Pet Revenge

Pets know how to annoy their owners in many ways. They will:

--"Accidentally" bite or claw just a little too hard during play fighting. "Oh, did I hurt you? I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to do that. Gosh, is that blood on your hand? Are you sure that was me?"

--Tirelessly beg at the sound of the can opener, regardless of the contents of the can. Cats are supposed to have a good sense of smell, but mine can't tell the difference between tuna and tomato soup.

--Always manage to stand directly underfoot in an effort to trip you and then squeak if you step on them. "Pet abuse! I'm calling the pet abuse authorities! I've been deliberately stepped on!" Meanwhile, you're being rushed to the hospital with a broken leg you incurred while falling down the steps because someone doesn't understand the concept of taking turns or walking in line.

--Make you look like a liar in front of your friends when you say something like, "Oh, floofy never does ______." or "Hey, look at this great trick I taught Mr. Bojangles."

--Act like like they are dying of starvation, convince you to feed them, eat one bite of food, and then run away to play.

If you've ever felt the need to get back at your pet for all the ways he annoys you, here is your solution:

Marathon Madness

Last weekend, my husband and I participated in the Baltimore Running Festival. He ran his first marathon and I ran my first half-marathon. We were both really happy with our results, but our journey to the finish line had a few ridiculous twists and turns. Let's just say we learned a lot from this experience.

We left work after lunch on Friday. We went home to pick up our bags and then stopped by the running store to buy energy gels for the run. We got on the road at about 2 PM, made it through the Philadelphia traffic, and hopped onto I-95 with no trouble. Then we came to Delaware.

I have hated Delaware since 2000 when Lehigh's football team made it to the NCAA I-AA division playoffs. We played Delaware on an absolutely frigid December day and I nearly froze to death sitting in the stands waiting for our team to lose. I experienced the kind of cold where I couldn't feel the scalding hot cocoa through the paper cup in my hands. I could see the steam, but I could not feel the heat. When we finally lost to those stupid Blue Hens, we got in the car and it took about an hour before I could feel my toes again.

My experience with Delaware this weekend did nothing to redeem that state in my opinion. Why, you ask? Well, let's try CLOSING TWO LANES OF I-95 DURING RUSH HOUR ON A FRIDAY! By the time we finally made it through the traffic, we were running out of gas and we were still 50 miles from Baltimore.

Finally, we got gas, made it into the city, found our way through the one-way streets in a construction zone around the Ravens' stadium, and parked at the pre-race "Health and Fitness Expo". I can sum up our experience at the Expo by saying that the race organizers definitely could have used a a little help from an industrial engineer, or at the very least, they needed someone on staff who has more than half a functional brain.

For example, we approached Ravens' stadium at the entrance marked "Baltimore Running Festival Health and Fitness Expo" where we found ourselves waiting in a long, slow-moving line. When we finally entered the building, we realized that the planning gurus responsible for this event decided to funnel 7,000 runners and their friends through two 15-person elevators. I'm sure there must have been stairs around there somewhere, but they weren't marked, and we didn't know we were waiting for an elevator, so we didn't know to look for the stairs. Absolute genius.

We wrestled with the Expo lines and finally made it out at about 7 PM. At this point, we were starving and tired from all the stress of driving and waiting in lines. We got some pasta with our friends Steve and Dee and headed over to our hotel at about 9 PM. After several circles around the block, we parked in the over-priced parking garage next to the hotel at 9:45.

At this point, things got scary. I opened the trunk of our car, pulled out my suitcase and asked my husband, "Hey, where's my other bag?" This might be the last sentence anyone wants to utter on the night before a race. (Well, maybe "Is that a bone sticking out of my leg?" might be a little worse...) We checked and rechecked the truck and the car and confirmed that the bag with all of my running things was still at home. I didn't have my perfectly-broken-in running shoes, my carefully-tested running shorts, my favorite non-chafing sports bra, my cool new running shirt. I had nothing.

As this realization sunk in, I froze in disbelief. "Oh s***," I said under my breath and started shaking uncontrollably and nearly threw up. The last time I said the s-word was probably sometime during college. I don't usually find myself in situations where I am unable to express my thoughts, but this was one of those times.

After a few minutes of utter terror, I realized that had my old running shoes in my suitcase, but I was still without any running clothes. A few frantic phone calls to our friends sent us off to the only store open at 10 PM on a Friday night--Walmart. I should point out that I hate Walmart, and not just because I'm a snob. I hate Walmart for their shameful lack of employee benefits, for their discriminatory promotion practices, and mostly for representing everything that is terrible about the American junk culture. But, desperate times sometimes require us to sacrifice our principles and I had no choice but to swallow my disdain and buy into the Walton machine.

I spent about half an hour scrambling through the racks at a store that apparently thinks people need a lot more cheese puffs than workout clothes. I managed to find a sports bra without an underwire (I didn't even know such torture devices existed), a pair of cotton shorts, and a tank top. We proceeded to the checkout, where the cashier managed to scan all of my items and accept payment without actually saying one word to us. We dashed to the car, pulled out of the parking lot and my husband said, "Hey, I'm kinda hungry, where are those bars you brought?"

Oh, no. The bars! Those devious, food-like blobs! They had conspired against me. I realized in a flash exactly what happened when I left my bag at home. As we were loading up the car, I looked in the kitchen cabinet and saw the bars. "Oh, man, honey, we almost forgot our breakfast," I said. I grabbed the bars, walked back into our living room and picked up my running bag. I put the bag on the table and stuffed the bars into the front pocket. In those rushed minutes before leaving the house, we must have grabbed the other three bags from the floor and missed my brown bag sitting on our brown table.

So, hungry and frustrated, we got back to the hotel at 11, but we still had to settle down, cut off my hubby's mop of shaggy hair, and try to fall asleep. Somehow, I managed to drift off, but the alarm yanked me back to consciousness way too early on Saturday morning. We got dressed and packed in a hurry. Since we had no bars and the hotel restaurant wasn't open yet, we wanted to hurry down to the race area to find food. We grabbed a taxi and then wandered around the in the pre-dawn stillness. More people started arriving and the volunteers at the Team in Training tent gave us each a powerbar in exchange for our promise to consider the Team for our next race.

With food in hand, I dashed over to the Under Armour tent where I found "real" running clothes. Although putting them on made me feel like a walking advertisement, I did feel much more comfortable than in my Walmart gear.

The next two hours are really a blur in my memory. The marathon started at 8 AM and I remember seeing my husband's head bobbing away in the crowd. I felt a little teary seeing him run through the confetti and up the first of many hills. I got myself together, used the bathroom, checked my bag and headed over to the start of the half marathon, which was at the halfway point of the marathon. My husband came running through four minutes before the start of my race, so I cheered for him and called out, "Hey there, dead sexy!"

My race was long and hilly, but it was also over surprisingly quickly. I didn't have my watch to help me set my pace, so after four miles, I called out, "Hey, half marathon people, how long have we been running." A tall guy next to me told me we were just at 34 minutes, so I knew all I had to do was hold my pace steady and I would make my goal time of 2 hours.

The worst miles were 7-10. The killer hills started slowing people down as we ran through the ghetto. Even in the worst sections with boarded up houses, people came out to cheer for us. At one point, a bunch of high-school kids were standing on the sidewalk. The boys were performing in a drum line and the girls all held their hands out for the runners to high-five as we ran through. Throughout the course, the cheering and the hand slaps gave me waves of goosebumpy adrenaline that carried me to the top of the hills.

By mile 12, I really started to ache. My back, hips, and knees were throbbing. I felt blisters coming on my feet. I saw marathoners stopped on the sidelines massaging their legs. A few people were crying and groaning as they ran/walked. I thought back to all those months of running in the miserable summer heat. I remembered the aching legs and the sore feet. I remembered feeling like I would never be able to finish 13 miles. And then, I realized that no one could run my race but me. I didn't know how fast I was running, but I knew I had to finish strong. Every time my face would scrunch up on a hill, I told myself, "If you look like this is easy, it will feel easier."

By the time I entered the gates of Camden Yards, I just wanted the race to be over. As I headed over to the Ravens' stadium, I kept thinking, "Just smile for the photographers. You can do it." But just then, with quarter mile to go, the crowds started building. The cheering got louder. When I turned the corner to the finish line, I saw the clock and knew I would make my goal time. I screamed as loud as I could and sprinted (well, sort of sprinted!) to the finish.

After I got my medal, turned in my chip, drank a bunch of gatorade, and ate a few snacks, I started looking for my husband. Fifteen minutes went by. Then half an hour. An hour. I started to get really worried. I knew I had both our cell phones in my checked bag, so I didn't expect him to call. Finally, I checked my phone and realized that I had messages.

Amanda: "Hey hun, I just wanted to let you know that we finished the race and we're taking off. Can't wait to hear how it went."

Jesse: "Hey, just checking in on you. Hope everything went well today. Call me this weekend."

Hubby: "Hey, it's me. I'm in the medical tent. I just needed some fluids, but I'm alright. I'll try to find you when I'm done here."

At this point, I had already left the runners-only secure area to look for him in the family reunion zone. I dashed over to the question tent and they told me that the only way to get to the medical tent was to enter the secure area against the crowd of runners pouring out. I pushed my way through the people to the entrance gate where a cop stopped me.

Cop: "You can't go in there."
Me: "My husband is in the medical tent, I have to go in there."
Cop: "You're not getting in there."
Me: "Please, he's in the medical tent, I have to go to him. I don't know if he's okay. Please let me in there."
Cop: "You already left, you're not getting in again."
Me: "But the people in the question tent said I have to go through here to get to the medical tent. Please, I have to see my husband."
Cop: "I'm not letting you in here."

Now I started to get frantic and I was also a little loopy. In my mind, my husband could have been near death in the medical tent and I wasn't going to let a 60-year-old copy on a power trip keep me from finding him. I started to push through the gate and the cop grabbed me around the waist and said, "Do you want to spend the night in jail? I will arrest you!"

At this point, people all around me started yelling at the cop:

"Let her in!"
"It's just one girl!"
"Her husband's in the medical tent, let her through!"

Finally, the cop said I would have to go around to the back of the secure runner area and ask to be admitted to the medical tent. I took off running around the fence and heard someone calling, "Hanione! Hey, Hanione!"

I flung my arms around my hubby's neck and became hysterical. "Are you okay? I was so worried! They were going to arrest me! I had to find you! Are you okay?" He was laughing and trying to calm me down long enough to explain how he'd finished the race but ended up going into convulsions when he sat down for a massage. They gave him an IV drip and he was better in 10 minutes. (You can read his full account here.)

Over the next two hours, we ate lunch, hobbled off to grab a taxi back to our car, and drove to Steve and Dee's house for a shower. After my shower, I immediately put on my pajamas, had a snack and took a long nap. That night, we went out to a diner for dinner and then got dessert at Vaccaro's in Little Italy. I have never eaten ice cream with so little guilt. It was beautiful.

So, to recap, I think I learned a few important lessons from my first half-marathon:

1) Always check that all your bags are actually in the car when you leave for a trip.
2) Don't drive through Delaware. Ever.
3) Don't wait until 10 o'clock the night before a race to make sure you have your shoes.
4) If someone says he's okay when he leaves you a message, let that sink in before you try to argue with a cop after running for two hours.

All in all, I had fun, and now that I can actually walk again, I'm starting look forward to my next race.

Oh Baby, it smells like Christmas!

Fall weather puts me in a good mood. I don't mean just any good mood. I mean a seriously giddy, unnaturally delighted, constantly smiling, really good mood. I'm beginning to understand that this makes me weird.

Yesterday I went running with a new acquaintance who remarked that it was so nice to see someone who is actually optimistic about the change in the weather. Most people she knows are complaining about the coming cold, dark days. I happen to really like running in cold weather (and conversely, I hate/loathe/dread/despise running in hot weather). Yet, her comments got me thinking that my love for Fall must be more than a physiological and practical preference for not sweating. It has to be deeper than that.

Psychologists will tell you that smells can trigger strong memories and sensations. For example, my grandmother once sent me a beautiful bedspread that she didn't want anymore because it didn't fit her bed. When I opened the box, I experienced a wave of Grammy memories that must have been triggered by the smell of that bedspread. I couldn't identify each individual component of the aroma, but I recognized that sweet combination of her lotion, perfume, and laundry detergent. The smell reminded me of how much I love her, which seems crazy because after all, it's what you do, not your smell that defines you (I hope my readership will recognize that Batman Begins reference).

Now, in the seven years since I moved away from Florida to go to college in the cold Northeast, I have realized that my unusually-intense love for Fall has to do with my love of Christmas. If you've never lived in Florida, this won't be obvious at first. In Florida, you spend most of the year dreaming about Christmas. Yes, Christmas means secret shopping trips, gift wrapping contests, decorations and music, and delicious feasts, but more importantly, Christmas means the change in the weather. (Yes, yes, I know Christmas is when we celebrate Christ's birth, not the low humidity, but that would be a less entertaining essay, so just go with my train of thought...)

Okay, back to the weather. Florida weather comes in three variations: endless infernal sauna, not quite unbearable, and absolutely gorgeous. The infernal sauna lasts from around May to September. March, April, and October are usually hot, but not quite unbearable. The only reason people survive living in Florida are the months of November through February. During these fleeting weeks, Floridans can boast patches of the best weather anywhere. With a few notable exceptions, December usually means sunny, not humid, and 70 degrees. Nights are cold enough for sweaters. Blankets are comfortable to sleep under.

When you're a Floridian, the turn of the weather is glorious. You look for signs that it's coming. You get excited when Orion appears in the night sky because you know that the change is coming. When you finally get to spend a day with all the doors and windows open, you experience an overwhelming feeling of happiness that has no other explanation than that beautiful smell.

I suppose my reaction to Fall weather is rather Pavlovian. Arctic air is ringing a bell and I'm salivating right on queue, but I don't care. Now that I live in a place that actually has four seasons, I get to experience Christmas twice, and that's pretty cool. My first Christmas is in October, on days like today, when all my senses tell me that I should be happy because the weather is cool and dry, so Christmas must be coming. My second Christmas comes in December, when I get to do all those Christmassy things like writing cards, baking cookies, reading the Christmas story out loud, and dancing in the Nutcracker.

My brother just started as a freshmore (he's one of those smart kids who start college with sophmore standing) at the same school where I'm getting my PhD. We go out for coffee one or two mornings a week and we love to talk about the weather. I really don't think this is a sign that we're so bored that we have nothing else to talk about but the weather. Rather, I think we're two people who share a secret. We're having Christmas early and it makes us happy. What a beautiful trick of the senses.