Something Has Its Teeth in My Ass

You can mock me
If you want
But I’m doing this
YOU HEAR ME?
I’m doing it

I’M TALKING TO YOU
You, me, it

No, it’s definitely you

I refuse to acknowledge
That the simpering, insinuating,
Negative part of me
Is part of me

You too FAT.
You too SLOW.
You too LAZY.

(Why is this voice pseudo-Asian?
They all seem to be pseudo-something.
- I promise I’m no bigot)

Ooooooh! One uthah theen:
You UGLY, too.

Walkin' My Man

Out runnin’
Out walkin’
Pretty soon I’m walkin’ - he’s runnin’
Holdin' him back
People start lookin’
They’re gonna start talkin’
They’ll say I’m out
Walkin’ my man

Doing the Diary Doo-Dah

Since my last post probably freaked everybody out, today I repent from my wicked ways by falling into line and doing the diary doo-dah.

This weekend, Tim began training with me. I hope he will decide to complete the marathon. He is much more athletic than I am and he has always (without laughing) supported my puny attempts to get or stay in shape over the years we’ve been together. A knee injury a long time ago caused him to curtail his running. Maybe running with me will force him to train slowly enough that his knee will be okay and, thus, I can find some portion of solace in being so poky. Tim has never completed a full marathon and expresses some doubt about wanting to do it now.

As for me, I am keeping the idea of the marathon itself hidden away in the fog that is the outer reaches of my mind. I can barely stand to think about what I have to do this evening. I live in denial all day long: I’m not gonna do it, I’m not gonna do it, not gonna, not gonna . . . then, that sinking feeling as my shoes hit the pavement, oh, crap, I’m doing it.

This may seem backward to you. Unlike most of my bizarre behavior, I can trace this particular twist in my vine to the root. When I was a child, my mother used to take me to the dentist without mentioning where we were going. After about 4th grade or so, you’d think I’d have realized that when she suddenly showed up at school and pulled me out of class in the middle of the day, something might be up. A traitorous part of me must have known and was keeping silent to hold off full-scale panic and mutiny in the rest of my brain until it was simply too late to save me.

If I can just manage to keep the discomfort-hating piece of my mind in the dark (Marathon? Did somebody mention a marathon?), there will be no problem. When we all meet the day before the run, it’ll be easy to pick me out. I’ll be the one who doesn’t have a clue what we’re doing there.

Orchid Lover

William loved orchids. He would visit a nursery near his home whenever he could. He would wander through the beautiful flowers, smelling their delicate, citric, occasionally bitter, perfume. In his infatuation, some of the blossoms appeared to him to be the delicate ears of elves, and others the secret parts of women.

He knew that one day he would have an orchid of his own. But which one? The flowers that were beautiful didn’t always have the most pleasing fragrance, and the ones that smelled sweeter were often very plain. It would not do to be impulsive.

After weeks of consideration, he finally settled on a Catasetum with a beautiful fragrance and delicate purple and pale yellow blossoms. It was expensive, but what was money compared to love? He took it home. For weeks, he lavished it with attention. He stopped going to the nursery. His orchid smelled heavenly, like citrus and cinnamon with a hint of vanilla.

One night, very late, when he was nearly asleep, William gazed with sleepy eyes at the orchid beside his bed. The face of the nearest blossom was turned directly toward him. Its lower front petals were shaped like a cup with a delicate outward-folding lip, and the upper petals were a smaller, upturned mirror of the lower ones. Together, they seemed to form an open, inviting mouth. A flash of heat and desire came over him. Giving no thought to what he was doing, he stretched forward and licked it, gently, between the lips of its cup. As his tongue touched the center, it seemed to him that the lips of the orchid suddenly squeezed his tongue with a gentle suction. Before he could draw back, he felt himself let go in a spasm of release.

He fell back on the bed, breathing heavily. Was he mistaken, or had there been a flavor? A delicate, green, almost animal, muskiness? He sat back up and looked at the blossom. Its head was drooping slightly now. Maybe it had been the nearness of his nostrils to the source of the fragrance that had made it seem so. Maybe it was his imagination that the flower had seemed to kiss him back. Maybe, but he didn’t think so.

Time to Get Serious

I’ve been lazy
up to now
- I admit it

Attacking the lactic acid:
I don’t wanna
But I gotta

I’ve been a pig
up to now
- I admit it

Humbling the rumbling tum:
Haven’t done it munch
I mean, much

I’ve been a fish
up to now
- I admit it

Chuggin’ the glug drug:
I’ve had water, too
In my ice cubes

Arose at 5:30 a.m. today
Ran right out the door
Time to get serious

Half Stupid

I have nothing to report, exercise-wise. I’ve spent the last two weeks painting and cleaning my surroundings, as well as Tom Sawyering any hapless friends, relatives or complete strangers dumb enough to wander into close proximity of my web . . .er, house. I’ve gained five pounds and little alarm bells are going off in my head, trying to warn me, put down that paintbrush and get yer shoes on. All this paintin’ may be helpin’ yer triceps, but it ain’t gone do nuthin’ to help you over them 26 miles, unless yer plannin’ on dragging yerself by one arm, that is.

My inner voice is apparently a toothless redneck.

My daughter, Cameryn, is ambidextrous. When she was a baby, she could throw food accurately enough to hit me in the eye from across the room, using either arm or both at the same time. She even timed it so that my eye was open when the food struck. When she was in first grade, Cameryn would write with her left hand, then switch whenever her hand got tired. Now, she writes with her left hand and plays tennis or throws with her right, but this is by choice. You could lop off one of her arms and she’d get over it in about a day and a half. Kiss and a band-aid.

This weekend, after spending about three thousand hours dabbing paint into tiny holes in the texture of my bathroom walls, I commented that my arm felt like somebody BIG had slug-bugged it.

"Use your other hand," Cameryn suggested, in a sensible voice.

"Some of us have a stupid hand," I advised. (I intended this to sound wise, but I think it might have come out a tad on the whiny side.) Kee-ids, I thought. I cain’t even wipe mah butt with mah lef’ hand.

"It’s not your hand that’s stupid," the fruit of my womb informed me. "It’s one half of your brain that’s actually stupid."

Then she laughed, like a . . . like a . . . multiple arm using . . . superior brain having . . . thinker of thoughts . . .well . . .

[cough]

You know what I’m getting at.

Buying an old house: Does it count as cross-training?

I lift and bend and stretch and slave
I’ve got no time to misbehave
I bought this house
Without a spouse
Now it will be my grave

They’ve taken all my money
Hell, I begged them to take it
Was it just a week ago
I was free of commitment?
And now I work constantly
I’ve no time to eat
I can’t find anything
But the cats love it
John, the naked Rex
Has developed a six pack
- Or is it a twelve pack?
From running up the stairs
Nigel catches his paws
In the floor registers
The rooms echo with his howls
As soon as he’s freed
He sticks a paw back in
He reminds me of me