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run-on sentence

I'm starting to think registering for an Ironman is an endurance event in itself.

This is the conclusion I'm arriving at as I sit here in the Tri-Cities Airport, waiting for a much-delayed flight (two hours) to bring me back to Seattle, where I will hopefully make my connection and catch yet another flight to Phoenix and then go to Tempe to volunteer at Ironman Arizona on Sunday, during which I must wear a slutty football player costume because the theme of the aid station at which I am volunteering is "sports," and Adam (who is also volunteering, along with Layla and Arvan) and I have decided this is a boring theme and needs to be spiced up (so he will be dressing as a slutty cheerleader because we must match) and then immediately after the race ends at midnight, we are going to camp out in the registration line because rumor has it there are more volunteers than available spots, so I'm kind of in crazy-stress-fight mode because I want that goddamn spot and have decided IMAZ will be The Race in 2014 because it is flat and fast and on the West Coast, and for good luck, yesterday I went to Northstar and blended my very own IMAZ-themed wine to toast the start of a year of insanity, and most likely this wine will be imbibed at 2 a.m. in the registration line, and I told my coach this, and I think he may think I drink too much to be a really serious triathlete.

Where the hell is this plane?!

winter is coming

Or maybe it's already here? I'm back in Seattle, which is grey and windy and wet. And I totally ate shit this morning when I slipped on one of those metal sidewalk cover-things on my way to the bus. So not only do I have a broken cuboid, I now have a big, fat, bruised right knee.

Is there some kind of award for this? Because if so, please nominate me. I need a trophy for my bookcase.


"How do you like Seattle?"

I get this question at least three times a week.

My go-to answer: "So far, I love it. But ask me again in April, after I haven't seen sun for six months."


Advice I've received: Start taking Vitamin D. In fact, start taking it yesterday. Plan a trip to Mexico or Hawaii for February or March. Buy a good raincoat; only tourists carry umbrellas.

Don't step on the metal.


I've begun making a list of things to keep me occupied when there is no daylight and my pant hems are permanently soggy and all I want to do is ingest entire vats of stew and chili and soup in one sitting.

So far, this includes: Finding a gym that has a normal-sized pool because my current gym's pool is five yards short, which drives me absolutely insane. Setting up my bike trainer without having some sort of freak accident in my living room. Relearning to knit for the express purpose of making ridiculous cat-sized garments. Watching all of Buffy, all over again, perhaps more than once. Reading all of the books I own but have never read (there is a surprisingly large number).

And perhaps -- just perhaps: Writing again.


As the plane landed last night, I thought about that first time, when I arrived with a car full of all of my most important things (cats, bike, cooking utensils). It's a weird feeling, when you move to a new city and you don't know what the months ahead will hold and you wonder if the landscape around you will ever feel familiar.

But now, when those wheels touch the ground, it's different. It's relief. It's gratitude. It's home.

the diagnosis

So the last time I blogged, I was stuck in my apartment, slowly losing my mind and potentially on the verge of unleashing an epidemic on the state of Washington.

The good news: The test results for whooping cough were negative, and I have since been allowed to return to the public sphere.

Recent adventures in the great outdoors included my first Sounders match:

(Real football is so much better than 'Merican football, largely because I'm a huge fan of watching hot guys with amazing butts sprint for 90 minutes. Also, since everyone in Seattle is nutso for sports, you run into all of your friends at games. Hi, Belle!)

There was also Halloween:

(Gee, I bet you can't guess which pumpkin is mine.)

(Bastet. Because cats. Duh.)

And now I am in the New Jersey/New York area for a combo of business and pleasure.

(My first Big Gay Ice Cream experience. That popsicle was four flavor layers of yum.)

(I really enjoy meeting cats on my travels. In case you haven't noticed.)

However, just as a glazed doughnut cannot exist without being draped with a square of Velveeta cheese that has been melted in the microwave for exactly 20 seconds (shut up, that shit is good and I will not eat glazed doughnuts any other way), so too does good news need bad.

In other words: I have a stress fracture.

I had my bone scan on Halloween (insert some kind of skeleton joke here) and pretty much knew things weren't going to go well when I found myself in an elevator, descending to the bowels of the hospital with a man sprouting devil horns.

And when I saw this ...

... my worst fear (besides being randomly vomited on by a total stranger in a public place, of course) became reality. That big white dot in the center of my left foot? That's a fractured cuboid (a.k.a. the craptacular bone that has plagued me for years).

I can't say I was surprised -- I'd been bracing myself for the worst. But I still teared up a little and posted sad panda declarations of self-pity on Facebook and Twitter. (Especially rough today because of the NYC Marathon. Dear universe: Thanks for surrounding me with 45,000 runners. You've got a great sense of humor. Bitch.)

I'm supposed to talk to my doctor tomorrow about options. It seems he wants to put me in a boot and keep me on crutches (confession: I ditched these awhile ago because it took me 30 minutes to go one block and they made my body so sore and crooked that I thought they were more trouble than they were worth), but I have so many questions about muscle atrophy and overcompensation and alignment. I want to know all avenues and potential consequences before I commit to a method of treatment.

Also: I'd like to know if the boot comes in leopard print.