Teaching an old dog new tricks.

I’m dogsitting for Paco over the holiday weekend. It’s eight kinds of awesome because he’s the best Dalmatian of all time. Also the only Dalmatian I know, but whatever. Details. And also because his dads live right near the Capitol Square, which is, like, the greatest place on earth.

Paco’s pretty obedient. He follows rules–mostly of the NO YOU DO NOT BELONG ON THE FURNITURE variety. Don’t tell his dads, but sometimes I cheat a little and let him snuggle with me on the couch. WHAT? I should be able to spoil my fur-”nephew.” LOOK AT THAT FACE. Yeah. You tell him no.

Exactly.

Paco’s papa sent me a text earlier tonight to remind me that if I wanted to camp out in their condo for the weekend, there are fresh sheets on the bed, so help myself, basically. Just strip ‘em on Monday. I replied, letting him know not to worry. When I stay over, I said, I blow up the air mattress and snuggle with Paco.

His response: “omglolz. Explains what happened with the house guests last week!”

I paused. Oh boy. What happened with the house guests, or did I even want to know? Great. There was probably a hole in the air mattress from doggy claws because I foolishly allowed a dog to sleep on an inflatable bed. Just add that to the list of friends’ furniture that I’ve defiled lately. (Don’t ask).

DAMMIT. You can’t take me anywhere.

I panicked a little, waiting for his response. Biting my nails, wondering what I possibly could’ve done to muddy the visit of his guests. And then he sent me this:

And I smiled like a proud damn mama. Way to go, Paco. Way to go. We’re going to rule the holiday weekend.

Posted: September 1st, 2010 under What she said - 5 Comments.

The thing about training.

Until this summer, I’ve never been so conflicted over a marathon or its training. I entirely blame the San Diego Rock N Roll Marathon. I trained my ass off. Intense. Disciplined. High-mileage. It paid off. Since then, I’ve entirely fallen off that training regiment. It was exhausting. The thought of picking it up again just three weeks after PR’ing in the marathon sort of made me want to die.

Oh my god, that’s it. I’m an emo runner. Running is HARD, wah… etc. etc.

But really. That business was work. Hard work. At the time I loved it. I felt strong. Ready. But when all was said and done and over, whoa, did rest certainly sound like heaven.

So, sure, I’ve been running since then. Getting in my miles, mostly. Come Oct. 3 I’ll be ready to run 26.2 miles, as usual. But will it be a horrible performance? If you ask me right now, I’d say, “Yes. It’s going to be terrible.”

Which is where I’m currently see-sawing. What do I mean by “terrible”? Because simply running 26.2 miles is not terrible. Even a little. It’s amazing. So what’s with my baditude? My body is capable of some phenomenal things. I am a runner. An endurance athlete. If you chase me, you might catch me, but if you don’t, I’ll out-run your ass. This is going to be my eighth marathon. October marks my five-year anniversary of marathoning. I’ve completed fourteen half marathons in as much time.

I am a runner, hear me roar. Dammit.

I need to remember that. Keep it in my head at all times. Not every marathon can be a PR. Not every marathon will feel like San Diego. Not every training season will live up to the magic of Spring 2010. It can’t. Not with two marathons a year. Realistically, for me, that’s just ridiculous. I need to be OK with letting October be free of time goals and expectations. I need it to be about the enjoyment and the physical feat that is a marathon. Because it’s something to be proud of. Damn right I have a magnet on my rear bumper that says “26.2″. I make 26.2 my bitch.

And so this is my affirmation. October will be OK. I will run 26.2 miles. I will finish. I will smile. And I’ll add another notch to my figurative marathoning bedpost. My Road ID has a quote on it. It reads, “I run because I can.” And I do. Not everyone can. Sure, I can moan about an “awful” 18-miler, or whimper because I’m just not training hard enough. Or I can shut my mouth and own it.

Now, Spring 2011 is a whole new ballgame. I’m going to kill it. So for now, I will take what I have and be proud. I’m a runner. Look out.

Posted: August 31st, 2010 under What she said - 8 Comments.

Playing catch up.

First things first. I’m going to need someone to hold my hand and rock me to sleep when this season of “True Blood” ends. IT’S SO GOOD. It’s so… odd. And strange. BUT SO GOOD. I won’t say anymore, however, as to not spoil it for people who are behind. And who are those people? Because they need to get their priorities straight.

On a completely unrelated note, I finally ran some miles this weekend. Like, 23 of them. Eighteen on Saturday and five more on Sunday. That all sounds lovely and like progress, but really, it was not. It was hotter than hell outside, which is what happens when you wait until noon to start an 18-mile run. It was hot and I was sweaty and there was not enough water in the world to quench my thirst. My pace was slow, I had to rest more than I wanted to, and in general I wanted to die. BUT, I did it. My legs have recovered swimmingly, but it’s likely because I didn’t put forth much effort either day as far as pace and effort go. I’m bound and determined to get in a solid 20-miler this coming weekend. I’d also like to put in one request for a 40-degree day.

Yeah.

Luckily, I had a super pacer and water boy with me on Saturday. He came in the form of a boy on a bike, carrying water, moral support and sanity. He even sped home ahead of me to prepare a bottle of ice water and wait at the corner to join me for the last tenth-of-a-mile. I will keep him, which brings me to my next conundrum:

Dating and the Internet.

Twitter is one thing. Anyone who follows me on Twitter likely knows who he is, at least by his Twitter handle, if nothing else. But my blog is another beast. I don’t necessarily want to name him here. I could, but some things are sacred. Sometimes. I mean, clearly not much is sacred here on this blog, but I try. Once in a while. With that said, I refuse to give him some generic title like The Boyfriend or The Man. Seriously.

No. Just… no.

So today, until otherwise solved, he’s the guy who spent several hours with me at my worst on Saturday. And it was good.

In other recent developments, my couch is no more. Thanks to one handy saw and a helpful friend, we hauled that thing (and its cat pee) out of my apartment in pieces last week. So, my apartment is still hot, and now I’m couch-less, but hey! I still have those doors!

Gotta look at the bright side sometimes.

Posted: August 30th, 2010 under What she said - 3 Comments.

Claustrophobic. Also: rant.

Here’s how my summer has been: Gone. Every weekend. Visiting this friend. Or that friend. Or another friend. Or so-and-so’s in town. Or such-and-such is going on. “Visit ME!” “Me!” “Over here!” “But what about ME?” “Krista!” “I haven’t seen you in SO long!” “COME VISIT ME!”

You know what I did last weekend? Not a goddamn thing. I did not leave Madison. Except once. To go to the beach with my FAMILY. You know, the people who birthed me? Raised me? Kept me alive all those years? Yeah, them. I miss them sometimes. You know who else I miss?

ME.

Sometimes I want to do what I want to do. Sometimes I want to do NOTHING. Sometimes I want to be in Madison. Sometimes I want to sit on the couch with my boyfriend because I have one and I can and get over it. Sometimes I want to make new friends. Sometimes I want NO friends. Sometimes I miss my friends from life before the Internet. Sometimes I wish I could keep everyone separate. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know so many fucking people. Sometimes it’s all kind of too much.

And sometimes I need to let it all out in a long-winded, passive-aggressive blog post, then quietly remove myself from the Internet and go back to my corner of the world.

Posted: August 24th, 2010 under What she said - 6 Comments.

Rambling: WHY GOD WHY Edition.

Right before I moved, one of the cats peed on my pillow. On my bed. ON MY EDWARD CULLEN PILLOWCASE, which is an offense punishable by death on its own. Pillows were thrown out, sheets, mattress pad and comforter were fumigated. Even Edward was spared. All was right in the world of Asshole Cats.

And then I moved. My parents brought up a couch that belonged to my aunt. It’s an old couch, kind of smelly. Conspicuous stains throughout that look remarkably like pee. She’s got about eleventy dogs. The fear existed that this couch was doomed. First of all, clearly the cats are pissed. One of them is pissed, at least. Literally. <shakes head> But I haven’t figured out which one. I suspect Chicken, for no other reason than she’s the finicky cat. She hates change. She’s delicate. But if history teaches me anything, I’d point to Harley, who’s favorite pastime is shitting all over my existence. Also literally.

But one week passed. Then two. The cats came around, started enjoying the extra room to roam, the new furniture to decimate with fur. NOBODY PEED. Hooray!

Until yesterday. There it was. The spreading wet spot. Somebody peed on the throw pillow, which then spread to the couch cushion.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

After bashing  my face into the wall 78 times and slamming my body into oncoming traffic, I soaked the cushion in some pricey concoction of Cat Pee Remover. Tossed the pillow, threw the cushion out on the balcony to recover. I doused the rest of the couch in some Asshole Cat Repellent I recently bought at the pet store to prevent Harley from shitting on my pretty new kitchen rug. I took a deep breath. It would all be OK. It would. It was just pee. They’re just cats. The couch will be salvaged, I swear it.

Until this morning. When I noticed more. In the spot where the cushion previously had been.

*SHAKES FISTS AT THE HEAVENS*

WHY GOD! WHY?!

I am coming to you, Internet. To tell me what to do. How do I make it stop? Is the couch a lost cause? Are my cats a lost cause? Can I tie them up in a garbage bag, fill it with rocks, and drop it into Lake Monona? (NO! JUST KIDDING! NEVER! EVER!)

*face plant*

Posted: August 20th, 2010 under What she said - 6 Comments.

Dreams in pipes.

I want to write a novel. Everybody says that, but I really, really do. Everybody says that, too. But still. ME! This is about me! Meeeeee.

I have so many ideas in my head, but no complete ideas. I could write a novel comprised solely of great first sentences that have floated through my mind. It’s what I do. I’ll randomly create a story in my head. That one sentence. The first sentence. Then BAM. I don’t know where to go from there. Ideas come to me while I’m running. It’s the only time my mind wanders. I mean, my mind wanders a lot, don’t get me wrong, but I get uninterrupted wandering while running. Even then, when my mind is free and clear, and I’ve got nothing better to do than make shit up, I can’t get past the opening line. Or a character. An image. 

I’ve got a friend who’s working on her second novel. SECOND. I love it, and am both amazed and mind-blown at the same time. HOW DOES SHE DO IT? I wonder if I have the creative capacity to create an entire novel. A plot. Characters. Sub-plots. Depth. Development. How do you make people care? How do you craft a story that’s worth it? How do you come up with something new?

My head hurts.

I’ve read so many fiction novels. There are so many out there. Thinking about it is overwhelming. How is it even possible to create something that hasn’t already been done? Or isn’t there? Do you just throw caution to the wind, write what’s in your mind, and pray like hell that it grows wings and flies?

I don’t dream of becoming a best-selling author. I don’t dream of making millions. I’d be happy with one copy of my book. My name on the front, my picture on the back. My words in the middle. Just tangible proof that I created something awesome. I think I’m more in love with the idea and the process than the result. The hours in front of the computer. The late nights. The revisions. The characters. Pages and pages and pages of story that will probably get deleted, replaced or reduced to two sentences. And really, that’s just the dream I created in my head. The reality of novel-writing is likely less glamorous. But like most of my pipe dreams, they’re made up of naivete. With a side of charm, of course.

But still. It’s a dream, and it’s mine.

I don’t know where to start. How to start. I’ve never actually put any of those first sentences down on paper. They’ve simply drifted out of my head as quickly as they entered. After a first sentence has to come a second, and I don’t have one.

Anyone in the market for a one-sentence novel?

Posted: August 19th, 2010 under What she said - 10 Comments.

Clarity.

As I sat with girlfriends last night, getting manicures by a couple women who stepped directly out of 1986, it hit me that I am absolutely content right now. It’s as if some sort of invisible load has been lifted off my shoulders, and now I can relax and enjoy the life I’ve created for myself.

It took a while to build this life. I’ve been in Madison a year-and-a-half already, but it took me until recently to really find a niche. I’ve folded myself comfortably into that niche, having made friends in this city whom I wouldn’t replace for anything. Good people, real people. Similar interests, honest relationships. I don’t feel alone – ever – even if I’m on the couch by myself, surrounded by cats. They are palpable friendships.

I have a real apartment now, which I’ve discussed time and time again on this blog. The doors! And rooms! It’s all so fun and silly, but it’s real. Finally it’s a home that I can walk into comfortably, without the tension that came with stepping into a studio apartment, where nothing quite fits, and the space is confining. Now I can breathe.

There are places in this city that have become regular spots. A grocery store, a coffee shop. My running routes and favorite bars.

I met someone who’s my equal. We laugh. He makes me laugh. It’s fresh, and we’re tip-toeing through intricacies of relationship newness. I like it.

The latter half of my twenties has been full of inconsistency and change. Some for good, some the result of bad. But all a step toward the positive. I’m finally at a place where I don’t ask myself every day, “What if?” Or “What happens when?” Or “What do I do now?” Or “Who can I turn to?” It’s now, “What’s next?” And I have so many pepole to share it with.

Posted: August 18th, 2010 under What she said - 7 Comments.

Lots of exclamation points.

In a sudden turn of events, Mother Nature decided against decimating us all with her Humidity of Fury, and my brand new apartment suddenly became tolerable and livable. Chilly, in fact, during the night.

IT. IS. AMAZING.

It took a solid week of sweating and bitching trials and tribulations, but I FINALLY settled all my ridiculous belongings into my home. I can call it that now - a “home,” because I officially have a mattress pad and comforter on my bed, and there are things hanging on the walls. I also have a kitchen table not full of boxes and socks (?) and a hodge-podge of random shit that somehow found elsewhere more appropriate to be stored. Harley even christened my kitchen rug by promptly shitting on it this morning. In other news, I HATE THAT FUCKER. (No, not really). (I mean, sometimes). (But only when she POOPS on my STUFF). (It is HARD to be a cat).

I even had Showtime playing in the background, because I have that now, too. SHOWTIME. Weeds! Dexter! Californication! OMG FO’REALS PONIES. My life is amazing. Also, I’m easily pleased. Like, way too easily.

I got to sleep in fresh sheets in a new bedroom with cold air breezing through the balcony door. BALCONY! DOOR! IN MY BEDROOM! Oh, this is too much. Really.

So there you have it. I’m a real human, in an apartment with doors. And sometimes cat poop.

Posted: August 17th, 2010 under What she said - 4 Comments.

Fear.

I have a pattern:

1) Meet someone new.

2) Be really, really, happy about it.

3) Follow that with really, really insecure.

4) Wash, rinse, repeat.

This goes for all relationships – friendly, romantic or otherwise. It’s a nagging self-doubt that’s plagued me since I knew how to spell ‘doubt.’ I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m always struggling to blame someone or something for it. In the last few weeks, alone, I’ve met so many new people and gained so many new relationships from it, and now the signs are starting to appear.

I read into everything. Every word. Every action. Every motion. I’m sensitive to it all. What does it mean? What does it not mean? What did I do? What should I do? What should I not do? What did he do? What did she do? What do I say?

I have a very hard time accepting things as they are. Accepting that others genuinely want me around. Which is both ridiculous and irritating as hell. In my brain, everyone has an ulterior motive. And maybe that’s because for so long people did have ulterior motives when it came to me. I’ve been treated poorly, a lot. But I’ve also been treated amazing, by friends, by boyfriends, by family. I have every reason and no reason at all to have built a wall.

But I hate walls. I hate insecurity. I find myself in awe of people who just are. People who don’t question, who just do. I would give a lot to have that. To be that. To accept that good things happen to good people, just as bad things happen to those same people. Instead of biting my nails and wondering, I want to feel and know that I deserve good. Because, goddammit, I do.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized I’m terrified of the good. In that moment, it sort of stopped me in my tracks. What if it goes away? I had good once, and Good was fucking someone else for the last half of our relationship. I was devastated. I had good once, and a huge falling out left me about 15 friends short. I felt alone. But do I want to be more afraid of the potential bad than I am excited for the present good?

No. Not really.

That’s hard. I don’t want to be hurt. Ever. But, who does? Nobody. Nobody asks for it. So we all deal in our own way. Some of us embrace what we have, live in the now. Others shut down, keep the good away. I don’t want the latter to be me.

Posted: August 16th, 2010 under What she said - 12 Comments.

/end rant

You know when you’re in a new relationship, and everything is neat and fresh and fun and precious? You’re all, “Oh you wanna hold hands? OK!” And there are kisses and giggles and general schmoopiness? And you really just want to hold tight to that because in another 7, 8, 13 months, it won’t be all puppies and butterflies and hand-holding? Because it’ll be more like a, “Dude. Really? Just put your damn dishes IN THE SINK” kind of a thing. And everything is new! And there’s so much to learn! And OMG!

That all happens. Really. I’ve been in a relationship or nine… teen. So you know what? I like the schmoopiness. I’ve paid my dues to the Gods of Awful Relationships. It’s my turn. It’s my schmoop and I’ll schmoop if I want to.

So if one more person gives me the stink eye because of it, I’M GOING TO FLUSH YOU DOWN THE TOILET.

Back off.

With utmost love and schmoopiness,

Krittabug

Posted: August 12th, 2010 under What she said - 12 Comments.