Wednesday, Mar. 12, 2003
Dear Diary:

I think that we can all agree that the last thing you want to see written on the side of a truck parked on the road where you live are the words "Environmental Emergencies".

As I was leaving for the gym this morning a convoy of large trucks began to park along the river, near the bridge I have to take to get out of the village. I didn't think much about it at the time, figuring they were testing the bridge. I got a lot more excited when I was coming home after my workout and saw the words "Environmental Emergencies" on one of the trucks. I immediately got on the phone.

It would seem logical to call the town hall to get the scoop but that isn't the way small places work. Grapevine. It's all about the grapevine and so I called a friend who lives by the bridge. She said I wasn't the first person to call her, so she decided it was time to go talk to the workers.

It turns out they were rehearsing what would have to be done if the large gas pipeline that goes through our valley into the U.S. was ever damaged. No one has ever worried about this pipeline before and now they are. Are they worried about after effects of terrorism, or have the governments of Quebec and Canada suddenly become extremely environmentally aware?

Hrm. Let's think positively and assume that it's all about a deep appreciation of the environment, 'kay?

On a happier note, today I upped the leg press to 355 pounds. Oh to have graffiti skills so I could tag that suckah with the words "Marn's Bitch". I feigned nonchalance as I was pushing the weight, but when I was done my three sets of 20 reps deep in my heart I was pounding my chest and making scary territorial gorilla sounds.

Aren't you glad I share my rich inner life with you?

While I am well on the way to legs o' steel, I still have arms o' spaghetti. Sadly, the bench press gives me a hard smackdown every time I use it and I've yet to break 60 pounds. Want to know what rots my socks? I have seen barely pubescent boys with arms like twigs easily bench pressing over 100 pounds.

Even worse, I've heard there's a woman in our gym who's benching 150 pounds. I am sick with envy about this.

Oh be quiet. Obsessing about lying on your back and pushing large hunks of metal in the air using only the strength in your arms IS NOT STUPID. It's � it's � oh, okay, so maybe it's a little stupid. I can't help myself. I want to be able to do this. Actually, I desperately want to be able to do this.

Yes, the woman who loathed gym all through high school is now, 34 years later, obsessed with strength issues.

No one can ever accuse me of aging gracefully.

And speaking of aging (remember, I'm a trained professional--don't try segues like this at home without adult supervision) Leiascully most kindly sent in two more design ideas to mark the spousal unit's 50th birthday on April 25. The design won't work as a gift for him--after all this is a tee shirt I was hoping he could wear and uh as far as I know "wangitude" is not an attribute he looks for in objects of desire (and if I catch him wearing tee shirts advertising for new wimmens He Is A Dead Man)--but still, the ideas are funny.

Since several of you have said you'd like to buy wangitude tee-shirts (because, really, can we EVER have too much wangitude in our lives?) I will set up a Caf� Press site with all the designs this weekend and set the price as low as they'll let me.

Well, that's all I got. Feel free to chat amongst yourselves.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 139.42 miles (224.33 kilometers) Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

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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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