Running update: supertitioning like a pro. That's something.

So, I feel like I should tell you that I am, at this moment, writing this post from the sun-warmed comfort of my back patio.

Because HI THANK YOU WEATHER it has stopped raining for one godforsaken second. YAY.

So, obviously, when given the opportunity to work from home on a sunshiny afternoon that's not soaked in rain and misery, I took of my heels (even though they're the hottest), put on flip-flops (which are patently not the hottest because they're dirty and worn out) and dragged the laptop and cell phone out to the back .40 for some quality time under the bright shiny ball.

I'm sorry to keep rubbing it in, but the heat from the sun has dulled my senses to the point where I no longer know when I've gone too far.


In other self-congratulatory fun and at great risk of totally jinxing myself, I will tell you that I've managed FOUR sub-24 interval runs in a row which makes me want to high-five myself like a total ass and now I've developed one of those pro athlete-style superstitions (even though I can't even remotely be considered a pro anything) that revolves around my running attire having to be a certain way in order to Keep The Streak Alive.

And, by running attire, you certainly know that I mean my new running top which, as a good friend would say, is The Most.

While it may be The Most in some ways, it is also The Least in other ways, which is how it has become, in my mind, the source of my sub-24 interval running powers.

Like, I finish my runs in The Least number of minutes and seconds when I wear this top. And I get The Least amount of annoying comments about the chilly temps because of the skin-shielding power of its tiny short sleeves when I wear this top. And I sweat The Least of all my sleeve-having tops when I wear this top.

And that's the most The Least things I can think of. Because,well, we're all confused by that last paragraph.

Anyway, I now have a cozy little gross superstition to work into my pre-run repertoire and, while I have been running faster, I'm still pretty slow and I now have to worry about one more time-consuming thing before I can get my ass out the door and that is determining the status of The Top.

Is it clean? OK, no.
If it's not clean, is it at least not gross enough smelling YET that I can bear to be inside of it for 23:XX (awesomely fast) minutes and seconds? OK, maybe if I hold my head just so and don't, say, try to wipe my nose on the inside of the collar.
Let's go.

Do you see how gross this newly discovered superstition has made me? I'm disgusted by my own self. But I don't get down about it. Ho no. I just look at my last four interval times, smile proudly and then high-five myself, thus negating any self-pride I might have reclaimed by reviewing my interval times.

*Sigh*

Of course, there is the other issue of The Top to contend with, and one that can keep me entertained for the whole of a sub-24 run - Shouldn't I just get another top so that I am not running in a sweaty snot rag?

But, my mind being the fresh hot mess that we all know it to be, sends me round and round in the "What if I buy another short-sleevey top just in time for it to become officially tank-top season thus rendering the purchase superfluous and, well, it would mean more shit in my overflowing workout drawer of clothes. What if that?"

Like I've said before, it's a mess in my head. And also I won't be buying another top. I'll just be hauling Bubba's clothes out of the washer so that I can get down with some The Top washing before Saturday. Problem solved. Though I wish I'd solved it during one of those runs because that would have made them productive rather than torturous.

Back to the good news though - it's sunny, I've hit FOUR (4)(!) sub-24 interval runs in a row and my poor, helpless Virtual Partner is totally wasting away in my dust to the tune of an average 9:15 pace.

And while my shortish long run of the weekend (7 miles) wasn't in the Virtual Murder category (which would be sub-9:59), I did score a 10:13 pace, which by my standards is pretty good. In fact, it's the fastest pace I've managed on my shortish long runs since I've gotten back in the habit of wearing the Garmin while I'm out.

Remember, my goal is to sub-60 10K in April, so I do have some work to do (specifically, I need to run a sub-10 minute mile pace for 6.2 miles), but we're close. And this weekend I'll do 8, though I expect I'll be wearing my favorite tank-top for the occasion since it MAY get into the 60s around here.

So much gardeningblahblahblah

Holding true to my gardeningblahblahblah promise, I'm here to tell you that the fava beans have met their end.

FUCK YEAH!

I mean, THAT IS GOOD because it means that the 2010 garden is almost, sort of, soon to be planted and growing and making me tomatoes just as soon as I can turn, test, amend and plant the soil.

Though that process is a little less FUCK YEAH than the eating of tomatoes because it involves math skills and patience, which are two things you well know I don't possess in any meaningful quantity.

I summon all my inner resources to complete this task every year and then I take a break from math and patience for the remainder of the year. Which you should know in case you're expecting me to listen gracefully while you explain your hernia procedure or request my help in calculating more than the tip on a dinner bill where there's more than two digits at any point beyond April 2010.

Though, you probably won't get much help from me now, but you knew that. I have to conserve my mental capacities! The garden requires it!

You understand.

Along with the fava massacre, there were two other momentous garden occasions this weekend which I will share with you now.

Momentous Garden Occasion #2: Potato planting

Yes, friends, we have decided to continue the WT theme from our hick front yard to the garden in back by adopting the Tire Method for potato growing.

Meaning, rather than planting potatoes in rows and then hilling them with soil when they require it like normal people, we instead fill a tire with soil, plant potatoes in there, and then when the potatoes sprout vines and grow up through that soil, we put another tire on top and fill that with soil through which the vines can grow. And on and on until we have a tower of potatoes and dirt looming at the back of the yard, further confirming how WT we are.

As though there's been a lot of doubt on the subject.

To accentuate the WTness of it all, I've dragged over a sprinkler line from the nearest bed and plugged it down in the center of the tire to provide automatic irrigation to the potatoes so that my lazy ass doesn't have to go dragging the hose all out there to do it by hand.

Because, water by hand? Oh, that's not going to happen.

So you know, I planted 2 red creamers, 2 gold creamers and 3 or 4 banana fingerling potatoes in that tire you see there, so we'll see how this goes since I don't know anything about growing potatoes. Experiment alert!

Momentous Gardening Occasion #3: Rain barrels

See, long ago, my Montana friend (as I call her to Bubba as though she and I have been BFF for a decade) Nici at digthischick, installed rain barrels at her place and I thought it was the coolest thing. I also thought, "I must have this now", and then proceeded to totally forget about it sort of while we were busy having our porch redone, relandscaping the backyard, putting in a patio and growing 200+ lbs of tomatoes.

But the thought has been back there. Loitering about, making trouble. Until a few weeks ago, when I bit the bullet and ordered my barrel and the diverter thing that, in no way, actually "goes with it" even though it appears to on the website.

Whatever. We made it work.

And then, just as Funny Contractor was finishing up our porch and putting the finishing touches on its facade, the barrel showed up with a label taped to the side and proceeded to highlight the generous proportions of the new concrete pad area ever so elegantly.

As you know, we're a class household, so this went very well with the new posts and paint and un-WTness of it all.

Thankfully, last Sunday morning I decided to take my morning brew on a walk over to the gutter's downspout in the pre-determined Future Rain Barrel site to "inspect" its integrity and figure out where the F I was going to put in this diverter creature.

And, as so often happens when I "inspect" things with the final thought of including them in a project, the project launches into action and, before I know it, I've lost my mug of tea in the shuffle and instead have a pocket full of sockets (band name, anyone?) and the stepladder - which I'm balancing precariously on half a concrete step and some really soft downspout moistened mud.

Yay.

And then, thankfully again, Bubba comes out to find out how come the house is so quiet and what the hell is that woman doing NOW, to find me teetering on the stepladder removing screws from the downspout bracing, with the parts for the diverter all splayed out on the back patio.

Being the smart, and incredibly wise and self-preserving, man that  he is - he offers up his help and then gracefully guides me through the diverter installation - all the while letting me feel like I'm doing it all by my tin snip wielding self. Which I can assure you, I am not.

I need this man. He keeps me from wrecking the house.

And, before long, one of our fabulous neighbors - who likely smelled snipped tin on the wind - showed up in our backyard with a new book for me (love her) and a demand to know how we could be putting in rain barrels without calling her first. She is an expert on the subject after all, since she's installed two on her house already, with a third waiting in the wings.

So, with the combined knowledge of a rain barrel-installing expert, one very handy man and caffeinated but mostly useless blonde (moi) - the rain barrel managed to get installed. And, because my fabulous neighbors continue on their quest to sainthood - I also received a second rain barrel for the water collecting efforts.

Because they had "an extra they weren't going to use". Again, so awesome these two.

I do hope they know we don't even have a will into which we could write them. *Eek*

Oh, and while this isn't quite so Momentous but rather just helpful - for any of you out there considering the repurposing of otherwise useless yard materials into an auto-filling birdbath, let me suggest an alternative sealing method to silicone gel: inner-tube scraps.

See, I'd had the birdbath all auto-filling since that weekend when I installed it, and I noticed that some water was leaking through the silicone seal into the surrounding landscaping.

Well, to be truthful, I just thought the dog was drinking the water for a while and chose to ignore the whole thing, but then I realized that was impossible because she hadn't been out there long enough to do that kind of drinking.

She's no boozer, this dog.

Anyway, when I came to terms with the fact that the seal was leaking and that, in order to fix it, I'd have to dismantle the whole thing, dry it out and take another go at it with the liquid sealant, I decided I needed a different approach.

So, in my truest form, I went out to the garage on the hunt for something like a rubber gasket. Except, we didn't have any rubber gaskets of proper size. And YOU KNOW I'm not pedaling off to the hardware store if I don't have to. So, instead I wandered the garage looking for something that fit the description of: thin rubber material, easily cut to size, preferably not the most important piece of whatever it lived in at that moment.

And, of course, my eyes fell on the ever useful busted bike inner-tubes just hanging around in the garage.

Perfect.

So - if you want to make this birdbath all watertight and what not - and you happen to have some busted inner-tubes laying about doing nothing - take your cutting device of choice, slice out 2, 2-3" chunks, open them up by slicing down one side of them vertically, then cut an X in each of them smaller than the diameter of your sprinkler nozzle spout (without the nozzle attached), slide one down over the nozzle spout and then push that through the hole you made in your birdbath bowl. Then slide the other over your nozzle (so that you have a layer of rubber below the spout and bowl and above the bowl and below the spout) and screw on the nozzle attachment.

Basically, you treat these two flat pieces of rubber inner-tube like ghetto gaskets that, when cinched down with the sprinkler nozzle, create a waterproof seal.

Not that the dog's going to stop drinking out of the fountain, but you get what I mean.

Enjoy all of that.

Adopt a Crop 2010 : Exotic. Freaky. You decide.

So, good job, people. On picking the melon I wanted you to pick.

My mental powers of persuasion must be getting good and strong since most of the people who've seen that melon have not wanted to have anything to do with it, much less to grow it in a garden for food.

No, I do believe the question of whether ownership requires inoculation or at least a stout whip was brought up.

If my memory serves, it does not require either, though ownership may very well require me to purchase a juicer, which is on my list anyway now that I've taken to dispatching the farmshare beets in juice form because HOLY how else am I going to reclaim the friggen crisper if I don't get rid of them quickly and swiftly and SOON? See, thing is, I don't know. So, I feel I need a juicer.

And, hey, these melons allegedly have a "banana-lime-tropical fruit taste and [are] good juiced" which sounds a lot like a ringing endorsement for a juicer, then doesn't it? Yes. I'm sure you agree.

I'm considering this one since it's the same as the one we used in Hawaii when we were there last and let me easily make these from Bubba's coconut conquest which sounds kind of freaky but was really just the result of Bubba swinging an abandoned golf club at a coconut tree while I drank cocktails and cheered him on.

Quite a conquest it was.

Anyway, let me know if you have a juicer that you love and that I should buy and to which I should dedicate extremely valuable cabinet space. More importantly, if you have a juicer that you HATE and from which I should run screaming, please tell me about it so I can avoid a horrible and disappointing juicing disaster, kay?

Thanks muchly.

Now, let's stop talking about juicers and conquests and instead about this year's Adopted Crop: Jelly Melons. 

Specifically, African Horned Cucumber Melons.

Do I eat it or get a restraining order from it? Hard to say.

They're kind of a hideous sight, I'll agree. Though, aren't you kind of intrigued at the same time? Kinda wonder what something like *that* could taste like or what it might look like chucked across the street at the kids who shriek mightily for no good god damned reason?

Yes, me too.

And, really, imagine a projectile such as this headed in your direction...You'd shut up and run, wouldn't you? Me too and that's all I wanted to know.

Anyway, the jelly melon has won a space in this year's garden. And, according to Bubba (he got to choose the other melon without even having to vote against or with anyone - so special), the jelly melon will be growing (hopefully successfully) alongside the Georgia Rattlesnake Watermelon - with its freaktastic stripes and enormous hugeness.

I don't think I even have a cutting board large enough to accommodate one of these.

Imagine the cute couple they'll make - all huge and spiny and striped and jelly-filled!

Ok, so it's going to be less cute and more scary, but that's OK, they'll go well with the black tomatoes and purple beans in the other beds to complete my haunted garden of vegetable evil.

Or whatever. Maybe it's just really exotic and I should be playing the Rare Heirloom Deliciousness card here instead.

Though I do lean more to the freaky than the exotic, truth be told. I mean, really, what's exotic about brown hair, green eyes and freckles? Nothing. But you put that boring package in florescent yellow goggles and trot it out on some lava with matching yellow fins and a potty mouth and it does Freaky just fine.

And suddenly I'm a little self-conscious so never mind that last part, there.

All you need to know is that the garden plan has been finalized, thanks to some fairly enthusiastic voting on y'all's part (74 votes total) and Bubba's swift choosing of the watermelon which took him all of two seconds.

Apparently he's missed watermelons in the garden. Or at least he's missed their vines taking over our backyard, thus rendering null and void any thought of mowing or yard work back by the beds because WHOOPSY the watermelon vines are covering everything and totally in the way.

And when I plant the rest of this season's off-color vegetables, I'll let you in on all of the vulgar details. 

Are you starting to sense an alarming theme? Yeah, me too.

Commence gardeningblahblahblah.

City codes that are crap + a recipe

So, I'd love to be starting my gardeningblahblahblah, but it's totally raining here forever, so I haven't been able to thoroughly inspect the garden's progress or even bring my rain barrels to the back yard from our front porch.

Which is done, by the way.

Fabulous contractor, to whom I nearly clung when he left our house after our Final Meeting the other night, finished off a total overhaul of our porch in just over two months, which is pretty impressive given all the neato surprises our House of Mystery had in store for him.

You know, things like posts that aren't posts but just boxes built from plywood that look like posts, brick patios that aren't brick but rather brick facade over impressively cracked concrete, beams that aren't beams but rather 1x4s positioned at such an angle that, when not inspected closely by uneducated home buyers, appear to be sturdy beams - that kind of thing.

And if it would stop raining for five god damned seconds, I'd go out there and take a proper photo for you all to look at so that you can see how our porch basically looks like it did before the overhaul, but just without anything listing dramatically at any off angle. And no brick. And new paint. And, OK, so there were some upgrades, but essentially it looks the same in dimension and color so you won't die if you don't see it right now.

Later - when the sun comes out and we can all go outside without a layer of Gore-tex between us and the world.

I was hoping that would be this weekend, so that I could install my rain barrels, but now The Weather thinks it's going to rain, so on top of a grody drippy run, I'll be unable to get my rain barrels in place to, you know, catch the rain for future not drippy months.

And I'm pretty excited about the rain barrels. Because, HELLO, free water! And, despite the bullhonkery going on in Orange, some of us realize that we are constantly in a drought around here and need to be paying attention to things like reducing our water consumption, capturing rainfall and not planting water sucking landscaping just because some moronic bureaucrats are too lazy and mindless to update city codes to reflect current times and circumstances. Specifically circumstances like big fucking droughts.

Ugh. Annoying. Just read that article and see if you don't start shaking your fists at the machine, trying out your new swears all the while.

And since I probably will never get a chance to say this to the Orange city officials in person,

"Hey city officials - take your heads out of your asses and make the codes relevant to current times and circumstances, rather than forcing people to adhere to out of date codes, you fucking useless pencil pushers."

OK, so I guess there is a bit of gardeningblahblahblah going on in this post. I'm not sure whether I should apologize for misrepresenting this post, my random tangential keyboard wandering or the rather uncreative declaration of swears.

In the essence of time, I'll not apologize for anything, but instead just close this rant by saying that, while I was glad to see that this couple's case will likely be dropped, after they put in a ton of drought tolerant plants (nice going, Quan), I still think that it's absurd that anyone should be dragged through court for so obviously trying to do something RIGHT just because the city codes, created so long ago as to be completely out of date, say they should do otherwise and those in charge of enforcing those codes are too lazy or useless to effect change.


There. 


And now I forgot where I was going with this not-gardeningblahblahblah turned gardening rant, so I'll just share this recent recipe I made up to use the abundance of arugula lying about in the fridge.


It's a sorta handy recipe, in that it uses up a lot of shit I tend to also have lying about elsewhere in my kitchen. Some people might call these things pantry staples, but I call them "shit lying about".


Class broad, remember.


Anyway, enjoy...

Mediterranean Chicken Salad
Recipe by moi. Hooray.

Serves 2

Ingredients:
4 chicken tenders (you know, those cuts that are all small and narrow - not the full breasts), pounded flat
2 cups of arugula, rinsed
Juice from 2 Meyer lemons (about 4 Tbsp)
1 handful of parsley, minced (about 3 Tbsp)
4 dried, preserved tomatoes, packed in oil, julienned (These are also known as sun-dried tomatoes, but people take issue with sun-dried tomatoes and their overuse, so I'm using a different term so you'll like me and this recipe. Just go with it. And pretend like you didn't read this explanation since it totally ruins it.)
12 kalamata olives, halved lengthwise
2 Tbsp feta, crumbled
2 large pieces of flatbread, warmed
Kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper, to taste

To make:
Lay chicken tenders flat inside of a plastic zipper bag and pound flat to a consistent thickness - about 1/2". You can put it between two layers of wax paper or just pound them flat out free and clear to the world, but then you end up with chicken boogers all over your flour canisters and no one likes that.

Well, I don't. You decide.

Brush a broiler pan or metal rack with olive oil and place on a foil-lined rimmed baking sheet. Lay chicken tenders on the rack.

Whisk dressing in a small bowl: oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper, parsley. Pour a small amount on each chicken tender, spread evenly with a small spatula or your newest and greatest kitchen accessory - the silicone brush, but don't put the spatula back in the bowl god damn it otherwise it'll become contaminated with uncooked chicken cooties and we'll all die. Or so they say. We're so afraid of raw chicken in this country, don't you think? I'm not sure any other culture is as poultry-phobic as us. "Ackk! Raw chicken! Hide the children!"

Psychos.

Set aside the remainder of the dressing.

Preheat the broiler and set the chicken under the broiler until lightly browned.

Did you know I used to think the "BR" setting on the oven meant, "Brown" instead of "Broil"? Yep. That's the kind of retard you're dealing with here. Enjoy.

Remove pan from oven, flip over the chicken breasts, slam them back in the oven and let them brown slightly again. Remove from the oven, slice on a diagonal.

Build your salad: In two shallow bowls, place your warmed flatbread, then arugula, tomatoes, olives and chicken. Pour 1/2 the dressing over each salad and top with feta and fresh ground pepper. Add some parsley for garnish.



Do you like how I just told you how to assemble a salad? That's pretty annoying. Like you don't know how to build a salad. Well, whatever, now you all do and I don't have to give this instructions again.


I'm all about teaching y'all to fish, you know. Or, like, make a salad.


I'll stop now. Bye.

Running update: I now make up special names for my running clothes to legitimize my shopping.

I am about to launch into many months of gardeningblahblahblah so I thought I'd share some parting words about my winter running, the forthcoming spring time running and how I'm worried that not running a single half marathon this year will ruin my life or at least cripple my not-really-a running career to the point where all I'll do during the times when I normally would have been on a 12 mile training run is wander the neighborhood in my running shorts pointing at the race medals strung around my neck going, "Look, fuckers! These mean I don't *have* to run long distances anymore, OK."

Yes, my mind wanders when I run and I have an awesomely creative and inappropriate imagination.

Also, I realize that 13.1 miles is only considered to be "long distance running" to some people so don't get all "Um, loser - you're not running long distances until you're in the 26 mile range, OK?" in the comments because I'll ignore you and also quietly hate you. And, despite my innate crabbiness, I don't want to hate you.

Anyway, mostly I just worry about The Fatness and not being able to hike as fast on our backpacking trips, as I set my sights on the 5 and 10Ks in the ever-present Active.com Upcoming Events in Your Area emails.

I mean, yes, I have been vaguely tempted to sign up for the Seattle Rock N Roll Half Marathon, if only for the chance to maybe possibly see a bald eagle, like, right there along Lake Washington again so that I can be an inappropriate ass, again, and shriek "Holy Shit!" amongst a sea of horrified runners, but I've learned an important lesson about re-running a race:

Don't do it because it's very boring.

Yep - thanks San Jose Rock N Roll, for that life lesson.

OK, so the second time I ran it, it was OK. I was going for time, which I made swiftly and with little added effort, but the third time (last year), the race was terrible. I was bored to the point where I considered just running off the course at the six mile mark *knowing* that I wouldn't care later about ditching out on the run because I was *so over it*.

But, thankfully, the tiny competitor in my mind (and let me be clear when I say, "tiny", because I'm not all that competitive) forced me to stay and finish what I started. So, really, it probably wasn't the tiny competitor in my mind, but more the HUGE A/R accountant in my mind that wouldn't let me flake on a commitment. Or a race entry fee.

OK, the fee part was probably the tiny Jew in my mind, but whatever. Jew, accountant - let's not get buried in semantics.

All in all, the lesson was learned and as I was finishing that dull drag of a race, I decided that I would certainly not run it again. At least for a while. Because HI no one did anything remotely interesting to their front yards in the year's time between the '08 and '09 races and so I had nothing to look at but the same tired landscaping and the ankles of the toads in front of me.

Boh-ring.

About my winter running, though. Well, I think we're done with that season now, too.

I had, officially, one day that required YakTrax, but as I had not yet purchased the YakTrax, I spent the duration of that run slip-sliding away and very nearly snapping a groin muscle (no injury sustained, though, so YAY).

After that fateful day, however, I did buy the YakTrax and have since used them many times - in Tahoe. Where it snows. And where I like to take the dogs out for leash-free roaming while I drink wine out of a coffee cup.

Like I've said before, I'm a class broad.

I think the arrival of the YakTrax also marked the permanent stowing of the remainder of the winter running gear like the vest, tights, long-sleeves and thick running pants.

Though I may break the tights and long sleeves out for the Mermaid 10K if the weather makes an evil turn on the eve of the race like it did last year.

Fine. I'll manage.

But, in a deliberate attempt to welcome spring and force winter to the back of the closet, I got myself what I'm calling, a Transitional Running Top.

"Transitional" because it has short sleeves rather than long or tank sleeves and will let me transition between the cold ass mornings of the winter and the cool and lovely mornings of spring.

You get it.

Mostly this is because, while I'm ready to wear tanks on my morning runs, I tend to get the hairy eyeball from the freaks all wrapped around their paper coffee cups at the stop lights and sometimes the older gal in her head-to-toe winter running outfit (with matching headband - sharp!) goes out of her way to interrogate me on what exactly is my problem aren't I freezing.

Sure, I can say No and wipe some of my carefully cultivated boob sweat on her forehead to illustrate my point, but it's easier to just wear short sleeves so that my barren shoulders don't attract so much attention.

It's amazing how an extra two inches of fabric extended over the shoulders can mitigate so much unsolicited inquiry into my mental status.

But, surpriseSURPRISE, I actually quite like my Transitional short-sleeve top even though I thought I'd certainly hate it.

It's more form-fitting than the one-size-fits-most free race day technical tees I've been wearing, but not to the point where it rides up my midsection until it's sitting just below my boobs, thus offering up a quivering display of my midsection.

It's a nice, slick, breathey, wicking type of fabric - which is good for the inevitable sweating I do when it's *GASP* 40 degrees during morning intervals, and on top of that, I daresay this top has made me faster.

Oh sure - a top can do that.

And I would know, too, since my last two interval runs, for which I wore my Transitional Top for the first two times, have been in the 23s.

Yep - suck it - Runs in the 24s! 23 is the new 24! And I will now wear this Transitional SUPER FAST Top until such time as it becomes less maniacal to wear a tank top before the 7 o'clock hour.

Which sort of gives you an idea of what my spring time running will be like. Tank tops and shorts, intervaling out my Tuesday and Thursday mornings and long running my Saturday mornings, all with the ill-conceived goal of making time on my races.

In other words, 2010 probably won't be so much about trail running (as I'd previously thought) as it will be about nailing down some specific distance times. Like I've said before, I'm going for a sub-60 10K race time. And, since I managed a sub-30 5K at Thanksgiving last year, I'd like to now make that a sub-29 5K. Which isn't as glamorous as a sub-30, but it's faster than my finish time of 29:14, so you can understand my reasoning, yes?

Yeah, true, it's not as fun to say, "I'm going for a sub-29 5K PR and sub-60 10K PR this year!" as it is to say, "I'm running two half marathons", but when you get down to the bottom of all this, running isn't usually associated with "fun" for most people, so I can be a little less rigid with my standards of declaration.

I'm sure you agree.

And that is about all the running updating I have to do for now. Gird your loins for the forthcoming gardening talk.

OYW : Sew Along 2010 : March

Oh, Donk - this was a hard month to choose a winner. Those are some hot bags, people! Really, now.

Personally, I'm still trying to decide whether to keep or gift my Folklore Bag. I mean, what if it's part of my First Day of Spring outfit that I insist on wearing to call more attention to my incredible dorkiness?

WHAT IF, THAT?

We'll see. Anyway. Let's slowly look away from my dorkiness...

So, I see that we're celebrating St. Patrick's Day/Drink Your Face Off Even If You're Not Irish by making Irish Soda bread, and I like this concept. Because, while most everyone I know looks forward to St. Patrick's Day for the free pass on getting blazing drunk, I tend to ignore it almost completely.

I'm not Irish. I don't tend to drink a ton of beer. Getting blazing drunk usually means I get a big bastard migraine and have to take to the floor with my Imitrex.

But bread? I can do bread. And I can also do Guiness - but, like the TV tells me - only in moderation. Which means I get one beer, after I eat a lot. In this case, maybe I'll eat a lot of this bread?

Whatever - good call on the bread.

But, for those of you who take St. Patrick's Day a little too seriously (or if you have been snowboarding a lot lately) and need something to soothe your drinking (riding) muscles - this month's fabric de-stasher project is the Obi-inspired Hot & Cold Pack.

And if you didn't get the fridge de-stasher recipe, it's Kelli's version of Irish Soda Bread.

I will now begin looking forward to an apres-ski session with my Obi-pack, a Guiness and, you know, half a loaf of soda bread. Because I'm a class broad like that.

And if I happen to wrap the Obi-pack around my right knee, well, then that's what happens when you ride all day and twist yourself up in a knot to avoid trees. Also, is it possible to pull an oblique muscle? I think I pulled my right oblique. Which means I must have abs in there! Who knew? Also, yeowch. Maybe I'll wear my Obi-pack around my waist after all.

Don't forget to post your finished projects and recipes to the pool by 3/31 so that we can judge you while we're under the influence of carbs, exhaustion and alcohol.

Cheers all,
Finny

I saw the sign

I'm sorry if I just earwormed you for the rest of the day with that title. Know that I've earwormed myself and I'm pissed at myself and a little curious as to why I do these things.

Sometimes I can be so inconsiderate.

Anyway, I did actually see a sign. A sign that it's time to get the vegetable beds ready to plant.

And the sign wasn't the upcoming March 1st date on the calendar which happens to be our last frost date even though I realize that the majority of you are up to your rooftops in snow and hate me unmerciful for talking about gardening and putting up pictures like this from my yard.

You should know that I took this photos from a prone position while I enjoyed some fleeting, but lovely, sunshine with the dog.

Forgive me. I'm totally a bitch like that.

No, the sign was actually this, and big props to you if you can identify this and know what it means to the greater garden situation.

Have you seen this plant or its tiny boner?

I'll give you a minute to think it over, search my archives and compose your carefully worded, yet totally spontaneous response...





Go on, then.






OK - this, my friends, is the first fava bean of the season. Which means that it's time to cut those bitches down and turn them into the soil so they can fix it from all the untold damage caused by the glorious but mostly-useless-except-for-this-recipe corn.

This also means it's time to start leading the neighbors away from the garden because they get ruuully sad when I tell them that there won't be any fava beans to eat because they must be annihilated and returned to the earth before the nitrogen sucking beans grow to life.

They may be big and beautiful, but don't be fooled.

Thankfully, this year I remembered to give them a packet of seeds so they could grow their own and not turn them under and then get to eat them while I hacked mine into pieces and buried their bodies in the dirt.

Sometimes I can be such a murderer.

There are, of course, other signs of good growing things to come, but none carry with them the same onerous task of murder.

Unless you consider Strawberry Pie to be murder. Which I do not.

Or Lemon Wafers, which I do. (HATE)

Or Purple Kohlrabi which looks too alien to be considered actual murder if one were to actually eat it, which I haven't yet.

These peas though? They died shortly after filming. Fare thee well, small peas.

The broccolini is bolting a slow death because I haven't harvested it fast enough.

And then, there are signs in the front yard that I *may* not be a total crackpot idiot because HAH HAH shit is growing like I said it would.

OK, fine, so the contractor has been walking all over the newly sprouting bulbs and grass plugs, so they are looking vaguely like shit, but he shouldn't be out front next spring so I assume they'll come back in proper form and won't be, like, traumatized from the stomping.

Of course, wherever he IS working will probably see some signs of wear, but if we manage to keep him around and busy on our house that long, it should be very worth it. He's quite good.

Meanwhile, Bubba thinks the plants will be stronger and better for abuse, but we'll see if that kind of Darwinian action is possible from mere wildflower bulbs. I sort of doubt it.

And now let me apologize again for that barftastic title. I'll try to do better next time. Or at least use a title that doesn't torture you for the rest of the day.