Running update: More like skiing

I suppose this is the time of year I could be recounting the horrors of holidayness for you all, but I'd wager you see that most everywhere else in the whole wide world, so there's no real need for me to do it here, too.

If, for some bizarre reason, you feel the need to get my take on the absurdity of the holiday season, you might refer to some of my previous years' posts for that. Be warned that these are not the merry, blinking, squealing with holiday cheer kind of posts one might expect from someone with my pleasant disposition (that was a joke - happy holidays)- so just proceed with caution. And know that there will be swears.

Instead of bitching about how my neighbors have covered their entire house with lights and an animated nativity scene complete with baby Jesus singing Jingle Nuts on a loop, let's instead talk about how fucking cold it was this morning when I went for a run.

Friends - it was cold.

How cold was it, Finny?

So cold that if I had balls, they'd have been frozen right off and would probably still by resting on my front porch where I first came into contact with the morning's temps while outfitted in all of my running clothes.

Now, I know that a lot of you crazy whores live in places that get much colder than it does here in sunny NorCal and let me just tell you that this fact means very little to me when I go out to run around in it, so don't get all "Well, it was 20 below when I went out to the snowmobile this morning and I had no problem so you should shut up" because unless you were going out to run three miles in that weather while slipping and nearly tearing off a left leg while you were doing it, I don't give a rat's behind.

Really. I don't.

Because when it's in the high 20s (I think it was 29) when you pull on your running tights and then put on the long-sleevey top and the special Don't Freeze Your Tits vest and the insulating gloves and the ear-warmer headband - all on the advice of your now frozen Bubba who came back from walking the dog with his face frozen in a painful grimace - it matters not the temps elsewhere in the world.

Because you are Here. About to go running in twenty-something degree weather.

And, hey, by the way, watch out for the Everything because it's all iced up.

This was Bubba's advice to me and it was life-saving because LO it was icy. And being a NorCal girl from the inside out, I can tell you that I'm ill-prepared to be running around on icy streets.

Now, snowy streets? Fine. I ran while we were back in Kansas and the snow was falling and the streets were all snowy and it was AOK. I never slipped. I wasn't all that cold. A good time was had by all. And by "all", I mean me and the funny dog who'd escaped his fenced yard and was running free across the school's baseball field being chased by his very slow and ill-equipped owners.

But icy roads and 29 degree weather? Um. No. This really isn't my specialty. In the sense that I'm not awake enough at 6am to calculate the precise movements required to dodge leaves frozen to sidewalks, black ice holing up in the cracks of the street, frost accumulated on lane markers and so on.

To put it plainly, my run this morning - while invigorating and if-I-do-say-so-myself quite quick - was terrifying.

I slipped. I slid. I screeched. I pissed off my left groin muscle when trying to control a surprise slide into the ditch. I skied from one side of the intersection to the other without any proprietary ski equipment or the know-how to cross-country ski.

And, less terrifying but still ever-present, was the cold.

My ass cheeks, I believe, are still monkey-butt bright red right now from the effects of the bracing morning air caressing them roughly through the thin layer of spandex in my running tights for three miles.

My fingers just regained feeling to all of their tips.

My cheeks are now deadened against the weather and are turning black with frostbite.

OK, that last one's not true - but they were cold, too.

What's really probably deadened from exposure are my plants.

Whoopsy.

Now, it is well-known that I'm not so good at protecting nubile plant growth from the harsh effects of winter weather, but for some reason I put plants out there anyway, knowing full well they'll be frozen soon enough.

Last year, I was pleasantly surprised by the arugula and fava beans that took a frost and kept on growing, but I sort of don't think the frozen little tendrils of the pea plants are going to, like, thaw out and spring back.

That would be a miracle.

I do, however, hold out hope that this frost wasn't enough to discourage my kumquats from fully ripening, since they are citrus and are supposed to do well in this weather of ours here, so hold out hope for that.

See those ice crystals? Yeah. Welcome to California.

The nasturtium, however, is totally toast. Which is fine. That's what it's supposed to do - get all frosty and then get all brown and wilty and then spend the rest of the winter acting like a cover for the soil underneath. Fine.


Everything else? Well, I hope it had fun with the extra month of frost-freeness because our first frost date was 11/1 and, welp, today was what I would consider our first frost and today is not 11/1.


We'll see what this means for our last frost date, but I can tell you what it means for running - it means I need a hat. And maybe some more insulating pants. And a new hobby for a while - an indoor one.

The Not Leftover Prize

Firstly, good job getting through that post with all its talk of grody old turkey and squooshy gooshiness. I nearly barfed re-reading it to figure out what I was getting at with this whole book giveaway thing.

Meanwhile I already want to make that turkey pot pie again because My Trailer Sense is tingling and also we don't have any smoked turkey left so, you know, I always want what I can't have.

Just so you know, we haven't really had anything all that mind-bending since the Turkey Pot Pie incident of the other day, so there aren't any other recipes to recount in glorious detail or with side stories about squooshy gooshiness. BUT I did like the turkey leftover ideas you guys had and the movie suggestions for a long day of needle-breaking crafting.

I see I'm not the only one who loves John Cusak and that makes me feel better about myself. Now, if someone else can admit to nearly peeing the floor with excitement when Bravo! announced their John Hughes-a-thon, I'd appreciate it. Because I nearly did. Pee the floor that is. I think that of my favorite all time movies, he probably created 90% of them.

But you know this.

Also, his untimely passing marks only the second time in my life when I've been legitimately sad over the passing of a celebrity person. Like, I've felt real sadness as though a friend died. OK, I didn't cry - but there was definite bummed-outness. When Chris Farley died (also untimely and sudden), I might go as far as to say that it felt like a little bit of me died, too. Which is super dramatic and ridiculous, sure, but not completely untrue.

That man could really rock a lunch lady outfit.

ANYWAY - you didn't come here to hear me lament the passing of movie folk. No, you whores are here to see who won the copy of One Yard Wonders because you can't wait to see the dog on page 113 eyeing down my project sample.

Ew. Sample. That sounds nasty.

I promise, though, that there's no nastiness visible in my pattern or its photo with the dog.

OK, enough stalling - the Random Thingee Chooser randomly chose Two Sisters Sewing to receive a free copy of this extra-awesome-because-I'm-in-it sewing book!

hoooooooooRAY! Also - send me your full name with mailing address and phone number to finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom so that I can pass it on to the Storey Publishing (Hi Storey! Wuv you!) gal so she can send you your book. YAY.

For the rest of you whores who are now all sad that you didn't win the book - I sorry.

But, if you who soothe your sadness the way I do, which is to say by shopping, I say hop over to Amazon and grab this book up as they're still in stock for the low and totally doable (not in a sexy way) price of $14.25.

And, if you're about to skip town on this blog because of my relentless shilling, let's change the subject.

Have any of you baked your own dog biscuits and, if so, do you recommend any particular recipes because I'm about to become that guy and make dog biscuits for all the dogs in my life don't want to be wasting my time with just any old random dog biscuit recipe.

Because those dogs? They are, like, so picky when it comes to their treats. I mean, it's not like they'd just eat any old disgusting thing right out of a muddy puddle on the ground or anything.

Sorry I changed the subject to something stupid like dog treat recipes. I'll try to think of something more riveting next time.

I barely died.

You remember when I was planning to melt down and/or jump from a ledge during the month of November due to NaNoWriMo?

Do you remember even what NaNoWriMo means?

If so - you're doing better than most. And by most, that could include me.

See - I didn't so much not melt down as I just didn't die trying to write 50,000+ words during the 30 day span of November 2009.

In fact, I didn't do a lot of the things that the forums and people warned (threatened) that I would do. Like stay up nights typing away my sleeping time writing crap. Or go hungry while I wrote crap. Or hang out at a write-in all day and write crap. Or start bribing the dog to write some crap for me with her crap instead of me putting it in a blue bag like a normal person.

And that is just gross.

No, I didn't do any of those previously mentioned things except the part about writing crap because OH FRIENDS did I write some crap.

I mean, in the course of 50, 334 words (my number as of midnight 11/30), there's bound to be some crap. The thing is that I thought there was also bound to be some genius, or humor, or at least an interesting interlude involving my main character's three boobs - but no, there really wasn't.

Thankfully, I'm promised that all that will be worked out during NaNoEdMo which is, in case you didn't work it out already, National Novel Editing Month.

I believe it happens in March and I believe it involves putting in 50 hours of editing time over the course of 30 days and that sounds a LOT harder to do than spend half an hour or so a day writing 1,667 words (or more if you're feeling spicy) about blue boobs, two-pronged alien dicks, ways that Subway sucks (yes, like as in the sandwich place), mid-sixties models of Airstream trailers, the population of Palm Springs, California and the state of truck stops in the not-so-distant future.

Though, when I see all that written out on the screen, it seems like while I may not have 50 hours to call my own in which to edit during the month of March (our final frost date is March 1 dontchaknow), I certainly have lots of content to, um, edit.

Oh yes. I believe I could crunch away on that crap for hours and just maybe, if a stroke of genius passes over me for 50 consecutive hours during which time I neither bathe, eat or make suggestive remarks to Bubba, I *might* be able to squeal out something vaguely readable. And if I'm, like, SUPER lucky and all the stars align just so, that same readable thing might also make you laugh at least once and then shrink back in horror a few times.

It would be nice to get an audible, "Oh EW!", from someone, but I'm not going to set my sights too high.

And what are my sights at this point? Hrmmm...well, I dunno.

I'd like to think that, come March, I'll still have some interest in this absurd little parody I spliced together with dog poo and far-fetched intergalactic theories, but who really knows? By then I may be on to more relevant and captivating things like which melon to plant in the garden or WHY HAVEN'T I STARTED TRAIL RUNNING YET?

I might.

Or, I might be all juiced up to dive back into this beast and tear it to shreds, saving only the five coherent sentences for a future work of incredible, disgusting, humorous potty genius.

What's potty genius?

Who the fuck knows!

That's the great part - this future work could be anything. (And if you're a Family Guy fan, feel free to chime in here with the boat thing.) It could even be the purest example of the art known as potty genius.

What's potty genius?

See, we've gone full circle. Sort of.

Anyway, this is just me here to say thanks for hanging out with me through the month of November and weighing in with a little pep talk when my story started to take an unscheduled dive into the shitter. Not that I necessarily retrieved it from the shitter, but I did become more comfortable with the shitter and the ways that my story would inevitably lead me back in its direction from time to time and not to worry.

Also, I promise that my little novel had precious little to do with actual shit or potties. Really. I don't even think bathroom humor came up. Which is strange. And could potentially explain my novel's failings.

But I'm back now, to bore you with my mind's incessant and sometimes grotesquely inappropriate ramblings without the encumbrance of a required daily 1,667 words to write.

And, in case you're curious as to how I did it - because there are all these strategies for how one goes about writing 50,000 words in 30 days - that is it. My big secret was writing every day, for 1,667 or more words (barely ever more though) so that I wouldn't get behind and have to make up too much.

Because I don't do so well at catch-up. I'm better at just plowing through. It's my way.

And, incidentally, it's a damn fine way to write some incredible crap and come up with characters that you did not even know existed within the walls of your skull. I mean, really, where DOES this shit come from?

That there, is the key to why people can do this 50,000 word write-a-thon - if you just write and don't think too hard, things will just pop into your head and your novel will take bizarre turns for no fucking reason and BAM you've got an uncle with a dark past on another planet and an inexplicable glowing coming from the back room of his motorcycle shop.

See that! Right there? That wasn't even in my book but damn if it's not a bizarre turn.

Anyway - Happy December. I'm glad I'm not required to write 1,667 words a day anymore even though I just wrote 1,000 something for no other reason than to thank you whores for being such nice whores.

You should know there are whores in my book. BUT THAT'S ALL I'M SAYING.

What the F I do with leftovers + PRIZE (not a leftover)

In case you didn't know, we smoked turkeys for Thanksgiving this year. And in case you didn't know, smoked turkey is delicious.

Like two pounds a person delicious.

Yeah, I know, no one ever eats two pounds of turkey on Thanksgiving. Two pounds of pie, fine - all the time, but not turkey. Because, let's face it, turkey only gets top billing because its famous dad paid off someone at the theater to put his name at the top of the playbill or something.

And I don't know why I just made a theater analogy since I never go to the theater, but sometimes you have to just go with what comes out. And wow. That sounds grody.

ANYWAY.

Even with this unprecedented turkey eating, there were still leftovers. Half a big foil pan's worth - including a couple of the pterodactyl legs. Feeling a bit rotund and also because my mom told us to, we left all the leftovers with her to feed the holiday guests (and props to those animals - it was gone in 24 hours) and went home to our demure little zippie bag of turkey shrapnel left from my maniacal carving.

Feeling a little stupid for dating the bag now, but whatever.

To be honest, I didn't think we'd even want the little zippie bag of Who Gives a Crap, but because I don't do waste, and this was all just sitting on the cutting board after I got done deconstructing those big boobs, I put it in a bag bound for the freezer with the thought that maybe one day I'd thaw it out and make the dog's day or something.

Certainly WE were not going to eat it. Pffft. Ew.

See, there's something about reheated turkey makes me...uh...gag. Sorry, I was gagging just thinking about it.

It's the grayness of turkey meat after a day in the fridge. And the weird gamey grody taste. And the smell. And the squishy gooshy sound of people tearing at the sandy rubbery leftover meat with their teeth. GAG. It's all those things and then something wiggly makes it into my sandwich and I have to contemplate suicide.

Anyway, if you haven't barfed yet, I'm here to tell you that when you smoke turkey rather than roast it - the reheated flavor, texture and smells are still heavenly. Because, duh, it's smoked. Which we all know is the best way to treat any meat of any kind.

So, it's now accepted in our house as a feasible leftover food item. As long as it's smoked.

But, it's not like I'm just going to slam it between a couple slices of bread with some mashed potatoes and stuffing or something (though, now that I think about it...) because that is too predictable and, well, we ate all the potatoes.

And, to be honest, I wasn't thinking about doing much with it at all, until I found myself with a dinner to make and very little inspiration coming from my Master Cookbook, which is my binder of mismatched recipes from the Internets and beyond.

Thankfully, Bubba suggested we use our tried and true what the F do we have for dinner method of dinner-deciding: What Do We Have That Needs To Go.

As in - do we have any vegetables on their last legs, a pile of frozen something, bread going stale, what have you.

This process has served us well, once again, and The Leftover Dinner That Will Live in Infamy was born. From smoked turkey shrapnel, the rest of a bag of frozen peas, a stray kohlrabi going bouncy, three small frozen pie crust remnants, an odd onion, some thyme from the diminishing herb garden, a couple carrots from the bottomless bag in the crisper and a can of chicken broth.

Can you guess what I made?

Hint: It would fit nicely in our Dinner from 1984 nights.

Turkey Pot Pie, y'all!

We are securing our place in WT America with this one.

Best part was - it was fucking awesome. Seriously! I've never made or eaten a turkey (or chicken for that matter) pot pie before because it always sounded nasty, but this was really fucking good.

For the record, I used Pioneer Woman's recipe, but left out the cream altogether, subbed kohlrabi for celery and used my own pie crust.

So - it was good for a lot of reasons but especially so since I got to make a crazy mirepoix with kohlrabi instead of celery and then patchwork blend three leftover pie crust remnants from pies of yore into a crust for an all new pie.

OK, so my mirepoix isn't perfect, but I haven't been through the Cordon Bleu yet.

The consistency was perfect. And so I took this photo. Even though this is a stupid looking photo.

You can see the patchworking in that it didn't all bake up the same. Good thing it tasted amazing.

And since we were already well into WT territory with this dinner, I hardly flinched when Bubba went back for seconds and *gasp* covered his second serving with shredded cheddar cheese.

We are SO trailer.

And while Jada was an enthusiastic cheerleader for the reanimation of the turkey, her experience with leftovers was more of the fabric persuasion.

She is so optimistic, our dog.

And in case I just lost you there, we've changed subjects and are now talking about a craft project.

A very important craft project.

From a very important craft book.

Which is the subject of today's previously mentioned prize.

You with me now? Thought you might be.

See, friends, I was a contributor to the recently released to rave reviews and much fanfare crafting book, One Yard Wonders.

Which you know because I shamelessly self-promote.

BUT - what you didn't know was that I'd had my eye on a project in that book from the time that some of the patterns were released to the press (ie. they were posted on Facebook by the publisher) and when I got my contributor's copy in the mail, I totally knew I was going to make that project On The Double.

And I did.

That project was the Cozy Dog Bed by Mary Richmond and, while I altered it to fit the size of my pooch so may have used a skoshe more fabric than a yard (Ms. Jada doesn't fit on one yard of fabric), it still came out excellent and my enjoyment of this book continues to grow.

And Jada's enjoyment of not lying on a squooshed out dog bed also continues to grow.

Even though I already loved it with all my heart because I'm in it. On, like page 113 where my project poses with a dog that's not Jada, but cute all the same. Even though a dog that looks just like that one totally wants to fight Jada at the park, but I don't think it's the breed, I think it's the owner, but YOU DON'T CARE, you just want a copy of this book, right?

Right.

I knew you were all whores. Fabulous, fabulous whores.

SO - when I said PRIZE way back at the beginning of this post, what I meant was a copy of One Yard Wonders. For someone randomly selected by the random name chooser thingee for leaving a comment.

That's all. Just a comment. Though you can feel free to swear, share leftover turkey recipes or list the top 3 movies you'd choose to miraculously have show up on your DVR for a day long crafting session. So, you know, you could listen to their familiar sounds in the background as you broke two needles in a row.

Not that this would happen while you use your One Yard Wonders book, though. Those patterns are super safe and tested.

Those other things can happen, though, when you're testing out new patterns with a too-small needle before realizing you should just use the fucking leather needles because why are you going to buy them and not use them? Good thing Sixteen Candles, Breakfast at Tiffany's and Earth Girls are Easy were all on the DVR to save you from scooping your eyes out with a soup ladle.

Anyway. Leave a comment by Thursday, 12/4. I'll choose a winner at random. I'll post the winner on Friday, 12/5. And then the super nice and awesome gal from Storey Publishing will send the winner a copy of this very awesome (and not only because I'm in it on page 113) new crafting book for your one yard using pleasures.

Good. Go.

00:29:14

And now we can all be thankful that I got that sub-30 5K PR that I've been shooting for so that no one has to listen to me making up sorry excuses for why I didn't get a sub-30 5K PR and if you don't understand all these obscure acronyms and number references then I guess you can be thankful that you're a literate person with reasonable communication skills because obviously I am not.

And that was a pretty incredible run-on sentence. Feel free to be thankful for that too, if you want.

Let's just all go eat five desserts now. And race fries.

Happy Turkey.

A post for my mom - The Turkey's Coming.

This isn't the turkey. Obviously. This is just to prove that we have fall in NorCal. See.

This year we're doing the Thanksgiving turkey.

Not because we're all super nice and give-y like that, but because we (I) have a very guilty conscious and also we (Bubba) are handy with a smoker.

See, earlier this year, while me mum was so graciously hosting our normally well-behaved-to-the-extreme pooch at her house while we pranced drunkenly around the island of Maui, she took a pretty harsh tumble.

Like, she harshly tumbled while holding tight to the leash as the dog made a mad lathering dash after a STUPIDSTUPID cat.

This resulted in me showing up at the house to retrieve the dog only to find my mom cradling her arm with an ice pack and trying to reassure me that she was just fine as blood dripped from her chin.

SO NOT OK.

Let me tell you, people, this is not how you want to find your sweet dog-loving mama after a week of pooch sitting especially when, just an hour ago on the phone, she said she was going to "go enjoy one last walk with the dogs" before I showed up.

SADNESS.

The woman, she is an animal-lover, and this goes double for the dogs. Yet, for some reason, our dogs (my brother's dog, our childhood dogs, etc) sometimes torture my mom by taking her for a ride while they're out on walks. And would you like to know why?

Because of CATS.

Muther Effing Cats.

Now, you know that I have a cat. Her name is Rocket and she is a cute but bloodthirsty beast who poses no threat to my mom because Jada is so afraid of her that she won't go chasing after her on-leash or off. However, when something like this happens - where my mom gets dragged raw and bloody in the name of a cat - I come home and give Rocket the stink-eye because Her Kind is, in my opinion, at fault for the horrible consequences that befell my beloved mama.

Regardless of the fact that it was the dog who chased the cat and was attached to the other end of the Death Leash that dragged mama to the ground.

Know this, friends, I favor the dog. I always will. Because I'm not a fair and just pet-owner and also because Rocket, while cute and fuzzy as all get out, tries to murder me on a regular basis and so I feel like the feeling is mutual.

ANYWAY.

I told you that to tell you this: we're bringing the turkey this year because my mom sustained a pretty heinous crack to the shoulder (as in, it was fractured- BARF) that prevents her from lifting heavy objects. Heavy objects like 20 lb turkeys that need to go in ovens.

And also because she likes smoked meats (which, doesn't everyone?) and when I offered to bring smoked turkey to Thanksgiving she didn't even do the, "Oh honey, if you think it wouldn't be too much trouble..." thing. No. She just said, "Hell muther effin' yeah!" or something a bit more subdued and ladylike because my mom isn't an awful heathen like yours truly.

So, we got some turkeys. Specifically, three bone-in breasts (with necks and wings? So weird.) and, like, half a dozen giant legs.

Big boobs.

Pterodactyl legs.

Basically, what we have are the parts for three fully-assembled turkeys, but I had it in my head that we were only going to smoke the breast meat (because dark meat is evil and I don't recall anyone ever eating it) so I only bought the breasts. To avoid all the butchery involved in carving up three birds.

Except we went back and got drumsticks because there are, apparently, some people who DO like dark meat even though I will continue to classify it in the EW section of my food memory banks. I have problems, this is true.

Anyway.

Us with our three deconstructed turkeys went out to the smoker last Saturday and Bubba did all the work. Like, I left the scene of the crime to go eat burgers with a friend while Bubba manned the smoker and did all the smoker magic that people will be raving about tomorrow.

Don't think for one second, though, that I'm not going to take some of the credit for the deliciousness that will ensue. I mean, I did salt the birds and lift them out of the smoker with Bubba's super handy turkey gloves and that is a lot of poultry wrestling if you ask me. Not to mention that later on today I will be slicing these birds into succulent platter fulls for the enjoyment of my family.

Jailbirds. HA! My own jokes...they are laughable.

See? I'm good at this credit-stealing! Not that this is an admirable quality, but I work with what I have.

While we're on the subject though, I should give all the credit to Bubba because that man really knows his way around a smoker.

Especially a monster smoker that he hand welded from Craigslist finds, industrial off-road worthy casters and miles of ingenuity.

We call this treat, Frankensmoker.

Also, he had to saw up tree limbs (another friendly donation) so that the smoke would be *just right* and then spend the day On Watch making sure that the smoke stayed hot enough (BUT NOT TOO HOT DAMN YOU!) and the beer stayed cold.

Beer not pictured.

He's a dedicated soul, my Bubba.

Anyway, since this post is for my mom: Hi mom! Don't worry about the turkey - he's on his way! We'll see you after the race in the morning and we're bringing Jada who promises to be on her very best behavior. In other words, please tell all the cats to stay away because...you know...

Everyone else - Happy Turkey, you whores. Come back later and we'll talk about the bestselling sewing and needlecrafts book on Amazon.

Oh yeah, you know what it is.

A lesson from Finny: Don't do shit for stupid reasons

Let's be honest for a second, OK?

Let's think back to when I started out this year with my fresh new goal of Hey! I'm going to run two half marathons this year rather than my usual single solitary one. Remember that? OK, good.

So, when I set that goal, of doubling my slow-going running career to go for a full 26.2M spaced out over two 13.1M courses and divided by a sweet three month water break, I had a variety of inspiration driving the decision.

Firstly, I'm kind of a goal-oriented person. Like, in the sense that I totally am. And back in the day when I started running regularly and taking it seriously enough to go out and buy proper shoes that didn't blister the EVER LOVING HELL out of my feet, I started setting goals for my running self. Like, if I am going to be running like this I should probably train for something so that I don't get bored or just flake out like a big fat loser on the mornings when it's chilly out or I just feel like laying in bed contemplating Bubba's ear hairs.

And so, I signed up for a 10K. Which was followed by a half marathon and a 5K Turkey Trot for good measure. That was 2007.

When I hit 2008 and everyone started getting all, "What are your New Year's resolutions?" and what not, I started think about it. Not that I was going to set any resolutions, because I have resolved not to resolve since it has never done me a damn bit of good, but I started to think about what I wanted to achieve that year. In other words, I set some goals. Like, I wanted to best my half marathon time (check) and run a few other races, one out of state (check).

Then I got to January 2009. People started saying the same New Year's things. I reminded myself of my self-promise not to make resolutions. I instead set some goals. But setting those goals was harder because I hadn't left myself a lot of interesting room within which to move.

Meaning, I could just try to best my half marathon time again by running the same race in October OR I could up the ante. But since we all know I've had no designs on running a full marathon, that wasn't going to be my tact. No, instead I settled on running two half marathons this year (check and check)- in essence doubling my previous years' efforts. And then I'd throw in a couple random races just for the hell of it (check) and hey let's make one of those half marathons an out-of-stater.

And when I chose these two half marathons to complete my yearly goal, would you like to know how and why I chose them? Because it's a pretty sad and ego-tastic reason...

Well, first I'll tell you that I chose two races from the Rock 'N Roll series. Which doesn't seem like that big of a stretch since the other part of my goal was to run a half out of my state and they have a Rock 'N Roll in Seattle (an inaugural one - special), which happens to be where my fiesty sister mama lives, so if I ran it then I'd also get the chance to go hang out with her for a few days and do some sister-type stuff like eating falafel at the Hot Guy Falafel place, salted caramel ice cream at Molly Moon's and Thai peanut chicken at Thai Tom.

But this isn't about my pre-race eat-a-thons. Even though I highly recommend all three of those Seattle eating establishments. Strongly. And with great fervor.

OK.

So, even though I'm not always motivated by food (which would have been a good reason to choose Seattle now that I think about it), I am effectively motivated by physical representation of achievement.

Which is to say that I like medals. And trophies. And plaques. Basically things that say that I did a good job and deserved physical proof to that effect.

I'm a small person, what can I say.

Anyway, that character flaw plays into this scenario because part of the reason I chose the Seattle Rock 'N Roll to accompany my San Jose Rock 'N Roll was because if you run two half marathons in their series in one year's time, they give you ANOTHER medal, on top of your finisher's medals awarded at the finish line, to say that "HEY! Good job, person! You finished two of our races this year!"

And you know I like that. All that "Good job, Finny"-ness and all.

Now, clearly that extra medal wasn't going to be able to get me all juiced up to train for two half marathons all in itself. No. I'd need some real dedication and motivation for that.

Which is where my other inspiration for running these two big races came from. Things like avoiding The Fatness and getting in good backpacking shape and just trying to motivate myself to keep running on a regular basis - stuff like that. Stuff that makes sense to people without the giant gaping character flaw that I believe some folks call Pride or Vainglory or Vanity or the lack of modesty or whathaveyou.

Thankfully, I don't concern myself with biblical classifications, so I'm not too concerned with descending into the pits of hell because I earned an extra finisher's medal which, dontchaknow, sits with the others collecting dust on my bookshelf in all of its anti-climatic glory.

So, truth be told, I held that extra medal out there as a nice icing on the inspiration cake, so to speak, and didn't really tie much of my motivation to it.

And I'm pretty glad I didn't because when it showed up in the mail, I just plain laughed.

Talk about your anti-climatic moments.

I guess it can't be all engraved placards and bowing townfolk.

Yes, in a plain brown paper envelope, much like one would expect to accompany a lustful type of adult internet order or black-market Cialis, arrived my series medal and a scrap of paper the size of a standard Post-it declaring a trite little congratulations.

Now, having run only two half marathons and not, say seven marathons to become a Rock Legend or some such nonsense, it wasn't that much of a diss. I already had my two finisher's medals and a PR gained on my first hilly half marathon course. BUT, this pithy little package had me laughing pretty hard.

And I was really glad that I'd done all that training and running and sweating and not drinking on Friday nights before my long training runs and all that other shit for reasons other than this. Because if I had done it all for this scrap of paper and sketch package then WHOA would I have been sad.

Though, one has to hope that they put a little more spice and excitement into awards going to people who've run, like, 180+ miles after paying those incredible registration fees, but who really knows.

Anyway, I just thought I'd share that moment of "Don't do shit for stupid reasons" with you all because this was really one of those moments that brought it home for me and made me glad I was running for fear of Fatness and making my 2008 running self look slow rather than for the glory of a handsomely presented award declaring my greatness.

Phew. Dodged that shame bullet pretty narrowly, now didn't I?