tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16434290076212180842024-03-04T23:54:12.637-08:00Run Bitch RunRBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.comBlogger447125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-38447426192187826992013-09-09T06:23:00.003-07:002013-09-09T06:30:07.749-07:00Hot for TeacherFor the record I HATE that song. Moreso since I became a teacher, but even in my Aqua-Net dousing, hair band days, I was not a fan of the Van Halen high school stoner anthem. <br />
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I am not talking about that kind of hot anyway, I am talking about why it is that the air conditioning must fail EVERY fucking summer right as school starts.<br />
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<i>At a balmy 83 degrees BEFORE 35 teenagers crammed into my classroom, </i></div>
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<i>I doubt anyone will be getting used to it. </i></div>
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Twenty minutes into my first period I looked like I had been teaching Bikram yoga instead of biology. </div>
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And, I am not sure how much you know about 15 and 16 year old boys, but suffice it to say that no one wants to be in an enclosed space with tropical-like conditions with one of them, let alone half a class full of them. </div>
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<i>If you have one living in your home, I am truly, truly sorry. To remove the stench, I hear it is easier to just burn the house down and move once they finish puberty. </i></div>
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This school year I had a to take on a new challenge, I am teaching chemistry. I got a chemistry teaching credential when I got my biology teaching credential. I got for job security, but never expected to use the damn thing. Kind of like when I put down tennis as a hobby on my resume to make myself sound like I actually had a hobby and ended up coaching the goddamn girls' tennis team for three years and the boys' team for one. <br />
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Originally I was supposed to teach one overflow class to help reduce the gigantic chem class sizes<i>, </i>but somehow that translated to me showing up the week before school to a schedule that included THREE sections of chemistry.<br />
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One of my least favorite questions at the beginning of the year as a biology teacher is, "When do we get to blow stuff up?" , which is students' tacit way of reminding me that I teach the "boring" kind of science. This year when they said it, it sent a chill down my spine, and I thought <i>(but gratefully did not say</i>) "Fuck. I hope not soon, but let's be honest, it will probably happen."<br />
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I did, however, glance around the room and made a mental note of the location of the dust covered fire blanket in my room.<br />
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<i>I am hoping to be only as incompetent as, not more than, a muppet scientist. </i></div>
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At the time of this post I have completed my first chem lab complete with Bunsen burners and we survived without charred flesh or structural damage to the room, so we will take that as a win. </div>
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I will keep you posted. </div>
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<b>Running (kinda)</b></div>
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Last time I wrote I mentioned starting a slow runners club of sorts. So to be added to my "most people are big, fat fucking liars" file, I will tell you the story of my first run with the group. </div>
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Many of you know I have had some trouble as of late keeping a running partner. They keep getting injured (<i>not by me</i>), knocked up (<i>not by me</i>), or disillusioned with moi (<i>ok, I will own that one</i>). In an effort to find some folks to run with I started a group on <a href="http://www.meetup.com/">Meet Up</a> (<i>I don't have the energy or desire to explain it, so feel free to click the link and look it up</i>) for slow runners. </div>
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There are about 5,000 run groups on Meet Up in my area and almost without exception they boast welcoming runners of "all abilities" and post pictures of runners with less than 16% body fat and sparkly, Justin Bieber smiles. What they mean by "all abilities" is "if you want to get dropped like a flaming bag of dog shit within the first 200 yards of the run and return to an empty parking lot, you are welcome to come run with us!" said with a sparkly, Justin Beiber smile. <!--16--></div>
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Umm... Pass. Thanks. </div>
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So I started a group. I was stunned to have 20 runners RSVP for the first run all of whom where "so thrilled" to finally have a running group that was "not intimidating or competitive" and "geared towards slow runners." </div>
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First Run - I am standing out at the park certain no one is going to show up and I will feel like a total loser which will only be augmented by the fact that my shame will be posted on the internet when no one "checks in" for the run, when people start to show up. 14 people to be exact. </div>
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I have been doing this gig for awhile now. I know "my running people" when I see them. These were not my running people (<i>translation: skinny bitches in cute run clothes</i>). Everyone starts to titter about how slow they are and they are going to be last.... "Oh my God. I am sooooo slow"....</div>
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<i>Blah, blah, fucking blah.</i> I can see the writing on the wall... I am going to be DFL at my own slow running group. </div>
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Here it goes the next course of events: </div>
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The run starts. </div>
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I get dropped within 100 yards. </div>
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I run the whole 2 painful miles alone. (<i>Ok, I walked a lot and ran some. I packed on 30 pounds and had not run a step in 6 months</i>. <i>Cut me some slack</i>) </div>
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Let the record reflect that I did not cry, but it was touch and go there around mile 1. </div>
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However, I did not return to an empty parking lot. I returned to a bunch of happy runners that wanted to go with me to coffee and were "so excited" for future runs and "so grateful" I got them out running again. So I sucked it up, went to coffee, had a great time and went home to schedule more runs. </div>
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Come on. It is not the first time I have been last and it sure as shit won't be the last time. As long as someone will have coffee with me after I can do this. And so it goes. It has been a mixed bag of good times, feeling shitty about how far down I have gone in terms of fitness, and some girl drama because even though high school was a looooong time ago, that weird inter-female, insecurity bullshit still plagues us when there are more than 2 sets of ovaries gathered together. But, all in all I am glad I did it. </div>
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<i>Lola is noticing a dog that had the audacity to walk on the sidewalk in front of our house and is about to completely lose her shit. She is still adorable though. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-90982677527637614262013-08-11T19:53:00.002-07:002013-08-11T19:53:24.397-07:00Sometimes the abyss blinksHidey ho!<br />
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I have battled depression forever. I get reprieves, but it is something that is never not a part of my life.<br />
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Something that helps my depression is exercise, but ironically, it is the first thing to go when I start down that rabbit hole. Then I get all bitchy and defensive when friends, family, therapists, and shrinks suggest that I should exercise to help moderate my moods. (<i>Aside: I fucking hate shrinks. H.A.T.E them.</i>)<br />
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I wanted to write for awhile, but I just have not been able to yet. So here is my update of sorts.<br />
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I am fresh off a truly horrific foray into the world of modern psychotropic medications and their multitudes of debilitating and esteem crushing side effects. Here are the most distressing: <br />
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1. I packed on 30 pounds in 3 months<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sadly, the end result of my weight gain was not this cute.</i></td></tr>
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2. My hair started to fall out and it looked like I gave birth to a guinea pig every time I cleaned the shower drain.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The resulting drain hairballs were not this cute either</i></td></tr>
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3. My skin broke out in a way that would make Seal feel sorry for me<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ok, I am kind of hoping I am cuter than this...</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The best of all is that the high doses of lithium triggered hypothyroidism which exacerbated all of the aforementioned side effects. <i>(Disclaimer: the lithium may or may not have not triggered the hypothyroidism, but I currently blaming my miserable, fat, bald, pock marked condition on my stupid, fucking shrink [SFS] so that is how I am reporting this)</i><br />
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After many discussions if I was going to have to go spend some time at "the spa" (<i>yes, "the spa" with nice cushy walls, where they lock the doors from the outside.)</i> ...<br />
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...finally the abyss blinked<br />
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<i>(someone I adore once wrote that in response to Nietzsche's famous quote about "...when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you." I found it one of the most hopeful and beautiful things I had ever read about depression.)</i><br />
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I told my SFS that I wanted my thyroid tested and I wanted to come off all of my medication. I went back to Jenny Craig and started to really do their program, not Stacey's program. I started a running group for slow runners that meets several times a week and does hikes on Sundays. <br />
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So far I have lost 20 pounds on Jenny Craig. I am officially back to the weight where I would normally exclaim, "Holy fuck! I need to go to Jenny Craig!!" But, whatever, at least I am no longer pushing 2 bills on the scale.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No, those are not my toes, but yes, sadly, that was my weight</i>.<i> Jesus. </i></td></tr>
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I am running again. Not as far or as often as I used to, but I am getting out there. Mostly I am making the decision that I do not have to have all of my problems worked out to start being happier and start being nicer to myself. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlcaVqEz_Ri_28n5zKHeEBt2VIlZ2ffyvyAaI4_06vCO_nuK06nlJrgB8RR6LOH2qUCPDzMNrp08nNyaby33CsI8z-5H72Lj7plQvvcI_3Onw62uXuZpRx9uehcMoHR3rshWPfiopy2j4/s1600/20130811_123021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlcaVqEz_Ri_28n5zKHeEBt2VIlZ2ffyvyAaI4_06vCO_nuK06nlJrgB8RR6LOH2qUCPDzMNrp08nNyaby33CsI8z-5H72Lj7plQvvcI_3Onw62uXuZpRx9uehcMoHR3rshWPfiopy2j4/s320/20130811_123021.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mommy got a new ride! </i></td></tr>
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<br />RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-42992135028809028572012-11-08T13:57:00.000-08:002012-11-08T14:05:32.512-08:00Mother's Little HelperI have not turned into the Valium addicted, 1960's housewife Mick Jagger was caterwauling about, but I have entered the world of psychotropic medications to get a little help. <i>(Ok, I <b>RE</b>-entered the world of psychotropic drugs. Whatever. Damn attentive readers)</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFysNdmpGb8TbUVsdhyphenhyphenxcurX5K_Y_dNH6ksNlg4GWzD3LfDpXaYB4TorCdeJJI95kilamLkNQHAblUri_dgYFGBbbrd6u7e4kI9FZxxoEToXQ6Xw_S9TZBDUfOF46lUk-hsO5wb-CVE5U/s1600/valium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFysNdmpGb8TbUVsdhyphenhyphenxcurX5K_Y_dNH6ksNlg4GWzD3LfDpXaYB4TorCdeJJI95kilamLkNQHAblUri_dgYFGBbbrd6u7e4kI9FZxxoEToXQ6Xw_S9TZBDUfOF46lUk-hsO5wb-CVE5U/s400/valium.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Vitamin V is no longer an option for me. Val and I had a brief love affair. Bitch turned on me. </i></div>
<br />
I am sure, based on my last psychosis riddled post, that this comes to a shock to NONE of you, but I thought I would post about it anyway. When I went back to therapy I was very resistant to medication. This was primarily due to ego. I had been off anti-depressants for over 14 years and it felt like a giant step backwards to me.<br />
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A giant step backwards? That is pretty fucking hilarious. In the last 2 years I have mastered the art of sprinting backwards in my life and I was worried about taking some medication? Even I am stunned at the depth of my denial.<br />
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I did have reason to be concerned. The first time I was on anti-depressants I struggled with the medication changes necessary to find the right medication and dosage. The difference with this time is that back then I was a suicidal, self-mutilating, 21 year old cocktail waitress. It is not like there were high expectations on me. I had zero responsibilities and, frankly, people were shocked if I managed to shower and get to work on time. Now, I am a highly fucked up, but responsibility laden, 43 year old teacher. I can't really afford too many weeks of vacillating between stark raving mad and soulless, drooling zombie. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxkmWwgDgX6ouwGAu9KluvjIcehoW-UyW2jT5F6950GLSDXN-a3rGBTqE7tKzf_ghe1scH7a6cT0744J2LHBzSn0CtS22LK8o4dBt0I6OjwsH4y5HhacX69wyVqpVTx88u5vmdcD8zE0/s1600/cute-puppy-pictures-antidepressant-right.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxkmWwgDgX6ouwGAu9KluvjIcehoW-UyW2jT5F6950GLSDXN-a3rGBTqE7tKzf_ghe1scH7a6cT0744J2LHBzSn0CtS22LK8o4dBt0I6OjwsH4y5HhacX69wyVqpVTx88u5vmdcD8zE0/s400/cute-puppy-pictures-antidepressant-right.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I asked Mr. RBR, he said "no" to 7 golden retriever puppies, so I was stuck going with pills. Stingy bastard.</i></div>
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Nevertheless, I started a week and a half ago. So far, other than headaches, I am feeling ok.<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Running</b></span> <i>(I know, I know. This is supposed to be a running blog</i> <i>not a snivelfest, I will get to it</i>)<br />
<br />
I have done a couple of races recently that I thought I would do a piss poor job of reporting them.<br />
<br />
<b>Race Report: Muddy Buddy Run - San Jose 9-30-12</b><br />
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<i><b>Stats: </b></i><br />
<b><i>Total distance:</i> </b>4.5 miles<br />
<b><i>Total Time:</i> </b>I have no idea. I did not wear a watch. The only thing I can assure you is that it was NOT fast. <b> </b><br />
<b><i>Total volume of mud in places you do NOT want mud:</i> </b>About 3 quarts<b>, </b>give or take. <b><br /></b><br />
<br />
This was my first "mud run". Mud runs have become popular with short run distances, obstacles on course, and the finish is after a slog through a mud pit. My TNT Run Buddy was my partner and her partner and her partner's brother were the other half of our team. <i>(I know, it's confusing. Get over it. It is 2012)</i><br />
<br />
The most challenging part of this run is that it happened on the hottest day of the year in a place that is known to devil as somewhere warm to visit. The run was 4.5 miles long (<i>we originally thought it was 6 miles and were DELIGHTED to find out it was not. De-fucking-lighted, let me tell you</i>). The obstacles were a fun distraction and mostly I loved them because you got to stop running. Due to freakish upper body strength I inherited from my dad, most of the obstacles were pretty easy for me, but then we had to run in the heat and hills again and that is where the suffering occurred.<br />
<br />
By the time we reached the mud pit at the finish (<i>the only mud on the course which was a little disappointing for a "mud" run</i>) I was so hot that I had goosebumps. I belly slid into the mud pit like a pregnant hippopotamus. The cool water and mud was heaven.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIz-42Xd7NfieqeW55RMrFnqmHBD2mES8bdiaE2FyzFId6QHfVld-Ld_moShgarTpjV0Zm1xOVbhczxVy60zENVO5UwnRwlBGuhulGgd8qryI4wgb_NPS6hraCbZYPAhDh2ABfeAzyRSg/s1600/iStock_000000652683XSmall.img_assist_custom-600x398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIz-42Xd7NfieqeW55RMrFnqmHBD2mES8bdiaE2FyzFId6QHfVld-Ld_moShgarTpjV0Zm1xOVbhczxVy60zENVO5UwnRwlBGuhulGgd8qryI4wgb_NPS6hraCbZYPAhDh2ABfeAzyRSg/s400/iStock_000000652683XSmall.img_assist_custom-600x398.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i> Ahhhhhhh! </i></div>
<br />
I would have floated there in Hippopotami-like bliss until the end of time, but TNT Run Buddy's girlfriend jumped on my back in a sneak attack. Now, let me preface the next part of this by saying, I sometimes do not realize my own strength and TNT's girlfriend only weighs about 95 pounds even covered in mud, so when I decided it would be funny to flip her off my back and reared up, it threw her tiny ass about 5 feet taking out 2 other competitors and causing a HUGE splash of mud covering some the crowd. Oopsies. My bad.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-TduysyL4GCncKCiTwvFMytLJu9MhHrImgTGqZVZo-ABBPffLD5IBfU_iS8dtcNxEaEXnvuC4n9OTPcoL-SHXtq13cSBnRvWWCJOG3V6sushSEAOLb4uZs5we338zYoT_duujCln1wDE/s1600/muddy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-TduysyL4GCncKCiTwvFMytLJu9MhHrImgTGqZVZo-ABBPffLD5IBfU_iS8dtcNxEaEXnvuC4n9OTPcoL-SHXtq13cSBnRvWWCJOG3V6sushSEAOLb4uZs5we338zYoT_duujCln1wDE/s400/muddy.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Yep, I stole the proof. If I did not look like a actual mud covered hippo in the picture maybe I would pay for it. Sue me. (Just kidding MarathonFoto, please do not sue me)</i></div>
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<b>Race Report: Nike Women's Half Marathon - October 14, 2012</b></div>
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<i><b>Stats: </b></i></div>
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<i><b>Total Distance:</b></i> 13.31 miles</div>
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<i><b>Total Time:</b></i> 3:08:45 <i>(I should have a disclaimer here. I don't have one. I was slow as shit. *shrugs*)</i></div>
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<i><b>Total # of people with canes/walking sticks that I dropped like a bad habit!:</b></i> 2 <i>(Oh yeah, sweet victory is mine! Suck it, bitches!)</i></div>
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After the last time I ran Nike I swore I would not be back. Not because there is anything wrong with the race per say, it is just too fucking big and with it being a point to point the transportation back to the start and the clusterfuck that is the finish area is, in my opinion, not worth it. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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My opinion has not changed. I like the course. I like the women themed race. Other than that, meh, it is not for me. I ran with three really great women. We laughed and encouraged each other and finished. <3></3></div>
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The greatest gift I have gotten from running (and blogging about running) is the friendships. That is what brought me back to this place after all of this time. Friends, new and old, that reached out to me and that have been there for me through the darkness. </div>
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<i>Lola at Baylands this weekend. 2 miles, not bad for a prissy little chiwowwow that hates trail running.</i></div>
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<i>Lola as a ladybug this Halloween (possibly the only non-slutty ladybug costume that exists)</i></div>
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RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-15266073646921419732012-05-03T13:00:00.000-07:002012-05-03T13:00:29.619-07:00It is ok, you can stop digging now.There is a saying, "It is not rock bottom until you stop digging."<br />
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<a href="http://www.newhomessection.com/blog/wp-content/plugins/2010/10/bottom-of-a-well.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.newhomessection.com/blog/wp-content/plugins/2010/10/bottom-of-a-well.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have not kept it a secret that the events of the last couple of years have taken their toll on my emotional well being. I have, however, had a somewhat secret hell that I have created and lived in as a response.<br />
<br />
I have been avoiding looking at some aspects of me for a very long time.
When I got clean, I did some work on how to become a productive member
of society, but when it came to looking at the core of me I was too
scared of what I might find to continue. I believe that I continued to
stay clean by changing addictions. I addictively worked, pursued college
degrees, accumulated pets, and more recently completed running events.
All of these things are good in and of themselves and can be very
positive activities, but I used them to avoid feeling anything I did not
want to and to never have to look at myself and who I was. As long as my life was running smoothly, I found that was a fine technique, but as soon as my life started to have some bumps (<i>and in fairness to me, I had A LOT of fucking bumps all in a row</i>) I found that I was ill equipped to deal with them. <br />
<br />
Sometimes people are surprised by how almost embarrassingly honest I can be at times about things. It is because I have to be. You see, at my core, I am a fucking liar. It is almost as if it is encoded in my DNA.<br />
<br />
My first response and first thought is almost always a lie. Twenty one years ago, when I got clean, I learned that I cannot trust my own mind. It will lead me to a place where I cannot stand to be in my own skin and then I will turn on myself.<br />
<br />
For the majority of my time clean I have been almost brutally honest about my actions and motives, not out of virtue, rather out of self preservation, but I have never been truly honest about my feelings, because I did not know what they were. I avoided them. So my lying changed, but did not go away. I did not even realize it because it was as subtle as, "No, I am fine.", "It is ok. I will take care of it.", or "I don't mind."<br />
<br />
As my life got more difficult, it became more apparent that these were not true. I was <b>not</b> fine. It was <b>not</b> ok for me to do it all. I <b>did</b> mind.<br />
<br />
When some of the really scary, hard emotional stuff passed, I was suddenly struck with the thought of "What about me? Don't I deserve...." I did not tell anyone what I was feeling. And later I did not tell anyone what I was doing. <br />
<br />
Lies of omission are the most insidious. I feel almost sanctimonious about them, often telling myself, 'If I am directly asked, I will not lie." What a crock of shit. <br />
<br />
Without going into too much detail, I took myself to that place where I cannot stand to be in my own skin again. The lies of omission quietly ate at me, while in my denial, I had justified all sorts of behavior. So after years of keeping some of my demons at bay, I went down in a self destructive spiral that included a few scary
behaviors I have not engaged in for over 14 years, some NEW scary self
destructive behaviors, and a series of shockingly poor decisions.<br />
<br />
This March 31 was the anniversary of me getting clean. I had been clean for 21 years, yet I was in full blown emotional and behavioral relapse. I
was at my lowest emotional point of my life, but somehow I did not
drink alcohol or use drugs. People were congratulating me on my 21 years of recovery
and I felt like a fraud. I was clean, but I was NOT in recovery. <br />
<br />
Fortunately or unfortunately, lies tend to be like a parasitic fungus in me and, once started, they grow uncontrollably until they ultimately burst from inside.<br />
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<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/images/ic/credit/640x395/c/co/cordyceps/cordyceps_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/images/ic/credit/640x395/c/co/cordyceps/cordyceps_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> The white spikes are the parasitic fungus that killed this moth. </i></div>
<br />
For all to see.<br />
<br />
Super. I might as well have had fucking t-shirts made celebrating my shame. <br />
<br />
So now the clean up begins.<br />
<br />
I have had to look at the cost of my behavior to others and have brutally honest conversations about my lack of understanding of my own motivations and needs. It is time to be really honest about who and what I am. I know one thing I am, scared. <br />
<br />
At least I stopped digging. <br />
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<br />RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-70205259360755814122012-03-14T10:37:00.000-07:002012-03-14T10:37:05.279-07:00Dear Universe...<i>You are kind of a bitch. </i><br />
<i>Just saying. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Sincerely, </i><br />
<br />
<i>RBR</i><br />
<br />
<b>How the universe has <strike>dicked me over</strike> taught me important lessons recently: </b><br />
<br />
<b>Lesson 1</b><br />
Order of events: Purchased ridiculously expensive iPhone 4S for hubby as a surprise Valentines Day/Next four hundred birthdays present. Next day, I dropped my own ridiculously expensive Android phone onto the concrete floor of my classroom (<i>the screen shattered and went dark, never to play Words with Friends again *sniff*</i>). Two days after that, my computer displayed the blue screen of death. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The <strong>Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha</strong> is implied. </i></div>
<br />
<i>From this I learned</i>... Gratitude.<br />
These are what they call "Cadillac problems'. I remember working two jobs, going to school full time and standing in the office of the mechanic's shop, looking in my checkbook to check my balance to see if I could pay the $200 to get my car running again so I could make it to those two jobs and school. I just spent almost $2000 in a week on shit I do not need I just want. I am pretty damn fortunate. <br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Lesson 2</b><br />
Order of events: About 2 months after my husband started to FINALLY feel like a human being again post-prostate cancer treatment his liver enzymes came back elevated and it was time to get serious about the OTHER diagnosis he got at the time of being diagnosed with prostate cancer, Hepatitis C. If it is determined that treatment is indicated it will be ONE YEAR (<i>ok, I am exaggerating it is a mere 50 weeks. Such a drama llama I am *eyeroll*</i>) of weekly interferon injections and twice daily ribovirin. The treatment will cause bone aching flu-like symptoms, depression, and aggressive mood changes. Plus he may lose hair and have his red blood cell count drop dangerously low. Super!<br />
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He has a liver biopsy on the 28th, hopefully it will not show evidence of scarring or cirrhosis and he will not have to start this now.<br />
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<i>From this I learned...</i> Appreciate today.<br />
Waiting until something happens or something is done to live your life and appreciate all the things you have is wasteful and sometimes you do not get to end one rough chapter and skip merrily off to live happily ever after. Sometimes you enter another chapter of challenges. I am not going to put seeking happiness on hold waiting for things to be different. <br />
<br />
<b>Lesson 3</b><br />
Order of events: My run partner of many years decided to start a family and that changed our dynamic and made scheduling time together, much less any type of consistent training next to impossible. I took this harder than I would like to admit (<i>what kind of insecure bitch is jealous of an infant? RBR. That is what kind of insecure bitch</i>) So I work hard to be flexible on scheduling time to be with my best friend and her son. (<i>I even attended baby sign language with them for 6 weeks, where it was assumed, not for the first time, that I was the lesbian lover of my best friend. The instructor taught us the signs for 'gay', 'lesbian' and 'domestic partner'. Whatever. It might come in handy. You never know</i>.) Then I got brave and got a new run partner, the recently introduced TNT Run Buddy. She was just diagnosed with a stress fracture and will be off running for 6-8 weeks. Awesome.<br />
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<i>Her royal cuteness is TNT Run Buddy's dog, Winky. Shown here in her best sympathetic pose. </i></div>
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<i>From this I learned...</i> I don't fucking know. Possibly I am <b><i>supposed</i></b> to learn that I can be okay with me and my own thoughts, but I will tell you I am currently NOT ready to accept or learn that lesson. Very fucking frustrating. <br />
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Another blog post with more sniveling. Sorry. I started therapy. Hopefully I will be less of an emo asshat soon.<br />
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<i>I much prefer evil. It makes me feel like less of a whiny little bitch.</i></div>
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And because she is so damn cute and I would rather end on a high note... Lola at agility class<br />
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<i> She is the smallest dog by at least 50 pounds, and looks scarily similar to the squeak toys they use to rile up the other agility dogs, but look at that laser focus.</i></div>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-61343419912429600932012-02-22T15:52:00.001-08:002012-02-22T15:52:26.301-08:00Looking for a RepairpersonI have recently discovered that my "Give a Fuck" is broken. Anyone know someone handy with that sort of thing?<br />
<br />
Ok, maybe I did not discover this <i>recently</i>, per se, but as I mentioned my Give a Fuck is broken, therefore I did not really ... well.... give a fuck. But now I have noticed this lack of interest in life has crept into my work world and, frankly, I have a Starbuck's addiction and a high maintenance chihuahua to support and getting canned from my teaching job when I lack any other marketable skills seems, let's just say, <i>ill advised</i>.<br />
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<i> Andy Warhol Does Diva Dog</i></div>
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Probably the crux of the 'not giving a fuck' issue is that hubby is facing another health problem. It is one we knew about (<i>actually diagnosed at the same time as the prostate cancer, but since the cancer was an aggressive form that took the forefron</i>t), but now after some not so perfect blood test results it is time to start dealing with that. <br />
<br />
To say I am not excited about starting another medical saga is akin to saying Whitney Houston had "one too many" before deciding to slip into the tub, but it is not like you can opt to reschedule these shit storms.<br />
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I am sure I will cyber-vomit all about the specifics of this at some point, but I just cannot muster the energy to do it right now. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Running</b></span> (<i>You shocked I have been running? Me too.</i>) <br />
<br />
Since this is purportedly a running blog, I suppose I should give an update about that. I am currently training for San Luis Obispo Marathon on April 22 with Team in Training.<br />
<br />
I am serving as a team mentor. I won't talk about much about Team in Training here as my blogging style (<i>or really, my entire personality-style</i>) is not really the wholesome, Disney-esque, do-gooder type that Team in Training usually attracts and I have no desire to sully the image of an organization that raises more money annually for cancer research than even the old <i>uni-baller </i>himself<i>, </i>Lance Armstrong (<i>$850 million to $500 million annually respectively</i>), but nonetheless it is what that I am doing. <i>*shrugs*</i> It is an endeavor ol' Beelzebub and I can laugh at when the time comes.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Beelzebub:</b> Dude! Seriously? You thought that weak ass charity shit would offset the rest of your fucked up life decisions and keep you outta here?! HOO! That is rich! <br />
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<b>RBR: </b><i>*sitting permanently posted at the front of a flame filled classroom with unending rows of iPod clad teenagers who only look up from their text conversations long enough to say repeatedly, 'when will I EVER need to know this shit?' and 'This is so gay!' The later of which makes my head spin 360's before exploding*</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>*after my head regenerates*</i> Whatever, <i>Lord of the Flies</i>, at least my name does not mean 'pile of shit'. </blockquote>
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I also have a new run buddy. LA Run Buddy is still my best friend in all of the world, but new babies make things different. I am 42. This is not my first rodeo. Being the childless by choice friend of new moms is, to be frank, fucked up, but she is worth it and this little guy...<br />
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<i> MQ at the park</i></div>
<br />
..has kind of stolen my heart. I still do not feel the need to own one of my very own, but he is pretty great ... [<i>qualifier alert</i>]<b> for a baby</b>.<br />
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Yes, yes, I am an asshole. We have covered that. Moving on. <br />
<br />
Anyhoo... In the tradition of my super distinctive monikers, I shall dub my new run buddy, TNT Run Buddy (<i>I considered 'New Run Buddy', but that was lame even for me</i>). She hates distance running and I hate speedwork. Her job is to help me run faster at track practice and my job is to entertain her during long runs, so that she does not want to swallow her own tongue.<br />
<br />
So far we have run up to 13 miles together and she has not leapt in front of traffic to get away from my constant chatter, but she is continually <i>UN</i>impressed with my lack of anything resembling speedwork at track practice.<br />
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Whatever. At least I am running. <br />
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<br />RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-18676948798982096822011-11-17T13:17:00.001-08:002011-11-20T09:05:01.040-08:00A Seriously Belated Race Report: Portland Marathon - October 9, 2011<span style="font-size: large;"><b> Stats*:</b></span><br />
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<b>Total Distance:</b> 26.85 miles <i>(lot's of bobbing and weaving early on. Totally my fault, but I will get to that)</i><br />
<b>Total time:</b> 5:42: <i>whatever...</i><i>like the seconds matter at that point. (Not a personal worst and I did not <b>actually</b> barf up a lung, so we are taking it as a 'win')</i><br />
<b>Total text messages sent from the course:</b> 10 or 12 <i>(there may have also been an email or two outlining the numerous reasons why this marathon was a remarkably BAD idea, how this would be the last motherfucking one of these things I do, and finally to whom to distribute my meager belongings as I certainly would not survive this, quote, "Goddamn sufferfest.") </i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">*</span>short for 'statistics', which this information really does not qualify as since 'statistics' implies there is some sort of analysis of the numerical data. Alrighty then, for the statistical purists out there, here's some analysis: if you take the total time this run took and divide it by the total distance I traveled, you get a <b>really, really fucking slow ass pace</b>. <i>Voila!</i> Statistics! <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Pre-Run</b></span><br />
<br />
Originally when I signed up to do the Portland Marathon my Run Buddy (<i>whom I have not run with for over 3 years</i>) said she was going to train for and run it with me. However, not super surprisingly, she decided pretty early on in the training that a marathon is, indeed, a very, long fucking way and that she did not want to do that. What can I say? I am drawn to smart people. <br />
<br />
Then LA Run Buddy, fresh off the endorphin rush of a 41 hour labor, said that she and her son, who would be at that point five months old, would come up to Portland with me (<i>For the record, I knew that was INSANE and that she was not going to be able to make it. I just let her say it. It is both cruel and futile to argue reality with a woman that just spent 41 hours of grueling labor to only end up being slashed open from stem to stern to remove the baby that obviously had NO intentions of coming out his own</i>.) <br />
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<i>Gratuitous picture of MQ aka the cutest baby on the planet! </i></div>
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Needless to say I headed up to Portland without any of my peeps. I was thinking, "This is not my first rodeo. I can run a damn marathon by myself." I was not super right about that, but fortunately I had a last minute pinch hitter that came out from Minnesota to cheer me on. That proved to be very much appreciated as this marathon has been renamed by me from the Portland Marathon to the <i>Piss and Moan</i> Marathon. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Run </b></span><br />
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The organizers of the Portland Marathon deemed that anyone that was going to take 6 hours or more to complete their course was a "Walker," which honestly I think is kind of bullshit because other than race walkers I dare anyone to walk a full marathon in 6-6:30 hours. Whatever.<br />
<br />
Race day morning, I walked to what I am certain was Northern Seattle to join my peeps in corral <b>W</b> (<i>FYI: The other corrals were labeled A, B, C, D, and E. The <b>'W</b> ' label seemed somewhat punitive and just to MAKE SURE that everyone knew you were NOT, in the esteemed opinion of the Portland Marathon, a runner. Yeah, fuck you too, Portland) </i><br />
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<b>Helpful Marathon Tip</b>: If you are a runner (<i>albeit a slower than sloth snot runner</i>) and you have been placed in the corral with the ALL of the walkers for a HUGE marathon, get your ass up to the front of the corral. I am so used to seeding myself in the back of the pack that I automatically did so and I spent at least the first 4 miles weaving through and around bands of walkers stretched 5-6 people across, seemingly arm in arm. *sigh* And really, I had no one to blame but myself. I was in their wave and had self-seeded in the very back.<br />
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<i><b>Miles 0-5 </b></i><br />
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Once our corral got in position for them to start us, it took me almost an additional 30 minutes to walk from my place in the corral to the start line. This should have been a clue to me that I was not positioned correctly in this wave, but I milled along in bovine-like bliss until I finally crossed the mat and then spent the next hour or so cursing all of humanity and internally screaming disparaging things about the size of people's asses in front of me that would have, and should have, gotten my very own fat ass summarily kicked had they been uttered aloud. <br />
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What I did not know is that this would probably be the most enjoyable part of my run.<br />
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<i><b>Miles 6-11 </b></i><br />
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Yawn.<br />
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Like, <i>stab yourself in the pancreas to break the monotony</i> type "Yawn."<br />
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Seriously, Portland, change this part of the course. I hate to be critical of a race course, but I have to believe there are more interesting ways to carve out 26.2 miles in Portland. The HAS to be.<br />
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<i>This bus was stuck out in the middle of nowhere playing music trying to cheer runners up. Doesn't the man looking up stock quotes on his iPhone look "cheered" up? </i></div>
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<i><b>Miles 12-16</b></i><br />
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This section of the run, while not actually the <b>most </b>miserable, was definitely where there was the highest likelihood of my quitting this run.<br />
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<i>Race walker that dropped me like a used condom at mile 14. Yeah, it stung a bit. </i></div>
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I have yet to walk off a course, but I will tell you that out on the stretch between miles 13 and 16 I was texting my friend asking "Jesus Christ on a pony, I am only halfway? Just what the fuck do I have to prove? I have run 12 of these damn things!" And telling her I was almost at the point of offering passing motorists sexual favors for a ride back to the finish if she did not come get me.<br />
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She did not come get me. <br />
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No motorists where propositioned. <i>(To be fair, none stopped. I should have worn a cuter outfit. Lessons learned)</i><br />
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I kept running<br />
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well, running<i>-ish. </i><br />
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<i><b>Miles 17-23</b></i><br />
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Now, THIS this was the most miserable section of the run. There was a brief moment of happy at mile 17 as I got to run over a cool bridge, but for the most part this section was the type of misery most people associate with running marathons: It hurt, it was boring, I hated EVERYONE, and there was no end in sight.<br />
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<i>Cool bridge at Mile 17 </i></div>
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At mile 19, there was the first on course food option. They had what appeared to be an 11 year old girl holding handfuls of pretzels out to runners. The poor little thing looked terrified as runner after starving runner practically gnawed off her fingers to get to the salty carbs. For the record, I told her I loved her and that she was my favorite person in the universe. That did not creep her out AT ALL I assure you.<br />
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Some kind spectators (<i>and I have to say that the neighborhoods the marathon ran through for miles 18-21 had some really kick ass spectators</i>) were giving out candy corn. I usually hate candy corn, but at mile 18 of a miserable fucking marathon they were sweet, sweet ambrosia.<br />
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<i>My only regret is that I had but a mere two hands with which to hold my cache of these tasty delights. </i></div>
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At mile 20, I texted my friend to say, "Sub 6 not going to happen. God help you if you do not have Starbuck's at the finish."<br />
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Aren't I a gem? She flew out from Minnesota for that kind of sweetness! <br />
<br />
<i><b>Miles 23-26</b></i><br />
<br />
If I keep moving forward eventually this damn thing will end. <br />
<br />
At mile 25.5 ish I saw a Team in Training teammate who is possibly one of the most goodhearted people you would ever hope to meet. He had finished LONG before and was out cheering on people like my ungrateful ass.<br />
<br />
My comment to him as he said, 'Looking strong. You are almost done..." or some such NOT helpful tripe:<br />
<br />
<i>"You! Standing there with your medal, all finished and shit, if you really want to help grab that balloon arch and move it closer! THAT would be helpful."</i><br />
<br />
This was about the time when a, at the very least, 75 year old race walker (<i>Yes, I said race <b>walker</b>. Fuckers haunted me at every turn at this damn race</i>) that I had been leap frogging with for the last 8 miles passed me for good. He said, "Gottcha, Girlie!"<i> (It is not a well hidden secret that I am not above taunting and mocking people, young and old alike, in races . We had been bantering back and forth for miles now.)</i><br />
<br />
I tipped my pink, Puma run hat to him and bid him adieu. There was no fight left in this dog. The septuagenarian had won. Possibly a new race low. <br />
<br />
Wait, I was once beat by a one armed man in a triathlon swim... 75 year old race walker or one armed swimmer? Tough call.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo.... I digress<br />
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Eventually, 5 hours and 42 minutes after I started this marathon I finally crossed the finish line. Once I was done. I was done.<br />
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<i> Finish line pic that a WAY bored MN Buddy took waiting FOREVER for me to finish. I think she was secretly convinced there was NO WAY it could take me more than 5 hours to finish and ended up waiting a long time. </i></div>
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Usually after a marathon I feel pretty good. I am not really a "Leave it all out there on the course" kind of girl, so I was a little taken aback by the next course of events.<br />
<br />
I kind of slept walked through the finishers corral with volunteers wrapping me in a mylar blanket, putting a medal on me, giving me a finishers shirt (<i>nice touch</i>), two additional medals in velvet pouches (<i>WTF? Maybe nix the additional medal things and get some food on the course, just sayin'</i>), I somehow had the wherewithal to grab some baby snickers off the food table (<i>I really think that is an autonomic response for me, similar to breathing. See Snickers. Grab Snickers. Eat Snickers. No conscious control is needed</i>) but as I meandered through the crowds I started to slow WAY down and feel somewhat not ok.<br />
<br />
I called my Minnesota buddy and started whining about the location of my Starbucks. Then all of a sudden I had the overwhelming urge to sit down, which I did. On the curb. I was officially D.O.N.E with forward motion for a while. I realized I was bonking. Hard.<br />
<br />
I ate the Snickers I had stuffed in my run bra. (<i>Yes, I am the asshole that takes all the Snickers from a candy bowl leaving none for others. Sue me</i>)<br />
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Then I felt all sparkly.<br />
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Then I was pretty sure I was going to throw up. <br />
<br />
My buddy, getting worried, called me and I told her I was sitting on the curb at 3rd and Salmon and to please come get me (with the Starbucks of course). Fortunately, by the time she arrived I started feeling better and did not ask her to carry me back to the hotel, which frankly had crossed Princess RBR's mind. She did have coffee and I told her I loved her and asked her to marry me, which cracked up the lady who had also boycotted forward motion and was sitting next to me telling her husband on the phone where to come get her and that she would like a Starbucks. <br />
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It was not my worst race time, nor was it the most undertrained I have gone into an event, but it was my worst attitude during a race and I was unhappy with myself about that.<br />
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I do this to have fun. I need to recapture the fun.<br />
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So what does one do after a particularly bad marathon? Well, if you are RBR, you sign up for two more!<br />
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<i>January 15, 2012 Redding Marathon</i></div>
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<i>April 22, 2012 San Luis Obispo Marathon </i></div>
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I have decided to end all posts with a Lola picture because she is fucking ADORABLE!<br />
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<br />RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-62061887840079425992011-09-19T09:54:00.000-07:002011-09-20T09:09:45.860-07:00Race Report: Moo Cow Half Marathon - September 18, 2011Yes, you read that right, I actually did a race. Of course if you have been reading this blog for more than 3 minutes you know that I do not "race" per say. I am a running <strike>purest</strike> purist <i>(Damn you, SQ! Of course, SQ making me feel stupid is like Kate Moss making me feel fat. Meh. Does not even register)</i><br />
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It is not the competiton that draws this moth to the running flame it is important things like: cute t-shirts, good post race food, and pretty locales.<br />
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I rarely, if ever, "race" because when I do it becomes obvious that I will still lose to everyone and that is not good for my self esteem. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Stats</b></span><br />
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<b>Total Distance:</b> 13.23 miles<br />
<b>Total Time:</b> 2:48:54 (whatever)<br />
<b>Total Climb: </b>According to Garmin 2100 ft (<i>That is too much. Garmin is always wrong, but it was significant. I need to find a good GPS data cleaner. If anyone knows one, please let me know</i>.)<b><br /></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Pre-Run</b></span><br />
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Thursday my buddy Penny sent out an email saying she had a registration for the Inaugural Petaluma Moo Cow Half Marathon and she would not be able to make it up from LA to run it and she asked if anyone wanted her bib. I had a 10ish mile run on the schedule this weekend that was not super jazzed about running alone and the race has a cute logo, so, yes, I was interested! <br />
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However...<br />
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Truth be told, for all my f-word slinging, trash talking, bravado I am a rule follower. I would love to say I am one of those devil may care, stand up against The Man non-conformists, but in actuality, if the sign says "Do not walk on the grass" I will not walk on the grass. It is not born of some deep moral convictions, it is because I do not like to get yelled at. Especially when I am wrong.<br />
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Anyhoo... <br />
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The race said no transfers of registration, so I would have impersonate my friend to get the bib on race day. And that is what I did. <br />
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Apparently a cute cow logo will make me throw caution to the wind and become the rebel of my dreams. <br />
I envisioned the woman at the packet pick up shouting IMPOSTER! and two goons clad in Moo Cow gear hauling me away from the table in shame, threatening to call my mother and tell her what a horrible, dishonest daughter she raised. <br />
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In reality, the gal handing out numbers at packet pick up could have given two shits if I said I was Oprah Winfrey at registration. As long as the name I said was on the list, she would gladly hand me a number.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcj2TJdZYE8Qy2EaVISIXko9JdV0mHDO-RnzNZh0SF-TYDQ0Sxgui5nW38Qe-ySwiMYSXnVonjTGO7LbCG0J0V0fI-XYYKsxSecg8DAMMiUCj0_p8g-66m0iahmzYhfNby0IfsZQMLRxI/s1600/oprah-winfrey+marine+corp+marathon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcj2TJdZYE8Qy2EaVISIXko9JdV0mHDO-RnzNZh0SF-TYDQ0Sxgui5nW38Qe-ySwiMYSXnVonjTGO7LbCG0J0V0fI-XYYKsxSecg8DAMMiUCj0_p8g-66m0iahmzYhfNby0IfsZQMLRxI/s320/oprah-winfrey+marine+corp+marathon.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
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<i> Love her. Do not speak ill of Oprah. It only makes me mad. </i></div>
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<i>The rebel high has worn off and I am worried about getting my buddy in trouble. so I am 'pinking' out the number. I am aware that may cost me some bad ass points. </i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Run </b></span><br />
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The temperature was downright perfect, the race was well organized and the town of Petaluma (<i>while smack dab in the middle of fucking nowhere</i>) is really cute and (<i>barring some asshole drivers on the roads</i>, <i>both of the redneck and non-redneck variety</i>) filled with really friendly folk.<br />
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<i>Race start. I love the cow print balloons. </i> </div>
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There was not as much cow spirit on this course as one would expect. I imagine that is because it was the inaugural race, but there was one group that had the cutest cow ear headbands replete with stuffed cow tails that I did not get in the picture. Boo.<br />
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<i>So damn cute! The one dude in this picture was leap frogging with me for the first half and then dropped my ass in the second half. I LOVED seeing his shadow with his cow ears flopping as he came up behind me. It made getting passed (and eventually dropped) a lot easier. </i></div>
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The course was pretty, but not breath-taking, unless you count the 'bovine bouquet' Petaluma is known for. <br />
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<i> Horrid example of the pretty, but I find it harder to take photographs on road races. I get all self-conscious and shy. Yes, I said, 'shy.' Shut up. </i></div>
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<i>Requisite picture of cows. Most of them where too far away for any really fun photo ops. </i></div>
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Another fact you should know about the Petaluma Moo Cow Half is that it is hilly. Not trail run hilly, but certainly enough to get your attention.</div>
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<i>A couple of these hurt. A lot. </i></div>
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I met a great gal from Santa Rosa that was faster than me, but her knees were shot so she was walking the uphills (what a coincidence! Despite the fact that my knees were fine, so was I!) I do so love that I have to depend on the injuries or abject misery of other runners to get running partners as slow as me in races, but I usually find someone to run with. We ran the second half together and played the "races you have run" name drop game. And were able to come in at 2:48:54. Not a PR by any stretch, but for a last minute, hilly race, the weekend after a 20 miler on concrete and asphalt, and an insane work schedule, I will take it! </div>
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Thanks, Penny! I owe you one! </div>
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And for your viewing pleasure...</div>
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A Lola burrito! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZm_CRP6yM1HvtLM0-jlbVnIWi727SxTgPpZ6P8CSxBV0qlRb2j_tlAtNOKeHkkS7qyRDKpHoRHRhXsvmOpI0oAoFXUjd1OE0nsfN9EziklDUnMjZT24otps_FACGAGd31CSm3T4ZUiP4/s1600/2011-08-07_14-26-15_151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZm_CRP6yM1HvtLM0-jlbVnIWi727SxTgPpZ6P8CSxBV0qlRb2j_tlAtNOKeHkkS7qyRDKpHoRHRhXsvmOpI0oAoFXUjd1OE0nsfN9EziklDUnMjZT24otps_FACGAGd31CSm3T4ZUiP4/s400/2011-08-07_14-26-15_151.jpg" width="273" /></a></div>
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RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-27335061262680594362011-09-13T21:40:00.000-07:002011-09-13T21:43:35.653-07:00For lack of something better to say...I have been at a bit of a loss for words as of late. I am not sure what to attribute that to, but the shitstorm of the last 2 years certainly has not helped. I have wanted to update anyone that cares, or anyone that does not care, but has nothing better to do than read my ramblings, where I have been <b>lo</b> these last 2 months (<i>it has been pretty boring in RBR land, so I thought I would jazz it up with a dramatic interjection. And yes, I had to look up what part of speech 'lo' qualified as because I know almost no one that knows that. </i>)<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Life without Lucy</span></b><br />
<br />
It has been even more difficult than I anticipated. I knew it would be awful and a huge void in our lives. I knew that the loss of her presence would be crushing. I just did not think I would fucking fall apart, but this is not about that.<br />
<br />
This is about poor Lola having to step up into some pretty big shoes and, really, the little shit has fallen short on many fronts. (<i>Didn't see that one coming, did ya? You thought ol' RBR had gone soft on you</i>)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRTBzYgpwVO9EZUxljPSjvfrbRHXAOaktjnXSXn7kWF3lol6ri9IuZdm7Mj-Z4rzFM2goLXBMTNNnPi1A4Q9aK3vULTyo3GbtRTKZh7SdaGby-V2PDXH51RpsljiYSZobd_ZoYeecpX1g/s1600/2011-07-05_11-11-18_37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRTBzYgpwVO9EZUxljPSjvfrbRHXAOaktjnXSXn7kWF3lol6ri9IuZdm7Mj-Z4rzFM2goLXBMTNNnPi1A4Q9aK3vULTyo3GbtRTKZh7SdaGby-V2PDXH51RpsljiYSZobd_ZoYeecpX1g/s400/2011-07-05_11-11-18_37.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i> She is, however, A-DOR-ABLE! </i></div>
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<b>Areas Ms Lola is just not cutting the mustard:</b><br />
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1. <b>Trail dog: </b> We have given up the ghost. She hates it. She is not suited for it and I am tired of other hikers saying, "Gosh. She looks really unhappy." She is more a 'go to the park twice a day, nap on the couch in between' dog.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2fioP_fcyAQLTLOEXaopE52sv2RzVw3erPdDuZfxjr_QLUEVI1Lft-awZNhpdtPs83uaVyyJa2S1VfHkQwLGKeWHE7vXgwcqsqiZST_kcgf-O2F8T_ucII5ApdHjkTCxVEbzYCPkAiU/s1600/2011-09-06_17-08-43_282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2fioP_fcyAQLTLOEXaopE52sv2RzVw3erPdDuZfxjr_QLUEVI1Lft-awZNhpdtPs83uaVyyJa2S1VfHkQwLGKeWHE7vXgwcqsqiZST_kcgf-O2F8T_ucII5ApdHjkTCxVEbzYCPkAiU/s400/2011-09-06_17-08-43_282.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Please try to ignore 1. the huge, hideous, 1984, 'dusty rose' sectional couch my parents gave me in 1995 when they could no longer stand it and 2. the fact that I am wearing frog pjs in what is clearly broad daylight. </i></div>
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2. <b>Traveling dog:</b> This role is work in progress and while she loves to be new places, it is the actual trip in the car that is the sticking point. We have even purchased dog specific car seats for her that cost almost as much as the cars they are placed in, so that she can see out the windows. Nevertheless, she whines, pants, and jumps out of her doggie car seat which, sadly, she is attached to, so she ends up pinned next to it by her harness, looking bug eyed, tortured, and like an ideal candidate for the next <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gspElv1yvc">Sarah McLachlan SPCA video</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mPn-ODKwzFocXglSNrmEH_SJUInmw8YRvzU_UJcL7HEGpuQ-XNT5zp1hLB7tunKSUTxFLr_ItE8VjlMmd_cI6B7FTmTMtSDp1B9gFX7Dr9oATlCCXJceoAK2EvUdxAL3tksZTGs1EdA/s1600/090311223351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mPn-ODKwzFocXglSNrmEH_SJUInmw8YRvzU_UJcL7HEGpuQ-XNT5zp1hLB7tunKSUTxFLr_ItE8VjlMmd_cI6B7FTmTMtSDp1B9gFX7Dr9oATlCCXJceoAK2EvUdxAL3tksZTGs1EdA/s400/090311223351.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i> Obviously not in the car, but sporting her very best "Save me, Sarah McLachlan" face. </i></div>
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<b>Areas where Ms. Lola has been able to shine, some not so surprising and others downright shocking: </b></div>
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1. <b>Fashionista:</b> I do not have all of her outfits photographed (My photographer is opposed to the dressing of our dog and is passive-agressively refusing to photograph her in her duds. Hmpf!) but here are a few highlights: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0Qq-yF0PqjEQcbhglS1dKAiZAhOY7VZslQqRUCscge8HI2rL5MRQfL2petURgSueyEaRNLWwxuV1Bb8l9uqsUacnBky-Al3WzyX7Nzlr2A8-ioXQUwTOWWTl1M8sFGx56tIFKro9O1g/s1600/Lolapolkadotsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0Qq-yF0PqjEQcbhglS1dKAiZAhOY7VZslQqRUCscge8HI2rL5MRQfL2petURgSueyEaRNLWwxuV1Bb8l9uqsUacnBky-Al3WzyX7Nzlr2A8-ioXQUwTOWWTl1M8sFGx56tIFKro9O1g/s400/Lolapolkadotsmall.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
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<i>Her first sundress. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XsLmnAMi0rWX31rcg_iIz4Jt941vcNucxtNQHXCnFTvSuKUs9g0B9FbU2-M5hx__NVyPvrBTSwTDZj4Zu56k7UxKaAh_1JXDWXuDY8EInlFVCyC77rtW8l8E-IvqFpuFSmJy0keRu_U/s1600/071611143348small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XsLmnAMi0rWX31rcg_iIz4Jt941vcNucxtNQHXCnFTvSuKUs9g0B9FbU2-M5hx__NVyPvrBTSwTDZj4Zu56k7UxKaAh_1JXDWXuDY8EInlFVCyC77rtW8l8E-IvqFpuFSmJy0keRu_U/s320/071611143348small.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>
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<i>The little ruffled skirt flounces when she trots at the park. To Die. For. Cute. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii9UitY_TKiin7jq76AtqqgGb22dc_EfRkjnW75JXZjpS037P5-Q96PD7NGJVgA_qhxvhv9luxhk88cIW2bclZWA5Yr-4cTpm0R2AWMFfoGpeU5gKUwukggu9nSX_gpw2msgvyaEGk3KE/s1600/Lola+Ready+to+Workout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii9UitY_TKiin7jq76AtqqgGb22dc_EfRkjnW75JXZjpS037P5-Q96PD7NGJVgA_qhxvhv9luxhk88cIW2bclZWA5Yr-4cTpm0R2AWMFfoGpeU5gKUwukggu9nSX_gpw2msgvyaEGk3KE/s400/Lola+Ready+to+Workout.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>One of her three hoodies. Salmon looks a little disapproving. He is a judgmental little fucker. </i></div>
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2.. <b>Hangin' with the girls at the 'bucks:</b> She is all about getting gussied up and soaking up the small dog love at the local Starbucks. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjJjY-q0htzIJj8rjelVwEcJnYD7bawiyvGk3yOMlAWrBLcYb4f-25-YkyK_7IXtenMoiDUQucoxu977FV6kwK85LOE2mCyoNtQyuZ9mXqjMxib_5Bc-NC86QaUZi3srre4QEUiuhjV8/s1600/081411104937small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjJjY-q0htzIJj8rjelVwEcJnYD7bawiyvGk3yOMlAWrBLcYb4f-25-YkyK_7IXtenMoiDUQucoxu977FV6kwK85LOE2mCyoNtQyuZ9mXqjMxib_5Bc-NC86QaUZi3srre4QEUiuhjV8/s400/081411104937small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>She is a hit at Starbucks. </i></div>
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3. <b>Agility: </b>Yes, you read that right. I signed my prissy little dog up for agility class. It is great for building confidence in shy dogs. She went to her first class last night. When we arrived she was the smallest dog BY FAR. Ms. Lola was a tad concerned and frankly so was I. I figured we would gut out one class and if she hated it we would not subject her to the terror of the wild ass dogs that are good at agility, but I sure as shit would not want living in my house. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mr1mO0tDhVVnyR4xDHvtSmD3vgOvN2H8nfTxNVi-3N84dVE6h4xut0K72EomQPY_o7NYYXhW-TyBtSiSc1H_kpgMZ-n84QTBE_6A7n8oOJxRTiY-HkB90lY2EfU9clZi8ApIoeSRLnQ/s1600/Lola+f-ing+serious.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mr1mO0tDhVVnyR4xDHvtSmD3vgOvN2H8nfTxNVi-3N84dVE6h4xut0K72EomQPY_o7NYYXhW-TyBtSiSc1H_kpgMZ-n84QTBE_6A7n8oOJxRTiY-HkB90lY2EfU9clZi8ApIoeSRLnQ/s1600/Lola+f-ing+serious.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>Not so sure about this</i></div>
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But after we got started she was a total rockstar! She was the best at circle running and the teeter and we even got a really shitty cell phone picture of her jumping! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj96UjSzDe0cHvx_0bp_5RlLdaH6v83TtlEKAOr8Ug49W6cYLeAPk-NMIB-UNEnXsAxPGQG420m77FooSI5lNYYqumoMUfm4ulYByyWcxnwSUcbgPr0Ian_vbjlcQz7-MR0yIxHRhnojxU/s1600/Lola+Rockstar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj96UjSzDe0cHvx_0bp_5RlLdaH6v83TtlEKAOr8Ug49W6cYLeAPk-NMIB-UNEnXsAxPGQG420m77FooSI5lNYYqumoMUfm4ulYByyWcxnwSUcbgPr0Ian_vbjlcQz7-MR0yIxHRhnojxU/s320/Lola+Rockstar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>She even went over it at the top rung *smug grin* </i></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Marathon Training</span></b><br />
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Believe it or not I have been running. I did a 20 miler with TNT last weekend and I am getting ready to head to Portland on October 8th! This will not be a fast marathon, but I know I can pretty comfortably finish it. It feels good to be doing distance again, but my consistency is not really where I would like it. Seems like a meager update for a "running" blog, but there you have it. <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Weight Watchers</span></b><br />
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Or as I like to call it my weekly humiliation. Eddy is, as one would have guessed, a total fucking ROCKSTAR at losing weight. I try to be gracious about it, but I tell you it makes me think very bad, very prosecutable thoughts when I step on the scale after he has lost 3 pounds in a week and I have gained after running 26 miles that week and eating my 29 measly ass points. <br />
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He has lost 23 pounds.<br />
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I have lost 9.6 pounds.<br />
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He looks amazing (<i>granted that is a 'win' for me too, but focus people, I am on a rant here.</i>) <br />
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I look the same.<br />
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I decided to be 100% honest about my weekly trials and tribulations of WW in this graph of my actual weight loss to date. I do this because: 1. I want to give hope to women in their 30's and above that are trying to lose weight and are struggling with the ups and downs of the scale, both deserved and not and 2. I am avoiding grading and an excel spreadsheet is an excellent way to do that. We always hear the end result and say, "wow, that is so great! Why can't I do that?"<br />
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What is inspired me to do this was a woman that talked about it taking her 2 years to lose 25 pounds and that she has kept it off for 10 years now. People may be discouraged by that, but as a chronic yo-yo dieter for over 20 years now it sounded, well, real. I have NEVER maintained a weight. I always in the process of losing or gaining. I am not trying to regain some mythical bikini body, I just want to fit in my clothes, be comfortable in my own skin, and stay healthy. So here it is. This annotated graph represents the last 12 weeks and $132 on WW:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqfvWbyYLWqPfrRvbGZyLyIMb9u3Mcxzz7zo8wGHSDyWoNSaH3eT-PPRpWMVc-uy4k2E2ZyIiPoTNQzIaEkjjqIKOeWeBHLOokLIZe_PJMnBYYCLB41wBhn2LZGvZBygWQkbsZjHJXKU/s1600/RBR+weight+loss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqfvWbyYLWqPfrRvbGZyLyIMb9u3Mcxzz7zo8wGHSDyWoNSaH3eT-PPRpWMVc-uy4k2E2ZyIiPoTNQzIaEkjjqIKOeWeBHLOokLIZe_PJMnBYYCLB41wBhn2LZGvZBygWQkbsZjHJXKU/s400/RBR+weight+loss.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-4785203312319184892011-07-24T23:06:00.000-07:002011-07-24T23:16:00.826-07:00Race Report: Golden Gate Trail 1/2 Marathon - July 23, 2011<i>*I want to thank everyone for your heartfelt support and kindness at the passing of my beloved Lucy. I have another post in mind to address that, so this will just be a race report. But please know I am very, very grateful to you all.* </i> <br />
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For those of you that have missed the old RBR that would religiously do runs that she was wholly unprepared for and had no business running, fear not, she's back. <br />
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And yesterday you could find her fat ass huffing and puffing her way up the California coastline at the <a href="http://www.coastaltrailruns.com/index.html">Coastal Trail Runs'</a> Golden Gate Trail 1/2 marathon. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Details</b></span><br />
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<b>Total Distance:</b> 13.1 miles<br />
<b>Total time:</b> 3:13:42 <i>(check out the elevation profile Mr/Ms Judgey Pants!)</i><br />
<b>Total Elevation gain:</b> 2946 ft. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Pre-run</b></span><br />
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I decided to do this run because Team in Training's scheduled long run was on The Los Gatos Creek Trail which is a very popular local trail that I happen to run or ride on almost every freaking day. The thought of running 12 miles while following the TNT no headphones rule and running alone (<i>since I am a loser and have no friends on the team, but that is a whole number post</i>) did not sound fun.<br />
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Especially since, all the while, I would be dodging the nine million other trail users, their double wide baby strollers,<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-JfxG0wDVDsnSJj3ey8t1obxPL80qSvG9zsh1ieZjZJWzIRvmkzVr1adZPrqGBkCfsLvDfOPgnlNFLHDjgLy3NCfDx5XhIqlkebuBbksyi-eAzU8pmesRPIWIe4crfEzQqEyA6H7Lik/s1600/stroller-stridesjpg-2357da00c24d6b9f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-JfxG0wDVDsnSJj3ey8t1obxPL80qSvG9zsh1ieZjZJWzIRvmkzVr1adZPrqGBkCfsLvDfOPgnlNFLHDjgLy3NCfDx5XhIqlkebuBbksyi-eAzU8pmesRPIWIe4crfEzQqEyA6H7Lik/s400/stroller-stridesjpg-2357da00c24d6b9f.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Full Disclosure: Pic stolen from a Stroller Striders website, which is an exercise class for new moms. They are actually very respectful of the LG Creek Trail and do their workouts very early before the crowd hits. The ones that piss me off are the random, double stroller family that usually only has one kid in the goddamn thing and weaves across the trail at the highest traffic times and if you say "on your left" to get them to move over so you can pass they look at you as if you tried to run over their precious spawn. </i></div><br />
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their dogs on flexi-leads that are stretched to their max across the trail,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvH8ZY4ncuuHwpc9-WTeN6hDzuR1UTW1GDTTBpwCdF64C5GJJX1JIWD1en5FKGm6ehsn_ornAKoZTItv1EHEL8tQtcGZ3YN-7cSdAYdX6qt4CJ2L3ayf-XLMjM5utx8GSJ9Lm0JZ4adRk/s1600/flexi-injury-to-bystander.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvH8ZY4ncuuHwpc9-WTeN6hDzuR1UTW1GDTTBpwCdF64C5GJJX1JIWD1en5FKGm6ehsn_ornAKoZTItv1EHEL8tQtcGZ3YN-7cSdAYdX6qt4CJ2L3ayf-XLMjM5utx8GSJ9Lm0JZ4adRk/s400/flexi-injury-to-bystander.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> This image is actually from the <a href="http://www.flexiusa.com/operation/safety-advice.php">WARNING insert for the Flexi-lead</a> product itself. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>and asshat cyclists in their full riding kits that think it is SUPER COOL to ride 25 mph on the fucking bike trail on a Saturday.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_BLdOAiGhCjmjnBsppLs2ULwnueQvsJoBsh5kjOa32UyIrYgHjS4uchHwcD5loPX15oNwaKmf8EnUyjex2JgtfgwhYB-Rc9Dhl_HqWqG6epp-DOiFEsSl-u9EV6EE_EWjTZ1B5lz0K0/s1600/4c3b1a176f770.image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_BLdOAiGhCjmjnBsppLs2ULwnueQvsJoBsh5kjOa32UyIrYgHjS4uchHwcD5loPX15oNwaKmf8EnUyjex2JgtfgwhYB-Rc9Dhl_HqWqG6epp-DOiFEsSl-u9EV6EE_EWjTZ1B5lz0K0/s400/4c3b1a176f770.image.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This was NOT taken on the Los Gatos Creek Trail and this guy is NOT, to my knowledge at least, an asshat. But I know some others that wear that same uniform in my area that are. Just saying... </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>So, yes, less than appealing to do a long run there this weekend.<br />
<br />
The Golden Gate Trail run was put on by Coastal Trail Runs which is one of my favorite race organizers. Their races are well run, organized, always held in beautiful locations with well marked courses, and they have a high tech shirt option (<i>yes, you have to pay more for it. I am fine with that</i>) and their shirts are cute.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtWNgKdFu6vPmI0PkR6tU5_rm5oiDx_37VvEt4yZiXFPvAXfirijWibysA11MWE4kLBqY5yMy1V-pxgZKkAu1noN2iF-0Im0pBydb79Cx0UTe1PNwLv1x_-o_XF3jtW2xzu09F-935xo/s1600/2011-07-24_15-22-48_579.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtWNgKdFu6vPmI0PkR6tU5_rm5oiDx_37VvEt4yZiXFPvAXfirijWibysA11MWE4kLBqY5yMy1V-pxgZKkAu1noN2iF-0Im0pBydb79Cx0UTe1PNwLv1x_-o_XF3jtW2xzu09F-935xo/s400/2011-07-24_15-22-48_579.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cinderella, Diablo, and Golden Gate shirts from Coastal Trail Runs</i></div><br />
Here were my concerns about this run:<br />
<br />
1. A half marathon was longer than my scheduled 12 mile run and, frankly, I was worried about getting the 12 miles done.<br />
<br />
2. This is a trail run and all of my training this summer has been on flat roads. I have not run a real trail run in over 5 months. <br />
<br />
Heh heh. I am sure it will be fine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08O5Xp-uWLZ9rLXTTSQAXMzfNLpZb2xvJP8KitcDcGtZJgaCVKJHm5bw8QsIh40cc4Ea8AK_wAs9O8N1nbLI1mmN_8Y9NoD5dCb8cI6ndJCiIYYXycjhjm8VtS2ZnK_DuxSt-BxejfIw/s1600/denialcatwonde128542992370196668.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08O5Xp-uWLZ9rLXTTSQAXMzfNLpZb2xvJP8KitcDcGtZJgaCVKJHm5bw8QsIh40cc4Ea8AK_wAs9O8N1nbLI1mmN_8Y9NoD5dCb8cI6ndJCiIYYXycjhjm8VtS2ZnK_DuxSt-BxejfIw/s400/denialcatwonde128542992370196668.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The run</b></span><br />
<br />
The run start was at Rodeo Beach which is part of Fort Cronkhite in the Marin Headlands. It was cool, and overcast which is almost redundant to say about the Marin Headlands because it is rarely anything but. I met a gal that was running the full marathon and we chatted about local races that we had in common. She is going to do the San Francisco Marathon next weekend.<br />
<br />
<b>Me says:</b> <i>Wow. That is cool. </i><br />
<br />
<b><i>Me thinks</i>:</b> <i>*sigh* I used to be that girl. I am not that girl anymore. I am not even fit enough to run this half marathon. </i><br />
<br />
We head up the trail with pretty views of the ocean<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vKklgM8feE1GQLziBb75UyXylUpwa898Ku_5l0GkLDXmkoonU-zNZcDr8HKljmbxwmYpS7Bda5FS9N_EbEP0AxMJ7NoeK4_Tn2vaLFt1UtmhRqYhg0izY0hSAnETX_okjU1Xwa-YMoA/s1600/P7230400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vKklgM8feE1GQLziBb75UyXylUpwa898Ku_5l0GkLDXmkoonU-zNZcDr8HKljmbxwmYpS7Bda5FS9N_EbEP0AxMJ7NoeK4_Tn2vaLFt1UtmhRqYhg0izY0hSAnETX_okjU1Xwa-YMoA/s400/P7230400.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Rodeo Beach. Lots of surfers today. Foreshadowing for the wind we would encounter along the ridge. </i></div><br />
We climbed...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7UOhdo-mVrTWhKH12txeuv8ssgOBk_GOUbq5O30HTrPZ1jQ16ail98Mzh6_V4nnzaGr3rqnMzZySl-yM28-pbLXl1SLTIfaeWMzprYjwsswVwoyxQXzYEZ3XC6Gr_SV7x5YNFF4ddBA/s1600/P7230401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7UOhdo-mVrTWhKH12txeuv8ssgOBk_GOUbq5O30HTrPZ1jQ16ail98Mzh6_V4nnzaGr3rqnMzZySl-yM28-pbLXl1SLTIfaeWMzprYjwsswVwoyxQXzYEZ3XC6Gr_SV7x5YNFF4ddBA/s400/P7230401.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Pretty Cove whose location coincided with my need to stop running and stuff my lungs back into my chest so I snapped a photo. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">and we climbed...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRP_-1jwn53lIhz5U26J66F_IQFB35Ku-Xpn0eP28ZHbtIntHSkUpFynzBDfTXPoEtKX7L9DVOYQM3tZ494EXMnT3fVpqflVuxVeIkbJe3-0ok4eT_2vuQ3NCCVsRutjh31ZAXmrW770/s1600/P7230402.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRP_-1jwn53lIhz5U26J66F_IQFB35Ku-Xpn0eP28ZHbtIntHSkUpFynzBDfTXPoEtKX7L9DVOYQM3tZ494EXMnT3fVpqflVuxVeIkbJe3-0ok4eT_2vuQ3NCCVsRutjh31ZAXmrW770/s400/P7230402.JPG" width="317" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Those little white dots waaaaaay up ahead of me are people. Current distance traveled: 0.25 mi. Gonna be a long day for RBR. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Just when we thought we could not climb any more, the good people of Marin gave us some help in the form of stairs....</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__wdZ6E3TN7QE3EUv717oBsGMW5cgQDlPqMkze6vv8FV6yXvrOeFlR9gEiVjJuBw4XUVa8rkFcGzd8fhzLfbY9mYqO1MIOcBCPJfeYPZAUtqvf_qLqyZ5T1FuC4lavTmlhK82wEk2Kro/s1600/P7230410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__wdZ6E3TN7QE3EUv717oBsGMW5cgQDlPqMkze6vv8FV6yXvrOeFlR9gEiVjJuBw4XUVa8rkFcGzd8fhzLfbY9mYqO1MIOcBCPJfeYPZAUtqvf_qLqyZ5T1FuC4lavTmlhK82wEk2Kro/s400/P7230410.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Lots and lots of stairs</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEtVDDXWubqhKj-ntj_j9-oZHdarm6YgwXawD9biMDwRxKiwIpDD_xdpPp7e2FpFQBVssl89Iqsus4LSBpF2aBYxmAygLimZUtlZKcei4WW5tb9loTwQEFes2k_DuSv3lL7IhyskNn6Y/s1600/P7230408.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEtVDDXWubqhKj-ntj_j9-oZHdarm6YgwXawD9biMDwRxKiwIpDD_xdpPp7e2FpFQBVssl89Iqsus4LSBpF2aBYxmAygLimZUtlZKcei4WW5tb9loTwQEFes2k_DuSv3lL7IhyskNn6Y/s400/P7230408.JPG" width="297" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I sure hope I at least get to shake hands with God after all of this climbing. I am just saying...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMvs6tOy_Ha3xoZJQfkInZd7vjJ6bGREGNk4pMooPtdEfV2HIKzHka0s-_E1Eos2wbDdtFK_kRZUwXCR9w6OmxKaJD3nOavJ1BU22p2Uhp0TJi_TXzXzQZQFhNZv3yHT9F8G2LbXa3O8/s1600/P7230411.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMvs6tOy_Ha3xoZJQfkInZd7vjJ6bGREGNk4pMooPtdEfV2HIKzHka0s-_E1Eos2wbDdtFK_kRZUwXCR9w6OmxKaJD3nOavJ1BU22p2Uhp0TJi_TXzXzQZQFhNZv3yHT9F8G2LbXa3O8/s400/P7230411.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Another lung stuffing moment = another photo op. Not even a mile in yet. Yep, a long, long day. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Nope, not at the top yet. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">More fucking stairs....</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAzHfiX2seoQOPc4qUERamcBaYk7cqZsI4PA2GcTxNTtnHu3At59uUob7lLh2NN77YCcFcXqLMHYiP7-yBd0ClbANTeMp1YNN9XYz9AFyHc0SX4OfGVUlmGe7lmKw_CbNvVK6k-iE36Og/s1600/P7230412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAzHfiX2seoQOPc4qUERamcBaYk7cqZsI4PA2GcTxNTtnHu3At59uUob7lLh2NN77YCcFcXqLMHYiP7-yBd0ClbANTeMp1YNN9XYz9AFyHc0SX4OfGVUlmGe7lmKw_CbNvVK6k-iE36Og/s400/P7230412.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>RBR Rule: Making the stairs pretty, does not negate the fact that they are still fucking stairs</i></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But after those stairs we were finally at the top of the first climb</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6R0cLGkPxN1ke83su6pCMdagp-gtCZt2MFmug8ez8pLasZJnmmfyPhumAQ1PLfBTiuzfndR-R5UqHvYF7f4FKOQWFU3T6upIH5dcRjAFamBR2VHBeTc9b3_3LwKIt7DVO0SzTE79fzD0/s1600/Golden+Gate+Trail+Half.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6R0cLGkPxN1ke83su6pCMdagp-gtCZt2MFmug8ez8pLasZJnmmfyPhumAQ1PLfBTiuzfndR-R5UqHvYF7f4FKOQWFU3T6upIH5dcRjAFamBR2VHBeTc9b3_3LwKIt7DVO0SzTE79fzD0/s640/Golden+Gate+Trail+Half.png" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Elevation profile. Hell of a first climb in less than 2 miles, don'cha think?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">After that climb there was a very nice runnable (read: downhill) section. It was the kind of descent where you kind of forget you are old, fat, and out of shape. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwQ0tuotoZgra-VNuPaZ30Y17Tl5iPru8v_h4WsiKBy5Sk3BIa7SSqiA4WtYAwDzW_yiTgdoSKsL0B48ti9ICOwm0cMZGfoEmqlAO8tfBE94degPtQeB0DNYz1ozRlRmovLJaV5xzr340/s1600/P7230414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwQ0tuotoZgra-VNuPaZ30Y17Tl5iPru8v_h4WsiKBy5Sk3BIa7SSqiA4WtYAwDzW_yiTgdoSKsL0B48ti9ICOwm0cMZGfoEmqlAO8tfBE94degPtQeB0DNYz1ozRlRmovLJaV5xzr340/s400/P7230414.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Action shot. Happy to be running not hiking. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It was also one of descents where you forget that you still have over 11miles of trail to go or, you know, you might want to be able to actually walk the next day. (<i>Spoiler: I finished the run, but walking today is not going well</i>)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">At the end of the first long downhill we ended up in Tennessee Valley and the first aid station. I noticed some "bees" around the cliff shot blocks and then preceded to get stung. Instantly realizing it was my arch arthropod nemesis: a stupid, fucking yellowjacket! Sadly, my reaction offended one of my fellow runners:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>RBR:</b> Ouch! Fuck! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Self-Righteous bystander: </b>My! Such language. What would your mother say? (<i>said in that "joking" tone, that you know means they are not really joking</i>.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>RBR:</b> She would probably deny knowing me (<i>said in same faux joking tone</i>) </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Friend of self-righteous bystander: </b><i>*as she gets stung by yellowjacket*</i> Ouch! Damn! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>RBR:</b> <i>*smirks*</i> What would <i><b>your</b></i> mother say? <i>*laughs at faux joke number 2*</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Self-righteous bystander:</b> <i>*fake laugh or disapproving snort, hard to tell*</i> Well, you have to admit, yours was worse.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>RBR:</b> I don't know. I would rather be "fucked" than "damned," but maybe that is just me. *<i>shrugs*</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Apparently I took the faux joking too far. She did not want to talk to me after that, but I made an aide station volunteer laugh. <i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Moral of the story:</i> Humor is in the eye of the beholder. or Mind your own fucking business. One of the two. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... back to the run</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Heading back out on the trail we started the second big climb of the day. It was a long, boring fire road that climbed FOREVER and crushed my will to live. But at the top, we were treated with a tree lined trail that, when coupled with the heavy fog, created a mini rainforest trail.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkeR3HIQD8GWcjyRnvk6HBRIVT40b49Vv24YXb646_f9bn7t0oSBAwkbaQndD3qda91CIB9iNkQE8nzgaOHDL5ZRsV0N2ka7v6t8VxBwfQYPNE053_egcf5LyJzRv-3HHw1JYOThSUlks/s1600/P7230419.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkeR3HIQD8GWcjyRnvk6HBRIVT40b49Vv24YXb646_f9bn7t0oSBAwkbaQndD3qda91CIB9iNkQE8nzgaOHDL5ZRsV0N2ka7v6t8VxBwfQYPNE053_egcf5LyJzRv-3HHw1JYOThSUlks/s400/P7230419.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> The girl that looks like she is out for a Sunday stroll in this picture beat me. *sigh*</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then later, more of the dense coastal scrub with wildflowers</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotZ9UROMlPwwthgbhXD5Oc_LBJdTVDawxvRFY1EB58ZkXtGfBbPnHAppOgV_5Uv2VuqzuSaHHXxoF0FsQZW9NHHnT2mquNzBfXwaQMVXu5DBQhH_Ndw-1GzMfhecOqRDh73dMIK1dS2s/s1600/P7230421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotZ9UROMlPwwthgbhXD5Oc_LBJdTVDawxvRFY1EB58ZkXtGfBbPnHAppOgV_5Uv2VuqzuSaHHXxoF0FsQZW9NHHnT2mquNzBfXwaQMVXu5DBQhH_Ndw-1GzMfhecOqRDh73dMIK1dS2s/s400/P7230421.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The fog had come in pretty heavy and the wind was whipping, but it was so beautiful. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Shortly after this picture was taken (around mile 10) I started to suffer in the "<i>how badly do I have to injure myself to get airlifted out so I don't have to run anymore?</i>" way and the picture taking stopped for the most part. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Overall, I am happy with how I ran (and hiked). The distance and difficulty was a stretch for me, but it was beautiful and rejuvenating. There were several miles out there that reminded me how much I really love doing this. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I even had hard earned trail dirt at the end</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKOc7JblbNNwJmLpAOTwHmjKvAniLsdNbdj9SlSh3atesacejlMS95ZZ6wAnJWrd9Uv9UdbAzazLxvsgh40LRUotmD6N_B_6Qn-RfH84qTJcUqUeC-wxIgJyZRV7SI53f7VuXebbw6Hg/s1600/P7230426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKOc7JblbNNwJmLpAOTwHmjKvAniLsdNbdj9SlSh3atesacejlMS95ZZ6wAnJWrd9Uv9UdbAzazLxvsgh40LRUotmD6N_B_6Qn-RfH84qTJcUqUeC-wxIgJyZRV7SI53f7VuXebbw6Hg/s400/P7230426.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Don't zoom in too much or you will see my lack of shaving. I was fairly certain that I was not going to get laid on the trail today so I saw no point. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">If you are ever in the area and are looking for a great trail to run on I highly recommend this one. There is some hiking involved but lots of runnable sections and the scenery is so beautiful you will almost forget how much the climb hurt. (Click to enlarge)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKeT_Z4l1SM-uUhFcjB7tQYy7HE2T6yQvkqFevCP_Aa4cO9PUjqvGjhbBs76skZ4aRVE8iZtpibCrmRGg0jy979qVtgd3n4RvQOoL8EZAE11qaFGcaHIxvYKyjXiY9mWriGeFNEeeWoo8/s1600/gg_course_map.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKeT_Z4l1SM-uUhFcjB7tQYy7HE2T6yQvkqFevCP_Aa4cO9PUjqvGjhbBs76skZ4aRVE8iZtpibCrmRGg0jy979qVtgd3n4RvQOoL8EZAE11qaFGcaHIxvYKyjXiY9mWriGeFNEeeWoo8/s400/gg_course_map.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Coastal Trail Runs always marks their runs really well,so I did not get lost, but I think this park is well marked and with a map you could recreate it. Well, you probably could I couldn't. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-25456832013553565692011-07-13T13:16:00.000-07:002011-07-13T13:16:08.596-07:00Dear Lucy,The first time we met I went there to meet someone else.<br />
<br />
There was a crowd around him, so I thought I would see what else was available. <br />
<br />
You would not even look at me. You only had eyes for her, your foster mom. <br />
<br />
I can understand. She loved you first. She took you in, scared, and painfully shy with your 4 newborn puppies. You paid your way, though. You raised two orphan puppies for her. Your tiny little 35 pound frame feeding 6 hungry puppies that would all grow up to be much larger than you. We even met one of your puppies in dog training, remember? He was huge and must have looked like his dad, but his new owners recognized you right off and thanked you for giving them such a beautiful dog to love. Ok, the part you remember is when they gave you Puperoni snacks, but trust me that is why.<br />
<br />
That generous heart is why I knew you needed to come live with us. To help make us a family. And that you did.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjezDEUCTIdKkeN26Y63cHJR525O8A8IWzrlcHUvOBI4ubSlKOu6Q1sWicQK8iOPHuBYkM1eRWH8Hf4N5spwkP1dBPt0lqA7hoCOUVK2QyB1iN481ke2o9meUt_CiV7C7Krjjuv9zjLeMw/s1600/Lucy+1999.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0DfZs5Uq4X6QJXIYFjBYkzmSJYBMd52Kg9l-XLKGUejAkSYdL_3vzfQHR8sfHk2Xb32wMrV1bN6FtJKO0FTCYLFYS4kis1gI9EAj2hzL26L-k_dvg1rGPZ6HBQKSzYNc1CbUgSeQLS0/s1600/Lucy+1999+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0DfZs5Uq4X6QJXIYFjBYkzmSJYBMd52Kg9l-XLKGUejAkSYdL_3vzfQHR8sfHk2Xb32wMrV1bN6FtJKO0FTCYLFYS4kis1gI9EAj2hzL26L-k_dvg1rGPZ6HBQKSzYNc1CbUgSeQLS0/s400/Lucy+1999+small.jpg" width="325" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Lucy's first trip to the beach. She was still not sure about all of this, 1999. We adopted her as a 2 year old. I never got to see her as a puppy. I bet she was adorable. (Picture of a picture, we did not have digital in those days)</i> </div><br />
Your daddy was so afraid of having a dog. That you would be loud, or destructive, or dirty. You were none of those things. You were always a perfect lady.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQNb-A10qAhVHeqcMHRTciWTQGr7jzuITQAhukyg57kpCI_G-Mof4g3kpxaMeDaNWj-weTR9u18W3W6qiqjPi84bk2mdqg5mHUQ2T7q58q1dhGaKV7FxOAnlLwl8PdSw5VnvNdKswwUc/s1600/Picture+211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQNb-A10qAhVHeqcMHRTciWTQGr7jzuITQAhukyg57kpCI_G-Mof4g3kpxaMeDaNWj-weTR9u18W3W6qiqjPi84bk2mdqg5mHUQ2T7q58q1dhGaKV7FxOAnlLwl8PdSw5VnvNdKswwUc/s400/Picture+211.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eddy always said, "No way would [he] have a dog in the bed!" Lucy changed that. 2003 </i></div><br />
He fell so hard for your big brown eyes and the way that you loved so deeply. All the tough guy persona just melted away when he was with you. Unless people were offended that you were not excited to meet them. Then he would tell them, "If you need my dog to validate your worth, you have bigger problems than my shy dog."God help the person that openly did not appreciate you around your dad.<br />
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<span id="goog_1590360669"></span><span id="goog_1590360670"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxgHiEjEot8IvuwxcVm7FUoLO0V-3fqBPgDICoD3Zx-5_SKtUK9re-Zp5dATBxV4DZLBlLJdWpUeZoWOM3tj6PKPN0mZxjoXGmdWcvEi53-vPyyxACJlbY1HQMRni7VGKEZbVCj88EVsc/s1600/Picture+178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxgHiEjEot8IvuwxcVm7FUoLO0V-3fqBPgDICoD3Zx-5_SKtUK9re-Zp5dATBxV4DZLBlLJdWpUeZoWOM3tj6PKPN0mZxjoXGmdWcvEi53-vPyyxACJlbY1HQMRni7VGKEZbVCj88EVsc/s400/Picture+178.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i>Lucy and her daddy, 2007</i></div><br />
You two hiked thousands of miles together. When he took up photography, you became one of the most photographed dogs in the world.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdw4LSCRuwJo7lD9Zzdrr4icexK9wjlDNgEmEapTqI10cTdUvPS8yjv2APTi_n8WRttQU8ZbFeFFSC8pZ5m-hiG1FZGqxMd7dJunMXHdM1lgpzUMNUKCXibChkXGock70D7jmBcGXuzbk/s1600/dog+wild+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdw4LSCRuwJo7lD9Zzdrr4icexK9wjlDNgEmEapTqI10cTdUvPS8yjv2APTi_n8WRttQU8ZbFeFFSC8pZ5m-hiG1FZGqxMd7dJunMXHdM1lgpzUMNUKCXibChkXGock70D7jmBcGXuzbk/s400/dog+wild+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Lucy forgot she was a shy dog in chest high grass. We titled this photograph, "Dog Wild". It was taken with Eddy's first digital camera in 2003</i></div><br />
You were his beautiful angel, no photograph was complete without you in it. Our friends may have tired of his constant email attachments showing you in various locales, but they would never admit it. Anywhere we went went that we could take you, you went. The perfect traveling companion. Throughout our marriage we stayed in more hotels with you than without you. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgC8swQEvNjPqTDkppFpLWWqd68048GzdI9pAaJ-xhfXxeEYyB7tbgoi7Tq3qaJJeCouMl-G6Jkj6r7zHTw_FbIKwNArj6yyqgUitM3oVK0gLEeydMUCmTNCOGOuI13GuTLeeS-p7Z0M/s1600/p632047496-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgC8swQEvNjPqTDkppFpLWWqd68048GzdI9pAaJ-xhfXxeEYyB7tbgoi7Tq3qaJJeCouMl-G6Jkj6r7zHTw_FbIKwNArj6yyqgUitM3oVK0gLEeydMUCmTNCOGOuI13GuTLeeS-p7Z0M/s400/p632047496-4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> Bodie Ghost Town, Mono Lake. 2009</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk51-lzmg3DvP4XYi9Npepf85xSX-B0N-LtvNWxhosZL2HddiL1Btbi0uLgqYaPHr5bga1FC3mOg5Lo2OEEbBX63mwfZmaB3_Zp5nTK7_vofhhJJZ8To-fnGrEVpgEsYARDuXcJhrYZho/s1600/Picture+271.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk51-lzmg3DvP4XYi9Npepf85xSX-B0N-LtvNWxhosZL2HddiL1Btbi0uLgqYaPHr5bga1FC3mOg5Lo2OEEbBX63mwfZmaB3_Zp5nTK7_vofhhJJZ8To-fnGrEVpgEsYARDuXcJhrYZho/s400/Picture+271.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Yosemite, 2004 (I think)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQYOWcZ0Vg3YcaPkI_VaxHN3wC7iPwmuexXUAod8d-hYYjj6znfHQvJfgGJ3z7V8Lb-O7lh-RcHj9kjiXC20WgeQCb40_wk6CgFCUMr3BR8YZG-PdBBqXGBgoP9682baFxA_Qy4mUtH0/s1600/p586317770-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQYOWcZ0Vg3YcaPkI_VaxHN3wC7iPwmuexXUAod8d-hYYjj6znfHQvJfgGJ3z7V8Lb-O7lh-RcHj9kjiXC20WgeQCb40_wk6CgFCUMr3BR8YZG-PdBBqXGBgoP9682baFxA_Qy4mUtH0/s400/p586317770-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Coeur d'Alene, ID 2009</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyoM7Nrn9qgTpfVFlnOOVc5-kmfzt06w7cqD3x51fWoCZpWbriQjT3ty1H1FqnxV3N5lnOXzh8Mbpy7ibIGz6B4xmHmKUd8AdG2aDq1kafWn2RNBfakGjjiLFnZTRC-X7Xhg9cX9Iermw/s1600/p162888549-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyoM7Nrn9qgTpfVFlnOOVc5-kmfzt06w7cqD3x51fWoCZpWbriQjT3ty1H1FqnxV3N5lnOXzh8Mbpy7ibIGz6B4xmHmKUd8AdG2aDq1kafWn2RNBfakGjjiLFnZTRC-X7Xhg9cX9Iermw/s400/p162888549-4.jpg" width="400" /></a><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Not her first time in snow, but she always loved it. 2008 </i></div><br />
Then there are the kittens. The plethora of orphan kittens that you helped me raise. Cleaning them, rounding them up, teaching them the rules. Floyd and Autumn still looked to you as a mommy figure although, as grown cats without food on their faces, you found them less interesting. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVkZp8n-28ThB55y0BiXZ7E9CZ1pdHRjX-XHaFBsaZ3jexBIKkBjyxVyHy6S4DgKfzJwdqDN-8j4b24wdKlOX-bqLg94559gjUbcaXRaMeVIcyOypFvRpUrW2G2vWl6fhGR-_pTuQt_k/s1600/Lucy+Floyd+and+autumn+2006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVkZp8n-28ThB55y0BiXZ7E9CZ1pdHRjX-XHaFBsaZ3jexBIKkBjyxVyHy6S4DgKfzJwdqDN-8j4b24wdKlOX-bqLg94559gjUbcaXRaMeVIcyOypFvRpUrW2G2vWl6fhGR-_pTuQt_k/s400/Lucy+Floyd+and+autumn+2006.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lucy, Floyd, and Autumn on vacay in Tahoe. August 2006</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmPIBpmRdalQRrQgP3tHoeJNOgxHefCtWTBKkjxf9dUxcUGMBJ4F476rw1GZbu9F64uc1fq0-2rP8tOb_N_YbBNJ60KEHUeNMtMk3bbVpHC8xkdm0_qWAo3EfRvD_Za5ky34jD6Z4_QI/s1600/Floyd+and+Lucy+2006+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmPIBpmRdalQRrQgP3tHoeJNOgxHefCtWTBKkjxf9dUxcUGMBJ4F476rw1GZbu9F64uc1fq0-2rP8tOb_N_YbBNJ60KEHUeNMtMk3bbVpHC8xkdm0_qWAo3EfRvD_Za5ky34jD6Z4_QI/s400/Floyd+and+Lucy+2006+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> Floyd and Lucy, 2006 </i><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">As was your nature, you weathered the indignities placed upon you because you knew it made me happy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxN9gaonPU8I2YgTxJDhT9FS6pggOJKWaLXZPiNUfFXQURd0RId94VGdRGkVk08q6hCb40iN01oXAG_FgZmxERD44Z1thycvP4H6ROkD5G32vV-LCo3P9hQ1LSxgwWq8fEcxAzwCUxXwg/s1600/xmas+lucy+mouth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxN9gaonPU8I2YgTxJDhT9FS6pggOJKWaLXZPiNUfFXQURd0RId94VGdRGkVk08q6hCb40iN01oXAG_FgZmxERD44Z1thycvP4H6ROkD5G32vV-LCo3P9hQ1LSxgwWq8fEcxAzwCUxXwg/s400/xmas+lucy+mouth.jpg" width="352" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Christmas, 2007</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_ga7eO9tNbGyqu7_RAYXBZBYte0jb7KCEF3TXCOw5RrONdtf0vE7yFCVKwb9ut8Jlb1ShPFzK9VYzCkCjxTbQhWzJwsNv0TjKqZR3_xXE6l-2kCOd6r55cWw0_4buFv20lG0ZYhDGxg/s1600/halloween%252520%2525237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_ga7eO9tNbGyqu7_RAYXBZBYte0jb7KCEF3TXCOw5RrONdtf0vE7yFCVKwb9ut8Jlb1ShPFzK9VYzCkCjxTbQhWzJwsNv0TjKqZR3_xXE6l-2kCOd6r55cWw0_4buFv20lG0ZYhDGxg/s400/halloween%252520%2525237.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Halloween, 2002</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaG67SK2yDBr9IRriGW3VL3UxP-W7xrOLmQP1D9GcSBZDXAKspgflMSk2octR-dTBwKtXpD7mwQZUFlQB69a7BYCcx4D4KP8GfMsNKF4nybFwjSK_elWN2nGgZaSZwySdk8fuhypooi5s/s1600/gog%252520zilla%252520reluctant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaG67SK2yDBr9IRriGW3VL3UxP-W7xrOLmQP1D9GcSBZDXAKspgflMSk2octR-dTBwKtXpD7mwQZUFlQB69a7BYCcx4D4KP8GfMsNKF4nybFwjSK_elWN2nGgZaSZwySdk8fuhypooi5s/s400/gog%252520zilla%252520reluctant.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Halloween, 2005</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">You aged gracefully and were never sick a day in your life. You bounded off the couch to warn us of the mailman's approach, or to greet us at the door, or to suggest that we go on one of your twice daily trips to the park. You accepted Lola with the graciousness you were known for and taught her the "Give me that thing" game where you would tempt us to take your toy or treat and then run away. You taught her how to go potty on command and where we wanted (no small feat with that stupid chuihuahua). We are forever changed by your time with us. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Now that you have gone my heart hurts so much I try to not breathe. I feel as if I will be crushed by the pain of not touching you again, or hearing you snore at night, or feeling the overwhelming show of love you gave with your happy dance and "Owwww Ooooo oooooh" greeting us when we come home. But if that is what I owe for the almost 13 years I was allowed to love and be loved by you, then it is worth it. Quite a bargain, actually.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicB72zi34aTmMFumcz79BaHLS_M8Da_gBN8ypVkRrU6M7jqk4jUjyw8uhTB1GciDJZ-7HyBr1UhFOZlqH39J05oJcteVjN9NNhG8l8_rsQ-lheUxS1la4vy3ZXKUwDABPC9dY6o_guXTw/s1600/IMG_8428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicB72zi34aTmMFumcz79BaHLS_M8Da_gBN8ypVkRrU6M7jqk4jUjyw8uhTB1GciDJZ-7HyBr1UhFOZlqH39J05oJcteVjN9NNhG8l8_rsQ-lheUxS1la4vy3ZXKUwDABPC9dY6o_guXTw/s400/IMG_8428.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Goodbye, my love. You will be forever part of who I am. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I love you and thank you, </div><div style="text-align: left;">Mom</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">**Lucy became suddenly ill on Friday night. Early this morning, after four days in the hospital, and the very best diagnostics and care by Lucy's veterinarian, (who loved her almost as much as we did. He is my old boss, and let me bring her to work at the hospital everyday for 2 years when we adopted her. He has been her doctor since day one) and the local emergency animal hospital, we had to do what was right for our girl and let her go. </div></div>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-26172388150814877092011-07-05T17:15:00.000-07:002011-07-05T17:25:50.529-07:00Taking one for the TeamWhen my husband went on Lupron as part of his prostate cancer treatment, we knew that weight gain was almost inevitable. If you take a 55 year old man and drop his testosterone to zero, he is going to put on weight. Over the last year he put on 30 pounds and he has been very unhappy about it (<i>Don't even ask how I, who am a full 7 inches shorter than him, gained 20 pounds in the same time frame while NOT on Lupron. Whatever.</i>) <br />
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Now, I married a big man. Not fat, but big. <i>(And, if I may crow a bit, I married an extremely hot man.)</i> I have never been particularly attracted to 'willowy' men, and still think he is hot as hell even with the extra weight.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLLXGJKpy_Su4Y2AkvIwknm2sPK8RNbpoK9zAv2Ix4W_Aw94y8CWyxXm82zH5cnbLIitpVWdcYdNhcY6k-bRCwDbQ3majaZcazb64tobOVzr864zGq4zd0N4IB_HAdRK_LwgGx211-yc/s1600/1299014442_runners_world_2011_04_downmagaz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLLXGJKpy_Su4Y2AkvIwknm2sPK8RNbpoK9zAv2Ix4W_Aw94y8CWyxXm82zH5cnbLIitpVWdcYdNhcY6k-bRCwDbQ3majaZcazb64tobOVzr864zGq4zd0N4IB_HAdRK_LwgGx211-yc/s400/1299014442_runners_world_2011_04_downmagaz.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Meh. </i><br />
<i>I am old school when it comes to men; I want the man that can slay the dragon, not run away from it real fast. </i> </div><br />
Prostate cancer and prostate cancer treatment is hard for men. It not only makes their mortality a reality for them, but its after effects can make him feel like less of a man and less attractive as a man. As his wife, I would prefer that <b>I</b> be the one that helps him feel more attractive as opposed to some other woman. Just saying...<br />
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So even though I have all but given up on the thought that I can lose the weight I have been trying to lose since I hit puberty <i>(Funny how the total number of pounds I want to lose stays the same, but the final weight that loss will result in keeps creeping up as I get older. I think that is because, as I age, the weight at which I look down at the scale and say, "Fucking hell! I cannot possibly weight that much!" increases.)</i> Anyhoo... to show him that I was supportive I suggested to him that we join Weight Watchers together.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkLJs7BdXYrZkYk1k9hdOupW8NfpDkypFULL-_NdQKyfn4V8N13VnCUsZ1ifnsWYBCITNH8phgOwyomydCfzfBQCQroC6p94BcS9mQ5nguy-_9Yu69-bhmD0BmLdZM_t_Jk_KpmDEgIec/s1600/DSC01140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkLJs7BdXYrZkYk1k9hdOupW8NfpDkypFULL-_NdQKyfn4V8N13VnCUsZ1ifnsWYBCITNH8phgOwyomydCfzfBQCQroC6p94BcS9mQ5nguy-_9Yu69-bhmD0BmLdZM_t_Jk_KpmDEgIec/s400/DSC01140.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Those eyes and that half smile still make my knees weak. </i></div><br />
Some of you may be thinking, "That is so sweet!" Others, know that men lose weight faster and more easily than women and think that a head-to-head weightloss program with their husband sounds like slow dance through hell. I certainly fall into the latter camp, but he has always been very supportive of my weightloss attempts and I owe this to him.<br />
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I have been either losing or gaining weight for 20 years. I have NEVER maintained a weight. I am tired of it. I am tired of counting calories, fat grams, carbs, etc. I am tired of being on a weightloss program period, but this one is for him and he is certainly worth it. <br />
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Of course, as I told a friend a while ago, if he comes out of this and has some sort of <i>"I am alive! I survived cancer and I want to live my life!"</i> type crisis and leaves me for a 20-something year old Pilates instructor, the weightloss will still be a good thing because there will be less of him to dispose of.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Eg249wRjhlv1xBxLxUeWPROLk114Fus46I7iVIzDU__43s8cMAcUKuEJ0m46qG21WyEx7-yWXzvct8GDgR84VDNlHylkj4R8t8LmpepvuCPQ03ySUS22As_4Ov2X1qqCBhZmGV6R70o/s1600/pilates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Eg249wRjhlv1xBxLxUeWPROLk114Fus46I7iVIzDU__43s8cMAcUKuEJ0m46qG21WyEx7-yWXzvct8GDgR84VDNlHylkj4R8t8LmpepvuCPQ03ySUS22As_4Ov2X1qqCBhZmGV6R70o/s400/pilates.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> If I am going to pick a picture to represent my husband's hypothetical bimbo you are damn right she will have bad hair and hideous roots. </i></div><br />
We just finished our first week and so far so good.RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-2270632007664410732011-06-27T13:51:00.000-07:002011-06-27T14:16:04.727-07:00My Humble Apologies to the WashingtoniansThis past week hubby and I went on our annual journey to Puyallup, WA to visit the in-laws. Now, if you have been reading for a while you know that these trips have<a href="http://rbr-runbabyrun.blogspot.com/2008/08/on-road-again.html"> not been so FAB</a> in the past. And on our last trip I said some <a href="http://rbr-runbabyrun.blogspot.com/2010/04/boob-sweat-killed-radio-star.html">not-so-nice things</a> about the Washington State Park System, their questionable trail sign polices, and the general fucked-upness of their maps (<i>Ok, 'fucked-upness' is not a world, but it should be</i>)<br />
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On this trip, we decided to mix business, in the form of familial obligation, with pleasure, in the form of a trip to the <a href="http://www.quinaultrainforest.com/">Quinault Rainforest</a> that is a part of the <a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/wps/portal/fsinternet/%21ut/p/c4/04_SB8K8xLLM9MSSzPy8xBz9CP0os3gjAwhwtDDw9_AI8zPwhQoY6BdkOyoCAPkATlA%21/?ss=110609&navtype=BROWSEBYSUBJECT&cid=FSE_003853&navid=091000000000000&pnavid=null&position=BROWSEBYSUBJECT&ttype=main&pname=Olympic%20National%20Forest-%20Home">Olympic National Forest</a> in western Washington. It is "one of only three coniferous rainforests in the Western Hemisphere" according to the website and only about 2 hours from the in laws.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiue3L-RrPwrq_XLpwODBEMCzZ2ulncRVVoZIqON-nu69sD-dpzMi4Cj_GiAfkcOG4lC9vSqwhgQv5lceMQxTwMkrFAJ-sCI23gHbvr_hkqt8FqZToN6Zt8DnjJCbv8K8UlCjF0jR06xFk/s1600/p488521494-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiue3L-RrPwrq_XLpwODBEMCzZ2ulncRVVoZIqON-nu69sD-dpzMi4Cj_GiAfkcOG4lC9vSqwhgQv5lceMQxTwMkrFAJ-sCI23gHbvr_hkqt8FqZToN6Zt8DnjJCbv8K8UlCjF0jR06xFk/s400/p488521494-4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> So nice to have a talented hubby :) </i></div><br />
We stayed at <a href="http://www.nationalparkreservations.com/olympic_lakequinault.php">The Lake Quinault Lodge</a> (<i>whose claim to fame is the fact that Franklin Roosevelt stayed there, like, a billion years ago and all the of towns children dressed up as "Indians" - meaning Native Americans not people indigenous to India- very few of whom were actually Native Americans 'cuz that is how we rolled in the non-PC 1930's, BUT nine months after his visit he did sign a bill that created the Olympic National Forest and saved this area from falling prey to overlogging</i>,<i> so maybe I should not be so snarky)</i> which was as beautiful and relaxing as I could have hope for.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ke5bCylrCMyW6x5k8VZ4LC_XVpLgTYlYg-zn-G_NnAMHm3ExBHnNSsZIXd98BnrpuGArGrsnh5TSxtLhJfLm0zAMAfzYhtTwBMVMjogZnTq2E00bHf61gCmphU9bSuLcC09H5V0vjRE/s1600/p279920848-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ke5bCylrCMyW6x5k8VZ4LC_XVpLgTYlYg-zn-G_NnAMHm3ExBHnNSsZIXd98BnrpuGArGrsnh5TSxtLhJfLm0zAMAfzYhtTwBMVMjogZnTq2E00bHf61gCmphU9bSuLcC09H5V0vjRE/s400/p279920848-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Frankie D and the little indians, circa 1937</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGEc5nkzozc87_MGZtUOwfbb-vK0he2ogg12T22QbEztuMnd69XG8oGgFwwTOSWoQW5Jb9ThZrWyXNGN8RWNGK_FagvVHJYo9GsB6LOePAPD0KVbCONLO6oFrZq1WpHuEMAZFJu7_YxsY/s1600/p588595406-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGEc5nkzozc87_MGZtUOwfbb-vK0he2ogg12T22QbEztuMnd69XG8oGgFwwTOSWoQW5Jb9ThZrWyXNGN8RWNGK_FagvVHJYo9GsB6LOePAPD0KVbCONLO6oFrZq1WpHuEMAZFJu7_YxsY/s400/p588595406-3.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The main lodge. FYI - We stayed in the Lakeside rooms. I am not so much of a 'share a bathroom with total strangers' girl. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyH1_iVjmFRCZURQ5hkYOfOG_iy-3D4ulN4tMPkmlpKR02b_a4evL1Ru5lZhpa2qdG0sO-4IBi0a90Y3lvrbZiymN77tVO2R6l2Vt8VGxQBKW96KVjTWmymEs1OKuyV10QI-YjhR37Yp0/s1600/p219860719-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyH1_iVjmFRCZURQ5hkYOfOG_iy-3D4ulN4tMPkmlpKR02b_a4evL1Ru5lZhpa2qdG0sO-4IBi0a90Y3lvrbZiymN77tVO2R6l2Vt8VGxQBKW96KVjTWmymEs1OKuyV10QI-YjhR37Yp0/s400/p219860719-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>View of the Lake Quinault from the back of the lodge. </i></div><br />
Driving around serene beauty of Lake Quinault surrounded by the dense greenery of an old world rainforest, I could not help but think, ...<br />
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"What a great place to dump a body!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh1AxDMFNIDReh6DP7HZMItaFHiaGnpJtcD9Gr61w1EQi_P1N7sMO77Q2edCNH4YCpI3CGYrT1QOK0ye3suZt2XSkBQ1N1-RRZKST0c21hdnUkys3Ha8xJT9-SgegZP6OeJzaEVNJzqXo/s1600/p530257587-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh1AxDMFNIDReh6DP7HZMItaFHiaGnpJtcD9Gr61w1EQi_P1N7sMO77Q2edCNH4YCpI3CGYrT1QOK0ye3suZt2XSkBQ1N1-RRZKST0c21hdnUkys3Ha8xJT9-SgegZP6OeJzaEVNJzqXo/s400/p530257587-4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The 'unwanted organic material' would be reclaimed by this natural wonder in a week, tops. Just saying....</i></div><br />
What? That is not your first reaction when faced with the staggering natural beauty of a dense, moss covered rainforest? Whatevs.<br />
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Anyhoo..<br />
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I decided to run my long run (<i>on the schedule was 6-8 miles</i>) on Thursday, so I could run it in the rainforest all mystical woodnymph style, so I asked the gal at check in for a trail map.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlqLRCFJurdlGetmVbQzK0ACnlpt8DMrQspyvWtH7MsXqoiYAEDawYoE9tgA9YHdUhgya1-15RaOLtvNi3Ur-XWmehuB1sEzc4_B_5LsmLGh2oOC1HyoiJcZ7FPxelarfJJQ6ikF9Dh0/s1600/P6260395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlqLRCFJurdlGetmVbQzK0ACnlpt8DMrQspyvWtH7MsXqoiYAEDawYoE9tgA9YHdUhgya1-15RaOLtvNi3Ur-XWmehuB1sEzc4_B_5LsmLGh2oOC1HyoiJcZ7FPxelarfJJQ6ikF9Dh0/s400/P6260395.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Is this not the most Mickey Mouse piece of shit map you have ever seen? </i></div><br />
Christ, even our local <a href="http://www.hhpz.org/files/hhpz//documents/PlanYourVisit/HappyHollowMap.pdf">Happy Hollow Zoo</a> has a more descriptive map and, unlike Olympic National Park, you can not wander for days in Happy Hollow Zoo without finding another warmblooded life form (<i>other than cougars apparently, for which there were signs warning of "many recent sightings" and helpful tips how to 'scare' off the predator. Sadly, one of those tips is not to "piss your pants and cry like a little girl", since I am certain that would be my reaction upon 'sighting' a real live cougar </i>)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEZx1INS1qJfotqqfsEilPnP-CHjLazVB1qaP6UOizG29jgvfw-kt_riqY9MYDOIpBnTTa_2FMmRJ-gvlJ75Xim4-gt9lS7xQKwG__h3Q1G7uvYaqRWuz-wgR_kqJI_wT1lSTq9Cz8nw/s1600/cougar01sightings01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEZx1INS1qJfotqqfsEilPnP-CHjLazVB1qaP6UOizG29jgvfw-kt_riqY9MYDOIpBnTTa_2FMmRJ-gvlJ75Xim4-gt9lS7xQKwG__h3Q1G7uvYaqRWuz-wgR_kqJI_wT1lSTq9Cz8nw/s400/cougar01sightings01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>The list of what to do was below. Sadly, an hour later when alone and hearing "strange noises" from the forest this is all I remembered of the sign. Something about ... "looking big, and fighting back" </i></div><br />
I was convinced that I would be hopelessly lost in the rainforest and found years later living amongst the ferns, eating beetles, and braiding my leg hair to pass the time. But, in true RBR style I headed out on the run anyway.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPpVnYtTRupWPbqJ8Onf12MYIxAJ25Y20mRurqv70R0Vg2JeAbEEfcViS9rc8nN3cJmtLRA4-7pcDGK9yn4_TuesnFbvTdgR3WqINe1x55DF4fKqL2ASfLfvYKCkAkjrdc0319oeTRrPw/s1600/P6230314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPpVnYtTRupWPbqJ8Onf12MYIxAJ25Y20mRurqv70R0Vg2JeAbEEfcViS9rc8nN3cJmtLRA4-7pcDGK9yn4_TuesnFbvTdgR3WqINe1x55DF4fKqL2ASfLfvYKCkAkjrdc0319oeTRrPw/s400/P6230314.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Beginning of the Run: Cautiously (or foolishly) optimistic</i></div><br />
The trail started out running along the edge of the lake<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqKhx2SvIpy9NiH7mgRgWQe-PBQY-wyevwTqFljSAMYidnMYAxIaessO4zsNypUSjce87hki2tcCHVkrLbA4T600cVdmGlrBhWYOjjYPolG0ff5-gsrH0SNls4Ys7EozPGwZRawDXHNC4/s1600/P6230325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqKhx2SvIpy9NiH7mgRgWQe-PBQY-wyevwTqFljSAMYidnMYAxIaessO4zsNypUSjce87hki2tcCHVkrLbA4T600cVdmGlrBhWYOjjYPolG0ff5-gsrH0SNls4Ys7EozPGwZRawDXHNC4/s400/P6230325.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
and then headed inland to wind along through the forest.... (scenes from the trail)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_BTcK0gAdFLzMPIMNJId3AObVTXuSD8wC2Vmt6z2_xzHpGKzCf5jaCcPxKbU96siMzWfB_2sAfMiUc8FCTI9dntygUDyn3m_jOq95SaRJjS9w2qO7mS3XWG4jG9N9y6x7rwmU0J1bvY/s1600/P6230367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_BTcK0gAdFLzMPIMNJId3AObVTXuSD8wC2Vmt6z2_xzHpGKzCf5jaCcPxKbU96siMzWfB_2sAfMiUc8FCTI9dntygUDyn3m_jOq95SaRJjS9w2qO7mS3XWG4jG9N9y6x7rwmU0J1bvY/s400/P6230367.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Single track through paradise</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixl-iqn7lakurR6SPmoy-u-jFvXaRy0cslKnRRCDnL_IghDi0HmXS_lq-tc1hAgEbj-JJH5ForazVC2DU6O3i1NdAeHPb5pPIZljYTh5WhMa1R8QCYo0tIhv9yqKjVbMUydMncqZg8XWA/s1600/P6230364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixl-iqn7lakurR6SPmoy-u-jFvXaRy0cslKnRRCDnL_IghDi0HmXS_lq-tc1hAgEbj-JJH5ForazVC2DU6O3i1NdAeHPb5pPIZljYTh5WhMa1R8QCYo0tIhv9yqKjVbMUydMncqZg8XWA/s400/P6230364.JPG" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>The sun came out at a rare clearing in the forest overstory. I experienced both springlike sun and heavy rain in this 2 hour run. It was really the perfect run. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgULFOMxcToLiGMX8fpkZHwoa-60iMi5voyIIDhlZ5JK8l7m_SKI_vvqsZtsFQSQf2B5pDB6RwDBqCGude7QLdKX-MkcwHs4Bi7OkDSRxnU95Jf0F3Wf-EoiRP_XDv_67IKsSdU1PAn3Es/s1600/P6230354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgULFOMxcToLiGMX8fpkZHwoa-60iMi5voyIIDhlZ5JK8l7m_SKI_vvqsZtsFQSQf2B5pDB6RwDBqCGude7QLdKX-MkcwHs4Bi7OkDSRxnU95Jf0F3Wf-EoiRP_XDv_67IKsSdU1PAn3Es/s400/P6230354.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uaeEovQQCYtwLqTLRIBHUsy6n4m4EpeREe68nkLAHcRGvDhy7sXxNyj0Hrgb0anjDf8vVIwWHKkPtz72D3Rlc4pHBIhUyKZIZVtMu6fz1PEcy_LLFpxYINqPYYcuR2NXNzLSq4cDFrU/s1600/P6230341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uaeEovQQCYtwLqTLRIBHUsy6n4m4EpeREe68nkLAHcRGvDhy7sXxNyj0Hrgb0anjDf8vVIwWHKkPtz72D3Rlc4pHBIhUyKZIZVtMu6fz1PEcy_LLFpxYINqPYYcuR2NXNzLSq4cDFrU/s400/P6230341.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Please note GIGANTO tree, please ignore GIGANTO ass</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCc5WDene_qUGPa0shZIXBih8HMp1VDWX4VIVhwFMrByyDw2uNvu4icK7CQJ0LkBbQhsIFgfurSsK8mPo7mawAnr6VUbesImo-UrUsQYI7mtE1LexAL_US9H80IoB99pL4F_pS7nZaxjw/s1600/P6230381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCc5WDene_qUGPa0shZIXBih8HMp1VDWX4VIVhwFMrByyDw2uNvu4icK7CQJ0LkBbQhsIFgfurSsK8mPo7mawAnr6VUbesImo-UrUsQYI7mtE1LexAL_US9H80IoB99pL4F_pS7nZaxjw/s400/P6230381.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>There were many bridges and waterfalls along the way. I was having such a great time I was 3 miles in and 2000 ft up before I realized I forgot my iPod. Yeah, it was THAT beautiful and fun out there. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgAp6jzh0kbNru7WApDladQgWWIkNBZo9tSdbTdHyKvzPM4rzIhHUuqBxY7EPdbIXgnefeT4DY2V7X54bMfTkWnt5rcBVS77g6Idn-HL5r0gaWYZhzYY3gWTk10mUXxLH8ndRooNKpgU/s1600/P6230369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgAp6jzh0kbNru7WApDladQgWWIkNBZo9tSdbTdHyKvzPM4rzIhHUuqBxY7EPdbIXgnefeT4DY2V7X54bMfTkWnt5rcBVS77g6Idn-HL5r0gaWYZhzYY3gWTk10mUXxLH8ndRooNKpgU/s400/P6230369.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>They even had a wooden pathway over a bog. I always forget the difference between a marsh, a swamp, and a bog, so now you have to learn it again too! </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>In a nutshell, they are all poorly drained depressions with a think growth of water plants where the water level remains above or at the soil line. Swamps and bogs have trees, whereas marshes do not. Bogs are found in coniferous forests, but swamps are characterized by deciduous trees.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiC0NnUhzy_9G2hyphenhyphen1kkEdz74imgHvIsb4LnYhB0N9-JMqIvsg9GxzU69mZxbZsG5kGCnhJYiSZzrz8zYRJorBnOttfczp8liujlVhV-3mh3_XhW3cslEaZTNgNCPDU_vZCPf9zrlUzWOo/s1600/P6230370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiC0NnUhzy_9G2hyphenhyphen1kkEdz74imgHvIsb4LnYhB0N9-JMqIvsg9GxzU69mZxbZsG5kGCnhJYiSZzrz8zYRJorBnOttfczp8liujlVhV-3mh3_XhW3cslEaZTNgNCPDU_vZCPf9zrlUzWOo/s400/P6230370.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>My bog picture, which sucks because you can not see the coniferous trees that tell you it is a bog. Whatevs. I looked it up after the run. Sue me. </i></div><br />
I had planned to run 6 to 7 miles depending on how I felt, but I was having such a good time that I did not want it to end and I ended up running just over 8 miles. I am not in good enough shape for an 8+ mile trail run, so it was beyond slow, but totally worth it.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhyphenhyphenUMaiyq7wtmb1DnZLkKfTxxZ8P4i8w2kXSbVD5iTbEoSrb2YsLYgpfkeliNcDasghAxHiTVWC3v6fM9OjcVOVWRYl7M_PpLCpK_XgWWOg_M4JsL5z6AxShQxMCox5ioxpFdL44Sqrk/s1600/P6230380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhyphenhyphenUMaiyq7wtmb1DnZLkKfTxxZ8P4i8w2kXSbVD5iTbEoSrb2YsLYgpfkeliNcDasghAxHiTVWC3v6fM9OjcVOVWRYl7M_PpLCpK_XgWWOg_M4JsL5z6AxShQxMCox5ioxpFdL44Sqrk/s400/P6230380.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>5 miles in, channeling my inner wood nymph. Just call me Hamadryades</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBe9BkaIBnopmugE61_ZRFVs6Ior3jkWCPYgP0AwQls8VVV2qE129oMyS6q41WalQMVmOsj6yN9GxhPB1Fsi3MVMckSq9MjFH38HG-6VT7Y6np2IlV92AM8C0DNZgWp3W80pfNMC998U/s1600/070c2998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBe9BkaIBnopmugE61_ZRFVs6Ior3jkWCPYgP0AwQls8VVV2qE129oMyS6q41WalQMVmOsj6yN9GxhPB1Fsi3MVMckSq9MjFH38HG-6VT7Y6np2IlV92AM8C0DNZgWp3W80pfNMC998U/s400/070c2998.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Ok, so the real Hamadryades was a tad hotter and a shitload scarier. </i></div>There were signs that contained the full map at every junction that clearly marked where you were on the trail (yes, like you see at the mall)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5cxJhatynwTk7YgcM4DIUiCfFww5b4R-PEPbixd6ZgpBqoFtg6M2dZPwPlSH0Yy69rRlWn7VIq5y_VuOkaiFwR57AeMIlgDJ0WmVI9X47JalaRBh5rceShIukYmLMkv0u9MQQ-ipnqY/s1600/P6230333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5cxJhatynwTk7YgcM4DIUiCfFww5b4R-PEPbixd6ZgpBqoFtg6M2dZPwPlSH0Yy69rRlWn7VIq5y_VuOkaiFwR57AeMIlgDJ0WmVI9X47JalaRBh5rceShIukYmLMkv0u9MQQ-ipnqY/s400/P6230333.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Note that they had to amend the "You are here" marker, but still very helpful once that slight confusion was cleared up. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>As I was finishing up my run, I started to remark to myself, (<i>Shut up. I was the only one there, who else would I remark to?</i>) "There is virtually NO WAY to get lost on this trail. Only a fucking MORON would get lost on this trail!"<br />
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So you can imagine what happened next...<br />
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Yep. I am the fucking moron that could get lost on the only single track that ran through the rainforest. <br />
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Here is how it happened. I ran along until I spied a rest room at a camp ground that I was <b>certain</b> I had seen before, I briefly left the trail to use the facilities. When I came out and could not for the life of me figure out where to go. After a few false starts that dead ended or had me heading back out to the rainforest instead of toward the lake, I stood in the center of the camp ground parking lot, slowly spinning in a circle trying to figure out which way went back to the trail. Until a kid at the wordly age of 9 came up and asked me what I was doing:<br />
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<b>Know-it-all 9 yo:</b> What are you doing?<br />
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<b>RBR:</b> I am trying to find the trail back to the lake<br />
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<b>Know-it-all 9 yo</b>: <i>*snickers*</i> There is only <b>one</b> trail <i>[I think the little bastard rolled his eyes too, but I am not certain]</i><br />
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<b>RBR:</b> <i>*weak smile*</i> I know, but that one goes back to the rainforest.<br />
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<b>Know-it-all 9 yo</b>: Ummm... what if you go that way?<br />
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*<i>points to the ground behind the restroom where, to my horror, I see this....*</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gFA4Bkac7sPemRh4Xa-aff7CXwPT1L1aQaxzSeG9QMbR8X34HCZeFxX43Me4KpstLGkiIHOjtCMsoV6i9uLpf4ZxWa3NTztkJU4zWgdWI-ZVWj3qQuovWSmbBF9GOBSzb6OO5TwGGI4/s1600/P6230327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gFA4Bkac7sPemRh4Xa-aff7CXwPT1L1aQaxzSeG9QMbR8X34HCZeFxX43Me4KpstLGkiIHOjtCMsoV6i9uLpf4ZxWa3NTztkJU4zWgdWI-ZVWj3qQuovWSmbBF9GOBSzb6OO5TwGGI4/s400/P6230327.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b>RRR:</b> <i>*mumbles inappropriate things for 9 year old ears*</i> Ummm.... thanks <i> </i><br />
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<i>*snickering from smug, nine year old continues as I run down the trail*</i><br />
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So there you have it. I can no longer blame Washington, nor it's <i>fresh-from-Walt-Disney-school-of-cartography</i> map makers. It is me. I can truly get lost anywhere. <br />
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But it was a great run :) <i><br />
</i><br />
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* Photo credits (that are painfully obvious, but need to be pointed out anyway) - The over or under exposed, blurry, or just generally crappy photos are mine. The pretty, professional looking photos are hubby's. Here is a link to his photos of Lake Quinault: <a href="http://erader.zenfolio.com/p726862123">http://erader.zenfolio.com/p726862123</a> if you are interested in seeing more of the area. The painting of Hamadryades is from some weird ass LARPer site that may or may not have a virus, so I am not linking to it, but it was my favorite wood nymph picture.RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-91629613445172774182011-06-18T21:13:00.000-07:002011-06-27T16:04:51.698-07:00Back at Baylands, Baby!Today was my first run back out at one of my favorite places to run, <a href="http://www.cityofpaloalto.org/depts/csd/parks_and_open_space/preserves_and_open_spaces/the_baylands.asp">Baylands Nature Preserve. </a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdYvC3-lTtHjCMbcmI48mt_HDyAnUq9fshg53EI_gUbTzb9V9nGMTVR2d-Xz4L0F6OyQCJqbjxZ9vNkPOZTGMIY7scyqRL3zkg9hMgKJQnXSNyjQ3lKcGR9RLvJ7SAjIwp-Of_0jpGXc/s1600/P6180261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdYvC3-lTtHjCMbcmI48mt_HDyAnUq9fshg53EI_gUbTzb9V9nGMTVR2d-Xz4L0F6OyQCJqbjxZ9vNkPOZTGMIY7scyqRL3zkg9hMgKJQnXSNyjQ3lKcGR9RLvJ7SAjIwp-Of_0jpGXc/s400/P6180261.JPG" width="321" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This place makes me happy</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AwXoNR2esDGEqXz5h3K81ktkSgfVQajXcxQrxF_XArHiX60dzfBc7aFIHYd33Z9v8nqJY1_xhTw-r2Yw_gzi0AroI8TEMdcMAgp4EnLIvdMN0vJgPLuJsdXA23KyodV55fAQEWYvyIE/s1600/P6180258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div> On the schedule was an 'on your own' run and this is a recovery week, so we were told to run between 2-4 miles. I decided on a 4 mile run since I joined the team late.<br />
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Thursday's 3 mile midweek run was in a word, fucking miserable. Oops. That was two words. My bad.<br />
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I know that the return to running outdoors from the treadmill is always hard. I also know it hurts a bit when you up your weekly mileage by like 200%. If you add to that the additional, ahem... "donut damage" I inflicted on myself during my running laziness, and it becomes downright painful, and not pretty to watch. I was hoping that by returning to one of my favorite running spots I could offset some of the pain.<br />
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I was right. Sort of.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AwXoNR2esDGEqXz5h3K81ktkSgfVQajXcxQrxF_XArHiX60dzfBc7aFIHYd33Z9v8nqJY1_xhTw-r2Yw_gzi0AroI8TEMdcMAgp4EnLIvdMN0vJgPLuJsdXA23KyodV55fAQEWYvyIE/s1600/P6180258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AwXoNR2esDGEqXz5h3K81ktkSgfVQajXcxQrxF_XArHiX60dzfBc7aFIHYd33Z9v8nqJY1_xhTw-r2Yw_gzi0AroI8TEMdcMAgp4EnLIvdMN0vJgPLuJsdXA23KyodV55fAQEWYvyIE/s400/P6180258.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>My white pelicans were there. Shitty picture, but cool birds. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBjWeu0UXMUF-qkneMVGKP2ZQgZGVuVMZfNXQK_uhJqq2JGLmWACgfRflaCuikfOAL-wl84VLf2B98vfXPMX3wvfaUBmOiahJVnrIA6p91pVlZw9Q5VZfg1O7KavTLgz5Uk9gseP3F6g/s1600/P6180269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBjWeu0UXMUF-qkneMVGKP2ZQgZGVuVMZfNXQK_uhJqq2JGLmWACgfRflaCuikfOAL-wl84VLf2B98vfXPMX3wvfaUBmOiahJVnrIA6p91pVlZw9Q5VZfg1O7KavTLgz5Uk9gseP3F6g/s400/P6180269.JPG" width="335" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This time I ran along the single track trail that goes closest to the water, so I could watch my feathered friends. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8h8cF08v_ioCVMgVQzuXxKbXdwyyoYVqnm7V7egkxsBZEOCh1d8-wDf-yIL1pRHKslrabVlTZvN_oiKbp8EDVFR7Wf7hGjm4s9KfVeigkEHi8CTh8AUPo6nh61hsSz_2sd56zx92210/s1600/P6180266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8h8cF08v_ioCVMgVQzuXxKbXdwyyoYVqnm7V7egkxsBZEOCh1d8-wDf-yIL1pRHKslrabVlTZvN_oiKbp8EDVFR7Wf7hGjm4s9KfVeigkEHi8CTh8AUPo6nh61hsSz_2sd56zx92210/s400/P6180266.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Pretty day out there...</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdYvC3-lTtHjCMbcmI48mt_HDyAnUq9fshg53EI_gUbTzb9V9nGMTVR2d-Xz4L0F6OyQCJqbjxZ9vNkPOZTGMIY7scyqRL3zkg9hMgKJQnXSNyjQ3lKcGR9RLvJ7SAjIwp-Of_0jpGXc/s1600/P6180261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div> Now you may have noticed that it was a nice, bright, sunny day. You may have also noticed my bright, butt-white, winter skin shining in that bright sunny day. <br />
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That lead to my first flesh tank top of the season<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7d7Mpl4i7UL9-7JgWfiK6OWNpdqtewrmbRxPCbbWEzUlXZQTTMv80MYm_-lWpruwyI1FjEspSkKjFS3REyhUZvox2QV8jZ4vkDmXBK0kUzN52_DV6JPXKdUyGd0HjcyTSfYdUD7ccOn4/s1600/P6180271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7d7Mpl4i7UL9-7JgWfiK6OWNpdqtewrmbRxPCbbWEzUlXZQTTMv80MYm_-lWpruwyI1FjEspSkKjFS3REyhUZvox2QV8jZ4vkDmXBK0kUzN52_DV6JPXKdUyGd0HjcyTSfYdUD7ccOn4/s400/P6180271.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Molly Melanoma at your service. </i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8h8cF08v_ioCVMgVQzuXxKbXdwyyoYVqnm7V7egkxsBZEOCh1d8-wDf-yIL1pRHKslrabVlTZvN_oiKbp8EDVFR7Wf7hGjm4s9KfVeigkEHi8CTh8AUPo6nh61hsSz_2sd56zx92210/s1600/P6180266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div> It was slow,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlplBZxkF3tqIC_BzTY58cHyPes98nCah9YGTj7VXcOFXX_K-y1UaF2szPvMGpFaRfps4TIhPyqbO2xHly40Bv7lnttTlf-a6mqYFT93JDGY5dygKjhzTh5EK0LUuKsNdBjpqRS2-JRrc/s1600/lady-gaga-pg51470.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlplBZxkF3tqIC_BzTY58cHyPes98nCah9YGTj7VXcOFXX_K-y1UaF2szPvMGpFaRfps4TIhPyqbO2xHly40Bv7lnttTlf-a6mqYFT93JDGY5dygKjhzTh5EK0LUuKsNdBjpqRS2-JRrc/s400/lady-gaga-pg51470.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Calling this run slow is like calling Lady Gaga odd, it is a massive understatement</i> </div><br />
<br />
but it was really great to be out there again. I almost felt like a runner again.RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-81929781424425192152011-06-12T09:33:00.000-07:002011-06-12T19:52:01.957-07:00Now we don our gay apparel.....<i>Alternative title: </i>She's Baaaaaaaa-ack!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXM7C2Omn1iozBHT6dbIz-SXRCnpUGgYkllfu9SCWwmsydKkscaSaQQHoBXEWqH41EBYM_ly6YopFzEd3w4OADnr5G5yCo6Xmd-YWVZxJi8-HtpK5HO0eXhjkXlzgDTTS_otmYhTYGvY/s1600/CIMG0203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXM7C2Omn1iozBHT6dbIz-SXRCnpUGgYkllfu9SCWwmsydKkscaSaQQHoBXEWqH41EBYM_ly6YopFzEd3w4OADnr5G5yCo6Xmd-YWVZxJi8-HtpK5HO0eXhjkXlzgDTTS_otmYhTYGvY/s400/CIMG0203.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Pink Run Hat? Check! </i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I had to make a more major commitment to get myself moving for more than 3 miles at a shot on the treadmill a few times a week, which has been pretty much the totality of my running for the last 5 months. I decided to rejoin <a href="http://pages.teamintraining.org/sj/portland11/srader">Team in Training</a> (yes, <a href="http://reecriff.blogspot.com/">G</a>, the tranny shot was just for you) for a third season to train for the Portland Marathon in October. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I could not get back into my running and I could either tell myself that it was ridiculous that after so many marathons I could not train on my own (which just results in me feeling bad about myself and STILL not running enough) or I could get some help. I chose to get help from a group that has worked for me before and that raises money for a great cause that I believe in. So there it is. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">On Saturday, I ran 5 miles, outside without stopping. I was really proud I could do it. It has been a long time since I have gone that far without walking. I did not want to write that because I was getting caught up in where I have been previously with running. Didn't I run a 50K last October? Who gives a shit about 5 miles? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I do.<i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I have always believed you have to take your wins where you can get them. You start from where you are, not where you were, or where you want to be. I have done some pretty cool (and frankly shocking) long distance running. Does that mean I do not get to be proud of myself again until I run 35 miles? Fuck that. I am more of an instant gratification girl. I would rather be proud now. <i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i>Ok, so RBR, where the hell have you been? </i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I won't spend a bunch of time making excuses for why I have not been posting, but I will show you one major reason: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtfuVm0uPYI5DWumGyN_ySGePRIhWtFTHyOjI4TmrXXiq6DibeBOmhyxVHYawdKyV9IJaSgxdZbVN5aysD_CWxmpaQH7P-dKS6RbLrbJEQQuRgMobLtDZUWdntdp1aN69AUuBQY_AZY5E/s1600/CIMG0195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtfuVm0uPYI5DWumGyN_ySGePRIhWtFTHyOjI4TmrXXiq6DibeBOmhyxVHYawdKyV9IJaSgxdZbVN5aysD_CWxmpaQH7P-dKS6RbLrbJEQQuRgMobLtDZUWdntdp1aN69AUuBQY_AZY5E/s400/CIMG0195.jpg" width="353" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Introducing Michael Quinn! </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Obligatory Baby Stats</b> (<i>which no one really cares about, but you have to post because, duh, 'obligatory') </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Born:</b> April 28 at 1:15 pm</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Weight:</b> 9 pounds 1.5 oz (that is 4.13 kg for our Canadian friends)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Length: </b>21.25 inches</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Method:</b> C-section a mere <b>41 HOURS</b> after her labor was induced. <i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Yes, you read that last part right. 41 fucking HOURS after her labor was induced, young Michael who was already two full weeks passed his due date, had to be ripped from her stomach in a procedure reminiscent of <strike>Luke Skywalker's</strike> Han Solo's evisceration of the <strike>Ton Ton</strike> Tauntaun in Star Wars.<i> (UPDATE: strikethrough edits due to Joja Jogger's superior Star Wars knowledge database. Umm... I am not sure I would around bragging about that one, darlin' :) ) </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9qUlg_MLIaiehFst2FqpOfFLihTob9dVJlXdBcF2Lf7zFKafMFMfXT4N_vgPlfE_jvGxO-x3o4weJAShW-J3CwWBY9Ok1eI9EYqy-3L44LykNuboFGrotK-8UGADuHXJv5BDWZ3SwvY8/s1600/397star3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9qUlg_MLIaiehFst2FqpOfFLihTob9dVJlXdBcF2Lf7zFKafMFMfXT4N_vgPlfE_jvGxO-x3o4weJAShW-J3CwWBY9Ok1eI9EYqy-3L44LykNuboFGrotK-8UGADuHXJv5BDWZ3SwvY8/s400/397star3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Ok, this is an actual <a href="http://prewife.com/ton-ton-wedding-cake/">groom's cake for a wedding</a>. It brings up so many questions, not the least of which is, "who the fuck would marry a guy that insisted on a cake with a dude entwined in a fictitious creature's intestines at her wedding?"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">LA Run Buddy is now the poster child for birth control, adoption, abstinence, or selling your children into slavery. God help the little bastard if he ever forgets Mother's Day. I am just saying... It was horrific. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6dQpD5r6y0UC_Pi4oP-ZrOfyR4z5rvhNbNLyUrqw3vTnZLxV2NwTe-ASoJNHFTDc9jFIvJyXQDkCV9hrz1hfxpKFl__F5pkb1kka6_z1mBGgejOBnDTx1AD8mIJHsCG4pPAX8_nUzH3g/s1600/CIMG0193.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6dQpD5r6y0UC_Pi4oP-ZrOfyR4z5rvhNbNLyUrqw3vTnZLxV2NwTe-ASoJNHFTDc9jFIvJyXQDkCV9hrz1hfxpKFl__F5pkb1kka6_z1mBGgejOBnDTx1AD8mIJHsCG4pPAX8_nUzH3g/s400/CIMG0193.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>He is cute though. Here is the He-baby sucking 'em back at the local Starbucks. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>A brief observation about newborns from RBR </b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Titled: <i>"Shit a new mom can not say about the reality of newborn babies without sounding like a monster, but RBR can say because she is already known to be a bitch."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Newborn babies are patently NOT fun and they are not nearly cute enough for how unfun they are. They scream a frantic <i>"Help me I am dying and your incompetent ass can not figure out what I need to save me, you worthless excuse for a mother"</i> scream. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">They do this ALL. THE. TIME. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Before feedings, after feedings. Before, during, and after diaper changes<i>. (For the record, when the nurses came to give him two vaccines, and gouge out a chunk of his little pink heel to get blood samples, Master Michael did not make a peep. Four minutes later when his exhausted and loving parents tried to change his diaper he let out a wail that had even his grandmother dialing child protective services. Fucker.)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then there is breastfeeding. I am sure that all of the readers that do not have children believed, like myself, that you put baby on boob, baby eats, take baby off boob. Simple dimple, right? I mean, it is a basic mammalian function for Christ's sake. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Uh, no. That is NOT how it works. How it works is that two nurses and a lactation specialist are required to teach mom and baby how to nurse. Seriously? Teach a baby to nurse?! No wonder there are people that do not believe in evolution. And this teaching process is not a one shot deal. You fight with the little sucker (<i>pun not in intended, but I had already called him a 'fucker' and it was funny so I left it</i>) for like the first couple WEEKS of his life to get him to eat enough to NOT DIE. Oh and you know the thing about boobs? They do not have a neat little measurement tool on the side to tell you how much Junior has actually eaten so he could look like he is nursing away and actually not get enough nutrition to sustain life! No pressure, Mom! You know what has a nice little measurement tool on the side and is VASTLY easier for the baby to get milk out of? A fucking BOTTLE! <i>*gasps of horror from all the crunchy granola, midwife loving, birthing tub advocates*</i> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>CGMLBT Advocates:</b> <i>Bottles are the devil! It destroys the mother child bond! It gives them 'nipple confusion' </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>RBR</b>: <i>He just spent 43 weeks in her stomach, she controls his access to food and shelter. And later a cell phone plan with an adequate amount of texting allowed. The bond is fucking fine. Let's not starve him now. And nipple confusion? Maybe if he is that stupid that is something we should know now. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Sorry, but goddamn. Watching my best friend fall apart and feel like a failure as a mother because he could not latch or he lost more weight than he should, and having each feeding take one and half to two hours when feedings are two hours apart (meaning she had to start over almost immediately after finishing the last feeding) was awful.<br />
<br />
He is better now. Still not what you would call '<b>fun</b>', but everyone says that is on the horizon. I will believe that when I see it. <i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i></div></div>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-42570866371868487602011-04-23T10:05:00.000-07:002011-04-23T10:37:30.545-07:00It is an honor just to be nominated....And the Teacher of the Year award goes to....<br />
<br />
NOT RBR!<br />
<br />
<i>*the crowd goes wild*</i><br />
<br />
This was my fourth nomination in 11 years of teaching.<br />
<br />
I have never won.<br />
<br />
Yep, I am the <a href="http://www.people.com/people/archive/article/0,,20128421,00.html">Susan Lucci </a>of my school's 'Teacher of Year' Award.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-MKRscRRS0g-gWrUWHv2c_cymKRqUVXmexALmtzi30ECjtRK9hvzZMBxBR-mvzEF55jqRDN9Yw85A2SSYJbwCE4sLARWkN8U9vksuX_ekUENP4ea0lULdj6qbi7-7JhaghdL3nGZbQeM/s1600/Erica-Kane-played-by-Susan-Lucci-all-my-children-6045165-501-752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-MKRscRRS0g-gWrUWHv2c_cymKRqUVXmexALmtzi30ECjtRK9hvzZMBxBR-mvzEF55jqRDN9Yw85A2SSYJbwCE4sLARWkN8U9vksuX_ekUENP4ea0lULdj6qbi7-7JhaghdL3nGZbQeM/s400/Erica-Kane-played-by-Susan-Lucci-all-my-children-6045165-501-752.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Susan Lucci played Erica Kane on All My Children for 41 years. She was nominated for an Emmy 18 times before she finally won in 1999. She started on the show at 24 years old. I had to check my math on that, like, three times. Holy Shit! I certainly hope she had cosmetic surgery to look this fucking good at 65. If not, we know who you will find perched next to Satan ruling Hades. </i></div><br />
I will be honest two of those times there were such more deserving teachers that even I voted for the winners <i>(Ok, if I am REALLY honest the guy that won this year really deserved it, but you know what? I voted for my fucking self anyway. Sue me)</i>, but one of those years I lost to a complete ass wipe and that one still stings.<br />
<br />
That particular Teacher of the Year is now a low level administrator at my school. All of his gratuitous ass kissing garnered him the worst gig in administration. Even <b><i>I</i></b> can make his life miserable and I have about as much juice in the educational hierarchy as the dude that repaints the panther logo on the front of the school during the summer. So, at least I can bitterly cling to that. *smirk*<br />
<br />
The real reason I want to win is that they give you a "crystal" apple that is engraved with 'Teacher of the Year' and your name. It sits on your desk, quietly and unobtrusively telling all that see it that you rock and they can just suck it. It is like a marathon t-shirt that you can 'wear' on your desk everyday.<br />
<br />
Sorry if that offends you. If you were thinking that I was not shallow or vain you have not been reading this blog very carefully. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPoELiklfhynbgrjCN4lxda1kWZ_8ZbMusTm3g8QmmbV7oZAwcDLpSf7JHpiJiXkLCc-DFSKThLoLngiq7_2enDrhrmw3XfWZ1dUzhaCDsMl3szqWu9CYl4lGu4-nAxOe1vG_CE2TT9Qw/s1600/crystal+apple+award+paperweight+14AAST-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="391" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPoELiklfhynbgrjCN4lxda1kWZ_8ZbMusTm3g8QmmbV7oZAwcDLpSf7JHpiJiXkLCc-DFSKThLoLngiq7_2enDrhrmw3XfWZ1dUzhaCDsMl3szqWu9CYl4lGu4-nAxOe1vG_CE2TT9Qw/s400/crystal+apple+award+paperweight+14AAST-lg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It probably cost $20 and is mass produced in some third world country by enslaved children, but I do not care. I want one, damn it. </i></div><br />
<b>Random musings in lieu of any real news: </b><br />
<br />
1. I am considering doing a nutritional "detox" to clear out the remnants of 2010 (<i>IMHO</i>, <i>it is a lot of voo doo BS with a small dose of science thrown in</i>,<i> but at least the one I am considering won't hurt me</i>. <i>Carefully check out any of these 'cleansing' products or programs. Anything that makes you shit neon green 15 times a day for 10 days is NOT good for you no matter what the Barbie doll on the infomercial says</i>)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrzNRuUVfCzNikQsB5QjKCmv9IKHPOkyi74vQSI4m6fcBtnGl2iZZxw5WJx4j31IMKST_CE52VtujdUiHtJSouuW8SoDbBkSRT9h55iC0G_dfBiVsscMIWBZY93PyanDgGUN7WKhrJexE/s1600/snake-oil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrzNRuUVfCzNikQsB5QjKCmv9IKHPOkyi74vQSI4m6fcBtnGl2iZZxw5WJx4j31IMKST_CE52VtujdUiHtJSouuW8SoDbBkSRT9h55iC0G_dfBiVsscMIWBZY93PyanDgGUN7WKhrJexE/s400/snake-oil.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I also want to cut back on the overly processed so called "white" carbohydrates that I adore so much and that make up at least 90% of my diet. <br />
<br />
I am a carbivore of the highest order. Supposedly cutting the amount of carbohydrates (<i>esp. highly processed carbohydrates, like say Hostess pies and Lorna Doone cookies...</i>) in your diet helps regulate blood sugar, fat accumulation (<i><a href="http://www.aleixo.com/biblioteca/obesidade/artigos/Understanding_Adipocyte_Differentiation.pdf">nerdy literature link on fat cell maturation</a></i>), and level out moods (<i>More nerdy links 1. <a href="http://www.scielo.br/pdf/bjmbr/v31n12/3323c.pdf">CHOs and brain chemistry</a> 2. <a href="http://wurtmanlab.mit.edu/static/pdf/649.pdf">CHOs and depression (specifically SAD)</a> </i>.<br />
<br />
At this point, I am willing to bite the head off a fucking chicken if it will help me shake even some of the batshit crazy off of me and, hell, if I can shave a few pounds off the ol' derriere in the process, win/win.<br />
<br />
2. I am sick to fucking death of the <a href="http://www.doh.state.fl.us/mqa/pharmacy/info_federallaw.pdf">Pseudoephedrine Law</a>. <i>(Pseudoephedrine (PSE) is the only nasal decongestant, short of </i><i>mainlining epinephrine, t</i><i>hat works worth a a shit. It is an <b>essential</b> ingredient (in my opinion) in cold and allergy medicine.)</i> This law was tacked on to the <i>Let's take away all civil liberties under the guise of "protecting freedom" </i> Act (also known as the Patriot Act). It's goal was to fight the war on methamphetamine production <i>(PSE can relatively easliy be converted into methamphetamine. I say 'relatively' because it takes some pretty serious chemicals and heat to accomplish this and you can be assured that anytime you hear an explosion in a trailer park it is some meth freak vaporizing himself and his miserable existence off the planet. To wit I say. "good fucking riddance") </i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpEIvicCBCKb8kNbKpIzaDJMtV__yBWTky_f3a8pKbohyphenhyphenL6cdboM4_6rZ_gOcqOxgigVz2VIreOyPp3YRxQEMGVr8Mvk63rO0_R3Uz8n_w3jU-BYIx0iNMNpLlEowl6Qvc5QATDInqs8/s1600/my+first+meth+lab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpEIvicCBCKb8kNbKpIzaDJMtV__yBWTky_f3a8pKbohyphenhyphenL6cdboM4_6rZ_gOcqOxgigVz2VIreOyPp3YRxQEMGVr8Mvk63rO0_R3Uz8n_w3jU-BYIx0iNMNpLlEowl6Qvc5QATDInqs8/s400/my+first+meth+lab.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Anyhoo.... this law limits the purchase of PSE to the equivalent of ten 24 hr pills per day and up to thirty 24 hr pills for a month AND makes it so you must go to the pharmacy counter to get it. This means that I have to return to the pharmacy every 10 days, stand behind 754 old people (<i>I am sorry, that was not very PC, I mean 'youth challenged' people</i>) that are complaining to the pharmacist about the price of hemorrhoid cream to get some goddamn decongestant.<br />
<br />
I am the reigning Snot Queen. I often need more than one 24 hour pill to continue breathing all day. I can currently buy Vicodin, Oxycontin, and Viagra without a prescription easier than I can get 'over-the-fucking-counter' allergy medicine.<br />
<br />
The meth dealers, by the way, are still churning out meth as fast as they make toothless zombies of their clientele. They just have to be sneakier about it and that raises the price of meth. I am sure that won't effect crime rates at all. When drug addicts need money for drugs they always find legal ways to do it, right? <br />
<br />
I wonder how effective meth is for congestion? I bet I can get a month supply of that in one purchase. Fucking assholes. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Lola Update - Trail Dog Project: Day 1</b><br />
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Ok, so maybe my prissy, little chihuahua mix is not the most logical choice for a trail dog. On Sunday we attempted our first trail "run." Run is a bit of an over statement, and from her first tentative steps off the sidewalk onto the uneven trail, her face looked like this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiGafG7l-e3HDZlW0qfCWiX-b7YOY3oQlVjv8s4HjBioJ1XSUP9KDR6oMO3L8cfgPk4nTWDnvNlwmjrK8lerkV4G7_kJ1WAMMpgFLpcrOq9d-ioHWQcee3gh5l1olmTGAR6rn44zefyG0/s1600/P4170168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiGafG7l-e3HDZlW0qfCWiX-b7YOY3oQlVjv8s4HjBioJ1XSUP9KDR6oMO3L8cfgPk4nTWDnvNlwmjrK8lerkV4G7_kJ1WAMMpgFLpcrOq9d-ioHWQcee3gh5l1olmTGAR6rn44zefyG0/s400/P4170168.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"For the love of all that is holy, please pick me up!" -Lola</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx538WbWfx5g3dooUsJgPnMcIvwQiaitC0Y25SOPC5BD0yo9Sd5FIzYlP3HxlOS12SjWVid8l91byzpzveJJyTl1MDycGt_XhAq3V_dZwi57EmVR1InCl271RT4Kx-ERJdF2cOVsIChBM/s1600/P4170167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx538WbWfx5g3dooUsJgPnMcIvwQiaitC0Y25SOPC5BD0yo9Sd5FIzYlP3HxlOS12SjWVid8l91byzpzveJJyTl1MDycGt_XhAq3V_dZwi57EmVR1InCl271RT4Kx-ERJdF2cOVsIChBM/s400/P4170167.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Her new campaign slogan for Couch Dog of the Year: </i>Lola! Shorter than grass<i>!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then she would occasionally stop dead in her tracks in an attempt to make it all end. Unfortunately my tiny canine friend did not pay attention in physics class, because her 5 lb ass was no match for my <i>*mumble mumble*</i> pound ass. <br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;"><b>Momentum = mass • velocity </b></span></b></h3></div>My velocity may not have been for shit, but my mass more than made up for it. This caused her furry little body to skip along behind me, her ears pinned back in a petulant pout. On a downhill section I even got a little 'yip' as she was jerked back into motion by her harness. <br />
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Rough day for Lola. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMXR9HfErjoISmYptM2mdQ5yH4H1FDpZDru64L5MXhY2Cug7ZcE91lD5A6EeSEFIUaMDmusLanWdSIQLdNEyLpdm48EdsKvdBWiiOOGH2c32HEtve4WiS8FSt7GbJXNf9LnvyUtv5LzY/s1600/P4170172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMXR9HfErjoISmYptM2mdQ5yH4H1FDpZDru64L5MXhY2Cug7ZcE91lD5A6EeSEFIUaMDmusLanWdSIQLdNEyLpdm48EdsKvdBWiiOOGH2c32HEtve4WiS8FSt7GbJXNf9LnvyUtv5LzY/s400/P4170172.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Can we go home now? My stories are on." - Lola</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Some pictures from the family outing to the beach</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxHoRMOaCD8wfH4WHL9yOv22pSrL5XYhyphenhyphenvy2JuqM2aXnIR1_8m7O7GiBr7deCXm-L6DmkJ9_u51P3zAlCi7INTtdt84Q1QCQm9ME8VN4Lo66dgSmLXh3iHxn6qLklSAwG3ta493V6NCsc/s1600/P4150161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxHoRMOaCD8wfH4WHL9yOv22pSrL5XYhyphenhyphenvy2JuqM2aXnIR1_8m7O7GiBr7deCXm-L6DmkJ9_u51P3zAlCi7INTtdt84Q1QCQm9ME8VN4Lo66dgSmLXh3iHxn6qLklSAwG3ta493V6NCsc/s400/P4150161.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Sand smells. Pick me up now." -Lola</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgb8EzG72Ini2H4OS8pK12GXDtsymfrYFBNmdOsdqxJey7sM4IcxPK6ayvpnEEJFJ7kwnbKd2v16m0XIAXJX140UNghzMAVWTrxPx5JU2Kb6ptZFPRU6tfTPCXmKhf5JGy3bilBaqSsik/s1600/P4150158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgb8EzG72Ini2H4OS8pK12GXDtsymfrYFBNmdOsdqxJey7sM4IcxPK6ayvpnEEJFJ7kwnbKd2v16m0XIAXJX140UNghzMAVWTrxPx5JU2Kb6ptZFPRU6tfTPCXmKhf5JGy3bilBaqSsik/s400/P4150158.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Still hate her. In case you were wondering." - Lucy</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>One last bit of non-news</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We had some issues with the hair. This is the new me for a while at least. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWEsrTnklu6HRqDhvoitkRBcGl2wQREPQUvAb6gBCD5HCrE-tgD4tkg11ZMC_561Ki8209tNx4BARMyT__5g5KF5OMNXTC3KQhxkKH3_X278vlM1fSDU7KDtwcW-YSDzokTQ1tYS1hcHs/s1600/CIMG0153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWEsrTnklu6HRqDhvoitkRBcGl2wQREPQUvAb6gBCD5HCrE-tgD4tkg11ZMC_561Ki8209tNx4BARMyT__5g5KF5OMNXTC3KQhxkKH3_X278vlM1fSDU7KDtwcW-YSDzokTQ1tYS1hcHs/s400/CIMG0153.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The blond streak is natural from a scar on my scalp. It does not take color well and we were trying to just cover up some really fucked up issues and protect it from further damage. I was not intentionally going for the Lilly Munster look. Upside, I have finally stopped gasping in horror when I see myself in the mirror and I have not cried about it since, well, yesterday. </i></div>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-86663643224650226352011-04-03T17:58:00.000-07:002011-04-03T17:58:22.751-07:0020 years is a long f-ing timeLet us escape to the 4th dimension so I can jump around wildly in time. <br />
<br />
<i>*shaky camera focuses on lame spiral while the hallmark 1960's-g</i><i>oing-back-in-time-'doooo dooo dooo' music plays* </i><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/-b5aW08ivHU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>It is March 31, 2011 </b></span><br />
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OK, I will give you that it is lame to go back in time for just a few days, but I had NO time to write and you, dear reader, got to dust off your white go-go boots and hear the 1960's time machine 'doooo dooo doooo' music, so quit your bitching. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9zWwJjC5DLHlzJm4QucX2DXrIIGnNIECeyVJ8_dy1LYrYEndim2fZx35TYM2wTH5tzS6rvVlPgEZCTJ88hGT36-7QxNEcf6cQhsun247Ey5GTu8KvR6SIJpVIwv4r1-29h7U0ScGGBT4/s1600/Nancy-Sinatra-Birthday-June-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9zWwJjC5DLHlzJm4QucX2DXrIIGnNIECeyVJ8_dy1LYrYEndim2fZx35TYM2wTH5tzS6rvVlPgEZCTJ88hGT36-7QxNEcf6cQhsun247Ey5GTu8KvR6SIJpVIwv4r1-29h7U0ScGGBT4/s400/Nancy-Sinatra-Birthday-June-8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzIoji65H0U4_JWWvNObazo7Ih9DLawtSAMOq8Ppp2eNrUHrcZP6h9vcfxZDv9wqDcw3uaGWk3hgfovcr9rHz0fjUhYhc8kDsRYJt2bw6fIEnlg5AjLAHmL8MEXUsMGEFpI5eN1l4LGE/s1600/Gogo+boots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>In my ten year old mind I looked like Nancy Sinatra in my go-go boots,... </i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/z4B0AY-sjRc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>but in reality I had more of a Miss Piggy thing going on. Whatevs.</i> </div><br />
It is important that this post be written on that exact date because March 31, 2011 is the day I celebrate 20 years clean and sober.<br />
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<i><b>Side Note:</b> Feel free to skip my self-congratulatory, mental vomitus and go to the end of this post. There is an announcement that you DO NOT WANT TO MISS</i>. <br />
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I will not go into a long, sappy monologue about how my life used to be and how much it changed over the time I have been clean (<i>I did that last year for my <a href="http://rbr-runbabyrun.blogspot.com/2010/03/ahhh-to-be-19-again.html">19 years</a> if you are really interested</i>) instead, I wanted to contrast my life today to the last time I celebrated this particular birthday.<br />
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<i>Yes,that means you have to get back in the time machine. Get a move on, please...</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjo5OgcV6t9FC3tU5JVGtkDhto3rz27_Rz9AZtEgMhaXZNnJIoV7YQYRu3IUPNRDTayze8IWNM3rDuYBaOAdxdcJs1wzwCymBt245biM_O28gduW64e04Rj3aiklkHJznCqBXZzH6Vy2k/s1600/1993055elagbmew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjo5OgcV6t9FC3tU5JVGtkDhto3rz27_Rz9AZtEgMhaXZNnJIoV7YQYRu3IUPNRDTayze8IWNM3rDuYBaOAdxdcJs1wzwCymBt245biM_O28gduW64e04Rj3aiklkHJznCqBXZzH6Vy2k/s400/1993055elagbmew.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Time Machine from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, circa 1989. This came out two years before I got clean so, yes, I was high as hell when I watched it. That is pretty much the required mental condition to endure any Keanu Reeves film anyway. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">So March 31, 2010<i>...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My husband had recently been diagnosed with aggressive prostate cancer, he had just started on hormone deprivation therapy (<i>essentially chemical castration to stop the progression of the cancer cells</i>), he was depressed and scared, and I was so terrified I thought I would lose my fucking mind. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then 2010 started to throw me curve ball after curve ball. The one downside to having wonderful people in your life that you love so much it makes you feel like your heart will stop is that when something bad happens to them you actually give a shit. That is painful and I am not a fan of feeling pain or most of the emotions associated with fearing for a loved one. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> I would love to tell you that I trudged bravely through all of the events of the last year with warrior-like stoicism, but, truthfully, I was a mess. Just a hot, fucking mess. I was closer to throwing it all away this time last year than I had ever been in the 19 years prior. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I have many people, including many that read this blog, to thank for helping me scoop up that hot mess, put it in a bag, and keep moving forward. Through this we both found that we had been taking a lot of things for granted and recommitted to both each other and the thing that made all of the rest of our life possible and eventually, and yes, I am sorry to say it, but 'one day at a time', (<i>it is ok for you to roll your eyes. I do when I hear that cornball cliche</i>) I got to today. Today is pretty goddamn good. It ain't perfect, but it is pretty goddamn good. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Today on March 31, 2011, hubby has completed treatment, is doing well, and is slowly getting back to where he feels like his old self. The rest of my friends and family are healthy and happy. My best friend in all the world is going to have a baby sometime very, very soon. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And me? I feel like the 6-ton elephant that was sitting on my chest has finally moved off. He will occasionally stand in the middle of the room as a reminder that we have still some major stuff going on, but at least I feel like I can breathe again. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9H2ZPZQXe-dXUHakUfDIu-qJckp5PJRZ2entW-WF9e7d1E17ZUQGrSxwexrxVk-buZssfQrYnPYQNOa5rSijZVfvxaq2PnUXp-j6ST0466buUkx_poLi32VfHd_PYVGXbu2GwsPOW2-s/s1600/elephant+0172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9H2ZPZQXe-dXUHakUfDIu-qJckp5PJRZ2entW-WF9e7d1E17ZUQGrSxwexrxVk-buZssfQrYnPYQNOa5rSijZVfvxaq2PnUXp-j6ST0466buUkx_poLi32VfHd_PYVGXbu2GwsPOW2-s/s400/elephant+0172.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I searched for images of 'elephant on my chest' and this came up. It never ceases to amaze me what idiots will have permanently inked on their skin. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Give me a call in 15 years, Sweetie, when that elephant looks more like a giraffe."</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i>All in all, I had a great birthday and celebrated with friends. They even got me my favorite cake <i>(Yes, Jo Lynn, I know owe you one of these cakes. I swear someday I will get you one!) </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMUJ0F2VSS9IsancL4RJWW_wMN20YayUa8zfrfg1UQ6iQg9cZ713OaeoXsq8_pHE7BRReppsYiqB4hdq5i5frrLmt5jG-5GhZNB_0Blm7Dg_Ol40B3eOl8K5XxQqIfoROzmdx20x-l_ns/s1600/CIMG0130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMUJ0F2VSS9IsancL4RJWW_wMN20YayUa8zfrfg1UQ6iQg9cZ713OaeoXsq8_pHE7BRReppsYiqB4hdq5i5frrLmt5jG-5GhZNB_0Blm7Dg_Ol40B3eOl8K5XxQqIfoROzmdx20x-l_ns/s400/CIMG0130.jpg" width="350" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>From <a href="http://www.akisbakery.com/">Aki's Bakery</a> in San Jose. It is white cake with whipped cream frosting and fresh strawberries and whip cream in the center. It does not sounds like the over-the-top decadent you have grown accustomed to on Run Bitch Run, but believe me it is SCREAMIN' !! </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Ok, back in the time machine for the for the BIG news... </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Now we are back at Tuesday, March 29, 2011. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I would like to introduce the newest member of our family</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">LOLA! </span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqX0M-KnRngpEvT9YLeKAkGhrC7Yauv_jEM_879Yq0nS_c4CzxVhV9tsA8bz3Ggi_IPdS_tiSigcajXRCAWOY7kaAulj9GHL6wsQy2K6ptiz3eAd7UkCXOma394LFn-57apb9OtMl1CY4/s1600/CIMG0131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqX0M-KnRngpEvT9YLeKAkGhrC7Yauv_jEM_879Yq0nS_c4CzxVhV9tsA8bz3Ggi_IPdS_tiSigcajXRCAWOY7kaAulj9GHL6wsQy2K6ptiz3eAd7UkCXOma394LFn-57apb9OtMl1CY4/s400/CIMG0131.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> This was taken about 15 minutes after we adopted her. I look like shit on a stick. Taking pictures of a nervous, wiggling puppy with piece of shit Palm Pixie cell phone camera, was harder than you would think and I imagine you think it would be pretty hard. I had to kind of squish her and it is still blurry. I have lots of shots of the car seat and the side of her body if you want to see those. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">She is a ~1 year old chihuahua mix that we adopted from <a href="http://www.staranimalrescue.org/">STAR Rescue</a>. (<i>I found her by searching on </i><a href="http://petfinder.com/">Petfinder.com</a>. <i>An easily searchable website that rescue organizations and shelters from all over the country can advertise their pets available for adoption on for free.</i>) We do not know much about her life before she ended up in rescue, but she was on the street and did not do well in the shelter and a very kind woman named Elizabeth from STAR Rescue came to foster her. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVn9jWolCuFvX3As76G50kI745aOM1CVwf0CRHDhXXioIbpQbfqF1S5AIHo72QQIQYX8kOUVFO5UGEUl6egI_w2Zy_17CAWgSqr014jkKqp-UOsXnMBp5qvTweSBcqY-GfZLxmkKt0Qv8/s1600/684A3718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVn9jWolCuFvX3As76G50kI745aOM1CVwf0CRHDhXXioIbpQbfqF1S5AIHo72QQIQYX8kOUVFO5UGEUl6egI_w2Zy_17CAWgSqr014jkKqp-UOsXnMBp5qvTweSBcqY-GfZLxmkKt0Qv8/s400/684A3718.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Steppin' out at the park this morning. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">She is tiny (<i>MUCH smaller than I ever thought I would have. 5.25 lbs.</i>) she is a little shy, but I <b>will</b> make a trail dog out of her. This weekend I focused on letting her settle in and we went to the park twice a day, and to an event held at <a href="http://www.downtowndogs.com/events.asp">Downtown Dogs called a Small Dog Social</a>. <i>(yes, I am one of THOSE people. When anyone asks, "Who spends money on shit like that for their dog?" I am that 'who'.</i>)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SB6wF5HOJl7M65YNFNEaY4jxRoTyygpk_Bo6g1I9rHxHUHAQCGjlWYJtfuto6cKO6gpc9vF0sN4XgS_4tZYOzbl_iOAq6Un2zRL8atql3gHCpJSE037FVSeuVCO1iyXSyuW6b-qCXD4/s1600/684A3749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SB6wF5HOJl7M65YNFNEaY4jxRoTyygpk_Bo6g1I9rHxHUHAQCGjlWYJtfuto6cKO6gpc9vF0sN4XgS_4tZYOzbl_iOAq6Un2zRL8atql3gHCpJSE037FVSeuVCO1iyXSyuW6b-qCXD4/s400/684A3749.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Hanging with her big sister, Lucy. I LOVE Lucy's body language in this picture. I put her in a stay and that stance is how she could technically be in a stay to get her treat and still be as far away from the puppy as possible. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The Small Dog Social was a lot of fun and I was really proud of how well Lola did. We will go back next weekend. I am also going to take her out on the trails either this week or next weekend and start getting her used to running with me. So expect puppy pictures <i>ad nauseum</i>. I am also checking out different dog trainers and we will start puppy classes on April 20th. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I had minor surgery last week, but it was enough to keep me off the treadmill. I am going to try my first run tomorrow and see how I am feeling. The next run I am planning on right now is the <a href="http://www.brazenracing.com/wildcat.html">WildCat 1/2 Marathon</a> on April 30. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-76868118068317956902011-03-17T04:10:00.000-07:002011-03-17T04:11:50.421-07:00Recent things that made my heart happySometimes I am overwhelmed by the truly amazing things and people in my life. I did absolutely nothing to deserve any of it. As a matter of fact, for a good portion of my life I actively campaigned to ensure that my life would be as miserable as possible, but nonetheless, there are times when I get that 'almost can't breathe' feeling that I recognize as my soul smiling.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdO0R1QEv7V1sNjsmEoDv-jO0t93FpuDr4haQevPmbAabWq9FjBnxnfoRGqb4K62It9e1QusLRGPDDMjsuq6oPaq0QBonJR5mY3DMge1dAkuqN5N9lZHFKrhrhOogp_yaVdZDb1Yvswn8/s1600/snoopy_happy_dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdO0R1QEv7V1sNjsmEoDv-jO0t93FpuDr4haQevPmbAabWq9FjBnxnfoRGqb4K62It9e1QusLRGPDDMjsuq6oPaq0QBonJR5mY3DMge1dAkuqN5N9lZHFKrhrhOogp_yaVdZDb1Yvswn8/s400/snoopy_happy_dance.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>I always felt that Charles Schultz captured pure joy in this image. Yeah, yeah, it is corny. Bite me. </i></div><br />
1. <b>The sound of my husband and dog snoring in stereo. It is a safe, content, reassuring sound. <i> </i></b><br />
<br />
<i>(Ok, in the interest of proving that this post is not the work of some pollyanna hacking RBR's blog and blowing smoke up your collective asses, this particular "appreciation" is situational. There are times when that sound makes me I want to shove my fingers up his nostrils until he thrashes violently awake, but tonight it is a safe and reassuring sound.)</i><br />
<br />
2. <b><a href="http://fourinoneblog.blogspot.com/2011/03/gothcha-day.html">This post. </a> </b><br />
<br />
Even if you could give two shits about the Phillies, and I certainly fall into that camp, your soul is just a little dead and, really, you may be a fucking sociopath if reading that post does not make you misty eyed and restore your faith in humankind.<br />
<br />
3. <b>It is looking more and more like R is going to graduate. </b>He tries to act like he is not proud and it is no big deal, but his little boy smile belies that. I can't talk when he does that. It makes a lump in my throat.<br />
<br />
I have never written about R and will only do so in an abstract way now, but he was in my class three years ago and is now a senior. He is one of many of my students that got dealt a crapfest of a hand in life. High school graduation was never assumed for him. It was never viewed as the insignificant stepping stone to college as it was for me and many other people. He wears the uniform of the apathetic, thug-ish teen, but underneath that scraggly-ass ponytail, oversized black sweatshirt, and absurdly sagging jeans, is a really great human. I am already stocking up on Kleenex. I am going to be a blubbering mess when that kid crosses the stage to <i>Pomp and Circumstance</i>. He will be the first in his family to graduate from high school on time, with a full fledged diploma (not a GED), no children, and no (significant) police record. <br />
<br />
4. <b> The pink rhinoceros/dragon thing that sits on my desk and Eddy bought me at the grocery store that was trying to offload leftover Valentine's Day crap. </b><br />
<br />
He does not realize that he bought it for me on our 20th anniversary. He just thought it would make me smile. I like having someone that thinks about me like that. I also like the thought of my bad ass, tattooed husband walking through the store carrying a pink rhinoceros/dragon thing. (<i>In his defense, our 20th anniversary date is a tad arbitrary and was hallmarked 20 years ago by being the day I left the guy I was seeing for Eddy. I viewed men like jobs, you do not live the old one until you have a new one</i>. <i>I know, tacky. Lighten up, Mr/Ms Judgey-pants, I was 21.</i>) <br />
<br />
5. <b>Tuesday I had one of those effortless, completely pain-free runs.</b><br />
<br />
It was not far, it was not fast, it was even on the fucking treadmill, but it was a '<i>I can run like this forever!</i>' run. Glorious. I needed one of those. I call those runs the 'first crack hit' of running. For those of you that do not smoke crack (<i>*eyeroll* Squares!</i>) the first crack hit is the only good one (from what I am told) and it is what keeps addicts chasing the high. After that, you start to suffer holding on to the delusion that if you keep doing it you will feel that way again (<i>and subsequently, you blow your rent money, your kid's college fund, 75% of your brain cells, start bargaining with your dealer about how much he will give you for a kidney.... you know, every hobby has its price</i>)<br />
<br />
Ok, enough of that, I am even making myself a little ill.RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-33593716807670610122011-03-08T11:49:00.000-08:002011-03-08T11:50:17.082-08:00The vile, the verminous, and the vacuous*The little bastards got me sick again. I have only been sick once this year, and being as how high school teachers are second only to pre-school teachers and inner city needle exchange program volunteers in their exposure to an inconceivable number of pathogens, that is a bloody miracle (<i>RBR now swearing in multiple dialects!</i>)<i>. </i><br />
<br />
However, I feel as if I must add, my <i>snottastic</i> self may be why I did not run <i>this</i> morning, but it is NOT why I have not run in a little over 2 weeks. I did have gum surgery which was, in a word, FUCKED. (Shut up, <a href="http://fourinoneblog.blogspot.com/">G</a>)<i> </i>But<i> </i>I am not sure why I have not run other than that.<br />
<br />
Therefore, in the interest of getting my famously, fat fanny*: 1. less fat and 2. back out on the trail where it belongs, I thought I would out my lethargic self (Again, shut it, <a href="http://fourinoneblog.blogspot.com/">G</a>) on the old blog since it is here gathering dust.<br />
<br />
In lieu of running, I offer you randomness... <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Things I wish I had said recently</b>....</span><br />
<br />
1. "Wait, let me stop your blowing sunshine up my ass. If you are complimenting me as a way to segue into asking me to be on any committees, advisory councils, development boards, working groups, or planning boards the answer is...<br />
<br />
...NOT ON YOUR MOTHERFUCKING LIFE! <br />
<br />
But thank you for thinking of me." <br />
<br />
<b>What I actually said was:</b> Sure. I can do that. <i>Fucking hell. </i><br />
<br />
2. "Why, yes, I have lost weight, thank you for noticing. What? That is not what you meant by 'Man, you look tired'? My mistake. I thought you were a socially competent person."<br />
<br />
<b>What I actually said was:</b> <i>*awkward laugh*</i> I guess I have been burning the candle at both ends. <i>*awkward laugh*</i><br />
<br />
3. "Stepping closer to me and talking louder does not make you right. It makes you a fucking asshole, but it does not make you right."<br />
<br />
<b>What I actually said was:</b> I guess we should agree to disagree. <i>What a pussy I am *eyeroll* </i><br />
<br />
4. "No, thank you, I do not want any today, but I would like to be able to enter the grocery store without feeling like I am selling children into the sex slave trade by not buying any of your fucking cookies."<br />
<br />
<b>What I actually said was:</b> Sure. I will take 4 boxes. <i>Fucking Girl Scout Gestapo </i><br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>*My apologies to known self-blog title-loathing, alliteration hater, <a href="http://stevequick.blogspot.com/">SQ</a>. </i>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-60164084595438741452011-02-27T00:02:00.000-08:002011-02-27T00:02:11.632-08:00Is it a sin....?To covet thy neighbor's dog?<br />
<br />
Meet my sponsor's new puppy Luna (short for <i>luna</i>tic)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI35A4g77i5jDqQ6HZOlBJQfSLqlwWENk3TaAeLxsd01z5dZK_eu4MPNUvBu46dc6gR1qvDiPwhNA-xzeReiJABDLGDmR32TERgKzt1AFu4-Inros7QSzcgkJ0laAqQNAmG_x-0yvGMqo/s1600/CIMG0104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI35A4g77i5jDqQ6HZOlBJQfSLqlwWENk3TaAeLxsd01z5dZK_eu4MPNUvBu46dc6gR1qvDiPwhNA-xzeReiJABDLGDmR32TERgKzt1AFu4-Inros7QSzcgkJ0laAqQNAmG_x-0yvGMqo/s400/CIMG0104.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Taken on her first hike with Auntie RBR. Some say "Auntie", some say "puppynapper". Toe-<i>may</i>-toe, Toe-<i>mah</i>-toe. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Luna is an 8-month old, terrier mix puppy that my sponsor adopted from <a href="http://www.narfrescue.org/">NARF (Nike Animal Rescue Foundation)</a>. She is stubborn, crazy, destructive, and I am totally and completely IN. LOVE. WITH. HER. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lG6CmwSEu_icIyvlt_wBG7HYD35yABc4_3ju6itk91ORHXIDL_9IV7NJ71IyODbF165dg4KQ2E4Qhu8F_cNGuuf8mYqSGk_kus6HqBp-7uqOMyH6qTYnTqdOEzD0OzlWANoOQ46f-YU/s1600/CIMG0093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lG6CmwSEu_icIyvlt_wBG7HYD35yABc4_3ju6itk91ORHXIDL_9IV7NJ71IyODbF165dg4KQ2E4Qhu8F_cNGuuf8mYqSGk_kus6HqBp-7uqOMyH6qTYnTqdOEzD0OzlWANoOQ46f-YU/s400/CIMG0093.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Couldn't you just die of the cuteness? Yes, I am holding a dog snack above her nose, but I prefer to think she would look just as adoringly at me without it. </i></div><br />
My sponsor lost Roadie, her 11 year old Rhodesian Ridgeback mix, about 4 months ago when he suddenly went into liver failure, stopped eating and had to be euthanized. Not to speak ill of the dead, and if you have read this blog you know that animals are very important to me, I love them all, but her dog, ....<br />
<br />
was a seriously dangerous, NUT JOB.<br />
<br />
Let's just say, that if anyone less kind, loving, and compassionate than my sponsor owned him he would have been guarding the gates of hell a LONG time ago. In the interest of fairness, she has been my sponsor for almost 20 years now, I imagine if I had not also found her, you could say the very same thing about me. <br />
<br />
My sponsor picked up Roadie (<i>on the road, hence the name. Plus her husband is in a band. I know, I rolled my eyes too at the "coolness"</i>) as a lost 4 month old puppy. She was headed out of town for the weekend, so she asked me to take care of him for a few days. In that time I could tell that Roadie, even as a young puppy, had some dominance and aggression issues and I warned her that it was imperative that he be trained and socialized or he would be a problem. As it turned out, I was right. REALLY right. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwtBfiwAdH6Rz2t-eWzBFMx4Y1-IYwT9owU5zAy-LkhRd7Qto23KIpxDQls0qhBuQtEBLQ-p180unmMqOrlEa7xG9a4LYNLkY8NSQh3wTXthNfeqx1UqZKdH0Cylx3rLxpG2gA-hcktI/s1600/656f39c4-2926-4112-aa26-c3c014b2ed23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwtBfiwAdH6Rz2t-eWzBFMx4Y1-IYwT9owU5zAy-LkhRd7Qto23KIpxDQls0qhBuQtEBLQ-p180unmMqOrlEa7xG9a4LYNLkY8NSQh3wTXthNfeqx1UqZKdH0Cylx3rLxpG2gA-hcktI/s400/656f39c4-2926-4112-aa26-c3c014b2ed23.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Boston Terrier doing his best Anthony Hopkins. Priceless</i>. <i>Difference is Roadie was almost 100 pounds of psychopathic pooch. </i></div><br />
<br />
My sponsor grew up on a farm where you let dogs, be dogs and she did not really see the importance of training. She also thought I was a bit obsessive about training with Lucy and that Lucy was overly controlled by me.<br />
<br />
Not to be snarky, but I can have people over to my house and I am reasonably confident my dog will not rip their throats out if they make eye contact with her. If that is "overly controlled" I am ok with that.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7utvqUD_LwJ2_KCNhUs2Gdw7pOlMAM1TxwiPqbd3pZfNyfHPI6i2dOlAjBW-xukjoLEQKMUoGNayLg9WZBEi-Jtb2P3bqSi2AgB0tKmAl-ESbvI-x-1y5Tum6XDtJzN6niXAFw1_PcUQ/s1600/Picture+276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7utvqUD_LwJ2_KCNhUs2Gdw7pOlMAM1TxwiPqbd3pZfNyfHPI6i2dOlAjBW-xukjoLEQKMUoGNayLg9WZBEi-Jtb2P3bqSi2AgB0tKmAl-ESbvI-x-1y5Tum6XDtJzN6niXAFw1_PcUQ/s400/Picture+276.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> OK, fine, maybe she is a wee bit 'overly controlled.' </i></div><br />
Anyhoo.... my sponsor wanted to avoid having that type of dog in her home for the next 11 years, so I was THRILLED that when she was ready to adopt she told me repeatedly that she would listen to anything I said and wanted me to help her pick her new dog. <br />
<br />
Enter, Luna<br />
<br />
We met her at a pet fair and she was the perfect dog for my sponsor and her family and ...<br />
<br />
...for me. *sigh* <br />
<br />
Before our hike we did a short walk at the park with Ms. Lucy (<i>At 13 years young, Lucy is not much of a hiker anymore</i>, <i>but she was a BEAST in her day</i>) and Luna was a perfect respectful young lady. She could blend right in to the family.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqW5pcquwWxM01aLqHtRyczz8hsNgWz96wWXTA7cAS-2ChMAh6B77J2ihFD3j9id7rauSfUlE_kZ2PKplnjyjGhxR4qAGetRmRjMO89h-ryE4Xir9LRRQGypBwwhMAiqUIsU2V1BczSLw/s1600/CIMG0100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqW5pcquwWxM01aLqHtRyczz8hsNgWz96wWXTA7cAS-2ChMAh6B77J2ihFD3j9id7rauSfUlE_kZ2PKplnjyjGhxR4qAGetRmRjMO89h-ryE4Xir9LRRQGypBwwhMAiqUIsU2V1BczSLw/s400/CIMG0100.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>See?! She loves me! </i></div><br />
Like the wingman that watches his buddy leave with the hot girl he spotted first and chatted up while screening for signs of excess emotional baggage or Fatal Attraction tendencies, I must sit idly by and watch MY dog go to puppy class with my sponsor. <br />
<br />
I have a full blown case of puppy fever. <br />
<br />
Hubby says, 'no', but this ain't my first rodeo. Stay tuned.RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-89541143219882695432011-02-17T10:12:00.000-08:002011-02-17T10:13:58.154-08:00I am not okay.The following is a conversation with a coworker that has been known to describe me to others as an 'unstable hot-head', but before you shed too many tears at my expense, I have been known to describe him to <i>him</i> as a 'self-important prick.'<br />
<br />
I am more of a <i>cut-out-the-middle-man</i> kind of gal when it comes to gossip and slander, and quite possibly an unstable, hot-head.<br />
<br />
<b>SIP:</b> Hi, RBR! How are you? <i>(He is not excited to see me, he needs something. Usually, if we are unfortunate enough to make eye contact we exchange head nods.)</i><br />
<br />
<b>RBR <i>*struggling to get copy machine to accept the science department code*</i>:</b> I am fine. How are you, SIP?<br />
<br />
<b>SIP:</b> Good, but, boy, I am sooooo busy.... <i>[goes into long winded soliloquy about all the meetings and activities he is doing this year, in typical martyred teacher fashion. I would list them for you, but I stopped listening immediately after asking my question]</i><br />
<br />
<b>RBR</b><i><b> *muttering to copier as it eats my originals*:</b></i> Motherfucking, piece of shit....<br />
<br />
<i>I start repeatedly pressing clear button with more vehemence than is really necessary</i><br />
<br />
<b>SIP:</b> You sure you are ok?<br />
<br />
<b>RBR:</b> I am fine. What can I do for you? <br />
<br />
<i>I kick copier as it jams and the screen gives me convoluted instructions as to how to make it happy again. </i><i>"Open door at 'A', slide 'B' to the right, to clear paper passage at 'C', while standing on one leg and reciting the Gettysburg Address in Swahili...."</i><br />
<br />
<b>SIP:</b> As I think you know, I am on the <i>Blah, blah, blah committee</i>, where we sit around pontificate, kiss each other's asses, and never accomplish a fucking thing other than to waste time and try to sound important, ... Well, we have our meetings on Thursdays. I was wondering if you could cover my <i>[insert his laundry list of Thursday night afterhours commitments]</i> the first of which is tonight.<br />
<br />
<i>(ok, he did not say all that but he did try to offload THREE commitments in one fell swoop, which is very assholish, IMHO)</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Meanwhile the copier refuses to take three of my originals and starts printing tests are missing 3 pages while making a godawful noise. </i><br />
<br />
<b>RBR:</b> GODDAMN IT!<br />
<br />
<i>I punch the copier lid hard enough to make the godawful noise worsen. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Super</i><br />
<br />
<i>I start to bang my head on the copier.</i><br />
<br />
<b>RBR <i>*turns to SIP, now looking like I am going to cry*</i>:</b> What? What do you want me to do for you?<br />
<br />
<b>SIP:</b> Uh, nothing,but I don't think you are 'ok', though. <br />
<br />
I think it is important to note that my personal life has taken a bit of a hit as of late, I was up at my latest weigh in, I am about to start my period, and it is raining today. The later is significant in that California schools do not have enclosed hallways. They are little more than glorified overhangs. Therefore, if it is windy your journey to the main office results in you getting soaked through and the rain plastering your bangs to your forehead giving you the <i>oh-so-hot</i> drown rat appearance. Plus my extra warm fleece is no longer 'extra warm' and smells a bit like wet dog. It is currently 6:45 am. *sigh* <br />
<br />
Fine. I am not okay, but at least I do not have any extra Thursday night duties to cover. Being an unstable, hot-head has its advantages.RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-35887748119358802162011-02-07T09:22:00.000-08:002011-02-07T09:24:28.673-08:00Race Report: Coyote Hills 10k trail Run - January 29 , 2011Two Saturday's ago I ran Brazen Racing's Coyote Hills 10k with my buddy <a href="http://singletrackjunkie.blogspot.com/">Jo Lynn</a>. It was a great race<br />
<br />
(<i>Full disclosure: It was a tad over crowded for my taste. I have no idea what the costs of putting on a race like this and trying to eek out a living are, so I am not going to judge how many sign ups they allowed. But I will say I would have preferred less people on a course that had an out and back trail section. As usual though, they had plenty of support and the race ran as smoothly as I have come to expect from their races, but it felt more like a crowded road race than a trail race IMHO)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBawrbs-1yuaNfWc_ZB8PhEhk49ypSBohkPS-RtKzs7nAT9adoTd-q4UsDykMrONqiWr8FbJuzJdnOkEWfkKd_k6YVDEbQ72IYu-otRcxIc7ZMv2gs3QGsW0BA-Rh5HDKmD883qP5hRQs/s1600/P1290148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBawrbs-1yuaNfWc_ZB8PhEhk49ypSBohkPS-RtKzs7nAT9adoTd-q4UsDykMrONqiWr8FbJuzJdnOkEWfkKd_k6YVDEbQ72IYu-otRcxIc7ZMv2gs3QGsW0BA-Rh5HDKmD883qP5hRQs/s400/P1290148.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jo Lynn and I posing with the Dumbarton Rock Quarry (<i>aka a big, fucking hole in the ground</i>) behind us.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
After 2 weeks of spring-like weather here in California I was having trouble adjusting to the cold. (<i>I am certain that those of you who had to chisel your way out of your homes to go to work after last week's ice storms back east are flipping me off right now</i>. <i>My apologies. The ridiculous property taxes on my 900 sq ft house would make you feel better, I assure you.</i>)<br />
<br />
I do not have much to say about this race. It was nice. I love running with Jo Lynn. I got to see my buddies <a href="http://punkrocktriguy.blogspot.com/">Ron</a> and <a href="http://one-run-at-a-time.blogspot.com/">Katie</a> (<i>who have thrown my old, fat ass over and now run together without me. hmpf)</i>. But were there any funny stories? Not really.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTrf0-_lvViw3VXfQUGHBhL9OGKVQnckiW56j7-XGv-b2jh12Kpjdi2U3e0Pcc-_2snmtGQcd9U9o2F63SdPCZTg1Rf6qToYylKzCN5RI_xsWWZcTwG-lhDiWIp0BvDDFi_GgpScu6PU/s1600/_DSC0409+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTrf0-_lvViw3VXfQUGHBhL9OGKVQnckiW56j7-XGv-b2jh12Kpjdi2U3e0Pcc-_2snmtGQcd9U9o2F63SdPCZTg1Rf6qToYylKzCN5RI_xsWWZcTwG-lhDiWIp0BvDDFi_GgpScu6PU/s400/_DSC0409+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>RBR, Katie, and Jo Lynn</b></i> *</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">*Yes, I cropped the shit out of this picture. There was a concern I would be charged with spandex abuse for what those poor shorts had to do to cover my ass. <i><b> </b></i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>*Notably missing Ron and RBR pic* </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I do not have a cute pic of Ron and I to post. I am not self confident enough to post pictures that I can not crop into acceptability. Sorry. Next race big guy! </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I did not even get an It's It after the race. *<i>collective Awwwww! from the audience</i>*<br />
<br />
Let me clarify, lest you think that either 1. I was too slow, even at the 10k distance, to finish before they ran out of It's Its. or 2. I found "God," have sworn off all high fat, low nutrient foods, opting to "fuel" my body and eat only for function not pleasure, choosing lean meats and dark, leafy gree...<br />
<br />
Hoo! I can not even<i> type</i> that with a straight face! <br />
<br />
So, no. That is not why. Actually, I am doing pretty well on my diet and 6 miles is not enough calorie burn to justify the 340 calories and 18 grams of fat in an It's It. (<i>Ok, I will be totally honest I just looked that fact up. I thought it was more like 600 calories and had I known it was only 340 I may have gone for it. So Brazen, keep an Its It on ice for me at the next race)</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFk8u5-vyd2w4CaL-y1hQn-A204a3mk3bxM1w198NkKFDGkrYaIGeXa0OsmKYReSfx8Z47dZJwKmwLW7VNY47HpQlAl7NusnsIP7HA9wpX3UOH68WepwL_9Dt7plFaPdkKBXmc0JRoiVQ/s1600/4592035274_e30139809a_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFk8u5-vyd2w4CaL-y1hQn-A204a3mk3bxM1w198NkKFDGkrYaIGeXa0OsmKYReSfx8Z47dZJwKmwLW7VNY47HpQlAl7NusnsIP7HA9wpX3UOH68WepwL_9Dt7plFaPdkKBXmc0JRoiVQ/s400/4592035274_e30139809a_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reminder of the ice cream-y deliciousness that is an It's It! </td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Reminders of why I do my job/In case you forgot I was a nerd</b></i></span><br />
<br />
I often bitch and moan about my job, but occasionally I get reminders of how really, really cool my job is.<br />
<br />
<b>End of the semester gift:</b><i><b> </b></i>My students presented me with an end of the semester gift. It was supposed to be a Christmas gift, but it did not arrive in time. Yes, loving this shirt as much as I do makes me a nerd. The fact that I wear it ALL THE TIME makes me an <i>uber</i>-nerd! I an ok with that<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKvZYCYmDVjdrGdnQaXP8XbW9nCCxDN4AenatzGrCkLAwbO0-qRyIMeL-qJUBNm3d2TJ6TmbBDGQaEW82WHh1eMtsq6Q0Ys1NkKauM8MFw-fcS5yfCF2K8Q-T22Fu44qaYV2Gi8k1h6y0/s1600/CIMG0059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKvZYCYmDVjdrGdnQaXP8XbW9nCCxDN4AenatzGrCkLAwbO0-qRyIMeL-qJUBNm3d2TJ6TmbBDGQaEW82WHh1eMtsq6Q0Ys1NkKauM8MFw-fcS5yfCF2K8Q-T22Fu44qaYV2Gi8k1h6y0/s400/CIMG0059.jpg" width="352" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How awesome is this shirt?! </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<b>At last weekend's lab</b> (<i>To my fellow teachers: Yes, my students are so dedicated they come in on Saturday morning to do labs! It is ok to hate me.</i>)<br />
<br />
The students created squash prep slides of garlic root tips and then stained them to look at the phases of Mitosis. This is not as easy as it sounds. In a world of such easy access to excellent visual images made by the most advanced technology, students are often underwhelmed by what we can create in the classroom. It is a different story when they get to struggle to with tougher techniques like doing a squash prep thing enough to see individual cells yet not so hard that you create a hot mess of cell parts, or driving stain through the cell wall of plant cells to stain the DNA without destroying the rest of the cell and turning the whole damn thing blue, which was their task for one part of the lab: <br />
<br />
<b>Student <i>*grumbles*</i>:</b> This is my fourth slide! If it is messed up again, can I just Google it to draw the picture?<br />
<br />
<b>Ms. RBR <i>*looking through microscope</i>*:</b> DUDE! <i>(I know, I am the paragon of professionalism)</i> That is beautiful! Let me get my camera! <br />
<br />
<b>Student *<i>trying to hide proud smile</i>*:</b> Finally. God.<br />
<br />
<b>Ms. RBR *<i>taking a picture of the microscope field</i>*:</b> Quit whining and look. (<i>Ok, and paragon of patience as well) </i><br />
<br />
<b>Student *<i>looking into scope</i>*:</b> Whoa. That is kind of cool.Can you email me that picture? I want to show my mom.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_3ehdFJQHJlGoQ2Q8O9r9goNAgOf3ke9M43N4zxyoEiQGuom8T-8Z_M1GHXgROvXrdA2DnOD-saGMxe8nip7z0X7NP5NUhMlLTZ7afOZiN2c8hA21YCSVx8QfI5bf15jZZX00yiOKro/s1600/P1220144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_3ehdFJQHJlGoQ2Q8O9r9goNAgOf3ke9M43N4zxyoEiQGuom8T-8Z_M1GHXgROvXrdA2DnOD-saGMxe8nip7z0X7NP5NUhMlLTZ7afOZiN2c8hA21YCSVx8QfI5bf15jZZX00yiOKro/s400/P1220144.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken with my pink point and shoot camera that I just held up to the eyepiece. Pretty cool, huh? The pointer is on a cell in telophase of mitosis. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<i><b>Bits and pieces:</b></i><br />
<br />
My heart is breaking for a dear friend going through a very tough time. I think they know I would do anything to make it better, but I guess that only time can do that. Love to you, buddy.<br />
<br />
LA Run buddy is now well into her third trimester. Due date is April 16th. She is uncomfortable as one would expect with an almost 8 month old human nestled within her intestines, and routinely doing the macarena on her bladder. She still exercises 4 times a week, works like a beast, and is the funniest and most loving and beautiful person I know. I have to throw a fucking baby shower and I hate <i>attending</i> baby showers, much less throwing one, but since I do not have to make the human or push it out my hoo ha I will keep my whining about it to a minimum. <br />
<br />
My depression is improving.<br />
<br />
Jo Lynn and I ran a great 8 miler yesterday (<i>ok, 'great' is strong. I tried to bail at 3 miles and she would not let me</i>, <i>but we got it done</i>) and are running the <a href="http://www.pctrailruns.com/event.aspx?dtid=9900">PCTR 20k at Lake Chabot</a> on February 20th. <br />
<br />
I have chosen a spring marathon <a href="http://www.theave.org/">Avenue of the Giants Marathon on May 1st.</a> (<i>Although, I would rather be heading to Wisconsin to run <a href="http://marinette-lucyfan.blogspot.com/">Diana's</a> first marathon with her *sniff* I just can not make it happen this year. I will be there in spirit, girl! You will rock it!)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Ok, that is enough randomness for one day...RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-10145049276526270792011-01-24T21:55:00.000-08:002011-01-24T22:12:33.510-08:00When we last left our hero....Sorry about my impromptu hiatus. I just got a tad overwhelmed with work and such. I did want to post an update since I am sure you all have been losing sleep wondering what the hell has been going on in my FASCINATING life: <br />
<br />
1. The "<i>Could-not-find-their-own-ass-with-two-hands</i> United Airlines who lost my luggage, canceled my claim calling it "resolved", then dicked me around for 3 and a half more weeks" Saga: <br />
<br />
They found my luggage! A mere month after my own arrival home, my beloved pink Puma hat is home safe and sound. Although it, along with everything else in my luggage, smells a bit like overripe pineapple. (<i>Mental note: Next time leave the stupid pineapple in the hotel</i>.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IWIGW46ewbTrEYcjwAPwd4ECP_1Dyy7Ispead3uPg9Rv7uHUq4vzVWm4EyrS6RJkGy3Kjnuahaeo_h78NVnl8dFrlrqUQuZ9bz2aD49HJv-z0y9MIiMcvD3Q15HfY4fvU5VrGk76_Jg/s1600/20081030_aphex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IWIGW46ewbTrEYcjwAPwd4ECP_1Dyy7Ispead3uPg9Rv7uHUq4vzVWm4EyrS6RJkGy3Kjnuahaeo_h78NVnl8dFrlrqUQuZ9bz2aD49HJv-z0y9MIiMcvD3Q15HfY4fvU5VrGk76_Jg/s400/20081030_aphex.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> This is wrong. I should not find this funny or cute. Nor should I endorse the taking of such a picture by putting it on my blog. </i></div><br />
2. I have a student teacher this semester. By time second semester comes around I am running around like my ass is on fire with AP and the state standardized exams looming, committee commitments coming to a head, and teenage educational apathy is reaching its mid-year crescendo.<br />
<br />
I am hoping that a bright eyed, eager beaver newbie teacher will shame me into getting my shit together. As I have said, my ego is probably the only reason I have accomplished anything in my life.<br />
<br />
Yeah, yeah.. it is supposed to be about the children and their education... blah, blah, blah...<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, while my first semester curriculum is neatly organized in folders on my hard drive, with a neatly maintained binder of student handout originals, lesson plans, and standards alignment on my desk, my second semester curriculum is a veritable hot mess. From the end of January to June, I find myself scrambling when planning to find something, and more often than I care to admit, just recreating activities and lessons out of frustration. I figured a student teacher would force me to get my second semester stuff in order like my first semester curriculum. <br />
<br />
I view my decision to take on a student teacher akin to those people that get a puppy so they will exercise. I just hope she does not end up a fat, untrained Labrador locked in the backyard. <br />
<br />
I do have to share a "fun" student interaction when I introduced my young, beautiful student teacher to the class:<br />
<br />
<b>Ms. RBR:</b> Everyone, I would like to introduce Miss. K...<br />
<br />
<b>Student in front row:</b> Is she your daughter?<br />
<br />
<i>I look up at my student teacher who stands a foot and a half taller than me, has bright blue eyes, dark brown hair, and legs up to her neck. </i><br />
<br />
<b>Ms. RBR in her best arrogant asshole, teacher voice:</b> No, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gregor_Mendel">Mendel</a>, this is our new student teacher. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnp5tFhkan1D7sNdRvZUf5oU6wGGPQZ0QvumOshbhPDKKk_YBuHjQrfkx25Vdp_SGeeLThNORwRbWcNccHY-Q0TYTwVzLi_Fk8vU0Uo4abMq2SmuvSNPdzH11n_u1gz30roL9p9BNygaQ/s1600/funny-pictures-zebra-donkey-family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnp5tFhkan1D7sNdRvZUf5oU6wGGPQZ0QvumOshbhPDKKk_YBuHjQrfkx25Vdp_SGeeLThNORwRbWcNccHY-Q0TYTwVzLi_Fk8vU0Uo4abMq2SmuvSNPdzH11n_u1gz30roL9p9BNygaQ/s400/funny-pictures-zebra-donkey-family.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>*sigh* Clearly I did a bang up job teaching the concept of heredity.</i> </div><br />
<br />
3. My tooth woes: I had my double root canal last week. It was about as fun as ... well, ... a fucking double root canal.<br />
<br />
Lucky for me it is only half done and I get to go back next Monday to finish both teeth. Then I get to schedule the gum surgery and the crowns. It is the gift that keeps on giving.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvgHXVRTPaAtafXQdPB6RgPuqULURHBgGhOIEKe79s5G24u1r8ZEQh4j7BLBYzYvb5_f9uzwlzVuMLXgijdE2J_SkDVLs-fMhq5umv-zZNfmfYmr8VXTzjZSKczhbNrztzJYnR-kMLr_0/s1600/61-wheMZkSL._SL500_AA300_PIbundle-5%252CTopRight%252C0%252C0_AA300_SH20_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvgHXVRTPaAtafXQdPB6RgPuqULURHBgGhOIEKe79s5G24u1r8ZEQh4j7BLBYzYvb5_f9uzwlzVuMLXgijdE2J_SkDVLs-fMhq5umv-zZNfmfYmr8VXTzjZSKczhbNrztzJYnR-kMLr_0/s1600/61-wheMZkSL._SL500_AA300_PIbundle-5%252CTopRight%252C0%252C0_AA300_SH20_.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Goddamn, mother fucking, stupid ass $3000.00 granola cluster. </i></div><br />
<br />
4. I have started yet another diet program. I know, my annual<i> "Hey look! I gained back all the weight from last year's diet" </i>Diet is a tad early this year. I usually do not need to do this until March. <br />
<br />
What can I say? I am an overachiever.RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-38843145934676437202011-01-03T20:56:00.000-08:002011-01-03T20:56:58.047-08:00Oh, for the love of Pete!The compassionate and downright hysterical comments I received on my last post, remind me why I love this strange medium we call the Blogosphere. Thank you all. I know that I am a piss poor Bloggy buddy these days, but your support has helped me through some pretty dark hours this past 12 months. <br />
<br />
I have been pretty open about the fact that I thought 2010 was about as fun as a thumb tack and saw dust enema, but <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/08198123992152626641">Pam</a> reminded me of one very important fact about 2010...<br />
<br />
...it could have been so much fucking worse. <br />
<br />
I was not going to do a year end post at all, but I decided to post about things that did NOT happen in 2010.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Things that I am grateful did NOT happen in 2010: </b></span><br />
<br />
My husband <a href="http://rbr-runbabyrun.blogspot.com/2010/02/where-you-at.html">did NOT die of cancer</a>, nor did he get worse.<br />
<br />
My best friend <a href="http://rbr-runbabyrun.blogspot.com/2010/06/four-days-into-summer.html">did NOT go blind</a>, nor did she have a brain tumor. <br />
<br />
My mother <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMFWpe-1sWW4VJ7rtT43h2azyK2NGtRY3z2MB1Mx-4NkSmRrlkxUZ00lhptFB7aTLxXBtG-vZR0V2kHXi2bH-uVGYQnP_fgG7XLO6PFjSVoBgWLXpRztqTeoB6R5ttEN01nTvAyTKpzM/s1600/alaska+2009+077small.jpg">did NOT die</a> of a pulmonary embolism, nor does she have any permanent damage to her lungs.<br />
<br />
I <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/OLQ8Yumvv3S9el8fOLHiWZ77Bo7_2hd6mCbnRBryIzs?feat=directlink">did NOT spend the summer sitting on my ample arse</a> feeling sorry for myself.<br />
<br />
Let's see... what else have I got? <br />
<br />
Ah, I did NOT, despite my <b>very best</b> efforts, gain more weight than my now almost 7 months pregnant best friend. <br />
<br />
I also did NOT have all of my limbs slowly gnawed off by carnivorous, three toothed wood nymphs... so, that certainly goes the 'win' column for 2010.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2010 Exercise Totals: </b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Running:</b> 597 miles<br />
<br />
<i>WAY shy of my secret 1000 mile goal. Let's be honest, I have had that goal for several years now and have NEVER met it, but it is more than last year. And yes, SQ, that is less than half of your mileage. In the interest of full disclosure, I am probably less than half your IQ as well. :) </i><br />
<br />
<b>Cycling:</b> 1491 miles <br />
<br />
<i>About 500 miles less than last year, but ok. </i><br />
<br />
<b>Total Miles:</b><i><b> </b></i>2088 miles<i> </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Overall, the exercise front was better than I thought before I ran the numbers. I sometimes get caught up in comparing myself to others. As if by not doing as much activity, or not being as dedicated, or not showing as much as improvement as <i>[insert whatever person I am judging myself by]</i> it lessens my own accomplishments.<br />
<br />
Fuck that.<br />
<br />
I am an active person. Am I the most active person I know? Not even close. By the same token, I am also not the smartest, the nicest, the funniest, the prettiest, the most selfless....etc etc. My life is not a contest, why do I treat it like one? <br />
<br />
When my body turns into a pile of decomposing goo, does it really matter how I ranked in this pretend race? No. What matters is how I feel about me today. <br />
<br />
I have spent YEARS of the only life I get, sitting on my ass constantly physically and/or emotionally beating the shit out of myself. I have worked hard on many fronts to be a different person. Am I perfect? Fuck no. Am I a hell of a lot better than I was? Fuck yes. In many ways. <br />
<br />
Yet, I still tend to be the meanest person I know...<br />
<br />
...to me.<br />
<br />
(<i>ok, and maybe a few other assholes, but they most likely have it coming and this is about me, so let's stay focused, people!</i>)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2011 Resolution</b></span><br />
<br />
Be nicer to me<br />
<br />
I want to do this so that I can be the happy, mentally healthy person that my incredible friends and family deserve to have in their life. <br />
<br />
Oh, and about the title of this post. Today at school I was fighting to get my printer to get it to stop printing page after page of random garbage <i>(Just to let you know what a piece of shit this thing is and how angry it makes me, I have punched it hard enough to split my knuckle. Twice.)</i> and in a fit of frustration, without any students present I yelled "Oh, for the love of Pete!" As you can probably surmise from my more colorful language choices on this blog, this would not be a typical exclamation from me. My mom used to say that phrase all the time when I was younger (<i>I know, you are shocked that my mom would ever need to shout in exasperation</i>). I have not heard her say it in a long time. It cracked me up that it was my 'go to' phrase, so I thought I would share.RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643429007621218084.post-54100857764154400682010-12-28T21:01:00.000-08:002010-12-28T21:01:03.709-08:00Walking in a Winter Wonderland!Of course, your definition of a 'winter wonderland' and mine may be a little different.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2J5DS3JG2ORMuzajmI0hAeVUM4KNgNv_u1cN3XcRjg4bRe_qU3RQXLKU8Hp3UbvN7dHZQiGDy4Zj2HDLj-eIJZYVMaQRqwL00u1WVi0Wlu4SL2Dx_jiREUjxfZVinDxySuMVqA8IC80/s1600/PC210051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2J5DS3JG2ORMuzajmI0hAeVUM4KNgNv_u1cN3XcRjg4bRe_qU3RQXLKU8Hp3UbvN7dHZQiGDy4Zj2HDLj-eIJZYVMaQRqwL00u1WVi0Wlu4SL2Dx_jiREUjxfZVinDxySuMVqA8IC80/s400/PC210051.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Winter in Maui, Hawaii</i></div><br />
I had grand plans of posting a 'Farewell! I am off to Hawaii!' post, but I got sidetracked by .. well more on that later, as you read what could also be titled <i>List of Additional Shit that makes 2010 Suck Ass. </i><br />
<br />
Here are the pictures, I was going to use<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWt8ZnyPA0gTHZPvdm7EOBtFXkcgjaRm7Vi1UypjBNMoDdLKtxzEgw8usplT7tQcTbYs3IQk6wkj44D9To9Iecb6rRPBZZt8h9FNtrApnvcVjHn4rmwIybVnIVj1t3Ty-_LZa6qRLlwvE/s1600/Hawaii_Walrus_by_DesmondTung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWt8ZnyPA0gTHZPvdm7EOBtFXkcgjaRm7Vi1UypjBNMoDdLKtxzEgw8usplT7tQcTbYs3IQk6wkj44D9To9Iecb6rRPBZZt8h9FNtrApnvcVjHn4rmwIybVnIVj1t3Ty-_LZa6qRLlwvE/s400/Hawaii_Walrus_by_DesmondTung.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><i>Walrus Girl Does Hawaii! (Ok, possibly only funny to <a href="http://stevequick.blogspot.com/">SQ</a>. Alright, maybe not even to him, but cute, no?) </i></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXmnLSbvKGmMYYM-E5B9_pl2-b_Kebyt-pRj7deievzJyVvuF6HFOl5IsuFlxFQsKf-3THZARd12Sf4FpQH_0GURR9PJYN0xyepQtDPH2YoeYijkpmF9qhCBoWxb5dg8avx52RLXL66o/s1600/PC200026small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXmnLSbvKGmMYYM-E5B9_pl2-b_Kebyt-pRj7deievzJyVvuF6HFOl5IsuFlxFQsKf-3THZARd12Sf4FpQH_0GURR9PJYN0xyepQtDPH2YoeYijkpmF9qhCBoWxb5dg8avx52RLXL66o/s400/PC200026small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i>Mr. and Mrs. RBR at the airport! </i></div><br />
But since I am already back from Hawaii, it seems that whole <i>We-are-off-to-Hawaii-Try-to-not-freeze-your-tuckus-off-while-you-choke-on-your-jealousy,-bitches!</i> ship has sailed. <br />
<br />
So, without further adieu...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Hawaii 2010</b></span><br />
<br />
Back at the beginning of the school year, I decided that we would celebrate the end of my husband's cancer treatment by going to Hawaii for Christmas. Then I convinced my family that we are all grown adults that do not need anything and we should just skip presents this year since we would all be out of town.<br />
<br />
Let's just say, sometimes...<br />
<br />
I am fucking BRILLIANT. <br />
<br />
Zero stress Christmas? Check. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>Pre-Vacay</b></i></span><br />
<br />
2010 continues its campaign for the "Most Suck Ass Year to Beat All Suck Ass Years," so the transition to vacation was not as seamless I would have liked.<br />
<br />
It started in November when a granola cluster, that apparently featured Titanium chips, broke my tooth. (<i>Like how I blame the inanimate object and not my hillbilly dental constitution</i>? <i>Whatevs. That thing was ridiculous</i>) Upon seeing the dentist, the following transpired:<br />
<br />
<i><b>Evil, money grubbing Dentist who is, in reality, neither evil, nor money grubbing:</b></i> Ummm... wow, that is a bad break. You need a root canal, gum surgery since it broke below the gum line, and then a special cap. And, gee, this tooth behind it is chipped as well and the filling looks involved, so it may need work too. Oh, and by the way, *sadistic dentist smile* you have reached your insurance cap for the year, so it will have to all be out of pocket. (<i>Translation for you non-dentists: "Whoa! That is one jacked up tooth. But don't worry, this is not only going to hurt like a mofo, it is going to cost you enough to put my kid through her first year at Stanford"</i>)<br />
<br />
<i><b>Me thinks to myself in true hillbilly style:</b></i> Fuck that. It does not hurt now. I am waiting until 2011 when my insurance resets to fix this bitch.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Me says:</b></i> Thank you, doctor. I will check my schedule and give you a call to set up the appointment (<i>translation for you non-hillbilly types: See ya next year, sucka!</i>) <br />
<br />
<i>[eerie foreshadowing music plays]</i><br />
<br />
Fast forward to December 17 (<b>THREE </b>fucking<b> </b>days before departure on our very needed and very expensive Hawaiian holiday getaway) the tooth starts to hurt. A LOT.<br />
<br />
Super.<br />
<br />
I hear flying in a airplane is a GREAT idea when you have a toothache. I just said "fuck it", and got a prescription for pain medication and proceeded as planned.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrUZJHU8oy30UbgHPW9mJ_yKOhuRpEtvifMqcYAHzXsDd7-b4vt_CCtG3EOSflER-i9sGO7t4NZYfMDGkXSRamyADV87bn_8xxgZTa7TkU1_yfKKxTcZsLAW9HheIFLonSwy6FaOe7o4/s1600/PC240138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrUZJHU8oy30UbgHPW9mJ_yKOhuRpEtvifMqcYAHzXsDd7-b4vt_CCtG3EOSflER-i9sGO7t4NZYfMDGkXSRamyADV87bn_8xxgZTa7TkU1_yfKKxTcZsLAW9HheIFLonSwy6FaOe7o4/s400/PC240138.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Random picture from Hawaii to break up text block. Plumeria flowers. </i></div><br />
At the end of November my parents returned from their 3 week vacation in Antarctica. (<i>I know! Right? They had an amazing trip. I hope to have a picture or two to share when my dad finishes them.)</i> On the return flight my mother developed a pulmonary embolism (<i>blood clot to her lungs</i>) and had to be hospitalized. The doctor told us that she "dodged a bullet" and if the clot had not scattered when it left the heart and went to the lungs it would have most likely killed her instantly or caused massive lung damage. It was pretty fucking terrifying. She is doing very well now, but her long distance flying days are over.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Vacay</i></span></b><br />
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With mom at home and out of danger and fistful of painkillers I head off to Hawaii with hubby. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeM9YWqscZOJ4UNkp4v2AgxgoHzx3irtA48u40IvzdjA0Yk3HosTIuS0b85tjhH0T6SfdlD-IQaRHvLNJPIDqUxQTjdCH6eX8QDAE6KQnFzjVEJVEvOldvK_tBK0xyeg7ltNW0R_cYKOQ/s1600/p709015867-4ritzcarltonkapalua.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeM9YWqscZOJ4UNkp4v2AgxgoHzx3irtA48u40IvzdjA0Yk3HosTIuS0b85tjhH0T6SfdlD-IQaRHvLNJPIDqUxQTjdCH6eX8QDAE6KQnFzjVEJVEvOldvK_tBK0xyeg7ltNW0R_cYKOQ/s400/p709015867-4ritzcarltonkapalua.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Christmas at the Ritz-Carlton Kapalua...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtaUH_8MvCNr83afA1PP_s2fwlzhWfbz5NHLd1Ngk4Vt22Xbey3NFHxUJzQlOjIVeXBJdR2GE8QkoCW5EDmNzKSI4QyqVs5Grul12Jy65UKh_T5v4zhMBYS2UHFrsSsMCREV8ivv8wqUg/s1600/PC210042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtaUH_8MvCNr83afA1PP_s2fwlzhWfbz5NHLd1Ngk4Vt22Xbey3NFHxUJzQlOjIVeXBJdR2GE8QkoCW5EDmNzKSI4QyqVs5Grul12Jy65UKh_T5v4zhMBYS2UHFrsSsMCREV8ivv8wqUg/s400/PC210042.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>...with this sexy creature. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div>Hard to bemoan your lot in life when you are in Maui at Christmas with the man you love. The vacation was exactly what I needed: laid back, relaxed, and beautiful. I even had the peace of mind to read. I have not been able to finish a book in the last 8 months. I have started several, but have only finished one I think.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>Running in Hawaii</b></i></span><br />
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Things I learned running in Hawaii<br />
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1. I am out of shape<br />
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2. Hawaii is humid.<br />
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3. Asthma, and by extension the asthmatic RBR, does not like humidity. <br />
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4. It does not matter where I go I end up running uphill.<br />
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5. Running while out of shape, in humidity, with asthma, and uphill sucks ass. <br />
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6. Running while on vacation in Hawaii makes you not care about 1-5.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2vOBM3mdJQhaO55EmKclZbVSTVAZhbgAaCBfuFPPlm_Crhf2nxa3_37rXcK8Z00S1f80MpGXGIudRVUyl2C5ZNKHAhDrfRNBRnToyQlRQ-Fp-mpTQOBDWD71C1LnJSB9zoWTkAlSC0c/s1600/PC230066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2vOBM3mdJQhaO55EmKclZbVSTVAZhbgAaCBfuFPPlm_Crhf2nxa3_37rXcK8Z00S1f80MpGXGIudRVUyl2C5ZNKHAhDrfRNBRnToyQlRQ-Fp-mpTQOBDWD71C1LnJSB9zoWTkAlSC0c/s400/PC230066.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Top of the hill, well one of them, but it is all good, brah (Yes, I am entirely too white to say "brah." My apologies to the Hawaiian people)</i></div><br />
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Scenes from my Hawaiian Running<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQWTEHH3X5vj0RD4gkos6ODorIbf3pcV1a5mXgXRymgsCTJedWPvxvVAEG6NYn92l1PZvHEuCyTHpgzLywjEtX8ch2WBZuNijsPZkm5h36xMRCyrerRrc_dT1dPWpnBJbtMLrSjBHMH0U/s1600/PC230064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQWTEHH3X5vj0RD4gkos6ODorIbf3pcV1a5mXgXRymgsCTJedWPvxvVAEG6NYn92l1PZvHEuCyTHpgzLywjEtX8ch2WBZuNijsPZkm5h36xMRCyrerRrc_dT1dPWpnBJbtMLrSjBHMH0U/s400/PC230064.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Leaving the hotel. This is at the Bayan tree at the entrance to the hotel. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbLzfbfRV-0t_CP23WnXVj7CQWE8yG3wKG-cKOuxMwMgOGyHFrk51UsMQ9QnUuUw6XDzyqd0Bzf0ecGR7mMju2XSsXVAiBLUa8Wgt5NvxZ7i_sI9_qHNy8RPVfCzbeXzHvx2O4Kd0ABg/s1600/PC220062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbLzfbfRV-0t_CP23WnXVj7CQWE8yG3wKG-cKOuxMwMgOGyHFrk51UsMQ9QnUuUw6XDzyqd0Bzf0ecGR7mMju2XSsXVAiBLUa8Wgt5NvxZ7i_sI9_qHNy8RPVfCzbeXzHvx2O4Kd0ABg/s400/PC220062.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yellow Hibiscus (the state flower of Hawaii) planted along the golf course. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
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</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtiCwmgTS7TUfN1xYatg5uxXPWgZLY0M7MIuXlib2YBEViVJehyphenhyphenQbLhjegeR6PSnO-pz3WVsRdZ7xMrdh7m2-1U9bpCd8MnzizhY1eSZ7cn35qpvKjalzqJFvK5pcZ8nWhQ1HHk9sWI4/s1600/PC230072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtiCwmgTS7TUfN1xYatg5uxXPWgZLY0M7MIuXlib2YBEViVJehyphenhyphenQbLhjegeR6PSnO-pz3WVsRdZ7xMrdh7m2-1U9bpCd8MnzizhY1eSZ7cn35qpvKjalzqJFvK5pcZ8nWhQ1HHk9sWI4/s400/PC230072.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Tunnel that lets you run under the Piilani Hwy. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKG3xYQbZZjSnJcGR4dd0ioc2sRv7flzyl3z-d37FUchRZuK6q5Fhht0DpB9FcYY5RUx1_krxROh4xk_eJ8PHbImAVmTwoWWKzGU4hf6OAvRC7CZpZi6Pq_SEanhxLmkPur8h3s5l1eg/s1600/PC230089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKG3xYQbZZjSnJcGR4dd0ioc2sRv7flzyl3z-d37FUchRZuK6q5Fhht0DpB9FcYY5RUx1_krxROh4xk_eJ8PHbImAVmTwoWWKzGU4hf6OAvRC7CZpZi6Pq_SEanhxLmkPur8h3s5l1eg/s400/PC230089.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lush greenery along trail. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><br />
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</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht88hoMbcymbbeluoPdyfy2a8Rsk3M8vuW8WBka3JzW5_fOipDkKwOoUKYc9OI54zyX-8po7ojMjhCy7RbvLCpAsDv_gH6_wJKfNVMgZ-4kEuF72nwSCYfHNQwc-hH5cu9OcTiHI703iE/s1600/PC230080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht88hoMbcymbbeluoPdyfy2a8Rsk3M8vuW8WBka3JzW5_fOipDkKwOoUKYc9OI54zyX-8po7ojMjhCy7RbvLCpAsDv_gH6_wJKfNVMgZ-4kEuF72nwSCYfHNQwc-hH5cu9OcTiHI703iE/s400/PC230080.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>View from the near the top of the trail. It is ok to hate me now *smug grin*</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><br />
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</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlwZrq4kh2S9NSipeGAaqtjQHYb2YwtWrtgpILL_LTm7Xps0tP8hkClRSWfoSmcZ1WvFVWWAxc_3RfYr05Sp5gtF1xr_E7M_pYhcSnqOX1IMXbeDJzZ_i1g3UrxPSLtjpYSpdZiGKZNo/s1600/PC230096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlwZrq4kh2S9NSipeGAaqtjQHYb2YwtWrtgpILL_LTm7Xps0tP8hkClRSWfoSmcZ1WvFVWWAxc_3RfYr05Sp5gtF1xr_E7M_pYhcSnqOX1IMXbeDJzZ_i1g3UrxPSLtjpYSpdZiGKZNo/s400/PC230096.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>GIGANTO African Snail (there were TONS of this invasive, introduced species. I will spare you the lecture about island ecosystems and introduced species)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
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</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_i-HKYYBStEBZz3uIhBHviXIb95dnG5IACtWGhctkY_hejKE3BJ2aPmYhqKd0xgZ6zDwWpCc2-kJhGnrMduX3JfyWLl1AkuBAIKyfWc-UrcOAfef_4RvxAXyN3V-8JpCbqQijh1ebCg/s1600/PC230091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_i-HKYYBStEBZz3uIhBHviXIb95dnG5IACtWGhctkY_hejKE3BJ2aPmYhqKd0xgZ6zDwWpCc2-kJhGnrMduX3JfyWLl1AkuBAIKyfWc-UrcOAfef_4RvxAXyN3V-8JpCbqQijh1ebCg/s400/PC230091.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Monarch butterflies gettin' down and dirty on the trail. No shame, those Monarchs. It was Monarch breeding season in Kapalua.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99d3OIOFNy54Iu5DPwvc5pSYDKARQzXjVb3kJcD61tK87l2ozwM-QIg4yhI8YdJibV7MqM9ISfrvBbvYbbMUM9dXytqn6vGN9tSyoUvdlN8wBMpQgtzKIhZL5iOdC6EkdGHEhqJA_uEQ/s1600/PC230098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99d3OIOFNy54Iu5DPwvc5pSYDKARQzXjVb3kJcD61tK87l2ozwM-QIg4yhI8YdJibV7MqM9ISfrvBbvYbbMUM9dXytqn6vGN9tSyoUvdlN8wBMpQgtzKIhZL5iOdC6EkdGHEhqJA_uEQ/s400/PC230098.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The product of the lepidopteran exhibitionists (Again, only funny to <a href="http://stevequick.blogspot.com/">SQ</a> and other science nerds) </i></div><br />
This may be the last picture of me and my favorite pink run hat. To add to the wonder that has been my 2010, United airlines lost my luggage on our return trip. My run hat, water belt, sunglasses, favorite run shorts, and cute new run tops were all inside. *sigh*<br />
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You did it 2010! You won the "<i>Most Suck Ass Year to Beat All Suck Ass Years</i>"! Congratulations!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcnk7JEYRDVSXxKGq5wizVDYKmS_w-fhra-1KlqJGgJ95l-Ml3HXe31xZYcOESMs5hcC6AqRu6Z2AYhla4lSaFohUYxoHfbxo31nT-taNjYVS432YxEXx_pbwdQLmouv-K5Zn6h-ykOI/s1600/PC230077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcnk7JEYRDVSXxKGq5wizVDYKmS_w-fhra-1KlqJGgJ95l-Ml3HXe31xZYcOESMs5hcC6AqRu6Z2AYhla4lSaFohUYxoHfbxo31nT-taNjYVS432YxEXx_pbwdQLmouv-K5Zn6h-ykOI/s400/PC230077.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>*sniff* I will miss you pink Puma run hat. </i></div><br />
And lest you think I forgot you, <a href="http://fourinoneblog.blogspot.com/">G</a><br />
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</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgMI05i4k65dYeZCH_mX7-NrVZd0Dt99h95VYF6QWD0P-DqhOAmESg6GG7nktRAZW2TF99wpn0FNu8eUVbTl_nVT_zFiPm5zYqvNhBy-Km8uqC8u7P47d_Q7FlhZ40dmMWMyck3FQwN0/s1600/PC230086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgMI05i4k65dYeZCH_mX7-NrVZd0Dt99h95VYF6QWD0P-DqhOAmESg6GG7nktRAZW2TF99wpn0FNu8eUVbTl_nVT_zFiPm5zYqvNhBy-Km8uqC8u7P47d_Q7FlhZ40dmMWMyck3FQwN0/s400/PC230086.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Aloha (RBR style) from Hawaii! </i></div>RBRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14193497073393160994noreply@blogger.com27