Halloweenie

I love candy.

I enjoy dressing in different clothes.

I think little kids are adorable.

All these things are true, and yet ... Halloween is not my holiday.

I personally do not enjoy wearing a costume. I am tired of trick-or-treaters after the third doorbell ring. I get annoyed at teenagers who trick-or-treat (seriously, get a job and buy your own candy).

But, since people at my work are remarkably into the holiday (with some amazing costumes to boot), I give it a little effort.

When I say little, I mean little. Three years ago, I bought a pair of velvet devil horns. They attach to the head with velcro, so they look kinda cool with big hair.

Three years ago, I just slapped them on. Two years ago, I wore warm boots, a turtleneck and a down vest with the horns and called myself, "When Hell Freezes Over."

This year, I remembered it was "Halloween" at the last minute and stuck the horns on with my typical casual Friday gear. As I trudged up the stairs to work, it dawned on me.

I'm "The Devil You Know." (Get it ... I look just like me, only with these stupid horns.)

As long as I can find a devil-related phrase next year, I'm good to go!

Why I'll Never Abuse Drugs

A couple weeks ago, I had a minor procedure at my doctor's office. Nothing to write home about, almost a typical one ... except I was prescribed both Vicodin and Lorazepam for both pre- and post-procedure.

I have a pretty high pain tolerance, so I just popped one of each. Then, after reading Web reviews of this particular procedure, I cracked another Vicodin in half and swallowed it, just in case.

Thirty minutes later, as I was whimpering on the exam table, I regretted not finishing off both bottles. My husband drove me home, and sympathetically gave me space as I curled into a ball on his side of the bed (my side was much too far away). By the time I got around to considering clawing my own eyes out to relieve some of the cramping, that dear man came around again.

In one hand, he held a glass of ice-cold water. In the other, two more Vicodin and three more Lorazepam. Wary, I asked him if this was going to do me in, Anna Nicole-style.

"It won't," he said, kindly hiding his laughter. "I promise."

Before I swallowed, I asked him to come in and check on me every 10 minutes. When he dutifully came back the first time, I'd already unwound from the tightly clenched ball of pain I had been.

The second visit, I followed him out to the living room and made ready to eat dinner. He put on "Two and a Half Men," and I started to eat, but something was wrong with the TV.

Every few seconds it would cut out. When it came back on, the story was moved forward.

In an unrelated development, my head suddenly got wobbly.

Next thing I knew, Matt was taking my plate from me and leading me into the bedroom.

"But it's early," I complained. "I'm not tirzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I afford my rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Prescription medications put me to sleep almost immediately.

Don't believe me? Lucky for you, I had a follow-up exam yesterday. Remembering how Beelzebub himself raked his claws through my insides last time, I popped a Vicodin and two Lorazepam in preparation.

Heading to the appointment 20 minutes later, I was feeling good. "I wonder if I can get my regular doctor to prescribe more Lorazepam?" I thought. "It sure beats a glass of wine for relaxation."

In the doctor's office, there were minor fumblings for my pen and my signature was a little sloppy, but not much. However, when I sat down to read a magazine, I couldn't figure out why I was getting carsick. When I was led to the exam room, I closed my eyes for just a second before the doctor came in and I roused myself from my mini-nap.

Hells, yeah. I'm hardcore.

I left for home (one block away) right after, and fell asleep with my work clothes on--right down to my high-heeled shoes--while Matt went outside to grab something for Koa.

It was my night to straighten up, and I did so. Then I fell asleep again when Matt was making dinner. At bedtime, instead of reading for an hour or so and stuffing earplugs in my ear so I wouldn't be disturbed by Matt's TV watching, I snuggled up next to my hubby ... and woke up eight hours later.

That was my trip down the rabbit hole, folks. I think I'll stick with chocolate and pie as my main vices. I just can't handle recommended doses of prescription medication.

Back to balance

So, if you've been following the blog, you may have the impression that all I've been doing for the past three months is running, running, running.

You're right.

While I'm not going to give up the running thing (I've got my eye on some 10K runs in the future), it's time to restore balance to my life.

It's time to take a Saturday and knit the baby blanket I've got about six months left to work on.

It's time to get back in the kitchen and start baking again. Thanks, SugarMamaBakingCo., for responding to my call for a fall-themed recipe.

It's time to stop eating everything I want, anytime; and remember the balance of a healthful diet.

I can't wait for this weekend, when I can put my plan into action.

After the finish line

I did it. I still can't believe it, but I did it.

I ran the Nike Women's Half Marathon. Not only that, but I finished in 3:08, with an average pace of about 14:30.

To put that in perspective, the longest distance I'd run previously was 12 miles (1.1 mile less than a half-marathon), and I did that in about 3:30 ... that's a 17:30 pace.

This is me finding my name among tens of thousands of other names on the wall at NikeTown.

See? It's there.

At the starting line, looking (and feeling) all perky. It's the last time I'd feel that way for two days.

These signs were "in the middle" of the course. (For me, the course had a definite beginning, a definite finish, and everything else was "in the middle.") They were very inspiring ... as you can see, they were posted on a hill.

This was my favorite sign. I traded another runner photo-for-photo of it.

And by the time I hit this sign, it was perfect. "That Necklace is MINE" was the only phrase that kept repeating in the rhythm my feet made on the pavement.

When people ask me if I had fun, it takes me awhile to formulate my answer.

Was it fun? Not exactly.

What I say is that it was an all-out battle between me and the race course. And I kicked that course's ass. So was it fun? No. Was I victorious? Abso-frickin'-lutely.

Was it worth it? Yes.

Am I doing another one? We'll see.

Do I walk with a distinct swagger now? Oh yeah.

Uncle Walt

Last week, I knew it was time for a vacation.

I hadn't updated my blog in over a month, I was less than enthusiastic about work, and even being home, with the tedium of chores and routine, was more exhausting than exhilerating.

This is not my usual frame of mind. It was time to go away and come back refreshed.

A vacation in New York City with my matron of honor, Bethany, was just what the doctor ordered. Just three days long, but we managed to pack in shopping, museums, wine tasting, a Broadway show and lots of girl time.

I left Saturday night, got home Wednesday night and am already preparing to leave again tomorrow morning. On Sunday, I'll be running the Nike Women's Half Marathon in San Francisco.

Yesterday, as I fought jet lag in the shower, I had a stray thought of my high school English teacher, Mrs. Timmons. She introduced us to "Uncle Walt": Walt Whitman. I couldn't get enough--that point in class was like my own personal "Dead Poets Society." I read as much poetry as I could get my hands on, wrote some terribly angst-ridden poems of my own, and memoried just one: "Oh me! Oh life!"

Oh me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless traines of the faithless, of cities fill’d with thefoolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolishthan I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest meintertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring–
What good amid these,O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here–that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

For me, that's what it's all about. In my most optimistic moments, in my most angst-ridden, I am an attention whore for life.

That the powerful play goes on, and I may contribute a verse.

Thanks, Uncle Walt. I'll try to remember that.