The modern mugwump rarely has it in her to "do the town" two nights in a weekend. Last night I celebrated the Minneapolis Pride Weekend by attending the Bryant Lake Bowl burlesque show, "Dykes Do Drag."* Thus, tonight lends itself to drinking things that are 100% water by volume and enjoying the sun porch since it is FINALLY cool enough to do so.
The sun porch may be one of my absolute favorite things about our apartment, and that is a hard choice because this place is super cute. I (along with 2 less Mugwump, but equally modern roommates) live about 5 or 6 blocks from Hennepin and Lake, a very "lively" part of Minneapolis, particularly on the weekend. This makes our neighborhood also a pretty lively place on those evenings, and living right on the corner of a semi-busy road, we get a lot of interesting traffic here. Thus, tonight's "By the Numbers" is brought to you by a summer night in Uptown.
30: The feet you are supposed to be parked from the fire hydrant across the street.
6: The number of cars that attempted to park in that space before realizing the GIANT RED SCULPTURE in my neighbors yard is, indeed, a fire hydrant. Sorry.
12: The approximate number of feet the Mini Cooper is parked from the fire hydrant.
35: The cost of a Minneapolis in-city parking ticket. Just saying.
15 (give or take): The approximate number of drunken frat boys in the yard across the street.
7: The approximate number of sort of slutty girls in the same yard. This ratio has led the evening to be filled with machismo and some sort of awkward mating dance I would like to call "If I act like a total ass, maybe she will fall in love with me. Or at least take me home." Kind of gross.
5: The number of party buses that have driven past the corner.
6: The number of lost girls in the group in which I overheard "Well, Jesus, Kelly! I don't actually know how to get to Uptown." Um, you're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. You're in Uptown. Welcome, you just brought the average IQ in my neighborhood down 10 points, which was probably difficult to do given the frat boy to sort-of-slut ratio discussed earlier.
23: The number of times a guy across the street said "Yo, Dog!" or "No way, Dog!" I thought for sure Simon Cowell was there too, seeing as this had to be some lost episode of Uptown Idol.
8: The number of people walking their dogs, seeming so calmly out of place for a Saturday night.
2: The number of cars that attempted to turn the wrong way down our one-way street. Whoopsies.
1: Person didn't know Michael Jackson has died. I felt like Charlie from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory and I had found the golden ticket, as I am fairly certain this might be the only person on the planet that did not already know this news. The "WHAT?! So, what, did his face finally fall off or what?" comment, however, was priceless and appreciated from the second floor apartment. Thank you.
3: The number of limos that drove by. Classy.
1: The number of stretch Hummers that drove by. Not classy, with a Sasquatch-sized carbon footprint, lordy.
4: The number of times I saw someone run the stop sign.
3: Number of times some creepy guy blaring old time jazz has driven by.
Absolute 0: The number of parking spots available on this block. Or the next one. Or the one after that.
1: Number of modern mugwumps enjoying a bowl of fruit whilst doing a little bit of homework and a little bit of art on a beautifully breezy Saturday night from the second floor sun porch, watching the world stroll on by, ready to cuddle up in the City of Lakes. Lovely, simply lovely.
* I wanted to blog about Pride Weekend and equal rights, but decided it was too political of a topic for here. Obviously, I attended a Pride Weekend event, so you can probably guess where I stand on the political spectrum on this one, but my opinions are just too strong on this issue to discuss it in-depth here. All in all, I was happy to be able to do something to show my support for the gay community.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Why I Believe "Turtleneck" May Be an Appropriate Swimwear Neckline and Other Thinky Thoughts on a Tuesday
I wore sunscreen, dammit. SPF 50 and I didn't get in the water for 30 minutes after application and I reapplied. Practically textbook. And I'm "Public Health" so I should know better than to get burnt.
Should.
But, clearly, do not.
And so it is today that I advocate for the popularization of a turtleneck swimsuit. Because the current trend of plunging necklines in fashionable outdoor beach wear may be cute, but it lends itself to some painful painful burning. And sun blisters where no sun blister should ever go. Of course, then I am reading a magazine today that has an article all about skin cancer and I panicked (I have experienced 3 of the 7 high risk factors). I wanted to make an appointment to get every bump, mole, freckle, sun spot, and scar examined thoroughly. But I was taken back to this episode, and decided against it, for everyone's sanity.*
As promised, other thoughts I had today:
- There are thousands of whack-o inventions out there (the Snuggie, anyone?), but no one came up with a material to make steering wheels that don't reach temperatures of 300 degrees in the sun?!
- People seem to be nicer on Tuesdays and Fridays than any other day of the week.
- Stick in the eye < Ceiling fan. I am happy to be on the winning end of that equation even if I am on the losing end of ceiling fan < central air.
- It is easy to eat incredibly healthy and incredibly unhealthy in the summer. Too many goodies at the ends of the spectrum.
I am sure I thought more thinks, none of it necessarily more or less interesting than what I have shared already. Investigating cost and potential location for a children's pool for myself to laze in like a tiger at the zoo in my afternoons. Will update, although I feel I will eventually find the lake more crowded but easier and freer and thus a better deal overall.
* Uh, lesson learned in Googling medical stuff. If you image search skin cancer. . . man. . . that is some nasty stuff. Thanks, but no thanks.
Should.
But, clearly, do not.
And so it is today that I advocate for the popularization of a turtleneck swimsuit. Because the current trend of plunging necklines in fashionable outdoor beach wear may be cute, but it lends itself to some painful painful burning. And sun blisters where no sun blister should ever go. Of course, then I am reading a magazine today that has an article all about skin cancer and I panicked (I have experienced 3 of the 7 high risk factors). I wanted to make an appointment to get every bump, mole, freckle, sun spot, and scar examined thoroughly. But I was taken back to this episode, and decided against it, for everyone's sanity.*
As promised, other thoughts I had today:
- There are thousands of whack-o inventions out there (the Snuggie, anyone?), but no one came up with a material to make steering wheels that don't reach temperatures of 300 degrees in the sun?!
- People seem to be nicer on Tuesdays and Fridays than any other day of the week.
- Stick in the eye < Ceiling fan. I am happy to be on the winning end of that equation even if I am on the losing end of ceiling fan < central air.
- It is easy to eat incredibly healthy and incredibly unhealthy in the summer. Too many goodies at the ends of the spectrum.
I am sure I thought more thinks, none of it necessarily more or less interesting than what I have shared already. Investigating cost and potential location for a children's pool for myself to laze in like a tiger at the zoo in my afternoons. Will update, although I feel I will eventually find the lake more crowded but easier and freer and thus a better deal overall.
* Uh, lesson learned in Googling medical stuff. If you image search skin cancer. . . man. . . that is some nasty stuff. Thanks, but no thanks.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
In Case Wriggling Myself into a Wetsuit Didn't Seem Silly Enough
Remember when peer pressure was aimed at getting you to do stupid, unhealthy, mean, or otherwise less-than-tasteful things? I felt like, most times, those pressures were relatively easy to resist. I definitely fell into the trap set by all social circles containing 12-14 year old girls in which you gossip too much and get talked into saying/doing mean things at one of your "friend's" expense. I am not proud, but I did it. But the real dangerous and illegal decisions I found pretty easy to avoid, always being quick to cite that most of the "peer pressures" had research-backed negative health effects.
Fast forward 10 years. All new environments have social networks, and grad school is in many ways no different from junior high school. Except now all the peer pressure has positive health effects.
"Hey! We should all run a 5K (or several)!"
"Let's swim twice a week all second semester! Let's do it at 8 in the morning!"
"Let's run 200 miles from La Crosse, WI to Minneapolis-- in 24 hours!"
Yep. That's the next big adventure. As if running a triathlon wasn't enough for me-- I decided that I would join a 12 woman relay team to run from La Crosse to Minneapolis. At the end of August. Each runner runs 3 legs, totaling approximately 16.5 miles per team member. Allllll the way up the Mississippi. Day and night. Night and day. Rain and shine. Uphill and down. Just me, 11 of my closest/newest friends, my pink and white pavement slappers, and a whole lotta roadway.
Those Friends. Such persuasive buggers.
Fast forward 10 years. All new environments have social networks, and grad school is in many ways no different from junior high school. Except now all the peer pressure has positive health effects.
"Hey! We should all run a 5K (or several)!"
"Let's swim twice a week all second semester! Let's do it at 8 in the morning!"
"Let's run 200 miles from La Crosse, WI to Minneapolis-- in 24 hours!"
Yep. That's the next big adventure. As if running a triathlon wasn't enough for me-- I decided that I would join a 12 woman relay team to run from La Crosse to Minneapolis. At the end of August. Each runner runs 3 legs, totaling approximately 16.5 miles per team member. Allllll the way up the Mississippi. Day and night. Night and day. Rain and shine. Uphill and down. Just me, 11 of my closest/newest friends, my pink and white pavement slappers, and a whole lotta roadway.
Those Friends. Such persuasive buggers.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Far Greater Than the Sum of Its Parts
I don't think in my life I have often come across a situation where I felt the statement "far greater than the sum of its parts" was especially applicable, with perhaps the exception of team sports but that is sort of a gimme (regardless of the talents of each individual, the team that fails to play well holistically will never achieve success.
I found one such experience on Sunday. The Buffalo Triathlon.
Pre-race: I had to leave the house at 5:30 AM. On my weekend. It was raining. And unseasonably cold. We got sort of lost on the way-- not really, but a little. Check-in went off with out a hitch until around 7 when I had to get close to naked (in the freezing cold) so they could mark me (race number on all four limbs and age and gender on one leg). They used magic marker. That still hasn't washed off. Muscles were absolutely locked with nerves and fighting the cold.
The swim: 70 degree water is in no way, shape, or form a comfortable swimming experience. Especially with a 50 degree air temperature. To say that first leap under water was a shock is a bit of an understatement. And while the wetsuit rental may be the best investment I have made in a long time, it sorta seemed like putting a band-aid over a severed limb. I have no idea what that water would have felt like sans wetsuit, and I never never want to know. And now, I am not a real strong swimmer, so I knew this was likely to be a weak event, but it would have been nice if Flounder McCan't-Swim would have thrashed wildly in HIS OWN part of the lake while I tried to race, instead of stopping right in front of me all the time. Bonus points for the swim: no one kicked me in the face, or anywhere else for that matter.
Transition 1: Not bad, but slow. I needed to take some time and orient myself to the bike and put the swim behind me. But almost five minutes to put on shoes and socks is kind of ridiculous.
The Bike: I dropped the F-bomb on the course. I will admit, I occasionally swear to add effect to a story or as a more intense expressions of some emotion, but I rarely swear amongst strangers at a family-friendly sporting event. However, facing the SEVENTH mega-hill on the course, I let her slip. Some other interesting things happened during the bike: my left butt cheek cramped, but only the left and then I developed a cramp so severe in my right calf that a baseball-sized lump of muscle was bulging out of my lower leg for a solid 6 miles. I really love my pink and purple bike, and I am glad we finished my first tri together, but she can never be in another race. Never. Consider the '93 Specialized formally retired from sport. Also noted: being wet from the swim and then biking makes me doubly cold.
Transition 2: Erik reminded me to drink on my way into the second transition. So I downed some of the drink I made from a ziploc baggy of white powder he gave me. I am sure it is drugs and the doping authorities are after me, but it tastes like oranges and cream. Discovered that one of my earbuds was broken, but I could still pump some run-your-face-off music in one ear.
The Run: Rubber chicken legs for at least 1 mile. The desire to puke also happened right around Mi. 1.5. Luckily, this never came to fruition. Spilled fruit drink down my front on approximately 3 occasions. Discovered it is surprisingly difficult to run, grab a cup, bring it to your lips, and swallow gracefully. By drink station 4 I just opened my mouth wide and tossed the contents of the cup in the general direction of my face. The run was surprisingly good. I actually tied my best 5K time, so that was pretty darn cool.
Post-race: The moment movement ceased, every muscle locked. 3 hot showers and an hour in the hot tub only relieved this slightly. The following is a list of things that are extremely difficult to do in my current physical condition: get in and out of bed, sleep, sit still for more than 20 minutes, step over the bathtub ledge into the shower, put on my shirt, lift a half-gallon of milk, grip things tightly, bend over or squat (basically the only way to get low to the ground is to simply fall there), and even looking at a staircase makes my eye twitch. I didn't feel warm again for a sold six hours after leaving the race. With every new activity a new soreness, stiffness, or pain is discovered.
So, given all of this information, the summary of the triathlon? It was amazing! Incredible! A huge rush and major accomplishment! Truly an experience greater than the sum of its parts. It was great to run with my sister, the fans and volunteers were incredible, the other athletes were supportive and excited to have first-timers out there, and the post-race meal was hot. I had the time of my life and I can't wait to run another one. Maybe not until Buffalo 2010 though, as I feel like it might take 365 days to recover.
I found one such experience on Sunday. The Buffalo Triathlon.
Pre-race: I had to leave the house at 5:30 AM. On my weekend. It was raining. And unseasonably cold. We got sort of lost on the way-- not really, but a little. Check-in went off with out a hitch until around 7 when I had to get close to naked (in the freezing cold) so they could mark me (race number on all four limbs and age and gender on one leg). They used magic marker. That still hasn't washed off. Muscles were absolutely locked with nerves and fighting the cold.
The swim: 70 degree water is in no way, shape, or form a comfortable swimming experience. Especially with a 50 degree air temperature. To say that first leap under water was a shock is a bit of an understatement. And while the wetsuit rental may be the best investment I have made in a long time, it sorta seemed like putting a band-aid over a severed limb. I have no idea what that water would have felt like sans wetsuit, and I never never want to know. And now, I am not a real strong swimmer, so I knew this was likely to be a weak event, but it would have been nice if Flounder McCan't-Swim would have thrashed wildly in HIS OWN part of the lake while I tried to race, instead of stopping right in front of me all the time. Bonus points for the swim: no one kicked me in the face, or anywhere else for that matter.
Transition 1: Not bad, but slow. I needed to take some time and orient myself to the bike and put the swim behind me. But almost five minutes to put on shoes and socks is kind of ridiculous.
The Bike: I dropped the F-bomb on the course. I will admit, I occasionally swear to add effect to a story or as a more intense expressions of some emotion, but I rarely swear amongst strangers at a family-friendly sporting event. However, facing the SEVENTH mega-hill on the course, I let her slip. Some other interesting things happened during the bike: my left butt cheek cramped, but only the left and then I developed a cramp so severe in my right calf that a baseball-sized lump of muscle was bulging out of my lower leg for a solid 6 miles. I really love my pink and purple bike, and I am glad we finished my first tri together, but she can never be in another race. Never. Consider the '93 Specialized formally retired from sport. Also noted: being wet from the swim and then biking makes me doubly cold.
Transition 2: Erik reminded me to drink on my way into the second transition. So I downed some of the drink I made from a ziploc baggy of white powder he gave me. I am sure it is drugs and the doping authorities are after me, but it tastes like oranges and cream. Discovered that one of my earbuds was broken, but I could still pump some run-your-face-off music in one ear.
The Run: Rubber chicken legs for at least 1 mile. The desire to puke also happened right around Mi. 1.5. Luckily, this never came to fruition. Spilled fruit drink down my front on approximately 3 occasions. Discovered it is surprisingly difficult to run, grab a cup, bring it to your lips, and swallow gracefully. By drink station 4 I just opened my mouth wide and tossed the contents of the cup in the general direction of my face. The run was surprisingly good. I actually tied my best 5K time, so that was pretty darn cool.
Post-race: The moment movement ceased, every muscle locked. 3 hot showers and an hour in the hot tub only relieved this slightly. The following is a list of things that are extremely difficult to do in my current physical condition: get in and out of bed, sleep, sit still for more than 20 minutes, step over the bathtub ledge into the shower, put on my shirt, lift a half-gallon of milk, grip things tightly, bend over or squat (basically the only way to get low to the ground is to simply fall there), and even looking at a staircase makes my eye twitch. I didn't feel warm again for a sold six hours after leaving the race. With every new activity a new soreness, stiffness, or pain is discovered.
So, given all of this information, the summary of the triathlon? It was amazing! Incredible! A huge rush and major accomplishment! Truly an experience greater than the sum of its parts. It was great to run with my sister, the fans and volunteers were incredible, the other athletes were supportive and excited to have first-timers out there, and the post-race meal was hot. I had the time of my life and I can't wait to run another one. Maybe not until Buffalo 2010 though, as I feel like it might take 365 days to recover.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
The Mental Anatomy of A Lake Run
In preparation for my triathlon (very first-- woot!) this Sunday, I have been running. I know this is only a third of what happens at a triathlon, but my bathtub is not deep enough for swim practice and getting all the bike stuff ready and going feels like it takes a long time. For the run I can just go. I don't even have to tie my shoes now that I have these nifty elastic laces that you can just pull. Do you Remember those springy laces of our youth in the neon colors? Like that, but for adults, marketed to "athletes" who will run, jump, swim, bike, etc. to the end of the earth, but are too lazy to tie their shoes.
So, I just moved to a hip part of town and in this hip part of town it is hip to run the hamster wheel that is "The Lakes." In truth, I run just one lake, because it is a few blocks there and frankly, I don't have my heart set on 10 miles. 3.5 is good, thanks. It's kind of funny, what running does for the mind. It takes me about 40-45 minutes on my runs, sometimes longer if I "remix" with some slow jogging and even perhaps a bit of a walk (don't tell). Now, for 40-45 minutes in my home, totally idle, I would think about 1-2 things, either one thing at a time or on a continuous repetitive loop. But 45 minutes of running? My mind has been EVERYWHERE.
For example, last night's 8pm run around Lake of the Isles:
Minute 0-2: The "Do Not Walk" sign at Hennepin is not a sign from the running dieties that be to turn around and laze on the couch, keep moving.
Minute 3-4: I wish the tables at Isles Cafe were a little less all over the sidewalk. Is it rude to run between the storefront and their outdoor seating . . . there really isn't any other sidewalk space. If I go in the street, will some tree-hugger run me over in their Subaru? What if I run into a server and they spill all over-- do I keep running or do I stop? Should I offer to pay for the stuff I spill? Can they hear the music in my headphones-- it's really loud?
Minute 5: Clockwise or counterclockwise around the lake? Quick! Clockwise or counterclockwise?! There are geese to the left-- a large flock. . . counterclockwise it is, maybe they will be gone when I get back around. They can be a bit aggressive (more on the part where one chased me on a previous run later).
Minute 6-9: Totally thoughtless, as Lady Gaga's "Pokerface" is playing in the headphones. An incredibly embarassing musical love. I wish there were reasons to hate it, besides it being pop music, but I cannot think of any. I will just let it consume me for 3 minutes.
Minute 10: I am already getting tired. Maybe I should slow down, walk even?
Still Minute 10: Whoa, cute guy, 2 o'clock. Not only will I keep running, I'll step it up a bit. And maybe smile slightly in his direction, maybe.
The tail end of Minute 10, as I pass Mr. 2 O'Clock: Huh, the gleam of his wedding band is quite brilliant. No more smiling, back to jogging.
Minute 11-15: What does it do to my body to be perpetually turning left for this run? Am I building more strength on one side than the other? Are my hips going to be all uneven when I am older, if I made this a habit? Will I get knee-cap cancer? Probably not, this line of thinking is preposterous. Stop now.
Minute 16-18: Look, there's a happy young couple walking around the lake, arm in arm. That's kind of cute, charming. Maybe not my thing, maybe it is. I'm not sure. Which of all the guys I have dated would do that with me? (List a few). Do I need to be physically touching my date at all times? Decidely not. Verdict on the situation: walking the lake would be nice, serene, and a wonderful way to converse. Maybe I could hold hands, but probably not. I am quite animated when I tell stories, which is of course what I would be doing on the walk, and I would probably rip my date's arm off. That is no way to make an impression. Oh goodness, now I am thinking about dating. . . gah, this train of thought usually derails me. Hopefully something shiny will catch my periphery quick.
Minute 19: What would happen if I lost my key right now? God, that would suck. The roommates are gone, I would be stuck outside until someone came home. I don't even have my phone.
Minute 20: Is it safe to be running by myself near dark without a phone?
Minute 21: I have my ID in my shoe. In case someone finds my body. I hope they look there. It's in the right shoe, by my toes. If you see me on the side of the trail, look there first please.
Minute 22-25: Is it more fun to be single or dating? (Internal debate that does not need to be publicly rehashed). Decide all things have pros and cons, and perhaps regardless, the grass is greener on the other side. However, this single grass-- it's not all dead, brown and scratchy. It is stupid to waste brain power on this debate any longer.
Minute 26-29: The lake is beautiful. There are a lot of cool things going on here-- some fishers, some kayakers, plenty of runners and walkers, some bikers and bladers, some conversation makers. A few dog-walkers and a small handful of cell-phone talkers. Some families with little kids, some parents enjoying time with adult children. How wonderful. You know what, Minneapolis? You are asthetically and culturally pleasing. I am not dissatisfied with the city I chose to make a home in.
Minute 30-31: It is stupid that my conditioner bottle says that my bad hair is the reason I have dated Mr. Wrongs. A) They have not been Mr. Wrongs- at least not all. Okay, Mr. Med School was definitely a Wrong, and Space Man Joe was a little too out there for me (and completely unhappy with my cumbersome attempt at answering his questions about time-travel and what holds the universe together). My timing in dating may only be discussed as comedic or completely and utterly flawed. Perhaps both. B) Um, I do not think that a 3 dollar bottle of shampoo will transform my dating life overnight (not that I want it to, anyway). Nice try, though.
Minute 32: Did I put on more deodorant before I started this run? God, I hope so.
Minute 33-34: I would love to sleep RIGHT HERE. Well, maybe not in the path but on the grass right next to it. Right here, right now. I am tired. This running thing takes a lot of energy. I bet I could eat a cupcake guilt-free when I get home. I hope there are cupcakes left when I get home.
Minute 35-38: I am running a triathlon in 4 days. I will take the following 3 minutes to totally panic.
Minute 38: Okay, that's all of that for now.
Minute 39-40: Frackin' geese. All aggressive like. Well, I will just casually run in the grass WAY OVER HERE for 20 feet and try to look cool and nonchalant-- it's not like I am afraid of the geese, or anything, right? Right. They're just birds. But I also find this to be an excellent time to run a little faster, at least until they are behind me. So I don't disrupt them, or anything.
Minute 41: Lake loop completed. Excellent. I feel like a runner. I am a runner. Okay, I am not a runner, but I do run. Sort of.
Minute 42: I need a route that does not have a hill at minute 42. This is stupid.
Minute 43: If Pablo Picasso and Andy Warhol and Vincent Van Gogh and myself all got together to make some art, my mind would blow. The mere thought of it now makes my mind want to blow.
Minute 44: I am going to plan a small meal while I wait for this light (at Hennepin, again). Avocado? Yes. Orange? Yes. Toast? Don't mind if I do.
Minute 45: If this guy on his doorstep that I pass EVERY run wasn't smoking when I passed, we could maybe be friends. But since he makes my lungs harden just looking at him, I will flash him a quick peace sign as I jog by and think less of him (just a little). Your health, man, your health.
Minute 46: MY DOORSTEP. Food. Shower. Pass out. Yay good times.
So, I just moved to a hip part of town and in this hip part of town it is hip to run the hamster wheel that is "The Lakes." In truth, I run just one lake, because it is a few blocks there and frankly, I don't have my heart set on 10 miles. 3.5 is good, thanks. It's kind of funny, what running does for the mind. It takes me about 40-45 minutes on my runs, sometimes longer if I "remix" with some slow jogging and even perhaps a bit of a walk (don't tell). Now, for 40-45 minutes in my home, totally idle, I would think about 1-2 things, either one thing at a time or on a continuous repetitive loop. But 45 minutes of running? My mind has been EVERYWHERE.
For example, last night's 8pm run around Lake of the Isles:
Minute 0-2: The "Do Not Walk" sign at Hennepin is not a sign from the running dieties that be to turn around and laze on the couch, keep moving.
Minute 3-4: I wish the tables at Isles Cafe were a little less all over the sidewalk. Is it rude to run between the storefront and their outdoor seating . . . there really isn't any other sidewalk space. If I go in the street, will some tree-hugger run me over in their Subaru? What if I run into a server and they spill all over-- do I keep running or do I stop? Should I offer to pay for the stuff I spill? Can they hear the music in my headphones-- it's really loud?
Minute 5: Clockwise or counterclockwise around the lake? Quick! Clockwise or counterclockwise?! There are geese to the left-- a large flock. . . counterclockwise it is, maybe they will be gone when I get back around. They can be a bit aggressive (more on the part where one chased me on a previous run later).
Minute 6-9: Totally thoughtless, as Lady Gaga's "Pokerface" is playing in the headphones. An incredibly embarassing musical love. I wish there were reasons to hate it, besides it being pop music, but I cannot think of any. I will just let it consume me for 3 minutes.
Minute 10: I am already getting tired. Maybe I should slow down, walk even?
Still Minute 10: Whoa, cute guy, 2 o'clock. Not only will I keep running, I'll step it up a bit. And maybe smile slightly in his direction, maybe.
The tail end of Minute 10, as I pass Mr. 2 O'Clock: Huh, the gleam of his wedding band is quite brilliant. No more smiling, back to jogging.
Minute 11-15: What does it do to my body to be perpetually turning left for this run? Am I building more strength on one side than the other? Are my hips going to be all uneven when I am older, if I made this a habit? Will I get knee-cap cancer? Probably not, this line of thinking is preposterous. Stop now.
Minute 16-18: Look, there's a happy young couple walking around the lake, arm in arm. That's kind of cute, charming. Maybe not my thing, maybe it is. I'm not sure. Which of all the guys I have dated would do that with me? (List a few). Do I need to be physically touching my date at all times? Decidely not. Verdict on the situation: walking the lake would be nice, serene, and a wonderful way to converse. Maybe I could hold hands, but probably not. I am quite animated when I tell stories, which is of course what I would be doing on the walk, and I would probably rip my date's arm off. That is no way to make an impression. Oh goodness, now I am thinking about dating. . . gah, this train of thought usually derails me. Hopefully something shiny will catch my periphery quick.
Minute 19: What would happen if I lost my key right now? God, that would suck. The roommates are gone, I would be stuck outside until someone came home. I don't even have my phone.
Minute 20: Is it safe to be running by myself near dark without a phone?
Minute 21: I have my ID in my shoe. In case someone finds my body. I hope they look there. It's in the right shoe, by my toes. If you see me on the side of the trail, look there first please.
Minute 22-25: Is it more fun to be single or dating? (Internal debate that does not need to be publicly rehashed). Decide all things have pros and cons, and perhaps regardless, the grass is greener on the other side. However, this single grass-- it's not all dead, brown and scratchy. It is stupid to waste brain power on this debate any longer.
Minute 26-29: The lake is beautiful. There are a lot of cool things going on here-- some fishers, some kayakers, plenty of runners and walkers, some bikers and bladers, some conversation makers. A few dog-walkers and a small handful of cell-phone talkers. Some families with little kids, some parents enjoying time with adult children. How wonderful. You know what, Minneapolis? You are asthetically and culturally pleasing. I am not dissatisfied with the city I chose to make a home in.
Minute 30-31: It is stupid that my conditioner bottle says that my bad hair is the reason I have dated Mr. Wrongs. A) They have not been Mr. Wrongs- at least not all. Okay, Mr. Med School was definitely a Wrong, and Space Man Joe was a little too out there for me (and completely unhappy with my cumbersome attempt at answering his questions about time-travel and what holds the universe together). My timing in dating may only be discussed as comedic or completely and utterly flawed. Perhaps both. B) Um, I do not think that a 3 dollar bottle of shampoo will transform my dating life overnight (not that I want it to, anyway). Nice try, though.
Minute 32: Did I put on more deodorant before I started this run? God, I hope so.
Minute 33-34: I would love to sleep RIGHT HERE. Well, maybe not in the path but on the grass right next to it. Right here, right now. I am tired. This running thing takes a lot of energy. I bet I could eat a cupcake guilt-free when I get home. I hope there are cupcakes left when I get home.
Minute 35-38: I am running a triathlon in 4 days. I will take the following 3 minutes to totally panic.
Minute 38: Okay, that's all of that for now.
Minute 39-40: Frackin' geese. All aggressive like. Well, I will just casually run in the grass WAY OVER HERE for 20 feet and try to look cool and nonchalant-- it's not like I am afraid of the geese, or anything, right? Right. They're just birds. But I also find this to be an excellent time to run a little faster, at least until they are behind me. So I don't disrupt them, or anything.
Minute 41: Lake loop completed. Excellent. I feel like a runner. I am a runner. Okay, I am not a runner, but I do run. Sort of.
Minute 42: I need a route that does not have a hill at minute 42. This is stupid.
Minute 43: If Pablo Picasso and Andy Warhol and Vincent Van Gogh and myself all got together to make some art, my mind would blow. The mere thought of it now makes my mind want to blow.
Minute 44: I am going to plan a small meal while I wait for this light (at Hennepin, again). Avocado? Yes. Orange? Yes. Toast? Don't mind if I do.
Minute 45: If this guy on his doorstep that I pass EVERY run wasn't smoking when I passed, we could maybe be friends. But since he makes my lungs harden just looking at him, I will flash him a quick peace sign as I jog by and think less of him (just a little). Your health, man, your health.
Minute 46: MY DOORSTEP. Food. Shower. Pass out. Yay good times.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Instead of Whip, Can I Get a Shot of Human Connection?
Warning-- this is about a 7.9 (on a scale from 1-10) on the warm-fuzzy scale.
The setting: One lovely Caribou Coffee shop in a somewhat busy shopping area near one of Minneapolis's most beautiful and popular lakes, about 8:30 am. A very smart, talented, and friendly barista (who is also very modest) whippin' up lattes left and right.
A doctor walks in wearing his scrubs for the day and orders a large skim, no-whip mocha. As he is patiently waiting for his drink and checking his Blackberry, a regular customer (We'll call him Joe) walks up to him from the leather couch by the fireplace and asks, "Are you Dr. [Last name]?" Extremely surprised and taken aback, the man in the scrubs replies "Yes. . . ?"
Joe explains that Dr. No-Whip Mocha performed emergency surgery on his son's lower leg after a horrible skateboarding accident about 2 years ago and because of Dr. Mocha, J0e's son is doing very well and is starting college as a freshman this fall. They chat back and forth a bit, and as Dr. Mocha is headed out the door, Joe says "I just wanted to take the chance to say thank you, really."
Bringing people together, one mocha at a time. It's what I do.
The setting: One lovely Caribou Coffee shop in a somewhat busy shopping area near one of Minneapolis's most beautiful and popular lakes, about 8:30 am. A very smart, talented, and friendly barista (who is also very modest) whippin' up lattes left and right.
A doctor walks in wearing his scrubs for the day and orders a large skim, no-whip mocha. As he is patiently waiting for his drink and checking his Blackberry, a regular customer (We'll call him Joe) walks up to him from the leather couch by the fireplace and asks, "Are you Dr. [Last name]?" Extremely surprised and taken aback, the man in the scrubs replies "Yes. . . ?"
Joe explains that Dr. No-Whip Mocha performed emergency surgery on his son's lower leg after a horrible skateboarding accident about 2 years ago and because of Dr. Mocha, J0e's son is doing very well and is starting college as a freshman this fall. They chat back and forth a bit, and as Dr. Mocha is headed out the door, Joe says "I just wanted to take the chance to say thank you, really."
Bringing people together, one mocha at a time. It's what I do.
Friday, May 29, 2009
The Single Greatest Expression of Mugwump Joy
The One-Woman Dance Party.
I often leave Facebook status updates when I am hosting the one-woman dance parties (complete with updated guest list) and a friend yesterday commented that I seem to have those often. And then it dawned on me that perhaps not everyone does this? At least, not with regular frequency.
I am no stranger to being an anomaly, regardless of the company I keep, so I can't say that I am necessarily surprised or disappointed that I have found an activity that I love that most people don't do (and maybe wouldn't even consider). I mean, really, let's just tack the one-woman dance party at the end of: painting, geocaching, running holiday-themed 5Ks, eating frozen grapes, sleeping with a light on, talking to strangers, etc.
And I can think of a host of reasons people do not throw themselves dance parties:
1. You are committed, and thus always have a dance partner.
2. You believe you are a terrible dancer.
3. You find better things to do with your time or do not feel as if you have time for such silliness.
4. The idea of having any fun whatsoever makes you want to peel your own skin off.
If you fall into the 4th category, I cannot help you and we maybe shouldn't really hang out. Because I will make you want to peel your skin off-- I can be kind of a firecracker.
But I think more people should engage in the one-woman (or one-man, we don't judge here) dance party. First, let's refute reasons 1-3 why you may not, and then I will give you ALL the reasons I think you oughta. You really oughta.
1. You've found someone to share all things with, including your dance party time. Uh, yeah, this is lame. Well, dating/relationships/marriage/whatever the kids call it these days may not be lame, but you have to be alone SOME of the time right? If you are spending every minute with that person, I think your dance-party hosting capabilities should be at the bottom of your list of concerns. We all need some space from significant others, friends, roommates, family, whomever. Take your space, clear it out, and dance like crazy in it. This is not to suggest that small group dance parties are unfun or unacceptable-- they just aren't quite the same, are they?
2. You believe you are a bad dancer. OF COURSE YOU ARE A BAD DANCER! How do you think you got that way? Lack of practice, i.e. not enough solo dance parties. Well, I have had a lot of solo dance parties and I am still a bad dancer, but that's because I just keep practicing bad skills. Solo dance parties are the ultimate safety zone where all bad dance moves magically become good (in a related note, not knowing the right lyrics to songs also becomes cool here). The running man? Excellent choice. Moonwalking, or pretending to? Crowd pleaser. Perhaps you don't even know these moves-- it's okay, just shake about (there are even good songs for this, namely Rooney's "I'm Shakin'" and Metro Station's "Shake It").
3. You find better things to do with your time or do not believe you have the time. Average song length, is let's say 3 minutes, but probably not even right? And the oldies, those gems are a little shorter. You don't have 3 minutes? Bollucks. You found 2 to brush your teeth this morning, you can find 3 to drop it like its hot this afternoon. You may have to be strategic a bit-- I wouldn't necessarily recommend doing this in the middle of a large work meeting or exam (those three minutes belong to someone else). But right when you get home is an excellent time or right before bed. Or for the entire time between "just got home" and "going to bed," if you prefer.
Like I said earlier, if you have an aversion to fun, I really can't do much for you other than suggest an attitude readjustment.
Other reasons I solo dance party:
1. Do it for health. An adult needs a solid 60-90 minutes of moderate intensity activity a day to maintain or lose weight. 60 minutes is 20 songs, and you will be surprised how that time flies.
2. It's a good stress reliever. There is little better than taking a few minutes to literally drown out the world around you with some blasting music in your headphones and just do your own thing. This is not a long-term coping mechanism, although I do dance party more when I am at either emotional extreme, but for a few minutes to decompress and gather yourself I think it is totally appropriate.
3. It's inherently funny. I like to pretend that my dance moves are good, but deep down I know they are not, and thus the dance party becomes ridiculously entertaining. People enjoy others who can laugh at themselves. If you aren't comfortable doing that now, the solo dance party will help get you there in a hurry.
4. There is nothing wrong with being totally comfortable and at peace with yourself. Really, at the end of the day, there are few people I would rather celebrate my day with than myself. We all have our insecurities and issues, our hang ups, blow ups, frustrations, and disappointments. Accept them and dance them out. And with the potential exception of getting "busted," which is slightly embarassing but mostly hilarious, no one is going to see you. And if you can't dance with yourself, who can you dance with?
I often leave Facebook status updates when I am hosting the one-woman dance parties (complete with updated guest list) and a friend yesterday commented that I seem to have those often. And then it dawned on me that perhaps not everyone does this? At least, not with regular frequency.
I am no stranger to being an anomaly, regardless of the company I keep, so I can't say that I am necessarily surprised or disappointed that I have found an activity that I love that most people don't do (and maybe wouldn't even consider). I mean, really, let's just tack the one-woman dance party at the end of: painting, geocaching, running holiday-themed 5Ks, eating frozen grapes, sleeping with a light on, talking to strangers, etc.
And I can think of a host of reasons people do not throw themselves dance parties:
1. You are committed, and thus always have a dance partner.
2. You believe you are a terrible dancer.
3. You find better things to do with your time or do not feel as if you have time for such silliness.
4. The idea of having any fun whatsoever makes you want to peel your own skin off.
If you fall into the 4th category, I cannot help you and we maybe shouldn't really hang out. Because I will make you want to peel your skin off-- I can be kind of a firecracker.
But I think more people should engage in the one-woman (or one-man, we don't judge here) dance party. First, let's refute reasons 1-3 why you may not, and then I will give you ALL the reasons I think you oughta. You really oughta.
1. You've found someone to share all things with, including your dance party time. Uh, yeah, this is lame. Well, dating/relationships/marriage/whatever the kids call it these days may not be lame, but you have to be alone SOME of the time right? If you are spending every minute with that person, I think your dance-party hosting capabilities should be at the bottom of your list of concerns. We all need some space from significant others, friends, roommates, family, whomever. Take your space, clear it out, and dance like crazy in it. This is not to suggest that small group dance parties are unfun or unacceptable-- they just aren't quite the same, are they?
2. You believe you are a bad dancer. OF COURSE YOU ARE A BAD DANCER! How do you think you got that way? Lack of practice, i.e. not enough solo dance parties. Well, I have had a lot of solo dance parties and I am still a bad dancer, but that's because I just keep practicing bad skills. Solo dance parties are the ultimate safety zone where all bad dance moves magically become good (in a related note, not knowing the right lyrics to songs also becomes cool here). The running man? Excellent choice. Moonwalking, or pretending to? Crowd pleaser. Perhaps you don't even know these moves-- it's okay, just shake about (there are even good songs for this, namely Rooney's "I'm Shakin'" and Metro Station's "Shake It").
3. You find better things to do with your time or do not believe you have the time. Average song length, is let's say 3 minutes, but probably not even right? And the oldies, those gems are a little shorter. You don't have 3 minutes? Bollucks. You found 2 to brush your teeth this morning, you can find 3 to drop it like its hot this afternoon. You may have to be strategic a bit-- I wouldn't necessarily recommend doing this in the middle of a large work meeting or exam (those three minutes belong to someone else). But right when you get home is an excellent time or right before bed. Or for the entire time between "just got home" and "going to bed," if you prefer.
Like I said earlier, if you have an aversion to fun, I really can't do much for you other than suggest an attitude readjustment.
Other reasons I solo dance party:
1. Do it for health. An adult needs a solid 60-90 minutes of moderate intensity activity a day to maintain or lose weight. 60 minutes is 20 songs, and you will be surprised how that time flies.
2. It's a good stress reliever. There is little better than taking a few minutes to literally drown out the world around you with some blasting music in your headphones and just do your own thing. This is not a long-term coping mechanism, although I do dance party more when I am at either emotional extreme, but for a few minutes to decompress and gather yourself I think it is totally appropriate.
3. It's inherently funny. I like to pretend that my dance moves are good, but deep down I know they are not, and thus the dance party becomes ridiculously entertaining. People enjoy others who can laugh at themselves. If you aren't comfortable doing that now, the solo dance party will help get you there in a hurry.
4. There is nothing wrong with being totally comfortable and at peace with yourself. Really, at the end of the day, there are few people I would rather celebrate my day with than myself. We all have our insecurities and issues, our hang ups, blow ups, frustrations, and disappointments. Accept them and dance them out. And with the potential exception of getting "busted," which is slightly embarassing but mostly hilarious, no one is going to see you. And if you can't dance with yourself, who can you dance with?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Euphemism of the Day
George Carlin once had a great piece about euphemisms and how we use them to weaken and water-down things that are bad. While we don't feel as bad about them anymore, we do a great injustice to those situations and states and the people who endure them. It really is an excellent piece, and so I thought I would take note from the great philosopher, Mr. Carlin, and discuss a euphemism that certainly applies to my life today. It does not, however, have the great social power that Carlin's discussion had. But any of you who have dabbled through a quarter-life crisis will still relate, I am sure.
Transition, when applied to one's life. As in, "Little Tommy is just living at home for a while again as he transitions to the next phase of life." Yeah, Little Tommy is 38 and eats cheese puffs in his parents basement playing World of Warcraft for 16 hours a day, stopping only to wash his face and fingers in Mountain Dew.
Disclaimer: There is nothing wrong with the following things: being 38, basements, parents, cheese puffs (I happen to be a fan myself), Mountain Dew, or video games. It is the unique unification of these things that often has disturbing and undateable results.
Transition sounds nice. Just as springtime could be considered the transition between the harsh winter and the welcoming summer. But even from the weather we learn what transition really means.
I have no idea what the hell is going on.
There. That's the big secret. That's what "transition" means. It isn't some great metamorphosis (at least not intentional) into something bigger and better than you already are. Let's examine the weather example first before we extrapolate this idea to the life of a quarter-lived Mugwump.
Springtime in Minnesota- the transition from winter to summer. In a planned, gradient-esque manner, as we often think of a transition, springtime would be marked by a steady increase in temperature, getting slightly warmer each day than the day before. It would perhaps get slightly sunnier each day in a similar fashion. Regardless, it would continue to make forward progress towards the warm, sunny, watermelon-y summer we love. But it doesn't do that. Instead, we get a first peek at summer with a nice, balmy 60 degree day. Things green up a little-- how lovely the slight breeze through our hair feels. We may even brave driving with the window down. Ahh, the transition starts and we begin to look forward to the steady climb towards summer.
Transition, when applied to one's life. As in, "Little Tommy is just living at home for a while again as he transitions to the next phase of life." Yeah, Little Tommy is 38 and eats cheese puffs in his parents basement playing World of Warcraft for 16 hours a day, stopping only to wash his face and fingers in Mountain Dew.
Disclaimer: There is nothing wrong with the following things: being 38, basements, parents, cheese puffs (I happen to be a fan myself), Mountain Dew, or video games. It is the unique unification of these things that often has disturbing and undateable results.
Transition sounds nice. Just as springtime could be considered the transition between the harsh winter and the welcoming summer. But even from the weather we learn what transition really means.
I have no idea what the hell is going on.
There. That's the big secret. That's what "transition" means. It isn't some great metamorphosis (at least not intentional) into something bigger and better than you already are. Let's examine the weather example first before we extrapolate this idea to the life of a quarter-lived Mugwump.
Springtime in Minnesota- the transition from winter to summer. In a planned, gradient-esque manner, as we often think of a transition, springtime would be marked by a steady increase in temperature, getting slightly warmer each day than the day before. It would perhaps get slightly sunnier each day in a similar fashion. Regardless, it would continue to make forward progress towards the warm, sunny, watermelon-y summer we love. But it doesn't do that. Instead, we get a first peek at summer with a nice, balmy 60 degree day. Things green up a little-- how lovely the slight breeze through our hair feels. We may even brave driving with the window down. Ahh, the transition starts and we begin to look forward to the steady climb towards summer.
The following 30 days, starting around the middle of April go something like this: blazing hot, rain, rain, rain, barely above freezing, ahhhh 65, BLIZZARD WARNING, blazing hot, winds that make jet engine blasts feel slight and delicate, torrential downpour followed by freezing rain, hot and humid, hot and humid, snow, ahhh 65. Lather, rinse, repeat. For weeks.
All of a sudden your closet is bursting at the seams because in the same day you may wear a tank top and shorts, a sweater, a snow suit, your swim suit, and have to change your socks six times because your shoes keep filling with snow/water/ice. This is not a transition; this is a laundry-costs-a-dollar-a-load nightmare.
The life "transition" of a modern mugwump is that awkward stage (marked by the sum of the years between birth and death) where things are chaotic and stressful and stupid decisions seem right and the right decisions seem stupid. But, secretly, it is kind of fun. I am beginning to feel that transition, for me, is not a series of phases that bridge the gap from one big thing to the next. The crave for change and novelty in my life is so strong that I think I will probably transition forever.* This changing from one thing to the next, it isn't gentle and fun like we think transitions should be. And what a joke to discuss the idea that moving from childhood to adulthood feels natural and comes easily.
George Carlin discussed shell shock in his euphemism skit, and how we call it all kinds of things that got cuter and cuter as the years went on. Shell shock, battle fatigue, post-traumatic stress disorder. As if shell shock was similar to having too much to do in a short amount of time at work, please. It is our basic language restructuring that lets us downplay what other people are going through when we could not possibly understand their situation. Maybe if we called transition what it really was ("absolute nightmarish chaos" works for me) some of us students wouldn't get so much flack for "putting off the real world" or "having it easy." There is nothing unreal or easy about racking up thousands of dollars in student loan debt to write grant proposals that are 50% of your grade in a must-pass in order to go on fashion. It is sometimes a very vulnerable feeling to know that amid all the chaos your chewy gooey middle isn't well protected.
*I had a friend read/edit this before it went up and she said "Aaaahahaha, you'll always have a gooey middle, then." Thanks, pass the bag of Oreos.
PS. I apologize that this post is a bit disjointed-- I wrote it over several days, section by section. It doesn't flow well all the time, but I still wanted to share. Perhaps it is simply a good reflection of the week's craziness.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
WhoTube?
That's right, it's WhoTube now, as in "who hacked my YouTube account, and why on earth would you?" And like I wasn't gonna figure it out. . . it's like you don't even know this Mugwump.
Okay, the hacker probably doesn't know me. And I don't know if this would qualify as a "hacking," per se, because this really involves no sensitive information. It does, however, affect my viral video viewing habits.
I looked for a synonym of "habit" that started with a V for a 4-V alliteration phrase, which would have been absolutely epic for a Sunday night. I looked for an embarassingly long time online, but came up with nothing. I am sorry the use of the word "habit" is such a let down at the end of that sentence.
In light of my hacking experience at YouTube, I have created a "How to Know if Someone Unknown to You has Tampered With Your YouTube Account" to share with you. I will dispense my knowledge here.
1. Log in to your personal account at YouTube.com.
2. Look at your "Recommended for You" videos on the homepage.
3. Say to yourself, "Huh, some of these videos seem like odd recommendations. I have never searched or watched this kind of stuff on YouTube before."
4. Accept that YouTube is a giant, twisted web of videos that sometimes connect in funny ways. For example, in a search for something simple like moon landing, you first get the following video of the actual moon landing:
But if you continue to click on the recommended videos that pop up in the viewer after the video is over, eventually you get:
I came to the Open Eyes Sneeze Mythbusters clip after only watching 3 videos after the moon landing. 4 degrees of separation between the moon landing and an open-eyed sneeze? It's a video web on the virtual web. . .
5. Okay, so accepting that sometimes videos are linked in strange ways, it is not unusual to get some strange recommendations.
6. So here is where your super-sleuthing skills are important. Vital, really. You must now find how your "favorite" videos could possibly be related to the videos recommended. I will give you an example of one of my pairings and perhaps you can see if you can find a link.
A favorite video of mine:
Aaaaaaand, a recommended one:
Yeah, a puking kitty. Really?
So, if you hacked my YouTube, stop searching kitties. Search cool stuff. Like stop motion music videos and the Make Art series. Or maybe something I haven't thought of. But not puking cats or romantic wedding proposals or animated nursery rhymes.
Okay, the hacker probably doesn't know me. And I don't know if this would qualify as a "hacking," per se, because this really involves no sensitive information. It does, however, affect my viral video viewing habits.
I looked for a synonym of "habit" that started with a V for a 4-V alliteration phrase, which would have been absolutely epic for a Sunday night. I looked for an embarassingly long time online, but came up with nothing. I am sorry the use of the word "habit" is such a let down at the end of that sentence.
In light of my hacking experience at YouTube, I have created a "How to Know if Someone Unknown to You has Tampered With Your YouTube Account" to share with you. I will dispense my knowledge here.
1. Log in to your personal account at YouTube.com.
2. Look at your "Recommended for You" videos on the homepage.
3. Say to yourself, "Huh, some of these videos seem like odd recommendations. I have never searched or watched this kind of stuff on YouTube before."
4. Accept that YouTube is a giant, twisted web of videos that sometimes connect in funny ways. For example, in a search for something simple like moon landing, you first get the following video of the actual moon landing:
But if you continue to click on the recommended videos that pop up in the viewer after the video is over, eventually you get:
I came to the Open Eyes Sneeze Mythbusters clip after only watching 3 videos after the moon landing. 4 degrees of separation between the moon landing and an open-eyed sneeze? It's a video web on the virtual web. . .
5. Okay, so accepting that sometimes videos are linked in strange ways, it is not unusual to get some strange recommendations.
6. So here is where your super-sleuthing skills are important. Vital, really. You must now find how your "favorite" videos could possibly be related to the videos recommended. I will give you an example of one of my pairings and perhaps you can see if you can find a link.
A favorite video of mine:
Aaaaaaand, a recommended one:
Yeah, a puking kitty. Really?
So, if you hacked my YouTube, stop searching kitties. Search cool stuff. Like stop motion music videos and the Make Art series. Or maybe something I haven't thought of. But not puking cats or romantic wedding proposals or animated nursery rhymes.
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