Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

Bill, My First (not)

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CancerI sent in my registration today. It’s in the mail which means there is no turning back now…unless I want to commit a federal offense. I’m committed alright! Committed to the run. Bill, your challenge will be my first even though it’s your third. No. That’s not entirely true. I’ve run one other 5K in my life. Just as I’ve only run one other race besides that. So, come to think of it, your third annual challenge is technically my third race ever. Go figure.
March 15th. Mark my calendar in red. I signed up. I paid to play.
Here’s the deal: Look Park – twice. 8am. Bill’s Challenge III is sponsored by Cancer Connection. Bill was CC’s first client. He was so involved in Cancer Connection that after his death the 5K challenge was created in his honor. Somehow I missed the 2006 & 2007 challenges but thanks to my father-in-law, hello challenge 2008, here I come.

Here’s my deal. I am not running for personal time. I could care less about beating anyone else (least of all myself). I run to fight cancer, honor someone special, raise awareness for issues like domestic abuse, bring places like Darfur into focus…I could go on. I run to help. Always have, always will. If I’m not moving my feet for something good, it’s not worth doing. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, show me the cause and I’ll find the fight.

Sole Sisters (for Sarah)

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0740757113_01__sx140_sclzzzzzzz_.jpgLin, Jennifer and Susan Warner. Sole Sisters: Stories of Women and Running. Kansas City: Andrews McMeel, 2006.

Here’s what I wrote on LibraryThing:
This is a book of inspirational stories about women running together, women running for recovery, women running for themselves. From personal goals of fighting cancer to group goals of running as a centipede in a marathon, every story comes together with humor and poignancy. There is the woman running to celebrate health and the one who runs to honor loss. Every woman has a reason for running and this book illustrates that point.

Yes, there is definitely going to be a definite split between LT blogs and what I put here. I think I explained that one well enough already.

My favorite lines:
“If I wanted to take orders from a man I would have married one” (p 12).
“She walks with a slight hitch, but she still lifts weights and runs 35 miles a week, just for herself” (p 14). Are you doing the math, people? That would be 5 miles a DAY, or 8.5 miles every other.
“The event was apologetically girly” (p 25). Never apologize for what you are.
“I ran to keep my heart beating” (p 59).
If you take that first step, do everything in your power to also take that last step” (p 92).

I read this because of Sarah. Thanks to her, it was the first gentle nudge towards getting back to running. I needed the nudge. I hope she doesn’t mind that I left it for another friend – to inspire & motivate.

Defiant Hero

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Brockman, Suzanne. The Defiant Hero. New York, Ivy Books, 2001.

I am not a big fan of romance novels. I’m just not into the language they all seem to require. While the plot of The Defiant Hero is riveting, I am more than a little bored by how good looking the three pivotal couples are. The women are all drop dead gorgeous, “impossibly beautiful” with amazing legs, eyes, breasts, you name it… while the men are chiseled, rugged, handsome, can cry on command, etc, etc. These people are so achingly beautiful and yet…there is something keeping every couple apart. They either hate one another, or are suspicious of each other, or something.
Okay, first the plot (The LibraryThing version): Meg is a translator for a European embassy. Her daughter and grandmother get kidnapped by an “Extremist” group. Meg’s love interest is Navy SEAL Lieutenant John. He’s called in by the FBI to help Meg. She specifically asks for him. Alyssa and Sam are the second couple – Alyssa is FBI and Sam is Navy SEAL – both involved with getting Meg because she has become a kidnapper herself. The third couple is Meg’s grandmother and her past. She reminisces about her first husband while being held captive by the “Extremists.” Got all that? In between the macho FBI/kidnapping violence there is a good amount of romance novel sex – the pantie ripping, throbbing kind.
My favorite quotes:
“Unfortunately, though, penises came attached to men. And therein lay one of her biggest problems” (p 9).
“He was gazing at her as if she were a gourmet delicacy the chef had just presented” (p 218).
“He was supposed to spend the night cuffed to a woman he craved more than oxygen” (p 260).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust and the chapter ” Romance Novels: Our Love is Here to Stay” (p 203). Obviously chosen in honor of Valentine’s Day. Wanna know something else that’s cheesy? I waited until 2/14 to crack it open, too. It was a fast and fun read!

I Found Fire

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I can’t stop thinking about this. I can’t stop the burning because truthfully, I found the fire. Here’s what I needed to do – all I really needed to do: simply talk to someone who runs like me – not perfectly, not professionally, not obsessively. Someone who understands stumbling onto the powerline of running and the electric desire to stay strong. It’s a balancing act to stay on that live wire. Believe you me. What dawned on me was that I had no one to talk to about MY run, MY pain, MY failures. I would try, but deep in my heart I knew the well-meaning ears would only half hear me and the well-meaning hearts would only half understand me. Bottom line – no one got my run. I was another puppet – talktalktalk – and I was probably boring as all hell. No one got me. I mean reeallly got me.
That changed when I got back from Florida. I’m not sure which words struck the match, but I have found the fire. Since getting back I have run five times. Each time no more that 31 minutes. 2.4 miles, 2.45 miles, 2.5 miles, 2.55 miles, & 2.75 miles. Every other day the treadmill calls my name and I answer. I’m running to stupid sh!t like “Cotton Alley” and “2am” but, but. But! I hope that will change when I actually break down and buy myself an ipod. I’ll make running playlists for 2.5 miles, 3 miles, 5 miles…(lawd, I’m a geek). I’m so obsessed about the song that in fact, I now listen to music with an ear on the run. Can I move my feet to this? Is this something that will snag the miles and drag me along? I’m asking for advice, listening to the bmps. Everyone says “Running Down a Dream” is one of the best songs. I still say “Paint it Black” and “Use the Force” are my anthems. For now.

Bridget Jones

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IMG_0570Fielding, Helen. Bridget Jones’ Diary. New York: Penguin, 1996.

When I first learned this chick-lit was on my list I didn’t know whether to groan or grin. But, after pages and pages of stuffy political biographies I knew I’d need a fluffy change. I just didn’t expect it to be so funny! Luckily, my good friend let me borrow it…Here’s the LibraryThing Review:
Bridget Jones is a likable 30-something Londoner. A little on the plump side (so she thinks) and more than a little single (so everyone keeps pointing out), her year long diary takes the reader on a journey through her attempts at weight loss and dating. While her weight gain is more that her ultimate loss and her initial love interest cheats on her, Bridget triumphs with humor and a naivete that is undeniably charming. Obsessive and narcisstist characteristics aside, Bridget could be any woman’s best friend. A delightful (quick) read.

My favorite lines:
“I know what her secret is: she’s discovered power” (p 58).
“Love the friends, better than extended Turkish family in weird headscarves any day” (p 74).
“There’s nothing worse than people telling you you look tired. They might as well have done with it and say you look like five kinds of shit” (p 92).
“By 11:30 Sharon was in full and splendid auto-rant” (p 108).

The only disappointment was a discrepancy with dates. On Wednesday, March 15 Bridget writes “only two weeks to go until birthday” yet, on Tuesday, March 21 she claims it’s her birthday. Two weeks from the 15th is the 29th or at least the 28th. Even if she is counting work weeks it would have been the 25th. Not sure what to think of that. Then there is the time she spends doing something. How is it possible to spend 230 minutes inspecting your face for wrinkles? I’ve done the math. That’s nearly 4 hours – unless London has more minutes to an hour than we do…(ps~ I’m being a snob here. Of course I know Bridget isn’t spending that much time on one activity…)
Another weirdness is that Bridget makes reference to Goldie Hawn and Susan Sarandon a lot. I couldn’t figure out what the reference was all about considering The Banger Sisters didn’t come out until 2002. I’m thinking she meant Thelma and Louise but in that case she didn’t mean Goldie Hawn, but rather Geena Davis. Whatever.

BookLust Twist: From Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust in the chapter called, you guessed it, “Chick-Lit” (p 53).

Reviewer Rotten-ly

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I shouldn’t care what strangers say about me.
I should say that again.
I should not care what strangers say about me!
Yet, I do.
There. I said it.
I care. I definitely do.

Here’s why: I was cruising around my LibraryThing page, noticed a little “thumbs up” icon on certain reviews & got curious. What did that little icon mean and had it ever been applied to a review of mine? Hmmm….This is where I should have remembered the little saying about curiosity killing the cat because while searching my own reviews for that “thumbs up” icon I came across a review that had “tagged” as not a review. It was like a big, fat warning to all the professional reviewers out there, a flashing sign that read: “hey guys, don’t waste your time reading this horseshit. It’s not a real review.” Okay, so no one actually said that…but, that’s what it felt like. Not a review. Defenses up, demeaning name-calling at the ready: jerks…snobs! Who did they think they were? Then, I went back and read the post in question…Whomever tagged it was right. In the traditional sense it’s definitely NOT a review. See for yourself. Yet, the tag still stung. It’s like being called out as a fraud; no Great Oz. I have been tempted to go back and write a real review, something academically sterile and boring to compensate. I feel guilty because here I am, in the Early Review program and I break all the rules for writing a traditional review: You are supposed to review the plot: one, keeping first person voice out of it, and two, you’re not supposed to quote text. Two things I do all the time.
There is a disclaimer on my site that states I don’t review books in the traditional manner, but rather as proof that I took the time to read something for the BookLust Challenge. So, what now? Maybe I should write a traditional review for LibraryThing and leave my quoting and blathering for this site only???? I’m still pondering that….and sort of practicing that. LT gets the straight up this-is-the-book and WP gets ThisIsWhatTheBookMeantToMe. More work? Yes, but it will be worth it to not be so reveiwer rotten.

By the way …the “thumbs up” icon that got me in trouble in the first place? It was an was-this-review-helpful? indicator… Go figure.

American Century

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Evans, Harold. The American Century. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998.

Weighing in at over 700 pages, American Century is nothing short of gorgeous. Bold black and white photos stand out on nearly every page, while satiric comics adorn the others. I have always loved the Brown Brothers photo of the construction workers on the Woolworth Building and was pleasantly surprised to see its inclusion on page xvii. 

I liked learning that President Cleveland bought the “dirt” on an opponent and upon receiving the envelope burned it, unopened, on the spot. He also suffered from cancer of the mouth and had an entire artificial jaw.

“You feel small in the presence of dead men, and you don’t ask silly questions” (p 332).
Here’s the LibraryThing version of my review:
“Any history buff should have this sitting on his or her shelf (and have a shelf sturdy enough to support this 700+ book). Chock full of intriguing cartoons and mesmerizing photographs, American Century covers every aspect of U.S. history from 1889 to the mid 1990s. Well written with commentaries and first hand accounts, history comes alive. The people, the politics, the power, the pitiful downfalls. The 20th century is laid out and every historical moment of worth is described and detailed.”

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust and the chapter “American History: Fiction” (p 21). I have to explain that this isn’t fiction. Pearl referenced The American Century while talking about Ken Baker’s novels. Ken Baker helped Harold Evans with The American Century.

Wanna See My Boarding Pass?

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Boarding
FYI – like getting plants tangled up in my shoes, I am capable of snagging maps on the inside zipper of my purse. Good thing it wasn’t stuck on the boarding pass. You’ll soon see why (note the boarding pass just above the captured map):

On the way down to Tampa I needed to show my boarded pass once and relinquish it only to get on the plane. Boarding the plane was done in a haphazzard sort of way. I was group A #46 and when they called group A numbers 35-60 we just moo’ed our way on board. No big deal.
Not so on the way home. Tampa is tough. I needed my boarding pass four different times. I should have stapled it to my forehead. Really. I had it out while waiting in the winding, maze-like line. (That line reminded me of the lines at Six Flags only without the tvs and fun.) I’m not a seasoned traveler so I carefully watched the other passengers and followed their leads. Because of them, I knew to take off my shoes, have my picture ID ready and to go where I was told. But, after that I was a bumbling idiot. I didn’t know I needed the id  and boarding pass out for a third time at the security scanners. I had put it back in my purse (which was now going through the xray machine). The security guy wouldn’t let me walk through the gate without the pass, but made no move to retrieve my purse for me. I stood there rooted to the spot, confused as hell, wondering what to do. Passengers moved around me, shooting pitying glances my way. Maybe they were thinking Stupid. I know I was. Finally the security gate guy said, “come on through, BUT I need to see that boarding pass the second it comes out.” I practically sprinted through the gate and anxiously peered down the conveyor belt waiting for my bucket of shoes and purse to emerge. A trickle of sweat meandered down my back. My bare feet embarrassed me. As soon as the bucket started to show itself I reached in for it – I swear – only to facilitate the process and produce that boarding pass faster. “Don’t reach!” someone barked at me. “Okay!” I practically yelped and jumped back. If I was flustered before now I was a basket case. Finally, out came the bucket (on its own), out came my purse and, out came the boarding pass. Frustrated and extremely embarrassed I shoved it at the security guy who barely gave it a single glance then handed it back. What the fukc was that? I could feel my face go even redder. Suddenly, a voice behind me boomed “whose bag is this?” I turned around…of course it was mine. “I just need to look in here…” Mr. Security’s voice trailed off. Now what? I had dirty underwear, stinky socks…what could possibly be threatening (besides the odor)? A candle. A lavender candle. I apologized for it like an idiot and slithered away, hellbent on finding my gate. If there was ever a time for a shot of tequila, this was it. Make that a double shot. Three…four….
Finally, at the gate (the right one this time) I started to relax. I sent a few text messages to let people know I was on my way home and finally let myself breathe normally again. I didn’t even try to find my new boarding number sign (A45). However, when it came time to board the number process was much easier than the last time. Mr. Loudspeaker treated us like idiots, even taking the time to explain what numerical order meant. He wanted to make sure we knew 44 was directly ahead of 45 (who should be directly in front of 46). Duh. He must have gone over it at least a dozen times, telling us to talk to one another to figure out who stood where. Don’t be shy, he says. Riiiight. I was just praying no one recognized me from the security line. Like school kids waiting to go on a field trip we waited in a perfect line. 44 in front of 45 in front of 46. I felt like asking the guy in front of me, “hey. Wanna see my boarding pass?”

For Heather

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Would you believe I have no idea who this person is? Absolutely no clue. This is what I do know. I keep my promises. Or, I try to. Really. This is Heather. I don’t know a lot about her. But, I think I know the best thing about her: she’s doing that Hike for Discovery I talked about oh so long ago. I don’t think I need to point out that I never did it. Running 13.1 miles and doing a “doozie” on my knee scared me bad enough I’ve been glued to my recliner for the last year and a half. But. But, but, Heather found my blog about the desire to do something good and she called me out on it. So, I donated. Heather, I have no clue who you are but I applaud you and your cause. Good good good luck. If you find this and read it, hike for my grandmothers, Bessie and Irene. Both cancer victims, their absence is my everlasting ache.

If anyone else wants to help Heather, please go here. Do it! Every little bit counts. Really.

Here’s the deal: The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society has been circling my soul for some time now. Everything is coming together in one perfect storm. One crazy desire to run again, to race again, to train again with TNT. Could I? It’s all adding up. Seeing their faces in Florida, finding courage in an amazing friend, subtle support from family. It’s all building to something bigger. Could I be getting closer to something bigger than myself? Could I? Should I?

Dancing to “Almendra”

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Montero, Mayra; translated by Edith Grossman. Dancing to “Almendra” : A Novel. New York: Picador, 2005.

Can I say the cover alone got me? I’m not a big fan of hippos and there, on the cover is a dead hippo. Brilliant. Or, as someone else told me recently, “hippos are jerks.” But, that is either here nor there as far as the plot of Dancing to “Almendra” is concerned.

Here is the benign review I put on LibraryThing:This is a convoluted tale about a young reporter looking to make it big in pre-Castro Cuba’s world of journalism. Characters are drawn as tragic, eccentric, needy and sometimes self-absorbed.
At the center is Joaquin Porrata, the weak-willed entertainment reporter, sent to cover the death of a hippo at the zoo. He finds himself entangled in a much darker plot. There is the mafia (to which the death of the hippo is directly related), eccentric circus performers with leprosy and amputations, a zoo keeper with too many nicknames who chops up horses as food for the zoo carnivores, prostitution, violence, and even a murder that hits closer to home than Joaquin bargained for.
On the other side of the story is Yolanda (she also has other names). As the one-armed, former assistant to a magician with leprosy, her story is just as tragic. While Joaquin and Yolanda’s stories do not mesh well with the plot, the telling of both sides enhances the story of their romance.
Because I read a translation of Dancing to Almendra I cannot be sure Mayra Montero’s language is all her own. While the voice moves masterfully between Joaquin and Yolanda, direct translations could be lost in description.

Not too exciting but I’m paranoid I’m not a team player. More on that later.

Favorite (weird) line: “with a voice like hysterical glass” (p 4). What, exactly, does that mean?

Love, Redefined

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From the moment my kisa started dating me seriously I begged him to not acknowledge Valentine’s Day. I asked him to avoid candy and cards. I assured him I would refuse gifts of fluffy bears and flowers. I’m just not into it, I told him. He waited until the day after The Day and sent flowers. I would have sent them back, but not for the card which read “Happy Friday?” I think I ranted as much last year about this weird “holiday” (I’m too lazy to link to it so if you are feeling adventurous, you can look for it).

Anyway, this year one of my oldest and bestest friends sent me a Valentine. Humph. She and I stand reunited on the whole gooshy romance thing. We have the same views on children. We are pretty pragmatic when it comes to prissy, pretty things. In short, we don’t need Hallmark to define love for us. We have our own interpretations. So, imagine my surprise to see her card in the mail.
Yup, this is the card. Yup, that’s my friend. I couldn’t ask for a better laugh at a time when I’m usually scoffing at the whole love thing. She gets me. For over 20 years. I’ve needed her humor, her spirit, her “fiestiness” as one would say. I am lucky to have her in my life.

So, to my sage, wild, “something strong” friend, Happy Valentine’s Day. For what it’s worth, I love you.

ps~ 25 years from now we’re going on a road-trip; flashing other motorists is optional.

Seriously Southwest, Silly Me

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Southwest Airlines is trying to take their seating sorrows seriously. How do I begin to describe gate 4?
First of all, there are a bunch of poles everywhere. All these poles are topped with numbers. For example, I sit facing the one stating “36-40 41-45.” If I follow the logic of the poles I’m in the wrong seat. I should be one seat over…or something. I understand the thinking. I think. Rather than a free-for-all when group A is called (and that’s my group) we now have sections so, in theory, does that mean smaller free-for-alls?

I wrote the above on my way down to Tampa. My boarding number was A46. How wrong I was…on oh so many levels. First of all, and I’ll admit this clearly: I wasn’t at gate 4. I was at 5. I wrote all of the above while waiting at the wrong gate and I blatently blame it on the poles. At gate 4 I saw numbers 1-10, 11-15, 16-20, 21-25 but nothing beyond that. Walking further I saw the numbers start all over again. 1-10 and so on. So now I’m confused. Keep in mind, I’m looking up at the numbers and not at the gate numbers so I managed to walk past my gate. Obviously. Once I realized I had gone too far (when the numbers started over again) I circled back, but this time on the other side of the poles. Magically, there were the higher numbers I had been looking for. I sat down when I saw 36-40, 41-45. At gate 5.
My second mistake was thinking my numbers designated where you sat as well as how you boarded the plane. I joked with passengers around me that I hoped I wouldn’t get in trouble for sitting in the wrong waiting area chair. No wonder they looked at me funny. Boarding numbers are just that, b o a r d i n g numbers, as in, how you get on the plane. Don’t worry, Ms Klutz Me would give them more to laugh at. About 20 minutes later someone came over the intercom and started announcing the boarding of flight something-er-rather…to Baltimore. As in Maryland. Startled, I looked behind me only to see I was sitting at gate 5 and not 4. Oh hell. Pretending to need the ladies room, I asked someone close to me where it was. I could tell she was confused. We were about to board, she knows I’m A46, we’ve talked about this and now I want the ladies’ room??? Nevertheless, she pointed it out and watched me go, a bemused look on her face. I wonder what she thought when I never came back, nor boarded that plane to Baltimore?

Reunion

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This was my team. These were my people. Imagine my surprise when saw them again yesterday. Okay, okay, so I didn’t see these exact same people. Maybe some of them were there. I don’t know. But, I saw their colors of royal purple and kelly green and I recognized their cause. Running either 13.1 or 26.2 – it didn’t matter. New Hampshire or Florida, I recognized them and cheered them on just the same.
Here’s the thing. Before getting to FL not once did I think about Team in Training. Not once did I consider their presence in the Gasparilla. I didn’t think of them at all. Out of sight, out of mind. Really. I was there for one reason and one reason only – to cheer on my friend in her first 13.1. So, when I saw the familiar purple and green I was taken by surprise. My heart caught in my throat and I felt tears well in my eyes. The Cause was here. My own run came back to me mile by mile, minute by minute. Without warning I was overcome with emotion. Seeing their decorated race bibs and TNT decals I couldn’t help but yell words of encouragement. Calling their names, yelling Go Team in Training! You. Can. Do. It. With every thumbs up I felt it wasn’t enough. Something was missing. The run. Bottom line: I wanted to run with them. There’s something else I learned – I will always be a TNT runner. I will always have a place on the team.

Hello Again Hello

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All of this getting ready for the run has got me thinking I’m in the wrong spot. I should be out there, too. I should kicking my own ass on a regular basis…just like my friend. While I wil cheer her on tomorrow I can’t help but feel just a little jealous, a little That Should Be Me.
There is something to be said for finding your way. There is something to be applauded when, after you have found your way, you actually go your own way. Finding the way and actually taking it are two very different things. I think I needed to come to Florida to figure that out. We talked love and relationships, comedy and tragedy, heart and soul and the one thing that remains clear to me is this: live for today. Don’t think you should wait until something better comes along because, who knows? maybe it never will. You need to make it better if no one else will. Period.
We saw an accident today. It happened in the blink of an eye. I was on the phone and wasn’t paying much attention. A decent witness I definitely was not. I couldn’t even tell you who hit first. All I know is that I watch too much crime tv so when I saw the reddish liquid streaming from the injured truck all I could think was “fireball explosion” and pure panic set in. My heart raced even though I continued to talk on the phone. I don’t know if worry was anywhere near my voice, or if I sounded miles away from my concern. All I know is this: in an instance two vehicles collided. Where were they going? Doesn’t matter. They’ll all be late now. They are lucky to be alive.
That’s my point. Life can change you. Or you can change your life. Hello again, hello.

It’s Not the Leaving

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I leave for Florida today. I haven’t flown by myself in some time. I can’t remember the last time I got on an airplane with just me & myself for company. We’ll be okay, I’m sure.

As blogs usually go, I tend to write about what’s on top of the junk heap I call my brain. I single out the one idea or thought that’s making the most noise, the one that’s banging around the most, begging to be let out. Then I write. It’s not the leaving that I’m thinking about. It’s you.

Dear You,

You say I have some responsibility for this one-foot-in-front-of-another thing we call running. You say that I had something to do with putting you at the starting gate. If that’s the case, I am proud to be a part of your latest challenge. Hell, I’m proud of you. Period. You have always been that HellOnWheels woman that I admire. Even without the run you have grace, strength, power and passion. I am proud of you for just wanting this challenge, never mind actually taking it! 
The run is one thing, but I want to talk about The Race. I know you are nervous. But, I know something you have forgotten: You Can Do This! I’ll tell you something else – this is how much I believe in you: I almost didn’t make my plane reservation last month. You wanna know why? Because next year you will be scoffing at 21 kilometers and you’ll be saying “42.2? Bring it on!” and I’ll be hauling my ass back down to Tampa to watch you run The Big One. This little 13 miler, my dear, is just a stepping stone for someone as stubborn as you. Next year you’ll want 26.2…That’s how much I believe in you.
So, I’ll say it again. You can do this. No fear. No pain. Nothing but courage. I’ll see you at the finish line.

Love, me