And now, back to our regular programming…

Apologies for the derivation into sadness yesterday. I suppose sometimes it cannot be helped. Meanwhile, I’ll try to resist getting all somber and sorrowful in the upcoming days/weeks. I will say it was kind of a relief to ‘purge,’ so thanks for listening.

Gotta work the biceps.

Moving right along, it’s 8:00am here in Kauai, and I just finished a rather grueling upper body workout.

It was the same workout I usually do, just…altered in a manner that made it notably harder.

Usually I do the workout using neoprene-covered five and eight-pound hand weights.

Seeing as the last thing I would put in my luggage is ten pounds of dead weight as it’s much easier to do so with shoes I never end up wearing anyway, I was forced to improvise. And after testing a variety of objects around the house for sufficient poundage and grippability, I finally discovered my muse.

Don't forget the deltoids!

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Certainly you recall the great champagne athletes of Haute-Marne, France? The spectacle as they would wind up and throw the bottles as hard as they could into the side of a ship, often tearing a hole in the hull upon collision? The glorious sight of champagne spray and shards of glass and wood flying everywhere? Admittedly, many people lost their sight standing a little too close to the flying shrapnel, but there are always risks when beholding history in the making.

Who can forget Etienne “Napoleon” Beauchamp, who revolutionized the sport in 1903, tearing sixteen cannon-sized holes into the side of the previously mighty and water-tight Dupuy de Dome before collapsing into an exhausted heap on the grass-covered ground? Not only will he live on as the greatest champagne thrower to ever live, but he is also the sole reason the sport was outlawed and ultimately abandoned altogether. When the French Navy returned and saw the damage inflicted on their once-proud vessel, well, clearly this had to stop.

Rounding it out with some triceps kick-backs.

Although I have neither the strength, passion, nor the financial backing of the French luminaries, I did feel I was launching my own mini-revival of the tradition in my decision to employ champagne bottles as hand weights. I’m no pro, but I would estimate they fall in the five-pound range, whereas the wine bottles were only about three…and mostly from California, which simply will not do. True, they’re freezing cold and the weight is a bit unevenly distributed on one end, but that’s the price of greatness.

As with any workout, it’s really important that you employ proper form. When working with champagne….hell, form goes right out the window. Just make sure you hang on tight and don’t drop them! Ignore the early signs of frost bite in your finger tips. It’ll wear off.

Simply put and stated despite the obvious, I am willing to go the distance and improvise in the (fruitless and futile) pursuit of Linda Hamilton T2 arms. And improvise I must. One final tip: No mimosas for breakfast…unless you like licking them off the ceiling.

So I went to the gym today, and I was expecting a mob scene. You know how it works: People make all kinds of resolutions to join a gym or get in shape or lose 20 pounds and give it their best shot for two weeks, and it really cramps my style when they hog all the machines at my club in the process.

The guy I saw managed to dislocate something and get his foot up over his head.

However, perhaps due to ye olde econonomy, things were pretty normal. I did see a number of folks on sales tours, but all in all it was a typical Saturday morning with the usual suspects (Old Chinese guy who does everything at triple speed, Anthony Hopkins doppleganger, my friend and chiropractor who is a serious gym rat, etc. etc.).

So status quo except for a few weird ass things going on that I have to tell you about. In fact, the silver lining of the whole experience was the happy realization that “Houston, we have blog material…”

So without further ado: I was sitting there quietly working on my triceps in a most lady-like and human fashion, and to what to my wondering eyes should appear but this woman crawling along the floor in what could only be a reenactment of the stages of evolution. Seriously. It was whacked.

Upon closer examination, she was apparently executing a push-up going into a lunge going into a push-up, a la “the crawl of a dying gila monster” back and forth across the room, and I felt embarrassed just looking at her. She must have been at it for hours, too, because I saw her more than once as I mixed in the biceps and triceps machines that line that section of the gym. She would come in the corner of my peripheral vision, and I would think “What is that!?!?” (being unaccustomed to large objects lumbering around on the ground at the gym), and thar she blows. Back and forth in the open area between the weights and exercise bikes, performing her strange one-woman show for all 50 people in the cardio areas’ enjoyment.

I’m certain if she saw videotape she would never do that in public again.

Oh, my stars. See what I'm saying? Is this really necessary?

Anyway, in an effort to avert my eyes, I looked away in the direction of the basketball court wherein I happened to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be a foot sitting atop a head. I squinted and yes, there was a guy with a stretch band tied around his ankle, yanking his foot over his skull and toward his stomach.

I don’t know who advised this or how it’s a good idea, but what does a stretch band cost? Five dollars? Less? Don’t these people know that they can do this weird stuff at home? The slithering crawler lady would be better off at home where at least the germs all over the floor are hers.

I, for one, perform all odd-looking or awkwardly posed activities (i.e. everything abdominal and all squat-based or lunge-related behavior) behind closed doors. We’re all better off that way.

In other news, I attempted to watch the movie Julie and Julia last night. I had heard good things about it from everyone from girlfriends to male friends to my male dermatologist, probably because I have a blog…although not one with a book deal. (Note to self: GET A GODDAMNED GIMMICK ALREADY!!!)

Anyway, it’s still sitting in the DVD player half-watched because – and I don’t mean to sound like a prude here – but I was getting unnerved by all the suggestions of Julia Child’s ardent sex life. I mean, it’s JULIA CHILD already. She kind of looks like Susan Boyle. And she talks all weird (what WAS that? She was American, right?), and I really don’t want to see her rolling around in bed – again and again and again – with Stanley Tucci.

I have to imagine the real Mr. Child was not nearly so good-looking as Stanley Tucci, and I will never ever ever Google an image to find out. What I’m already picturing with his beloved wife is bad enough.

Oh dammit!!!

I just did it.

Why do I do this to myself?

It’s horrible folks.

It’s worse than I imagined…

He’s a little tiny old man and she’s gigantic. Oh baby.

God bless 'em. I'm glad they were happy. I just don't need to see footage (real or recreated) of them in bed.

So where was I?

Oh, yes, Julia made some comment about “It’s like a stiff cock!” and admittedly I wasn’t looking at the screen and maybe she was talking about a dead rooster or something, but I don’t care. That was it for me. Movie off.

I think it’s just that there’s some people where it’s better if they keep it to themselves.

If I went to a movie called Maddy and Madonna all about how 30-something Madelieine is hoping to learn the entire Madonna songbook on the ukulele and inter-spliced with scenes from the now-deceased Madonna’s life, I would expect a fair amount of sex. We all remember the “Truth or Dare” years and the cone bra and Sean Penn and Dennis Rodman and David Blaine and the father of Lourdes and Guy Ritchie and allegedly Sandra Bernhardt and on and on and on…

It’s to be expected.

I wouldn’t be shocked or put off or creeped out.

But 6′2″ weird-talking linebacker Julia Child and her tiny Mr. Magoo husband? I don’t wanna know.

Just talk to me about butter and pastry and keep it clean.

See what I mean?

Central Pennsylvania

Stardate 06092009

• Is there a rock in my shoe?

• Alpacas are super bizarre-looking critters, kind of like a the bastard love child of a llama and a rabbit and Twiggy. Slutty rabbits. Have they no sense?

• Combined smell of bushes on corner resemble Sarah Jessica Parker’s ‘Lovely’ perfume to a remarkable degree.

• Thirsty. So thirsty.

• Why is a small dirt road called “Palamino Parkway”?

• Stared at rusty puddle for a long time before realizing that drinking it may actually make matters worse.

• Hot. So hot.

• Broken – but still alive – turtle on the side of the road. Wondered if I came back and duct taped its shell back together if it could live out its life that way? Could it borrow somebody else’s shell a la a hermit crab? Realized answer was probably ‘no’ on both counts. Sad.

• Saw water in the distance. Dropped to knees and crawled toward it in my tattered running clothes. Realized it was a mirage. Got up and continued running.

• Cows stink, and on a humid day they stink more than usual.
• Sweaty. So sweaty.
• Pulled giant knot out of my ponytail. How long has that been there?

• I wait four miles into the run for the line ‘If you ain’t got no money take your broke ass home’ and after it’s come and gone, I kind of don’t want to keep running any more.

• Considered flagging down passing cars and asking if they had some water or another beverage they could spare.

• Possum in the middle of the street (fresh road kill last Wednesday) now looking very ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’

• I think my eyeballs are sweating. Or maybe that’s just tears?

• Only breeze of entire five miles  provided by a semi-truck going by at 80 mph. Thanks. Sort of.

• It’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other.

• Soooooo thirsty. What was I thinking!?
• Home!
• Great run. Can’t wait to go again on Thursday!

I’m tired.

And drained.

And ready for bed at 8pm, except The Simpsons are on and then The Celebrity Apprentice, and I will no doubt stay up to watch. (Side note: Second wind is upon me, and I’m surprised to note that Donald Trump Jr. seems to be evolving his own [heinously ugly] hairdo. I thought baldness and unfortunate thinning were inherited from the mother, but apparently in Trumps it descends directly through the male genes. Or maybe it’s just a matter of bad taste? The world may never know…)

Is it me, or is this filled with icky, boiling blood?

Anyway, as it happens, I’m no longer the spring chicken I once was.

Actually, I’m not even sure I ever had a heyday as such…but I’m most definitely not in the midst of one right now.

Today was the 12k race, and from the get-go it was off to an inauspicious start. To begin, I didn’t get home from my trip until almost midnight.

Then, I slept like crap. I have this weird thing where sometimes I’ll sweat like I’ve got autonomic dysreflexia, post-traumatic syringomyelia, autonomic neuropathy, and a bunch of other stuff WebMD said can be the cause of night sweats that don’t sound like good things to have and hopefully aren’t the reason this happens to me every few months.

Actually, I once recorded the sweats for a solid year, and took all the dates in to my doctor (who probably thinks I’m nuts, although not quite nuts enough to have me committed against my will), and he pondered them for a few seconds Then he declared that the dates were too random to be a symptom of tuberculosis, but if they pick up in frequency, to let him know. Case closed.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I sweat it up and soak the sheets and it’s super gross and always leads to a crappy night’s sleep, partly because I wake up freezing, and partly because I have to get my freezing body out of bed and find new blankets and, in this case, crack open a window.

So that happened, and then it’s up at 6:45am and off to the races. It was cold and they called for rain all day, so I dressed more warmly than I have in past years. Then, I waited in a 45 minute line to use a disgusting portable potty which was probably riddled with tuberculosis and god knows what else, and then, the next thing I know, I’m off and running.

So the goal was to run the entire thing in less than an hour. Which meant 8 minute miles (or less). Which immediately did not happen. Mile one – 8:20. Mile two: 8:37 and so on, until I drug back down to my usual 9:00 or 9:15 minute by the seventh mile.

I was in sorry shape.

You wouldn’t have even thought I trained, which I did. Sort of. Admittedly, I only started said ‘training’ two weeks ago, and I probably didn’t kick my own @ss as much as I should have, but the  point remains: It didn’t work. And I refuse to blame my own lack of initiative and effort. I blame advancing age.

And the fact that I was wearing a polar fleece jacket, which had my race number attached to it, so I couldn’t take it off. Rather than pouring rain, the sun came out and it actually got quite hot. All in all, I was happy about this, but it didn’t do much to increase my need for speed.

Ouch and double-ouch. At least I wasn't in bare feet.

Then there was the ankle timer.

They make you wear this timing chip on a Velcro strap wrapped around your leg, and the thing had dug four holes into my ankle by the second mile. Then my leg started to feel all crazy and painful, and I got paranoid that I was running on a stress fracture or having some kind of random – but serious – problem.  In the end, I think I had the strap on too tight, but ultimately I stopped and attached the ankle timer to my shoelaces…and problem solved.

And two minutes lost.

So there you have it, mission not accomplished.

I got through the race, just not (remotely) as fast as I’d hoped.

In conclusion, and not to dwell on a topic that I am personally quite sick of and have come to believe is more hype than reality, if there is rampant swine flu epidemic out there, I’m probably in some serious trouble. Today during the race, no less than 50 people spit within three feet of me. And I”m sure I stepped in at least a quarter cup of human gunk of some kind or another during the 7 1/2 mile course.

That guy needed one of these.

But the worst of all?

And I swear I am not making this up.

At the end of the race, in the middle of downtown, right after the place where you pick up your ‘thanks for playing’ t-shirt, I saw a man – a mere four or five feet in front of me – plug his nostril and fire a giant wad of snot out of the other one. And then he plugged the other nostril and did it again!

In public!

Where people could see him!

Oh, the humanity.

At the same time, let me give you my solemn promise:  I will never, ever unload a noseful of snot onto the ground in public. And if I absolutely must do so for some unknown reason that obviously involves a complete and total lack of paper products, I promise to ask you to look the other way and plug your ears first.

Cross my heart and hope to die.

I’m in hand-to-hand combat with an abysmal internet connection.

This is only  marginally preferable to no internet connection (i.e. my status for the last couple days).

To catch you up, I’m staying in a little cabin right off the water and shirking all of my primary responsibilities. I’ve come to appreciate that responsibility shirking may be what I was put on this earth to do. That or sleep and have crazy dreams, a skill I possess to a degree that can only be called a gift.

What I was NOT put on this earth to do includes (in no particular order):

• Downhill ski
• Salsa dance
• Keep African Violets alive
• Anything involving staring into people’s open mouths and touching their teeth.
• Work on a chain gang
• Mule drugs across the Mexican border
• Ultimate fight
• Snowboard
• Put false eyelashes on other people
• Raise pigeons/squab/any other secret code for ‘pigeon’
• Belly dance
• Teach at clown school
• Wrestle midgets in pudding (learned THAT the hard way!)
• Impersonate Madonna
• Stalk Madonna
• Forge checks drawn on any of Madonna’s bank accounts
• Name hurricanes (although I do feel it’s time we dug into the more ethnic names: Huricanes Beyonce, Cheech, and Plaxico already!)
• Skateboard professionally
• Build a rocket ship that actually works
• Swallow swords
• Swallow fire
• Swallow swallows
• Strip dance

I could go on, but it will get boring, and I care about you too much to do that to you.

However, on the topic of strip dancing, I do have something to share: You see, I remembered something yesterday while I was running in the woods. I’m doing a 12K race on Sunday, and I’ve been running a longer distance than usual – and doing so faster than usual – in the hopes of finishing in under an hour. Thus, I have additional time on my hands with which to think worthless thoughts.

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