Marian's back!

I had to call a library yesterday, and I swear-to-god the lady I spoke with was Marian the Librarian. The voice was identical. Now, I totally get that the original Marian wasn't actually a librarian, but in fact a crazy yoga teacher with a giant camel toe, but the voice! The "hehe"! It was creepy. I had flashbacks.

In other news, I walked the butte yesterday morning with two friends. Bootie was so fast she jogged laps around the top while waiting for me and Jules to catch up. Asshole. I'm blaming my slowness on the fact that we were walking with wee Gertie, the world's cutest golden retriever puppy. Seriously. Why did I not get a golden retreiver? Why did I have to get a "smart" dog? Dumb dogs are awesome. They obey. Did you know that? Also, Gertie gets tired. Toward the end of the walk Jules jogged a little bit, and poor lil Gertie (I'll find a pic, promise) was dragging on the end of her leash. Do you know what I have to do to tire out Margaux? If you do, please, please tell me.

Anywho, I felt as we walked that I was being punished for the (!) cigarettes I'd smoked over the weekend. But by the time I went to bed last night, I was coughing up green things, and my throat was on fire and it sort of felt like there were vice grips on my sinuses.

I think it's the exercise that did me in.

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.

Miracles

When I visited Ssadie in Idaho last summer, I was a runner. She was not. She'd go to the gym with me and hike with me, but the few times I tried to get her to run with me, it just wasn't happening.

But since I've been down with this (motherfuckinggoddamnitshit) heel injury, she's picked up her running shoes. Oh, and roller skates, too, since she's now a derby queen.

This weekend, she ran her first race, a 12K. She love it, of course, and came back with this little story:

About .5 mile from the finish I heard a man clapping and hooting (like a gazillion other spectators). "You're all amazing, keep going!" he cheered, "Almost there, it's a blessed miracle you're running today!"

I turned my face to send him a weary smile, and I saw him; an old man, perched awkwardly on a stool. He was an amputee.

It's hard to run and cry at the same time. fyi.

Heeling

Lordy it's been a shitter of a week. Especially considering that I'm about to work my 12th day in a row, so that shitter week? Extra long.

Tuesday morning, a friend and I decided to try doing a wee jog/walk together. We decided to meet at 6 a.m., which she was nervous about. She asked me to text her at 5:30.

"Good morning! I'm about to go watch the beautiful sunrise!"

A couple of minutes later, as I was putting the I'm a Mean Mommy Pinchey Collar on Margaux, I got a text reply.

"Dude. You are not allowed to be perky."

Fair.

But we did it, and the sun rose by the river as we trotted and chatted and our dogs sniffed beside us. It felt wonderful, but within two hours my heel, the one with the dreaded plantar fasciitis, was hurting badly enough I knew it was too much, too soon. Eff.

But my gym membership is about up, and I'm too broke to buy a new one. I have only one option.

As long as I don't have to be the pole

Some co-workers and I talked awhile ago about doing the Pole, Pedal Paddle this year. It's an annual event that I avoided even spectating the first four years I lived in this town. Last year, though, I ran support for my pal SGL, who did the whole thing by HERSELF.

In case you don't know how crazy that is, let me outline the event:

First, you go to Mount Bachelor and ride a chairlift up to the top, put your skis or board in place then walk down hill 200 feet. Why do you walk downhill 200 feet? Why, so you can run uphill in ski boots, of course! It's even more fun than running in soft sand.

Then you ski down to where a friend (like me!) is waiting to exchange your board for your cross country skis. After a quick change, you slog through five miles of melty mashed potatoes and gravy spring snow until you meet up again with your pal to trade skis for bike.

Next, you bike 22 miles. Now, in fairness, most of the bike is downhill, since you're coming into town from a mountain, but those uphill stretches are a real bitch.

Still standing? Good, it's time to run five miles through town. The nice part is that we have a friend who lives on the route, and she sits in a lawn chair with a cooler of beer and a fifth of Jack Daniels for anyone who's gotten parched.

The boat portion involves paddling "upstream from a put-in point for 1/2 mile on the Deschutes River" then "back downstream for 3/4 mile, then back upstream for 1/4 mile." Yeah, up, down, up.

Oh, and then you have to run again. This time, it's even supposed to be a "sprint."

So, SGL may be a little crazy. I definitely can't do the whole thing. In addition to my serious lack of physical fitness, I also can't downhill ski. But I can ride a bike (though I don't think I can use my single speed '68 Sears Spider for this race. A damn shame, because my sparkly purple banana seat would probably really help my performance), and maybe by the end of May, I can run five miles? I mean, I still can't run, the heel's still effed, but maybe by then I'll be in ship shape again?

The real question though is costumes. Some teams dress up in leis, or with bridal veils. I saw a pretty sick cops and jailbirds team last year (the cops had thick handlebar moustaches and wore hotpants, natch). What should we out of shape cubicle jockeys do?




Google, from whence I stole this picture, seems to think this woman's name is Karen.

Signs from god that I should not get up at 5:30 a.m. to work out

I actually dragged my ass out of bed this morning to go to the gym, thanks, in part, to a phone call from the S-Sadie. As back-up, I also had my own alarm and Roommie's alarm set to go off. I warmed up my car (it's STILL snowing here) got dressed, grabbed my iPod and an Aleve and went to the kitchen to grab some water. Right in front of the sink, I took a step and my gym shoe went flying out in front of me and I nearly fell against the counter and broke my neck (Saying I nearly "broke my neck" and admitting that I start out the day with Aleve makes me feel super old. Maybe I should change that to "I nearly broke my hip," because old people are all about breaking their hips). I caught myself and looked down to see what I'd slipped on. It was a giant dog turd.

Oh, and best part? We're out of paper towels.

Thing is, Roommie and I both walked through the kitchen on the way to bed last night. No turd. The dogs came with us and lay (Lie? Laid? Unno.) down on their own beds. I went to brush my teeth and shut the door after me. In the morning, all three dogs were on their beds.

Turd fairy?

Eventually we pieced it together. I got up to pee at about 2:30, at which point Rio must have scurried out, quickly shat on the kitchen floor, then scurried back into the bedroom, unheard. He was the only dog who woke up in a different spot than he started. And he totally looked guilty this morning.

Like this:



I've decided to rename him Turd Fairy.

Also, between this morning's workout, yesterday's power yoga class (Which was pretty damn hard, by the way. I know yoga, even power yoga, doesn't probably sound hard, but side plank is basically an ancient Sanskrit torture pose. Wait, Sanskrit's a language, not a culture, right? I dunno. Point is, side plank sucks.) and Sunday's cross country ski, I'm real real sore today. And for no good reason, most of the pain's located in my left buttcheek. I have no idea why, but if anyone would like to offer free ass-massage services, let me know.

Because I know the internets were dying to know

My alarm went of at 5:30 a.m. today. I turned it off and rolled over. Two seconds later, my phone rang.

"What."
"Wake up, hey come on wake up," she was singing.
"OK."
"Go, git!"
"I hate you."
"I hate you, too."
"OK, bye."
"Bye."

Then I got my ass out of bed and went to the gym. Because my best friend is rad, and because if someone is willing to wake up at 5:30 and dial your number to try to make you do something that's going to make you feel better, you should probably do it. Also, my best friend is kind of a bitch and wouldn't let me live it down if I lied to her.

Also, I only have like one pair of pants that fits anymore. (As my 15 year old niece would say, FML.)

Oh how I love B Cup Bitches

What did bloggers do to entertain themselves before Google Analytics?

Search terms that have brought people to Run Bitches Run:

1. b cup bitches
2. bouncing boobs
3. bra bitches
4. panty crease workout

I'm pretty sure these people were disappointed with what they found here.

So, to make someone feel a little better, I'm going to post a highly disturbing video I found thanks to Kama Mama.



Seriously. If that guy was my personal trainer, I'd ask for a refund.

Mornings

Nearly every day, my alarm clock goes off at 5:30 a.m., and I promptly turn it off, then roll back into the warm body next to me. It happens if I stay up too late watching Chuck on Hulu (I have the hots for Chuck, big time, but I HATE his new hairdo. It's so Magnum P.I.) drinking wine until I spill on my shirt, pass out on the couch, and then stagger to the bedroom somewhere around three. But it also happens if I tuck myself in at 9:30, read a book (I started The Unbearable Lightness of Being, though I really feel like I should be reading the books I borrowed from my boss. I mean, if I read them fast she'll think I'm smarter, right?) then fall asleep at 10:10.

Talking to SSadie about it, she vowed to call me early mornings to help rouse me from bed.

But on day one, after a date with my boss (opera concert we both wanted to go to), I came home to three drunk boys on the couch, so of course I pounded several 22s of beer with them, then slept through my wake-up call the next morning.

We're trying again tomorrow morning.

Also: A big hurrah to an old friend who ran her first 15k run this weekend. That's more than 9 miles, if you're counting.

Color me embarrassed

What's worse than farting audibly in pilates class? Farting audibly when you're getting a private pilates session. There's just no chance of pretending it was the guy next to you.

Marian the librarian

I went to Portland this weekend, and before the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon (it was, perhaps, the girliest weekend ever: baby shower, wedding planning, and ice skating), I decided to take a yoga class to kill some time. I poked around on line until I found a class at the time I was looking for.

When I unrolled my mat, I had no idea I'd just stepped into the worst yoga class ever. No, really. The worst. I'm not exaggerating even a little tiny wee bit. No hyperbole here. It was the worst. You know how I know it was the worst yoga class ever? We spent about 10 minutes on mountain pose.

Let me repeat. We spent about 10 minutes talking about and practicing for mountain pose. If you've never done yoga, let me explain what mountain pose is: You stand there. Both feet on the ground. Both arms at your sides. That's it. It looks like this:








(I made that drawing myself, in Word. Because apparently my macbook pro didn't come with a drawing program. wtf, apple?)

See, I've taken beginner yoga classes before. At the Bikram studio (which I do not recommend, though that's a separate rant) and at the local park and rec yoga studio. You tell them you're new, and they tell you to watch what everyone else is doing, then they get going. But this? This was a real beginner's class. A beginner's class for 'tards. (Does it make it OK to use that word if I take of the "re"? No? Eh. Sorry.)

But it wasn't just the slow pace (I counted 6 poses in 90 minutes) that made the class so maddening. It was the instructor. Marian. "Marian the librarian," as I heard her say to two of the people in class.

"Oh, are you a librarian?" One woman (the larger lady whose legs started to shake about 15 seconds into warrior 2) asked.

"No," Marian answered, giving her throaty, Erkelish "he he" laugh, "No, I'm a fiction writer."

I think it's appropriate that Marian writes fiction, actually, because I swear the woman stepped out of a Woody Allen movie. She had thick black glasses, shoulder-length, wiry hair, and she pulled her red workout tights up nearly to her bra strap. The tights gave us all a good view of the outlines of her underwear, and those were really fascinating. Not just granny panties, but almost like some sort of support panties, with a belly control panel. Not that Marian had a belly, it just sort of looked like it, the way her T-shirt was stuffed into the top of the tights. The odd thing about the control panties was that they cut across the outside of her hips, creating a definitive crease across the tiny pouches of fat she carried there.

In the first five minutes of class, while Marian was explaining the intricacies of toe-heel placement, a woman squatted down.

"Are you OK? He he. Does your back hurt?" Marian asked.

"Oh, no, it's just, menstrual cramps," the woman said in a stage whisper.

Well, shit. You can't have a woman in yoga class with menstrual cramps. So every five minutes, Marian would leave us all standing around waiting while she demonstrated a new menstrual-positive pose for the bleeder in the corner.

But the laugh. The laugh will haunt my dreams. Every "he" sounded like she was about to choke, and her shoulders would hitch up as she bared her tiny teeth.

"Okay, so, take a strap, and pull it like this. He he. And, oh, oh my. That's not long enough. I guess, he he, I guess, yeah, maybe get an extra strap, he he. And, yeah, connect the two straps, he he."

Because I was a drop-in, I paid $16 for the class. $16! Do you know what I could buy for $16? Five bottles of Three Buck Chuck. Five! That's a lot of bottom-shelf red wine. Plus I'd have a dollar left over to give to the homeless lady down the street.

Can you rue a person, or only rue the day you met them? Because I'm pretty sure I rue Marian.

Stuperbowl

I went to the gym this morning, really just a ploy so I won't feel quite as guilty as I shovel fried wings, mozzarella and perhaps even ice cream into my cake hole at the What-Else-Can-We-Possibly-Batter-And-Deep-Fry Party that I'm going to this afternoon. Really. Roommie bought a burner that hooks up to a large propane tank for the purposes of beer brewing (his latest addiction), and it came with a cast iron pot, fryer and thermometer. The first two days it was home, I gained five pounds.

Oh, there will also be some football game on.

So as I walked up to the gym, iPod loaded with This American Life podcasts and Hemmingway's "A Moveable Feast" under my arm, I noticed how packed the parking lot was. Apparently I wasn't the only one planning to overindulge.

Ahead of me, a 60s-ish woman in a sporty jacket with a short-cropped, dyed orange hair was walking out of the gym.

"Getting in better shape!" She chirped at me approvingly. "It's a good thing!"

WTF? Was it that obvious that I haven't been a regular at the gym? Do people really look at the people walking into the gym in running pants that appear to be a little tighter than they need to be, and say, "Good for you, fattie!"

Of course, thinking on it now, I realize she could have been referring to herself, not me.

Whatever. As long as I earn those wings and beer.

*Unfortunately, I'm not sure who painted the amazing art above, I found it here:
Help me out if you know the painter.