Want Some Cheese With That Whine?

Know what’s been keeping me up at night lately?  My frickin’ cold, that’s what.  Every time I lay down I start coughing and drooling indiscriminately; it’s not conducive to sleep.  I admit that I’m a big baby when I’m sick (I can hear you all gasping with surprise).  I’m not proud of it, but I tend to be one of those people that mope around, the odd groan punctuating my quiet suffering.  I answer questions regarding my health in a voice that’s maybe a tad more hoarse than it needs to be … I’m pathetic.

Being sick always makes me wish I were a kid again.  When I was little and I got sick a whole series of wonderful things would happen.  I got to skip school and lay in my parent’s bed all day while I watched The Price is Right.  I got to spend the day with my dad; watching him draw in our dining room and bang around the kitchen making dinner.  I got to have my parents focus all of their attention on me, hopefully at the expense of my three younger siblings. 

Being sick as an adult is completely unrewarding.  It just means that I have to run errands and go to work in pissy mood.  At least I’ve got a roommate for this bout of sickness.  B is sick too, so he and I have spent the past few days feeling miserable together.  Right now we’re both wrapped up in blankets in our living room watching episodes of That '70's Show and drinking tea.  B says his favorite thing about being sick when he was little was definitely watching daytime TV: seeing Shining Time Station and Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. 

When I got strep throat in second grade I managed to dig up a silver bell from somewhere.  I spent two weeks convalescing on our living room couch, ring-a-linging whenever I needed more orange juice.  That got old pretty quickly, and I’m not sure B would respond favorably if I started summoning him with a bell.  More later kiddos. I’m headed to bed.

The Bitch is Back

Since I knew what to expect, I was much less nervous for SC247 this week.  I had been working on my 2-letter words and I figured that, if nothing else, nobody was going to challenge me on "xa" again and make me look like a fool.  I psyched myself up for my second Scrabble Club experience by listening to angry country music on the drive over.  I can tell you right now that nobody else was blasting Alcohol and Ass when they pulled into the church parking lot.  That’s how I roll, Gloria. What now?!?!

My mental calisthenics paid off, my dear friends.  I won 2 of my 4 games!  It was glorious!  Ok, “glorious” is a bit of an overstatement … but I was excited to an embarrassing degree.  I won my first game 352 to 350.  My opponent was a young man who is also new to the club; he was not happy that I beat him.  Out of respect for his feelings I only did a small victory dance; more of a victory wiggle than anything else.

My other win was significant for several reasons.  Scrabble-wise I got a high score of 407 and laid “ganglia,” a bingo that earned me kudos from the expert players. I also overcame some personal hang-ups when I challenged the word “flaten.”  The elderly woman I was playing seemed flustered as she took her tiles off the board; no doubt Gloria had told her I was an easy mark.

I lost my other games in spectacular fashion, but I was satisfied with how the evening went.  I’m thinking about memorizing random, obscure bingos just to confuse people.  I won’t have a handle on the 3-letter words, but I’ll start dropping words like “quixotry” and “obiisms” and I’ll blow their minds.

~M

Cheese Daze

This past weekend I visited my cousin Kevin and his family in Monroe, Wisconsin.  I went to see my adorable cousin Zachary.  I went to spend a pleasant day with family.  I went because Monroe was hosting it's semi-annual Cheese Days.  Yes, you read that correctly, and yes, it was everything you're hoping it would be.

Cheese Days has been a Monroe tradition since 1914.  I was going to provide a brief history of the genius behind a festival devoted solely to cheese, but the official Cheese Days website does it better than I ever could.  To wit:

Back in 1914, the concept of Cheese Days originated from the notion that if some little town in Illinois could have a festival commemorating sauerkraut, then a celebration based on cheese would be an even better idea.

A group of local businessmen planned the festivities in just nine days, driving a roadster through the city of Monroe to publicize the event. A hand-lettered sign attached to the vehicle proclaimed “FIRST CHEESE DAY COMMITTEE 1914 – WE STARTED SOMETHING!”

And did they ever.

Today we invite you to take part in Cheese Days 2008– where Old World tradition has generated an out-of-this-world celebration.*

That's actually the Cheese Days' slogan: "Old World tradition ... out-of-this-world celebration."  I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I'll let it slide because on Sunday I spent 2 hours in a cheese-tasting tent with women in Swiss milkmaid costumes serving me cheeses beyond my wildest dreams.  There were spiced cheeses and fruit cheeses, cheeses for baking and cheeses for melting, cheeses in curd form and delicious little cheeses on a grill that you had to stand in line for but were totally worth the wait.  

Cheese consumption was just the beginning, my friends.  Cheese Days, like all respectable Wisconsin fests, offered a host of other events.  Among other things, there was a parade, live polka music, a yodeling competition, a kiddie tractor pull, and a series of cow milking contests.  After watching several heats of cow milking my competitive spirit was roused, so I entered the Open Amateur Cow Milking Contest.  Let it be known that cow milking is harder than it looks.  I asked the farmer handling my cow for some tips before the start of the competition and he told me to squeeze the cow's teat between my thumb and forefinger and to pull steadily.  Fine!  Not too hard!  The farmer was cute ... I figured after I was done milking his bessie he'd hand her off to someone else and we would split some deep fried cheese curds and fall in love.  Turns out that's not what happened.  Mr. Cute Farmer didn't have anything to say to me after my four minutes of milking were up, and I can't say that I blame him.  There were long stretches of time where no milk was coming out of my cow's teats ... I ended up with about an inch of milk in my pail.  As someone who has recently hunkered down to milk a cow, let me tell you that there is a fine line between milking a cow and fondling a cow.  And if no milk is forthcoming, you tell me why I've got my hands on that udder.

After my cow milking failure we walked over to the Dairy Education tent, where I quickly improved my spirits by correctly identifying 6 out of 6 breeds of cow.  I may not be able to milk one, but I know an Ayrshire from a mile away.  Kevin and I ended the day in fine Wisconsin fashion by drinking too much beer.  This was the first year that Cheese Days allowed open containers of beer on the main square and, let me just say, I wholeheartedly approve.  I don't know that I would have been able to polka quite so spiritedly if I hadn't been able to drink between songs.  Kevin and I spent the first part of the evening holed up in Bob's, a local bar with such a nasty reputation that it was practically empty, despite the presence of 30,000 out-of-town visitors.  Bob's was great!  They served several local beers from the New Glarus Brewing Company.  Kevin and I got soused on Laughing Trout lager and harassed a woman we saw wearing a hand crafted "I'm considering voting for the MILF" t-shirt.  After I referred to Palin in unkind terms in voice that was perhaps a bit loud, we decided to head outside to the main stage.

The main stage had hosted an array of performances throughout the day.  Yodelers had yodeled, tumblers had tumbled, and the New Glarus Swiss Miss Dancers had nearly caused a riot.  By the time Kevin and I made it outside at 10:30 pm, the Copper Box Band was in full polka swing.  All of the older folks (the people who in fact knew how to polka) were long gone.  In their place were scores of drunk young people hopping back and forth from one foot to another.  I ended my first Cheese Days polka-ing deliriously with my cousin Kevin, secure in the knowledge that I didn't look as awkward as the guy in the cut off Harley shirt next to me.

PS If you have time, I recommend taking a look at the official Cheese Days website.  It's pretty great.  While I was perusing the history link I came across some great events that took place during Cheese Days of yore.  I particularly would have liked to be at Cheese Days in 1940, when Mrs. William Chambers of Juda won the cow milking competition with nearly 20 pounds of milk in three minutes, and Turner Hall hosted a jitterbug contest. 

PPS I just read the Savage Love column in this week's Onion, where Mr. Savage refers to testicles as "scrabble bags." There's no way I'll be able to get that image out of my head before Scrabble Club tonight.

*I'm not up on my MLA regulations, but don't sue me, Cheese Days! I love you.  All quoted information can be found at http://www.cheesedays.com

Gracias

Many thanks to my friend Jenn for the heading! It took me an embarrassing amount of time to figure out how to set up my blog ... a fancy header is way beyond me.  Thanks J.

~M

Things That Keep Me Up At Night: 2

This weekend's Things That Keep Me Up At Night takes us back to the summer of 1994.  I was 13, fresh out of seventh grade and deeply, wistfully in love with the idea of being in love.  My friends and I spent that summer sleeping over at each other's houses, staying up for hours pouring over our junior high yearbooks and prank calling boys.  We were young and hopeful; we believed in true love and were sure that the epitome of romance was slow dancing to the Rockin' Hollywoods at the neighborhood 4th of July picnic.  

In the midst of all those raging hormones, my best friend Jenny and I discovered the movie Dirty Dancing.  I'll skip the plot synopsis, because if you haven't seen the movie then you're not going to understand the rest of this post anyway.  It's enough to say that the movie was about forbidden love, sex, and Patrick Swayze in a tight black tank top.  Jenny and I watched Dirty Dancing three times a day for a week straight.  We memorized details ranging from the license plate number on Johhny's car (SP2201) to the title of the book Robbie offers to lend Baby (The Fountainhead).  We analyzed scenes from the movie and endlessly debated whether or not Patrick Swayze is wearing underwear when he gets out of bed after Baby asks him if he's "had many women."  The fact that I can recall all of these details off the top of my head 14 years later is a testament to our devotion.  Please stop judging me.

The question born of this obsession is simple; is the summer camp where Dirty Dancing occurs a real place, and can I go there and fall in love?

The answers I found made me feel like an lovesick pre-teen all over again.  The summer camp, called Kellerman's in the movie, is wonderfully, stupendously real.  It's actually the Mountain Lake Resort and it's located in Pembroke, Virginia.  Not only can I go there and fall in love, the fine folks at the Mountain Lake Resort are fully prepared to help me live out my fantasy.  The resort has embraced its role in motion picture history and hosts Dirty Dancing Weekends several times a year.  For $460 Jenny and I could spend a weekend taking dance lessons, touring the grounds, and trouncing people in Dirty Dancing Trivia.  I assume the activities not listed on the itinerary include private staff dance parties and sexy time with a 34-year-old Patrick Swayze.

I was thrilled to find out that Kellerman's is a real place, but I'll never set foot in Pembroke, VA.  That wouldn't be fair to 13-year-old Marie.  There's no way that spending a carefully scripted weekend in Virginia could summon up the mystery and romance that I longed for when I was a girl.  For one thing, two days isn't enough time for me to seduce someone with my naive charm and learn how to fox trot.  Also, I have yet to meet the dance instructor that could hoist my 6ft tall frame gracefully above his head.

Still, it's nice to know that Kellerman's is a real place.  If nothing else, it makes my junior high romantic aspirations a little more tangible.

~M

Humble Pie

It is only now that I can talk about what happened Wednesday night.

To say that I lost every game of Scrabble that I played at Scrabble Club 247 would be an understatement.  To say that I got hosed by a series of elderly women; that would be closer to the truth.

Did you know that there are 101 2-letter words in the official Scrabble dictionary?  Did you know that every member of Scrabble Club 247 has them memorized?  In fact, the woman sitting next to me during my second game let it be known that she had finished memorizing her "threes" and was working on her "fours."  I thought that knowing fancy words like "hame" and "tisane" would get me in good with the Scrabble folk, but the members of SC247 couldn't have cared less about my eclectic vocabulary.  As soon as I revealed my average Scrabble score they handed me a cheat-sheet and ushered me away from the Experts' table.  

I played my introductory game against Richard, one of the founders of SC247.  The man couldn't have been nicer as he showed me that the namby-pamby Scrabble I had played with Grandma wasn't going to cut it anymore.  Tournament Scrabble is different from casual Scrabble in a number of terrifying ways.  First and foremost, you can challenge your opponents' words.  That means that when the 86 year old woman you are playing against lays the word "squod", you had better call bullshit.  Since "squod" isn't a word, she will have to remove it from the board and lose her turn.  On the other hand if your opponent plays the word "buqsha" and you challenge, you lose your turn, since everyone knows that's a word, you moron.  

Now, I know that some people play this way in their homes, but my family learned long ago that if you want dinner conversation to remain civil it's best to play friendly Scrabble.  With family harmony in mind, words that don't turn up in our battered 1982 edition of The Official Scrabble Dictionary are removed from the board, and players are allowed to retake their turns.  Playing with challenges is stressful!  The message behind a challenge, as far as I'm concerned, says one of two things to your opponent:  you are a big cheater pants, or you're a dumb ass who doesn't know his buqsha from his squod.  I'm uncomfortable with confrontation in almost any situation; sitting across from an old woman who's wearing a muumuu and telling her I think she's stupid isn't something I'm prepared to do.  Yet.  

The other big difference is that tournament Scrabble is timed.  At SC247 each player gets 25 minutes on their clock.  Games take a little over 50 minutes to play, though Expert players usually need much less time.  When I play Scrabble with my friends there is often a bottle of wine or three involved.  It takes a little longer to lay a word when your tiles are swimming in front of you.  My friend Jon and I used to play Scrabble while we were watching TV.  I had a turn during one of our games that took 45 minutes; we got distracted by a Cyndi Lauper concert and took a time out to have a dance party.

My final opponent on Wednesday night was Gloria, the oldest active member of SC247.  I sat at our board and waited as Gloria positioned her walker, then we began our game.  The three people I had played before Gloria had been very friendly; they gave me pointers and congratulated me when I made strategic plays.  Barb, my second opponent, brought me a chocolate chip cookie.  Gloria was having none of that.  Gloria studied the board and fingered her pearls silently between her turns.  We traded words and kept the score pretty even through the first half of the game.  I pulled ahead with "avidly" and was even entertaining heady thoughts of winning, when she laid "squod."  

I would hate to imply that anyone would play an illegal word in the hopes of taking advantage of a beginning player.  I would further hate to imply that an 80-something year old woman would use her apparent decrepitude to hoodwink people into underestimating her intellect.  What I will say is that when Gloria dropped "squod" I looked at her tremulous smile and I didn't challenge the word.  I never regained the lead, and Gloria beat me with a score of 305 to 239.  To add insult to injury Gloria couldn't seem to grasp the fact that she had won.  After we finished our game she congratulated me on winning; I told her she had won in the gentle voice I reserve for people who are losing their grip on reality.  

My foray into competitive Scrabble was humbling.  I walked in thinking that I would be competitive at the beginners level; I walked out thinking that old people are tricky and not to be trusted.  But I'm definitely going back.  I don't look forward  to staring across a Scrabble board into Gloria's steely gaze again, but I had a weirdly fantastic time.  I don't think that I'll ever finish memorizing the "threes" in the Scrabble dictionary ... I don't think that I'll ever start memorizing the "threes" in the Scrabble dictionary; but I'm all over the two-letter words.  My goal is to beat Gloria before she hits 90.

~M

I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

Sorry for the hiatus; I'm still settling into the rhythm of life here in Madison.  So far that involves methodically working my way through my brother's vast DVD collection, decorating my apartment,  and releasing job applications into the ether.  Yesterday's big event was the acquisition of a world map.  B and I hung it in our living room and decorated it with star stickers denoting places we've traveled.  Owning a world map decorated with star stickers has always been a dream of mine, so I suppose one could say that my dreams are coming true here in Madison.  Yes ... let's say that.

Later tonight I'll be fulfilling another long cherished dream when I become a member of Scrabble Club 247.  I've been thinking about joining a Scrabble club ever since I read Word Freak a few years ago.  Before that I didn't know that scores of intelligent, competitive, disturbingly obsessive wordsmiths got together to play my favorite game.  In my naivete I thought that winning my family's Thanksgiving tournament was the height of Scrabble glory.  I was very mistaken.  I'm looking forward to my first Scrabble club experience; I think that of all the harebrained schemes I have come up with in an attempt to make friends, this one has the most likely chance of succeeding.  

I seem to follow a familiar pattern when I move to  a new city; at first I'm all fresh faced and bright eyed and full of plans.  I greet people on the street, I locate the neighborhood coffee shop, I take long, exploratory walks, and I search for groups to join.  Over the course of the past 5 years, in 6 cities, I have researched the following: ballroom dancing lessons, cooking classes, gym memberships, basketball teams, soccer leagues, taekwondo lessons, scuba diving instructor certification, roller derby, trivia nights, writing co-ops, wine tasting clubs, choirs, Bible studies, softball leagues, volleyball teams, scrapbooking classes, painting lessons, and countless book clubs.  The idea, of course, is that I will join one of these groups, meet fabulous and interesting people that are members of said group, and end up with fabulous and interesting new friends.  We will engage in witty banter as we sip wine and paint ... or play basketball.  Then I won't be lonely!  The reality is that the few times I have roused myself enough to actually join one of these groups, the results haven't been pretty.  

In Madison in 2003 I attempted to start a Madison Moose Club with my co-workers.  After a few too many Moose cups two of my female co-workers started kissing one another, causing one of the guys there to run out of my apartment crying because his girlfriend was a lesbian.  The party ended as the rest of my guests poured out of my apartment to chase him down, hellbent on convincing him that he should encourage his girlfriend to experiment.  That was the end of Madison Moose Club.  In Grinnell in 2006 I briefly joined a roller derby team.  Though I was intrigued by the idea of being able to knock someone on their ass in a sanctioned arena, I quickly realized that I didn't have the edge needed to be a roller derby queen.  And by "edge" I mean "desire to do meth."  I also couldn't get over the fact that someone had already claimed the nickname Ivana Tripabitch.  Roller derby, it turned out, was not for me.

The truth is, my initial bursts of enthusiasm inevitably end with me sitting alone in my apartment, reading a good book, blissfully happy that I'm not surrounded by weirdoes.  What I can never seem to remember until the frenzy of relocating has run its course is that I enjoy being alone.  I get cranky if I don't have time to myself.  The other factor that renders my attempts at making friends funny rather than tragic is that I'm lucky enough to have fabulous and interesting friends.  Unfortunately none of them live in Madison, so they don't do me much good when I want to sit at a cafe and judge people with some like-minded soul.  Just the fact that they're out there, though, makes it easier for me to explore these new and bizarre avenues without fearing the result. 

With that in mind, I'm off to take a shower and get ready for Scrabble Club 247. What does one wear to Scrabble Club?  I'm thinking sequins.

~M

Things That Keep Me Up At Night: 1

I've decided to start a new tradition here on my blog.  Every weekend I'm going to try to answer one of the questions that has been floating around in my head, slowly driving me insane.  If I'm successful, my weekend posts will answer questions ranging from "Who invented sparkle jelly shoes and how did they become so popular? " to "Why was Miranda Harris such a bitch to me in kindergarten, and has karma kicked her ass yet?"  The excitement, I'm sure you'll agree, is palpable.

This weekend's installment of "Things That Keep Me Up At Night" set out to answer the question  Who the heck is Max's mom?  Max, you'll recall, was Goofy's son on "Goof Troop," a staple of The Disney Afternoon from September of 1992 - December of 1993.  I was 11 when the show aired; torn between being too cool for cartoons and wanting to know what hilarious scrapes Max and P.J. were going to get into. Like, remember that episode where they were doing a science project and they accidently convinced the citizens of Spoonerville that the city was being invaded by aliens?  Or the one where they have to dress up as Goofy and take his place in the skateboarding demo?  Anyone?  Well I remember.  I remember the show, and I remember thinking to myself "who the hell would have sex with Goofy?"  Which is, I suppose, the real question behind this weekend's post.  What kind of character would fall in love and procreate with a socially awkward dog?  (I'm allowing myself to make the assumption that a heterosexual courtship and marriage led to little Max's birth.  This was Disney in the early nineties, after all).  I get the whole Mickey/Minnie relationship.  Minnie is a hottie and Mickey demonstrably has his shit together.  Donald Duck was sort of a jerk but it was all bluster, and with Gladstone Gander as his competition, Daisy would have been a fool not to choose him.  But Goofy?  All faux pas and foible?  All elbows and embarrassment?  He's the sidekick, not the leading man.  It never made sense.

I took to the internet to find out if Max's mom had ever been identified and quickly realized that I was by no means the first one to raise the question.  The parsing of Goofy's sexual history is fodder for several 'toon discussion boards.  My search immediately revealed that Goofy was a widower; beyond that there was nothing to be found but idle speculation.  Instead of answering the question that's been weighing on me for 16 years, my search left me with more questions.  Is Max the black haired re-incarnation of the '50s era "Goofy Junior?"  If so, does that make dog-faced Penny Max's mother?  Wouldn't the coupling of Clarabelle the Cow and Goofy have resulted in some cow/dog breed Disney wasn't quite prepared to deal with?  Who is the mysterious Glory-Bee?  Why is fanboy such a toolbox?  I leave these questions to you, dear readers.  I've resigned myself to the fact that I will probably never know who got into Goofy's pants ... and on that note I'm going to try to get some sleep.

~M

On Wisconsin

Here's the thing about people from Wisconsin; they know what they like.  Not only do they know what they like, but once they find something they like, they'll stick with it come hell or high water. Sparta's Butterfest is a case in point.  First held in 1984, the fest was named in honor of the local milk plant.  24 years later the beer tent is still bangin'... even though the milk plant has been closed for 18 years.  Need another example?  Ask a Wisconsin native to take you out to dinner on a Friday night and let me know if you end up somewhere other than a fish fry.  Still question my finely tuned insight?  Last weekend my cousin Peter, a diehard Packer's fan, was wearing a Jets cap.  Booya.  Which brings me to pickle sushi.  A few days ago I was eating dinner at a Chinese food buffet here in Wisconsin when I came across these babies.  I'd like to think that somewhere along the course of history the following conversation took place:

"What the hell is this?"

"Ahhh ... it's sushi, sir."

"Yeah, but what the HELL is inside?"

"Well that's a California roll, sir.  It's made of crab meat and avocado, and wrapped in rice and seaweed."

"We're in Wisconsin."

"Well, yes, bu ..."

"We're in WISCONSIN. Forget that California crap. What you need here is a pickle."

"A pickle? But sir..."

"Hell yeah a pickle. You see any avocado around here?  Stick some pickles in there and that'll be just the ticket."

"B ..."

"Pickles."

"Well ..."

"Pickles."

And voila.  Shut up Wisconsin haters. They were tasty.

~M

Quickie

Today, dear reader(s?), I leave you with these two quotes...

" I live so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart." ~e e cummings

and

"Success is not the result of spontaneous combustion.  You must set yourself on fire." ~Reggie Leach

That's me right now. 

Off to scan the classifieds! 

Stay tuned for my thoughts on pickle sushi and the power of inspirational desktop backgrounds.

Different Strokes

Date: Sunday, September 7, 2008

Location: Madison, Wisconsin

7:00 am:

My friend Anna begins Ironman Madison, her first triathlon.

I am asleep in my bed.

8:27 am:

Anna finishes the swimming portion of said triathlon and jumps on a bike to begin pedaling 112 miles.

I am still asleep.

10:34 am:

Anna is still pedaling furiously.

I get out of bed and make my way to my couch, stopping for a cup of coffee as I pass the kitchen.

11:32 am:

Anna...pedaling.

I make significant headway on my Entourage marathon and eat a bowl of ravioli.

12:18 pm:

Anna keeps pedaling her way through 112 miles and curses the world.

I watch Brett Favre throw his first touchdown as a Jet and curse the world.

2:20 pm:

Anna...you get the picture.

I answer a knock on the door and meet my neighbor for the first time.  He (cute, late twenties, tall, wearing clean clothes) wants to borrow a "cooking brush."  I (cute, late twenties, tall, wearing paint spattered pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt that says "gay? fine by me") tell him I have a broom.  He reiterates, miming a brushing motion with his hand.  I brilliantly reply "we don't cook much," and invite him inside while I rummage through the kitchen.  He leaves sans brush.  I drink more coffee and wonder why I don't have a boyfriend.  I think about taking a shower.

3:55 pm:

Anna finishes biking 112 miles and starts a fucking marathon.

I meet my sister, K, at a coffee shop near the race route.  When we walk inside, a small boy wearing a cape screams "MY DADDY BOUGHT ME SOME PINK AND BLUE ICE CREAM DO YOU WANT SOME I LOVE ICE CREAM AND I CAN FLY."  We decide that we do, indeed, want some ice cream.  K and I hurry to finish the ice cream before we see Anna.

5:34 pm:

Anna runs past us!  K and I scream and cheer with appropriate awe and glee.  Anna looks great!

6:03 pm:

K and I wander the race route splitting our time fairly evenly between cheering for the Ironman athletes and mocking the Madison natives who are out for their evening jog.  Amateurs!

6:17 pm:

We see Anna again! She still looks great.

7:05 pm:

Another Anna sighting!  She's got roughly 12 miles left and says she might be walking the rest of the way.  I point out that I've been walking around all day and find it to be a fine method of transportation.  I give Anna a hug and tell her I'll see her at the finish line.

8:06 pm:

Anna is still moving!

K and I go for a 3 mile run.  Whooo-eee are we beat!  We congratulate ourselves on our good time (30 min.) and make plans to run again sometime.  In the future.  Someday.

9:03 pm:

Go Anna go!

I ice my broken foot.  Yes, I strained my arch WALKING around WATCHING Anna compete in a triathlon.  I am humiliated.  And sore.  I blame the flip-flops!  THE FLIP-FLOPS I TELL YOU.  I watch more Entourage and eat a popsicle to console myself.

10:00 pm:

Anna is runnnnnnnnning.

I convince my brother, B, to drive me the 7 blocks to the finish line because my foot is so sore.  I promise B and K not to embarrass them by limping or showing any other signs of weakness in front of Anna.

10:09 pm:

Anna crosses the finish line alongside her husband Jon.  They are beaming.  They look tired.  They look great!  I snap a few pictures and give Anna a hug.  Anna attempts to thank me for cheering, but can't string enough words together to form a coherent sentence.  Jon stumbles towards me and invites me to visit them in Minnesota.  They've just been exercising for 15 consecutive hours, and they're worrying about being polite.  Sweet Lord.  I say goodbye and watch them stagger into the sunset as I turn and begin to limp back to my apartment.

*fin*

~M

And so...

I've finally decided to start a blog.  Things that I am neglecting while I get this baby off the ground include, but are not limited to; finding a job, decorating my new apartment, paying my bills, taking a box of crap to Goodwill, calling my grandmother, buying light bulbs at Target, and cleaning my cat's litter box.  Instead, oh gentle reader, I have spent the past hour fucking with the format, choosing a color palette, and trying to pick a name that is whimsical yet appropriately angst-y. I was going to put up a picture of your lovely authoress (ahemm, myself) but I can't handle the pressure. Also, I really have to get to Plato's Closet to see if I can make rent money by selling my old designer duds. So adieu.  Next time I'm here I'll have a real post, a picture that captures both the saucy AND serious sides of my personality, and a firm grasp on colon vs. semicolon use.

'til then, I love you.

~M