Goddamnit

What are they barbequeing down there? Ah. My grilled cheese sandwich was kife.
And the Red Truck white that bought is described as a blend of "sauvignon blanc, chardonnay, pinot grigio and viognier". All I can taste is the chardonnay. Oh wait, there's the viognier. Chardonnay pisses me off.
Best life ever.
I totally need to run tomorrow, I'm getting fat.

Idiots

I was convinced my apartment was on fire until about two minutes ago. I started noticing a burning smell and at first attributed it to the lingering burnt smell from my grilled cheese sandwich. Twasn't. So I thought maybe I left my straightening iron on. Nope. Perhaps the wick on the candle that I had lit was too long and was smoking. No. The motor of my fridge was overheating. My dishwasher (though currently in the rinse cycle) was... somehow... something. I popped out into the hallway to see if there was smoke in the halls. I started waiting for alarm bells to go off and felt thankful that I have apartment insurance.
It's the people below me: they're barbequing.
Like, who barbeques on a Saturday night in the summer anyways?
Jesus.
To quote my aged neighbour that lives on the 7th floor, "I think I'm going to go have a big glass of wine".
Fuckin' rights.

My unchecked ego

Wow, look at me drunk blog. "Lots of money"? "Awesome body"? Jesus. Reign it in a notch, Duder. And trashing ex-boyfriends isn't exactly a model thing to do either. Shall I remove it? Grin.
Hungover, but not too bad. Sitting in my bathing suit on my deck, nursing an Earl Grey tea. Ah well, it was a bonding, team building experience last night. Gotta show people that accountants can let their hair down from time to time too. Gotta get some hair.
Still loving life today, just loving it through a hazy headache while contemplating a nap.

No one's reading this

I strongly dislike Typewriter. I understand that this comes a year later than it should, but I've always been a sucker for... something. Self-flagellation? The hopes that someone will live up to the promise that you once saw flicker in their eyes? I actually don't have the right to say anything negative about the whole scenario in that I let it linger as long as I did. Why? Who the fuck knows, or cares? I seek absolution from people that make me feel poorly about myself. This likely has something to do with my skiing lessons when I was 11 years old. Whatever. I'm over it. Um, I have a loving family, fantastic friends, totally rad co-workers (more on that later), my health, lots of money, a nice car, an awesome bod, a face that won't quite shatter a mirror and a boyfriend that I love so much that I kissed his hands last night in a form of worship. So there it is, in all its naked glory.
My day? Yep. Went for lunch with A and another coworker who looks a lot like Jack from "Lost". I ate the most unhealthy lunch and would have felt badly about it except that I was lunching with two hot guys whose company I greatly enjoy and who both have something interesting to say.
Then I went for coffee with another couple of coworkers that I used to socialize with on a more regular basis. I love these guys. I just absolutely love the people I work with: they are fan-fucking-tastic. I understand that there's office politics wherever one goes, but I keep my head down, I do my work and I just enjoy the day to day. I know I've said it before, but I've never worked with such a fantastic and enjoyable people as I do right now: it's why I continue to do what I do. I love the people I work with. Seriously. Love.
Um. So after-work drinks that should have wrapped up at around 7pm wrapped up around 9pm and I'm pretty hammered. Ahh... and then Michael was supposed to come over and blah blah blah running stuff blah blah I called him and he has to work tomorrow and if I want to do the run I have to be up pretty goddamn early and I'm just really tired and am quite sure I'll be hung tomorrow so that's just not going to happen. He was like, "so when will I see you?" and I think it won't be until Sunday! When did this happen? I'm so glad I saw him last night and I won't see him again until Sunday night!?
It's weird, going from a position where I lived with someone for four years to this. I was such a bitch. He wasn't perfect either, but it's just odd. He came over last night for a quasi-booty call, and we ended up having a wide-ranging discussion that went from work, to water consumption, to Davie Bowie, and finally to communism. Hey, he's freaking hot and I'm sorry we never got around to taking our clothes off, but I'm also turned on that we had such great conversation that we never got around to being naked.
Anyways. Where is this blog going? No idea. Kinda trashed. Can't subscribe it to the whole horseshoe up my ass scenario given that I am starting to take responsibility for the great things that happen in my life (god knows I've consistently and continually beaten myself up for every bit of badness and every misstep that I've ever made). So, then, here I am. In this situation that I have created.
Fuck me if I haven't created for myself a very, very brilliant and beautiful situation.
I love my life. I absolutely love it.
I am going to be so hungover tomorrow.

My new favourite thing

Woo-hoo! I ran home from downtown and it took me about an hour. Easy breezy and I was home at 5:15. Suh-weet! Home half an hour later than normal, and my work out for the day is done! I'm so totally stoked. I am absolutely going to do this more often.

I was so anxious before I left: worried about forgetting my keys; getting dehydrated; having some sort of technical issue. Nada. I took a gel at 45 minutes since I had to do Keith Road at the end (the two kilometre hill - always a nice way to cap off any run).

So the highlights would definitely be running through the downtown core and blowing past all the suits. The Lionsgate bridge is always phenomenal. Um, the fact that I can run home from work easily rocks. Running past all the cars that were in one giant clusterfuck waiting to get onto the Lionsgate was hilarious.

The lowlights would be my coworkers seeing me in my running shorts, the buses buzzing past me on the Stanley Park causeway and the constant fear that I was going to get creamed by a cyclist. But my coworkers will recover and I wasn't taken out by a bus or a cyclist, so I live to run another day.

And then? No and then! And then? I got on the elevator and today's sticker said "strength". Seriously. Not even making it up. Am I on the right karmic path, or what?!

The things ICBC will say to get in your pants

Yesterday I received a long winded, rambling voicemail on my cell from a "Team 5" member at ICBC. What the fuck is with this "team" bullshit? Is it supposed to be more enjoyable to be screwed by a "team member" than by a regular, run of the mill ICBC employee? Whatever. Anyways, the gist of this message was "buzz word, double speak, move the case forward, see how you're doing, bullshit, bullshit".
So I call Harminder back and get the Team 5 voicemail. He returns my call and I put him on hold while I close my office door because, yep, it's not even 11am and I feel like yelling. To the best of my memory, here is the conversation, picking up from me taking him off hold:

Duder: "Hi."
Harminder: "Hi."
Harminder waits a while for me to start the conversation and I refuse to so he then says: "I'm just calling to check in and see what kind of progress you're making-"
Duder: "Why? What does it matter?"
Harminder: "I just want to see how your treatment is coming along, to see if you've been back to see your doctor-"
Duder: "I am no longer going to a massage therapist and I have not been back to see my doctor. What is the point of this call?"
Harminder: "If you're treatment has been concluded then we would like to move it ahead and maybe look at closing off your file."
Duder: "Do you need my consent to close off my file?"
Harminder: "Well, yes and no. We just want to check in with you-"
Duder: "Do I have to sign something or give my consent to ICBC in order for this file to be closed?"
Harminder: "Well, no."
Duder: "So why are you calling me?"
Harminder: "We just want to close it off and make sure you don't need any further treatment, and if you do then we would have to open a requisition for that."
Duder: "I don't understand. I have not been reimbursed for any of my out of pocket expenses to date and now you're saying that I might be reimbursed for future expenses?"
Harminder: "I see here that we've reimbursed you for your user fees-"
Duder: "My massage therapy costs $80 an hour. You have reimbursed me $23 towards each session. I should not have had to pay anything. The purpose of insurance is to put the insured person back to the same position that they had been in before the accident. You have not done that."
Harminder: "Since your accident falls into the category of a low velocity impact-"
Duder: "Do you need my consent to close this file?"
Harminder: "No."
Duder: "I refuse to in away consent or agree to this file being closed until I am fully reimbursed for all of my out of pocket expenses. So what, then, is the next step?"
Harminder: "We're going to close your file today."
Duder, before hanging up: "Thank you."

I think I've said it before and I'll say it again: ICBC, you are a useless, money grubbing, profiteering monopoly and if I ever get in another car accident, the first person I will speak to is a lawyer. You fucking suck. You're tactics are utterly disgusting. You want me to agree with you that I've been treated fairly when I haven't been. You want me to sign off voluntarily for goods not received, and then you want me to smile while doing it and make it seem like I had a choice in the matter when the fact is: I have no recourse.
On a go forward, let's just call it what it is: a blatant abuse of power. And if I ever hear the term "low velocity impact" again, I'll be sure to strip down as quickly as I can and bend over.

Fuck you, ICBC!

There will be a longer blog tonight on this. It'll touch on how you really ought to wear matching underwear when "dealing" (succumbing to) ICBC.
In the meantime and in between time, should you have the misfortune of being in a vehicular accident: get a lawyer. Sign nothing from ICBC. Don't even talk to ICBC. Get a lawyer and sue ICBC to recover all out of pocket expenses.
Let's just reiterate (sing it with me kids, this is Business 101): The purpose of insurance is to put one, as close as possible, to the position they were in before the accident.

A quasi manifesto

I want there to be a distinct event marking this. I want closure. I want to have some kind of manifesto, but manifestos are never for anything as ridiculous or childish as this. I get medals for running marathons and halfs and I want one for this, but it wouldn't make sense to get one because you've earned it after 26.2 miles and I haven't earned anything with this particular... whatever it is. Clusterfuck. Nightmare that I've brought upon myself. And then it's not even that. I mean, I could (okay, I can't, but a rational, logical person could) just close my eyes and say, "When I open my eyes I'll never give this another thought again".
I don't understand people's selfishness. I'm sure people say that about me, but I'm trying, and I hope I give the impression that I'm trying. So it's redundant to try and seek any kind of absolution or closure from someone that cannot perceive a reality outside of themselves. And even if this person did give me absolution it would be meaningless because their word is worthless.
I don't bite the hand that feeds me. I kiss the hand that beats me. I don't get it. What piece of my humanity, my morality am I missing here? I was born without a backbone it would appear. It's easy to push me over and it's easy to slip myself into difficult positions.
Maybe it's some kind of deep seeded need to be punished and condescended to. Or a desperate need for everyone to like me. Fuck, I don't like most people, so why in the hell would they like me? I'm barely likable to begin with.
Possibly it's a need to create drama where there is none. There are surely more entertaining ways to do this, such as fingering hummers, getting in fights in bars, going to protests, proposing marriage via text marriage and wearing black leather boots to work.
But back to my manifesto. What would it even say? It would be full of such gems as, "if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always got". Maybe, "others will not respect you until you respect yourself". "You don't owe anyone anything". "How long are you going to beat yourself up over this for?". "What exactly are you hoping to achieve through your actions?". I would pepper it with, "some people are just dumb fucking assholes", "you brought this upon yourself", and "go visit the downtown Eastside and see some people that have real problems".
Actually, I did get my proverbial medal today. There's a guy in my building that always leaves little stickers in the elevator that espouse words like "excitement" (he affixed that one to the ceiling) and "silence" and "friendship".
When I got into the elevator the sticker wedged behind the call buttons said "integrity". The definition of integrity is "steadfast adherence to a strict moral or ethical code". Okay, so I don't have that currently. But I have the sticker. So... you know.... who knows where I'll go from here?

I'm doing it again

Why do I do it? I should stop doing it. Doing it is bad and pointless. I don't feel good when I do it. There's no reason for me to do it.
I ought not do it.
Meh.

I got nothin'

Well, I got new bed sheets, so I guess that's actually somethin'.
Wanted to run 14 miles tonight but did 10.5 which is the furthest I've gone since the marathon. I wanted to go further but Michael wasn't entirely committed to it. I didn't realize just how pissed I was about my marathon time until today. We're running the two bridges on Sunday which should be around 23 kilometres. To put this into perspective: the clinic for the October marathon hasn't even started yet; we're running the Scotiabank half in June, and that's 21 kilometres. So yeah, we're both starting to push the envelope a bit.
On the flip side? Eh, I had cake for dinner.
It's hard to be a hedonist and a runner.
Who wants to feed me grapes?

Napping is awesome

Totally overdid it this weekend. I haven't had a solid eight hour sleep since last weekend. The last time I had a couple of hours to myself was last Wednesday. Michael and I were supposed to run 22 or 23k today and then it turned into a hike. The hike turned into us vegging on his deck, drinking wine and reading. This was followed by a nap.
I napped so hard (is that the correct term?) that, when I emerged to find Michael on the deck (I out-napped him) I was exhibiting an overall look of bewilderment and severe creases on my face from the pillow cases and an excellent example of bed head, which had him laughing out loud. It was 7pm and I think we had crashed around 4:30 and I kept asking what time he had got up and left me because I was surprised that I had slept so long. I then I grumpily announced that I was hungry and he laughed harder and said he knew that I would be, then suggested I sit, have a glass of wine and let the pillow creases fade from my sleep flushed face before we headed out for sushi.
You know that kid that just refuses to go to bed when they're supposed to? Who doesn't want to miss a thing? The kid that stays up as late as they can and then ultimately falls asleep in their soup or in their ice cream? I am that kid.

Not running on a Sunday at 8:30am

Up at 7am, on the road at 7:45 to make it for the 8:30 start of the Shaugnessy 8k. We were there to cheer on Big D for his first official race! Michael and I had done the Shaugnessy run two or three times before and it felt really odd to be there as a spectator. Big D (looking every inch a runner) stopped for a brief photo op and then they were off! We saw so many people that we recognized from all the 10k runs that we have done over the years and it was a great experience to see Oliver Utting and Nancy Tinari (who usually placed first in the races that we ran) booking it down the hill on the way to the finish line at the twenty five and twenty eight minute mark. We wandered back to the finish line and I had guesstimated that Big D would finish at around fifty minutes, but he came in just under forty-five, looking great, relaxed and strong.

As they were awarding the medals Big D disappeared for a couple of minutes and then returned with a sheepish grin on his face. "What?" I said, wondering why he was looking at me so oddly. "Nothing!" he replied, smiling. I looked down and he had about four pamphlets for upcoming races. Cool! Go Big D!

Congrats, man!

Another day in the life

Headed into White Rock today, for book club at C's place on Marine Drive in White Rock. It was a feast reminiscent of Christmas. I don't remember the last time I ate so well: thanks again to C for an absolutely fantastic lunch. With appetizers. And wine. And dessert.

So. How does one lead a discussion on Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged"? One doesn't. One merely makes a few notes and throws them out to be mulled, pondered and discussed and then all of a sudden four or five hours have passed and you're sitting there, grateful to be in the presence of such interesting people, having some of the most fascinating conversation that you've perhaps ever had and thoughts are popping in and out of your head faster than you can process them as different people go on different tangents, each of which could possibly be explored for several hours on their own. Does it get better than that? It does: the traffic on the Port Mann was light to and from White Rock, and as I looked in my rear view mirror crossing back over it this evening I saw a rainbow. A rainbow. Come on! I wanted to pull my car over to the side of the road and start laughing or crying.

One of my favourite movies of all time is "My Dinner with Andre". At one point Andre says, "They're feeling that there'll be these "pockets of light" springing up in different parts of the world, and that these will be in a way invisible planets on this planet, and that as we, or the world, grow colder, we can take invisible space journeys to these different planets, refuel for what it is we need to do on the planet itself, and come back. And it's their feeling that there have to be centers, now, where people can come and reconstruct a new future for the world." I'm not saying that we were reconstructing a new future for the world today, but I felt as though I had refueled before stepping back out into the world. And it also hearkened back to Po's book, "The Global Brain" and how the collective consciousness is greater than that of the individual. I knew that "Atlas Shrugged" was going to be massive and hard to dissect and I think we only really scraped the surface of it, but sharing that experience with others, discussing the various thoughts and concepts with others helped me to understand and appreciate the book more than I could have on my own.

Hmm... I'm still too intellectually stimulated and excited to settle down. I'm trying to wrap this up neatly, but I can't. We talked a bit about reality, objectivism and existence. I returned to the following quote a few times: "...there's nothing of any importance in life - except how well you do your work... Whatever else you are will come from that. It's the only measure of human value." That prompted a lot of conversation and I posited that that premise was bunk because a lot of people get where they are by sheer, dumb luck and that I was a shining example of this. Skyhammer altered my reality by adeptly pointing out that it was my hard work that resulted in my good luck and not the other way around. It was fantastic - for years I had been looking at everything backwards: that I lucked into jobs; fluked into qualifying for Boston; am lucky to have the friends I have; am fortunate to have a 35 hour work week. I had a conversation with Typewriter once in which he said that he felt like he was a fraud and that he was just waiting to be caught out. I didn't quite understand what he meant at the time, but in looking at how much reverence I have been giving the concept of "luck" and all the actual work I put in to be able to receive this "luck", I now understand. I thought luck got me to where I am today and I have always described myself as a lucky person. Hell, my profile makes reference to it being medically proven that I have a horseshoe up my ass. I'm not lucky. What I am is good, worthy, hard working, deserved and well-liked by the people in life that I most admire and respect. I earned the things I value. It's so ridiculously fundamental and I can't believe that I never grasped that concept or was even aware that the concept existed. I'm still reeling from this.

So, you know, that was my day. "Atlas Shrugged" has been termed the second most influential book after the Bible. I've heard that it has changed people's lives and I believe that, in a weirdly roundabout way, it has changed mine.

Thank you to Skyhammer, N, Po and C for incredible food, wine, company, discussion and enlightenment. I am so very appreciative that you are part of my brilliant life.

I see the light(s)

Ah, where to begin? Everything remains brilliant. Great day at work: lunch with one coworker; coffee with another; free chocolate from yet another. Got home, did yoga, picked up Michael and we got lost en route to Ikea like always. Fuck me. They need better signage: by the time you see the damn place you're on track for effing Surrey. I hate Surrey.
Picked up the items for the environmental committee as well as some stuff for me: namely a lamp! I've been going blind without a lamp next to the couch and now I have it and it works so well it's like it was born here. I'm so happy with it! Then a couple of frivolous touches for the patio (still need a lounger...) and voila: happy Duder.
Michael and I had dinner at 9:30 then I dropped him off since we both have to rise early to attend to various commitments in the morning. Came home, put on the new Radiohead CD (awesome: buy it), assembled my lamp, sipped a glass of the Sangiovese (I give it an 88: good, but not great) and continued to be perplexed as to how GREAT MY LIFE IS.
I tried to explain how well things were going to A over coffee and he told me that he had been putting ecstasy in my coffee. I said, "Oh, that explains it. But don't stop".
I don't know what's going on. Right now? At this exact moment? Life is so beautiful and enjoyable I could cry. I'm so lucky. So, so lucky. I'm having so much fun. I have so much to look forward to. I am so appreciative of everything in my life that makes it brilliant.
Clearly, I love ecstasy.

White Collar Fight Night Round 3

White Collar Fight Night Round 2

White Collar Fight Night Round 1

My coworker, A, is fighting out of the red corner, wearing red gloves.

Blood, sweat... and the hot guy that took the last round

Attended A's boxing extravaganza for charity tonight. He was in match #2 and it was actually really disconcerting seeing someone that you have become friends with be in a situation with another individual who is attempting to beat him into oblivion. Anyways, A won and it was totally frickin' awesome. White Collar Fight Night is so much fun. And the guy that won the main event? Hot, in a totally visceral and masculine way. His apathy and lack of emotion was such a turn on, which goes a long way in explaining why it is that I do the things that I do...
And one of the judges was Dave Babych! 100 points to anyone that knows who Dave Babych is.
Lastly? I hugged A, which scared him badly. I ought not to have hugged him, given that he has patiently explained to me that I'm a "cougar", but I did it nonetheless because he had a great fight and it was a huge event for him.
I do, however, think that I might explore a further alliance with my coworker J, because he took my side and agreed that you have to be at least 40 to be a cougar. He makes a lot of sense, my newfound friend, J.

Statistics Canada

I greatly enjoyed the email I just received from StatsCan, thanking me for completing a tech industry survey about our software and our financials (it took me about 2 hours). The survey was mandatory, so why are they thanking me? They're thanking me for doing something I (or the company, rather) would have been penalized for if I had not done it.
It's like when ICBC calls me from time to time to see how I'm doing. What does it matter? If I told them I was still in pain (which, thankfully, I'm not) they would say, "that sounds frustrating" which is what they told me when I was in pain.
So basically? Don't thank me for stuff you're forcing me to do, and don't ask how I'm doing if you're not ready to help me out when I say I'm not doing well.
Fucking government.

Sangiovese is kind of odd

My life is now reminiscent of "The Truman Show". I couldn't miss my bus if I tried and the driver seems overjoyed to see me. I have coworkers popping into my office all day to chat, cheques are coming in from customers that I've hardly even harangued, everything that my boss asked me for was at my fingertips so I looked like a superstar. All my (out of town) friends are emailing and making arrangements to get together over the summer, and here is a snippet of the email from the woman that is hosting our book club in White Rock on Saturday: "The menu is light and lively with lots of seafood and slightly peppery- suiting white wines or light reds. All food and bevs are provided in honour of you allowing me to show off my culinary skill...I will push modesty aside and tell you that I am a legendary cook, also, I really do have a full water-front view of the ocean". So, you know, Saturday's gonna suck...
Really. My biggest complaint was that I had to work overtime (I was on the clock until 4:15!). Then I was a bit perturbed at the level of force I had to exert to change the settings on the stair climber (in my gym on the 3rd floor that I have entirely to myself 90% of the time with stunning views of the mountains). After finishing off the pad thai and watching the rest of "Yes" (I recommend: not great, but definitely good and interesting and unique) and planning two trips with Michael, I was disconcerted to find that the Sangiovese I'm sampling tonight isn't as nice as last night's Cabernet Sauvignon (it's rapidly growing on me - surprisingly fruity, black licorice). Okay, I was kind of cheesed that in "Yes" they used some bastardized version of a Buena Vista Social Club song; I mean, she was in Cuba, let's go with the real deal. And when I came home my downstairs neighbours were having a barbeque on their balcony so, you know, I could hear them and it was making me hungry. They moved inside within half an hour.
Like, really. I should try and jump off my balcony to discover a dump truck filled with feather pillows parked below.
Anyone want to come over and rub my belly?
I love it.
I. Love. It.

It's a (my) wonderful life

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Woo-hoo!

My June vacation has been approved, baby! Yeah!
Looking forward to it since I haven't had one since October 2007 (and I had to run a marathon to kick the whole thing off last year).
I love Lasqueti.
And I love you.

Back to the city... again.

Went into Kerrisdale. Grazed our way from 41st to Broadway and Granville. Michael got his hair cut. It looks nice, but I like it when it's long and curly. More to pull when we're... baking cookies for charity.
Another fun day. The weekend went by so fast but it was great. It was enough to recharge our batteries (I think, hope) for another few weeks. It was an amazingly low key weekend for me, who usually has at least one social commitment per day (sometimes more like three a day) and I really enjoyed taking it easy and not having anything planned. That kind of spur of the moment thing, which I've never been too good at, but which I'm finding is quite a bit of fun.

When was the last time you bounded out of bed?

I don't bound very often. I'm not a big bounder. Bounding and touching aren't really my things.
This morning I bounded. I'm eager to get the day going. See, since Saturday I have been having the time of my life. It's like I'm on vacation, only I'm not and it's all going to come crashing down around me tomorrow - but let's not think of that now!
Just sitting here, sipping my coffee on my deck, enjoying KCSM and my wireless connection. On the one hand I'm happy just to sit here and enjoy the moment and realize just how incredible my life is; on the other hand I want to down my coffee, run into the shower and go grab Michael.
We've spent the whole weekend together. We always vacation well together: our workday woes fade away, we eat and sleep well, we have lots of fun, he hugs and kisses me a lot. That's what this weekend has been like.
When we were trail running yesterday I asked that he consult the map because I wasn't sure where we were (and I was tired and kind of wanted a break) and so he looks at the map, he guesstimates where we are and then he looks at me with my hair sticking in all directions, sweat quite literally dripping off me and says, "I love you PP" and kisses me.
PP stands for potpie. I'm not sure that helps to explain a lot, but it's what we call each other.
Bounding, touching. Best weekend ever.

27B-Stroke-6

Terry Gilliam's "Brazil". Fucking brilliant. A little bit "V for Vendetta", somewhat "1984", with a touch of "Star Trek". Resplendent with much symbolism, architecture and, oddly, humor.
Be prepared to think.

I got two things this weekend:

1. plants


2. burnt

I was on the final pages of "Atlas Shrugged", enjoying my awesome patio furniture and time somehow got away from me. I guess that might explain why I felt a little peaked running through the Seymour Demonstration forest with Michael today - sunstroke'll do that to you.

Super awesome weekend so far. I have a headache. Michael's going to have a field day when he sees me. I didn't think it was that hot.

Robert Mondavi

La chaim. Cheers. Slainte.
He is one of the wine makers that helped me become the fledgling oenophile I am today.
I remember drinking his white Zinfandel when I was in my early twenties and searching for something other than Kokanee.
I remember, too, the Mondavi advertising campaign being fresh, approachable and encouraging. I think Mondavi was one of the first wineries to help me feel less overwhelmed about wine and that it was (and should be) accessible to everyone.
Tomorrow night. Me. A nice Mondavi California Zin. Red this time.
Love the California Zin.

The no feeling

I was hugged four times by two people. I was given a mini massage. My leg was stroked. Okay, I get it. Ha ha. Is this shit going to end up on YouTube? Jesus.
In other news, it's pretty hot today. Had a martini drinking contest with my ex-boss. Was allowed to renew my car insurance even though I coughed up the license plate from the Toyota Supra that I had four years ago. "It's been a long day," I offered to the Autoplan guy at 1pm. Wore sandals even though two of my toenails are purple. What do you want from me?
More touching?
Well... okay.

You can look...

Went for coffee with A today and somehow the topic of touching came up. Our convo went something like this:
Duder: "I pretty much prefer not to be touched."
A: "What? Are you serious?"
Duder: "Yeah. I don't like to be touched much."
A: "Like ever?"
Duder: "Do I strike you as person that likes to be touched? When you look at me does it appear that I encourage physical contact?"
A: "No... but what about your friends?"
Duder: "They know me. I've started hugging them recently though, I'm trying to get better. Sometimes they warn me that they're going to hug me so that I can brace myself."
A: "You're weird."
Duder: "Have you met me?"
A: "What about your family? Your parents didn't hug you a lot as a kid?"
Duder: "Not really."
A: "What, is your dad British or something?"
Duder: "Um, yeah. My dad's from England."
A: "Oh! That explains everything. It all makes sense now!"
Duder: "Okay."
Then we re-enter the office at which point we bump into C and the Robot Liberator who are just heading out for coffee. The Robot Liberator gives me a friendly punch on the shoulder and I stagger two steps sideways.
A: "Oh! Don't do that! We just had a conversation about how she can't stand to be touched."
C, reaching over and squeezing my shoulder: "So you don't like it when I do this, then?"
Robot Liberator, laughing and giving me another gentle tap: "Look at her, she can hardly stand it!"
At this point the CFO hears the commotion, comes out of his office and says, "What are you doing to her?" to which they respond, "We're touching her!".
CFO: "Stop touching her!"
I then went back to my office and gave them all a bear hug via Skype.
Look, I'm taking the intimacy issues one step at a time, alright?

Hey look: I'm still mad!

The religion in politics issue is one that I must admit I will never understand. If I were Jewish or Muslim or Taoist and I lived in the US where they invoked god's name in speeches and the concept of Christianity was prevalent throughout the ranks of government, I would be pretty upset. I have no idea what religion Chretien was, or Paul Martin and I don't want to know because it's a personal choice, the tenets of which are not applicable, nor should not be subscribed, to all.
Take my favourite man, George Bush who is a "born again" Christian (whatever the hell that is... oh no wait, I know what it is: it's the thing you say you are so you get the right wing Christian voters to vote for you) and who espouses all things godlike. If it's okay to have a loudly Christian president, and if it's okay to allow that Christianity to prevail throughout the government, then everyone should be okay when the next president is Muslim, right? Oh, that's not right? Only certain religions are alright? And this would be based on....?
It is so totally irrational that I can't understand it. But then religion is irrational. I mean, there are people who really believe that their religion is the one true religion. Um, if we all think that our religion is the one true religion, doesn't that make us all right? Or wrong? Or stupid?
And what is religion? It's a bunch of fairy tales and some suggested pointers for living a good life, all of which is wildly open to interpretation. And the Americans allow this to filter through the various levels of government and affect their decision making process and is a cue for how their citizens should act.
Rad.
I am such an atheist.

Hooray?

Obviously I am happy the California Supreme Court overturned the ban on gay marriage (http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20080515.wsamesex0515/BNStory/International/home), but in reading the article this section jumped out at me: “In a dissenting opinion, Justice Marvin Baxter agreed with many arguments of the majority but said the court overstepped its authority. Changes to marriage laws should be decided by the voters, Baxter wrote.”
Why should changes to marriage laws be decided on by the voters? Why do the voters care? They can only care if they still dispute the idea of homosexuality and if they believe it’s immoral or that it’s a lifestyle choice. Unfortunately I’m not sure that being gay can be “proven”. One can prove that one is handicapped, that one is a visible minority, but one cannot prove that one is gay. Because of this, being gay is still open to debate. Not surprisingly, right wing religious fundamentalist nut jobs are putting together a petition to try and overturn this decision. If we extrapolate this further we can state that: if the “coalition of religious and social conservative groups” (hey – aren’t those called "terrorists" in the Middle East?) garner enough voter support, they can deny gays the right to marry because it’s still socially acceptable to discount the “theory” of homosexuality.
I’ve said it before and I will say it again today: get the fuck out of my bedroom, and shove your religious theories up your ass – there is no place in politics for religion.
Alright. I want to end on a high note, so the thing that made me grin broadly was Jeanie Rizzo calling her partner of nineteen years and asking her to marry her. That made me happy… and kind of jealous.

Hells, yeah!

I think I will start with this and just get it (the formality that it is) out of the way. Get your own blog. For those of you that have just clued in that I'm going to start talking about all things running at this junction: here's a gold star for you.
So I haven't run since the marathon a week and a half ago because after running 26 miles, one is surprisingly tired. Today was the day. I was nervous. I was wrought with trepidation. The last time I tried to run after a marathon I ended up in a sports clinic being told that the furthest that I was allowed to run was 8 kilometres.
I start out and it's muggier than I had thought and, true to form, I was overdressed. But I had my shuffle with all my kick ass marathon music and I thought, let's just do this. Started to push it a bit and then decided I wasn't in it to win it and to just take it easy. Then the sun came out. It was raining and shitty all day and the sun comes streaming out for my first run since the marathon. Brilliant. I ran past all the spring flowers, over sidewalks laden with cherry blossoms, enraptured with the view of the downtown skyline. I grinded my way up Keith, got home, looked at my watch and... bam! Had my PB for that 10.4km route and I didn't even think I had pushed it.
I also think this should expedite the departure of my two suspect toenails (which is a good thing).
Today is awesome.

It's decided

I am going to Boston. When the registration opens I will register (again). I am going to book my hotel and send my cheque to hold the inordinately expensive hotel room in my name. I am going to stay in Boston from the Saturday before the race until the Thursday, or possibly even Friday, after the race.
I am fully capable of eating chowdah alone.

God's Country (fiction)

We’re sitting on my couch and it’s getting late in the evening. We’re feeling a little philosophical, a little nostalgic, a little introspective, or at least that’s how it would appear on the surface. Perhaps below the surface, if you scratch just a bit, you’ll see that the more fundamental base feeling is that of guilt. Guilt that we’re sitting here doing things that others can’t. Some people have a propensity to seize such moments as though in some triumphant, silent yell that says, “la chaim!”. For some reason we don’t do that very often.

* * *

She knew it was Wednesday. They served cinnamon apple oatmeal for breakfast on Wednesdays. She neither liked nor disliked the oatmeal, she did find it a tad sweet, but it was significantly better than their cold, tasteless scrambled eggs.
After breakfast she stared out of her bedroom window for a long, long time. It was spring and she could smell the greenness in the air. The fragrance of fresh cut grass and damp cherry blossoms and wavering, sunny daffodils permeated the air. She loved spring. Spring came late to the Crowsnest Pass when she younger, and even when it did come it took a while to thaw Blairmore out from another snow-laden winter. Halcyon days. Hot summer days when they would pack a picnic and take their girls and Wimpy the dog to fish and dip their toes in the glacier fed rivers and streams that wound their way down from the Rockies. There wasn’t ever enough room for Wimpy to fit in the car, and that damn dog mastered the art of riding on the running boards of their Model T Ford. Not a lot of people in Blairmore had a car in those days, she remembered proudly.
They did well. They had a good life: Des provided for them. They had enough so that, during the Depression, she had been able to give boiled eggs, sandwiches, hard rolls to the out of work boys that jumped off the train looking for work, for any kind of work.
They did well enough to entertain from time to time. They would have dinner parties that would last late into the night, as they ate, drank wine, listened to the gramophone, pushed furniture out of the way and danced. She was beautiful and she liked to have fun. Des loved to see her have fun.

* * *

“I don’t know what she does all day. I can’t stand the thought of her sitting there, all alone. What does she do?” he pleads.
I shake my head; I don’t know what to say. All I can offer is, “Maybe she loses track of time. Maybe she’s not unhappy.”
“We all end up alone,” he says firmly.
We don’t have to, I want to scream. But then I remember my grandfather, alone in the hospital. Wandering away from his hospital bed to be found gazing at the newborns in the maternity ward. Mistaking the nurse for me, obviously in the hopes that I would come and visit him one last time, but I didn’t.

* * *

Her daughter bought her some books. Books with large print so she can read them quite easily. It’s true; she’s been reading the same page over and over for the past twenty minutes quite easily. She’s sort of lost track as to what this book is supposed to be about, so she turns it over to take a look at the cover, to try and deduce something from the artwork, but there isn’t anything. Danielle Steele. The name rings a bell: she’s sure she’s read something by this woman before.
Suddenly she’s tired. She rests the book in her lap and looks outside again, to see a cat mincing across the fresh-cut lawn. The overgrown thatches of grass – prime mouse-hunting spots – have been shorn. She reckons he’s heading the general direction of the bird baths.
She dreams she is in their house in Penticton with its meticulously maintained weed-free lawn, with its shady back porch and the segment of the kitchen floor that has too much give and needs to be repaired. Des is outside, lavishing love on this year’s tomato crop and she’s writing letters to old acquaintances. There’s a knock at the front door and it’s her daughter, Madeleine, coming to drop off a casserole she’s made for dinner. “Stay for a while”, she invites her daughter, pushing the pen and the stationary to one side. Happy to see her daughter and desperate for an interlude of any sort.
“Where’s dad?” her daughter asks, her eyes already glancing through the sliding glass door to where she knows her father is, hunched in rapt attention over an Early Girl or a Crimson Fancy. Madeleine slides open the sliding glass door and steps out of the stuffy house and into the cool shade of the back patio. “Hi dad!” she calls. Her father doesn’t have his hearing aid in, so she tries again, more loudly this time. Her father, with some effort, turns around to see his daughter standing on the porch.
“Hey you”, he says, struggling somewhat unsteadily to get to his feet and making his way over to her.
“I brought over some dinner for you and mom”, Madeleine says.
“Eh?” he responds, fumbling to adjust a hearing aid that’s not there, and then mumbling its curses under his breath.
“I came over to have a glass of sherry with you and mom,” Madeleine tries again.
“Sherry, eh?” he grins, climbing the steps into the house, leaving Madeleine to wonder if he’s selectively deaf.
They sit, the three of them, having a sherry. And then there’s another knock at the front door and it’s her daughter Eileen come to visit with her husband Ron, and they’ve brought with them her other daughter Fay, who she didn’t even know was in town.
Suddenly they’re no longer in Penticton, they’re back in their Calgary house and everyone is there: her kids and their husbands and her grandchildren and her great grandchildren, so many beautiful offspring, and they’re all having a huge barbeque and laughing and talking long into the evening and she’s spry again, in this late spring evening. It's been a very long time since she's held a baby. She doesn’t have liver spots on her hands and her husband is dashing and she’s surrounded by her family and she feels such love and unparalleled happiness and she thinks of what a blessed life she has had.
In her sleep she is smiling.

* * *

He says, “I’m always afraid the last time I saw her will be the last time.”
I think, the last time you see anyone could be the last time.

* * *

She awakes from her dream that is too close to reality, too close to the memories that are slowly ebbing and being erased, with a feeling of happiness, but it dissipates as she glances around her austere room to find that, once again, she is alone.
Her daughter is coming though, today. Her daughter is coming to take her home, back to her house and to Des. She pushes herself out of her chair, looking once more out the window. There is a young man gardening outside and she watches him for a while. She wonders what he thinks of this place. Does he think of it as a jail for old people? Does its overall sadness and whiffs of loneliness compel him to visit his own aged relatives who are stashed away in places like these? Is this property by far the most depressing that he must visit? Surely the gardening demands at the hotels, at the private estates can’t be as intimidating as this.
She slides her suitcase out from underneath her bed and proceeds to remove her clothing from the chest of drawers.
She looks at the photos on her bureau. Pictures of her daughters with their husbands, poised, smiling endlessly back at her. A picture of her own husband, his arm around their granddaughter, both beaming proudly. It’s been a long time since she’s seen Des and she’s grateful to be reminded what his face looks like.
She continues to pack, placing the thin, nondescript garments which cover her small, fragile body into the case. She’s slightly mad: they shouldn’t have left her here for as long as she did, though she’s not entirely sure how long she’s been here. It seems that she’s entitled to more than chewy bran muffins, and movies played at incredible levels to pander to the near deaf, and endless games of scrabble and outdated magazines. Besides, she’s not as old as any of these people anyways. These sad waifs whose families never visit them, who push their walkers aimlessly around as though actively seeking death, or simply stare off into space. There’s no one here to talk to. There’s no one here with whom she wishes to share the rich tapestry of her life. There’s no one here that understands her.
She places the photos of her daughters into her suitcase. She takes down the photo of Des and looks at it, at him, remembering.

* * *

Later that evening Madeleine’s phone rings: it is her sister Fay calling from Invermere.
“Did you see mom today?” Fay asks.
Madeleine says yes, she did, as she studies the myriad of photos pinned up on her fridge. Photos of her, of her six children and ten grandchildren. Photos of her mom and dad.
Fay can tell she’s upset. “How is mom?”
Madeleine pauses, takes a deep breath and slides a photo of her mom and dad out from underneath a magnet. “She still wants to come home. She still has her bags packed every time I go to see her. She still demands to see Dad: she’s mad at him for leaving her there for so long.”
Madeleine laughs, sadly.

* * *

"You're going to have to go through this one day."
"I know," she says.

What is the statistical probability that we would sample another wine that tastes like meat?

Well, we may have to get the binomial distribution (and possibly a scatter chart) from Po, but it seems the probability was high. Welcome to wine club!
Wine club started early. It started with a phone call whereby it was inferred that the wine club members (the sleek and elite group that they are) were perilously close to my apartment, even though I wasn't quite ready. I believe my words were, "I'm totally not ready yet". But, because I subscribe to the theory that one does not have to spend a lot of time, money or effort on one's appearance, I was presentable within 15 minutes. The term "presentable" is open to interpretation. Let's just say that I was clean, and for the most part I smelled alright.
Then came the wine. So, the first white was good. We sipped and chatted. Big D showed up and sampled his Coke Zero and managed to choke on almost every food product I had on the table. I should review my insurance policy.
The second bottle of wine was... wow. The notes from tonight's tasting read: "smells like meat"; "do not choose rational"; and "wine tastes like bacon". N thought it tasted like mushrooms. I figured that bacon and mushrooms together would make a good omelet and Big D declared it was, therefore, a breakfast wine. Amen. Oh, and the term "do not choose rational" comes from the label which indicates that the wine is made through "rational wine making". So... okay.
The two reds were good. My Chianti didn't do as well as I had hoped. Ah, nothing could compare to Skyhammer's vintage 2001 French wine which was excellent.
Fun times. Oh, speaking of fun, we did get into the relatively unknown and little explored field of "funodynamics". I learned (because wine club is about learning - even though heretofore I thought it was about animated gesticulating and the wind up green duck) that "you cannot create or destroy fun, you can only change it from one form to another". Also, "fun can be defined by the sum of its fun parts". I love fun parts. Po tried to explain to me about static and kinetic fun, but I wasn't able to fully comprehend the concept. Perhaps I had had too much meat wine.
Opening the last bottle of wine was fun. I was repeatedly told I wasn't screwing correctly, that I was screwing the wrong way, that I needed to screw it more and then I finished it off by hand. I have no idea why my fellow wine club members felt that I was incapable of successfully and suavely opening a bottle of wine. No idea where their rationale came from.
Thanks to everyone for coming out. Congrats to Po on her test site; to Big D for losing THIRTEEN POUNDS!; to N for creating a blog and starting to write; and to Skyhammer for deciding to forge ahead on his own website. What a group of interesting, dynamic, fantastic, fun and diverse people. I can't believe I have friends like this. I joke a lot, cause it's what I do, but I think they know how great I think are.
I would drink a bottle of meat wine with you any night.
La chaim.

The thing about windmills

My horse is tired from all this arbitrary charging. My arm is sore from positioning my lance just so in anticipation of battle.
I tilt, because a battle must be looming. I tilt at imagined slights, at inferred feints, at the whiff of a notion of something untoward. But, when faced with reality, when a person comes to me bearing goodwill and kind thoughts I dismiss it. My perception is greater than my reality. What a ridiculous way to live. My horse is aged, sway-backed and shudders beneath me.
Even more preposterous are the occasions where I do come upon "hulking giants", but instead of seeing them as such, I choose then to view them as harmless conduits of positive energy, when in fact I should be lowering my visor and clicking my tongue to get my august mare to savvy forward into battle.
Why, why, why do I do this? It's almost as though I need to struggle to survive, so when there is no struggle I feel compelled to create one. Surely there is a name for this particular misfiring of some random synaptic fuse. I can't possibly believe that things are going well, so I must create scenarios in which things are not going well at all.
From the detached perspective of an outsider looking in: my god, this girl must be an anxious, overwrought, neurotic bundle of nerves! Why, I bet she beats herself up endlessly if she gains five pounds, or runs a marathon four minutes slower than the last one. She doesn't pay heed to compliments, but dwells on criticisms. When everyone else around her has forgiven her for some minor issue, she will torment herself over it endlessly and wonder what right she has to inhabit the earth. In fact, I bet she operates in so many shades of grey that when the CFO asks her if it's "fine" to transfer seventy thousand pounds from the UK account to the Canadian chequing account she will walk into his office (for fear of having anything in writing) to advise him that she cannot answer that question because "the term 'fine' is subjective" and she doesn't know his ultimate cashflow strategy, therefore she feels she cannot comment.
The sad thing is that, when she does let go, and when she does take a moment to appreciate the vibrant colors of the tulips that spring forth from their planter boxes on the overhead walkway near her office, and visualizes the juxtaposition of the blood red flower, defying all naturous odds, against the burl of traffic and construction in the background; or perhaps when she sees the woman - for the second time in as many days - with the horribly gnarled hands that belong to someone twice her age, who looks as though she has given her very soul to something or someone other than herself or her own happiness, and is the epitome of bone weary with her pewter gray hair and her soft-soled shoes to accommodate her swelling ankles, and the pink nail polish that is applied even though the last tangent of the middle finger of her right hand bends at such an angle that one can't help wondering if that finger wasn't broken, because arthritis cannot possibly be so cruel as to inflict such torment on one single digit, that this girl becomes so immensely overwhelmed with everything that life holds, with everything that each day brings, with a feeling that is so much greater than herself and her surroundings, that she has to take a moment's respite, so as not to shatter the illusion of rigid apathy and self-control.

Yep

So to add to the previous post, not only am I an egg sandwich responsible for my own happiness, but I need to stop worrying about the inevitable, whatever the inevitable is.
Additionally, I am somewhat of a hypocrite.
Furthermore, I really have no one to blame for this particular predicament but myself. For an egg sandwich I get into an amazing amount of trouble. You might say I'm rancid.
I want absolutes, but nothing is absolute. I hate tenterhooks.
And to round this mother out, I'm going to say I'm coming down with a nice case of PMS and I haven't exercised since the marathon so the possibility exists that I am perhaps dwelling in the minutiae again. It's where I live, man, it's where I fucking live.
The thing that normal humans (as opposed to egg sandwiches, of course) would do, would be to remain positive, do the best they can and deal with issues as they arise instead of tilting at windmills.

Je suis un sandwich d'oeuf

I know I'm not supposed to rely on anyone for my own happiness.
Some days, man.

Jesus Christ

That was unnecessarily heavy.
Look. Here's the good bit: I bought a couple of chairs for my patio from Canadian Tire today. Fitting them into the Civic was a feat of engineering genius.
Okay, it was more a feat of brute force and much frustration, but they're residing nicely on my patio now, so all's well with the world.

Ayn Rand rocks!

Yeah, yeah. I know the first rule of "Book Club", but man! Atlas Shrugged is absolutely riveting and engrossing (and it pisses me off absolutely).
In other news, the lone male auditor crawled under my desk twice today, to get data onto his thumb drive. This was noticed, and commented on, by the robot liberator. Look, I have to get my kicks where I can, alright?
Had my second argument with A about the whole vasectomy/tubuligation debacle today. Some days we talk about utter shit, and then other days it's like, "hey, here's a fundamental reason as to why I ended a six year relationship". He thinks I'm in the wrong. I countered that I think that men throw out various reasons for not getting a vasectomy, but the main reason is that they don't want anyone touching their equipment and they're afraid that they're going to be rendered impotent. He didn't necessarily disagree. And I concede that ultimatums are stupid and one should not ever use them. I still think that, logically, it makes more sense for Michael to be rendered sterile. The statistical probability of him meeting someone that wanted to have his children while still eschewing the age old tradition of marriage, while in his forties, is slim.
I find it oddly unnerving that I am still talking about this goddamn issue given that I had the surgery almost two years ago.
I appear to be cranky now. That's no good. Look, if you considered the argument as Ayn Rand might have (leaving emotions out of it), it would have been more efficient and less risky had Michael had the operation. Like, forget what Jesus would do.
WWARD?
Yeah. That's what I thought.

I wasn't really going to bed, I guess

Lots of photos taken of us on Sunday. Here is me finishing:

There are two things you can't make out from this photo: my amazing leg striations and the fact that I'm starting to cry.

Also? How hot is Michael? Viggo? Viggo who?

I still have left over muscle relaxants...

...but it would be wrong to take them. Drugs are bad.
Feeling pretty good today. Feeling pretty, pretty, pretty good. Okay, so maybe I was hobbling a little bit, but nothing like the last marathon which saw me all but go down stairs on my bum the subsequent day.
I really have nothing to talk about. I'm very happy. I'm quite content. I even had a really good hair day so... you know, I had that going on.
Oh, I did see Viggo Mortensen's penis today. Perhaps that bears mentioning.
Night!

I heart runner's diarrhea

Like, what. The chaffing, the knee pain, the muscle spasms, sweat and cramping isn't enough? I need to pay for it with several urgent trips to the bathroom? What's with that?
So tired. Basically lay in bed for 90 minutes feeling ill and listening to my stove click on and off (I'm bringing lasagna to the wrap party).
Still disappointed with my time. Pouty Duder. I was FOURTEEN MINUTES SLOWER during my last half than my first. Did I stop for a coffee break and forget about it? Did I fall asleep at some point? Did I take a shortcut somewhere in Kelowna to get 3:39 in October? Scratching my head on that one.
C'est la vie. Gatorade helps.
Time to go party. Par-tay!

My knees failed me

My watch says 3:43:51 so.... yeah. I didn't re-qualify for Boston. Michael ran a blistering 3:23, but was also a bit shy of Boston. So we are Bostonless. Wah.
The flip side: what a well run course, what an amazing group of spectators, and I was so happy to see N and Skyhammer on the course, and to meet up with Big D and my mom for lunch afterwards.
Not sure why I didn't do as well as I'd hoped (I even thought I could get a 3:35). It could be that I've been sick the last week and half, or the knee pain, but more likely it boils down to me not trying hard enough. I may have been subconsciously resting on my laurels today because I qualified for Boston in October.
I'm glad I did it and I'm goddamn glad it's over. Michael has one or two more chances to qualify this year, so we'll see how he does, but damn I can't imagine having to run a 3:20.
I forgot how hard it is to run 26.2 miles. It's like, really far.
Congratulations to all the participants running Vancouver today! Thanks to everyone that came out to cheer us on (I was almost reduced to tears by the enthusiasm and mass of people just before the Burrard Street bridge). The volunteers did a tremendous job and they all were so encouraging and had smiles on their faces: huge accolades to them.
Can't wait for the photos. Flashed a victory "V" to a photog in the West End when I was feeling pretty strong. Started crying when I crossed the finish line (it's a marathon habit of mine, it would appear).
Alright. So I've been up since 5am and I'm going to have a nap!

Knees, don't fail me now!

I have an immeasurably brilliant life. I had such a great day. Last night was a lot of fun, too.
I love everything. I love jazz. I love baths and Ayn Rand. I love Ibuprofen and cold compresses for my knees. I love my mom for coming from White Rock to see me at the finish line tomorrow morning. I love my friends for checking in with all their well wishes. Michael's mom called me today to wish me luck and sighed, "It's been so long since we've spoken". Watching Michael attempt triangle pose is funny. I had a Rice Krispy square today: it was really good. Everything was really good today. I'm happy.
I'm pretty terrified about tomorrow, but I'm still looking forward to it and perhaps it's the culmination of the training that I started (in earnest) in January, but everything's beautiful and sparkly right now.

If you had to run 26.2 miles....

... what music would you listen to?
I want to download some music before the marathon to keep me motivated and I welcome all suggestions!

Yay!

I made it through the week (almost)!
Yesterday was the last clinic. It was pretty well attended except Michael didn't make it. Tapering is weird: one feels guilty. We only did two one mile repeats. In fact, the run to and from the area where we do the mile repeats was two miles.
Then Michael came over. I love Michael. He brought me presents from Phoenix and had all sorts of stories. It was so good to see him and I displayed my exuberance by giving him a hug, even though he had just come from a run and was kind of damp.
Today I am picking up our race packages at the Westin. Apparently we don't get our marathon shirts until after the marathon. So why do I run marathons, you ask? For the shirts. Plus we get a medal.
Going for a pasta dinner with Michael tonight and then existing in a perpetual state of anxiety, doubt, fear, anticipation and excitement until the gun goes off at 7:30 on Sunday morning.
I can do this. I've got the fuel down. My toenail came off last night. I ran 23 miles a few weeks ago. I'm allowed to wear my iPod. There will be pace bunnies. There will be lots of music and cheering crowds along the way. I am stronger and fitter than I think I am. I am more prepared than I was in October. I am ready. I can envision the finish line and my hands raised in exaltation proudly displaying "V" for victory.
Also? Totally looking forward to the wrap party Sunday night!

Just for a minute. No egg timer required.

Okay. So one of the things the auditors want is the balance in our accounts payable and accounts receivable accounts for this year end and the 2006 year end, along with the differences as amounts and percentages. Then I have to explain variances greater than 10%. I don't mean to be rude, but fuck. On the lead sheets I really want to write this to explain why our A/P balances are lower this year: we paid that shit off. And as to why our A/R balances are lower? I got on the phone and said "show me the money" and they did.
I mean, come on. It's like, oh, why are the cash balances lower/higher year to year? Um, if they're higher? It's cause we had more money. If they're lower, work with me here, don't make me get out the puppets, it's because we had less money.
I'm done. Ding! Well before my allotted ten minutes of rant time.

The wine club rides again!

Huzzah! Things to look forward to.
Had a funny conversation with a coworker yesterday about the bag that I had bought (and subsequently returned). He had commented on it, as he had noticed that I had purchased a few new items of clothing lately. And when a bunch of us were out for drinks he cajoled me into showing the purse to everyone at the table. Well I guess he noticed that I no longer had the purse and so he inquired as to its whereabouts and I admitted that I returned it. He felt awful! He thought he had driven me to return it because he had ribbed me a bit, but I indicated that I thought that purse was a bit too flashy and that I wasn't able to pull it off. He said that I had been able to pull it off and that he had liked the purse. Seriously? This conversation went on for like 90 seconds. And it was overheard by A (apparently I was on speakerphone), the guy I go for coffee with every day who Skyped me while I was engaged in this engrossing conversation to say, "It's like listening to chicks talk". It was so goddamn funny. Then A told me he was glad that I had returned it because it was "too vinyly".
In other news: OH MY GOD THREE DAYS UNTIL THE MARATHON OH MY GOD.