Home again, home again . . . jiggity jog

Jog? Did she say jog?

She sure did.

This week ended up better than I imagined. Despite the parking lot/no debit card fiasco and oodles of post-Christmas store runs to make this weekend, despite not getting much sleep last night and not making a 3-hour run today, I am feeling really positive. Between today and yesterday, for example, I went to a party, did a mid-distance run, got a car charger for my new phone, washed both the dog and the car, sanitized the main litter box, made donations to Goodwill, got everything returned that needed to be and got a few things for the house, got tidied up downstairs and got a start on putting away the stuff from my trip.

I know, I know - I'm not supposed to define myself by my to-do list or weight.

Even though the last 7 days have been filled with crappy eating, I made it to a WW meeting only having gained .4 (that will be worse this Monday, I'm sure - but I'm going to pretend I'm Scarlett O'Hara and think about that tomorrow). I managed two, 5-mile runs at 1500 feet elevation. (I realized during yesterday's 8-miler that my calibration on my Polar SD is a little light, so when I'm going 4.8 I'm really going about 4.9. Wheee!) Anyway, the total mileage for this, my first complete week running since before the half marathon - 18+ miles. Not bad. I discovered that altitude suits me, as I maintain a much lower heart rate and RPE at a higher altitude than at/below sea level. The heat also absolutely saps me. And my schedule? just what I wanted - two half marathons and two 20-milers scheduled before the marathon.

Niiiiice.

I met this guy on one of the dating websites. (Some of my friends talked me into signing up.) We'll call him Paul. I don't feel like disclosing the story right now, though I'm sure I eventually will, but Paul ended up being a douchebag. So I kind of went back to my original position on the topic of dating: not the right time for me just yet. I don't have the emotional energy to spend. I'm not saying I was ever one of those girls who constantly thought she NEEDED a boyfriend/guy to date, because I love being alone, but I am definitely way more independent and into being by myself than I ever was. Frankly, I think a lot of people get into relationships because they think it's something they have to have, like shoes or a watch. When in reality they should be selected with care and pursued only if they're absolutely worth it - like expensive designer handbags. One of Tony's problems was that he was sure he needed a relationship. And I sort of let him con me into agreeing, even though I didn't buy it.

Anyway, I am quite happy not to be dating anyone right now.

This week I was supposed to see the endo, but I had 3 or 4 appointments - at $25-50 a whack, I can't afford them all and am going to have to move them to next week, after I get paid again. That's just how it goes. The good thing is, this gives me time to finally get the bloodwork I hadn't had a chance to get before my endo visit.

I have a lot of paperwork to tackle next week. I'm not looking forward to it, but you do what you have to do.

Postcards from the Road, days 5 and 6

Here I am at home. What a fiasco THAT turned out to be. I didn't get in a run because there wasn't enough time to get ready and run. Then I discovered, when trying to get a drink in-flight, that I had lost my debit card between my gate and my seat. Better than that, I had opted not to get cash in Chattanooga because I knew I could get cash in Orlando.


So I arrived in Orlando 45 minutes behind (thanks to the airline) and sans cash or credit (thanks to my own dumb ass.) I couldn't think of anyone I could call to come get me until I could get cash to get my car out the next day.


I had to grab a cab to the bank to get cash, where I found out I didn't have as much as I thought I had, and then back to the airport to get my car. 9 hours and $60 I didn't have later, I arrived safely back at my car.


And got stuck at the airport gate because I was using cash and they wanted cards. Someone eventually came, but by the time I got everything together, got myself some leftovers and libations, and picked up my dawg, it was after 7pm.


Fabu.


The good thing is, I did get a chance to pick up the pup a day earlier than planned. Kona is now lying beside his broke mommy, happy and exhausted. His mommy? Also happy and exhausted.

Christmas was . . . interesting. Santa was VERY good to me. I didn't get any athletic or pampering gifts, but I got a ton of funky jewelry and about 5 blank books. My family may not know me completely, but they know me well enough to know I love costume jewelry and writing. And, the truth is, writing (the pen and paper version, not the electronic version) is exceptionally cathartic and satisfying to me. It's always helped me immensely, and I need to get back to it.


As I mentioned, my family drove me bananas. (Especially since I had to handle them sober - LOL!) But I was so glad to see them that I ended up having a fabulous time. As I listened to my aunts chatter, I realized what I don't like about my mom's side of the family - they're loud, pushy, weird, nerdy, unstylish and not the best-educated group. ("Eye-talian" is how they pronounce "Italian," they say things like "the rich get richer and the poor get poorer - and they did away with the middle class altogether," (whoever "they" are). They say "like" a lot because they still think it's cool, and they don't dress well.) But I also realized what I like about my mom's side of the family: all of them are outgoing, passionate, gregarious. Bonus? They're true survivors, capable of conquering great adversity and still coming away with a smile.


There's something relaxing about being at mom's. Lack of responsibilities, different lifestyle, no pets to tend, time to lie in bed and write,etc. I get home and instantly feel my schedule and duties drain me. Needless to say, I am pooped. I haven't brought in my bags or cleaned up, but I'll tackle that this weekend.


This weekend starts . . . . NOW.


Disney Half Marathon . . . 3 weeks away.
Melbourne Marathon . . . 6 weeks away.
This week? 2 of 4 runs complete. 13 and 8 left - tomorrow I'm running with a pal.


And now, to veg. Hope it was Merry for you.

Merry Chrismahannaramakwanzaakah

Merry Christmas. Whatever holiday you celebrate, enjoy it.

I'm sitting here trying not to let my family drive me crazy with their various quirks, belief systems and smoking. (How can the family who raised me be so completely different than me? I'm realizing this week that I want to be unlike them as much as (or more than) I want to be like them.) But they're my family, so I put up with it.

Besides, it's Christmas.

Haven't said much about the training. A little less than 5mi Monday, zone 1. Today was supposed to be an 8-mi pace run (8-9 minute run, 1 minute walk. My marathon pacing strategy will be Galloway-esque because I don't want to peter out at mile 20 like I did last year thanks to my lack of training). We stopped again for neighbors and to pet the donkeys, so I gave up at a little over 5 miles. The hill repeats kind wore me out. 1500 square feet is not much for most people, but it's 1200 square feet more than I'm used to.

(This is a Jesus donkey - most of the neighbors' donks are Jesus donks.)

Tomorrow? I will try to do my 8-miler, but family comes at 10, and I sleep till around 7 or 8. We'll see what happends - I can always rest tomorrow and do my 8 on Friday, cross-train Saturday and do the 13-miler on Sunday. (Realized I was on a stepback week.)

In other news, I will be doing the Disney Half Marathon in a friend's place in January as my second 13.1 on the way to the 26.2! YEEEE!

Everything>something>nothing.

Have a wonderful Christmas!

Postcards from the Road, Day 4: Now it's time to get serious for a minute

I've done a lot of stupid shit this year.

Yeah, I said it.

It goes all the way back to accepting the job from RC at OD. I knew that my former GC boss was a sophomoric drama-monger whose life is largely dictated by his Hitler-esque wife, and I could have accepted that and said no when he wanted to steal me from my nice, cozy job at GC. Technically, that was 2007, but it all exploded in 2008. I won't go through the massive list of emotional, professional and financial FUBARs I've had over the past 12 months, because it would not only defeat the purpose of the conversation I've been having with myself (and the ensuing blog entry), but it would be one more way for me to harp about all the shit I've been through.

And this is not an entry for bitching about what I've been through. I've done enough of that. Saying I've done a lot of of stupid shit this year was just a way of accepting that I've made some choices I would not normally - or ever - have made. Yes, a lot of it has been out of my control. But a lot of it has been within my control.

So, going forward, what can I do with that knowledge?

I woke up this morning and realized that I barely recognize myself. Looking back, I can see how I've allowed myself to develop the traits and characteristics I've developed - or, at the very least, adopted - and I can see how some of those traits/characteristics/habits have affected the choices I've made, and even the way I've reacted to the things that were outside of my control. I've become a procrastinator, for one thing. I think I've learned that making decisions without thinking about them for a long, hard time can land me in trouble. So now my goal is to find the balance between procrastination and speedy action.

I'm still a long way from feeling all Mary Fucking Sunshine, but now I'm able to steer myself back to all of the things I have or can do when I start worrying about what I don't have or can't do. I'm also moderating my eating and drinking very well. And I feel so much better about those decisions. In a way, mental illness is as much about feeling ill as it is about being ill. When things were really bad, for example, I would take action or have a thought, and even though that action or thought - going shopping, for example - was perfectly logical, healthy, and pleasurable by most people's standards, I knew somewhere in my mind that I was doing it for the wrong reasons. That my thought process was disordered, even if the decision or the thought itself was completely normal. For me it was all about covering stuff up. And now I just want to see things as they are.

I'm emotionally exhausted, so the idea of simplifying everything even further than I already have is so attractive. There are still a lot of demands being made on me, and they're every day demands that most people wouldn't think about, like making a trip out to the post office or 7am lab work or dog sitting or budget-balancing or several pages of paperwork. Those kinds of things are really difficult for me because they all happen at once and have conflicting deadlines along with all my work demands and 7 loads of laundry and dog and cat duties. Normal, every day stuff - but it happens in giant shitstorms and overwhelms me. I can't stand being in my house some times because there's so much to do - is that dog pee I smell? I thought I cleaned that all after he was trained? Why is there fluff on the floor? Now I have to sweep, too. Oh, shit. I have to run 8 miles today. That's another couple hours of planning and execution I have to make time for. Now it's almost 9 and I go to sleep in the next hour. I'm too tired to move.

A lot of the time, I end up doing very little - which, to me, in my overacheiving way, feels like nothing. Dusting and watching TV one night, running and bathing the dog the next, washing the dishes and changing the kitty litter after that - that's most people's idea of doing things they need and want to do, of getting things accomplished, right? But that's my idea of not accomplishing anything, because even before I slow down I am all too aware that I also have to worry about the things - the laundry, the paperwork, the mail, the budget, the vaccuuming, the filing, the toilets, the phone calls, the workout, the gift-buying, the dinner-making - that I haven't done yet.

Being here is good because I can really ignore some of those overwhelming "tasks" for a while and still conquer some of the minor things that have been hanging over my head.

I don't make New Year's Resolutions, but I do make goals. And I will be making a very thoughtful list of those this year, indeed.

PCFTR, Day 3: Little River Canyon

I've watched a lot of TV/movies in the past few days, which isn't like me. But, somehow, I still managed to get through 4 or 5 of my 15 unread
magazines. YAHOO!!!

Yesterday, I had a hugundous beakfast and then ran 4.88 mi with mom (it was supposed to be 5, but every time I got going, some of her neighbors came by to visit, so I just gave up!)

Then I went to WW, where I discovered that, despite pigging out for the holidays, I've only gained .4 (yes, that's 4/10) of a pound - which still leaves me with a loss of 12.6. (About 1 pound heavier than I weigh at home without all the extra weight from clothing and eating and drinking all day.)

There is lots of water in the Canyon this year. Last year, the area was suffering from a severe drought. I think my hopes for snow are pretty much dashed since it's been getting a little warmer each day. 28 Monday, 40 yesterday, and supposedly in the 50s (if not 60s) today. *Le sigh.*

Postcards from the Road, Day 2

I've been a very busy little mobile-phone user. I dctched my Blackberry as soon as it was time for a new free phone from Verizon, so I can save a huge chunk of cash on my phone bills. I hate the fact that the phone has no phone book capability and the calendar is limited, but it's uber-tiny, plays tunes AND has a camera!

This morning I woke up, got myself some coffee and hopped in the shower. Got to try to follow my schedule, so today is a rest day.

We went "down the moutain" to get some groceries and have some lunch. This bull statue was discovered, and my mom had to try to climb aboard. You can clearly see how I'm part of this family.

After lunch, a little shopping where I scored a few budget-worthy bargains on a smaller pair of jeans (until I can get back into my 8s permanently, I'm hovering around a 10 and out of clothing since my fat clothes were 12s and the 8s in my closet are only taunting me at this point.

That's about it for day two.

Postcards from the Road, Day 1: I Still Don't Have My Medal

I arrived at the Sanford Orlando Airport yesterday a good half-hour ahead of schedule. My flight was leaving at 1:35, but I was at the airport at about 11. This was because it took me no time to drop Kona off at Pet Paradise and I had to drive around to kill time so I wouldn't be sitting at the airport for aeons. (Had I remembered my teeninsy little airport has a bar, I would have probably gone straight there.) (I kid.) (Just a little.) Anyway, even driving around for about 30-45 minutes didn't kill enough time to get me to the airport the standard 2 hours prior to my flight (didn't have time for a pedi, or last-minute shopping, and probably don't have the money, either).

So, I did what any good, well-prepared, seasoned traveler would do when arriving for one's flight an hour ahead of schedule: I found to nearest place to suck down a drink and watch sports. This happened to be the bar I forgot the little airport had. Then I checked in, wentwent through security, got into the terminal and had something to eat and a drink, and dutifully headed to my gate.

Except for one thing.

This has been a rough winter all over the country, and I seemed to forget it might affect me. No sooner had I sat down at gate 12 than announcements began to ring across the airport about delayed flights. Kalamzoo, Des Moines, and yes - even Chattanooga. Apparently, our plane was an hour or so behind because of weather in New York, where it was coming from. So I ended up back at the bar watching more football and having another drink. I usually have a pre-flight or in-flight drink and then nap the first part of my flight. I usually don't have 3. I was darn ready to get on that plane by the time we boarded.

By about 4pm, I was on the way to Mom and Dad's . . . and I slept from about 10am their time till about 9am my time.

I haven't sleept til 9am without being sick in about a year. Since - I don't know, maybe the last time I was here?

Merry Christmas/Happy Whatever. I'm enjoying my low-pay week. Running tomorrow. Free altitude training. By the way, they never sent me my finisher's medal for the Half Marathon. YEE!

Postcards from the Road, Day 3

You've probably noticed that I've decided to go private with my blog (you wouldn't be reading this if you didn't know that, right?) I started thinking about how I also put a lot of this on MySpace, but I only share the MySpace entries with friends. I kind of wished I could do the same here, so that I wasn't putting all my "bidness in the screet," so to speak. Then another blogger made me realize we could go private, and I thought, lemme give this a try.

I know I can be off-putting, if not offensive, with my observations about my life and the lives of those around me. I grow a huge pair of balls behind a keyboard; whereas in real life I'm afraid to tell you what I really think because you may not like me, in the blogosphere, if you don't like me? You're only two clicks away from closing my page and hitting up someone else's. When my blog was public, I started feeling like I had to sensor myself. For example, the comment I wanted to make to my IT Manager the other day, which I ended up deleting. If you saw it before I deleted it, you understand.

Now, this whole business is a double-edged sword . . . I started blogging to hear myself talk and had this deranged thought that my crazy-ass stories about my truth-is-stranger-than-fiction life and my bizarre sense of humor coupled with my half-decent writing skills would get some attention called to me and help me realize my long-forgotten pipe dreams of having more writing published. When I got pregnant and then lost the baby, I really lost patience for sugar-coating shit and my newfound gumption "in real life" translated into even cheekier, snarkier bloggery. So I thought I'd get closer to that whole getting-published-nonsense if I started really being me and writing about the REAL stuff. After all, it's funnier, more dramatic, and I don't have to hide anything or make anything up - and wouldn't people rather know I had a soul, instead of knowing me as this overweight-frustrated-medically-challeneged-newbie-triathlete, training like a fiend just to make the middle of the pack?

Nope. They sure as hell wouldn't.

All most of my blog visitors cared about was my miles on the road or yards in the pool. "Oooh . . . 40 mile ride! 18pmh! NICE!" "Aaaah...3km swim! Sweet!" "Hey! 8.5min/mile time trial! Good job!" But let them see a few lines about a trip or my relationships and all you heard was fucking crickets. You see, when it boiled down to it, few people gave a shit about the real person behind the keyboard. And those of you who did, for whatever reason, have hung around over the years for both sides of the insanity, and are here reading this drivel right now.

So, anyway . . . .

I'm sitting at Mom's feeling unspeakably depressed. I was supposed to fly back Tuesday, but I am borrowing Dad's spare car and I need to drive it home, so Dad has suggested I leave tomorrow morning, cutting my visit down to only 3 days from 4.25. (He offered to let me drive it so that I can offload my payment-heavy Prius and cut back some $$$$. Which I desparately need to if I want to pay my bills and actually afford a gym membership. Don't think I'm all that lucky; he's making me pay the payments while I drive it. Which means I need to get rid of the hippiemobile, like, yesterday.)

I hear Kona still has a limp and Girlie is still hiding from Karime. Even so, I don't want to leave. It's beautiful and quiet here; so drama-free and comfortable. My parents are here to support me, and I need the support so badly. No one really knows how "not okay" I am right now. I'd like to think I'm bulletproof - I'm not. I pretend everything is getting better - it isn't. I'm not the recklessly optimistic, carefree person I was 3 or 4 years ago - I've gone from being a little intimidated by my illnesses to flat-out fragile and sad and scared and lonely. The weather here is nice, too - less humidity to make me feel yucky. I could run every day or cycle up and down the mountain.

I actually priced apartments and did salary research on the area, because I've thought for a long time about going to grad school at UT Chattanooga, which is about 45 minutes away. Now, with my job boring me endlessly and my future looking shit-tacular, I'm trying to figure out a way to make some serious changes.

It just seems like I haven't had enough time here to enjoy being out of the loop of my normal life. I feel as if the calm, safe cocoon around me is going to dissappear the minute I step foot on Floridian soil, and it's making my last day here unbearably sad. I cried silently through most of lunch, although I don't know whether that was out of hunger (I didn't get enough to eat and I couldn't decide what else to have) or actual sadness. Either way, that's pretty pitiful. And bless my parents' and aunt's hearts - they're going to get more of it when I drive home tomorrow, too.

What I want to know is, why does an almost-30-year-old woman still need her mommy so bad, and what can I do to make it stop?

(And no, I have not run/walked yet today.)

Postcards from the Road, Day 2

Kona still won't put all his weight on his paw, according to my brother. And Karime couldn't find Girlie this morning when she went to check on the animals. But there wasn't much I could do, 500 miles away and all. If Kona continues to limp, I'll send Dave the money to take him to the vet, and I'll have to wait till I come home to see if I can find Girlie.

In the mean time, I finally got my hair trimmed - including tip, still less than half of my pre-tip price in Orlando, by the way. And I did something this morning that I have not done since I found out I was pregnant.

I ran.

Granted, I totally Gallowayed it and it was only about 2 miles, maybe 2.5, but I'd intended to do so. I have one more week before I can return to regular activity, but I'll be run/walking every day while I'm here so that I can (hopefully) return to my regular schedule next week and add swimming the week after. And all that will feel much easier in Florida, where there are no cliffs off of which one can drive. (See yesterday's entry for explanation.)

All I can say is, I will be devastated if we don't find Girlie, and I hope Kona's paw is ok.

And my ass is not looking forward to the bike seat.

That Murphy sure is a bastard (aka Postcards from the Road, Day 1)

So, here I am, finally, after much adieu and dismay, safe and sound at Mom and Dad's. If you're asking yourself why I make it sound like it was a feat, that's because it was. Getting the whole trip orchestrated required no less than 2 hours planning and 8 hours excecution, including 3 hissy fits, 6 glasses of sake, 2 hours of driving in the middle of the night, 3 dog-poop-removal sessions, 2 loads of laundry, and a lot of drama - plus 1 suitcase, 1 duffle, 1 carry-on and a GIANT attitude.

Remember Murphy's Law? Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong? Had some experience with it here too.

And here.

And here.

And now . . .

Last night, on my way home from work, I realized I'd left behind my (extremely detailed and perfectly meticulous) packing list which I'd worked on for 2 days on my breaks - which are virtually non-existent this week, by the way. That list guaranteed me a time savings of about an hour, so I should have been pretty pissed - BUT, being that I'm generally very positive, I decided to blow it off. Until I stopped to go to the bathroom and realized there was a GIANT stain on my ASS. My efficient plan of picking up groceries or stopping for a quick meal on the way home was now destroyed - ain't NO WAY I was going anywhere but to my car and home to clean up. (And where the HELL did the stain come from, anyway?? It looked like I shat myself.). (No, I HADN'T. Believe me, I'd have told you allll about it.) (By the way, that stop en route to my house had been another 15-, maybe 20-minute time savings. Now I've lost over an hour and I'm getting quite irritated.)

I walked in the door with some serious pep in my step -'cause stuffs needs to get done, pronto! - and found that Kona, after 3 weeks of angelic behavior (at least on the defecation front), had pooped in his crate. In all fairness, this was probably because I've been supplementing his diet with a new, higher-quality food to help his poop solidify and become more regular. Right now it's kinda soft and he goes a bajillion times a day. Plus, he hates his current large-breed-puppy food. But my night was already virtually impossible, I was still in some pain, and the last few months have had much suck, so I was hard-pressed not to burst into tears.

I dragged him outside, clipped him to his tie-out, and proceeded to scrub every inch of his crate, all his toys, and his bone. While I was at it, I tried to sweep and wipe down the floors inside (the jerk ran inside on his tie-out about 6 times, covered in water and mud, paws still vaguely poopy.) I bitched at him so much that the neighbors probably pegedg me for an animal-abuser, and he proceeded to poop all over my freshly-poop-scooped back lawn. He's getting a real bath as SOON as he comes back from Camp Bruno, because as hard as it is to bathe him and as dirty as he's going to get, AINT NO WAY I'm doing so twice this week. I almost forgave him when I pulled out the puppy wipes and, in addition to a hosing, gave him a good wiping-down, which he looooved - except the paw part and hosing - and he became all sweet and happy and snuggled up to me and calmed down.

For about 3 minutes. Then he turned into psychopuppy and the floodgates opened. More cursing that might get the SPCA called on me. (Now, mind you, I wasn't even in the same 10-foot radius as the dog, so I wasn't touching him - just fussing at him. But people are still really funny about those things.)

And then, almost as if she read my mind about hoping no one heard me, my next-door neighbor poked her head out of her patio and said, "Do ya'all smoke?" (Appreantly she hasn't noticed that Tony's long gone.) "No," I answered, tryng to restrain Kona's bully ass. "You got some mail!" she added and then ducked off. Hoping not to sound as psycho as I must have looked, I expressed my gratitude and ran inside to wash my hands. Two seconds later, she materialized in the backyard, tapping on my sliding glass door with the box in hand. (What, is she equipped with a jet pack or intimately acquainted with Scotty from Star Trek?) Kona went from zero to nuts in 5 seconds, sneaked out the patio door, got all over her despite my cries of "off" and "down,"and proceeded to get mud on her white t-shirt. I was too horrified from my bout of insanity to properly apologize. Also, suspected some of said mud might actually be poop. Wanted to crawl in hole and die.

The box was fresh green peanuts from Georgia. For me to boil. Terrified!!!! House still smells like burnt peanuts from last time. I never burn anything I cook - EVER - so this has permanently traumatized me. In fact, the burnt smell is probably what prompted my neighbor to ask me if I smoked.

So, I tossed the peanuts in the fridge as if they were kryptonite (although I will admit I was salivating as I broke the box down and took out the trash) and headed off to throw in the laundry so I could pack. I still had to get him to my brother's, change kitty litter, do dishes, fold laundry - oh, and pack.

All of a sudden it dawned on me: I couldn't find the little cat.

Girlie. Where is Girlie?

I ran around the house crying her name over and over in the ridiculous falsetto my ex-husband used to use for her. It sounds something like: "GUURRRR-LEEEEEE-EE!!! GURRRR-LEEEE-EE!" Where is she?!!!!! In the garage? No. Cat condo? No. Tub? No. Tub 2? No. Under the bed? No. OhmyGod, Girlie sneaked out during the Dog Fiascos.

And then I heard jinglejinglejinglejingle and turned to see her coming down the steps. That hooker. She was upstairs all the time. Phew. Back to laundry.

Kona lumbered upstairs clumsily behind me and, not more than 10 seconds later I turned around to find out that somehow, while I was throwing the laundry in, he'd begun depositing massive squirts of steaming doody on my pristine off-white office carpet. The laundry dropped out of my hand and I issued a bloodcurdling scream. The floodgates were back open. A trip to the backyard, 30 minutes of stain remover and blotting, several bouts of hysterical tears and an attempt to clean the poop piles from the backyard later (the poopy bags split and dropped a particularly pungent, wet pile almost on my toe), I was done. I stuck Kona in the garage and headed off to Publix. I couldn't figure out what I wanted to eat.

I dialed my mom at this point, still in hysterics. After several minutes of ranting and grumbling, I deadpanned, "I'm over this. I just need to drive my car off a cliff."

Brief pause.

"Florida doesn't have any cliffs," I realized outloud. Angrily. I mean, how can I make an inappropriately-timed suicide joke when the local geography doesn't even cooperate with me???!!!

I went next door the my favorite pizza place, figuring I'd grab a quick slice or bowl of pasta and a glass of wine.

They had a wait.

Hell, they probably wouldn't have served me if they had no wait. I looked like I'd just escaped the nearest looney bin: shorts that resembled pajamas, mismatched top, flip-flops and makeup running down my face. I climbed in the car, vowing that this would be the last time - I eat wherever I land or I starve until tomorrow, m'f'er - and headed down the street to my favorite sushi place, where the chef knows me so well he makes my conch nigiri more like a hand roll, chopped with special sauce, seaweed and scallions. Abe was not working - but that didn't make the sushi any less fabulous. Thank God one part of my night turned out okay.

6 glasses of sake later, I'd made new friends, exchanged phone numbers, calmed down considerably and was ready to crawl into bed. But, at 9pm, I still had to grab Kona and head to my brother's house. We got there (40+ miles each way) about 10:30 (it took me extra-long because I'd taken my E-Pass out of the car and had to stop and pay cash at every toll both - more about that later), walked out in the backyard so Dave and I could watch the boys play and get Kona settled, and Kona proceeded to run up the back stairs so clumsily that he almost broke his back left paw.

Finally, about 2am, I got packed, got in bad and set my alarm so that I could be up in time to get cash for my 7am cab. The morning went substantially better than the evening did, and I had my stuff together and the litter cleaned and was out the door for some McDonald's iced coffee and cash before 6:30 (yes, I succumbed to an uber-greasy value meal along the way - which we chall never discuss ever again). But when I got to McD's, my debit card wasn't working. Forking over my last few dollars, I headed to the nearest gas station/ATM combo. It was now about 6:45 and I'd left my telephone at home. The gas station ATM also refuses to give me cash. I was LIVID. I knew my balance was well over the amount I was trying to wirthdraw, and I live only 6 miles from the airport - if that - so parking for 5 days = $40 plus schlepping bags, versus a cab each way for about $20 round trip and no schlepping.

I landed in Chattanooga, saw my parents and aunt, and the floodgates opened again. The bank still wouldn't give me cash because they claimed I'd had an overdraft 2 days prior (not true; my bank manager had called to let me know one of the electronic drafts I'd cancelled was still going through and she was going to move some money over from my savings to prevent any negative balance as well as prevent the errant draft.)

Finally . . . things were settled. And, climbing into my bed at mom's later in the night, I felt like someone had waved a magic wand over my head to stop all the insanity. There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home . . .

Such a Pretty Fat

I have about 3 weeks of recovery before I can work out like I mean it, and about 2 weeks before I can really "work out." I also have 3 weeks until class starts and 1.5 weeks until I visit my parents. So I have a little time to do the things I used to do before training, school, and recent events - things like getting my contacts fitted, folding laundry, sweeping, even sitting outside on the patio reading a book while Kona plays in the yard (when the temperature drops under 90, of course). So I got a funny book. I'll need another one - and some good drugs - for my plane ride next weekend. (Kidding about the drugs.) (Only partially though. Seriously, you'd keel over if I told you how much pharmaceutical help I required last night just to sleep through the night. And by "through the nght," I mean: sleep from 8:30 pm to 9:30 pm, wake up to let the dog out, go back to sleep from 10pm to 3am, get up to pee, and fall back asleep until around 6:30.)

Let me just say that I need funny right now. It seems like there are babies everywhere. When I was pregnant, there were big bellies all around me. It seemed like there was a baby in every woman who passed me. I used to think of big-bellied pregnant women as alien-like and frightening, and while I don't necessarily feel the same way now - I can actually see how some of them are kind of cute - they still make me uncomfortable. This is nothing new. Well, now there are BABEES (as Tea would say) around every corner. Even the f'ing blogger people are posting baby pictures. Sweet Jesus Almighty! ZOMGZ!

So, my new book is by an author named Jennifer Lancaster, who originally penned the bestselling comic novel Bitter is the New Black. Completely irreverent, honest and bitterly sarcactic, she's totally my style. She can drop f-bombs with the best of them, but so hysterically that you forget she's cursing, and reading her work is a side-splitting adventure in stream-of-consciousness literature. Such a Pretty Fat is about a heroine who loves food and herself equally - and let me add, she loves them both A LOT. She's tired, she declares, of those annoying novels where the main character starves herself thin after succumbing to societal pressure. (Frankly, so am I.) In fact, at one point, she admits, "My self-esteem may be bad for my health." She talks about looking at herself in the mirror thinking "damn, baby, you fiiiiiine!" but admits she's a size 24 and eats enough at some meals to feed starving villages in Africa. When she decides to take a digital photo of herself in full makeup and favorite jewelry to prove how good she really looks, she uploads the snapshot and gasps, "How did Jabba the Hut get in my bedroom, and why the fuck is he wearing my pearls?"

Granted, I'm a far cry from a size 24. I'm a 10 or 12, depending on the maufacturer, and most of this is because I'm just under 5 feet tall and because of my recent condition. There is the occasional 14 or 16 petite, but this is only if a)the clothing is designed by those bastards who don't seem to understand that PETITE does not mean SMALLER, particularly in the crotchal region or b)by those m'f'ers who didn't get the memo that one can be petite and still pack a pair of DD's. (I mean, since when does being short mean you have no crotch or no boobs? Seriously?! I don't care if pants are so long I trip on them, as long as I don't have raging camel toe every time I put them on. It doesn't bother me if a skirt is a little lengthy if it keeps me from pulling a Britney every time I wear it. And frankly, having to upsize anywhere from 2-4 dress sizes just so that my chest doesn't look like I either swallowed a porn star or shoved a pair of canteloupes into a plum-sized bodice is not just frustrating, it's humiliating. What about women who are a size 2 or 4 petite (translation: 0 or 2 in "regular people" clothes) but have had implants? There are a lot of them out there, trust me - even the tall ones. I mean, I know a woman who is over 5'9" and easily a size 2, but I can guarantee you her generously-sized-laboratory-created chest is not.) Anyway, reading about Jen's quest for the healthiest blend of eating well and loving herself is exactly what I need right now, especially since I was fat before, and I think it will be a bit before all my pants button again.

So my plan for the week is to plan my return to training, plan my trip to mom's, get my perpetual pile of laundry done, get my vision straight, and laugh my ass off.

I'd like that last part to be more literal, but hey, you can't have it all.

Here's What I did Today for about 3 miles and change . . .

Took about an hour because the elevation changed over 500 feet. It may not look that way, but the hardest part was going down.

Hiking in the Mountains

So, all my workout clothes were dirty. Since I packed in a rush, I only brought two sets. We went hiking on Mount Cheha, the highest point in Alabama. Not a long hike, but still a good time. Here are some of the pics, although there are many, many more!

I Got Nothin' for Christmas, but I Got it ALL

Santa Baby, I really want a yacht and that's not a lot . . .

This Christmas, I didn't ask Santa for anything, Baby. That is, I didn't ask for anything physical. What I really wanted was to get some closure [in a certain situation that has been mentioned ad nauseum], to be with my family, to see snow, and to see everyone I care about safe and happy. And that was exactly what I got - so it was exactly what I needed. The closure occurred last week. Saturday I got to mom and dad's. It snowed for me this morning. All my friends and family are enjoying themselves and happy. Life for Meggan Ann is good.

The temperature was in the 40's this morning, so it shouldn't have even been snowing - it felt like a Festivus miracle, granted in my honor. Mom and I went out for a run/walk (me-run, mom-walk), but by then my snow had stopped. It was raining and we had to wear the raincoats, so we both walked - about 3 miles. (It is Darn Near Impossible to run in a raincoat, and my coach told me not to worry about it as long as I'm doing something every day until training starts, so I didn't sweat it.) We visited the donkeys, fed them some animal crackers, and returned home, where we laughed our faces off at funny bumper stickers on the internet, ate too much, sang Christmas carols and played the piano, and had mom's Famous Coconut Cake for dessert. Now I'm sitting here reading and writing while mom and dad read their nightly book, and I'm getting ready to go attack some of those yummy leftovers.

Am I little bit sad? Yes. Am I going to tell you why? No. Does it have anything to do with what I did or didn't get for Christmas? No. I'm choosing to focus on what I have, and ignore what I don't. Besides, as the saying goes . . .

It has been an amazing Christmas so far. Rehab Lite continues . . .

There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays (and a nod to Tea)

Running with altitude. That's today's theme. I have to give a nod to Tea (and to TriTurl too, of course, since she's my other high-altitude blogger, but mostly to Tea since "altitude" is in her blog title.) This morning I ran over 5 miles of hill repeats at 10 times my usual elevation.

It all started when I cooked up a big Christmas surprise for my parents.

But first, let me get this out of the way: I am SO glad triathlon season is starting next week and by December 31 I will be training too hard to drink AT ALL, because I am tired of blogging about my day-after-drinking embarrassments and feeling like this giant paradox: the athlete who parties. (I mean, really. Have you ever?) I don't know whether I'm celebrating or trying to forget - I really don't - but I either seriously celebrated or REALLY tried to forget (or both) Friday night. It will go down in the books as Another One of Meggan Ann's Wild Times, especially after my key broke off in my front door as I was letting myself in. And this isn't the "OMG You Silly Drunk Bitch" moment you might think it was - it was a Guaranteed Occurence That Just So Happened to Hit Me at a Very Bad Time. These keys have been giving us a hard time since we moved in, and we already had to hold mine juuuust so, say some magic words, do a dance, and wiggle it around just to get it to work. So it broke off on me as I was trying to let my (still slightly tipsy) behind in the door. Trying to get my brother in to feed the cats and packing the next morning with a hangover were also delightful. (New rule: NO going out drinking the night before a flight, even if the flight isn't until 1pm.)

But the good news, my Christmas surprise, and the reason I wasn't at my track workout Saturday morning: I got a chance to go home for Christmas for almost free. I say "home" because, even though I'm a Florida Cracker, mom and dad retired in Alabama, and I have never spent a Christmas away from my parents in my 28 years. I was starting to get really bummed about it, and I even had to keep myself from getting depressed when I got my parents' beautiful and sentimental Christmas card. (Yeah I know . . . . waaaaaaah.) I'll be spending the entire week of Christmas break here, Detoxing and Getting the Hell Away, which is what I think I've already been trying to do (although partying is more like Toxing than Detoxing, and I never actually went anywhere but Crazy, which is a much shorter trip for me than Alabama.)

So, yes, I'm finally in the Christmas spirit, because I'm with my parents, in the mountains, maybe with some snow, for the entire week. When I return on the 29th, I'll still have 4 vacation days to wind down. The best part? Mom didn't know, and Dad only knew because they had to come pick me up in Birmingham (a little bit of a hike from their house or I'd have taken a taxi. Hey, what do you want for free?)

Being here is almost like being at a spa, but with better conversation. I call it "Rehab Lite." I have a beautiful bedroom with my own computer, tons of pillows and a bunch of cozy comforters. They live pretty much on top of a mountain, so driving anywhere is amazingly beautiful, especially during the winter, when you can see almost everything through the slightly barren trees. And my parents, in most ways, live the perfect example of a healthy lifestyle. Although now in their 60s', they drink very little alcohol or caffeine and eat a flexitarian diet (we're former vegans who made the transition from vegan to lacto-ovo to flexitarian several years ago). They walk or hike 3-4 miles a day, 7 days a week with these really cool hiking sticks, kind of a version of Nordic walking. Their only unhealthy habit? They smoke. (And there's nothing I can do to get them to stop.)

Today they took me around their neighborhood on their 3-mile route, and I did hill repeats while they walked, adding 2 miles and change during the hour and 15 minutes. It was a nice, easy pace, and I felt so strong; the clean air and cold weather really agree with me. It further strengthens my resolve to Get the Hell Out of Florida. The first mile or so was a little tough because my lungs weren't used to the elevation - even though it's nothing compared to Colorado, where mom is from originally. Fort Payne is over 1000 feet above sea level, and the part of the mountain where they live is over 1400. Florida's highest point, by comparison, is about 375 ft above sea level. Once I got over that, I felt like a million bucks.

I'm looking forward to a Christmas morning run, where I can celebrate the biggest gifts I've ever been given: the health and ability to train and actively chase my goals and dreams, and a family who, despite the distance between us the rest of the year, is behind me all the way.

Merry Christmas . . . . Happy New Year. Here's to 2008 being even better than 2007.