No chocolate rain = successful first half-marathon.*

13 Sep

Remember my friend Margaret? The one who hung out with me at Alan’s pool while he was in London this summer? Well, this weekend she ran a half marathon. It was especially impressive because – prior to Sunday – the farthest she had ever run was eight miles. Oh, and she signed up for it by herself and didn’t really tell anyone she was doing it until three days before.

Pretty badass, right? I’m making her an Honorary Honey Badger Tiara in my craft room. Um. Except I don’t actually HAVE a craft room. Fine. I’m dreaming up a tiara for her. Happy now?

I just loved her approach. Probably because it’s completely different than how I would enter a race. Not that you’ll catch me running even a 5k (need I remind you of my newly-developed Old Lady Syndrome? aka Bakers Cysts?), but if I were to, I’m pretty sure I’d turn into THAT GIRL… you know, the one whose Facebook status is only about running and sleeping and carb-loading.

(Personally, I’d rather be dyslexic and crab-load. Just a preference. Plus, I’d be pleasantly surprised to find out I’d only signed up for a 13 mile course, instead of a 31 mile race.)

And I’d use training as an excuse for anything I didn’t want to do. “Sorry, can’t travel to Atlanta for work — I’m in Training.” Or, “Sorry, can’t hit your wedding shower – big run that day. You know, Training…” Or, “Jury duty? No can do – Training!”

Anyway, unlike me, Margaret decided not to milk it. She was so stealth that it only occurred to her 48 hours before the race that it was going to be weird not having anyone there to cheer her on for what was potentially a major accomplishment.

So Sunday morning Alan and I woke up and decided to surprise her at the finish. Since it was a game-time decision, we were cutting it a bit close — our best-case scenario had us arriving within 15 minutes of her crossing the line, if we’d estimated her pace accurately.

In keeping with Murphy’s Law, OF COURSE we encountered freak obstacles on our way: a fire truck closing a street temporarily so it could reverse down it, construction on a Sunday, the Vice President’s motorcade racing down Wisconsin Ave.

Throughout all this, I frantically pounded a Diet Dew and urged Alan to employ some aggressive driving tactics.

“I’m pretty sure the Secret Service will just shoot us,” he told me levelly, explaining why he wasn’t willing to ignore the Advance Detail’s motion for us to remain parked at the side of the road. “Especially since it’s September 11. I don’t think they’ll be messing around.”

That's not Margaret. Those are foam balls, ftr,

Fair enough. But once the motorcade was past us, Alan did a great job making up time, delivering me to the finish-line just minutes before Margaret came running down the shoot. Totally worth it!

Post-race, simultaneously loaded with endorphins and exhausted, Margaret wandered around in a bit of a daze. After walking past a woman holding a tiny baby, Margaret burst out with, “Wow. That baby is so — UGLY. It looks like a raisin!”

And that’s how we knew she was regaining normalcy.

Good on ya, MZ, for making a half-marathon look like a walk in the park!

[*BTW – Sadly, “Chocolate Rain” is the only line of questioning I’ve had for Margaret since I learned she was running a half-M. “Are you worried you’ll bring the Chocolate Rain? Did anyone on the trail have Chocolate Rain? What would you actually do if faced with Chocolate Rain?”  Margaret is extra-awesome for indulging my questions about it.]

Tags: , , , , , , ,

I love bacon, but PETA might recruit me.

12 Sep

More my speed.

Alan has decided he will never fish with me again.

It seems extreme, but I can’t really say I blame him. Not after how I behaved last week.

We were in Michigan, visiting my family. My parents have a cottage on a small lake, and – in accordance with some unwritten Michigan Lake law – a pontoon boat. One night at sunset we decided to grab some fishing poles, some bait, and putter out into the lake to see if we could catch anything.

As a kid, I loved fishing and was generally pretty lucky with what I’d catch. Before our annual trek to visit my grandparents in Alabama, I’d be out in our back garden, digging up worms so I could take down some Real Michigan Nightcrawlers for Papa. He always swore they were bigger than Alabama worms, and I believed him.

Continue reading →

Tags: , , , , , ,

I’ve got your Swiss Cake Rolls right HERE.

9 Sep

With an almost six year age difference between us, my sister and I didn’t have much use for each other when we were growing up. We were kind of like Beezus and Ramona. Fortunately, as adults, through the wonder of modern technology, we’ve discovered that we share the same demented sense of humor.

We often chat each other on Facebook in the evening, discussing scenes or dialogue to include in our screenplay. [Note: we don’t actually have a screenplay, but we’re convinced that if we could just focus, we’d be able to give the Cohen Bros. a run for their money.]

Recently Alicia switched her profile photo to this image of Little Debbie:

So wholesome.

I think the impetus for this was that she had served a box of Swiss Cake Rolls for dinner the night before. (Dinner, not dessert.)

On Facebook chat, the person’s profile photo shows up next to every comment they make, and it was cracking me up to chat with this little farm girl wearing a hat. To enhance the visual exchange, I switched my profile photo to this:

Wholly awesome.

Now whenever we chat, it looks like I’m on brink of punching Little Debbie. Which brings me no end of amusement.

See what I mean:

 <–New profile photo = “Welcome to the gun show. Prepare for some kidney thumping.”

 Little Debbie says, “Eat my Swiss Cake Roll.”

  RR says, “F*ck your Swiss Cake Roll.”

  Now that’s just potty talk there, Miss Rosie.

  Rosie don’t have time for pleasantries.

Tags: , , , ,

Jim Vance is my public speaking secret weapon.

8 Sep

I recently switched jobs at my company so I’m now developing and delivering training for our staff. As the daughter of two teachers and a microphone addict, it’s the perfect job for me.

Today was my first opportunity to deliver new training that I designed, in the form of an hour-long interactive call that was part lecture, part Q&A, part interview and part crazy. I had an audience of about 50 people and ample question prompts, so I was expecting it to be ROCKIN’.

Unfortunately, I’d forgotten about the odd dynamic that happens on group calls. Normally talkative people go quiet. Everyone chooses to mute their line. It’s like pulling teeth to get a simple, “No,” when you ask if anyone has a question.

More than once, I found myself calling, “Beuller? Beuller?”

I could understand the silence if I were a robot-like presenter. But I’d like to think I have contagious energy  a pulse and am hilarious a WEE BIT silly. And yet: crickets.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve facilitated large group calls for more than ten years and it’s always been the same.

When I was younger, I had an awful go-to joke. For whatever reason, whenever I would “share my screen” and allow people to view my computer, I’d feel compelled to make this crack:

Sure hope I remembered to close the porn!

Let’s just agree, while that can be funny, it’s probably not appropriate for work. Ever. And it only sounds creepier when it’s met with silence. As if people think I might surf porn. At work.

Maybe this is why mustaches are gross.

The only thing worse than that I can think of is the word porno. It’s about ten times worse than the word porn, for the same reason that mustaches are somehow inexplicably worse than goatees.

The good thing to come from today’s call was a reminder of why I haven’t yet worked up the nerve to hit Open Mike Night at the local comedy club. While some of my best dreams involve bringing down the house at the Improv, in reality, I think it might go a bit more like a conference call.

This made me realize: it’s always good to have some kind of secret weapon in your pocket. Something that people won’t be able to turn away from, that will weaken them and bring them to tears (preferably from laughter). Even if it has absolutely nothing to do with your presentation.

Once I had this revelation, I knew what my weapon would be: This clip of Jim Vance.

Please take a minute and watch it.

Just be sure you hit *6 first to mute your line.

Once you’ve closed out of any pornos you’re viewing, that is.
Continue reading →

Tags: , , , , , ,

Lesson: Sometimes multitasking makes you look crazy.

7 Sep

Having seen a number of photos of myself lately in which I look like Trudi from Facts of Life, I’ve decided it’s time to get back in some semblance of shape.

Oh, I’m generally pretty active (I walk between 20-25 miles and hit yoga 3-4 times per week), but I eat like crap. There’s just too much food that I enjoy, so rather than diet, my solution has always been to compensate with activity.

Except recently, I haven’t. I’ve been on the road for work (with more of the same in the near future), and I’ve been content skipping the hotel gyms and leaving my sneakers at home. Hence why you might call me Trudi.

So yesterday I went to the lap pool for the first time since the beginning of summer. In addition to burning calories, I find swimming therapeutic. It’s a good way to clear my brain when I’m feeling like I’ve lost the battle for work/life balance.

The problem with being an awesome multitasker, however, is that even as I swam my therapeutic laps, I was planning my to-do list and mentally preparing for conference calls. Not exactly “clearing my brain.”

Recognizing that my default setting is ACTIVE, I decided to channel my multitasking urge toward meditation, since I’ve been meaning to try that anyway. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not good at sitting still and meditating. But there are moving meditations where you meditate on a specific mantra while you’re doing something. That struck me as more my speed.

So as I swam freestyle down the length of the pool, I thought, “I’m balanced. I’m balanced. I’m balanced.” And on my return length of breaststroke, I thought, “I’m grateful. I’m grateful. I’m grateful.” (There is no correlation between the stroke and the mantra, for the record.)

The first challenge with this plan was finding a way to continue counting my laps. I usually do a mile, which is 70 laps. I keep track by repeating the number of the lap I’m on the entire time I’m swimming it.

So this turned my thought pattern into, “Four. Four. I’m balanced. Four. I’m balanced. Four. Four. I’m balanced…”

And then I decided that swimming laps and chanting “I’m balanced!” with numbers spliced into the mix sounded less like meditation and more like a crazy person trying to convince herself that she’s sane.

Which is probably somewhat accurate, since I’m pretty sure the point of meditation is to have a sole focus, NOT accomplish it while doing something else. Which probably means I’m not cut out for meditation. Which then led me to think about what a crazy swimmer would actually look like. And I decided it would look like THIS.

Which is exactly how I plan to swim all my laps in the future. Multi-tasking at its finest.

[LATER: Alan just pointed out that the fat character in Facts of Life was actually Natalie. And that there isn’t even a character named Trudi. It was Tootie. Because she had gas? Apparently the real moral of this post is this: Kids who are only allowed 30 minutes of television — PBS at that — each day, grow up lacking cultural reference points. No wonder I can’t focus. Television didn’t numb my brain. THANK YOU, Mom and Dad. Even if I don’t know Tootie from Natalie from Fruit Loops. Whatever.] 

Tags: , , , , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →