Rachel, Run

This is me rushing toward Marathon with important news for the emperor... 

When people ask me if I'm a good runner, I say yes. I say yes because I assess all attributes on the "diner comment card" scale: Poor, Fair, Good, Very Good, Excellent. I am medium at running. Moyen. Meh. My strengths as a runner lie somewhere between John Goodman and Oscar Pistorius (though I'm afraid my strengths as a murderer rank only fair at best).  I make up for in persistence what I lack in raw talent, and what I lack in persistence I make up for in peanut M&Ms. Who's with me? 

One thing I have little interest in is entering races. I am paid (almost nothing) by the hour, and I see no sense in forking over mad money to do something I'm going to do anyway, only paying to do it, and much, much earlier in the morning. 

One thing I do have interest in, however, is a bargain. And that's how I found myself, some time last week, credit card in one hand, $10 off coupon in the other, signing up for the Columbus 10K.  The race was $25, and 10 bucks more if you wanted the t-shirt. In a moment of idle chitter-chatter, I asked a representative from the running store sponsoring the race if one, hypothetically, could use the coupon to get a free t-shirt. The question sparked a talmudic debate among the staff, who agreed after twenty minutes that yes, in order to save one's own life, one could, hypothetically, eat pork. And yes, I could get a "free" t-shirt. 

"Well, let me get my sign-up sheet here, and will you be paying with cash or credit?" asked the assistant rabbi.  

They had me. I didn't want to seem like a lazy jackass by saying, "Oh...neat! Gosh, you all sure did answer that question, you did! Ta ta!" So I paid to do something I would anyway, except much, much earlier in the morning. 

Having run only one other race in my life-- the Charlottesville 10-Miler-- I was psyching myself up for all the cheering and fanfare and donut holes and water stations and music I have come to expect when I wake up early to go for a run I have paid for.  

And the Columbus 10K was pleasant enough. Nice route through downtown. Nice cops stopping traffic so we could scuttle through intersections, but the race was furiously, deathly quiet. The streets were not brimming with onlookers, and the ones who were there, just sat and stared. No music. No donut holes. Not so much as a "whoooo!" or a "work it, girl!"

This sweaty elf could not have been more excited to be finished running the Charlottesville 10-miler. 

Did they think I was doing it for my health?  I knew I couldn't start singing, because that's unconscionably obnoxious. So I started cheering for the bystanders. To one group of people sitting on coolers, watching from the sidelines, I yelled, "LET'S MAKE SOME NOISE!!!" and clapped like a gym teacher. It felt good to let off steam. To another, I hollered, "YYEAAHH SPEC-TAY-TORS!!" Middle aged women got a hearty "YOU CAN DO IT, LADIES!" And the funny thing is, it worked. Cheering for the lazy dingbats actually sped me up in the second half, so I finished with what the pros call a "negative split." 

By the time I neared the finish line ("ALMOST THERE-- WE CAN DO IT," I screamed at a silent group of children), I was all pumped up and ready to do it over. Tomorrow. And later in the day. And for free. 

Hello, World!

Four Eyes Are Better Than Two

You know those greeting cards with the animals that have normal bodies and enormous cartoon eyes? Well, it's a little known fact that American Greetingz contacted me several years ago because they know I am a veritable font of inspiration. As luck would have it, I had just been to a Christmas party, where my friend Gillion had very generously lent us her handsome plastic-rimmed specs. Weren't we surprised! 

Don't laugh. I own the rights to ​the idea of comically large eyeballs.  

Jan brings his Viennese ​good looks to any trendy eyewear. 

Can Gillion believe her eyes? Can any of us, really? 

C'mere a little closer so Auntie Fern can see how big you are now!  

Hello, World!

Gluten Free's the Way to Sew!

​As most of you probably know, I've cast a pretty wide activity net trying to snag some kindred spirits here in Columbus, Ohio. I've scheduled myself like a suburban middle-schooler, driving from church to temple to the zoo, to ukulele lessons. And in the spirit of sink or swim, I decided to pop in on Wild Goose's Stitch n' Bitch session last Tuesday. 

The problem is, I can really only contribute to half of that equation, and it's not the "Stitch." Since I'm not a knitter, I decided to make a sort of "diversion project" that I could fumble away with while other people chatted and purled their way to ​new sweaters and afghans. And because I've loved fake food ever since Trinity United Methodist Daycare got that plastic shopping cart/produce basket set in 1988, I thought I'd stitch myself a felt donut. I owe it all to the wonderful craft site Skip to My Lou, whose recipe for chocolate frosted probably lowered my blood pressure for the first time in the history of confections. 

What a great group of stitchers at Wild Goose! Kudos to their 6 creative minds and 60 nimble fingers. Toward the middle of my project, one of my compatriots stopped knitting her cousin's wedding dress and looked down at my lap. "Oh my God," she said, "tell me that's a donut."  ​

Mo' donuts, mo' craftz. ​

That's a donut, bitch. ​

Hello, World!

PoppityPopPOP!

Over Christmas, my dad gave me some popcorn. Not the kind that comes in the big metal container with the dividers separating "cheddar n' cinnamon" from "caramel nacho;" not the kernel kind that comes in a jar (or in that metal pie plate thing that always catches fire), but the kind that comes on the cob, which his neighbor grew and dried like a veritable homesteader.  Dad said, "All ya do--and you gotta believe me-- is put the cob in a paper bag, roll the top of the bag down, and pop it in the microwave." 

Eight short weeks later, as I was ransacking John's cabinets looking for a frickin' snack-- why is there only dusty cans of coconut milk and vitamins??​ ​ I stumbled across the cobs. I was almost delirious with joy, but because I am a loyal companion, I decided to wait until John got home to try this snacktivity. ​[*Term refers to any eating event involving more than the traditional "vittles-in-pie-hole."]

I sat on the table by the door like a forlorn Irish setter for the rest of the afternoon until I heard the car pull up. When John entered, having been beaten up very slowly at Tai Chi, I announced that I had a fantastic post-karate popcorn project waiting in the kitchen. He was too blissed-out to object, so we put a cob in a paper bag, rolled the top down, put it in the microwave and set it to cook on HIGH for two minutes. 

Then we waited.  

When 40 seconds passed without so much as a kapoof, ​​​​I furrowed my brow. When a minute went by with no kerflooey​, I narrowed my gaze. At 1 minute, John walked over to the microwave with his index finger pointed at the DOOR OPEN button and...POP! poppityPopPOP POP!!!!  Like five hundred starting guns in my ears, heat + carbs = terrifying magic. 

When the noise was over, we inched out from under the counter. ​I made him open the microwave door and take out the bag. It was hot as Hades, and would have steamed his nose off if he hadn't dropped it so adeptly. But the house smelled like popcorn. And inside the bag were fat, puffy white kernels of popcorn, most of which had shot off the cob, and some that had not. And the only way to get them off that cob was...

​Not Photoshopped. For better or worse. 

Bilbo in Bangor...

Dear Friends,

I was recently up in the great/cold city of Bangor, ME, where, incidentally, my excellent Uncle Geoff won a state senate seat away from a very misguided incumbent, (more on that later)!  And one morning before dawn, Geoff informed me that he was going to be on a local radio station to talk about his enlightened position on healthcare. "OH MY GOSH," I exclaimed, "MAY I COME WITH YOU?"  This is sort of a re-working of my initial reaction: "HOW DARE YOU WAKE ME FROM MY REVERIE, VILE BEAST!!!!"

As we pulled in to the parking lot of the radio station (WZON 103.1), I see they've got an adorable wooden play house on the front lawn. "I think we broadcast from that rabbit hutch," Geoff says. He's such a card, even in the morning. "Ha HA!" I replied, imagining myself pushing angry elves out of the way so I could build a media empire from their tiny home. So I got out of the car and started to walk to the door of the station, and Geoff started to walk toward the Hobbit hole.  "Mumblemurmur-- mumblemumble!" he called toward me. Geoff doesn't enunciate much.  Then I saw him open the big round door and disappear.  

Apparently, The Pulse Morning Show IS broadcast from here:

Well, I'll be.                                                                                                                                                                             

Geoff and Bilbo in the Morning. On WZON-Bangor!

The Hobbit Hole comfortably seats 1. Snuggly seats 2.  Does not seat 3.   Here's Pat Lamarche, valiant host, and there is Geoff's head on the left.  There is no heat, but the guests provide plenty of hot air.  haHA!

Hello, World!

Welcome to my blerg!

Hello, Friends. Thanks for stopping by. This is the future home of what I hope will become one of your go-to time-waster/knowledge-builder sites.  But for now, please amuse yourselves by regarding this picture of two absolutely demonic ducks that pecked me nigh to death, even though all I was trying to do was to bake their unborn progeny into a cake. 

​And come again!

​The demonic "Poodle" and "Ponder"... don't be fooled.

Hello, World!