Surviving the Rat Race

Last Sunday I ran my second half marathon.

If you've never run in an organized race before, I can tell you that you learn a helluvalot about yourself during those precisely measured miles - and the hundreds of miles of training leading up to the event.  I've learned that I am the following:  tenacious, disciplined, determined - and also irritable, complaining, bitchy, competitive and that in the "tortoise and the hare" scenario I'm definitely the slow-ass turtle.  Let's examine, shall we?

Tenacious, disciplined, determined:  there is something about distance running - and perhaps any sort of endurance event - that magnifies aspects of your personality.  I think I can confidently assert that I have drive and stamina.  Well, at least if I have a specific goal.  Let me make this absolutely clear:  I hate running.  I always have.  I joined the track team in 7th grade so that my BFF wouldn't have to go it alone.  The 100 meter was my event, and if memory serves I never even came close to winning a race.  The only thing I hated more than breaking a sweat at practice was actually running in front of people at the meets, showing the world that I look moronic, perhaps even slightly "challenged", when I run.  Not good for this nerd's already precarious social standing in those cruelly awkward adolescent years.  Needless to say the team (my BFF included) breathed a collective sigh of relief when I didn't  go out of the team the following year.

But I digress.

It's not running that I like so much as achieving something that is both physically and mentally difficult, in my case that is running 13.1 miles.  I like the challenge.  I don't don my running shoes at 6am and head out into the dark and smoggy LA morning because I'm an eager, thrill-seeking masochist. It's because if I don't I'm gonna regret it on race day, when at mile 6, huffing and snarling and sweating in sheets, the race chews me up and spits me out and I lay in the filthy LA streets next to the dog poo and used hypodermic needles until someone decides to come by and scrape me up.    So maybe it's the fear, or the latent Catholic guilt (I heard somewhere that God doesn't like quitters), that propels me out of bed at that dreary hour.  Whatever it is, it works.  And keeps me hurtling towards the finish line, arms and legs akimbo, come race day.

Irritable, complaining, bitchy,competitive:  is it telling that I can come up with more negative words than positive to describe how I am when I run?  It brings out the best - and the absolute worst - in me.  Just ask my boyfriend.  If he innocently decides to question whether or not I'll be heading out for a run that morning, he gets a three-minute expletive-peppered tirade about the minutiae of my schedule that usually ends with something like "and I don't see you out running today, old man!".  I get pretty touchy.  He's a saint.

And have I mentioned that running is perhaps the most boring exercise on the face of the planet?  On those dreaded days when I have to put in serious miles, I find myself compiling a laundry list of things to think about while I'm out running, such as "what outfit am I going to wear to dinner on Saturday?".  "What can I make for dinner this week?".  "What are some most-excellent comebacks I can craft to win any argument?".  "What will I be doing when I'm 40?  Do you suppose I'll still be in deferment on my student loans?" and so on and so forth. 

The funny thing about race day is that all of sudden this solitary endeavor becomes a huge social event.  Instead of passing another runner here and there, you are surrounded by 15,000. And I have to tell you, some of those people don't have the same ideas about personal space as I do.  Take, for example, the "speed walker" next to me whose arms, bent at right-angles,  furiously pumped at his sides, as though he'd still be able to cross the finish line if he found his legs suddenly stopped working.  Just try to pass this guy, you'll get clocked in the face.  And pass him I tried, but the fucker kept pace with me the entire race.  He could walk as fast as I could run!  It did not do wonders for my self-esteem.

But I did manage to make it to the finish line with a time of 2:42:36.  Not as good as I had hoped, but I finished and without much injury (unlike the woman who took a face-dive while crossing the finish line moments before me, I hope she decides to buy one of her commemorative finish-line photos).

I think I'll be doing yoga for the rest of year.

don't let the smile fool you, I'm out for blood.

Go Happy!

Amy

In and Out

This morning I had my dreaded "Job Search Assistance" appointment with the Employment Development Department for the State of California.  Barf.

For the last two weeks I've had to record all the jobs I've applied for as well as upload my resume to the job search assistance website for California.  Double Barf.  I've also spent this time imagining the horror that awaited me - body pressed against sweaty, smelly body in a crowded flourescent-lighted city office as I and dozens more listened to an underpaid and overworked city official describe in excruciating detail how to conduct a job search online.  Having the same city official look at me with disdain in her eyes as she encourages me to apply for any job out there - hey, we have a receptionist position open in this office! - nevermind that I have a very expensive graduate degree that I have yet to pay for (8 years later and counting, groan...).

So it was with barely-contained anxiety that I dressed myself as professionally and cute as could be this morning, as if my clothes could shout "Hey, I don't need you to tell me how to find a job!  See how well-dressed I am?", while having visions of myself pulling a George Costanza with my petulant interviewer.

Imagine my surprise, then, as I pulled up to the office in Marina Del Rey with plentiful parking just steps from the office door, walked in and noticed that not only were there no other people waiting in line, but that there were only two chairs in the waiting room - as if they never expected anyone to wait.  Guess I didn't need to bring my book.  I sauntered up to the counter, vaguely confused by the situation, where a very cute man took down my name and asked me to hold on just a moment as he rounded up my interviewer.  Should I have a seat?  Oh no, that won't be necessary.  Why thank you.  Smile, smile, make eye contact with the Very Cute Man, bat the eyes a little.  Hey, if a little flirting is all it takes to make this process go faster, then I'm all for it.  I'm glad I decided to dress cute.

Just then, Darryl, my interviewer, appeared in all his big, black, boisterous glory.  He asked me for the paper I had filled out with my job search results, at the top of which I had written in big letters so I wouldn't forget - BRING SS CARD. 

"Can I see your Secret Service Card?"

"Huh?"

"You wrote up here to remember to bring your Secret Service Card."

Wow - there's even humor here!

"Yep, I brought it, it's gold-plated, you ever see one?"

"Ah, I'm just joshin' with ya'."

I immediately like Darryl. 

Darryl takes me back to his cubicle, where he reviews my passport (and my Secret Service Card, which was in my passport) and looks me up in the system.  He then proceeds to tell me that there are three things he needs to cover with me.  1) - that I am who I say I am, as evidenced by my passport.  2) - that I am capable and have been looking for work, as evidenced by my completed paperwork.  And 3) - that I have a resume posted on their job assistance website, as evidenced by my resume staring back at me from Darryl's computer screen.  Bing, bang, bong.  Looks like we're all covered.  Darryl then informs me he's looking forward to his blueberry muffin and that he must accompany me out the door because, hey, if Denzel Washington were in here they don't want him to be ambushed.  I'm not sure why Denzel Washington would be in the unemployment office in Marina Del Rey, but I went with it and also heard Darryl's story of meeting Denzel while working as an extra on a film set.  Only in Hollywood.  I got my parking validated by the Very Cute Man and I was outta there.  It took about 5 1/2 minutes total.  Awesome.

Speaking of in and out, I am completely absorbed by the story of the Chilean miners and will be glued to CNN all night watching for the moment that they extract the first miner from that Death Hole.  The Chilean government has gone to great lengths to make this a media-friendly event (they have a live satellite feed of the process) and yet they also seem to be doing a good job of keeping the men separated from the media vultures that will no doubt be immediately swarming them.  I am interested to see this story unfold over the next couple of days.  I'll be sure to have my box of tissues nearby.

All this talk of in and out, I think I need to go get a burger...

Go Happy, Blog-Friends!
Amy

Domestic Goddess

I started the morning with a good cry.

Don't worry, it wasn't over anything serious.  It was because I was watching Roseanne.  Well, maybe that is a reason for worry.

Being the domestic goddess that I am, I spent the early morning hours cleaning up the apartment and doing a few loads of laundry, and when I was done I sat down to eat the lovely egg white omelette with grilled peppers,sauted spinach, queso and habanero salsa I had made.  Normally I don't watch TV during the day, but today I decided to click it on and plant myself on the couch while eating my breakfast.  While flipping through the guide, I noticed my all-time favorite show about The Domestic Goddess was on, so I figured how apropos, perhaps I'll catch a few minutes and have a laugh or two.

Well, the particular episode that was airing was from the last season (the one where they won the lottery - not my favorite), but the scene that was playing was in the NICU at the hospital where Darlene's premature and seriously ill baby was being kept.  All the women of the Connor family were passing this tiny baby around and telling her how much they loved her and how much they wanted her to hang on and fight.  Jackie (Laurie Metcalfe, a terrifically talented actress) was telling the little baby about how she had almost fallen out of the car when she was 5, but how her mother had grabbed her by the hair at the last moment and saved her, and that if she (the little baby) felt like she was about the fall away that they would be there to grab her and let me tell you I LOST IT.  The baby gets passed around to everyone, more stories, everyone's crying, they keep cutting back to a shot of real, tiny baby, and I am on the couch, fork in hand, BLUBBERING.  I had to put my omelette down and go to the other room to grab a few tissues to wipe off the snot running down my face.

Now, there are lots of people out there, I'm sure, who don't understand how I can watch TV, let alone Roseanne, for three minutes and turn into a puddle of goo.  But that show - that show has always been able to reach out, grab right around my heart and give it a good squeeze.  It's the kind of show that makes me proud to be in show business.  I know there are lots of stories about how working with Roseanne and being on that show was difficult, but you never see that on the screen.  They all look and act like they really care about each other and the stories they are telling.  All I see is a real human story, with regular kinds of working-class people who have strong and complicated relationships with one another.  I feel like I'm watching my own life when I watch that show.  Whether it's funny or sad or ridiculous, I come away feeling, well, a little more connected to the world.  Like we're all having different variations of the same life experience.  Plus John Goodman really reminds me of my dad, so that certainly doesn't hurt.

I know, I know, it's just a TV show.  But it's a damn good TV show.

Okay, time to the do the dishes.

Go Happy!

Amy

Me Today, You Tomorrow

Yesterday I attended a funeral.

Now I promise to try not to get morbid or unduly sad on you, dear Blog-Friend, but I feel it warrants mentioning because it's often during these sorts of circumstances that one has moments of clarity.  The funeral was for a woman I had never met - she was the mother of a dear friend of Adam's - but I wanted to be there to show my support for the family.

The internment ceremony - held at the celebrated and oft-filmed Hollywood Forever Cemetery -  was attended by just of few members of the family and close friends and officiated by a comfortingly gregarious Irish priest (complete with brogue!).  It was short and simple, but not without depth of feeling.  She had been married for nearly 70 years (!) and her husband, our friend's father - was quite beside himself with the loss.  I had not anticipated having a strong emotional response myself, but seeing how much he (and everyone else) was missing her, I was moved to the point of needing a few tissues myself.  70 years with someone.  70 years.  Most of us will never know what it's like to even know someone for 70 years, let alone at that level of intimacy.  All the stories.  All of those life moments shared, both good and bad.  I felt privileged, in some way, to be there while they said goodbye to her.

All those in attendance spent the day together, and I had several opportunities to talk with my friend's father and share his memories not only of the times he spent with her, but of a lifetime totalling almost 90 years.  The Battle of Midway.  Traveling across China.  How downtown LA has changed in the last 60 years.  At one point towards the end of the night, he asked me "do you love yourself?".  A pause before answering, "I think so."  And encouragement to stay positive.

Other friends have had losses of loved ones recently, and it's in these moments that we realize, however cliched it may sound, that life is precious, and short, and the only thing fear and hesitation brings is regret.  How I hope to remember that lesson daily.

My friend's father's place next to his wife in the mausoleum already bears his name and epitaph, taken from a phrase he saw at a convent in Italy:

Me Today, You Tomorrow

How true, how important to remember, and how difficult to comprehend. 

Go Happy
Amy

gravesite of Johnny Ramone at Hollywood Forever Cemetery