Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Couch to David Tennant

Well, I’m on week 2 of Couch to 5k, and figured since I haven’t blogged about ANYTHING in a long time, I should just start writing about this and see where it goes.

Week 2 is much harder than week 1. Going from 60 seconds of running to 90 seconds of running seems little, but has had a huge impact (pun intended) on my knees. You’re supposed to take a day of rest between runs, and I’m taking 2 in order to recover. Not good, but better than being injured at this point. I am committed to becoming ‘a runner’ and if that involves some knee pain to start, then I’m ok with that. I’ve lost almost 2 lbs a week for the past 2 weeks that I’ve been running, and despite dieting, I’m not super focused on the diet part, so I am sensing this is a change that will help me for the rest of my life. However a cookie is just now entering my stomach and he’s joining a tasty croissant. They are activating their wonder twin powers to try and get me to NOT run tonight.

I’ve been listening to podcasts with the run cues spoken, and it’s really helpful. I don’t see how you could do this without the podcasts. Plus, even not knowing this person speaking, to hear him say ‘you’re doing great’ and ‘don’t overdo it’ is remarkably encouraging. If only it was David Tennant instead. I might just start running and never stop. There is a lot of running on that show.

And on that topic, I am obsessed with Doctor Who.

It’s become such a thing that if I don’t watch an episode at night I feel like my day was wasted. Perhaps it’s the medicinal quality of the show – it truly encourages you to see the world through alien eyes, and a new perspective. Someone who sees your day as ‘fantastic being human!’ rather than ‘yeah, here I am at the end of a day.’ It’s sort of like dating an alien, something I used to joke about with my ex – that he was the alien that made me see how wonderful life was here on earth. I mean, he didn’t understand mailboxes. I’m serious. I had to explain what a mailbox was and how to use it.

So I’m mentally dating Doctor Who, and he can mentally jog with me as we explore the universe together. Or at least the streets near my house.

Wednesday, March 09, 2011


As a child, I always used to pretend I was Cinderella. Not because I had an evil stepmother or sisters, but because I was blond, and that limits you to Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. Sleeping Beauty was a bit too flighty. I mean, come on, she danced with animals in the forest. Cinderella at least just SUNG with the animals. And birds make kick-ass dresses.

Once upon a 2 months ago, I became Cinderella again.

I had a sweet sweet prince Charming. He was perfect in every way. And I had a gown I ordered off the internet with my Fairy God-Visa, and I was ready for the Ball (read: Oscars.) It was a dream come true.

Then my prince dumped me. Happily ever after wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to see other scullery maids.

My ballgown was useless, as I was no longer going to the ball (even though he offered – yeah, like I want to go to the Oscars and watch you put the slipper on some other maid in front of COLIN FIRTH.) And my fairy god-visa needed to be used for more important dreams that I wished. Like wishing to pay the electric bill.

Alas, magical fairy tale returns take 4-8 weeks to process. 4-8 non-magical weeks of prince-less nights, and the smells of rotting pumpkins.

Now it’s 8 weeks to the day, and I just got my dreams returned to me. Instead of my magical and slimming ballgown, I have water and power.

And instead of a prince, I have 2 cats. They don’t sing or make dresses, but you can’t have everything.

Friday, February 18, 2011

You've Got Mail

The wildly waving palm tree taunting me outside my window reminds me of a night long ago on Saint Thomas. I was alone, something that seemed natural and expected at the time. Alone in a foreign place, with no ability to save myself, defend myself, or identify with the world. No ability and no need. I was there, and I felt fully and wholly comfortable with my aloneness.

It was crazy weather. Shops shut down at the end of day, cruise ships lit up and disembarked the tiny bay, and one by one all the little sparkling streetlights turned off and the city became purple and maroon with the oncoming storm. Sudden rain overwhelmed the main streets, wind tossing palm fronds about, and thunder and lightning lit up the moon shaped curve of the shore and city.

I stood out on the balcony overlooking the bay, watching the storm approach, live, and pass. I remembered where I had just been. Solo on the open ocean, sailing to distant places with only maps and strange digital readouts to keep me safe. With strangers on strange boats, on strange islands where the native men asked me why I wouldn’t dance with them in the darkness. I laughed and danced, not scared in the least.

The palm tree outside waved at me wildly doing its own little island dance. I was by myself in a frightening place and time but not frightened in the least. It struck me then, that I should be afraid to be a single girl alone in a foreign place. I should have been.

Today I am alone again. It’s something that seems foreign and unsure. It seems unnatural every second, every breath. How could it change so much, that the dangerous comfort of being a solo world traveler morphed into the skittish jumping of a recluse scared by incoming mail in the mail slot.

The danger of being alone is magnified. It’s ridiculous in size, and in capacity to send me into paralyzing moments of self-doubt.

I shall ball into a knot with the blanket set to 7.

I’ll be back to tell you more once that dangerous man with my mail goes away.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

She likes me, she really likes me!

You know those ‘petition your senator – sign here’ e-mails that you get all the time? Well, maybe you don’t get them because you don’t have a father that sends you every hemp farming or legalization bill on the planet, but at least you know what I’m talking about. Those auto-forms that sign your name, and are sent to your local senator, representative, president, whomever who can actually vote on an issue.

Well, today I received a response.

U.S. Senator Dianne Feinstein ’replied’ to me with a directly addressed email, addressing the hemp farming bill I had ‘written’ to her about. I use writing and replying loosely, since they are not written or replied in the same context as a normal email, but at least in the same context with relation to each other.

However, this letter was not only pleasant and social, but it reminded me that a bill similar to this was passed twice already in California state legislature, only to be vetoed by Governor Schwarzenegger. It detailed information, thanked me for writing, and told me she would seriously consider my opinion. She gave me her email, phone number, and invited me to give her a call.

Not only did this seem different from the average reply mail, but it felt as if someone on her staff at least took the time to write a pleasant well informed form letter and sent them out with the intention of CARING about what people say. It also detailed some of the obstacles to this bill, that are unrelated to her office…ways to get something done that might actually help her. It got my attention, and it worked.

I voted for her. But now, I LIKE her.

It doesn’t really matter if she votes a certain way, or she supports or does not support this issue. What’s happened is that now I feel that someone listens, and cares for my opinion…even if they disagree. Isn’t that what we all want in government? I think if more politicians at least feigned interest in their consistuents, we’d be a happier nation.

I’m going to email Dianne and ask her for coffee. You never know…she might reply.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Most Genius Invention EVER...

You know how biscuits in those cardboard tubes only come in packs of 12. Like GRANDS or CINNABON ROLLS or some such thing? Well, we all know as single people that we can’t just get a roll and cook them all, since then you’ll have to eat biscuits or cinnamon rolls or orange rolls for the next week and a half. And as much as you really want a nice buttermilk biscuit, you don’t want 12 of them stuffed in your gullet.

The solution? Frozen Grands. Like the 12 rolls only individually frozen. You can cook ONE. Yes, you heard me ONE NICE BIG FLAKY BISCUIT. Just one.

I’m in love.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Smartly Trim

Show Spelled Pronunciation [jawn-tee, jahn-] Show IPA
–adjective, -ti⋅er, -ti⋅est.
1. easy and sprightly in manner or bearing: to walk with a jaunty step.
2. smartly trim, as clothing: a jaunty hat.

I have a jaunty new hat.

Yes, it’s really jaunty.

Of course, when I stated ‘I want a jaunty hat’ and finally got it, my boyfriend loudly proclaimed it ‘THE JAUNTY HAT’ and now whenever I wear it, I will get teased for being so jaunty.

There are worse things to be teased about. ;)

Friday, September 11, 2009

It's not Trivial

I love Trivial Pursuit.

I hate people that don’t love Trivial Pursuit. You know…those people who grew up under rocks, and have never heard of anything. Those people who don’t have a clue about any Geography, Entertainment, History, Arts & Literature, Science & Nature, or Sports & Leisure. Those people who look blandly at me after I ask the question, and make some silly comment about 'I'm so stupid!' and laugh while taking a drink. You know who you are. And yes, you are stupid.

And honestly, Trivial Pursuit is SO EASY. The first thought that pops into your head is USUALLY RIGHT. Somewhere, in some deep recess of what you learned in High School –is that answer! Who can't guess "Who invaded Spain in the 8th century?"

Duh. "The Moops."

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Forced Blogging: This Blood's For You...

I don’t know if you watch True Blood, the somewhat-new TV series based off Charlaine Harris’ Sookie Stackhouse novels, but I started it recently due to numerous pals saying “You will love it!” And, I did love the books. And I do love vampire stories in general.

Now that I’m watching it, I wonder why my friends think I love over-acting horribly-southern-accented uneducated fools who repeatedly engage in retarded brooding matches with cute, yet also-overacting vampires. Not one actor listens to anyone else, and the lines are so cliché and boring, I just am waiting for the punch line. Everything is a straight up (pun intended) commentary on the gay community acceptance in the guise of vampire community. And all this from Alan Ball! The creator of the best-written show on television IMHO, Six Feet Under. I can already see the episodes that he’s written stand out as at least tolerable. That’s a bad thing.

When Alan Ball pitched this show he said he pitched it as ‘Popcorn TV for Smart People’. I highly disagree. This is popcorn TV for people who like watching dumb people do stupid things. This is the reality TV of vampire shows.

And everyone has bad hair. Even the emo-brooding civil war vampire.

Ok, I will admit, I love me some vampires. But the rest of the show sucks. This show isn't even worth a pun about sucking.

I am tempted to continue the show in the hopes that other educated characters appear, and cajole Alan Ball off-screen into writing more episodes regarding the relationships. RELATIONSHIPS I said, not just brooding. I do realize that EVERYTHING put on television is dumbed down and sexed up to some extent. But can’t century-old vampires do anything else other than brood in Louisiana? And just being hot, brooding and sexy isn’t enough. Despite what you’ve heard.

At least I enjoy my boyfriend practicing the sexy brooding whenever the vampire is on screen. He’s getting good. If he gets good enough, maybe we can stop watching the show and just do the rest ourselves.

Wednesday, September 02, 2009

Jeff, We Hardly Knew Ye...

Prior to 2007, my knowledge of pro-wrestling consisted of this: Hulk Hogan.

That’s it. His name. I was aware of him, and what he looked like, nothing more.

Flash forward 2 years later, and courtesy of my WWE obsessed boyfriend, I am self-consciously calling myself ‘a wrestling fan’. It’s not something I ever would have assumed I’d like, let alone gotten into. But now on the eve of losing my favorite wrestler, Jeff Hardy, I feel the tables, ladders and chairs have turned.

WWE and Wrestling Entertainment conjures up images of shameless roided and oiled up hunks tossing each other around a ring while yelling. And possibly a few catchphrases. But now that I’m seeing it through the eyes of someone who loves it, I see that WWE has storylines. It has heroes and villains. And it has heart.

In the wrestling entertainment world, you can’t just wrestle – you have to tell a story as well. In WWE, there are those who can act, and those who can wrestle. Jeff Hardy was one of the latter. His acting ability left much to be desired, and is often parodied in conversations I have with other fans. However, I think I became a fan of Jeff because he was different. He was not HUGE. He was not exceptionally talented. He did one signature move that I didn’t see anyone else attempt much – a rotating flip off the turnbuckle. It was almost gymnastic. He looked different, he acted different, and it seemed like not only was his character an outsider, but he personally might have been one as well.

His moments usually consisted of bad promos, followed by astonishing flipping falls from incredible heights. He threw his body around like a rag doll.

But I wanted to see him win. The underdog, the smaller man, the outsider needed to win. And thus, WWE had me hooked.

He has risen to the top, and personal demons saw him fall again. His personal life really did echo his character, and thus…he has to confront his life, and rectify what he’s become. He is taking time off the WWE to recuperate, and unfortunately…now he’s gone. He may return – who knows how long he’ll take off. He may see fit to not return to wrestling.

I’m not sure that the reason I watch WWE is the same reason everyone else does. I’m not sure that I get out of the show what I’m supposed to get. But I know I at least call myself ‘fan’ partially due to the gigantic flipping leaps of Jeff Hardy. So I guess, he accomplished what he set out to do.

Hulk Hogan who?

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

Forced Blogging: These Crazy Kids

So, I decided I need to exercise my writing muscles. I can hardly get myself to exercise ANY muscles at all, even though I set my elliptical between my bed and my bathroom. I have 6 partially finished scripts, 4 specs, and a book. All of which are languishing on my nice mac, that is only used for surfing cute overload and facebook. Poor mac. Thought it would get rich being a ‘writer’ when instead it houses bed jumping photos and lots and lots of Muse songs.

The topic given to me for today is “these crazy kids with their hair and their clothes and their loud music.”

And this is a pretty easy topic, considering I LOVE these crazy kids with their hair and their clothes and their loud music! Ok, not love…I appreciate. Only when they are in a gaggle at the mall blocking my entrance to Hot Topic to buy a Gryffindor shirt, only then do I dislike them. When they mock my fashion choice of old-lady jeans and said Gryffindor shirt, I really dislike them. And when they’re under age 15, then I REALLY REALLY dislike them.

Maybe it’s less the fads, than the age. I love pink and green hair, and tutu skirts, and crazy Japanese bondage outfits. I love them blasting alternative and rap. But when it comes from a child – I do appreciate less, and wonder more. What is their rationale? What is the point of their rebellion?

I don’t recall rebelling as a child. I mostly read books. My parents thought I was a great kid, save for that one time I helped my best friend host a beer party at age 15. Of course I didn’t have any beer – yuck. So, clearly…a great kid.

I rebelled in my late 20s early 30s – pink hair, rockabilly jeans, and lusting over boys with tattoos. I rebelled by going to film school instead of becoming a science teacher. I rebelled by choosing to not have children, and by being extremely liberal.

So, what is it about the 12 year olds in grunge pants, tutus and punk tops that bothers me? It’s that they are doing it for no reason. They do it because it’s a fad. It’s that they don’t know what grunge, punk or being a rebel really means.

Not that I know either. I’m an old fuddy-duddy in a Hot Topic Gryffindor shirt that listens to Muse. What do I know? Maybe a pink stripe in my hair would get me some respect.

Probably not.