When I started running (again) back in 2002, my long run was five miles.
Limits mostly exist in our heads. With time, effort, and a bit of luck, those limits can be challenged, modified, or eliminated.
Without a doubt, those 15 miles <b>hurt</b>. Two days later, I'm still feeling it. A small voice in the back of my head wonders what the physical consequences will be in 30 years, but now--right now--I am damn proud of what I did. It was a tough, hilly route through residential neighborhoods, along rutted park trails, on two-lane shoulder-less roads with speeding traffic at my elbow. I nearly despaired when I reached the 1.5-mile, 11% grade hill at Mile 10, but I kept on shuffling up that hill, sore legs and all, because that's what I was there to do; I was there to get up that hill, and so I did.
I detest hearing the phrase, "I can't imagine <em>[fill in the blank]</em>." We limit ourselves through failures of imagination.
Next weekend, I'm running 17 miles, but I think I'll look for flatter terrain.
For the foreseeable future, I have to administer 300mL LRS subcutaneously to the little furry one. She and I tolerated it surprisingly well. Now that she knows what the bag and line are for, I suspect she'll be harder to trap and keep still, but she didn't flinch from the needle.
This *does* put a kink in any travel plans, which, of course I have in 2 weeks. Leap off that bridge when I come to it...
I'm just grateful that she's alive. Now I'd like to get her to eat something.
We went to the park, took it easy, hung out for an hour or so. She's still pretty tired and fretful. But she's alert and interested. And alive.
I got her in to the vet last week, and since then it's been crazy. She's getting fluids now and being monitored under 24-hour care. I'm still in a wait-and-see mode, hoping that she'll improve enough for a few more good trips to the park.
Ending a pet's life is a terrible choice.
I hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
I want her to be comfortable, free of pain and distress. I want her to be with me as long as possible. Turrean grant me the wisdom to do what's best for my girl.
It seems that the older I get, the harder it is to compartmentalize. Hurt is hurt and doesn't fit into the cramped little box in the room under the stairs.
I responded by pointing to Patrick's well-written analysis, and added a simple statement: "Amazon's actions - intentional or not - have had a chilling effect on a certain "class" of books (which itself is problematic, because the range of books affected shouldn't be lumped together), and caused harm. That's unfair. Some people are reacting strongly, as you can imagine."
I can guess what triggered my friend's abrupt query: religion and sexual orientation seems to be a polarizing topic (she said, dryly). I've not received a reply; it'll be interesting to see what transpires.
Frankly, I think my reply was too bland and conciliatory, and yet...several triggers are firing, and I'm sorting through the knots that have formed as a result.
Taking sides has consequences. Avoiding conflict will usually backlash. Uninformed and/or unconsidered statements can be absolutely lethal. Unintended consequences suck. I've been on the losing end of all of 'em.
I avoid conflict...but some things I can't just let go, like freedom of expression. I'm probably the middlest, middle-of-the-road white, straight, middle-income chick you'll ever meet, and yet the idea that Amazon, the church, the state, or *anyone* for that matter would moderate my choices, be they books, jobs, or healthcare access, is just not on.
Some people won't be pleased by what I say or do, no matter which side I take, so I may as well make the informed choice that feels right to me.
The quote, of course, implies that one has enough time in one's day to accomplish one's tasks.
I feel like I'm attempting to match the output of Leonardo AND Mike AND Terri AND Tom AND Bert AND Lou...
No, I'm not becoming a quote blog. It's just the way it worked out.
- Will Rogers
Mercy, but that's the truth.
Those Who Went Remain There Still by Cherie PriestMy review
rating: 4 of 5 stars
"A creepy little monster story" -- that's how author Cherie Priest describes this delightful 170-page tidbit of a novel.
Set in 1775 and 1899, the story alternates between Daniel Boone's adventure in building the Wilderness Road and two feuding families brought together over a patriarch's last will.
Although I felt the story started slowly, ponderously heavy with the baggage of exposition, once the assembled party got underway, the action developed with the crackle of an oil-fed wildfire. With the monsters' relentlessness and the desperate panic of the survivors trying to escape, I found myself galloping towards the ending in the middle of the night.
And I loved the ending...
View all my reviews.
I feel like I'm doing everything wrong. Work. Food. Dog. Life. Training.
I want, I want, and I can't...and even the dream of what I want is probably bad for me.
There's no such thing as a knight in shining armor, is there?
When will I learn?
It's not just the One Who Never Was; it's the wrongness on so many levels: the unceasing scrabble to keep up on the treadmill of tasks, goals, needs, and shoulds. Add to that the anxiety about the economy, the reorganization at work, the accident's consequences, and other miscellaneous tensions, and I feel about as brittle as decayed bone.
I need a Pause button.
And I need the voices in my head to shut up and leave me alone.

Poppets are little reminders to open your eyes and look around you, to really see things, to pay attention.
They can be foci; they can be witnesses; they can be celebrants; they can be creepy.
They are best in multiples.
Click the link to learn more about them.
Update to yesterday's post: Following an investigation by NBC, the show's producer and the contestant apologized for the 'inaccuracy'.
While the contestant's claim that he went back and ran the three miles reminds me of a kid who claims he put the cookies back in the jar, I remind myself that it really just doesn't matter. They've owned up to the wrong, and it's not worth the effort to carry this further.
I'll admit, the NBC show, "Biggest Loser" sucks me in. In last night's episode, one of the characters was voted out of fat camp, and the segment ended with him and his wife running a marathon. NBC claimed, in voicover narration and in text onscreen, that he completed the marathon in 3:53. The cameras show them crossing the finish line (at 5:53) and accepting their finishers' medals, giving their lines about what an accomplishment it was.
It didn't happen.
Two runners who were there report otherwise:
http://melancholysmile.blogspot.com/2009/0
http://blogs.kansascity.com/tvbarn/2009/0
http://www.runningroom.com/discussion/vi
http://www.ontri.net/message.php?reply=1
It's a big deal because running a marathon is a fucking big deal. Some of us train our asses off, push ourselves harder, to go a few miles farther, with the blisters and the aches and the commitment -- and this guy gets a fucking RIDE through part of the course? And that's supposed to be okay just because, "hey, it's only TV"?
Okay, so 'reality TV' is nothing more than vapid entertainment, with no more ethics or morality than "Days of Our Lives" or "Fox News", BUT that fool stepped into Real Life and that's where he cheated. He did not run 26.2 miles yet he accepted a finishers' medal and talked about his 'accomplishment'. He didn't cheat on TV, he cheated in real life.
The guy lost 100 pounds in 8 weeks on the show. He can be proud of that. But now he's out in the real world with the rest of us, he has shown himself to be a fool, a tool, and dishonorable.
This is the kind of attention to detail that I admire, but can't sustain:
(ht: http://un-certaintimes.blogspot.com/)
The Museum of the African Diaspora is offering free entry for all of
February to celebrate Black History Month. It's located at Mission and 3rd
in SF, open Wed - Sun 11 to 6 PM.
http://www.moadsf.org/
(hat tip: phoebe boon)
From an objective distance, all us humans look and act the same. We’re not. We're individually unique. Our backgrounds, our life experiences, our joy, our pain -- all unique. Like snowflakes. We’re also unique in how we react to stress/change/crisis/trauma. Experiences that destroy one person might make another scoff, and a challenge that you handled without difficulty last month might shatter you today. (I'm pondering psychological pain, though yeah, physical pain usually comes along for the ride.)
There's no gain in sitting around playing Pain Poker. "My pain is way worse than your pain," etc. Useless. The ‘value’ of pain is relative to the person experiencing it. Likewise, ‘victimhood’ is no place to live. As Bear says, the triggers and downstream effects get boring. As Chiron says, identifying too strongly as a victim leaves one vulnerable to being victimized again*. Yeah. I so do not want that.
I see no benefit in wearing the label of victim or survivor. It’s a lens through which others filter my behavior; a conclusion to which they leap without consideration of alternatives. I’d rather be normal, thank you. On the other hand, sometimes this shit still hurts.
I’m going to substitute “baggage” for all the pain, suffering, trauma, triggers, self-hate, etc. that endlessly wear us down. Certainly it’s a familiar term.
I look for ways that others handle their baggage, in hopes that I can (a) better shed my own, (b) better understand and be more mindful of other people’s triggers, and (c) write better. Therefore, I lurk, read, and think. I talk to myself a lot while I walk the dog. I doubtless make less sense here.
I live about 3 hours from anything resembling snow. Today I feel like a snowflake -- fragile, cold, and isolated. Like a snowflake, I know that my structure is strong and adaptable.
