Sunday, September 16, 2012

My Marathon Realness

My long run, with the L.A. Leggers, was 4 miles.  It's a "break" after last week's 5 miles before we kick up into the higher mileage.  I asked our pace group mentor how many marathons he has completed.

"25," was his confident and proud answer.
"Holy shit!" was my very eloquent response.




How does that even work?!

If I ran two marathons a year from this point forward, I would be 45 years old by the time I reached that goal.   




How does that even work?!

Then, I looked at our mentor again and figured . . . yeah, he could be early/mid forties (I'm a horrible judge of age, by the way).  He doesn't have muscles bulging from a tight shirt.  He's not loaded down with gadgets and gear.  He's running in baggy shorts and a t-shirt, some shoes that look like their fastest miles are behind them and a funky ball cap. 

As many people are, I am totally intimidated by the marathon.  It's because I picture marathon runners with tight tummies and muscular legs, long strides and the newest and spiffiest running shoes.  I picture the cover of Runner's World. 

Uh, that's not me.  I'm more Runners With Chub Rub and a Wicked Penchant for Cheese Sauce World.

This dissonance has kept from being really excited about completing a marathon, even doubtful that I could do it.  I'm certain that magic is the only thing getting my ass to 26.2.  However, running with the Leggers has been a huge help in starting to see myself as a marathon finisher.  Some of these people have completed multiple marathons and their bellies and thighs wobble just like mine.  The reason I couldn't picture myself as a finisher was because I wasn't picturing me.  I was picturing some weird collage of body parts--preferably, toned and barely glistening with sweat--crossing the finish line.  That's just not reality (so much more sweaty!), and a marathon is going to make some things really real, really quickly.

Must maintain MY marathon realness.

This is Alice B.'s marathon realness.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Tabling the Matter

Here's my current view.

Flowers in the foreground.  Fruits, veggies and cookbooks in the background--my kind of landscape. 

My my, Sam, where can one find such a gorgeous view?

I'm so glad you asked.


I'm sure most of you over the age of 20 and not living in a dorm have a dining room table, so this may be a very LAME update for ya'll.  But for those of us--not naming names--that may have been living the last 7+ years without one, this is a game-changer.

When I lived in Chicago, alone, in a studio apartment, a formal dining table was not exactly a priority.  Friends coming over for dinner?  Ummm, how about we go out.  When I moved to Los Angeles, and mostly worked from home, a dining table was again not a priority because we needed the space for my office.  Meals were taken on the couch or the floor--keepin' it classy.  One of my favorite Thanksgiving dinners was had on that floor.  Who needs tables when you can have leg cramps and the danger of putting your heel in the gravy boat?

Then we moved into our bright, lovely, ocean-breeze-filled apartment and had to rethink some things.  We have more room, no need for a home office and a gaping space right off the kitchen.  What to do . . . what to do?  Being the budget-conscious duo we are, off to Craigslist we went to find the finest in second-hand furniture.

I found a few tables that were . . . fine, but not what I wanted.  The nifty twist was, I didn't really know what I wanted, and D.R.--of the As Long As I Can See the Broncos Playing school of thought--would've been happy with anything that stood upright.  It was a process of elimination: Nope, don't want that.  Nope, we don't need a table that seats 12.  Nope, Sonny Crockett called and he wants that smokey black glass table back.  Nope, I don't want a round table.  It's hard being picky while also lacking a goal.

I was walking through a furniture store to get some inspiration when I saw a dark wood, counter-height table.  Ya know, the kind they have in pubs and bars?  Winner!

Back to Craigslist . . .

A lovely woman, who is about two weeks away from giving birth to her second child, was selling one for a steal.  We hauled it away and promised to give it a good home.

We christened it with cookbooks, lunch and grocery lists.

By the way, I'm eating a California hotdog for lunch in this picture.  Get yourself some turkey dogs, nestle them into some whole wheat buns, slather them in Green Goddess dressing, and top with sprouts, carrots, cucumbers and Frank's hot sauce.  Hello deliciousness!

Growing up, my family was pretty strict about only eating in the kitchen/dining room, but I prefer the freedom to nibble and nosh in every room in the house.  Nachos on the balcony; dinner on the couch while I decide if I want to continue watching The Newsroom or not; donuts in bed; Coffee and bites of toast in the morning while I curl my hair in the bathroom; standing at the kitchen sink eating PB&J in a rolled tortilla with a glass of milk; wine at the desk while I watch yet another chunk of money fly out of my bank account for student loans.  See, all rooms in our home must be conducive to eating.  The irony does not escape me that the dining room was the last to join the party.

Wanna come over for dinner?

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Saturday's Child

I like to think I've grown and matured over my 32 years, but there are a few things that have just stuck since I was a kid.

The perfect Saturday morning will always include cooking shows.  It started with The Frugal Gourmet (before those pesky sexual assault allegations), right up to my current favorite, Kelsey's Essentials.  It used to be me sitting cross-legged on the floor in the basement not wanting to get out of my nightgown. Now, it's coffee on the couch and not wanting to put on a bra. 

I also get excited when I find pretty things with my initials.  It's not like our house is covered in the alphabet, and I don't carry monogrammed luggage.  I like stumbling upon little surprise trinkets that quietly say hey, we belong together.

Couldn't pass that up.
Isn't there some saying about a key to life is keeping one's childlike innocence?  Am I making this up?  Oh well . . . it's working for me this morning.  Done and Done.

Oh, I also still really love puns of my last name.  If my blog title didn't already give that away.

Go forth and indulge your inner child today!

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Hidey Ho, There Is Glaze Everywhere

Well, hello there!

I apologize for the two-month radio silence, but I gotta tell ya, kids, life is pretty frickin' sweet right now.

D.R. and I moved to a new apartment closer to my work.  We've been moving all our stuff in and organizing, but mostly we've been sitting on our balcony with glasses of wine and the ocean breeze marveling at how damn grateful we are for the new digs.  It's amazing how much happiness comes from actually liking the apartment you live in.  And don't even get me started on the dishwasher.  The love I have for the GE Nautilus is real and abiding.

Getting to know our new neighborhood has been fun.  Today, we we visited this fine Los Angeles institution.  It's only taken us 6 years to get here.

D.R.:     Should we get four donuts, two each?

Me:     Sure.

D.R:     Oooo, I might want a cream filled one.  Let's do five.

Me:     Well, with that logic, we might as well get six.

Like I said, life is pretty sweet right now folks.

Take care and Happy 4th!!

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Gaffes and Gratitudes: The NyQuil Edition

So, my "I'm not feeling great . . . " from last week took a violent turn into "can someone please get me a new set of lungs?  These are no longer functional."

I fought through a few days at work, but Friday morning found me hovering over the coffee pot at 6:03am, hunched and mouth breathing.  I took the morning off and went back to bed.  I rolled into the office on a breeze of Mentholatum and a prayer.

My body begged for green things, vitamin-packed things, healthy and nutritious things.  I took that to mean: consume almost an entire box of Trader Joe's knock-off Oreos and--hey, why not?--a Bloody Mary.  I figured the Tabasco sauce would help sweat out some of the gunk. 

I believe I am now on the come back trail and I am all for it.  


* Going through an entire box of Kleenex during ONE day at work. 

*On that note, I am so my father's daughter: not a delicate, quiet nose blower.  Somehow, our DNA was crossed with that of a tuba.  It's always classy.

*Furthermore, always carry Kleenex in your car.  When the situation gets desperate, you may or may not reach for a pantyliner.  I refuse to believe I am the only one who has had to do this.

*The hand sanitizer that traveled across my desk for an express meeting with my eyeball.

*Hair that has reached the Dog the Bounty Hunter stage.  Haircut on Saturday.

*Almost ruined an entire pot of coffee when I reached for the cumin instead of the cinnamon.  Reading is hard when you're sick.

*The vet admitting they overcharged us by almost $300.  Wahoo, and thank you for fixing our dog.

*The two days of yoga I eeked out before surrendering to the couch.

*NyQuil.  That distinct green goblin-ey harbinger of sleep and wellness.

*A walk on the beach in the sun with an old friend.  

*The medicinal powers of oatmeal, pho, and pinot noir.

*A friend recapping a conversation she had with a co-worker where she reminded him to "bloom where you're planted."  I've been thinking about that idea for the past few days since I'm usually more of a "hey, what's going on over there and how do I make myself a part of it?" 

*Turning in our official notice to vacate our apartment.  We haven't found an apartment yet, but there's nothing like the threat of homelessness to make one discerning.  Zoiks!

*When we come home, Alice is usually standing at the window, tail wagging.  There is a specific point we must cross in the courtyard before she will leave the window and go to the door to greet us.  I've tested her.  She will not move until she's determined we are in fact coming up the stairs to see her.  Makes me happy no matter what kind of day I've had.