The Grammarian

There once was an insane grammarian
Who some thought was quite antiquarian
When she saw a mistake
O’er the coals she would rake
She thought of herself as abderian

She loved all the people around her
But, woe to the lonely propounder
Who put forth a jest
Where the spelling was guessed
The meanie would quickly pound down her

So, sorry if I have offended
Your jokes and your stories are splendid
I love every one
Your selves you’ve outdone
And I hope that our friendship is mended

And limericks, please all of you write
I’ll read them and laugh all the night
And please make them naughty
I promise not to get haughty
They give me such total delight

Food

When Cameryn was about two and a half, I was able to take a year off from working and stay home with her. We lived in a house on a lake then, and that summer was the first time I could remember experiencing a truly free summer. My childhood summers were working ones.

Since Cam was such a little snip, she took a nap for about an hour and a half every afternoon after lunch. I used that time to lie out in the sun with the baby monitor close by so I could hear when she awakened from her nap.

One afternoon, when Cameryn woke up, she didn’t call to me. Instead, she lay in her crib, talking to herself in her little breathy voice, while I listened on the monitor. She was listing all the foods she loved best in the world.

“Ice cream, and chocolate cake, and popcorn, and pizza, and cookies, and ice cream, and cookies, and chocolate cake, and candy, and cookies, and . . .”

For years, when I thought back on that day, I assumed she was simply amusing herself. For the past few days, I have been restricting my caloric intake while still continuing to run, and I have come to realize that the litany baby Cameryn was reciting plays in the back of everyone’s mind, all the time.

You just have to stop chewing in order to hear it.

Albuquerque

Last night, Tim and I discussed one of our concerns about the Duke City Half Marathon. The event website states that the elevation increases by approximately 20 feet between the start/finish of the run and the halfway mark, but it doesn't give any information about how hilly the course is. I run a relatively flat training run and Tim's is more rolling, but neither is what most people would consider hilly.

This morning, I contacted Rodger Sack, a former club president with the Albuquerque Road Runners Club, and requested further details about the course. He was kind enough to send me the following reply:


There are almost no hills on the Duke City 1/2 marathon course. It predominately follows a bike path that parallels the Rio Grande river and the only hills would be overpasses over cross streets - nothing you and your training partners won't be able to easily handle. I would guess that the elevation of the course would be in the 4,500 feet above sea level range and the elevation change of less than 50' for the entire course is probably accurate. It is a pretty course through the scenic south part of Albuquerque. Enjoy.

Oh, How Quickly It Can Be Snatched Away

On the heels of the victorious completion of my longest distance ever, I shagged my butt to the doctor for my quarterly checkup. My blood pressure, if left unchecked, runs about as high as one would expect of a person who weighs twice what I do. I’m on medication and closely watched by my physician.

When I last went to the doctor, I had not yet begun to run. Three months later, I am running almost daily and faster than I would have ever thought possible. I feel good. My clothes fit slightly better, but I don’t look much different. I figured I’d probably dropped four or five pounds. My scale isn't working right now, but I haven't been worried about it. With all this exercise, why should I?

The nurse at the doc’s office told me to hop on the scale. To my shock, the scale registered twelve pounds more than it did three months ago. Twelve. Pounds. Twelve. The nurse took one look at my face and suggested we get a second opinion from the other scale, located in a back hallway of the doctor’s office. Twelve pounds.

Jeez louise.

Don’t talk to me about muscle weight. I know I’ve probably gained some muscle, but not twelve pounds’ worth.

Sigh.

But just think how much faster I’m going to be when I drop this fat.

Oooooooooo.

And she’s back.

Running Girl

Sunday, July 24, 2005, at approx. 10:00 a.m.
9 miles
1 hour, 47 minutes
Yesssssss!

Entering the Poem
- Nancy Ortenstone

Glory

Everybody’s talkin’ ‘bout
Heat prostration
with mobilization
I’m here to say
It’s a manifestation
of procrastination

Let me hear ya say
Amen!

We’re all
Slumpin’
and
Grumpin’
When we’re
Pumpin’
We’ve been
Backslidin’
Hot outsidin’
Jekyll and Hyde’n

Come on, can ya say
Amen!

I’m just chuggin’ along
Sluggin’
Water juggin’
Not doing nothin’
But runnin’
Funnin’
In the sun’n

Glory
That’s my story
My allegory
Just check
My inventory
on February 6th

Brothers, let me hear ya say
AMEN!

My Lover

My splendid lover knows my name
My true self in my heart
Though he and I are not the same
In phrase, or limb, or art -

Diverse tints, when they’re made as one
Create a lovelier shade
Than does the same dye layered on
With brush or trowel or blade

Against his masculinity
I’ve found I’ve no defense
It’s so - my love is not like me
- Viva la difference!

Aspirations

The Door in the Dark

In going from room to room in the dark,
I reached out blindly to save my face,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.

A slim door got in past my guard,
And hit me a blow in the head so hard
I had my native simile jarred.
So people and things don't pair any more
With what they used to pair with before.

- Robert Frost


I Died for Beauty, but was Scarce

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied."
And I for truth, -the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.

- Emily Dickinson


Witch-Wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay


The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

- Wallace Stevens


somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-e.e. cummings


Magic Carpet

You have a magic carpet
That will whiz you through the air,
To Spain or Maine or Africa
If you just tell it where.
So will you let it take you
Where you've never been before,
Or will you buy some drapes to match
And use it
On your
Floor?

-Shel Silverstein

Who I am

In an earlier comment to one of my posts, Mom reminded me of the ten-year-old little girl I used to be, who wrote poems for Grandma Ford.

When I was ten, I was struggling to assimilate my sexual identity with the rest of myself. Puberty came earlier for me than for most and, with it, issues and worries about sex and love.

When I was ten, I was trying to deal with my family. They were lovely and hateful, ugly and sweet, bad for me and good for me, and I vacillated in my feelings about them.

When I was ten, I worried about my body and prayed that it was becoming something I would be happy with. I tried to will it to do so.

When I was ten, I began to worry about the kids around me at school and on the bus. Some of them were mean and would physically hurt other kids. Some, mostly girls, spent their time wounding others emotionally.

When I was ten, I was learning to write. I spent much of my spare time reading and writing. I wished I could write as well as the authors and poets I read.

Nothing’s changed.

What Do You Mean I'm Not LaToya?

He was more like a Geraldine from a time machine
I said I do mind and what do you mean I am Michael?
He, who would ask little boys to fool around?
He said I am Michael, who would ask little boys to fool around

He told me on the computer screen - and it was obscene
Because I am such a girly thing, I must be Michael
Who would ask little boys to fool around

People always told me, beware of little dudes
Don’t go around those amusement parks
Mama always told me, ID before you love
Smell them for their shampoo, ‘cause Johnson’s is taboo

What do you mean I’m not LaToya?
I’ve got the boobs, the mane and I have the buns
(Just ask Tim about my buns)
I say, I have the buns. Just ask Tim about my buns.

The thirty days and the thirty nights
I just could not abide
I could not stand against his demand
It was a brand
‘Cause Michael asked little boys to fool around
So listen closely, my tribal member, this does not entice
Not entice!

He told me balls were what I would need, then he laughed at me
He knows LaToya is much more of a man than is Michael
He, who would ask little boys to fool around

People always told me, beware of little dudes
Don’t go around those amusement parks
I guess I’ll have to give in
There’s not much that I can do
But please don’t misconstrue
I’m not hip to little dudes

What do you mean I’m not LaToya?

Creativity and the Dry Blogger

My sister, Jane, says
She is too dry to blog
As dry as a bone
Her brain’s in a fog

With all of this sweat
And all of this heat
It takes all you’ve got
To stay on your feet

But I disagree, Jane
Your muse is still there
It’s protected by bone
Heat-shielded by hair

Like so many other
Of our secret wares
We hold it too close
We hide what’s "down there"

But sometimes you must
Admit that you’re dry
Head down to the drugstore
And buy some K-Y

Oh, don't be so shocked
It’s not unrelated
This blog keeps my writing
Quite well lubricated

Don’t Eat Them Nasty Sliders with Cheese Spray and Green Olive Spread

We had planned to get up early on Sunday and run. Somehow, we didn’t get out there until it was too late and way too hot to even think about it. We decided to wait until after 7 p.m. to do our run, and to tack an extra mile on the end.

We pretty much dinked around all day Sunday, watching movies, taking naps and doing the odd bit of laundry. There haven’t been many such days for me lately, with all the house-related duties that need my attention.

The fridge was pretty well devoid of food and I needed laundry detergent, so around noon we got in the car and headed over to Big Lots, saying we would pick up some burgers on the way home. Big Lots has an international food section and we allowed ourselves to get sucked into its vortex. There was goat milk chocolate spread. There were pickles of every kind, from everywhere you can imagine. There was green olive spread. Green olive spread. Yes, I said green olive spread. The label said it was made with green olives, olive oil, basil, capers . . .it sounded fabulous to me. We got some. We picked up some chips and, while we waited at the register, Tim impulsively grabbed a can of cheese spray. We didn’t inspect the ingredients. Some things you just don’t want to know.

We headed over to Braum’s to get some burgers and they were having a special on a "Bag o’ Burgers," basically five sliders. We got one and asked how much it would be to add cheese. It was 40 cents a burger. Good grief! I told Tim we could always use the cheese spray. Yes! The cheese spray! He smiled and gave me the thumbs up.

Apparently we had gone to sleep, normal adults, on Saturday evening and somehow had awakened Sunday morning, college kids with the munchies.

We got home. We put both the olive spread and the spray cheese on the burgers. We wolfed them down. Oh, the foolhardiness of youth.

Six hours later, I was hungry again and I knew it was going to be too late to eat when we returned from our run, so I quickly made some pasta and ate it. We got ready and drove to the lake to run. I was fine during the warm-up, but about a half-mile into the run, I felt like I was carrying a three pound stone in my gut. I won’t go into further detail, but it wasn’t pretty. I didn’t know it, but Tim wasn’t feeling too hot, either. He apparently covers it up better.

I made it about two miles, maybe a little less. Tim ran on ahead, got the car, and picked me up. My hero. I mean that, with all my heart.

If you see me with a can of cheese spray, olive spread or any one of the aforementioned food items in my hand at any time before the marathon, knock it out of my hand and kick my ass.

Following Instinct

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to be a speed demon. I don’t expect to finish in the top half of the marathon. I don’t even care if I’m dead last. I just want to finish.

But I gotta tell you: I can’t imagine running for 8 hours. 8 hours. Running.

I know people will do that very thing in the Mardi Gras Marathon. I may be one of them.

It will take me increasingly longer to do my long run each weekend. This will rapidly become a major time consumer. I have made a commitment to myself to work up to running five miles with a one-mile warm-up each day. If I could do this in an hour someday, it would be a perfect lifetime workout. Right now, I’m walk/running three miles for a warm-up and running three miles about three times a week, and it’s been taking me about 90 minutes to do it. I’ve been running very slowly and it takes me as long to run three miles as it does to walk it.

I’m just thinking that I would like to get done a little sooner. Not for glory (that’s well out of my reach!), but to just be done. Sooner. I know that the 15-26.2 mile stretch during the marathon will consist of slower miles than the 1-15 mile stretch, for virtually everyone. In order to start out with 15-minute miles and finish with 15-minute miles, I would have to be some kind of robot. Which I clearly am not.

So, I decided last weekend to do some interval training to strengthen my legs and get my speed up. I know this may cause some protest among the tribe. One member has already expressed her disapproval. But hear me out.

I warmed up, then ran slowly for one block and fast for two blocks. I did this several times, then I alternated one block of slow for one block of fast, then two blocks of slow for one block of fast. It wasn’t easy. Toward the end, I walked a bit on my slow blocks. By the time I was done, I was tired, but not bonked. The kiddo and I went for a bike ride for about an hour and I felt fine.

Last night, Tim and I ran for the first time together in nearly a week. We ran/walked our first three miles, then stopped to use the restroom. Then we ran the other three miles. My speed was much increased and I felt much stronger. Tim commented on how strong I seemed to be. I felt wonderful, in fact. When all was said and done, it took us 80 minutes to do the whole thing, including the bathroom break. We believe we shaved 15 minutes off our three-mile time, finishing it in a record 30 minutes.

This morning, I feel great.

Instinct rocks.

Scary Adventures in Iowa

The weekend before last, Tim and I took the kids to Iowa to visit his family. Although the trip is long, it is not unpleasant for me, because I have a longstanding diabolical scheme of using annoying driving habits to keep Tim firmly ensconced in the driver’s seat, eyes bloodshot, mitts clamped to the wheel, for hours on end. I get to sleep. Don’t try to tell me we womenfolk don’t know what we’re doing.

We got to Iowa, we ran. Well, Tim ran. I tried to run through what was fairly intense lower back pain. I ended up walking practically the whole distance. I thought it was kidney pain. I drank a lot of water when we got back. It didn’t help.

We drove a couple of hours about halfway through the trip to attend a family reunion. As the visit progressed, so did my pain and a weird twisting sensation in my upper thighs and hips. I started wondering if I had somehow cracked my pelvis. (No comments from the peanut gallery, here. I mean it. If I have to pull over and stop this blog, somebody’s gonna be sorry.)

Tim’s dad suggested that it was sciatica. Absurd. After all, I thought, sciatica would mean no marathon.

We drove home. I woke up the next day. Incredibly intense pain. Crap.

A little internet research provided me with a physical test, which confirmed Tim’s dad’s diagnosis. I also discovered that the long car rides were probably the catalyst, and that poor posture (slumping while sleeping) almost certainly exacerbated the problem. It did not mean no marathon. What a relief! I was advised to take a week off from running. And stretch. And take ibuprofen. And sit up straight.

Last night Tim and I walked three, ran three. No pain. I iced my back. I woke up this morning. No pain.

Sciatica schmiatica.