Does thinking count as exercise?

Recently on Facebook, I made the following statement: "It's amazing how much doesn't get done when you just don't try". I promptly removed the post, in fear that it might be misinterpreted as some grand political or philosophical statement. In reality, I was just observing my profound laziness.

Side note: The overthink-after-posting delete is a move I practice with some regularity, actually. The force is so unyielding that I have, at times, had to remove my sleep mask, trek upstairs, and restart my computer just to remove something that, at first thought, was witty with just a dash of brilliant, but under the cool, dark pressure of my brand new anti-migraine beaded eye mask, whispers to me of reader misconception. It is not that I care whether anyone agrees with what I think; it is just that if they do loathe me, I'd rather they do it based on what I really meant, not for what I didn't communicate effectively.

Last week was the first of two children-are-away-mommy-wants-to-play weeks. Sure, I had grand plans for the week. I printed my half-marathon training program and tacked the schedule purposefully to my she-cave wall. Finally, I thought, I will have the ability to run as long as I want, as often as I want. I could go make nice with the fine folks over at the MAC, who so graciously send me emails to remind me it has been a few weeks since they've seen me. (Okay, so it's probably been a few months...I simply stopped checking their emails.) Alas, my muscles were all a-twitter with excitement.

And so began the excuses.

Monday. Well, Monday was a long, difficult day at work. I would like to state for the record that fungal toenails are not a life threatening medical emergency, and calling me twelve times a day to regurgitate the latest .com article you read on innovative topical treatments is not only unnecessary, but also makes me want to send Guido a-knockin'. Needless to say, I was not able to come home over the lunch hour to allow my dog a bathroom break, so going straight home was really the responsible thing to do, right? Long story short, I ate my nutritious and delicious chicken tender dinner in front of The Daily Show On Demand and did a whole lot of nothing. Seriously, how do single people keep from going to sleep at 7pm? I laid down just to "let my food settle" and I passed out. The house was so quiet, my belly was so full, and it just felt right. Tuesday evening was much of the same, this time telling myself that it's okay to be a little lazy every once and a while...after all, I'm so busy the rest of the year, of course I should take a few days to do nothing. I gave myself half credit for Wednesday, though, since I actually drove by the gym on my way home from work...although I had no real intention of going inside, and only took that route to avoid the unusually crazy beltway drivers.

Side note: I would like some sort of sign language system to communicate to my fellow 83 North drivers that it is not okay to do any of the following:
1. Drive whilest you talk on your cell phone (tchyellow, it's illegal in Maryland now, folks), smoke a cigarette, shift your car, and simultaneously cut me off...unless you plan to hit me hard enough to total my car, but not so hard as to kill me.
2. Apply makeup and/or read your daily paper while driving.
3. Drive with earbuds in both ears.
4. Cut over three lanes of traffic without establishing yourself in each lane, and without a blinker to indicate you intend to perform such a maneuver, especially if you drive an 18 wheeler.
I would like the gesture to be less offensive than the middle finger because, frankly, I just don't feel good about myself after I release that crooked digit from it's holster. Also, I don't necessarily want to say f*#@ you, I just want to say, "Your behaviour is very, very unsafe, and I would appreciate if you made a few modifications...for everyone's safety, mkay?"

Thursday was trivia night (not to mention that the extreme heat made simply breathing a Herculean task), so exercise was bumped yet again from my evening agenda. Funny thing about trivia night...I apparently suck. Not just a little bit, either. Outside of the green pie questions, I knew nada. Even when the moderator threw me a bone with an anatomy question, I bombed. (The trachea connects the esophagus to the lungs, by the way, not the pharynx.) It was quite the blow to the intellectual ego, let me tell you.

Friday night was migraine night because, well, why not? At this rate, I should have my beach body by....ooooh, next summer. Hello bathing suit mom-skirt cover up, here I come.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I received a strongly worded letter from my landlord indicating that I need to get off my lazy hindparts and take care of the weeds in the lawn. Whoopsies.

Silent Ph, as in phthisis

My recent return to Philthadelphia was slated to be an early highlight of summer. It was the culmination of an amazing seven day, three concert run, which started with my second row view of Death Cab and continued through an amazing hail-encrusted Mumford & Sons jamfest.

Ever eager, Samantha and I took the day off work to head up early. Our first stop was Tony Luke's for a cheese steak, a la Adam Richman's recommendation. I forgot the fact that I was sitting in what had the ambiance of a Bikram-inspired tractor trailer parking lot when I took the first bite. Hands down, the best cheese steak to date. The wax lined wrapper created a little au jus puddle that I would've lapped up, puppy style. Ah, Philthy was on it's way to redemption!

Next stop, Philadelphia Museum of Art. Again, beautifully done, Philthy! A lovely water fountain statue spritzing local bathing suit-clad youngsters. Bronze Rocky with his disproportionately long arms outstretched in victory. A well-placed wedding party snapping photos on the front steps. It was here that I began to believe that my first trip through this famed city was truly a fluke. True, I don't get contemporary art. Who decides that a Brillo pad box deserves it's own spotlight? A broken snow shovel suspended from the ceiling? A crayon signature directly written on the wall? Nevertheless, I had hope for Philthy.

Off to the Mann! Our only other experience with The Mann Center for the Performing Arts was a mind-blowing Arcade Fire show that sparked an impromptu two day scramble for tickets to the next Arcade Fire show later the same week...which, in turn, produced pit tickets...which, in turn, resulted in catching a drum stick in the front row...which, in turn, inspired the greatest Christmas gift ever. Therefore, The Mann Center is solely responsible for a profound amount of awesomeness.

This time, not so much. We arrived early to grab food, beverages, and whatnot. Borrowing from previous experience, we parked along the street just outside the venue. As we packed our belongings into the trunk, a woman began shouting in my general direction from the adjacent street corner.

"Who playin' tonight?!"
"Um, Bright Eyes?"
"Who!?"
"Bright Eyes!"
"Oh. Is that all?!"
"Um, there is an opener, but I don't know who!"

And then she turned away to chat with the very large gentleman beside her. Maybe I've lived near the Murder Capital of the World too long, but for a good long while I thought, oh my goodness...they're going to steal my car while we're at the concert. This neighborhood was significantly less appealing than the area surrounding the art museum. I posed the question to Sam, but she seemed less convinced. We headed out, and as my car became smaller in the distance, I resolved I would not worry. After all, they could have my car...all I really cared about was my iPod in the storage compartment. Of course it was safe there. No burglar would think to look in the storage compartment for valuables. Nah.

As our evening progressed, two themes emerged.

One, Philthadelphia was no more. We took our seats, mid-section, stage right. They were decent seats, so I was pretty stoked. As the show began, Samantha and I started to rise from our chairs in pure, unbridled, child-like excitement....only to be stifled by the abject lameness surrounding us. Poor Sam! She counted the days to this show as if it were Christmas Day itself, and now, bound by chains of lameocity, she was confined to her seat for the entirety of the show. Never before have I experienced a crowd so unresponsive to the entertainers. Everyone just sat there. No singing along, no dancing. Just polite clapping after each song, followed by nothing. Sing monkey, sing! The band sounded amazing, don't get me wrong. Conor belted out the entirety of the new album with his signature heart-wrenching delivery. The only explanation I could give for the distracting behaviour of my fellow concert-goers was that they didn't know the new album. Still, lame. It's been out for a few months now. Get with the program, people. In the name of you, text-message-and/or-sit-unresponsive-through-the-entire-bright-eyes-concert-goer, I rename your city PhLAMEadelphia. (It may be a stretch, but I'm going for it.)

The second theme of the night was less music related. As in, not related whatsoever. Over and over I saw really ordinary looking girls with amazing looking dudes. What is up with that?! I'm ordinary, where's my supermodel? In fact, look up 'average' in Webster's and you'll find my picture. It's true, I haven't felt myself lately. I've completely lost my mojo, in fact. If ever you find yourself repeatedly rejected by computer geeks, you know you're not at the top of your game.

So, staying true to my neurosis, I blamed my hair. I had been letting it grow longer in order to pull it into a pony tail while training for my races this summer. But clearly it was time to make a choice--the hair or my mojo.

You know you have a bad haircut when people simply say, "Oh, you got your haircut". Period. Just a statement of fact. I joke, in an attempt to make me feel less retarded. "Yes, all of them."

So much for my mojo.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I've converted my entire wardrobe to brown to match my brown Kangol...the only hat that I can wear without people mistaking me for a boy.

I think November is open, if you're free

In the past 42 days, I
ran--without stopping--my first official 5K race;
completed--without drowning--my first dragon boat race;
crowned myself Warrior Dash champion of the world;
enjoyed three concerts in seven days, nearly dying from hail wounds during one of them;
ran/walk roughly 827 miles, give or take a marathon, during Relay For Life;
and helped stuff books into 50,000 backpacks.

In the past 42 days, I've learned
a little determination and an immense fear of embarrassing yourself will help you finish pretty much anything;
when you work to the best of your ability and remain true to yourself, you inadvertently become the standard by which people measure awesomeness;
sometimes you just need to relax and let the mud go where the mud wants to go,
nothing soothes the soul like great music with amazing friends;
your family will always hold your hand and walk the mile beside you;
the greatest satisfaction in life comes when your son puts his hand on yours and says, "You're a good leader".

I'm neurotic today because...
...these old bones survived with flying colors the past month and a half...except for the front of my elbow, which mysteriously became immobile yesterday.

We Will Return to the Regularly Scheduled Baffoonery After This Brief Message From My Serious Side

Here's the thing. I like you, you like me. We should probably get together and do some good.

And here's another thing. It is really difficult to get other people as impassioned about something as you are...especially when it does not involve winning the lottery.

I'm not sure what has come over me lately. I have become a highly motivated do-good machine. If not for the fact that it is fiscally irresponsible of me, I would to quit my job to volunteer. Even with my microbiology degree within grasp, I'm eager to put myself further into education-induced financial crisis in graduate school, just to be able to officially help people who really need me. Probably more than anything, I have to physically restrain myself from beating the Bmore Involved page upside each and every one of my facebook friend's cyber-heads.

Perhaps it has been all the long soul-searching chats that Forrest and I have had lately. (He's sporting the Warrior helmet, btw. Quite dashing, I must say.)

I have so much more than I need, really. I'm a spoiled suburban brat, to be quite honest. How fortunate I am to live in a country that affords me such liberties! And yet, there are children literally down the street from me who have families that are either unwilling or unable to care for them. There are men and women living on park benches in the city, sweltering in the summer heat. The list is endless. (This is Baltimore--we need help.)

I like that I am a bit of a dreamer. I do believe wholeheartedly that if everyone gave just a little of their time in service to someone else that the world would be a whole lot better. You don't have to be smarter or more talented or more ambitious than anyone else; you just have to be willing to make time to fill a need. I believe we can affect positive change, however small, in the lives of those around us.

There is a fine line in asking people to give time they don't have. My over-eager pleas for involvement could cross into Obnoxiousville very quickly, this I know. Please know that I only hope that each person finds something in their lives to be impassioned about, and that you use what you have, to do the most you can, to the best of your ability.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'm determined, come hell or high water, to live up to the most gracious compliment I've ever received. Thank you so much for your public display of affection this week, family.

You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
Kahlil Gibran

My Weekend Getaway to (Up)Chucktown

The Original Cheesy Chicken Sandwich from Sticky Fingers in Charleston, SC is so delicious that I would drive the 10 hours and 8 minutes south just to devour one. That is a true story.

It was the case several weeks ago, however, that said OCCS was the icing on my proverbial weekend getaway cake. Well, sort of. It ended up being the only thing I kept down in 24 hours...so I guess it was more like hitting the proverbial duodenal lottery.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I should mention that my weekend getaway just happened to fall on the weekend before finals. In my defense, I carried my genetics textbook and notes along for the ride. In theory, I had plenty of time to study, as my outgoing flight from BWI was delayed by three hours. Yeah, I said in theory. I did open the book...as I sipped my Corona, gnashed on my nachos, and people watched for three hours.

I arrived in Charleston around 11:30pm, exhausted and slightly grumpy. I rented a car and took an unintentional hour-long detour through Charleston suburbs on the way to my evening accommodations. It is amazing to me how dependent I've become on my GPS. I'm literally and figuratively lost without it.

I was told that when I arrived at my friend's house, I would be greeted by an overly friendly black lab. Do not be alarmed, I was told. The door is unlocked, go in and let her out to pee. Mkay, no problem. I can handle dogs that jump and lick (clearly, if you've ever been to my house). Squinting through the downpour of rain on the poorly lit street, I arrive at what I believe to be the correct house. After checking the mailbox number against the house number against the directions I stored in my text message, oh, six or seven times, I proceed inside. Bag in hand, I stand just inside the threshold, waiting to be annihilated by the killer dog.

Nothing. The house is, in fact, eerily quiet.

I quietly tip-toe outside to the mailbox again and re-check the house number against my message...and against the house number, you know, just in case something changed in the two minutes I was inside. I text messaged my friend to confirm. Are you sure you live here? Yes, he assured me. Back inside I go. This time, after roughly 30 seconds inside the doorway, a black lab strolls down the stairs, glances in my direction, stretches and yawns. I text my friend again. Are you sure I'm at the right house? (I can only imagine, in retrospect, how much my neurosis is misunderstood by these laid back southern natives.)

The rest of the evening is a blur, but I can tell you this: there was a run-in with a rodent, which cost me any sleep I might have enjoyed. I remember not freaking out, as would be my normal response to such an event, but simply shaking my head and mumbling, "Of course there will be a mouse in my room". He was a mean-spirited mouse, too. He didn't just scoot across the floor; he tormented me. I do believe I saw a tiny little smirk on his tiny little mouse face. What a jerk. Needless to say, I laid on the edge of the bed with the light on the entire night. Around 4am I gave up and got dressed.

I was invited down to lovely Chucktown by my former co-workers to participate in the Charleston Dragon Boat Races. The event was set up Dave-Matthews-tailgate-style along the Ashley River. It was a perfect weather day, and the fine people of Charleston were pumped up, to say the least. The very real possibility of death-by-drowning (I can't swim, especially in a current), and the fact that I had never rowed a dragon boat in my life, did not remotely affect the fact that I was totally stoked to be there.

My first heat was late morning, and the current was strong. After an abbreviated dragon boat 101 lesson, I filed down to the pier with my group and boarded our boat. Apparently in dragon boat races, it is important to balance your boat, left-to-right side. I sat very still as our boat nearly tipped over, mumbling, "Of course we'll fall in the water my first time ever inside a dragon boat". Alas, our steerer (who apparently has a vested interest in the future of our boat) saved our lives, but not without stern condemnation...something along the lines of, "What is wrong with you people?!" In my defense, I really didn't know what was wrong with us people. I just started my dragon boating career, like, five seconds earlier.

Let me tell you, I felt like a dragon boating super star. For a rookie, I was pretty coordinated with our little drummer lady, and we won both races in which I was a participant. What I failed to do was keep my mouth shut. Literally. I think I swallowed Ashley River water. By around four o'clock, my intestinal situation was Code Red. Without going into gory detail, by the end of the day I was spewing Ashley River water from all orifices of my body. As if that wasn't bad enough, I had the mother of all migraines. I was prepared to die a lonely death in Charleston, SC. It. Was. Awful.

I was due to fly out on Sunday afternoon. Weak and disappointed, I drug myself out of bed at the arse-crack of dawn on Sunday morning, determined to salvage the weekend. I decided on the perfect loop around Charleston, ending at the airport: first, downtown Charleston (a little mental health shopping was called for, I think); second, Sticky Fingers for lunch (a big gamble, considering); third, an afternoon on the beach (a little more sun won't hurt a dehydrated and weak body, right?).

Sundays in downtown Charleston are...closed. Literally, nothing opens until mid-day sometime. Who knew? Window shopping isn't quite as therapeutic as one might think...and doesn't last quite as long as the real deal, either. With lunch still a few hours away, I took a stroll through my old stomping grounds at College of Charleston. It really was lovely and quiet, and just what my intestines needed. I really love the campus, the buildings, the sculptures. I've always had an affinity for the torso sculpture, and on this day he made me especially happy. I think he reminds me a little of me.

And we're full circle. Lunch at Sticky Fingers was equally as satisfying as my stroll downtown, as was my walk along the beach at Isle of Palms. (This time I was sure to keep my mouth closed tight.) After a few hours lounging on the beach attempting to read my book club selection (I'm sorry, Picoult, you suck), I ventured to the airport for my return flight to Baltimore.

The flight was delayed three hours due to storms in Baltimore. Of course.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I earned two A's and a B+ this semester. The B+ had nothing to do with my weekend getaway, incidentally, but everything to do with how adorable my genetics professor was. He had an uncanny ability to get me googly-eyed over his termite research, what can I say?

An Ode to A/G

Welcome to my photographic journey through New York City.

The key to a good NYC trip is to have no plan whatsoever. Ideally, you will take a bus trip that departs at the arse-crack of dawn. You will, of course, show up at the very moment the odoriferous bus driver is prepared to close the door and leave your sorry butt behind. This man is large and in charge, and none-too-happy that you decided to roll in at your leisure. As punishment, you are assigned seats behind an uber-enthusiastic family of five, who are indubitably on their first trip to the Big Apple. And oh boy are they excited.

And weird.

What was your first clue that the Eager Beavers weren't your average Joes? Was it grandpa sticking his finger knuckle-deep into his nose the entire three and a half hour bus ride? Or was it the way in which the youngest whipper-snapper fondled his bag o' peanuts? Perhaps the fact that said whipper-snapper was incessantly gnawing on the palm of his hand? No, no. 'Twas definitely grandma's enthusiastic desire to catch the Cash Cab...because, peering out the tinted charter bus window, she definitely felt this was a realistic possibility.


With no plan in place and nearly four hours listening to the Eager Beavers, you seek out the nearest Starbucks. Seriously, what did we do before the Find a Starbucks app? (How spoiled yuppy of me.) As you wander in the general direction of your lunchtime destination, you stumble upon these beauts. Oh yes. You seriously consider buying them because, well, who doesn't need a pair of leather daisy dukes?!

With your next club outfit in hand, you meander southward. What's this? Lighthouse Marketplace, Fesitval of Shoes?! Yes, please. Mommy looooves her shoes.

Okay, so as it turns out, you need to get your sight checked. You've stumbled upon the Festival of Shops, not shoes. Nonetheless, you're pretty stoked to go shopping in church, and so you spring for a new Kangol.

Okay, so I don't even know how to make this picture relevant to this blog, but it made me happy...so here it is. There is apparently a contest in NYC for 100-year old microorganisms. What's not to love about that?


Your lunchtime destination, and the only thing officially on the agenda, is a Jewish deli. Surely your surrogate Jewish mother will be so proud that you've just trekked two hours through New York streets to partake in a $15 brisket sandwich. De-lish.

With your belly full and your time in NYC winding down, you brave the subway system back to the assigned pickup location. With time to spare, you duck into a novelty shop. Eureka! You can't decide whether to snag the bobble head leg lamp or the bobble head Ralphie (because, let's face it, they're both sa-weeet), so you buy both. Psych! In this shop, there's no buying anything...the check out lady decided to nap on the job. Sayonara, suckers!

So it goes. You've survived your unscripted journey through NYC. Whether it was the fifteen miles you've walked getting basically nowhere, or the thought of what the Eager Beavers had in store for the ride home, you dive into the best $8 beer you've ever had.




I'm neurotic today because...
...I pay to ride smelly buses that depart at pre-coffee hours with obnoxious people to ridiculously expensive cities. And love it.

Don't Call It a Comeback

This, my 18th semester of college, has been the most validating time of my academic career. Just tonight, my Advanced Writing professor pumped some exceptional sunshine up my booty.

My most recent paper, Women and HIV: Unequal Access to Health Care, was a "definitive A". But more than the grade, I was overwhelmed by her interest in my future graduate studies. She asked me if I planned a career in writing. A career in writing! When I told her I was looking into Johns Hopkins School of Public Health, she emphatically encouraged me to "absolutely pursue it."

I understand your lack of enthusiasm. I do. Perhaps an academic ego boost isn't your idea of exciting. But I'm a nerd, so this is pretty much it for me.

So, with my professor's blessing, I've returned to my blog. Well, that and the fact that I pretend you are all my groupies and you're actually jumping up and down with excitement. This is what nerds without husbands do. Don't judge. (Idea: start a support group called Nerds Without Husbands.)

I'm neurotic today because...
...all the sunshine-pumping in the world won't give me enough chutzpah to talk to my genetics professor, with whom I'm currently in love.