Bear with me

I know, I know ...

I said it was "the end," and technically, it was. Is. Whatever.

I'm going through the posts on this site and have decided to turn it into a "best of" site and to take down some of the more rambling, petty, dumb stuff.

If you want to know what I'm up to now, go to www.leavingthe307.blogspot.com or agrandjourney.blogspot.com (this one's a little dry - just a log of my walking/running this year, in response to a thousand-mile challenge). The adventures are continuing, though not all of them are quite so adventurous ...

Thanks for keeping up with me - I'm flattered that you care about what's rattling around in my crazy head!

Sarah

The end

All good - and bad - things must come to an end, and such is the case with this blog.

I'm moving, and so is my rambling - to www.leavingthe307.blogspot.com.

Cheers.

I need a venti attitude adjustment with an extra shot of happy. And some Advil sprinkled on top, please ...

The accordian player down the street is playing the theme music from 'Amelie' ...

What pisses me off

You can burn an American flag, and that's OK. That's your freedom of speech on flaming, moronic display there.

You can dunk a cross in a jar of urine, and that's OK. That's art, and it's your freedom of artistic expression.

You can rip a Bible to shreds in front of an audience, and that's OK. Again, your freedom of speech, and who cares if you offend a few million narrow-minded Christians.

But you can't burn a Quran. You can't even threaten to do it. Think of all the people you'd offend.

I wouldn't burn anything in protest - a bra, a flag, a book of any kind.

And I'm not OK with willfully endangering American troops.

But a person is only responsible for their own actions - not for the reactions of others, whether across the street or around the world.

And if you're going to defend people's freedoms of religion, speech and expression, you'd better be across the effing board with it.

Otherwise, you're simply a hypocrite. A filthy, lying hypocrite.

'Anne' as a mirror ...

I'm near the end of "Anne of Green Gables" (the book) a year after Amber, Rachel and I made the PEI pilgrimage, a year after we listened to the book on CD up through Maine and New Brunswick, over the Confederation Bridge and on into Charlottetown. I dozed a lot during that mostly-middle-of-the-night trek, so I missed a lot of the story (again).

I read it as a kid; I read it again in college. But somehow, so much of the profundity slipped away. I've found that common with a lot of books I loved (or ought to have loved) as an adolescent: They may have been amusing then, but they actually mean something now. How odd.

Anyway. Where I am: Anne regrets not forgiving Gilbert (or telling him she had forgiven him), and her regret is haunting her through her term at Queen's Academy.

I can't say I actually regret not re-establishing contact, but there's somthing — or several somethings — nagging at me. I just can't put my finger on it. I had a dream last night: We were, at the very least, friends who were glad to see each other and to catch each other up on the goings-on in our lives.

Some days, I wish it could be like that. Other days ... Well. Other days, I'm moving away, and I tell myself that beyond the moment when I shut the door on the moving van and head outside the city limits for the last time, it just won't matter anymore.

Maybe I'm wrong.

But I'll be wrong hundreds of miles away. So you see — it really won't matter.

What I'll miss

♦ The scent of sagebrush in the air.

♦ The many, many clear nights when I could step out to the park a few blocks away and marvel at a star-strewn velevet-black sky.

♦ Amanda at The Alibi and the fact that she would hand-squeeze lemons for our Saturday night vodka sours. Bless her.

♦ The fact that it was 99 percent safe to run outside late at night, and that the 1 percent of danger came not from rapists and murderers, but from porcupines and foxes.

♦ The sight of the Snowies.

♦ The four-hour drive home.

♦ Erin, Robert, Joe, Josh, Justin, Sholty, Angela, Christa, Rachel, Cindy, the crew at SREFC and most of the Boomerang staff.

♦ My huge, huge, HUGE closet in my rather spacious apartment. And my kitchen table/storage surface/filing space.

♦ My sweet next-door neighbors and their kids.

♦ Late-night chats, sandwiches, coffee, etc. with other crazy Laramie insomniacs at their offices, in the park, at their homes ...

♦ Night Herron Books, Nu2U, Altitude, Coal Creek, Jimmy John's (they don't have one where I'm going ... sad), Fat Burrito, the Front Street Tavern, the martinis at Tommy Jack's, the cherry chicken salad sandwich at Jeffrey's, the Thai Pie and the spinach turkey cranberry salad at Grand Avenue Pizza ...

There are a lot of things I WON'T miss. At all. But it might be considered ungracious to list any of them here.

I'll just say that there still haven't been any regrets over my decision to leave, that I'm super-excited about where I'm going, what I'll be doing, what I'll be near and the life I hope I'll have after I've left Wyoming. It's time. It's definitely time.

(expanded ♦ edited)

Going through planners/journals from 2006-2008. Three books of joy, anger, celebration, sorrow, anxiety, gratitude & toughening up ...

Examples: Dad's heart attack, brother's trip to the ER after his dog bit him and infected his tendon, freezing cold camping trip with a best bud, engagements, weddings, anniversary parties, the beginnings of relationships, the endings of relationships, relationships that went on far longer and more painfully than they should have, mono, fainting, vacations, tornadoes ... Three years can hold a lot of life.

Awkward moment du jour

I raided the corrugated cardboard recyling bin at Wal-Mart last night, because I'm a cheapskate and don't want to pay for moving boxes if I can get away with repurposing (free) boxes that are bound for Box Heaven anyway.

Today, as I was getting one ready to fill with stuff, I looked at the label on it. It was addressed to a local vet clinic.

From a pet crematory.

I now have no idea what to put in that box.

In related news, if you're in Gillette or the surrounding area on Sept. 14, check this out. Hope I get to see everyone before I leave!

For Laramie folk, here you go.

Name that perfume

Sorting through the nearly anthropological layers of beauty product in my bathroom closet, I came across a tiny vial of mystery perfume.

I'm going to guess that the largest print on the bottom-of-the-bottle lable is not its name.

"What's that fetching scent you're wearing?"

"Flammable."

My day

9 a.m. wake-up call from Penske, wondering why I didn't finish making my reservation online last night and offering an even better deal over the phone. SOLD! Mike at Penske, you're my hero du jour. Penske, for many reasons, I ♥ you.

Called on a half-dozen different property listings, get shot down on one that was really great, got a lead on another super-great one that just might work out all the way around. Hooray!

Called the power company to give notice of the date to shut off my electricity.

Peed in a cup. "Awkward" just doesn't cover the experience ...

Gave notice of intent to vacate my apartment. Sad. Paid final month's rent. Got marching orders for final checkout ...

Paid phone bill.

Dropped of consignment load No. 1 of ... oh, too many ... yikes. There isn't enough time.

Found out I passed the pee test.

Faxed employment agreement and relocation reimbursement agreement.

Confirmed stopover locations for the trip out. I have awesome, amazing, generous, hospitable friends. You guys rock.

I've only cried once since deciding to do this, and it wasn't when I gave notice at my job, and it was a short-lived cry. And except for that one moment of sadness, I've had nothing but peace about this decision (once I got the stomach-knotting experience of resigning my job out of the way).

It feels like growing up again. Or growing up more. Or maybe just growing up. I'm leaving people and places I love, but I'm going to meet new people, find new places and experience new things. So far, I regret nothing about this.

I'm so excited!

Wednesday night's run

I was weakened by my blisters. Stupid blisters. Even taping them didn't seem to help this time, as it has in the past. Not sure what the deal is.

null

Tuesday night's run

And then Tuesday night ... (this was the one that found me gasping up Harney toward 30th Street ...)

null

Monday's Run ...

To get out of the habit of running in circles — literally — I'm trying some routes around town.

My feet aren't crazy about it, but I find that I run farther and in a better frame of mind when I'm not trying to count laps.

I also like the added challenge of the hills that crop up in these routes.

For instance: I will never again take for granted the slope up 15th Street from Harney toward the cemetery. That sucker's a killer.

And running up Harney from, oh, Ninth to 13th or so? Or from 15th to 30th? Good Lord. I'm crazy.

So here's Monday night's endeavor:
(The embedded map didn't work. Apologies.)

MapMyRun.com View 08/10/2010 Route in Laramie, Wyoming

Damn you, Bresnan! Get your freaking act together already!

Challenged

I'm trying to be a cleaner, healthier, more hygeinic person, and the result is that I've slapped myself in the face with my own glove, cast down the gauntlet and issued an ultimatum to myself.

I said: "Self! Your apartment's a mess. ALWAYS a mess! Clean it up!"

So I'm trying to put away clothes as I try them on, decide against them and cast them into the chair-turned-laundry holder. I like my chair. More specifically, I like sitting in my chair, so I'm trying to keep the chair I like sitting in clear of the laundry I'm not wearing. I'm trying to do my dishes on a regular basis, vacuum my living room more regularly and (detested of all chores, for whatever reason) sweep and mop my kitchen more regularly.

I said: "Self! This not flossing every day stuff is nonsense! You have tons of floss — use it!"

So I'm trying to floss every day. Twice a day, if I can manage it. I don't like it, and my fingers don't like it, but my fingers and I, together, we're trying. My mouth feels happier.

I said: "Self! You've gained ten pounds since your gym closed. You're not challenging yourself enough! Running a couple nights a week isn't cutting it, and you keep eating lots of sugar and pizza and drinking quite a bit of alcohol. Cut it out!"

I can't say anything about the drinking alcohol bit, as anyone I spent Saturday night around can attest, but I'm trying to make up for the running bit. For a couple weeks, I told myself that if I did five miles every other night, well, that was good. More than good. And if I had stuck to it, it would've continued to be good, or more than good.

I didn't stick to it, though, because it was too easy, after one day off, to take another day off ... and another ... and another ...

The new challenge is to run three miles a night, six nights a week, and to see how that works for two weeks. And then I plan to add some mileage. Stop laughing.

I said: "Self! You talk to yourself way too much! Stop it!"

For two whole hours, I owned a stray cat who followed me, howling quite loudly, to my apartment. At 5 a.m., though, I gave up and took it to the animal shelter, where Officer Cleven kindly let a pyjama-clad me deposit the yowling orange-striped girl into a cage, asked me to fill out some paperwork, and watched as I drove home, crying all the way. I'm a terrible person. And I'm back to talking to myself. *sigh* Well, at least I'm still working on three out of four.

Goodness

Sorry. There's just not much to write about that I can write about or want to write about.

Some uninteresting tidbits instead:

It's freezing in our office, and I mean FREEZING. The boiler in our building died (may it rest in peace), and the air condition has to keep running because of all the computers and computer servers in the building, so .... we freeze. It's about 61 degrees as I type this, and when your job entails eight hours of sitting and reading, that's just plain frigid. My hands are so cold they hurt.

Tonight, on top of my rather professional-looking dress, I've added a sweater (not so odd, but wait — there's more), fingerless gloves (which Josh so kindly said look more like toeless socks ...), fuzzy slippers that would make an acid trip even trippier, a handmade scarf (Kristie, you rock) and a shawl. Yes. A shawl. Give me a tin cup and I could easily panhandle on Grand Avenue. It'd be warmer out there.

* * * * *

I love kissing. There's just nothing more that I can say on that subject.

* * * * *

I hate having dental work done, but my dentist here in Laramie gets major props for a) nearly painless novocaine shots (except for the one time when she hit a nerve and I got better acquainted with the ceiling) and b) the speediest filling work I've ever experienced. It gives me more time to sleep off the coming-off-of-novocaine effects. Hurrah, Mrs. Dentist — hurrah.

A conversation

Deb: "Sarah, do you know what July 24 is?"

Me: "It's not my birthday ..."

Deb: "No. It's National Tequila Day."

Me: "Is there a National Vodka Day?"

Josh: "I want National Scotch Day."

Me: "We're goin' global here!"

Deb: "Bob wants National Bob Day."

Me: "That's every day, Bob."

Bob: (something incoherent)

Deb: "Bob!"

Me: "Wha ...?"

Deb: "He said he wants National Viagara Day."

In which I had no narrow escapes from explosives

When we were kids, my brother and I loved to blow stuff up.

He took it a step further with the fire bit, but - like most bad childhood habits - he outgrew that, and the Dumpster lived to see other trash bags.

The Fourth of July was a magical time, sort of like Christmas, but with louder noises and an ever-present scent of burning fuse. Sometimes burning hair and burning flesh, but not too often.

We were experts at lighting impossibly short fuses and running for our lives. We would have been wonder explosives experts in the military. Oddly enough, my brother's now aiming for the other side of that profession, having signed into the Navy last week so Uncle Sam can pay for medical school. Life, you are truly ironic.

Anyway.

Sometime between accidentally branding my arm with the punk (that cattail-looking lighter stick-thing) and becoming responsible for the funding of my own wardrobe and hairstyles, I outgrew the fascinanation with dashing away from explosives. I don't know when it happened or why, but the "Woo!" factor just isn't there anymore. I can't remember the last time I bought actual fireworks. Those champagne poppers for New Year's Eve don't count.

So I was content to sit on a lawnchair surrounded by the Springers and 15,000 strangers Sunday night as we watched a brave Someone Else light off very big explosives. Good show, Gillette. Just wish the finale had been a bit more ... finale-ish. It was like you were just getting started when it was over. Sadness.

Randomness and some stuff that I maybe shouldn't confess ...

I don't know what I was dreaming about, but I woke up at 2:30 a.m. Monday, whisper-yelling "Shoo! Get away! Shoo! SHOO!" at a pair of jeans that was lying on the floor by my bed. No idea ...

* * *

I'm re-reading Harry Potter. All of 'em. We're currenly evading the Prisoner of Azkaban.

* * *

I bought Staind's "Illusion of Progress" while I was home over the weekend. Love the whole thing.

* * *

I'm not a runner, but during my visit to the folks' place, I ran a 5½-mile loop. Twice. It included a brutal uphill stint that I was certain I would never be able to tackle at anything faster than a turtle-ish crawl, but there I was, jogging and panting my way up Boxelder Road. It felt so fantastic that I decided to ditch the Loop-de-Park routine here in Laramie and try a little road running instead.

The result: I'm horrified and humbled by the life-draining difference a couple thousand feet in elevation can make. A full 20 minutes before I'd planned to quit running, I was walking and wheezing, two miles from home. I won't be deterred. Someday, I'll make the full route at 7,200 feet. I will DO it. I just haven't attempted it since. It is Jubilee Days, after all ...

* * *

Dear men of the world (specifically shorts-wearing men of the world): wear underwear.

The horror! Erin and I were simply enjoying a drink of an evening at a local establishment, only to turn around and see it hanging out of Douchebag du Jour's shorts. Pretty sure he did it on purpose, but I suppose it's possible that someone really is that unfortunate in their choice of clothing. I doubt it, though.

The upside was the bartender's reaction when we explained why we were in such a hurry to get the hell out of there and for God's sake, get us our tabs now. I've never seen a guy so grossed out and horrified in my life. Priceless.

* * *

Sarah's Mullings. Perhaps I'll name the next blog that. Thanks for the suggestion, Google-searcher.

* * *

Assholes come in all shapes, sizes, professions and tattoos. The latest nominee to the hall of fame: A thieving, lying, town-skipping former business owner. Seriously, dude ...

* * *

Most of my dreams are incoherent travels through impossible landscapes, strung together in a whirlwind that makes my head hurt when I wake up and try to remember them.

But I've had two dreams lately that, in the midst of the insanity, involved very coherent philosophical conversations with persons imaginary about such things as marriage and love (last night) and faith (sometime last week). It's incredibly odd to wake up and realize I actually had a good, wise thought in the middle of my snoring.

I'm not a runner. No. Really.

Begin.

Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left.

My feet hit the asphalt in a sort-of rhythm, I swerve into the street to avoid a sprinkler here, another one there.

Right. Left.

My breathing is getting heavier, and I can feel my heartbeat increasing. I try to focus on the music in my headphones, try to find a rhythm that I can thwap-thwap my feet to.

Right. Left.

Round a corner. This is always the part in the first lap when I wonder what I'm doing. "First is the worst," I tell myself. "First. Worst. First. Worst." It's a nice rhythm.

Wait. First what? Lap? Mile? Hour? Crap. Depends on the night. The first lap, definitely, is the worst of all the laps I run. Except for the last half of whatever turns out to be my last lap. Because it's that last lap that makes me decide to take it down to a walk for the rest of the hour. Whatever. New song. Need to find a new rhythm.

Right. Left.

I've rounded another corner and lurched my way halfway through another leg of the four that make up a lap in this park. It's at this point, at a little jog in the path, usually when I'm trying to gauge where the next sprinkler is, that it occurs to me:

I am not a runner.

Like, at all. Not even close.

I'm nearing the corner that signals the last leg of the first lap. Since the first is the worst (I've settled on the "first lap" theory, because I have to psych myself up somehow, and that's all I've got), I convince myself that the worst will soon be over, and I can just settle into a rhythm for the next who knows how long.

But back to me not being a runner.

I'm a couch potato. A die-hard couch potato. I love everything about being a bump on a log, except the shape that goes with being a bump. I'm a couch potato who wants to be disguised as a fit, healthy person.

The only way that costume fits is to haul my arse out to the park for an hour a night, come hell, high water, sprinklers, foxes, racoons (no kidding) and various varieties of humans, sometimes in various stages of intoxication.

I'm not a runner. But I run anyway. The secret (for me) is to not break into an outright run. It could be called jogging by a very imaginative person. It's not fast. It's not pretty. It'll never get me into a marathon (thank God), and I'll never win races with it. But it keeps me moving. Keeps me in the clothes I have. Keeps me very, very aware of my lungs.

And last night was the best since last fall. Probably since last summer, since before I went to Canada. Four and a half miles — six laps — of right-left-right-left sprinkler-swerving goodness. My knees and feet are in agony today. And I feel amazing.

But I'm not a runner. And I never will be. A runner would tackle those laps much faster and with much more grace.

But for a couch potato, I'm doing pretty good.