Ew - What's That Smell?

We were staying some place that had a bunch of rooms off of a common hallway area. I'm not sure if it was a hotel or a house or a hostel of some sort. And I don't know where we were. It was nighttime and everyone was asleep. I was sharing a room with a bunch of other people. I'm not sure who they were. Maybe friends? Perhaps strangers?

At about 3:00 a.m., I awoke to this horrible smell. I mean, it was really awful. The kind of smell that permeates everything and makes it impossible to breathe. The kind of smell that burns your nostrils, chokes off your air supply, and causes instant and constant queasiness. I had to get out of that room. So I got up and went into the hall to get some fresh air.

Wherever it was that we all were, my mom was there too but she wasn't staying in my room. She was in the room across the hall. I guess I must have woken her up when I came out of my room because, shortly after I entered the hallway, she came out of her room to see what was going on.

"What are you doing, Ami?" she said, groggily.
"I had to get out of there," I told her, "There was this horrific smell and I just couldn't stand it anymore."
"What was it?" she asked.
"I have no idea", I said.
Then she said, "you're right - it does smell really terrible in here."

And it did. The whole hallway where we were standing smelled excruciatingly putrid like it did in the room I had just evacuated.

My mom then hesitated and looked at me accusingly. "If it smelled bad in there and you came out to the hall and now it smells bad here," she said, "it must be you".
"It is not me, Mom. There is no way", I said. But even as I said it, I was thinking to myself that she did kind of have a point. How could it have smelled so bad in the room and only once I came outside did it now smell equally bad in the hallway, I wondered. And while I continued to defend myself and deny that I was the source of this other-worldly stench to end all stenches, my mind was whirring trying to figure out what the source could possibly be and, even more importantly, how I could escape it.

Then I became oddly aware of the transition between trying to figure it out in my dream and figuring it out for real.

I sat bolt upright in my bed with the horrible realization that this nightmare wasn't just a bad dream. And I looked over to confirm my worst suspicions.

Sure enough, Otis had another "upset stomach". All over the rug.

Are You A Triathlete?

I went for a bike ride today and ended up running into some people I know in Buda where we all conincidentally converged at a convenience store to get more PowerAde. I knew one of them from my running group, but I don't know any of them very well. We all chatted for a bit and then, at one point, one of them asked me, "are you a triathlete?"

I didn't know what to say.

If I haven't done a triathlon since the 2005 CapTex Tri and haven't done any serious swimming since then, am I still a triathlete?

I'm just coming off of the longest case of burnout I've ever experienced. This is the longest I've gone without doing or even being signed up for a race. I'm not sure why I got so burned out. Just too much for too long with no real breaks, I guess.

I tend to be an all-or-nothing kind of person so it's often difficult for me to regulate my activities. When I feel good and I'm into it, I tend to go all out and overdo it. Most of my friends think I'm nuts because of my crazy activity levels. (at least I think that's why...) And I've always secretly kind of liked that.

But this pattern over a period of years caused me to end up with this serious case of burnout. And this serious case of burnout caused me to take a serious break during which I just barely managed to maintain my running.

I wasn't able to relax and enjoy the break either. I just felt shitty and wished I could get my motivation back. I wanted to want to do what I've always done. But I couldn't. And I didn't.

Now I'm feeling better and am finally actually excited about running and biking again. And I want to get back in the pool too. It feels good to be doing this stuff again because I want to and because I enjoy it rather than just going through the motions because I feel like I'm supposed to.

So am I still a triathlete? I guess it doesn't matter what you call me. Whether I'm a triathlete or not, I'm finally starting to feel good again. And that's all that really matters.

Strange Bedfellow

Otis is not normally allowed to sleep in the bed. However, because I knew I would be taking Paddington on a short road trip and Otis would be at "camp" by himself, I made an exception for a couple of nights.

During the day, Otis is a very, very, very active boy who craves attention and loves to play.



But at night, especially when he's allowed up on the bed, he usually settles right down.



I don't mind having him sleep in the bed with me once in a while. Although it can be somewhat disconcerting to wake up and see this:



Or, even worse, this:

The Bleeding Season

Yesterday was my first visit to Costco. Ever. I managed to spend an insane amount of money on all kinds of shit I have never wanted and don't need. Much of what I saw there I never even knew existed. That place is amazing. In a horrific kind of way.

I am now the proud owner of a lifetime supply of toilet paper, paper towels, coffee, Lara bars, pomegranate juice, blueberries, and Soft Scrub. I don't smoke, never have, and never would, but I found myself tempted to buy a lifetime supply of Nicorette gum just because it was such a good deal. They had to put my stuff in 2 carts. And their carts, like the store itself, are mutantly large. It was an embarrassing display of consumerism the likes of which I rarely engage in. You should thank me for helping the economy. Significantly and single-handedly. With a mere swipe of my credit card. (It's all in the wrist). Please just help me make sure they send the remaining coffee with me to the nursing home when the time comes.

Normally I can't stand shopping malls or big warehouse stores like that. I find them overwhelming and they tend to suck the life right out of me. But this trip was really fun. Not because I bought 2500 sheets of printer paper or a variety case of Sam Adams' beer, but because of the fact that I went with my friend Christy and her kids. Christy is one of those awesome people who just is who she is. She doesn't tailor her behavior to her audience - she's just unabashedly her funny and irreverent self all the time. And I love her for it. This quality of hers makes her tons of fun to be around in general, but it's especially hilarious to see how she interacts with her kids.

Her youngest son is 7 and he is super cute and sweet. (of course I think so because he told me I was "so cool"). Her oldest boy is about 10 and he's also a really great kid. (but not quite as cute as the 7-year-old who recognized my coolness). The younger of the two is a serious little talker. After about ten minutes had elapsed during which time he never stopped talking even seemingly for long enough to breathe, Christy just looked at him and said, "blah, blah, blah" while making her hand talk like a puppet in front of him. Then she said to him, "You know, every single second doesn't have to be filled with talking." He responded by laughing and repeating "blah blah blah" over and over again for a while. I don't think that was quite what she had in mind. But they both laughed about it.

Then later, when the boys got a little rambunctious in the frozen foods section (nothing obnoxious - just normal kid stuff), she announced to them, "In a minute, you are going to drive Mommy straight to the crazy factory." Then she asked them, "Do you know how to drive?" After that, she uttered a deep sigh of resignation and proclaimed, "Oh, never mind - I'll just take a cab." The people in the aisle alongside us were laughing out loud at that one. As were her boys. As was I.

Their whole family is about to leave for vacation in the Cayman Islands for a week. (and she still managed to buy over $100 worth of crap at Costco, which made me feel better about my triple-digit bill). I asked the kids what they were going to do while they were on vacation and they both said, "nothing". I said, "really? nothing? Aren't you going to go snorkeling or diving or fishing?" And they said, "no, nothing, ask mom!" They seemed genuniely excited about the prospect of doing nothing. Then, in order to corroborate their story to me, they turned to Christy and asked her, "Mom - what are we going to do on vacation?" Christy replied by rattling off a list of fun-sounding activities. The kids said, "but what are we going to do on the beach?" And Christy said, "a whole lot of nothing" Then she turned to me and explained that she's trying to instill in her kids an appreciation for the joy of doing nothing. I thought that was pretty funny. And I wish her luck with that one. I can tell you right now, from what I witnessed at Costco, it's not gonna happen.

But the funniest thing was, at one point relatively early into our almost 3-hour tour of the behemoth warehouse that is Costco, my friend's kids started getting on her nerves and she, without so much as lowering her voice a decibel, told them, "remember to give Mommy a break. This is the bleeding season. I'm not wearing this bracelet for nothing!" Then she held up her wrist for them to observe. She was wearing a bracelet made of scrabble letters which spelled out the word
B-I-T-C-H. How great is that?! Her kids seemed to totally understand and appreciate the whole bleeding season concept too. They even toned down their antics a bit after that. At least for the next few minutes.

I know they sound crazy and they are, but only in the best way. In the event that you're concerned and tempted to call Child Protective Services, don't bother - there is nothing to worry about. Christy and her husband have been married for 13 years and they have an unusually great relationship. Her kids are remarkably smart and well-adjusted. They have a dog and a cat and a really cool house. There is absolutely no need to worry about any of them. The only thing to worry about is how I'm going to find one of those bracelets for me before my next bleeding season.

Jesus

I met a friend for coffee and breakfast tacos at El Chilito this morning. I decided to walk there from my house with Otis. On the way, we passed a church that appeared to have just finished a service. The parking lot was full of people who were dressed in their Sunday best and heading for their cars.

One man was already in his car in the parking spot that was closest to the road. I saw him backing up into the lot so he could then pull forward into the street. He didn't see me. And he didn't look before he pulled out of the lot and into the road just as Otis and I were walking by on the sidewalk in front of his car. It scared the shit out of me. I literally had to grab Otis and run fast to get out of his way. If I had been looking the other way and hadn't noticed him, I would be in the hospital right now. Or worse. He pulled out pretty fast and came really close to hitting us.

After I ran to get out of his path I turned around, incredulous, and shouted at him. I would think, in a situation like that, I would have said something like, "What the Fuck?!!!?". But I didn't. Instead I shouted, "Jesus Christ, Mister!" Which is strange since I don't even believe in Jesus. And ironic since the whole thing happened in a church parking lot on a Sunday. It was kind of funny too because everyone in the parking lot stopped walking to their cars. They just stood there and stared at me and Otis and at the truck that almost hit us as it drove away.

Then, farther along our walk on the way to breakfast, I saw a VW Camper van that wore two bumper stickers. One said, "Jesus, please save me from your followers." The other said, "I found Jesus. He was under the couch."

In just a few minutes, I went from shaking with fear to shaking with laughter. It turned out to be a good Sunday morning after all. For a heathen like me, anyway.

Back in the Saddle Again

After a seriously long phase during which I was super burned out and just barely maintaining my running, I am (I hope) finally getting my groove back.

109.4 miles on the bike this week. 53 of which I just returned from (the Dam Loop).

Except for the flat tire, it was great. Thank goodness for the good samaritan cyclist who helped me change it. (helped = completely changed the tire and put the wheel back on when he was finished).

Even the intense heat radiating off the blacktop felt good. Kind of like Bikram biking.

I don't think this leaves much room for doubt about my status as a masochist.

Bring on the heat and the hills! I'm back! (I hope).

Fo Shizzle

My sister is the bomb. She is crazy funny. She went to undergrad at University of Michigan and has her MBA from Fuqua (Duke's B-school). She lives in D.C. and works a super high-powered job. She also makes a shitload of money, and drives a car that's worth more than my last 3 cars put together. She's older than I am, but you'd never know it. Here's a portion of an email she sent me this week:

Go to Gizoogle .It's a Snoop Dogg underground version of Google and it is HILARIOUS. Do a search on it. Click on the
Textilizer up top. You can shasizzle any text and turn it into Snoop Dogg speak. So every once in awhile, when we have a presentation to prepare, I shasizzle it. And I give my team Wu Tang Clan rappa names.

Of course, since she is older and, therefore, ostensibly wiser than I (although I have my doubts about that), I (occasionally) feel compelled to listen to her sage advice. So I checked out the site she recommended.

In doing so, I made an important discovery. Although his singing ability is the subject of some debate, there is no doubt that Bob Dylan is a master lyricist. But when you mix Dylan with the Dogg, now that's pure genius. Fo shizzle.

She was workin in a topless place
And I stopped in fo` a poser jiznust kizzay lookin at tha side of her face
In tha spotlight so clear.
And lata on as tha crowd thinned out
Is just `bout ta do tha same,
She was pimpin' there in biznack of mah chair
Said ta me, "Dont I kizzy yo name?"
I muttered somethin underneath mah breath,
She studied tha lines on mah face.
I mizzy admit I felt a shawty uneasy
When she bent D-to-tha-izzown ta tie tha laces of mah shoe,
Tangled up in blue.

See whizzay Im say'n?

Getting Old Sucks

I took Paddington to the vet today to get a shot for his arthritis and a blood test to monitor his liver and kidney function and check his thyroid levels. They had to poke and prod at him forever to find a vein from which they could draw blood. Ultimately, after stabbing him all over with the syringe needle, they were finally able to get some from his neck. Poor fella.



I still won't admit that Paddi is old, but I can no longer deny that he's getting older. And that he has considerably slowed down over the past few years. He has also developed a fair number of special needs and restrictions that he never had before.

He recently decided he hates senior dog food and won't eat it without the addition of gravy. (so now, of course, Otis won't eat his food without gravy either)

He can't go for long walks anymore, much less runs, and he requires the use of a ramp to get into and out of the car.

He takes more daily medications than a diabetic octogenarian.

His hind legs and hips are weak and can't be relied upon for support at times.



And although he's clearly still exceptionally handsome, he has undergone some changes in physical appearance (and smell) over the years as well.

He now sports a gray beard and eyebrows.

He has lumps and bumps and warts all over his body and head.

His teeth are mostly rotten and his breath smells unfathomably atrocious.

He can't seem to stop panting and and he chronically drools like Niagra Falls.



But he still likes to play ball every morning and he still perks up at the word "treat" (or "food" or "eat" or "play" or "ball" or "walk" or "out" or "camp" or "kitty").

He's always happy to see me when I get home and will always give me a kiss if I ask for one.

He still appreciates a good chin scratch or belly rub and he totally understands the value of snuggling.

The thing is, it doesn't matter to me how lumpy or slobbery or high-maintenance or stinky he is. I couldn't possibly love him any more than I do.

And while it may be true that getting old sucks, it's still a whole lot better than the alternative.

So carry on, Mr. Pad and keep getting old(er). Good boy.

Really - It's Nothing

I was pretty much out of groceries yesterday.

So I decided to run to HEB during lunch to grab a few things.

I very rarely drink soda.

But for some reason I found myself craving a root beer.

So I bought a six-pack of diet Hansen's "Creamy Root Beer".


When I got home, I poured one over ice.

While drinking it, I looked more closely at the can.

On it were a number of claims:
No Carbs
No Caffeine
No Sodium
No Preservatives
Calorie Free
Aspartame Free

Then I looked at the nutrition information.


I realized that I was drinking nothing. The Seinfeld of sodas. The absence of anything.

Even more disturbing was my realization that I had paid $2.99 for nothing.


But the worst part was that it tasted like shit. "Creamy Root Beer", my ass.

Sunday

Here's what is on my "to do" list for today:

do laundry
clean house
clean car
office work
return phone calls
return emails
mow lawn
pay bills
buy groceries

Here's what I did today:

Why Always On The Rug?

I took Otis running Friday morning as usual. We went with our usual friend and ran our usual route at our usual pace and Otis swam at his usual spot. Everything was pretty, um, usual. Except for one thing. Otis pooped no fewer than five times along the way. The thing is, even if he already goes once in the back yard before we leave for the trail, it's totally normal for him to go again on the trail. Once. On a good day, maybe even twice. Even three "stops" isn't necessarily cause for concern. But on Friday, I was concerned. Five times?! That's a lot. Even for Otis. I began to wonder if somehow he managed to eat an All-Bran bar when I wasn't looking. Hmmm... But then again, Otis has been known to eat pretty much anything that either fits in his mouth or can be broken down to fit in his mouth so I knew the culprit could have literally been anything.

I also knew that, since I had been home sick from work on Wednesday and Thursday, I absolutely had to be at the office all day on Friday. And I knew chances were good that I'd come home to the unmistakably horrific odor that can only be emitted by Otis when he has an upset stomach. But really, nothing could be done so off I went.

And back I came, at the end of the day, with a sense of foreboding and a fear of opening the door to what I just knew would be that indescribably repulsive wall of stench. I started sniffing as I opened my car door in the driveway to see if I could already smell the horror that was sure to come. Nope. I smelled nothing. Yet. My hand trembled as I unlocked the door. Slowly I opened it a crack. Again, nothing. But, then again, I had been sick with a cold all week. Finally, I opened the door wide and entered the living room. By then I would have known for sure. But there was nothing. Everything was fine.

Whew! I breathed a huge sigh of relief and, so as not to push my luck, I quickly went to the back door to let my good boys outside. Otis reluctantly went out, quickly peed, and then repidly returned to the door beseeching me to let him back inside. Paddington wanted no part of this backyard outing at all and he remained in the house in the cool A/C. Okay, fine. I figured we could chill for a while and then go for a walk a bit later once it cooled off some more.

So I went about my business and looked through the mail. I got something to drink and flipped through the Chronicle. The phone rang and I chatted with a friend for a while. Then I noticed that Otis seemed a little antsy. So I went to let him out once again. But he just stood at the door looking at me as if to say, "aren't you coming?" Um, nope - I wasn't going. So we both stayed in. And I continued to talk to my friend on the phone. In the other room.

But after a while, I noticed a smell coming from the living room. No. It couldn't be. He just had two opportunities to go out! He never came to get me and hadn't barked or anything. I got off the phone and walked into the living room where, much to my dismay, I saw and smelled what could only be described as - well - use your imagination. It was worse than that. Three separate brown piles surrounded by runny brown liquid stench with drips trailing between each pile. And the piles weren't just in the living room. The first one was, but the second two were in the dining room. All were on the rugs.

I live in a cute bungalow that was built in 1933. It has all the charming features of an old house including big wood-trimmed windows, a cute old-fashioned built-in telephone stand, and hardwood floors throughout the house. I have a few area rugs, but most of the floor space is wood. Otis must have gone to great lengths to avoid the wood and make it to the rugs before he relieved himself. UGH!

So I spent the next hour or so cleaning. And scrubbing. And rubbing and deodorizing. And scrubbing some more. Finally, things seemed under control. And the house didn't smell like shit anymore. At least not that I could tell. But, then again, I had had a cold all week...

The next morning I was grateful to have made it through the night with no drama. I got up and took a deep breath. No foul odors. I let the dogs out in the back yard for their morning pit stop. I would get my bike stuff together and take them for a walk after that. A few minutes later, I let them back in. A few minutes after that, I notice a really foul odor that hadn't been there before. WTF??! I looked around and noticed that Paddington had gone into the bedroom and along his path, he had left paw prints. Brown paw prints. Brown super smelly paw prints. Paw prints of poop. Apparently, he must have stepped in some poop in the back yard and tracked it into the house. Across the kitchen floor and directly onto the wool rug in the bedroom. UGH!

More cleaning. More scrubbing and rubbing and deodorizing. By the time I finished cleaning, I was exhausted and running late to meet my biking buddies.

I have tried, over the years, to be a good and considerate dog owner. I never let them stay outside to bark and disturb the neighbors. I don't let them chase cats or jump up on little kids (if I can help it). I almost always have bags with me to pick up the poop they deposit on the lawns of others. But I admit I've been lazy at times and haven't always done the right thing. On occasion, I have left their "presents" lying around for others to step on. So I realize that karma probably dictates that I deserve to have to clean up my own dogs' poop from my house on occasion as a sort of payback. And I'm okay with that. All I want to know is why? Why must it always be on the rug?

Word Processing

I don’t know exactly why, but the process of writing can be so cathartic. When I have feelings swirling around in my head – whether they’re feelings of confusion, anger, lust, frustration, sadness, anxiety, rage, pain, or any of the many combinations thereof, I always find it helpful to reduce the feelings to words. Somehow they’re easier to reckon with when they’re laid out in front of me in black and white on a page. It gives them form and reins them in so they feel less overwhelming. It helps me break them down instead of allowing them to break me down.

I usually don’t feel the urge to write about my happiest and most joyful feelings. Those are the feelings I like to share in person with friends or family or significant others or even strangers. I want to build on the good feelings with someone else. When I’m happy, I want to talk about it. But when I’m upset, I need to write about it.

The recent accessibility and popularity of blogging has been great for me and folks like me who understand and value not just the written word, but the whole process of writing itself. Blogging gives my writing a format and a forum. Through blogging, I can literally put my thoughts and feelings out there. Then I can, much more easily, move on. I can also get comments from others who read what I write. Some are from people I know whose opinions I already respect. Or don’t. And some are from perfect strangers who found that some part of what I said resonated with them for some reason. It makes me realize that, no matter how different we may seem from one another on the surface, fundamentally we’re all in pretty much the same boat. Which makes me wonder why it can be so difficult to find that other person who resonates with us in a way that translates into life long love. But that’s another blog for another day…

Even before the word for or concept of blogging existed, I used writing as a way of dealing with my strong feelings. Way back when, I would write things down in a spiral-bound notebook. Then, when computers came around, I’d write by typing. It didn’t matter – the benefits came from just getting the words out so they could help me make sense of my feelings.

I do most of my writing now via blog. I don’t mind and, in fact, I rather like sharing my general musings with others this way. I find this kind of writing to be gratifying. And I enjoy the feedback.

But there’s another kind of writing. It’s reserved for areas that are too personal for me to want to share with others. Usually, these areas are so personal that it’s difficult for me to share honestly about them even with myself. Often this kind of writing has to do with a certain person or relationship in my life that is causing me significant consternation of some sort. And even though my writing in these situations stems from my feelings about another person, it is in no way for that other person. This writing is for me. It’s between me and myself and I’m the only one who gets to read it.

Often the impetus for this kind of writing is feelings of anger and hurt. I want to lash out at someone and hurt them back. But I know that that would only make things worse and leave me feeling worse. I know that I’ll only feel better if I take the high road. But still, I have all these feelings swirling around and making me crazy. I need to get them out so I can let them go. I know some people who will write emails they never send in these situations. But I don’t want to take any chances that the email I write will somehow inadvertently be sent. So I use my plain old-fashioned word processing program for this kind of writing. And, like I said, this writing is usually born out of anger and hurt related to someone specific. This pattern has helped me develop an intuitive and easy system for storing these documents. They are saved, in my hard drive, almost without exception, under “Fuck you (name)".

I rarely, if ever, go back and read them later even though I do keep them. The whole point is that I don’t need to re-read them because once I process these feelings as words, they are out. And I am free.

Progress

For reasons I have not been able to figure out (although lord knows I have tried), I tend to be attracted to the people who are not good for me.

I find these people exciting and sexy and crazy-intriguing. And on a certain level, interacting with these people is hot and passionate and intense, which seems really great.

But deep down, where it really counts, they don't make me feel good. And being with someone who doesn't make me feel deeply good isn't good. I am certain it's not what I want.

But still, I am totally drawn to them.

I used to make all kinds of excuses for them that would allow me to perpetuate relationships that I knew, deep down, weren't right for me and weren't what I wanted. I would tell my friends about what a prick he was and that I knew I shouldn't keep going out with him. Yet I would continue to go out with him.

It is, after all, extremely difficult to distract the moth from the flame.

But now it's different. I'm different.

I'm still attracted to these same guys. And they're still bad for me.

But now I don't make excuses for them. Now I am much more accurately and quickly able recognize them for who they are - not who I wish they were. And now, once I have that recognition, I am able to get out. And move on.

I'm still not exactly where I'd like to be ideally. Ideally I'd be really attracted to a really good guy.

But still, this feels like progress. And that feels good.