1:38:39, One Black Toenail and One Giant Blister

I participated in the 32nd Troutdale Trot and Walk this morning. I mostly walked it, had a goal of finishing in 2 hours (I had previously walked it on my treadmill in about 2.5 hours), and ended up crossing the finishing line near the front of the pack in 1 hour, 38 minutes and 39 seconds.

First race.

First number thingy for my scrapbook.
First sports injury (GIANT blister and a black toenail) ...

... unless you count the time at the Youth Group softball game when Tim Sivacek barreled into me at 2nd base, bending my thumb backward and giving me a slight strain. Tim, if you're reading this, I still maintain that that was completely unnecessary! Anyway, I don't count that, because Youth Group softball is supposed to be for fun and walking/running 6.7 miles clearly isn't.

I started at the back of the pack and thought this was going to be a healthy but leisurely stroll through downtown Troutdale and along the scenic Historic Columbia River Highway. You know, where I'd have time to hear birds singing and admire spring flowers. (Oooh! I did see a baby salamander, but he looked pretty flat so I think someone in the crowd accidentally stomped on him. And lots of slugs, since it had been raining. Slippery!) I sure was shocked when they fired the gun and everyone's hips started swinging around in that way that only speedwalking elicits. I felt instantly doomed. Since we would be passing my street around the 2 mile mark, I thought maybe I'd just take a little (race-ending) pitstop at home.

On the first big hill, I discovered I had a competitive spirit. I started burning past people who were hotshots at first, and then started playing little games like "I have to pass the next group of people in less than 100 steps". I passed more and more groups until I had the front-runners in view. I got tired of walking and would jog for a while, then walk again. This helped to cure the boredom of no music and no walking buddy (Steve, you selfish jerk, heal already!), and the shin splits I always get when I walk quickly but don't get when I jog slowly. Not that there's a real discernible difference between those two to the casual observer ..

It wasn't my goal to win, but to complete as quickly as possible. I held back on the jogging when I realized some ladies were calling me a cheater. Good grief, gals! So while I'm absolutely confident I could have jogged more and come in first (What?? Crazy talk!!), out of respect for the walkers, I held back.

What a crazy sensation. Walking, but itching to jog. Discovering a competitive spirit that could serve me well in future races. Even the fact that I'm considering future races .. who am I???

At the very end, I caught up to a hefty gal who was kicking butt. I told her she was amazing, because she was. I'd had my eye on her for a while and had finally caught up to her. She told me she was trying to beat last year's time, and was on track to do so by a good 20 minutes, and that she was walking it 75 pounds lighter this year. As if that wasn't enough, she's training to participate in the Hood To Coast relay this year. What an inspiration! (I didn't let her beat me, though.)

Next year, I'll trot. In the meantime, I'll look for other opportunities. And a new pair of sneakers, and some pretty nail polish to cover my disgusting toenail.

Math Whiz

So I've finished my second math class, and I'll be receiving the grade that I worked so hard for: a big, fat juicy "A". Feels good.

It's funny how people want to make you feel bad about your success. I sat at a table with guys who - jokingly (or was it?) - would call me a bitch when I got my tests back with few or no errors. Hey, if I was actually being a bitch and flaunting my grade, they'd be right. They'd list a million excuses for why they scored poorly, or didn't finish their homework, or didn't understand the material. Like I asked.

Last Tuesday, I left the final at the same time as another gal in my class - a mom who works full-time and was taking another class. She was ecstatic to have found out that, prior to the final, she had a "B-" in the class. She asked me what my grade was. How do you sugarcoat that you're getting an "A"? And why should you have to? I left out the part where my average going into the final was actually over 100%.

"But you're naturally smart at math," she protested. I didn't want to disagree, even though I do, because, why? To make her feel bad that she worked hard and got her grade, and I worked hard and got mine? I struggled over my math homework. The second the material got more difficult, my brain would turn off. I don't think that's really the sign of a mathy brain. And I've never once had a math instructor tell me I'm naturally gifted at math, and I think they'd know. The truth of the matter is, I deserved my grade. I did my homework. I turned in every extra credit problem. I studied for every test, and prepared like crazy for the mid-term and final. So I let her think that I'm naturally smart at math, because that makes her feel better, and it doesn't really change anything. But it was a weird predicament to feel like I wanted to prove that I wasn't so smart, and I worked hard too .. but to also feel like pointing that out might, in fact, make me the bitch that I was accused of being.

I have a co-worker who is recently married, has 3 kids, and is taking two courses. He calls me a wimp for only taking one course. He says I have "no excuse", because I don't have kids.

No, I don't have kids. No, my attention wasn't divided over multiple courses. But yes, I do work full-time. And yes, my husband has had a knee injury which has required me to drive him around to consultations, surgery, appointments and physical therapy for the last 5 weeks, which means I have been thrust into the role of sole errand runner and the "not naturally smart at caregiving" caregiver as well.

I told my co-worker that some people thrive on stress and chaos. I am not one of them. I know my limits, and I want to enjoy my one life, and I choose to include or exclude things in a manner that benefits me. I've waited a long time to go back to school, and I'm paying for it, so I'm going to do what it takes to get the most out of my classes and to be successful in them.

I'm not denying that the odds are in my favor. But that's how I've stacked my deck, and that's how they've stacked theirs. I admire the courage of those adults who are back in school while working full-time and raising kids, and I don't quite know how they manage it. Good on them!

Next term, I'm taking a break from math. Originally I was going to take a complete break from school because we didn't know what the demands of Steve's injury/recovery would be. Now we know he will probably drive sooner than 6 weeks from now, which was the initial projection. And even if it takes that long, his physical therapy appointments will be at 7 am, which doesn't interfere with my work schedule or school schedule. I'm going to take some sort of computer literacy course and a health and physical education course (unless I find out that my dance courses from the University of Oregon from a hundred years ago will transfer), both of which are required credits for my degree. That should involve one night of reporting to a lecture, with the rest of the work being done on my own time.

And I intend to work hard, and I expect that my hard work will be rewarded, and I will feel good about my success because I'll have earned it and have waited a long time for it! And I never want to have to feel apologetic about it, despite the fact that that's what others appear to want.

So even if no one else thinks it, I do: good on me.

Betcha Greg Oden Doesn't Use Frozen Peas

As the doctor said today, "Knees are like pregnancy. Either you're pregnant, or you're not. Either your knee works, or it doesn't."

Not exactly profound, or terribly poetic for that matter, but true enough.

And Steve's knee ... well, it doesn't work.

But hey! We won't ever be posting any ultrasound images on our blog, so here are some freaky MRI images instead. (Is that redundant? What does the "I" in MRI stand for? Is it "Images"? If so, by saying "MRI images" am I really saying "MR Images images"?)

It's like Steve saying "spinach salad" instead of just plain spinach and driving me crazy. Sort of. More accurately, like using the term VIN number. Vehicle Identification Number number.

Anyway, Steve's knee doesn't work. He's scheduled for surgery next Tuesday morning.

Oh, he's telling me the "I" stands for "Imaging". So just ignore that up above.

Here's what's technically wrong with his knee: Prepatellar bursitis, partial tear of the infrapatellar tendon at the attachment sight on the patella, partial tear of the medial retinaculum, small knee effusion with a tiny Baker cyst with minimal subcutaneous edema. Get your internet research on!

Surgery time TBA, but Tuesday morning. Should last about an hour and a half. Will be able to walk on it immediately but will have two separate knee braces on (I'll understand that one when I see it). If insurance won't cover the fancier of the two, then he'll be wearing frozen peas instead. Unknown when he'll be able to drive again. Won't be chasing bad guys (or softballs) for about six months.

The good news is ... we totally saw Greg Oden at the doctor's office.

Tram-tastic

When it's windy here during the winter, you lay down at night - earplugs in - and say a prayer that the wind will be gone when you wake up. When you wake up and realize it's still windy, well, words can't really describe the disappointment.

Today it seems like it might be a little lighter. Not "go outside and have some fun" or even "go outside and do some work" lighter, but "hmm, maybe I won't go completely insane if this is as bad as it's going to get" lighter. Or, "oh that's right, the forecast calls for rain, which is usually the only time the wind stops blowing in the winter" lighter.

But insane I'm starting to feel. Kind of a typical state for me in February, but exaggerated by the wind. A couple of years ago we visited friends in Arizona in February (you know who you are, the only two people who actually read this blog). That was an a-typical state for me to be in (heh) and it was glorious. It was sunshine and expansive blue skies and warmth and puppies and kittens and rainbows and magical sparkle dust.

I want to go on vacation!

In lieu of doing so, as we're saving our time for a trip to the east coast this summer (fingers crossed), we were reminiscing over our vacation photos from Colorado last year. Figured we'd finally share some. Consider this blog the first of several installments.



Above: The tram (gondola, whatever) ride we took from Glenwood Springs, 4300 feet up to Iron Mountain. The views were spectacular. On the way down, we found out we were riding with a local celebrity, some middle-aged-hottie-with-a-great-voice newscaster whose daughter just had to spill the beans about who her dad was. We didn't recognize him, of course, so neat, kid.

Below: Some of the incredible views from the Glenwood Caverns Adventure Park at the top of Iron Mountain.

If you enlarge the last picture, you'll see Steve floating in one of the rafts down the river. (Just kidding. Did you really do it?) He was on the mountain with me. Ridiculously, we ran out of time to go rafting. Next trip!

Next installment: What's a girl to eat for breakfast while on vacation? Cave bacon.

Ode to my Valentine

Since I turned 34 in 2009, I made a list of 34 things to accomplish this year. Item #13: Blog once a week. For shame, I've already missed the last two weeks!

But I have found myself exiled to the office this morning, and my options are: paperwork, more paperwork or computer work. I've already done my homework for Tuesday, and in fact, my homework for Thursday as well. (Item #1: Complete 4 college courses.)

Steve is sleeping on the couch. He injured his knee at work on Friday night, falling down a hill chasing a suspected car thief, not realizing - in the darkness of the night - that he was running down a hill. Something about momentum in his torso being ahead of the momentum in his feet and ultimately going head over heels ... poor guy. He has his entire right leg immobilized by a giant brace, which is making sleeping difficult for him. He started in the bed last night, but at some point made the laborious move to the couch.

So I'm stuck in the office. And the cats are stuck in the garage, so my darling, injury-prone husband can get as much sleep as possible.

Hopefully he can see the doctor tomorrow. The initial hospital visit was inconclusive due to massive swelling (picture a camel hump rather than a knee). I can't remember what all he said could be wrong with it - something in there is deformed, his kneecap may have been out of place, he might have a torn patella tendon? (I swear I listened to him when he told me .. but I make a better nurse in practice than in study. I'll even admit that I only remember the patella part because he did a Google search for it and it was still listed up in the little search window.) Anyway, we don't know yet the extent of the injury, so we don't know what's in his future: a knee brace with rest and physical therapy, or surgery.

My original plan for this Valentine's weekend was to surprise him with a trip to Timberline Lodge, and make him take me downhill skiing for the first time in my life (Item #10). Thank goodness they were booked by the time I called! I had downgraded our plans to hiking a waterfall (Item #14), but when I saw him at our front door, I knew the plans were a) watch TV, b) help him clean and bandage his road-rashed hands and knees, c) watch TV, d) help him with his socks (this is another reason I should never have a child - I simply cannot put socks on anyone but me!), and e) watch TV. Notice none of these are on my "34 Things" list?

Oh well. What better way to show your Valentine that you love them than by being willing to dote on them, hand, knee and foot?

Here's a little Valentine poem for you, my sweet:

Your hair is red,
Your eyes are blue,
Despite ground-meat hands and Hunchback of Notre Dame knee,
I love you.

One Hen, Two Ducks, Three Squawking Geese

Belated birthday wishes to my Dad!

We mailed your gift at Christmas (a Christmas miracle indeed!) and called you (but didn't reach you, boo!) on your special day ... but I didn't get this blog done on the 26th as intended.

I love you more than the tardiness of my blog entry shows!

I'm not a photo person, meaning I take them as infrequently as possible (of myself and of others) ... which in turn meant I only had a few photos to select from in the album my mom compiled for me a few years ago.

How to pick one that best embodies you, Dad?

There's me riding on your shoulders. Me in your arms looking at my birthday cake, not quite sure what to make of it. (Notice that trepidation around cake didn't last long). Me in my fancy cat face that you laboriously applied one Halloween. (How I loved looking at that book of painted faces and the lush make-up you purchased that year!)

Then there's this photo. Probably one of my favorites. Twinkling eyes. Mischievous smile under the beard I've always known you to have. And of course, the bunny ears. (I'm sure I would have been exasperated had I known at the time I was receiving them. I was, after all, the ripe age of 18 and way too mature for that sort of thing.)

Spontaneity. Silliness. The giggles.

A gift you've given me, time and time again.

I wish you many more years of laughter, ridiculous songs, and sudden, unexpected skipping in public places. (You can't deny it. Anyone who knows you, knows it's true.)

Love you!

Moving

The wind has been absolutely dreadful the last two days. Trees are down, shingles are flying off of rooftops, I lost 10 lbs because they simply blew away.

I hate Troutdale. I want to move.

I've wanted to move since the second week we moved here 3 years ago, when the wind started blowing and didn't stop for 8 days. I thought I was losing my mind. (Please refrain from comments.)

It's not always as bad as it is right now. In fact, this winter has been blessedly free from wind, comparatively speaking. The last two days, however, I've prayed - more than once - "Lord, please hold our house together!"

I helped a colleague move today. I have a love/hate relationship with helping people move. I hate it, because it is so much daggum work. And a really terrible way to meet people's families. I love it (love it? okay, not really) and I keep volunteering to do so for several reasons.

It's a nice thing to do. Moving is hard work, and it's even harder to do with no help.

It's great exercise. Sure, it requires a good soak in the hottub at the end of the day (for a few days), but all that weight lifting and stair climbing .. dang! Can't be beat. (I still worked out for 2 1/2 hours this afternoon, so maybe that's where those 10 pounds went.)

It results in free food. And that food never tastes anything short of amazing, because you've worked so hard for it and you're always beyond starving by the time it's served. (Oh, Papa Murphy's, how I love your Gourmet Garlic Chicken Pizza! How I wanted you for dinner even though I just had you for lunch!)

It makes you want to get rid of stuff. It's a little disgusting to realize how much stuff we all have. Filling box after box and room after room with stuff is great incentive: the more stuff I can get rid of now, the less I have to move when it's my turn. Look in my garbage can right now (go on, do it! and take a big whiff while you're at it!) and you'll see a few pairs of beat-up shoes. Look in my donation pile, and you'll see several ill-fitting shirts that were the casualties of a preliminary sweep through my closet. Look in my recycling bin, and you'll see empty bottles of expired medicines. (Do I still need the stuff to combat my constipation from pain killers back in 2001 when I had my Valentine's Day kidney stone? I loved you because of the holiday and all, but I pray not.)

It quells my own desire to move, despite the wind. And that's all I can really say about that, because it is a temporary, fleeting quelling. I know the desire will rear it's ugly head again tomorrow if I wake up to continuing violent winds.

My colleague moved from a less windy portion of Gresham to a more windy portion of Troutdale, but still not as bad as the tunnel of flying debris and destruction that is my street. "Welcome to the neighborhood," I said, then laughed maniacally. I tried to just do that in my head, but it kind of popped out. Oops.

So I want to move. But I don't. So I drank a glass of wine to relax and will soon be heading off to bed, earplugs in, and pray from some relief tomorrow. In Troutdale, that usually means rain. I'll take it.

(PS. Just as I was previewing the final draft of what I wrote above, I heard a loud metallic crash outside. I knew in an instant that one of our window boxes had flown off the house. Steve and I were just talking about that today, as in "wouldn't it be awful if that happened?". Well, it happened. I can't wait to see the giant holes in the siding tomorrow. Yay! The silver lining is this: Steve is supposed to be home tonight. He's working overtime, therefore his beautiful car is not parked where it was earlier. Because it most certainly would not have escaped the falling window box unscathed.

Lord, I know it could have been worse. But this isn't exactly what I meant by holding my house together!)

Make A Wish!

This is one of my all-time favorite photographs of my older sister, who turns another year more fabulous tomorrow, January 15th. I used it to bid her a fond farewell in the Faribault Daily News back in 1991 when she went off to college.

This blog has a slightly smaller following than that publication. Nonetheless, I thought it was an appropriate place to make the photo reappear.

Happy Birthday, sis. Can you believe that cute little munchkin grew up, made a home out East, learned to speak a few languages, became a lawyer (and her own boss), married a wonderful man and now has two little munchkins of her own ... to name just a few highlights? Pretty incredible (you are). You must have made some spectacular wishes blowing out your candles each year.

Here's to blowing out many, many more!

Love you and (still) miss you,
Ronda

Pee-ano

It is raining cats and dogs here, and has been since the wee hours of the morning. At least it was dry when people were lighting their celebratory fireworks at midnight. Happy New Year!

We lost part of our downspout two weeks ago when the snow and wind started. Well, we didn't lose it ... it flew off the front of the house, banged across the roof, hit the back of the house and landed in our back yard. At least that's the path it sounded like it was taking as it woke us up at 3 am. Sleeping Beauty stayed in bed while I trudged outside to retrieve it lest it blow away completely. So it's not lost. It's in our garage.

So now, the fact that it's raining cats and dogs is exaggerated by the lack of downspout - the rain is dumping from the 2nd level gutter directly onto the roof of the first level. To accurately describe the annoying and pervasive sound it's making, I'll use Steve's words: "It sounds like a man with a very healthy prostate is peeing on our roof."

Speaking of healthy prostates, Steve and I both went to the doctor yesterday. He for his gimpy knee (from his collision with the SeaTac Airport escalator over Thanksgiving), me for my "is there a muscle there?!?" hip pain (from, I don't know how I hurt myself exactly, maybe sleeping?). Talk about pervasive. Steve got some drugs to cope with his pain, I was poo-pooed as usual. Not that I should complain about leaving the doctor with good news ("there's nothing wrong that I can see - come back if the pain doesn't cease"), but still. I want drugs!

No drugs for me. I'm getting a baby grand piano instead. Saturday. I can't wait! That man better stop peeing on my roof by then.

More details and photos to come!