Sunday, Aug. 31, 2003
Dear Diary:

So what's it been now? Eight years? Five years?

OMIGAWD DON'T TELL ME I'VE ONLY BEEN ON THE INTENSIVE RUNNING PROGRAM FOR A WEEK!

This thing is kicking my butt. Nine o'clock rolls around and I'm the one quietly crawling off to bed on all fours, whimpering softly.

If only the suffering ended there.

The spousal unit has the haunted look of a man who is wondering if the words "drought" and "marital duties" are going to be inextricably linked for the foreseeable future.

Oh, the humanity!

Yesterday morning it was hill running. Hill running. Why don't they just say, "And now here's the part where you want to cut your legs off and run them through a shredder because, really, why would you ever want to hurt this much again in your life?"

I run on the shoulder of gravel roads which is kind of like running on semi-anchored marbles. Traction? What is this thing you call traction? It rained hard the night before so the conditions got even more um er ah interesting and I experienced the joy of running on semi-anchored marbles sliding on mud. Oh happy day.

I'm doing intensive running type stuff for oh, say, 45 minutes a day, six days a week. Athletes train like this for 30 or so hours a week. Athletes have to have insanely high pain and boredom thresholds. It hurts to run like this. And even you know what? I don't care how beautiful the setting is, it is stupidly boring to run.

Athletes Are Freaks, FREAKS I tell you.

One week in and I'm scouring the 'net for The Magic Running Potion, something I can take that will jet propel me through this race without, you know, actually exerting myself beforehand to get in shape. I get barraged with e-mail promising to enlarge various jiggly and dangly bits--where oh where are the offers of The Magic Running Potion to enlarge my stamina? Huh? HUH?

I am trying so very, very hard not to be bitter.

Oh and speaking of bitterness, it is very, very clear that the calico cat I chose at the shelter, Enid, is completely and utterly in love with the spousal unit. Yep, if he's anywhere around she completely and utterly blows me off and sticks to him like velcro.

Strumpet.

More than once I've been sprawled on the sofa watching TV, the cat on my stomach purring softly, only to have her jump right off me and scamper over to the spousal unit if he comes in the room. Hello? HELLO? I'M the one who picked that fuzzy ingrate, brought her into our home.

Where is the gratitude? WHERE DID THE LOVE GO???

*Siiiiiggggghhhhh*.

In all of this there is a light. Carrie send me another mix CD for working out and it contains a dance remix of Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Are Made For Walking". I am far, far too easily amused because every time this song comes on I start to laugh.

Oh, and there are no words for the joy I feel when I hear the disco re-make of Knock On Wood, a song I remember filtered through the sweet soul stylin's of Sam and Dave during my teen years. And the disco remix of Frankie Valli's "Walk Like A Man"? Pure fun on a stick.

So let my body moan and groan. Let my new cat decide I'm not worthy. I'll ... I'll ... I'll just go to my happy place, a place where a man can break into high falsetto while saying the words "Walk Like A Man" and Nancy Sinatra still wears high white boots.

Is it possible to get headphones surgically implanted?

--Marn

There's two new inductees into the Bazonga Boosters Hall o' Fame, folks who have decided to spend some of their hard-earned buckazoids supporting me as I run the Jog for the Jugs Oct. 5 in Montreal! Yep,

Ali
Smoog


can now proudly sport the shoddily Photoshopped yet justly coveted red rectangle below:

Boob oop de doop eh

P.P.S.- That iron woman, Karen is doing an unbelievable 60 MILE WALK FOR BREAST CANCER! If you don't want to sponsor me, perhaps you'd want to sponsor her. Yowza, that makes that 5K Jog for the Jugs seem embarrassingly short.

Mileage on the Marnometer: 400.54 miles (638.7 kilometers)
Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Half way smoochTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.