I got sunshine….

"Mu'ab Sol! Your name is a killing word!" "It is the weirding way."

I was thinking this morning, as I was running along: why, again, did I choose to start my running program in the summer?

Oh, that’s right. That whole “insane” thing.

Seriously, folks. There has got to be something wrong with me. Because sane people don’t do this sort of thing. Of course, many sane people choose to live somewhere the sun isn’t actively trying to murder them, too.

On a more positive note, there is something that I have noticed. When I am smiling and feeling happy, the run feels tons easier. Not that I am slowing down – the music wouldn’t let me! No, just my attitude seems to impact how it goes. When I am feeling crabby and hating everything around me, then it seems like lead weights are strapped to my ankles and everything takes far.too.long. Conversely, having a happy whilst watching the dragonflies and birds zoom around as I go by means that the run is over too soon.

Attitude truly is everything.
Of course, I still think that the sun is terrible and angry.

To be fair, at least half of this issue is not so much the sun’s fault as it is my own. Y’see, instead of doing my run before the sun rises, I am out there about 8AM or so. This is what works for my moring schedule – get the Girl up and dressed. Fed and out the door. I wait a decent amount of time while tying my shoes and stuffing my hair under my hat. I gather my iTouch and put my sunglasses on. Then – when I feel that there is no one on the streets of my neighborhood? THEN (and only then) do I head out the door.

I don’t like to run in front of other people. I am extremely self-conscious of what I look like when I run. It’s a holdover from when I was big. Even now, with the wonders of modern bra technology, I still look much like the Jell-O scene from Airplane! the Movie.

On that note, I’d like to thank the Parks and Recreation dudes this morning who stopped to watch me this morning. I could hear the wholf whistles over the üntz coming through the earbuds. Had I missed that, the slowing to a crawl in the center of the street would have been a dead giveaway. I smiled into the middle distance and ran on my way.

Now, if you will excuse me. I am off to find a shower and a giant glass of water. And possibly a better running bra.


PS – It is Tuesday today, so double-post; fiction later on this afternoon.  I think I’ll put up some character sketches for a Talislanta module I wrote some time ago.

PPS – How many geek references do YOU see in this post?

Balrogs, Bambi and To Do Lists

I got damn little done yesterday, in spite of plans to the contrary. I didn’t even cook, properly. Yesterday it was supposed to go something like this:

Tra la la la

Bluebirds trill & sing. Bambi brings the To Do List, drops it at my feet. Somewhere off to the left, choral music swells triumphantly. In calligraphy beautiful enough to make angels weep, the To Do list says: 

** make menu for week
** grocery shop according to menu
** clean and organize my closet
** clean and organize the master bath’s under-sink cabinetry so I can get the towels under there
** clean and organize the linen closet: remove towels & add blankets
** clean in the master bedroom: dust the furniture, put light quilt onto bed with fluffy pillows, vacuum
** finish organizing the kitchen drawers
** go through Tupperware; toss/recycle/donate any that do not have lids, are icky or both
** clean interior of fridge
** finish reading for government class; if feeling frisky enough start paper
** put together post for blog; if feeling frisky enough, do another for squirrel-like storage of future posts

Instead, what happened was:

All our pain are belong to you.

Our Heroine is seen laboring over a weekly menu that is both healthy and tasty. She is checking web sites, cookbooks and putting things into an Excel spreadsheet.*
A gnarly, callused hand – obviously that of a minor demon – reaches out from stage left and whaps Our Heroine on the head, causing a searing pain to bloom behind her eyes.
At the same moment, a spiked maul comes whistling out of nowhere and pummels her across the lower back. The name writ across the handle of the maul, in the language of the Balrog, says “Dysmenorrhea, Goddess of Shrieks”.
Our Heroine collapses in a heap around her abdomen. She crawls off to the shower, there to down the potion of Advil and take in the scalding water of healing.

All…ALL I got done yesterday was the grocery shopping. And even that was kind of a blue-eyed wonder. By four in the afternoon, I had taken the “maximum safe dosage for a 24 hour period” of Advil and had moved onto Tylenol.  I sincerely and devoutly hope that today goes better.

Also? I would kind of like it if I haven’t damaged my internal organs with toxic levels of ibuprofen.  Pleaseandthankyew.

* – Yes, really.

What I did all day Saturday


Organization, a set on Flickr.

And will almost certainly continue to do (in other parts of the house) today. I’ve been promised a label-maker. I don’t know about YOU kids – but that makes me kinda hot. I have this not-so-secret desire to be the nerdcore/goth Peter Walsh (but with less facial hair.)


Or maybe, not so much BE the Walsh but have my house behave more like his. To that end, I have been going through Stuff What We Own and deciding if we really need or use it – or if it just taking up space.

Yesterday was the pantry’s turn. I found boxes (unopened!) of things with expiration dates from 2008. Now, in all fairness, some of that was stuff that I had inherited from family members.But still. 2008!!So.

Here is my new and improved pantry and spice shelves. I am tres excited, let me tell you. 🙂

Saturday Morning Breakfast: The journey to a complete(ly unhealthy but Oh So Tasty) breakfast. :D

Warning!  This is a totally non-writery post. 🙂  But it *does* have bacon. So, you know – balance and all that.

(BTW, sorry for somewhat poor image quality. Took these on my phone.)

Sesame French bread. Butter. Saigon cinnamon. Turbinado sugar.
Maple smoked bacon.
If I owned a bacon company, I would totally name it after Roman emperors. Then my tagline could be: "Render unto Ceasar..." Heheheh.
That sounds naughty.
Some crispity (mine!) some not so much (everyone else's)
Toast is done!
Breakfast is served

The sky is blue. No, it’s not.

The Girl and I got into a spat this morning. It wasn’t serious but it was frustrating.

ME:   That skirt doesn’t touch your knees – pretty sure you can’t wear it to school.
HER:   It does so! *ineffectual tug, ineffectual tug* See?
ME:   Really? Change skirts. I don’t want them to send you home.
HER:   They aren’t going to send me home!

Fashion sense. I haz it.

It wasn’t so much the skirt. I actually kind of liked her outfit. Stripey socks and Jack Skellington T-shirt FTW!

No. It was the immediate jump to arguing that made me see red. Because this has been happening a lot. A whole lot. She will argue with me about anything and everything. Heck, she argues with me about stuff we agree on. It’s like she can’t help herself.

And, I know that it is because she is twelve and asserting her independence and becoming her own person and yadda yadda yadda. I am cool with that. Sorta. Kinda. Maybe.

OK. I am cool with it in theory. But it still is difficult to experience. One, because it is just goddamn annoying to have everything you say brought up as a debate point. Two, because it means that she isn’t wholly my Girl, anymore. She is becoming an adult, someone who – in theory – thinks and decides for herself. Which is very cool and keen and all that. But it doesn’t make it easier.

Especially when we are arguing about whether the sky is blue.