Your Own Personal Jesus

While Depeche Mode was the first band I ever saw in concert, this post isn’t about them or that song. It’s literally about buying your very own Messiah. You see, last weekend I began Christmas shopping, and God bless Amazon (no pun intended) because their “If you love that, you might like this,” algorithm recommended biblical action figures to me. Yes. Really. You simply cannot make this shit up. 

Anyway, as a result, I’m now the proud owner of a Deluxe Jesus, who comes COMPLETE with a toy amphora (to turn water into wine), two fish, and five loaves of bread, so I can feed the masses… of other dolls I’ve purchased… including:

• Moses, who comes with a stone tablet and his very own glow-in-the-dark burning bush, and

• Adam, who was ACTUALLY marketed as "still having all of his ribs," which would explain why I cannot find an Eve doll anywhere. It’s OK, I kind-of want a shiksa Barbie anyway.

Also noticeably missing from my growing collection are the Pope, the Dalai Lama, and Gandhi. On all that is holy (pun intended), I swear to you, if I owned those three action figures, I would take them to each and every happy hour simply to be able to say, “A Catholic, a Buddhist and a Hindu walk into a bar…” And no, that joke would NEVER get old. 

On the up-note - I did, however, find an Alexander the Great, a Sigmund Freud, and a Big Foot (who sadly is not made of real hair), and I may need to get them. That way, if I ever want to play Armageddon, I’m ready. I’m joking, you don’t use them. They’re collectibles. Helloooooo. That’s why I can’t understand DB’s fear of walking into our house and finding Moses in the kitchen sink parting the dish water… especially when he knows I’m FAR more likely to put Adam on a Barbie Love Couch so he can be psychoanalyzed by my repressed, German sounding Freud doll, “So Atam, tell me about yor mutter. You did not know her, ya?”

OK, I just talked myself into buying them, and (for the record) SEVERAL of you should expect them as presents this year. Who knows, if I’m lucky, I may even find a Lao Tze with a Kung Fu grip for myself. A girl can dream.

Talk to you later.

The road to hell is paved with adverbs

Ugh, I have writer’s block, and I’m not kidding you… it’s like all of the voices in my head have gone on strike. Don’t get me wrong, when I’m sitting in traffic or reading the news, they sound like they’re at a Cubs game. Only they don’t swear like sailors. They enunciate… like fucking ladies. But then, when I sit at the keyboard, nothing. Maybe Groucho Marx was right. Maybe, “It’s better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” I just don’t know.

That said, I DO know that it took me five hours to write the paragraph you just read – not the whole post, JUST the intro. In other words, I spent approximately one hour on each line. No wonder prisoners call jail time a sentence. But I digress. 

The point is that I’ve had writer’s block before. Only when it happened, I could get on my mental merry-go-round and eventually find something to say. This time it’s different. This time I find myself counting the number of times the cursor flashes (I made it to 927 once - yes, really) or thinking about songs with the same beat (for the record, the only two that work are your ABCs and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star). 

When neither of those techniques worked, I ended up Googling tips for dealing with writer's block. One blog said, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Everyone’s just doing the best they can.” To which I said to myself, “Self, that cannot be true. You cannot be the only person on this planet doing the bare minimum to get by most days.” And that’s when I began wondering - what did real writers do when this happened to them? Can you imagine Hemingway, sitting there with a bottle of absinthe, thinking, “I’m blocked. This typewriter deserves to die, alone, in the rain.” Or better yet, Dorothy Parker, whom I love beyond words (no pun intended), and who actually once said, “I’m not a writer with a drinking problem. I’m a drinker with a writing problem.” 

I don’t know, maybe that’s it. Maybe I need a scandalous vice. The current ones - doughnuts, reading, and running are closer to Hunger Games, the home edition, than inspiration. In fact, I would argue that jogging in the heat has crushed my will to live. Seriously, by the end of mile zero, I’m ready to hang up my shoes and call it a day. But do I? Yes, sometimes I do, but not always, and you would think there would be SOME return on investment for that. But is there? No. Unless a runner’s high feels like a stroke, I have NO idea what they’re talking about. Instead, I disdainfully slog through it, come home, stink, and stare at a blinking cursor.  

And I promise you on all that is holy, on more than one occasion, I have put the curse into cursor, especially last week, when I posted, This Amp goes to Eleven, and Blogger decided to crash on me. For those of you who read it, thank you. You know who you are. For those of you who visited mkromd only to find nothing, sorry. I’m still trying to figure out what happened. Either way, talk to you later… hopefully :)

Train in Vain

Hands-down, The Clash is the greatest band of all time, period. It’s also what I’ve been listening to while running through my neighborhood these days - which is crazy because it’s like a surreal, post-punk soundtrack for my suburban life. No really, it’s true. I feel like I’m trapped in a David Lynch movie as I listen to London Calling on my iPod and wave at Stepford wives with strollers and affluent business men with accessory dogs, all-the-while waiting to see an ear randomly lying on the road. But I digress.

The point is that a few weeks ago I started running again. And by running, I mean that I’m lying to you. I’m actually doing the Couch Potato to 5K, which goes something like this: after you map out a route, get new shoes and make a play list, you have to actually use all of it… at the same time. Now, for the record, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that there are as many stages of grief as there are kilometers to finish or that they intersect at key points along the way. For example:

At 1K, I immediately go into Denial. This is the part where I say to myself, “Self, I don’t care if I stroke out and die. I’m actually ready to meet my Maker.” That said, whether or not God is prepared to meet me is an entirely different question. Personally, I’m betting no, which technically means that I shouldn’t need to run after all. I’m just saying.

At 2K, I hit the second phase, Anger. At this stage, I find myself furious at people who name races. Instead of things like The Kafka 5K or Dante’s Marathon - Where you think you’re getting hotter but it’s only because you’re going through Hell, they misleadingly call it stuff like, “Run for your life…” which is ironic, because my life was actually better and happier before I went for a jog. Seriously.

At 3K, you begin to Bargain. No lie, I will actually begin to believe that I should just go on Lipitor because it’s possible to achieve better living through pharmaceuticals; which makes me think that I lost the war on drugs; which makes me think of George Bush, who said the same thing about America’s War on Drugs; which makes me laugh because somewhere a bunch of stoners are eating Doritos and winning.

At 4K, because I realize that someone is eating junk food and watching Cheech and Chong while I’m sweating profusely and silently swearing at strangers, I become Depressed. I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to be bitter and hostile, but I have to be, because God hates me and my cholesterol sucks. That’s right, I’m the victim here.

At 5K, I transcend into Acceptance. In other words, the pain stops but only because I'm finally home. Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, if you were to see me pull into my driveway, you would think I had just finished a half-marathon. One because of the amount of time I was gone, and two because I look like Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. No wonder my neighbor stands at his mailbox and yells, “Finish strong!” I want to scream back, "Fucking really? The only thing I finish strongly are books, doughnuts and New York Times crossword puzzles." But I like him, so I don't. Instead I politely wave and listen to Death or Glory as I limp into my air-conditioned house.

Talk to you later.

Frog and Toad are Friends

I love our house. It sits on an acre of woods with a stream behind it; and, on any given night, you can watch fireflies while listening to the owls and frogs. Likewise, on any given day, you’re bound to see rabbits and cardinals, as well as the occasional sandhill crane, heron or turkey if you’re lucky. Lately though, our yard and patio have been covered with toads… hundreds of tiny, baby toads.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. For some reason, I like eating breakfast outside. I do, and every day I pour a glass of orange juice, make a bowl of oatmeal, grab a cup of coffee and a tennis ball, then sit on the steps and play with the dog while trying to wake up. Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’ll be the first person to admit that I’m not a morning person. I’m barely an afternoon one, so when I saw my entire patio hopping, I said to myself, “Self, if you’re still dreaming, please turn this oatmeal into the world’s biggest doughnut right NOW.” When that didn’t happen and the disappointment subsided, I became so intrigued that I needed to know what the hell was going on. 

And that’s when I saw them… dozens upon dozens of adorable, little toadlets… everywhere… which immediately made me think of the book of Exodus… which immediately made me want to fall to my knees and scream, “I knew I should have let God’s people go!!!” But I didn’t. Given that I started running again and my poor neighbors have endured enough these days, I went inside and got DB instead.

Now, for the record, I love and adore my husband immeasurably. Not only is he warm and brilliant, but he has this charming, Buddhisty innocence that makes me want to be a better person. And, as we stood there, watching the baby toads, we saw two of them climb onto the patio together. One was curious and brave and determined to blissfully bound and rebound on any and everything around it. The other stood at the edge and watched him like, “What are you doing? Do you NOT see those two giant humanoids staring at us? Come back.” then furiously hopped over to him, all-the-while thinking, “ARGH… Really?! I swear to God, if someone picks me up, I will pee all over them. That's right. They will be covered in warts and toad stools if I plan it right.” 

And in that moment, I was immediately reminded of the children’s book, Frog and Toad are Friends, and I’m Toad. I’m cynical and I’m gun shy and I’ve been on enough patios to know that it can all go horribly wrong in ways that you can’t even predict. And DB is Frog. He’s that friendly, fearless, calm being who believes the world isn’t a terrible place. Sure, it’s big and bad things happen, but it’s more exciting than it is awful and if you don’t hop out of the grass, you’ll never experience the splendor. Also, at the risk of setting the bar low, I want to be that kind of amphibian, but I’m not. I cannot rally that kind of optimism anymore, which is ironic when you consider that, throughout my life, I kissed a lot of frogs who didn’t turn into princes (at least not mine), then fell in love with a prince who also happens to be a Frog. 

I’m off to California to spend a week with DB’s mom and step-dad, who are awesome. Talk to you later.

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.