Muffin Top Christmas Tree

When it comes to ending the holiday season, I implement the same approach I use with break-ups: rip that Band-Aid off. No sense in keeping reminders of the reasons for the season around the house if it’s going to be another 364 days before that fat man in a red suit comes calling again. It’s over. Time to move on to the next day of celebration like, you know, New Years or National Clean Off Your Desk Day. (January 10, if you want to add it to your calendar.)  So, once the date flipped to December 26, I decided I had delayed long enough. Time to pack away all things draped with tinsel, striped with peppermint, or hitched to a reindeer.

It’s easy to romanticize holiday preparations: watching the Yule log burn in the fireplace, searching for the perfect greeting card to capture your sentiments about the season, decorating the Christmas tree. No one waxes poetic about the other annual tradition: taking all of this crap down. But just as the stocking were hung by the chimney with care, so must those same stockings be wadded up, jammed in the corner of a repurposed cardboard box, and wedged onto a shelving unit in a basement... with care.

I know pencil trees are all the rage, with their emaciated limbs and their exposed stumps. But, when it comes to holiday shrubbery, I’m a chubby chaser. I like my trees fat. Plump branches popping out everywhere, barely able to squish into the corner of a room. Pottery Barn can keep its rail-thin trees with boyish hips. My dream Christmas tree would have a muffin top.

Confession: I do … have … an artificial tree. I’m a faker. Nothing against you real-tree-ifites. I’m sure the idea of driving two hours to a field, slugging through frozen mud, saw in hand, to pick out your favorite tree holds a certain amount of charm for you. But before you wag your sap-sticky finger at me, let me point out that what you are doing when you walk through that man-made forest of firs is basically playing judge, jury, and executioner. Think about it: if you were a glorious evergreen, reaching your piney needles towards the sun, working to stand taller and taller each year, what is the last thing you would want? I would bet being chopped down, bound and strapped to the top of a Volkswagon would be high on your list. Better wash off that sap, it’s basically tree blood on your hands.

Then what do you do? You drag this tree into a dark hot room, screw to a stand, and barely give it enough to drink. I mean, depending on your level of dedication to Real Tree Protocol you’re pretty much starving or waterboarding that thing through the holidays. Then what do you do, once the limbs have drooped and the needles have piled up on your hardwood floor (another example of plant murder, by the way)? Do you drag it down your driveway and dump its woody corpse by the curb? From the views out my car window on the drive to work on January 2^nd, hell yes you do. And I, a shunned tree faker have to see all of these violations of the Geneva Conventions for days on end. If I actually catch someone doing the dragging deed down the driveway, fighting the branches trying to grab the cement and fight back, I always have the urge to roll down my window and shout, “BRING OUT YER DEAD! BRING OUT YER DEAD!”

Disposing of an artificial tree doesn’t boast much more dignity, though. Growing up, we used to take out each individual branch, smooth down its pipe-cleaner branches, and stuff each one in a cardboard box that had long ago lost its structural integrity and required bandages of duct tape to, you know, be a box. So we basically dismembered it every year. (Side note: I learned another tidbit of Procreator knowledge this weekend while visiting my college roommate and her three little girls. You know, the little angels of bathtub poop fame from a blog post earlier this year? Noncreators out there, listen up. Whenever a child mentions that he/she used to have a pet butterfly but doesn’t have it anymore, never ask what happened to it. The answer will almost never be that it flew away. Instead, it will be that a sibling killed it by pulling off its wings. You’re welcome.)

That was back in the days before trees came pre-lit and in three, easy-to-assemble sections. What used to take over an hour now takes about five minutes and some moderate hefting. Last year my parents even gave me an upgrade on the old box storage method with a tree bag. It’s basically a big red duffel bag with a handle on one end and two wheels on the other. (Sadly, in my college days, I could have easily filled it up with primping items and clothing options for a three-day trip. I had yet to learn what it means to “travel light.”) So all I have to do is give each tree section a bear hug to squash the branches, shove it in the duffel bag, and zip it up.

Once again, my love of all things fat when it comes to trees made this a little more difficult than it should have been. Despite the fact that the duffle was so large it could moonlight as an above-ground pool cover, I could barely get the thing zipped up. After wrenching the zipper pull the last few inches, I exhaled in relief and walked over to the basement door to prepare for the final descent. That’s when I looked back and saw this:

Looks kind of like a body bag, doesn’t it?

There is nothing less Christmas-feeling than thumping a body bag down the stairs to the basement and shoving it into a closet. I felt like I had literally stuffed Santa into a duffel bag and dragged him into a storage unit. I couldn’t get the bag all the way into the closet, despite multiple kicks and shoves. Eventually I gave up, leaving the corpse of Christmas past sticking halfway out and propping the closet door open. So now, every time I go down to throw in a load of laundry, I get to see this depressing site:

Sorry, Santa. Like a phoenix from the ashes, you will rise again next year.

Another challenge to de-Christmasfication that no one talks about is what to do with all of the greeting cards that cheered up one’s mailbox and mantle for the past few weeks. Growing up I loved getting letters in the mail, especially when I would move to a new state and wrote letters to keep in touch with old friends. Now the only people I lick a stamp for are the County Treasurer (for my taxes) and my grandma. But I still send out holiday cards every December and love the fact that some of my friends and family do the same.

Here’s the dilemma, though: what to do with them after the holidays have come and gone? I used to let them linger under magnets on my fridge until mid-March when I finally had to move them to make way for shower invitations and baby announcements. But I got a sleek new fridge for Christmas which is too cool for magnets, meaning that I can’t use them on its stainless steel finish. Normally, after I’m done reading regular pieces of mail I just throw them away. So I gathered up the greeting cards and went over to the trash can...

Okay, throwing these away used to be way easier when most of the cards just boasted blinged-out cardinals perched in snowy trees, or that old broad Maxine smoking a ciggy and crabbing about mall parking lots. But now everyone sends cards with pictures of their families posed around fireplaces or donning reindeer antlers. I love getting them because I get to see their familiar faces beaming out Christmas cheer. However, tossing my cousin, his wife, and their two perfect kids into the trash can beside egg shells and snotty Kleenex seems a little callous. I decided to pull those and only throw away the non-photo cards.

The rest of the cards have either the Angel Gabriel, the Virgin Mary, or Jesus staring up at me. Could I really toss Christ into the trash can? Now I get why some religions don’t allow for the replication of any image of their prophets. Sure, it is partially about avoiding worship of false idols. But it also avoids the whole, what-to-do-with-this-calendar-of-our-God-once-the-year-is-over fiasco. Then again, I’m sure Jesus wouldn’t care. He probably gets sick of seeing his face plastered all over Hallmark greeting cards anyway, since I'm guessing he probably is not getting a cut. Also, I'm pretty sure no newborn baby that just got popped out into a manger of hay would have ivory skin, a cherub smile, and a full mop of golden curls. So, when you think about it, these aren’t even actual pictures of Jesus. They are just pictures of a one of those Precious Moments figurines, pretending to be Jesus in some greeting card holiday pageant. That’s right. No violation of papal law to toss these. And with that final thought, I drop them into the trash can and continued to de-Christmasfy my kitchen.

Then I couldn't stop thinking of Jesus … sitting down there … in the dark …. by those Kleenexes and  broken egg shells. He probably hates it down there. Visions of Jesus crawling out of the trash can, that donkey of his giving him a boost, only to sneak up on me in the family room and rap my toes with that golden halo of his.

Five minutes. That’s how long I left the Son of God in the trash before fishing him out, brushing him off, and stuffing him with the other family photo greeting cards and my childhood nativity set (ironically, from Precious Moments) to store away for another year. I wasn’t sure that the basement would be much of an improvement over the trash can. But it was good enough for the tree body bag. It had to be better than the recycling center.

The hardest part sometimes is remembering how everything looked before all this silver and gold had infiltrated one’s home. This year I had to search through my pictures for references about where a particular fake fig tree went. And everything does look a little bare for a few days afterwards, like some sort of Decoration Withdrawal. The corner where the tree was looks especially barren. And a little dark, now that all of the twinkling lights of the tree are gone. Come to think of it … maybe it could use a lamp…

Christmas Etsyfied

This Christmas, I decided to 'Etsyfy" it up and give mostly homemade presents. Now, before you start rolling your eyes in anticipationg of a blog post about Kleenex box covers made out of construction paper and sequins, know that I actually have some pretty good chops in the DIY department, as long as it involves yarn. What I DON'T have is good time estimation skills when it comes to making things out of yarn.

Christmas 2012 Mission Etsyfied Project Summary:

• 5 pairs of mittens (4 of them with a "convertible" top for a free-finger option),
• 1 scarf, 
• 1 pair of granny square mittens,
• 1 hat, and
• 1 pair of less-granny-like slippers

With that many projects, you would expect me to start them in ... oh ... mid-October, right? That is what I should have done. That is not what I actually did. Instead, I decided to start them on December 1st. And I also kept adding projects because I thought of new people who would like a pair of mittens or a slouchy beret hat. Needles to say -- Okay, I know that's supposed to be "needless to say" but I typed "needles" in some sick sub-concious spelling tendency. And, in a tribute to how knitting-brained I am right now, I'm leaving it -- I wound up staying up until about 2AM for the past two weeks, knit-one-purl-one-ing the night away. Keep in mind I still went to work. I shudder to think about the email mistypes I must have sent out during the month. There and They're and Their, oh my!

Sadly, this isn't my first error in time estimation when it comes to homemade holiday gifts. A few years back I crocheted my mom an afghan. Well, that was my intention. What I actually did was crochet her 108 tiny granny squares. I assumed that, once I finished making each little square, it would take me about twenty minutes to whip-stitch them together.

It took me two hours to just lay them out on the floor in the guest room.

That left me about ten minutes before we left for church on Christmas Eve to finish it up. Always quick on my feet in a Christmas gift crisis, I cleverly scribbled a note on a piece of paper, placed the note in the middle of the squares, and shut the door. Three hours later, I led my mom back to to the guest room, let her "open" the present by opening the door, and voila! There was my mom's present: 108 granny squares lying below a note that said "Some Assembly Required."

I find that, if you can luck into a joke that genuinely makes someone laugh, they'll mostly forgive the fact that you half-assed their Christmas gift.

Sewing those squares turned out to be a two-day project I did finish sewing them together during that holiday break, but forgot to do the finishing embroidery stitches. So, instead of an afghan of four poinsettias, my mom now proudly displays every Christmas an afghan of abstract triangles of red, green, and white. This tradition always elicits laughter and jokes at my expense. I take these in stride, since I don’t really have any defense. I gave her that afghan six years ago and it still isn’t finished. I deserve to get a little ribbing about it. (Ribbing! As in the knitting pattern on the cuff of mittens! How AM I doing this?)

I hope that your holidays were merry and bright! Wishing you a new year filled with health and happiness.

PROGRESS!

Progress was made this weekend! I actually had a crapload of stuff to do for work, in addition to some final Christmas shopping and knitting to get done. And yet, I decided to put that all off and work on Project DeLampification. So the trick to getting me moving was just finding things that I dreaded even more than tackling the Lamp Room.

That's right. Check it out. Clutter? Eliminated. Crafting & sewing materials? Organized. Lamps?

...

Okay, no lamps have actually left the room. But three of them have been reassigned to new duties! So now it's just down to four fixtures looking for employment. Luckily, my sister and her husband just bought a new home that has about twice as many rooms. I'm sure some of those rooms would enjoy the addition of a warm glow. Like it or not, my sister and brother-in-law are getting lamps for Christmas. (And yes, that is a laundry hamper of yarn in the corner. I may have gone on a little shopping spree at Jo-Ann Fabrics the other day.

I even did a little feng-shui-ing to the furniture, thanks to a healthy bout of elbow grease, grunting, and a possibly strained lower back. (Note: I don't actually understand anything about the practice of feng shui. I just inappropriately use that phrase anytime I rearrange furniture into a more practical arrangement. Makes it sound more impressive than moving-stuff-around-until-you-no-longer-run-into-chairs-and-bookcases-when-trying-to-enter-and-exit-the-room.) I picked up some canvas boxes last year during my first spree of reorganization (that was pre-lamp) and decided to pop them into the shelves. This is what I love about boxes and baskets: you can get away with looking organized without actually "organizing anything. I just dumped the things that had been on the shelves and in the drawers into the totes. Boom! False advertising. Just don't ask me where I put the power cord for the sewing machine. Or the extra glue gun sticks. Or my VHS tape of Riverdance. They're all in there somewhere.

Now that everything is cleaned up and a bit more blank-slate-like, I'm starting to get excited about the potential of the room. It definitely needs some work. The walls boast a few dings, and there's an actual broken hole in the closet door. But I'm excited to try something new. Thank goodness it's a relatively slow couple of weeks at work, since I plan on spending QUITE a bit of time on Pinterest. :)

Oh, one last mystery to the room: I still can't figure out which electrical outlet that light switch controls. That's the nice thing about having so many lamps: I was able to plug one in to each socket, turn them all, on then flip the switch to see which one went dark. No luck. Either these lamps are insubordinate, or the switch is just a red herring. All for show. Electricity is beyond my DIY comfort zone, so I'm content to leave that mystery unsolved for now.

Enjoy your "NO" for the moment, light switch. Your time will come...

Now I just have to figure out what I hate even more so than crowds and angry parent emails to get me to brave the mall and my inbox. Emptying the dishwasher should do it.

Operation De-Lampification: Week 2 Update

It's been about two weeks since I publically posted my private shame of a spare bedroom that had been infested with lamps. My plan was to use regular blog postings about the de-lampification process to pressure me into action. Two weeks in, I've learned something very important about myself:



Apparently I am incredibly tolerable of public humiliation. Especially when avoiding it will require me to actually do something. Laziness it is!

The only work I've done to the Lamp Room is to shuffle some of the lamps around to make it easier to access non-lamp items in the room. Not really any significant progress. Just, you know, herded them into a corner of the room. I did manage to "herd" the lamps multiple times. The first roundup was triggered by me needing to get into the closet located directly behind the lamps. So I moved them all to the other side of the room, directly in front of the bookshelf. A few day later, I had to get something off the bookshelf. Translation: lamps dragged across the room again ... back in front of the closet.

I have danced this little do-si-do three times now. So I'm getting REALLY good at moving the lamps. I'm going to take that as a sign of progress. Also, last weekend I had the excuse of food poisoning, which led to a non-productive Sunday. This weekend, I don't really have an excuse. But that means that, technically, I'm only a week behind where I should be. And, thanks to Pinterest, I've done a TON of online research on what I envision this room eventually looking like. I work in academia: I'm all about the literature review, much more so than the experiment or application of results.

Lamp Room

I have a room in my house that is technically a bedroom. (According to my home appraisal document.) It also has the potential to be an office. Or a Craft Room. Or a very snug Game Room.

Instead, it has become a Lamp Room.




Yes, there are six different lamps in that picture. With another three hidden behind the storage chest.

In my defense, it wasn't like I walked into the room, looked around, and thought hmmmm.... this would be an AWESOME place to display my lighting fixture collection. Some things just happen organically. A table light here, a floor lamp there, then bada bing! LAMP ROOM!

Clearly this room is actually a Junk Room. There is crap everywhere. Which only goes to show how overwhelming the percentage of Lampness is in the room. Even with random boxes everywhere, the lamps still shine through. It's not a junk room. It's a Lamp Room ... surrounded by a lot of junk.

I blame it mostly on my fickleness with lighting choices. I can walk into a furniture store and pick a coffee table with conviction people normally reserve for religious beliefs or dessert selection. (EPISCOPALIAN! CHOCOLATE RASPBERRY CHEESECAKE!) But when it comes to lamps, I'm pretty much ...ehhhhhh. I wander from store to store, looking at every combination of bronzed metal, brushed silver, and off-white shades. Nothing looks wrong, but nothing looks right. Eventually I get frustrated with my own uncertainty and just buy the one that is the ultimate combination of a) the cheapest and b) the easiest to carry to the check-out queue.  (Yes, I used "queue." I'm sick of my printer being the only thing that can reference a waiting line in British terms.)

Inevitably I regret the purchase. The shade is the wrong color. (Colour!) The metal finish seems garishly shiny or dirtily dull. (Daft!) And, even if those two features are actually okay, the scale is be way off. I mean, WAY off. In the store, the table lamps were Goliaths. But, propped up beside my overstuffed sofa, they come off looking like night lights and barely shine past the perimeter of the table below them.

(I feel should admit that my issues with estimating size isn't limited to just lamps. It extends to many other facets of my life: stopping distance behind cars, making cookies. I'll be scooping out dough with the exact same spoon, and one will come out the size of a quarter, with the next one spreading out to to the size of an above-ground pool cover. Which is why I now carry a ruler with me wherever I go. And only bake cookies alone.)

I get increasingly annoyed with how bad the lamp looks. Eventually I unplug it and stash it in my spare bedroom. Then I wind up sitting in the dark. Which leads me to go on another quest to find that elusive, perfect lamp. In an attempt to learn from my mistakes of the past, I try going in the opposite direction. Last lamp too small? This time I'll get a floor flamp! That one too outdated? I'll go modern with a square paper shade! So I wind up overcorrecting and, instead of shanking it, I hook it. So, after a few days of moving the new lamp to every possible corner of the room, I throw up my hands, unplug it, and plop it beside its rejected brethren.

You can imaging that, after a few cycles of this, boom. Lamp Room.

Also, in a cruel twist of irony, the Lamp Room is the darkest room in my house. The room has a light switch, but I'm having difficulty locating exactly which outlet this switch is supposed to switch on. I even had enough lamps to plug one into each socket, turn them all on, and then flip the switch to see which one it controlled. Nothing. So I just keep them all unplugged and feel my way to whatever I need out of the room. Which is never a lamp.

Last month, I finally ponied up some bucks and bought two lamps that seem to work pretty well. I have a good feeling about these. I think they're going to stick. They've certainly lasted way longer than any of their predecessors.

At this point, I have family members referring to it as the Lamp Room. It seems high time to rebrand.

My goal is to have this disaster of a room reorganized into something more useful. But, because reorganization seems way more time-intensive than just shutting the door (my current strategy), I know I'm going to need a pretty big carrot-and-stick combination to get me to do it.

So here's my plan: in a week I'm going to take a picture of the Lamp Room's current status and post it on this blog where anyone can see it. (Stick = public humiliation.) And, when I have successfully transformed it into something less lighting-like, I will celebrate with a sweet of some kind. (Carrot = dessert which will not involve carrots or vegetables of any kind.)

Let the rebranding begin!

Swing State Dear John Letter

Heyyyyyyyy!!

You from around here? Didn't think so, you seem like you're from out of town. Me? Oh, I've moved around a little, you know, Texas and -- WAIT! Where are you going?? I USED TO LIVE IN TEXAS! RIGHT NOW I LIVE IN OHIO!

Yeahhhh, thought that would get your attention. I'm looking a little more appealing now, aren't I? Does that do it for you, a permanent mailing address in Ohio? Does the 614 area code turn you on? Did I mention that I'm also .... undecided?

Yeah, that's right. You recognize me now. In fact, I'm the one you've been driving around just looking for.

Anyway, now that me and my eighteen electoral votes (that's right, I'm eighteen) have your undivided attention, let me give you a few tips.

I've noticed the hints you've been dropping around me during the past, oh, eleven months. I can't tell you how many times I've opened up my mailbox to have your letters pour out, shiny paper after shiny paper boasting sweet nothings. Seriously, I literally lost count of how many.

I've watched you on tv. I've seen my voicemail blinking on my phone, knowing that you left a message, just calling to say hello. I've sat in your traffic jams while listening to you chat me up over the radio. And, during this courtship, I've noticed something and would like to give you a little tip:

Try playing a little hard to get.

I'm serious! I know it's messed up, but you know how the game goes. The guy who's attentive and eager? He's a little too available. But the guy who's aloof, kind of ignores you? Man, that's hot.

So I'm just saying, tone it down a little. That's all. Try (robo)calling me a little less. Don't just drop by my convention center and local deli and college campus all the time. Be cazh. Hey, maybe we'll run into each other at a random airport terminal or a police barricade. Then we can laugh about a coincidence it was. Much more romantic than, you know, being bombarded with emails and notifications and signs insisting that I meet you somewhere. Tom Hanks never meets Meg Ryan by papering her Upper West Side apartment building with fliers about their first date.

And keep mind: it isn't the big gestures that speak the loudest. The only ones who want to be wooed by a big proclamation on a billboard are way too high maintenance. Us normal, well-balanced, fish out in the sea? We are all about the little things. The things that show that you really listen to us. Maybe plan your debates around my television schedule so you don't preempt any of my favorite shows? (You know how much I love New Girl. If you debate on New Girl night, I'm going to think you're just doing it out of spite.) Or make that, when you're visiting, you plan your route away from my work so that driving home for me takes twenty minutes and not two hours.

In fact, the best way for me to be interested is to pretty much act like you don't even want my vote. You're totally cool without it. Got other ballot prospects in your Blackberry. So, you know, go ahead and cancel the commercials, scoop up the signs, and don't call me. That's the best way to get me to call you.

**********************

(Think they believed me? Are they gone yet?)

(Okay, seriously? This is insane. If I get pelted one more time by a commercial break brimming with political attack ads, I'm gonna lose it. Swing state status started out kind of cool. You know, two powerful dudes fighting over your attention. But I'm starting to get the feeling that these guys slugging it out has little to do with winning my ballot box love and more about just loving to beat the crap out of each other. Can't wait until this election is over and we can go back to being ignored for the next three years. Nothing sexier than that.)

Don't Forget To Vote!

Six Pack Mix and Match

Sorry for the long delay! I could give you a rundown of reasons, but really it's just the same banal crap that regularly piles up for everyone. Just think back to the last time life was so busy that you found yourself picking through your overflowing laundry hamper because you literally ran out of clean clothes to wear to work. Yeah, remember that negotiation session with yourself? Where you justified that you had only worn that shirt for four hours so it wasn't like it was really dirty? Welcome to Desperation Diving. Very similar to dumpster diving, but somehow even sadder.

Oh, and if you've never had that experience? Screw you and your laundry service. Or your magic closet with a never-ending supply of sartorial choices. I hope you open up those wardrobe doors to find one lonely pair of stone-washed taper-legged jeans hanging there. Then let's see if you don't do a dive into that laundry bin.

So, during my time away I gathered some GREAT stories to share! These were courtesy of my mother and her biannual get-together with her sisters. All together, they make up a half dozen, which led them to dub these outings as Six Pack Tours. I actually think they know what the phrase "six pack" means to most people: a common packaging unit of beer products or overly defined abdominal muscles. But, they kept the name despite the fact that their tours rarely have to do with stomach crunches or adult beverages. (Although, who knows? Maybe under those sensible cardigans Aunt Alice is ripped.)

Most of the Six Pack Tours really break down to a rotation of two activities: eating and chatting. The location may change, and they may spice it up by sprinkling in a little bit of Catholicism (attending Mass, visiting nunneries) but eating and chatting are always on the agenda. Which works out great for me, because these six gal-pals are HILARIOUS and my mother always comes back with some amazing tales.

There's only one downside, which can be summed up by this exchange between my mom and me:

**********

Me: How was the Six Pack Tour?

Mom: Oh, it was great. We ate a TON of food. And found some great stuff at the flea market. I'll bring you an extra pair of plant clippers the next time I come down.

Me: Thanks!

Mom: Oh, and you'll never guess what one of your aunts said. [Insert HILARIOUS story here.]

Me: Oh my God, that is a HILARIOUS story you just shared!

Mom: I know!

Me: Hey, mind if I put that on my blog?

Mom: Oh no.

Me: Oh come on! You can't just let that type of story go to waste by not telling anyone else! Plus, it would be so easy to add drawings for it.

Mom: No.

Me: Please?? No one even reads my blog anyway, it's totally not a big deal!

Mom: No.

Me: .... so what you're saying is that it's a 'No' on the whole blog post thing?

Mom: Yes.

Me: .... so .... how's Grandma doing with her doctor appointments? Anything funny there?

********************

This happens every time. EVERY. TIME. To someone like me, who is constantly on the hunt for humor, it's torture. Why doesn't she just put a piece of bubble wrap in front of me and tell me not to pop it?

So that is that. I am not permitted to write up any of the stories from the Six Pack Tours. (At least, I haven't worn down my mother enough quite yet.)

However, my mother said NOTHING about posting a random mix-and-match question that that might maybe may come from Six Pack Tour lore of legends past. I give you...

Six Pack Trivia Time

Match the subject with corresponding predicate to unlock a Morsel of Six Pack Trivia.

(Note: ONE of these answers is not about Six Pack, but is instead a confession from my own life. Plausible deniability and sharing of embarassment achieved.)

Match this ...	.....	...with that!
Jakey the Pig...		...was squished through door keyholes as a game when the eldest of the Six Pack were kids. (Defense: they didn't have many toys growing up, so this was a viable option.)
The phrase "Rot your Crotch"...		...was not tolerated due to the fact that there were ten kids and Grandma did not have the time nor the patience to deal with frivolous crap. Get along.
A scoop of chicken guts ...		...was regularly consumed at breakfast.
Pie ...		...was the family pet.
Tongue ...		... was regularly used when dealt a horrible hand of euchre.
A look that would smite the wicked ...		...was regularly consumed at dinner.
Fighting ...		...was regularly consumed at lunch.
A sandwich of Wonderbread, cheddar cheese, and mayonnaise...		...was employed when anyone trumped Grandma's trick during a hand of euchre.

USA!! USA!! US--THUD...

Thank goodness the Olympics are over. I can't handle any more injuries.

No, I'm not referring to the American sprinter who fractured his foot while running a leg of the relay. I'm referring to the injuries I suffered while watching the Olympics.

Here's the thing: I've never been an athletic chick. The closest I ever came to lettering in high school was in show choir. I'm a decent runner, but I have some difficulty navigating curbs. Which has led to my established cycle of hand/knee road rash cases every five-to-eight weeks. When I play softball, I am always -- ALWAYS -- the catcher. (For those of you who haven't rocked a summer softball league in awhile, the catcher's only purpose is to keep the game moving along and has zero affect on the actual competitive outcome. Which I didn't find out until halfway through the season. Which made me instantly regret the incessant bragging to friends about how I was so good as catcher that our coach would not let me move to any other positions.)

Basically, I'm not Sporty Spice.

And I'm certainly not Scary Spice. Or Ginger Spice. I can't pull off bangs, so Posh is definitely out...

Dammit, I'm Baby Spice, aren't I? She's the worst one!

Whatever. The point being, for three years and fifty weeks I am completely aware of my physical incapabilities.

Then they light that stupid torch. And all imaginary hell breaks loose.

I am ADDICTED to the Olympics. The drama. The backstories. The gathering of cultural representations in simplified, easily digestible forms: flags, uniforms, Opening Ceremony attire, 30-second sound bytes courtesy of Matt Lauer's research team. Simple, straightforward, basic. It is the Paleo diet of cultural exploration.

This year was no different.

Once the artistic hijinx of the London 2012 Opening Ceremony was over and the competition started, I wound up watching sports I would never care about outside of those five Olympics rings. Riflery? Long jump? Handball? It didn't matter. Half the time I didn't even understand how any points/goals/rounds were scored. But there I sat, rapt, until some final result popped on the screen, the winner(s) cried in victory and the loser(s) cried in defeat. And I, in turn, cried. Especially if they showed any family members also crying. For being an event focused on physical competition, emotions got a fair share of air time.

And then, during one commercial break, I popped in my headphones. Cranked it to some faintly patriotic orchestral music with a kick-ass drum section. With the pounding thuds in my ears, I stood up straight. Focused. Took a deep breath. Mimed drawing an imaginary arrow, nocking it against the bowstring, drew it back until the fletching grazed my cheek ... paused ... then let it fly.

BULLSEYE!

If anyone had peered in my window during the last two weeks, they would have seen me sprinting down my hallway, flapping my arms around and around, only to slam my hand against the closet door and immediately spin and stare at the opposite wall with frantic eyes.

That's what I was doing in the real world. In my head? Those same actions translated to me swimming the final 50 meters of the butterfly stroke, courageously reaching for the wall without taking a final breath, and beating my fiercest competitor from [insert competitive swimming country name here] out by 1/1000 of a second. Like any seasoned competitor, I naturally ignored the cheers from the stands and knew not to celebrate until I saw the official results on the scoreboard.

I was decent in imaginary archery and  faux swimming, but my best sport was (obviously) gymnastics. I ran at the vault with reckless abandon. I stuck every landing. I was a blur of ethereal motion on the uneven bars. And, in an unexpected twist, my song selection for my floor routine avoided the traditional classical compositions. Instead, I dared to blast Sleigh Bells' "A/B Machines", an aggressive mix of screaming guitars and sugary vocals that (as one person put it) makes you want to punch someone in the face. And I ROCKED the house.

Here's the catch: while some of my ideas worked out fantastically (plastic bag I tossed up then spiked down at my volleyball competition, I'm looking at you), others were ... well, less thought out. By the end of the first week my walls were stamped with dozens of handprints where I out-touched my swimming competition. Pretty hard to explain that away to friends who come over. ("What happened here?" "Okay, so, I was swimming the anchor leg of the relay...")

Another great idea that turned sour: I taped a ribbon to a ruler to compete in the rhythmic gymnastics all-around. Now I know why the gymnastics venue in London didn't boast any low-hanging chandeliers.

By the second week of Olympic competition, my house was not the only one sporting wounds. Apparently I didn't stretch enough before the semi-final round in beach volleyball because my shoulder was killing me and I could barely lift my arm to the side. Also, during a daring dash to stop a soccer ball from going out-of-bounds, I lost my footing on the hardwood floor and fell, narrowly cracking my head on the coffee table. Who had the crazy thought that hardwood laminate was regulation turf?! And then put a coffee table with sharp corners on the pitch?! Crazy Brits.

By far, the lowest point came the night of the 100m sprint. I sat there, watching each finalist announced, munching on Sun Chips and icing my rotater cuff with a bag of frozen broccoli florets. (Yes, I recognize the nutritious dichotomy of the food I chose to eat and the food I chose to ice with. Those two weeks I ate more crap than I had in the last two months.) All attention was on Usain Bolt to see if he could repeat his record-breaking performance four years ago in Beijing. After bouncing a bit, fist-bumping the attendant in his lane, and playing up to the cameras, the announcer chimed out, "On your marks." Bolt strode forward, knelt on the track, and placed his feet on the starting blocks.

The result from the actual Olympic race isn't important. Set, starting gun, 10 seconds later Bolt won. Whatever.

The key thing is this: Faux Olympic lightning struck.

Starting blocks.

In all my years of running, I had never tried starting blocks! With those, I bet I could shave off a few seconds from my hallway sprinting time. Genius! Thanks, Bolt.

Shrugging off the melting broccoli and dusting off remnant chip dust, I ran down to the basement and grabbed two empty paper boxes left over from my move. Double-stepping it up the stairs, I headed into the dining room and knelt down by the furthest wall directly across from my track lane (hallway). Flipping one box on end, I propped my make-believe starting blocks against the wall. After thinking things through for a second, I decided to fill each box with books to provide a more stable base. I wouldn't want my foot to go through a starting block and thwart my brilliant idea. I mean, how embarrassing would that be?

After popping in my headphones to play some appropriate sprinting music (Radiohead's "Bodysnatchers") I bounced some final hamstring stretches and waved to the adoring crowd.

ON YOUR MARKS.

You know, putting your whole foot on those starting blocks is actually really difficult to do and not lose balance? Especially when said blocks aren't actually angled but rather completely perpendicular to the ground. Eh, just something I'll have to compensate for during my first few strides.

GET SET.

I raise up. Now all of my weight is balanced between my hands on the ground and my feet planted on the starting blocks. What was it that I heard in the behind-the-scenes piece about Bolt? Oh yeah, drive your knee to the ground to really get a good stride. Got it.

Let's do this.

*BANG*

I lift up my hands and drive as hard as I can off my starting blocks ...

... and slam face first onto the floor, skidding half a body length across the ground. My knees, hands, and right cheek immediately throb with rug burn. My headphones pop out of my iPod, instantaneously replacing Radiohead's pulsating guitar riff with ringing, harshly realistic, silence.

This is, by far, one of the stupidest things I have ever done.

I laid there for a second and think about what this must look like: sprawled out on my dining room floor, two feet away from paper boxes leaning against the wall, the Olympic telecast blaring from the other room. If things had gone worse and I had died in this attempt, my only hope would be that the CSI investigators wouldn't have been able to parse out what I had actually been attempting and just marked it down as a cold case.

In the background, I heard Usain Bolt talking with a sideline interviewer. I'm pretty certain Bolt hasn't ever had a start like this.

After a minute, I peeled myself off the floor and assessed the damage. No actual bleeding, just angry-looking red flushes on my hands and legs which throbbed as if to say, "SERIOUSLY?" The carpet took the biggest hit: I spied a skid mark of my make-up on my crash site.

Here's the odd thing about unexpectedly having something slam into your head (like the ground): you start to cry. I did, anyways. I think that type of physical threat must wire up with some survival instinct laying dormant since our primal days. It doesn't happen right away, probably because the first moments are supposed to be devoted to fight or flight. But it creeps up after a moment.

Baby Spice Status: Confirmed. At least my mother wasn't there to witness my defeat.

Aaaaand back to the couch I go.

Olympics Live Blogging

UPDATE-O-METER: 11:55 PM

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That's right, people. It's happening. It's HAPPENING. Today, I will be live blogging my viewing of the Summer Olympics. Complete access to my personal analysis of all things Olympic, or whatever distracts me while watching all things Olympic. If you came for nuanced analysis of athletic performances ... you should probably check another site. If you came for uninformed commentary with a pinch of snark focusing mostly on outfits -- er, uniforms, well then ...strap in. You will find that here. Unfiltered. Unfettered. Unspellchecked.

New posts to follow below. See that Update-O-Meter at the top of the page? That will show the timestamp of the last entry, so you can just refresh the page and easily see whether you should look for a new update. Or you could just keep obsessively scrolling down. Especially if you have OCD.

Let's DO this! USA! USA! USA!

(Oh, and feel free to comment below and add your own thoughts! This endeavor may get a little lonely, so I'll take any human interaction I can get, even in the form of anonymous comment postings on an internet site. Welcome to the modern age.)

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First sport viewing down: women's beach volleyball. Italy versus ... I can't remember. This is not a good sign. Anyway, the important thing is that Italy won. And that the ladies were FINALLY wearing bikinis, instead of those long underwear teams were rocking earlier this week. The Olympics have been saved!

Next up: Women's 50M Rifle. Hey, isn't this what the Olympics is all about? Learning about random sports I will immediately forget as soon as that torch is extinguished?

After a few minutes of watching the US Rifle Team, I'm starting to realize something: in riflery, apparently you put the gun on a STAND?

WHAT?? How is that in any way fair? You don't even need to hold the gun? Does the winner have to at least share the gold medal with that stand which was, let's be honest, doing most of the work?

Oh, wait. Okay, they are holding the guns now. Apparently they pick it up when they shoot. They just use that stand to rest between shots. Riflery assumption crisis averted.

And, with a bulls eye shot in the final round, USA wins! GOLD!

----------------------------------------10:00 AM----------------------------------------

The Latvian basketball team's uniforms remind me of the ones that my Catholic middle school team rocked. The level of play also seems eerily similar. That is all.

Correction: that's Lithuanian, not Latvian. Hope I didn't unintentionally start a civil war by mixing those two up. My bad.

Correction #2: Lithuania is actually hanging in there. I apparently was looking at the time instead of the score.

----------------------------------------10:20 AM----------------------------------------

Bored with basketball (college I love, pros ... not so much), I flipped it over to another station, just in time to see ... SERENA WILLIAMS SMASH SHARAPOVA ON THE COURT AND WIN THE GOLD! Which, I feel, is a victory not just over Sharapova, but over Enrique Iglesias as well. And that is something worth celebrating. (Who can be your hero NOW, Enrique???)

----------------------------------------10:35 AM----------------------------------------

Springboard Diving for the ladies is up next. These commentators aren't quite as snarky and negative as those trumpeters of doom and gloom over in gymnastics, but they're close. "See that foot furthest from us? It was just a LITTLE bit flexed. That'll cost some deductions." "She needs to get a bit more angular momentum, or spin, on that dive." Um, that chick just folded herself in half, flew threw the air, flipped three times, and went in the water with nary a splash. All in about 2 seconds. Let's cut back on the slo-mo critique.

Then again, this might be my bias for being impressed with anyone who can do diving. In my entire life, I dove off the diving board head-first once. I was twelve. It hurt. I got the wind knocked out of me. I thought I was going to die. After that it was cannon balls only for me.

All of this splashing and wet hair is motivating me. Time to finally get off the couch, brush off the Timbit crumbs, and take my shower. Be back soon!

----------------------------------------11:55 AM----------------------------------------

And I'm back. Caught the end of trampoline, also known as Cirque de Soleil recruitment camp. (How is trampoline in but squash and cricket are not?) Saw the American flag fly away while Serena Williams was receiving her gold medal. ("Serena put the win in windy." Well played, NBC commentator.)

Then off to the track for some running/sprinting. Oh yeah, the Summer Olympics have track and field sports in it. And yes, I teared up twice during the package about Oscar Pistorius, the South African runner who is a double amputee and is competing in the Games. So happy to see him do well! I know he's a long shot in the final race, but it would be amazing to see him on the medal podium!

Oh, wait. What is that ... do I spy ...

TORCH SITING! TORCH SITING!

----------------------------------------12:00 PM----------------------------------------

I'm sorry.

Did the commentator just say that US runner Merritt had been on competitive probation because he tested positive for an anabolic steroid that he said he took unwillingly through an over-the-counter male enhancement product?

Commentator's response, "Merritt claimed he was not trying to get a competitive advantage."

My response: "Tell that to the ladies. HEY OH!"

Due to a strained hamstring, the runner "made it around the turn in the race and had to pull out early." Sweet, sweet irony.

----------------------------------------12:15 PM----------------------------------------

Men's Volleyball.

That's a lot of Russian man thigh.

----------------------------------------12:30 PM----------------------------------------

Men's Volleyball Commentator: "He doesn't just wear sleeveless shirts around the court. He wears them EVERY DAY."

Awwwww yeaaaaah. Suns out, guns out.

----------------------------------------12:45 PM----------------------------------------

Set win for Men's Volleyball against the Russians! Looking like a good day for the US of A. Or a strategic choice by the broadcasting company to only focus on the sports in which America is highly favored. I'm totally fine with that.

Side note: when did the rules of volleyball change so that a team doesn't have to be serving to score a point?

----------------------------------------2:20 PM----------------------------------------

Full disclosure: I have had the Olympics on my television all day. But, for the last hour, I MAY have been distracted by other things. Namely, cleaning up my house. Since yesterday was the last day of a grueling Orientation season at The University, filled with surprisingly calm students and horrifyingly vicious parents, I hosted a party for all of us professional staff who had survived. And, of course, the party had a theme.

And I am nothing if not committed to a theme. I decided to make sure to have culinary representation from various Olympic country competitors spread around the house. Some of them were pretty easy. Italy and France? Wine table and mozzarella-tomato-basil appetizers. Canada? Timbits. Great Britain? Scones. I decorated each area with flags from the countries, to add a bit of festive flair.

That's when things got a little difficult. And possibly a little racist.

Something about hanging a Chinese flag hanging above a plate of egg rolls and fortune cookies felt weird. So I popped those back in the freezer. And I swapped out a Mexican flag for a Texas one to put by the guacamole. (Hey, Texas was its own country for awhile.)

It actually turned out to be a lot of fun! And, when I shut the door after the last guests at 1AM (I forgot how late 23-year-olds like to party) I looked around my house and thought, "eh, I'll get it in the morning."

So the entire time I've been watching the Olympics this morning I have been staring at random paper plates and half-eaten tomato kabobs and overflowing recycling bins. And I couldn't take it anymore. So I cranked the volume on the volleyball game and ran around my house collecting and cleaning.

Trust me, if there was an Olympic event for Sprint Trash Collecting, I would OWN that match.

And it seemed to work out well for the Americans! By the time I was finishing up, they were up two matches to one over Russia. Now that I'm watching again, they seem to be struggling. Maybe they only can block attacks when I'm knee-deep in empty bottles.

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A note about swimming, since Peas brought it up in the comment thread:

I know this is going to be an unpopular position. But I'm over it. Over Phelps. Over Lochte. I'll still tune in for a race by Missy Franklin, but I'm definitely getting fatigue in the aquatic center. But it's been eight days. I think the world has mastered how to swim up and down a pool. At this point, my fingers are pruned from just watching. I also have a conspiracy theory: since there are so many combinations of stroke and length (50M free, 400M relay), I think the reasoning was, hey, that means that everyone will pretty much get a medal. Sort of like six-year-old soccer tournaments, where participation trophies are as large as the First Place one. And then came Phelps. And ran through the trophy tent, grabbing anything gold he can find, saying "ALL MINE! NO, ALL MINE!"

Now, I know, it's about the best person winning. And Phelps is definitely great. But it's just starting to seem like a lack of portion control.

As for Lochte .... ssssshhhhhh. Just, just sssshhhh.

You are a fine athlete, a strong competitor, and an ambassador of neon-colored shoes and patriotic grills. But I don't ever need to hear an interview with you. Ever.

In fact, I just realized something: oftentimes, when sharing a particularly hilarious anecdote about work, I will employ a certain speaking tone and style to represent the student archetype.

That voice... sounds... EXACTLY like Ryan Lochte. Here, all this time, I was doing a spot-on impression, just of the wrong person.

Again, they are fantastic athletes. I'm glad that they are doing so well and representing the US in the pool. But let's towel off and start exploring some other sports. Like, I don't know, one that happens outdoors and thus is actually only played in the summer.

And, now that I have that off my chest, time to check back in to the Men's Volleyball game. How we doing, boys!

Crap. Back to cleaning.

----------------------------------------7:00 PM----------------------------------------

So I MAY have just fallen asleep on the couch for the last four hours. It was my own fault: I turned on the soccer game. I love going to see soccer games, but for some reason watching it on tv is like drinking a bottle of NyQuil. I'm out like a light.

Time to scavenge for food before primetime Olympic coverage starts!

----------------------------------------7:15 PM----------------------------------------

But first ... I'm sorry ... but is John McEnroe rocking a thick-chain necklace with a padlock pendant and the ring of Sauron?

Yes. Yes, he is.

Hey, maybe it was forged in the dark Satanic mills of the Industrial Revolution portion of the Opening Ceremonies.

Oh my lord, and he just referenced Skrillex. If I ever go to a Skrillex concert and John-freaking-McEnroe is rocking out beside me, I will rip that padlock necklace off of him and smack him with it.

And, as the cherry on top, here was his response to the question about Ryan Lochte's sneaker designer potential: "The sneakers that I saw, I would recommend sticking to his day job. But that's not to say I haven't made some dumb purchases myself. But I'm a little more, believe it or not, a little conservative. I always thought my idea of cool was wearing a James Dean t-shirt and a jeans and jacket, although I've brushed it up a bit for this show. I don't want to think about all of the dumb purchases I've made in my life."

Look down, John. Look down.

----------------------------------------9:00 PM ---------------------------------------

Things I learned in the first hour of tonight's prime time coverage:

• Jamaicans are really fast.
• Somalians raised in the UK and trained in the US are really fast.
• The South African accent may be even sexier than the British accent.
• Men who rock kilts also rock purses.
• Bob Costas is not okay with people finishing his sentences.
• Bob Costas is not interested in wearing a kilt.
• If the temperature falls under 65 degrees Fahrenheit, it is fashionably acceptable to rock a sports bra OVER a long-sleeved tee.

----------------------------------------11:15 PM ---------------------------------------

Things I learned in the second and third hours of tonight's prime time coverage:

• Finishing in a sprint is all about keeping the eyes wide.
• Kobe Bryant loves cheetah-printed phone covers.
• Kobe Bryant loves chewing gum.
• Kobe Bryant chews with his mouth open.

----------------------------------------11:55 PM ---------------------------------------

Okay, last element of the NBC broadcast is an interview with Michael Phelps. I'm happy for him, but I prefer Michael Phelps in the pool and not in the interview chair. So I'm calling it a night.

Thus concludes a full day of watching athletic perfection on the television as I sat/slept/ate Pizza Combos and brownies on the couch. The irony is not lost on me. Thanks to Peas, Greg, and Megan for hanging with me today! And, once again ...Wow, the Olympics are DELICIOUS!.

Will Run for Color

Saturday was my first 5K ever. Yes, I understand that this is something that any able-bodied 29-year-old should have already done before. I regularly run five kilometers on my own. But most 5Ks always seemed so ... blah. Shelling out bucks for a cheap t-shirt and the chance to run down a road? Um, I went to college, so I'm stocked up on Men's Large t-shirts. And I also have access to roads. So, sorry 5K. You're 0 for 2. And don't try throwing that "the money goes to charity" angle at me. I'm not easily fooled.

So when a coworker suggested an upcoming 5K, I planned to pass. Until I saw that it was a COLOR Run 5K, advertised as "The Happiest 5K on the Planet!"

From the official Color Run website:

"The Color Run is a one of a kind experience that is less about speed and more about enjoying a color crazy day with your friends and family. The Color Run pretty much has 2 SIMPLE rules. 1. White shirts mandatory at the start line and 2. Color plastered EVERYTHING at the finish!  Runner/walkers begin the 5k at the start line like a brand new pristine coloring book, they end looking like they fell into a Willy Wonka… tie dyed… vat of colored goodness. Each kilometer of the event is associated with a designated color.  As the runners/walkers hit the Kilometer COLOR RUN Zones, they will be blitzed by our volunteers, sponsors, and staff with COLOR.  The color is a special “elf made” recipe of magical color dust that's 100% natural and safe to eat, although we don't recommend it."

You mean, I get to walk around downtown and get splashed with color? I'M IN.

So on an early Saturday morning, a rag-tag group of misfit advisors and emotionally obliged spouses (nicknamed Team YAFABULOUS) gathered Downtown to GET. OUR. COLOR. ON. Since the participant instructions mentioned that runners/walkers would be released in waves, we decided to arrive super early so we could ensure we were in the first group. Our rationale was that the more responsible, mature participants (e.g. people our age) would arrive earlier and the crazier, more spastic participants (e.g. crazy, irresponsible college kids) would roll out of bed and arrive closer toward the end. Plus, we planned to enjoy the morning and walk the 5K. You know, really soak in the colorific nature of the "race." However, there was one exception:

Notice the gentleman in the left of the picture? The one with the Game Face on?

That's Barry.

Barry didn't come here to enjoy the color. He came to kick color's ass.

In his defense, Barry was roped into the 5K via a legally binding marital obligation, since his wife Lindsay was excited to run. He was fine with running a 5K. What he was not fine with was the idea of being doused with colored powdered by dirty hipster college students with no respect for order or authority. (I may have editorialized his reasoning a bit. Regardless, he was staunchly Anti-Color.) So Barry's Number One Goal for The Color Run was to finish the run with the least amount of color on himself. He was going to defy The Color Run from being what its basic nature employs it to be: fun and fancy-free.

(Also, he borrowed some goggles from one of our department's lab supervisors to provide full eye protection. I thought they looked like a little overkill. It turned out that Barry would be the one who laughed last.)

Despite our early start, the race setup was a little disorganized and we found out that we were actually waiting in FRONT of the starting line and had to head to the back. Eventually we weaved our way closer to the front and were set to be released in Wave Two, which wasn't too bad. We got to take in the enthusiastic Color Runners we would be enjoying the morning with: ladies rocking mohawks, gentlemen rocking tutus, and a disturbing amount of children. Seriously. I understand that the website listed the color powder as "100% organic and non-toxic," but still. It's fine dust particles that doesn't seem like the wisest substance to dump into a still-developing creature's respiratory and optical systems. Then again, I'm not a parent. Just an aunt. Hey, maybe it's good to give the kid something to overcome. Builds character. One kid was being held up above the crowd like either a sacrificial offering to the color gods or a reenactment of Simba's presentation in The Lion King. Ever the optimist, I'm hoping for Disney on that choice.

One important little detail: The Color Run was an exercise in restraint. For example, each participant was given an individual packet of color powder and was instructed to hold off on throwing it until the very end of the race, where everyone could be doused in a Super Duper Color Explosion that wound up reminding me of a nuclear mushroom cloud. A 100% natural and organic mushroom cloud.

Well, one of the tweens standing beside us in the starting gate just couldn't hold it in any longer. Fifteen minutes before the race was set to start... BOOM! Pink color bomb. Now, the Color Run website had instructed us to wear sunglasses or some type of protective eye wear. But we figured we didn't need to put those on until, you know, the race actually started. So Mary took some pink dust right in the eyeball and got to spend the rest of the run looking like she had the worst case of conjunctivitis ever recorded in human history.

 (I know you can't quite see it in this picture, but trust me. It was a doppelganger to full-on pink eye.)

After seeing the first set of runners off, and listening to multiple prods by the emcee at the starting line to start the "wave" down the street of runners ... it was time.

WE'RE OFF!

After about twenty yards of "pretend running" (you know, where your gate is technically running but your actual pace is the speed of mall walking) the rest of our group waved goodbye to Barry and his wife and we settled into a nice walking pace. It wasn't too long before I spied clouds in the distance ... our first color zone.

BLUE!!!!

Before we get there, we all notice an interesting figure perched on the side of a building. Do you spy it?

Yes, that is a "man" in a red hoodie straining to pull a keg out of the side of a building. You gotta admire his determination.

At the first color zone, we learned how these magical color moments would work: very brave volunteers stood on either side of the zone with buckets / troughs / wheelbarrows filled with colored powder which they would throw / shake / powder-bomb at runners as you went by. How "colorful" you got depended on a) how close you ran to the volunteers, and b) how much repressed anger said volunteers were attempting to purge on this fine morning. Blue Zone Rating: mild residual rage.

After the first color zone, we had a bit of a jaunt before getting to the next stop, so we settled into a nice walking grove in one of the more charmingly quaint neighborhoods downtown. I've lived in this city for ten years and buzzed past all of these streets countless times. That's the one thing about living in a easily drivable city: that ease means you rarely walk many places. Something about walking all of these streets felt really special. I spied so many things I had never noticed before.

Halfway to Zone 2, as I was taking in the adorably antiqued houses of the neighborhood, I spied some festive bunting draped across a balcony on one of the houses. Exactly like the bunting I had seen in pictures a coworker had posted on Facebook. In fact, she looks exactly like that woman eating breakfast right underneath that bunting!

"HEY, JENNIFER! IT'S SUANO D. FROM THE COLLEGE OF ENGINEERING!"

Now I should make note that I have talked with this person numerous times at work and we have established a witting thumbs-upping repertoire on Facebook. So yes, I understand that the fact that I included my full name and place of work in my salutation seems overly formal. But ... she was at least 30 yards away. We were out of the context of the workplace. And I was covered in splotches of pink and blue. I felt the additional identifying information was critical. But yes, it was also awkward.

Made even more awkward when I immediately turned to my fellow teammates and shouted, "HEY GUYS, LOOK! IT'S JENNIFER I FROM STUDENT ADVOCACY!"

In my defense, that prompted rousing cheers from our group AND a random group of runners right behind us. Who wouldn't cheer for advocacy?

After that somewhat embarrassing moment, the Color Run clicked into a lovely morning walk with friends, admiring city streets and occasionally being pelted with color. Most zones went by without a hitch (peach, pink) while others had a more aggressive approach. I am, of course, referring to Zone Orange.

I don't know who pissed this guy off, but halfway through the zone a member of the Orange Ninja Foot Clan bounced out of nowhere and pelted a softball-sized dose of powder directly behind my ear. Which is possibly the least attractive color of the entire run. I would have been more than happy with a nice dollop of purple or green on my neck, but orange? It just looks like I ate an entire bag of Cheetos and kept wiping me coated fingers on my neck between handfuls.

By the end of the run we were pretty well covered, but one last color bomb made sure that everyone on the team got doused.

+=

By the last color zone, we had taken over an hour to walk five kilometers. So, of course it was picture time! I was ruthless in my attempt to get a freeze frame. You know, the picture where everyone jumps in the air and the skilled photographer snaps the shutter at the height of the leap? Yeah, my camera became filled with pictures of our team crouching in preparation to jump or standing expectantly post-jump. Eventually everyone became uber annoyed with my persistence and we parted ways. Luckily, one of our walker's photographically competent husband came by and finally captured our joy mid-air as we headed to the parking lot to leave.

Oh, and I know what you're wondering. Hey, Suano, how did you get home? Didn't you get color powder all over your car? Never fear, kind and emotionally-involved reader. I had it all figured out:

Trash bag hammer pants. Full protection for car seat upholstery AND retro fashion statement. Two birds, say hello to my one little stone.

  

I'm sure you're also wondering how Barry did. No surprisingly, he and his wife beat our time by at least 20 minutes. He apparently made it through the entire run with hardly any color wounds, although he did have to hurdle a few imbecile morons who were rolling on the ground of the color zones in a pitiful attempt to gather up more color. (No editorializing on that one. Pretty much verbatim.) However, since he didn't read the online FAQ about The Color Run he didn't know about the "color bomb" at the end of the race when runners all shake out color packets.  So ....

Barry down.



All in all, a fabulous day walking through clouds of color down the streets of a wonderful city! If The Color Run is coming to your town, I highly recommend you join in! Just don't plan on doing a serious, timed 5K. And do pack your lab goggles.

*****

P.S. Here's a little tip from a seasoned Color Runner: most of the colors are really easy to clean off. EXCEPT Blue. Blue is a color-clinging son-of-a-bitch. Somewhere along the run, unbeknownst to me, an entire wheelbarrow of Blue was chucked down my sleeve. So I got to spend a lovely twenty minutes furiously scrubbing Blue out of my armpit. Oh Blue, why must you hurt so good?