Adventuring in hot climates

I pride myself on being an excellent adventurer for a number of reasons:

1. I am a skilled, light, and efficient packer
2. I am laid-back, have been called unflappable on more than one occasion, and am willing to try anything once
3. I can go for long periods of time without or with very little food or drink
4. When in adventure mode, I don’t require much sleep
5. I have a lot of stamina
6. I carry my passport almost everywhere because you never know when the opportunity for adventure might present itself.

On my recent trip to St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands, I decided to use part of my 48-hour trip to do a little adventuring and seek out Blackbeard’s Castle.  The resort we were staying at was out by the airport, about 1.5 miles from town.  The options to get there were walk (80+ degrees, humid, my leg is still gimpy), taxi (more money than I really want to spend), hotel shuttle (10-minute wait and only goes into town, will not take people back to the hotel, which seems odd), or the local bus.

In the spirit of adventure, I opted for the local bus.  Plus, I had gotten the low-down on how the bus works the night before.

1. The bus stop was about three blocks from the hotel, past the stoplight, near the bright yellow gas station.
2. Approach the bus, which looks a bit like a trolley, and ask the driver, “Are you the dollar bus?”
3. Do not tell the driver where you want to go because they will tell you it costs more than a dollar, which is not true, but if they say that yes, they are the dollar bus, get in.
4. When you arrive at your destination, push the button, get off and pay the driver $1.

Simple stuff.

I found the bus stop, with a bus next to it, and a man half in the cab, half out having a conversation with another person in Spanish.

“Are you the dollar bus?” I asked.

He had a mouth full of sandwich and mumbled something I couldn’t understand.  I waited a bit, he swallowed, and said, “Yes, but I’m not working right now.” Then he pointed at his sandwich.

Then we stared at each other for a bit before another bus pulled up and I got on that.  The only problem with taking the bus versus taking a cab or shuttle, is that I wasn’t precisely sure where I wanted to get off.  I figured once I saw my destination, I would just know.  Then after a little while, some other white people got onto the bus, so I figured that I’d just get off where they did.  After sitting on the bus for more than thirty minutes, I was pretty sure that I had missed my stop, but I was also pretty sure that I was seeing a lot more of the island than most people there for only the weekend, so I sat back and enjoyed the sights and hills.

After getting off at the Red Hook stop, where the other white people got off, I realized that they were going to the ferry, and I was not.  There was nothing in Red Hook except the ferry, a very well-promoted ATM, two restaurants, and a lot of sailboats.  So I got back on the dollar bus, and asked one of the locals which stop was the downtown that I wanted, specifically, where was Blackbeard’s castle.

“Oh, you’ll be able to see it.  I’m getting off a little before then, but once you see the water and all the pretty boats, get off and you should see it up the hill.  I’d take a cab though because you have to go through a rough neighborhood, and with the economy down, and you being alone, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

Then she got off the bus and went to church.  Wonderful human being.

Except she didn’t count on how cheap I am and how little I worry about my personal safety.  After wandering the length of the downtown area, and quickly discovering that had I not taken the extended bus ride and actually seen the island, I might have mistaken St. Thomas for nothing but jewelry, cigar, and perfume stores, I tried to find the castle.

I could not see it at all.  Finally, I just started climbing the hill in the hopes that once I got a little higher, it would present itself.

No castle.

I stopped at a hotel conveniently (for me) located halfway up the hill, inconveniently (for them) located in the bad neighborhood my bus friend had mentioned, and asked if I was on the right track.  The nice woman at the desk assured me that I was, and once at the top of the hill, I’d just need to cut over to my right. So I climbed, and climbed the steepest hill in the world and once I reached a crossroad, looked around, and still did not see the castle.  I asked two passersby where it was, and they directed me into the parking lot of a hotel.  Finally, I started  walking along the horizontal road, only to find that it gradually sloped downhill and brought me right back to the place I’d started climbing up.

It was then that I glanced up the hill, and actually saw the castle for the first time.

It was also then, that I decided that I did not want to climb the hill again as I was drenched with sweat, extremely thirsty, and my gimpy leg was killing me.  Damn you, Blackbeard.

I went back to the beach.

Reactionary

As I’ve mentioned often, I’ve had a lot of jobs.  Because I’ve also had a variety of positions, I always note how people react when I tell them what I do.  I have this on my mind after coming off a weekend where I met a lot of people, and they asked what I do, and I asked what they do, but it’s something I’ve always noticed and found interesting.  There is always some variance from person to person based on their own perceptions and experiences, but there is a most common reaction for each job.

• Barnes & Noble, the most common reaction was, “Fun! Wow, so you read a lot?  That must be a great job.” This is usually followed by a small sigh of envy.  This was when I was in my early twenties, so I wonder if the reaction would be different if I still worked there.  My friend and co-worker, The Ausausin, and I used to loathe this reaction and do everything we could to convince the person otherwise.  By this point, we were both quite bitter with our circumstances and the job’s luster had been worn away by horrible management, ridiculous customer demands, and crazy, stalking, and just creepy customers.
• Tv station, the most common reaction was a wide-eyed, “Really?  That is so cool.  How did you get that job?”  Then there would be a pause where the person would study my face to see if I looked familiar to which I would reply, “I work in production.”  People were fascinated with that job even though it paid the worst and had the worst hours of any position I’ve ever held.  I did enjoy telling people that I worked there, though, because no one had any idea what the job was.  If I was at Barnes & Noble, people could come in and see me working–no mystique there.  With tv station, no one had any idea, and if I did bring them to work, they’d just see a lot of scary-looking equipment and minor, local celebrities.
• Stupid pepsi–admittedly, when I tell people about this job, I usually say something along the lines of  “I used to work in a call center selling Pepsi products over the phone.” This prompts people to say, “Who doesn’t know about Pepsi that you would have to sell them on it?” Then I explain the situation and how it actually worked, and watch their eyes glaze over.
• Librarian–this is one that I’m still exploring, obviously.  I read yesterday in one of my library blogs that a woman told a used-car salesman that she was a librarian, and the man laughed out loud, then mumbled something about a dying profession (clearly, she did not buy a car from him).   Thankfully, I haven’t had that reaction yet, but I have encountered a certain amount of skepticism, in particular, when I was in grad school for library science.  I was in the Virgin Islands over the weekend, and I got to chatting with a couple guys on the local bus.  One lived in Puerto Rico, and the other on some other small island, and were the kind of people who talk about buying boats as investments and how great it is to live on a small island in the Caribbean.  When they asked what I did for a living, and I said librarian, the more chatty one said, “Good for you!”  That, or something like that, is the reaction that I get most often.  It’s kind of like if I said that I feed the homeless, or rescue animals or something.  It’s not quite what I expected, but I don’t mind either.

Because this is something I’m intrigued with, I asked The Ausausin, who is now a nurse, how people react when she tells then her job.  “If I just say that I’m a nurse, then they usually seem to feel sorry for me, ‘just a nurse, huh?’ kind of thing.  If I tell them what kind of nurse I am, or what my work actually involves, then people think it’s pretty impressive.”  When my friend the Lutheran minister meets people in social settings, she almost always has to reassure them that she’s not there to judge their choices, just to hang out.

It’s all in how you spin it, and in the delivery, but it’s a pretty interesting thing to explore.

Chowdah!

This cooking venture of mine is really starting to take off. A while ago, I mysteriously started getting Shape Magazine in the mail. I’ve given them no money, but it just keeps coming, which is fine with me because free things are awesome. I guess Shape also includes recipes because I found what sounded like a delicious recipe for corn chowder–one of my favorite chowders.

It turned out so well, that Gentleman Scholar looked at me with amazement and said “I hope we can have this again sometime.”

I said, “Of course we can, this is America.”

Since it was in Shape magazine, it may actually be a healthy recipe, but I also added cream cheese, so it may not.

Ingredients:

• 2 tbsp butter 1 tsp minced garlic–the original recipe called for both onion and celery, but as I hate both those ingredients, I left them out.  Also, I think you could sub in olive oil for butter without ruining anything.  I’ll do that next time.
• 2 small Russet or 3 medium red potatoes, cubed small–I used Russet
• 3 cups whole-kernel corn
• 2 cubes vegetable bullion–since I left out the onions and celery, but this definitely made it more flavorful (I imagine)
• 2 cups water
• 1 cup milk–recipe called for whole, I used 1% then added 1 tsp of cream cheese
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Other spices to taste–I used Rosemary, Basil, and Oregano

Melt butter and add garlic, pour in water, and bring to a boil. Once boiling, add vegetable bullion and cubed potatoes, and simmer for fifteen minutes, or until potatoes are tender.  Add corn, and milk, bring back to a boil, add cream cheese (if you like), and stir in.  Reduce heat and let sit for five minutes or so.

Serve with crusty Italian or French bread, or oyster crackers and watch LOST while eating.

gimpy

I used to always be jealous of sports-related injuries.  Since I missed out on the glory of being a high-school athlete, I would watch enviously those who were shambled around the halls on crutches with people constantly running up to them asking for progress reports and making sympathetic clucking sounds.  In all actuality, the main reason I was not a high school athlete (besides lack of ability) was because I would not have cared for moments like this, but I still remain oddly jealous.

After high school, I worked at Barnes & Noble for a general manager who was the most terrible human being I’ve ever met.  For example, when I came back from a semester in England, and reluctantly went to ask for my job back, I was told that she was out on medical leave.  When I asked my boss what for, he replied, “they tried to give her a heart, but her body rejected it.”

She was also of that certain age where she had had polio when younger and had one leg shorter than the other.  She had a big shoe, but still had a very pronounced hobble which made her both creepy and zombielike.  It didn’t seem like anyone as gimpy as she should be able to approach so quickly, but you’d see her from across the store, and then next thing, she’s right there with a syrupy smile that always made me feel like I disappointed her just by showing up to work.

It’s funny, because all of these high school athletes were constantly pestered by questions about their injuries and recovery, but no one would have asked her about her limp–the big shoe said it all.

Since I started running, I’ve had a couple injuries. I got a stress fracture about two months after I started running, probably because I was wearing $5 sneakers from Target designed more for fashion than function.  It turned my foot a disgusting shade of purplish green, and made it swell up like someone had injected me with marshmallow fluff, but healed in a few weeks, and hasn’t really been an issue since.  Then yesterday, I was running along merrily, ignoring this twinge in my left calf that I assumed was a strange kind of shin splint that stretching wasn’t helping.  I was determined to “push past the pain” and “overcome.” I was rounding in on mile one, just starting to accelerate, when I felt a pop in my left calf followed by an insane amount of pain.

After freaking out for a while about whether or not I should go to the doctor, I asked the internet what was wrong with me, and it told me that I had a calf pull or calf tear.  It’s not nearly as bad as it could be, it’s barely swollen, and there’s no bruising, but I now have a pronounced limp, especially if I’ve been sitting for a while.  Add this injury to the plantar fascitis that I’ve got going on with my right foot, and I now shuffle out of bed in the morning like an old man grunting and groaning.

The worst part of it all, is that now when I’m at the library, I feel like my old boss at the bookstore.  I shuffle along with patrons feeling like they’re annoyed with my slowness; I see my destination on the horizon and feel like it takes forever to get there; and I feel like everyone is looking at me wondering why the hell I’m walking so strangely, but they would never dare ask.

I just cannot win

I have never been one of those people who is able to complain  and get deals because of it.  Even if I am completely justified in my complaining, I still often get a semi-sincere apology and nothing else.  I guess that one time I found a still-living ladybug in my salad, I got a free salad, but paid for everything else I consumed.  I’ve read dozens of articles on how to get something for nothing, how to sweet-talk your way into deals, the best way to deal with retail staff to maximize your rewards.  Plus, I’ve worked in customer service almost my entire working life and can recollect the types of people who managed to get me to give them “extras.”

I still cannot pull it off.

Case in point, when Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire came out on DVD, I was still living in Fargo.  My brother and I went to the WalMart to pick it up so we could watch it while eating pizza.  We went in, saw that there was a huge display, and grabbed one.  It wasn’t until I got home and opened it that I realized it was the regular version and not the super deluxe 2-disc variety that I had previously bought and wanted.

I was worried that since I had opened it, the store would hassle me, but one thing I’ve learned over the years, is that WalMart will really take back anything–even stuff that’s not from their store.  Plus, I would be content with store credit.  I figured that the way I would play this would be contrite, apologetic, and make the person at the returns counter see how easy it would be to make that particular mistake, especially considering there were no other versions of the DVD anywhere to be seen.

My brother and I walked up to the counter, DVD and receipt in hand, “I’m an idiot,” I started, “When I bought this, I didn’t realize that it was the regular version and not the 2-disc version that I really wanted.” Quick flash of the proper DVD, which we had grabbed before approaching the counter to ease the exchange process. “Would it be possible to just exchange the two?  I realize that this one is more expensive, but obviously, that’s no problem.”

The woman looked at me blankly, and took the improper DVD. “This is open.”

I was a bit taken aback, “Yeah, I didn’t realize until after I’d opened it, that it wasn’t the 2-disc version.”  Then I smiled in a sheepish way.

“You can’t return this if it’s open!” she shrieked at me, “You could have copied this, people copy these and then sell them!  You copied this!”

“Ummm, no, I didn’t.  I don’t even have a DVD burner,” I assured her.

“No, I can’t take this! If it’s open, I can only exchange it for the exact same item.  I don’t know what you did to this!”

Then she practically threw the DVD at me, and my brother and I left in a shell-shocked state.

Things like that are what happen when I try to complain, even if I’m in the right.  Even my brother was amazed at how quickly this woman went from customer service to outrage and suspicion.  “Man,she hated you.  It was like she thought she was busting up an underground DVD piracy ring. Plus, if all you wanted to do was copy it, why would you want another copy?”

Despite my history, I keep trying, hoping that I will get better at this stuff, and that someday, someone, will give me a break.  I finally called Sprint to complain about the crap phone I was sold, the fact that I was tricked into renewing my contract, and my general dissatisfaction with them.  I’ve been a customer for probably six year now, so I figured that they would want to do right by me.  Plus, Jewish Friend’s mother apparently calls Sprint a few times a year, threatens to leave, and then gets all manner of deals.

I called and got an apology.  A very nice girl picked up, went through the whole spiel about helping me, and then when I told her my story and asked what the penalty would be for breaking my contract she just said, “I’m sorry that happened, $150.”

I tried to get a bit more indignant, and press upon her how I had been wronged, and she asked how long I’d been using this phone, “A little over a year.” I told her.  She took the model number, told me I could switch back to my old, decent phone, if I bought a new battery ($50), and told me to have a nice day.

I clearly need someone to fight my battles for me.

On being a grown-up

I worked at Barnes & Noble for five years.  During that time, most of my friends also worked, or had worked at Barnes & Noble.  When we got together, we talked about the day to day, the crazy customers, the ridiculous decisions corporate was handing down to ruin our lives, etc, etc.  Then I got a job at tv station, and started hanging out with those people.  Naturally, we talked about tv station, so much so, that another friend, married to a co-worker, said that she didn’t want to hang around with us anymore because it was so boring for her.

Then at the end of a lovely girls’ weekend, my friends from high school told me that all I talked about was work, they didn’t care, and I needed to become interesting again.

Since those interventions, I have been hyper-aware of talking about work.  I realize that it’s inevitable, but absolutely do not want to be a one-dimensional person who only talks about my day-to-day rather than “real” stuff.  This was a particularly difficult thing when I was working at the call center, tv station, coffee shop, and doing very little else.  I wasn’t in school for the first time since I was six, and was working the most hateful job in the world, which left me feeling both angry and brain-dead.  I spent much of that period of my life writing angry blogs, sitting in silence, and feeling sick out of guilt for calling in sick all the time.

Part of the reason I picked librarianship is the variety that it presents.  Since no two days are alike, and each day involves learning something, I figure I can handle only having one job for once in my life–of course, I need to get that one job, but whatever, work in progress.  Even if my position does contain a lot of variety, and I do like talking about it, I fear that it will, inevitably, become all I talk about.  Most of my friends are librarians, and our conversations tend to veer toward the information sciences, but we do talk about other things too! Don’t we?

I haven’t blogged in quite a while, because I haven’t really had anything to say.  I’ve been going to work, coming home, watching LOST, reading, and running–it’s all pretty normal and not worth mentioning.  Naturally, this fills me with the panic that I’m becoming boring or regular, which has always been my fear, which is why I usually try to have too much going on.

I lack real hobbies because my hobby has always been having three jobs and having no time for hobbies.  It seems like everyone has their thing, whether it be gardening, or bird-watching, scrapbooking–granted, I wouldn’t really want to talk to anyone who only wanted to talk about those things, but it’s more the spirit of it that I’m after.  Most likely, I’m overthinking this completely. Often, when I’m having a good conversation with people, I cannot remember what topics we talked about.

The bigger problem is that when I’m not in school, I freak out.  If I don’t have a concrete goal, I feel like I’m floundering.  Even the other day when I was telling Jewish Friend about this panic and she reminded me that I have two jobs, a column, am reading for the Rhode Island Teen Book Award, and am a patron of the arts–all I could think was, she doesn’t get what I mean.

It’s an elusive thing because I don’t really respond well to long-range planning, but at the same time must have something to look forward to.  For now, I’m going to start listening to modern scholar lectures in the car again–starting with Unseen Diversity: The World of Bacteria, and hopefully this will work itself out.

Running into the wind

Pretty much describes the 2009 Newport Amica 1/2 marathon, and the words of Joni Mitchell: “you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone” have taken on a whole new meaning.

This is my third 1/2 marathon, and now I realize that I have been completely spoiled.  Yes, the weather was awful–driving needles of rain, gusts of wind, temperatures of about 45 degrees, but I’m  not blaming the race organizers for that, I’m blaming them for doing a terrible job for not anticipating the weather and having contingencies, and mostly for not having things that are necessary to runners that have nothing to do with the weather.

I arrived at the Newport Grand, at 6:45am.  We were told to park there, and that there would be shuttles to bring us to the start and pick us up at the finish line.  There were about 12 people waving us into place, four buses waiting, everything seemed to be fine.  Then once we unloaded at the start line, there was nowhere to go, and no one to tell us where to go, no signs.  People who hadn’t registered yet (really? you wait until 7am race day?) were allowed to go inside to get their numbers, but the rest of us who had the foresight to get our stuff earlier had to wait outside.  I leaned against a brick wall for over an hour.  I didn’t even know where the Start line for the race was, and no one I asked did either.  I briefly left my wall because someone said there were port-a-potties “that way,” but I couldn’t find them.  I figured I’d probably have to use the toilet somewhere along the race route, and that there would be plenty.

That was strike two for this race.  There were about 3,000 runners, and five toilets.  Here’s a dirty little secret about running: it makes most people want to crap.  At the very least, it makes you feel like you really need to pee.  As I’ve run more and more, I’ve kind of gotten over that, but considering I had been waiting around for 2 hours or so, I had to go.  I got in a line four people deep, and lamented what all this hanging around would do to my time, but by this point in the race–mile four–I had figured out that there weren’t going to be more toilets further on.

Dropping off port-a-potties has got to be the easiest thing any race organizer can do.  It requires two efforts–that’s all–drop off, and pick up.  Most runners don’t even care if they’re that clean.  I saw two runners, both dressed like Wonder Woman (girls) peeing in the trees in a fairly residential area.  Guys runners get to do that a lot–girls usually don’t, but if I had been wearing a skirt, I might have, that’s how desperate it was.

There were also very few aid stations, no First Aid, no Gu, no snacks, and only one station had Gatorade.  I commend any volunteers who came out to help in that weather, but I heard a girl afterward say that she had to pour her own water at one point.  Since it was downpouring, I didn’t drink too much water, but if this was all they had planned and it had turned out to be very hot–like last October– I get uncomfortable thinking about it.

The worst was the end of the race.  Like always, the runner tears across the finish line and is forced to stop immediately because there’s a whole crowd of people.  There was one person handing out medals, and one person handing out mylar, so finishers had to line up for each of those things.  The tent had a lot of food, more than I’ve seen at other races, but was entirely too small for all the people in it.  Again, I have to say, it rains all the time in New England, yet these people seemed to have no contingencies to deal with this.  I know that the race is rain or shine, and I’m fine with that, but afterward, we need to be comfortable.

I had a piece of pizza, which I could barely chew because I was shivering so hard, and decided that all I wanted in the world was to just get into my car and go home.  So I tried to find the bus to take me back to the Newport Grand.  I saw one, 1/2 full drive by and two people run into heavy traffic to try to get on it, but I was not willing to do that and figured there must be a pick up place somewhere.  I asked a volunteer who’s sole job seemed to be standing by this tiny Amica car, and he said “I think it’s down there.”

There was no sign, no indication of where the bus would be picking people up, just the line of 100 freezing runners and well-wishers standing in the rain.  We waited like that for thirty minutes until one bus came drove by, again 1/2 full, without stopping.  Then another came and filled up immediately, then another.  It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before, freezing, angry people all fighting their way onto a Middletown school bus.  I managed to sneak my way on as the bus driver told the crowd that he couldn’t take any more, and a man yelled at him for taking people from the end of the line rather than the front. “You are a terrible human being!” he screamed.  “Don’t they know what we’ve been though?” another woman mumbled just sounding sad.

I realize that a lot of this may sound like petty grievances  to someone who doesn’t know better, but marathon organizers have to take into consideration that we’re putting our bodies through something very demanding, and need to be warm and dry (ish) afterward.  People die running races like this, this isn’t just an easy way to make a few bucks and dole out promotional t-shirts.

Right now, I’m more sore than I’ve been in a long time, and a lot of that is just due to shivering so hard.  I’m glad I didn’t get pneumonia or frostbite.  I don’t have my official race time, and I’m guessing it won’t be posted for quite a while.  I don’t even care anymore, I just hope I don’t get sick.

Update, Official Chip Time:
1382 Andrea Tieman 30 F 2830 Providence RI 2:33:48.69 2:36:36.72 11:58

Despite the elements, I shaved off seven minutes from my previous time. I was hoping to shave off twenty minutes or more, but that would have been impossible in this weather.

The main reason I’m so upset, is that I was really, really looking forward to this race.  Dean Karnazes, who has run marathons in all 50 states and on each continent called this one of the five most beautiful races he’s run.  Even in the driving rain, there were a few times when the waves broke along the ocean drive where I couldn’t help but think–aww that’s pretty, but the experience was so ruined that all I’m left with are bad thoughts.

Lamenting the shape of my head

When I was between ten and thirteen years old, before I became a total Anglophile, I was a Francophile.  I dreamt that the French I picked up watching Canadian Sesame Street would catapult me handily into the world of “fluency” and that I would eventually live in Paris, wear berets, eat cheese, and be wildly, effortlessly sophisticated.  I express this desire by wearing an ill-fitting t-shirt with the Eiffel Tower on it under a pink scrawl that read “Paris,” for anyone who didn’t already know, I guess.

The same year that I wore that t-shirt so much people finally remarked upon it, I also got my first beret.  My mother bought it for me with the idea that it would keep my head and ears warm since I had decided that I was too cool for earmuffs, and other hats flattened out my meticulously coiffed hair.  I requested it so that I would have years and years of practice wearing a beret, and once I got to Paris, I would fit right in with the natives.  I would settle the hat jauntily on my head, with a minor adjustment just for flair, and leave the Bistro where my sophisticated friends and I had been having a late lunch, and saunter back to my office to put the finishing touches on my next bestseller.

The dream started to die once I got my beret home and realized that no matter how I placed it on my head, I looked like a total asshole.  It was like the hat wore me instead of the other way around.  It was all you could see, and just looked…odd.  I spent hours in front of the mirror arranging, and flattening, and pouffing, and tugging, then ironing, then deciding that it must be my hair, and experimenting with up/down looks, curls, straight, low ponytail, bun etc.  Finally, I found one way of merely placing it on the top of my head that didn’t make me look completely foolish, but I had to be careful not to move my head too rapidly, or it would fly off.  I wore it out of the house exactly once before it was relegated to the hat collection in the back of my closet.

Since that time, I’ve purchased half a dozen other hats, all with the idea that I would actually wear them.  They all looked incredibly cute in the store, and matched outfits in my collection, but once I put them on, friends would screw up their faces and say something like “it’s cute, but… I don’t know.”

So I’ve accepted that hats are not for me.  I simply do not have the face/head shape that hats suit, so I’ve stopped trying.  Since I don’t often go to the Kentucky Derby, or any other place where a hat might be required, I don’t  feel like I’ve missed out too much.  I have a ridiculous sun hat that I bought to keep the top of my head from getting sunburned in the summertime, and whenever people see it, they laugh, but I don’t care.

Last night, I was watching the HBO version of the movie Grey Gardens about the two ”free-spirited” society ladies who eventually live in squalor in a house in East Hampton.  The squalor was obviously unappealing, but when times were good, these women wore some fabulous hats.  I didn’t realize how much I’d internalized it untilI was driving to work this brisk October morning thinking that my outfit would really come together if I had a kicky hat.

But I know better…

Trying to unplug

I’ve never been a big tv watcher.  Growing up, I didn’t have a tv in my room, so I either had to watch in my brother’s room (at his discretion) or in the family tv room where I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything, and had to deal with my parents tromping through demanding to watch Fox News.  Because it wasn’t particularly comfortable for me to be in either of these rooms, I found other things in my own room to do.

In college, I lived in the dorm with Map Fleece who was raised by television and needs it to live.  The set was always on, and she insisted that she could not go to sleep without it, so I spent many a night lying awake listening to Dr. Drew and Adam Corolla dispense advice on Love Line while she dozed soundly in her bed.

The times when I seek out tv for hours at a time are when I need a distraction from something.  I wrote my master’s thesis in front of the Gilmore Girls and Friends.  When I have a daunting task in front of me, I will sit in front of the tv with everthing I need strewn around me, and actively ignore my task at hand while convincing myself that I’ll watch just one more episode.  This is why I don’t have cable– thankfully, dvds end.

I may not be a big tv watcher, but I am completely addicted to the internet.  This summer in particular, I spent all day every day online either working or amusing myself, sometimes both at once.  I did more writing this summer than I have since finishing my MFA, but even though I was participating in a read-a-thon, I barely read any books. 

I don’t understand why it is that the internet is less vilified than tv when it can be just as bad.  I’ve known dozens of people (and I’m sure everyone has met at least one) who boast “I don’t have a tv,” but who will spend an entire day online without thinking anything of it.  The internet is more necessary than tv in that we need to be able to check email, check job listings etc., in order to be a part of the world, but it’s even more of a time suck than basic cable.

What actually served as my wake-up call, was looking at the list of books I had read by the end of the summer, and realizing that I had read twelve.  Summer, for me, has always been a time to read hundreds of books, to sit in my chair or on my loveseat (which filled the chair void before I got my chair), and just devour book after book often eating while reading, staying up late, and reading with purpose even though I’m usually choosing titles I’ve read before.

This summer, I had the books laid out on my table next to my computer, but the computer kept winning.  I convinced myself that I was doing work, but I was often not doing work.  People kept describing me as an “active facebooker”, and I started reading gossip blogs again just because the internet didn’t have enough content to keep me occupied.

Now that I have gainful employment (though I haven’t actually started working yet), I’m stopping all that.  I’m getting out of my office, leaving the computer there, and reuniting with my beloved books.  I’m a bit excited.

Enjoy the Silence

I’m running another half marathon in a month, for which I may be woefully under-prepared, but I’m going to do it anyway.  I’m not too concerned about that though, nor am I concerned about Joe Roch, my running buddy, bailing on me.  This time, my worry really has little to do with the physical demands or potential loneliness (although I haven’t ever run a race with another person before, so I don’t care too much, mostly I’m just being mean to Joe), it’s the thought of running without my beloved Ipod.

This race does not allow portable music devices because of “safety” concerns. To them I ask, “Will I be running with the traffic? Are we just doing laps around the Jai Alai field on a game day?”  It’s a big race, and I’m fairly confident that the streets will be blocked off appropriately, so why torture me this way?

I know “real” runners don’t listen to music.  The hardcore ones don’t need anything–sometimes not even shoes, but that is not my scene.  I am a wimp, I admit it. I want my crappy Rob Thomas and Paramore jams, and I want to focus on something other than the sound of my own breathing.

I’m incredibly tempted to try to sneak something in, but I fear having it taken away or getting disqualified.  For all of my snarky attitude, I still remain, shockingly obedient.  I’m fairly certain though, that there will be plenty of people who didn’t see that part of the website, and who will bring Ipods just like they always would.  We’ll see what I end up doing.

The last half marathon I ran was in Fargo, and I had my Ipod with me (thankfully).  I kept it turned down low enough so I could still hear the spectators yelling at us, because that’s always fun, and there was one guy who I will never forget.  He was standing on the sidewalk, by himself, looking like he was just out for his morning walk and happened across a marathon.  He didn’t have signs or noisemakers, but he just kept clapping and yelling, “You love this! This is fun for you!  You could do this all day!”

I’d like to bring that guy along if I can’t have my Ipod.