#trypod

I'm a big fan of listening to podcasts during pre-dawn trainer workouts, when I'd rather watch the sunrise than stare at a screen. Since March is "Try a Pod" month, I thought I'd share a few of my favorites.

For real horror: You know what's scarier than ghosts, vampires, zombies, haunted lighthouses and being buried alive? Actual real-life contemporary murder. In "My Favorite Murder," the hosts (who are from my homeland of California) recount their favorite true crime stories. One episode talks about the Night Stalker, who was all over the news during my childhood growing up in L.A. Another focuses on Mary Vincent, whose attacker hacked both of her arms off, yet she still managed to survive. The show also talks about child murderers (as in children who are murderers), a murder in a lululemon store (WTF), a woman who faked pregnancy and then tried to kill a truly pregnant woman so she could take the baby out of her and claim it as her own (seriously WTF), and other equally pleasant topics. I can't stop listening. (True story: My parents were visiting recently, and I was on the trainer listening to murder and they literally started praying the rosary.)

Be warned, however: Every time I go running now and see someone out there, I'm 99 percent sure they're going to murder me. It also doesn't help that this just happened in a park I used to run through in Seattle. And my paranoia isn't limited to the trail. One of the creepiest stories in the podcast is about a woman who was swimming laps and a guy stood on the deck and stared at her and she got a bad feeling, so she didn't get out of the pool and just kept swimming and eventually he went away and then later she saw his picture on the news and he was a murderer. Now I think about this all the time. (I do feel like I should sign up for a self-defense class and carry pepper spray. I'm curious -- if you're reading this, do you do anything to protect yourself while running?)

"Phew! Didn't get murdered!"

For shits and giggles: On a completely different note, I also love "My Dad Wrote a Porno," which is basically three friends reading aloud from their dad's horribly written erotic novel. The novel in question is "Belinda Blinked," and it is so unbelievably bad that it's amazing. (The word "cervix" should never, ever be used in a sex scene.)

So you know you're not alone: "Terrible, Thanks for Asking" tackles the awful things that happen to us and how we learn to live with them. Expect tears. But expect hope too. (Also related: "The Hilarious World of Depression." I love that we can have honest, adult conversations about mental illness because it really is a thing and we shouldn't be embarrassed to talk about it.)

For tunes: The Current is my favorite local radio station, and I'm a fan of their "Song of the Day" podcast. It's a great way to find new music.

For politics: The "NPR Politics Podcast" is a good overall view of the shit circus that is our current administration. (Side note: Is anyone else freaking out about the proposed budget? EPA cuts? Elimination of arts funding?) If you're looking for politics with a much more adamantly liberal slant, check out "Pod Save America." And finally, "Civics 101" explains all of the government terms and entities we hear about in the news so we can decipher what's really happening and how things actually work (or should work, or perhaps may not be working at all).

a half marathon happened

When Layla and I get together -- like we did for the SeaWheeze half marathon in Vancouver earlier this month -- hilarity ensues.

Dear Vancouver: You were warned.

It's like we forget how to be adults.

Absolutely play with your food.

And pose with taxidermy.

Wait, it gets so much better. Better than you ever thought possible. In fact, the Best Thing Ever.

ROAR.

Dear Asian cosmetics store that convinced us to buy these masks age-defying beauty treatments that allow us to live our dream of being in the cast of "Cats": Thank you. (Although maybe being in "Cats" was entirely my dream and not Layla's. Dear Layla: Thank you for supporting my dream. You are a good friend. And now there is a scary photo of us on the internet forever.)

Oh, and the race? That was fun too. Yes, we waited in line for three hours to get into the expo store and then promptly proceeded to lose our minds and start grabbing everything in sight. But in the end we were rational, narrowed down our purchases and avoided being in debt for the next 20 years due to Luxtreme.

Spotted: The fine line between entrepreneurial and insane.

Shenanigans and shopping aside, the race itself was great -- a lot better than I expected. We all know I've been struggling with motivation when it comes to running. (I can ride my bike all day, every day, but lately with running, I'll do everything possible to come up with excuses. I've actually started running point-to-point routes and taking the Nice Ride bikeshare home because biking has become how I reward myself for slogging through a run.)

Meanwhile, Layla was recovering from an achilles injury. We didn't have high hopes, so we seeded ourselves with the 2:20 pace group. Our plan was to start together and then see what happened -- no pressure to stay together. (Because we're chill and well-adjusted like that.)

At the starting line!

Yet somehow -- I've never done this with anyone ever -- we ran every single step of the race together. The only times we got separated were at the aid stations, but then we always found each other afterward. Both of us finished in exactly 2:13:17. (Feel free to interpret this as a metaphor of our deep and profound friendship.)

And then we took photos with towels on our heads because that's the sort of thing we do. (Again: Friendship.)

Other thoughts on the race: Grab your girl friends and sign up. SeaWheeze is well-organized, the course is pretty (a few little hills -- nice change from the Midwest), the crowd support is awesome and the swag is good (shorts!). But know that the course is long (my Garmin said 13.45), the lines can try your patience (getting the post-race breakfast was insane) and some of the aid stations this year had people dressed in nude full-body leotards jumping around and cheering and it was really scary and I could barely handle it because nude full-body leotards.

However, at Mile 12, there was a man with a sign that said "Think Happy Thoughts," and I may or may not have said "Penis!"

Anyway.

Since SeaWheeze is a lululemon event, there was also a lot of yoga.

I didn't participate; I just took awkward photos of a sea of strangers' butts. 

really important life thoughts

Today I got invited to a "baby shower barbecue." And my immediate reaction was: "Are we going to be grilling babies?"

Clearly, this is why I have cats.

Although recently I've found myself questioning the idea of "owning" cats. "Own" just doesn't feel right. I like to think of our relationship as much more mutual. (Or mewtual. Mewtual! See what I did there?)

I also like to think of myself as a completely sane, reasonable person.

Anyway, tonight I swam and it wasn't as painful as Monday's swim, so it's possible I may be recovering from my cheese binge. Either that, or I've accepted pain as a part of life and stopped fighting it and instead welcomed it as another glass bead in the kaleidoscope of human existence.

I really hope it's the former.

how to start the day

Not a bad spot for the trainer, right?

I love getting on the bike first thing in the morning, before the sun comes up. I love watching the sky shift from dark to day, the city lights sparkle and then go out, the streets slowly fill with people and cars.

But the best part of this wonderful, peaceful, pristine moment? Listening to really creepy-ass podcasts. Because nothing makes a pre-dawn workout fly by like stories of cannibalism and insane asylums and getting buried alive.

(If this sounds awesome to you, then we should be best friends and you should check out Lore and then we can drink whiskey and discuss our favorite episode, which for me is currently a tie between the Icelandic elves who live in giant boulders and the homeless man who broke into a mausoleum, fell through the floor and found himself in a pit of rotting corpses.)

I didn't die

In fact, I feel pretty decent, considering this came out of my mouth:

I've named it Monica, to honor the coworker who was part of The Incident.

(The secret tooth that was hidden in my upper jaw was also extracted. Sadly, I did not take photos of it because it was broken into two pieces during surgery and was a lot smaller than I thought it would be. I kind of wanted it to be more dramatic -- like with a tiny, partially formed skeleton attached, thus confirming the existence of my secret twin. Because who isn't obsessed with the possibility of a secret twin that was somehow absorbed into your body so then you spend your life living for the two of you but never realize it until later?)

The procedure was fairly straightforward. The doctor and nurses talked to me about cats and triathlon (my oral surgeon rides in Kona with triathletes and liked how I was wearing an IMAZ shirt to the appointment!) until I went under. And then the surgery was over, and I woke up and said: "Did I fall asleep?" And the nurse said: "Yes, for a little while." And then she put me in a wheelchair and took me to the car, and then Annie drove me home.

And I didn't really do or say anything wacky while drugged. Unless you count making up a song about being on drugs and singing it loudly to my swim buddy over the phone. Oh, and refusing to take more drugs until I had meticulously decorated my prescription bottles with stickers so Annie and I would be able to know which meds were which because safety first. (The Vicodin now bears a "Party Time" sticker.)

I spent the rest of the day eating pudding and mashed potatoes, but craving Doritos and steak. And getting out of bed and trying to do chores, only to have Annie ask me what I was doing and send me back to bed. And then Heidi and Belle and Julie came over to check on me. And I felt so happy about having such good friends who love me even if I look like this: 

That's right: I rocked a headband around my face because I needed to keep pressure on the gauze in my mouth so the surgery area could clot. (I don't know what's a more disgusting word -- "clot" or "moist." Ick. Shivers.)

Thankfully, I was able to wear my denture flipper immediately after the surgery, so there was no traumatizing gap.

Not bad, modern dentistry. Not bad.

And I can also talk, which is a huge relief. Although I did learn one very important lesson today: Do not play Cards Against Humanity right after you've hard oral surgery because the chances that you will laugh so hard you spit blood all over the deck are very, very high.

people are amazing

First tri of the season is tomorrow. My birthday is also Monday.

Good thing some random asshole decided to get the weekend started right.

Nothing like heading to the car to load up your gear and discovering a good old-fashioned hit-and-run. Makes a girl feel damn special.

Wait, it gets better.

My bumper is now falling off. And yes, that's tape.

Best part: I literally just got my car repaired from getting rear-ended a few weeks ago.

Life is grand. Truly.

happy easter indeed

Best Easter ever. I woke up and there was no cat puke next to the bed. And then I took Muppet for a ride outdoors in the sun. And then I met Annie for brunch and ate spicy pork sausage congee.

I may or may not have still been wearing padded shorts during this.

And then I spent time with my boss's family.

Don't worry. My boss's family consists of human beings. His mom just happens to have the most epic collection of creepy dolls I have ever seen in my entire life. In other words, she is my hero.

Also, I colored a cow.

And ate a ton of post-Easter dinner truffle fries because it makes complete sense to polish off a giant holiday meal and then immediately go out and eat more food.

Epitome of maturity.

I just hope my boss still lets me hang out with his family even after I told his 8-year-old son about how people sometimes have a growth on their arm and when they go to the doctor to get it removed, they find hair and teeth inside because -- dun dun dun ! -- it was their secret twin.

corfe castle

You know how in "The Hobbit," Bilbo Baggins gets pulled into an unexpected adventure? That is pretty much what this trip is like, except I'm traveling by myself instead of with a bunch of dwarves. And I don't have to meet a dragon at the end. And I suck at riddles, so I won't be getting any special jewelry. And -- most important of all -- I don't have hairy feet.

I spent yesterday exploring Corfe Castle, the teeny-tiny village that is currently my home base. The day began with a proper English breakfast ...

Confession: I like brown sauce.

... and then I immediately went to the cemetery. Because that is what normal people do when they are on vacation, right?

Bonus find: There is more than one cemetery in Corfe Castle! And the second one -- called God's Acre -- has the most incredible view of the castle itself.

Here's a shot without the tombstones, in case they freak you out:

Next stop: The castle. The weather was terrible, so barely anyone was out (except for us crazy people who love cemeteries and rain), and I actually had the entire castle to myself for a little bit. Of course, I used this special time to take selfies.

Rocking the Elsa braid.

It was like all of my dorky childhood fantasies coming true up there. I was thisclose to galloping around on my imaginary white horse Magic and commanding my imaginary army to keep watch against the imaginary enemies and their imaginary banners with imaginary evil symbols.

Clearly, this is why I am single.

View of the town, as seen by the imaginary army.

Oh, and I was also simultaneously looking for that portal to a history that is populated only by really hot men who want to fall in love with a woman from the future. Sadly, no luck.

Where is my Diana Gabaldon moment?

Eventually, it got really cold in my make-believe world, so I hiked back down to reality, found a tearoom with a roaring fire and ordered the infamous Dorset cream tea.

And then I went back to my inn ...

... where I wrote this blog post and huddled in bed until it was time to eat dinner.

Pro tip: Fish pie tastes a lot better than it sounds, and since Corfe Castle is so close to the coast, the seafood here is pretty damn good.

how to ugly cry in public

Red Butte Cemetery, Aspen

I've always loved cemeteries. They say a lot about the city or town they're in, the culture of the people who live there, the history of a region. I love wandering through them, looking for the oldest headstones or the most ornate or the humblest ones, eroded and covered in lichen. I try to imagine the lives of the people who came before me: What did their laughs sound like? What food did they like best? Were they in love when they died? And I wonder if they still have family who visit them and remember their stories, so many generations later.

Lately, I've found myself seeking solace in cemeteries more and more often. After the past six months, I've become an expert in public crying, and cemeteries are by far, hands down, the absolute best places for a no-holds-barred waterworks display. (I also enjoy my car, airports, public transit and halfway houses -- people are really nice to you if you cry on the doorstep of a halfway house. I've been offered food.) If you are planning to have a mental breakdown any time in the near future, I highly recommend a cemetery.

Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans

First of all, hardly anyone hangs out in a cemetery (with the exception of morbid little me, who can't seem to get enough), so there's a strong chance you'll have privacy. And if anyone is actually there and they see you lose your shit, no one questions it because you're in a cemetery and crying is what you are supposed to do there. (Who cares if you're crying in front of the grave of someone who died a century ago? It's still perfectly socially acceptable.)

I always seem to end up in front of the girl who died too young -- 3 years, 6 years, 10 years. I don't do this on purpose; for some reason, the stones I find prettiest always end up being these. And then I sit on the grass and cry -- terrible, ugly, blubbery, body-shaking weeping -- for a good while.

I think about everyone in that cemetery -- all those people and their lives that I can't even fathom. I know we are human and have all felt pain -- the pain of watching loved ones die, the pain of actually dying -- and it makes me feel less alone, like I'm simply part of the fabric of this world, and what I'm undergoing isn't any more or less extraordinary than what anyone else has already experienced or will experience in the future.

Mount Pleasant Cemetery, Seattle

It's this bizarre feeling of release and solidarity. And then when I'm done, I like to lie down in the grass and stare at the sky.

my creepy new hobby

I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but somehow I went from being a strict vegetarian (not even fish) to an all-of-the-meat-parts omnivore who ate her own chicken's brain, is obsessed with blood sausage and has skinned a baby rabbit.

That last part? Yes. And if you do not like seeing dead animals or have a weak stomach, you should probably stop reading this. Because I took a taxidermy class last Friday, and small, furry bunnies were involved. (And this is the part where I lose all five readers who actually follow this blog. I also feel bad because I know people who have pet rabbits, and this makes me feel like an asshole. That said, I would probably taxidermy a cat if I found fresh roadkill. Although when I told Alberto Salad Bar that I wanted to start picking up roadkill, he said: "Absolutely not. I don't care if you taxidermy things and put them up all over the house and I would even be OK with you having a taxidermy studio, but you are not bringing roadkill home." Perhaps I should rethink our relationship.)

Why taxidermy? Because lately I've been drawn to animal heads. I'm not really sure why. I think I just like creepy things. (Have I mentioned my doll obsession? And the collection of baby heads I have at home? I'm also partial to skulls, prosthetic limbs and Victorian death photos. Party at my place, anyone?) And since I'm one of those people who believes in taking full responsibility for things (i.e., if I'm going to eat meat, eat the entire animal), I felt like I should know how taxidermy works and if I could stomach the process behind it.

Therefore, taxidermy class. The project: Rabbits. And oddly enough, every single student in the class was a woman. (So not only is Seattle the Land of Hipster Lumberjacks, it's also the Home of Creepy-Ass Ladies. I guess I fit right in.)

Not going to lie -- this made me feel sad. And there were a few times I wanted to cry. The rabbits were so small and so cute. But apparently, they were also destined to be snake food. So if we weren't going to taxidermy them, they would've been eaten alive by a reptile. (Side note: No meat went to waste. The leftover carcass was used for dog food -- I guess there are dog owners who want fresh rabbit meat for their pets and sign up for this sort of thing.)

Also, no formaldehyde was involved in the process. The rabbits were killed (with gas) and then immediately frozen. They were thawed specifically for the class. So in other words, since they were not preserved, they could still rot, which was kind of what happened with my first rabbit (again, these photos are super-graphic and disgusting, so stop reading if you hate this stuff):

The poor little guy kept bleeding, and he smelled pretty bad, and his fur was falling out, so my teacher took him away from me and gave me a different one.

Step one involved cleaning the excess blood off of the rabbit's fur with peroxide. Step two involved skinning the rabbit with a scalpel and then carefully pulling the outer layer off. The trick here was to make a shallow incision -- almost a scratch vs. an actual cut -- or you would puncture the gut and -- boom! -- poo everywhere! Thankfully, that didn't happen to me. (And the next photo is really, really disgusting, even for me.)

(Side note: Yes, looking at an animal carcass is gross and terrible. But if you think about it, this is what we eat all the time, every day. And yet it's really difficult to face what meat really is: An animal, a living thing that was most likely really cute at one point. It's much easier to eat when all you see is the packaged product or the perfect hamburger. I'm the same way -- I still struggle with meat on the bone because it makes me think: If I was cooked, would I look like that? And the answer is most likely yes.)

After you skinned the rabbit (carefully -- the ears, front legs and eyes were all very tricky and required a special technique), you turned it inside out and then rubbed it with a ridiculous amount of Borax to dry it out. During this process, you also pulled off any excess fat from the pelt.

From there, you turned it rightside out and cleaned it again with the peroxide.

And this was when I started to question my taxidermy skills. Case in point: Let's take a look at Naomi's rabbit ...

... vs. mine:

The teacher actually looked at my rabbit and said: "There is always one awkward student in the class."

Great.

Thankfully, with a lot of peroxide and cotton balls, I was able to redeem myself.

(If you're wondering why he has pins sticking out of his nose, it's because it takes about a month for taxidermy to dry, and in order to keep the rabbit's lips from drying in a horrible, horrible way, you have to hold them in place with pins.)

So that is story behind the latest creepy addition to my household. 

And in case you're wondering, yes, the cats immediately went after the rabbit when I brought him home -- I rescued him just in time.

And I smelled like blood for about 24 hours after the class.