Watching George and Stella pounce around the kitchen, eating flies and beetles, and attacking one another reminded me that it's time I update the ol' B-L to the O-G. We've had a lot of adventures since my last post including two trips to the great Centennial State (ohhh CO how I love you) and a wild little weekend of snazzing here at home. Although I haven't mentioned our trip to the Gorge (WASHINGTONNN) for the Dave Matthews Caravan, it's a lovely little story that deserves a pst all to itself . . . soooo I'll stick to more current events. <-- Yuckerzzz, how's that sentence for bad grammar?
I recently accepted a job as one of the high school girls' basketball coaches at the wild and crazy Clovis High. I've been going to off-season practices only to find out that my girls are a little less than uncoordinated, to put it lightly. I guess my job is to get them out on the court in some sort of organized fashion, then hope they can sink at least 4 points in the 32 minutes of play action. I know I'm amused now, but I have a feeling I'll be humming a different tune mid-season. The good news is, the coaching staff is rad and the girls are all cool. High school kids are hilarious to me--their only concerns are what they wear, how good they look in what they wear, and what people think of what they wear. More or less. Needless to say, I'm jazzed to be living vicariously through the Lady Wildcats for the next 4-6 months. Plus, I rrrreally want to get asked to prom . . . meaning, I want to be one of the prom chaperones. OMGZZZZZ.
Apparently my last name has been a huge issue with the little ladies because it's the same name as their biggest rival. Well shit. So for the past week the ladies have been trying to come up with a nickname for me. So far we've got: Coach Mel and Coach Meezy. Come ON, let's be a little more creative here! Although . . . I do secretly like Coach Meezy. It has a nice ring to it. Makes me sound all gangsta and stuff. And anyone who knows me knows how gangsta I am . . . speaking of, I'd better get back to my reaction paper on Freudian Psychology. I can't help telling my professor (in so many words) that Freud was a lunatic and we shouldn't be studying his crazy ass. But alas, back to work I go. More adventures to come . . . get it riiiiight.
9/26/11
9/7/11
baaaaaack in action.
Hello, blog. It's been awhile. Since I've last written, I've been on a little whirlwind of adventures including an interesting little evening jog in a nearby park/wildlife refuge. When I say "wildlife refuge" I'm referring to bugs and snakes. I'm convinced that one of these days I'll see an armadillo (because aren't they big in the southwest?) but no luck thus far.
We set out to do a loop around the park (6 mi) with a little less than an hour left of sunlight. It was the perfect night. Things started out great. Great weather. Great pace. Great company. Great conversation. After about 10 minutes I realized I had a flat in the shoestring department which ended up being the beginning of a string of problems (no pun intended). After stopping to squat down and tie my shoe, getting back into my stride felt a little awkward, but I worked on getting back into my groove as quickly as possible. And then it hit. That terrible, awful, no-good stomach cramp that all runners know. It's the "you better pick up your pace or turn around and sprint home OR ELSE" feeling . . . ya read? Well . . . I wasn't too successful in picking up my pace. In fact, I did the opposite. I had to start walking, then run-walking-ish, then just keeling over in pain. I was spiraling downward, and fast. And it was only mile 4. And the sun was rrrreally starting to set. And we didn't have headlamps.
I knew what I had to do.
And it wasn't pretty.
The good news was that then we finally were able to pick up our pace, until about a mile later when a funny looking swirly rock thing in the path ahead of me started to shake its rattle . . . now, this was no ordinary rattle-shaker. In my folds of memory, I recall hearing that a rattlesnake can feel your vibrations from far away and will start to shake its tail at you well in advance. This one must have had a serious case of Sensory Perceptive Disorder because he didn't send off his warning signal until it was too late. I was moving too fast (OK, like 2 mph, but still . . .) and there was no slowing down to move around this guy. By the time I figured out what was going on, I was on top of the snake, leaping over it like Gail Devers (pre-'92 Olympics), then feeling the flight part of fight-or-flight, bolted ahead about 100 yards at a dead sprint. For some reason, I had it in my head that the snake could and would catch me and eat me alive, starting at my feet. I had to remind myself that I was not a rat, but more of a honey badger in this scenario. I was in charge here . . . despite the fact that I was running full-bore in the opposite direction.
Thankfully we finished the run just as the sun sunk below the horizon. I don't think two people have ever hopped in a Suby faster than we did that night.
We set out to do a loop around the park (6 mi) with a little less than an hour left of sunlight. It was the perfect night. Things started out great. Great weather. Great pace. Great company. Great conversation. After about 10 minutes I realized I had a flat in the shoestring department which ended up being the beginning of a string of problems (no pun intended). After stopping to squat down and tie my shoe, getting back into my stride felt a little awkward, but I worked on getting back into my groove as quickly as possible. And then it hit. That terrible, awful, no-good stomach cramp that all runners know. It's the "you better pick up your pace or turn around and sprint home OR ELSE" feeling . . . ya read? Well . . . I wasn't too successful in picking up my pace. In fact, I did the opposite. I had to start walking, then run-walking-ish, then just keeling over in pain. I was spiraling downward, and fast. And it was only mile 4. And the sun was rrrreally starting to set. And we didn't have headlamps.
I knew what I had to do.
And it wasn't pretty.
The good news was that then we finally were able to pick up our pace, until about a mile later when a funny looking swirly rock thing in the path ahead of me started to shake its rattle . . . now, this was no ordinary rattle-shaker. In my folds of memory, I recall hearing that a rattlesnake can feel your vibrations from far away and will start to shake its tail at you well in advance. This one must have had a serious case of Sensory Perceptive Disorder because he didn't send off his warning signal until it was too late. I was moving too fast (OK, like 2 mph, but still . . .) and there was no slowing down to move around this guy. By the time I figured out what was going on, I was on top of the snake, leaping over it like Gail Devers (pre-'92 Olympics), then feeling the flight part of fight-or-flight, bolted ahead about 100 yards at a dead sprint. For some reason, I had it in my head that the snake could and would catch me and eat me alive, starting at my feet. I had to remind myself that I was not a rat, but more of a honey badger in this scenario. I was in charge here . . . despite the fact that I was running full-bore in the opposite direction.
Thankfully we finished the run just as the sun sunk below the horizon. I don't think two people have ever hopped in a Suby faster than we did that night.
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