WORK that extra pat of butter, dahlin’

17 01 2012

Love this.

Rock on with your strong self. Inside and out.

 





100 mile “practice”

11 02 2011

You’ve heard of marathons. Of course you have, those 26.2 oval stickers are breeding like wildfire on the backs of SUV’s everywhere these days, but have you noticed the stickers with numbers bigger than 26.2? Those are “Ultra” marathons, the new badge of honor. They’re typically 50K’s, or even 50 miles, or the grand poobah: 100 milers. (Although I bet there’s someone somewhere who’s hosted a race longer than 100 mi.) 

Mr Geauxgirl and I have worked an aid station for a 100 miler in the past. We used to “run” (term used loosely– much beer involved— and Delightful was there too) with a fella who actually set the course record for one of these jobbies seven or eight years running. He also had legs that were up to about my armpits, and kinda just loped along– his one step was about 3 or 4 of mine, and I’m about 5′ 6″. The majority of folks coming through at mile 85 were just brok-ted. As in likely causing irreparable harm.

Enter into the fray another friend of ours – we’ll call him “This Guy”. This Guy started “running” with us (the beer variety), then somehow he caught the Running bug that we managed to successfully avoid. (Well, “we” meaning me. I still don’t run unless I’m chased. Hubby has done 2 marathons, but his training regimine to get to 26.2 miles consists of about a month’s worth, where training for a month means I can go twice around the block without stopping instead of once around.) He also worked this overnighter aid station, and we together tsk-tsk’d (and awed) at the extremity of how much people voluntarily will put themselves through.

So my point?

Our friend, This Guy, a fellow scant 5′ 6″-er with legs to match, just completed a 100 miler over superbowl weekend.

He posted about it here, including a short video.

While I did read Born to Run recently (fascinating), plus I confess to owning 3 pair of Vibram Five Finger shoes (new jayas!), at the same time we’ve already established that I’m no runner. But I am a yogini. And part of what we yammer about (sometimes endlessly!) is that ours is a “practice”. As in, you get to “practice” managing your body and mind’s reactions to putting your body and mind through a self-induced stressful situtation in a safe place, so that your “practice” in dealing with stresses comes in handy when you step off your mat too.

Well lo and behold, watching his video during the run itself, he’s doing the same damn thing. Hmph. Looks to me like runners are closeted yogi’s, only with tighter hamstrings.

Rock on, friend. Now sit down and eat a bag o’ chips already, will ya? (Beer highly recommended too.) And next time you come for a visit, I’ll lend you my mat so you can work on those hamstrings.

yup! this guy....





i get on my own nerves too, don’tchu worry

19 01 2011

I’m an only child.

Well, sorta.

I do have a baby half-brother. He’s a full 15 years behind me, so in essence, we’re BOTH only children. I was out of the house before he was out of diapers, plus mother was a completely different person by then, with different circumstances, etc, as you might guess.

So now that she’s gone, I’ve become the matriarch, and therefore also the mother figure. Which is fine. Really. He’s really one of the sweetest souls I know. He’s got his own problems and gets in his own way, but then again don’t we all?

Point being, I confess: sometimes it’s hard to not be annoyed. And DAMN, I know it shows, no matter how hard I try for it not to.

It’s my problem, not his. I didn’t have the prep time of having the baby/toddler/kid/tween/teen progression beforehand, I just skipped straight from baby to Young Adult. And my official “I’m Practicing Kindness” mindset this year mandates that I not only of course show kindness and patience to him as his inner-self grows to match his size 13 shoes, but also that I show kindness and patience to myself as I adjust too.

Just the same, it makes me realize that what I found mildly irritating, is likely because on some level I cringe that I probably used to do whatever that is too (and please GAWD, hopefully I have grown out of it otherwise I wouldn’t be recognizing it in him when it goes awry.). All minor things, none of which are a crime of course, but still, *sigh*.

And yeah, even still: every now and then, just like watching him, I also watch myself. I see my own lips flapping, and I am powerless to stop my own annoying self. I’m choosing to find it “mildly, charmingly, annoying”. (I’m trying really hard here, work with me…)

Pesky “witness”.

Phone conversations rather than face-to-face might have something to do with it, but fortunately so far, I think I’ve been pretty good with him not noticing the occasional eyeroll.

The Witness agrees.

(whew)

And that is all for tonight.





don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know

7 01 2011

Site stats. How many viewers, from where, how long, blah blah. They can make a desperate little crack whore out of a reasonably rational mind.

I ADORE the comment interaction. But I really don’t want to know about clicks. I vow not to look at any site stats for a month. I mean really, you don’t want to know either. All it does is make you twitchy.

So stop. Else you end up doing the twitchy junkie shuffle.





eat that frog

8 12 2010

No, I don’t mean frog-legs, although I have to admit they’re mighty tasty if done properly.

You know when you NEED to do Something, and you know that the Something really isn’t all THAT bad, but yet still you find yourself defrosting the deepfreeze rather than tackling the Something instead?

Yeah. I’ve had a few of those lately.

“Eat a live frog every morning, and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day.” -Mark Twain

Do the icky thing first. Get it over with. NOW. The pain of not doing is greater than the pain of doing.

You heard me. So go. Do.

And if you absolutely can’t bear to eat that frog, put ketchup on it and hold your nose.





at least they could buy a gal dinner first

11 11 2010

I’m not particularly shy. Nor demure for that matter. And going through this twice this past week left even me feeling mighty violated. As if I were nekkid and everyone knew it but me. And nevermind that, what kind of x-ray crap am I absorbing? I’ve tried to research it, but it’s all noise, no real data. Oye. I ADORE travel, and damn, I’m actually rethinking a whole lot of it right about now.

Agreed. The airlines could step up, and make a fuss.

  • Save our rights.
  • Bolster their bottom line.
  • By telling the TSA to keep their hands off OUR bottoms.

Thanks, Nicole. Oh yeah, and happy Veteran’s Day. 🙂





cover your bits, clown nose optional

9 11 2010

My dog wears a tu-tu. Everyone thinks it’s “cute”. We have her wearing it because it makes her no-licky-the-hoohah collar more effective, rather than for cute factor, but the cuteness is a nice gravy benefit.

But who cares? Why should a piece of fabric cause a reaction anyway? If it were someone’s 5-year old son, there’d be the well meaning but ultimately clueless and judgmental crass asses to deal with, and the potential for a sweet shiny eyed big hearted kid to learn way too soon that Being Yourself sometimes has consequences from people whose hearts haven’t grown as big as his has yet. What a harsh lesson so early, but what a neat person this kid has the potential to become with the support he’s got around him.

My man knows how to wear a dress. Frankly, he can rock one. And he’s manly, PLUS sweet, sensitive, and funny– a damned fine catch that I won the lottery by finding. (And dammit, he’s got nice gams too.)

In an ideal world, clothes’ function is simple: cover your naughty bits, protect you from the elements, and be comfortable for the task at hand. But we all know it’s more than that. It’s a brand. It’s a statement of YOU and how you view yourself, or want others to view you.

Every day, you put on a costume. Seriously. No, you don’t put on ONE outfit for each place, but you do have a set range of “acceptable” wear for each situation. My friend Delightful made a good point the other day that even the Goth kids have a “uniform” of sorts. Goth kid: I dress this way because it’s different. Reply: Yeah. But why do you look just like your other goth friends? (Disclaimer: I adore goths, and I confess to having a recessive goth gene myself– it’s the teen angst logic mismatch that gives me a giggle.) 

Some costuming examples for your amusement:

  • Church/Office/Nursing Home visit: Conservative suit or dress, yes. Hoochie sequins, fishnets, and the pink wig? No.
  • Susan Komen Run: Running shorts/etc, yes. Last year’s thrift store bubble-gum pink prom dress customized with grommets & ribbon up the back, with feather boa, YES. Conservative suit or dress, no.
  • Evening out on the town: Little black dress, flowy pants, hot designer jeans, heels, YES. Paint stained & holey old unshapen flannel sweatshirt, hubby’s jeans, hiking boots, No.
  • A day picking strawberries & flying kites: Paint stained & holey old unshapen flannel sweatshirt, hubby’s jeans, hiking boots, Yes. Little black dress, flowy pants, hot designer jeans, heels, No.

But somehow, no one needs to be told that it’s not a good idea to show up to the office in an elvis cape or a clown costume.

Even if a clown is THE most ironically appropriate thing. Rubber nose optional.

Elvis is thumbs up for Saving Hooters. Clearly this is promotion worthy attire, no?