What to do when you're not running

I'm still out of running commission.

Since the marathon I have gone, somewhat diligently, to the gym, but all those machines get painfully boring.

I bop from the stationary bike to the elliptical and to some thing that makes me prance in place like a gazelle with inappropriately different length legs. I attempt to know what I'm doing with some weights, I manage some sit ups, but in the end I am BEYOND bored. I mean, it's painful.

And then I found boxing.

It's a class at the gym that I assumed was a set-to-music version of tae-bo from my VHS days. But OH no.

This is Rocky in non-contact form.

The teacher, a former boxer, is our drill sergeant and we his running, jumping, hitting peons. The first class was utterly terrifying. I have been to my fair share of gym classes, sampling a variety of classic-type teachers -- the self loathing passive aggressive, the disgustingly bubbly babbler, the plain old hard ass -- but none that use a healthy dose of yelling, deafening music and a fog horn (yup).

I was a few minutes late and boxer teacher gave me a piercing look and then pointed to the ground where I was meant to join a snake formation of students doing the "bear crawl" round and round the small, dark studio. The group was, and continues to be, mostly women and a few heavily tattooed men. After crawling and running and sufficiently breaking a sweat I gingerly pull on some slightly damp gloves and take to a punching bag that a middle aged woman, sporting eyeliner and pink gloves, is already pushing around.

Others in the class share the bags scattered around the room and begin punching the shit out of them -- literally pieces of cloth spew from the hole at the top. Meanwhile me and pink gloves are paddling our bag back and forth like a fat toddler swinging on a Sunday afternoon.

Ultimately our punching bag stints turn into 2 minute drills where we move around the studio -- doing exercises in between punching like crab walks, weighted sit ups and push ups with a hand clap in the middle, something I thought only military recruits were forced to do in muddy waters in the rain.

The 20-or-so of us make it around the studio doing the variety show of drills until we each get a turn with boxer teacher. Even from a far this look terrifying. Not knowing how to throw, land or take a punch if my life depended on it, I was shaking in my gloves, wondering if I can take the push-up-hand-clap torture over a physical tete-a-tete with this Rocky remake. Pink gloves goes first and by the end of her two minutes her eyeliner has given her proper black eyes and her breathing is moving into heart attack territory, but she's smiling. There's hope.

I go next. It's not like he's hitting us, but, rather, we are hitting him -- his upper body, even, and pads that he wears on his hands. During the first bit he instructs me how to stand and to stop Stevie Wonder-ing with my head.

After a few tries I get into a rhythm that has me feeling every part of my body (though, especially my knuckles). As we move into a jumping, hitting routine he starts to get into it.

"Hit ME" he yells, I respond with a wind up that just misses his shoulder.

"Hit me like a GIRL" he screams through gridded teeth. Is that good? Bad? I thought I DID hit him like a girl.

I throw a punch and land it. I smile for a moment, he doesn't, I get back to the task.

Soon enough the rest of the class is joining in on the calls - "Hit him!" they scream "Keep at it!" Bolstered my the sudden team-like setting I do a rapid fire round where

I'm twisting and turning and my sweat-soaked hair is whipping my neck (I never did get the hang of keeping my head straight) and boxer teacher is pushing me and I'm pushing him back and he just reeks of man sweat and I'm wondering how long it has been since I've washed my gym clothes and he yells at me to do upper cuts and the sound of my glove hitting his pad starts to echo around the room and I think my hands must be bleeding already and my stomach can't take another twist and all of a sudden it's done.

And my heavy breath mixes with some sweat and I am slapping everybody's gloves as a "job well done" and I look at myself in the mirror and I look crazed and slightly like a beast and it feels damn good.

And all before 8 a.m.

Best work out ever.

Next up: how to keep your breakfast down during 90 minutes of hot and sweaty yoga.

Twin Peaks series finale, really?

Is what I wrote into my Google search button.

I mean, what the hell, David Lynch?!

I realize I'm a decade too late but is Twin Peaks the Best Show Ever with the most open-ended series ending in HISTORY?!



Five years ago I started this journey with R in his Carroll Gardens apartment. We would watch one episode whenever I slept over there and it was mind blowing. For one, HOW was this show on prime time television?

There's rape, murder, spousal abuse, schizophrenia and good old fashioned money-motivated deviant behavior (not to mention a lady who talks to a log).

Slowly but surely we made our way through. I found comfort in Special Agent Dale Cooper, Norma and Ed, and the small pleasures of a damn good cup of Joe.

But we stopped after we found out who killed Laura Palmer. There were some rumors on R's end that the second season wasn't as good and I was creeped out enough to take a break.

Five years later I find myself with an empty apartment, a computer and the full season of Twin Peaks. Having no idea where I actually dropped off, I popped in a disk and let the story unfold again.

And, yes, the Laura Palmer storyline is the clincher. But there's clearly something else going on in this funny Alaskan town and I was instantly hooked on the whole weirdo clan.

And things were going well. With Special Agent Dale Cooper's leadership we were able to find out who killed Laura Palmer (yes, again. I backtracked). And found spice and stories of long-lost love in our favorite FBI agent's past when a former partner comes to the once-sleepy town to terrorize via chess game.

Slowly but surely "Coop" gets incorporated into the town -- is stripped of his FBI suit-fatigues and even meets and girl.

I creep toward the end of the special edition set. R returns to our new humble abode and I pop in the second to last disk. Each of the three episodes is stranger than the last but we take comfort in that one last disk sitting in it's case, reeking of answers and closure.

We get to the third episode, pop it in haphazardly on a Friday night. It's weirder than most, steering the plot into the other-worldly, mysterious part of the show that lives in red velvet drapes and characters back from the dead.

But we swallow it, putting our trust in Mr. Lynch.

Audrey and Pete go into a bank and don't come out and Coop kind of comes out of the velvet-draped dream land but we're not entirely sure and then the creepy spirit appears in the mirror and Coop is bleeding from the head and talking funny and the credits come and we're all, what the what?

Thank GOD there are more episodes.

Except there aren't.

There weren't.

The next day we take a break from unpacking and pop in the last disk ever so carefully and flick through a menu of... extras?

The realization came slow.

Wait, that was the... end?

We go back to the last disk. Fast forward a couple of scenes, see if we missed anything.

Same Dale, same mirror, same bloody head, same creepy spirit.

Same ending credits.

I search the blogs.

What was that ABOUT, I ask?

But there are no answers. Only speculation many years too late.

It had to be this way, they said.

But it's not fair.

Cooooooooop!

COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!

Enough with the dramatics. But it was weird, right? Has anyone seen it lately? If not, I implore you to check it out again. Seriously, how was this show on prime time? And how did the TV-viewing public allow Lynch to get away with a series ender so full of cliff hangers? If only I had been there, old enough, to watch it. Mr. Lynch would have heard from ME -- in frantically written letters sent on torn out sheets of school book paper penned in different colored ink. He would have read my wrath. But now, I'm too late. And I'll never have Special Agent Dale Cooper back. (sigh) I even tried watching the 1991 SNL episode where Kyle McLaughlin hosts. It wasn't the same.

I'm even renting the weirdo movie that acts as a precursor to the series because one blog wrote there were some allusions to what happened at the end. I'll take anything I can get.

xoL

Birthing the marathon

Running a marathon is, I've decided, a lot like giving birth.

True, I have yet to have an actual baby. But considering the anticipation of said event and the physicality that comes along with it, I'm going to go ahead and say the comparison is not a stretch.

Thus, my marathon birth story.

*Spoiler alert* I won.



How amazing is this guy? Yup. Running buddy.

Alright, so I didn't quite win it. But I finished. I think my time was 4:37 minutes - give or take.

But let's back up.

I was talked into running this puppy by my friend who has run three other marathons. I love Chicago, I love this friend and I've always wanted to try so sign up we did.

You may recall my trials and tribulations with training. It worked out well, in the end as I was unemployed and could contribute larger chunks of my week to hitting the open road. Then I got injured. Then I recovered. Then I got a job and training got pushed to the back burner but I managed to clock in 18 miles the week before so away I went.

Friend and I had a hotel right by the starting line and after a lovely day of distractions with Chicago friends and a hearty meal with my family who flew in for the even, we made our way up to our room for a short nights rest.

Up at 5:45, we dedicated an hour to stretching and preparations and made it down to the starting line just as they were blocking off some entrances. We squeezed into the 10 minute mile slot along with a couple thousand other people and...walked a crowded slow distance up to the start.

It started off great, as I'm sure these all do. It was a beautiful, if super toasty, day and the crowd was already thick and excited at the 7:30 start. We meandered through the crowd of runners in the loop and made our way up to the lakeside and into my old neighborhoods Lincoln Park and Lakeview. We even passed my old street (twice)!

Lakeview was definitely the most rocking of the neighborhoods, what with Boystown to support the runners in the Trannies-in-costume-dancing-to-Lady-Gaga category.

Friend and I ran side-by-side until about the halfway point. She was having some knee problems and we gradually drifted apart (sniff) until I couldn't see her anymore.

Then I saw my parents. It was somewhere between miles 13 and 14 and my dad popped out of the crowd and ran with me for a moment offering me sips of water and dates. Brilliant. It was also a lovely distraction. He told me they would be around miles 17 and 20, so it was always something to keep me going.

Turning west I tried to keep an eye out for Chicago friends who I knew would be hanging around the Diversey/Greektown area or thereabouts but, sadly, I never saw them. The crowd thinned in parts in the western neighborhoods but there were always people around and I was never not running in a crowd.

Around mile 16 I started to get a pain in my knee - a familiar one, that annoying IT band strain. But it was early and every so often it would go away so I just ran on.

Just as he promised, I saw my dad around 18 and then somewhere in the early 20s when things were starting to go downhill. At this point I was just running through the knee pain but it kind of provided a distraction from the regular old body pain that was starting to present itself with little bursts. I tried to keep up the eating but it seemed the last thing I wanted to do.

The latter part of the course weaves itself around the south side. Whenever I thought we were starting to run back north we'd take another turn and head south again. But it wasn't bad. Ignorance was bliss as I had absolutely no idea what was up ahead.

Between miles 20 and 23 I had this flash of optimism. I was getting down to a handful of miles and the crowd was getting thicker and more supportive. I even braved a sip of beer around 23. I had my ipod sitting with an hour long mix for motivation back up and somewhere around this time period I turned it on. I totally misjudged the type of music I would be up for. Some advice: less 80s and 90s ballads and more Beyonce. I think it was around 22 that 'Halo' came on and I literally got chills as I rounded a corner and saw the loop in the distance. The mix took a dive from there but it was a really nice 2 minutes.

And then 24 hit and there seemed absolutely no possible way that I could run two more miles. Like, none. The crowd was awesome but downtown Chicago just did not seem to get any closer. I was to the point of hobbling with my knee. Actually, when I ran it was better but whenever I stopped for water a shooting pain ran up my left leg.

Also at this point I had no idea how slow I was going. How long was 2 miles? 20 minutes? Please kill me, 40 minutes?

Then I started to see it. The crowd was a mass of color ahead of me. The mileage markers started to count down in kilometers, which helped me gauge the distance not at all. You had to turn right, run up a slight hill and then take a left and head in to the final mini stretch. People were screaming, just yelling their heads off for every runner trying to make it up that mini mountain. At one point I look over and this woman who had already lost her voice yelled, 'You're my hero, I could never do this.' And that got me over the hill.

When I rounded the corner and the giant red finish line was clearly in front of me I started to laugh cry and, I think, said 'oh my god' a few times until I got looks from nearby runners. But, I'm sorry, are you really going to finish this thing in silence?

I crossed the finish line with arms raised, like friend told me too, and totally and completely wept. Man it felt good.

Then it felt terrible and then I was given water and cookies and bananas and bagels and a cape of some sort and told to grin in front of a camera (I can only imagine out framable that one was) and wander TWO miles down to where family and friends would be reunited. That walk must have taken as long as the marathon. I was dazed and limping and feeling slightly ill just trying to retain a tight grip on all the goodies I was shoveled.

Finally, at the designated meet-up spot, I saw my Mom and brother and have never been so excited. They hugged me, sweaty and all, and it was the best moment.



My Dad, who was trying to find me up by the finish line, returned and we compared stories. A little while later, from out of the crowd like a sweaty little angel, appeared friend! She finished despite running on a bum knee for the entire second half of the marathon. I limped up to her and we hugged and both cried and it was hilariously emotional and awesome. We treated ourselves to free massages, very slow showers, a clean change of clothes and a panini and french fries afterward.

It was a crazy experience and I was surprised by the emotions and all I kept thinking is, why would anyone ever want to do this again?

And yet, as the days passed and my aches and pains faded it was really just the anticipation and excitement and shared experience that remained. I tried running the other day and got 10 minutes into a job before my IT band acted up. So it's going to be a longer recovery, but I'm OK with that. I did what I had to do. I finished/won and have my life back now that training isn't a top priority. But with the New York marathon happening this weekend it's hard not to think if maybe that's a possibility sometime in the future.

A long way in the future.

Happy running.

xoL

Ode to a Dad

Growing up, my Dad has been many things to me.



A tickle monster
A storyteller
A sailor
A captain
A coach
An athlete
A pusher
A know-it-all
A teacher
An adviser
A cheerleader
An intimidator
A snowboarder
A type-A personality
An audiophile
A Canuck with acute American political beliefs
A broker
A road biker
A planner
A fan
A support

He's not really a chatter, though he won't think twice to tell you what's on his mind. He's a straight-to-the-point kind of Dad who will tell you how it is and not cushion the blow. He's a dedicated, hard-working and loyal friend, colleague and team mate. He loves a good political joke (especially one that might rag on "my president") and will laugh out loud at clever commercials. He's a fair-weather sports fan but will always return when the seasons anew. He's a bit of a wimp when it comes to movies - no terror, suspense or gore - but that's OK, because so am I. He's a die-hard Leonard Cohen fan and thanks to him, I'll be one too. He's got calves that have taken him on 100-mile bike rides and maybe one day, together, a marathon. He's a fantastic speech writer and impressive consumer of news (so to keep his know-it-all status, of course). He's a grill master of the cooked-raw variety. Though his list of home-cooked menu items are few, his Christmas waffles are hands down the best I've ever tasted.

As much as he jokes that I must have been swapped at the hospital, I know I am my father's daughter and I have never been so proud to be.

Yes, my Dad has been many things but tomorrow, though he'd shake the label off, he is a superhero. And it's just one of the things I love him for.

xoL

Training day: Longest and finalest run, T-minus three days

Here we go party people.

What was once 16 weeks has dwindled down to a measly four days.

Saturday was my last attempt at a long run and it was, dare I say, a success.

I clocked in 18.75 miles.

I ran from Greenpoint to Williamsburg, across the Williamsburg bridge, across Broome Street in Manhattan and an already bustling Soho, up the West Side (lovely), across 106th street, into Central Park (where I saw, I kid you not, a gaggle of dogs doing circus tricks, a rare bird show and the end of a half-marathon race), South through the winding park paths, East across 59th street (the bowels of the tourist industry), across the Queensboro Bridge, down through my new hood (Long Island City, people, get into it!), across the Polaski Bridge, and back through Greenpoint ending and at an early Halloween celebration in McCarren Park.

Sure I wanted to chop off my throbbing legs, but I survived and it was enjoyable.

Now I just have to tack on a teen tiny seven (SEVEN?!) more miles come Sunday and we're golden. Pooped, but golden.

I have become completely and totally paranoid about injuries but I'm trying to take it easy. I'm fitting to do some sprints tomorrow to keep the stamina up, a Bikram yoga class Thursday night and a leisurely run Friday morning before jetting off to good ol' Chi-town.

I feel the potential to forget my sneakers in Brooklyn is so real I can reach out and touch it. The more I think about the possibility the more it seems they will sit this trip out. To prevent this first-and-last-marathon-ending scenario I have left post-it notes around my belongings as reminder. My belongings, at this point, comprises the remains of a suitcase in the corner of a living room, but you'd be surprised how many helpful notes can be tucked into the corners of said luggage.

SHOES, screams one piece of paper. SNEAKS yells another. DON'T FORGET demands a third. I may have even set an alarm on my phone.

Hey, this is serious people. By Friday, if I forget these puppies, I should bypass the plane and go straight to the mental hospital for surely this is a case for earliest-onset Alzheimer.

Should anyone be interested in tracking my progress/near-death experience you can try out the Runner Tracker as provided by Bank of America. My bib number is 43542. It may not actually activate until I register on Saturday, but try your luck. Now, no judging on my less-than-stellar times. The goal here is survival. Survival and beating Katie Holmes's time (no offense, of course, to Ms. Cruise, but that was pretty brutal and please just put me out of my misery if I'm running for five hours and 30 minutes).

A lovely friend mentioned the coincidence that the marathon date is 10-10-10 and this year I am 10+10+10 so it must be good luck. Let's hope she's right!

xoL

Gettin' low

I had my first New York low point.

Alright, it's not my first.

And certainly won't be my last, but it was a special kind of low that clearly needs sharing.

It was Thursday, 7:30. I had just forfeited my credit card to the most depressing New York Sports Club location (midtown West) - a narrow subterranean place that houses enough post-work tension to actually block natural light. It was September 30th, the last day to squeeze into a deal to join for $20, and with the gym's proximity to my work being inescapably convenient (and I do so want to spend as MUCH time as possible in midtown), I resigned myself to the inevitable.

But I was in a rush. Having fled work for the gym, and now the gym for the subway and what was to be my second attempt at a pre-marathon bikram yoga class, time was not on my side.

But my tum rumbled and the bikram class did not start until 8:15, spitting me out into the dark, all sweaty and starving, at 9:45.

I stopped into a vaguely-leftover-chinese-food-smelling corner deli to grab a Cliff bar (blueberry crisp) -- guaranteed satiation for a yoga class or, should the opportunity arise, a mountain climb.

I bopped and weaved out the deli and down the street to the subway that would take me to another subway that would take me to Williamsburg.

It was 7:40 and empty for a post-work commute. Not being able to wait, I fumbled for the Cliff bar packaging wavering between a rip-down-the-side and the potato-chip-bag opening. Deciding on the latter I pulled the two ends with full force and witnessed the granola-nugget launch out of the packaging and onto the subway platform 30 yards away like a faulty grenade.

And there it sat, all tasty and kind of sticky, on layers of New York history that comprised, at best, human bodily fluids, rat excrement and boat loads of garbage, taunting me. Without slowing down I bent over, picked up the target, placed it in my purse, bypassing the multiple garbage cans, and walked to the end of platform debating my dance with the unhygienic devil.

My belly rumbled as the subway screeched into the station. The doors opened, invited me in, and I took a seat on the wide, blue bench, clutching by bag like a stolen treasure. I made it one stop before I ripped a chunk of my sodden treat and popped it in my mouth, swallowing the morsel whole.

The mood in the train cab changed. The woman next to me shifted down a notch. The kid with the kid-sized backpack stopped talking to his buddy. The garbage-bag-guy at the other end of the car picked his shoulders up a bit seeing as his former roll as Most Desperate member of current society had recently found a new soul.

I didn't take another bite. I tried not to think of the bite I took. I made a list of slightly padded excuses in my head should anyone following this pathetic show ask what the hell I was thinking:

I hadn't eaten all day
It was my last two dollars
It barely touched the ground

All of these things were false. But I digested that bite. I got off the subway at my designated stop. I threw the evidence in the first garbage can. Stopped into Ed's Crazy Corner Deli, picked up a substitute and walked away from the whole situation.

And I'm still breathing. I didn't even puke or anything. I hit a low New York point and I survived. If I can eat a treat off of the subway floor and live through the night to blog about it, I'm sure I can expect great things ahead.

That's how it happens right?

Or maybe I should just pack more treats. Or remind myself that I am not, despite homelessness and near poverty, a bum.

Training day: Long run countdown

We (me and my bum legs) are back on the horse. After three weeks of no running, and a slow build up the long run ladder, I am back where I left off: at 16 miles.

Alright, that's padding it.

Let's back up.

A month and a half ago, at the near-peek of my marathon training, I made the mistake of running on a treadmill and injured my calf (insert: fist shaking at treadmill).

I put running on hold to mend this puppy through torture sessions with massage therapists who said helpful things like "it's a necessary evil" and "I'm not sure how long your long distance running career will last." I guess that's why they stick to massaging muscles instead of egos.

Two weeks later I tested out a long run that recalled leisurely Saturdays of yesteryear, like, say, June 2010. I made it through seven miles, heaving and hoeing, but, alas no major muscle eruption (mini hallelujah). Yup seven sad but successful miles, just five weeks before the marathon.

Buck up, buttercup.

The next week I ran 11. Huffing and Puffing, but 11 nonetheless. I returned to the long-distance-really?-therapist for a turn-muscle-into-pulp session and she said I didn't have to come back and maybe I could "run this thing yet." I hobbled out.

Yesterday I continued to up the mileage. I strapped on my sneaks, stretched and dithered about the house avoiding the inevitable, then set out for my planned 15.6 mile run. But the thing is, it was hot. Like, no way this is September hot, and all my waiting around set me up for a long ass run during the hottest part of the day on an empty stomach (woo hoo?). Little suburban streets turned epic and fuzzy as I placed one foot in front of the other. I made small but important deals with myself:

"If you can make it to the end of Pine Tree Drive you can walk up the next hill."

I had to run up the next hill.

"If you run up the next hill you can stop instead of doing that extra little loop."

You better believe I ran up that next hill.

Somehow I pulled one tuckered leg after another to complete a not even-close to marathon distance 14.3 mile run.

But onwards and upwards people. Today, on request of my training torturers, I tried a bikram yoga class, which is supposed to help with deep stretches and all those things.

I've done bikram once before and I did not recall it being so bad. But then again, time heals all wounds. So I limped into the already scorching room with my small, lukewarm bottle of (in hindsight) precious water, lay down my mat and towel and got to sweating.

I learned a few things during this adventure:

1) Bikram classes are 90 minutes
2) I can sweat a lot and the sensation of bending forward while sweat drips down your face and up your nose is a lot like drowning
3) It is best if you eat something before sweating the weight of a small child from your sleep-deprived body
4) Water, more water

I'm sure it was helpful. I'm sure I stretched my body in ways that was not normally possible. I'm sure I swallowed a little bit of bile at the end of that last pose and I'm sure I saw a few black spots while filling up tiny water bottle at the fountain.

So, now that I'm fully stretched, completely exhausted and permanently dehydrated, I am ready to conquer my last two weeks of training.

The week ahead will hold three days of longer runs, which means earlier and darker mornings. I will also try to cram in one more yoga class before my next long run.

Saturday will be my last attempt at a pre-marathon long run. We're talking 18-20 miles, people. But I'll be in the city, I will have my broken-in-but-still-new sneakers and, hopefully, cooler weather on my side.

I hate to admit it, marathon, but I am beyond ready for you to be over.

The good news? I'm not that crazed marathon-addicted person. See? Learning new things about myself at ever turn.
xoL

Monday brings some firsts

Well, one, in particular. Today was my first day of work in the business that I have been elbowing my way into for a few years now. It is my first full time paid position (paid! slave wages, but it counts.) in this biz that is all spark and ingenuity one moment and dead as yesterday's used newspaper the next according to media friends and foes. That's right friends iiiiiiiiits journalism.

But it's also my first day of working in New York after being away from this city that I love. I was nervous, what with the commute, the fabulous ladies of fashion surrounding me at every turn and, well, the commute (listen, it can be pretty bad).

But that latent New York kick-it-and-go attitude sprung up in my like geyser once those subway doors opened and the rest of Greenpoint and I were trying to squeeze in. I strolled into the center of the train and never looked back.

Somehow my blood boiled enough to get me from one subway to another and back again at the end of the day, spits of rain and a sleepless night and all.

Now that I'm slightly more eased into working life and my outfit is already picked out for tomorrow, I'm hoping I can catch some Zzzzs so I can get up for a much-needed run in the morning. Because, oh yes, I'm still training for that marathon. I have four weeks to go from 7 miles to 26.2 so it's now or never.

I can only do things like, get a job, find an apartment, train for some sort of feat-o-strength all at once. Dog pile on L. It's all or nothing people, but it's nice to be doing something even when it's everything.

xoL

Training day: Long run hiatus

I'm behind, I'll admit it. I survived the long run no. 9 (11 miles) and the long run no. 10 (a whopping 16+ miles). I even tripped and fell at the end, alright, it was more of a crumple, but the run was good, really good and I was proud of myself.



And then my calf ripped in half.

Dramatic? OK, yes, a bit. But I'm beyond frustrated. I've made it 10 weeks into my training, was about to jump up to 18 and then 20 miles and then this happened. Whatever it is.

It started off as a soreness. I was scheduled to have a massage and I mentioned it to the masseuse who worked on it. Then a three day down pour arrived and I was stuck running on a treadmill and within a mile it popped. I stopped and finished up some exercise on an elliptical (probably not the best idea) and then took a few days off.

I skipped my next long run (10 miles) and tried jogging at a toddlers pace on Sunday and, again, with in a mile - Pop.

So, here we are: Five weeks out until the marathon. My longest run was 16 miles and I'm losing any sort of fitness with every passing week. Not to sound like a whiner but what the crappity crap?!

I mean, have you SEEN my calves? If nothing else these puppies were made for running, that or Glatiatoring if it were a different era.

Just when I was hitting my stride.

Just when I ran more than I've ever run before.

Just when that magical anti-chafe glide stuff entered my life!

I've obviously wallowed a little bit and I might be continuing down that road.

But today I made an appointment to see a massage therapist, which, according to all the online forums and even the trainer I accosted at the gym suggested, is the first step. I'm hoping this guy can asses the damage, give me some sort of recovery regiment and then tell me I'll be good to go in a week. Wishful thinking? Definitely.

At this point I just want to complete the dumb thing and not be keeling over in some sort of pain afterward. I hope that's not too far fetched of a goal.

Just so I'm not ending on such a sour note, the hiatus hasn't been all bad. For one, it allowed me time to move. For two, it's been hot as balls outside (I think that's a technical term, hopefully I'm using it right) and running in this would have definitely been detrimental to my health. And maybe by the time I can strap back on my running shoes I will be so excited to be able to run that the adrenaline alone will get me through the mileage.

ho hum.

Training day: Long run no. 8

This one was a doozy.

First, it was my first longer-than-I've-ever-run run: 15 miles. Even tracking it on map my run was intimidating.

Second, I was squeezing in a run before an 11:30 phone call, which is normally fine but I just had no idea how long this would take me or if I would survive at all.

Third, I may have had one glass of wine too many, meaning two, the night before during a August birthday celebration so rising was less shiny at 7 a.m.

I repeated by Jamaica Plains run with the added few miles that brought be around and past the Museum of Science along the Charles River.

Figuring that this run would take me more than 2 hours I had to boost my audio support. BUT I couldn't sacrifice another This American Life so I needed an alternative.

Enter: The New Yorker Fiction podcast. I know, I know, it's not exactly the Rocky soundtrack of marathon training but I'm telling you, having people speak to you about sometimes interesting things is fantastically entertaining.

For This American Life I had episode #412 Million Dollar Idea. The first two stories were less exciting but it worked out since they came on when I was still alive and well. The third story, though, about a guy who became obsessed with winning game shows was fabulous. It was sad and weird and made me actually laugh out loud. All good.

For the fiction podcast I chose Joshua Ferris's The Dinner Party as read by Monica Ali. I have to admit that I was not familiar with Monica Ali but she is accented! And that Britishness makes the read so much more enjoyable. I had read Ferris's first nove, Then We Came to the End, a few years ago and LOVED it. It was a bit of a slow build, as a novel about office life might expect to be, but the character development was spot on and the story took some odd and entertaining twists. Beyond all of that it was actually laugh out loud funny. Needless to say, I had some high hopes for "The Dinner Party."

And, for a running story, it was the perfect mix of entertainment. It kept me distracted, it was weird and cringe-worthy and a nice story arch for a short piece. I also liked that Ali and the New Yorker fiction editor discussed the book afterward because they pointed out all the interesting bits that I definitely would have missed as I was trying to put one foot in front of the other.

Besides the ipod, the run started off pleasant. It was sticky hot by 8 so the light sprinkle that met me at mile 5 was more than welcomed. Jamaica Pond was pretty as usual and because it was a weekday it was empty.

Back near the Charles River, where I was getting through the double digit mileage, I had drunk nearly all of my now-hot water and sports drink and was pretty much dying of thirst. Right before the Longfellow Bridge on the Boston side of the river is a water fountain, which I gulped out of for a good three minutes. Water never tasted so good.

By this point - about mile 12 - my legs had been feeling OK. Definitely fatigued but I was getting by. But when I tried to start up again after refueling my legs were not having it. Just a few minutes back into the run my IT band started to flair up, which is NEVER an awesome thing. In fact it's incredibly frustrating because if it really goes you have to just not run to fix it. And in this point of the training not running isn't really recommended.

So, at mile 13 I finally said, fine. I'll walk. So I speed walked and when things got really boring and frustrating I tried running again but IT band said no way Jose.

What began as a good, solid, I'm-not-doing-so-bad run ended up sucking it up.

The good news is that I took the weekend off - three glorious days run free - and when I ran again on Monday and Tuesday my knee was OK. I fully blame the water skiing. That was definitely not well thought out on my part.

So if you're training for a marathon, take my advice and don't do other sports, especially not water skiing. That 30 seconds of standing semi-triumphantly can really bite you in the ass.

Thus,
Distance: 13 miles running + 2 miles speed walking
Time: I'm not even going to try.
Overall: 3 (pros: the audio entertainment, random rain, water fountain savior; cons: the IT band).

xoL

Thirty, flirty and thriving. Right?

Well, it happened. I turned 30.

Who would have thought this kid could have made it past grade school? She can barely get her hands out of that jacket!



I would just like to point out that I am now older than my mom was in that photo. Terrifying.

I was never a girl who conjured up images of the future me; dressing future self up like a paper doll in different outfits.

Here is L the veterinarian
L the teacher
L the Olympic swimmer (OK, I did imagine that once)
L the college graduate
L in a pants suit
L the bride
L the mother.

I remember sitting cross legged in a pale pink room. It was still grade school - fifth or sixth grade, I think. This is still during the time when my then-best-friend and I would coordinate outfits and come in wearing the same exact thing (a favorite: white jeans, Keds, over-sized Joker t-shirt) so you can see the maturity level was already ripe.

In this pale pink room, three little friends and I were talking about marriage, like you do. And it was during this heated discussion that I felt the pressure to divulge an age. You know, that age at which you think all things happen. That age, for young girls, when your life merges with what you imagine is adult, something that resembles your mother and the life you grew up in. For me, this age was 28.

It seemed WORLDS away. My occasional 16-year-old babysitter was ANCIENT so 28 was practically extinct. Did people still live that long? I wasn't sure.

28, I said in my most feminist-sounding pre-pubescent voice, would give me enough time for "my career." Then a husband would show up at my door and small children would follow.

My friends said slightly younger ages, 24s and 25s and since I still wasn't entirely sure where those future kids would pop out from I packed on a few years to ensure I had some time to figure things out.

It was so far out in the future, dangling like a baby carrot from a fishing rod that anything was possible. Wouldn't we be living like the Jetsons by then? I would be busy flying a car and eating jelly-bean-sized three-course meals and, sure, I could squeeze in a husband, a career and a few kids to bop around the apartment-in-the-sky.

During my 20s I inevitably started to hit those "my-mom-was-this-age-when" marks, at which point I brushed off responsibility and adulthood like the fading idea that a monster still lived under my bed.

At 22 I had the vague understanding that my mom was this age when she got married.

That was legal?

At 24 I knew my mom was this age when I was born.

The authorities don't automatically take children born of children away?

At 27 my mom had by brother and when I turned that age I was driving across the country about to embark upon a career change and graduate school and could barely feed myself let alone two ankle-biting kids and a grown man roommate. I mean, really.

I passed 28 reliving my early 20s in my first roommate-less apartment in Chicago with friends closer to college than 30.

During the 2010 year when my fellow 1980 pals were ticking over into that new decade I had witnessed enough anti climatic responses to recognize that this wasn't going to be a volcanic-epiphany time. But still, when I opened my eyes Friday morning I thought, maybe I'd awaken with some understanding of life.

Instead I woke up with a faint headache leftover from a night of too much.

In short, things are exactly the same. I feel motivated to kick this career into a higher gear, settle into a new apartment and city and fall into a new decade that offers, I'm told, a bit of assurance and know-thyself attitude. Which is great, because I'm still in the dark about a few things, like, am I really allergic to mushrooms? What about nectarines? Because I think my lip feels tingly after I eat them. What's up with that. Those and other such questions to be answered over the next ten years.

For those of you still slogging through those fun and frantic 20s I did want to leave you with a few items. Just a little grab bag of things I lived and learned after ten years of living in a few apartments, a handful of cities and, luckily, only one really bad hairstyle.

1. Don't cut your own bangs. I know this may sound silly as a starting point for advice, but it's a good one to remember. You may get lucky and make a clean sweep the first time but the odds are against you and sooner or later you're going to mess those puppies up and you'll end up trying to pass of the angled bang like it's sweeping the nation.

2. Best not to live with the opposite sex. Boys are fun. Boys can be great friends. Boys tend to not make awesome roommates. For one, it's hard to yell at a boy when they are not your boyfriend because they do yell back. For two, if you start doing the dishes that have been piling up in the sink said boy(s) will likely assume that doing the dishes is something you ENJOY doing, ergo dishes will always be piled in the sink.

3. Privacy settings are your friend. If all of your friend's, friend's, friends can view your facebook page, then so can your potential employers.

4. Edit yourself. Speaking of facebook, how about you don't post those drunken-last-night shots, eh? Or if your awesome friend does it for you, untag yourself. I was lucky enough to live through a Facebook-free 20s, but some of the interns I've looked into hiring have not and, trust me, the stretched-happy-face is not a subtle, sober look.

5. Beware of contracts. This goes for gym memberships, cable companies, yes, even library cards. In the end, everybody is out there trying to set up their own racket. If you sign a contract you are obligated to stick it out and, look at you, you're 22/23/24/25 you can barely get up in the morning. How are you supposed to comit to anything longer than three months? Forget cable, everything is online and look into month-to-month options. Also, crying does not always help you get out of a contract especially when speaking to someone across the globe over a phone.

6. Make a photo copy of your drivers license and your passport because you will absolutely lose it/both at least once if not multiple times. It sucks. Don't get attached to cute wallets. I'm still mourning after that red number with the embroidered hearts on the front that I left on a cab seat. {sigh}

7. If you live alone make a few copies of your keys and give them to friends, trustworthy neighbors or, if you're really ballsy, hide a few around your apartment building. Sure this could encourage theft, but it really sucks to get locked out of your apartment and to have to call your landlord who tends to be condescending about things like locking yourself out of your apartment and says things like, "Aren't you too old to be losing your keys" when EVERYONE has a bad day and perhaps there was a lot on your plate! Geeze.

8. Help a friend move. I really believe in the moving karma. Moving BLOWS and it's so super helpful to have a few (preferably larger man friends, but, really, anyone will do) on hand. Reward helpful friends with pizza and beer afterward or at least the promise of helping them down the road. And you MUST help them because it only takes one burn to lose a mover. This karma thing also goes for wayward friends looking for a couch and lending clothes out. It all comes back.

9. Bring your lunch to work. This is SO old of me to say, but, cereal, it really does cut down on costs. My Dad told it to me when I was 22 and I scoffed at him for a few years and then, when I had $1.30 in my bank account and three days before payroll I had a very quick change-of-mind. Also with every lunch you bring to work you get one free-to-brag-about-it-option. It's proven.

10. Avoid the Save-the-Children or other such selling-you-something-on-a-busy-street-corner people. They may say it's only $0.15 per day but that adds up. And you're living in New York City, the most expensive city out there, are you insane to give up $0.15 of your paycheck? One minute you're just taking an afternoon break and the next minute you're mother to baby Ruth in the Dominican who writes you sad little letters with drawings of the items she was able to buy with your measly monthly fund: apple, banana, pants. When you overdraft the next time you try purchasing the on-sale magnum at your liquor store you damn yourself, think of Ruth, and then pity your single-parent status and how lucky you are to at least have pants. The guilt and the overdraft fees are not worth the tax break. Though helping the Baby Ruth is a good thing and should be encouraged, there are other, more financially settled people who can step up to the plate for now. And if you're really stuck on doing something good, volunteer at a soup kitchen. There's no need to be the hero when you can barely make your monthly rent.

xoxoL

The round up

I bet you didn't think this was going to happen again, didja?

True the last round up was made during far more wintery weather, but that doesn't mean I haven't been combing and bookmarking all things arts, culture and just plain dumb (in a good way).

Without further adieu:

to read: A few months ago I happened across NPR's My Guilt Pleasure. And yes, it's just as indulgent as you would imagine. Writers divulge their deepest darkest literary treasures - the mostly embarrassing concessions of romance novels, best-sellers or, worse, vampires. I think Flowers in the Attic is one of my faves.

to check out: This fabulous French woman Sandrine Estrade Bell has a talent that usually leaves us commoners after the age of five: she can see imaginary creatures and people in everyday street scenes. They are quirky and hilarious and I wish it were mine. It looks like she takes photos and lets her imagination unfold in basic colors and voluptuous shapes. Check it out at My Modern Met

This guy, Made Thirsty, is my pet:



to procrastinate: Terribly addicting for very little reason, Hugh Crawford's Polaroid-a-day will suck you in with no apologies. Crawford took, as is plainly obvious, a Polaroid photo every day for 28 years. I mean, that's crazytown. But it is also fantastically addictive. Seasons change, nameless friends pile on puffy clothes and strip down to bold-colored tanks. Parties are had and food is (presumably) eaten or at least, photographed. The best part is that the lengthy photo album is a time capsule of that glorious fashion-questionable decade: the 80s.

Here is what was happening the day I was born.


Aren't you just dying to know what goes down next?

to long for: Sabrina Dehoff creates playful, colorful jewelery that will lighten your mood just enough to forget you're clomping around in high-heeled shoes (if that's the sort of thing you do).

I love the rope bracelets, a modern twist to those sailor rope bangles I collected as a kid.


Or the cloud necklace...hello? Adorable.


Speaking of adorable, this New York Times feature a while back on tiny houses is certainly to lust after. I would definitely like, no, need a mini Victorian house to live in. Sure it doesn't have indoor plumbing or heat and barely a door to speak of but it is so frickin' cute I could put it on a cupcake and eat it.



See the full slide show via NYTimes and prepare to drool.

And finally to cuddle:



What the HELL is that? I don't know but I shall adopt it and call it Fat and love it forever. It's a zooborn, get into it.

xoL

Training day: Long run no. 7

I have figured out the key to running long distances.

Are you ready for it?

Get lost.

Not in a rude way.

I mean go to a place you are not familiar with, get directions from someone too familiar with said place, get hand-drawn map, and be on your merry, ignorant way.

For my seventh long run, meant to be a "short" 10 miler, I chose the pristine, relaxing, bucolic Tripp Lake in Poland, ME.



R and I were headed to Poland for an annual friend reunion that we had to miss last year due to busy scholastic schedules. I figured the lake, which rumor had it was anywhere from 8-to-10 miles around, would be the perfect early morning long run to squeeze in before a weekend of doing a whole lotta nothing.

I checked in with the lady of the house to get the deets on the route and she kindly drew me a map, pointing out the dodgy third turn on the other side of the lake.

"If you miss this turn, you could just run forever," she said. She supported this warning with a spine-shivering story about a friend who set off on this very path and found herself lost for hours without crucial knowledge, such as street names, lake name or, for that matter, town name.



She gave the map and left me with these words: "Remember the plant lady."

The ache of the 7 a.m. alarm after one-too-many white wine spritzers was blissfully dulled by a lakeside stretch. With a new This American Life episode queued up in my ipod I felt ready and able to make it all the way around the lake.

I kept a hard eye out for street signs, attempting to commit their pastoral names to memory. My first turn had White Oak Hill on the left and Magguire Hill Road on the right. Turning onto Magguire I was greeted by a mother of a hill. The road and I were parallel lines. I was molasses-slow. It wasn't pretty.

But, y'know what was? The view.

At the cusp of the hill the tree line opened up and there was a spectacular picture window of the lake. It was fantastically enviable until a closer look revealed that the residents nestled along the ridge had all view and no access. They're like Rapunzel up there, baking on their grassy knoll, looking down on all the fun being had in and around that clear-blue patch of water.

I passed a cemetery, a lady running, a yard sale and, blissfully, the PLANT lady! Well, technically, no lady was to be found but there were for sale signs yards in advance. I took my next right after the plant lady, as told, and settled into what I thought was the last half of the run; confidence of a keen sense of direction brewing over.

But I still had one more turn and this, as it turned out, was the tricky one. When I came to the multi-pronged fork in the road with the infamous Egg-ceptional restaurant to my right and the mobile gas station across the road, it seemed clear that a right was the obvious choice. This right would have taken me back down the very same road we drove in on the night before so I would recognize the route and be home free. Little did I know there were TWO rights, a hard and, I guess, a soft. I opted for the soft that took me past a high school (I don't remember passing a high school on my way in), construction (I guess there was construction, right?), a Dunkin' Donuts (there definitely wasn't a DD on this road last night) and a small grouping of buildings that quietly said 'town center.' None of this rang a bell.

At some point during my first definitely-maybe-not-lost pep talk a car drove off the gravel road and into my grassy patch of running turf. It was big and clunky and there were tufts of grass jutting out of the drooping bumper in the front.

I stopped, assuming this was my time to be kidnapped.

I checked in with my muscles - Am I too tired to run away?

Probably.

I bent down and offered myself to the toothless man who wanted only directions to the Town Hall. Lost, myself, I thought it best to thank my would-be-kidnapper for not kidnapping me by sending him back the way he came to the kind people at the Dunkin' Dounts for surely they would know where they were.

Of course, half a mile down the road I passed the Poland Town Hall and found myself quickening my pace just in case toothless got, not only directions at the Dunkin' Donuts, but the motivation to, in fact, kidnap the lying, no-good runner who wasted his time.

After the hustle and bustle of the Poland town center faded in the distance and my once-bubbling directional confidence petered to a slow "glub", I noticed a sign.

White Oak Hill, it said.

A light went off in the dusty attic of my head that ignited a red bull-like energy back into my legs.

I happily turned onto White Oak Hill, imagining I had taken a wrong turn, yes, but I was mere meters away from where I started.

A mile into the roller-coaster-like dips and peaks of White Oak Hill I started to wonder.

Could there be more than one White Oak Hill in this tiny town?

On the downward slope of one of the rolling hills I found with my quickened step a level of delusional pride that allowed me to not only be convinced that I was moments away from home, but also not ask one of the kind people driving past me, at record speeds to locations filled with phones, maps and ice water, was this not the way back to Tripp Lake?

Too afraid to hear the answer, I kept my musings to myself and let one foot keep on going in front of the other.

And just when I thought that White Oak Hill would be my own personal limbo, I could see from the top of a hill the flashing yellow light, that familiar turn of the road and, could it be? Yes! Yes! The beautiful, blue-glass LAKE just beyond it.

I jogged down the hill and took a right back on Route 11 with arms raised like Rocky all the way back home.

I dove into the lake for a refreshing reward and regaled the group with stories of kidnap, adventure, and mountainous hills for hours after their kind interest waned.

Of course in the end it wasn't even 13 miles. Damn it! and it took me close to two hours. Damn it again! But I'm letting that slide since I had the fear of forever-lost in me and sometimes that makes a girl slow down and walk for a hill here and there.

Thus:
Distance: 12.45
Time: ~2:00
Overall: 8.5 (pros: FABulous views, new route that kept me on my toes, TAL (episode #385 Pro Se), route ignorance, the reward of two days off ahead / cons: getting lost, near kidnap)

I mean, how can you resist?



xoL

Training day: Long run no. 6

It started off great.

I appear to be suffering from the blissful delusion that the long run is a fun adventure. And so on this particular Saturday, with the thought of 13 miles dancing through my head, I jumped-ish out of bed the moment the alarm buzzed awake at 7 a.m. I mean, not even ONE snooze.

I had enjoyed the mother of all pre-running meals - spaghetti with meat sauce - on Friday and had some help mapping out my new run.

You have to get a little imaginative when you start clocking runs over 10 miles. For one, it gets boring doing the same route and for two, you might as well keep your running self on your toes with obstacles such as, your tendency to get lost, and Boston's sign-less streets.

It's all so exciting.

My goal was to do 13 miles and since everyone you meet talks a big game about this pretty lake in Jamaica Plain I felt this was the perfect opportunity. I mapped it out on map-my-run and secured a probably interstate-ramp-free route to get me to the Emerald Necklace.

Sounds eco-kinky, doesn't it.

The E.N. is this windy path of green designed by Mr. Central Park himself, Olmsted, and it stretches and turns through Boston and up to the Jamaica Pond, which is, in fact, beautiful. The best part is that you are covered in lush shade for the majority of the trek and it's hard to get lost. My friend told me to 'follow the green' and while I had my skeps, it was embarrassingly obvious. So, I highly recommend.

The downside? Oh yes, there is one. It's long. Heading back was, blissfully, on a down slope, but once I exited the green space and ran back around an already-populated Fenway down, Beacon and across the Charles River I was drawing from a bone-dry pool of will power. It was the first time I had to talk myself into it: just place one foot in front of the other.

On my last mile I was running at a toddlers nap-time pace. On the other side of the street I noticed a gaggle of ladies carrying babies walking faster. It wasn't pretty.

After listening to a pretty entertaining This American Life (#225, Home Movies featuring an always delightful David Sedaris) I ran through a 19-song mix I made for a friend (awesome, if I do say so myself) and suffered through some picky ipod shuffle. BUT, just when I thought I'd have to ask a Cambridge Mom a ride home in her supped up baby buggie, the pod redeemed itself with the most random adrenaline injection I couldn't have even imagined:

You're the Best, by the one and only Joe Esposito.

What? You're not familiar? Have you been living under a rock? It was only THE song that helped the karate kid find the will power to hop around on one foot while kicking that punk kid's ass.

"You're only a man and a man's got to learn to take it."

Except for that 'man' stuff, the song was speaking to me. Esposito picked up each lame foot and set one in front of the other until I found myself on my street (oh happy day!). Stopping was the best thing ever, ever.

Worst thing? Finding out the run took me 2:20. Which means I hope and pray that map my run was off and I ran, at least, closer to 14 miles. Even at 14 miles I'm doing a 10 minute mile which is just not going to fly. Joe Esposito would be heartbroken.

Thus:

Miles: (let's just say) 14miles
Time: (gulp) 2:20
Overall: 7 (pros: the trail really was gorgeous and pretty and varied enough to keep you distracted, TAL, mix, Joe Esposito / cons: barely surviving, time, being past by walking mums).

xoL

Explore & Long run mashup: Boston 3 ways, part 3

The final adventure of my weekend trifecta was a long run around Fresh Pond in Cambridge.

I went down to the Charles River before heading through Harvard Square and then out to Fresh Pond so I could get around a 10 mile run.

It was all very straightforward and things I'd seen before - the river run, Harvard Square (kind of a pain as it's actually populated with people) but the actual pond was a TRUE delight.

A puppy delight, that is. There were dogs a plenty - small dogs, big dogs, swimming dogs, barking dogs, smiling dogs and shitting dogs. It was SO hard to concentrate but that made that part of the run just skip on by.

The added plus was that it wasn't hard concrete and there were several little trails that I could have explored if I wasn't on a schedule. Also I would have sat and watched those pups swimming in the lake at the back for hours. Dangerous.

By the time I got out of there and back up and over the only hill I hit in Harvard Square I was utterly exhausted. And my music wasn't any help. After my This American Life episode my shuffle got into a sad-sack-song rut. My god I thought I was going to fall into a slow crawl or run into traffic.

I must have been only a half mile or so from home, dragging my comatose legs behind me, when from the depths of the ipod came relief: Spoon, Back to Life. That hard beat just brought be back to something resembling life (it's not a miracle worker, after all) It was glorious. And as if wonders never ceased the next song was my favorite, though soon-to-be-overplayed (really, if one more movie or TV trailer takes it I'm moving on, though, alright, Eat Pray Love does look not-that-bad) Florence and the Machine song, Dog Days.

She actually sings: "Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father, run for your sisters and brother..." How could I not end on a high note?

But really, are all runs over 10 miles going to be this sluggish? Because I have just a teeny tiny bit more to conquer. Like 13 miles this Saturday (gulp) in two days.

Overall:
Distance: 10.20
Time: about 1:43
Overall rating: 8 (pros: puppies, end of run songs, weather / cons: every other song, heat)

xoL

Cheating on my own blog

I am guest blogging for the awesome new eco-focused radio program Now or Never produced by Ben Pomeroy and Sarah Bacon.

Check out their podcasts and get green.

Explore: Boston 3 ways, part 2

Summer festivities take 2: Free Friday Flicks at the Half Shell

What better way to celebrate a scorching summer day than with an outdoor picnic, so thought a friend and I. The lure of the Star Trek cutiepants boys on a giant screen helped as did a picturesque view of the Charles River at sunset. It all seemed so easy, I even pre-froze spritzer accouterments (I can't let these things go), but mother nature had other plans.

And so, take head young explorers and...

Do: Roast yourself in your already-stifling kitchen in order to make a large heaping helping of pasta salad. After allowing it to chill in the fridge, this once sweat-inducing dish will be a satisfying, perfect temperature picnic meal. Also, do pack up mound of pasta salad into individual servings via Tupperware because you never know when you're going to have to up and leave.

Don't: Play dumb to the glaring change-of-weather signs that surround you. Perhaps consider that everyone you pass is carrying an umbrella for something more practical than dead weight. Don't march out of the house in nothing more than a tank top and a skirt; just because its 110 degrees in your tiny kitchen does not necessarily mean it is 110 degrees outside, it could be just 97 and that three degree chill could be a killer. Also, a skirt? Really? Is that a jean skirt? What are you nuts? Don't be the girl who flashes the moviegowers because rain is the mother of all fashionable equalizers and, also, this is a family affair. Let's keep it PG.



Do: Give in to what weather obstacles may arise. Join in on the group mentality and stick it out, plant your denim-clothed tush to the (spritzer-dampened) blanket and take in that summer storm. When the lightening flashes behind the half shell you'll be glad for the bonus show and the crowd's growing excitement.



Don't: Be a hero. When that summer storm threatens tornado and the rain doesn't so much let up as pound down, pack up your things and go. You've seen the movie before, there's no need to encourage sickness, grass stains or electrocution just for a pretty face. Also, make it quick. There are a lot of serious trekkies out there who, unlike you, have come prepared with umbrellas, extra blankets and large mafioso-style sheets of plastic (where does anyone even get those?!)and will finish this movie in rain, flood or Apocalyptic event. So scoop up your meager belongings, crouch your head and get a move on.

Do: Come again. These puppies happen every Friday night and are the perfect opportunity to brush up on your summer blockbusters or Disney/Pixar classics while munching on some homemade grub.

Next up: Exploring via the long run brings me to puppy central, better known as Fresh Pond.

xoL

Explore: Boston 3 ways, part 1

With R out of town I had a busy weekend of jumping on other people's band wagons, specifically of the picnic variety.

After three back-to-back adventures in the Boston area and a few days of rest I come equipped with a little lessons-learned nostalgia for gettin' down on some summer time activities.



And so,
Part 1) Forest Hills Lantern Festival (Thursday)

The Forest Hills Cemetery in Jamaica Plain, MA hosts this annual event that pays homage to an ancient Japanese, Buddhist ritual of spirits. Here you are meant to send a lit lantern sailing off onto the lake because at this moment a door to another world (one that ideally holds the spirits of your deceased loved ones) opens and lets your messages in. Sweet, really. But there are a few things to keep in mind before lantering:

Do: Pack a pimpin' picnic. Bring along a blanket to sit upon and some nibbles in re-closable containers so if you get distracted by the festivities (music and dancing among them) you can close and conquer. For our picnic we brought Farmers Market bounty, which included tomatoes, homemade bread, goats cheese and a fantastic Israeli spice smuggled in from the home land. Inspired by my recent wedding excursion, I brought accoutrement for white wine spritzers. True, not exactly your picnic fare, but if you can pull it off they are a refreshing delight. Which brings us to:

Don't: Bring white wine spritzers. Unless you are incredibly put together and an owner of clever things like a cooler and proper ice-keeping equipment, a simple beer would suffice.

Do: take part! To be honest, people look at you a little sideways if you're not inscribing your own lantern. Besides it's license for sentimentality -- shed a tear, coo at babies' lanterns dedicated to Grandma and Grandpa and resist the urge to sing a round of Kumbaya (over the top much?).

Don't: spend too much eating your righteous feast and miss out on drawing on a lantern (the whole POINT of the excursion). Along those same lines, don't wait until 8:29 to get said lantern to find that they have run out of the hearty wooden frames but can outfit you with a raspberry container (paper). Don't try to light the candle that sits in your raspberry container within the four walls of your paper lantern for at this moment what you're holding more closely resembles a homemade explosive device than a spiritual work of art. And don't count on your one-of-two options - ball of flames or sinking piece of paper trash - and the ensuing jokes to mesh well with the teary-eyed audience who now just view you as a heartless litter bug.



Do: Take your time, enjoy the evening. Sure it gets dark and that dessert you brought in three containers is a little harder to decipher. But how often do you get to hang around a lake at sunset with strangers in a cemetery. It's a delight. When people in brightly-colored jackets begin to take down the only light fixtures take your cue and leave.



Don't: Forget to make a note of where your car is. When the sun sets it is actually really dark out there and the winding roads that wrap around the stone grave markers all look eerily familiar. Don't let those friends walk off in search of the T because you will need buffers against the zombie vampires that like to attack clueless groups of less than four in the dark. When you finally find a helpful-looking man in a brightly colored vest sitting in a golf cart don't approach him at a full-sprint swinging your bag of contraband wine and shouting WAIT, DON"T LEAVE ME, because people don't usually respond well to crazy. Bring it down a notch. Ask politely, and when he still doesn't offer to drive you around the entire cemetery in search of your car that is parked in what lettered lot you know not (there were lettered lots?), swallow your pride and follow the direction of his point down the dark path toward what looks to be the road you came from. It's character building.

Next up, part 2: Outdoor Film Fest at the half shell (hint: bring your raincoats!)

xoL

Curious about Needham, MA?

Don't deny it. You've been wondering what the good people of this outside-of-Boston-suburb were up to.

I've got the inside scoop as an official contributor to the AOL hyper local enterprise, Patch.

Alright, so I don't live in Needham. But I'm close. Or so I thought. It may have taken me an hour to get there in rush hour traffic and because I was paranoid about getting there on time, so I arrive with 45 minutes to kill. Not wanting to be rude with my own reading material I picked up a month-old brochure for kids summer programming. A delight.

The reason for my visit was a meeting. People showed up (already a success), mat-boarded maps were displayed, lively discussions about a bridge construction project were had, voices were raised, apologies were made and things got done.

BUT the pinnacle moment for this reporter came down to one little line spoken by a Boston-accented man:

"Ahh you poopin' me?"

Yup.

It's the perfect sleeper slogan hit - PG with just enough shock to use for any occasion. Try it out.

Scenario 1: You're out to dinner with friends at your favorite eatery, salivating after their signature dish, when out of the blue the waitress informs you that they are OUT.

You: "Ah you poopin' me?"

Scenario 2: You're apartment hunting and you find this sic pad in the neighborhood you swoon after. Then the owner turns to you and says, Oh you know we're having a special this month, sign a lease and get the job of your dreams.

You: "Ah you poopin' me?"

Scenario 3: You're invited to a party celebrating the birthday of a friend you haven't seen in years. You arrive late, as usual, and walk through the unlocked door to find that dear friend has become a nudist and you're the only clothed party-goer.

You:"Ah you poopin' me?"

Just watch, it's going to sweep the nation.

In the meantime I'm back on the reporting/writing wagon and it feels good.

xoL

Officially job-y

What is that line from that movie I once saw? If you build it, they will come?

In an effort to lure the job universe in my direction, I have outfitted myself with business cards. Yup. I'm official.

And for extra credit, I made them myself. Impressed? Great, get me a job.

Thanks to the creative people at Design Sponge, who have screwed my head firmly into the delusional world of I-can-do-anything-myself, I give you: Lauren Hansen, Multimedia Journalist (extraordinaire)



Oooo Ahhhh.

These little pups (three successful in one hour) were down right tedious, plucking the impossibly small letters from a stamp grid. But once they were done the light shone from above and I viewed my life anew: I did it my damn self. And how CUTE is that little ink and quill on the back? I mean, I'd hire me.





Of course I realize there are some hiccups. My e-mail is missing and the website is a bit cumbersome, but it works for now. And since I've gotten the hang of arranging those tiny letter via Tweezers like some miniature movie theater sign, I'm a business-card-making machine.

And just in time because tonight I have my first reporting assignment in all too long. I feel a little rusty and filled with butterflies but something tells me the attendees at the Needham, MA neighborhood meeting won't bite my head off for a few follow up questions.

Training day: Long run no. 4

Not being able to resist the lure of the burbs, we stuck around Orange for the week so I had one more long run down the town's winding streets.

Long run no. 4 was a bit (teeny tiny) of a break: 8 miles. I knew where seven miles was so I guessed at the last mile or so and may have run closer to nine - sometimes you can really get yourself lost.

I was up nice and early again since we had to head into the city for a wedding. The weather was a slightly chilled 75 by 7:30 but the humidity made it down right nasty.

I had a shiny new This American Life cued up in my ipod (episode: #411) and 15 minutes into it I found myself laughing out loud while running on a public street. I could not resist. The show featured Mike Birbiglia, a self deprecating comedian who concentrates on embarrassing stories. Yes and yes. There's a bit about the amusement park ride the Scrambler and, for any of you Burbians out there who may have frequented your local summer fair, this story will just kills.

The run was a repeat so it was a bit on the boring side and the heat made my legs feel like exercising in wet denim but it was fine all in all.

What I like most about running in the burbs is the kindness of strangers. Every fitness folk I passed waved or said "Hi" "Howzit goin" and even "Have a good one." I'm not one to make a bestie while I'm sweating gallons in decades-old t-shirts, but I got into it a little. I gave a "morning" to a fellow jogger only to see her again two miles later (awkward). I threw a nod to a sprinting teen and a half-wave to a biker.

Toward the end I passed a young guy out for a casual walk in sweltering heat. The pass requires no greeting since a turn-around-hello would be ranked among the desperate. But ours was a destined salutation since my finish line was only a couple hundred yards up the road. As a turned around for my cool down walk back to the house I could see the kid rising in the distance like a villain in an old western.

The from-afar wave has to to be the most awkward of the suburban morning greetings. From what distance do you begin the wave? Do you wave a long way off and then say hello up close? Or do you choose the ignore-until-the-last-moment-and-then-casually-acknowledge-their-presence route? As I mulled over my options the great distance that stretched over the straight, flat portion of my road shortened slowly. I made the mistake of going for an early wave to find that new friend chose the ignore option so that I was waving weirdly to the air in front of me. Rejected, I fought back with an ignore/finding-something-terribly-interesting-on-my-palm-option until we were close enough to ask one another to take this dance at which point I gave a "hey" and he nodded.

Pleasantries are exhausting.

I look forward to returning to the full-on-ignore of my urban pedestrian life.

Thus,
Distance: 8.5-9 miles
Time: 1:21
Overall rating: 7 (Pros: This American Life, pomegranate sports drink, neighborly support. Cons: repeat route, sticky early morning heat, neighborly chastise)

xoL

Training day: Long run no. 3 (the Burb Edition)

It turns out I was off, like way off. Perhaps you might recall those first two 8.5 milers done over the past two weeks? Try 10.5. Yup. I was way off. Probably.

I'm in CT this weekend (Lola needed me, obviously) and, not knowing a 10 mile route off hand, I had to clock it with the car the night before. I drove the car down and around between my town and the next until I created a giant bow of a course with my parent's house at its center - dangerous considering at mile 7 I had to run past that sanctuary of rest. By the end of the drive, I had an eleven mile run to conquer.

And conquer I did at about the exact same time it took me to run my previous 8.5. WEIRD. I came to a sweaty screeching halt in front of my parent's house, turned off the ipod, paused the stopwatch to find that my would be two hour jog took 1:41, just four minutes more than my previous long runs.

It's funny how you can psyche yourself out of it, though. Like when I hit about mile eight and I was pretty convinced that I'd never make it because that extra couple of miles seemed an inhuman feat of strength. FOOL. If only I could trick myself into thinking this was all very easy.

The mileage mix up was a nice surprise. Though I don't really believe it - how could I have been two miles off?! This is what happens when you try to read a hand-drawn map.

Anyhoo, my suburban job was pleasant enough. I had to run the long run on Friday instead of Saturday so my legs felt more like lead instead of feather light flights of fancy (not that I can recall that ever happening). I had ice cold water, ice cold endurance drinks (pomegranate - yum) and an ever delightful This American Life episode (#203: Recordings for Someone). The weather was actually perfect (hard to imagine), not yet this thick pea soup humidity and a cool summer 70. Man, I wonder what that was like.

Since this epic jog I have been running smaller routes around the neighborhood that in this 90-degrees-by-seven weather is verging on torture. And if this weather continues for my next long run I cannot be responsible for the pools I will jump in and the few sprinklers whose spits of cold water I will lap up like a puppy.

Long run #3:
Mileage: about 10.5
Time: 1.41
Overall: 8 (pros: weather, cold beverages, ample amount of shade, route, surprising time / cons: Repeat TAL episode, weather, scenery).

xoL