calm before the storm

I don't have a long commute to work and I get good gas mileage. It can be done without a hybrid, you know. First, you need to recognize that you don't need an SUV to pick up groceries nor are you a lumberjack who specializes in inter-state transportation. Second, you have to get over yourself and forget the word "Hummer." Why do people who live in my building/renters drive cars that get 3 miles per gallon and cost as much as a perfectly good double wide in Oklahoma City? They need new financial advisors.

I only have to fill my tank about every two weeks, but I pass the station every day on my way to work. The last time I bought gas it was $3.69 9/10. My favorite thing about gas? The 9/10. The price started dropping, so I filled up even though my tank was half full. (I'm an optimist.) But gas prices have been dropping steadily for days now. It's down to $3.09 9/10 in Garden Grove, but who the hell wants to drive out there for gas?

And then I found a station that has 91 for $3.25 9/10. I want to buy those little red plastic thingies, fill them up with gas and begin decorating my house with gassy redness! Typically, gas has already started climbing this time of year, because of the tourists or vacations or travelers or pipeline maintenance. Maybe it has to do with unstable regions, but it's more likely the refinery's press release will say they're shut down due to "bad mayonnaise on chicken sandwiches." Whatever the reason, it's ridiculous when filling up a truck costs as much as a semester of community college.

Remember the old days when you were just learning how to drive stick? Remember when gas was less than $1.00? Remember when you could get three clay drinking vessels, a virgin wife and sixteen ounces of tobacco for one old camel that had stopped producing milk last year?

2:27 PM

Think you need a reason to go on a gay cruise?

No, you don't.

11:30 AM

it's all relative

A woman that I work with has a four-year-old and a- I just realized I don't know how old her baby is, but he's pretty young, as babies go. She keeps saying, "I just had a baby!" when questioned about most things. I don't know. Maybe he's four months old. Maybe five.

Every time we make plans she needs to check with her husband first: "I have to see if Mike will baby-sit." How is it babysitting if they're your own flesh and blood? And why is it like asking a favor when you're married to the guy and HE'S THE FATHER? She barters with him so that she can go to the track without taking along a diaper bag: "If I go today, I won't go on Saturday." It's not like her husband is in a band that's on tour or selling vacuums door to door seven days a week.

So, yesterday, she got her husband to agree that it might be one of his parental duties to pick up his son from pre-school so that his wife might be able to run and drop some of that "I just had a baby!" weight. We ran this hill on campus for 45 minutes and I turned into the coach. I've been running a lot longer than she has, so I was handling it a little better, but she never quit. For a brief shining moment, I thought I might be able to keep smoking, never get cancer and still hit one race a month, eventually getting sponsored and winning numerous trophies, because I was such an anomaly.

And then I met Greg, 30 minutes later, for our nightly run. (I don't know who I thought I was.) He asked what Nancy and I did, so we ran the hill once before hitting the canyon. Part of our run was to sprint up the hill and Greg, when I told him the workout, was already at the top before I stopped talking. I drug my sorry ass up to the top and thought Friday might be a good day to quit smoking, but Sunday might be better.

11:04 AM

reasons to buy

There is a man who lives on the second floor of my building. There's probably more than one, but there is only one, that I know of, who is really creepy.

I stopped playing tennis at home, because his deck faces the courts. Every time we played he would be sitting on his little chair, watching, in a spooky staring kind of way. He never talked to us, even (in the beginning) when we tried being friendly and said “hello.” He much preferred to stare and sit in the dark corner of his deck. Watching. Just watching. Some nights we could see the cherry from his cigarette or the reflection off his night vision goggles. OK, he didn't own goggles then, but he might now. I thank the Lord every day that I live above him or he'd probably be leaning over his deck to peer into mine.

I’ve seen him at the gym. On the way to the gym, too. I’d leave our building, walk across the pool area and POW. He’d be right behind me at the gate. I know he ran, because he was sucking wind and he wasn’t behind me when I turned the corner ten seconds ago.

Creepy.

I started ignoring him, because he’d pop up everywhere and that’s not cute or even normal. He’d be behind me as I turned corners, in front of me when I stood up from a machine or behind me pretending to watch the TV on my elliptical and not aware that it’s me working out on the damn thing. “Oh, it’s you! Hi.”

Creepy.

The other night, I got stuck with him- just him- in the elevator.

"You never play tennis anymore."

"Yeah, I gave it up."

"I don't see you at the gym, either."

"I'm going to one off-property."

"Where?"

"I don't remember the address. It's pretty far away, but it's my friend's place, so, you know."

"You look like you're still working out."

He starts checking me out like he's about to touch me and give me a physical, check for ringworm or ask how much I charge per extremity.

"What's your favorite body part?"

CREEPY!

I get stupid when I'm nervous. "My double Ds."

"You have double Ds?! Really?!"

He's trying to look down my v-neck, his face closer to my chest plate than is preferred, and I'm now so uncomfortable that I get off on the third floor just to escape the conversation. Anyone who has to ask me if I'm anything more than an understated B has no sense and it's not like I was wearing a freaking parka.

"That's the third floor, sweetie."

"I thought you lived on the second and we missed your floor so I'm trying to get off so you can go back downstairs, but I think you'll have to go up first, because I already pushed '4,' but it'll be quicker if I get off now and then you can hit door close and I'll just take the stairs because I have to get home to watch a show about the ISI and Mullah Mohammed Omar and it's on in like two minutes, so sorry for pushing the button- it's totally my fault. Bye."

He was still talking, but I was power walking like an Olympian and didn't turn around to ask why he couldn't take a hint.

I really hope his lease is up soon.

1:23 PM

I got an e-mail from brightroom

saying they had a picture of me from the Mud Run. None of the pictures are very flattering, because you're always covered in goo, arms flailing about trying to maintain some sort of balance or your mouth is forming a pucker as you spit whatever it is that got onto your lips off for the next person. It turns out that mud pits are quite slippery and not so tasty.

11:47 AM

we kicked that races ass!

The Marines cap the Mud Run at 3,500 people. That meant nothing to me until I was lined up behind 2,000 of them.



The Start/Finish area is about 40 yards wide and, as you leave the gate, you merge onto a two-lane road. About 50 yards down that road you are directed towards a path in the woods, which is wide enough for 4 people- shoulder to shoulder. I can't properly explain the traffic jam this caused in words that will do it any justice. Imagine, first, the countdown.

3! 2! 1!

And you're still standing. You are still standing there when the race clock is at 4:00. You’re just starting to walk now, because there's no room to run, when you hit the two-lane road and then you're slammed with water out of what looks like two tank trucks on opposite sides of the road.

"Oh my God. And that guy just splashed all over me!"

"It's called the 'Mud Run.' Get used to it."

"Oh, right. But still- he got my shoes dirty."

Once you exit the road and move beyond the tree line, the race really begins:



About 15 minutes in, we were able to separate from the pack enough to keep our own pace. I had studied the course map and thought I was prepared, except that course map was bullshit. The whole freaking 10k is filled with mud, dirt and water. For the better part of the race, you're covered- head to toe- in something gross.

And then the hill.

It would've been OK if it were just one climb to the top, as the course map indicated, but the mother fucker NEVER ENDED! You'd get to the top and then realize it was a plateau. We hit three plateaus before I stopped counting and started concentrating on breathing, which wasn't coming as easily as I'd hoped.

When I got to the first climbing wall, I misjudged my landing. I pulled one leg over, and then the other, resting my butt on the top. I jumped down, legs shoulder width apart, but the ground was uneven and I got dumped, face first, into the mud pit. I started to wonder if they didn't use some of the 10,000 latrines to make this mud, because it really smelled like ass. I also wondered why I bothered taking a shower when I could've slept in for another ten minutes.

Then, just when you think you can't hold the weight of anymore mud on your body, reprieve.



The water was cool, refreshing and deeper than I thought- I swam across half of it. One lady freaked out because she couldn't touch the ground, but there were lifeguards there for just that occasion. When you emerged, you were relaxed and clean-ish. It was the perfect half-way point in the race.

When we got to the six mile marker, the Marine announced that we were at 55:00. I couldn't have been more motivated to get this thing done in less than one hour, so I started to sprint. It would've been a lot easier if we weren't running down a dry wash that was just taunting your ankles. It was really steep and very unstable, so I kind of hopped down it like a fluffy bunny. Yes, like a fluffy little bunny. I watched a woman in front of me roll her ankle just minutes from the finish line- that's got to make you mad. We turned the corner at the bottom of the hill to see this in front of the finish line:



Once you crawl out of that, it's a mad dash to the finish. "Dash" might be a bit much, because it's only like twenty feet away, but still. You want to make up for all that time you lost waiting for the race to begin and that GU from mile five is still kicking its heels.

When you exit the race area, you are surrounded by beer tents, food vendors and a massive outdoor, open shower. Does it get any better?

I am so doing that again next year.

2:12 PM

f'ing great!

I have never had so much fun running and swimming through mud, especially when you consider how anal I am about dirt. F U N fantastic. Seriously. It's better than drugs- and I say that having truly experienced my "college" years.

I managed to beat more than 100 people in my age group, but got beat by a 71-year-old man and an ex-reality show woman with one leg. I did beat the 68-year-old, though.

That's how good I am, bitches.

6:07 PM

I can't decide which is more stupid...

All of the Paris Hilton coverage or this joke:

A Buddhist goes to an Angels game (because a Buddhist Dodgers fan is an oxymoron). Standing in front of the hot dog vendor, he places his order.

"Make me one with everything."

Stupid.

But it makes me laugh every time.

He hands the vendor a twenty and waits for his change. The vendor moves on to the next customer and, when confronted, says, "Change comes from within."

Stupid.

That one, not so much.

4:37 PM