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From the Archives: Nightmare on My Street

From the Archives: Nightmare on My Street

Back by popular demand, the best ever Halloween Post!
Happy Halloween, weenies!

 *Originally published October 2010*

So, since I’ve hung up my P90X bands, I’ve started running in the mornings.  My running partner and I have yet to work out a system beyond late night texting to let one another know whether or not it’ll be pairs or singles.  Unfortunately, this particular morning, I missed the text and waited like a weirdo in front of her house for 10 minutes before setting off on my own.  When the newspaper delivery person rode through and chucked the paper at the house, she gave me a wide walk before hustling double time back to her car.  What can I say? I’m a menace in my Nikes and my head scarf.

Of course, I know that a single female running in the dark is a bad idea. I’m by no means invincible, but seriously? It’s 5:50 in the morning. I strongly doubt that any ne’er do wells have set their alarm clocks to leap out of the bushes at me as I trot through a residential neighborhood.  Besides, I’m really stubborn and if I’ve gotten up, gotten dressed, and gone outside, I’m going running.

So, I start my route, sticking to well lit streets and pretty even terrain.  There was a little haze burning off from the streets since the air was warm and the ground was cool from the previous nights rain.    The sky was dark, tinged with pink around the edges and the autumn were leaves sticking to the ground like post-its reminding me that fall is indeed here (you like the image I’m setting up here, don’t you?).

I like to run in the middle of the street so that I can keep an eye out for people, dogs, and other neighborhood flotsam and jetsam.  Even in daylight hours, I play this game with myself where I mentally call out the make and model of the car I’m approaching so that if, God forbid, someone throws open a car door and makes a grab at me, I’ll at least know what kind of trunk I’m being stuffed into.

I’m moving right along, not quite race pace, but steady just the same. I don’t have my iPod with me, I’m just listening to my own breath and the throbbing of my blood in my veins.  As I’m going, I keep hearing this “thwup, thwup, thwup,” behind me.  I slow up a bit looking behind me, immediately thinking, “No, dummy! Turning around slows you down. Didn’t you see ‘Scream’?”  I cast a quick, furtive glance over my shoulder.  Nothing.  My heart starts pumping a little faster, my strides become a little quicker, and my brain calls roll for all the whack-a-doos it can name — Michael Meyers, Freddie Kruger, Chuckie. . .

But the thing is, no one was there.

I think all the Halloween paraphernalia placed on neighborhood lawns is getting to me.  I keep moving, but again, I hear, “thwup, thwup, thwup.”  It’s coming at some odd intervals and now, I’m really starting to freak out.   Maybe I should pick up the pace a bit. I could see one of the ROTC units from ODU up a head doing their 5 miles.  If I hurry, I can catch up with the stragglers and use them for cover. Maybe trip one of them, sacrifice the youth for my own survival.  I kick it up a bit.

Thwup, thwup, thwup. 

Short of stopping dead in my tracks and turning in a circle à la Jennifer Love Hewitt in “I Know What You Did Last Summer”, I pump my legs a little harder, mentally recalculate the shortest distance between where I am and the house.  I bee-line it for the front door.

Thwup, thwup thwup.

I’m headed home, all but in a dead sprint when I realize that yes, I’m being followed, but not by someone. It’s something. It’s something far more scary than a man with a hook for a hand or a hockey mask over his face.

It was my own backside.

A sweat-induced booty clapping chasing me down the street.

I’ll probably have nightmares about this for the rest of my life.

 

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recipes

Recipe Friday: Cassoulet

Recipe Friday: Cassoulet

You ever notice how when you decide to make a change in your life, wherever you look, you see that very thing all around you? Maybe it serves as a reminder to stay the course and follow through with your plan to make a change for the better. Maybe it serves as temptation to which you succumb.

Either way, it’s been my experience that when I decide to make a change, I’m inundated with information or situations about that very thing.

A month ago, I made the decision to kick up my clean eating regime by doing a 21 Day Fix.  Then I was promptly invited out to several lunches, a cocktail reception and two baby showers.  Food! Food! Food!

I am moving ahead with my third (and hopefully, final) surgery, on my leg this coming Monday.  I know that I’ll have a period of recuperation, so I decided that I’d rather do some preventative maintenance when it comes to staying active than just let it all go out the window.  I had been training for The Alum Run 5k and sticking with my Zumba and weight lifting, but I wasn’t seeing the results that I wanted.  My friend who coached me through my clean eating challenges posted a few photos of people she had coached on this 21 Day Fix.  These were regular looking people. No one did an Ugly Betty to Gisele type of transformation.  There were some serious success stories of course, but the take away for me was that the program was do-able.  And I kept thinking, “If I don’t do it, three weeks from now, I’ll be thinking, I coulda been finished.”

There was a lot of prep work involved:

proper prior planning

I did it, and when people say three weeks makes a habit, it’s true.  I’m done with my three weeks, but I’m still portioning out and using my containers.  Sure, I went a little rogue on the nut allotment here and there, but it was nuts, not Cheez-Curls or Oreos.  Truthfully, I’ve changed the way I shop, much to the chagrin of the children.  M came home from school and started rooting in the pantry for a snack.

“Where are the Doritos?” she said, frantically pushing aside bags of raw cashews, almonds, and pecans.

“Probably at the store where I left them,” I replied with a shrug.

Ever been given side-eye by a nine year old? It looks a lot like this:

M's face

I am NOT amused.

I committed to this 21 Day Fix in part because I was thumbing though my post-op protocols.  Sure, there was the usual rest, elevate, ice and so forth. I was looking for the green light about exercise.  Day 1, blah, blah blah. Day 10, blah, blah, blah.  Then it jumped to week 3 — walking without crutches while still wearing the boot is permitted.  Um. . .I need a little more than that. I read on. Week 6 — Walking without the boot, using an elliptical without the boot is permitted.  Um. . .that’s not going to work for me.  3 months — light jogging is permitted.   Yeah, that definitely isn’t going to work for me.  What in the world? You all know that I’m pretty active. I’m going from high intensity two-a-days to light jogging? After three months?

oprah, cry, crying, all the feels

all the feels

Anyway, after  the 21 days, while I didn’t have the marble hard abs to which I aspired, I was a few pounds and a few inches lighter.  Not too bad. I definitely didn’t want to undo my hard work, but Easter was coming up and I wanted to make something special.

Back in February, The Hubs and I finagled a dinner down in Williamsburg.  His choice of appetizer prompted me to go digging for this recipe when we got home.  I’m all for a break from tacos, and spaghetti, chicken piccatta, and hot dogs.  The usual list of staples that I end up plating for the family needed a shake-up. In my folder of ripped out recipes, I searched for one that I’ve been sitting on from 2012 and have never made: a recipe for cassoulet.

Cassoluet, is a hearty stew-like casserole mainly comprised of slow simmered beans, meat, spices and sausages. In a number of French themed fiction I’ve read, cassoulet is often mentioned.  Curious to know more about the origins of the dish, a quick search informed me that it comes from southern France’s Languedoc region.

I’ve had cassoulet twice.  Actually, on both occasions, it wasn’t even my plate.   Both times I’ve tried it, the dish was delicious.  In between those samplings, I found a recipe in Richmond Magazine, tore it out, but never used it.  Time rolled by, as it is prone to do. In those crests and troughs,  I have seen cassoluet on menus, but I didn’t order it.  While I’m happy to sample someone else’s cassoluet, whenever I have a chance to eat a French restaurant, I’m going for my tried and true when it comes to appetizers: escargot.  Mmmmm, garlic, butter, snails.

Valentine’s Day found the Hubs and I having dinner at the Blue Talon.  I ordered the escargot, (obvi), while The Hubs ordered the cassoulet.  It came in it’s earthenware crock. It was warm, inviting, and as he dipped his spoon ribbons of steam, spice, and comfort swirled around us and our little table.  Generously, the Hubs offered me a taste. It would have been poor form to refuse.  While my escargot was really good, that cassoulet was even better.  Clearly, because I pulled out that ripped out recipe and started reading the ingredient list and  preparation instructions.  The list of ingredients extensive causing my plan to whip up a cassoulet that very  week-end started to dissipate like the ribbons of steam from the crock itself.  See, not only did I want to make this dish, I want to make it really, really well.

I had this vision of using my stoneware, sipping a full bodied red as I chopped and stirred.  I wanted to make sure I got only the best ingredients, which was going to require some careful planning (and probably a tour of RVA) as I made my way from shop to shop to get things like duck confit, a nice pork butt or shoulder, ham hocks and the like.

Aside from the fact that I don’t like cheese — says the woman who eats snails — I really think I must have been French in a previous life. I love wine and chocolate and escargot and a number of French inspired dishes. Cassoulet, especially today when I look at the temperature and see that it is a rainy 51 degrees, is something I wouldn’t mind dipping my spoon into for lunch or for dinner. It’s s evocative of thick woolen sweaters and exposed beams and fireplaces and wrapping your hands around a steaming cup of tea. Sipping your wine and reading magazines and having your feet tucked up under you with a cozy blanket spread in your lap.  Basically living out some of my favorite tumblr images and watching the cold world outside your window.  There’s nothing wrong with that, right?

A few weeks earlier, while having lunch with a friend, the conversation turned to food and food prep.  She told me about the hamburgers she makes using prime cuts of meat from a butcher. She went on to talk about some chocolate chip cookies she’s added to her repertoire, using only premium flour and butter.  No ordinary chocolate chips will do, either. A visit to the chocolatier for chocolate shaved off of the block  was to be added to her mix.  I’m not even close to doing her description justice, but never have flour, sugar, butter and chocolate sounded so appetizing in their separate states as they did right then.

All of the things my friend had done in order to ensure that the cookies she was going to make were going to be high quality were necessary.  When I reviewed the ingredient list for the cassoluet, I knew that a trip to my local supermarket wasn’t going to suffice. My cassoulet had to follow similar steps. So, the Monday before Easter, V and I went to Belmont Butchery.

choice ingredients

The recipe stated that the meal could be achieved in about 3-4 hours, not including prep time.  I flipped open my copy of Joy of Cooking; their recipe for cassoulet said it was a “multi-day” recipe, especially if you planned to make one of the primary ingredients, the confit, yourself. Now, while I am ambitious, I do know my limitations.  I saved the duck confit for the experts, letting Belmont Butchery hook me up with that.  I got hamhocks, pancetta, pork butt,  and Italian sausage.  Williams Sonoma helped out with the duck fat.  I went to the Fresh Market in search of dried beans (none to be had), fresh spices and veggies. I chopped and diced all week so that come Sunday morning, I could just add ingredients as needed.  I saved the crusty bread for a Saturday purchase and swapped out the salad for fresh green beans.   All the components to make this a complete meal, purchased, prepped and ready to go by Saturday afternoon.

To say putting this dish together was a labor of love would be an understatement. In this multi-step recipe, several portions required the ingredients to simmer for 90 minutes before adding additional foodstuffs.  We had an Easter egg hunt to go to at 1:30.  I wanted dinner to be ready by the time we got home.  Guess who was rising and shining at 5am ? Had to get my workout in before I started cooking at 6.  I started to worry that I had purchased the meat too early in the week because as things started to cook, the house started to smell. . .funky.  Now, I was simmering hamhocks. . .and pancetta. . .and pork butt. . .I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that it smelled a little porky.  I panicked, though, thinking that dish was going to come out terribly. So, I did what any other domestic goddess would do.

I made a back-up meatloaf.

By 9am, everything that needed 90 minutes to simmer had simmered.  It was time to combine the multiple pots on the stove into a Dutch oven and jam it into the oven for three hours.  While the cassoulet did it’s thing, I twisted M’s hair, folded laundry, caught up on Outlander (don’t judge me), got everyone dressed for the Easter Egg hunt and got myself cleaned up as well.  Then I took a nap.

Of course we all know that no nap was had by me that day. We had our fun with our friends and came home to a wonderful meal prepared by moi.

IMG_5605

#omnomnom

 

le dîner est servi

Well, the Hubs and I found it wonderful. The girls, not so much. Did I know that this would happen?

Yup.

Did I ignore my better judgement and make this dish anyway?

Yup.

The Hubs and I had two servings. Each of the girls had a spoonful of which, between the three of them, maybe two bites were taken.  C ate the sausage, M at the bread and V ate the butter.

*le sigh* You try to cultivate refined palates, but whatever. . .

We have at least three Tupperware dishes of cassoulet left over, so if you’re wanting to try it, call me. I’ll hook you up.

Truthfully, I would make this dish again.  I’d half the recipe for starters, but I’d make it again.  It was challenging, time consuming, but ultimately delicious. I felt accomplished for having successfully executed such a recipe.  I felt satisfied that even though I ate two servings, I didn’t completely go off the rails from my 21 Days of portion control.  And while the meatloaf didn’t wasn’t necessary in the end, I froze that bad boy for the family to have when I’m recovering next week.  Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?

Please send me some love and good wishes for Monday.  I’ll check in with you guys when I’m able. Happy Friday, y’all!

 

(via)

 

Cassoulet

Originally printed in Richmond Magazine, “Hearty Links” by Tina Eshelman, November 2012. Recipe provided by Diane Fraser of Cucina in Church Hill (314 N. 25th St., 243-8753) provided this recipe.

Sausage is an essential component of cassoulet, a slow-simmered mix of beans, herbs and meats. This classic dish from southern France’s Languedoc region is perfect for gatherings of family and friends on a chilly afternoon “with a fire in the background, and a glass of wine in hand,” says Diane Fraser, owner of Cucina Fine Foods Market and Catering.

(Serves 6 to 8.)

Ingredients

1 pound of dry great Northern beans

10 tablespoons of duck fat or olive oil

16 cloves of garlic, smashed

2 onions, chopped

2 carrots, chopped

2 large ham hocks

1 pound of pork shoulder, cut into 1-inch cubes

1⁄2 pound of pancetta, cubed

2 teaspoons of ground sage

4 sprigs of oregano (or 2 teaspooons ground)

4 sprigs of thyme (or 2 teaspooons ground)

3 bay leaves

1 cup of whole peeled canned tomatoes

1 cup of white wine

2 cups of chicken broth

4 confit duck legs (optional)

1 pound of pork sausages

2 cups of bread crumbs

Soak beans in a 4-quart bowl in 7 1⁄2 cups of water overnight. Heat 2 tablespoons of duck fat or oil in a 6-quart pot over medium-high heat. Add half the garlic, onions and carrots and cook until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Add the ham hocks, along with beans and their water, and boil. Reduce the heat and simmer until the beans are tender, about 1 1⁄2 hours. Transfer ham hocks to a plate and cool. Pull off the meat and discard skin, bone and gristle. Chop the meat and add it to the beans. Set aside.

Heat 2 tablespoons of duck fat or oil in a 5-quart Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add the pork and brown for 8 minutes. Add the pancetta; cook for 5 minutes. Add the remaining garlic, onions and carrots; cook until lightly browned. Tie together oregano, thyme and bay leaves with twine; add to the pan with tomatoes and cook until the liquid thickens, 8 to 10 minutes. Add the wine and simmer about 20 minutes. Add broth and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium low and cook, uncovered, about 1 hour. Discard the herbs and set the Dutch oven aside.

Meanwhile, sear the duck legs in 2 tablespoons of duck fat or oil in a 12-inch skillet over medium-high heat for 8 minutes; transfer to a plate. Brown the sausages in the fat for about 8 minutes. Cut the sausages into 1⁄2-inch slices. Pull the duck meat off the bones and discard fat and bones. Stir the duck and sausages into the pork stew.

Heat the oven to 300 degrees. Mix the beans and pork stew in a 4-quart earthenware casserole. Cover with bread crumbs and drizzle with remaining duck fat or oil. Bake, uncovered, for 3 hours. Then raise the oven temperature to 500 degrees and cook the  cassoulet until the crust is golden, about 5 minutes.

Cooking shortcuts

Fraser notes that boneless duck meat and confit are available at many area grocers, and chopped ham may be substituted for the ham hocks. Canned beans and ground herbs can also be substituted.

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From the Archives: Nightmare on My Street

Back by popular demand, the best ever Halloween Post!
Photos of the girls costumes are forthcoming!
Happy Halloween, weenies!

 *Originally published October 2010*

So, since I’ve hung up my P90X bands, I’ve started running in the mornings.  My running partner and I have yet to work out a system beyond late night texting to let one another know whether or not it’ll be pairs or singles.  Unfortunately, this particular morning, I missed the text and waited like a weirdo in front of her house for 10 minutes before setting off on my own.  When the newspaper delivery person rode through and chucked the paper at the house, she gave me a wide walk before hustling double time back to her car.  What can I say? I’m a menace in my Nikes and my head scarf.

Of course, I know that a single female running in the dark is a bad idea. I’m by no means invincible, but seriously? It’s 5:50 in the morning. I strongly doubt that any ne’er do wells have set their alarm clocks to leap out of the bushes at me as I trot through a residential neighborhood.  Besides, I’m really stubborn and if I’ve gotten up, gotten dressed, and gone outside, I’m going running.

So, I start my route, sticking to well lit streets and pretty even terrain.  There was a little haze burning off from the streets since the air was warm and the ground was cool from the previous nights rain.    The sky was dark, tinged with pink around the edges and the autumn were leaves sticking to the ground like post-its reminding me that fall is indeed here (you like the image I’m setting up here, don’t you?).  

I like to run in the middle of the street so that I can keep an eye out for people, dogs, and other neighborhood flotsam and jetsam.  Even in daylight hours, I play this game with myself where I mentally call out the make and model of the car I’m approaching so that if, God forbid, someone throws open a car door and makes a grab at me, I’ll at least know what kind of trunk I’m being stuffed into. 

I’m moving right along, not quite race pace, but steady just the same. I don’t have my iPod with me, I’m just listening to my own breath and the throbbing of my blood in my veins.  As I’m going, I keep hearing this “thwup, thwup, thwup,” behind me.  I slow up a bit looking behind me, immediately thinking, “No, dummy! Turning around slows you down. Didn’t you see ‘Scream’?”  I cast a quick, furtive glance over my shoulder.  Nothing.  My heart starts pumping a little faster, my strides become a little quicker, and my brain calls roll for all the whack-a-doos it can name — Michael Meyers, Freddie Kruger, Chuckie. . .

But the thing is, no one was there.

I think all the Halloween paraphernalia placed on neighborhood lawns is getting to me.  I keep moving, but again, I hear, “thwup, thwup, thwup.”  It’s coming at some odd intervals and now, I’m really starting to freak out.   Maybe I should pick up the pace a bit. I could see one of the ROTC units from ODU up a head doing their 5 miles.  If I hurry, I can catch up with the stragglers and use them for cover. Maybe trip one of them, sacrifice the youth for my own survival.  I kick it up a bit.

Thwup, thwup, thwup. 

Short of stopping dead in my tracks and turning in a circle à la Jennifer Love Hewitt in “I Know What You Did Last Summer”, I pump my legs a little harder, mentally recalculate the shortest distance between where I am and the house.  I bee-line it for the front door.

Thwup, thwup thwup.

I’m headed home, all but in a dead sprint when I realize that yes, I’m being followed, but not by someone. It’s something. It’s something far more scary than a man with a hook for a hand or a hockey mask over his face.

It was my own backside.

A sweat-induced booty clapping chasing me down the street.

I’ll probably have nightmares about this for the rest of my life. 

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Back to Business

Yesterday, V was feeling under the weather and I didn’t want to share the wealth with the wee ones in ChildWatch, so we stayed home.  I was feeling really round and pretty sure that were I to get a paper cut or something, copious amounts of grease would come oozing out of my veins.  To say that I overindulged this past week-end would be an understatement.  The worst part? It wasn’t even good!  I mean, it was good, because I kept eating, but it wasn’t like one of those eating benders that you have at Thanksgiving time.  I was just hungry and there was nothing in the house that was satisfying my simulatneous need for sugar and salt.  Does that speak to a vitamin deficinency on my part? Sodium and Chlorine I get, but Vitamin Sugar? Not so much.

Anyway, my brain was exerting some serious mind control yesterday morning. I donned my workout wear even though I didn’t plan on going to the gym. I kept telling myself that I would take a walk with V bundled up in the jogging stroller, or that I would grab my bells and swing for 45 minutes on the back porch. I kept coming up with ways to move my bod and get back on the fitness wagon as I got the big girls up, dressed, and out the door for school. 

When I got back from the carpool run, V had fallen asleep.  It was too cold to swing outside, let along bundle her up for a walk.  It was 8:45 in the morning and I was determined to get my heart rate up above resting.  So, I opened the TV cabinet, reached inside and pulled out this. . .

(image)

I know, I know.  Tony Horton and I are back together.  Well, at least we were yesterday.  This is by no means any indication that this is going to be a long term relationship.  Of course, in the process of finding an image to post, I saw all of these before and after pictures.  Maybe I could do it again for 30 days.   The weather will eventually turn nasty and I  hate having to venture out in the elements. I’ll probably be firing this crap back up.  *le sigh*  Anyway, I figured I’d do the 90 minute yoga workout.  I could use a good stretch and this is some power yoga that had me sweating when I was at my peak. 

I went hard in the paint for a good hour.  With 29:32 left to go, which is right around when they switch from the Ashtanga Sun Salutations to impossible, pretzel contortions like Extended Right Triangle Pose with Wrap Around. Still, I felt pretty good that I even put the disc in the machine (and turned it on!) let alone made is a solid hour.  There’s a big difference between slogging it out on an elliptical machine, hauling tail up a stair master, or even doing drills in a lap pool.  You’re using different muscle groups in different ways.  Jumping back into P90 was like jumping into the cold lap pool.  Doesn’t matter if you’ve already been doing other things, you weren’t doing this.

This morning, I got out of bed like a creaky, crackly old lady.  Oh sure, I sat up just fine, but when I started walking to the bathroom? Snap! Crackle! Pop!  and that was just the first step.  I have always enjoyed the muscle burn that comes with having done a strong workout.  This morning was no exception; it was just a surprise.  Like, a “Oh, I didn’t know I even had a muscle there!” kind of surprise.

Today, V is much better, so we went back to the Y. I was trying to decide whether or not to use the ellipitcal the whole time or split it my work out between that and the pool.  Seeing as there were some lanes open (don’t get me started on lane sharing), I spent 45 minutes doing lap drills. While my muscles were singing in protest (probably from all those push-ups in between upward dog and plank from yesterday), I felt as strong as I ever have.  Am I ready for Plyometrics? Not just yet, but I have a feeling it may happen.  Gah! and on that disc, this one guy does it on a prosthesis that looks like it’s made out of K’Nex.

Alright, Mr. Horton.  I’ll be seeing you . . .

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Something New

I’ve gotten bored with running.  I came up with a pretty good circuit around the neighborhood, but now, I’m getting tired of passing the same ol’ mailboxes and what not.  Don’t even get me started on the Y. I mean, I really like the Zumba classes that I’ve been taking, but on the off days, trying to get on a treadmill is like standing in line for bread during the Depression.  I burn more calories trying to will people off the machines than I do actually moving my bod.

I’ve been driving around town (quelle surprise), and I kept passing the shopping center up the block from our house.  I noticed that one of the end units is undergoing some kind of renovation.  “Another restaurant,” I mused.  On one of my runs, which takes me past said shopping center, I saw they’d hung a banner in the window: www.richmondkettlebellclub.com

Hmmmm. . .consider my curiosity piqued.

I visited the website, and after a quick read through of the various tabs.  Here’s my Cliff-Noted version: Russian based physical training program involving a cannonball with a handle.

Oh, I’m totally all over that. And yes, I know, I know, I’m tardy to the party.  But, like with my forays into Pilates, P90X and Zumba, better late than never.

I called them up and inquired about their free trial class, which I will be trying out this Saturday.  Sunday, I’ll probably be trying out Ben-Gay and Icy-Hot in various applications.  No pain, no gain, right?

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Nightmare On My Street

So, since I’ve hung up my P90X bands, I’ve started running in the mornings.  My running partner and I have yet to work out a system beyond late night texting to let one another know whether or not it’ll be pairs or singles.  Unfortunately, this particular morning, I missed the text and waited like a weirdo in front of her house for 10 minutes before setting off on my own.  When the newspaper delivery person rode through and chucked the paper at the house, she gave me a wide walk before hustling double time back to her car.  What can I say? I’m a menace in my Nikes and my head scarf.

Of course, I know that a single female running in the dark is a bad idea. I’m by no means invincible, but seriously? It’s 5:50 in the morning. I strongly doubt that any ne’er do wells have set their alarm clocks to leap out of the bushes at me as I trot through a residential neighborhood.  Besides, I’m really stubborn and if I’ve gotten up, gotten dressed, and gone outside, I’m going running.

So, I start my route, sticking to well lit streets and pretty even terrain.  There was a little haze burning off from the streets since the air was warm and the ground was cool from the previous nights rain.    The sky was dark, tinged with pink around the edges and the autumn were leaves sticking to the ground like post-its reminding me that fall is indeed here (you like the image I’m setting up here, don’t you?).  

I like to run in the middle of the street so that I can keep an eye out for people, dogs, and other neighborhood flotsam and jetsam.  Even in daylight hours, I play this game with myself where I mentally call out the make and model of the car I’m approaching so that if, God forbid, someone throws open a car door and makes a grab at me, I’ll at least know what kind of trunk I’m being stuffed into. 

I’m moving right along, not quite race pace, but steady just the same. I don’t have my iPod with me, I’m just listening to my own breath and the throbbing of my blood in my veins.  As I’m going, I keep hearing this “thwup, thwup, thwup,” behind me.  I slow up a bit looking behind me, immediately thinking, “No, dummy! Turning around slows you down. Didn’t you see ‘Scream’?”  I cast a quick, furtive glance over my shoulder.  Nothing.  My heart starts pumping a little faster, my strides become a little quicker, and my brain calls roll for all the whack-a-doos it can name — Michael Meyers, Freddie Kruger, Chuckie. . .

But the thing is, no one was there.

I think all the Halloween paraphernalia placed on neighborhood lawns is getting to me.  I keep moving, but again, I hear, “thwup, thwup, thwup.”  It’s coming at some odd intervals and now, I’m really starting to freak out.   Maybe I should pick up the pace a bit. I could see one of the ROTC units from ODU up a head doing their 5 miles.  If I hurry, I can catch up with the stragglers and use them for cover. Maybe trip one of them, sacrifice the youth for my own survival.  I kick it up a bit.

Thwup, thwup, thwup. 

Short of stopping dead in my tracks and turning in a circle à la Jennifer Love Hewitt in “I Know What You Did Last Summer”, I pump my legs a little harder, mentally recalculate the shortest distance between where I am and the house.  I bee-line it for the front door.

Thwup, thwup thwup.

I’m headed home, all but in a dead sprint when I realize that yes, I’m being followed, but not by someone. It’s something. It’s something far more scary than a man with a hook for a hand or a hockey mask over his face.

It was my own backside.

A sweat-induced booty clapping chasing me down the street.

I’m still having nightmares.









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Staying Motivated

So, I’m still in the throes of this P90X.  I want to stop, but it’s like I’m conditioned to get up and get working now.  In part, I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I stop. I know, I know, I’m too hard on myself and I’m being ridiculous. A lot of people say that doing DVDs and tapes at home gets boring after a while and I do think I’ve hit that point. Still, I like the results I’ve gotten.  Plus,  I do have a tendency to “belly up to the trough” at dinner time, so I have to balance things out.

I was finishing up the legs and back routine this morning, seriously contemplating just stopping mid- exercise when I thought, “Well, I did eat that bag of Sweet Moments last night. . and I don’t want to end up like the Juicy Woman”.

Ahhh, the Juicy Woman. I know I’ve told some of you this story shortly after it happened, but it’s a classic and bears repeating.

About a year or two ago, my dad and I had gone out to Target to pick up some odds and ends. My dad was still relatively new to the area having recently moved down from MA. He insisted on driving so that he could get a lay of the land and learn the routes from his house to various points of interest and so forth. So, we are leaving the Target and he’s behind the wheel, hands firmly at ten and two.

In the shopping center, there are a lot of speed bumps to slow folks down, but they are spaced about two feet apart, so getting from the parking lot to the main drag can take a few minutes. We’re creeping along, shoppers are circulating in the lot and in and out of the shops, life is humming all around us.

My dad pulls up to a speed bump just as a person emerges from Party City carrying an enormous bouquet of balloons. So many balloons, in fact, all you can see are her pink sweat-pants and sneakers hanging out of the bottom. We pause to let her cross in front of us and as she makes her way to her car, she turns her back to us. She’s built like a pear — narrow waist, with wide hips and buns. Written across the back of her pants are the letters, “J”, “U”, “C”, “Y”.

My dad hunches up over the wheel to get a good look, his nose all but touching the windshield (*smh*). He turns to me and asks, “What is jew-kee?”

I look over at the woman, now bent in double trying to jam the mass of balloons into her car without popping or losing any of them. The letters are jiggling with her motions, and I can’t help but laugh.

“It’s not jew-kee, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s says Juicy. Her crack just swallowed the “I”.

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