I hate running. I always have. Unless there’s a pint of ice cream or a plate of cookies less than 50 feet in front of me, I’m not so much as fast shuffling. I chalk my dislike of running up to the fact that I have flippers for feet and jogging has always been a chore. The only way I was able to participate in college athletics was by taking a lot of banned substances.
But despite my personal hatred of running, or perhaps because of it, I really like the marathon. I think I love the idea those people are suffering so I don’t have to . They’re choosing to put their bodies and their emotions on display for all to see, bloody nipples, outer monologues and all. It’s like live reality television.
If you love me, you will keep reading… forever
Dear best friends 4-eva,
Yesterday, I began my new job at Seven Days as a staff writer. Since most of the three of you have been clamoring for a blow by blow, I’m going to give it to you. Be forewarned, though. A summary of my day could be a bit soporific. Or freaking terrific. Whatevs.
So I woke up at 7:30 a.m., bright and early, so as to give myself enough time to get ready without being rushed. But two hours to get beautiful just wasn’t enough. After I walked the Ween and had some breakfast, my neighbors informed me that my car had been egged. I thought they might be the secret egging culprits since the night before I was skulking around their backyard/geodesic dome construction site looking for a ladder and I made lots of noise. But no, it wasn’t them. Turns out they got egged, too. They advised me that I needed to wash my car stat, since egg goop could strip the paint off a car once it hardened. Great. That’s an awesome way to start my first day at my new gig.
Read on, sucka!
Today is sort of a sad day for me. I woke up not being able to hear out of my right ear. It’s like half of my head is stuck in a bouncy ball you get from those big bins at the grocery store and every time I speak it sounds like two swords clashing together. (I’m mixing my figures of speech, I know). I’m blaming it on allergies. I know by admitting that I have allergies, I’m admitting to a massive constitutional weakness, but I’m just going to have to own it. I am weak, and I have allergies.
Anyway, I’m also a little misty because today is my last day at the Free Press. I have worked here for three and a half years. I started on Dec. 5, 2005, after spending nearly two years in a dusty backwater known as Auburn, NY. The paper for which I wrote was affectionately known as The Shitizen by the town’s intelligentsia, which consisted of a mayor with wooden planks for teeth and the three old ladies who played pinochle at the senior center every day. There I wrote about quilting, farming, quilting, mud bog racing, quilting and cats getting stuck in trees. It was a good learning experience.
Yesterday, as I was gasbagging with my coworkers about being a short-timer here at the Free Press (yes, I am leaving. I am becoming a circus freak. I figured I have to do something with all this body hair.), I happened to see a baby squirrel crawling out from underneath a colleague’s desk. I stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the small, scared creature, who was clearly traumatized from being stuck in our building for a week. Trust me, lil’ squirrelly, I know what you were going through.
I’m thinking of giving up my dualing ambitions of pole-dancing and tour-guiding and instead switching my life goals to roller derby. I know this comes as a mighty surprise and I’m sorry to spring this on you. I know you thought you’d see me inching down a pole at the Spearmint Rhino or some such gentleman’s club, hanging upside down using only my big toe and a two-square-inch piece of shiny fabric to prevent me from crashing to the stage. Or you figured I’d be dressed in period costume with full petticoat and bonnet, taking tourists around to meet the blacksmith and the cooper at Colonial Williamsburg. Well, I’m happy to announce that I intend to pursue a career as a professional roller derbyist. Derbier. Whatever.
Dear best home dawgs,
This past weekend I left the Green Mountain State for a little bit of R&R in New York City. I know what you’re thinking- who goes to New York to get away from things? Clearly only crazy people who like lung-busting pollution, reckless cabbies and swine flu. Yep, that fits me to a tee. Or possibly, to a tea. Anyway, I really went down to the city to visit the GF who had to work there for the weekend. I also went to have a visit with the world’s most scrumptious baby and her somewhat less scrumptious parents. I’d put a picture up of her, but she’s famous and I don’t want to betray her confidence. I swore I’d keep her identity a secret.
Dear best friends whom I love,
So for my birthday, my amazing pals the Idea Fairy and the Bombmaker made me these killer-diller tees to promote ye olde blog, oberandout.com. Yes, the very same blog you happen to be skimming at the moment. They employed about a dozen small Sri Lankan children to handspin the cloth and stitch the shirts together. Amazing that all those kids fit in their living room. But like I said, they were small. Then they hired some artistic, albeit illegal, Mexicans to make the screen and then print the T-shirts.
Pics after the jump.
I’m not even going to try to apologize for my appalling blog behavior. How could I go so long without writing to you, my sweets? It’s unconscionable, unforgivable and other adjectives ending in -able. Mea maxima culpa. I promise this doesn’t mean I love you any less. Well, maybe just a little less since most of you missed the memo about getting me crazy awesomeness for my birthday. Thanks for nothing. But I’m not going to dwell on the past.
Right now I’d like to dwell on the fact that I have to pee in the dark at work. And that’s annoying. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? I work for a corporate monolith that up until very recently, like last week, cared not one whit for the environment or its impact on it. Fine, whatever. I get it. They’re all about making money, not saving the world. That’s someone else’s job. Bill McKibben, are you listening! Al Gore, I’m talking to you! It’s your guysers job to clean up our mess! Now get to it, you lazy buggers.