to a massage today. Actually I called on Tuesday and pleaded for them to get me in as soon as possible. As soon as possible was 5 days later. I get things done, people. That's all I'm saying. If you want dinner reservations for say, next month sometime - you know who to call.

I show up at Spa Scotta early and go to their Quiet Room. I grab a water from the fridge and am almost tempted to rip open a bag of complimentary Ruffles on the table (Ruffles? Really? At the spa?) but I figured the crunching and bag-crackling would be kinda anti-quiet room of me. I'm lead back to the room, meet my masseuse, she's nice enough, it smells good, the chimey-Japanese-lute music is playing, I hear a small babbling brook in the distance. Masseuse girl leaves the room. I get naked and get under the blanket on my back. Mustering my relaxed face. Girl comes back in turns the lights down. Walks to the closet. I see her chewing something. It's not gum. Flashes through my mind Oh no she did not just finish her lunch in the breakroom. She's going to pop a mint certainly. She knows not to ruin my flow with lunch breath. No mints are popped. She's at the head of the massage table beginning with my neck and sure thing, I get a whiff of some meaty Kung Pao chicken. I immediately want my money back. Who does that!? I'm supposed to be all sniffing on some essential oils, listening to the creek, the fake birds, melting my cares away. Not this. I did not request the garlic dip. That shit belongs in the quiet room with the Ruffles, honey.

To me, this is a basic rule. Maybe I'm wrong. I remember my sister telling me a story of when she was in aestheticians school. The girls would get a break during the day. Some used this break to study, others get a drink, what have you. One lady used her break to pop to the shop next door for some ciggies and a chili-cheese dog with jalapeno's. My brain just sort of goes blank at that point. What on earth. Can you imagine the same fingers that had just held a Parliament and choked down a hot dog rubbing all up and down your face applying a clay mask? I realize beauty school offers some severely discounted treatments on a count of the learning curve but those poor folks needed to get paid for that trauma.

OK, so it wasn't ball parks and cigarettes but it wasn't lavender and it was about 6 inches from my face. She eventually moved down to the arms, legs and feet. And then thankfully I got to turn over and put my face in the donut. Wherein I made sure to sniff heartily as it was doused with eucalyptus. The damage was done. And god damn, I really wanted that massage to transport me to nirvana. I got about as far as PF Chang's.

Oh my. I think this blog needs some Female Influence. No offense, Martin. Your 'Windows Server 2003 with IIS 6' and 'Response Write FormatDateTime( Now(), 2)' is very impressive but you need to sit down. Good grief, what does that even mean? Ouch.

Anyway, for all you NORMAL EARTHLINGS: you're welcome.

While I wait for my meds to kick in on the inflamed knee, I've decided to jump back into the Bikram Yoga. I don't know why. I hate myself? Maybe that's it. I think because it's the easiest access and most familiar of the yoga studios in my area. I've been debating going to Santosha Yoga in Madison Park but I missed their beginner session, at least until next go 'round in March. So, let's sweat our brains out, ya'll!

I haven't been doing much (read:any) exercising in the last month and a half so suffice to say, I'm Rusty. But Sweet Pickles, I didn't think I needed a tetanus shot.

I had to get psyched to go to class. I was pumped around noon on Monday, hydrating, looking forward to the strenuous concentration that class would surely bring but quickly lost my focus around 6 when I finally got home. And was hungry. You aren't supposed to eat before class. Empty stomach is best. 105 degree heat & twisting yourself into a Fisherman's Knot tends to curdle anything in the guts. Go figure.

I entered. I picked my place in the front cause it actually helps me to see myself in the mirror. I smelled the smell. The carpet-sweat, warm yeast smell. The one I'd been complaining to Martin about ever since I admitted I was thinking about going to class again. "It's the SMELL! I can't abide!" It's not BO, it's slow-simmered lycra bodysuit with crystal rock deodorant stick. It's not rank. Like, "Whoa, who's got the funky sweatsocks?" It's a damply-aged internal brew. It permeates your yoga mat and towel. It's insidious. A sweaty, sweaty, smell. Dog Carpet. It's dog carpet. That's the best I can do.

Slowly, it all became very familiar. Taking my cleansing breaths at the beginning of class, I immediately wanted to leave. Just like every other time - huzzah! I hung in for about 4 asanas and then felt the room spinning and had to lay down on my towel. I took great pride in being the first to hit the deck because not 5 seconds later, 6 others laid down, too. Holding out, not wanting to be the first loser. I have no problem being a loser. I learned that Loser Lesson the hard way in 2000 in Tai Chi class at Naropa University. Remind me to tell that story later. Fun times. No, I'd rather swallow my pride than faint, thankyouverymuch. I realized the place I had laid my towel was near an air vent that, when I laid down with my head near it, was blowing sweet cool air straight from baby Jesus. A tiny rogue force in the face of the satanic heat poaching my body . Would it be wrong to press my face against this vent? To french kiss this vent? Oh, whatever. I got up, did a few more poses and then had to lay back down again. A little closer to the vent this time. I repeated this ridiculousness for the rest of class. At least until we got to the non-standing portion. Where at least, I figured, I was already on the floor. Not much harm in that.

I just could not hang today. True, I hadn't been to class for over 6 months. I bought the 5-class punch card so I have at least 4 more to go. I have to find my motivation even if it's financial.

OK - who's the sneaky republican in here? How else to explain that giant John McCain banner ad at the top of our blog this morning. "Don't Let It Happen" - with a picture of Hillary Clinton's head floating in a crystal ball. That's good stuff. Maybe a certain someones Orange Juice Rant (not naming names) tipped the scales to the right. I'll be sure to pepper my next entry with enough socialized health care, legalized marijuana & abortion rights rhetoric to remedy this ridiculousness.

I'm heading to the doctor on Thursday for my knee. I'm hoping that he will be able to tell me why I'm in ever-lovin' agony going down stairs, going up stairs, sitting in a chair, not sitting in a chair, breathing, walking upright, that kind of thing. If there's one thing I hate, it's inconclusive doctor visits. I've had too many 'well, let's just wait and see on this one' appointments. I realize making a diagnosis takes time but Jesus H, I took a 3 hour lunch just to be here. Break me off with the Patellar Subluxation and let's get on with it.

In the mean time, I've busied myself with all variety of Exciting projects. Let me tell you. The first being the New Diet. After Martin and I came back from Whistler, where we had eaten our weight in bagels and Guinness*, we made a pact of sorts to eat better for a while, a week or two, just to even things out. Get back to basics so to speak. We've all read about Martin's feelings on keeping it below 180. And in general my fondness for being able to fit inside the house. So it didn't seem like a bad idea at the time. We decided to cut out cheese, bad carbs (rice, crackers, white bread, etc), sugar (in the form of pints of ice cream Martin likes to hoover apres dinner) and alcohol. We also tried to be mindful of portion-size, at least during the day at work, when Martin has been known to eat 4 yogurts, 6 bagels, half a jar of peanut butter, 2 protein bars & 3 Odwalla juices before lunch. It's been tricky all week making dinners that conform to these rules, provide enough protein and fiber yet still let me get my buzz on. I'll admit, it was incredibly hard not to drink this week. It was a tough week in many respects and I did have wine two nights and sake on Sunday. I also had a beer on Friday when Martin threw in the towel and ordered a pizza (now tell me, at that point, is it so wrong to drink a beer?) in which I promptly did damage control by making a kale and cabbage Roughage Bomb salad. I think I prefer notions to ultimatums. When you say I absolutely can't have something, I kinda want it. I've made dishes with bulghur, red lentils, I even attempted onion noodles. I heard the recipe on NPR. Of course, this French chef was making "No-Carbonara" with butter, cream, parmesan and bacon. And when you've got butter, cream, parmesan cheese and bacon, who gives shit about noodles anyway? But he made the noodles from from blanched onions. Long and stringy like noodles. No one ( I don't know who this 'no one' was) could tell the difference, they couldn't figure out it was onions. So I was intrigued, I wanted to give it a try. Many tears later, I had my onions in the steamer basket. I was to steam them until 'translucent yet al dente'. Easier said than done. I thought they were too crunchy but were indeed totally translucent.

Probably won't be making them again any time soon. At least not without the cream & bacon.

Not a good day for me at Blackcomb. Today my past got cozy with my present and they didn't really get along. I've never thought of myself as old or inept or untalented in any area. I try something, I usually succeed. I might not WIN but I keep up. Today, all I could think about was how I used to ski. Back when I was 15. Is that a fair comparison? No. But it didn't stop me from reminiscing how I once hit the hill with gusto and skillz. How I could ski all day, take any run, race and laugh all the way to the bottom of the hill. Trees? No problem. Moguls? You call these moguls. In reality, I did do okay for someone who's skied 4 times in 17 years. I should be proud of myself. But the hard, judgmental part of me said I should have picked it back up just like riding a bike. That my quads shouldn't be burning after 3 turns. My boots hurt, my skis are old. If I had better boots, better skis. But let's face it, I'm just old. I think that was the part that hurt the most. I've never considered myself old. Not until today. My knee is injured, I couldn't ski one run worth a shit, today sucked.

And that's why I spent two hours in the Glacier Creek Lodge. Listening to Queen, The Who and Canned Heat. Talk about old, Jesus. The 70's are still alive and kicking here in Canada, folks. I hear Mott The Hoople is up for a Juno this year. Hang tight.

Hey! I'm writing from Whistler with all my body parts in proper working order! Yahoo for me! As you'll see, someone has already not been so lucky. Poor Chance. Oy, break a leg, buddy. With my nagging knee ailment, I was not too sure about hitting the slopes and tentatively took to the easy runs today. When I say 'easy', I mean Real Easy. Bless Martin's heart, he stuck with me on the My Pretty Pony run all day. What a guy. I caught him looking longingly up at the double black diamond bowl whilst being cut off by some troop of 3 year old ski school kids careening across the flats. He swore he wasn't bored; he didn't swear he wasn't feeling like a bitch though.

We arrived yesterday after a slight detour in downtown Vancouver. Totally intentional. Drove to the lodge to pick up our ID passes. Took another swell picture which, happily, runs a very close second to my world famous Black-Eyed Pirate Costco ID photo. I'd characterize this one more as Carl Malden With Bangs. One for the wallet! Headed up to the cabin. Got the car stuck in the driveway. Lost my wedding rings. Yes, that's right. Flew right off my stupid hand after helping Martin dig out the back wheels. Faught the urge to simultaneously throw up and punch myself in the face. Ugh. Where do you go after two silver slivers shoot off your hand into a white snow bank? And it's nighttime? And you have no idea the trajectory at which they left your finger? All you see is snow, snow, snow from the dim view of the reverse lights on the car? Well, I went to Guinness, Scotch, Champagne, Homemade Apple Cider Town. We gave it a solid effort. It was just so monumentally futile and sad and upsetting, I couldn't look anymore.

Skiing was super today despite being tense a few times. Hopefully, tomorrow will be as pain-free as possible. I'm afraid I may need a forklift to get out of bed in the morning. My muscles seizing up in the night. That first day of skiing after two years can be a real killer. At least for me. Not for Martin though. He laughed off my offer of pre-emptive Advil. "Uh, I won't be that sore tomorrow". Que? You mean, I am the only one gonna feel the burn from Upper Whiskey Dick? Oh yes. I forgot. Upper Whiskey Dick is for babies. And you are NOT a baby. I AM the baby. But do babies ski it 5 times with their teeth clenched pleading with Jesus to spare their life? Didn't think so.

Did I mention we have plenty of food here at the cabin? Mother of God. I've never seen so much food for 8 people. There's a Snack Cabinet. Cases of beer out on the porch. Leftovers from previous nights with new food at dinner each subsequent night. I was worried I wasn't bringing enough. Now I should be worried I didn't bring my Fat Ski Pants. Susanne has her goggles on chopping onions for soup tonight at this moment. Why didn't I think of that? I vow to do that from now on. I'll wear my helmet, too. The kitchen is a dangerous place. Some would say more dangerous than Upper Whiskey Dick.

to eat 4 pieces of fake bacon and a chocolate-covered cherry for breakfast, then I don't want to be right.

This post was prompted by my trip to the store today. Sitting in holiday traffic. Trying to find my happy place. Never ending shiz on the radio. Suddenly the fog lifted and I found myself singing every word to Icehouse's "Electric Blue". And instead of taking a sharp right off the Montlake Bridge as any normal human would, I thought, hey do I have this on my ipod? I confess. I love crappy music. I love it for its unabashed crappiness. I bask in its sheer craposity. You can't always share this with people. Most take themselves too seriously. A nod to Icehouse would be a blight on their personal record. But you can't truly appreciate good music unless you know what's shitty, correct? I like the spectrum. The nuance of crap. Maybe the nuance I speak of here is of the Cheesy variety. I don't know. Maybe I like Electric Blue because it reminds me of 7th grade and singing into my Clairol Makeup Mirror. Maybe I just have really bad taste in music. But it got me thinking, what other unspeakable's are hiding on my ipod? Downloads I won't admit to downloading. Songs no human in their right mind will admit to liking* Well, here you go everybody, the top 9 cheesiest songs on my ipod today**:

"Jive Talkin'" - Bee Gees     We all love to hate the Bee Gees but come on. They're catchy. Admit it. The beginning guitar pickin' sound? It's awesome. I'm going to ramp up the cheese factor by confessing I also dig "One" and "Alone" which were late 80's and early 90's Bee Gees songs that nobody should ever cop to knowing. Shame on me.

"Night Moves" - Bob Seger     Ooh. This one hurts me about as much as it hurts you, but it's true. How could I? Even worse? How could I own Bob Seger's Greatest Hits? I could easily pick any song on that album but this one is actually on my ipod. Oh Sweet Hosanna, I'm really digging myself in here. "Tight pants, points, hardly renown". You heavenly wordsmith, you. It's so wonderfully disturbing.

"Sister Golden Hair" - Bread     I have a soft spot for 70's hooks, what can I say. Obviously, I was born in the wrong decade. Although, I ask Martin and he doesn't remember half of these songs. I think it's because my parents owned a Chevy van with wall-to-wall red shag carpet. I was raised on 8 tracks. And my father owned one of those knitted Budweiser can hats.

"Somebody" - Depeche Mode    Now this one is embarrassing. Only because I truly thought this was The Way love was supposed to be back in the 80's. Oy, God. How gay. I, too, was 'carefully trying to steer clear of those things". Yikes.  What were 'those things'? My girlfriends and I would sit around and brush each others hair and marinate in our bereftness. So emo.

"Sara Smile" - Hall & Oates        Truth be told, this should be "She's Gone" but I don't technically have that on the ipod. Hall & Oates rocks my socks. This guys' too. WHAT is that?

"Do It To Me" - Lionel Richie   I will probably have to write a whole separate post on my relationship with Smooth Jazz. Suffice to say, I like the slow grooves. Unabashedly cheesey and saxophoney ones. With plenty of "motown lovin'". Lionel came out with a couple gems in the early 90's. I don't know why I like them. Again, I don't know what is wrong with me. It's not even Commodores Cool. It's like lame elevator rock. I am the first to admit it.

"Crazy Love" - Poco     The vocals on this song remind me of every song I heard when I was in kindergarten in 1980. Those were good times.

Entire Kamakiriad Album - Donald Fagen    Some Steely Dan songs are so retro their cool. Steely Dan has street cred. But only an absolute Donald Fagen fan would love every single song on Kamakiriad. Only an absolute dork fan would choreograph a whole dance in their living room to "Tomorrow's Girls". Ssshhh. Forget I told you that. There was wine involved and lots of snow. We were snowed in. And bored. And drunk. Sometimes, always actually, I feel way too young to like Donald Fagen as much as I do.

"Year of the Cat" - Al Stewart     I picture hilltop mansions in LA. Or the Regal Beagle. That's exactly what I see. Jack, Janet and Chrissy sipping Riunite on ice. That's nice. Sharing some calamari. How long is this song? It's one of those story-songs that takes you high and brings you way down low. It's Epic. Epically 70's.

*I can't even bring myself to put Lou Gramm's "Midnight Blue" on the list because it's so good. Anything that involves this:

You were the restless one
And you did not care
That I was the trouble boy
Lookin' for a double dare

Is f'ing sweet in my book.

**meaning, there could be crappier ones on there tomorrow, just wait.

Martin took me to the Dina Martina Christmas Show this past Friday at Rebar. You should go to this show. If you like bizarre and blasphemous Christmas humor as much as I, you will not regret it. It's not even necessarily a drag queen thing. More like a very original mix of mid-western tea cozy warmth with sheer garish insanity. Dina sang a medley of "White Christmas" & Laid Back's "White Horse". Need I say more? How awesome.

Which makes it all the more annoying that my Appreciation for Obscure Homo Theatrics was called into question by some pompous gayass. Repeatedly. Even during intermission. It started with us trying to find a seat and spying 2 at the bar that looked open. I approached and asked if they were taken, thereby opening a can of judgmental worms. Whatever his name was was very nice and told us to sit down since his boyfriend was at the bar. Ah, how cordial of him. Then he starts talking to me, asking me if I'd seen the show before. Fair enough. Nice convo opener. When I said 'no' he morphed into Bobby Trendy and goes, as though someone just waved a dirty diaper under his nose, "Why did you come here"? And me, still being the nice, aw-shucks friendster said, "Oh you know, just heard it was a great show". "Yeah, but how did you END UP HERE? WHY would you come to this show"? I was getting a little befuddled. "Where are you FROM"? He kept looking me up and down. I couldn't shake his disbelief. Looking around the room and noticing all of the other NON-GAYS there, it wasn't like some private affair. Am I giving off some Republican vibe I don't know about? Jesus. I don't shop at Talbot's, I'm not sipping on white zin. What gives? 

"For the first 15 minutes of the show, you're gonna be like (opens mouth in jaw-dropping gesture), it's just, I can't even explain it. WHERE did you say you were from? WHY did you come here again?"  DUDE. I don't know what words are going to convey to you that I have the proper street cred to appreciate your oh-so groundbreaking and subversive fat guy-dressed-as-lady with Santa hat and Carol Channing wig. You're just going to have to trust me, OK? I promise when my mind shatters into a thousand pieces after the opening number, I'll try not to get any in your Stella. Or on your pointy Kenneth Cole loafers. Or your pointy head.

My sweet, sweet grandmother still sends me money for my birthday. I can't get her to stop even though I'm a grown-ass woman but if it makes her feel good then I guess I have to feel good. This year I put that money towards a first class upgrade on my flight to Vegas. I've flown first class on a few flights before and, you know, I just like the way it feels. It agrees with me. It compliments the valium nicely. Flight attendants are so nice to you! Everyone lounging in their wide seats with their fleece blankies while all the poor stiffs shuffle by, longing in their eyes, trying to spot an empty overhead to jackknife their carry-on into. The novelty of it distracts me from my normal routine of crying and rending my garments on take-off. Something I think my fellow passengers appreciate. Thanks, Grandma.

I get to Vegas early Saturday morning, my sister picks me up and we head over to the Mandalay Bay to pick up my race packet. I get to smell the Mandalay Bay Smell. I don't know what it is. Toxic air freshener, most likely. But the Mandalay Bay and The Bellagio pipe in this pleasingly artificial flower/leather sofa smell into their casinos. And rather than hating it, I absolutely love it and it reminds me of Vegas. I've never smelled it anywhere else. We walk 10 miles through the convention center crap and the expo crap, grabbed my number and my T-shirt from Salt-n-Pepa. I'm not kidding. They were the most enthusiastic trio of volunteers I've ever witnessed. From Texas. Not that that explains anything. But they were obviously soaking up the Vegas experience and hitting the sauce. Marla Gibbs said she'd see me at the finish and then Jackee chimes in, "Yeah girl, I'll be there with my spray bottle squirting vodka in your eyes". WTF? Maybe that was her version of 'break a leg'.  I don't know. They were high.

The rest of my day is spent being mellow. We made a trip to the gym and I ran a few miles. Ate pasta. Went to bed around 8 PM.

(cue Rocky's Theme)

4 am rolls around and I bound out of bed, pound a glass of raw eggs and do some pull-ups in my bedroom doorway.

Or.

Hesitantly make myself eat a yogurt and a piece of toast; my brother-in-laws previous nights' tale of Grete Waitz's craptastic NYC marathon finish on repeat in my head.

It is FREEZING at the start. I actually take shelter in the Port-a- Potty to get out of the cold. There is nothing worse than waiting around at the beginning of a race. Even more so when it's 38 degrees. My teeth were chattering. If it wasn't for the menthol-cool stylings of Robin Leach as race announcer, I would have simply perished. Robin Leach? Yes. He's still around. He's some gossip guru in Vegas now. I couldn't see him just heard his voice. I couldn't see much. I had to dash from the car to the start because we were stuck in some pre-race traffic jam. I followed the crowd and took my place in the street. There was talk of starting corrals and whatnot but I couldn't see anything but massive people. The ones next to me didn't look like elite athletes what with their 100% cotton shirts, earmuffs, tool belts with 40 GU's locked and loaded - do you need that many? Seriously? And the others to my left, full makeup, fake boobs barely tethered by only the merest suggestion of pink sports bras. I figured this place was as good as any.

And we're off!

And we're not going anywhere.

It took me about 10 minutes to reach the starting line but I enjoyed the fireworks display and getting black trash bags wrapped around my ankles. If you didn't watch where you were shuffling, you would have fallen face first in piles of discarded sweatshirts. Goodwill has nothing on what's left along the first 3 miles of a marathon. Such a waste!

I'm feeling good at the start. As I predicted, the excitement of running along the strip was a huge distraction. I ran the first 6 miles and it felt like I had been running 15 minutes. The pack never really thinned out and you had to watch where you were going but other than that there was a lot to take in. Seeing Vegas at that hour was interesting. The sun is coming up, there were a lot of spectators. There were also quite a few hookers. Now, I know Vegas has plenty-O-hookers, sure. Usually they're blending in with the other chicks that dress like hookers just because they're in 'Vegas, Baby!' And what might be a legit soccer mom from Waukesha, WI could easily be confused with your garden variety chippie because both have 3 inches of buttcheek hanging out of their PINK short shorts. These however were definitely the streetwalker variety. How else to explain walking down Las Vegas Boulevard solo, barefoot, pumps in one hand, cigarette in the other at 6 am. Whole different slice of life. The juxtaposition of our pack of runners, high on life, with her at the end of her long night was somewhat deflating. Run from the guilt! That's my new motivation!

I ate a few Shotbloks at mile 9 even though I didn't necessarily need them. I carried them all this way, I might as well use them. I called my sister a few times from the route to tell her where I was and when I would be at the finish. I felt so stupid talking on the phone & running, like, "Watch me - this race is SO EASY I'm checking my voicemail". On the other hand, it was very useful otherwise who the hell knows how I would have found her. I'd do it again.

About 2 miles from the finish, the police cars pull through with their sirens and make us all move to the left. The motorcade escorts the female leader past us with TV cameras and everything. She's totally trucking. Not even breaking a sweat, wearing the teeniest of briefs and singlet. It dawned on me that she was finishing her marathon ahead of me finishing my half. My head twirled for a moment. Then it was time to turn on the afterburner. Shelley Style. It's been well-documented on this website that my running gait resembles that of a geriatric overly concerned with low-impact, low to the ground, Stealth Jogging. No matter how fast I'm going, how much energy I think is being expended. At a full sprint, I still think I'd look like I had a load in my shorts I was determined to deliver ever so delicately to the finish line. I attribute this partly to my larger chest, learning over the years to try and keep that up and down movement to a minimum. Partly, I'm just retarded. It doesn't FEEL like I'm running this way in my head and that's the important thing; I choose my own reality. When I say I 'turned on the afterburner', that means I boosted my speed so slightly as to be undetectable and turned on "It's a Long Way to the Top" by AC/DC on my iPod. Yeah. Eat my dust.

Coming into the finishing gate was awesome. I felt super. Not super enough to run another 13.1 miles like others were doing at that moment (good, god) but better than I expected. I didn't see Shannon and Mike but they caught me on video. I passed on the mylar cape but grabbed a banana, walked to the car, got home and took a four hour nap.

Total thanks to my sister and Mikey for their awesome support. They made me feel like a real rock star. Kinda like this guy.

The half marathon is 6 days away. I've set the bar fairly low in an attempt to totally impress myself. In other words, my whole life philosophy. However, this weekend I felt excellent out on my long run Sunday despite freezing my nibs off and running for my life from a Ted Bundy look-alike (I think it was all that Thanksgiving Reading I did. Nothing like boning up on "The Stranger Beside Me" tucked all warm and tidy in your isolated cabin in the woods). I feel a touch of a sore throat coming on but my remedy for that will be total denial. Lots of juice, a vitamin and denial, people. That's the ticket. After all this, there is no way in H -E - double hockey sticks that I'm not going to claw my way across the finish line. There's going to be running Elvis' for crapsake. Elvi. Running. Can you even imagine the amount of chaffing that scenario entails? All the Bodyglide in the world is not enough. Lord love'em. And I will be there. If a wig-sporting, jumpsuit and jogging shoe wearing Elvis impersonator can do it, so can I.

This entry is from Blog #2. The Sister Blog. Which really never had a chance to get its fledgling wings off the ground. Crippled as it was by the Ball and Chain of innate Harman Laziness. A laziness gifted to us in our DNA. A laziness so powerful it crushes souls. Or gets around to crushing them...someday. A laziness so complete it still has a Christmas Tree up in its living room in April. A laziness that prays for a rainstorm instead of heading down to the Brown Bear like every other normal human would. A laziness that is now medicated and isn't quite so lazy anymore.

But I digress.

Here's the post from last December about how much fun it is to ice skate at Seattle Center.

This past weekend we made a trip to the Seattle Center for a little holiday ice skating jam. I remember loving ice skating when I was young. Roller skating was really my thing but ice skates were also part of the repertoire. Shannon and I have pictures of ourselves skating at Lloyd's Center with our cooler older cousins circa what, 1980? Noses rosy. Asses soaked. Pant cuffs frozen and dragging under sharp skate blades. Was ice just softer then? Cause I swear to you, it's harder now. And my fear of snapping a bone has grown with my age. I took diggers all the time when I was a kid! What's my problem? God made dirt so dirt don't hurt. Right? Just dust it off, Nancy. And ice? That doesn't even stain...so who cares?

Apparently, I do.

The second my foot hit that ice, every joint seized up like a rusty bike chain. It doesn't help that the entrance to the rink is crowded. Parents holding kids, passing kids to other parents, tripping on other kids. Old folks who really do believe they're still adequately lubricated doing the one-legged dismount onto the ice and learning the hard way that you do not mess around with oil slicks, tight pants and a trick knee. The entrance was like a feeding frenzy in a koi pond: bodies pressed together until someone either pops out onto the rink or shoots back out onto dry land. This would be bad enough. However now there's this new invention, like bumpers in bowling for kids who can't keep it out of the gutter. I'll call it The Walker. It's a metal frame that looks like a walker for grandpas but with no wheels. And the perfect height for optimal shin damage. So kids hang onto this and, regardless of skating ability, they've got something to hold and can skate on their own. Kind of like grabbing the side of the pool when you can't swim. Except the side of the pool is portable. I'm all for leveling the playing field. Bowling bumpers are a nice way to let everyone enjoy the fun of bowling. I get it. That's awesome. But sometimes, requiring a certain skill set serves a purpose. Namely, keeping your teeth in your head and your blood off the ice. Tiny kids would latch onto the Ice Walker and shoot off, blades glinting, still wobbly to the brink of falling down every second. Just barely holding it together with each pump of their little legs, ankles frighteningly contorted and turned in, knees dutifully bringing up the rear. Some did dangerous high back kicks with tiny ninja skate blades. Others would gather some speed, put all their weight on their arms and let their feet fly forward: A mini metal snow plow spiralling across 4 lanes of skater traffic. Some gave up trying to hold onto it altogether and cracked their peanut noggins on the hardpack. Still others managed to get theirs airborne.

I couldn't tell who was worse, the kids with the walkers or the absolute nutzoid out of control parents who had no qualms about grabbing complete strangers as they went down in flames. Or the same crazy parents fighting at the rink entrance over the walkers for their equally crazy kids.

Just believe me when I tell you it was mayhem. Bedlam even.

At the Seattle Center they don't use a Zamboni, they just come out every 2 hours or so and sweep up the shavings. This leaves the ice so rutted. I've gone four-wheeling on dirt roads that had less washboarding. Skating a smooth straight line made my teeth clack together. I don't know how I managed to stay upright. It's possible the sheer number of people on the ice helped; you couldn't fall too far to the left or right without landing on somebody and bouncing back. Weebles wobble, People. I think I probably had some, "Isn't this FUN!" - in a totally manic/frightened/let it be over soon, God, way- smile on my face. And I KNOW I was skating a snails pace. My internal mantra was "Slow and Easy Wins the Race" interspersed with a random "Outta my way, Motherfucker". It was a little panic-inducing to say the least. Maybe it wasn't the actual falling that scared me. It was falling and being consumed by the swirling, peppermint-scented, sticky cloud of mitten and blade. A fate too often observed in my comrades of lesser balance. For a split second, I actually thought I ran over a toddler’s fingers. Another time, when something on the sidelines drew my attention, I looked back too late to find me butt-bumping some Bill Gates look-a-like and his wife. Eew.

I squeezed 45 minutes of skating out of my legs and then called it quits. I filled the fun meter. Punched the frivolity clock.

I've added a picture of me having said fun.*

*Notice one finger pointing straight to hell and my mouth saying "hot, hot, h-h-h-hot" a la Lou Costello.

As a nod to my two previous foray's into blogdom, I've decided to post a previous entry from both. This one I wrote almost 3 years ago when I  started reading all of Anthony Bourdain's books. I'm still a huge fan. I watch "No Reservations" whenever I can remember it's on and I've recently reread two of his books. I must have had some spare time on my hands for that one. Probably back when I wasn't training for that marathon. Interestingly, two people have told me they see why I fell for Marty as he has that certain jeu ne sais Bourdain: Tall, slender, curly dark hair, prominent bone structure, earrings, penchant for Levis. I guess I see what they're talking about. But Martin doesn't smoke nearly enough for me to truly love him. (I kid).

Ah yes. Annie Wilkes. The crazy chick in 'Misery'. The one who found James Caan in his car in the snow and kept him hopped up on goofballs so he'd keep writing his fancy books. She fed him tomato soup and bought him a typewriter and then hobbled him something good during an especially brutal bout of the "don't-ever-leave-me's". But she was his #1 FAN!!! I loved that line. I still use it sometimes. That and 'dirty birdy'. But Dirty Birdies aren't the point of my post today. What has brought me out of my blog retirement, you ask? What has prompted the return to my famous 4-entry wonder journal? Wasn't 4 enough? I figured 6 months had passed; it's time to give it another whirl. And I have a very important announcement to make. I am the new (and improved!) #1 fan of Anthony Bourdain. How did this happen? What about my infatuation with Bobby Flay? Why do I even give a shit in the first place? I need to break it down for ya. First of all, Bobby. Oh Bobby. We had a good run. I stumbled upon you in the very beginning. On your first show. I made your caesar salad dressing AND your roasted jalapeno salsa. We had a thing. But then I realized I really only loved you for your red hair and fair complexion. I liked the IDEA of you but your personality sucks. And like, the southwestern schtick is getting old. Branch out, dude. Everyone says you're an asshole but I don't agree. Plus, as we'll see with Tony B, being an asshole doesn't necessarily preclude you from being the object of my #1 Fan-Fare. The spell was broken when I couldn't find any of your cookbooks for less than $40. When I saw you sweating the pits out of your too-tight, purple, Tommy Bahama shirt, grillin' & chillin' on the deck of your pseudo-rooftop, Manhattan celebrity chef pad and when you went and married that bleached blond Harpie I spied in your 'studio audience' one too many times on Boy Meets Grill. That's another thing. You have too many shows. BBQ with Bobby Flay? Iron Chef America? Food Nation? Celebrity Kitchen Makeover or whatever it's called? Stop. Who is running your restaurant? Better yet, who is picking out those hideodorous tight button-ups that clash with your wonderful skin tone? Magenta? Think twice, Apple Spice. I still feel a little glowing ember of love for you, Brother that will glow on but as of today, if you plowed your car over a snowy embankment whilst trying to light your one celebratory Lucky Strike after putting the finishing touches on your new $50 cookbook that I can't afford and I happened upon your buried wreckage, I wouldn't steal you away to my doiley-lined, knick-knack infested, guest room so you could grill me meats forevermore. I think I would just call a tow truck.

But for Anthony? I would lump his 98lb carcass over the river and through the woods. It's not the cigarettes, former heroin addiction, bad taste in leather and tight pants, cheesy one-liners & potty mouth, the sad torch he still carries for 70's punk, the hatred of vegetarians. It's the nutty fact that these attributes don't make me want to kill him. I can stomach his painful posturing (with Samurai Swords!!) on the cover of Kitchen Confidential because he writes so well. If you can read his piece about eating his first oyster in France and not giggle or get misty, you're a rock. An island even. And a moron.

Anyone who can write like a champ, cook food I would never eat, be married to the same woman for 16 years* and drink like a fish is a-ok in my book.

That settles it, I'm making a t-shirt.

* Update: Bourdain has since divorced his wife and married some Italian chick and popped out a kid.

This will be the third blog I've started. The other two sort of ran out of gas. One turned into more of a marathon training diary which sort of imploded when I didn't finish the training or the marathon. Oops. The second was a joint blog with my sister who I think is one of the funniest writers ever. The feeling might be mutual because we mostly just looked forward to reading what the other posted. Which didn't really get much done in the way of posting. But hey, third times a charm, right?

In 7th grade creative writing class I really came into my own as a self-styled Literary Ham. I would actually read my journal entries aloud to the class and laugh so hard I couldn't get through them. Did I mention I was delusional in 7th grade?

As evidenced by this, an entry in my big final class project - The Poetry Notebook:

RED

A fire truck is red or someone's hair on their head
The blanket on my bed, the horse I fed was red
If you don't like red you should be dead
Because lots of things in this world are red, red, red!

Obviously, I was heavy into poetry that rhymed. And getting "F's".

Actually, I think I passed this class with flying colors. 'Red' being simply filler for the Main Event - 'My Favorite Things':

Drippy old noses and half-bald little kittens,
Rotting black kettles and yellow plaid mittens
My head is a target for what pigeons bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
Mushy bananas and wet sticky noodles,
Crab legs and lobster and butter sauce doodles,
Ant hills filled with tiny fly wings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Girls with sunburn and bumpy bruised rashes,
I wake up with crust on my nose and eyelashes,
Your hair reminds me of knots and string,
These are a few of my favorite things.
When the pig squeals, when the ape swings,
I simply think of my favorite things,
And then I feel worse.

This is all deftly illustrated by an actual banana peel I glued under the poem which is still 100% intact on the construction paper. Albeit brown and stiff as a board. I remember thinking this was a divine masterpiece when I was 12. I agonized over this poem, tweaking it here, another tweak there. I don't know if I came up with 'butter sauce doodles' straight out of the gate, probably not. I probably tried poodles first. I remember loving The Sound of Music around this time and thought there no better homage than to remake "Favorite Things" with gross-out humor. I can't explain any of it. But I'm going to connect the dots here and guess this is the reason why I never had a date in high school.