To quote Blues Traveler, “Why you wanna give me a run-around?”

Several years ago, TB and I had a conversation that went something like this: “If there was a Zombie Apocalypse, you would trip me.” To which I could only reply, “Of course I would. I’d never outrun you; and you know what they say… you don’t have to be first, you just can’t be last.” All jokes aside, I’ve decided to train for a marathon, and I don’t even mean the kind that starts on Saturday morning, includes pizza, and involves one hundred twenty one, back-to-back episodes of Lost. Though, in the spirit of full disclosure, that may be the only kind I ever finish.  

But I digress; the point is that, as someone who comes from a long line of bad hearts and whose cholesterol is 241, I need to do something or I’m going to stroke out… and not in a hot way… more in a oh-my-wow- is-there-a-black-market-Twinkie-in-that-dead-woman’s-mouth kind of way. So here’s my plan. Even though I run like the poster child for Ritalin, and you wouldn’t make eye contact if you saw me on a treadmill, I’m going to do a few 5Ks, work my way up to a relay-style marathon, do a half marathon, and then do the full enchilada—26 miles and change; all the while praying that I don’t shit myself in public… which I’ve read CAN ACTUALLY HAPPEN if you run more than your mouth or errands. Not that I would know.

With that, I downloaded a virtual trainer and bought, “The Non-Runner’s Marathon Guide for Women” by Dawn Dais. The friend who recommended it said, “You’ll love it. The author hates running, and it’s not her biggest fan either; but, if she can do it, you can do it. This is a woman whose fitness routine included avoiding the stairs in her own house. She’s just like you.” Yes, really. Granted, the friend who said that went on to explain chaffing, then added, “It’s not that bad. People will be there handing out Vaseline if you need it.” I’m not kidding you. That’s a real thing. Complete strangers stand at check points and hand out petroleum jelly. I don’t know if I’d be flattered, offended or intrigued, but I do know this: if I were approached, I would go to my deathbed wondering why I was profiled, and I would never make peace with the fact that a person I’ve never met looked at me and thought, “That woman looks like she needs KY Jelly ASAP.” 

Seriously, and that’s if THEY approach YOU. How in the HELL are YOU supposed to approach THEM, “Hi, are you the lube guy?” I can see it in my head right now. I’d be at mile 13, need it, find the volunteer, and there’d be a language barrier, so I'd end up shouting and using hand gestures... only to find out that this person is just in charge of handing out water… the lube guy was two miles back. It’d be horrid and sooooo par for the course. Maybe I shouldn’t do it. Maybe I should just run to the store for a bottle of wine instead. That’s way more my speed.

Talk to you later.

OK… I febrezed the dog, but that crazy bitch totally had it coming.

If you’ve ever read mkromd, then you know that my dog is insane and that she and I have a love-hate relationship. No really, at the risk of anthropomorphizing, you can tell that she loves to do things only because they piss me off. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes that poor baby is just in the wrong place at the wrong time, like when she got sprayed by a skunk and ran through DB’s house a few years ago; but other times, she’s a willing participant. And this time, she rolled in dog-shit…on purpose…then tried to rub against me…repeatedly…at a park…where smallish-sized children were playing. 

All jokes aside, she smelled worse than the victim in The Exorcist. And, because I kept running away from her, she thought I was playing, which made her want to play more, regardless of the fact that I was throwing water from my Kleen Kanteen and shouting, “The Power of Christ compels you. The Power of Christ compels you.” The saddest part of that story is that it’s totally true, but I digress. 

The point is that I will never understand how her canine brain translated my reaction to her behavior as, “Who’s a good girl and wants to play?” But I do know that, even though she was blissfully clueless, those kids figured it out pretty-damned fast, because - when they tried to pet “the puppy,” the only thing I could scream was, “Unclean! UNCLEAN!” and they stopped. OK, maybe they didn’t “get it” per se, but not one of them went home with dog shit all over them, and —years from now, when they work it out in therapy—I hope they stop repressing the fact that I did them a favor. They’re welcome.

At any rate, after twenty minutes of being down-wind on the humid walk home, I’d had it, and when we finally got to our yard, I tied her to a tree, put on rubber gloves, grabbed the dog shampoo, turned on the hose, and started scrubbing her. Now, she’s a Rotweiller/Lab mix and she loves water, so when it hit her pelt, her entire demeanor changed from, “I will cut the bitch who tethered me here,” to “Sweet Jesus, dog shit is magical! Not only do I smell like a Bull Mastiff’s ass right now but there are bubbles to chase. Dear Dog, please let there be bacon, too. Amen.” 

I’d say she’s bi-polar, but because she’s a dog, you’d have to multiply by seven.

Anyway…the whole thing was like Jackass meets the Dog Whisperer, the Home Edition, except there was no calm, assertive voice. Thanks to the amount of shit she was wearing and shaking onto me, the most I could muster was a whimper. It was literally ALL over her body and large parts of my soul…and, in the spirit of full disclosure, by the time I was getting it out of her ARMPIT and off my leg, I was feeling more inspired by Michael Vick than Cesar Millan, and that’s not OK…at all. Michael Vick did a really terrible thing; however, in my defense, I honestly felt like I was participating in some "Kafka does Febreze" commercial, minus the blind fold, and that’s when it hit me harder than a waft of wet dog shit…Febreze! So I did it. I went into the house, grabbed it, and sprayed her like a mugger getting maced. Please believe me, I know it’s wrong to expose your pets to chemicals but it was her or me. Besides, I like to think I invented a new flavor, Shitrus, but I wouldn't expect to see it on the shelves any time soon. Bold ideas take time.

What a long strange trip it's been...

One of my brothers is a Certified Public Accountant (CPA) and one of my brothers spent part of his college career following the Grateful Dead. In some ways, you immediately know they're brothers. In other ways, it's simply impossible to believe they share the same DNA. In fact, I’d argue that the only the reason you know they're related is because they're both shits. Don't get me wrong. They're good brothers and I love them, but they're complete and total assholes sometimes... especially when they decide that the sole purpose of their existence is to mess with mine.

Allow me to elucidate.

Ten years ago, when my mother had open-heart surgery, my three siblings, my dad, my cousins, my Aunt and Uncle, and I were in the waiting room, when my oldest brother, the CPA, said, "Does anyone want to get a cup of coffee?" Against my better judgment, I said yes. Later, when we were alone in the elevator, he casually stated, "Can you believe they're replacing mom's mitral valve with one from a chimpanzee?" At said moment, I flipped shit (no pun intended… as chimps actually DO throw poop). I seriously freaked out so hard that to this day I wonder if Hospital Security still watches the footage from that security camera during their Christmas parties. I know I would.

Anyway, I don't know why I was so upset. I honestly don't. It could be because I've always supported People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). It could be because I felt out of the loop for not knowing. It could be because I was simply emotionally and physically exhausted. Whatever the reason, I truly went totally ape shit (pun intended that time). There were tears... there was snot… and my voice shot to a decibel that only dogs could hear. Later, when we got back to the waiting room, my sister could see that I was completely distraught and asked what happened. At the top of my lungs, through muffled sobs, I said, "I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT NOT ONE OF YOU WAS HUMAN ENOUGH TO TELL ME THAT OUR MOTHER WAS GETTING A MONKEY VALVE!"

As the ENTIRE waiting room stared on in horror, my oldest brother grunted, "They ruined it! RUINED IT… Damn them. DAMN THEM ALL TO HELL…" and shook his fist at us... exactly like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes. As my sister hugged me and started laughing, my other brother softly added:

    Cost of open-heart surgery... $25,000

    Cost of a monkey valve... $10,000

    Fucking with your sister while your mother is in surgery... priceless

It's funny, unless your siblings give you a shirt which says that for your birthday (instead of giving you real gifts)... but I digress. The point is that our poor mother left the hospital last Wednesday, fell on Monday, had hip surgery on Tuesday, and has been on morphine ever since to help with the pain. And, because opiates cause you to hallucinate while you dream, she’s been tripping harder than Jerry Garcia in the 1980s, which is ONLY funny because my brother, the ex-Dead Head, is the one spending the most time with her at the hospital this week. As they say, karma’s a bitch. 

In fact, it’s such a bitch that the other day she was hallucinating hard enough to think his hand was food and asked if she could have a bite. When he told the nurses, they said, "That's nothing... she sings in her sleep, too." To which my brother replied, "In other words, when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza-pie, that's an opiate." It's all fun and games until someone gets that on a birthday shirt next year. 

Talk to you later.