On to April

Total miles run for March: 80.05.
Total miles run year to date: 203.25

Too bad February was such a bad month for running. I was unimpressed and "forgot" to post February mileage. Now, I'm coming clean. Remember, I was in the hospital for almost a week of this, and skiing for another week. Total miles for February: 49.15.

the end of the world

is happening.

sometimes, you learn something

things i've learned this week:

1. waiting isn't always a bad thing, and patience really is a virtue.
2. the horrible experience of draining gus' butt juice is momentary compared to the weeks of being butt juice-smell free.
3. going out on a five-mile run while suffering from fifth UTI since september probably isn't a good idea.
4. it probably is a good idea to make an appointment with the UTI specialist.
5. when signing up for what to bring to the passover seder, sign up early to avoid having to make chopped liver.
6. when aunt says the option to bring the chopped liver is still available, yell "NO WAY" to make sure she gets the point.
7. then remind her that you are pushing 30 and only sometimes act like a child.

i did it for gus

due to the new job, gus sees more dog toys in his future.

done.

i put my two-weeks notice in today. i am going to be working for a big company where I will be able to be creative and i can wear jeans and flip-flops. and i can write short and funny if i want to. and i'm really excited. so it's pretty much going to be awesome.

Inconsistency

I have been very inconsistent lately with my use of punctuation. I am an editor and writer by trade, and I think that’s why I take so many liberties on my blog. I love not capitalizing entire posts — even though the thought of in the 'real world' letting a misspelled, miscapitalized word miss my editorial eye and head off to be published makes me squeamish. But blogging is different. To me, at least.

I also hate the fact that I used the word “very” as an adverb in the first sentence of this post. Very is a word that says nothing. Forgive me for using it to describe my insane inconsistency. I am very sorry.

deliver the news, please.

I have this problem with waiting. I hate waiting rooms and being on hold and being stuck in traffic. I hate waiting for the microwave and for the coffee to brew and at Quik Trip, I really don’t like when there is a line. And it gets worse. Because despite how badly I hate waiting for physical things, I hate waiting for news even more. And for the past week, I’ve been playing the waiting game. I think it’s giving me an ulcer.

reading between the lines

i got my hair cut last weekend. it's considerably shorter. no one at work has said a thing. i'm trying not to tell myself that their absence of praises means it's hideous. but you know how it is when you see a baby that is just NOT that cute. you don't say a thing. or is that just me?

a note to men

while the fact that many of you still hold doors for me is nice, if i am three or four flights of stairs away from the door, don't worry about me. otherwise, i feel obligated to hurry, which makes the whole walking down stairs thing kind of hard and i usually trip or do something else that looks very cool and awesome.

i can't get enough

i've been obsessed with Jimmy Eat World since the 1990s before anyone really knew about them. before they signed with big record label and started touring with Weezer. thankfully, even though some say they "sold out," they keep making great music. just needed to get this out in the open. i love them.

showing how stupid i feel in four sentences.

I wore jeans to work today. I brought $5 to pay for it. I thought it was a jeans day. I am the only one wearing jeans.

this happened to me today at lunch.

Scene: An uncharacteristically uncrowded Mr. Goodcents in Midtown.
Characters: Me, played by me.
Guy Behind Counter (GBC)
Other Guy Behind Counter (OGBC)

Time: About 12:30

After finding a prime parking spot, I enter Mr. Goodcents and approach the counter to order.

GBC: Half Turkey?
Me: Why yes, with
GBC: Swiss Cheese?
Me: No, I’d prefer cheddar please.
GBC: We have a rule here. No cheddar on turkey.
Me: No you don’t, I used to work here.
GBC: Okay, you’re right.
OGBC: What is he saying to you? Is he hitting on you?
Me: blank stare
GBC: I never hit on beautiful women.

And it goes on….

OGBC: What would you like on this?-
Me: Extra tomatoes
OGBC: So, no tomatoes?
Me: No, a lot please. (this is followed by OGBC putting one tomato in the middle of my sandwich)
Me: Um, a lot of tomatoes please. More than that.
OGBC: What else?
Me: A little mayonnaise, salt, pepper and oregano.

Okay, give me a break!!! And I have to go back there tomorrow.
And yes, I used to work at Mr. Goodcents. Once when I was 17 in the summer after my Dad said to me, "Find a job today, or you get no more money from me this summer." It was between that and Fluffy Fresh Donuts.
And then again in college. Nick and I both worked there one summer. And I must say, the free lunches weren't a bad deal.

thank you, cigarette guy.

Last night, I was blessed to be in the presence of excellence. From the balcony, my view of Wilco was almost perfect. It would have been completely perfect if it wasn’t for this guy who may just be the biggest Wilco fan ever. I’d like to call him cigarette guy.

As soon as Wilco took the stage, he ran into my view. It was my first introduction to mr. cigarette guy and to his fisherman’s sweater and jeans and beer. I thought our meeting would be short-lived. I was wrong.

He stood just to my right and in front of me throughout the entire concert, and I can’t even do justice to his antics, but I will try. First of all, he had this hand pumping thing going on. He would raise his hand and point (at nothing) and then pump his hand horribly off beat and then point at nothing again and then do this swirly motion with his hand and then scream “get up Kansas City” and then laugh and then he’d take a swig from his beer. He repeated this every two minutes or so. Sometimes, when it was a song that he really, really liked, he’d take a cigarette out of his pack and hold it up high — kind of like he was offering it to the Wilco gods. Then he would do the hand pumping, pointing, swirly thing using the cigarette as his pointer. At a particularly passionate moment, he would throw his unlit cigarette into the audience and then say “mmmm, cigarettes taste so good.” Seriously.

Best of all, maybe, was when he would hold his hand in the air and do this countdown with his fingers. He always started at "five" and by the time he got to "zero" nothing particularly special happened. He also would talk (yell, really) to anyone who was next to him. He spent a good ten minutes yelling at the security person about how Kansas City needed to “get up” for Wilco. I spent a good ten minutes laughing. I wish I had been able to watch Wilco, which may have been one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to, uninterrupted. That’s why I chose the balcony and not the floor. That’s why I got there early and scoped out my seating. That’s why I only drank one beer and made sure I could fully appreciate the majesty that was before me. Cigarette Guy would not have seemed so strange on the floor or in the pit of a Korn concert. But this was Wilco. And he was way excited. And so I’d just like to say from me to you, Mr. Cigarette Guy, thanks for keeping it real. And thanks for moving out of my way whenever I politely tapped you on the shoulder.

self portrait tuesday

That is me finishing the half marathon last September. That is me at my best - so far. That is the woman I know I can be and the one I try to beat every day when I'm running or working or just plain living. A year ago today, I had never run in a road race. I hadn't really run much farther than 7 miles, which is a distance I ran once in high school. I started last March with a 3-mile run that nearly killed me. By that September, I ran 13. My goal is to run a full marathon, 26 miles, in October.

The woman I was three years ago could never have attempted anything like this. Because of fear and anxiety and a very unsure sense of self. The woman I am today thrives on this.

This is my last post on running this week. I promise.

And then, we were finished.

Thanks to the Kansas City Star's, community faces link, I give you my Brew-To-Brew team's final runner, Mark Vanderweide. He ran a crazy-fast last leg and finished the 44 miles for us strong. (We actually finished an hour quicker than the clock behind him claims. It started at 6 a.m. when the first group of runners took off. We were in the 7 a.m. group.)

if he could, i think gus would like to fly.

pretty much awesome

Brew to Brew was incredible. Our team's total time for 44 miles averaged under 8 minutes each mile. And as if that wasn't cool enough for one day, I set a personal best by completing my first leg of 5.3 miles in 40 minutes, 40 seconds, which means I avereaged 7.62 minute miles. And my second leg of hell, a 4-mile route tagged as "hard" was good, too. But it was possibly the most horrible experience my body has ever been through. Four miles of steep hills with little to no downhill and minimal flat parts. Despite the mountains to climb I ran that leg in 32 minutes 20 seconds. And to top it all off Lawrence welcomed us with food, beer and fun. Oh and because I was team captain, I took home free pair of Nike Free shoes. Awesome.

need a laugh?

I give you the worst halftime show ever.

it's race time - again.

Sunday, I am doing this. I'm running two legs of its 44 miles. My two legs add up to just under 10 miles.

I'm not sure if my two actual, physical legs are going to carry me that far. I've been dealing with some leg pain that gets really bad while I'm running. Basically, when I arrive back to my house, I'm limping and gimping and pretty much cussing under my breath. And then for days later, the entire below-the-knee part of my legs ache. It's awesome.
I ran Wednesday night. I'm not running again until Sunday. I hope three days is enough recovery time.

My race team has five members. We are making T-shirts that say "Without me, this race is just aweso."

I'm sure I'll have a full race report with pictures up on Monday.

is that supposed to fit?

Why is it that the "bus lane" is not as wide as the actual bus? Probably because they tried to create a bus lane on a narrow midtown road that is ill-equipt for this type of thing. Just another reason to love driving in Kansas City. Trying to fit a bus in the bus lane is a lot like trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans that are two or three sizes too small. It just doesn't work and things end up sticking out all over the place. Today, I had to get two lanes over from the bus lane just to be able to pass the bus.

In somewhat related news, the first concert I ever attended was Kris Kross. I liked their song "I missed the bus." It was about missing a school bus. Lyrics: "I missed the bus, yo, and it is something I will never, ever, ever do again."

things you don't care about, but you'll read anyway.

1. I once owned a messanger bag from this line of clothing. I looked rediculous.

2. I am almost through my bottle of lotion in my cube that is hawaiian ginger frangranced. When it's gone, I will miss the tropical feeling, but I won't miss the fact that the brand is "Calagon" and that the tag is still "take me away!"

3. I'm totally obsessed with this great mustard color tote I got at Target. I love Target. I hate when people pronounce it as if it has a silent "T" at the end and is a French word.

4. I think that 7up Plus caused me to have four urinary tract infections since Christmas.

5. I have purchased a Mahogany card from Hallmark for someone who is clearly not in the line's target demographic. Come on, you know you have, too.

6. I'm supposed to run 10 miles of a 44-mile relay race this Sunday. It's supposed to be snowing. I wish I could back out.

eating

It seems like everyone I know is on a diet. Even the really skinny people. Maybe there is something to all of this. I'm not sure what though.

it's springtime in kansas

and i am ever so thankful for my neighbors and the access they've granted me to their basement.

regrets

I don’t think I ever showed you that I cared. I mean, really cared. I helped you when you couldn’t manage the stairs or the slippery walkway or the cold. I held your coat for you when you couldn’t hold it and get into it at the same time. I sat with you when the kitchen was too loud and when I saw you wincing because the sun was too bright, I’d close the shades even though mom would come and open them back up. She’s always been weird about natural light. She also doesn’t always read people very well. I’m a good people-reader and I could tell you were uncomfortable. I’d kiss you on your forehead and tell you that you looked very pretty and inside, I was so thankful that he had you. Even though after you entered our lives, I didn’t get to see him as much. After that, when we’d come to your house, we didn’t always feel welcome. There weren’t gifts waiting for us like there were when she was alive. There wasn’t a chest of clothes that I could play dress up in and the stove I used to make believe with had been put away in storage. But still, I knew that you were permanent and important and because of that, I loved you. But I don’t remember if I told you that.

You fell the night of my rehearsal dinner and had to go to the hospital. You missed my wedding and I told you I’d bring the video over and show it to you because you heard that I was just beautiful. It was beautiful, but I never let you see it. I guess I always thought I’d have more time. I was always too busy to make the drive or to call and ask if it was okay for me to come over. And so, I never did. And I’m sorry.

surviving.

Some people are survivors. I'd like to think that I am, but I don't think I've been through enough yet to really know. My grandpa though, is a survivor. My grandma died when I was 6. That same year, my grandpa remarried. And for 20 years, he remained faithful to his new wife. As she got older and more frail and a little sick, he cared for her. He was strong for her. He is always so strong — strong enough to beat a brain surgery that the doctors were 90 percent sure would kill him.

Yesterday, I was in Chicago. I was sitting in the back of a taxi on the highway trying to get to the airport. We were stopped in traffic and Holly and I were talking about what our husbands like to put on turkey sandwiches. We didn’t see it coming, so we were pretty relaxed when we got rear ended. The woman that hit us apologized and said she had a death in the family and that she really shouldn’t have been driving. And then, she left. We were sore from the whiplash and our backs hurt but we were okay. We were also emotional because Holly, 10 weeks pregnant, wanted to make sure her baby was okay and things just didn’t seem right. When we were sitting on the plane, I turned to Holly and said that it certainly didn’t feel like a Wednesday. She agreed and mentioned that she didn’t know what day it felt like. We decided there really wasn’t a name for yesterday.

Yesterday probably didn’t feel like a real day to my grandpa either. Around 1 p.m. as he and his wife were eating dinner, she began to choke. He tried to help her, but couldn’t. When the ambulance came, he asked if her heart was beating and they answered “Just a little bit.” She didn’t make it. He had to watch his wife die in his house in front of him. He had to feel so helpless and confused and afraid. And I can’t even begin to imagine what thoughts must have been going through her mind as she sat there, unable to breathe, sitting across the table from her strong, supportive husband who couldn’t do a thing.

Last night, my grandpa kept reminding us that he was a survivor as we watched him write the obituary. I guess that’s what he needed to do to cope. He needed to keep busy and so he was on his cell phone most of the night. Talking to her hairdresser because they were great friends. Talking to family and to her daughter and then he moved around a pile of towels and talked about how he had been grocery shopping that morning and had bought food she likes and that he had plenty of green beans in the house because he had bought them for her. I still told him I’d bring over dinner and that if he didn’t feel like eating, he could freeze it. I told him I loved him and that I’d see him soon and then my mom, his daughter, spent the night there. It’s probably the first time they’d slept under the same roof since she was in high school. It probably felt a lot different last night.

reasons why

I've often flirted with the idea of becoming a vegan. It seems healthy and pure and like a challenge I could win if I really, really tried. But this set of food photos is perhaps the best reason why the vegan lifestyle seems intriguing.

Oh and I'm off to an airplane and to a city far, far away for a business trip. I'll be back and blogging Thursday.

my running buddies.

I run a lot on my own. But for long runs usually on Sundays and Thursdays, I run with these guys. They push me and make me run farther and faster than I would on my own. We ran the KC half marathon together last September, and we are running the full marathon together this October. The best thing, though, about having guy running buddies is that they ward off any attackers. Yes that's right, attackers. It is not safe for women to run on their own especially while plugged into an Ipod. So thank you, Brad and Mark, for allowing me to run my heart out while listening to "King of Pain" at full volume. I am forver indebted to you.

um, okay.

so nick, my dear, charming husband may have just said the dorkiest thing EVER.

i quote, "jessi, we are mystic warriors."

then, i started laughing (what would you have done?) and he retorted "you don't even know what a mystic warrior is."

and now, the post you've all been waiting for

My American Idol top three picks.
(I know you are all shocked that I even watch this show)

Chris Daughtry is the complete package. If I took the time to vote when the show was over, which I don't, I would vote for him. He has the look and the amazing recording voice, and last night, he made me like a Fuel song, which is really, really hard to do.

Taylor Hicks is talented, but someone needs to tell him he is not a blind black man. And also, he called a his hat a toboggan, and I laughed at him. But then, I found out that a "toboggan" is a real kind of hat. Who knew? It's just another reason that Hicks is so frickin' endearing.

And then there's Paris Bennett. I love, love, love her. I kind of want to take her home and put her on a shelf and just look at her all day (in the most non-stalkerish way possibe of course.) She is just rediculously cute and talented and she is only 17. I can't wait to see what she does next week because I am perfectly positive that she will not get voted off.

I also have a confession to make. Last night, I had a horrible dream. It won't make sense to anyone who wasn't in my head during the dream, but part of it was about me going into a large house where about six house painters were painting the walls. Gus was at this house for some reason, and they were supposed to keep an eye on him. The lead painter was none other than American Idol contestant Bucky Covington. And in my dream, he was the "bad guy." He was scary and dirty and had paint all over his face, and he told me that he didn't know where my Gussy was. I woke up screaming.

Sorry, Bucky. You really did do a good job with the Garth Brooks song.

sweating the small stuff

Why is it that no matter how hard I try, I always burn microwaveable popcorn?

I mean really, how much easier does it get?
1. Microwave
2. Stay and listen!
3. Open carefully!

I think what throws me off is the “Stop microwave when popping slows to 1 to 2 seconds between pops,” part of the instructions. Does this mean loud popping or soft popping? And what if I’m counting too fast or too slow — 3 seconds means burnt to a crisp, the whole office hates you – smelling popcorn, but 0.8 seconds may mean a bag full of unpopped kernels.

I also always mess up on this part: “CAUTION! Handle bag by top corners only. Open away from face.”
I think I have permanent steam burn.

Oh and by the way Mr. Redenbacher, popping not only “May take less than four minutes,” but a whopping 2 minutes 20 seconds caused scorching this time. Who writes your packaging copy anyway?

I'd like to offer another option -
1. Microwave
2. Don't even think about using the built-in "popcorn" button.
3. If contents still smell like popcorn, you might start preparing to take the bag out.
4. DON'T WAIT FOR THE BURNT SMELL.
5. Grab bag with both hands and point opening toward face. (We figure you've probably burnt it anyway, and this will be part of the healing process.)
6. Once your face is properly steamed, throw popcorn away. Congratulations, you just bought yourself a $1 facial.