…Mile.
I got to hand out medals at the 1 mile Fun Run that we held in conjunction with the Swamp Run last Saturday. Although only the kids were supposed get medals, the run is for both kids and adults. And, honestly, I did hand adults out medals, too.
The race starts out with dozens of kids and a handful of adults, paper numbers pinned on their shirts. When the horn blares, the kids take off like a bunch of Kenyan marathoners, except that they’re hollering and wearing shoes. The cacophony of running shoes and basketball shoes and the occasional pair of flip flops striking the ground is deafening. And then they’re gone, out of sight, and it’s quiet. We stand under the finish line clock as it ticks away, and we wait.
About six minutes later, the first boy and girl fly across the finish line- invariably some cross-country stars from the local middle school. They run off to the side of the road and hurl, and then we wait some more.
Then more runners start to trickle in. The kids seem to have employed various race strategies-- although most strategies seem to consist of running as fast as you can until you are unable to breathe, walking, catching your breath, and then taking off running as fast as you can again. This strategy seems to work remarkably well for the younger set- they have no concerns about pacing or finishing kicks. They just haul ass down the road.
Here comes a girl in a skirt and a pair of green flip-flops. And a little guy in a huge white t-shirt who hasn’t stopped smiling yet—I call dibs on him. I want to give him his medal, because he’s so freaking adorable.
Then here come the kids walking across the finish line, exhausted, unable to breathe, and still trying to smile when they take their medal. Then one or two with skinned knees from when they tangled arms and legs with the other kids at the start line.
Then here come the youngest “runners” in the back of the pack: holding Mommy’s hand, getting carried on Daddy’s shoulders, and riding in strollers. Everyone gets medals. We all love medals.
In the midst of all of this action are the adults running the Fun Run alongside the kids. Some of them are out there, encouraging and having fun with their kids. But, admixed among the competitors are some grownups for which the Fun Run is an epic event. They are running their first mile, ever. They may have done the distance at the track, or on the treadmill, but this is really their first “official” mile. They are going to run one mile, in public, without stopping.
They wake up in the morning, nervous. They’re afraid they’re not going to be able to make it. They’re afraid they’re going to have to stop and walk. They’re afraid that people are going to make fun of them for running in a “kiddie” race and they’re afraid, God forbid, of being the last person to cross the finish line.
So, when they do cross that line, I make sure that they get a medal. Handing out those medals makes me the happiest. These folks just became runners.
“What turns a jogger into a runner? A race number.” You’re no longer just “working out”, or “exercising”. You’re not just trying to get into shape or to lose weight. You are a runner.
Over a decade later, and after four Ironman Triathlon finishes, Allen still treasures his One Mile Fun Run ribbon- he keeps it near the running trophies and marathon medals and Ironman paraphernalia.
I never entered a Fun Run, or got a medal. But I can still tell you the exact date: January 20, 2002. I was wearing a blue and grey pair of New Balance trail shoes that fit horribly, but were my first real pair of running shoes. I ran up and down the streets in my neighborhood until my pedometer read one mile. And then I stopped and marveled. I had run an entire mile without stopping. No finish line, no medal- but I couldn’t have been happier. So I turned the corner and ran another mile. And I never stopped running.
Congrats to all of the Fun Run finishers. We’ll see you at the start line soon.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Swamp Run, Part 1: Why It's Awesome
The Swamp Run is our hometown race. It’s a 10K road and trail race, currently held over at our hometown State Park, Laura S. Walker. It has a long and storied history in this area, which I know very little about. I came on the scene only five years ago. It has become my favorite race ever. We raced this past weekend.
(Shameless plug follows):
Why the Swamp Run is the best race around:
1. It starts at a reasonable hour of the morning: 9:00 a.m. I am only beginning to feel human by this time. I hate having to wake up in the dark, cold, in order to go put my body through unpleasant things at 7 in the morning.
2. We only charge $10 to race. When some of the triathlons we compete in, which often last only as long as this race, cost $150 to enter, this is quite a bargain.
3. It’s the only race around which has a race T-shirt which sports a very cute running alligator. I have shirts with running blueberries, running ears of corn, and running turkeys, but no others with cute running alligators.
4. You can run in a swamp. How much better does that get? You can also be assured that, most of the time, someone will plant rubber snakes on the trail. I know this, and still fall for it every year.
5. You know everyone who passes you by name, so it’s not so painful.
6. Because it’s a small race, it’s almost assured that you’ll get a trophy for placing in your age group. I love hardware. Even if my 10K time sucks, I feel like I’ve accomplished something, and have been recognized for my achievement. Especially this year, being fat and slow and injured, getting a trophy makes me less likely to give up running and take up pole dancing for fitness.
7. Pancakes and deer sausage after the race. I will say no more- that speaks for itself.
8. My personal favorite part: I get to hand out medals to the kids and adults who participate in the one mile Fun Run. More on this later.
Consider these facts next year when planning your race schedule- I will plug this race shamelessly before the actual event next year.
(Shameless plug follows):
Why the Swamp Run is the best race around:
1. It starts at a reasonable hour of the morning: 9:00 a.m. I am only beginning to feel human by this time. I hate having to wake up in the dark, cold, in order to go put my body through unpleasant things at 7 in the morning.
2. We only charge $10 to race. When some of the triathlons we compete in, which often last only as long as this race, cost $150 to enter, this is quite a bargain.
3. It’s the only race around which has a race T-shirt which sports a very cute running alligator. I have shirts with running blueberries, running ears of corn, and running turkeys, but no others with cute running alligators.
4. You can run in a swamp. How much better does that get? You can also be assured that, most of the time, someone will plant rubber snakes on the trail. I know this, and still fall for it every year.
5. You know everyone who passes you by name, so it’s not so painful.
6. Because it’s a small race, it’s almost assured that you’ll get a trophy for placing in your age group. I love hardware. Even if my 10K time sucks, I feel like I’ve accomplished something, and have been recognized for my achievement. Especially this year, being fat and slow and injured, getting a trophy makes me less likely to give up running and take up pole dancing for fitness.
7. Pancakes and deer sausage after the race. I will say no more- that speaks for itself.
8. My personal favorite part: I get to hand out medals to the kids and adults who participate in the one mile Fun Run. More on this later.
Consider these facts next year when planning your race schedule- I will plug this race shamelessly before the actual event next year.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Prom- Then and Now
I mentioned in a previous post that I would detail my prom experience from back in the Eighties. I will not tell the whole story- it is long, complicated, and incredibly awkward. Instead, I have chosen to compare and contrast my experiences: Prom, 1986, and Prom, 2010.
The Dress:
Prom, 1986:
A bridesmaid dress bought off the clearance rack at JC Penney. A shimmering blue- green affair, with a full skirt and big puffy sleeves that could be worn on or off the shoulder. I liked them off the shoulder. My mom didn’t. I took them off my shoulder when I left the house. I felt like a romance novel heroine.
Prom, 2010:
Bought it at JC Penney- but not off the clearance rack, this time. A slinky, pink print affair from hundreds of dresses in the formal wear section. No shoulders on the dress, so the tattoo could show. The dress was chosen by consensus, between my kids, my husband, and I. I felt like a 41 year old mom in a beautiful dress- and that was all right.
The Hair:
Prom, 1986:
Not quite how I wanted it. I was going for long blonde ringlets, but they fell out as soon as I walked out of the salon.
Prom, 2010:
My daughter did my hair. She did a great job, but I had it colored a fiery shade of red the day before, which I thought made me look like a pumpkin. Therefore: also not quite how I wanted it.
The Date:
Prom, 1986:
My love interest, who, unbeknownst to me, was about to come out of the closet.
Prom, 2010:
My husband, who loves women. Who really, really, really loves women.
The Ride:
Prom, 1986:
Best that I can remember, there was a limo with lots of champagne- that, of course, we didn’t drink because we were underage.
Prom, 2010:
Our black Corvette, which would have been one year old in 1986. Way cooler than a limo.
The Prom:
Prom, 1986:
Presentation of Senior Superlatives. I was voted “Most Intelligent.” I am sure this was the result of a campaign by my best friends to win votes for me. I am still befuddled over the title: how can you be voted “Most Intelligent.” Shouldn’t that be, like, the results of standardized testing or something?
Prom, 2010:
Allen and I created our own Senior Superlatives. “Most Likely to Succeed on the Basis of His Charming Personality, Because He Doesn’t Do Crap in Allen’s Class.” “Most Likely to Get Laid After the Prom.”
The Dancing That Your Parents Would Be Appalled With:
Prom, 1986:
Slow dancing with your date with your tongues down each others’ throats.
Prom, 2010:
Freak dancing. See my previous post.
After-Prom Nookie:
Prom, 1986:
Absent. See above, under “The Date.”
Prom, 2010:
Present. Ibid.
Waking up The Morning After:
Prom, 1986:
In the sand, on the beach, with a hangover and no boyfriend.
Prom, 2010:
Curled up in bed with Husband. All Good.
The Dress:
Prom, 1986:
A bridesmaid dress bought off the clearance rack at JC Penney. A shimmering blue- green affair, with a full skirt and big puffy sleeves that could be worn on or off the shoulder. I liked them off the shoulder. My mom didn’t. I took them off my shoulder when I left the house. I felt like a romance novel heroine.
Prom, 2010:
Bought it at JC Penney- but not off the clearance rack, this time. A slinky, pink print affair from hundreds of dresses in the formal wear section. No shoulders on the dress, so the tattoo could show. The dress was chosen by consensus, between my kids, my husband, and I. I felt like a 41 year old mom in a beautiful dress- and that was all right.
The Hair:
Prom, 1986:
Not quite how I wanted it. I was going for long blonde ringlets, but they fell out as soon as I walked out of the salon.
Prom, 2010:
My daughter did my hair. She did a great job, but I had it colored a fiery shade of red the day before, which I thought made me look like a pumpkin. Therefore: also not quite how I wanted it.
The Date:
Prom, 1986:
My love interest, who, unbeknownst to me, was about to come out of the closet.
Prom, 2010:
My husband, who loves women. Who really, really, really loves women.
The Ride:
Prom, 1986:
Best that I can remember, there was a limo with lots of champagne- that, of course, we didn’t drink because we were underage.
Prom, 2010:
Our black Corvette, which would have been one year old in 1986. Way cooler than a limo.
The Prom:
Prom, 1986:
Presentation of Senior Superlatives. I was voted “Most Intelligent.” I am sure this was the result of a campaign by my best friends to win votes for me. I am still befuddled over the title: how can you be voted “Most Intelligent.” Shouldn’t that be, like, the results of standardized testing or something?
Prom, 2010:
Allen and I created our own Senior Superlatives. “Most Likely to Succeed on the Basis of His Charming Personality, Because He Doesn’t Do Crap in Allen’s Class.” “Most Likely to Get Laid After the Prom.”
The Dancing That Your Parents Would Be Appalled With:
Prom, 1986:
Slow dancing with your date with your tongues down each others’ throats.
Prom, 2010:
Freak dancing. See my previous post.
After-Prom Nookie:
Prom, 1986:
Absent. See above, under “The Date.”
Prom, 2010:
Present. Ibid.
Waking up The Morning After:
Prom, 1986:
In the sand, on the beach, with a hangover and no boyfriend.
Prom, 2010:
Curled up in bed with Husband. All Good.
Monday, March 22, 2010
The 2010 Prom Report
Saturday was my fifth prom- my sixth, actually, but my fifth as a grown up. However, I believed, back in 1986, that I was indeed a grown-up, just like these kids on Saturday night did (in our next installment: the 1986 Prom Report, in its awkward and painful entirety).
Being married to a teacher has its perks (aside from playing out that whole “Hot for Teacher” thing- apologies to Lib); chief among them, for me anyways, is being able to “chaperone” the Prom.
What “chaperone” means for me is that I get my hair and nails done, buy a new formal gown with matching shoes and purse, and escort Husband to the Country Club, where we eat snacks and drink grape juice-and-ginger ale punch from the champagne fountain (the same fountain, incidentally, as we rented for our wedding) and stroll amongst the students looking elegant. We exude an aura that says “this can be you 30 years from now- both able to drink legally after the prom and wake up with your date in the morning, which may or may not happen to you tonight.”
I suppose that we may just terrify them- somehow transported into the future, now with grey hair and a few wrinkles and that little bit of a tummy that will just never go away, even after the kids are teenagers, which keeps your formal gown from falling completely straight.
Whatever the kids think, it’s loads of fun to go to the prom when you’re a grown up. The pressure’s off. You have 30 years of experience with strapless dresses and high heels- you no longer feel the need to adjust your boobs in your dress every five minutes, or to leave the stiletto heels under the table because you never imagined how much they’d hurt after just walking to the limo in them. You don’t have to pray that you’ve brought enough cash for both dinner and a tip when you buy dinner for your prom date at that elegant restaurant.
It’s fun to watch the kids in action, doing their best impressions of mature adults- the young ladies in their sequins and trains and ruffles and updos, with their young men in matching formal wear. Their naïveté is charming.
But then there’s freak dancing.
Ok- let’s face it. You are a child trying to act like an adult; I am a Mom attempting to be a poised and sophisticated Woman of a Certain Age. And if your mom saw what you were doing out there, she’d drag you into the car and ground your ass until graduation.
I am not a prude by any stretch of the imagination, believe me, but… ladies and gentlemen. Please. Can we at least try to retain some of the mystery and sensuality of sexual attraction? Or, at least, will you please not have to explain to your kid that they were conceived on the dance floor at your Senior Prom?
Being married to a teacher has its perks (aside from playing out that whole “Hot for Teacher” thing- apologies to Lib); chief among them, for me anyways, is being able to “chaperone” the Prom.
What “chaperone” means for me is that I get my hair and nails done, buy a new formal gown with matching shoes and purse, and escort Husband to the Country Club, where we eat snacks and drink grape juice-and-ginger ale punch from the champagne fountain (the same fountain, incidentally, as we rented for our wedding) and stroll amongst the students looking elegant. We exude an aura that says “this can be you 30 years from now- both able to drink legally after the prom and wake up with your date in the morning, which may or may not happen to you tonight.”
I suppose that we may just terrify them- somehow transported into the future, now with grey hair and a few wrinkles and that little bit of a tummy that will just never go away, even after the kids are teenagers, which keeps your formal gown from falling completely straight.
Whatever the kids think, it’s loads of fun to go to the prom when you’re a grown up. The pressure’s off. You have 30 years of experience with strapless dresses and high heels- you no longer feel the need to adjust your boobs in your dress every five minutes, or to leave the stiletto heels under the table because you never imagined how much they’d hurt after just walking to the limo in them. You don’t have to pray that you’ve brought enough cash for both dinner and a tip when you buy dinner for your prom date at that elegant restaurant.
It’s fun to watch the kids in action, doing their best impressions of mature adults- the young ladies in their sequins and trains and ruffles and updos, with their young men in matching formal wear. Their naïveté is charming.
But then there’s freak dancing.
Ok- let’s face it. You are a child trying to act like an adult; I am a Mom attempting to be a poised and sophisticated Woman of a Certain Age. And if your mom saw what you were doing out there, she’d drag you into the car and ground your ass until graduation.
I am not a prude by any stretch of the imagination, believe me, but… ladies and gentlemen. Please. Can we at least try to retain some of the mystery and sensuality of sexual attraction? Or, at least, will you please not have to explain to your kid that they were conceived on the dance floor at your Senior Prom?
Monday, March 8, 2010
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
The first time I saw Cat, she was sitting in the road. She was resting on her haunches, as if lounging on a couch. However, sitting on the center lane of Clough Bay Road was hazardous to her health.
How do I get her off the road? I found a towel in the back seat and scooped her up, just in case she decided to panic and scratch me. She was a big cat, grey tabby with white paws. She could put a hurting on me if she wanted to. But she just flopped over, and I put her on the side of the road. At which point she stood up and wobbled back into traffic.
I scooped her back up and put her on the floorboard. Then I scooped her out of the car and laid her in the first cardboard box I could find when I got home. She didn’t say a word. She just stared at me with big yellow eyes- they weren’t exactly focusing, but she tried to stare at me, anyways.
I felt Cat all over. Nothing seemed to be broken, and she didn’t seem to be in agony, but I still wasn’t encouraged. She just didn’t look too hot. I did the best that I could for her- put a bowl of water in the box, a new towel, then closed the bedroom door for the night.
She was sitting in the exact same position in the morning as she was the evening before, both in the road and in her box: sitting quietly on her haunches. She was staring at me, the same way, with those woozy eyes.
She rode to my vet in the box, still staring at me. By this point, I was pretty sure that Cat had a head bonk, and this explained her demeanor—specifically, the way she refused to stop looking at me—or, at least, towards me. I deposited her with the vet tech, and told her that, no, I didn’t know much about her, and no, I really don’t think that she’s in very good shape, but I’d call a little later.
The vet was cheerful when he called. The news was pretty good. The only damage to Cat seemed to be a broken tooth and a concussion. He’d keep her over the weekend and see how she did.
Apparently I was about to become Cat’s new owner.
Confession: I hadn’t intended to be Cat’s new owner. I figured that I was going to do my civic duty, minister to a dying cat, and not let her suffer. But, once I scooped her off the road, a completely different series of events was unleashed, which was apparently going to lead to a large vet bill and a new pet cat.
I tried to look on the bright side. She seemed docile. She may be a nice addition to the family. I’d bring her home and see how she did.
Thus began a string of increasingly bad decisions on my part. One could argue that the worst bad decision was stopping the car in the first place, but….
Bad decision number one: not running the other way when the vet techs went to collect Cat.
The screeching behind the door was Cat protesting as they attempted to get her into the cat carrier. Wearing welding gloves for protection.
I was still somewhat stunned when I brought her to the house, between the drama at the vet’s office, and the hundred dollar vet bill that I had in my hand. Hence…
Bad decision number two: I brought her into the house.
I thought that perhaps I could socialize her before turning her outside. I’m sure that my kids were plotting secretly to make her an Inside Cat, and let her join Victoria in the house.
My daughter had bought her a new collar. My son had a name for her: Sahara. They were going to give her a warm welcome into the family.
Cat would have none of that. She huddled in the back of the cat carrier after we opened it, ears drawn back. She was still staring at me with those eyes. Except, now, I realized that she was glaring at me. She was probably trying to glare at me with those woozy eyes the night she was hit by the car.
I think she basically hated my guts all along.
I had figured that she would be an affectionate, docile, sweet little thing, appreciating all of the time and money and energy that I had put in her. I imagined her responding to our affection, then moving out into the yard to live with our other affectionate, docile, and sweet cats, and we would all live happily ever after.
But it was quickly evident that she was never going to be domesticated. Cat was feral, through and through.
She left the cat carrier at some point, and hunkered down under the bed, still looking like she loathed me. By that evening, she was gone. Back out into the wild, we supposed.
It was a relief, really. The pets in our yard had reached Critical Mass. My husband accused me of being the local Humane Society. We really didn’t need another cat.
Two weeks passed, and I rarely thought about her. I would pass by the little collar that Libby had bought for her, lying on a table, though, and feel a little sad. And then, I made…
Bad decision number three: I assumed that she was gone.
Yesterday, I found clumps of grey hair on the green carpet in the living room. Victoria sheds like crazy, but she’s jet black.
My husband was carrying wood into the living room, preparing to start us a roaring fire for a romantic evening.
I had a bad feeling….
My beloved old cat, Patch, had loved to hide in the fireplace. He would hop up on a ledge inside the chimney, and sit there for hours, especially when he was scared.
I got the flashlight.
There were two fuzzy grey ears, and two big yellow eyes, glaring down at me from the ledge.
Cat was back.
Or, a more disturbing possibility: Cat had never left. She may have been lurking somewhere in the house for all we know, sneaking food and water where she could, and then staring out from some dark recess of the house.
Drama ensued. My series of bad decisions were catalogued. Loudly. With some profanity. My husband tried to get her out using the fireplace poker. She disappeared farther into the fireplace. He threatened to light the fire anyway.
Finally, my husband relented, and we closed all of the doors to the living room, in the hope that she’d eventually climb out of the fireplace. She did, the next morning. I found her under the couch this time, glaring at me.
In the end, she found her way back outside. We think. I am still very careful when I look under beds and in dark closets. Even though I check the fireplace for her, I have to admit that I harbor some unkind thoughts- like, not checking the fireplace before we light a fire.
As I write this, I feel just plain stupid. But, even though it was just an ornery stray cat, and not a human being, I am a little comforted. I just went back over to the Book of Luke and re-read the story of the Good Samaritan (10: 25-37). I wanted to double-check something. And I was right.
Nowhere in the story did the victim profusely thank the Good Samaritan for his help, and there is no sign that he and the Samaritan ended up best buddies. And I bet that Samaritan got a heck of a bill from the innkeeper, too.
How do I get her off the road? I found a towel in the back seat and scooped her up, just in case she decided to panic and scratch me. She was a big cat, grey tabby with white paws. She could put a hurting on me if she wanted to. But she just flopped over, and I put her on the side of the road. At which point she stood up and wobbled back into traffic.
I scooped her back up and put her on the floorboard. Then I scooped her out of the car and laid her in the first cardboard box I could find when I got home. She didn’t say a word. She just stared at me with big yellow eyes- they weren’t exactly focusing, but she tried to stare at me, anyways.
I felt Cat all over. Nothing seemed to be broken, and she didn’t seem to be in agony, but I still wasn’t encouraged. She just didn’t look too hot. I did the best that I could for her- put a bowl of water in the box, a new towel, then closed the bedroom door for the night.
She was sitting in the exact same position in the morning as she was the evening before, both in the road and in her box: sitting quietly on her haunches. She was staring at me, the same way, with those woozy eyes.
She rode to my vet in the box, still staring at me. By this point, I was pretty sure that Cat had a head bonk, and this explained her demeanor—specifically, the way she refused to stop looking at me—or, at least, towards me. I deposited her with the vet tech, and told her that, no, I didn’t know much about her, and no, I really don’t think that she’s in very good shape, but I’d call a little later.
The vet was cheerful when he called. The news was pretty good. The only damage to Cat seemed to be a broken tooth and a concussion. He’d keep her over the weekend and see how she did.
Apparently I was about to become Cat’s new owner.
Confession: I hadn’t intended to be Cat’s new owner. I figured that I was going to do my civic duty, minister to a dying cat, and not let her suffer. But, once I scooped her off the road, a completely different series of events was unleashed, which was apparently going to lead to a large vet bill and a new pet cat.
I tried to look on the bright side. She seemed docile. She may be a nice addition to the family. I’d bring her home and see how she did.
Thus began a string of increasingly bad decisions on my part. One could argue that the worst bad decision was stopping the car in the first place, but….
Bad decision number one: not running the other way when the vet techs went to collect Cat.
The screeching behind the door was Cat protesting as they attempted to get her into the cat carrier. Wearing welding gloves for protection.
I was still somewhat stunned when I brought her to the house, between the drama at the vet’s office, and the hundred dollar vet bill that I had in my hand. Hence…
Bad decision number two: I brought her into the house.
I thought that perhaps I could socialize her before turning her outside. I’m sure that my kids were plotting secretly to make her an Inside Cat, and let her join Victoria in the house.
My daughter had bought her a new collar. My son had a name for her: Sahara. They were going to give her a warm welcome into the family.
Cat would have none of that. She huddled in the back of the cat carrier after we opened it, ears drawn back. She was still staring at me with those eyes. Except, now, I realized that she was glaring at me. She was probably trying to glare at me with those woozy eyes the night she was hit by the car.
I think she basically hated my guts all along.
I had figured that she would be an affectionate, docile, sweet little thing, appreciating all of the time and money and energy that I had put in her. I imagined her responding to our affection, then moving out into the yard to live with our other affectionate, docile, and sweet cats, and we would all live happily ever after.
But it was quickly evident that she was never going to be domesticated. Cat was feral, through and through.
She left the cat carrier at some point, and hunkered down under the bed, still looking like she loathed me. By that evening, she was gone. Back out into the wild, we supposed.
It was a relief, really. The pets in our yard had reached Critical Mass. My husband accused me of being the local Humane Society. We really didn’t need another cat.
Two weeks passed, and I rarely thought about her. I would pass by the little collar that Libby had bought for her, lying on a table, though, and feel a little sad. And then, I made…
Bad decision number three: I assumed that she was gone.
Yesterday, I found clumps of grey hair on the green carpet in the living room. Victoria sheds like crazy, but she’s jet black.
My husband was carrying wood into the living room, preparing to start us a roaring fire for a romantic evening.
I had a bad feeling….
My beloved old cat, Patch, had loved to hide in the fireplace. He would hop up on a ledge inside the chimney, and sit there for hours, especially when he was scared.
I got the flashlight.
There were two fuzzy grey ears, and two big yellow eyes, glaring down at me from the ledge.
Cat was back.
Or, a more disturbing possibility: Cat had never left. She may have been lurking somewhere in the house for all we know, sneaking food and water where she could, and then staring out from some dark recess of the house.
Drama ensued. My series of bad decisions were catalogued. Loudly. With some profanity. My husband tried to get her out using the fireplace poker. She disappeared farther into the fireplace. He threatened to light the fire anyway.
Finally, my husband relented, and we closed all of the doors to the living room, in the hope that she’d eventually climb out of the fireplace. She did, the next morning. I found her under the couch this time, glaring at me.
In the end, she found her way back outside. We think. I am still very careful when I look under beds and in dark closets. Even though I check the fireplace for her, I have to admit that I harbor some unkind thoughts- like, not checking the fireplace before we light a fire.
As I write this, I feel just plain stupid. But, even though it was just an ornery stray cat, and not a human being, I am a little comforted. I just went back over to the Book of Luke and re-read the story of the Good Samaritan (10: 25-37). I wanted to double-check something. And I was right.
Nowhere in the story did the victim profusely thank the Good Samaritan for his help, and there is no sign that he and the Samaritan ended up best buddies. And I bet that Samaritan got a heck of a bill from the innkeeper, too.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
No fortune in the fortune cookie???
I head to the Chinese restaurant when the blog idea well has gone dry; I use my latest fortune cookie as a prompt (hence, part of the origin of the blog title). This worked very well, initially, because we trained a lot more, and so could afford to eat the calorie bombs offered at the buffet. In our current state of fitness, however, this is not such a good idea.
Despite this fact, we celebrated my someday-in-the-near-future-son-in-law-to-be’s recent promotion by heading over to Wong’s Palace.
“Great,” I told myself. “Some new little white pieces of inspiration.” I might find inspiration to finally write something, after a long hiatus.
When dinner arrived, I dug my way through the starchy sweet greasy yumminess. Finally, my favorite part of the meal arrived on top of the dinner check—a whole pile of cookies, in their cellophane wrappers.
I split my cookie open. No fortune. I checked the plastic wrapper, the dinner check, the floor, Allen’s fortune cookie (in case he got two fortunes, somehow). No fortune.
This is a very weird thing.
Having no fortune in your fortune cookie cannot be good. It’s not like you’re going to have bad luck--- it’s like you’re going to have NO luck. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
The Universe, apparently, has not deemed you important enough even to send you some dire warning in your fortune cookie, telling you to be careful with a business deal, or that you have “challenges” ahead. As far as the Universe goes, you do not exist.
In reality, I am not much of a believer in fortune, or omens, or any of those shady superstitious things.
(Most of the time. I do have this weird superstition about throwing out old photos—I am afraid that something bad is going to happen to the subject of the photograph if it goes in the garbage- though this wouldn’t be such a bad fate for some of the subjects in my photos)
However, if I suspend my disbelief for a little while, and believe in the power of fortune cookie fortunes for a few minutes…. Just what exactly do you do when you have no fortune in your fortune cookie?
You are now invisible to the Universe. Since the Universe can’t see you, you can chart your own course through it. Your destiny is no longer bound to a little piece of paper.
What do you do when there’s no fortune in your fortune cookie?
You celebrate your freedom. You live your life to the fullest, not concerned with the consequences of Fate. You find your own meaning and purpose in life. You create your own destiny.
Or you realize that you don’t really believe in fortune cookies, and that you’ve gotten carried away with the Universe and Fate and Destiny—
And you remember that you think that fortune cookies taste great. And you pop yours in your mouth on the way to pay the check.
(P.S. But you also realize that you’ve one-upped the Universe, because you were able to write an entire post about not having a prompt for a new blog post. Ha!)
Despite this fact, we celebrated my someday-in-the-near-future-son-in-law-to-be’s recent promotion by heading over to Wong’s Palace.
“Great,” I told myself. “Some new little white pieces of inspiration.” I might find inspiration to finally write something, after a long hiatus.
When dinner arrived, I dug my way through the starchy sweet greasy yumminess. Finally, my favorite part of the meal arrived on top of the dinner check—a whole pile of cookies, in their cellophane wrappers.
I split my cookie open. No fortune. I checked the plastic wrapper, the dinner check, the floor, Allen’s fortune cookie (in case he got two fortunes, somehow). No fortune.
This is a very weird thing.
Having no fortune in your fortune cookie cannot be good. It’s not like you’re going to have bad luck--- it’s like you’re going to have NO luck. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
The Universe, apparently, has not deemed you important enough even to send you some dire warning in your fortune cookie, telling you to be careful with a business deal, or that you have “challenges” ahead. As far as the Universe goes, you do not exist.
In reality, I am not much of a believer in fortune, or omens, or any of those shady superstitious things.
(Most of the time. I do have this weird superstition about throwing out old photos—I am afraid that something bad is going to happen to the subject of the photograph if it goes in the garbage- though this wouldn’t be such a bad fate for some of the subjects in my photos)
However, if I suspend my disbelief for a little while, and believe in the power of fortune cookie fortunes for a few minutes…. Just what exactly do you do when you have no fortune in your fortune cookie?
You are now invisible to the Universe. Since the Universe can’t see you, you can chart your own course through it. Your destiny is no longer bound to a little piece of paper.
What do you do when there’s no fortune in your fortune cookie?
You celebrate your freedom. You live your life to the fullest, not concerned with the consequences of Fate. You find your own meaning and purpose in life. You create your own destiny.
Or you realize that you don’t really believe in fortune cookies, and that you’ve gotten carried away with the Universe and Fate and Destiny—
And you remember that you think that fortune cookies taste great. And you pop yours in your mouth on the way to pay the check.
(P.S. But you also realize that you’ve one-upped the Universe, because you were able to write an entire post about not having a prompt for a new blog post. Ha!)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Chicken Fingers on the Late Night Menu
Dear Libby:
After I was able to pry your fried chicken-covered fingers off my laptop at the end of the weekend, I caught sight of your email account.
No worries- I am not a creepy stalker mother, reading all of the emails that your friends sent to you (none of them looked really interesting to someone older than 16, anyways). Be warned, however: I DO snoop around your Facebook page, and some of those “friends” of yours….yikes! I don’t think that they’d use those mouths to kiss their mothers, if you know what I mean….
Anyways…
Before I logged you off to check my own scintillating emails (“Spend $25 dollars and get free shipping! Today only!”), I noticed that you had an email folder marked “Mama’s Blog.”
I was very touched.
I feel like having a blog is like working at a 24 hour diner in Hollywood- maybe, just maybe, someone important will notice you, and – voila! – you are now “discovered.”
Screw being “discovered”.
Having people- lots of people, “important” people- reading your stuff might be great. But having your daughter read your stuff, and even file it in its own little email file for safekeeping, is priceless.
So-- it’s time to get back to posting, after a long break.
I’ll keep waiting tables at the diner, but my favorite customer will be my beautiful fellow writer-daughter. I will bring you lots of chicken fingers so you can keep smearing the grease all over my keyboard when you write.
Love,
Mommy
After I was able to pry your fried chicken-covered fingers off my laptop at the end of the weekend, I caught sight of your email account.
No worries- I am not a creepy stalker mother, reading all of the emails that your friends sent to you (none of them looked really interesting to someone older than 16, anyways). Be warned, however: I DO snoop around your Facebook page, and some of those “friends” of yours….yikes! I don’t think that they’d use those mouths to kiss their mothers, if you know what I mean….
Anyways…
Before I logged you off to check my own scintillating emails (“Spend $25 dollars and get free shipping! Today only!”), I noticed that you had an email folder marked “Mama’s Blog.”
I was very touched.
I feel like having a blog is like working at a 24 hour diner in Hollywood- maybe, just maybe, someone important will notice you, and – voila! – you are now “discovered.”
Screw being “discovered”.
Having people- lots of people, “important” people- reading your stuff might be great. But having your daughter read your stuff, and even file it in its own little email file for safekeeping, is priceless.
So-- it’s time to get back to posting, after a long break.
I’ll keep waiting tables at the diner, but my favorite customer will be my beautiful fellow writer-daughter. I will bring you lots of chicken fingers so you can keep smearing the grease all over my keyboard when you write.
Love,
Mommy
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