As I stubbornly push myself too far too early in training for the Marine Corps Marathon, the Wife has decided she'd like to help me reach my goal. It's nice having a training buddy to offer me support and words of encouragement. It's also not nice having a training buddy who pretends she's the slow bus coming to pick me up.
Today we traveled along the Rock Creek Park trail that heads to DC. The first few miles we had a nice, casual conversation during which I talk about doing minor home repair jobs I've been putting off. When I'm feeling real ballsy, I talk about finally painting the kitchen and dining room. Nevermind those never get done after a run, it's still fun to pretend.
I train like Rocky minus the medicine ball to the abs, one-handed push ups, and the punching. And I run much, much slower.
When we hit my halfway mark it's time for hell to pay a visit in the form of my tired legs and a most negative training partner. Basically the Wife motivates me out of fear. If you do not maintain a 14-minute pace by mile 19 in the marathon, you will not "beat the bridge" and will be driven to the finish line. As someone just looking to finish, I'm just looking not to be picked up.
Her reverse psychology of psyching me to run faster doesn't start immediately. As my legs become Jell-o, my answers become shorter. Eventually I tell her to only ask yes or no questions. This doesn't sit well with her so she drafts behind me singing, "the slow bus is gonna get you, the slow bus is gonna get you, the slow bus is gonna get you..." to Gloria Estefan's "The Rhythm is Gonna Get You." It's like a weird Al rewrite except not funny nor creative.
"The slow bus is gonna get you, the slow bus is gonna get you..."
The Wife to me is like Mickey to Rocky, minus the running in snow and throwing punches at frozen butcher cuts. The negative imagery continues as she mixes "slow bus" into other songs culling them from her immense song lyric knowledge, all the while tapping me on the shoulder that the slow bus just caught me. Nothing like not feeling your legs and being told you're too slow to finish the race.
Somehow all of this seems to work because now I run scared. Thanks to the Wife's relentless pushing encouragement, I run plenty fast to ensure no slow bus will ever catch me. I don't want her at the finish line telling me that the slow bus got me.
The Wife continued her one triathlon per month schedule with today's feat (or is that feet?) through the heart of D.C. Unlike her first two events, this one had some super-ultra-uber-serious triathletes; as in Olympic champions (top 4 men finishers and gold and bronze winners among the women) and world renowned competitors. Today's event was the only North American stop for an 8-city international triathlon tour that brings out the best of the best.
I told you this was a serious competition. The tour's winner gets over $1M.
The Wife did the sprint distances (750M swim (in the Potomac!)/20K bike/5k run), but wants to train for the Olympic distances offered today (1.5K/40K/10K); unfortunately she doesn't have the time to compete in the Pro distances (3K/80K/40K). As usual, the Wife performed when the pressure was on and did really well despite having to nurse a leg injury since 300M into the swim. It's all mind over matter.
For your fun, here's what I saw:
We woke up at 3:30, left the house at 4, and were downtown well before sunrise. And before my camera had enough light for a decent shot.
It's never a positive sign when the debris cleaning boat comes out 30 minutes before the race.
The boat couldn't get to all of the debris.
Nothing like swimming with a water heater upstream.
Participating in the Men's Elite (Olympic distances), DC Mayor Adrian Fenty.
Ooooohhh.....Pretty fireboat rainbow.
The Potomac sure looked murky as usual.
Bacteria levels be damned!
You better run through the shower after swimming in the Potomac! The Wife swallowed enough water to burp it later. Good times.
Fast as fast can be, you'll never catch me!
After I tried and failed to photograph the Wife on the bike, I figured I might as well take a picture of this thing as long as I'm in town.
I'd like to thank the clouds for parting just enough for a few rays to peak through.
The world's greatest high-fiver at Mile 1.
An empty Independence Avenue was awesome.
Coming down the homestretch along Pennsylvania Avenue.
Like any good worker in DC, I just had to try and catch a glimpse of Reese Witherspoon doing her thing in another chick flick/romantic comedy that I'll be dragged to; tentatively titled "How Do You Know" and directed by James L. Brooks of "Broadcast News" fame. This time Owen Wilson is a Nationals player who woos Reese (I think). Of course it takes a movie to make the Nationals look like winners and to fill the stadium with cheering Washington fans.
Unfortunately, I spent 15 minutes of my life standing across from the National Gallery to see either actor to no avail. So what follows are my celebrityless shots, mixed in with celebrity pictures taken by others with better lenses and more time to get better angles. Sorry, but I do have to get home to make dinner at a reasonable hour.
Somewhere, behind the tents, staff, and light sheets, Reese was there...I think.
Reese walks with purpose...like DC workers trying to clock in for the day.
Warning, you might be in the movie if you stand here...
...that is unless this bottom of the barrel production assistant has his way. Those shades made him look so Hollywood...his college English professor style and super power trip makes him so much awesomer than everything. At least the other PAs I spoke with were cool.
These extras must have done their walks 15 times while I was there. It isn't so glamorous.
The only acting I saw. Just breathtaking work on my part, I know.
Would Reese dare to wear anything from this rack?
Yesterday, Reese ran on the Mall just like me!
Reese (or her character) shows me that it's okay, even for beautiful people, to (fake) vomit from a tough run on the Mall. Nevermind that the Mall is totally flat.
The latest media frivolity to irk me enough to waste Google's blogging space is how crime & punishment/crime & justice/law & order reporters pose like they're really tough. Making yourself seem like a bully dressed in business casual clothes isn't fooling anyone. How about you just, I don't know, report the story and let it stand on its own? This is found in the dying field that is newspaper reporting as well as news for lazy thinkers that is your local news broadcast.
Is it too much to ask these guys to just have their pictures taken without them trying be all tough? No study has shown a relation between taking an aggressive headshot and better writing. Looking strong doesn't mean you're taking a strong stance on crime. It doesn't validate your reporting or make you any more credible. It just makes you look like other crime & justice reporters who are scared.
Crime and justice reporters have nothing on NKOTB when it comes to being the toughest. Are you tough enough?
For your amusement, I present an assortment of these tough guys and gals on crime who "are working for you," "are on your side," and "are taking on the big guys" so "you're not scammed." I'm not judging what they write (because I haven't read any of their work), but how they're presented.
Peter Hermann (Baltimore Sun) - Just about the most pensive crossed arm stance you can take. This actually makes him look scared instead of tough. Would it have killed him to iron his khakis? How about buying a pair that's the right length for your inseam? I don't iron mine, but for the one day when I'd have my picture taken I would have found one, damnit. Also, the Sun's art department did him no favors shrinking his head.
Amanda Lamb (WRAL-TV (North Carolina)) - An innocent picture because it lacks arm crossing, but a closer look reveals an aggressive facial contortion asking if you wanna fight. "Come on punk, just try me." Resting her head on the bent arm and fist says she means business. Of course she just had to be shot in front of a brick wall as if she's always on the street looking for stories. Excellent makeup foundation work though.
Freeman Klopott and Scott McCabe (Washington Examiner) - I love the dual crossed arms! It's so intense. And the way Freeman (I think he's on the left) rolled up his sleeves shows you how hard he's working...that's right, so hard he had to roll them up! They sure look pissed off and serious about reporting crime. No smiles here. If the Examiner was as serious about reporter posing as these guys show, it could at least increase their picture's resolution.
Carrie Petersen (Albany (Oregon) Democrat Herald) - Proof that not every crime beat reporter has to intimidate readers for visual validity. Oh my gosh, she's actually smiling in her profile picture! And what's that? She's in the newsroom! How will the Democrat Herald ever get people to read her crime reports? Oh that's right, they'll read it because of its quality.
On today’s red line trip toward Silver Spring, I saw the first nominee for Metro’s Dumb Rider of the Year Award. We stopped at Metro Center around 6:45 this morning. After the usual shuffling of people getting off, the wave of riders coming onboard made their way, being reminded to “use all available doors.” Despite that, they kept packing themselves through the middle door of my middle car. Nevermind they were also told repeatedly that a near empty train with available seats would follow a minute later.
I say let's replace doors with saws to teach people not to take their chances when doors are closing. And yes, that's my not-so-handy photoediting.
As I sat comfortably in my front row seat, I heard the warning “doo-doo doo-doo” chime that the doors were about to close. The conductor reminded those on the platform that the doors were closing. Finally, the automated announcement also warned folks that “the doors are about to close.” All of this means that the doors were about to close, got it?
Apparently not everyone did.
Coming to the car door was someone who I can only assume was not a tourist, as she lacked the fanny pack, camera, hat, shorts, and T-shirt that are only worn by tourists on the Metro during rush hour. Despite the closing door warnings, she lurched toward the opening only to have the doors close on her.
At 1:05 of this Metro advice video, you see what happens when your limbs are in the way of the closing doors.
As she leaned in like a sprinter at the finish line, the doors brushed her shoulders and began putting the squeeze on her. With the doors halfway closed (or opened depending on your outlook on life), the conductor reopened them to let her retain some limbs for the ride.
Remember, “Metro doors don’t work like elevator doors,” so says the lady from the speakers.
What makes her different from other stupid Metro riders?
She was pushing a baby in a stroller! The stroller made it on first with ease, meaning this mother was almost separated from her baby!
Come on people.
You know the doors don’t play around, yet you continue to push your luck. It’s stupid. I even sat there calling her stupid for trying. There’s nothing other riders can do to help a squeezed person until they want to risk losing a finger when the doors close quickly.
You deserve to lose that baby, ummm, I mean bag.
I know it’s wrong to criticize another parent, but in this case it’s fair to be wrong…don’t put yourself in a position that may sever you from your baby. After the umbilical cord’s cut, it’s up to you make sure you're together…don’t make it any harder than it needs to be.
Despite an abundance of choices for a romantic celebratory dinner, the Wife wanted good’ol Maryland crabs. I suggested the site of our engagement or some of our old favorites throughout MoCo and DC, but she wanted crabs. Ever the gentleman, I obliged for our first crab feast of the season.
It's time to admit it..just eating crabs for a meal is a waste so just order 3 for the "experience" and then get some real food off the menu.
We went to the Bethesda Crab House after our first choice, Steam N' Blues, apparently closed in the 5 years since we went there for dinner with my dedicated midwest reader and her husband. We did two all-you-can-eats and it was fine for $35/each, but nothing special considering they were the small crabs you’d expect with the our choice. The Dancing Crab a few miles south is a much better choice because its menu actually has other things to eat that will fill you up, but we were starving.
I nabbed flowers and vase thanks to a quick trip to Giant before dinner.
Not really stuffed from corn on the cob and a silo of sodium, I drove us home while the Wife called the cops. One of the younger, rookie-looking cops swung by and gave a good'ol police knock on our door. The Wife handed him the bullet, letting him know it's not hers nor does she know whose it could be. He simply said the police were just going to melt it down. I was hoping he'd say they'd do CSI forensics on it and match it up to a cold case. It'd be a sexier story at least.
The cake looked great until the Wife bit into it!
After our run-in with the law it was time to chowdown on our first anniversary cake thanks to Sugarbakers. By buying our wedding cake there we got a replica of our cake top a year later. It sure was good! The cake lasted us these last few nights before we had had our fill of buttercream and rasberry amarreto.
The first anniversary gift is paper so I renewed the Wife's Us Weekly subscription. How kind of me.
Oh yeah, I can't believe how fast time flew since the wedding...we're off to a great start...here's to many more anniversaries...and other cliches I'm supposed to say.
A 4 AM wakeup call, an hour of driving into BFE/the sticks/Carroll County, and 8 hard boiled eggs later, we had arrived for the Wife's 2nd sprint triathlon. It was held at Cascade Lake that offered her first taste of an open water swim. This event, now in its 2nd year, had a 500M swim, 15-mile bike ride, and 5k run. It was a step up from her first triathlon at Georgetown Prep and she was up to the challenge.
Thanks to the GPS, I found my way along pitch black back roads before enjoying a drive on Georgia Avenue for 25 miles as the sun rose. Meanwhile, the Wife fueled herself with eggs, coffee (to counteract Benadryl), and water before a 45-minute nap. We arrived on time and I, as her support team, got her ready to go with pre-race shenanigans. Her goal was to finish and that she did.
A photo gallery of the experience:
Race officials, having fallen short of volunteers, employed llamas to direct parking. Watch for the spit if you don't follow directions!
Upper 50s and occasional rain an hour before the start gave everyone a reason to complain and contemplate not racing, but the sky cleared and conditions were perfect for the race.
All racers were marked with Ocean City Henna tattoos or their bib numbers, I'm not quite sure.
How were times noted before timing chips existed?
The race started at 7; only problem was it wasn't supposed to start for another 5 minutes...
...so the first wave had to swim back to the start line; chalk it up to race growing pains.
My not-so-high-speed camera caught this arm, but not the body with it.
Wetsuits were key to surviving water temps in the upper 60s.
Bikers mounted and were on their way for a grueling 15-mile ride through rolling farmland hills. Scenic? Sure. Long, steep climbs? Absolutely.
Watch for that barbed wire on the bottom!
Carroll County...home to agriculture and whose most famous residents are ultra-patriot Francis Scott Key and communist spy Whittaker Chambers...who says the 96% white county has no diversity?
Carroll County was used in "Runaway Bride," not that that makes you want to watch a Julia Roberts movie.
Suggested improvement #1...make sure the fire trucks don't block the driveway for bikers as they temporarily did in backing them up. I'm pretty sure the lead racer didn't appreciate having to go around them.
There were some super-serious triathletes today, like the leader here, with ultralight frames, very thin tires, and aerodynamic helmets.The Wife saw many blown thin tires.
The 5k was flat except for the final 200 meters.
Part one of a sadistic uphill at the very end.
A final left for part two of the uphill to the finish. Suggested improvement #2...improve the marking for the first 1/4 mile of the run and make sure spectators stay out of the way.The Wife had to dropkick several people who walked on the unmarked downhill part.
Suggested improvement #3...The race should have competitors finish down a waterslide.
Suggested improvement #4...have enough water at the finish. The Wife looked for bottled water, but the ice coolers (really garbage cans) only offered ice and cans of Coca-cola. How about not offering soda at the finish line and buying more water? Soda's about the last thing you need after a race.
With the race over, the Wife and I avoided plenty of llama land mines in the parking field and were on our way home.
With the Wife fortunate enough to land herself a paid summer internship, we had to buy some suits so she'd look like, ya know, a lawyer. We went to Lakeforest Mall, a mall that'll never be confused with Montgomery Mall, to see what it offered. While perusing the stores (finding suits at The Limited), the Wife just had to visit Victoria's Secret. Ever full of bravado, ever hyper self-aware, and ever married, I ventured in with her.
I could have stayed outside and waited for her to buy what she needed. I could have stayed outside and looked at HDTVs. I could have stayed outside and stuffed my face with sample "chicken" or "beef" from the food court, nevermind they all taste the same.
But no. I went inside. Dead Man Walking.
Seems like Victoria's Secret has a new line of bras, for Heidi Klum to model, every 6 months that's always the softest, highest lifting one yet.
Victoria's Secret is littered with relationship killing land mines. It just begs couples to enter together and leave alone. It dares you to guess at your SO's sizes...guess too small and she feels bad having to look for a larger size or guess too large and she's even more insulted you thought she was THAT size. If she asks you what you think of something on her and you don't like it, she'll ask you why. You don't want to go there. Deflect and move on like a politician.
I felt seedy being in the store when other women were shopping for their unmentionables. As far as I could tell none of them gave me the evil eye thanks to it being clear that I was with the Wife. But still. Other women were looking at underwear and here I was avoiding eye contact and looking at the floor. I'm sure they didn't want me looking at them then looking at the bras on the rack and putting two and two together.
There's implied X-ray vision when you're the lone guy in the store. Don't be that guy.
Then I started to wonder how Victoria's Secret workers (VSWs) feel at the store. When dealing with another woman it's quite professional and unawkward (if that word exists). Yet, if I went in alone, looking for something special, but didn't know the Wife's sizes, I'd have to use the VSW as a prop. It's not like you can use a half-torso mannequin.
It's like throwing yourself to the wolves...errrr...angels.
Just how do you do that without insulting the VSW or your wife? When you insult one, it's a left-handed compliment for the other. You say someone has a smaller/larger/thinner/curvier "insert what you want here" and the other receives a compliment or insult. Plus, it's awkward just talking to a stranger about what you're buying. 30 seconds ago you were just a random mall shopper; now you're buying something to get laid.
I suppose a conversation would go like this (having always visited with the Wife):
Average Joe (who's not B and T Crowd!): Hi, I'm looking to buy something nice for my wife.
VSW: Great, I'm happy to help. What are you looking for? (Nothing like helping a guy buy something so he can sex-up his wife. It's like buying condoms at Target. We all know what's going down (zing!) or up (double zing!).)
Joe: Thanks. I'm looking for, um, uh, some lingerie. ("Lingerie's" French origin makes it easier to say than "clothes the wife will use to tease me when we, ya know, bump uglies.")
NYC's flagship store opening did not employ everyday VSWs.
VSW: Ok, are you looking for a teddy, bra and panty set, something in lace? (Nothing like asking a stranger what his fetishes are. I love recapping my day at work, "oh honey it was great, I helped this one guy buy stuff so his fantasy would come to life.")
Joe: I don't know her sizes. I guess she likes two-piece things. (Actually, it's all about what I like on her.)
VSW: Ok, we have a lot to choose from. (And I know this purchase is about your happiness and not her's you selfish POS.) How large is her chest? (Cue immediate staring at my chest.)
Joe (pulling eyes up from VSW's chest): I don't know how to describe this. I guess it's kind of like that brunette VSW over there. (I won't make my VSW an object, I'll just objectify her fellow VSW. So slick.)
Even everyone's favorite non-prude, Barney, is uncomfortable with Victoria's Secret.
VSW: Um, ok, so your wife's about average. (Calling her average doesn't insult her nor me, but marrying this guy makes her stupid.)
Joe: I like this rack over here. (I'm so funny making that joke at Victoria's Secret!).
VSW: Let's see what's there (What a douche! Like he's the first to make that pun. I feel sorry for his wife.)
Joe: I really think she'd like this. (Forget her, it's my eyes that matter.)
VSW: Ok, this bra should support her well enough, but what about the bottom? (Cue immediate staring at my ass.)
Joe (pulling eyes up from VSW's butt): For the bottom, I guess I'd say it's like yours. (Who says guys don't compliment women enough?)
VSW: Well let's go with the average woman's size. (Thanks for objectifying me and measuring my bottom half with your wife's, assclown).
Joe: Thanks for your help today. (Because I'm so close to my wife that I don't know her sizes nor was I smart enough to look for them before leaving.)
VSW: My pleasure (I hope your wife leaves you tomorrow because those clothes won't fit her well enough, won't make her feel comfortable (i.e. sexy), and won't get you anywhere. May you have blue balls forever.)
Take that Rockettes!
It's a lose-lose proposition going to Victoria's Secret unless you're comfortable with your SO. Jerry Seinfeld claimed the ultimate relationship test was airport transportation. I disagree. Anybody can do the airport pickup and dropoff, but nobody can shop at Victoria's Secret with or without your SO and exit without internal bleeding.
The secret to Victoria's Secret shopping is to buy the SO a gift card. Just don't ask for advice on which one to choose.
Despite my best efforts with Tivo, sometimes I end up watching TV as it airs and catch a commercial or two. The experience is only made worse when I catch one of Pizza Hut's commercials for its line of, most assuredly, craptacular pasta meals. I take issue with its premise, legality, and ability to insult viewers.
Count your blessings if you haven't noticed this ad. Here's the plot: Pizza Hut takes a blindfolded family out to an Italian restaurant only to instead have them return home and eat Pizza Hut pasta meals at at their dining room table. It's so clever! After removing their blindfolds the family members are amazed they're eating Pizza Hut pasta and proceed to feign happiness for the taste.
Come to Pizza Huts in India for Bhangra dancing, not good food.
The entire premise is a hoax. No matter how dumb Americans are, no matter how desperate they are for money (appearance fees), and no matter how hungry they are for fame, nobody would agree to be in a Pizza Hut commercial after being fooled. Actually, those are all reasons why they'd agree to be in the commercial. That is, if they aren't the actors we know they are.
Anyway. Let's say they're ordinary people. Why would you agree to be blindfolded and taken out of your house to a restaurant? How would you know to trust the people to take you as promised? Hello! You're agreeing to be kidnapped out of your home for a free meal! WTF? Oh sure, just make sure you lock up when we leave into your unmarked van at night and don't forget to walk the dog.
This is how a real taste test of Pizza Hut's awful pasta would go.
Let's say the blindfoldees locked their house and then had their blindfolds placed over their eyes. The van they're taken in drives around the block only to return them to their home. In the ad they're taken back to their dining room table with blindfolds still on. Does this mean they let themselves back inside? That destroys the premise of any natural surprise of eating at home instead of the restaurant because they'd, well, know their at home. If they went to a restaurant, wouldn't they hear lots of people talking and noise from plates and silverware clanging?
Don't tell me they trusted their kidnappers with their keys. If you agree to be kidnapped to a restaurant you'd have no need to give them the keys because you're just taking the blindfold off before you leave the restaurant. Call me crazy (or pathetic for overthinking this commercial), but whenever I agree to be kidnapped for a restaurant taste test, I'm holding onto my keys and wallet, but I'm losing plenty of dignity. Pizza Hut crime #1: Kidnapping an entire group of actors middle class family.
It's better if you suppose the "family" held onto its keys. This means the only way for Pizza Hut to get the family back inside with blindfolds on was to break into the house. It doesn't take being married to a second-year law student to know that this is breaking and entering (crime #2). I suppose Pizza Hut broke into the house while they family was in the van. Plausible? Not really, but let's go with it.
The family is then directed back up its walkway, something they'd recognize for sure. What restaurant has a generic suburbia stone path from a driveway? The family is now back at home at their dining room table. You'd think they'd recognize the chairs they're sitting on, maybe the table they're leaning on. How about the smell of the house and familiar floor creaks? Of course not, that would make too much sense.
Why order a meatlovers pizza when you can't identify the meat?
They sit down and try the processed pasta and what do you know, but they manage not to instantly regurgitate it back on their plates. It's a miracle! They say things like it tastes better than manure, has less flies in it than roadkill, and smells like milk left in the sun for a week. I can't wait to order.
Of course there's the big reveal when the blindfolds are raised and they're all shocked it's from Pizza Hut yet they're at home. I'd be pissed off that Pizza Hut kidnapped my family only to break and enter into my house and serve me "pasta" from a company whose pizza tastes like cardboard. How about instead of being "wowed" by the taste, you get angry that these strangers are you in your house and have placed several hidden cameras everywhere. Have you checked your bathrooms for video outputs?
Just perfect.
The commercial's entire premise is awful. Who are the advertising wizards who thought of this one? Who would even buy their pasta from Pizza Hut? A company competing in the pizza-tastes-like-cardboard category against the likes of Dominoes, Papa Johns, and Cici's (the best of the lame choices). Making your own pasta is cheaper, healthier, and an easy way to decrease criminal activity in your neighborhood.
I'd like to thank the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NAADC) for waking me up this morning at 4:30. Sure, my alarm wasn't supposed to go off for another hour and 15 minutes, but it was soooooo cool to be awoken by the thunder of F-16s flying 5,000 feet above my bed!
The NAADC's newest lineup of alarm clocks come in one shape, one color, and plenty of bone rattling afterburners to wake you up out of fear.
Anybody can use a dinky little alarm or radio to get themselves out of bed, but I got two F-16s! And best of all, I had no idea it was going to happen...what a great surprise! I planned to rise at 4:30, but somehow the NAADC just knew I was better off without the extra sleep to start my day. The government sure knows me better than I know myself.
I'm gonna guess that the two Cessna Civil Air Patrol planes and single Coast Guard helicopter were a little overmatched flying with the F-16.
When I awoke I heard this great rumbling, but in my stupor I remembered it wasn't supposed to rain for a few more days so it wasn't thunder. Yet it kept getting louder. I thought it could have been practice F-16 flights, but didn't think they'd do them early enough to wake everyone along I-270. Alas, I was right and wrong. Best of all they're doing it again during the same midnight to 6 AM window tomorrow morning!
Living close to DC means the occasional 700 MPH F-16 flyby wakeup thunder.
I missed a lot of things about MoCo, but this was not one of them. So a big thank you goes out to the NAADC for giving me an involuntary wakeup call with fighter jets. It's so much awseomer than sleeping the entire night and waking up when I want to with my dinky alarm clock. I can't wait for it to happen again tomorrow.
Five weeks ago I did something stupid. Then one week later I did something stupider.
Five weeks ago, ever not a formal runner, I signed up for the Army 10-Miler. A week later, figuring that I'll be training anyway for the Army 10-Miler, I signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon. Sure, I've had moments of enthusiasm to run regularly, be it to finish a 5K or out of exercising convenience when the Wife and I worked in Virginia. But this is something different. This has a purpose.
I can't let down my sister because she's gonna fly in to run the marathon too.
I must now hold myself to a training schedule with increasing weekly and long-run mileage counts. I'll have to make sure my body's not ingesting too much sugar and make it a point to hydrate until it comes out clear (too much information?). My post-work and weekend availability is determined by off-days. I've started to become that guy and it'll only get worse.
Discipline lesson #1, courtesy Karate Kid.
My sister has run 4 marathons (soon to be 5) and 3 half marathons with ease, smiling and giving a thumbs up in every picture when you're supposed to be hitting the wall. I don't know how she can handle herself so well despite the discomfort that marathons are supposed to provide. So yes, some of my marathon running desire stems from sibling rivalry that if she can do it, so can I! Not better, but still finish. Her running prowess eliminates any excuse I have to blame my struggle on bad genes.
To complete both races I must do that thing that I've battled with for far too long. That thing that I lacked, resulting in an easy B+ student when just a little more time, energy, and concentration would have made me an A- student. That thing that drives people to do things they didn't think they could do.
That thing is discipline.
Discipline to stick to a schedule, run when I don't want to, ignore drizzling rain because I may have to run in the rain on race day anyway (so says the Wife), and waking up for an early morning run to beat the summer heat. Discipline to make up for the times I couldn't hold myself to cleaning up my room, mowing the lawn on schedule, and quitting karate in 3rd grade after 3 weeks because it interfered with the Cosby show.
Damn you for being funny enough to stop my karate career.
I am not phased (yet) by the seemingly insurmountable distance that a marathon requires. I'm not looking at that distance now, just each week's demands. I'm taking this in baby steps, adding a mile each week. While the double-digit weekend runs around the corner seem immense, the training's discipline will get me there. Eventually. Slowly but surely. I think. I hope.
Time for cheapo depot to invest in legit running shorts...every ounce less counts.
I'm three weeks into my training and so far it has been going well. I made my beginner marathon schedule by combining the many offered to me and I guess it has worked; offering enough freedom should I need to delay a run or the weekend weather doesn't comply. The schedule is not for speed, but distance. My goal is to finish what I started, not qualify for the Boston Marathon.
I'm not competing with this guy (or my sister), I just want to finish.
As I delve deeper into this world of running beyond 5K charity weekend runners, I've learned about the importance of materials that wick away sweat, properly fitted shoes, and Body Glide. I've come to realize it's not the best to go on long runs in heavy basketball shorts, even if the Maryland terrapin is emblazoned all over. Fitted shoes and arch insoles from a running store have been a godsend.
Out with the embarrassingly amateur stuff...
By far, the best advice received has been from my sister when she said I'd never chaf again if I used Body Glide, a roll-on stick that makes sure places that rub during long runs don't leave you waddling like a penguin. It works fantastically, even for my measly athletic level. It sure beats my old combination of baby powder and Monistat chafing relief powder gel (it was the only anti-chafing option I saw in Target, I swear!).
...in with what the pros use.
Both races are in October, leaving 5 months to get ready, 5 months for moments of lower body pain, and 5 months to see how far discipline gets me. It doesn't sound so stupid after all.
You have to take online reviews with some skepticism. Some reviews are written by manufacturers or their competitors, or just people who ignorantly rate something with 1 star when there was only one minor thing wrong. Other reviews are hilarious, like these for a screen printed three wolf t-shirt at Amazon.com. For those unwilling to click the link, here are three highlights of 22+ reviews:
#1: Recently, my girlfriend asked me to meet her parents. I was hesitant at first, and declined the offer for a couple of months. Finally, she wore me down and got me to agree. Her parents are rich enough to own Bill Gates, and they insisted that we go to some nice steak restaurant. Despite her objections, I wore this shirt.
The first thing her father noticed on me was this shirt and, upon shaking my hand, he started to call me son. As soon as we sat down, he wrote me a check for 100,000 dollars and told me to call him if I ever needed anything, and her beautiful mother began rubbing my leg in a not unpleasant way.
Available in sizes small to XXL and at a reduced cost of $9-16, down from $35(!)
#2: This item has wolves on it which makes it intrinsically sweet and worth 5 stars by itself, but once I tried it on, that's when the magic happened. After checking to ensure that the shirt would properly cover my girth, I walked from my trailer to Wal-mart with the shirt on and was immediately approached by women. The women knew from the wolves on my shirt that I, like a wolf, am a mysterious loner who knows how to 'howl at the moon' from time to time (if you catch my drift!). The women that approached me wanted to know if I would be their boyfriend and/or give them money for something they called meth. I told them no, because they didn't have enough teeth, and frankly a man with a wolf-shirt shouldn't settle for the first thing that comes to him.
"Customers who viewed this item also viewed" includes this pair of royal blue Zubaz pants. Anytime that's a suggestion from amazon, you're socially inept.
#3: This shirt should be illegal. Its just not fair to the other players. When I wear this bad boy to a D&D tournament, my elf transforms into a wolf-god, making mince-meat of his enemies and basking in the glory of battle! Last week, I was able to pick up the "Gilded Arrows" which gave +20 damage, and no one even noticed because they were too distracted checking out these beautiful wolves!!!!! The other guys have wolf shirts too, sure, but their's don't have a moon, and they sure don't have THREE wolves on one shirt!! I haven't taken off this shirt in 19 months.
This weekend I helped the Wife fulfill her lifelong (well last year anyway) dream of competing in a Muddy Buddy race. When it was over we were dirty, sweaty, wet, and happy to have experienced the event.
We left MoCo around 11 AM and made our way to an area south of Richmond in Chesterfield, VA. It's a land of Civil War sites, a NASCAR race track, and no synagogues. After grabbing our race packets and buying the cheapest sportswear Target had to offer, we were starving so we stopped at the aptly-named American Diner. Oddly enough or aptly expected, it closes at 3 everyday and doesn't have a website.
Good service...just not the place a kid with a Terrapins shirt should feel comfortable. Ignorant B and T Crowd stereotyping commence!
It's a place where locals congregate to get away from the franchises up and down the Midlothion Turnpike. With TVs permanently set to the Fox News Channel (I kid you not) and tobacco tchotchkes abound (it is VA's top crop), my University of Maryland t-shirt wasn't the smartest dress choice. We played it safe and ordered some burgers and fries. The burgers were average, but the fries were spectacular. I don't even think the kitchen staff spit on them!
We rolled up to our hotel, a Hyatt Place, where I assumed the position of napping on the bed while the Wife studied for finals at the desk. The first room had a funky smell, making the second room seem well enough. I enjoyed some golf on the 42" LG 1080 plasma and wished I had brought my NHL 95 controller to plug into the media input stand. For dinner we grabbed some pasta from the closest restaurant, stuffed our faces, and went to bed.
We were only 2.5 hours away, but far from home.
The next morning I talked my way into some bagels and fruit before the continental breakfast was served and we were checked out by 5:30 AM. We arrived at Pocahontas State Park a little after 6 and got our gear, bib stickers, and timing chips ready to go. We followed the mass of humanity to our starting wave point and waited for our time to shine.
As for a Muddy Buddy race...it's 6-7 miles of biking and running with 4 obstacles (in our case, but it's usually 5) throughout the race. Partnered teams switch between biking and running at each obstacle until the joint mud pit bath at the end. Sounds enticing right? There weren't many costumes for our race, in fact, only the He-Man/Skeletor team was worth mentioning.
When I yell, "on your left!" don't make me ride off the path to pass when you're supposed to move to the right.
The first wave was sent at 7 while we waited for our turn that wouldn't come for 30 minutes. In the interlude we were entertained with dance beats at least 10 years ago, also known as my half of our MP3 collection, with classics such as "I'm Blue," "Heaven," and "Scatman." I was instantly transported to my underclassman years at any dirty bar in Adams Morgan that moved its tables away for people to dance at night.
With the airhorn blast, the front of our wave rode off (the Wife) and us runners followed 90 seconds later. I hate trail running, but the Wife loves it so you compromise, it's what marriage is about in the first 11 months as far as I know. I got caught in the back of my wave's runners, but slowly, methodically, and luckily plucked off runners in front and reached the first obstacle - a 10-foot climbing wall with a cargo net on the other side.
Please enjoy the only Muddy Buddy video that's not annoying, even if it is last year's Orlando race.
I have a history of not doing well on climbing walls because I try to "arm" my way up instead of using my legs. Well that, and I'm not flexible and listen to my fears too often. Thanks to a muddy trail from tons of rain the night before, my non-trail running shoes from last year didn't grip so well, but I managed to clear the wall. Not bad after the 1.5-mile run. I grabbed the Wife's bike and was on my way.
The Wife and I have a 9-inch height difference, yet I was kind enough to keep her bike's seat at her height. Riding a woman's hybrid on a low seat felt like a tricycle. I thought my weight would crush the frame. I couldn't extend my legs much beyond 90 degrees so it was a lot of stand-up pedal pumping. I cheered on the Wife as I passed her on the trail and attacked the 2nd obstacle, a balance beam, with no trouble. One request for organizers, how about spacing the beams farther apart so when people fall they have room to fall?
The triathlete-lawyer had no trouble with transitions.
I was back to running as the Wife passed me halfway to the next obstacle and gave me a cheer. The cheer's value was short-lived thanks to steep hills that made me curse the sense of it all. I trudged through without stopping for the 1.5 miles and knocked out the 3rd obstacle - a military crawl under netting. I grabbed the bike left at the transition area and sucked down water knowing I was over halfway done.
I pumped away down the trail and saw the Wife stopped mid-run. She was warning me that the handlebar was loose and to be extra careful. Turns out the hex screws holding the bar in place had come loose so gear shifters and brake grips were turned around. It was awkward as I kept thinking I'd take a digger with her bike on the slippery trail and speeds I'm not used to. When your handle bar isn't attached properly, controlling your bike's direction is a bit tricky. Actually it's impossible.
I asked if I could help those with broken bike chains, but I had no idea how to fix them and was just offering rhetorical morale support.
I rode to the 4th and final obstacle - a 25-foot cargo net climb to a slide on the other side. I think it would help if one lower rung of cargo net was available to help shorter competitors get started. I walked to the water station and downed 3 cups before starting my final leg on foot...ba-dum-bum-bum. Another request to water station fillers, don't put your empty cups on the first table we approach, it's a cruel joke to make us search for water.
Always a good way to breakup a long run and bike ride.
I didn't exactly set a world record on this leg. My legs weren't underneath me at all. The final trail section was very muddy so I was sliding all over and wasn't getting much response from each push. Then we reached a small, but dirty lake to wade through. This soaked my bottom half, but somehow I kept my smile throughout, telling everyone in earshot to think of it as clear as the water of St. Lucia. About a mile remained so I was optimistic until I tried running again. My shoes were soaked (duh!) so it felt like I was running with 3-pound ankle weights the rest of the way.
Rule #1: Don't dive in (it's one foot deep) and don't put your face in the mud. Rule #2: Don't wear wedding rings because you will lose them in the mud...unless you mean to lose them, then you have issues.
Finally I reached the asphalt section and knew I was almost home. I made it to the partner waiting area in a little under an hour after I started and kept my eyes peeled for the Wife. Ten minutes later she appeared, having walked her bike most of the last leg because the handlebar was dangerously loose.
My advice: Bring towels like we did to not only clean off and protect your car seat, but also to give you privacy while changing in the back seat. And a garbage bag to throw your clothes away.
We grabbed hands and ran to the mud pit. We began our crawl when my shins felt on fire. Turns out the mud pit had gravel rocks at the bottom. Make this request #4 of an otherwise great event, make future mud pits free of rocks. I'm enjoying some busted up shin scrapes this minute thanks to the less than smooth bottom. We ran to the finish line, posed for pictures, and washed down. Relieved to have finished without major injury and happier for the experience.
As soon as we washed the mud off it magically appeared again.
We won't be doing this race again because a lot of the fun for us is its novelty, but would surely recommend it to everyone. It's a lot of fun and if a big oaf like myself can get through, so can you.
Swine flu is spreading!!! Ahhhh!!!!! Cancel school for two weeks (I'm looking at you Texas)!! Stock up on bread, bottled water, and canned goods!!! Our world is falling apart!!! Stop eating pork!! Go Kosher!
That's how the media wants the public to react and well, like always, the lemmings have followed the (currently) false dire warnings. This is an overblown story (for now!!!) and we need to take a timeout from this craze. And no, you can't get this flu from pork, but that doesn't stop media requests for a response from pork lobbyists and cookie cutter reports on how pork consumption has decreased.
I am known to be a worrywart, but this swine flu is not something to worry about, yet. One death happened in the US and that was a toddler visiting from Mexico. That's one non-resident in the entire country, hardly worth worrying about. The fact that Texas and Alabama are closing schools and canceling athletic events is just insane.
Could things get worse? Sure, but we're nowhere near that.
This strain of the influenza virus may cause more deaths, but it's our "regular" flu strains do this every year to the count of 36,000 Americans. This is an odd strain because it popped up late in the flu season and is new, but I'm still holding to the notion that it still is a strain of the flu (H1N1) and not something like an outbreak of smallpox.
I'm not saying this won't become the next great virus that wipes out lots of people. I'm saying that at its current stage, anyone who still gets their news from 24-hour cable news channels or is unable to turn past the first page of a newspaper (I mean look beyond the first link), thinks this flu is already the end of the world when it is entirely not.
Nobody ever said TV news people were smart.
The World Health Organization has raised its level of awareness to 5, meaning "strong signal that a pandemic is imminent and that the time to finalize the organization, communication, and implementation of the planned mitigation measures is short." Yet our country's measuring stick, the Centers for Disease Control is simply telling people to treat this as you would any other influenza season: wash your hands, cover your mouth to sneeze and cough, stay active, get plenty of sleep, and don't go to public areas if you're sick. Hardly something worth losing sleep over.
Could this turn into something god-awful, sure, but it's highly unlikely. Did you know that between 2005 and January of this year the US had 12 cases of swine flu with no deaths? The only reason you didn't hear (or freak out) about it is because the craptacular information source, aka the news media, didn't make it into the big pile of stink this version is now. That's the root of my whining. It's time viewers learned to surf news websites and scan headlines to filter garbage stories from those of legitimate concern.
Ahhhh, the silence of an empty studio is so nice.
This frenzy follows the recipe for breakout news reports that don't reflect the scale of the story's importance. The 24-hour news channels must fill air with something, anything. The economy being down has gotten old and Obama had just reached his first 100 days (a date count wholly irrelevant to today's Presidents). With this self-proclaimed absence in worthwhile subject matter, along comes this flu in Mexico with strains appearing in other countries.
Nevermind that it's currently no worse than any other flu strain that gets passed around the world, the channels had to run with it. Cue the repetitively-titled chyrons "breaking news" and "new developments." With constant talk of the flu, other outlets decided to follow suit, lest they be the only ones to show news direction restraint.
Try this...watch a talking head's segment and ask yourself what you learned...9 times out of 10 it'll be nothing.
So now you have above the fold (or is it screen these days?) stories in every newspaper about the flu. The forever pathetic local news in every market leads with a flu update and juvenile DC radio news station WTOP has frequently unnecessary updates. With all this flu talk the public is left to only think, because it can't think for itself, that this flu is a major major problem.
The news perpetuates the fear it created because people have a false sense they need to hear more chatter that doesn't advance the story and the cycle feeds upon itself. Meanwhile, devious news directors are surely hoping for more confirmed cases and of course the holy grail, deaths. Such results fuel the flames of higher ratings for info-tainment when little changes despite the cry wolf chyrons that are always on.
Eventually you'll get misinformation that eating pork will give you the flu.
Like Slate's article from Tuesday, "What happened to avian flu?", this strain most likely will go away and we won't pay attention, but it'll still hang around. Preparation for the Avian flu has helped things mobilize better for this flu strain so such worries have helped things get moving, but if you're not running a hospital you might as well just treat this like a normal flu season.
More swine flu talking heads provide more information on what would have to occur to make things bad enough to where you need should treat this greater than typical flu season. As the Post's Howard Kurtz wrote much better than this entry and in fewer words:
With front-page headlines, constant cable-news updates and top-story status on the evening newscasts, the outbreak -- with at least 40 confirmed cases in the United States -- was inescapable. But the sheer volume of media attention suggested a full-blown crisis.
It also doesn't help things when VP Joe Biden didn't think before he spoke when Matt Lauer asked...
...[him] what advice he would give a family member who wanted to jump on a commercial airliner to Mexico, ground zero of the swine flu outbreak.
'I would tell members of my family -- and I have -- I wouldn't go anywhere in confined places now," said Biden, adding that it's not so much the destination as the means of getting there that concerns him.'
Good news directors, meaning the scum whose job depends on their ability to create fear and panic for suckers that are unable to think for themselves and discern a story's real world scale of importance, should do their due diligence and give updates on the next flu virus that comes through this fall. You know, the strain that wasn't covered in everyone's flu shots. The one that's spreading across the country, causing deaths and runs on prescription drugs.
I got to the office this morning and made my way down the hall to fill a glass of water. The water cooler's inverted 5-gallon jug appeared empty, but it keeps a 1/2 gallon inside for those final water urges. I pressed the cold button and nothing came out. That's odd. I pushed again and got nothing.
Some asshat took the last drops of water and didn't replace the jug!
Who needs a cup when everyone can enjoy your germs!
Who does that? Really? A water cooler's premise is that everyone (who can lift 5 gallons) will replace the jug when it's emptied on their fill. Pretty simple concept. Just as I've been trained learned not to leave 5 pieces of toilet paper on a roll and walk away for the Wife to replace, why can't people in the office follow this simple cycle of water replenishment?
Our water cooler doesn't handle no-spill water caps, forcing us to do the quick turn and slam down replacement method.
There are many office etiquette no-nos and this is right up there. I'd say it's not as bad as farting/passing gas/breaking wind up and down the halls, but it's at least worst than cubicle-speakerphone guy. It takes a lazy, gutless, and inconsiderate person to leave an empty jug on the cooler to be discovered first thing in the morning too.
* * *
4/28 AFTERNOON UPDATE: I've determined who the office etiquette violator was through deductive reasoning, common sense, and general propensity for mindlessness.
It was me. And I'm here to admit my wrongdoing.
Call me crazy, but I'd rather drink from DC tap water and the high level of lead that comes with it than anything this guy handles.
After a glorious post-work workout, I had had my fill of water until the jug emptied and I wasn't in the mood to replace it. I knew full well that this meant I needed to be the first one in today after being the last one out yesterday. I made it in first, replaced the jug, and cleaned the crime scene of water splashings. Nobody was none the wiser...I think. And nobody will hear about this, at least not on the internet.
In case you missed it, before the Masters was played two weeks ago, some pros tried to skip golf balls from the tee, across water, and onto the 16th green. From 170 yards out, Vijay Singh not only landed on the green, but made it in the hole. The video is shaky, but it's the best view we've got. His holed tee shot starts 25 seconds in.
PGA pros not only hit the ball well, but can also skip it on water...damn their skills!
I love the Wife. Today I am also proud of her. She finished her first triathlon at Georgetown Prep in Bethesda earlier this morning. This was the perfect event for her to get her feet wet (ba-dum-bum-bum) in triathlons. We're still awaiting her splits, but winning wasn't the goal; finishing was and she did it with a smile.
An unfortunate need at any race, though I didn't see it used today.
Georgetown Prep's campus was very nice with its well manicured lawns; mix of old and new facilities; and requisite tennis bubble, 3-hole golf course, and several fields (one with lacrosse goals of course). Having not seen any classrooms, I'm confident they were just as nice and modern. It's the kind of acreage and look you'd expect at a private school for the children of diplomats and Senators...and Freddy Adu. It's the finest (and only) Jesuit private school I've ever seen.
Transition area before...
The Wife had done some training for this race, but was inconsistent thanks to that little'ol thing called law school and an internship. Undeterred, she pushed through and made herself finish, recalling the mind over matter mantra during her 3rd ride up Tuckerman Road hills. I'd like to think my yelling at her to keep moving helped, but I'm not sure any swimmer, biker, or runner ever hears their personalized cheers.
...Transition area after.
Being a sprint triathlon, the events were much shorter than the hardcore Ironman events, but that's just fine with us. An Ironman triathlon is in the neighborhood of 2.5 miles in open water, 112 miles on the bike, and then a marathon. The Wife's events today were 250 meters in a pool, 9 miles on the bike, and 2.5 miles running.
Sure reminds me of my public school except for the tennis bubble, 3-hole golf course, 220 years of history, all boys enrollment, and Jesuit curriculum. If only my parents had cared enough to send me where the education isn't dependent on taxpayer funding.
At a little after 7 the first swimmer jumped in, followed by the next competitor 10 seconds later for 10 laps in the pool, moving down a lane after each lap. Athletes with autism and other disabilities went first followed by the slow, medium, and fast groups.
None of us in the stands could figure out why the lap lanes were perpendicular to the tiled lanes; the Wife said she didn't even notice.
Being the ever attentive husband/official event photographer, with a prime spot by the exit door, I didn't see her jump in the pool. I didn't see her first 5 laps. Was my view blocked? Was I distracted? Nope and nope. I was looking for an off-white swimcap when she was wearing a black one. Suddenly I saw a female doing the sidestroke and realized that it was the Wife (who uses that method when her shoulder's bothering her).
If finding the Wife was tough in a pool, I have no shot of finding her in open water triathlons.
I managed to snap a handful of shots as she finished, nevermind I wasn't 100% sure it was her until she got out. Until then I was worried that I had been taking pictures of another woman, all sorts of stalker-like. She made her way to the transition area and I caught her at the bike ride start.
The course was 3 laps around Tuckerman, Old Georgetown, Edson, and Rockville Pike. I put myself midway up the hill just past the campus entrance. I missed the Wife's first pass, but managed to capture 9 seconds of video in her riding glory, smiling all the way, or at least when she came to my spot she was smiling.
The MoCo Po-Pos ensured Sunday morning drivers wouldn't interfere with racers.
I moved to the transition area where I took way too many pictures of her dismount and changeover. The Wife didn't answer me when I asked how she was feeling, but she did make sure to use me as a hydration belt holder. Glad to be noticed at least. She passed two runners in the first 50 feet and was on her way. I caught her around the last stretch before her track lap to the finish.
The Wife (not pictured) is not only the first lawyer in my family, but now she's the first triathlete!
The Wife's name was announced and she received a few anonymous cheers in addition to my vocal onslaught. She crossed the finish line looking comfortable, later telling me she could have gone a few more miles after her legs finally got going a mile after the bike. She grabbed water, bananas, and bagels before we embraced in a sweaty hug and kiss. She sure was a champion today and I sure couldn't be prouder.
Of the many things that you must do when you move, the most important has to be changing your mailing address. Thanks to this glorious thing called the Internet, changing your address is a simple and instant process. A process that is not supposed to have an impact on your mail delivery. Well, despite what you just read, not all mail arrives safe and sound.
Submitted for your review, I present the first exhibit of one, my 2009 MLB season preview issue of Sports Illustrated. I knew there'd be an issue or two arriving late during the address changeover, but this was too much. To the post office's credit I haven't had any trouble receiving my mail except for this issue.
Here's your Sports Illustrated now that I'm done reading it!
As much as I want to joke about a mail employee going postal, isn't it a dated reference/joke? Or is it not because it came to my mind and others still make the joke? Or am I just behind the times as my MP3 collection suggests? Or maybe I ask too many questions in my blog?
It's sad that going postal was just a convenient adjective turned verb for something that hadn't been slang(ed) yet. Another profession with crazed gun-toting employees just wouldn't have worked as well..the thought of going "librarian," "DMV'd," or "NASA'd" doesn't have the same civil service ring to them.
Back to the story.
I give mail carriers credit for processing the mail no matter the weather.
I finally received my late SI, kept safe in its own plastic wrapping. How nice of the post office to have valued my magazine so highly that it felt obligated to add a layer of protection. Oooooh, it's the MLB preview issue. Though I have tuned out baseball, it was something to read while I dropped the kids off at the pool had some downtime from home repair. Because really, who reads hardcopies of text readily available on the internet unless they're somewhere lacking WiFi access.
Buy this one-page issue and get a football phone free!
When I picked up the issue it was much lighter than even a normal edition, let alone a baseball preview. Something was wrong...the post office had sent me a sealed Sports Illustrated cover page and nothing more! Seriously. All I got was the cover page. No back page, no middle page, no table of contents. Just one page with overweight CC Sabathia on the mound at the new Yankee Stadium and an ad on cover's back for the Mirage in ever struggling Las Vegas.
Oh the irony!
The kicker was the note on the back. In big bold letters it said, "WE CARE." Right. The post office was better served not delivering the one-page magazine. The note talked about regretting the damage to my mail, hoping that it didn't inconvenience me, how it's fair for me to expect mail to be delivered properly, and finally the request that I accept the post office's apologies.
I appreciate the note, but 98% of the magazine is still missing.
That's fine. I accept the apology because this occurs less than 1% of the time, but come on, someone packaging my lame duck magazine should have asked it was really worth it to send a single cover page. Instead, I get a stapled plastic cover better suited to protect Sports Illustrated memorabilia than mail a baseball preview cover page singlet. I'm sure the policy is to wrap whatever's left of the mailing, but common sense should rule or am I asking to much?
Again, I'm not upset with the post office and appreciate the extra effort. The subsequent issues have arrived on time and unharmed so really I'm not trying to make an enemy. I wouldn't want anyone going postal or anything.
Our third week of home ownership is in the books and it was a resounding success highlighted by a lack of water issues with the washing machine. For the past seven days I enjoyed a home that didn’t require emergency maintenance or heavily-suggested improvements from the Wife that I could ignore.
My heart goes out to IKEA furniture instruction guides for helping us build (and in this case take apart) pieces of particle board.
The week wrapped-up with my parents visiting as our bed-and-breakfast’s first overnight guests. Early Tripadvisor.com reviews suggested they enjoyed themselves, IKEA medium firmness foam mattress and all. The Wife’s Mother, also known as the Mother-In-Law (MIL), has even booked a seven-day stay at our B&B for the first week of August.
Some never before seen moving pictures...
The parents stayed Saturday night for our delayed Passover Seder. The Mother cooked the Brisket and made matzah ball soup the night before, yet it still tasted great 24 hours later. Such a suck-up, I know. It was a seminal Seder because it was the first one for me and the Wife as me and the Wife, as well as the first one in our new home. The Father decided this was noteworthy enough to add a new line to my late grandmother’s Seder family news/attendee list Haggadah; the first update in 13 years.
...really just late pictures I wanted to post in entries from two weeks ago.
The Father asked if I wanted to lead services, but I told him it was his bat and ball as always. Of course this meant I still faced reverse age discrimination having to do the four questions as the youngest at the table. If only there was a way to get someone younger to the table so the burden wouldn’t be on me every year as it has the last 29 years.
For once I spilled no wine, but my mom left her mark in the Haggadah a few times with Horeset juice droppings. The Cat did his part as Elijah, meowing when we called for Elijah and appearing when I opened the door; just as my New Jersey cat did for 16 years.
What's that about putting the ramp all the way into the latch? (Kind of ironic that I took a picture of the truck's operating instructions beforehand.)
As a means to avoid paying our B&B fees, the Mother helped the Wife build the deck furniture before the Father and I returned from a Sunday morning bagel run. That’s what happens when two Type A people are motivated to finish a project. The MIL has signed up to plant a lilac bush and start a vegetable garden to earn her free stay and that’s fine with me.
IKEA's next product line let's you build your own car!
For those of you keeping score at home, the final furniture building tally: I put together the king and queen beds, 6-drawer dresser, desk, executive chair, breakfast table, and two breakfast table chairs; the Wife put together two dressers, two nightstands, full size bed, and deck furniture (with the Mother). Not too shabby.
With the desk chair I’m sitting on and desk I’m typing on put together, let’s hope well enough that I don’t fall to the floor, all furniture necessary for a functional house has been bought, built, and placed. The next wave of non-essential honey-do (home ownership) items can be tackled like hanging pictures and posters; tightening handrails, light switches, and doorknobs; and grading the backyard.
That is, until the Wife finds the shade of blue for the dining room’s accent wall to paint.
My name is B and T Crowd and I used to be a spastic Metro downstepper.
I used to think I was gaining precious minutes of my life back one step at a time. By sprinting downstairs I would catch so many trains that the time saved would amount to something, anything.
It amounted to nothing.
When I downsprinted the Dupont Circle escalator last week, pushing an old woman aside, kicking little kids out of my way and seeing them roll down the stairs, and elbowing a just-released GW Hospital patient with broken ribs in the side, I knew I was out of control. I had to stop. Passing other downsteppers just wasn't worth the emotional distress and trauma.
Sprinting up a Metro escalator is acceptable behavior; sprinting down is a worthless activity. I used to be a downsprinter until I didn't see the light of an oncoming train time and time again. My efforts were futile and it showed. I learned life was easier when I let the trains arrive according to my schedule.
Sprint going up, slide going down. That's the ticket!
I'm as big of a fan as anyone for highstepping Metro's escalators, be it for the exercise, to get where I need to go quicker, or because I want to passive-aggressively ram my shoulder into unsuspecting passengers without hesitation. These are perfectly fine reasons to highstep the escalator...as long as you're heading up to exit.
I'm concerned with those who run down the escalator and not those who walk down. Downwalkers are acceptable because for many, it eliminates getting sick from a stationary escalator ride. Looking down Dupont Circle, Wheaton, and Bethesda escalators requires Dramamine unless you keep moving in some rational way. The ultra quick downsteppers are out of control and must be stopped. And once upon a time I was one of them.
Sprint steppers overestimate the value of their energy. Thanks to my double-blind, double secret probation experimental observation, I've concluded that the number of trains caught because of sprinting is so minuscule that it makes sprinting worthless. The number of trains caught is inversely proportional to the square root of time between train arrivals, sprinter's ability, escalator length, and gravitational pull of the mitochondria's endoplasmic reticulum's nucleic acid.
Moving on.
A few factors must be considered when determining the worthlessness of some people's actions (like blogging about the worthlessness of some people's actions (or blogging about blogging about the worthlessness of some people's action (or blo...).
Trains arrive every 3-5 minutes during rush hour so it's unlikely that barely catching a train helps you that much when another train is right behind it. Sometimes trains have even shorter waits making your gain quite small. The value of sprinting increases when you barely make it onto a train during the off-peak schedule, especially when trains run 10 minutes or more apart. But we'll ignore that legit argument for the legitimacy of this one.
The 75 Exorcist Stairs in Georgetown are easy to sprint down; going up, yeah, not so much.
Consider the escalator's length when deciding whether to walk or sprint down. For one, short escalators often let you see if a train is even in the station. If one is about to pull out (that's what she said?) and the escalator is no more than 20 steps, you can probably get on board by walking down. No matter, you'll be able to better estimate the stepping speed needed to get on board.
With long escalators, you can't see the platform, making the sprint down a total crapshoot. Unless you wait to until the train arrival sign tells you how long you have, it's a blind stepdown. With so many delays and emergency track maintenance taking up signage, by the time you wait to find out when the next train arrives it'll have already left the station. Blind stepdowns are pointless because they are the least successful.
It's heartbreaking to watch these sprinting downsteppers at the Wheaton Metro reach the bottom looking for their train only to have it not be there. Meanwhile I saunter past them on the platform with at least a few seconds before the arrival lights even flash, knowing full well their downsprinting was unnecessary yet again. I was once one of them until I learned better. Now I step casually and wonder when they'll learn too.
