Green Tips for a Happy Fourth of July!

DID YOU KNOW!!

Your plastic wrappers and yogurt containers are probably not accepted at the curb for recycling. But you can sell them to be reused into shopping bags or packaging. Learn more about a company offering this service and how to recycle this “waste” near you.

GET INTO PRACTICE!!

For your Fourth of July barbeque, consider using propane instead of wood or charcoal. It burns cleaner and comes in a steel tank that’s refillable and recyclable. See more tips on greening your Independence Day.

Ex.
1. Go outside:
Use less energy from household appliances by holding your shindig outside!

2. Get gassy:
Instead of bbq’ing with wood or charcoal, use propane, which comes in metal tanks which can be recycled. On the upside to lugging around heavy tanks of Propane… it burns cleaner than wood or charcoal fires, limiting the amount of carbon you’re releasing into the air.

3. Listen to your mother:
Pick up after yourself. July 4th produces huge amounts of garbage. Make sure you clean up after yourself. And to be even more conscientious, use cloth napkins, which can be laundered and used again for your next hoot-nanny, plates of recycled paper, and recycle your forks and spoons (or just use washable, metal ones).

4. Pack it in!
Carpool to wherever you’re going, if you’re going to watch the ‘Works. Nothing sucks more than having to find parking, so on the way to the show, pile into a car and save each other gas by car pooling!

Wedded Bliss?

Are weddings really happy days? ‘Cause the thing that’s supposed to be the happiest day (besides giving birth) of a couple’s life is preceded by stress, emotional melt-downs and LOTS of financial worry…

I wonder.

As a female guest, I find myself dropping a lot of money on this weekend’s festivities. Dress, make up, shoes, outfits for the rehearsal and dinners and breakfasts, bridal shower, bachellorette party,hotel, food, etc… It’s a lot of scrilla getting dropped without a moment’s pause, because it’s necessary. Oddly enough, I haven’t found the same amount of stress I normally do with weddings, and I’ve spent easily way more money on this wedding than any other I have in the past. Oh, and I’m kind of in the wedding party too. (Not a Bride’s maid, but something.)

Anyway, unspeakable stressors struck N and I this week, and I don’t need to burden you with the deets.

We have to re-shuffle things in our lifestyles in order to actually have a life later in which to have a style. Basically, less spending.

With the preparations for this weekend fully taking over our lives this week, I haven’t had much to say. I’ll fill you in this weekend if I get a chance to run, or if I get the chance to blog, or think, or sleep, or…

You get my drift.

Happy Fourth!

Indulgence in Vanity

Yesterday or two days ago I posted something about how the best cure-all for a work-day gone horrendously amiss is shoes. At least, it is, for me. This is a terrible indulgence, I know–especially for someone who has professed time and time again the gospel of being eco-conscious and green, a self-proclaimed Eco-nazi. I know, I am a paradox. Reality is a cruel mistress.

I can’t help it. I love fashion! I love being green. Besides fiction and all things Internetty, these are my two biggest passions: fashion and the planet. Are there two things in the universe more at odds with each other? The world of fashion only promotes usage, love and hoarding of–albeit deliciously aesthetically pleasing–material wealth. Being green means reducing, reusing and learning to live with less in order to save the planet from a horrible and decidedly dirty demise. While those who are fashion-conscious spend countless hours in stores and malls browsing racks, our Earth-conscious sisters are attending rallies, starting recycling drives, initiating green revolutions in the work-place, promoting habits to reduce our wear and tear on the planet, fashioning new things out of old discards. They ban China, wear organic (because of the way cotton is grown, millions of gallons of pesticides absorb into the ground, polluting run offs into streams, rivers, lakes and eventually our oceans, killing fish, small animals and poisoning our food sources (again fish) with bad amounts of mercury) and bamboo, and carry around Sigg metal water bottles in their enormously handy shopping bags made out of 100% post-consumer recycled waste.

Only until recently the fashion world didn’t really embrace the green movement. Only those with the heftiest wallets have up to now been able to shovel out the necessary dough to pay for Green Fashion. Eco-Conscious clothing is also usually hard to come by. It is expensive, hardly fashionable, and in limited selection. The best looking eco-fashion can cost upwards of $300 for a nice blouse or $199 for a pair of organic, all-American jeans. For those amounts, I might as well shell out the dollars for a great Nicole Miller or Nina Ricci, or even grab a pair of J-Brands or Cheap Mondays. Hell, it’s less expensive. But then I run the trouble of eco-guilt plaguing me in my sleep for not doing the conscionable thing. I actually have have eco-guilt ridden nightmares, and woken up in the middle of the night!

Of course, for the more economically-minded, there is the ubiquitous and trendy American Apparel. It’s made in America, is owned by Americans, is manufactured in factories by well-paid, happy Americans in clean and bright factories. But Jersey Cotton and muslin can only get you so far. Try rocking Jersey cotton at your next board meeting! (Oh, and it isn’t 100% organic, either, so those dyes still contain toxins, and the cotton farms still use pesticides that pollute our water supply.)

Point is…we can all do a our part to help the planet by changing our habits, but for those who love fashion, the Green world sadly hasn’t caught up. It’s a disappointing reality, and a confusing, saddening puzzle for those of us who want to do more than just “go organic” or stick a plastic bottle in a recycling bin. Continue reading »

Less than Fresh

“Aren’t there times when you feel, less than fresh?”

Oh, dude, what a great line.

If you’ve had the last two days I’ve had at work, you’d find amusement in the stupidest, corniest of movies. I’ve had the sort of days from which little to no enjoyment can be gained: THE WORST OF DAYS EVER at the office. Essential programs decided to die. Network printer decided to stop recognising my computer and would not print anything. Spent close to 5 hours on the phone with PC support people at the Main Office in New York, escalating my trouble all the way up to upper level management in the Support team, and still could not get said problems resolved! My productivity level plummeted, and I spent hours and hours fretting the ability to do certain fundamental duties!

This is not the way my week is supposed to turn out!

I protest. I find remedy in old 90’s movies of the most cheesy variety (Buffy the Vampire Slayer), whilst perusing Nordstrom.com for shoes to buy with my gift card.

Two minutes of browsing through the Pumps find me this lovely.

Boutique 9 “T” strap pump.

>Cue heavenly choir singing< AND, after seeing the velcro strap sandals on Rumi of Fashion Toast (I think hers are Aldo), I decided on buying these Jeffrey Campbell beauties. The other ones I saw on her site (the D link – “mummy bandage” I think she called them – Sandals), unfortunately were sold out of my size. BOO!

Behold, my panacea! Now I just have to get over my little drool sesh spanning about two weeks, or however long it takes them to make their way to my doorstep!

It’s vain, materialistic and superficial, but shoes really do make one feel so much better.

Ahhhh. I love gift cards. These definitely make me feel loads better.

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A Little Bit ‘o

This weekend has turned out to be one of a little bit of confusion, a little bit of bitchy frustration, a little bit of grunting, a lot of sweating, a little bit of burning, a little bit of vanity, and a little bit of yawning.

Allow me to enlighten:

Friday had plans to hang out with Ria and do some serious second hand shopping. I’m a bit stretched on budget lately due to N’s sister’s wedding and some luxurious–albeit discount–spending online. So I thought, hey, why not look for some vintage finds I can wear a bit and then sell on e-Bay? Hmm yes, a grand master plan.

FOILED! ROYAL OAK, MI is pure.shit. on Friday afternoons. After several convoluted attempts to find parking, Ria and I turned into one of the neighbourhoods, silently prayed for permission to park in front of someone’s house and then sauntered up the crowded streets to look for these vintage stores I remember being there. We found one, now occupied by some awful third-rate party wear store with fake Prada’s in the window and awful mainstream rubbish imitating music blaring from a ghetto blaster over the register. No thanks. We walked past another one on 11 Mile, and found the store front empty. No luck. So we ended up eating sushi at a Chinese-Owned family restaurant with duct-tape over the vinyl seats and sticky floors. The food was good.

The only vintage store we managed to locate was on Woodward, but one of those stores that only stays open during office business hours (9-5). I will never ever be able to vintage shop in MI. I swear. Maybe I should give up and go back to California.

The cursing and bitchy, frustrated shrieks, you can only imagine.

Saturday:
Mr. Five Fingers (N) and I had lofty goals of doing a 7 AM 10K training run before heading off to Eastern Market downtown for our weekly produce. 7 AM rolled around, the buzzer sounded, and as our tradition follows, we slapped the snooze key hard at least 8 times. By the 8th round, the alarm ceased to sound. We woke up bleary eyed around 11AM. I rolled over and went promptly back to sleep and it wasn’t until about 12:58 that I woke up again–N was jumping up and down on the bed with his running shorts on. It was his sign.

I don’t wake up easily and without a fight. I get morose and unbearable. I have done this since I was a child, and it’s quite aggravating to anyone on the receiving end. N is building himself a veritable utopia with the karma he’s saved, dealing with my waking battle-modes, I tell you! I was in such a foul mood for who knows what reason for maybe close to two hours. I steamed over my breakfast cereal, shot N dirty looks for giving me advice about running hydration (his advice changes a lot–No, you don’t need any drink at all on a 3 miler–Oh, you should drink every 5 minutes on your training runs, trust me–you’ll be fine with one sip after about a mile and a half), pouted while I strapped on my gear. I might as well be four years old.

We finally got onto the trail. I was still fuming for no good reason at all. Storm clouds were compiling. Solitary, lumpy sentinels in the blue skies rolled into an unending belt of grey over Novi. Once we started running from the trail head, we heard rolling thunder. It was about to come down over our heads, but still we pushed on. 10 minutes running, 5 minutes walking. While running, we were doing about a 11:30 min/mi pace. Nice and steady. By the first mile or so I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold that pace for the whole time, especially not while I had to be particularly mindful not to step on rocks or upward tree roots which could stab my New Balances (they have no padding) and hurt my feet, or run up steep hills and still maintain a good, easy rhythm with my feet and breathing. I kicked it back to about a 12:30 pace. Walking, we were probably averaging 17Min…

The trail was beautiful. Single tracks, winding over boardwalks over brooks and streams, lush undergrowth and foliage shaded by dense forest canopy, steep, windy hills, soft, rich mud, cushioning our footfalls. It felt good to be on the trail. By about mile 2, my sourness had worn away. My footsteps were bringing me closer to good vibrations.

The rain began to fall down, it felt soft and cooling, and a quiet breeze ran itself through the leaves above.

It wasn’t until about mile five I started to feel some pain in the ITB on my left leg. N was mystified why it was the left, when I am right-handed. I told him my left leg was about half an inch shorter than my right, and that might have something to do with it. My left knee started clicking in and out of place, sending a small flash of pain darting up my leg. I ignored it and plowed on.

At about 5.5 N had to stop to pee, and while he had to slash the air at the mosquitoes, I hopped and danced in place, hoping to keep them at bay. No such luck. I will tell you later what happened.

We found our way back from the stray loop I took us on to the trail head, where, according to the Garmin, we hit a bit above 6 miles. My first 10K.

Finishing time: 1h40m. 16 min miles. not bad for my first ever 10K distance, considering all the walking.

Then off to CVS for meds and for me, press-on nails to give it a test run for N’s sister’s wedding.

party: no need to go into the details. We met a labradoodle there, and we fell in love with it. Too bad he’s too big for the condo–he’d be perfect for running. His mum was a runner, too. She trains 3-4 miles with the dog every day.

Came back home around 11:30 and put on a movie while I spent the whole time trying to figure out my new nails. Who knew Press-Ons could be so complicated? I always thought it was one step: Press.

Fell asleep around 2:30, only to wake myself up scratching feverishly at the bites on my leg and arm.

I woke up this afternoon around 1 to find a swollen welt rising on the back of my elbow and behind my right knee. The welt behind my knee has swollen to twice the size of a golf ball, and the one on my elbow is about the size of a ping-pong. I put hydrocortisone on it to stop the itch, but the damage has been done. They are officially huge. I probably won’t be able to wear a skirt until the swelling has subsided. Well, it’s all good, I have an excuse not to shave my legs this week.

Not a bad weekend, considering how much we slept!

Work

It’s not work if it isn’t hard. You’re not doing enough if you’re not working. You’re not accomplishing your goals if you’re not sweating.

Wow.

Hearing that made me tense up with anticipation of another training run this weekend. I want to run faster and farther. I know I can do this. I want to work hard at this, and I want to show people who know I have lupus, that I am not going to suffer quietly and sit on the couch and vegetate. I want to fight. I want to prove. I want to blast my goals out of the water.

Yesterday’s training run on the trails: 3.4 miles, 41 minutes. 12 minute miles. I’m getting better. Weekend goal: 6 miles, 13 minute miles… maybe 12. I think I can do that. Strategy: 11:30 min miles, then 5 min walking. I think I’ll N’s garmin to keep in in line.

–

I’m going shopping this weekend. Outfit shots might just be posted if I can find my camera. (Disappeared after last weekend’s race!)

stretched

finding myself in a lot of pain, jointwise. thinking saturday’s run kind of took it out of my knees and hips. didn’t do much stretching afterward and haven’t done any siince then. haven’t run either.

but i don’t really do either without much conscious effort. it’s in my genes to naturally do lazy things–er, BE lazy and do nothing, rather. i naturally debate playing video games, i don’t have to think twice about sleeping or napping, but running? effort. decision making process. stretching?

n stretches a LOT. like when we get home, after dinner and before we sleep. then again in the morning. i have to stretch the thin paper edges my mind before stretching my poor muscles occurs to me. usually by then, i’ve aready set my head to rest on my pillow and i am loathe to leave the soft caress of my bamboo sheets.

my own undoing.

——–

n and i are here at an outdoor music theatre to watch jack johnson perform. despite the sub 60F temps predicted, thousands have braved the cold to see this green preaching, politically aware hawaiian folk singer. i’m actually slightly excited.

——–

saw obama speak a couple of days ago. i almost cried when he came onto the stage with al gore,, who endorsed him openly in the speech that followed their entrance. i think i will definitely be proud to vote for obama once i am a citizen this fall.

——–

signed up for my first trail 10K. the grand island trail marathon has been called a hard, hard, hard run by a Western States 100 ultramarathoner. oiye vey. i’ll be doing the 10k while n attempts the marathon. n said to prepare for 10 miles just to be safe. i should also buy bear repellant spray…. what fun.

With a Little Help

It’s true what experienced runners say about “race day magic.” It’s this extra pulse of energy from the throngs of other athletes about you that vibrates through your muscles and vivifies your nervously beating heart. The fey pulsations ripple through you, giving you a viv and vim you do not have on ordinary training runs. You run faster, harder.

“Glowing” with anticipation… Not really.

Admittedly, I was pretty nervous by the time we were a mile away from the park. N had been trying to coax me into doing the full 10K I’d originally signed up for, but I’d never actually run six miles in my life, and after a totally painful 4 mile training run last Monday at the gym, I had decided that no matter what, I would not push myself to the extent that I couldn’t enjoy my first race, or that I would DFL (what real racers call finishing last: “Dead F*cking Last”). Looking at the 10K stats from the last two years, I would have DFL’d; no one running the 10K ran much slower than a 12:10 pace. I regularly run 14 minute miles on my trail training, and that’s when I aim to finish faster than normal. I can do 13 pace on the street.

We took a quick finish near the middle of the 5K pack down a medium decline sled hill. A fast turn around a soccer field, I sped up to leave the older and fatter runners behind us to keep from bottle-necking the narrow trail. I didn’t actually know how fast I was going until we reached mile marker 1, and I glanced at my watch. I had passed Mile One at 9:11. Whoa. I have never run a mile that fast in my life!

It had rained hard this last week. The woody trail was muddy, with murky puddles and lots and lots of sections where there was feet of mud. While people gingerly waded or skirted these miniature quagmires, N and I plowed right through them–I in my New Balance 790’s, and N in his Vibram Five Fingers, sometimes jumping into them with glee, like little 6 year olds after a rainstorm. Mud splattered onto our legs and coated our shoes. At one point on the trail, the muck was more than an inch deep, and my shoe sunk into it almost up to the laces. A loud suction noise sounded as I pulled out of it.

If you look closely, you can see mud splatters on my calves, and lots of mud caked onto my shoes.

The next two miles were decidedly harder. I hit the Wall (where breathing becomes difficult, the muscles and lungs start to burn, and cramping starts) around 2.5 miles. I started to forget my Anton “Running Jesus” Krupicka form (pushing off with ball of foot, leaning forward slightly, lowered centre of gravity) and my breathing, and began to let the pain settle into my mind. Oh that bit was tough. We passed an aid station where I grabbed a cup of water… bad idea. Running + drinking from a cup demands a special technique I haven’t mastered yet. The sip I managed to get down went down the wrong pipe and I ran for several tens of yards hacking and sputtering. After we passed mile marker 3, the trail split, the orange ribbons veered sharply into a deeply shaded, winding trail, and the blue ribbons took a gentle turn down a wider track. N and I ran a few yards onto the blue path before deciding to double back to follow the group of runners before us foraging onto the orange track.

Bad idea.

Turns out we had detoured about half a mile, by our estimation, on the 10K route, re-emerging onto the 5K path near some people who had been pretty far behind us at the point we had left the proper path.

We rounded a copse of trees and into the clearing off the trail head. Once on the sled hill I made a last effort sprint up the hill to the finish line, after which I totally fell to the ground, exhausted.

By my estimation, and an I reached 3.1 miles at about 36 minutes or so. An 11:40 minute/mile pace. The fastest (by far!) long-distance pace I’ve ever gone in my entire life!

My Breakfast of Champions

Such an accomplishment comes on the heels of yesterday’s tragedy, when we had to rush to an emergency vet to put down our dear little friend, Mendelssohn, a quirky, special Bichon Frisé the family’s had for three years. After two months of fighting failing kidneys, Mendel bravely decided to finally journey across the Rainbow Bridge. With much crying and pain, we let our friend pass on to his reward. After the two injections inserted into the catheter on his leg, he had never seemed more at peace.

One of the few times his mouth was closed.

It’s been quite a weekend, and it’s only half done. First race down. Many more to go. I am already signing up for next month’s trail race. This time it will be a 10K, and this time, I will be ready.

Our shoes, having flirted with Dirt.

P.S. N said he was as proud of me running a hard 5K, as he would’ve if I’d run a slow DFL-ish 10K, which is great affirmation after hearing three really experienced runners (one was Dirt Dawg) telling me to do the longer run.

N’s Thought’s On Dying…

My letter to Dog was more of a response to N’s article, in which he mused on life and death, and a response to a visit with the vet when we took Dog in for a check up. The vet said Dog had days left to live. The family has finally decided to let him go. (They should’ve done this weeks ago, but the heart hates to let go before it’s ready…)

Goodbye, Dog. We love you.

—–

From this end, the worst part about death and dying is that we’re the ones left to go on living. We’re left with the holes in our hearts - ones that dissipate only with the distance of time but never quite vanish. Like a sun that never completely sets the memories of lost loved ones loom above us, however faint and distant - voids that themselves fill voids but at the same time offer light to the dark.

The worst part about death may be the best part about death. There may be no pearly gates and no rainbow bridge. There could be nothing - but I like to think that the memories the living keep are, in a way, life beyond life. Every day, we should wonder if we’re doing enough to be remembered beyond our days, or if we’re just sustaining a forgettable existence.

Sometimes, I rephrase this question to myself as “what am I doing to inspire my grandchildren?”

I think about death every day, at the same time in the same place. A month ago my commute was halted at the typical clog-point of M-14 East and 275 North. As I entered the on-ramp and my car aimed at where it was a mere minute ago, a column of flames and a pillar of black smoke rose from the same spot. I have no idea what happened but I’ll never believe that, whomever was in that vehicle, escaped with their life. Each day, I pass over the same spot, and each day since a charred indentation spanning two lanes reminds me of what I saw. It’s a constant reminder to keep asking myself if I’m doing what I should be - a reminder that it can be gone in sixty seconds time and we might not even know what hit us. A reminder that each day we live, each day the ones we love live, is a gift - and no single day is unimportant. And there’s no feeling worse than regret.

Letter

Dear Sir,

The last three years have been a mind-boggling mixture of strange and magical. Since I’ve known you I’ve been continually surprised by how much you can manage to both to fry my last nerve and make me adore you more than anyone or anything in the same minute. Your daily actions have always kept me on my toes, not knowing what you were going to do next that would send me hurtling over the brink of sanity and into a void of anger and frustration, or throw me to the floor laughing at your stupid facial expressions. I never really knew what to expect of you–except for when we were at the table.

Your appetite was hardly ever a surprise; I knew what you wanted before you even sauntered to the table and took your seat beside me. Your voracious love of food could be incredibly unseemly. You could hork down a meal within minutes, leaving me aghast, eyeing the disgusting bits of food and sauce lining your hungry jaws. The way you eyed me while I laboured over a stove, preparing our meals. The way you licked your chops and sniffed, animal-like, at the air in the kitchen. You never seemd sated. You’d finish your meal and greedily settled your sight on my own plate, mouth agape and eyes glazed over. How could you have no decorum at the table. Such little training and manners. It disgusted me.

Asleep you were a dream. But only when you were fast asleep. Before that you were a terror. I think back, the aeons it took you, trying to find a good position to settle into, the right way to let the blankets fall on your hairy legs, the right way to posed your head. And the noise you made! You would pant and wheeze and breathe heavy before you finally dozed off. It could last agonizing minutes before you nodded away into peaceful slumber. And even then, it could be terrible for me! Oh, how you snored. It sounded like a jackhammer, pounding away at crumbling pavement in the streets! It wasn’t until you’d acheived REM that your sleep became perfect, and I could find my own dreams to chase. Occasionally, I’d wake up, and you’d be nestled against me. Your side would be cosied up to my elbow, and I could feel you, warm, pressed closely against me.

I’m horrid with hellos, awkward and shy and all that. I talk too much or laugh too loudly, and sometimes don’t talk at all, forget to try to be witty. I play with my lips, fiddle with the rings on my fingers, scratch my knuckles or finger my hair. I smooth my clothes, cross my arms and forget to appear open and inviting to conversation. I’m worse with goodbyes. They’re just not my thing. One reason being that I hate to cry in front of people. You’ve seen me cry. You’ve stared at me from a doorway, with your head cocked in curiosity at why in the world could this woman be so ugly when she cried, face scrunched in pain and eyes red and swollen and blotchy with mascara. Yes, I quite know that I am horrendously unattractive as a crier. Smiling is much more becoming on me. Yes, yes, I know. But goodbyes are often hard, hard things to do. They often induce tears and pathetic pain in the chest. My heart caves when I know I have to say goodbye, and the goodbye will last. I don’t know many people who can say a forever goodbye without feeling like they are losing a limb.

This is why I can’t say goodbye to you. Not completely and not out loud. I had to write you this letter instead and hope you never read it.

I loved you. I loved you more than I wanted to let myself. Because you weren’t mine. Because you felt a bit like you were replacing someone who was already special to me, whose place wasn’t supposed to be refillable. Because you annoyed me and I wanted to keep you at arm’s length rather than hold you close. Because you were childish, indulgent, greedy, impossibly impatient and self-absorbed. Because you were rather frilly for a man. Because you were so damn loud, and would never be quiet whenever I wanted a moment’s peace. Because you managed to make me forget how aggravating you could be whenever I looked at your face and saw how adorable you really are.

And that is why I can’t say goodbye properly. I can’t say goodbye because I love you, and I don’t want to fall apart when you go away.

I still have to continue with my life, even if you can’t continue yours.

You’ve been a terrible and wonderful dog. I hope your spirit finds a good place on the Rainbow Bridge.

MK