Review - Quaker instant grits

I didn't try grits for a very long time. I just wasn't really interested. They sound gross, for one. Just the name.

Then when grits were served to me, they had been cooked with water and not seasoned much. I didn't see the point. Grayish, goopy and grainy? I think I'll pass.

Then I started dating a southern boy (so many delightful stories begin with that sentence ... ). When I told him I didn't care for grits, he shook his head and explained that I hadn't had his grits.

Apparently, that was not a euphemism.

I now keep grits on hand, and make them as a breakfast or dinner side quite often. They're easy and good, and I usually add a bit of milk, cream or butter because what isn't better with butter and cream? He likes to spoon bacon grease in his. I recommend it.

So, when I moved to South Carolina, I was excited to check out the grits selection at the grocery store - they can sometimes be hard to find out west. You may not find any, or you may just find one kind. Out here, the grits section is bigger than the oatmeal section. And they make instant grits in little packets--just like the oatmeal my mom wouldn't buy for me when I was a kid.

Naturally, I had to try it out.

Flavors: American cheese, three cheese, cheddar cheese. I also plan to try the bacon-flavored variety.

Moo.

Detail. Because I'm all about details.

Grit-tastic.

 Difficulty: Can you figure out how to stir something and microwave it for 1 minute and 15 seconds? I hope so. This is a crazyshort cook time.

Nutrition: There's 100 calories in a packet, plus the calorie content of the milk - if you use it. So, not a lot. And there's no nutritional value really, unless you're looking for more carbs in your diet.

Taste: These are gross, y'all. I know, SHOCKING.

Why am I surprised? I don't know, I like those little Quaker oatmeal packets. They're like the candybar of breakfast grains. But these were extra gritty and hard, and I swear they had enough salt in them to preserve an entire ham. And it's not that I don't like fake cheese flavored powder. I'll eat a tub of cheeseballs, cheetos, and a box of Kraft mac and cheese (Kraft dinner to my Canadian friends).

My advice? Run far away from these things.

Unless you're one of the friends to whom I've mailed a novelty package of instagrits, in that case, YUMMY! Enjoy! They're a southern delicacy!

On finding the right words

This is not about how to find the right way to say something complicated.

This is about how to throw a party.

A friend of mine who lives in Oregon likes to have these parties at the beginning of every summer wherein guests bring some pasta salad, maybe a few beers, oh, I don't know, perhaps some Jello? No, probably not Jello. But, you know. Coleslaw maybe. The hosts crank up a grill and cook hot dogs and burgers. Condiments are presented. There may be a lawn game or two involved.

In Oregon, such an event is called a BBQ. Or, spelled differently, a barbecue. The event is so recognizable as such, that my friend, should her last name be Windsor, could invite people to a Windsor-Q, and all attendees would know that it would be outside and that food would be cooked on a grill (fascinators optional).

I tried inviting some of my South Carolinian friends to an Aynor-Q recently. Later, when I mentioned that the grill - the one we keep outside and cook food on - would be heated for the event, I got a surprised response. "Oh, we're grilling?"

Right. Because not only was the Q not specific enough to suggest BBQ - which I get - but here, in the Deep South, the word BBQ (or barbecue) does not mean "a party where people cook outside." It is a noun that means "food that is cooked with smoke" or a verb that means "to cook with smoke." In the Carolinas, it can also be a noun defined as "pulled pork." Said pulled pork may be mixed with barbecue sauce, either vinegar or mustard-based, but NEVER, for the love of Jesus, will that sauce be tomato-based.

Here, an event where people cook outside on a grill is called a "cook out."

Oooooohkay. Lesson officially learned.

I also learned another lesson at what turned out to just be a good dinner party: if you're a yankee (I hear I am), don't try saying "y'all." It works in writing - I've found it's quite efficient as a plural, gender-neutral pronoun in a casual email. However, when I tried it on my guests, my efforts were met with mockery.

Bastards.

The Sun News

Look, I am not gonna go and knock Easter. I just want to share some cultural differences.

Where I come from, you do not generally see this on the front page of your newspaper on Easter Sunday:

What's that, you ask? Why, it's a fawning, front-page profile of the local carpenter who spatters himself in fake blood and faux-crucifies himself on Ocean Boulevard in Myrtle Beach every year.

Oh, wait, I'm sorry. He used to do it. From 1993-1997.

Oh, and it wasn't Easter. It was the day before Easter.

But still! Cool headline! And he's a carpenter (made his own cross, people) and his initials are J.C. So. There ya go.

I actually do like this quote, written about the phase before he became a Christian:

To his dismay, his wife Elaine Curkendall, refused to let Jesus go and told him so.

"If  you are asking me to choose between you and Jesus, then I'm choosing God," she said. "You ain't even a close second."

That lady doesn't mess around.

Honestly, my only real problem with the story is that it took away from the headline with the other lead story of the day. It's about a local run where people stop and eat a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts in the middle of their 10K.

Best headline ever?

It's gourmet you guys.

Oh, gourmet Japanese sauce? That sounds fancy. I wonder what's in it?

(I took these photos awhile ago. Do not misconstrue my terrible timing for insensitivity about the horrible earthquake tsunami nuclear reactor endtimes scenario everyone's understandably obsessed with right now. This particular post has nothing to do with Japan, and a whole lot to do with America. Still, I gave a little bit here, and it wouldn't hurt you to do the same. xoxo)

Ch-ch-ch-chaay-yanges (and also some notes on trends in the south)

First off, I got a new layout (which I'm also hoping to ditch soon) and changed the way I do comments here, because I want you to know when someone replies to your comments. I think this means I'll be commenting as Serial here, just to confuse folks (did I mention I'm terrible at blogging?) -- though it's really a nod to folks who knew me back in the day.

Please tell me if you hate. Or if love it, I suppose. But to do that, you'll have to comment. Bwa ha ha ha ...

Second: I'm now going to paint an entire region with a very broad brush based on limited experience. Ready, set, go!

So there's been much ado about the DIY trend in the last few years, no? How now it's cool to knit, and to make your own food, and cook, and locally source. How it's fine and all to drink good beer, but to make good beer is truly divine.

But if you not only do all that but also grow the hops for your beer? Organically? Right on, man.

Right? I feel like I've seen this all over the place. Moms make their own baby food. Crafting is in. Store-bought is out -- or out-ish, anyway. I mean, it's really fun to make a sweater, but it takes a REALLY long time to make a sweater. So it's hard to actually stock your closet with shit you made, but oh, wouldn't you love to try! And wouldn't it just bake take the cake to make your own yarn? Except, who the crap knows how to make yarn? Or has the equipment? I think you use a spindle, right?

Actually, now that I'm thinking on it, I could probably have left my house in Bend, started knocking on doors, and within an hour turned up a guy with a spindle, and someone whose sister down the road raises free-range llamas. People where I'm from make sport of DIY. Homemade jewelry. Creating entire meals made from food produced within 100 miles -- this in the high desert, which has a ridiculously short growing season.

I thought this was a widespread trend. I know it is in a way. It spreads from places like Bend, Oregon, to Brooklyn, N.Y. And Bend's a pretty small town!

But Bend ain't the south. And I live in the legit south. Not a hip version of the south. Where I live in the south has no university, no cool music enclaves of hipness.

Now please don't think I mean the people here are backward. Some most certainly are, but for the most part, that's not the case. What I'm saying is that what's cool here has a different flavor.

I was recently asked by a co-worker if Roomie and I were "stay-at-home" kind of people (I resisted the urge to proclaim myself a former party girl, because, although it's true, bringing it up seems idiotic at a certain point) as opposed, I guess, to people who go out. She asked me this after I mentioned another fabulous meal we'd made at home (homemade curry with homemade paneer cheese with punjabi garam masala we'd ground ourselves. Ahem).

The question made me realize that the fact that we don't have kids and still prefer to stay home makes us ... kind of odd here. Now, the woman who asked is no 21-year-old partier. She's in her mid-30s, she's totally together. I just get the impression that she would rather have someone else make her good food than make her own. She likes to dress up and go out. That's something that to me, sounds nice on occasion. Most of the time, though, it doesn't appeal to me. My girls back home and I were far more apt to load up on fancy cheese from the market and stay in, sans heels. Sometimes we'd go out, but it was usually to a chap place with a stiff pour, and we were just as apt to get together on a weekend and make soap. Seriously.

I don't know anyone here who's interested in knitting. Or sewing. UNLESS they're, well ... how do I say this ... you know ... country folk. Or church ladies.

It seems like the hip girl (and boy) fondness for old world craft doesn't apply to the hip kids in this part of the country. And my theory is this: Here, raising chickens for free-range eggs ain't cool, it's farming. Sewing? Grandmothers here never stopped sewing. Same with all versions of canning, preserving and pickling (and I don't suggest you even mention kimchi). Potlucks are for church functions.

Maybe it's that when the country is gone from your life (as we pretend it is on the west coast and it most certainly is in actual urban areas), things country people "did" seem cool. When those country people are still doing them, and you can see the country folk selling that shit on the roadside to tourists, it doesn't seem cool anymore.

Am I right (or am I right)?

*Note: All of this pretty much ignores the existence of the midwest. Where I guess (based on the 3 people in my world who live in the midwest) people are into knitting and scrapbooking, despite their farm ties? Is it because the midwest has a better relationship with its rural roots? I'm sure some of my midwestern (bred, at least) readers will fill me in.

More on feeding a southern boy

This week, I was shopping the Safeway discount meat bin (If you don't know what this is, you should. Look for it. At Safeway -- Vons in some parts of the country, I guess -- they have these bins in the meat department where they toss soon to be expired meat. It's usually 30-50% off. Oh hells yes. I eat expired bologna.), and I saw a small container with two veal cube steaks. I've had bad luck cooking veal, but I decided to try it again.

When Roomie came home, he saw what I was cooking and told me he'd never eaten veal.

"That's 'cause you're a good person," I said.

He agreed.

I had on hand some breadsticks I'd made (they were supposed to be baguettes). They were no good for regular eatin, but they were perfectly cracker-ey for homemade bread crumbs. I had fresh mozzarella, a hunk of parm, eggs, pasta, and best yet I had everything I would need to make this Smitten Kitchen tomato sauce that I absolutely adore. (A note for my super foodie readers: The veal parm recipe also calls for fresh parsley and fresh basil, and while I had the parsley, I had no basil. I did have fresh tarragon on hand, and the tarragon substituted for the basil in a wholly surprising and totally transcendent way)

As we sat down for dinner, I realized Roomie didn't have a knife to cut the meat. Fortunately, his fork was more than sufficient to cut the veal into bite-sized pieces. After the first bite, he looked at me, wide-eyed. Seriously, if cows had blue eyes .... I almost started to think I should feel guilty for cooking some poor, tortured creature and making this sweet, animal-loving, doe-eyed hippie enjoy his (or her -- do they make veal out of young heifers?) dead body. I offered all I could come up with as a remittance, an apology for making Roommie realize how tasty animals can be when they're disallowed from ever feeling fresh air, from ever running, from ever getting the opportunity to be what they were born to be.

"I'm sorry I made that baby cow taste so delicious."

I think that's good enough.

Not dead!

Hey y'all! I'm not dead! And I didn't murder anyone.

That last part is very, very important.

There's no possible way to tell all of the awesomely blog-worthy stories from the past week I spent at home. Plus, I've been told that I'm not allowed to tell at least some of the stories (especially the story about how I woke up in a hotel room one morning and looked over and there was a naked man in the next bed. Deffo not supposed to tell that story).

So, here's a list of memorable items, some awesome and others decidedly un-awesome:

• My sister (32) and I (29) stayed up past 5 a.m. two nights in a row. My sister and I realized without a doubt that we are too old to stay up until 5 a.m. one time, let alone two nights in a row. The day after the double-header was like walking around with a mixture of hot sauce and cement in my veins. Slow and painful. (How's that for a simile, suckas?!)

• One morning, I found myself walking in downtown Portland in last night's little black dress, practically bare-footed in my black tights,with my boots in one hand and a borrowed black purse in the other. No one would return my calls, so after leaving the most pathetic message ever on Roommie's phone (Wah wah wah I miss you wah wah these people are crazy wah wah wah I just walked by a used condom wah wah wah I think I'm still drunk), I decided to go for some breakfast, hoping that while I ate someone would call me back and come pick me up. The first restaurant I encountered was called "Pho and Toast." I tell ya, a steaming bowl of noodles is the BEST hangover cure ever invented. Well, maybe the second best. They didn't sell bloody Marys. However, they did sell diet cokes, and then they tried to charge me for a refill. You betcherass I marched up to the counter in my little black dress, smeared mascara and frizzball hair and complained until I got that $1.45 taken off my bill.

• I was confronted at my high school reunion by my first boyfriend -- a guy who really does not strike me as a blog reader -- for writing about him on DatingIsWeird.com. He quoted the post almost word for word. I was flabbergasted, because really, it had never occurred to me that he'd ever read it. But also, I was kind of delighted. He read DatingIsWeird! He's one of the smartest people I know! And, if you go read the post I linked to above, you might get why this is just so perfect: In his rebuttal to what I'd written in the post, he quoted Corinthians. Also, he's now dating the girl to whom I wept (in the high school girl's room, of course) when he dumped me. A girl I later made out with. Ah, beautiful world! How small you are!

• My sister and I made it SIX DAYS without fighting. Then we screamed at each other in front of the kids and stormed out of the room in separate directions. But we made up after that. And seriously. Six days is pretty effing good.

• Two days before my sister's wedding, took the kids for hair cuts. Imagine the embarrassment when one hairdresser approached grandma and said she couldn't cut the hair because of the schoolhouse scourge: Head lice. Then imagine the best auntie ever (that would be me, in case you're confused) hunched with her sister over a giant head of hair, painstakingly combing through the strands to remove all the lil bugs. I think that's when the pain in my neck (I'm speaking literally here) started.

• While I was in town, I signed up for a trial of Bikram yoga. I learned quickly that Bikram yoga doesn't suck, the BEND Bikram studio does. The instructors at my local studio are vibey as all getout. They talk shit to you, loudly, if you drink water before they want you to or if you modify a pose. In the studio in Portland (link here if you are interested, there's one in Beaverton and one in S.E. Portland. I really recommend them), the instructors were kind, encouraging, and understanding. Before my first class, they told me to listen to my body and be my own yoga teacher. They didn't wear little headphones, either. Oh, and one of them was super hot. However, be warned that if you go to Bikram yoga super hung over, you very well may pass out. And if you have arthritis and still go all out on the back bends, you might not be able to turn your head to the right the next day.

• The night before the wedding, Roommie arrived in town. But he didn't find the place I was staying at until 1 a.m. You see where this is going? It was an early afternoon wedding. I had to get up at 5:30 a.m. day of. That's right, I did the Maid of Honor duty (if you've done it, you know how rough it can be. If you've done it twice ((ahem)) my hat is off to you. At the rehearsal, my mom referred to me as The Wedding Nazi. I'm thinking about becoming a professional MOH. But I will charge exorbitant fees.) on four hours' sleep.

Oh, and the wedding? It was lovely. But with no wedding coordinator, you can bet your busciuts I ran my ass off all day long. Fetch grandma for pictures. Go get the wedding certificate. Go cut the cake. Where are the flowers? Can you find the photographer? Come kiss the baby! You have to dance to this song with your boyfriend! Where's my toothbrush? We're out of food?

My sister owes me. Huge. It's a good thing I love that beyotch more than my luggage (points if you can name that movie).

Now, here's something I'm ashamed to admit to y'all. I got caught, in a photo, in my MOH dress and crocks. It's on Bookface. I don't even feel like I should explain how or why this happened. I think I should just say my fifty hail Mary Janes and be on my way.

Butter

A little unsolicited advice for y'all: If you have ambitions of weight loss, don't date a southern boy.

Sunday was Roomie's birthday, and I think I went through a pound of butter cooking him his favorite things. And a quart of heavy cream, several cups of sugar, a half pound of bacon and about a third of a bottle of maple syrup.

The details? Pancakes and bacon for breakfast. Lunch didn't matter, because I finished making him two crack pies (Most of the butter went into the crack pie. It's a dairy-and-caramelized-sugary-goo pie in an oatmeal-cookie-crumbled-with-butter crust), and he decided because it was his birthday he could cut into a pie before we went to the movie and ate a tub of popcorn and just call that lunch. Dinner was Emeril's shrimp (with cream and peppers, garlic and cajun seasoning. Now, I think Emeril's kind of twatty, but if he knows how to make anything, it's southern-style shrimp) and Charleston-style grits (the grits contained two cups of milk, a cup of heavy cream and a stick of butter. it's really the only way to eat grits), which apparently in the south they serve with corn bread. After the cornbread came out of the oven, we frosted it with butter and honey until it weighed about a half pound per cube. I would've taken photos of some of this deliciously fattening food, but we were kind of busy stuffing it in our faces. (Exaggeration. He was stuffing. I was actually pretty restrained. One pancake. Half slice of crack pie. OK, I did hit the bacon pretty hard, but c'mon. Gimme a break.)

Since then, I've not let a carb pass my lips, and barely any dairy. It's been mostly egg whites salad and lean meats. A few nuts and avocado. I've walked the damn butte every morning and done pilates in the evenings. Too little too late? (Sleeveless maid of honor dress in little more than 2 weeks. gulp. thank fat jesus for spanx) Probably.

Oh, and in totally unrelated news, I went to see a new chiropractor, and hours after the appointment with the new guy, my old chiro called me to schedule my next appointment. It's like he knew I was cheating. But the new guy! He adjusts my whole spine! He doesn't try to rip me off by selling me $600 orthotics!

He also makes me take my shoes off in his office and frowns upon my prescription medication use, but, you know. Win some, lose some.

Wagon: The thing that I get off and on depending on my mood.

Yesterday was day one of not being a lazy-ass whiner chubby-bunny face-stuffer.

Really. After more than a week of sleeping 10-12 hours a night, and evenings spent in the company of my couch and a bowl of spaghetti (Really, at one point a friend stopped by, and I was watching Sex and the City in the dark, eating a bowl of spaghetti, in a filthy house. He asked, "Where's Roomie?" I told him, monotone, "He's out of town." My friend looked around the room and said, "So, are you just pissing and shitting yourself where you sit, too?" "Uh huh. I'll clean it up before he gets back.") I've decided it's time.

Yesterday, I did my first pilates class in ages, and discovered my that one of my instructors' sister is a poet. Now, when I heard that, I thought, "Oh, poet. Uh huh. Sure. I'm sure she's a real good poet." But it turns out she recently won a prize I was familiar with, and was recently published in Poetry, the journal I have a collection of going back to 2007. She's a real muthafuckin poet, y'all. Not sure why that matters, except to think that there are real poets out there who are related to real people I know somehow lets a tiny light into the black-ass darkness that's descended over my head, Eeyore-style. (Poetess also apparently went to college with a close friend of mine, who doesn't know the pilates instructor. It's all very strange in my world. Everyone knows everyone. Especially ex-boyfriends.)

Then this morning a good friend came and met me and Margaux to walk That Damn Butte, as I decided to name it. "Somehow, today, they made the road to the top extra long and extra steep," I thought all the way up, as my friend's ass disappeared ahead of me as the road curved around the butte. I think it may have had something do do with a) Only getting about 5 hours of sleep last night b) Did I mention all that couch time? All that delicious, wonderful, yummy nummy snoozy couch time? God, I could go lay down right now ... and c) All those cigarettes I've been smoking.

Gasp! Cigarettes! The horror!

You're telling me. I am starting to get wrinkles, people. And even though I quit smoking for almost five months recently, my stupid face decided to start the shadow of one of those heinous smoker lines around my mouth. The thing is, I have a real purdy mouth. Or at least I used to! Wah!

Anyway. One self-improvement project at a time.

Cake

Yeah, real sorry about the lack of posts. Thing is, my life has been more like "Eat Bitches Eat" than "Run Bitches Run" the last week or so while my best friend visited. Four days, two layers of chocolate cake, one wheel of brie, approximately fourteen bottles of wine and two packs of cigarettes (cough) later, and I'm feeling exceptionally happy and bloated.

But I did get a call this morning from a doc who's going to shoot cortizone into my bum hamstring. It hurts right where it connects with my pelvis, which means in my a. And my doctor's mildly attractive. So that should be nice and awkward.

Based on a true story

Tonight at a birthday dinner for my Tiny Running Pal, she confessed she's trying to turn another girlfriend to the dark side.

"So, I went for a walk with Ms. P the other day," TRP said, eying Ms. P across the table. "I've decided she needs to start running."

I took a bite of falafel (This is an important detail. The falafel was good.)

"Why?" I asked.

"Good question," TRP said, while Ms. P shook her head.

It all came down to a matter of pants size.

"Oh, if that's your concern, then do it," I said. "Sorry, I'm on her side. Run."

"OK," Ms. P admitted. "I'll admit, I'm intrigued by the idea."

"How long have you tried running before, did you get up to two to three times a week for a couple of months?" I asked.

She shook her head. No, she'd only lasted a couple of weeks.

"Then you don't know," I said. "Look, if I can run, and get to the point I enjoy it, you can run."

I spared her the details, about how profoundly lazy I was as a kid. How I'd fall asleep in my dinner. How I'd been on a swim team at one point, and though I'd shown some proclivity, I simply hadn't a competitive bone in my body. I'd finish a race, and my dad would be standing there, shaking his head.

"You were in first until the last few yards. You were winning," he said.

I'd shrug. Third was good, too. What was the big deal? Also, was snack time coming? And were we going to make it home in time for "Charles In Charge"?

In the car on the way home from dinner, Ms. P admitted it may be time. She may be willing to hit the trail. But, she was clear on one point: Bitching and moaning is something she enjoys. She simply refuses to give it up. And although I'm lazy, I'm not much of a complainer. Still, I'm fine with the potential bitching. I want to join TRP and Ms. P on the trail.

I've decided the physical therapists have three weeks to get my heel in shape, or I'm searching out an injection. I need to join them. I can't let Ms. P and TRP run without me.

I got picked!

Seriously, I got picked for something. Me! Picked! By Sarah at Naked Cupcakes (which, incidentally, is one of the better blog names I've come across recently. It makes me hungry and randy. Truly a lovely combo).

So ... I'm supposed to say six things I am a master at. I'm going to vote for:


1.) I am a master of modesty. No, seriously. You have no idea how modest I am.

2.) I am a master of sarcasm. No, really. You have no idea how serious I am about being sarcastic.

3.) I am a master of cuddling and b.j.'s. Ha! I'm kidding. (Sort of. Not really. ((Just kidding mom!)) I'm totally not.)

4.) I am a master of Better-than-average home cookery and baking

5.) I am a master of liquid eyeliner application.

6.) I am a master of ordering super-involved, pain-in-the-A orders at certain restaurants that I used to work at, like Red Robin, where I order a teriyaki chicken burger, on a plate with silverware, sub a whole wheat bun, with extra pineapple and a side of honey mustard dressing.

Annnd now I'm supposed to tag six people. Hmmm.

1.) SGL at Dating is weird
2.) Plumpdumpling at Unapologetically Mundane
3.) Thewritegal at Seasoned to taste
4.) Shannon at Wannabe Hipster Mom
5.) The Kama Mama
6.) Kelly at Bachelor Girl

OK, that was hard. Too much listing for one day.

Therapy

My physical therapist quit me.

"I'm really starting to see the frustration you feel with your body," she said, shaking her head. "Cause I'm starting to feel it, too."

This after three months of physical therapy for the plantar fasciitis, the bum hamstring (and the bum neck, though I never expected she could fix that) that has only resulted in putting out my lower back, too.

So she sent me to another therapist. A tiny, older woman who likes to yank my ankles over her head and apply tape and ultrasound to parts of my body, all the while chattering about my pelvis. Apparently, it's all because of my pelvis. (That's what she said.)

So I'm agreeing to another couple of months with the new therapist. I'm also taking the advice of and on my new, Doctor, Hippie M.D., (she sometimes gives homeopathic remedies, in addition to her prescriptions. She mentioned twice on my initial visit that she did paps, if I needed her to. I'm not really sure what that was about.), and I'm trying a new diet that's supposed to be anti-inflammatory.

The diet consists of lean meat, rice, beans, fruit and vegetables. No sugar. No dairy. No caffeine. No butter. No wheat.

I'm only on day four. Generally, in a day, I'm eating a bowl of oats (agave instead of sugar), fish, a salad, a couple of apples, some brown rice, and heaps of veggies. So far the red wine urges haven't gotten murderous, but it's still not much fun. Especially since I have to cut out other potential allergens, like eggs and everything in the nightshade family (eggplant, tomatoes, peppers and potatoes). Try making a decent brown rice pasta sauce without butter or tomatoes. I dare ya.

On day four, I don't feel particularly un-inflamed. But (TMI warning) good lord am I regular.

Miles to go

A friend, Juju, recently clocked and measured distance on her standard run. It's one she's lost a pant size or two on, but it's also one she's too shy to let me join her on.

She reported, deflated, that it's only 1.1 miles, and it takes her 20 minutes.

But I say it doesn't matter where you start, it's your starting point. In fact, starting slow is a good thing. It just makes it all the more exciting when you start kicking A. The fact that I, known in my family for my extreme laziness (I was the kind of kid to ask to go to bed early. I routinely fell asleep in my dinner. The only sport I ever agreed to be on a team for was swimming, and although I was fairly good at it, I had no competitive streak. 2nd or 3rd place was fine by me.), ran a half marathon? I think that's a way bigger deal than some uber athlete running one.

A friend and super speedy runner likes telling the story of her first run. It was to 7-11 to buy a bag of Doritos.

So I say high-five to Juju for her 20 minute mile.

Mile four

The other night over dinner (slates of baguette and garlicky olive tapenade followed by eggplanty ratatouille and herbed couscous alongside, safely, at least two, maybe three more glasses of red wine than I should have drunk on a Tuesday) with a couple of friends, we got to talking about working out.

One friend likes swimming, but she’s as blind as I am (batlike, but without the hearing) and has a tendency to run into folks we know at the local community pool. Unable to make an identification, she’s then forced to get into their faces to know who they are. Me, if I’m in a bathing suit, I’d rather keep my distance. Really. I vote pretend you know who it is, wave, move along.

We also talked about running. And I got nearly misty-eyed when talking about how much I love mile four. By mile four, I'm warmed up, my lungs are no longer on fire, and I feel like my legs are really under me. It was always my favorite mile--well, it was my favorite mile once I was in shape enough to run four miles without throwing up on the side of the trail.

I walked home from the friend’s house (I knew there would be too much wine going in to the event, and planned accordingly) and was so excited thinking about running, I let out a little trot at one point. But when I got out of bed the next morning, my heel, stupid, stupid heel, ached. The friend's house is only five blocks from mine.

I iced this morning. Stretching. Orthopedic boot. I'll get there. I'll get back to mile four again. Eff.