the meaning of life

My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, and no meaning; and yet I'm happy. I can't figure it out. What am I doing right? ---Charles M Schultz

So this week brought about the hatching of mass quantities of teeny, tiny, little green gnats; gnats so tiny that they fit right through the holes in my screens! They flew in great swarms all around my apartment, up into the recessed lighting in the ceiling, where they were propmtly fried by the light bulbs. Then they rained down like volcanic ash all over everything I own; they fell on the computer keyboard, the bookcases, on the freshly washed dishes drying in the dish-rack, on the coffee table. Fortunately, I had the foresight to leave the lights over the bed OFF, but my lovely white canvas IKEA sofa looked like it was grey tweed (their little bug bodies, while green when alive, turn black when deceased)

Then the spiders came. They were psyched! They clearly thought I had opened up some kind of arachnoid all-you-can-eat-buffet. Normally, I don't mind sharing my place with a spider or two. I really liked Charlotte, so I figure her friends are ok, too. But when they try to take over the place, its time to put your foot down. I had to break out the big guns -- the vacuum cleaner.

And as I vacuumed up tiny little insect carcasses, I thought about how lucky I am to have been born -- you know-- a HUMAN, rather than an insect with a lifespan of less than 24 hours. I can only hope that my life has a little bit more meaning, as well. (You never can tell though. Remember "Horton Hears a Who"? Maybe we are the ones whose lives are insignificant and those gnats actually accomplished something grand) Well, before getting sucked up a vacuum hose.

SUMMER PALOOZA

Last weekend, we had our annual summer bash here at the Rand-ch. Which means that last weekend we had burgers, drinks, M&Ms, bonfires, hot tubs, AND an appearance by Drunk Heather. For those of you who have not met her, Drunk Heather is alot like regular Heather, only drunker. My friend Isa says she's quite a bit more fun than regular Heather, as well.

Drunk Heather says "I love you" alot. Not only to people she has known for years, but also to people she has just met. Many years ago, in Savannah, Drunk Heather became instant best friends with a girl named Melissa who was wearing the exact same outfit as her. ( Overall shorts over a tye-died peace sign shirt and Tevas: "Oh my God! You have the same outfit as me. I love you!") As you can see, Drunk Heather is a snazzy dresser, as well. The I love you's are not limited to people, either. There are many dogs, cats, trees, bats flying through the air, stars, clouds, and various moon phases that have been the recipients of a deftly uttered "I love you" , as well.

Drunk Heather is also what was so eloquantly described last weekend as: a hug whore. Its true. I admit that when I turn into Drunk Heather, I have an inexlicable urge to hug everyone and everything. (trees, dogs, pillows, and musical instruments as well as people) I believe at one point I went around the bonfire and not only hugged everyone, but announced the winner of the best hugger award. (Jen J, for her firm yet snuggly hug technique) Drunk Heather was ineligable for the award, for obvious reasons.

Generally, I awake the morning after Drunk Heather's visit groaning and making a mental list of apologies I have to make for DH's antics. Not so this time. I have taken the opposite approach. I should be apologizing for NOT acting like DH all the time. Just think what a wonderful place this world would be if we all lived every moment like Drunk Heather:

We'd wake up in the morning thinking "Good morning! I love you sun, for making the day so bright. I love you pillow, for supporting my head and neck so comfortably while I sleep. I love you toothpaste, for keeping my teeth and gums so healthy. I love you car, for transporting me safely to work every day. I love you cranky co-worker, for putting it all out there!" There's nothing wrong with an air of gratitude in life. Though I would probably suggest you keep all these statements INSIDE your head and just let the air of gratitue shine through in other ways. Wow, what a world of shiny happy people it would be!

Now, as far as the hugging thing goes, I fully understand that many people are tactily defensive and would not appreciate an uninvited hug from a ridiculously shiny happy person. I suggest figurative hugs. The jerk that cut you off on the highway probably needs a hug. The lady in Dunkin Donuts who gave you your coffe coolatta (hug). Your cranky co-worker (hug). Your drooly, drooly dog. (He gets a real hug. Pets don't appreciate the figurative) One of my friends at work has a sign over her desk that reads: "Be more gentle than you think is necessary, because everyone is fighting a battle of some sort that you may not see." That's just a more eloquent way of saying: "everyone needs a hug." Drunk Heather a frickin' genius!

So as you go through life this week, tell everyone and everything that you love them privately inside your head. Give everyone and everything a figurative hug. Become a shiny happy person with a positive outlook. And if anyone asks "What's with you?", just answer truthfully: "I'm doing this thing where I try to live my life like a complete drunk."

What'd I tell you? Frickin' genius!

Last Saturday Night

I've actually been feeling a bit bad for the past few days. Last Saturday, I had such a weird, out of character day. Instead of going for a run, getting my errands done, squeezing in some beach time and plopping down in front of a netflix at 8:30 -- like the responsible (ie: lame, dorky, boring) gal that I am -- I turned into Carrie Bradshaw for the day.

I started out doing some errands and ended up ditching them to purchase some completely useless things that I don't even need but decided I couldn't do without. I kicked my running shoes across the room and spent my beach time counseling a friend over the phone about how to seek revenge upon a guy who has been less than forthcoming about his level of dating availability for the past 5 weeks. (he's made her into the other woman without her knowledge. A crime punishable by no fewer than 18 possibilities)

Finally, as evening approached, I got my butt in gear and put on my super cute "active dress". It looks great and you can bend-and-twist-and-jump-and-leap-and-karate-kick-the-hell-out-of-lying-pricks while wearing it without worrying about ruining it. I always tell people that Serena Williams gave it to me. Hooray for "just a touch of lycra".

This super adorable super-hero type outfit was for a super date with somebody I will call Potential P. Potential P and I met a few weeks ago and we seem to get along well. We've gone biking and kayaking and walking on the beach and I fixed his shoulder injury and he's gonna help me buy a bike. The only problem is that I seem to be stuck in that "I'm just not there yet" phase of life. He seems pretty into me and I like him, but I'm just not there yet.

Last year at this time, I was single and miserable, pining away for M, and crying at the drop of a hat. This year, I am single and happy. I love my freedom. I love doing whatever I want, whenever I want without having to check with somebody else. And I love triathlons. I just don't seem to be heading toward love with Potential P.

I've been very up front with him about this. He knows I'm stuck firmly in Friendsville. I'm open to the idea of cruising down the highway towards Something More. I guess I've just been waiting for the road map to come blowing in the window. It hasn't yet.

So I thought, maybe the active dress was just the catalyst I needed. Every other time we've been together, we've been wearing workout wear. Maybe wearing something adorable and less sporty (Serena Williams aside) was just the ticket.

Just as I was bounding down the stairs to jeepy-jeep, though, I got a text from Potential P. He was nixing the super-date with super-me and my active dress. "Can't make it. I really have to study." He had been teaching a climbing class all day and had to work in REI the next morning. He is taking pre-req's for a course of study next year, so I suppose he does have to squeeze studying in sometime between his 3 jobs. Even if it does mean missing me leaping about in my "just a touch of lycra" garment.

I had just decided I was going to dye my hair purple that night when I got another text from another guy friend: "Get your sweet ass up to Boston." Hmmm. Rather demanding, but hey, I'm all active-dressed up with no place to go so why not?

After a series of comic misunderstandings that I will not go into here, I finally came to the conclusion that I was summoned to Boston to be Nerd's female wingman. Of course, that was before I knew that there was no such thing as a female wingman (see July 28 post). I now know that I was summoned to be Nerd's instant girlfriend for the night, otherwise known as a "pretend girlfriend". Ask any guy about it.

Well, after another series of comic/tragic misunderstandings and 5 beers, lets just say that I became really unclear on the boundaries of friendship. I forgot the definition of "pretend". Or maybe I just became the best female wingman ever! I'm not really sure of the job responsibilities. Anyway, I blame the dress. (Stupid Serena Williams!)

Sunday morning came around and I was faced with the harsh knowledge I that didn't even recognize myself. Where was the over-the-garage-dwelling, jeep-driving, distance-running, boring girl I knew so well? She had been replaced by somebody else entirely! A cute girl who does really stupid things to her hair, who looks good in an adorable dress that turns its wearer into a harlot, who lacks boundaries, has questionable morals, and strings one dude along while vying for another, though not totally on purpose. I had been replaced by Carrie Bradshaw, the Aiden years!

So for the past few days, I have been feeling rather guilty. I had thought I was "just not there yet", but maybe I was "just not into Potential P". Which is fine. But I feel like I've been sort of stringing him along. I thought of poor Potential P, sitting at home studying on a Saturday night, while I go off the deep end with Nerd.

And what is up with Nerd? I've never thought of Nerd and anything more than a nerd until Saturday. Now I'm all confused. I blame the dress. (Stupid touch of lycra!)

Well, tonight, No-Potential P and I were going to go biking after work. I figured when we got a bite to eat afterward, dressed appropriately in our workout clothes, I would let him know that I really didn't see it going anywhere other than Friendsville. I would say that while I have always been open to the idea of cruising down that highway toward Something More, there just seems to be no on-ramp. I would be that nice, boring, honest girl with stalwart morals and a desire to do stupid things to her hair. (Next weekend that purple is going IN. Oh yeah!!) I would let him down easy.

Only, just as I was getting out of work today, I got a text message from No-Potential P: "Can't make it. Still studying." "Ok", I texted back, "another time." When I started up jeepy-jeep I got another text from the same guy friend: "Hey QT- Same place as Sat?" I texted back "huh?" and he replied: "Sorry. Not 2 U. 4 my roommate." Hmmmm. It seems that Potential P had a female wingman of his own on Saturday night.

All feelings of guilt instantly fell away.

And tonight I answered the emails that Nerd has been sending me since Sunday.

NOT A WINGMAN

I learned something new today. There is no such thing as a female wingman. I did not know this. How I could have gone 38 years without knowing this is beyond me. However, I do take some consolation in the fact that none of my female friends knew this. And I'm a little ticked off that all of my male friends knew this.

Since Saturday night, I have been under the impression that I was acting as a female wingman. I felt pretty damn proud of myself, actually. I am so frickin' cool! I am one of the guys! I am the one they call when they need to rid themselves of an unwanted presence for the night. The female wingman! Wing-gal! or Wing Grrrl. Or Wingy-bitch! I don't care what you call me, just call me! I'm there for you. The female wingman.

However, at lunch today, my friend Don decided to burst my bubble. I was relaying the story of the frantic phone call and subsequent flurry of text messages that lead me to the bar.

"Oh" he said, "Sounds like somebody needed an instant girlfriend for the night."

"Well, yeah." I said

"He had a clinger he needed to get rid of?"

"Something like that." (A posse of homosexual clingers, actually, but that's a story for another day)

"And he called you to come save him."

"Yup!" I answered proudly, "I was his wingman!"

Don gave me a look of bemused pity. "Oh, honey; you weren't his wingman. You were his girlfriend for the night. There is a huge difference. And there are no female wingmen."

I looked around the staff room. All of my male coworkers were nodding. All of my female coworkers looked confused.

"Wait!" I countered. "What do you mean there are no female wingmen? Have you ever heard of that?"

I wasn't addressing anyone in particular. Again, all of my male coworkers were nodding while all my female coworkers shook their heads.

"Is this common knowledge? I mean, have YOU ever called in an instant girlfriend for the night?"

There was a collective "Oh, yeah!" from the testosterone gallery.

"Why have I never heard of this?"

"Well," Don said, "we're guys. We don't talk about this stuff. As a matter of fact, there may be serious repercussions for my even talking to you."

As I was trying to digest this, Don dealt the final blow. "Oh, and you have to make sure to set boundaries when you're an instant girlfriend for the night. If you don't, you automatically become a part-time girlfriend."

"Meaning?"

"He'll only call you when he wants something."

You know what? I think I'm okay with that.

CARRIBEAN DREAMING

RANDOM THOUGHTS UPON RETURNING FROM A VACATION:

1) It seems like the first few days back from a vacation are more exhausting that the last few days before. Of course, there is the laundry to do upon returning, the strange smell to identify that you never noticed in your home before, jet lag, the lingering headache from the unhappy 2 year old on the plane, and the wierd GI distress that always hits right as the plane hits the runway. A vacation from the vacation; now there's an idea.

2) That color blue of the ocean in theCarribean...lovely. Is the ocean that color anywhere else in the world?

3) People have really taken the "Pirates of the Carribean" thing and run with it! I saw more pirate stuff on St. Martin than I did in the Disney store. Do you think Johnny Depp had any idea it would get so out of control when he first started staggering around like a drunken transvestite? Did he and Tim Burton sit down together and say "Hey, let's put the whole world under our collective spell"? I guess there's nothing to do but jump on the bandwagon.

4) Of course, I'm 38 years old. Do I really need to own ANYTHING that has a skull and crossbones on it? Probably not.

5) I have decided that swimming in a pool when compared to swimming in the ocean is like watching the food network while eating a hot pocket.

6) Two of the friends I went with tried to talk the rest of us out of going scuba diving because we might get attacked by a shark. I think I would have a much easier time dealing with a shark attack than dealing with the fact that I went to a St. Martin and DIDN'T go diving.

7) Speaking of friends, I have come to the point in my life where my married friends are trying to live vicariously through my singleness. On a sunset cruise last week:friend:

"Hey Heather, that Australian guy driving the boat is really cute."

me: "Umm, yeah."

friend: "Why don't you go talk to him?"

me: "Um, because he's busy, DRIVING THE BOAT."

friend: "Oh, come on. You are on vacation. At least go ask his name!"

later...friend: "No, his name is NOT Aussie McBoatcaptain! You blew it! You could have had a nice evening walk on the beach hand in hand with the cute Australian guy."
(I think I saw this on an episode of Sex and the City)

8) Plus, in light of the fact that they practically poured rum right down your throat on said boat, any moonlit beach stroll would have ended with Heather barfing down the shirt of Aussie McBoatcaptain. As it was, I was mature and responsible enough to go back to my room and barf in the wastebasket. (Did I mention I am 38 years old?)

9) Nothing boosts your self esteem more than going to a clothing-optional beach. (feel free to shudder) I saw more droopy, hanging things than I could possibly identify and I dissected a cadaver in college! (referring back to the pre-vacation thought: the all over tan didn't help matters. at all.)

10) It's funny how two people can look at the same thing or even listen to the same comment and have completely different takes on it:

friend: "Oh, could you imagine living here?" (look of distaste on her face)

me: (wildly trying to remember which of the islands are US territories so as to avoid that pesky change of citizenship thing) "Oh, I could imagine living here. In a heartbeat."

I ALWAYS GAIN WEIGHT BEFORE GOING TO THE BEACH BECAUSE I WANT A REALLY BIG TAN --some comdian from comedy central whose name escapes me

In exactly one week, I will be boarding a plane for a week long vacation in St. Martin with friends. Since I am a planner, I made sure that on April 1st, I ramped up my work out routine and started to be extra vigilant about my eating habits. I wanted to make sure I looked good on the beach. I'm not sure whom for; do I really need to impress my best friends and their husbands? But there's always the off-chance that the man of my dreams will be walking along a Carribean beach that very same week I am there. I need to be prepared!

A word about dieting and exercise...when you are consistent, they really do work. Unfortunately, WORKING doesn't always equal WORKING THE WAY YOU WANT THEM TO. In spite of what the infomercials tell you, you can't just draw out the blue print of your intended results and watch your body magically assume those proportions, no matter how consistent you are.

Ok, I understand that I should be greatful for the body I have been given. I know that. This year, I ran marathon and I am now training for an olympic distance triathalon. I plan on scuba diving on my vacation. I am able to work full time and I very rarely get sick. And at work, I independently lift people out of their wheelchairs who are twice my body weight. I have NOTHING to complain about!

But I'm going to anyway.

Wouldn't it be great if you could sit down with your body and have a chat about WHERE the weight should come off? For instance, I would very much like to rid myself of the chub-rub and the back-fat. (Not to mention the annoying habit of referring to perceived flaws by cutesy little rhyming names). I do not need for my ankles to be any thinner, thank you. They are starting to resemble misplaced wrists while my midsection remains virtually unchanged! So, body, let's get with the program. Focus on the abdomen! I am dangerously close to encircling my own ankle with thumb and forefinger and that ain't a good thing!

My other big complaint has to do with a phenomenon that up until recently, I smugly thought I was immune to. However, midway through year 37, I stepped out of the shower and caught its reflection in the mirror: cellulite! How the heck did that get there? It was never there before! And here's the crushing blow: working out does absolutely nothing to deter cellulite. In fact, it makes it stand out even more! At least when I had more subcutaneous adipose tissue around the thigh area, the cellulite just BLENDED IN. It was a pretty good camoflage. But now there is a lot less for the cellulite to hide behind. And as far as lifting weights? Well, all that increased muscle tone just pushes the cellulite closer to the surface, making it stand out even more in all its cottage cheesy glory!

Here's a frightening thought: what if my body listened and as the extra padding around the midsection melted off, I was left resplendent with cellulite of the abdomen!

Now, with only a week before my beach vacation, I have taken to a new line of thinking: all of the above is merely an optical illusion, brought on by my pasty, post-New-England-winter skin. All I really need is a tan! That is going to solve everything.

When I hit the beach, look out Captain-Jack-Sparrow-look-alike-with-better-teeth-and alcoholism-in-check: here I come!

Last night, I decided to start feng shui-ing my apartment. Actually, I was frustrated because the temperature was so warm over the weekend (despite the horrible wind and rain) that I naively thought I would be putting my cold weather coat away and busting open my sort-of-cold weather coat. Then, I could do a sort of mini-spring cleaning and rotate weather appropriate clothing, footwear, and exercise equipment. Unfortunately, the temperatures Monday and Tuesday showed me! Unable to spring clean, I decided to feng shui.

I know nothing about feng shui. My bedroom (or bed-section of my one room apartment) looks NOTHING like the above picture. I got a feng shui book for Christmas one year, though, and figured I could crack it open and put it to good use. Isn't the whole basis of feng shui essentially the same as the Philipino New Year's philosophy: if your living space is in chaos, then your life will be in chaos. Kind of like Clean Sweep with a few strategically placed candles and bamboo flutes.

I decided to start my feng shui adventure in the "love and relationships" corner of the apartment. After last Friday, it seems safe to assume that I am attracting an interesting kind of attention, though not necessarily the kind I want. Maybe I can clean and rearrange myself into a meeting with a more appropriate guy.

One GOOD thing about my apartment set up is that the bed is over in the "love section". That's good chi! I'm halfway there already. Plus, I'm a fairly neat person so nothing gets too overly messy and blocks the chi flow. Or so I thought.

My bed is catty cornered, and even though I regularly extend my long-handled-static-duster- thingie into the back triangle, it is apparently not enough. When I climbed back there, cleaning supplies and energy tools in hand, I was shocked --SHOCKED -- at the amount of dust that had accumulated. My "love area" was dusty, dirty, and neglected! Oh no! Ten minutes of work with my lavender-scented-environmentally-sound-spray-cleaner and rag, and I was feeling pretty good. I reached into my box of things that I had gathered from around the apartment and carefully arranged two red votive candles and a pink plastic heart that came on a bunch of flowers. I stuck a round mirror on top of the small table back there (to counteract the sloping ceiling over the bed) and inwardly congratulated myself on the red light display on the digital clock.

Feeling pretty smug, I moved my attention to under the table. Several months ago, I had placed a small pile of books there, figuring when I went to bed, I could just reach down, read a few pages, and then plop it back down when I got tired. I haven't touched the books since. Scanning the titles, I was dismayed to read: "Go Your Own Way, Tales of Single Women Traveling the World", "Skinny Bitch", "Power vs Force", and "Handling Difficult Emotions and Maintaining Control". What the heck have I been clogging up my love corner with? Those books had to go. Immediately! Plus, on top of the pile of books, was a Van Halen ticket from last October. Sure, their music is great, but NOBODY in that band is a good role model for love and committed relationships.

At this point, I was longer feeling smug. In fact, I was dangerously close to a panic attack. I moved onto my last task for the night: cleaning under the bed. Once again, I was disturbed by the amount of dust that had accummulated. At least dust is easy to clean. Lastly, I took a peek into the storage containers that I keep under the bed, just to check if what I am keeping there is appropriate to my newly feng shuied bedroom. What did I find? Projects. Lots and lots of projects. I guess that explains a lot.

My task tonight is to find those projects a new home.

The question of the day today was: does going to a Wellness Expo with a hangover make me well rounded or merely hypocritical?

It began last nite when I met some friends out to see that band again. (no free crap since the first CD. That ended rather quickly) Anyway, I was all set to go with my extra special party shirt from the Elton John store in Las Vegas. A lovely shade of green with the glittery phrase "the BITCH is back" emblased across the front. A nice conversation piece. A bit of a joke. And when you are not walking hand in hand with your friend of the opposite sex (as I was the last time I wore it) an apparent open invitation for excitable guys to stare at your chest. Must think about wardrobe choice in more detail next time.

I am floored --FLOORED -- by the number of people who did not get the joke. Seriously. "Why would you call yourself a bitch? You look like a nice person." Is this what the choices are when you reach your late 30's and are not married? Come on, its Elton John! I'm even more floored that NOBODY got my joke following the song "Crazy Bitch", a crowd favorite and I now know, the last song in the second set for this band every time. Sample lyrics from this song: "You're a crazy bitch but you f**k so good I'm on top of it". No lie. The set ends and I tell a table full of people: "You know, I don't think I understand that song, Crazy Bitch. Could somebody please explain its subtle nuances, because I think they are over my head." Nine blank faces stare back at me until somebody mumbles "Um, its about sex." Gee, thanks. I know I'm not Will Ferrell or anything, but I think I could have gotten at least one smile out of that one.

Most of all, I'm pretty sure I need to print up some rules of etiquitte, laminate them into handy reference cards, and hand them out to anyone expressing the slightest bit of interest in me.
Rule #1: On the dance floor, there shall be absolutely no genital to ass contact. I met you 20 minutes ago. I have no idea where your genitals have been. I know where my ass has been...over the toilet, most likely. I know there are at least 2 layers of denim and one layer of super thick white cotton granny panties between said body parts, but that's not enough. I need some actual air in between, as well. Its just common courtesy.
Rule #2: If, at the end of the night, you decide you are interested in me, please do not express your interest by shoving your tongue in my mouth. I like a good slip of the tongue as much as the next person, but again, usually from somebody I have know for more than 24 hours and certainly from somebody whose last name I know. Furthermore, I would hope that the somebody truly understands that the tongue has more nerve endings per square millimeter than any other part of the human body. Translation, it should have a bit more finesse than a floundering fish just pulled from the sea. And a please would be nice.
Rule #3: If you don not get cultural references to the year 1986, instant buzz off.
Rule #4: Thou shall not insult Van Halen in my presence.
Rule #5: Calling me "adorable" gets you no brownie points whatsoever. That's like calling Danny DeVito short. Duh.

I'm pretty sure if I actually did that, nobody would ask about the shirt. And it wouldn't be so much of a joke, but more of an irony.

I finally extricated myself from the groping hands, the too close crotches, the wayward tongues and the explicit lyrics and went to bed about 2 am. Only to remember as I was drifting off to sleep that I had promised to meet my coworker at the wellness expo at 9 am.

To my credit, I made it there early. To everyone else's detriment, I was cranky and snapped at aromatherapists and breast cancer survivors all day. And it briefly entered my mind that a holistic health expo may be a better place to meet guys, until I realized that 99% of the people there are women. And the men are henpecked husbands dragged along by their wives, gay, or of such a sensitive nature that my laminated card would cause a breakdown requiring several sessions of regression therapy.

Thank goodness tonite I'm doing something I know will not disappoint me. Cozy flannel sheets, here I come!

RUNNING

RUNNING IS THE GREATEST METAPHOR FOR LIFE: YOU GET OUT OF IT WHAT YOU PUT INTO IT. ----Oprah Winfrey

On February 16, I ran the Myrtle Beach Marathon with my friend, Gene. It is the second marathon I have done in my life, and the definitely the more fun of the two.

I have always attempted to stay in somewhat decent shape, but I am not what you would call a die-hard runner. I have a friend from work who is a die-hard runner. She competes in Iron Man distance triathalons in the spring and summer, in mountain bike races in the fall, and I think she wrestles polar bears with her bare hands in the winter. One of my college roommates was a die-hard runner. She also competed in Iron Mans. She traveled all over the country and even to Europe to compete. Once she came in second for her age group in England and as punishment for herself, she swam home. My friend, Adam, in Washington is a die-hard runner. At last count, I believe he has completed four hundred thousand marathons. I have completed two. I am not is the same category as these people.

However, I may be considered a regular runner. Or at least I think I will be, from here on out. I was always prettty sporatic when it came to running. I actually inwardly groaned when my friend, Gene, asked if I wanted to run this marathon with him. Its not that I didn't think I could do it; its just that it takes a long time to build yourself up to be ABLE to do it. It's a commitment. But Gene had already completed a marathon of sorts even before he started training: he had lost over 100 pounds and kept it off for 2 years plus. I guess if he could lose 100pounds and train for a marathon, I could train for a marathon without losing 100 pounds.

It turns out, training for a marathon was exactly what I needed at this point in my life. I had been feeling a bit lost in 2007. Where, exactly, my life was going was a big mystery to me. How, exactly, to deal with that, also a mystery. What I learned over the past few months is that you don't necessarily have to have a master plan for life, just a running schedule and lots of warm clothing. The rest will just fall into place.

On the day of the race, I learned a few things, as well. My original plan was to run side by side with Gene for the entirety of the race, and we would cross the finish line together. So we did. For a while. But even if you are on the same road as somebody else, we all have different ways of reaching the finish line. Some bolt ahead, some take it easy, some listen to music the whole way through, some talk, some prefer to stay silent. We all have our own preferred pace, as well. By around mile 16, it was pretty clear that my original plan had to change. Part of being friends with somebody is being able to read when they just can't stand another second of you. (I'm very good at reading that signal. I get it an awful lot. Go figure.) The last 10 miles Gene and I ran together in spirit. We crossed the finish line an hour apart, but together.

So now as I look ahead, I have only the plan for my next race. I know to stay open to signals that the plan needs to change. I also know that in friendship, and in life, the only certainty is that you need to keep running.

RANDOM THOUGHTS ON A FRIDAY NIGHT OUT WITH FRIENDS.

On Friday, I decided to forego my usual Friday night ritual of staying in and simultaneously doing laundry while watching netflix to instead go out with some friends from work. We were going to see a band. (One of my co-workers is dating the lead singer). I went with the predisposed notion that they were not going to be all that good, but I'd be nice because of my friend's relationship with one of the band members.

The band was playing in the town I grew up in . Its a weird thing: even after 10 years away, you come back to your home town and no matter where you go, you know pretty much everyone there. Not on a first name basis. On a "I think I used to go to the gym with him", and "she used to work at the 7-11 near the beach" basis. So here I was, in a room full of I-almost-but-don't-quite-know-them people. All night, you see people with that look of recognition in their eyes, followed by that look of confusion, then the look away. I almost but didn't quite talk to every person in the bar.

Some observations about a bar full of guys on the east coast versus the west coast: west coast guys dress in Abercrombie, east coast guys in Red Sox caps and Patriots sweatshirts. (Or, I guess Yankees caps and Giants sweatshirts a little more south). If my car broke down, I would rather have the east coast guys; if my computer broke down, the west coast guys. If there were a giant fist-fight to the death between east and west, I'd put my money on the east coast guys. If there were a dance-off, however, the reverse is true.

When I was in my 20's, when I went out, I usually came home with something free. T-shirts, hats, CD's, bandanas, whatever the bar or the band happened to have handy that night. Not so much anymore. Its been YEARS since I came home with any free swag. Until Friday. After the first set, the band came over to say hello to K, my co-worker. I felt the need to point out to the guitarist that I believe I heard, in the middle of a Metallica song, a Duran Duran riff, of all things. This guy literally jumped up and down and hugged me! "I have been doing that for over a year and nobody has ever noticed!" He then gave me one of his CD's. SCORE!!! (Incidently, Duran Duran and Metallica are surprisingly compatible and the band was really good)

At some point in the evening, everyone has just enough alcohol in them to jump on the dance floor and have fun. Quickly thereafter, everyone has too much alcohol to have any business on the dance floor. After that, maybe we should just stuff the term "dance floor" and call it "the pit of desperation".

How come every time a band plays an extended and embellished version of " Sweet Home Alabama ", running through my head are the words to " Thunder Road " by Bruce Springsteen?

SESAME STREET

WE WERE LIKE PSYCHEDELIC FOLK, COMBINED WITH SONIC YOUTH'S NOISE ---Daisy Barkowitz

Last Saturday night, some friends and I got together and had a pajama party. (It's always great fun to hang out with your friends in your PJ's) At some point during the evening, the we went into the room where the kids were watching Sesame Street. It wasn't long before the so-called adults were standing slack-jawed and mesmerized in front of the TV while the kids wandered off into another room to play.

I never noticed before, but Sesame Street is like an acid trip for kids! Between the crazy music, the trippy cartoon shorts, the dancing letters, and those hyperkinetic muppets, I thought we were watching footage of last year's Burning Man festival. I used to watch Sesame Street every day when I was little. How had I never noticed how bizarre it was?

Of course, my formative years took place during the 1970's. The entire world was a little bit like an LSD adventure in the 70's, wasn't it? Every neighborhood had THAT GUY --the one with the conversion van painted like the Partrige Family bus-- and the family with THAT BASEMENT --the one with shag carpeting, wood paneling, lava lamps, and beaded curtains over the doors. We went to elementary schools where all of the teachers were hippies and there were no desks, only "S" shaped tables that were mainly used at snack time. Otherwise, we sat on the floor, in bean bag chairs, or in plastic cube chairs that could also be stacked into giant towers to knock over. Groovy!

I remember my favorite outfit in first grade: tiny little jeans and an equally tiny, matching jean jacket. On the ankle of the jeans were a bunch of embroidered flowers, and on the pocket an embroidered butterfly. The jacket was embellished with a caterpiller, a butterfly, and a mushroom! I wore this little ensemble with a t-shirt that had a purple, green and orange caterpiller crawling over the words "inching along". I guess back then, it was okay to dress your 5-year-old in clothing that had drug-related inuendos at every seam. Especially when the 5-year-old wore that outfit while sitting in a bean bag chair and the flower-child music teacher lead the class in a rousing rendition of "Puff the Magic Dragon". After a day like that, Sesame Street was a dose of normalcy!

Flash forward 30 years, and I'm standing in my pajamas, watching what I can only describe as a muppet rave, complete with house music, strobe lights, glow sticks, confetti, and puppets dancing in a sort of group grand mal seizure. That was followed by a cartoon short that I remember fondly from my caterpiller years: the letters of the alphabet superimposed on a multi-colored Rorschach test that changes each time the letters morph into one another. While this is going on, a distorted, echoey voice identifies each letter: AAAaaayyybeeEEESEEeeedeeEEEEeeeeeEEFFGEEeee.

Then there's Elmo. Elmo wasn't around when I was little, and I am certainly glad of that. I think an entire generation would be even more screwed up that it already is, had that annoying red monster existed in the 70's. Elmo is like the beligerant drunk who monopolizes every conversation and interjects himself into every activity at the party. Everyone around him is wondering WHEN this character is going to pass out, but he keeps on going with that grating voice, that habit of refering to himself in third person, and that incessant, inappropriate, high pitched laugh. Plus, he goes on and on about some imaginary friend, Mr. Noodle, who has the intellectual capacity of a doorknob and doesn't speak.

Finally, when we were all about to slip into a state of perpetual stoned apathy, James Blunt showed up at Sesame Street to snap us back into reality. He woke us up by performing "My tri-angle, my tri-angle" to the tune of "You're Beautiful" while a triangle and a fuzzy purple monster cavorted in front of him. We all shook our head to reacquaint ourselves with our surroundings and went off to find the kids. Interestingly enough, they were all sitting contentedly side by side and EATING a foam pool noodle in unison. (Apparently, I'm not the only one who has issues with Mr. Noodle)

It's strange that the morning after the PJ party, I woke up with the worst hangover I've had in months, even though I didn't drink anything the night before! Was it a Sesame Street hangover? Possibly. We are going to test the theory out next month when we plan on sitting in our pajamas and watching Fraggle Rock.

Incidently, does anyone know were I can score some HnR Puff-n-Stuff DVD's?

WE ARE SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON ---William Shakespeare

I had a friend in California who told me of a Philipino New Year's tradition: clean the house from top to bottom, getting everything organized and in its place. The idea behind it is: the condition of your home at the start of the year will determine the state of your life for the rest of the year. Start off with everything organized and tranquil, and so shall your year be. Start the year off with everything messy and chaotic and, well, you know. That is logic that I just can't argue with.

Of course, New Year's Day found me in New Jersey. Then on a train back home, then standing in a parking lot waiting for AAA to deliver a battery that had been stolen out of my Jeep in my absence. Then I was driving home from the train station at a very late hour, eternally grateful that I did not let my AAA membership lapse. I had no time for cleaning and organizing on January 1st.

I decided to get everything clean and organized this past weekend, instead. I live in a studio apartment with very little storage space. Therefore, I do not have much stuff. So how is it then, that I have accummulated so much STUFF?

I put together a bag of clothing for the goodwill, a box of books for the book exchange, a pile of papers to shred, and a bunch of boxes that I no longer needed for storage. Yet somehow, the closet, the bureau, the bookcase, the file cabinet, and the storage space under the stairs are still full. Full of STUFF!

I know I am not alone in this. J has 7 rubbermade containers of Christmas decorations. I have a friend at work who lives in a 4 bedroom house with a 2 car garage; just her and her husband. They just rented a storage space for all the stuff that won't fit in the house and garage. And don't even get me started on Mel and all her shoes.

How much time do we all spend on the care and maintenence of our STUFF? I would bet that its significantly more than the time we spend on the care and maintenence of our lives! Think about it: how much does time spent on acquiring new experiences (like planning a vacation or taking a class) stack up against time spent vacuuming and doing dishes? Probably not well.

Maybe the real logic in spending the first day of the year organizing and cleaning isn't so much in getting everything organized and clean. Maybe the whole point is to get us to look at what we are filling our houses and lives with and decide if that's how we really want them filled. And maybe the true predictor in how the rest of the year will turn out depends upon our decisions in what kinds of STUFF we fill our lives with. Is it the kind of stuff that gathers dust, or the kind of stuff that dreams are made on?