Silly Philadelphians, soft pretzels are for ballparks.

Here's the scene: it's a Wednesday morning. You've heading out for a nice leisurely commute. You take a train, so you stop off at a corner store to pick up a paper and breakfast for the ride. Philadelphia Inquirer under your arm. Hot cup of coffee. You move to pick out your breakfast. Perusing your options you go for the obvious choice, a nice big salty mustard covered soft pretzel. (...insert record scratch sound effect aqui...)

Straight-up, I think this is weird.

Philadelphians eat soft pretzels for breakfast. You know how in the rest of the country, people might get a box of donuts or a some bagels to bring to work in the morning? Around these parts, we get a gigantic box of soft-pretzels. As far as pretzels go, they really are exceptionally good, but I don't think I'll ever think of them as breakfast food.

I like to run.

It's true. I like to run.
I'm not particularly good at it,
but I really like it.

Running makes me feel strong. I'm not one of those people who like to do things just to spite others. Some people find a little bit of negative feedback motivating. It pisses them off. It gets their blood going. It really makes them want to stick it to the 'man'. Let me repeat...I am not one of those people. I am potentially the least competitve person on the planet. I lose pretty well. When I win, I'm positive it's because my competitor threw the fight. Negative feedback usually makes me go..."Eh, that's probably about right."

I can now remember specific instances
when people told me that I couldn't run.
Friends. A coach. Perfect strangers. Even gym teachers told me I couldn't run. (One actually openly laughed at me. Why? Because middle school needs to be a little more difficult.)


Too fat. Too short. Too lazy. Not built for it. For a select few, I think they were trying to make me feel better about failing. Trying to somehow prevent me from humiliating myself.


Sometimes it was just implied,
but you might be surprised how many people
feel obligated to, either:
a) tell you you're going to fail
b) actually encourage you to fail.















During a heart to heart conversation
with someone who loved me very much, I confessed in a hushed voice, "I think I want to run. I mean try to run. But I've always dreamed of being one of those people who can just, you know like, run." He stopped. He thought. He spoke, "Babe, I love you, but... You. Will. Never. Be. A Runner. That's ridiculous." I believed him, too. I was scared. It was easier to believe I couldn't, rather than I wouldn't.





Then I tried it. No, I really tried. I'd tried before,
but the goals were too big. I wanted to learn how to run before I learned how to walk...literally. I thought it was something normal people should just know how to do really well.






It took a few months of other less intimidating cardio work.
Exercise bikes. Stability balls. Weights. Elliptical machines. Yoga. Then...it was time to try the treadmill.

The first couple tries were a little rough.
It was awhile before I could run a whole mile without stopping. But, I didn't give up and it got easier. I am constantly surprised at how much more I can do.



Last month, I turned 30 and ran farther than I
have ever run in my life. It was 3.4 miles from my front door to the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It is also, undeinably, the most well documented 3.4 miles in human running history. (My lovely Sarah, drove a car along my route and took over a hundred pictures.) Today, I ran 4 miles. Tomorrow, who knows?






I've learned how to run fast for a little while.
I've learned how to run slow for a long while.
I've learned that it's most important to run when
you think you can't and the only way to cheat is to quit. Most importantly, I've learned that my friend was wrong; I. AM. A. RUNNER....a slow one, but a RUNNER!

Dear Frosting,

Dear Frosting,

I've recently come to understand that we don't really understand each other at all. You're beautiful. You're sweet. You're tantalizing. But mostly, you make me feel sick. What's up with that? I thought we were friends. Now, we enjoy an all too brief moment and then you make me feel all wonky. To top it all off, I'm going to have to spend at least a half an hour on a treadmill trying to mitigate you. Not cool, Frosting. Not cool.

Sincerely,
Tum E. Aiken

Video games are good for you.

Have you ever played Mario Kart?

You should try it.

It's super fun.

Piggy Tails

These are pigtails. Braided pigtails to be exact.

They belong to one of my favorite people on the planet.

They won't look like this for long.

This little girl will be big before we know it.

The pigtails will blow in the wind

Karmic retribution's a b-word.

**Just yesterday, I posted some stories about some silly things some people have said or done. This wasn't very nice of me. Karma has scolded me for my wrong doing. I apologize. By way of an actual meaningful apology to the universe, I give you the following story.**

***************************************

My Turn
I go to the gym kind of a lot, roughly 5 days a week. These days, I mostly run on a treadmill. It's actually not as bad as it might sound. I enjoy it. When I first started going to the gym, I was a little nervous. It felt like everyone was staring. It felt like they were silently judging. Now, I'm pretty sure they were just staring to make sure I was still breathing. I'm a lot more comfortable there now and have even met a few people along the way.

There's one guy in particular, who I run into all the time. He runs on a treadmill ,too. Except that he runs way faster than I do. When he first started showing up at my workout times, he would stare pretty unfriendly-like. Since then, we've been working on our gym-social skills together. He stopped staring for awhile. Then he started to catch my eye and smile. One day, he was coming into the gym when I was on the treadmill and he big-toothy grinned at me through the window. We call this progress! Today, he passed me in the hallway, smiled, waved, AND said "hi'. I nearly fainted.

Today was Tuesday. I run with a friend from work on Tuesdays. We were on our way out of the office when I got a phone call that had to be taken. With one hand over the receiver, I whisper, "Go on without me. I"ll catch up." My friend melodramatically bangs his head on the doorframe, but nonetheless agrees and scampers off to hit the treadmill solo.

By the time I get to the gym, get changed, run into the Not-So Talkative Smiley-Boy in the hallway, and then hit the cardio room, my friend is already halfway through with his workout. No sweat. I just hop onto the treadmilll next to him and we're off and running. About a half mile in, Not-So Talkative Smiley-Boy shows up on a treadmill just a few down the row. He smiles kindly, but then puts his headphones on and gets to work.

For a few short moments, it's total zen. I'm half-way into the workout. Breathing is regulated. Music is flowing. Just sweaty enough to know that I'm working out, but not so sweaty that my make-up is messed-up. My friend cruises through his last speed lap and he's done. He cools down. Sprays the antiseptic stuff on a paper towel and wipes down his machine. He takes off and I'm free to finish my workout at smile at the guy down the row. This is good stuff.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Woohoo! I'm done. Thank goodness. It felt great, but I'm a little woozy. I walk for a couple minutes to let my heart rate drop safely to normal levels. I'm really sweaty now, but I feel kind of badass and I don't really care. (Oh, i hope my eye make-up is still in place.) I walk over to the paper towel dispenser and spray it with antiseptic. On my way back to my treadmill I smile and give a little wink to Not-So Talkative Smiley-Boy. He grins widely and looks away a little too quickly. Awww, how cute! He's shy. Well, that's probably because I'm a badass. I'd feel a little shy too.

I skip back over to the treadmills and start wiping down my machine. Pretty proud of myself. Great run...check. Boldy winking at cute boy...check. I'm going to town wiping down my little treadmill. Got the side rails. Cleaning the screen. Very proud of my work! I even got the cup holder....speaking of cup holders, where's my water bottle? "Oh, shit. Someone stole my water bottle...and my towel. Oh my god. What kind of low-life steals someone's water bottle and sweaty gym towel?" I'm looking all around the floor, a little panicky, definitely freaked out. All of a sudden, it hits me...I'm standing on the wrong treadmill. I just sauntered around, winked at a dude, and SCRUBBED the treadmill just to the left of the one I sweated on. (Maybe no one noticed?) Nope, they're staring. They're silently judging. I can't even stand to look at Not-So Talkative Smiley-Boy, whom I just WINKED at...get me out of here!

As quickly as possible, I run through the process of wiping down my actual treadmill and retreat to the locker room ASAHP (as soon as humanly possible). I'm embarassed, annoyed, and really really sweaty. I need to just take a shower and move on with my day. Seriously, it could have been much worse, right? Just then, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize why Not-So Talkative Smiley-Boy grinned and looked away a little too quickly. He's not shy, he might have been laughing. Apparently, I got very sweaty towards the end of my workout. Sweaty enough to smear my eye makeup down my cheek. I looked like Gene Simmons. Great. Before today, Not-So Talkative Smiley-Boy probably referred to me as the Cute-Smiley Girl at the Gym and now I'm likely Gene Simmons Wanna-be Idiot Who WINKED At Me and Then Wiped Down Someone Else's Treadmill. Yep, that's progress alright.

And, that's what I get for poking fun at someone else's mistakes. Lesson learned.

I’m sorry, what did you say?

I like it when people say funny things when they aren't trying to be funny. Kids are super great for that. When kids do it, it’s endearing and sweet. When adults do it, it’s something else entirely. Here’s a highlight reel of some recent favorites. One endearing and sweet. The others are something else entirely.

Exhibit A - Sweet Baby
Sweet Baby is a former student in my friend’s preschool class. The class was working on identifying words that began with S and made the sound /s/ . These are some really smart kids and they were doing a FABULOUS job.

“/s/ /s/ /s/ Snake!”, exclaimed Darling Child
“/s/ /s/ /s/ Silly!”, shouted Hot-to-Trot
“/s/ /s/ s/ Sally!”, cried Super Smarty Pants

One of the smallest, sweetest, sweetnesses that ever breathed, shoots her hand into the air. She’s so sure of herself and so excited she can barely keep her little bottom on the carpet. With her hand flapping wildly over her head, begging to be called on, she yells:
“/p/ /p/ /p/ Yo-Yo!”

Exhibit W - Skeletor
A good friend recently lost a lot of weight. She’s always been gorgeous, but she’s a different kind of gorgeous now. Less fluffy and more angular. I jokingly call her Skeletor, which makes her giggle.

Overtime, she’s slowly reduced the amount of food she takes in. She’ll eat half of what she used to eat in a sitting and proclaim herself, ‘stuffed!” We spend a lot of time together and , athough I’ve trimmed down quite a bit over the last year or so, I have NEVER forgotten a meal. Missed them? Yes. Mourned their passing? Sure. Skipped them? Puh-lease!

So, one morning Skeletor and I are discussing our plans and I suggest we go out for breakfast.
She looks at me with a mix of shock and confusion and says, “We ate breakfast yesterday. I just didn’t think you wanted to eat breakfast 2 days in a row.”

Exhibit E - ESC Key
At a local street festival, checking out some artists' booths. Some lovely pottery. Handmade T-shirts. Ooh, is that jewelry made out of vintage typewriter keys? Really cute stuff. The individual letters are great. How cool?! He even did some of the other keys. You can get a ring that says “SHIFT” or “TAB”.

A young woman walks up, clearly impressed. She’s pouring over the TYPEWRITER keys and says, “Oh, sweet! Where’s the ESC key? If he’s got an ESC key, I totally want it.”

It’s been weeks and I still can’t get the picture out of my mind. What if a typewriter really did have an ESC key? Let’s say, you’re typing away and decide it’s all rubbish. You just hit the ESC key and the paper flies out, crumples itself up, and flies into the trash. It’s ingenious.

Exibit S - Neither funny, nor creative
A couple of months ago, a married man was hitting on me and actually said this:
“Some people pop pills. I cheat. “
Excuse me for a moment while I rinse the bile taste out of my mouth…To top it off, he stole it from Grey’s Anatomy. Lame.

Exhibit O - Back of the line, Bucko.
7:45pm in the Will Call line for an 8pm showing of Pirates of Penzance. (By the way, the show was funnier than I thought it would be. Oh, and it solidified the fact that I‘d like to date a Pirate King. Alas, I digress.) Long line. Short on time.

The line literally runs the entire width of the theater. Ugh. Wait. Shuffle forward 6 inches. Wait. Shuffle forward 6 inches. Wait. Shuffle forward 6 inches. Wait some more…you get the idea.

7:57pm, nearly next in line when a charming gentleman saunters passed the 50 or so people literally inching towards the promised land and proceeds directly to the box office. He did not Pass Go. He did not collect $200. He just walked his fancy ass right up to the window. He waits for “his turn” with the appearance of a calm, rational, reasonably intelligent human. When the patron at the window finishes her transaction, the brain surgeon…er…ahem…seemingly calm, rational, reasonably intelligent human walks straight up to the window to collect his tickets. The teller looks a little confused and gestures towards the lobby saying, “Sir, the line actually starts back there.” Absolutely astounded , mouth agape, eyes like saucers, he says “You want me to go to the end of the line?!”

I can't for the life of me imagine what lines look like in his neck of the woods, but I bet it's fun.

**This post was brought to you by the letters M and E.**

It's a bird. It's a plane. It's a ...er...what is that?

Last Sunday, I got to go to Baltimore to go to a baseball game. The Detroit Tigers vs. the Baltimore Orioles. "Eat 'em up Tigers! Eat 'em up!"

It was an absolutely goregous day. Not just "pretty as a picture" kind of gorgeous, but "If I catch a stray bullet, I might not even mind because I got to breath outside on this glorious day" kind of gorgeous. 80 degress. Sun shining. Light breeze.

Armed with only a vague understanding of the geography of downtown Baltimore, we decided to park the car in a seemingly inocuous spot.

At the bottom of this hill. Look at that, American flag billowing proudling over the land of the free. Smiling Sarah in the foreground. Clearly a good plan.

After a couple hours of meandering to Orioles Park by way of the wrong stadium

watching some baseball,

making funny faces,

playing with a puppy,

and watching a trapeze class,

we decided to go back to the car parked by the pretty hill.

What we found was not so pretty.

Yep, that's a square dent. Do you know what makes square dents like that? Flying bricks.

The party was less peppy after that, but we still had a good time.

C'est la vie.