In the Slow Lane

I am a runner. I have the tiny shorts, the cool-max tank tops, the fancy socks, and my wonderful Saucony’s. My tee shirt collection is heavily skewed towards old road-race shirts. I even have finishers’ medals.

However

I am a SLOW runner. Not tragically slow, not last racer to finish slow, just first ½ of the middle of the pack slow. 5K’s clock in at about 27 minutes, 10K’s at about an hour, my best half-marathon just at two hours. So fast enough that there is still Gatorade left for me.

However #2

I am COMPETITIVE. I want to DOMINATE. Dammit, I’ve got my snazzy red shorts and my matching sports bra. There is NO reason mister knee-brace should beat me. Eat my dust lady with the baby jogger. Outta my way mister shaved head with the, um Navy SEAL tattoo……….. actually, I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry sir, don’t hurt me.

This causes me to be BITTER at the end of the race. “Good job” Don’t patronize me Mr. Race Volunteer. I am average, I am ok with that. There is no need to rub it in my face. My loving husband, Fat Rock, LOVES to go to races. He is a wonderful partner and friend, and he really seems to enjoy coming out to see me race. At the finish line, he is ready and waiting with a cool bottle of water. Which I reject.

Why? Because at the finish line, I am again reminded that I am slow. The giant timer cannot be denied. I am slow. I don’t DESERVE water. I don’t DESERVE congratulations. So I wallow in self-pity for a few minutes, which isn’t very nice to my sweet husband. That means I am now self-pitying and guilty. After a few minutes I shake it off, accept the water, and am again happy.

There are lots of reasons that I am destined to only be a middle of the pack runner.
1) Size: 5 feet nothing on a good day. With short legs. I’m just not built for speed. I can go for days, just not quickly. I’m a plodder
2) Dedication. I’ve got more going on than running. I’ve got aerobics, a new husband, a full time job, and a deep and abiding love of chocolate. To bring it to the next level, I would really have to knuckle down and join a running group, improve my diet, and ditch the aerobics. Not gonna happen.
3) Lack of a good running partner. My fastest running times were about 2 years ago, when I was in grad school. My running partners were a 5 foot 7 blond gazelle from Colorado, and a 6 foot broad shouldered former special-forces medic. They would run, long legs effortlessly gliding up hills. I would tag behind, gamely yelling “don’t wait for me (puff, puff); I’ll see you at the end! (Gasp)” The idea of being slow was so foreign to them, that Miss Long Legs Colorado thought I had a heart condition. Yeah, it’s called my heart is out of condition.

I have two races coming up, a 5k and a 10k. I’m nervous and excited, and hopefully, this time, will be able to accept that water bottle at the finish.

Lemur Queen

Saturday Lost due to weather.......

[ Scene fade in to focus on an old Frenchman in a black toboggan]



Old Frenchman: 'Ello......I am Jacques Cousteau, and today ve vill be exploring zee downtown area for zee creature known as zee Beech Hobos [Beach Hobos].



[Camera pulls out to show Jacques in a khaki safari getup, complete with knee high socks. With him are two identically dressed weedy-looking assistants]



Jacques: Ah'm sure you all know my assistants........Raoul.......and from my previous expeditions.........zee faithful Felipe.



[Camera moves slowly down a tree lined cobblestone street to a riverfront wharf, while Jacques' voice whispers in the background]



Jacques [off camera]: Oh hoo hoo! Zis prey, she is a tricky one! Zee Beech Hobo population has been in decline over zee last decades......weeth ze loss of prime feeding grounds along zee public beeches [beaches] mostly to blame. We have been een zis area for weeks, tracking what could be zee last known refuges of zis majestic creature.



[Camera pans to Jacques, crouched behind a trash can; while Raoul and Felipe hold a large map over their faces with holes cut out so they can see.]



Jacques: Oh Ho ho! Zere zey are! Ze majestic Beech Hobos! A sight like zis is very rare indeed! [excitedly points to a small group of homeless men, huddled under a picnic shelter trying to get out of the weather]



[Jacques sneaks closer to the picnic shelter, holding up a small branch in a ridiculous attempt to conceal themselves. Raoul and Felipe walk sideways toward the homeless, their faces clearly visible through the cut outs in the map. The homeless men are all looking at the Frenchmen as they move to withing 6 feet from the picnic shelter.]



Jacques: Oh ho! Even though zey have spotted us, they vill not run. Zey have become accustomed to zee presence of people. Over the years, these Majestic Creatures have now been reduced to being fed by man.......



[Jacques raises his arm in a "ready" signal]



Jacques:........Felipe.....



[Behind him, Felipe readies a bucket he seemed to have pulled from thin air. Inside appears to be fish parts surrounded by gristle and red jello]



Jacques:.......Ze Chum........ [Jacques' arm falls in a "go" sign]



[Felipe hurls the bucket of Chum at the homeless men in the shelter. Being hit by the nasty mess, they react loudly]



Hobo #1: What the hell?!?!?......What IS this......

Hobo #2: Can I have a dollar?

Hobo #1:.....I am a MAN dammit, and I deserve to be treated with more respect than this......

Hobo #3: The devil's in my pancakes?!?!



Jacques:.....Ah, see how they wallow in ze chum. They are not satisfied and still zey cry out for more......Felipe.....ease their hunger..........



[Felipe seems to magically have pulled yet another bucket of Chum from thin air. With a grunt, he hurls it at the group in the shelter, hitting Hobo #1 squarely in the chest]



Hobo #3: More pancakes please!

Hobo#1: That's it!! I'm calling the cops!!! [grabs bundle of belongings, runs from the shelter]

Hobo #2: I said I wanted a dollar!



Jacques: Zat is all zee time ve have for today. Come back next time as ve hunt for zee Southern Goth.



[Music fade out, Jacques does a crazy Frenchman jig with Felipe. Raoul stands there, holding map over face still]

_______________________________________________________________



Ah, the weekend. Nothing says "I love you" like going downtown in a thunderstorm to go to the farmer's market (that was closed because of the weather) with your wife.



But the day wasn't a total loss. We found a new place to eat called The Dixie Grill. It seemed to have been an old southern Diner that had been restored to an alternative breakfast restaurant. It seemed to attract tourist, privileged idiots who felt like not obeying the "please wait to be seated" sign and waiting 20 minutes for a table and instead seated themselves, and us. After a better-than-expected breakfast, we tried to do a little shopping by huddling under our too small umbrella and walking in the downtown. Well, most of the businesses there were bars...and closed. Also, people don't seem to understand how to walk around someone holding an umbrella. Most passerby insisted on using the "run straight at the guy and see if he moves" approach. Given that said "guy" is about 6', weighs 260 lbs, has studied martial arts(we call it "dancing" in the family), and is called Fat Rock; I don't think he moved. As we were walking, we found the hobos. Hence the above story.



Fat Rock.

Robert!

As established in the first post, my parents are now known as Frank and Marie, from "Everybody Loves Raymond" The similarities go far deeper than a love of marinara.

First, my parents. Frank, big loud, slightly crass, but mostly sweet. Marie, well, she's Marie, with less hairspray and more Talbots twinsets. Fat Rock is Raymond, even though he married into the family. Much loved, funny, at times the "favored son" (in law). I'm Debra. A little tightly wound, desperately trying to keep the squabbling to a minimum. And oh yes, there is squabbling. Loud outbursts, bickering and force feeding of pasta are not uncommon in the Barone household. Like I said, the similarities run deep.

Last, but not least, is Robert. Dear, sweet, tall, deep voiced, officer Robert. My baby brother. God help him, the description fits him to a tee. The tallest Barone, out sized only by Fat Rock. He is also a police officer, and is moving up the ranks quickly. Until recently, and I mean VERY recently, Robert still lived with Frank and Marie, in his childhood bedroom, dinosaur wallpaper and all. Although this did save him lots of money, both in rent and not unsubstantial food bills, this did lead to one shortage.

Women.

As can be expected, this weighed heavily on Robert. Not so heavy that he, you know, MOVED OUT or anything, but heavy. Oddly, the ladies weren't knocking down the door to spend long romantic evenings under the Superman sheets. But it's not like he didn't try. Before Fat Rock and I were married, he and Robert decided to start eharmony pages. Fat Rock got 50+ matches (sorry ladies!) but Robert, after the 2 week trial, wound up with zero. The odds improved when Fat Rock "improved" (i.e. fabricated) Robert's page.

The ladies were now interested in meeting a man who "liked reading" (comic books), was "into physical fitness" (riding his bike at work, inside) and "loved classic movies" (mostly early Jack Black). A mention of his obsession with video games was conspicuously absent. With the women biting, Robert decided the time was right for his own love shack.

And what a shack it is! A lovely apartment on a golf course, right in the middle of the marinara zone. He even bought new sheets. The only negatives are that the sheets no longer seem to clean themselves, and the magic noodle pot no longer fills itself with spaghetti. Since the big move about 1 year ago, his dating life has taken off. Robert is currently back on the market, so if you are a single woman 24-30 who likes cartoons, beer, and video games, have I got the man for you!

Lemur Queen

Ah...... Surpise Kung Fu Porn.......

Ever get caught doing something that you weren't really doing. Like pulling out of a parking lot that services two buildings, a great pizza parlor and a strip club? Well, one of my wife's friends saw me doing that, and I got reported. What I was doing was just breaking my diet, but I was turned in for allegedly staring down another woman's sweater meat. What saved me was it was 1:30 pm on a Tuesday, and it turns out that Bigun's Gentleman's Club didn't open until 4 that day. There's was no way I could have been gazing into the eyes of a strange woman's nipple. So I was off the hook, and I got my double cheese/double bacon pizza with no punishment.



But I had a similar circumstance happen to me recently. I was new in town, and looking for a good video rental place. Not like Blockbuster, but a real movie place. Basically, I wanted crappy Kung Fu movies. I crave Kung Fu movies like a fat kid wants chocolate. I own tons of them:



Street Fighter,

Return of the Street Fighter,

Sister Street Fighter,

Fists of Fury,

Kung Fu Hustle,

Born Invincible,

Drunken Master,

36 Chambers of Shaolin

Return to the 36 Chambers of Shaolin, etc, etc.



But you get the point. If it's dubbed and horrible, and has punching, I'll love it. But a problem has arisen. I had just moved, and all my movies were in boxes. So I asked a co-worker, T.A.D., where I could find cheezy movies. "Oh, you need to go to Kung Fu Classics," says T.A.D, "they've been open for years, and I've never been there, but they've got to have what you need." I am on cloud nine the rest of the morning. On my lunch break, I tear out and find the place. Kung Fu Classics. And just my luck, it's open. So I walk in, and am greeted by a wall of crappy awesomeness. They have everything, even the obscure stuff like "Master of the Flying Guillotine" and the wildly redubbed Wu Tang Clan movies. But then I noticed something. All the movies are on video tape. No DVDs. There's even a few Betamax tapes tucked into the action-packed gems on the shelves. And......the movies are covered in dust. Odd. It's about that time I notice the plywood door in the back on the display area. I figured the DVDs were in the back, they had to be. With a name like Kung Fu Classics........there has to be Kung Fu DVDs around here somewhere. So I throw open the door and march into the back room.



Holy Crap.



porn.



And not just porn......but PORN. The back room is at least 3 times the size of the front room, and is filled with a cornucopia of naughtiness. I was unpleasantly surprised. I mean, I'm not gay or anything, but I was there for one thing and one thing only: to buy badly dubbed slugfests with names like "Sliver Fox versus Eagle" or "Blood of the Dragon". I was certainly not there for "Babes Behind Bars 15: Pudding Doom" or whatever. There's no one else in the place, except a 900 year old black guy wearing a black beanie. The man was so old he probably farted dust. And he was definately wearing a beanie cap. I looked dead at it from 3 feet away. It looked like the beanie hat Goober wore on the Andy Griffith Show. Undaunted, I asked where the Kung Fu was. Goober was stumped for few seconds, but it dawned on him I was looking for non-dirty movies, and he immediately shooed me out.



Seems I wasn't the type of customer they wanted...............



Fat Rock.

First Mumble

Greetings all. This actually isn't my idea. My wife (Lemur Queen) has several friends who have blogs, and she thinks that "we" should do something. By "we" she means me. And by "do something" she means start up ourselves. Well, here it is. We're newlyweds, and so far we haven't gotten sick of each other yet, and we live outside the Marinara Zone. More on that later.



Or now. Ever see that episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond" where Ray and Deb are trying to decide how close they want to live to Ray's parents? Ray showed Deb a map and told her that anyplace within 30 minutes of his parents was a bad idea, as they could pop in unannounced with his mother's food still hot from her stove. This is called the Marinara Zone.



Anyplace more than 30 minutes away to 2 hours away is the Safe Zone. A parent can't just "pop over for a bit" but if they come, they won't spend the night. However, if you live more than 2 hours away, you are in the Overnight Zone. Overnight Zone is bad, because while parent's might not come over as often, they will definitely spend the night. And we don't want that.

It's not because we don't like parents, it's because *I* (the husband, aka Fat Rock) weigh over 260 lbs and sleep with no shirt. Also, I wander the apartment in the morning with no shirt, and have frightened away small children with my bulk. Also to be taken into account is both sets of parents ability to guilt. They wield it like both a scalpel and a bazooka. Over the years I have grown far too callous for guilt to work on me. Lemur Queen, however, is exquisitely susceptible.

From guilt from both sides of the family. This is also bad. Why is this bad? Because we live in a small apartment (The Fortress) that has one bed. It also has a pull-out couch. Fat guys and pull-outs don't go well together. But if Frank and Marie(her parents) or Major Rock and Barbie (my folks) come over, guess who's on the sofa? Or rather, guess who's fat ass is straining the supports of the sofa bed and making the supports bend? Me. My wife is a runner and ballerina. She's wafer thin. I'm freaking Hardee's Monster Burger with Jumbo Fries. But still, we'll be in the sleeper sofa when they come.



And they seem to threaten to come by often. You see, we live near the coast. Actually, we're 5 minutes from a beach. The town we live in is a major tourist destination. Friends and relatives are always wanting to "drop in and say hey". Funny, they never wanted to come see us when we were renting a room from two hippie brothers who reeked of patchouli and lived nowhere near the beach, but I digress. But you get the point: moochers come at us like sharks on a whale carcass.



But at least we're not close enough form random visits. We're Out of the Marinara Zone, and we're happy. Enjoy.





Fat Rock out.