My eyes are dim…

I cannot see…I have not brought my specks with me…I have not brought my specks with me…

I met my soul mate when I was so young (preschool) that it didn’t make any sense. But now it does. Patience…patience. He’s been looking after me for a long time and I love him for a lifetime. Thanks Joe Moore. And, thanks Maxine Moore for being the most patient, loyal women I’ve ever met. And thank you to your family for taking me in, as a weird neighbor kid, and feeding me the most amazing kettle, salty potato chips.

I know I wasn’t your family. But thank you for pretending like I was for a moment—and perhaps a lifetime.

Long live Super Bunny and the Sloth

Blerg

Whelp, hi. How are you? I’ve been <insert words friends and family have called me of recent (i.e. distant, non-communicative, absent, uncaring, etc)>. In all seriousness, here’s the scoop:

I have a job.

And, in all seriousness, I apologize ‘cause I know I’m a better person when I’m not work obsessed. I am a better person because I can treat those around me the way they want to be treated. Basically, it means that I am a better person when I am at others’ beck and call, not some corporation’s beck and call that deems me completely replaceable at the drop of a hat, which I am. We all are. And if you think differently, you’re living in a nice, cushy ignorant life. Everybody is replaceable. My first real boss told me that and I respect that truth.

I, on the other hand, know that there is no other Sara Myers out there like me and that makes me happy. In my own little world, I am not replaceable as I am the only Sara Myers that counts—in my world. <End ego-boost rant>

So, I’m reading that Tucker Max book right now and I won’t say a darn thing negative about it ‘cause that’s what the STD-ridden, little-boy wants. Am I offended by his writings? Not at all. Not by him. Good for him. I am more offended (but, not really)…by the stupid girls who still continue to perpetuate his truth about “skanks” and “hos” and give him the best material to write about. Seriously, he meets the dumbest girls…ever. That is if he’s not James Freyin’ the non-fictionality of his “memoir.”

Ouch.

Happy summer. Be safe.

This is my Butter-Bean nephew, Walker, and has nothing to do with the post, but I figured...he just makes me smile.

CLEANERS

My dry cleaner is holding my pants hostage. It’s been almost two months since I’ve dropped them off and the last three times that I have gone in there to pick them up, I am met with the same response: “They are not ready yet. Come back on Monday.” So, this Monday, on my lunch break and on my way to the dentist, I stopped into the cleverly named “CLEANERS” building. It was packed. The line was out the door. Apparently, on Mondays at 1:30 p.m., everybody in Littleton has an appointment to go and drop and/or pick up their dry cleaning (suburbia is so predictable). I understand the draw to this dry cleaning place, really I do. They are inexpensive. I mean like really cheap. The only catch is that you have to prepay in cash or check…and, as I’ve learned, it could take them up to two months or so to clean your pants.

However, when I was met with the same response for the fourth time, I loudly protested in front of the entire line (now spilling out onto the sidewalk), “But, my pants have been here for almost two months! Did you lose them?” The small, olive-skinned woman behind the counter looked up at me, blinked a couple of times, and then turned on her heel and disappeared into the back behind the masses of saran-wrapped clothes. I stared after her in disbelief, unsure of what just happened. I grew even more agitated and started to bite my hang nail as I imagined the entire line of people behind me (arms full of clothes) mentally drilling obscenities into my back for being obtuse (Shawshank) and causing a delay in their soccer-mom schedule.

Thankfully, in less than minutes, “small woman” reappeared, scurrying out of the columns of washer-and-dryer-shy clothes, and in broken English assured me that, yes, they still have my pants but they won’t be ready until next Monday. Afterward, she smiled and loudly yelled “Next!” to a bobbed-blonde, middle-aged customer all while successfully avoiding eye contact with me. Unfortunately, I am, hands down, not a very confrontational person and on the rare occasion that I get the gumption to be confrontational, I certainly don’t like audiences. So even though I know I was/am being d*cked around with by “CLEANERS,” I still bent over, took it up the a@@, and walked out the door…feeling like a chump, of course.

You know what the funny thing is? Part of me still, stupidly, believes that they might actually have my pants and that they didn’t ruin them or accidentally give them away to another customer. That’s how gullible I can be sometimes, I suppose.

On a completely different note, I have a job now. Went back to the world of advertising (God save us all). The last thing that I’ve wanted to do is to come home and sit down at a computer and write, but today was different. In addition to writing, I am behind on friendships, relationships, family, volunteer obligations, laundry, litter box, dishes, working out, running, manis/pedis, cleaning, etc. But I have managed to love on my nephew, hang with an old friend J. Moore, learn to play golf better, go completely brunette, and buy a house.

I’ll keep you posted on the pants.

Happy Heart Day

http://www.informz.net/heart/archives/archive_729890.html

Run Stroke Girl...Run

There is a point in every marathon that I've done so far where I want to buckle over, fall down on my knees, and cry. But, honestly, it has nothing to do with the physical pain. It’s a thought. It’s a thought or a feeling that is so overwhelming that just makes me want to smack my hands against the road and wail. It's not because I am sad. It's more of an awe feeling, a feeling of disbelief about what I am actually accomplishing. Everyone runs for different reasons and I think there is a moment on the course when it just reaches up and punches you in the face.

Last Thursday, February 5, I went back to the same gym where I stroked to lift weights with Kristen. I haven't been back since last March. I stroked by lifting a light weight over my head, which, unbelievably, tore a vertebral artery in my neck. So this was a huge day for me; thank you Kristen for understanding this and coaxing me back on to the horse.

There is a faint scar scattered across my forehead that appeared while I was on Coumadin, which is a drug that thins your blood to help prevent any more clots from forming. Since my artery has healed and I've been taken off the drug, the scar has not faded and I am told it won't. Although not the most attractive thing to have permanently on one's face, I suppose it's a good reminder to be thankful for life, for each day, for the ability to be independent, for the ability to talk, for the ability to walk...for the ability to run.

Around mile 16, I heard a very enthusiastic woman scream, “Run, stroke girl, Run!” I did a double take and looked back into the crowd and smiled, remembering that I was wearing a shirt that read: I Live to Run…Stroke Survivor.

20 Weeks Done

It’s official. Today, Janya and I capped off our 20 weeks of marathon training with a light four miler. We’ll rest tomorrow and Friday and then loosen up with a two miler on Saturday before the big 26.2 on Sunday.

Although PF Chang’s Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon will be my fourth, there are always the nerves, the mind game, the phantom pains, the excitement, the sleepless nights starting last night in which you run every which case scenario through your head that could happen during the race, good and bad. The big question: Will I finish? The second big question: If I finish, will I meet my goal time? This go around, I’ve told every one that I have no goal time (“I just want to finish,” I say; “I am just happy to be able to run,” I answer) but I do. I always do. You always do. There’s always a time.

Janya and I parted our ways by congratulating each other. It’s a huge sense of accomplishment crossing off the last training run, and with no injuries (with the exception of a lost toenail). I believe the real race happens during training. Training, for me, is the real feat. Think about it: 20 weeks versus four hours; 491 miles versus 26. However, ask me that question at mile 20 on Sunday and I may change my tune. My bib number is 3765 and the marathon is set for Sunday, January 18 at 7:40 a.m. (Arizona). For now, I have become the strongest person that I can be.

HoMedics

Now, I am not sure how much trouble I will be in with my dad for repeating this little story, but my mom gave me full permission to tell from her perspective. When she relayed this to me over the phone at the beginning of December, I nearly collapsed on the floor in a fit of laughter. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to remember to blog about it actually. Sorry dad, but it’s a funny one.

My dad has been experiencing a lot of pain in his back (not the funny part). In response, mom decided she would get him this fancy little massage thingy that fits in your chair and vibrates for Christmas. She saw an ad for it one afternoon in a commercial or in a brochure or something and quickly wrote down the brand name on a piece of paper as a reminder. She left the reminder on the counter for the next time she ventured out on a shopping trip. She was elated that she finally had found something to get for the impossibly-hard-to-shop-for dad or, in her case, husband.

So, of course, the next time she left the house, she completely forgot the piece of paper. There the reminder sat, waiting on the counter. Luckily, she did remember that she forgot the piece of paper and was reminded as to what she had written down. Thus, she didn’t forget to pick up the massage chair while she was out running errands. And, while she was out, her cell phone rang.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello,” dad said, flatly.

“Well, how do you do?” she said, kiddingly.

“Do you want to tell me something?” my dad inquired, sounding annoyed.

“Eh, um. No, no…not that I can think of. Why?” she carefully but curiously asked.

“So. I take it you are not going to tell me what a home dick is?” he curtly questioned.

“A WHAT!?!” she screamed, incredulously.

“A home…dick,” he repeated with emphasis.

“WHAT’S A HOME DICK!?!” she yelled back, horrified.

“Well, Pam, I’m asking YOU what a home dick is, as you’re the one who has home dicks written down on your To Do list,” he accused, sarcastically.

Mom went silent, thinking...home dicks? Home dicks? Where would he get home dicks from? Perplexed and somewhat amused by the entirety of the conversation she continued…

“Bill, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. Why in the world would I write down something like home dicks on my To Do list?…,” she started to defend when all of a sudden a box caught her eye in the rearview mirror. There in the backseat of her car was the box that held the massage chair.

The brand name read: HOMEDICS.