Thursday, Nov. 27, 2003
Dear Diary:

We woke up to the unholy sound of a fight to the death between two cats right outside our bedroom window last night. When we turned on the outside yard light, all we could see was a swirl of grey and white which was obviously Zubby and churning tabby which we assumed was Norma.

We raced outside to break them up only to be greeted by Norma who'd been watching the whole thing with intense interest from the shadows. Uh oh. There'd been a breach in our homeland security and Zubby was dealing with the intruder. Winter meant the outside hose was disconnected so the spousal unit had to break them up with yelling and light broom swats.

The intruder disappeared off down our driveway and Zubby stalked back into the house with stiff-legged pride, in passing shooting Norma a "I could snap you like a twig" look that cracked both the spousal unit and I up. Enid, who the spousal unit has nicknamed WGD (Weapon of Gas Destruction) for her tendency to pass gas when petted into a purring frenzy--slept through the whole thing, never leaving our bed.

Yep, Zubby will defend us, Norma will watch his efforts with interest, and Enid will sleep through the whole thing, only waking up to fart on us. Oh yes, we know how to walk into a shelter and pick out the very best cats of all. It's our special gift.

Today is the American Thanksgiving. The men and women at my gym have startlingly different responses to the holiday.

Yesterday the guys proudly bragged about how they're all going to undo the top buttons of their jeans so they can do a little power eating. There's no doubt in my mind that after the meal they'll be lolling on the couch like seals in the sun.

The women had the grim look of martyrs who are girding their loins to go to war. It's not just the work involved in the preparation, serving and cleaning up after a big meal such as this. No, it was also about eating.

The way they discuss certain foods puts me in mind of the way theologians discuss the gravity of certain sins. When did food choices become moral choices? Sure, some foods are healthier than others, but if you choose to eat less healthy foods does that make you a bad person?

The trainer at my gym was already being shoved into the gym equivalent of the confessional.

"Forgive me, trainer, for I have sinned."

"Go on, my child."

"Well, trainer, I ate pie. I ate a big honking piece of pumpkin pie last night and my mother-in-law is bringing over pecan pie for Thanksgiving and I know there's no way I can refuse pecan pie."

"Go on, my child."

"And what's the point of living if you can't have mashed potatoes and gravy on Thanksgiving?"

"Half an hour on the treadmill, 20 minutes on the Stairmaster, 15 minutes on the stationary bicycle. Go forth my child and pie no more."

Pie no more.

My gym has been changing its focus lately. In an effort to get new members it's been hopping on the weight loss bandwagon. "We'll get you results," the sign out front trumpets. This makes me a bit nervous because, well it's never been that sort of place before.

I mean, up until now I've been able to show up in my ratty tee shirt du jour, no make up, hair in a pony tail and just work out. It's been a fun, casual place and more about building strength and endurance than about the perfect body.

Pie no more, indeed.

Can posters of Olivia Newton-John wearing a sweatband and singing "Let's Get Physical" be far behind?

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 522.72 miles (854 kilometers)
met goal Nov. 7
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.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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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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