What happens when you take nighttime cold meds before work?

...You get one very blurry, bleary, confused me. Apparently I don't function well with some cold medicines, and have noted such to myself for future reference.

First I "forgot" how to back out of my garage in such a way as to avoid hitting the garbage can with my passenger side mirror (I tried four times to back out without hitting the damn thing, while hubby patiently waited. I finally gave him a look which said 'get that effing can out of my way NOW,' which he did). Later, I accidentally faxed a recipe for "Super-Crunchy 'Fried' Chicken" to a very important client instead of exhibits to a letter. After that (yes, unfortunately, there is more), I was faxing another letter to a list of clients with a 5-page attachment. No problem, but the attachment was backwards (i.e. pg. 5, 4, 3, etc.) so I re-sent the entire package with the attachment in proper numerical order. Great - until I realized that that letter shouldn't have had an attachment at all!

So now I'm faced with the knowledge that I'm a moron, at least for a day. But no worries - I'm in good company.



I feel like hell and look worse. What's more - I just don't have time to be sick. No mom does. With that, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my two lovely children for this godawful virus. I'm so proud that you're sharing!

On the plus side, the boss is gone until next week. I feel like hell, but I'm relaxed and happy.

I'm sad but I'm laughing
I'm brave but I'm chicken shit
I'm sick but I'm pretty, baby
And what it all boils down to
Is that no one's really got it figured out just yet
But I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playing the piano

One Hand In My Pocket - Alanis Morissette

Running on empty

I need my tunes for almost everything. I've always said MY tunes, MY music, though I'm not sure why. I guess that's my short 'n simple for "my favorite songs." I have so many favorites. I have songs I listen to for any given reason/time. At a very young age I would often retreat to my room to "listen to my music." Back then it was a huge stack of 45s from my mom's teen years - The Beatles; The Byrds; The Zombies; Elvis; Four Tops; The Beach Boys; The Rolling Stones - you get the picture. I was the only kid I knew who could sing word-for-word all the songs our parents had listened to AND all of the current pop tunes. To this day I'm a sort of walking jukebox, with thousands of song lyrics in my head.

When I'm running I really need music. The music keeps me from focusing on my body - my knees - my breathing - the pain. The music (I swear) makes the endorphin rush faster and stronger, and some songs seem to actually cause the rush. I save those songs for my omigodicantdoit times.

Yesterday, however, I was unable to find my ipod. I looked everywhere for it: the kitchen, where I usually leave it; my car; my purse (three times), to no avail. Because I really try to get out the door by 5:00 so I'm running when there are plenty of people out and when it's still daylight, and because it was already 5:30 I decided to just go. There would be no music. I knew it would suck.

And suck it did. I felt like I couldn't get my pace down; I am so used to pacing my steps by the beat of the music that I was clumsy and uncoordinated (or so it seemed). By the time I had run only a mile my breathing was too loud and too fast. I was sure I'd never make the whole run.

And so I resorted to my old tried-and-true coping mechanisms: counting and singing. "One, two, running shoes; three, four, push for more; five, six, kick some bricks (ok, so that one sucked, but in a split second it was all I could come up with that rhymed); seven, eight, lay them straight (had to continue with the bricks scenario, didn't I?); nine, ten I will win..." And my rule to myself was that the lyrics could not repeat. After about 10 such prose-filled songs I ran out of things that rhymed and it stopped helping me, so I switched to just counting.

I would have to say that counting has been my safety net, my comfort when all else fails, since I was a tot, and has only been reinforced. While being anesthetised for a surgery, it's common practice to have the patient count - usually backward from 10, with the idea that you never reach 1. And what about in the military? Left, right, leftrightleft is really another way of counting, of pacing. Isn't it? And music - music is counting too - "whole notes are 4 counts; half notes are 2 counts; quarter notes are 1 count; etc.) See, mom, I did pay attention in piano lessons! Dance relies on counting...

Counting helped me during labor. I counted through the hard pains and it helped me get through it. I should inject here that "hard pains" doesn't quite express the pain of hard labor, so for all who have not yet given birth naturally (meaning with NO pain killers whatever), "easy pains" are actually very painful. Counting works for me because I know that a number is associated with my destination or goal - my goal or destination is a number; I can count, therefore I can do it. There is an end point. Yes, I do realize that numbers are infinite.....

Sometimes when I'm walking alone for any distance - to pick up lunch for myself, for instance, I count my steps. I rarely count past 100, choosing most times to simply start over after 100. I dunno why. One might think I'm a teeny tiny bit OCD, and one might be correct. As long as no one knows that I count my steps to the store then I'm likely still considered "normal," not that "normal" is a good thing in my mind....

And really, truly, honestly, the whole world can be broken down into numbers - mathematics. Great concept for engineering folks who love that sort of thing (dad and mensa-boy in my family), but what about everyone else?

Counting works....It will get me to my destination - to my goals.

And time doesn’t wait for me, it keeps on rollin'
There's a long road
I've gotta stay in time with
I've got to keep on chasin' that dream,
though I may never find it
I'm always just behind it.

Long Time - Boston

Rapid Eye Movement

Another vivid dream....

This morning I awoke with my dream trailing into this world; I was still weepy.

I had just been dreaming about someone I haven't thought about in years - other than for a very brief period this past year as I was searching for him to let him know about our upcoming 20 year high school reunion. I was on the reunion committee and his name was on my alphabetical list of names to call. I was unable to locate him, so I gave up.

I'll call him Bill. In my dreamworld I had just learned that Bill had recently passed away (cause unknown to me now) and had left a sort of diary, with the last entry dated 10/28. [No clue how I remember the date so clearly] I no longer recall if the year was 2007, but I remember feeling that it was very recent, so it must have been. That particular entry referenced me in part, and now the exact wording is hazy, but I remember the words "like the unhappiness in 'AtlantaMom's' life."

I remember that I was crying, but I don't remember why, and I awoke still feeling weepy and upset.

I first met Bill in 6th grade at a science fair. Our science projects had each won ribbons at our respective elementary schools, so we traveled with others who had received ribbons to a regional science fair. I remember that his table was set up near mine and that we chatted throughout most of the day.

The following year he was transferred to my jr. high and we continued at the same jr. high school and then high school, sharing classes from time to time. We were always friendly and I always liked him a lot, but we didn't share the same group of friends in high school.

We met up again in college, as we attended the same large state university. From time to time we would run into one another and I was always pleasantly surprised to see him again. Until one particular night....

The last time we ran into one another at the university, I was invited to a party at his apartment. He had three roommates and I was aquaintances with them all. It was to be a big get-together with tons of free beer and snacks. In college the words "free drinks" is akin to the words "You've just won the lottery!" Everyone met up the apartment and played drinking games for hours. Great music was blaring, people were laughing and yelling and having a great time. At some point I excused myself to use the restroom, after someone pointed me toward the nearest one.

While I was in the restroom, someone began to beat on the bathroom door. "Just a second," I remember saying. No sooner had I said those words than the door began to open (I remember the lock was funny on that door and it didn't quite work). It was Bill, and he was trying to come in. With all my strength I was trying to hold the door shut with my foot while I tried to get my jeans up as quickly as I could. I remember feeling angry that he wouldn't wait just a goddamned minute for me to finish. I let the door open as I zipped, and as I walked into the bedroom I began to chastise him for trying to come in on me. I was headed angrily toward the bedroom door, which was shut. As I reached for the knob he grabbed me from behind. I noted then that the door was locked. He suddenly pushed me backward onto the bed, and was on top of me pinning me down.

Now my feelings were mixed: anger, surprise, shock and fear. What was he doing? This was Bill! I had known Bill since we were kids!

He wouldn't let me up, and by the blank look on his face I could see where this was going. I knew that he was not planning on stopping. Now I was very afraid - and in shock.

I started to scream at the top of my lungs. "BILL! GET OFF ME!" over and over. The music on the other side of the door was very loud, and I remember thinking that no one would ever hear me, and since everyone was drunk no one would miss me or him. But somehow someone heard me. The door suddenly flew open, slamming into the wall - I think it was kicked in - and there stood one of his roommates. I don't remember what anyone said, but I think I was able to utter a quick "thanks" before I ran out without looking back. I got my things and left right then.

I didn't see or speak to Bill again for 7 years or so - not until our 10 year high school reunion. At the reunion he kept following me around until I finally told him I was still angry with him for what had happened and he played dumb. I reminded him that he had attacked me and he denied it. I told him to go away and leave me alone, and he did.

I never saw Bill again or heard from him again. I did hear, through the grapevine, that he had become a police officer. Perfect.

The question is this: Why did I dream about Bill? What did that dream mean? What was I crying about?

In graduate school we discussed dream interpretation only for a short while, as my professor put very little stock in it. It was during our Sigmund Freud phase when we entertained such notions, and for entertainment purposes only we each offered some dream content for analysis by the class. I took away very little from that portion of the class, except that my offering of "I dreamt my teeth were falling out" meant that I was having some "loss of control" issues in my life at that time. Having had that same dream many times, I must point out that those were indeed times in which my life was out of control. Freud could have been onto something with his dream interpretation stuff.

Many times I've lied - Many times I've listened
Many times I've wondered how much there is to know.
Many dreams come true and some have silver linings
I live for my dream and a pocketful of gold.
Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing
Many many men can't see the open road.

Over The Hills And Far Away - Led Zeppelin


I wonder if some part of my subconcious is trying to make sense of things long repressed. Maybe I'm finally at a point in my life where those parts of me feel safe enough to break through to and resolve the big nasties I've ignored for so long. Or maybe I'm dying of cancer and the part of me that knows that is trying to resolve everything and tie up loose ends. Or maybe my dream was a vision, and Bill is repenting for the pain he caused me those long years ago. Or maybe this is what happens as we age. Or maybe......Ahh, I could speculate 'till I'm blue in the face, and it would get me no closer to the answer. Maybe there is no answer.

I would be remiss if I didn't admit that I feel a sort of benign interest in what my next dream(s) will reveal - about my past, present or future.

Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace,
sounds caress my ear
But not a word I heard could I relay,
the story was quite clear

All I see turns to brown,
as the sun burns the ground
And my eyes fill with sand,
as I scan this wasted land
Trying to find,
trying to find where I've been.

Kashmir - Led Zeppelin

Dreams

I awoke this morning in the dream-wakefullness state that sometimes happens after a very clear, vivid dream when the dream continues, though hazy, but awareness and realization have begun to creep in.

I awoke repeating the name of the clinic where I once worked as a substance abuse therapist, the private methadone clinic. The name of the clinic was actually initials, and none of the counselors who worked there ever knew what those initials stood for. The closest explanation I ever got for them was that the building/company had been incorporated at one time and when ownership changed, the initials remained. Ok, so was it initials of people? There was never a time to push harder for more information. I remember reaching for anything that would make sense.

Maybe my slow leak has reached other pockets of crap, long repressed.

What a time that was. What a job!

My son was just a baby at the time, so it was about 8.5 years ago when my daily scrutiny of the classifieds finally paid off. I don't recall the exact ad, but I do remember that it was teeny and said very little. It read something like "Drug counselors needed. Call 555-555-5555." I did. And I got an interview. I was told to bring my resume and was given the address. I was so excited.

I had searched in vain for a job in my field for six months! Apparently counseling jobs in the substance abuse field are few and far between in Georgia...

When I arrived, I walked through the door and was instantly confused. Was I in the right place? It didn't look like any doctor's office or therapist's office I had ever seen before. People would walk through the door and line up behind one another, with the line leading to another room which I was unable to see from my vantage point. There was a tiny seating area with a couch and two chairs and a coffee table. A strange-looking woman with a tiny dog was seated at a Queen Anne-style desk. She said she would let the doctor know I was here and that I could wait on the couch. Dana was her name, she said. She told me the Yorkie's name, but I can't quite call that name up. Ankle-biter works for me. Dana, as it turned out, had some odd tics, tics that one could see (with her neck and head) and tics that one could hear (she sounded exactly like a dolphin to me, with very audible clicks and rattles).

In a snap judgment I decided that Dana was a receptionist with serious side effects from drugs, which was how she had been recruited for the job. I couldn't have been more wrong.

From time to time I noticed a very large (tall and obese) person walking to and fro. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, as the hair was cut in a bowl shape. The person wore no makeup, sweat pants, a long sleeved University of Georgia tee-shirt and tennis shoes, untied (presumably because the fat feet crammed inside the shoes and spilling out over the top of them would cause the shoes to explode if they had been tied). To give an idea of the person's facial features and hair, I would have to say that the closest comparison would be Bruce Jenner, but a very fat and very tall Bruce Jenner. This person walked with a purpose, so I guessed he/she was a counselor. I was aghast, however, at the appearance. What sort of work ethic was that? The person seemed to have an oddly shaped chest, giving the impression of either huge, saggy breasts or .... well, huge, saggy man boobs.

I was called to the back and interviewed by, as it turned out, the nurse. Nurse Goochy, as in "goochy goochy goo." She looked over my curriculum vitae and said that I couldn't work there because the federal rules which governed methadone clinics required that each person working there have at least a full year of experience. But I was fresh out of school! My face fell and my heart sunk. "You have beautiful eyes," she said, out of the blue. [I'm not sure why I remember that....it's strange how the mind works].

She ushered me down the short hall toward "Dr. Blunt's office," past a very official but tiny room. I saw an examination table, stainless steel counter and sink, and a few other clinic-type items. The doctor's office was tiny, with a large, disorganized desk, a computer server to the left of the desk on a black metal shelf, and some photographs. I felt nervous. Would he be nice? Would he say I couldn't work there because of my lack of experience?

I sat for what felt like an eternity, though it was likely only 5 minutes or so. The fat Bruce Jenner walked in. I don't think I breathed for a few minutes. I was not expecting THIS person to be Dr. Blunt. What kind of doctor walks around dressed like that?? Where was his white lab coat? He shook my hand as he was sitting down - a huge, meaty, sweaty hand. "I'm doctor Blunt," he said, in a strange voice. For a man that large I expected an equally large and deep voice. His voice was, in fact, affected somehow, not quite effeminate, but definitely not masculine either.

After a brief discussion about my vitae and training and very little experience, he shook his head as he explained as Nurse Goochy had, "We need a year of experience to comply with the guidelines." With nothing to lose at this point I raised my voice and said defiantly, "Well if no one will give me a job, how can I get EXPERIENCE? I want this job and I would be good at it." And with that, he stood up, which was my que to stand and follow him out - out the door and out of a job. Instead, he said, "Well let's show you around first."

And then I knew that I had won him over and that I would indeed have this job - the job of my dreams. He explained that the salary was "only $26,000," to which I eagerly nodded. I was fresh out of graduate school with two babies - $26,000 seemed like a fortune to me at that moment, and besides, this was MY DREAM JOB....

I can't recall how or exactly when I learned this, but I soon learned that he, that is Dr. Blunt, was a SHE. Yes, folks, you heard right. Courtesy of a sex change at some unknown time prior to my meeting her, he became a she. I also learned that she (I was never really comfortable calling him a her) had been a naval pilot and was a psychiatrist. Oh - and Dana the receptionist? She was the doctor's "partner" and was a counselor. Dr. Blunt was a man and became a woman and now called herself a lesbian. It just got better and better....You can't make this shit up....

She also had a fuse the size of an amoeba. She would often violently spew at any and everyone - cursing at us all until we quivvered in fear. Some were actually reduced to tears during staff meetings. And the oddly shaped chest? It was oddly shaped because she had ginormous breasts which she loved to let hang free. I'm pretty sure they reached her waist. I guess wearing a bra after some 30-40 years of not wearing one never did catch on - even though there was a clear and obvious need for one. I'm attributing all of this to hormone therapy, which he/she/it must have been taking to achieve womanhood - as if a few pills and surgery could create a complete woman out of a man.

And oh, but I have barely scratched the surface of that job and those memories.

Pppfffffffffffffffffftttttttttttttttttttttttt

Yes, it's leaking, and it feels good.

Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd but please tell me who I am
I said now watch what you say
or they'll be calling you a radical, a liberal, a fanatical,
criminal.
Now won't you sign up your name,
we'd like to feel you're acceptable,
respectable, presentable, a vegetable.....

The Logical Song - Supertramp

*names have been changed*

Pfffffffffffffffffttttttttttttttttttt

Pfffffttttt. The combination of my mental tirade yesterday and biting my tongue one too many times has created a slow leak. I can almost picture the nasty little trail I'm leaving behind me. Already I feel lighter. I look forward to the day when it has all seeped out, "it" being the crap, the "bad gunky," as Stephen King puts it in Lisey's Story. Yes, one day I'll be positively buoyant!

Until then I'll continue as I am - an effing hypocrite. I have a deep bag I go to from time to time, and reach into it for the appropriate advice. "Don't sweat the small stuff" is one of my favorite sayings. And my references to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Every child can related to that one. The girl looked everywhere for happiness, only to find that she had always had the power.... Oh, yes, I am chock full of advice for anyone who will listen -- my husband, kids, friends, family. But for myself.... Well I am sometimes sure that I'm beyond help; I am damaged goods. I've been glued and stitched and repaired so many times that I hardly know what's me anymore. The beautiful and very valuable Meissen loses its value the very first time it's broken and repaired, even if the naked eye can't detect the superglue, and even if the cracks are invisible. The treasure is such only while in pristine condition. Once that's lost it's just pretty trash. But no one else has to know that. It'll be my little secret. I'll take it to my grave.

And so I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed
Just to get it all out, what's in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning and I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs,
WHAT’S GOING ON

What's Going On - 4 Non Blondes

2 days of no running has really hurt. My knees are a mess. I really don't get it. My brain can't grasp why I can run 2 days in a row without a single problem, but on the third suddenly I develop waterballoon knees. I am able to walk without pain today, and my right knee looks completely normal. The left is still a tad squishy, especially at the top, but ever so much better.

I miss my drug - my runner's high.

Last night my husband and I played with the Wii. Oh, how we love that game system! We are both highly competitive, which makes for some real fun and plenty of cursing. We usually run through all the sports games except the boxing. Since the system scores each player and keeps tabs (pushing each to achieve "pro" status), it's all the more exciting. Thankfully, the gaming systems are all set up in the basement and the bedrooms are a full two floors above that, so the kids can't hear us down there playing. It's noteworthy that the games are in the basement, away from sensitive ears because we tend to get caught up in the game and shout such expletives as "COCK SUCKER!" or "SHIT!" (you get the idea.)

Bowling was our first love, and I used to win every time. At some point, however, hubby figured it out and started kicking bootay. He figured out how to score a strike 3/4 of the time. It really burns my hide! I so hate to lose. He in fact beats me at least as much as I beat him at all of the games except golf.

That knowledge is truly a gem, given the fact that he has played golf in real life since he was a young boy, and is good at it. I, on the other hand, stick to goofy golf. In my mind the only fun or pleasant part of a real golf course is driving around the cart and drinking tons of beer. Those holes are much more fun and interesting with a nice buzz. Wii golf, though, is aparently my forte, and i can par like a pro.

Tennis is a tough one. Each player has two "mii"s on his/her team, hitting the ball back (or missing it, whatever the case may be). We were both breathing hard and sweating during the tennis matches. We played best of 5 games twice. We each won a game.

And then there is baseball. With two players, one "pitches" while the other "bats." No small feat when you're doing both with a "wiimote." But last night the planets must have been in allignment, because I was kicking some serious wii ass.

All told, I beat him in 4 out of the 5 games we played: bowling, golf, 1 of 2 tennis games and baseball. Maybe some of the crap I started leaking yesterday has lightened my load. That's a good thing. No, that's a great thing.

While in these days of quiet desperation
As I wander through the world in which I live
I search everywhere for some new inspiration
But it's more than cold reality can give
If I need a cause for celebration
Or a comfort I can use to ease my mind
I rely on my imagination
And I dream of an imaginary time

Everybody Has a Dream - Billy Joel

Take this job and shove it!

Elephantiasis of the Knees

Eww and ouch.

I haven't a clue as to why this happens. I went out for my run, taking the old familiar route because I wasn't able to get to my run before 5 (because I had to pick the dog up from daycare. Yes, really. www.dogdaysatlanta.com). With the new route I must be more careful about the time of day I run, so that route was scrapped for yesterday. Off I went, pleased to be running but cold and a bit agitated at having to run later.

I have re-run the route in my head and cannot find anything about yesterday's run that was out of the ordinary, but my knees tell a very different story. I tried to take a picture with my phone to better illustrate the enormity of my left knee, but the puny megapixels in the camera make the shot seem grainy and I'm unable to get a proper angle. If I'm able to snap a decent one later I'll post it and revise my blog.

The question I need answered is why. Why does this happen on some days and not on others? It makes no sense to me.

Now, to be clear about my body's baseline for beginning running I should take a moment to jot down what the poor bod has gone through. I should also probably admit, at least to myself, that I expected major joint problems in my life, though I expected them much later - when I'm OLD. 38 is NOT old, gawddammit!

A quick 'n dirty of my body's physical past: (1) ballet ongoing from age 3-17, including pointe from age 11; (2) soccer for a couple of years; (3) gymnastics for a year; (4) track for a year (5) aerobics age 18-23; I taught aerobics for a few years in this time frame; (6) after doing nothing for about 3-4 years I returned to step aerobics to lose 2nd baby weight and began teaching again and kept that up for 2 years; (7) Taekwondo 4.5 years; (8) nothing for 3-4 years and then began karate and did that for one year until a partial rotator cuff tear and finally (9) running.

It's likely that the 14 years of dance was my downfall, followed by the aerobics and martial arts, all of which put undue stress on feet, muscles, joints, etc. It's funny that sports are encouraged at such a young age, with no one ever mentioning the fact that if you stick with a sport seriously for any length of time and suffer injuries (which one cannot escape if training for years and years), then the body will indeed pay for that later; assuming, of course, that the injuries are not serious enough to halt the sport completely at the time.

I suppose that if we're told at age 3 or 4 that we have an affinity for x or y sport and must continue to work hard and train constantly, but "later, when you're a mommy you might have trouble walking sometimes because your knees will hurt so much and your back and neck will probably bother you a lot too," then we might not continue. I'm not sure if I would have forged ahead or not. Obviously at age 3-4 I was unable to make such decisions and those were made for me. But later I was a semi-pro ballerina (read: trained all the time, part of a ballet company, tickets to performances were expensive, dancers got paid ZERO) and at that time it was all I cared about. I had dreams of going to NY to continue and move forward. Alas, the mother and father units needed more control over me than that - and neither was willing to cough up the dough that would have been required for such - so they sent me to one of the state universities and chose my major for me. Hint: it wasn't dance.

Good god can I go off on a tangent or what?! And all that was just to get around to admitting that going into this running gig I was already damaged goods. I suppose I was trying to explain myself to the 4 people who actually READ my ramblings.....

Note to self: go off on work tangent tomorrow. Key words for tomorrow's work tangent: sexual harrassment, arrogance, disrespectfulness, moodiness, racist, sexist, god complex.....and much much more!

New running "loop"

Yesterday afternoon after finishing all the crap around the house that needed doing I took my man cub to get some much-needed new shoes (though I'm not sure it was necessary that they cost $50! Argh). I swear that child can go through a pair of shoes in a month flat! He's become much like a dandelion - a beautiful weed that can grow a foot while you're sleeping. I've requested that he simply stop eating for a bit to give me a breather, but alas, the child feels that he must continue eating. "And besides," the smarty britches 3rd grader added, "I'll keep growing even if I stop eating." What could I say to that? The kid is right....



When we got back to the house he agreed to ride with me to calculate new running routes. I took him on my usual route and let him calculate the mileage, then decided upon a new one and calculated the distance on that one. I decided to try out the new route and wow! A change of scenery really is nice. There are only 2 down sides of the new route: First is the 5 or so minutes in which I have to run on a busy street before I'm able to turn onto the street I want; there is no sidewalk there so it's just me against rush hour traffic. Not cool. Second is that the same 5 or so minutes are 5 or so minutes in which I'm running in an "iffy" area. I guess as long as I'm taking that route in daylight and with plenty of people around I'm ok, right?



And besides, I remind myself, I am a blackbelt inTaekwondo. Yep, tis true, though I rarely speak of it and never volunteer that information. It took me 4.5 years at 4-5 nights per week, a few broken bones, lots of sore muscles and untold amounts of money, but I did it. The thing is, though, it's been years since I trained (about 6, to be exact) and I'm guessing that any freaks I would encounter in that "iffy" area would be packing - and I don't mean socks in their pants either. Martial arts requires that one be close enough to use it, and if a gun is involved I can be kept at bay and too far away to use it. Of course, the sheer beauty - and power - of my being a blackbelt is that no one would EVER imagine that I yam what I yam. It's much more likely that any pistol-totin' fool would come right up to me, in which case he/she would be made to feel very sorry indeed.



I highly recommend that each and every woman take a form of martial arts. I could talk/write for hours and hours about all the wonderful benefits, but to chop it all up into one neat blurb, you should know that it creates balance in one's life - mental and physical; strength - mental and physical; promotes honor, respect and integrity. I can't say enough.....



Ok back to work. I am supposed to be working, after all.....

Addiction

Yesterday's run went off without a hitch - except that the first leg was killer. I really detest running in the cold. I don't like the way the wind whips through my body, making me shiver. I don't like it when I inhale and the air is so cold it burns my nose, mouth and lungs. The hardest part for me is getting started and willing myself to continue - it takes about 10 minutes to overcome that. Coincidentally, 10 minutes into the run is just about the time that those lovely endorphins begin to kick in.

Ahhh, that runner's high. Isn't that what it's really all about, folks? Surely we runners can understand the "why" behind cocaine or opiate addiction. The rush is the same. The body's reaction to the drug is the same (for this purpose I am calling endorphins a drug, albeit a naturally occurring one). The daily pining for that rush is the same. The only difference is the laziness factor. Get the lazy addicts off their asses and make them run 3-5 miles a day. Every day. It would change their lives.

There will be those who stumble upon this blog by sheer accident and who happen to read the above statement and feel the need to argue or bitch about it. Addiction is such a passion-filled topic, much like abortion, religion and politics are. God knows I've argued up one side and down another about my caffeine addiction - and I've battled (and won) a nicotine addiction. To further complicate things, I should also add that I have a master's degree in clinical psychology and for a number of years worked as a substance abuse therapist in a private methadone clinic. Oh, the stories....but I'll not get to any of that here and now. I therefore DO, in fact, have more than a little knowledge about (1) addiction and (2) treatment thereof. One could even call my above ramblings and speculations about such treatment as a "hypothesis," the definition of which I have scribbled on my brain tablet as "an educated guess."

And so....should one feel the need to argue addiction with me, let's do it, but let's first agree to be professional, mature and respectful.

AND NOW BACK TO THE SHOW

I'm not sure how all that happened, but I don't like to temper my stream-of-consciousness, and that's how it was in my brain, so that's how it came out on the blog.

Anywho....

I'm so excited to be home today. This is the first time in 4.5 years at my job where we've had MLK day off. Wooo! [I'm no longer in the psychology field - I have lept across disciplines and am imprisoned in the legal field now].

God, how complicated! No wonder change is so hard. Just trying to explain all the changes in my life is complicated as hell. Miss A was married to a spineless and manipulative Mr. M and had children, went to graduate school, worked as a T, divorced M because of X, Y and Z, then went to work as a C, moved to A and now is an L.

I wonder if dad the doctor in engineering or brother the genius could come up with a mathematical equation to make it all fit. I can hear MENSA-boy now: "It's easy, you just take this equation and plug in the variables A, M, T, X, Y, Z, C and L like so; and then solve."

How 'bout you take your equation and you plug those variables right up your....

Ok back to my other life. There is laundry to be done, a nasty refrigerator to clean (thanks again, Mr. Nobody, for the spilled sodas), trash to take out, cat litter to empty, clean dishes to unload, dirty dishes to load, pet hair to vacuum, lunch to make and clean up, and on and on and on - and then I get to selfishly take my running time.

My big fur kid

"You're not in my bathroom again, are you?"

MORE SNOW!!!

As it turns out, snowboards make great sleds! Leave it to a couple of ingenious kids to figure that one out....

We ended up with 1.5 - 2 inches of snow today! Unheard of in Atlanta, especially given that we had a bit of snow a few days ago. Very exciting stuff.

As my husband and I hurried through our neighborhood Kroger to grab a few things before we got "snowed in" (not likely even as it looked like a blizzard, but you never know, and I prefer to live as the boyscouts suggest: "Be Prepared"), I so wished I had grabbed my camera. It was quite comical the way everyone was whizzing by grabbing everything they could get their hands on. I had to supress laughter more than a few times at the crazed and worried faces I passed. The store was quickly selling out of meats, some canned goods, paper goods, etc. It was such a bizarre scene!

*To you who have mentioned similar memories and pains of childhood, and of life now - thank you thank you! I have found blogging to be such a release from the painful past and such a great outlet for so much - pain, laughter, wonder, thoughtfullness, and comfort. It's both wonderful and sad to me that this anonymous and somewhat removed voice has found others...others I will likely never meet, though would most certainly have an instant bond with in person. I think of you during my day and always look forward to reading your words.*

SNOW! in Hotlanta!

Yes, that's right - it snowed yesterday way down here in Hotlanta. Wow! It began to fall just as I was leaving work, and it was lovely. The kids both called me squealing with delight.

When I got home I remarked that I guessed I wouldn't be able to run in the snow, to which my husband replied, "Because of 15 snowflakes you can't run?" I decided he was right; the snow was very light and would likely stop any second. I threw on my running outfit, and then covered that with another layer consisting of sweatpants and a long sleeved tee shirt and headed out the door. 10 steps down my street I realized I had forgotten the knee bands and had to rush back to get them. I quickly strapped 'em on and again headed out.

By the time I had gotten about 20 yards from my house the gray, still sky began to hurl giant snowflakes with a fury. Such huge snowflakes! I swear they were the size of brazil nuts! And so beautiful.

....and so cold and wet....

I ran anyway. The brazil nut flakes rushed toward my eyes every time the wind direction changed, causing me to have to run with my eyes shifted down toward the street. But oh my - the beauty! I felt tearful with the sight and tried to run with my eyes squinted. Through the slits I could see a gazillion white sparkling flakes swirling everywhere. I guessed it looked much like Times Square at midnight on New Year's Eve, but with only white confetti.

My eyes became Venus Flytraps. My lashes were cilia lining the edges of the leaves and the snowflakes were my pray. As they landed casually on the trapping mechanisms, my eyes would snap shut, capturing the poor unsuspecting flakes.

I wanted so badly to capture what I was seeing with a camera and was pained to not have the ability to do so. Alas, how can one run with a heavy camera bouncing to and fro on one's chest?

I was the only person running. I ran with a huge smile on my face, at times opening my mouth to let the wetness land on my tongue. Soon enough the flakes began to accumulate and stick on the lawns. At this rate we would have an inch or more of snow, I told myself. I sped up, worried that the streets would begin to freeze and cause the hills to become slick.

By the time I had reached the last leg of the run, the bitchofahill which leads to my own street, my hands and nose were numb and my hair was plastered to my head like an oversized helmet. I couldn't wait to peel off the wet clothes and so I sped up. But as I got to my driveway I stopped short. I stood there agape, soaked to the bone, lashes matted together and crusted with flakes, gazing at my front yard. It was completely blanketed in sparkling white. The laughter of my children and the children next door echoed.

Yes, I thought, life is good. Life is beautiful.

My little man...

Free at Last

The 'rents are gone as of 30 minutes ago and all is well and right with my world again.

My run was very satisfying yesterday, but difficult for some reason. My knees felt great - and no swelling at all afterward, by the way - but for some reason I had a hard time beginning at mile 2. I began to have "give up and walk" thoughts. Of course I didn't give up, but grimmaced and forced myself to continue. Sheer willpower had to take over. After a bit the weak feelings passed. I wonder now if it's possible to just have a bad running day for no apparent reason. I sometimes have bad days for no apparent reason, so surely it's possible for it to trickle over to running??

** warning -- short rant coming; please skip over if needed **

As a parent, I can cannot imagine a time in my life in which I would NOT be aware of my child, say, being on the school track team.

Apparently, however, my Dad somehow never knew I was on the track team when I was in the 9th grade. He even argued with me about it! "Oh, you were not," he said. He asked me what events I participated in and I informed him that "I ran the mile and the 2 mile." "Oh, well it was just for a year," he said, as if that excused the fact that he had no idea that his daughter ran track on her high school team. I'm pleased to announce that I didn't feel angry or upset at all upon learning this. I did say to him, "You should feel very guilty." But I felt nothing other than interest and mild surprise.

I've come a long way, baybee.

I used to ONLY feel anger, sometimes hatred, resentfulness, etc. toward my parents. I think I can safely say now, though, that I can look at painful times from a distracted distance - much like skimming through an old photo album and seeing photos that I only vaguely recall participating in....

Please don't ever let me be like them. Please let me always see the beauty.

Addendum

Gosh! I got so caught up in blogging that I forgot to mention that I did in fact survive night one of "The Visit." Yes, there was a good deal of wine involved, and I personally downed about 4 glasses. That's enough wine for me to make raking a 2 acre yard with one arm seem fun....

My parents mentioned nothing about anything they noticed amiss, for which I was thankful. Maybe it was the glazed look in my eyes that said "say nothing negative and you both live," or maybe it was my big dog [great dane] who doesn't seem to like my Dad - a fact that caused more than a few giggles on my part - and who was poised and ready to eat him in one fell swoop, should I give her the nod.

Or maybe I still scrutinize myself too closely, as I was made to do as a child. Maybe my life is best viewed as a pointilism portrait or an impressionism painting a la Van Gogh; up close I'm a muddy mess of colors with no apparent order, but from at least five feet away it comes together in an attractive package.

Shrug. Whatever the reason, I'll take it.

Night two commences soon. I still have 3 bottles of good wine.

Thank gawd - there are others!

I just logged on for my daily and new-found "release" and saw some comments. Wow! What excites me is that I realize that I am NOT alone. It would seem that there are at least several people floating around on this planet who share some or many of the very same thoughts and actions [read: dysfunctions] as I. What a relief!

While I do hate to rattle on and on about the aches and pains of life, using this outlet gives me the ability to rant and rave just to get it off my chest and out of my head. It feels damn good, I must say, just to see it in black and white. I am so sick of letting crap live rent free in my head.

I'm upset for having to miss running yesterday, but I felt it necessary to (1) give the knees more rest and (2) greet "the 'rents" properly. Today is another day and another story, and I will most certainly be taking that much-needed run, for today is about me.

And while I'm in my admission du jour phase, I guess I have to admit (at least to myself) that running is ALWAYS about me. I don't want to take the dog. I don't want to run with hubby. I don't want a running partner. My run is mine and mine alone. If I can't find time alone, which I desperately need and crave, then I must TAKE time; steal it, if you will.

In this last year I've begun to feel that the sheer repetitiveness of my days is slowly killing me, gnawing at my core, sapping my brain.....Each weekday I crawl out of bed, make sure both kids are up, get ready, rush downstairs and shuttle kids into the car, pick up another kid for carpool, rush to school to drop kids off [no luxury of a bus at this ridiculously expensive school - and this rant is for another show, Oprah], rush to work, work till 4:30, rush home....And each day I reach for Friday - my golden ring. I am literally wishing my life away.

I want to spend this wasted time experiencing life and beauty. The painter in me has been supressed for far too long, and the amateur photographer in me rarely has time to stop and record the beauty I see....and there is so much. My artist alter ego is trying to take over now, and fighting to get out. Now and then I do find the time to let her venture out. I recently took some friends to Stone Mountain for the day and caught the following:







Lately I've even begun to really notice and appreciate the beauty in the many buildings in downtown Atlanta, where I work - especially in the afternoon on my way home. Most of the time I only have my cell phone with which to attempt to capture what I see, but now and then I remember to toss my camera in the car.

Beauty can be found in running too. The rhythmic sound of shoes hitting pavement. The pattern of breaths. The knowing look and nod from others running. The cold winter air. The people bustling about. The dogs. The perfectly manicured yards. The flush after a run.... even the pains of running are beautiful on some level.

And so to my fellow moms, runners, artists, photographers, gardeners, music lovers, writers, and thinkers, I send my warmest wishes and my heartfelt gratitude at simply knowing you are indeed out there.

I stopped on the way home Friday to get a different type of knee brace for my left knee. The booger just will not cooperate! This time I got the knee stabilizer. It has a little hole in the front where my knee cap peeks out, with rigid "stabilizers" on either side of the peek-a-boo knee hole. The darn thing was tight. So tight, in fact, I felt like my knee had become a sausage encased in a too-tight skin.

But it worked and helped.

And so I ran. And I ran again Saturday. And the knees got a bit swollen again and sore. Very sore.

Yes, yes, I know.

Now I've decided it must be my gait. I am flat-footed and underpronate, so I need special running shoes. I'm going to stop by Big Peach Running Company as soon as I get two dimes to rub together, for I know the shoes will not come cheap.

*subject change*

I have decided that I will use this anonymous blog to rant and rave over something bugging me. Skip right over this part, for it will do no one any good but myself. I just need to get the words out of my head and in front of my eyes so they will stop rattling around in my brain.

I got a call two days ago (Saturday) from my mother informing me that she and my Dad would be coming Monday and staying until Wednesday morning. Whah? Noooooooooooooooooooooo! Immediately my heartrate increased drastically and I began to feel panicky. I had only two days to get my entire home as close to perfect as it can be. Why? Well because my parents are perfectionists who live in a museum of a home - and always have. Everything is perfect and in its proper place at all times. There is never a speck of dust anywhere, nothing is ever amiss. The following two examples taken from their lives should explain the whole deal: (1) after using the microwave at my parents' home one must shine the buttons; otherwise fingerprints will be left on them, and (2) after using the STAINLESS STEEL sink, one must first use soap and clean it thoroughly and second must dry it out, lest waterspots be left.

Can you imagine what an anxious child I must have been having to live with such perfection?

My home is clean and orderly. I crave organization and try to keep my home such. However, I have two dogs and two cats and two kids and a husband all cohabitating, and I do not expect nor ask for perfection or anything close to such. Therefore, my baseboards are a bit dusty; there are a few scuff marks here and there on some of our walls (though I do carefully scrub them every month or so); my refrigerator is frightening (Mr. Nobody has a habit of leaving open drinks in the fridge, which inevitably get knocked over in there...); my pantry is completely unorganized (I try, but honestly, if no one else in the house is willing to help what's the point?); I have one not-so-nice chair in my family room; A giant cooler has been left on my back deck for months (hubby - grrrr), so we look like damned rednecks (mom will love that one); my garage - fuhgeddaboudit; etc.

And so until they leave, I am fully armed with wine. Hubby and I stopped by the wine store and stocked up yesterday - 6 bottles. I plan to be drinking heavily until Wednesday morning, listening to the mom complain about how hard it is to find size 2 clothing and lamenting about all the beautiful St. John suits she wants to give me (since she has retired and doesn't need them), but they are all size 2 or 4. Look, lady, I'm a size 6. I have been a size 6 since high school and I will always be a size 6. I'm 5'8" and you are 5'5." You like to starve yourself and I love to eat. Same blood, different lives. Dig?

Hopefully I will be able to reign myself in and not overdo it with the runs today and tomorrow. I fear that I will go overboard trying to relieve extra stress.

*back on course*

Ahhh...the release of a rant. Nothin' quite like it.

Stupid or addicted?

I ran yesterday with my knees still swollen.

My husband said nothing as I walked by the office wearing my "running outfit," but gave me a look. Because I know him so well I know what his looks mean. This look said "I know how stubborn you are, so I'm not going to tell you NOT to run, but we both know it's not smart to run right now and you should take a day or five off."

He again said nothing as I sat on the couch with ice packs lining my knees afterward. After all, what was there to say besides "duh?"

The question that now begs an answer is this: WHY? Could I be a running addict, as the kindred spirit in Miami suggests happens when you least expect it??

Or am I just stupid?

How do I spell relief? K N E E B A N D S

Relief!

Good ole Rite Aid had just what I needed - knee bands. From the moment I put them on I knew all would be right again with the world. The black straps with a rigid rod in the front wrap around the knee and adhere with velcro, putting pressure on the patellar tendon. In the time it took me to affix the things to my legs I went from unable to walk up or down stairs and pain with walking, sitting, etc. to no pain! Just like that!

And what did I do with my new-found freedom from pain? Well I went for a run, of course! As I was lacing my running shoes my husband looked up from the kitchen sink and asked me what I was doing. "I'm going for a run" I replied, trying hard to sound like that was a normal response. "You're kidding" he said, with a look that said I was nuts. I wasn't kidding, and lucky for him he didn't push the issue.

Does that make me stupid, determined or addicted?

A lovely lady replied to yesterday's post warning me that the running addiction (which I'm sure doesn't pertain to me) creeps up unexpectedly.

Hmmm. Perhaps I'll ponder that on today's run. With my still-swollen knees. Wearing knee bands. So I can walk. So I can run. *cough*

Growing Old Pains

Oh how I remember, those terrible leg pains which kept me writhing and rustling in my bed for hours at night, turning this way and that, tightening the muscles and letting them go - just about anything to alleviate some of the pain. Growing pains. Why must growing hurt, I wondered.

And now I recall those times almost wistfully. At least as a growing girl I knew the leg pains would pass and were a normal part of maturing - a sort of level one must pass to get to the next one.

But now the pains are pains of aging. Growing old pains, I call them.

Today the pain has been in my knees. A frustrating, unrelenting, slowing-me-down pain. Of course, these growing old pains which I lament at the moment are mostly of my own doing. Why? How? Well, I'm a runner, you see.

There! I've said it for the first time. Not "I'm going out for my run" or "Time for my jog." No, I said "I'm a runner." Wow! That felt good.

To be honest, I'm not a runner because I love to run. I read and hear all about how running is an addiction and that runners have to run for the sake of running. That's not me. I run because I love to eat and because I hate fat. Simple as that. I force myself to run 3-5 miles per day just so I can stay trim and toned and still eat mostly whatever I please. I force myself to run because I'm creeping up on 40 (shhhh!) and my metabolism isn't as fast and strong as a freight train like it used to be. Oh, those were the days!

And how do I feel on my run? Hmmm. Good question. I usually lie when someone asks me that. "It's great!" "Love it!" etc. I take off in my bona fide "running clothes" and bona fide "running shoes" with my handy dandy ipod, intent on my task. For it is a task to me. Yes, I love the "me" time I get during that run - no kids, dogs, cats, phones.... Yes, I love the rhythm my feet create hitting the asphalt or the sidewalk. Yes, I love the sense of accomplishment and strength I get after every run. But really and truly, what I love most about running is being done with it. The last leg is always the hardest, being uphill most of the way, but once I top that ridiculously long swell and hit the flat area, I know it's time to turn right - onto my street and down a hill to the third house on the left, up the steep driveway, up the three steps to the front door, and it's over. Again. Until the next time.

Ah, but it hurts, and sometimes the hurt lasts. Today's pain is from Sunday's run and I still have swollen knees. I guess I have to stop by a drugstore and hope they carry run-of-the-mill knee braces, or at the very least ace bandages so I can tape my knees. But I'm tough. I've been through much worse, I remind myself. I've given birth without so much as an aspirin, only to get up and take a shower 20 minutes after. I've been a single mother to two kids, a dog and three cats. I've starved for days at a time to ensure my kids and pets were fed. Yes, I'm a tough bird. I can handle this pain.

And will I run today anyway? You bet your sweet ass I will! I have to, you see, because I ate a cheeseburger last night and a 12-inch turkey sandwich today and now I must pay my dues....

Make sure you look for me today at around 5-ish. I'll be the blondish chick looking determinedly ahead, possibly running much like a penguin might run. I'll be the one praying that the runner's high kicks in quickly and lasts long so I can continue to run. I need those lovely endorphins to mask the pain I'll be feeling. Yes, I'll be the one grinning with joy as I turn onto my street and see my driveway welcoming me, the front door opening its mouth and swallowing me back into my cocoon where I'll moan and groan and limp around with ice packs on my knees.

But I did it and I'm alive. There's nothing like a little pain to remind me that I'm alive.

In the beginning

As a child I wrote - poems, short stories, etc. It seems that most of my writing coincided with particularly stressful times. I would write and write for days at a time, and then stop writing altogether for weeks, months, years at a time only to pick it back up in troubled times.

I suppose that seeing the words in black and white helped me to SEE what I was feeling, or at least to try to sort out those feelings.

At any rate, this is my first step - a baby step - on my path toward fine. A wonderful song by The Indigo Girls came to mind as I typed those words: "Closer to Fine."

I'm tryin' to tell you somethin' 'bout my life
maybe give me insight between black and white
and the best thing you ever done for me
is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life after all...
yeah
Well darkness has a hunger that's insatiable
and lightness has a call that's hard to hear
and I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it
I'm crawling on your shore...
I went to the doctor, I went to the mountain, I looked to the children, I drank from the fountain.
There's more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line.
And the less I seek my source for some definitive
the closer I am to fine.........

And so I'm walking along this crooked path of life, slowly making my way toward my goal - fine.

This beginning is step one.