ask and ye shall receive; burning quads and a full body bug bite

i'm not sure how the transition from 'young and single' or 'single-into-the-third-decade-and-now-i've-forgotten-how-to-share-the-duvet-or-my-cute-stain-free-towels-from-tj-maxx', to legalized cohabitation is best done by decking oneself out in a condom covered t-shirt, flashing your bits while getting out of a stretched white hummer, just so you can down cough syrup shots at nineteen different bars. i've seen the divorce statistics in US weekly magazine.

limits were thus set on a bridal shower/bachelorette "thing" that had to be completely devoid of twinsets, quiche, mike's hard lemonade or plastic penis paraphernalia. so we put on sensible shoes, covered ourselves in bug repellant and hiked up a mountain.



and then hiked back down under the influence. fortunately the only wildlife that we had to contend with were colourful bears, highly concentrated in corn syrup, and several bottles of fresh water, organic champagne basking in the rock pools.



finally, there is nothing like the relief of seeing a giant turd in the middle of the trail (for the second time), after riding around lost in the woods for three hours (last weekend's foray into the wilderness). there is also nothing like returning from champagne on the mount, to a patio full of men that have been working the grill.



and cake.

when you just know that you've found "the one"

too; tall, short, loud, understated, formal, attention seeking. they will only bring you; pain, a depleted bank account, blisters...

it's true what that collective of experts say.



even my mum liked them.

bummer.

tucked or untucked?

these boots were made for walking; the dog; to pick up piles of steaming, snow dusted poo.

the temperature has recently changed from 'mostly flip flops with a slight chance of a cute closed toe' to 'heavy periods of gloves and hat' just to pry myself out of bed.

"fall" is indeed here, something that brings americans to such a state of seasonal rapture that they forget two weeks of pumpkins and red leaves, inevitably gives way to months of frozen petrol caps and blue fingers. however, the opportunity to wear boots more than makes up for it. so i'm told.

thanks to people magazine, i know to wear fur lined boots with a pair of carpenter shorts, and PVC thigh highs with even less. however, the winter wardrobe poses more of an opportunity to get my own, never-been-worn, boots in a bind. there are just far too many variables to contend with when trying to co-ordinate colour, texture, height and the 'what to do with the trouser leg' dilemma.

next on the agenda is a trip to the l.l. bean outlet- "bean's" to locals- for a pair of snow shoes.

save the date

wedding season is officially open, and rather than dealing with the "do i have to go?"/power struggle over a suit and tie versus cargo shorts and t-shirt/pouting that there is insufficient protein at the buffet table, the solution to the age old; 'who will serve as my two legged reception accessory' is as simple as 'just add girlfriend'. this is someone who can appreciate the nuances of a bride's decolletage (and doesn't think that means something to happen on "third base"), and agrees with you that the groom serenading his new wife with a little apres-ceremony lounge singing is very sweet, quite brave and totally thoughtful. not to mention that it is perfectly acceptable if your date gets hit on.

and what reception is complete without a little baby break dancing?

when in southern california...

in an effort to try something new- sea urchin sushi being a little too "fear factor" for my diminutive palate- i got a professional pedicure. san diego's finest filipina ladies got to work on my, apparently very crusty, size 5's.

i have experienced turbulence more relaxing.

pedicures would be infinitely more tolerable if they didn't involve such intimate contact with the feet. i am violently opposed to having my instep touched- and not in an 'ooh, that tickles' way- more 'ooh, that triggers a 3.5 richter scale seizure' sort of way. and once lolita had recovered from the shocking sight of a black toenail and crusty callus barnacles- note: she was the only pedicurist to put on a face mask (and not in a swine flu kind of way)- she got to work using tower of london torture paraphernalia. fortunately, there was plenty of real time reality tv to distract; a perimenopausal primadonna to the left, informing us all that she had just come from a massage/practicing macrobiotic pilates for the third time that week was pipped at the post by the SoCal norman rockwell family; mum, dad, colour co-ordinated pre-teens texting on their dooney and bourke blackberrys.

rather like baskin and robbins, the pedicuree can order extra features for an additional fee; french, french with sparkly bits hot glue gunned on, rainbows, sparkly rainbows with leaping leprechauns astride sparkly unicorns. i opted for 'stubbed and bleeding toenail'.

pret a porter

inches of glossy airbrushed magazine space are dedicated to the practice of minimizing and streamlining your purse, paunch, relationships, refrigerator and wardrobe. my own closet is not porcine with "two less cartons of edy's a month and i'll get into that" outfits. it certainly doesn't give that malnourished, nasal fashionista hosting 'what not to wear' anything more than a tinkerbell t-shirt from target to get her diamante calvin klein knickers in a twist over; there are plenty of outfits 'waiting to happen'. unfortunately, my assembly skills are also the same when i have a trolley load of shopping. fresh basil, sun dried tomato, garlic and olive oil should activate that meg ryan moment from "when harry met sally", however, in my mixing bowl, it all falls a bit bland, or just-- odd (this may also explain why i have a collection of recipe books that outnumber a family of mormons, and yet the weekly menu has only 7 of my own bastardized dishes on rotation). i need a clothing equivalent of the spinach, dried cranberry and aged gorgonzola "kit", or trader joe's needs to start making outfits.

generally a dinner that is prepared by someone who is being paid lots of money to artfullly drizzle things on my pan seared scallops and butternut squash risotto should warrant more than the default 'navy-old-navy-trousers-and-black-gap-sweater-my-mum-got-me-for-christmas' uniform. in an effort to make one, i browsed the graveyard section of the closet. i can match colours- except on rubik's cubes, there's always one little bugger that mucks up the gestalt.

right.....pink courdroy skirt and grey sweater. a skirt in winter needs tights- grey (for some reason i have a lot of these, probably because i never wear them, so i buy another pair, and continue to not wear them). scrap that, no shoes to go with pink and grey, definitely not wearing black ballet flats, too much like my old boarding school uniform.

right...pink skirt, brown tights and 'brown-boots-from-my-mum-from-four-christmases-ago-that-still-haven't-been-worn'. except these boots came too high for an a-line skirt. change skirt to 'a-line blue-grey-skirt-also-from-mum-at-xmas'. change tights (black tights are ok with blue/grey?). change top; 'another-black-sweater-from-gap-from-mum-at-xmas'. forgot about the brown boots. shit.

right...dark blue jeans, 'first-black-ballet-wrap-gap-sweater-from-mum', but RED (mini) HEELS to make it 'scallop worthy'. except this is maine, you cant go 'skin on shoe' in february. definitely not wearing tights under jeans. further rummaging in the hosiery drawer revealed only one pop sock (black), oh well, it would have looked too minnie mouse. i have yet to master; 'dressy-casual, the 22 degrees version'.

"our reservation is for 5, are you ready?" [sorry, surely you must be talking to one of the dogs, i am not familiar with that particular phrase].

that's it...blue jeans, 'gap-ballet-wrap-from-mum', wool bike socks, and the clumpy black shoes with 'snow tred' underneath. contact lenses, mascara and flat ironed hair is "effort", and 'scallop worthy'.

"good evening, welcome to fuel, where even our crisp, white table linen is infused with truffle oil. would you like to check your [puffy, hooded, baby blue north face] jacket?"

weddings and celebrity red carpet events, albeit infrequent, are obvious. it's the next rung down of apparel that is more complicated than packing a TSA approved carry-on.

P.U.M.A. and attempting to run in lipstick

the female condition supposedly dictates an intrinsic working knowledge of apparel. what not to wear is usually fairly self explanatory; white shoes during "daisy duke 'n muffin top hanging out" season only; too tight bra straps showcasing compressed backfat spillage; VGL's (visible g-string line, seen above, not through) and it's antithesis PUMA (pants up my arse), second cousin to camel toe. all are aesthetic concerns when trying to navigate day to day activities, the challenge comes when engaging in activity.

i recently read an article detailing what to wear, with regard to trousers and your god-given/two-bowl-of-cinnamon-toast-crunch-after-dinner-given silhouette; back pockets commensurate to surface area of the cheeks; waist bands falling at, or below, the navel (apparently impacts volume of spillage); flared at the knee versus tapered at the ankle for those who don't want to showcase their "fat jodphurs". unfortunately running tights are exactly that, they come in: 'one size fits all sizes but really looks better on deena kastor's size'. there is no lift/separate/tuck feature included in the design for those of us who aren't appearing on the cover of runner's world.

perhaps going the lance armstrong track, and doing the reproductive removal, could add a weight advantage. it would certainly improve my time. what are other "non-essential" organs?

don't judge a book

if a hot pink sign on top of a vinyl sided warehouse reads: "thorobred lounge XV", it could easily indicate the local meeting spot for stable owning kentucky blue bloods sporting gold pinkie rings the size of pencil sharpeners.

probably not.

resistance is futile when it is time for "i-used-to-be-so-blonde-my-hair-turned-green-at-the-swimming-pool" to get the skunk stripe touched up with a few highlights. finding that "just right" salon/stylist/coffee shop sans poncey italian units of measurement/vietnamese restaurant with a kick-ass pho soup, is more challenging than locating a decent spot to sleep amongst a family of bears. and uber pricey/monochromatic/malnourished salon vidal sasoon; london is just as skeptically viewed from across monmouth street, as any converted victorian building-to-business "parlour" with frilly curtains and shrink wrapped pensioners asleep under the dryers.



this salon had a disco ball hanging in the centre (and very knowledgeable, skilled stylists with a mutual appreciation for all things low brow).

now if i can just find a gynecologist with something non-mirrored to stare at, on their office ceiling.

"the scottish play"

to enter into a high mileage relationship with the asphalt, is not for the weak of arch, feeble of fridge, or those averse to spending extended periods of the day perching over porcelain. it is a pugilistic endeavour, where the final dress rehearsal does not involve breaking legs.



wardrobe and costume is crucial, particularly when training 'on location'. despite my readiness to fully acculturate to the climate and don a monogrammed tartan footie sleeper suit, access is denied for those in possession of too much north face.



cinderella's castle or the portland headlight; recreating a 'close enough' environment to the final performance is important- both are swarming with nikon-clad tourists and wailing children wearing (fleece) hats with animal ears on top.



ultimately, it is the countless "practice" miles remembered and shared (or not); the hershey squirt and subsequent abandon of underwear in a bathroom at the park, a faceplant-on-the-wooden-bridge at mile 18, or the fact that two blondes shuffling in sync get more honks than one, or one plus a brunette.



proper recovery is integral to repairing damaged muscles, lubricating the synovial joints, combatting a 2,400 calorie deficit, and becoming so paralytic that a suggestion to "audition" via lottery for new york, is actually taken seriously.



unfortunately while i did not develop a big, black, bruised toenail from all this marathon training, i incubated a rather juicy apostrophe shaped blister in my wool sock.



"out damn spot"- something to pick at later.

what can brown do for you, when there's anal bleaching available?

if you are trying to find that special something for the person in your life who owns 90% of skymall's merchandise, then a gift certificate to a salon offering anal bleaching, is the perfect way to express your love and unconditional commitment.

for those cave dwelling troglodytes that are a little self conscious because their sphincter falls on the higher cocoa content shade of brown, relief is available for a mere $75, and just 10 minutes out of a hectic schedule. busy jet setters, can even take care of bothersome brown bum holes while transiting the duty-free at schipol airport.

however, maintaining a whiter than white sphincter requires return trips to the salon for touch ups- fortunately, unlike bleaching your hair, there are no tell-tale dark roots to out you as anything less than a "natural". of course, if your pay cheques are not issued by 'red light movies', and an albino anus isn't mandated in the contract, then less expensive solutions are within reach for anyone on a tight budget.

dress code

i haven't had to wear an official uniform since i left boarding school, at 18. however, the wardrobe du jour for the past 3 months has comprised of pj's, running wear, and a standard painting outfit.



i am back to being 5 (again), where choices in multiples of 3 or more are extremely overwhelming, and the suitcase for an upcoming trip to florida is packed with enough knickers to last me 6 days.

-and my new running shoes.

becoming a woman, or just not being a cheapskate

i am tighter than a duck's water proof arse when it comes to spending money. however, there are some things that necessitate a wallet probe. i recently ended a dissatisfying and unfulfilling 15 year relationship-- $19.99 on a flat iron from the local walgreens-- it's like upgrading from florescent cheese in a can, to fresh mozzarella, doing the backstroke, in a tub of water.



and they're pink! goodness golly girly gracious. the only thing that would make these tongs for the trichologically challenged even better is if they had glitter, lace, and my little ponies cavorting all over the handles.

i have been born again. if my "just put fingers into plug socket" frizz can be tamed, then these things are probably powerful enough to straighten ru-paul.

twenty-six point two; number two

running 26.2 miles has officially been crossed off the "list of things to do before i die" (still waiting for "crush grapes with my feet" and "drown face in chocolate fondue fountain"- as the preferred way to die). however, stepping it up to an ultramarathon, or ironman (yeah, i don't do anything involving 'speedo' couture), is easily over ruled by the chance to repeat comittment vows to my running buddy- who was very "persuasive", employing several bottles of 'blue tattoo' pinot.



at first, i told her she could kiss my reduced, post marathon arse.



then i recalled our apres race euphoria and/or sport bean's delirium, and decided that this would be an excellent way to maintain aforementioned arse's residence in current size of jeans.



if all else fails, then we are strategizing for an energy conservation formation at mile 23...



it will be long distance training, and if this works as well as it has for my relationships, then i will be exchanging gu's with a speedy kenyan at mile marker 20.

it's like taking your first real poo in a "grown up" toilet

achieving (and completing) any developmental milestone is supremely satisfying-- and also very relative. for some, the ability to select the appropriate remote control (out of the little "catholic family" of them) is an accomplishment- actually being able to do something more complex than change the volume or channel, approaches doctoral level applications. i routinely ascribe to the school of; "other people are trained to do specialized things like; change the oil on my mazda; perform open heart surgery; dye my hair into a purple mohawk, and therefore there is no reason to cause myself undue stress by even attempting such activities".

pride comes before a puncture, and i am a slow learner, where frustration appears to be the only way for things to sink in- although this has not yet been true for retaining the law of fractions or calculating a 15% tip at thai siam.

i recently acquired new mountain bike shoes (and cleats), and was able to whip out the little multi tool to get things situated, per the multi-lingual instructions, in addition to tightening the rear brakes (although at this point installing new brake pads is probably the more appropriate course of action). unfortunately, i got a flat in the non-padded-bike-shorts-rear prior to a steep and rutted ascent, and there was no audience participation for my 'helpless female on the trail' impersonation. i had been given instruction 3 or 4 years ago on how to change a flat, and then sent off with a spare tube, but i also remember taking a very (very) long time, most of which was spent wrestling the tire casing off the rim-- this happy little ritual was repeated again. eventually the new tube was put in, casing wrestled back on, air pumped (and pumped), and nothing. i have a master's degree, which should outrank my ovaries, but being able to write a research paper and figure out the footnote feature to american psychological association standards doesn't necessarily generalize to life's little irritations.

the spare also had a hole. i (finally) figured this out, and successfully did my business.

(so proud).

jet puffed

i suppose when the cashier no longer asks for ID while ringing up a bottle of yellow tail shiraz, it is time to acknowledge that mid-life is more of an "epic", than a "phase", and that "proper" grown-ups really shouldn't be swigging down the $9.99 McCabernet anyway. rather like acquiring pubic hair, the long queue for god's inevitable waiting room, creeps up unnoticed, until one day admission is granted, and you look down thinking; "shit, when did THAT happen- and why are there moths flying out of my underpants, surely it hasn't been THAT long?".

while there are many boca burger eating folks with a passion for patchouli, advocating for equal rights of displaced, cross dressing koala bears, no one is without some form of "ism"-- whether it relates to the shade of blush/foundation palette at the clinique counter, a preference for women in plaid rather than playboy, or sunglasses that are larger than the dog you choose to carry around when running out to buy a gallon of milk.

despite a chronic compulsion towards carbohydrates, my biggest fear is not that i will tip the scales at "obese", or even just run-of-the-mill "fat"- this would take far more committment than even my malted milk ball dependency can compete against. rather, the concern is that the next dress size up will be discreetly tapped on the shoulder, and asked if there is room for one more, because the current one is leaving red marks accross the stomach/upper arm/up and down the thighs.

i do not want to become "puffy". for a more complete definition of this term, please log into your facebook account and view your friends list (the ones you knew from taekwondo, ballet, and swimming lessons when you were 10 years old). this is the category of individual who knows they need to lose "the little extra", but does not feel the sense of urgency to pull on their 'kiwanis 2003 charity 5k' cotton t-shirt and head to the gym, because they don't meet "contestant on the biggest loser" criteria (yet).

middle age and marriage, according to recent sightings at weddings/the park/local supermarket, would indicate that the puffy probability is set to: "all signs point to yes". the down ward spiral of sporting muffin tops over a pair of nike workout capris, ends with a singular and seamless bundt cake hanging over soft pink, velour sweat pants with "diva" stitched onto the backside.

fishies for the little piggies

fish pedicures (not scaley creatures with feet, but creatures with scaley feet) appear to be doing the rounds on the breakfast tv circuit-- although they were only recently brought to my attention via the regis/kelly-lee/barbara-ann-free lunch table forum. having someone i do (or don't) know, grope my in-step for 45 minutes, followed by rigorous grating and harvesting of the parmesan maturing on my heels, is even less appealing than having daily pelvic exams performed by the teletubby-phobic evangelist, jerry falwell. now you can fork out $50 for a lukewarm tub filled with tiny carp, to nibble (and tickle) on the dead and crusty bits of your feet. i personally, can't imagine being denied the satisfaction of feeling like i had just won a prize for picking off the biggest chunk of gnarly skin- or at least something that resembled a map of italy.

this obviously begs the question; what next? perhaps there will eventually be a daily special, where your salon will throw in a few tablespoons of termites in order to rid you of those stubborn, ingrown toenails. leeches are obviously, already used for medical procedures, but boa contrictors could be applied to the abdomen to deal with bloating and constipation. perhaps an octopus to the thigh in order to banish persistent cellulite? or even, addressing the girl mustache/excessive nostril hair/overgrown bikini line/stubborn mole hair issue, through strategic placement of the household pet phylum (rabbit, guinea pig, hamster).

pedalling by numbers

i am unable to do fractions, long division, percentages, convert to (or from) metric, look at a person/living space/piece of land and estimate the respective height/weight/square footage/distance. i cannot remember how much i pay per month in car insurance, or how much is currently in my savings account. i am not a bad grown up, i am just really crap with numbers.

today i rode the trails with a professional trucker, although i think "mountain bike yoda" may be more apropo. he asked about my "set up" (?) relating to shocks, travel, pressure, and do i ride 80 or 100 (tyre pressure or the fork?). knobs and dials were twisted and turned, and the fork was pumped and pressed until the determination, that while my tyres "probably" had the correct amount of squish for my body weight (i have no idea how much air i put in, i "goldilocks" it, until it's just right), the front and rear shocks were "too rigid" and did not have enough "travel".

i was then formally introduced (after 7 years) to the various moveable parts on my bike (and i did use lube). practical instruction immediately followed, on; "applied log jumping: the basics", "the laws of a bunny hop: a study on ground clearance", "essential and efficient shifting techniques (up and down hill)", "negotiating switchbacks (intermediate level)", and "myths and misnomers, or how it is virtually impossible to fall off the back of your bike".

to borrow that god awful "life is good" lexicon, i really do; "ride like a girl".

(shit).

when meta-analysis goes bad

aaah, valentines, the time when girls get creative and introspective about how to bid/buy/craft/sautee/cross stitch the perfect gift- and not just for their significant other. the over achievers in the ranks also proffer tokens to their female friends. this year i went with the "thoughtful but cheap" option; personalized mix cd's.

i should have thought about how the super analytical mental health professional recipients would try and interpret the music selection. "youre so vain" was not an observation about my marathon training buddy, but simply a fun song to screech along to in the car, or at mile 15. however, other songs were chosen for the "mope in a bubble bath with scented candles and listen to meaningful lyrics" factor. perhaps i should have asterisked them according to selection motivation.

my own lesson is to be mindful that sometimes others interpret what i do/say more or less than i had intended, as do i with them. of course this should always be considered against the variable of monthly mood swings.

not for the squeamish

the yukky doctor; round 2. the nurse led me to a special "procedure room", where she informed me that the YD was going to perform something that had at least 5 syllables, and ended in "oscopy" (good thing i had just emptied my bladder).

she familiarized me (as a way to alleviate anxiety?) with the assortment of 12 inch metal instruments that would be part of said procedure. it really looked like she was getting ready to assemble kebabs for a BBQ (can i get one with an ovary on it?) all the while calling me "sweetie" (yes, i wanted to slap her for that too).

i was instructed to disrobe and sit on the padded paper (exactly how much fluid was she planning on siphoning?) and informed that i would definitely feel cramps and more than likely bleed. on her way out of the door, to give me pre-stirrup "privacy", she noted the feminine hygiene products ("heavy flow") for my conveniance.

before i could ask about skipping next year's exam (doing double duty in one month should count for something) the YD said she wanted to see me (and my bits) back in 6 months. aging is happening, my uterus will need a zimmer frame to shuffle around on. if the YD starts talking mammograms at the next appointment, i will resign myself to the fact it is time to start shopping for dr scholl's orthopaedic shoes in their only shade of tan.

riding across the gender divide

guys can pee sitting down; we are on equal turf. however, all those who wear spandex are not created equal- and spandex can be pretty unforgiving. i do not ride too often with the "stronger sex", primarily because i do not want; "that much of a workout". however, every now and again, its good to see how far i can push before CPR and/or a defibrillator is necessary.

riding faster than my brain's ability to think and process "oh fart, there is a steep, negative gradient peppered with sharp, pointy obstacles that could probably really hurt my face/skull/anywhere with a long bone not surrounded by excess feminine body fat" are irrelevant, if speed has already committed me to it. for miles, my entreaties to encourage the lead rider of any 'co-ed peloton a deux' to shoo off and focus on elevating their own pace/heart rate to more than a corpse, falls on deaf ears. apparently concern over my lack of mechanical savvy or inability to remain vertical and not sustain a traumatic head injury are somewhat prophetic. slowing down and thinking (the feminine), tends to result in more crashing (me). of course "trail testosterone" can then make himself useful by picking up the pieces.

i wish i could pee standing up. i have scratched the shit out of my shins trying to find a secluded 'spot to squat' in the woods.