Fox and Bunny and Woodpecker Stew

The NFL’s countdown to the season opener is at sixteen days, seven hours, and eight minutes.  SIXTEEN DAYS!!  I am so excited I can hardly stand it.

Are we there yet??

Have you ever packed for a trip of an indefinite period of time involving a race, an interview, and a wedding?  No?  Well it looks something like this:

Suits, workout gear, bridesmaid dress, jeans, sundresses, a dozen shoes, and a whole manner of toiletries.  (Okay, not a dozen; I narrowed it down to eight. But if the fucking airlines weren’t such miserly pricks and checking bags wasn’t so A, damn expensive and B, a monster pain in the ass, it would have been at least twelve.)

And that, sprawled across it all, is my darling Pick.  Would you look at him?  That little ball of fur has me wrapped around his pinkie and then some.

My little meatloaf.  I miss him so much.

I have a confession to make.  I hadn’t finished The Stuff That Never Happened when I wrote about it.  I know, I know, I’m a bad person.  For whatever reasons I assumed it was due at the end of the month.  (It drives my mother crazy, this nasty habit of mine and Pops’s, to assume things.  And when she says it — literally, the word “assume” — it sounds like an expletive.  But I digress.)

When it came to my attention that it was due Tuesday I had less than 48 hours to read the thing and type up a smart, insightful post (at which I failed miserably).  I hadn’t started it yet.  And I was smack in the middle of another book, Empress Orchid by Anchee Min.  (Which is also a good book.  Crap ending though.  And by ending I mean the last 60% or so.  I kept waiting for all the happy mushy fairytale stuff and it never came.  Damn Chinese.  Even their history depresses me.)  And then this week was full and busy and really, those of you out there imploring us unemployeds “but what do you do all day?,” I tell you what, we’re busy as fuck.  My days fly.  So I only managed to get down seventy pages or so of The Stuff That Never Happened before writing that.  Not yet into the meat of the story, but enough to have a feel for the characters and for me to have sympathetic pangs for Annabelle, the protagonist.

I meant it when I said I enjoyed it more than I expected, and proceeded to read the rest of it in three more sittings.  This book is good.  It’s not the story you think it is.  At least it wasn’t for me.  I found myself rooting for each of the two men in Annabelle’s life, after swearing I’d only like the one.  The back and forth over time pulls you in, gives you depth and history and perspective.  The characters are rich and real and often likeable, although sometimes not (and hence all the more real).  She doesn’t take the story where I thought she was going, and I ended up liking her version better than my imagined one.  It’s so life-like and regular, for lack of a better word, and it’s because of its realness that it’s so touching and exhilarating.  I really dug this book.

And then just now “Porcelain” by Better Than Ezra came on my iPod and it struck me how similar it is to the story.  Not literally — “Porcelain” is far more extreme and scary and obsessive, but still.  A bit.

I know it’s been awhile.  Too long.  Irregular, half-assed posting.  Who do I think I am?

I’m in Hawaii for the week for Susan and Simon’s wedding.  Posting from 5,000+ miles away — the devotion!

There are overdue Chicago photos and running updates and love notes coming, I promise.  In good time.  Right now there are sunrises from atop a volcano and pampering at the spa and my best friend’s wedding (holy shit!) to tend to.  You understand.

Aloha!

There’s a sign in the bathroom that says tampering with the smoke detector awards you a fine of $2,200.  $2,200?  Who comes up with these numbers?  Arbitrary much?  Why not $2,000?  Hell, round-up to $2,500.  Too much?  Can’t you see someone sitting there going “Oh, no.  $2,500 is excessive.”  Who pays these people?

I’m sitting on a frigid never-ending flight to Maui, complete with four screaming infants and an army of children sprinting through the aisles.  Ranting over airplane lavatory fines is keeping me sane.

But really.  $2,200?

Yesterday as I was running (nineteen miles! — we’ll get to that in a bit) I nearly toppled over a deer.  I didn’t see her until the very last second, when she picked up her head and looked at me; it was the movement that caught my eye.  I was so surprised I exclaimed “holy shit, a deer!” and somehow managed not to graze her as I tumbled by.

She just stood there munching away, startled by neither my rapidly approaching her, nor my screeching aloud.  Aren’t deer supposed to be all timid and easily frightened and such?  Maybe she calculated my huffing as I lumbered along and realized I was more a danger to myself than I was to her.  I had half a mind to stop and pet her, but I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules in deer world.  Especially after permitting me such a close encounter.

And before you northerners get all crotchety and go yeah yeah, a deer, please remember that I grew up in the banana republic.  We have peacocks and iguanas the size of small gators and crabs and parrots and manatees, but no deer.  Yes, the state animal is the key deer and yes it is native (and in fact resides nowhere else on the planet) to the keys, but they’re endangered and scarce and spotting one would be akin to finding a unicorn.  So yes, we southern Floridians get quite worked up over deer.  Especially since the fuckers are always on the run — vacations were always “Look! A deer!” “Where? Where?! I don’t see itttttt… [insert wail here].”  At least peacocks and iguanas sit still and stare back at you.  And what fun is that?

What was I saying?  Oh yes.  Nineteen miles, bitches!  First time ever.  On my own, no less.  Do you know how hard nineteen miles is?  On your own?  I should be served brownie sundaes by Clive Owen for the rest of eternity for my trouble.  With a side of Gerard Butler.  And Mike Rowe.  And Chase Crawford, for good measure.

What?  It was hard.  A girl’s gotta nurse her strength back.

I joined a book club created by Linsey, one of the amazing ladies on my Eat.Blog.Run. relay team.  From Left to Write is the first official book club I’ve joined, and I’m thrilled and honored to be included.  Thanks heaps, Linsey!

From Left to Write is a bit different from typical book clubs, at least those with which I’m familiar.  Rather than write a synopsis we are encouraged to relay personal experiences that the book at hand reminds us of.

For a rundown of The Stuff That Never Happened please click here.

Seeing as I’m two decades younger than Annabelle, the protagonist, there are many elements in her life that I have not yet experienced myself — chief among them marriage and children.

Her relationship with her husband hits a nerve, though.  Stable, durable, and often happy, the McKays’ marriage is ideal on many levels.  And yet after twenty-eight years Grant just isn’t that into Annabelle anymore.  Faithful and respectful, yes.  But interested and engaged and enthusiastic, not so much.  His attitude toward Annabelle is one of boredom and mere tolerance.  And it crushes me.

A spouse or long-term partner losing interest and becoming bored with me is one of my greatest fears.  I realize that probably sounds naive and insecure, but I feel like that is the source of so many relationships’ ailments and downfalls.  I want to find someone to spend my life with; I want to find one person that is equal parts rock and lover and companion, day in and day out.  It scares the bajeezus out of me that my potential partner could wake up one day and be over it.  Over me, over us, over our life together.

It sounds cliché, sure.  But clichés don’t evolve unfounded.  Partners becoming bored with each other (and hence leaving or cheating or resenting and so on) is a pretty regular occurrence.  So many people shrug and say “it is what it is” and accept that they will have multiple life partners, rather than just one.  And maybe one day that will be me too.  The odds certainly favor that outcome.  The only problem is that I was raised on Disney stories with deserving princesses and fairytale endings.  And I’m still holding out hope for my own Prince Charming.

I do like the book more than I anticipated, though.  Well written, engaging, relatable — an enjoyable read on all fronts.  If you’re looking for an easy read over the last days of summer, definitely check out The Stuff That Never Happened.  It’ll grab you from the get-go.

I am one of the best human beings on the planet when it comes to procrastination.  Seriously.  If there is a set schedule and that affects others, I can get it done on time, no problem.  So that’s good; at least my procrastinating doesn’t fuck up my performance in the office or similar.  But when the only person that is affected by it is me, I’m screwed.

Need to pack for a big trip?  The night before.  Late the night before, after cooking and cleaning and putzing around on the computer and hey, maybe Teet and I should finally watch that DVD she’s been bugging me about.  Need to research a prospective employer for an interview?  Morning of.  Need to write a blog post that I’ve had several days’ notice for?  Down to the wire.  Need to workout?  Five hours later I’m still dragging my feet.

I get these things done, but the end result ends up being more difficult.  Not only have I stressed about it all day,  but I’ve come up with countless “first I’ll do A, then B, then C, no later than X allotted time,” none of which actually stick.  Five other things get thrown into the mix, regardless of their imperative and/or urgent nature, nothing is done in the order or time frame that I set for myself, I fester over it further.  Then there’s the fact that I’m literally losing sleep over it (in terms of packing well into the night) or running in the heat of the day, when it’s the absolute worst time to be out there.  And still I do this to myself.  Every day.

One day I’ll learn.  Until then, I’ve got six miles to run, which means it’s back to Tumblr for me.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have a new crush.

1:53:53!

Not as fast as I’d hoped, and I spent the better part of an hour bummin’ over those four lousy minutes.  But at the end of the day, it’s faster than my original goal time, and I was working with a painful ankle and a nasty cough. That, and it gives me 3:54 to shave off the next one.

Was a little bit quicker than my target pace for the first half.  Slowed down a bit around mile seven, and by mile ten I was off pace.  Couldn’t make up the time after that; my body was going about as hard and fast as it could.  And let me tell you, that last mile was the longest mile I’ve ever run in my life.  Ever.  Had a lot of fun on a great course, just wasn’t in ideal racing health.

Pretty damn good for my first time.