April 23, 2007

I really appreciate the encouraging advice you guys have shared about running, especially the collective acknowledgment that it truly does suck at first. Several years ago I managed to stick to a running routine long enough to suffer through a 5K (which ended, no lie, at a brewery. Nothing like ten pints of hefeweizen to re-hydrate, and also to make you feel like roadkill afterwards), so I do have some vestigial memory of how running gets less shitty if you keep at it, but I definitely needed the reminder.

I ventured out again for a short run/walk on Sunday morning and it was much more tolerable than Friday’s workout, thanks to the inclusion of my iPod. The earbuds kept the cold air from giving me a migraine-level headache, plus the music totally distracted me from all the, you know, burgeoning suicidal tendencies.

Unfortunately, the iPod was also a major annoyance—I clipped it, for lack of a better place, to my waist, where it flopped against me and threatened to drag my pants down (a worrisome outcome indeed, which would not only expose my temptingly pale, veal-like rear end to any nearby hungry dogs, but would also surely provide my neighbors with legitimate grounds for a pain-and-suffering lawsuit); also the cord kept pulling at the earbuds, despite being strung underneath my shirt. I need some sort of iPod securing system, any suggestions? I have one of the video models, not a more running-friendly nano.

Although I’m masochistically eager to try again, I don’t think there will be any running this week. JB’s out of town and unless I want to trot behind Riley’s stroller—a commendable exercise but not one I’m willing to attempt quite yet—or leave him to squall forlornly in his crib, I can’t swing it. Well, except for the part where my office is located smack dab on a recreational trail and I could theoretically head to work early so I have time to head out and work up a sweat at lunchtime, but let’s just take things one step at a time, jesus, get off my DICK.

JB will be on a business trip in Shanghai until Friday (note to any potential woman-alone-stalking psychos [not YOU guys]: remember, I’m armed. Also, I have an Attack Cat who will stealth-barf disgusting brown lumps of half-digested Purina in your shoes, so step back, motherfucker), and I’m hoping Riley doesn’t get too despondent being stuck with me all week. A mother can only take so many howls for Dada before she starts to feel not only a tad unappreciated, but also like she should help Dada feel like he didn’t miss too much during his absence, perhaps by saving all the week’s poopy diapers and storing them in the backseat of Dada’s truck.

April 21, 2007

I hope you don’t think I’m kissing your ass, but can I just say what a fascinating, intelligent, well-mannered discussion has been going on, and how pleased I continue to be that I can share my thoughts with you without fearing a Big Bunch of Crazy in response? I think you might just be the smartest, sanest bunch of readers a blogger could ever hope to have, and also I think you look really hot in those jeans.

JB and I have been talking quite a bit about guns and legislature and education over the last couple days as we’ve been reading the comments people are posting and the complex issues they raise. We learned that while we come from somewhat different places with our regard to firearms, neither of us want Riley to have toy guns. I don’t know how you can teach a child about gun safety and the proper way to handle a gun, then allow them to carry realistic plastic versions which are treated as harmless toys, surely undoing learned behaviors such as “never point a gun at anything you don’t intend to kill”—never mind the possibility of someone mistaking it for a real gun. On a related note I also have major reservations about games like Halo where the whole point is aiming and firing pretend weapons at other people, but then again I have reservations about video games in general and aarrgh, that is a whole additional can of poisonous snakes.

I’ve been wondering whether as gun owners we need to disclose that fact to any new playmate’s parents. It’s something I hadn’t really thought of before, but I understand that people often want to be informed if guns are in the house. We would want to know, too—so we could feel confident in the safety measures that are in place. Do you think the responsibility to bring up the topic should lie with the interested party, or should it be proactively volunteered?

Oh, what a subject. Anyone mind if I switch gears? Let’s all make believe there is some kind of clever segue in this paragraph that takes us from guns to jogging.

I’ve been thinking about long-term fitness goals and ways to make exercise a lifelong routine. I’m still into Turbo Jam and doing the workouts several times a week, but I’d like to, you know, diversify. Getting to the gym is a lot more challenging than it used to be, so I figured running was my best option.

On Friday morning I set the alarm for 6:45, got my ass out of bed and hit the street. The morning was cold and clear and lovely, and the roads were quiet. I ran past cherry trees in full bloom and heard the twinkling chatter of songbirds.

The only bad part was that it sucked, oh god did it suck, it sucked hyena rectum, it sucked from the moment I stepped out the door and it sucked for the whole entire fifteen minutes I forced myself to spend alternating between an anemic jog and a gasping, wheezing walk.

My entire body hated me and my lungs threatened to burst like airbags from my flared, desperate nostrils. It was chilly and the insides of my ears got cold and it made my head hurt. I felt like my feet each weighed half a ton and my knees were made out of concrete. The only thing that was legitimately running was my nose, because at my pace I could have been overtake by a banana slug, or possibly a large glacier. It SUCKED.

It will suck less if I keep trying, though . . . right? Or is the reason joggers always look all intense and shit because they’re trying to hang on to their will to live? Any encouraging advice is more than welcome.

Lastly, it seems like it’s been at least a couple days since I’ve inundated this site with photos, so hey. Ho. Let’s go:

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Here is the boy and Cat, while in the background I am squawking “Pet the kitty nice! Pet the kitty NICE!” over and over like a deranged parrot.

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Riley at the farm, probably wondering why I’m always pointing a camera at him like he’s Britney Goddamn Spears.

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Hmm, what’s going on here? Pooping, maybe?

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Riley’s t-shirt is much cuter than mine. But my shirt doesn’t have drool marks, so there.

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Adorable father-son moment, or dueling lamprey eels? Choose your own adventure!

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I love this photo because of his oh-so-familiar expression. My suspicous little boy.

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