Yes, I saw Ke$ha in concert. It was one of the only times that it was EXACTLY what I thought it was going to be like. Inappropriate and upbeat. Can those two go together? The concert itself wasn't anything to really talk about. Ke$ha sang her (seemed like three) songs and then ran off the stage with all her groupies. Her show was trashy, like her outfits. Can't say much was put into the set of her stage. Odd lights that didn't really match up well, and of course, glitterfest.
The most disappointing part was seeing all these young girls...with their MOM's! It takes "teenie-bopper" to a whole different level. When I was that age (pretty sure they were all 10), I was looking all googly-eyed at the Backstreet Boys. Sure, their songs aren't necessarily for the young at heart, but at least they had clean songs. It was even hard for me to listen to the "I mother f#$$$ love AUSTIN!" We get it Ke$ha. You have a small vocab.
I made up my mind: I don't want to have daughters. But hey, maybe by that time, there will actually be good role models out there? Eh, probably not.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
MUST. WRITE. MORE.
I really have to start staying updated on this whole BLOG deal. It is starting to look the way the past four journals I have attempted to start (and yet never finish). Blank. I take part of that back, I have a little library of journals that I don't know what to do with. I could really write jibberish in those things and just keep them in a closet for numerous years in hopes that my bright-eyed grandchildren want to read the adventures and misgivings of their wise old grandmother. Referring to myself as a "grandmother" is awkward.
I think half the world is trying to keep their social media up to date. There is TOO MUCH FOR ME TO DO! How any one can complain of boredom in this high twitterfied world, is beyond me. I can never keep up! Much like my days on the kickball field. Despite my athletic nature, I somehow remained the last picked on kickball teams and hated the stupid blacktop game. Kids always got hurt anyways. Hence, my connection with Twitter/Facebook/Blogs/Google+...need I go on?
So, here I am. Writing my feelings and my recent worldly happenings. Somehow I have managed to handle two jobs this summer (which is a hard thing to balance) while still managing to LOOK for a new full time job. I have a few hooks in, but waiting to see what comes out of it. Keep your fingers crossed (in prayer, that is) and let's all hope that Rachel can make her debut in the corporate world of Austin very very soon. (Don't really know who I am speaking to, in this sense, but still...I am speaking to those who get this far into my jumbled writing).
I want to delete this blog and start a new one. Is that possible? It's just like my journal. I always wanted to super new leather covers. They just look important.
In the process of crafting a yarn tree on my apartment wall. Sounds cool, because it is. But it's a lot harder than you think!!!
I think half the world is trying to keep their social media up to date. There is TOO MUCH FOR ME TO DO! How any one can complain of boredom in this high twitterfied world, is beyond me. I can never keep up! Much like my days on the kickball field. Despite my athletic nature, I somehow remained the last picked on kickball teams and hated the stupid blacktop game. Kids always got hurt anyways. Hence, my connection with Twitter/Facebook/Blogs/Google+...need I go on?
So, here I am. Writing my feelings and my recent worldly happenings. Somehow I have managed to handle two jobs this summer (which is a hard thing to balance) while still managing to LOOK for a new full time job. I have a few hooks in, but waiting to see what comes out of it. Keep your fingers crossed (in prayer, that is) and let's all hope that Rachel can make her debut in the corporate world of Austin very very soon. (Don't really know who I am speaking to, in this sense, but still...I am speaking to those who get this far into my jumbled writing).
I want to delete this blog and start a new one. Is that possible? It's just like my journal. I always wanted to super new leather covers. They just look important.
In the process of crafting a yarn tree on my apartment wall. Sounds cool, because it is. But it's a lot harder than you think!!!
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Wash your face with Ice Cubes
A wise man once told me (okay, it was actually the father of my best friend) that in order to become a writer, you must write every day! He quoted me at 10,000 words a day, and I just laugh at that. In high school I wrote a research paper that turned out to be 14 pages long (I think the average was 6 pages. Obviously, I am an overachiever.) I then wrote a “short story” that was 21 pages long. My teacher at the time, overweight man with the face of a 16-year-old, told me that I needed to cut it down. What if I don’t want to!? That is the hardest thing to do. Take your writing and “cut it down”. That means erasing those words that you have struggled to form. Well, not really struggle, but the fact that they made it on the page is a miracle.
After a few years I went back to read this short story and it was crap. Something about a girl and a boy who find love among the fields of horses. I really wonder about my own imagination sometimes. The point of this whole paragraph is that I am going to write. Write every day in order to get my mind and fingers to cooperate with each other. It’s like they are siblings that argue all the time and I am forcing them into a corner to stare at each other until they play nice. I used to believe that writing was easy, or at least should be for everyone. How hard is it to take the thoughts that are in your mind and then just put them down on paper. Ha. Yea, right. Nothing is ever easy, just as nothing is ever free.
This is why I despise/love editors. They have the easiest job! They can take the slaved-over, incoherent story, move a few words around and AH-HA: a story. The writers original story can be completely re-written in 10 minutes, when it takes them over 8 hours to build that measly 1500 word assignment. A click here and a click there and you would have never known who the original author was. A badass game of scrabble, only your words never win.
This is the first time that I am living in an apartment that is fully mine. No subleasing, no under-the-table rent payment. I don’t know how I feel about it. The first day I was downright giddy and now that the newness is wearing off, I am starting to see things clearly now. Is it fair for me to compare this to new boyfriends (let me clarify in saying new/bad boyfriends)?
The first day I walked into my apartment, the leasing agent warned I that they were still doing some “light dusting” and that I should not be alarmed by the fact that there were complete strangers in my new habitat. I shrugged at this, willing to adapt to any situation. (Insert laugh here). I opened up the door cautiously, welcomed by the loud mariachi band that was blaring over the radio. I couldn’t see anyone from my view, but heard the distinct slurred Spanish. The living room floor was covered with paper towels, nails, screws, cleaning supplies and FILTH. Ha, light dusting. I should have known.
I did a few open-close door and try to decide what I was going to do from here. I had my small Ford Focus filled to the brim with my belongings and I was itching to let it free of its load. As my boyfriend and I moved my things up the stairs I found my courage. I was not about to leave my belongings on the porch. No way. I opened the door again and this time took a few steps in. Ignoring the two Mexican workers in my kitchen, I made my way back to my room to check it out. Same scene. Dirty floor. I spied the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the room (covered in a thick coat of dust) and a light bulb moment happened. I would help them speed this process along. I asked the woman (using large hand motions, like I was speaking to a deaf person) if I could use the vacuum. I don’t think she fully understood me, but she nodded her head in consent. So, away I went to vacuum my room and hand pick the screws out of the carpet.
After I completed my task (I LOVE to vacuum and probably would of continued if my roommate didn’t have to use it too), I started moving my belongings in. The wide-eyed Spanish woman come into my room asking in broken English if I was moving in…today? This is where I saw the communication gap open up a little wider. All I said was YES, in order to further avoid confusion. I planned on leaving for a few hours in order for them to finish “dusting” my apartment and come back to my new bleached refrigerator (which not only cleans it, but leaves a lingering smell that could burn your eyelashes off).
To continue on my apartment rant, the place smells. The initial smell was that of cleaning products and some strong bleach. After that wore off the stale, musty smell attacked my senses. I use the word attack because I scrunch up my nose every time I re-enter my apartment. I have tried everything to purge this smell. Carpet cleaner, the weird stuff that you sprinkle directly on the carpet and vacuum up an hour later. This only makes your vacuum smell good, not the actual carpet. Then I went to odor eaters that I placed all over the apartment, including one in my closet because my clothes were also becoming infested with the stench. I then forked over the change to buy some scented plug-ins. This has helped IMMENSELY. Considering they are only about seven feet apart, they have worked together to make it bearable to walk through the front door. The next step is to help my clothes out of their funk…
Today the water pipes have frozen. I am sitting in my pajamas wondering if I should just put myself back to bed and call it a day. Oh, wait, I can’t. The furnace shakes my ceilings when it comes on and makes the air grates shake. These are also located on my ceiling. I have to wear earplugs to bed, or forego the warm temperatures.
The maintenance man told me that it might be awhile until he can figure out what is going on with the water. I was also told this while wearing pajamas. I have to stay here until he comes back from Home Depot with all his tools so he can fully figure out the issue. I am still in my pajamas.
If anyone has been without water, you know how I feel right now. I might as well be on a deserted island. I found myself staring at my toilet water with envy. How gross is that? In order to brush my teeth, I hunted down some of my water bottles with their 2-day-old water. Worked like a charm. It is a tricky thing, rationing out water in order to brush one’s teeth. Next feat was to wash my face. Hello ice cubes. Melted those suckers in the microwave and made a make shift water basin for myself. I knew I should have lived in the 1800’s. It actually worked out quite nicely.
Maintenance man came back over, when I had real pants on this time, and claimed that the plumber said that we should turn my thermostat up to 90 degrees and wait it out. I think my eyes almost bulged out of my head, mostly, due to the fact that I correspond high temps with high-energy bill. I am still sitting on my couch (with out a blanket this time) waiting for the water to magically come back on.
Texas froze over.
After a few years I went back to read this short story and it was crap. Something about a girl and a boy who find love among the fields of horses. I really wonder about my own imagination sometimes. The point of this whole paragraph is that I am going to write. Write every day in order to get my mind and fingers to cooperate with each other. It’s like they are siblings that argue all the time and I am forcing them into a corner to stare at each other until they play nice. I used to believe that writing was easy, or at least should be for everyone. How hard is it to take the thoughts that are in your mind and then just put them down on paper. Ha. Yea, right. Nothing is ever easy, just as nothing is ever free.
This is why I despise/love editors. They have the easiest job! They can take the slaved-over, incoherent story, move a few words around and AH-HA: a story. The writers original story can be completely re-written in 10 minutes, when it takes them over 8 hours to build that measly 1500 word assignment. A click here and a click there and you would have never known who the original author was. A badass game of scrabble, only your words never win.
This is the first time that I am living in an apartment that is fully mine. No subleasing, no under-the-table rent payment. I don’t know how I feel about it. The first day I was downright giddy and now that the newness is wearing off, I am starting to see things clearly now. Is it fair for me to compare this to new boyfriends (let me clarify in saying new/bad boyfriends)?
The first day I walked into my apartment, the leasing agent warned I that they were still doing some “light dusting” and that I should not be alarmed by the fact that there were complete strangers in my new habitat. I shrugged at this, willing to adapt to any situation. (Insert laugh here). I opened up the door cautiously, welcomed by the loud mariachi band that was blaring over the radio. I couldn’t see anyone from my view, but heard the distinct slurred Spanish. The living room floor was covered with paper towels, nails, screws, cleaning supplies and FILTH. Ha, light dusting. I should have known.
I did a few open-close door and try to decide what I was going to do from here. I had my small Ford Focus filled to the brim with my belongings and I was itching to let it free of its load. As my boyfriend and I moved my things up the stairs I found my courage. I was not about to leave my belongings on the porch. No way. I opened the door again and this time took a few steps in. Ignoring the two Mexican workers in my kitchen, I made my way back to my room to check it out. Same scene. Dirty floor. I spied the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the room (covered in a thick coat of dust) and a light bulb moment happened. I would help them speed this process along. I asked the woman (using large hand motions, like I was speaking to a deaf person) if I could use the vacuum. I don’t think she fully understood me, but she nodded her head in consent. So, away I went to vacuum my room and hand pick the screws out of the carpet.
After I completed my task (I LOVE to vacuum and probably would of continued if my roommate didn’t have to use it too), I started moving my belongings in. The wide-eyed Spanish woman come into my room asking in broken English if I was moving in…today? This is where I saw the communication gap open up a little wider. All I said was YES, in order to further avoid confusion. I planned on leaving for a few hours in order for them to finish “dusting” my apartment and come back to my new bleached refrigerator (which not only cleans it, but leaves a lingering smell that could burn your eyelashes off).
To continue on my apartment rant, the place smells. The initial smell was that of cleaning products and some strong bleach. After that wore off the stale, musty smell attacked my senses. I use the word attack because I scrunch up my nose every time I re-enter my apartment. I have tried everything to purge this smell. Carpet cleaner, the weird stuff that you sprinkle directly on the carpet and vacuum up an hour later. This only makes your vacuum smell good, not the actual carpet. Then I went to odor eaters that I placed all over the apartment, including one in my closet because my clothes were also becoming infested with the stench. I then forked over the change to buy some scented plug-ins. This has helped IMMENSELY. Considering they are only about seven feet apart, they have worked together to make it bearable to walk through the front door. The next step is to help my clothes out of their funk…
Today the water pipes have frozen. I am sitting in my pajamas wondering if I should just put myself back to bed and call it a day. Oh, wait, I can’t. The furnace shakes my ceilings when it comes on and makes the air grates shake. These are also located on my ceiling. I have to wear earplugs to bed, or forego the warm temperatures.
The maintenance man told me that it might be awhile until he can figure out what is going on with the water. I was also told this while wearing pajamas. I have to stay here until he comes back from Home Depot with all his tools so he can fully figure out the issue. I am still in my pajamas.
If anyone has been without water, you know how I feel right now. I might as well be on a deserted island. I found myself staring at my toilet water with envy. How gross is that? In order to brush my teeth, I hunted down some of my water bottles with their 2-day-old water. Worked like a charm. It is a tricky thing, rationing out water in order to brush one’s teeth. Next feat was to wash my face. Hello ice cubes. Melted those suckers in the microwave and made a make shift water basin for myself. I knew I should have lived in the 1800’s. It actually worked out quite nicely.
Maintenance man came back over, when I had real pants on this time, and claimed that the plumber said that we should turn my thermostat up to 90 degrees and wait it out. I think my eyes almost bulged out of my head, mostly, due to the fact that I correspond high temps with high-energy bill. I am still sitting on my couch (with out a blanket this time) waiting for the water to magically come back on.
Texas froze over.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Tangerine Tangents
Grocery shopping. I think I might have mentioned the fact that it repulses me. Which is odd, because I love food. But when you head into that store filled to the brim with aisles and aisles of combination of food you have never even heard of, it gets a little overwhelming. This is why man created lists. Sadly, I have contracted a disease in which it makes me immune to lists. I will have one and either 1. Forget it at home, leaving me to fend for myself and rely on my brain to remember what I needed (not wanted). 2. Ignore the list completely and go based off of what looks good/is cheap. 3. Use the list as a guideline but in the end I usually forget something on it. So, as you can see, lists usually do me no good. They look great on paper, but my purse usually swallows it up. I am truly impressed with those people who use lists as their life guide. I look at it like a TV guide, one that is good in theory, but honestly how many times do you usually look at it! (The paper version, not the *guide button you can press on your fancy satellite TV. Did I mention I don’t even own a TV? Another story for another time.)
Too many tangents. Back on topic: grocery shopping. What got me going on this rant was the cereal that I ate this morning. I don’t really recall the name of it, and if I wasn’t too lazy to get up from my couch and look at the stupid box, then I would be able to add it in there. But who really bases their choice of cereal based on name? You base it on how good the picture of the fake depiction of the cereal looks, splashy milk and all and/or the bright colors and cartoons that take up the entire box. When I was little I used to look for the fun games on the back so I could have something to do while shoving this gross breakfast food down my throat.
I have never been one to LOVE cereal. My sister would only eat it dry, I take mine with a “splash” of milk and some drown the whole thing and slurp down the sugary goodness later (which appalls me). I look at cereal as a fill-in. It’s the other option to support my lazy habits when I don’t feel like making any food that resembles a well-balanced meal. Instead, you go cereal. The more I write about cereal, the more I hate it. Maybe this blog was a bad idea?
Keeping this absurd theme going…eh, never mind. I was going to just write a few sentences on my disappointment of the cereal I ate this morning, but obviously my real feelings go way deeper than that.
I had my first "spinning" class today at the gym. Being the new kid never has it's perks. The bikes were the kind that you have to literally pick up and move to a position on the floor in order to get started. I looked at it for a second and tried to heave it into place...and then I noticed the wheels. Somewhere, out there, I am a subject on a text message that talks about the weird girl at the gym who couldn't move the bike. Honestly, it was humiliating. Why can't someone just yell: "HEY, GIRL! THIS IS HOW IT'S DONE!" I won't be offended, I promise. A little direction from a stranger never hurt anyone...right? But of course, no one could offer my their expert advice.
As we finally got in place, the instructor gets her music set up and then turns off the lights. I was slightly confused by this and still don't really know the purpose behind it all. Sure, the group running on treadmills behind the glass would be able to see our sweaty behinds...okay, maybe it does make sense. We pedaled away into the darkness, doing intervals that I never dreamed of conducting on my own. The power of peer pressure. Is that really what keeps us going? The thought process for pushing your body into painful workouts is, to say the least, interesting.
Too many tangents. Back on topic: grocery shopping. What got me going on this rant was the cereal that I ate this morning. I don’t really recall the name of it, and if I wasn’t too lazy to get up from my couch and look at the stupid box, then I would be able to add it in there. But who really bases their choice of cereal based on name? You base it on how good the picture of the fake depiction of the cereal looks, splashy milk and all and/or the bright colors and cartoons that take up the entire box. When I was little I used to look for the fun games on the back so I could have something to do while shoving this gross breakfast food down my throat.
I have never been one to LOVE cereal. My sister would only eat it dry, I take mine with a “splash” of milk and some drown the whole thing and slurp down the sugary goodness later (which appalls me). I look at cereal as a fill-in. It’s the other option to support my lazy habits when I don’t feel like making any food that resembles a well-balanced meal. Instead, you go cereal. The more I write about cereal, the more I hate it. Maybe this blog was a bad idea?
Keeping this absurd theme going…eh, never mind. I was going to just write a few sentences on my disappointment of the cereal I ate this morning, but obviously my real feelings go way deeper than that.
I had my first "spinning" class today at the gym. Being the new kid never has it's perks. The bikes were the kind that you have to literally pick up and move to a position on the floor in order to get started. I looked at it for a second and tried to heave it into place...and then I noticed the wheels. Somewhere, out there, I am a subject on a text message that talks about the weird girl at the gym who couldn't move the bike. Honestly, it was humiliating. Why can't someone just yell: "HEY, GIRL! THIS IS HOW IT'S DONE!" I won't be offended, I promise. A little direction from a stranger never hurt anyone...right? But of course, no one could offer my their expert advice.
As we finally got in place, the instructor gets her music set up and then turns off the lights. I was slightly confused by this and still don't really know the purpose behind it all. Sure, the group running on treadmills behind the glass would be able to see our sweaty behinds...okay, maybe it does make sense. We pedaled away into the darkness, doing intervals that I never dreamed of conducting on my own. The power of peer pressure. Is that really what keeps us going? The thought process for pushing your body into painful workouts is, to say the least, interesting.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Baby Vultures
I stumbled upon the book "Julie and Julia" at the Pflugerville Library the other day and couldn't resist the urge to pick it up. I don't know if it was my subconscious wanting to become a better chef (it was somehow mixed in with the cookbooks) or a jump start for my fingers to start blogging again. With the mix of both of those, I went grocery shopping with a new energy (who has the time/energy to grocery shop! Yuck.) and also found myself staring at the blank entries of my blog page. Who really reads this crap anyways?
Julie, in her book, states that blogs are really quite silly. It's like techno version of Jane Eyre. She probably wrote diary entry after diary entry, praying that no one would find what she had written. Now, we sit on our laptops or iPads (still a disgusting word) and HOPE that someone might stumble upon our entries that are nothing but lengthy status updates on life.
I will say that there are some blogs that keep the reader informed. Those friends that are getting married and want to keep you up to date on their latest registery escapades or others who just had their first baby and want to plague me with disgustingly cute baby photos. Both of which are far from what this blog has turned into. I have scratched some kind of theme and just went with the fact that I write these words more so for myself and no one else. Now, if someone happens to across these words and finds themselves in a hoot or holler, I won't be disappointed. Everyday I come across something new, strange and never, ever coincidental.
This blog needs to get me through this trying time of looking for that perfect job in the big, bad state of Texas. I still don't know where I stand with Texas. Sure, I like it. The weather makes me question if I should be out here with no sunscreen on. Cacti have become my new favorite plant, or they always have been my favorite, I was just unaware. Still on the hunt for my own cactus...and of course, a jay oh bee. And until I find this perfect job, I am starving myself on internet. Yes, you heard me right. I am taking away the one thing that connects me with the rest of the world. Going into total isolation. Eh, not total isolation. I still have my trusty blackberry and the local Starbucks to feed my internet and new-found caffeine addiction. You would be amazed to find how nice/annoying it is to live with out the internet at your fingertips (well, on my laptop at least) at every waking and non-waking moment of the day. I can finally read books again, cook delicious meals and...write this blog? Okay, well those aren't too many things to be envious of, but I am sure I can come up with much more at a later date.
Today I went for my first 10 mile run since, well, the last time I ran 10 miles. That must of been about 4 months ago. Training for a half marathon by yourself isn't the most rewarding experience. It seems to induce talking to ones self, singing songs out loud (when your lungs allow) and falling into a deep trance around mile seven. This is the only way to get through 1 hour and 30 minutes of running. Today's adventure led me through tails of puppies, dead end trails and a forest full of baby vultures.
The puppies, I don't really have to explain. There are puppies here, puppies there. Puppies are simply everywhere. Dr. Suess could of done a little better at that rhyme, but that is how it is. When the weather gets nice the cute couples and their new puppies come frolicking out on the trail. Shoving their cute faces into the grass and looking up at me for an expected pat on the head. I love puppies. I really really do. But this just feels like everyone is doing this to boost their ego and make me MAD. Of course I want a puppy and I don't have the means nor time to get one right now, so I have to make do with looking at how happy everyone else is. I bet they have great jobs too. I'm a little bitter.
Got stuck on a dead end to a wonderful trail I found. Since I was not about to turn around and make two, one mile loops around the parking lot, I decided to venture out into the road and make do. Here was the roads name: "Hairy Man Road". I probably would of doubled over in laughter if I would have known this at the time. Instead I found out four hours later as my GPS led me on a guided tour of the pain I had just endured. In bold letters it read: Hairy Man Road. The easy question is: what kind of name is that? Then you go deeper and think, who was this named after? Or was someone on the transportation board really really drunk and thought this would just be hilarious. All I can do is shake my head and never go back there again.
Onto the best part of my day: baby vultures. Or maybe I should just talk about birds in general. Here is something to think about, for those who live in the midwest, or northern part of the world: birds migrate south. Duh. It wasn't something I really thought about when I also migrated south in the dead of a St. Louis winter. The first few weeks here I could NOT understand the massive flocks of birds on every street lamp, tree or power line. Now...duh. They are everywhere. Birds, I can handle. But the gross amount of vultures here is just petrifying. I shiver when I think of their wrinkly, Sherpa puppy necks. Every morning there is some road kill on our street, soon followed by the elder vulture who snacks on it's insides all day long. (Shiver now). One vulture is creepy, yet avoided. 30 baby vultures is not even a scenario you should have to imagine. Don't think cute, smaller vultures...just think of vultures with shorter darker necks. So, of course, during my seventh mile through the tree tunnels of Brushy Creek, I look up to see a bird stretching its wings to soar away. My first thought is, sweet! I love nature! Then I mistakenly look into the trees above and see the masses. They just stared at me. In my haste, I squealed and picked up the pace.
My body hurts and I want to take a nap. I think I will do just that.
Julie, in her book, states that blogs are really quite silly. It's like techno version of Jane Eyre. She probably wrote diary entry after diary entry, praying that no one would find what she had written. Now, we sit on our laptops or iPads (still a disgusting word) and HOPE that someone might stumble upon our entries that are nothing but lengthy status updates on life.
I will say that there are some blogs that keep the reader informed. Those friends that are getting married and want to keep you up to date on their latest registery escapades or others who just had their first baby and want to plague me with disgustingly cute baby photos. Both of which are far from what this blog has turned into. I have scratched some kind of theme and just went with the fact that I write these words more so for myself and no one else. Now, if someone happens to across these words and finds themselves in a hoot or holler, I won't be disappointed. Everyday I come across something new, strange and never, ever coincidental.
This blog needs to get me through this trying time of looking for that perfect job in the big, bad state of Texas. I still don't know where I stand with Texas. Sure, I like it. The weather makes me question if I should be out here with no sunscreen on. Cacti have become my new favorite plant, or they always have been my favorite, I was just unaware. Still on the hunt for my own cactus...and of course, a jay oh bee. And until I find this perfect job, I am starving myself on internet. Yes, you heard me right. I am taking away the one thing that connects me with the rest of the world. Going into total isolation. Eh, not total isolation. I still have my trusty blackberry and the local Starbucks to feed my internet and new-found caffeine addiction. You would be amazed to find how nice/annoying it is to live with out the internet at your fingertips (well, on my laptop at least) at every waking and non-waking moment of the day. I can finally read books again, cook delicious meals and...write this blog? Okay, well those aren't too many things to be envious of, but I am sure I can come up with much more at a later date.
Today I went for my first 10 mile run since, well, the last time I ran 10 miles. That must of been about 4 months ago. Training for a half marathon by yourself isn't the most rewarding experience. It seems to induce talking to ones self, singing songs out loud (when your lungs allow) and falling into a deep trance around mile seven. This is the only way to get through 1 hour and 30 minutes of running. Today's adventure led me through tails of puppies, dead end trails and a forest full of baby vultures.
The puppies, I don't really have to explain. There are puppies here, puppies there. Puppies are simply everywhere. Dr. Suess could of done a little better at that rhyme, but that is how it is. When the weather gets nice the cute couples and their new puppies come frolicking out on the trail. Shoving their cute faces into the grass and looking up at me for an expected pat on the head. I love puppies. I really really do. But this just feels like everyone is doing this to boost their ego and make me MAD. Of course I want a puppy and I don't have the means nor time to get one right now, so I have to make do with looking at how happy everyone else is. I bet they have great jobs too. I'm a little bitter.
Got stuck on a dead end to a wonderful trail I found. Since I was not about to turn around and make two, one mile loops around the parking lot, I decided to venture out into the road and make do. Here was the roads name: "Hairy Man Road". I probably would of doubled over in laughter if I would have known this at the time. Instead I found out four hours later as my GPS led me on a guided tour of the pain I had just endured. In bold letters it read: Hairy Man Road. The easy question is: what kind of name is that? Then you go deeper and think, who was this named after? Or was someone on the transportation board really really drunk and thought this would just be hilarious. All I can do is shake my head and never go back there again.
Onto the best part of my day: baby vultures. Or maybe I should just talk about birds in general. Here is something to think about, for those who live in the midwest, or northern part of the world: birds migrate south. Duh. It wasn't something I really thought about when I also migrated south in the dead of a St. Louis winter. The first few weeks here I could NOT understand the massive flocks of birds on every street lamp, tree or power line. Now...duh. They are everywhere. Birds, I can handle. But the gross amount of vultures here is just petrifying. I shiver when I think of their wrinkly, Sherpa puppy necks. Every morning there is some road kill on our street, soon followed by the elder vulture who snacks on it's insides all day long. (Shiver now). One vulture is creepy, yet avoided. 30 baby vultures is not even a scenario you should have to imagine. Don't think cute, smaller vultures...just think of vultures with shorter darker necks. So, of course, during my seventh mile through the tree tunnels of Brushy Creek, I look up to see a bird stretching its wings to soar away. My first thought is, sweet! I love nature! Then I mistakenly look into the trees above and see the masses. They just stared at me. In my haste, I squealed and picked up the pace.
My body hurts and I want to take a nap. I think I will do just that.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Crazed Cacti
Texas is hot. I am sure everyone already knows that, but I am starting to realize the reality of just how hot it is. It is only January and I have found that I can run in sleeveless shirts and shorts. Is this normal? Sure, everyone makes fun of the fact that Texas thinks so highly of itself, being it's own country and all. But I think I might just believe it. How can NYC be 6 degrees and in here it is 60? Crazed Cacti are what does it.
I have finally found an indescribable apartment to live in, in the land of Pflugerville. And yes, that is a "PF". They use these two letters in every way possible. Pflugerville Pfall Pfestival is just one of the many examples I will give. Sure, it seems silly and ridiculous but I will accept that over the alternate spelling of dolphin...dolpfin. Now they are just messing with the English language and I don't know how much of that I can tolerate. I don't care for the small town, but it is quaint and growing. The Starbucks is my friend and so is the double bolt on my apartment door. Maybe that will preempt you for the journey I took through the back roads of Pflugerville.
I mapped out a new route for my 5 mile run. This lollipop route seemed easy enough, looping through side streets and main roads to lead me back to my apartment. As I made my way along the first street, the houses became dingier and spaced out. The first landmark was a "hall" in which people rented out to get married or host special occasions. All I could make out was one plastic-covered tent in the middle of the field.
I started to cross over this small rusted bridge, but second guessed myself. The last thing I needed was to destroy a bridge and die in a creek bed. Three guys came out of the woods next me, as I was making this decision, with shovels and hammers. They headed towards an open field, making glances in my direction. Let's assume: grave diggers?
I made it about 2 miles out until I was followed by a Mexican boy on a bike. I use boy lightly. His short stature masked his age of 25 or 30. His small legs were able to keep up with me for a short time, while he blatantly turned to stare at me. His creepy ways were put to an end when a cop car strolled by at an alarmingly slow pace. I lost him in a neighborhood.
Another group of hoodlums were ahead, playing in a sewer. I have never seen so many young pimps in my life.
After another mile of just wanting to get home, a PT cruiser came speeding by, pushing me to the uneven sidewalk. I caught up to it at a small deserted parking lot, that of course, I had to pass through. A shady fella got out with a paper bag in his hand. He quickly hid his sketchy face and sunk back into the cruiser, only to speed away again.
I thought my adventure must be over, but I always seem to be wrong. As I headed into my last mile, an ice cream truck (in the middle of January) turned onto my deserted street. The same jingle was played for 10 minutes. As hard as I tried to get rid of this nuisance, I had no luck.
Finally able to turn down a street, I ran into two hooligans, who upon seeing me, started digging in their pockets. I was ready for anything, knife, gun, cell phone. As I picked up my pace, I didn't dare turn around. I sprinted the last .3 mile and didn't stop until the second dead bolt was locked.
So much for relaxing during my run.
I have finally found an indescribable apartment to live in, in the land of Pflugerville. And yes, that is a "PF". They use these two letters in every way possible. Pflugerville Pfall Pfestival is just one of the many examples I will give. Sure, it seems silly and ridiculous but I will accept that over the alternate spelling of dolphin...dolpfin. Now they are just messing with the English language and I don't know how much of that I can tolerate. I don't care for the small town, but it is quaint and growing. The Starbucks is my friend and so is the double bolt on my apartment door. Maybe that will preempt you for the journey I took through the back roads of Pflugerville.
I mapped out a new route for my 5 mile run. This lollipop route seemed easy enough, looping through side streets and main roads to lead me back to my apartment. As I made my way along the first street, the houses became dingier and spaced out. The first landmark was a "hall" in which people rented out to get married or host special occasions. All I could make out was one plastic-covered tent in the middle of the field.
I started to cross over this small rusted bridge, but second guessed myself. The last thing I needed was to destroy a bridge and die in a creek bed. Three guys came out of the woods next me, as I was making this decision, with shovels and hammers. They headed towards an open field, making glances in my direction. Let's assume: grave diggers?
I made it about 2 miles out until I was followed by a Mexican boy on a bike. I use boy lightly. His short stature masked his age of 25 or 30. His small legs were able to keep up with me for a short time, while he blatantly turned to stare at me. His creepy ways were put to an end when a cop car strolled by at an alarmingly slow pace. I lost him in a neighborhood.
Another group of hoodlums were ahead, playing in a sewer. I have never seen so many young pimps in my life.
After another mile of just wanting to get home, a PT cruiser came speeding by, pushing me to the uneven sidewalk. I caught up to it at a small deserted parking lot, that of course, I had to pass through. A shady fella got out with a paper bag in his hand. He quickly hid his sketchy face and sunk back into the cruiser, only to speed away again.
I thought my adventure must be over, but I always seem to be wrong. As I headed into my last mile, an ice cream truck (in the middle of January) turned onto my deserted street. The same jingle was played for 10 minutes. As hard as I tried to get rid of this nuisance, I had no luck.
Finally able to turn down a street, I ran into two hooligans, who upon seeing me, started digging in their pockets. I was ready for anything, knife, gun, cell phone. As I picked up my pace, I didn't dare turn around. I sprinted the last .3 mile and didn't stop until the second dead bolt was locked.
So much for relaxing during my run.
Friday, May 14, 2010
A Cycle
When does summer really start? I can't believe an entire year has flown by and still I sit at the same desk with the same realization that I have not yet achieved my dream job. But then again, does anyone?
No longer will I spend endless days at the pool or have to throw away chlorine-stained shirts, but instead I am content on my life as a shoe-fitter. Now, this may sound as a non-appealing job...but I have found that I love it! It's not just about shoes, but its about what goes into the lifestyle of the person wearing the shoes. Not only is a ridiculous amount of product knowledge to get through a day, but that one day makes or breaks a running life. I swore I would never become a shoe nerd, but here I am "nerding" up my blog.
But back to my original question. When does summer start? I used to live my life a semester at a time, using finals and tests as my markers. Now I can't seem to find a grasp on time. I don't live by weekends, I don't have breaks and last but not least, I don't have summer. Summer was the time I never wore shoes, I stayed up late and basked in the shining sun. What is the point of a swim suit if it sits in my drawer all summer? The good news is that there isn't as much pressure for a "swim suit body" and I can pretty much let myself go...nah, who am I kidding. Must. Keep. Running! That is if my leg will heal and I can make it more than four miles without finding myself in tears of frustration.
Dear Summer,
I am sorry that I will not be able to welcome you as well as I would like. It looks like you might just have to just get on without me. I am just as sad as you are.
Rachel
No longer will I spend endless days at the pool or have to throw away chlorine-stained shirts, but instead I am content on my life as a shoe-fitter. Now, this may sound as a non-appealing job...but I have found that I love it! It's not just about shoes, but its about what goes into the lifestyle of the person wearing the shoes. Not only is a ridiculous amount of product knowledge to get through a day, but that one day makes or breaks a running life. I swore I would never become a shoe nerd, but here I am "nerding" up my blog.
But back to my original question. When does summer start? I used to live my life a semester at a time, using finals and tests as my markers. Now I can't seem to find a grasp on time. I don't live by weekends, I don't have breaks and last but not least, I don't have summer. Summer was the time I never wore shoes, I stayed up late and basked in the shining sun. What is the point of a swim suit if it sits in my drawer all summer? The good news is that there isn't as much pressure for a "swim suit body" and I can pretty much let myself go...nah, who am I kidding. Must. Keep. Running! That is if my leg will heal and I can make it more than four miles without finding myself in tears of frustration.
Dear Summer,
I am sorry that I will not be able to welcome you as well as I would like. It looks like you might just have to just get on without me. I am just as sad as you are.
Rachel
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