10th Tri

I finished my tenth triathlon today. Yep, the big one oh. I’ve been doing the Danskin women’s triathlon every year since 1997, and I’ve missed only two of them--one year for being sick and one year for not finding anyone one to drive with me there (lame!)--but anyway, I made those up by doing two others one year when I was on a racing kick. Thank goodness I got over that, because today was exhausting, and I now need a year-long break to recover.

I know that every race presents a new challenge, but this one surprised me. As you know from a previous post, I am not able to run these days because of my arch nemesis (hah! pun intended), the Evil Bone Spur. So, I’ve been feeling a little sad about participating anyway and having to walk instead of run the last part. Perambulating casually while everyone else is huffing and puffing just goes against all the thrill of a race. There’s no pushing yourself and feeling the wind through your hair and getting that endorphin rush. I don’t even think my heart rate was up by mile 2. Very uncool!

So, to make up for the disappointment of not getting to try for my personal best, I decided to participate in the race as a journalist. I bought a clip on mic, borrowed the school’s minidisk recorder, and made arrangements for my friend Pat to hand my recording gear to me when I got out of the swim. I somehow managed to stick it on my bike and not wind the wires into my chain, and I just held it while I ran. It was pretty fun. Not only do I have hilarious tape of me wheezing and cursing while pumping up some steep hills during the biking segment, but I also got to interview some co-participants and my training buddies during the running segment and before and after the race. I think it should make a pretty fun radio piece once I get some time to edit it all together. The most hilarious discovery was that it didn’t occur to me until mid race that I was that crazy lady talking to herself. Oh well, the things we sacrifice for a good story.

The lovely “Before” picture

PS. I won’t post the “After” pics, because our inner beauty was blinding.

Taxi Savvy

A tiny bit of New Yorker has surfaced from my thick Texan core. Who knew it could happen in only a month? I was hailing a cab today, as I always do to get from work to the Chinatown bus that takes me to Boston on the weekends. And, as always, it was taking way longer than I thought it should. About 30 cabs will pass me before one finally stops. And, often I’ll see some experienced New York pro whisk out in front of me and grab one at the last moment--stealing what should have been my ride. But not today! I had been standing on the corner for at least 10 minutes and some guy walks up just as a cab is slowing down for me. I walked right up to the cab, body checked the cab-stealer, and said “Excuse me!” quite firmly as I opened the door and blocked his way. He said, “Relax!” and indicated politely that it was mine fair and square. How about that?! I finally speak their language.

[Image from: http://www.shopnbu.com/]

Bad Journalist, Bad

So, in my excited gush over the sea plane experience, I forgot to admit something. I’m a terrible journalist. I'll admit it: I hate talking to people I don’t know--quite a liability in a profession that relies on interviews with total strangers. When it's really bad, I get overly anxious and full of self-loathing. I don’t know why it hasn’t gotten much better since the beginning of my school year when I first discovered this. The way I’ve overcome my dismal problem when it comes over me is by forcing myself to just do it, but it feels like forcing myself to fall off a cliff and trusting that there is a pool of deep water to break my fall. This method failed me at the last minute today. Alas, I had wanted to interview the sea plane pilot because I thought that would make a fun radio show. However, at the last second, I panicked, decided that I was on vacation and I didn’t have to get up the nerve to bother this guy, and jettisoned the plan. I couldn’t renege because he packed my bag in the plane’s floaty feet. (Did you know that they store things in those whatchamacallits?! I didn’t--cool huh!) Too bad, because it could have been pretty cool to get some sea plane audio. Maybe I’ll move to Seattle and try again when I’ve developed some cajones.

Gorgeous Orcas Island

More of the same, only at dusk

Leavin’ On a Sea Plane

We took a sea plane from Orcas Island, where my brother was married in a lovely seaside ceremony. Tears were shed, snot was sniffed, and they were wed. It was pretty darn romantic and lovely to see my big brother marry a terrific woman. Anyway, we took the sea plane out to the island and back in order to save time and it was so cool! If you ever get the chance, splurge on it. It’ll be worth it I promise. I saw tiny houses and barges and seals frolicking. Scott actually saw a baby seal and mamma from the plane! And, to boot, we saved 2 hours of driving time, 1 hour of ferry riding, and 3 hours of waiting in line for the ferry--woohoo!

Mountain view from the sea plane

Konsciously Kool

Scott and I stayed at the Ace Hotel in Seattle last night. It’s pretty cheap, but I was told that all the rock stars stay there when they visit. It’s disgustingly hip. All the walls are white and covered in alterna-art™. The rooms contain only Ikea furniture. It’s eco-friendly (read: no AC). The facilities are communal, meaning the bathrooms are down the hall. So, it feels a little bit like a clothing optional establishment (even though it isn’t…I don’t think) because you walk to the showers in a white bathrobe--past the front desk and lounge!--to get to the showers. The lounge is pretty chic, with super modern, clean design and excellent natural lighting. Plus, every room has peanut M&Ms, carrot Clif bars, and a mini copy of the Kama Sutra bookmarked with two condoms. Thanks, Ace Motel. Thanks for taking care of all the details for me.

Ace Lobby

Clippity Clop, Cloppity Clip!

I finally might get to write something meaty. Okay, that other writing assignment they gave me turned out to be killed, and I shouldn’t have gotten so excited about it. (Damn bimonthly writing cycle means that even the slowest team of mentally challenged grannies could scoop me on a story.) However, one of the editors has given me a new writing assignment, and I think this one is going to stick…I hope. It’s a 500-word profile, still too short for my blabby mouth, but maybe I'll learn a little something about getting to the point. Please send me good writing vibes and good luck voodoo so that I write something intelligible and so that they don’t take it away from me at the last minute.

[Image from: http://magazine.fandm.edu/winter06/wn06_story2.html]

Jealous, Jealous Again

Scott bought a freakin’ AC for his new computer. [growl!] Why does this make me jealous? And, how is it possible to be jealous of a machine? Please don’t ask. I know it’s crazy, but it’s really how I feel. I can’t explain it because it comes from the farthest depths of my soul, where I have no ability to reason or express concepts in any spoken language. Alls I know is that I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church here in NY, and when I go home to Boston to visit my sweetie on the weekends, I find that my apartment is very hot. No biggie, right, because he and I are in this together. We are a team. We’re both hot, we’re both saving energy, we’re both too poor to afford AC. Even the dogs are hot, but they still love us and isn’t it fun trying to think of creative ways to beat the heat? It all makes sense. That is, until Lil’ Chip (the punk!), Scott’s apparent favorite resident of our apartment, shows signs of overheating, and what happens? Scott, who usually can’t be motivated to buy himself food when he hasn’t eaten for a day or do laundry when he runs out of clean underwear, rushes out to the hardware store in a tizzy to purchase and install a window unit for his computer. AAaargh! I’m not gone for more than 10 hours and he has installed an AC for some other reason than to please me! Scott, your wife is hot! (Pun, freakin’ intended!) And, yes, she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but when her mother board is overheating and she can’t process information well, she might blow a fuse and crash, so you better back up that hard drive, baby.

[Image from: http://www.sidewalkbubblegum.com/pctyrant.com/mainfebruary.html]

Coolness

Oh, happy is the day that ends with chocolate ice cream. With coconut!

I finally got to write something today at work. I’m so pleased. I have been feeling a tad bummed because they weren’t really having me use my skills at work. Well, I was doing some damn fine internet research for them, but it just doesn’t fire the same ganglia as a nice writing assignment. Anyway, I’m pleased to finally put my partially-masters-degreed skills to some professional use, though piddly it may have been.

And, then after a long day of writing, I cooled off with a relaxing stroll through the East Village with Kharissia and some ice cream. What a lovely day!

I would like a mole of Molli-Coolz, please:

(snapped at the ballpark concessions, no kidding!)

Nature’s Snack Foods

I am presently eating some peanuts leftover from last night’s game--a fun evening, but the Mets really tanked. Their pitcher actually let the Marlin’s pitcher hit a grand slam, even though pitchers are notoriously bad hitters. It was pretty sad to see him booed off the field only one pitch (a single) later. Kharissia had to point out some of these details to me, as I am not always in tune to the subtle details of the sport. I love seeing baseball games with Kharissia. She knows every player’s position, all their stats, and how cute they are (tres important). She knows all the rules and can explain them to me. Plus, she gets into the cheering paraphernalia without thoroughly embarrassing me. She also likes to eat ballpark snacks. She really has her priorities straight, that Kharissia. We had a “four-course meal” last night, which meant we went out about every other inning and got hot dogs, ice cream (the soft-serve kind that comes in a souvenir helmet), peanuts, and finally nachos. It was quite fun, though I was a little ill by the ninth inning.

Anyway, I’m snacking on some leftover peanuts today and thinking that peanuts are pretty great. They come in little, natural, individually-wrapped packages that keep them fresh. They taste great with just salt. Nutritionally, they’re not great for you, so they give you that satisfying bad-girl feeling, but they aren’t so bad that you ever feel guilty afterwards. This afternoon, I’m realizing that peanuts in their shells are really best enjoyed at a ballpark where you can shell them and dump the shells wherever. In my little room the next day with only my laptop in front of me and the dusty shell shards falling everywhere and the thin, papery skins flying towards my keyboard, threatening the electronic innards of my little workhorse, peanuts don’t really make sense. They still taste good.

My view of Shea Stadium:

My hotdog’s view:

Umbilicus Almost Reattached-us Hooray!

I’m so closed to being completely back online! But not completely, just yet, so please pardon my continued incommunicado e-ppearance. I’ve got the wire to my room, only I can’t shut the door because there’s no hole and the cord isn’t long enough anyway. I need a drill and permission, hee, hee. So close!!!!

Meanwhile, I’m going to a Mets game. I love summer…and fridays.

[Image from: http://www.imagesonline.bl.uk/britishlibrary]

Better in Boston

Okay, I certainly must report when something is better in Boston than anywhere else I’ve been. Yes, I know, I rarely take that angle on my blog entries, so pay attention to this one. Bostonians really know how to put on a fireworks show! Bar none, tonight’s show was the most beautiful and amazing and impressive and awesome show I’ve ever seen. If they hadn’t been blasting the corniest music during the thing (though perfectly synchronized, I’ll admit) I would have been in tears. They had every color, ever shape. I mean they even had cube-shaped fireworks! Is that even physically possible? Near the end they had this one that filled the whole sky with shades of white in small splotches. It looked like lichen growing in time-lapse on a rock. Or, Scott really nailed it when he said that it looked like raindrops on sunroof. They also had this one that moved like a spray of grass stalks growing organically. Plus, there’re the ones that have little parachutes holding strings of glowing mini-orbs. Now, maybe pyrotech tech has just made some leaps and bounds in the last year, but I think there was more to it in this particular show. They just knew their stuff. Next year, I encourage all of you to come visit to see for yourself.

Obviously, these capture nothing of the magic, but I’ll post anyway:

Spurned Bone Spur

My triathlon training has been stopped dead in its tracks due to a spiky bit of bone that has grown out of my heel. Yes, that is as painful as it sounds. I had been wondering why my super expensive running shoes and slacker training regime (well the regime is not slack, but my adherence to it is) have not prevented the usual pain associated with getting into shape. I’ve noticed that the day after every run, even when I go just a mile and at a very slow pace, I get horrible pain in my left heel. It dulls after a few days and then I go for another run, only to re-experience the day of limping afterwards. This has been going on for a few months now. I didn’t think anything of it until I took a couple weeks off from running--unintentionally of course, but intentionally is what I told my doctor and what I should have told Coach Meanie. Anyway, when I finally went for a reasonable two-miler last week, I was barely able to walk the next day. I hobbled to work, grinding a bit of enamel off my teeth in the process. Anyway, this day of pain signaled to a very stupid brain that perhaps I should go to the doctor. The x-rays below show my new enemy.

The Silicon Age

I miss my grandparents sometimes, but not because I knew them very well. Actually, what I miss is their oldness and the softness and mystery of that oldness. They had funny accents, too. I don’t think that these were regional accents; no, they must have been temporal accents. I think that generations speak differently and in ways that are lost over time. I can’t tell if old Hollywood movies reveal the accents of the 1940s or if that was just how people “acted” back then. The women were especially funny--talking fast and loud and with such confidence. I know that my mother’s mother never spoke that way, but my father’s mother might have. My mother’s mother used to laugh slowly and say “Good night!” when someone said a silly pun that she found amusing. I don’t feel old or anything, but I can already see how cooky I’ll seem to someone 60 years younger than me in the future. I’ll mention how little I made per hour, how cheap a gallon of milk was, and how rotary phones were common, and we didn’t have email or cell phones or laptops or blogs.

old fashioned typing:

Something's Missing

I miss…

[No, not toilet paper…read the label!]

Cyber Wars

An old friend from high school runs the guest house that I’m staying at this summer, but he is out of town for 3 weeks. It’s funny to see my friend in this role as the “guy in charge,” especially when it’s being in charge of semi-retired Quakers and a few college intern types like myself. The older crew are a funny bunch. They do a lot of bitching about little problems, like minor light fixtures being broken or construction next door or whether or not they are liable for the safety of these two adorable teen boys who are in ballet school for the summer. Of course, it’s only been a week, yet I’m joining the crowd of whiners, because the internet connection in the main office, which feeds the whole house, is working only for Macs and not for PCs. For the weekend, it was working for no one, but then one guy fiddled with the main computer and got it working for Macs. So, the PC people, to whom I belong, are crazy with the stress of being disconnected from the world, while the Mac people are feeling great relief--relief tinged perhaps with a bit of heartlessness. The guy who “fixed” it so that it worked only for Macs looked at me like, “Well, I tried, but there is nothing I could do.” Others have helpful suggestions, such as “Try the coffee house down the street. It only costs $1.50 for a cup of coffee and the internet is free.” Funny, that same suggestion, when the Mac connection wasn’t working, didn’t seem so generous to them. Well, obviously tensions are high. But, in this new environment, I’m beginning to realize how ridiculous it is to care. I’m trying to decide whether I should spend a couple hundred dollars to get my own connection or if I should take up a new hobby that distracts me from the no-internet-blues, like medication or drug use.

This morning I saw these beautiful green buds on the vine growing up the iron railing outside our apartment building. I think it is a sign of forthcoming beauty.

No Jogging in Manhattan

How in the heck can you jog in this city?! There are tons of people and then you have to stop every block to wait for the traffic light. Everyone suggests going to Central Park, but it's a pricey subway ride there and back. Yikes! Now I see why the gyms here cost so much. They are a deal compared to breaking your neck on the streets. Fortunately, a very nice girl in my building has offered me a guest pass to her gym. I'm soooooo excited to work out after so long. Plus, I think my training buddy (whose code name is Coach Meanie for good reason) is getting a little testy with my recent lack of workouts!

Umbilicus Interruptus

Aaaack! I’m having monstrous internet problems at my new place. I could handle it for a few days, but I’m about to lose it with no access to my friends and family and all my clients screaming for my words. The temporary solution is to duck out to a Staryucks and pay through the nose for beverages and a temporary “hotspot” account. I hate it when you pay and pay and pay and get very little in return. I clearly need to get back to my pre-cyberworld roots and read a good book or something. Any suggestions? Oh wait, I won’t be able to get your emails--rats!

[Image from: http://www.irkutsk.com/home/family.html]

The Seed of New Beginnings

I started the new job this week. It’s a bit of a shock working at an actual office from 10 to 6 with coworkers milling about after so many years of working in my pajamas, at all hours of the day and night, in complete silence, and at liberty to take breaks whenever I like. (Plus, I’m used to getting paid more than $4 an hour, but I suppose I’m not allowed to complain about this because it’s for college credit. Keep your eyes on the prize, Molly.) The magazine office is quite casual--thank goodness, because I don’t really fit into any of my old work clothes. Yet, this informal atmosphere does not automatically inspire professional results in me. I will have to draw inspiration from something else…perhaps the endless supply of free coffee.

I never thought that I would grow up to be one of those stuffy types who desires order and formality, but here I am narrowing my eyes at the loud cussing and general disorder of the editing romper-room/shared office space. It will probably be good for me to learn to chill a bit and take social breaks in between paragraphs. Also, they seem to be a sharp, talented group that produces quality material, so I guess they’re doing something right. And, how cool is it to be stuck in NYC for a couple of months! I think this will be a pretty fun summer. Hopefully, I’ll learn something, too.

A street fair scene on my work commute route:

Measuring Volume through Displacement

Well, I’m a New Yorker now, or at least for the summer. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t become mean, start smoking, or learn to dress all snazzy. However, I will learn to live in cramped spaces and pay way too much money to do so. I’ve moved into the tiniest space I’ve ever lived in, and oddly I’m wanting to cut the room in half again. No, I haven’t lost my marbles, I just don’t want to use a loft bed. To make the room more spacious, the super’ has added a loft bed so that there’s room for a desk and dresser underneath, as well as a bit of space for pacing around or something. Yes, it opens up the room, but I can’t stand loft beds. I’d rather create a narrow maze on the ground with my meager furniture than climb up a damn ladder to get to my bed every night. The initial climb is not that big of a deal. It’s just the “packing up” to go to sleep that gets to me. You have to brush your teeth, go to the bathroom, get your book, set your alarm clock, and grab your cell phone, water bottle, and all your other bedside accoutrements before hauling your tired carcass up the steep, wobbly ladder. If you forget something or decide you need to go to the bathroom again, you have to balance your groggy self on tiny slats while gingerly feeling your way down backwards. What a pain! And then, as I’m awkwardly making my way down, I’m thinking, if I fall and die or paralyze myself, I will forever be known as a clumsy person. “Hey lady, how did you get in that wheelchair?” “I fell out of bed.” Okay, I’ve only slept one night in a loft bed now, but I think I’d like to avoid ever doing it again.

For the curious, tiny pictures of my tiny room:

Rumtastic

Karen’s new husband, Wayne, is from the US Virgin Islands, which is the main reason why the wedding was on St. John. His mother, Cristobel, who still lives there, cooked us up the most amazing feast the night after the wedding. There was curried goat, spicy boiled fish, homemade hot sauce that made Scott cry tears of pain, stewed chicken, barbeque chicken, stir-fried chicken, pigs foot stew, roast ham, baked cheese and macaroni, potato salad, spicy mashed yams with tomato paste, fried plantains, and deviled eggs ALL IN ONE MEAL! And, to cap the whole thing off, she presented five black cakes (dense fruit cake soaked in rum), six coconut tarts (yeehaw!), and uncountable loaves of sweet bread. Each dessert was amazing on its own, but together they were a cornucopia of delicious. She sent us home with one entire cake of each type. They are in my freezer, but I plan on reliving the dream when I return to Boston in a week. If only I had snagged some leftover stewed chicken…

Oh wait, I almost forgot to mention the amazing pineapple rum cakes we bought at the gift shop. They were so good that Scott and I stuffed one in our mouths before we caught up with the rest of his family. It was like crack. Once the word got out, one family member after another would secret off and purchase one, tearing into it before he or she hit the door on the way out of the shop. The islanders made a lot of money off of us this weekend, on rum cake alone.

In the airport, on the way back, we saw a girl who had a bag of about a dozen of these little rum cakes. We told her we were going to mug her, but she said that she was having such a bad day that she would probably be able to put up a pretty good fight. Apparently, she got stopped by security and hassled and missed her flight because of it. She was pretty distraught. After a brief conversation, she shocked us by offering us one of the chocolate rum cakes as a gift. It seemed like too generous of a gift (we knew they were precious and must be like gold off the island), but she insisted. She said that the only way her day could get better was if she knew she had done something nice for someone. I thought that was a pretty classy technique for curing the blues, one worth trying the future.

[Image from: http://www.tortugarums.com/]

PS. The other thing I like about the Caribbean: you can have a pina colada at every meal!