If it comes back, it's yours forever.

If you slip out the door despite all my attempts to keep you safe,

If you insistthat things are wayyyyy better out THERE where NOBODY LOVES YOU AS MUCH AS I DO
instead of here where you are cherished and adored

well, you can just stay outside for a while.

So there.

>sniff<

Stupid cat.

...

Coming up, Random week stuff.

1) Hold onto your pants! This weekend, the Bottomless Sprint Triathlon. It was at this tri in 2005 that I said, "I'm definitely going to try this triathlon thing" back in 2005. I did it in 2006 and in 2007. This year I'd like to beat last year's time by at least a couple minutes. It's a mini-sprint: 400m/9 mi/2.4 mi., but it's super hot when you finish and the run is an out and back along blacktop that is not shaded. In July. In Southern New Mexico. All the time you're racing, there are loud cicadas singing (don't love that term, "singing"?) actually they're SCREAMING, adding to your perceptions that it's just, well, f***ing hot.
SSSsssssssssss (dramatic hot-sounding noise effect).
And yet, for some reason, I always remember this little sprint fondly and can't wait to do it again. Crazy.

2) Mini-baboo is home. So, once again, there is missing food, dirty dishes laying around, and lack of privacy. Mini spent 6 weeks in Dallas working in an un-airconditioned shop changing tires, moving furniture, and other sundry stuff. He used his earnings to purchase a Comprehensive Encyclopedia Set Nintendo Wii. Appears to be enjoying it.

3) Mini is a senior this year. Shouldn't there be a checklist or something? Like: take senior pictures, take ACT, order invitations, etc. I know and have accepted the possibility of this year being a giant money hole. I just need to be able to plan how fast the money drains down the hole.

4) Speaking of holes, once again I have to ask myself if there is possibly a bigger time hole than Facebook. I'm not saying I don't use it. I just saying I waste a lot of time there.

5) Someone I know referred to a random blog I found on the Internet (nobody you know) as a "brain toilet." That is still the funniest thing I've heard in a while.

6) Tonight is #6 of my summer classes. That means there's only 2 weeks left of summer school. I've been taking classes in PTSD and Substance Abuse. There isn't a whole of open-mindedness in these classes. It's all pretty lockstep, "this is how we treat this."
I just nod and practice my favorite phrase, "Well, you've given me a lot to think about."
What this phrase really means:
"I don't agree with what you say and I think you're an idiot for saying it but in the interest of diplomacy and because you are either grading me on this and/or a future colleague, I'll say something really passive aggressive that you, in your nacissistic way, will take for agreement."

7) Tomorrow, the state of New Mexico will probably finally approve my provisional counseling license. I'm pretty happy about that.

...

Misc. Monday stuff.

I'm like, the last person on earth to discover the LOL cats thing, soooooo I'll be annoying lots of you by putting those in my posts, for a while.

This week has been all about reclaiming the house. Since mini-Baboo has been in Dallas since May 21st we've been at work cleaning out the dirty clothes and wrappers and empty bottles stuffed into every nook and cranny.

MEANWHILE, with Mini-baboo gone, food lasts a LONG TIME without Mini here. Who knew, for instance, that salad greens got that funky after sitting in the fridge for a while? Mini usually helped prevent funky leftovers, by eating everything in sight. I think I've mentioned this before, but I'm still blown away by the loaf of bread that lasted TWO WHOLE WEEKS.

You know, I've been raising kids--three of them--since I was 19, and so I have never, ever, lived in my own home as an adult without children. I'm accustomed to hiding my food and putting passwords and key locks on everything, and my things being taken and/or broken and "nobody" knows how it happened and I swear, Mom! I wasn't anywhere near that when it fell!

So but, you can see that the prospect of my last born graduating and moving on in 11 months is pretty exciting.

This week, I took an old computer and with a flat-screen monitor and fixed it up--I'll leave out the geekiest parts of what I did--and it now sits in the area adjacent to the kitchen, and I can listen to nearly any music my widdle heart desires while cooking or exercising, or watch re-runs of "Scrubs," or "CSI," or look for a recipe or get information information about stretching online, all with a click of my cordless mouse.

I can also watch movies or exercise DVDs on it.

Or all of these at once.

Fabulous.

I especially love having playlists I can listen to on a whim because it is my opinion that life should be like a movie, with the appropriate background music enhancing the scene. This, then, is my only complaint about triathlon: No headphones means I can't further the delusion that I am a star in my own movie.

Meanwhile, I'm working on clearing out a den-like room that is currently full--and I do mean full: of many, many boxes--of my teaching supplies. After that's done, it will become the exercise area. We've decided we want the rest of the whole downstairs to just be full of comfortable chairs, like a giant coffee house, for lounging and whatnot. It won't be terribly impressive or wind up in any magazine. That's not the point. The point is a respite from the world.

Our plans for Mini-baboos area upstairs after May of 09 includes blackout curtains, a kitchenette, and a large, flatscreen TV.

Not really much triathlon stuff in this post, is there? Well, it's back to training tomorrow.

Oh, and here's my monthly miles for June:

Swim: 14,180 meters
Bike: 334.6 miles
Run: 64.38 miles
Hiking: 2 hours
Pilates/Yoga: 4 hours


...

Thought for the Day.

Iron Self-Indulgence and Pampering.

So today I did the following:

• Did a 1-hour spin class (at IM pace)
• Ran a couple miles at marathon pace
• Did 5 quick 100-meter repeats
  
• Sat in the hot tub a little while and relaxed
  
• Did a 90-minute yoga class
• Bought a latte
  
• Got a pedicure (why you no got all you toe nail? You want me put acrylic toenail on for you?)
• Got a message (the kind where you get touched, not where someone talks on your voice mail)
  

And then, well, then I had LUNCH.
That's right. I did all that before NOON.

I rock.

And just for the record, I said "No" to the acrylic toenail. There's vanity, and then there's well, just plain weirdness.


...

Santa came early, and he looks like an elephant.

I just have to share my excitement over my new Christmas present: A zojurushi Neuro Fuzzy 10-cup rice cooker.

It is the CADILLAC of rice cookers. It has 10 different settings for 10 different types of rice, all digital, and uses "fuzzy logic" to create just the right cooking environment. VERY high tech.
Plus, it's cute. It's a cute happy bug sitting on my counter top, and now I can make brown rice whenever I want, 10 cups at a time and then frozen to suit my convenience. There's few things that give me greater pleasure than properly cooked brown rice.

What's that you say? Making rice is as easy as boiling water? Problem is, I'm not much good at waiting for things to happen...like...cooking.
I get bored, and find something to do while things cook....then the smoke alarm goes off...

AND I can make my own sushi rolls again.
Vegetarian, of course. I don't put parasite infested raw anything in there. I'm happy enough to have my rolls with avocado, carrots, cucumbers, whatever strikes my fancy. Then dip it in lovely soy sauce and there you have it, lots of complex carbs and lovely sodium. Voila, the perfect pre-worktout meal.

Okay, I know you're probably not as excited about this as I am. But I'm excited, just the same.

By the way, Santa has a Blog, now. Thanks to BunnyGirl for the link.

...

Rambling thoughts on a long, slow run.

Pirate did a 5K with her mom yesterday, her mother’s first one.
Pirate mom had apparently had, to put it mildly, a good time. I’ll let Pirate tell you about it. If she hasn’t, she should. Soon.

One of the things she told me about over the phone was her mother asking, after it was over, I feel so happy. Is this why you do this? How long does it last?

It's 7:30 in the morning and I'm thinking about this while running--okay, jogging--in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains just east of Albuquerque.

I looked at my Garmin. I felt pretty breathless, so just out of curiosity I paged through the screens. 6217 feet of elevation. Well, that would explain things. I hiked along, pondering the meaning of happiness.

My runs slow down the swirling thoughts in my head. Peace. Which, for me, is happiness. Most of the time, my thoughts are a tornado and I'm in the vortex with random thoughts swirling around me—thoughts, feelings, emotions, images of the past, ideas—they spin around me and sometimes I can grasp a few at a time but the another one blows in and I’m distracted.
Slap any label you want on it: Busy mom, Adult AD/HD, that crack on the head with a ball bat when I was 11.
It is what it is.

I stop to photograph a snow-covered cholla. After that I stop several times wondering if the pictures will mean the same in still life as they do right here, now.

Running slows down the cyclone of thoughts, images, flashes from the past, worries…they slow down so that I can reach out and select them, turning them over, considering them--and let them go again. Study them. Put them back. It slows things down. I hold onto ideas. Crystallize them into plans. Think things through.

I have never felt the "runner's high" but thoughts that flow languidly, instead of their usual frenetic pinging...this is the gift.

I thought about Pirate’s mother again. How long does the happiness last? and crossed my fingers for her. Maybe she’d found a whole new dimension to her life. Just one more person to find the happiness. I envy Pirate that experience. I wish I could have done that with my mom. I don’t know if it would have changed things; her particular heart disease probably started before I came along at age 28.
But maybe if I’d somehow been able to influence her, she might have tried harder to stay alive. Maybe she wouldn’t have turned down that clinical trial I was going to get her into.

Or maybe she would have. You can’t second guess yourself all the time, I guess. I release the sad thoughts about my mother. The wistfulness and longing spin away.

The path in the foothills is on an alluvial plane, naturally hard-packed dirt covered with crushed gravel. It’s a satisfying noise under my feet. From time to time I slow down as I become breathless. Sometimes I pull the balaclava over my mouth. Other times I pull it down. Sometimes I jog. Sometimes I walk “Briskly.” Many times, I stop and look around.

I look at my Garmin again. 6479 ft. A new plan forms. I will jog until it reads 6500 and then turn back.

People pass me, running, or on mountain bikes.

I bend down to tie my shoe and for some reason, decide to take a picture of a puff of snow on a tuft of grass, even though I know that what it is about the snow that made me take a picture of it probably won’t show in a photograph. I can see the individual snow flakes. I want to save it before it gets added to the mind/memory cyclone.


I step lightly to avoid a pile of dog mess in the trail, and another thought emerges from the whirl. Why would people deliberately leave that there? Dogs aren't horses, you know when they're "going." Of the 14 people with dogs I’ve seen, three of them are using a leash (as required by the park).

A thought occurs to me. People think they’re the exception, all the time. Their dogs are special. They are good drivers, other people are terrible. Their jokes are funny. The truth is, most people are neither terrible nor terribly special. They’re someone in the middle. The people who leave those messes probably think they aren’t doing anything bad. They aren’t gleefully laughing about it somewhere.
I forgive them.
I let my annoyance float away.

6482 ft.

I capture another thought. My daughter. She’s nineteen years old, 5’5”, and 230 pounds, sedentary, hates to exercise. She already has high blood sugar. I’ve already buried both my parents. Will I bury my daughter?
I consider this. I can be an example, gently suggest and give advice when asked, but I can’t live her life. That’s what it’s about, after all. They stressed me out and I couldn’t wait for them them to grow up. Then they do, and the worrying begins.

I turn the idea and the worry over in my mind, then let it go. It floats away

6505.

Damn. I missed it. I wanted to turn back at EXACTLY 6500.

Well, okay. I’ll just maybe go up to 6600. Then maybe I’ll stop.

Or, maybe I won’t.

...

I'm Thankful for my Oven

Alternate title: A White Trash Thanksgiving.

The time: Thanksgiving, 1992. I was a college student, but not your ordinary one, oh, no. Despite my insistence that I, Am, Lazy, I tend toward the type of impulsive decisions and movements that really bite me in the ass and force me to work harder than I need.

And so it was that as this particular Thanksgiving day approached, I was a 26-year-old, full-time college student at the University of South Dakota. I was divorced, with a 1-year-old, a 3-year-old, and a 7-year-old. I did not receive child support, and made too much money from my 20-hour-per week, minimum-wage workstudy, to qualify for welfare payments.

To say we were poor is a significant understatment. I used part of a student loan to put $500 down on the house that we lived in. The total price on the contract-for-deed: $2,500. I was on food stamps, child care assistance, heating assistance, and every other type of assistance I could find to get me through college and DONE.

On this particular Thanksgiving, I was given a very large turkey by a local charity, along with all the basics needed to put together a good Turkey Day feast.

Except that, well, I didn't have an oven. I didn't even have a large pot to boil it in, but that was besides the point: who has boiled turkey on Thanksgiving?

I had a range, of sorts - a friend of mine had clued me into it. She found it in a vacant lot with weeds grown up around it, a 1945 model that "looked like it should work." I actually got that thing loaded and drove it home, slowly, sticking out of the trunk of my 1980 Olds Delta 88. For FREE.

I got it home and I rigged some house wiring so that it was on the same circuit as the electric dryer I'd paid $25 for that, one day, gave a huge BANG! and flames sorta, well, shot out of the back of it. Yada,yada,yada, I took the back off and found a lot of charred something, and over $15 in change. As I've said before, my life has been interesting.

Anyhoo, the range and dryer were direct-wired in to the same circuit which is kind of dangerous and definitely illegal in most places, but I was "country" so it was okay.
I could never use them at the same time or somewhere a fuse would blow, but at least I could use them. However, unfortunately once in place I found that only two of the burners worked and the oven didn't work at all, but hey! I had a stove!

Now a friend of mine had an old Coleman grill that her husband had accidentally hit with the truck, and asked if I wanted it. She swore I could cook my turkey on it, given enough foil wrapped around it. It was pretty dented and the legs were trashed, but the lid sealed and so I set it up in my front yard on cinder blocks (no, I'm not making this up) and on Thanksgiving day, 1992, I fired up the coals.

For the next 5-6 hours I tended the turkey that I had wrapped in an entire roll of heavy-duty aluminum foil. I would set a timer and go outside every 40 minutes or so in my parka and snow pants (November, South Dakota) to turn the bird and pointedly ignore any of the 200 fellow townspeople who drove by just a little too slowly to stare at that crazy woman.

But anway. My friend who swore that this would work also came by, amazed, because, well, she'd never actually done it, and was curious to see if it actually worked. There I was: occasionally turning it until juices started leaking through the foil. I guessed it must be done, and dontcha know that eventually, it was, and it was delicious. The meat was falling off the bone, it was so done. But not something I'd care to repeat. A large pan in an oven inside the house is so much more, well, civilized. But if you want to try it, more power to you.

So the moral of the story is, I'm thankful for my oven, even if I don't eat turkey any more.

PS: Animals are friends, not food (you know I had to say it.)

PPS: Now it's your turn: tell me what weird thing are you thankful for?

...

and Mom said HA!

So among the drama of finishing neither Soma OR my "bastard paper that's eating my life" (thanks for the new title, LBTEPA!) and listening to Britney's newest CD, a little drama has been playing out here that I thought I'd bring you in on.

So here's the setup: I have toaster streudels in my freezer. They are fake strudel with strawberry and creme cheese filling.
They are NOT real strudel; they are crap. I know this.
At the same time, they are like heroin. I must have them.


So, I keep them, and I allow myself one on any day that I run. They are to be savored, with tea or coffee, alone in my kitchen.
We all have our little indulgences. This is mine. Just let it go.

Last week, I had crazy days with nineteen parent-teacher teacher conferences in addition to my full days of work.
Since my schedule was upset I forgot to eat a couple of times, and by the ends of two days, I'd only racked up about 800 calories per. I had also ran two days in a row but and didn't have time for the toaster streudel goodness.
By the second day of running and sub 1000 calories I decided I'd better do something FAST or my metabolism would probably shut down and I wouldn't have any energy.

I thought about the streudels I had in the freezer. I thought about them all the way home.

I would have two of them.

Their fake trashy toasty goodness.

Mmmmm.

Turns out, Not. So. Much.

Mini-baboo, the teenager that eats almost anything that isn't attached to me, had found them, and even though they were a foreign item in the freezer (they're usually kept in the mini-fridge in our bedroom) he decided, what the hell, and ate them. All three of them. I came home, and found them gone.

When confronted, after a moment of silence, then he said, seemingly sincerely,
"Oh. My bad."

I came unglued. "NO MATTER WHAT ANYONE HAS TOLD YOU, 'MY BAD' IS NOT AN APOLOGY! I WANT MY FAKE STREUDEL! "

He said something like, "Jeez, Mom, get a grip," or something like that. I don't know. I-I think I went blind and deaf and just couldn't calm down. Finally, in a fit of anger and grief over my missing and unrequited craving, I marched upstairs and took his TV.

"Hey! No fair!"

"No tv until I get $6 or a box of toaster streudel," I shouted back.

"What? I only ate half a box! A whole box isn't that much!" retorted person who lives in my house and doesn't pay rent.

"I don't care. In the real world, if you steal, you have to pay it back AND pay a pentalty. This is yours."

For the rest of the week, he would occasionally broach the subject and I would snap, "$6! I want my $6!!" and thus held his TV hostage.

Tonight, for some reason, things came to a head. Maybe it was because I went grocery shopping and took and sharpie and wrote "Not Jon's" on most of the foodstuffs I bought. Or maybe it was because he really wanted to watch TV. Who knows. Who cares?

What resulted was that, after a weeklong standoff, Mini-baboo went to the store and came back with toaster pastries. In a box. At room temperature. Toaster pastries.

"Those aren't toaster streudel," I sneered. "They're generic poptarts. Do you remember where you found the toaster streudel? You found them in the freezer. you know why you found the toaster streudel in the freezer? BECAUSE THEYRE FROZEN!"

"This is so unfair!" Then more grumbling.
Then about 40 minutes later, a box of toaster streudel slid though the opening in the door.

"Now can I have my TV back," he whined.

"Yes," I said magnanimously.

I always get my way.

And he, he has learned a valuable lesson that, I think, will serve him well in his future as a significant other: You don't get in the way an insane, peri-menopausal woman and her snacks.


...

Things I just happen to know today.

1. They opened up a limited number of parking spots visitor's lot at my school for teachers. First come, first served. This is HUGE because it means I can haul my crap a much shorter distance to the classroom I don't have. So I speed in every morning to get one of these highly coveted spots. It is, at the same time, pathetic, because it means that my major perks are now a parking spot and a padded chair.

2. I'm SOOOOO not ready for Soma next weekend. I haven't been able to stay on a bike more than 40 miles at a stretch without getting completely bored, and besides, my ladyparts hurt all over again. The only thing that helps me with that is estrogen creme. But estrogen is a performance reducer, and packs on fat. So my choices are between thickening and moistening up the skin in, um, the area of interest, which makes cycling more pleasant but adds extra bodyfat and slows me down, or skip the estrogen and have a very sore hoo-hoo. I haven't decided yet. I was hoping to beat last year's time, but hope is fading. I just want to beat the cutoff.

3. I've bought a motherboard for Sweet Baboo's computer. Now I've gone and done it.

4. Now that I'm in my 40's, I don't lose pounds per week. I lose ounces per month. Being in my 40's sucks.

5. My arm hurts. Yesterday it was my lats. Today it's my bicep. The upper body stuff is new to me; on Pirate's recommendation I'm working on the assisted pullup and assisted dip thingy, and various other exercises. I can only describe them as bicept cable thingies, tricep pull-down thingies, and various bendy things on a half ball thingy. As I said, I'm new to this.

So my upper body workout goes like this: I walk over to a machine, say, the assisted dip/pullup thingy, all butch in my tank top, bandana, and m-dot tat. I set it on nearly the most assistance one can possibly get (because I'm just a T-rex. You know the ones, they have a huge rear end and legs and tiny little noodle arms? Yep, that's me.)
So, after I struggle through half of them, stop for a little while, panting, and struggle through the other half until my vision is sparkly and I feel dizzy, I get down. I drink some water and do some assisted pushups, because damned if I can do the "real" ones.
Meanwhile the 70-year old woman who's been knitting takes the machine I've abandoned, resetting it with far less assistance/more weight.
Last night I tried to swim. Nungh-unh. I did about 10oo meters and quit, because my arms were just trashed.

6. I'm enjoying my hills runs. I've started running hills around where I live. I miss the flat, beautiful bosque, but I think the hills will be good for me. My legs hurt like hell for a couple hours afterward, but then that fades and I just walk stiffly for a couple days. The mornings are crisp (30's and 40's) and it's awesome.

7. My students asked me how old I was this week, so I told them. The look of horror on their face when I said, "forty-two and a half" was priceless. As though I told them I had leprosy. One of them finally said, "Gawd, you're older than my mother!"

8. Tomorrow I'm headed over to Pirate's house of illness to do some spinning and get some saddle time in and watch a movie. Sweet baboo is worried about the illness thing, but I work around teenage germ factories all day so I'm pretty sure my blood serum is about 99% antibodies. I'll be fine. And if not, I'll have a ready-made excuse for doing poorly at Soma.

...

Teaching and triathlon.

Okay, I don't mean to whine so much. I know that every job has its crazy time. I just use this place to vent. Accountants have tax season; food service workers have rushes during the day. Retail workers have Christmas. Engineers have...what? I don't know. Do they have a crazy time? Is it when the computer is down? The slide rule is stuck?
(I poke fun because there's a lot of engineers in triathlon.)

My teaching year is like a long, hard race triathlon.

I start the year with a combination of trepidation and excitement. This time it will be different. This time I'll do things right. I'll push through the pain. I'll plan the greatest lessons evar.

Report card time is like that long hilly part of the race (for me, it's the bike) when I ask, why on earth do I do this? I'm all alone, at the back of the pack. This is insane. I'm not cut out for this.
Parents and students complain. You must have lost my work, because I know I turned it in. Administrators ask you to explain your Ds and Fs.
Look at all those people ahead of me. It's easy for them. It's too hard for me.

There are the frustrating, hopeless moments. Parents accuse you of picking on their kid. They want to know why you don't stay after school every afternoon. Your admin calls sudden meetings, sucking up what little planning time you have. You have another thing you have to write to justify your position. You get a flat in the middle of the race, and you watch everyone speed by while you're unrolling the tube from your flat kit.

I. Hate. This.

So you talk to other triathletes, or teachers, and find out it's hard for them, too. Your kids might mouth off, but her kids pushed and threatened her. Even those who make it look easy have their difficulties. You pick up a few tips and tricks along the way. Use body glide.
Get the kids to do some of the work.

In between, there are those moments when you crest the hill and get a breathtaking view that you wouldn't have gotten any other way but in that particular race. That kid that comes back to see you that you'd just about given up on. A former student, now grown, that you run into somewhere who says, "Remember when you showed me those statistics about education and income? I never forgot that. I'm going to college this fall." Or, maybe it's that parent (or even student) who says, I appreciate you.

Sometimes you have make your own moments. For instance, when I have a really dark, angry, hopeless moment, I like to pick one or two kids, not straight A students, but earnest, hard-working kids who are nice and work really hard for their Bs and Cs and call tell their parents what great kids they've got. No, he's not in trouble. I just wanted you to know what a hard worker he is, and I sure wish I had a classroom full of kids like him. (If you're a teacher, try this some time. The astonishment and grattitude you get from parents will make you day, maybe even your month.)

Then comes May. The finish line is in sight. There! Whew. Just in Time. Hey, that went by fast...

Of course, summer, is my off season. I lay around and taunt my friends at work who aren't teachers. The difficulties of the race start to fade and soften. I attend a few workshops and think about how I'll do things differently next time.

Then in August, toe the line again. Yes, I hopefully tell myself. This time will be different. I'll push through the pain. I'll plan the greatest lessons evar...

...

in which I am the Goddess of Geek. Almost.

I'm typing this post on Sweet Baboo's laptop. This is HUGE, because for about two months his keyboard hasn't worked. Baboo, normally fastidious in his habits and routines, for some reason got into the habit of placing his laptop on the floor.

Next to the bed.

Directly under and in front of his night table.

On which rests a cup that holds at least 20 ounces of ice water at night.

Aiyee. Do I need to tell you what happened next? I felt bad enough for him not to say anything. Myself, I keep my lap top on my dresser at night. I'm afraid I'll step on it when I get out of bed to attend to my middle-of-the night pee or dealing with a hot-flash.

Anyway. The laptop was off but open when the water hit the keyboard. As soon as I realized what happened, I yelled, Don't turn on the computer!! Unplug it and take the battery out!! Luckily, the computer was off. Whew! But just then, as Sweet Baboo lifted the computer to take the battery out, he hit the "on" button by mistake. That was the end of the keyboard. The computer would turn on, but the keyboard didn't work. I connected an old keyboard to the laptop, and it worked fine, so I knew it was just the keyboard. Well, hoped it was just the keyboard.

When we took the computer to CompUSA, they wanted $140 to replace the keyboard, and that was if nothing else was wrong. I was offended both as a geek and former poor by that price. I told Baboo that we'd get him a wireless keyboard for now, and I'd see if I could get one online and put it in myself. Then I found on on ebay for $20, and got it. Then I stalled for a while.

The thing is, I really hate working on computers. It's nerve wracking for someone who is not detail oriented to do something that requires careful attention to detail. Plus, I kinda sorta said that I could fix it the same I say things like, "Ironman? Why not?" The words just leap out of my mouth before my brain can say something like, SHUT UP! The last time I removed or added components to a computer it was a first generation Pentium. That would have been in, let's see, 1999 maybe? I have NEVER worked on a laptop before.

So, I put off Sweet Baboo for quite a while. Then I said I'd take it in. Then I stalled on that. For two months he carried around a laptop and a wireless keyboard. Poor Baboo. Bad wife. No biscuit.

Finally after coming back from officiating at the olympic triathlon championship in Dallas he told me that because he'd been carrying an extra keyboard they pulled him aside and made him undergo extra security checks. Plus, it was kind of sad seeing him there, with his laptop at the end of his knees, tapping away on his extra keyboard.

So today, finally, I decided to sit down and figure this out. I found a service manual online (I'm the Google Queen) and greedily saved it to my hard drive, and had that open whilst I removed the tiny little screws and--WTF, what is a ZIF CONNECTOR?

Soooooo, I looked that up. Oh, okay. But I had to fiddle for a while to figure out how to open and close one. My tecchie days are long behind me.

The first time I put in the keyboard, I had to remove the battery and then remove about nine tiny little screws with a little tiny screwdriver. Then I put in the keyboard, put the computer back together, put all the little tiny screws back in, inserted the battery, and turned it on.

They keyboard did not work.

$hit.

So, I removed the battery and then removed the nine tiny little screws with the tiny screwdriver and stared at the ZIF connectors. Ooohhhhh, I get it. It goes like this. I put the computer back together, put all the little tiny screws back in, inserted the battery, and turned it on.

The keyboard worked! For about five minutes. Then it stopped working. So, I removed the battery and then removed the nine tiny little screws with the tiny screwdriver and and retightened the ZIF connectors. I put the computer back together, put all the little tiny screws back in, inserted the battery, and turned it on.

Again, it start working. Then it stopped again. I hit some of the F buttons at random, and then it started working. Then it stopped again.

$hit.

I started this on Baboo's computer, but had to finish it on mine. I'm still trying to figure out what's up, and hoping it's not because when you by a used keyboard off ebay, this is what you get.

Still, I've earned the GeekGirl nickname for today.

...

Me and my soapbox.

Today I'm teaching two-step equations and multi-step equations.

The problem:

-4(x + 1.25) = -8

-4x - 5 = -8

+ 5 + 5

-4x = -3

/-4 /-4

x = .75 or 3/4

C'mon. I just gave you flashbacks, didn't I? Didn't I? Did your math PTSD kick in?

One of the hard parts of teaching Algebra, is trying to explain to a teenager and sometimes their parent (Why are we learning this?) that everything you're teaching them helps their brain form new connections that will help them learn other things faster in the future.

This to a group of people who, for the most part, can barely conceptualize next week, much less a few years from now.

Of course, look who I'm talking to. I've noticed a huge proportion of triathletes have degrees in engineering. So I guess another answer to the question, Why are we learning this? might be so that someday you can obsess about yours or other people's statistics and enter formulas into Excel that will aid in your obsessing.

But anyway.

Today I'm going to rant, and it's not about triathlon, so I won't at all be hurt if you choose not to read.

So I was at the gas station and CNN was on and they were reading letters from people who were responding to a story about merit pay for teachers. Something that, for the record, I am against.

The general consensus of the folks that wrote in: I'm sick and tired of these teachers and their unions asking for more money. All my taxes go to support these teachers and their schools!

My favorite: If teachers want more money, they should teach summer school!

My second favorite: Why should my taxes be raised? I don't even have children!

I also noticed that some teachers wrote in, and talked about "these parents". As in, These parents need to raise kids that actually care about learning.

Hmmmm.

I've been a teacher for 8 years. I've been a parent for 23 years. I also have a master's degree in educational psychology and research.

My take: We live in a culture that does not really care about kids. Oh, we say we do, but we have companies in the private sector that penalize people for having families. Our, "culture of life" consistently passes legislation that underfunds things for children such as education, healthcare, and social services.

As a result, kids are warehoused into crowded schools while their parents try to make a decent living for employers who penalize them if they take a day off to volunteer at school or take their kid to the doctor.

The tax system in this country does not take into account that fact that kids spend much of their waking time in schools - there's so much more we could be doing than just testing the crap out of them. We could be working with whole families instead of just being tangentally in touch with them and having this whole "us" and "them" thing going.

And I think that politicians like that. As long as we have this "us versus them" thing going we play the blame game and don't get organized to make them pass the legislation that will protect our children and our families.

For instance, we (schools) want ot be partners with you in raising good, happy kids. But, it's hard to transfer qualitative variables such as "stable home" and "happy, well-adjusted child" into the hard data that is demanded by No Child Left Behind. They don't want creativity, they don't want well-adjusted. They want proficiency scores.

Did you know: By 2014, every school in the US is required to have 100% of all students pass the proficiency tests.
I'm not making this up. 100%. Of all students. Regardless of mental ability. Or else.

I live in a state that has fairly decent pay for teachers, but I didn't ask for it. If I had my druthers, I'd have smaller classes. In fact, according to research, the school-related variable that is most closely associated with school achievement is class size.

Nobody who pays for four years to major in education is in it for the money. Some are in it for the coaching, but all are in it because they want to work with kids. Unfortunately, plenty of teachers are driven out because they become demoralized by how stingy communities can be, and how skewed the priorities have become.

Instead of raising my salary, I'd like to NOT have a limit on how many photocopies I can make in a year. I'd like my class size to be capped at 25, and to have an unlimited supply of markers for my white board, kleenex, and hand sanitizer. I'd like to get a new bulb ($16) for my overhead projector without waiting 3 weeks.

If I had a class size that small, I could have parents come in more often. As it is, I don't have room. Right now, two of my classes have 32 kids and one has 34. If they give me any more kids, they'll have to sit at the teacher's desk.

And they will. Give me more kids. And they'll sit at the teacher's desk, and share table space with other kids. My administrators will ask for permission to hire more teachers, but they will be turned down, because there isn't enough money.

Smaller class sizes will never be funded, because it's not "efficient." Most school models are mandated, actually, by law to be modeled after business models. Because, you know, when you think about children, you think about products, outcome, and efficiency. Riiiiiighttt.

I care about your kid. Not just because your child is a human being and all human beings have worth, but because s/he will be a future citizen in the world in which we live, and I want him/her to be a happy and productive citizen. I want to help empower you, as well, because I know you also want what's best for your child.

For now, I have him or her for 90 minutes a day. Me and the teacher's union are not your enemy. We are trying to protect the profession of teaching, and we really want the best for your child, and we want to be your partner and to make the job of being a parent easier.

Next year is an election year.

Pay attention to the candidates.

Ignore their speeches; instead, pay attention to their works.

The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.

What legislation have they voted for? Against? That speaks volumes.

Thanks for letting me rant.

...

Tomorrow: an M-dot and a horse (maybe)

I've been lazy this week. Most of my energy has been spent whining to Pirate about my training plan, part of which I missed because it's a report card week and part of which I missed because I. Am. Lazy.

So at swim the other night I was whining, "What the hell is this $#it? Where's my recovery?"

and Pirate says, "It's an active recovery"

I'm guessing that's something like a dry heat. Or a wet cold.

Anyway, I've spent more time whining than actually working out.

Time's up, and party's over. Time to get back to work.

Next up: SOMA 70.3 Triathlon in Arizona. I did this one last year and LOVED it. Flat, fast, and fun. It'll be fun comparing my time to last year, since, you know, I like, trained and stuff this year.

Saturday's schedule:

6:30-ish - 10 mile run with hills

9:30-ish - Shower. Coffee. Maybe breakfast.

10:3-ish - Get inked in Albuquerque. I've drawn up my own design having to do with Kentucky and the M-dot, but I'm going to discuss it with the artiste' as well because, so far, he did not like my design. We'll see.

Pictures to follow...

...

Moving on.

It is a truth universal that at some point in a young man's development, he will hate his father.

His father will hate him back.

And they will both want Mom/wife to do something about it.

So I did. I took a warm bath. And did sudoku.

Ahhh, but it was lovely....epsom salts, lavendar oil, and the window next to the tub open and a nice breeze flowing over me.

I'm not saying that teenage Mini-me isn't without his faults. Oh, my. If you only knew. I'll spare you the details, being as some of you are planning your families, some of you have children on the way, and others have already young children in the house so it's too late for you; who am I to ruin what little time you have left to enjoy them?

It's just that Mini-Baboo is a bit, shall we say, difficult these days, refusing to do what is expected of him.

He claims he "forgot" that he wasn't supposed to do that, or that he was supposed to do this...etc.

And, because Sweet Baboo was never, ever this irascible as a teenager he simply doesn't understand why we just can't sell him to the circus right now.

So, anyway.

While I was taking my warm bath I was thinking about all the things I'd like to do in the future.

The thing is, every time I do something difficult, especially something that I wasn't sure I could actually do, I go through the following stages:

Stage 1: During the event itself, I curse it and everyone whose involved with it and anyone who ever encouraged me to do it. I curse the natural elements that are making my progress difficult. I curse my mother for bequeathing to me her short and stubby legs. etc., etc.

Stage 2: Immediately after the event, I refuse to think about it.

Stage 3: A few days later, the painful details of the event start to wash hazy in my brain. I have a horrible memory, which is why I'm such a good friend to have. Most of the time, I won't remember what it was you did to piss me off, or I'll forget how angry it made me and think it couldn't have been THAT bad. Like right now, I'm thinking my sister and I must have been in a fight, and that's why I haven't heard from her in nearly a month, nor did she congratulate me on my Ironman finish, nor have I gotten any responses to my five emails.

I also forget about how long and arduous the training was. I recall vaguely thinking to myself at some point during July, Oh, my GAWD this is hard. How do non-teachers fit all this in?

Stage 4: It settles in, and I begin to have dangerous thoughts, such as, "I wonder what else I could do?"

So here I am at stage four. I've been mousing around the Internet and racking up a fantasy list of races I'd like to do someday.

I'm already signed up for Ironman Coeur D'Arlen since, while a judicous response to Sweet Baboo's pronouncement that he was going to do it would have been something like, "Good for you! What is the course like? How about the climate that time of year? Any wind on the course?"

yes, that would have been judicious of me, wouldn't it?

Instead, I said, "Cool! Put me down too."

So like I said, fantasy things. Actually, more than fantasy, a sort-of to-do list of things I'd like to accomplish in the world of endurance stuff.

First, I'd like to do a marathon in every state. I'm wise enough to realize that in order to do this I'm going to have to do at least three or so a year. (Except Alabama. Until my sister starts returning my emails, Alabama is blacklisted from my marathon goals for, like, EVAR) The run at the end of an Ironman counts, too.

I must be pretty lucky because at the end of each of the two marathons I've done, and most of my long runs these days, I'm usually not sore, nor have I had problems with blisters or muscle spasms.

Second, I'd like to do one or two more Ironman races, carefully avoiding any that have the word "challenging" and "rolling" in their course descriptions from now on, but mostly I think I'd like to do a few 70.3's in nice locals.

So here's my fantasy list of to-do endurance races, for now.

• The inaugural Mississippi Blues marathon in Jackson in 2008.


• Either the Duke City or the Fiesta de Albuquerque here, depending on which one I hear better things about.


• Goofy's Challenge in Walt Disney, California


• the Portland Marathon, where my father-in-law lives. He's pretty entertaining, and I enjoy visiting him.
  
• The San Antonio marathon, where my mother-in-law lives. This one goes past all the missions.


• Ironman Florida.


• Ironman 70.3 Buffalo Springs


• Ironman 70.3 Cancun. (Look at the website for this! Swimming in clear torquois waters? Running past Mayan ruins? Droooooooollllll.)


• Vineman 70.3.
  

I'll probably add to this list as time goes by, but that's what's on my mind for now.

As for the rest of 2007, I'm "off" until the end of October, when I do the SOMA half -iron in tempe. Duane will be there, doing the quarterman, and I think Nytro and Benny will be there, and Pirate is doing the half, too, although I'm fairly certain that she'll have time to finish, shower, and freshen up before meandering over to the finish line to wave me in.

Oh, and I have an appointment on September 15th for the IM tattoo.

...

Short post.

So, conversation during 4th period today.

• Me: So, okay. Any questions about variables and expressions? Zack, you have your hand up.
• Zack: Mrs. Pilgrim, during an Ironman, what do you do if you have to pee?
• Me: Well, then you pee.
• Zack: But do people hold it?
• Me: Some do; some people pee while on the bike.
• Zack: Ew! Gross! They like, wet their pants and everything? I would never do that! I'd never, like go in my pants!
• Me: Zack, the first man and woman of this race got $10,000. So, the questions is, would you wet your pants for $10,000?
• Zack: No. No way. I'd never do that, not for any money.
• Priscilla: Zack, you're so full of it. You'd do it for less, and you know it.
• Another student: I'd totally go in my pants for $10,000. I just wouldn't, you know, like do all that biking and running and stuff.
• Zack: I'd do it in a cup. You know, in a cup. Then throw the cup away.

So, this is the world that I live in. Welcome back, says the world.

...

Bikes, Baggage, Boxes, and Bull$hit.

There is an episode of SouthPark in which Mr/Mrs. Garrison gets so angry at the airlines that he invents a newer way to travel, called "It." The mode he invents involves pumping thrusters in both hands and having a control stick up your rectum, and another in your mouth, in order to operate it. However, as one person using IT points out, "It's still better than what the airlines do to you."

I haven't flown in several years, so I was amused at the Southpark episode, but I wouldn't say it exactly ressonated with me, until today.

We arrived at the Albuquerque sunport with two bike boxes (VELO-. SAFE) which, I will note, attracted a lot of attention. They are large enough to hold a small child. Two small children, actually. They roll easily on wheels, but we took the advice of someone who had borrowed one of them to do Ironman Lake Placid and stuffed all our transition gear into them around the bikes. At the airport, we hoisted them up onto the scale.

My bike box - 80 pounds.
Sweet Baboo's bike box - 80.5 pounds.

"I can't take anything over 70 pounds," the agent said apologetically. He then showed us a sign in order to show us....what? That he wasn't just making it up?

It would have been much more useful to have known that BEFORE arriving at the airport. Like, for instance, when we asked the agent over the phone if the bike boxes would be a problem. "No problem," we were told. Nothing about weight limits.

It occurs to me that I dimly recollect having heard of a weight limit per piece of luggage before, but it's one of those facts that you so rarely use that it falls out of your head almost immediately, kinda like your children's social security number. Or the address of that person you want the school to notify in case of emergency with your child when you can't be reached.

SOOOOO, we pulled down the velcro buckle covers, unbuckled the buckles, and released the two straps that go around the bike boxes, and pulled off the lid. Noisily. Hmmm. What to ditch, what to keep. I pulled out two bags that I figured added up to about 15 pounds or so and put them aside to weigh. I put them on the scale. Baboo likewise pulled out two bags and set them aside, then dashed upstairs to see if he could buy a suitcase. Mercifully, Albuquerque Sunport is a small airport.

I put my two bags onto the scale. 11.5 pounds. Good guess. Okay, that means my bike box is now 69.5 pounds, so I'm golden.

I put the lid back on the bike box, refastened the security straps, rebuckled the buckles that hold the lid on, and fastened the velcro covers back over the buckles, then pulled the bike box back up onto the scale.

60 pounds.

Uh? I only *teach* math, I'm not, like, a mathematician; however, it's safe to assume that I can add and subtract. 80 pounds take away 11.5 pounds, hmm, should be 69.5 pounds; where did those other 9.5 pounds go? This means I can put another bag back into the box.

SOOOO, I pulled down the velcro buckle covers, unbuckled the buckles, and released the two straps that go around the bike boxes, and pulled off the lid. Noisily. I put the heavier bag back into the box. Then, I put the lid back on the bike box, refastened the security straps, rebuckled the buckles that hold the lid on, and fastened the velcro covers back over the buckles, then clean-jerked the bike box back up onto the scale.

(It is worth noting that just having a large truck-sized box measuring 30'' tall by 16'' wide by 5 feet long attracks enough attention without the constant noise of putting on and pulling off the lids. Standing in line with the airport with two such bike-in-a-box is unusual enough. Then, of course, you throw in all the cussing under my breath, and I had lots of curious onlookers and stimulating conversation openers such as, "wow, is that a bike?" when I had the lid off.)
So anyway. I hoisted the bike box back onto the scale.

70.5 pounds.

MOTHERF&%$#R!!

I flapped my arms useless at my side, looking at Sweet baboo to make it better and just then, as if by magic, the scale changed to 70 pounds.

By now I was beginning to suspect that there were no electronics, no chip, just a tiny little man inside the scale who looked out at the bag and, depending on his mood, estimated the weight of the bag. The scale stopped at 70 pounds, but every time a ticket agent walked by and moved the air, it would say 70.5 pounds briefly because AMAZINGLY, even at 5200 feet altitutude, that agent was able to general a half pound of aid pressure onto that box.

Sweet Baboo had returned with a lime green suitcase that, at least, we'll find easier in a sea of black bags. We stuffed the extra bags into it. Then we checked the bags. He hoisted his box up onto the scale.

43 pounds.

Now I was convinced of my little man in the scale theory.

Whatever. We finished the bags thing and then our next order of business was to try to remedy the fact that, despite buying the two plane tickets at exactly the same time with the same credit card, we were on opposite ends of the plane in all of our fights. That was remedied easily enough. Then it was a brief breakfast at Gordunos and coffee at the Black Mesa coffee company.

In case you haven't flown lately, some things I know now that I wasn't aware of before this morning, when flying, FYI:

• Your hearing aid won't set off the metal detector.
  
• But your shoes might. Take them off.
  
• You cannot take any kind of beverage, sealed or unsealed, though security.
  
• You have to take your laptop out of the bag and put it in a separate tray and send it through the x-ray which, they promised me, was perfect safe. (It was).
  
• Flights can be, and often are, delayed or even canceled without warning. THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT! BECAUSE WE'RE THE AIRLINES, THAT'S WHY! BWAHAHAHAHAH!
  
• Unlike your local coffee shop, airport wi-fi isn't free. Except in Albuquerque. Beautiful, SUNNY Albuquerque.
  
• Just because they're wearing earphones doesn't mean you aren't going to hear whatever it is they are listening to.
  
• There's a very good chance you'll sit next to someone who smells funny. Not me; I had a window seat. Sweet Baboo, on the other hand, was crammed in between me and an older lady who was, um, smelly.
  
• There will be at least one example of poor planning who didn't realize until she GOT ON THE PLANE that the seat numbers on her ticket have a meaning, and that they were different on her and the rest of her family's tickets because that means they are in different seats. Firsy she'll try to just sit in random seats that are not hers. Then she will stand ineptly in the isle asking everyone to give up her seat for her until the flight attendant steps in and asks her to sit down, while a line forms behind her of people waiting to get to their seat. She won't care that she is inconveniencing others. She will complain loudly until some super nice person finally gives up their seat to make her shut up and sit down. That super nice person wasn't me, by the way. I was watching the drama but not participating.



• The constant sound of children crying isn't just for Seinfeld episodes. And in real life, it's not as funny.



• You will worry constantly about your bike making it to wherever it is you are going. More than you worry about things you used to worry about before you did triathlons, like, will I be killed if we crash. Nope. You'll just worry about your gear making it safely



• The orange juice they serve does not have the requisite vodka in it that one needs for flying coach.

...

Completely unrelated.

Now that I'm finalizing the nutrition strategy, it's time for me to start thinking seriously about the fashion strategy.

I didn't realize until today they'd added pearl snaps for your race number to these little numbers.

I've decided I must have one of these for Ironman Louisville.

Because, um, they'll me feel cuter, which, um, will make me feel better emotionally and physicially, um, and, uh, yeah.


The only thing I don't know is, which is faster, black or pink...

...

Random Thoughts and Worries

33 days left until Louisville. Thirty-three. Days. One month from now I will be in my hotel room in Louisville, while the voices in my head (not literal ones; I'm not psychotic) will be shouting at me about how slow I am, and how much I suck.)

Last week I rode my bike 180 miles. 180. Miles. It was supposed to be more. Pretty damned slowly, too. I'm never going to finish that stupid Ironman. Some guy is going to leap out in front of me, like they did to Krissy, and pull my chip.

I stopped answering the phone last week because the school where I work is calling all the teachers to volunteer to work registration this week. I have trouble saying no or lying without a lot of practice, so I avoided answering the phone during the day. Then the secretary called me last night at 8:00, and I answered the phone because I wasn't expecting it. Bastards. They are so not getting my cell phone number.

If I'm running and biking so much, and working so hard, why aren't my thighs all nice and smooth? There's no justice. And my butt. What's up with that?

I have to have, like, the weirdest tan ever.

Why does everyone keep sucking air in through their teeth when I say I'm going to do a swim in the Ohio River? Then they get that fake, forced cheerful look and say, "Oh, well, I'm sure it will be just fine."

The little beeper things I bought from Sharper Image so that I could find all my lost stuff were a waste of money. They don't go off when they should and they do go off at random times like 2 am, or when I'm standing in line somewhere, or driving in my car.

Mini-baboo has been gone for two weeks to camp. Other than worrying about him, it's been a nice break, the first one I've had since age 19, when I had my first child. I bought a box of cereal that I love while he was gone and didn't eat any of it for a day or so. It was all still there after two days. The whole box. Uneaten. The. Whole. Box.

I really like the accelerade stuff. I don't get stomach cramps when I drink a whole bunch of it before I run, like I do when I drink too much water or gatorade. That's important, because I will perseverate no end on things that are bothering me.

I am, like, addicted to this website, thanks to Pirate. If you've never visited this pace, you should, but I warn you: it's addictive. Here's an example of something from their site:
(I'm surprised that 'getting off heroin' wasn't, like, number 2. At least.)

Sometimes when I look at how sore Sweet Baboo is in after a hard workout I wonder if I should be working out harder. Then I look at how sore Sweet Baboo is and think, um, No. But then I worry about getting pulled from the course at IMKY. That will never happen to Sweet Baboo. It might happen to me.

After coming in nearly last at the Mountain Man, I've decided to reframe things. My goals from now on will be to finish triathlons. Reframing is when you take something that you think of as negative and look at it in a different way, rethinking or restating it so that it is positive. Some people call that "denial," Myself, I prefer to reframe "denial" as "positive reframing."

That place where I ordered the vegan running shirt is sending me a refund. Good thing, because I'm not really a vegan any more. I've started taking in whey protein and occasionally eating crepes. I think all I can really call myself any more is a "really strict vegetarian." Or as I'm sure some of my friends say, "Pain in the ass." That doesn't fit nicely on a T-shirt. But now I'm not really sure of my place in the whole food pyramid scheme of things.

Maybe I'm eating too much.

...

Tagged!

Linae tagged me as a Rockin' Girl Blogger. WahHoo!!

Now I get to betow the title on five others. I wish could pick more, but then who would everyone else tag? Hmmm. Lots of rockin' girl bloggers out there...and at least one or two rockin' guys who frequently refer to themselves as girly...but you know the rules are clear. Nope, no Y chromosomes allowed.

Okay, I'm starting with my favorite swim buddy Pirate. Then I should really include other local peeps: SWTriGal, and Lisa Tri-ing.

and, in no particular order, I'm going to tag not-so-local peeps Siren and Di. (Does Siren count as two?)

...