RVANews

Off the Clock: What happens in Vegas

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 11:55:14 +0000

Never a slave to tradition, last week I updated my Facebook timeline with the Life Event “Got Married” and walked away. Almost instantly, a whole mess of people commented and messaged “WHAT?”

It’s true, I got married. And, while it might have come as quite a surprise to friends and family, it seems perfectly rational and, perhaps, even expected to me.

My husband (yes, it still feels strange to say that) and I had dated, and even been engaged, two years ago. After a series of ups and downs that would make even the most ardent roller coaster aficionado cry “uncle,” and a case of arctic feet (I won’t say whose, but I will admit to buying several dozen pairs of socks since then), we went our separate ways for a year. Only recently did we get back together in a completely Lifetime Movie-like plot twist that probably everyone saw coming but us. So we decide to get hitched, once and for all.

While impetuousness was not a factor in this trip down the aisle, I do have one of those stories. It takes place, of course, in Las Vegas.

I was 27 and a year and a half beyond my divorce from the father of my children. I felt untethered. Having been married since I was a teenager essentially condemned me to only knowing two ways of inhabiting the world: child and wife.

I was dating a very good-hearted but strange man. The goodness was inside, and I definitely saw and felt it, but the strangeness was hanging out there in front of God and everybody, and he didn’t make friends easily. Let’s just say that if he were a character in a movie you’d guess that he was the murderer, pretty much from in the first minute that he was on the screen.

But I liked him, and when he suggested we drive to Las Vegas, just five hours away from our hometown of San Diego, and get married one long weekend, I was surprised but couldn’t think of a good reason why not so I said “yes.”

If you’ve never been, you probably don’t know, but there’s very little between the bright lights, big city of Vegas and the next closest town. What this means is that, except for signs assuring you that you are headed in the right direction, life is scarce between the West Coast and the land of legal prostitution and slot machines. Just when you think “this can’t possibly be right, surely we got turned around somewhere” because you are passing your one billionth tumbleweed, the billboards for Cirque du Soleil start popping up. Then the city rises up out of the dunes like a really, really well lit mirage.

Late Friday night, we drove right into that glowing mirage, which will burn your retinas if you’re not cautious, and settled into our hotel, which just happened to have a theme, like all good Vegas accommodations.

Now, it’s not important where we stayed, but it was very large and triangular. Maybe even pyramidial.¹ We saw the sights of the Strip by foot, because you’d have to be mad to ever take your car out of the parking garage in Vegas, and had a lovely buffet dinner, because duh. We sometimes held hands, but mostly didn’t, because we weren’t really like that. It only crossed my mind once or twice that I had agreed to marry this man the next day.

Saturday came and getting married still didn’t seem like a terrible idea, so we went and did it. Again, it’s not important where it happened, but it was shaped like a giant castle and had a medieval theme. We had our wedding dinner while watching a jousting match.

We were dressed in garments so fancy that they didn’t need things like different sizes or dry cleaners. The heavy, musty robes were wrapped around us and belted using what looked like curtain ties, complete with fringe-y tassels on the end. Shiny plastic gold crowns were then placed on our heads, and we were told they were ours to take home. The ceremony was like all others, save for the man dressed like royalty who was performing it, and was over before I knew it. Just before the “I now pronounce you husband and wife” kiss, I looked at my intended, in his drapery and Burger King-esque headwear, and suddenly felt sad.

When we were finished, I tried to smile. He seemed really happy, but I was overcome with immediate regret. We saw some more of the city, slept in the giant pyramid, then went home a day early. The ride back to San Diego was extremely quiet.

When we got home, my new husband moved in with me and my kids, but we only stayed in that living situation for about six weeks. Once we’d settled in, it didn’t take long for him, too, to figure out that it was a mistake. We split up, and a few months later I received divorce papers in the mail. I signed them and mailed them back. I’ve never heard from him again.

I don’t regret my short-lived Vegas marriage. In fact, I highly recommend everyone try it, just once. After all, life is short, and you only get so many chances to be photographed in a curtain and a plastic crown. Besides, it makes for a great story.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

I think I just made that up. What’s the word for pyramid-shaped? “Pyramid-shaped”? Well, that makes sense. ↩

Photo by: BuzzFarmers

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On the Run: I did it!

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 12:14:46 +0000

“How was the marathon?”

It’s a question I’ve heard at least a hundred times since Saturday's Richmond Marathon, but one I’ve rarely answered the same way twice.

Last time we met here, I was about to go out and attempt to run my first marathon. Only three weeks after I had injured myself while training, it was, by all accounts, a foolhardy thing to do. Of course, if you’ve ever read anything else I’ve written, you know that “foolhardy” should be my middle name--or at least be tattooed in Old English on the inside of my bottom lip.

So I arrived at the starting line early to see off the runners of the other two sister races (an 8k and a half marathon), then lined up with all of the other nuts who would attempt to do a thing like run 26.2 miles in a row.

It was cold. Like, down around freezing. Many paced near the starting line to avoid hypothermia, I did it to work out the nerves surrounding the fact that I was about to try something I had no business doing. I mean, my training had been completely derailed, and here I stood, like I was ready, even though there was no way I could be.

“You don’t have to finish, you just have to start” I told myself over and over, as I searched the faces around me for fellow Nervous Nancys. There were some obviously apprehensive faces, but most looked determined, more than anything. I decided to be determined, too. I mean, I was already out there, I might as well try to call on all of the training I had done and make an honest effort.

I stood at the back of the pack, not wanting to get crushed when the starting buzzer went off, and waited. When it sounded, I casually lumbered out of the gate (my injured foot felt fine, by the way, I’m just naturally a lumberer) and down Broad street. I slowly ran the first couple of miles, refusing to turn around, fearing I was in last place. When I turned the first corner, I couldn’t help but notice that, save for a few walkers, some who easily passed me (told you, lumberer), I was.

“No matter,” I told myself, “I’m out here, which is more than I could have imagined a week or two ago.”

My body felt pretty good and, thanks to the wonderful people who lined the race course to cheer, my spirits were high. I passed miles 3-10 with no problem, chatting with fellow runners, volunteers, and police officers who were manning the route. That’s the beauty of running so slowly, there’s plenty of time to visit before you pass someone.

I saw my friends Patience and Maggi who surprised me along the route with hugs and cheers. I felt like a million bucks, but more importantly, I felt loved.

I ran through some scenic parts of our fair city: down Monument, up Grove, across River, then across the actual river on the Huguenot Bridge. I chugged right along, feeling strong. I was even passing a few people.

At one point, I'd been following a man who was maybe in his late 60’s for a few miles. It was just him and I, no one in front or back of us as far as I could see.

“Excuse me,” I said, “You wouldn’t happen to know where the next bathroom stop is, would you?”

He said that he’d brought a map, and could I hold on a second while he took it out and looked.

“You’re nice,” I said, relieved that I’d soon be, well, relieving.

“No, you’re nice,” he said, and I thought for a second that he was making fun of me. But he continued, saying that he’d been listening to me behind him for the last few miles, and noticed how I’d interacted with spectators and volunteers.

“I didn’t want to turn around and say so, but I can tell you are a very nice person. You might be the nicest person I’ve never met.” I smiled and thanked him, as I just happen to see a facility.

“I’ve gotta stop, now. Have a good run.” And he was on his way.

Miles 11, 12, and 13 were a tiny bit tougher, but because they were run on more challenging terrain through a section with many hills and few spectators. I noticed everybody struggled just a bit here. I made it to the halfway point, and my friend Jen ran up out of nowhere with a giant pink sign that said “Speed is not all that inpires...GO JEN 7315”. We hugged, and I said “I made it halfway!” then “Gotta run!” Up popped Patience again, this time armed with a camera, to capture my glory. A stranger handed me a tiny shot glass of orange juice and vodka and I celebrated with a swig.

I crossed back into the city, and someone on the sidelines yelled “TEN MORE MILES!” “TEN MILES?” I yelled back “I CAN RUN TEN MILES IN MY SLEEP!” All systems were go with my body. I was getting tired, but I wasn’t terribly concerned. I had run 16 miles, of course I was feeling it.

I ran down Main to Boulevard and started to cross the bridge over the train tracks, which I was promised by a volunteer to be the last steep incline of the course, when it hit me. I should say “they hit me.” Leg cramps. Big, ugly knots in my calves that felt like someone had lit my lower legs on fire. At mile 20, for the first time, I started to doubt my abilities.

I came across another water stop and hydrated, then decided to use the facilities. I was close to mile 22, and I figured this would be my last time. I squatted to hover (a good idea when you’re at the back of a pack of 6,000 runners who have all jogged out their breakfasts)...and couldn’t get up. I don’t mean it hurt to get up, I mean I couldn’t. My squatting muscles wouldn’t allow it. I lowered myself onto the seat and sat there, contemplating. I mean, it wasn’t at all inconceivable that someday I’d die in a portable toilet, I just didn’t wake that morning thinking it would be today, you know? I wondered how long until someone would find me like that. Where was the last place someone had recognized me? Would they just assume I had bailed for one of the many bars along the route? If so, how many days after the race would those death boxes stand before being hauled away, at which time, presumably, they’d notice the body inside?

After five minutes or so, I found the strength to drag myself out of the poobooth and into the sunlight. Standing up definitely felt better, but both my lower and upper legs were now fully cramped. Cramps so severe you could see them from the outside.

I walk/shuffled another mile, placing me at 22 or so. With every step, I considered sitting down on the curb of whatever Northside street we were on--I had no idea because I was crazy with pain. At one point I passed two women on the sidewalk, one of whom said “Do you think she’s going to make it” to which the other responded “No way.” When I turned to glare at them, there was no one there. Yep, I was cuckoo.

I kept putting one foot in front of the other, at this point not even really lifting them to do so, when a man passed me running the wrong way. “Hey, crazy,” I said to myself, “No one is running the marathon backwards. Snap out of it.”

The man who was possibly a figment of my imagination ran by in the opposite direction of the sane people, then stopped, and ran back up to me.

“What’s your name?”

I tried to answer, but it was lost in a sob. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. I finally choked out “Jennifer,” and he said “Jennifer, I’m Mike. Let’s help you finish this race.”

Mike, who I was now 70% sure was a real person, walked next to me as I shuffled. Mike explained to me that he was a coach for Sports Backers’ marathon training team and asked me a few questions about what was happening with my body.

I told Mike everything, while concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

“First of all,” he said, “no more water. You’ve flushed your system and are running on nothing. Powerade only from here on out, okay?” I nodded and shuffled.

Mike walked next to me for about a mile, which, at this point, took maybe 20 minutes. He talked to me about my training and my body and I don’t know all what. By the time he left me, I was crying for a different reason, and shuffling a tiny bit less.

I crossed back into the city and turned to the nearest runner, who was really a walker, “We’re back in the city! We’re going to make it!” She looked up. She looked doubtful.

I passed mile 24, still walking and still hunched over with cramps, and heard a voice.

“I came to finish this race with you.”

It was my friend, Liz, who had recently discovered that she is a badass runner, too (see how I included myself in that?). She had run the half marathon (her first!), earlier, and had been waiting for me at the finish line, gotten impatient, and trudged back up the final hill (down as you finished, but up if you decided to turn around and save your friend from quitting in the final two miles of her first marathon) to find me. No one could have known I was in trouble, but she did.

We walked and talked. We walked and laughed. We got to the point of the course where there was less than a half mile left, and it was all downhill. Steep.

“Do you want to run this, or do you want to tuck and roll and I’ll kick you?”

I decided to run it.

We dropped down into Brown’s Island at a slow jog and crossed the finish line. As we did, I fell apart.

I sobbed and got my picture taken. I sobbed and was awarded my finisher’s medal. I sobbed and met Patience and the man in my life, who were waiting for me in the family area. I sobbed and kept walking. I sobbed because it hurt. I sobbed because I was exhausted. I sobbed because I HAD FINISHED A MARATHON.

I learned so much from this experience, including what my struggles are and where I excel. I know what I need to work on and what isn’t as important for me. I learned my limits, which is exciting, because until you know where they are, you can’t push them.

I also learned that I am loved, deeply. I sent up the Bat-Signal to the universe and the universe came through, in spades, by putting the right people in my path to get me through. I don’t know how I called that in, but I’ve no doubt in my mind that I did. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt that so strongly. I was held by something and, without it and those people along the way, I’m sure I would have fallen. I will ever be grateful for that.

So, how was the marathon? It was terrible. It was amazing. It was totally demoralizing. It was completely uplifting. It was an experience I’ll never forget, and I can’t wait to do it again.

Off the Clock: Public enemies

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 12:02:00 +0000

When it comes to doing stupid things in front of a lot of people, I’ve had some practice.

I once peed my pants on stage in front of my entire elementary school. My advice to you is: don’t drink two cartons of chocolate milk before your next spelling bee--or maybe just don’t go to elementary school.

Another time, I came in last place in a karaoke contest. Scratch that, I tied for last place with a woman who was so drunk that she vomited on stage. The only thing I vomited was a sub-par rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams”. When the rain washes my memory clean, I’ll know.

Just recently, I declared in front of my 443 facebook friends that I was becoming a vegetarian, only to eat an extremely rare steak an hour later. What can I say, I panicked. As soon as I fully realized the implications of no meat, any more, ever, I went full carnivore.

Then, well, then there’s this column.

— ∮∮∮ —

Despite my heap of fully-visible faux pas, I’ve got nothing on some people.

For instance, a man identified in this video only as “Alan” or “Alvin”, a homeowner in Staten Island, is accused of turning away a woman and her children who came to the door during Hurricane Sandy. The woman, Glenda Moore, claims that she banged on the homeowner’s door, after being stranded while trying to escape the flood waters with her two boys, Connor, 4, and Brendan, 2. Glenda also claims that the homeowner turned her away, refusing she and her boys safety, saying “I can’t help you. I don’t know you.” Both boys were washed away and found dead in a nearby marsh, soon after.

Now, Alan or Alvin claims that a woman never came to his door. He says that a man came to his back door, instead, and didn’t knock, but just tried to break in. Glenda, who’s approximately 5-foot-3 and 130 pounds according to her sister, admits that out of sheer desperation she did try to break into his back door when he wouldn’t answer the front one.

But, whatever happened, that homeowner is now immortalized on video, saying “What could I do to help him (still claiming it was a man at the door)? I’m wearing the same clothes, I had these shorts on, this is my brother’s jacket, I had a pair of shorts on with flip flops, and I was going to come out?” and, when the reporter stated “You must feel terrible for this woman and her two children, right?”, he responded “Did they find the children? I don’t even know” then “Of course, it’s a tragedy. She shouldn’t have been out, though. She shouldn’t have been on the road.”

Oh, Alan or Alvin. Blaming the mother of dead children? On camera? No, no, just no.

Then there’s Denise Helms, a 22-year-old California woman who was recently fired from her job over a social media gaffe. Denise, like many people, was upset about the results of the recent presidential election, and took to Facebook to express her displeasure.

“Another 4 years of this (N-word),” Helms wrote on her Facebook Tuesday night. “Maybe he will get assassinated this term.”

That facebook status was somehow posted to twitter (with Facebook friends like that, who needs enemies?), then a local television news crew came calling, asking her to clarify.

"I didn't think it would be that big of a deal," she said. "The assassination part is kind of harsh. I'm not saying like I would go do that or anything like that, by any means, but if it was to happen, I don't think I'd care one bit."

Instead of contrition, Denise went back to Facebook (never a good idea):

“So apparently my post last night about Obama got onto Twitter and Fox 40 came and interviewed me cause apparently a lot of people in Sacramento think I'm crazy and racist. WOW is all I got to say!! I'm not racist and I'm not crazy. just simply stating my opinion.!!!"

Denise’s boss responded to the substantial public outcry by firing her from her job at Coldstone Creamery, stating "We found her comments to be very disgusting.” She is also being investigated by the Secret Service for her comment, which could be construed as a threat against the President.

Denise, I know you’re young, but you’ll learn to take those second chances. And ease up on the exclamation points. Trust me on this one.

My point is, we all sound like idiots, sometimes. Whether it be evil, ignorance, or just plain coming across wrong. With the entire population, essentially, being media, we have to be careful what we say and do. But it seems we're all destined to learn this lesson the hard way.

After all, today’s elementary schoolers have iPhones and you do not want your pee-pee Instagrammed.

On the Run: Week 12

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 11:00:44 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 1
Miles Run: 334.89
Crazy Runner Chicks: A lot. But just one writing this column.

After starting every run with my iPod’s volume maxed out blaring Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” (cliche, but darn if it isn’t good motivatin’ music!), I settled into a playlist of whatever podcasts looked interesting.

NPR’s offerings are favorites, including, but not limited to, Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me! and This American Life, as well as Nerdist, an interview show featuring celebrity guests that just happen to read like a dream list of people I would want to interview were I to have a podcast.

Now, running feels less like torture, and more like hanging out with smarter, cooler friends.

I’ve mentioned my love affair with podcasts as running partners before, but the reason I bring it up again is that I went out early one morning last week, chomping at the bit to listen to one of the latest Nerdist’s offerings. It was an interview with one of my biggest celebrity crushes, Anthony Edwards, and hoping it would be enough of a distraction to keep me from focusing on my foot injury. While it feels close to fine, I worry...

Anyway, in addition to being handsome, talented, and smart, Anthony is also an avid runner, who raises money through his running for a great cause.

During the interview, host Chris Hardwick brought up the multiple marathons that Anthony has completed and broached the subject of maybe the host training for a marathon himself.

I’m running and listening, listening and running, and, suddenly, Anthony says the very thing that I needed to hear.

I’m paraphrasing because I don’t have the interview transcript, but what he basically said is that training for a marathon is the hard part. Convincing yourself to get up early and hit the streets alone, when you could go back to bed and no one would know the difference. Doing twenty miles and having no finish line and no one to high five you when you finish. Telling yourself it will all be worth it. That, he said, is the hard part. The easy part, he revealed, is the marathon. Running with so many other people who love it. Spectators cheering. Water when you need it. Portapotties.

And he was right. I’ve done the hard part. I’ve set the alarm for 3:00 AM. I’ve iced shins and feet. I’ve peed in yards all over Richmond. I did all of that. TO GET TO THIS.

And, so, I’m heading out to the starting line of the Richmond Marathon tomorrow. I might run, I might walk, I might hobble (though I feel pretty strong), but I’ve worked to run with so many other people who love it. I’ve worked to hear spectators cheering. I’ve worked to have water when I need it. I’ve worked for portapotties. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have to finish, but I do have to start.

So, I’ll be at 8th and Broad an hour early to send the 8k-ers on their way with hugs and cheers, then line up at the back of the marathon pack for my wild ride. My ill-advised, eyebrow-raising, slower-than-ever-before wild ride.

Tomorrow, come out and cheer, come out and jeer, come out and pick me up out of the road, if you want. Or, just follow me here. You can get text or email alerts sent to you for the progress of any runner, or check the pace chart if you plan to plant yourself on the course and wait for someone you like, love, or have an unhealthy obsession with to run by. I’m definitely in the 6:30-6:45 range on that chart.

Wish me luck, Richmond. Whatever happens, I couldn’t have done it without you.

Thank you.

On the Run: Week 11

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 02 Nov 2012 10:44:35 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 8
Miles Run: 319.62

Week 11 of this project. The week where I expected to talk about reducing my mileage and increasing my carb intake in preparation for the upcoming Richmond Marathon. The week where I’d start deciding which of my obnoxiously brightly colored tees I was going to wear in the race and washing both pairs of lucky socks--because you can never be too prepared. The week where I would start to ask you guys to maybe think about possibly, you know, if you were nearby or something, coming out to holler at me as I ran by, triumphantly, mid-26.2 mile journey, preceded by (let’s face it, I’m slow) 18,000 of my closest friends.¹

But that’s not what’s happening--or not exactly, anyway.

As I revealed last week, I’ve got an injured foot. The extent of the injury isn’t known, and I’m waiting to see an Orthopedic Specialist to get a diagnosis beyond what an urgent care doctor told me, which was that my x-rays show multiple problems, and I should see an Orthopedic Specialist. But the Specialist is in high demand, and won’t be able to see me for another two weeks. That’s a full week after the marathon. This? This is a problem.

I’ve had the Richmond Marathon on my radar since May of this year. True, it was a tiny blip. A impossibly tiny blip, as a matter of fact. I had just begun running and was only about halfway through the Couch to 5k program, when a customer said to me “You should do the Richmond Marathon.”

“I’m not really interested in running a marathon,” I replied.

Because I wasn’t. Marathons were for the thin and serious. For people who consumed sports drinks and lost toenails. For folks who were the opposite of silly, pudgy me.

But the more I ran, the more I realized that I was a cut out to be a distance runner. Running for time wasn’t at all fun for me, but running for hours, then checking my pedometer and being surprised and delighted at how far I’d gone, that was my jam.

At some point, a marathon not only piqued my interest, but I was sure I was supposed to run one. And so I’ve been running with this event in mind.

But, it’s not to be. I was feeling better a few days ago and decided to try out the foot with a quick (it’s all relative) six miles. It wasn’t terrible. I realized though, that not terrible for six miles does not equal conquering 26 and change. Not even close.

And, so, I decided that I just can’t risk permanent injury. The thought of never running again depresses me more than the thought of missing one race. Much, much more.

That’s the bad news, and, frankly, that’s quite enough.

The good news is, I’ve decided to run the HCA Virginia 8k. It's part of the same family of races, including the Anthem Richmond Marathon and the American Family Fitness Half Marathon, that take place on the same day. The HCA Virginia 8k is rumored to be five miles of fun and, holy cats, could my running use a fun injection right now.

The better news is that you can totally join me for the 8k. There are still spaces left and five miles is runable, walkable, and cartwheelable (OK, maybe only if you’re McKayla Maroney and completely unimpressed) for more people than, say, a marathon.

I might run this thing with a little bit of a limp but I am running it, and I’d love to see you out there, either on the course or the sidelines. I promise high fives and hugs and an annoyingly peppy cheerleader in the form of a hobbling checkout girl.

So, who’s in?

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

Props to Richmond Marathon for breaking their entry record 13 times in 14 years. Runner’s World magazine declared it “America’s Friendliest Marathon,” and I have to think that they’re onto something. ↩

Poor, poor, (unpitiful) me

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 29 Oct 2012 10:54:29 +0000

The other day, a lovely woman, whom I’ve known for years, offhandedly mentioned that that she thinks it’s cool that I can talk about my financial situation without shame.

“Shame?” I laughed, “Why would I be ashamed? I work hard for the money I don’t have!”

I’m poor. It’s all relative, of course, but, statistically, my two children and I live on less than the average family of three. Quite a bit less.

I’ve been called “brave,” “tenacious,” “dauntless,” and “independent.” I’ve been admired, respected, and commended for pulling myself up by my bootstraps. I’ve inspired hope in some and pity in others all because of what I don’t have.

But being broke is not an act of bravery, and making my way in spite of impoverished conditions is not admirable--these things are simply facts of life. Frequently, in my life, it comes down to sink or swim, and I choose to swim.

Whether it’s coloring my knee with a Sharpie so you can’t see the hole in my black tights, giving songs I’ve written or simple items I’ve knitted as gifts, or any number of the less expensive ramen hacks, I am the Martha Stewart of poverty.

I come by my pauper’s powers honestly. My dad is handicapped, and I grew up in a family that depended, for many years, solely on Social Security disability payments to survive. It wasn’t much, but my mom, who also grew up poor, made the most of it, and I learned to do the same. I’m passing those skills down to my children, as well.

Being poor makes keeping it simple a breeze. I love my friends, but when I see them fretting on social media about the newest iPhone or a vacation gone awry, I have to laugh. I have the luxury of not worrying about such things. I’m more concerned about the fact that I’ve received a shut-off notice from the gas company or that there is nothing but condiments in my refrigerator, and it’s still four days until payday.

Like I said, it’s all relative. I’ve had a bit of disposable income in my life and know that those problems, which seem so small to me, can feel just as immediate as a lost utility or hungry teen. That doesn’t keep me from laughing, though, as I turn my underwear inside out for another wearing because I don’t have any money to visit the laundry room.

— ∮∮∮ —

As you may or may not have heard, there’s a hurricane/tropical storm/weather event headed our way.

Working retail, particularly grocery, can be trying in times when tensions run high. Whether it’s an earthquake, hurricane, or snowpocalypse, we here in Richmond love to panic. So, when the possibility of Hurricane Sandy started looking more and more like an inevitability, I knew that I was going to have a few interesting days at work.

And I was right. From the coworkers who would nervously ask every customer “What do you think about this storm business?”, to the people who came through my line with conversational capabilities limited to “You’re out of water. Do you know you’re out of water? Costco is out of water, Kroger is out of water, Walmart is out of water, now you’re out of water.”, I realized that my job was going to be to keep people calm in the face of the unknown--at least for the time I had contact with them. I put on my best, low volume (because the louder you get, the louder they get), soothing mom-voice and told person after person “The predictions for this storm keep changing, I think we should just prepare ourselves and hope for the best. Worrying won’t change its course.”

And so I told the man who was buying eighteen hundred dollars worth of meat, who said he had a generator and was often the house that everyone without power ended up at, and the woman who bought two cases of wine, just in case. Hey, if these people are going down, they are going down in style and with a pep talk from me.

I did this all while knowing that I had $4.52 in the bank and couldn’t even manage peanut butter and bread for my own family.

Again, I look at this as an advantage. After all, I’m not having to run out to anywhere in a panic, and I’ve no idea which stores are sold out of bottled water. In this house, we’ve got some Velveeta Shells and Cheese, a few non-condensed soups, and a gas stove. We don’t need batteries, because we don’t have flashlights. And, if the water goes, well, I guess the Shells and Cheese are out--but we’ll figure it out.

So, let Sandy come. Let the wind blow and the rain rain. No amount of fancy meats, bottles of wine, or jugs of water is going to change what is to be. With any luck, on Wednesday, we’ll clean up the mess and move on. And I’ll be one day closer to payday. Because, as much as I love simplicity and bootstrap-pulling, I also enjoy eating and hot showers. Plus, my underwear has only got two sides.

Take care, everybody. See you on the other side of the storm.

On the Run: Week 10

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 11:01:08 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 14
Miles Run: 312.78
Hopes Dashed: Reply hazy, try again

You know how in movies and on television they show life-altering accidents in slow motion, and you, as the audience, are caught in this drawn-out moment of OH MY GOSH THIS IS HAPPENING?

Well, I’ve witnessed a life-altering accident (a pedestrian being hit by a car) and can tell you that, for me, it was just like that. It slowed down, it was drawn out, and it was OH MY GOSH THIS IS HAPPENING.

This, though, this was not that.

It happened in an instant. One moment I was running down Semmes Avenue on the back side of a twenty mile run. It was the last long run before I began to reduce my mileage in preparation for the Richmond Marathon, which takes place in a little less than two weeks. The next moment, well, I was still running, but something was not right.

I had twisted my ankle--just a little, just for a moment. I’d certainly twisted it more severely and at much worse angles before, but something about this twist caused severe pain in my foot. Pain that I tried to run through, because most of my hurts work themselves out as I warm up or adjust my gait. But this pain didn’t. At first, it felt like someone was simultaneously pinching the bottom of my left foot and left ankle. Then, like someone were punching them both. Then, like someone were driving a nail up through one into the other.

I made it five more miles on that tortured foot and ankle. I mean, I was parked ten miles away and couldn’t come up with a solution, beyond “Get to where you’re going”, so I kept running until I couldn’t anymore. I was halfway down Monument, just to where it crosses over 195 (I was headed to The Village, where I had left my vehicle) when my run turned into a walk and the moisture on my face morphed from sweat into tears.

I then made it one additional mile before giving up the walk and settling my sobbing self onto the curb and calling for help.

My teen daughter, who’s not been driving for terribly long, was charged with finding me sitting on the sidewalk between cars, because, at this point, I couldn’t even stand. She slowly creeped up and down Monument until I caught sight of her and waved both hands and my good foot in the air, the international symbol for “Jogger Down.”

I didn’t go to the doctor, right away. After all, it was Sunday, which limited my medical choices. Besides, it was the tiniest twist, really. Instead, I went home to ice and elevate, a routine to which I’d grown accustomed, as it was the same one I’d been employing for shin splints.

After a good little while of that, though, I started getting peckish, and decided to head to the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat. I stood, and immediately howled from the pain. I knew I had to see someone, right away.

I went to my local urgent care that almost never closes but doesn’t charge an ER copayment, you know the one, and got the full workup. The doctor pronounced me sprained. She also informed me that the x-rays were alarming, showing that the problem foot was arthritic, rife with bone spurs, and, even more sexily, had a major bunion which was knocking my toes out of alignment. The other foot was likely also full of janks, but couldn’t be x-rayed, because it wasn’t the problem I’d gone in for.

The doctor laughed when I delicately said “So...how long until I can run again, because I’ve kind of got this marathon thingy coming up.” Laughed. Actually laughed.

Now, I’ve got a referral to a bone specialist. “The best,” the doctor said, “My personal doctor, in fact.” I’ve been instructed to not do anything until I see this guy. You know, the best. So best, in fact, that he can’t see me for a full three weeks and even that was because he had a cancellation.

But not doing anything is depressing. You thought shin splints had me down? They were a natural high, compared to Mr. Sprained Foot. Every day that passes, and sees me limping around, is one day farther I get from my marathon dream. The tears shed on Monument Avenue were just the beginning. I’ve cried eleventy jillion since then and I don’t see my face drying, any time soon.

All I want is to run.

On the Run: Week 9

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 10:49:57 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 21
Miles Run: 286.05
Selfish Jerks: 1 (with more to follow)

I was chatting with a friend, recently, about depression.

“I wrote about this in my column, have you read it?”

“No,” she answered, truthfully, “I’m not interested in running.”

I wasn’t hurt or upset. After all, not everyone I know is into hearing me blather on about running. If they were, I wouldn’t have to write this column.

But, even though I write about running, I like to think that the lessons I’m learning are applicable even in lives where no one is foolish enough to set their alarm for 3:00 AM so that they can get in a good 15 miles before they head off to a job where they stand on a concrete floor for the next eight hours.

My running is your novel. Or accordion. Or unicycle. Or whatever that thing is that’s been nagging you, and you know that you could conquer it, but, please, who has the time for conquering when everybody needs something from you, like, all the time?

Because, you know what? Running, writing a novel, playing the accordion, or riding a unicycle is not something that would benefit anybody but you. To dedicate time and energy to that those things means you have to be OK with dedicating time and energy to yourself. Time that could be spent fulfilling others but you decide is totally for you, selfishly.

In the beginning, that was my biggest struggle with running: the time I spent doing it. Being a slow runner means that a training run can last four hours or more. Like I said, I get up early to get some longer runs in but can’t start in the middle of the night like I’d need to to spend four hours on the road. That means my long runs are saved for days I don’t work--days I could be cooking, cleaning, running errands, or writing columns. Those are things I should be doing, things I have to be OK with completely eschewing for the better part of the day (after the four hour run, there’s the requisite shower which, when coupled with a blow dry, puts me well into the latter part of six hours) in order to do nothing that is in the interest of anyone but me.

But I got over the guilt about being selfish with my time. You see, in addition to my bod troubles bringing me down, my workplace has gone through a shakeup, and I’ve been doing two jobs for the pay of one. The extra workload made me too tired to get out of bed and some runs fell by the wayside. After about a week and a half of that nonsense, my lovely teen daughter interrupted me, in the middle of a completely uncalled-for rant, and said “Mom! Will you please go running? You’re driving me nuts!”

And just like that, I realized that my me time was benefitting those who loved me. True, it wasn’t a home cooked meal, an unmoldy shower, or a roll of toilet paper (because we’d been using paper towels on our bums for three days), but it made me bearable, which, depending on how disagreeable you tend to be under pressure, could be just as valuable. With my level of disagreeability, perhaps even more so.

So for about ten hours a week, I’d love to help you, but I can’t. And you shouldn’t help me, either. You should be conquering your thing. Because the world needs more novel-writing, accordion-playing, unicycle riders. And the world needs more you.

As always, if you see me on the road, high fives and hugs are welcome. Because, even though it’s my me time, I don’t mind sharing it with you.

Off the Clock: Kicking the bucket list

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 11:00:14 +0000

Thanks to the 2007 Jack Nicholson/Morgan Freeman film debacle, I absolutely hate the term “Bucket List.” However, in early 2010, I sat down and wrote such a thing.

I’ve always been a “live for today” kind of girl who wasn’t a big proponent of things like “making plans” or “setting goals” or, you know, “trying.” Instead, I’d just stumbled through life, letting cool things happen to me, and they always did. Not that I wasn’t thankful for those things, because I always took time to stop and smell the beautiful roses I was being handed, it’s just that I just wasn’t proactive in getting those roses myself.

Then, a friend of mine created an online class that focused on identifying your dreams and moving toward them. Excited to support her, I took the class, which included making a list of things I truly wished for. The process was heavy on forgetting about the practicality of achieving the wished for things, instead emphasizing that you not shoot them down before even fully uncovering them.

So, one day, in a stream of consciousness, I scribbled a quick list on a piece of notebook paper:

Take a drawing class
Learn to play ukulele
Learn to speak French
Take a cooking class
Do a web show
Try stand up
Sing on stage
Write a screenplay
Write and perform a one woman show
Attend the Adult Video News awards
Lose 50 lbs.
Draw a biocomic
Start a zine about periods
Have a story featured on This American Life
Attend BlogHer
Adopt a baby

Being that it was written in a way that didn’t allow for examining the list while making it, examining my dreams afterward was a little surprising.

Lose 50 lbs? Adopt a baby? But my work focuses on convincing people to accept their bodies, regardless of the number on the scale! And I’m almost finished raising children! Get it together, brain! But maybe even more surprising to me than the things that appeared on my list were the things that didn’t.

It was so, well, normal. Where were the daredevil-y things that other people frequently mentioned were on their lists? Anyone who knows me knows I’m not usually one to shy away from a foolhardy endeavour.

No skydiving? No piloting a plane? No knife swallowing? No fire batons? Was this my list or my grandmother’s? And why, pray tell, did my grandmother want to attend the AVNs?

— ∮∮∮ —

Richard Henriksen likely has a bucket list that reads much differently.

Richard, a Norwegian surgeon, recently attempted an acrobatic BASE jump from 4,000 feet up. Combining his love of both gymnastics and BASE jumping, Richard took on the challenge for Normal Madness, a Norwegian television show.

The television show constructed a high bar at the edge of a cliff, with the idea being Richard would swing, full force, around the high bar, releasing his grip at just the right time to fly off and launch him for his base jump. But that never happened.

Instead, Richard swung around, once, and, on the second swing, a bolt in the high bar broke and the bar came down, sending him flying off the cliff, unexpectedly. Because the stunt was being performed for television, the whole thing was caught on video. From several angles.

Yes, the guy was going down anyway, but he’s thrown off like a rag doll. His head comes frighteningly close to hitting the side of the cliff as he begins to tumble. Oh, and did I mention that the broken high bar, also subject to gravity, is flying down, on top of him? The video will make your heart drop.

Richard landed safely, getting it together and pulling the cord on his chute, just in time. In a move that I don’t particularly agree with, there's also video of Richard showing his young children the footage of him nearly falling to his death. Norwegians are different, maybe.

My point is, I recently reviewed my bucket list, and decided to update it. I’ve achieved seven of the 16 items, and there are a few new things I’d like to add that weren’t even a blip on the radar nearly three years ago.

What I won’t be doing, though, is feeling pressure to Evel Knievel it up with heart-stopping stunts. It may be too late for me to die young and leave a pretty corpse, but I’ll be danged if I’m going to leave a banged-up, bloody, or flattened one. Voluntarily, at least.

So, while my list might be easily confused with my grandmother’s, it’s filled with things that come right from my heart, without threatening the safety of my ass. As for Richard Henrikson, I suggest he might take another look at his own. Or, at the very least, limit his children to Baby Einstein videos.

Photo by: Peter 'lastfuture' Marquardt

On the Run: Week 8

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 10:39:21 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 28
Miles Run: 295.29
Sads: A lot

I’m depressed.

I’ve always been the kind of person whose body and emotions are closely connected. I will frequently go through a low period, confused because nothing is really wrong, only to end up with a cold or, winter forbid, the flu. “Oh, right,” I’ll say to myself, because my blues suddenly make sense, “I was getting sick.”

So, it should come as no surprise that my recent physical challenge of shin splints has me under a little black rain cloud, Eeyore-style.

However, just like with colds and flus, I was surprised by this bout of depression. I blamed my recent romantic troubles. I blamed my birthday. I blamed the change of seasons. While all of those things probably are legitimately pieces of the puzzle, I’m realizing that I can’t underestimate the impact of the fact that my legs hurt constantly, and I’m running far fewer miles these days in an effort to heal just a little before I get out there and go full-tilt boogie again.

I’ve tried other physical activities. I really have. But I never liked an exercise before I found running, and that hasn’t changed. I thought “Gee, if I like running, a fact which took me by complete surprise, maybe I’ll like (insert sport, class, activity here).” Nope. No dice. Nothing comes close.

Running is my anti-depressant. It works for me the way that no prescription drug ever has. Believe me, I’ve tried plenty. Some were ineffective. Some made me sadder. Some left me fat and unable to get a boner. I finally gave up because having my Rx constantly switched in an effort to find the right one was wreaking havoc on my body. When the side effects outweigh the original symptoms, you know it’s time to try something else.

So, I tried some things that were a little less traditional, including massage, meditation, aromatherapy, and herbs. And they worked...ish. I mean, they weren’t magical, or anything, but I think there’s really something to self-care and the methods I used were a little more time/self-love intensive than popping a pill. As a single mom, “me time” was scarce for a while--try, like, 15 years. So, was it the actual massage that worked or the 30 minutes I spent without another person demanding my attention? It doesn’t matter. What mattered was that I felt better. Or less bad. Because sometimes you take what you can get.

But the first time I ran and grinned, it was a revelation, because I hadn’t smiled like that in a long time. That smile, and the feeling of well-being I experienced, have kept me coming back to running for the better part of a year like an addict. That’s right, I admit it--I’m addicted to not being sad.

And not running is like going off of my meds, cold turkey. I’ve brought back some of my alternative methods, but the “fine” they make me feel is nothing compared to the “great” I felt when running more frequently.

But all I can do is be patient and try to keep my head above water. Bodies don’t heal at our convenience, and I’m just thankful I’m seeing any improvement, at all. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel and, though it’s a pin prick, I can see it. Or a hint of it. OK, well, I have the promise of a light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s keeping me moving.

In a little less than a month, I might be crawling across that finish line, but I’m crossing it, come hell, high water, or little black rain cloud. If you see me on the road, this week, high fives and hugs are not only welcome, but desperately needed. Come let your smile be my umbrella.

Off the Clock: It’s human nature, brother!

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 10:47:23 +0000

Whenever I mention to someone that, at one time, I made my living as an on-camera adult entertainer, no matter who they are, they always come around to the same question: “Where can I find the tapes?”

You see, it’s not about being attracted to me, and it’s not even necessarily a sexual thing. It’s pure curiosity: as humans, one of our greatest fascinations is the behavior of other humans. I’d venture to say our behavior with our collective pants off is one of the most intriguing facets of this. And I’ve lived enough to be the sole supplier of curriculum for a Human Behavior 101 class. To avoid exaggeration, let’s say it’s a one semester class. I mean, I’m no Wilt Chamberlain, or anything.

The fact is, for as much as I’ve “behaved” in my own life, you’d think I would have little interest in what others do in the bedroom. After all, I’ve been there, done that, and not only got the T-shirt, but it’s laid on a lot of bedroom floors. But, even a girl like me, who comes with enough stories to fill a Stephen King-sized novel, is rabidly curious about what happens in other people’s bedrooms.

So much so, in fact, that one of my favorite life adventures, thus far, involved me accompanying a friend who was working as an escort on one of her “dates” and watching her “get to know” a famous NASCAR driver, because that’s what he liked. Being watched getting to know someone, I mean.

Was it weird, seeing my friend’s face smushed against the underpants parts of someone whom I’d only previously seen wearing a flame retardant zip-up jumpsuit? Yes. Was I enthralled, just the same? You bet. Truth is, I was paid a pretty penny (though my penny was not as pretty as hers, obviously), just to observe. The further truth is, I totally would have done it for free.

Another one of my fondest “adult” memories was when I was in the business. I’d arrive early for my shift, because staying after was out of the question as that job was exhausting, and watch the other performers on the monitors that were set up in the control room. Each person was free to create her own show, based on what she was comfortable with, and I was absolutely mesmerized by the things the other girls were and weren’t willing to do when alone in a room with only a bed, a camera, a microphone, and the internet watching.

Again, it’s not an arousal thing. It’s pure, unadulterated nosiness. I like to know what other people do when the lights, and engines, and inhibitions, are off.

So, imagine my thrill, every time there’s rumor of a new celebrity sex tape. It’s like “Stars--They’re Just Like Us!” the bedroom edition. Instead of “They shop for books!”, “They parade with their pooches!”, and “They enjoy snacks!”, it’s like “They make stupid faces when they orgasm!”, “They suck at dirty talk!”, and “They call out their own name while humping someone equally vacant looking!”

The latest, and, judging from the one minute compilation clip posted by Gawker (NSFW), very entertaining entry into the Celeb Sex Tape Scandal Hall of Fame belongs to Hulk Hogan.

According to the website, an anonymous source delivered a DVD of the long-rumored cinematic masterpiece, requesting no credit or payment, just that the film be viewed.

The woman, the only other person shown on camera though a second man’s voice is heard off-screen, is rumored to be Heather Clem, ex-wife of Hogan’s best friend, DJ Bubba the Love Sponge. The other man, who appears in voice only, is not identified.

For obvious reasons, the 30 minute sexcapade couldn’t be posted in its entirety. Instead, Gawker edited the dirty down to a one minute “best of” compilation, which can be viewed on their website.

The thing that struck me most about the clip is how painfully real it is. Hulk Hogan is amiable, he’s a little embarrassed, he’s modest. He genuinely enjoys himself, then he genuinely doesn’t know what to do, afterwards. Stars--They Are, Indeed, Just Like Us!

I don’t know if it’s the awkward small talk he makes with the woman who is polite but obviously not terribly engaged; or the time his phone rings and the ringtone is a pop song by his daughter, Brooke, and he has to look at it to make sure it isn’t his son, Nick, calling because they're supposed to meet later on that night; or the fact that he states he’s just eaten and feels “like a pig”; but I found this clip endearing and a little sad. Everybody needs physical release and the Hulkster, with his long, thin, peroxide-blonde hair and overly brown skin, is just trying to get his.

But, still, were the whole 30 minutes available, I’d watch it in a heartbeat. Just like Tommy Lee’s boat show or Paris Hilton’s night vision romp, it’s not about genitals, it’s about humanity.

I love it when people let their guards down and their freak flags fly, whether they be famous or ordinary. When the pants come off, you can bet I’ll be watching, listening, and asking questions, the answers to which are absolutely none of my business. Besides, I can’t make all the stories.

On the Run: Week 7

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 10:42:10 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 36
Miles Run: 272.38
Fears Realized: The Big 1

One of the questions I’m most frequently asked by those interested in my running adventures is “Don’t you get scared?”

Now, typically, the people who ask that question are referring to the fact that I run alone at the pre-pre-pre-dawn hour of 4am, when the sky is pitch and the witnesses to any danger, whether it be self-inflicted or thrust upon me by someone else, would be few.

While I have had one pretty gnarly fall, it was in broad daylight and the single witness to it, who happened to be a perfect stranger, preferred to mock rather than assist me. And, when it comes to stranger danger, I keep my head up, my iPod volume down, my pepper spray on my hip, and then I just trust the universe.

But there is something of which I am afraid but rarely talk about: that my body, which sat nearly dormant for 40 years, will give out.

Though I’ve carefully followed a meticulously constructed marathon training plan, including the 10 Percent Rule (never increase your weekly mileage by more than 10 percent over the previous week) to avoid overuse, I’ve wound up with the dreaded shin splints.

For those not familiar with this horror that plagues athletes from all different sports but is most common in runners, shin splints is also known as tibial stress syndrome, which pretty much sums it up. Running puts stress on your tibia, aka the shinbone. To simplify: Too much pounding on leg make much pain for Jennifer.

From WebMD, my current primary care provider:

Shin splints aren't really a single medical condition. Instead, they're just a symptom of an underlying problem. They might be caused by:
Irritated and swollen muscles, often caused by overuse
Stress fractures, which are tiny, hairline breaks in the lower leg bones
Overpronation or ''flat feet" -- when the impact of a step causes the arch of your foot to collapse, stretching the muscles and tendons

I’m not flat footed. The opposite, as a matter of fact. I’ve got overachieving arches, and I’m not afraid to brag about it. However, either of the other two could be accurate for me. No matter, the “cure” is the same, regardless of the cause.

WebMD, again:

Although shin splints may be caused by different problems, treatment is usually the same: Rest your body so the underlying issue heals. Here are some other things to try:
Icing the shin to reduce pain and swelling. Do it for 20-30 minutes every three to four hours for two to three days, or until the pain is gone.
Anti-inflammatory painkillers. Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs), like ibuprofen, naproxen, or aspirin, will help with pain and swelling. However, these drugs can have side effects, like an increased risk of bleeding and ulcers. They should be used only occasionally unless your doctor specifically says otherwise.
Arch supports for your shoes. These orthotics -- which can be custom-made or bought off the shelf -- may help with flat feet.
Range of motion exercises, if your doctor recommends them.
Neoprene sleeve to support and warm the leg.
Physical therapy to strengthen the muscles in your shins.
In rare cases, surgery is needed for severe stress fractures and other problems that can cause shin splints.

Notice that second line, “Rest your body so the underlying issue heals”.

I just threw up in my mouth a little. Because, if there’s one thing I’ve got going for me, it’s momentum.

So, I’ve cut back on my miles this week, opting instead for some bike riding (cycling sounds so pretentious when your “cycle” is a one speed beach cruiser made by Schwinn) and a little bit of work with weights (I’ve lost 80 lbs, the state of the under side of my arms is absolutely appalling). And some running. Because it makes me happy. In fact, if I go too long, I’ll get depressed enough that one of my teens will say “Will you please go for a run?”

On top of cutting back, I’ve made an appointment with a doctor who isn’t just the internet and intend to visit a local running store to make sure I’m wearing the right shoes (besides overuse, this is another common cause of shin splints).

In other words, I’m being fairly proactive. But I’m scared. If you take a peeksie at the top of the column, you’ll notice that I have only a little over a month until the Richmond Marathon, and I really, really want to do this thing. That being said, permanent damage to my body that results in my inability to ever run again sounds like a fate worse than death--I love it that much.

Rest assured that, whatever happens, I’ll be sharing it here. Because you guys are my team, and I couldn’t feel luckier for that. As always, if you see me on the streets, high fives and hugs are welcome. Just make them gentle, because this girl is healing.

Off the Clock: It gets better(ish)

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 11:37:08 +0000

Nole Burns.

His name has been changed, to protect the surely more innocent than my nearly thirty years of bitterness would have you believe, but Nole Burns was my bully.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t bullied in the same way that many were. Not by a long shot.

No, pre-internet bullying was a lot less sophisticated. It consisted mostly of spreading rumors about someone, kicking their butt after school, or just plain being mean right to their face. Nole was the third kind of bully, and he was a dick.

In case you don’t remember, junior high is the worst. I contend that there is no one group less sensitive, or more sensitive, than the eleven, twelve, and thirteen-year-olds. Stuck in an in-between place where we looked like grownups but had only the vaguest notion of how grownups conducted themselves, we would often lash out at those who were foolish enough to attempt to help us on our journey from kidhood to adulthood. Like parents, teachers, and other confused preteens.

And don’t get me started on crazy body stuff. Girls wake up with breasts and boys wake up with erections, and both sexes are confused about their own and the other’s changes. It’s like the kids we’ve known for years are suddenly completely different people and we don’t know who to turn to about our own physical embarrassment.

I, myself, was a hot mess at that age. Poor, chubby, and angry at the world is a bad combination, and I was unleashing it on the people around me on a daily basis. I went out of my way to convince people I was completely unloveable, and then I was hurt and furious when they didn’t love me.

So, I walked around, 5-foot-7 and 140 lbs (which seemed absolutely gargantuan at the time but now sounds quite lovely) having been hit early by the Puberty Express, but being raised by parents who didn’t want to admit that their daughter needed deodorant and Stridex and razors and tampons. I was big, I was hairy, I was bumpy, and I didn’t smell pleasant.

So, I walked around slumped over, desperate to go unnoticed because, as confused as we all were, we somehow came to a group understanding that conspicuous was the most dangerous thing to be.

Nole Burns, though, he noticed me.

Nole was a small, bitter boy. The two may have been related, but I’m not sure. Standing just over five feet tall, he was twice that size in anger and so, so sarcastic. He had a quick, mean mouth and used it to cut down not only other students but our teachers, as well. Basically, Nole Burns was the Joe Pesci of my school.

And something about me just got under his skin. I didn’t know then and I guess I’ll never know now exactly what it was, other than that “big, hairy, bumpy, smelly” thing, but I was a walking target for his zingers.

“You look like a lesbian. Are you a lesbian? I’ll bet you don’t even know what a lesbian is.”

“I do, so. And, no. I’m not.”

But I didn’t know. He had spat “lesbian” like a racial slur, so I rushed home to our antiquated encyclopedia to see if I could find Lesbia on a map. Finally, I asked a friend, who explained. “That’s the thing?” I thought, “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Hey, Big Foot, go back to your cave.”

“Something smells like fish.”

“Does your face hurt, because it’s killing me.”

Every time he’d shout at me in the hallway, I would cringe, sure that the whole school had stopped in their tracks to stare at the hideousness that was me.

— ∮∮∮ —

Whitney Kropp, a 16-year-old Michigan girl, knows just how I felt.

Whitney was nominated for homecoming court at her high school this year, which thrilled her. Until she found out the nomination was a prank, pulled by some unkind fellow students.

After an initial period of depression, though, Whitney, encouraged by family and friends, decided to go ahead and sit on the homecoming court, despite the fact that it was a prank.

"I can just prove all these kids wrong...I'm not the joke everyone thinks I am," she said.

Soon, word got around, and more people started supporting Whitney. The facebook page designed to champion her has nearly 100,000 likes.

What’s more, after having heard Whitney’s story, local businesses stepped in to donate her gown, shoes, and big day beauty services.

"Every girl looks forward to being on that homecoming court and for her name to be called," said hairstylist Shannon Champagne, who did her hair. "For her to be so excited about that and then just to find out that it was all just a joke, it just--it really touched me."

In a beautiful, sparkling red dress, Whitney beamed, Friday night, as she stood on the football field, clutching a bouquet of flowers, while a stadium full of people cheered.

Whitney Kropp had her night. Her bullies had inadvertently seen to that.

Victory over these sorts of things makes for a good story, and I wish I had that. I, however, just served as a target for Nole until we both moved on to the same high school, but I got lost in a much larger crowd. A quick Google of him reveals that he hasn’t grown much, physically, but is now a substance abuse counselor “working to de-stigmatize addictive illness.” Nole Burns is helping people. Side note: A quick Google of me results in a plethora of dirty jokes.

But Whitney and I--and even Nole, because his inner bully must have been brutal--are proof that people who try to get you down don’t have to succeed. The world can dish it out, and it’s your choice whether or not to take it. Even when you don’t know what “it” is, and you have to look it up in an encylopedia.

On the Run: Week 6

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 10:46:05 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 42
Miles Run: 235.41
Gross Outs: Too many to count

Nike commercials that make you reach for the Kleenex, Olympic victories complete with national anthems and tearful athletes, fancy West End ladies in lululemon skirts. There are so many different ways to be inspired to run.

But inspiration can be falsely glamourous. Heck, even blood and sweat look good on rippling muscles and long stretches of sinew.

I, however, began running as a 215 pound 40-year-old who hadn’t done anything more taxing than getting off the couch in a long, long time. So while I didn’t expect a gold medal, I also didn’t exactly expect the things that I do go through on my runs. Because what commercials and Olympians and spandex don’t tell you is that running can be gross.

For instance, stories of pooping while jogging, aka the “runner’s trots” (classy name, no?), abound, but I’m more frequently a victim of the runner’s drips, or, just plain peeing my pants.

Maybe it’s a lady thing. Maybe it’s a 40-year-old lady thing. Maybe it’s a 40-year-old lady who comes from a long line of sagging bladders tacked up with transvaginal mesh and hope thing. All I know is, I get up in the morning, stick around the house until I’ve urinated at least three times, then, as soon as I hit the street, I’ve gotta go. Again.

And I do. Sometimes, before I’m ready, meaning I’m innocently running along and the urge to pee hits at the same time as the relieving starts. Sometimes, I have a little bit of warning and can pick a lawn, sit down on it, and pretend to tie my shoes while simultaneously undoing the hard work the homeowner has done all summer to keep the grass from turning brown. Sorry Monument Avenue, I owe you some Miracle-Gro.

Oh, and running also brings out the worst in my nostrils. Literally. For some reason, when the running starts, well, the running starts. My nose leaks like a faucet in a cheap motel, and I have to desperately search for a place to wipe it before I get a mouthful. Runner’s websites suggest shooting “snot rockets,” which basically involve pressing one nostril shut and blowing hard, expelling the offending mucus. Those websites are also careful to mention that you should blow back and away, to avoid hitting your own shoe. But, I just can’t do that. Instead, I classily pull the front of my shirt up to my face and give it a good wipe, exposing both my belly and my poor upbringing (not really--sorry, mom!).

Another unglamorous side effect of running is what I lovingly refer to as “death breath.” Being a total mouthbreather when I run,¹ I carry a tube of ChapStick on every outing, because panting between parted lips brings dryness and cracking. But on top of the dryness, it also brings these weird, white strings of, well, something that decorate my lips like fat spider webs and a taste that can only be described as “rot-like.” I’ve read up on this condition, and dehydration seems to be the culprit. I carry a small, handheld water bottle on each run and sip it as I go, but am careful not to over do it because, well, please see: runners drips.

But, it’s a trade off. For all of the disgusting things that running has revealed about my body, it’s also helped me discover some really beautiful things about my physical self. I love the way the muscles in my legs are developing; the way I’m flexible enough to stretch and bend in ways I never could before; and the energy I have, every single day.

So, if you see me on the street, and I’m wiping like mad; can’t speak for having my lips webbed together; or am sitting on a lawn, concentrating hard on my shoelaces, well, now you know. Running is gross.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

Are there people who aren’t? Well, I hate them. ↩

Off the Clock: A family affair

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 10:48:00 +0000

“Your sister looks really pretty, today.”

My know-it-all cousin, whom I was pretending I wasn’t with, because, well, see “know-it-all,” was blabbing again, and I was ignoring.

“I said, ‘Your sister looks really pretty, today.’”

“Yeah, I heard you. Who are you talking to?”

I looked around for the poor sap who was, inevitably, unwittingly about to engage her. There was no one near. And I didn’t have a sister.

She dramatically slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

“Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

She was 16, I was 15, and we were sitting in a small, utilitarian-looking auditorium, which sat in the middle of a small utilitarian-looking high school, located an hour outside of our big city, watching our male cousin graduate.

“What’s your problem, anyway?”

I was annoyed with her. I was always annoyed with her. She was a one-upper. A bragger. Someone who would correct everything you said, regardless of whether or not she was right. I always got stuck hanging out with her because we were roughly the same age and our fathers, who were brothers, were also friends.

“Nothing. Nothing. Please don’t tell anyone I told you that you have a sister.”

OK, now this girl was really getting on my nerves. Especially the fact that she had this weird, gleeful, Joker-like grin on her face.

I fell for it, though. I bit and insisted she tell me what she was talking about.

She explained to me that my dad had been married before my mom, which was news to me. Further news to me was the fact that I had a half-sister, born of that union. Further, further news to me was the fact that I already knew my half-sister, and had for years. Her parents were friends of my family. They were even neighbors, for a time. In fact, I had been to their house for dinner and hung out with her sister several times, because she was my age and it was convenient as she was close by.¹

Being a teen who loved drama, as if there were any other kind, I didn’t approach either of my parents right away. Instead, I decided to sit and stew on this new information. I had to decide how best to maximize the fact that I knew something my parents didn’t know I knew, and it was scandalous. I did, however, approach my brother who is a year younger.

“Oh. Yeah. I know. I heard Mom and Dad talking about it.”

WHAT?

OK, now I was mad. Was there anybody who DIDN’T know this family secret, aside from me?

Turned out, no.

— ∮∮∮ —

Valerie Spruill, a 60-year-old Ohio woman, knows all about what secrets can do to a family. She recently discovered that the man she’d been married to for years was also the father that she’d never met.

Let me repeat that for the folks just joining us, mid-column. She was married to her own dad.

Six years after Percy Spruill died, Valerie’s uncle told her the truth about her marriage to the man who was her second husband. A DNA test done on one of his hair brushes confirmed the story, though you’d think the same last name thing would have been enough.

What’s not clear, and may never be, is whether Percy knew he was married to his daughter.

"I don't know if he ever knew or not. That conversation didn't come up," she said. "I think if he did know, there is no way he could have told me."

Spruill has had two strokes and has been diagnosed with diabetes since she got the news. She is convinced it was all brought on by the stress of learning the truth.

"Pain and stress will kill, and I had to release my stress," Spruill said. "I'm just telling the story to release my pain."

She’s now shared with her children and grandchildren that the man they thought was their step-father and step-grandfather was actually their step-grandfather and step-greatgrandfater. Spruill is convinced she’ll be okay, citing her faith in God and the therapy she’s had since finding out.

Ultimately, she says, Percy Spruill was a good man and a good provider.

"We had a good life."

Valerie Spruill admits that she initially struggled with anger, and I have an idea of how she feels. When I dramatically, and loudly, confronted my parents with the fact that I knew their awful secret, they acted like it was no big deal. They indicated that they didn’t tell me because I wouldn’t have been able to handle the truth. I suppose that the way I dropped the “I know your secret” bomb might have been proof that they were right.

Still, more upsetting than the fact that I had a half-sister was the fact that my whole family knew and was keeping it from me. I felt betrayed. As a parent, though, I know that doing the thing you think best for your child isn’t always going to be the thing they think best, and, like my children will have to do, I accept that.

I just wish I could have found out from someone a little less exasperating. Then, again, we are talking about family.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

Hey, friendships have been forged from much, much less. ↩

Photo by: Capt' Gorgeous

On the Run: Week 5

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 11:04:33 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 49
Miles Run: 195.51
Eyes on the Prize: 2

“Running a marathon is hard.”

I can’t tell you how many times, since I started this project, that I’ve heard that phrase.

Oh sure, plenty of people are supportive--some are even excited. Quite a few are ambivalent, which is cool, too.

But I’m surprised by how many people I’ve run into who seem to think I’ve no idea what I’m getting myself into. I guess because I write so often about the emotional journey I’m on and rarely touch on the physical one that’s also involved.

But trust me when I say I know that running a marathon is no small feat and finishing one is an even bigger accomplishment.

I’m not working with a marathon training team. I’ve heard nothing but good things about them and wouldn’t hesitate to go that route, if I thought it were right for me. But my work schedule is such that I can’t commit to meeting up with a group, weekly, without worrying myself and my boss half to death. I’m frequently scheduled one or both weekend days, and that schedule changes every week. This is a good thing if you like variety, a bad thing if you like having a life, or, you know, scheduling doctor’s appointments.

I’m also not a social runner. I’ve done runs with others, but having company distracts me. When the going gets tough and my legs begin to feel like they’re made of freshly-poured concrete, I need to focus. I’ve gotta take time to recognize that I’m headed in that direction, gel up, take a sip of my patented sports drink and water blend, or just give myself a little, old fashioned pep talk. When I’m chatting, I’m less likely to see the signs until it’s too late and the concrete in my legs has fully hardened. Once that happens, forget about it.

No, instead, I’ve cobbled together my own training plan, based on three different plans, all of which featured things I loved and things I wasn’t crazy about, that I found online.

For those of you who aren’t runners or who are running for fun, rather than training for something specific, a typical training plan is split into weekly segments, each consisting of a few short runs, a few rest days, and one long run. Some plans convert rest days into cross-training days, so you stay active but are using different muscles than you would to run. My own training doesn’t specifically include cross-training, but if walking my dog or working inside a grocery store every day counts, I’m golden.

And I’m right on schedule. As of tomorrow, we are seven weeks out from the Richmond Marathon. That means I did a 16-mile long run earlier in the week. Next week, I’m up to 17 miles, then 18, then 20, then tapering off to 9 and 8 for the last two weeks to save energy for the 26.2 mile haul to the finish line. I’m also doing lots of 8s in between, because that’s my favorite run, and some 10s and 5s thrown in for good measure.

As I’ve learned the hard way, no one can predict exactly how a race will go. I’m not guaranteed success, no matter how hard I train. However, I’m almost certainly guaranteed failure if I don’t train properly, and I know that. I’ve worked too hard to go down without a fight, so I’m training and resting and pep talking, vigorously, until November.

After all, running a marathon is hard.

Hair apparent

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 11:04:46 +0000

“Oh, no! But your hair is your superpower!”

“You know what else is my superpower? Being able to pay my rent.”

My year of living in pink is over.

For reasons I won’t go into here, I have to change my hair from its current fuchsia color to something “natural.”

At first, I fussed because whether it’s my body, my clothing, my art, or my point of view, I hate being told that anything about me is not acceptable. There are people who can hear that sort of thing and not take it to heart, but that’s not me. In fact, when it comes to any kind of criticism, I open the doors to my heart, stand outside like some sort of heart butler, bend at the waist while motioning in with one arm, and sing “Be Our Guest” from Beauty and the Beast. Sometimes, it’s a terrible way to live.

Also, I'm rebellious. If you tell me the sky is blue, I’ll find no less than four pieces of evidence to the contrary. If you ask me to then look it up on Wikipedia, I’ll read you the entry, aloud, omitting the words that prove your point and emphasizing the words that corroborate mine. Does that make me tiresome? Yes. Does that make me tedious? Yes. Does that make me...wait, where was I going with this? I can’t remember because now I’m a little bit sad.

Oh, yes. Because my hair has been no less than 50 different colors in my life, I thought I wouldn’t care so deeply about the transition to number 51. It turns out, however, that I do.

Technically, hair is just one of the things that identifies us as mammals: providing warmth, protection, and heightening our sense of touch. But hair is more than “a filamentous biomaterial, that grows from follicles found in the dermis,” it’s a form of self-expression. And my pink hair has become important to me.

As I wrote about a few weeks ago, I struggle with prosopagnosia, or face blindness, which means I am unable to identify people based on their facial features. Having pink hair has always enabled others to quickly identify and seek me out, instead. When arranging meetings, whether for business or pleasure, I’ll let the other party know that I likely won’t recognize them and they should go ahead and find me. “Just look for the girl with pink hair,” I’d say, which wouldn’t have gotten you very far in my hometown of San Diego but is more than enough in Richmond.

Being so easily identifiable is also fun. From time to time, I’ll go for a long run and come home to three or four tweets or Facebook status updates declaring that I had been spotted in some part of town, weaving through traffic or passing by someone’s office window. In fact, I was all the way in Virginia Beach, warming up for the half marathon, when a fellow runner approached me saying she knew I had to be me, because who else would I be with that hair. Even when I’m just out and about, I’ll periodically be approached by someone saying “Are you The Checkout Girl? I recognized you by your hair!” It’s like Where’s Waldo: The Pink Hair Edition, which, if it actually existed in book form would be for newborn babies or people over 100 years old--because I stick out like a sore thumb.

But the thing I like best about my hair is that it makes me approachable. If you’ve never met me in real life, my admission that I’m actually very introverted will probably make you cock your head like a puppy who has just heard the rustle of the food bag in the next room. However, if you’ve met me, you probably smelled the stench of “I just want to be home watching cartoons with my kids and my cat” on me from a mile away. While I’m gregarious, it’s a cover for someone who is, in reality, shy and socially awkward. In fact, I frequently go overboard in the other direction, thinking I’m fooling everyone like someone who has had too much to drink and is driving overcautiously. I also have a mouth that turns down naturally, which gives me a sullen look all the time. “Why are you mad?” you’ll ask me many, many times in the beginning of our relationship before you figure out that I’m not mad, that’s just how my face looks.

So, all of this means that I’m unlikely to approach strangers, ever. But, man, do they feel comfortable approaching me to talk about my hair--men and women alike. I can’t tell you how many nice people I’ve met and had wonderful, non-hair-related conversations that I’d never have experienced without them opening with “Cool hair.”

And a lot of people have that one thing. A friend of mine has quirky eyeglasses and whenever we go out people comment on them, starting some great conversations. Another person I know has a large pin in the shape of her first initial and wears it everywhere; it’s always fun to be with her as people try to guess her name. Another friend has some badass tattoos that just beg for questions and admiration from even the most conservative of strangers.

I’ve always admired those who march to the beat of their own idiosyncratic drummer, caring little about what’s on trend or in style. You know, the ones you would never see in print magazines, which are so twenty years ago, but who are all over the internet, making different look good. Shopping at Macy’s? Maybe, if Macy was your grandmother but she died and we are going through her closet. I love those people.

Now, as I transition to something more natural and, likely, will be convincing the powers that be that some people are actually born with red hair, I’m going to have to adjust. Unless I want to retreat completely into my shell and be lost forever to cats and cartoons, I’ll need to learn new ways to relate to people and to express myself. It won’t be easy, what, with this frowny face of mine, but that’s personal growth. All that’s left is to find my new steez. Is twenty pounds of loose skin a thing, because I could totally make that work.

Photo by: brandongreer

On the Run: Week 4

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 14 Sep 2012 10:41:25 +0000

Days until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 57
Miles run: 150.52
Doubt and determination: 1 + 1

Self: “Just one more day. I’m still too tired.”

Other Self: “You’re not tired, you’re scared. Scared you’ll hate it. Well, you’d better get out there and see.”

Self: “Ugh. We are the worst.”

This was the scene at 4:00 AM, three days after I ran the Rock ‘n’ Roll Virginia Beach Half Marathon.

As I described last week, the half marathon was, shall we say, “heck”? It was hot, it was humid, it was spiritless, it was dry as a bone.

I finished and thought “I can’t wait to run again,” sort of the same way you might think “I can’t wait to rinse this poop out of my mouth from that poop sandwich I accidentally ate, and surely any sandwich I were to consume after this would taste like heaven.”

So, the day after the half marathon, I thought I might go for a short run. You know, just to stretch out my muscles. But, morning came and went, and I didn’t go for that run--telling myself that I had done a hard thing just the day before, and I should treat myself kindly by resting.

Then the next morning came, and I remembered hearing from a friend about the day after the day after soreness, so I decided, again, to get out there for a bit. For real, this time. “Just two or three miles” I told myself sleepily, “right after I hit the snooze button for the third time.” Needless to say, that run didn’t happen, because I finally turned the alarm off altogether. I rationalized that I was still recovering, physically and emotionally, from the trauma of having my half marathon dreams pretty well dashed.

But day three arrived and, again, I found myself making excuses. Yes, the excuses were perfectly reasonable, but they weren’t the truth.

The truth was, I was scared. Scared that running was ruined for me by the short-term suffering I’d endured. Scared I’d broken my brain with dehydration and stress. Scared to get back on the horse that had bucked me off, violently, because only a fool would do such a thing.

Other Self was right, though, I had to get out there and see. I charged up the iPod, which was still loaded with the podcasts I’d saved for the race, sucked down a gel for a quick hit of sugar and caffeine, laced up my sneakers, and hit the road.

One mile in, I teared up. My legs were made of cement, and I couldn’t find my groove. My breathing was labored. I was hating life. Two miles in, and I began mentally composing an email to my editor here at RVANews to explain why I wouldn’t be continuing this project. Three miles in, though, something happened. Every breath stopped feeling like work, and every step no longer seemed like torture. I wouldn’t say it was great, but it wasn’t terrible. So I kept going. Mile four, mile five, mile six. My pace picked up and that familiar smile came across my face and heart. I squeezed out nine miles before taking quick shower and heading off to work. On my way in, I texted several friends, elated, “I DON’T HATE IT!” I capslocked some very sleepy people who were confused about what I didn't hate, because I hadn’t told any of them how scared I was.

It’s been a week and a half since that first post-race run, and I’ve had a few stellar and a couple average runs in that time. I’ve also over slept quite a few times, waking up too late to make it out at all. In other words, everything is back to normal.

I’m also giving myself a break and gaining a little bit of perspective on what I went through. Of course it makes sense that I was down after I prepared for something for six months and then ran into a wall of disappointment. And of course I was tired after that. And of course I was scared after that. Yes, I’m an extremely determined person, but that’s not a magic spell. There’s room for doubt in determination, and as long as determination wins out over doubt, I’m okay with them sharing space, sometimes.

I’m back on the road for another week of figuring this stuff out. I haven’t had a longer run than ten miles since the race, and it’s time to get back to it. 26.2 isn’t going to just wrap itself up in a pretty bow and present itself to me, I’m going to have to reach for it. Goodbye, Rock ‘n’ Roll Virginia Beach Half Marathon, I’m moving on. As for you, my friends, I’ll see you on the road.

Just like the movies

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 10:49:52 +0000

When it comes to doing stupid things for love, I’m kind of a prodigy.

Yessir, when it comes to foolishness performed in the name of romance, I’m Vincent van Gogh, Eva Braun, Rihanna. In fact, being intellectually incapacitated by affection is what got me married three times before I turned thirty and, eventually, landed me in your fair city of Richmond. But all of that nonsense started long before I took my first groom at 19.

It probably comes as no surprise that I was a grade school boy chaser.

A chubby girl raised in abject poverty, my tools of allure were clunky shoes from the Salvation Army and jumpers my mom had constructed from left over scrap fabric. In other words, I looked like an obese von Trapp child.

But I didn’t know any better. I had nothing but self confidence when it came to my appeal--to not only the opposite sex but the world in general. Yes, much like the me of present day, the me of yesteryear was really charmed by her own charm.

So I had no problem periodically choosing an object of affection and setting out, through plans and schemes, to make him fall madly in love with me. Plans and schemes derived, naturally, from television and movies, which we all know are really real life and not contrived or scripted to produce a neat, happy ending.

When I was in fourth grade, my beau of choice was named Chris. He was tall and exceptionally thin, with a head that was disproportionately large for his body and, in many ways, frog-like. Like, you know how frogs’ mouths span their whole heads and when they open them their whole head opens? Like South Park characters? Well, that. And I thought he was the cutest boy in the school. The fact that we’d never spoken only added to his mysterious allure.

So, the first step in Plan Make Chris Love Jennifer Forever And Ever to was feign difficulty seeing the blackboard in order to finagle a seat closer to the front of the class and closer to my paramour. I was moved to a seat in the row next to, and one seat up from, Chris, which seemed perfect, because he literally had to look past my face to see the board. I really thought I’d grow on him, subconsciously, because he saw me without realizing he was seeing me for many hours every day. He’d look through me for so long that I’d become part of his thought process.

After a few weeks of feeling his steely, froggy gaze on the side of my face, but not seeing any passion from him, I decided to up my game. Chris loved sports, so I obviously started coming to class early and reading the sports section that I’d swiped from my parents’ newspaper. “Hmm...” I’d mumble to myself, as he sat down, “24 to 7? That must have been an interesting game.” For all I knew, I could have been reading the hours for a new all-night restaurant.

But still nothing. Soccer season started, and Chris played soccer, so I began showing up at games, pretending to know someone else on the team. He took wood shop second semester, and so did I. He played clarinet in band and I brought home the same instrument and announced to my parents that I’d be doing that, as well. Creepy? Yes. Adorable? No. Just creepy.

I couldn’t figure out why this guy was not only not completely head over heels for me but hadn’t even spoken to me. Then, one day, I got bold. Before class, he and a friend and were discussing that afternoon’s soccer game. The girl who sat behind me had insinuated herself into the conversation and was laughing in all the right places. She was tiny, she was adorable, and hell no was she getting this guy. I turned around in my seat and playfully teased (by which I mean “bulldozed”) “I’ll bet you don’t even get one goal!” to which he snapped back “I’ll bet you pick your boogers and eat them so stay out of our conversation!”

Everyone laughed. I was heartbroken. I retorted, too loudly, “Well YOU look like a frog!” and turned back around in my seat, ungracefully, and cried silent tears.

— ∮∮∮ —

13-year-old Texas teen Elizabeth Annette Robinson is no stranger to the love bug, either.

Last week, Elizabeth stole her older brother’s car and her mom’s ATM card and set out on an 800-mile road trip to Kentucky to see a 12-year-old boy she’d met online while playing Xbox. She made it surprisingly far for someone who’s never even driven before and was just 50 miles from Nashville when local police, who had been tipped off by the record of ATM card use, apprehended her.

When her father went to pick her up from police custody, he decided to do a very human thing: take the girl to see the boy she’d done all of this for. Sadly, they didn’t find the boy’s house.

What was her plan when she got to the boy, I wonder? Were they to be together, forever, these 12 and 13-year-olds? Would they run further away? And who would get the good Xbox controller?

Now, while I never stole a car, it’s mostly because I wasn’t that brave. And because we didn’t have the internet, so all of my crushes were local. Except Kevin Bacon. But I understand Elizabeth Robinson’s love crazies, and I so sympathize. The poor girl was likely brainwashed by coms, both rom- and sit-, which make you believe that those sorts of things can work out.

And, as a yet uncured romantic, I like to think that maybe they can. Just not with Kentucky boys or frog-faced soccer players. Besides, it was fourth grade, didn’t we all eat our boogers?

On the Run: Week 3

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 11:05:17 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 63
Miles Run: 118.91
Tears Shed: 20,442

Well, I did it. I ran a half marathon. And it was hard.

Now, I know a lot of you are probably thinking “Of course it was hard, it was a mother loving HALF MARATHON!”, and you are right. But remember that “lovely naiveté” that I referred to, just last week? I already miss it with the regret that some girls feel after prom night--if you know what I mean.

I shifted from my previous excitement/medal lust/butterfly tummy to full fledged terror/self-doubt/can’t hold anything down sometime around 7:00 PM the night before the Rock ‘n’ Roll Virginia Beach Half Marathon, when I realized that I had set my alarm for 1:00 AM and wasn’t yet asleep. I watched first the minutes, then the hours, tick by on the cable box in my bedroom and did that insomnia math of “OK, if I fall asleep right this minute, I’ll get five hours of sleep” then “OK, if I fall asleep right this minute, I’ll get four hours of sleep.” Finally, I got down to “...two and a half hours of sleep” and drifted off.

1:00 AM came early, but so did a pretty good adrenaline rush when I realized that THIS. WAS. IT. The day that I had spent six months preparing for with healthy food, lots of water, many early wake-up calls, and 490 miles pounded out on the streets of Richmond. I told myself that the energy of all of that would carry me through to victory. I strapped on my race bib, number 20442, and thought “Well, it’s now or never.”

Then, I stepped outside.

The heat and humidity I felt when leaving my apartment were like a punch in the face. I turned to my daughter, who had volunteered to help out at the race along with her best friend and my boyfriend, and teared up.

“Tell me that the beach is two hours away from here so the weather is not necessarily going to be like this there. Please tell me that, because this is a problem.” She smiled weakly, because teenagers shouldn’t be up at 1:00 AM unless they are still up at 1:00 AM, and I knew I was in trouble.

I caffeinated, heavily, while I made the middle of the night drive, eastward, and said silent prayers to Mother Nature to just let go of her heavy, damp anger for a few hours while we did this thing. By the time we got to the beach, the temperature was in the low 80’s and the humidity was near 100%.

But I forgot about the oppressive weather for just a little bit, and got caught up in the excitement of being with other runners. There’s something about finding other people who share the same insane obsession--it doesn’t make it seem less insane, necessarily, but like the insanity is somehow justified. “Oh, sure, it’s crazy, but this many crazy people can’t be wrong!” This is probably why people join cults.

I was mostly too nervous to speak to anyone else, flying totally solo after having been dropped off by my crew, but I soaked up the energy of the event. Volunteers tried to talk me into bagels and bananas, while I just hoped I could keep down the caffeine I had consumed on the ride over. Besides, all anyone was talking about was the heat, and I was trying to think of other things.

Then, the sun came up, and it was time to enter our corrals. I thanked the powers that be that had made me frowny-faced just a few days before by placing me in the last corral, because I was already sweating buckets, and we were only just lining up. “At least this way,” I thought, “I won’t have to be passed by too many people.” I talked to a few of my fellow Corral 20-ers and even tried to get a wave and some cheers going, but the street was covered in sweat and energy gels, and there were murmurs of “I don’t know, man” and “This might be harder than I thought.” The “rockin’” radio DJ-like emcee played music over the loudspeakers and laughed about how hot it was, and then very solemnly urged us to have our hydration plans in place. I wasn’t worried, as I had spent hours planning mine. The countdown started and we runners looked at each other. It was like 16,000 deer caught in the headlights.

The race began, and I quickly realized that I wouldn’t be using my iPod on this run. I had spent more than a month saving some really choice podcasts to get me through, but had sort of forgotten that part of this marathon was a local band playing every mile or so. Plus, I wanted to be in the moment--soak up the experience instead of being off in my own little world. We were suffering, but damn if we weren’t going to suffer together! I tucked the iPod away and tried, again, to connect with my fellow Corral 20-ians, who were now mixed with several other corrals. I cracked jokes, gave pep talks, sang along with the music, and fell somewhere between pink-haired cheerleader and fool. Very few were having any of what I was selling. In fact, not falling over seemed to be the highest priority on most everybody’s list.

I got to the first hydration stop and promptly snorted a dixie cup full of water up my nose,high fiving myself mentally, excited that I had gone through this rite of passage. I chugged along, slow running among legions and legions of walkers, sometimes passing them, sometimes just keeping pace, and asked the universe to send some trees or clouds or something to break up the oppressive heat, which had now climbed into the 90’s without a break in humidity.

Like a man dressed in tatters, crawling the desert, I looked for the next water stop as a local band with an adorable girl singer played “Beat It”. I could see far, far ahead, the flat elevation of this course being both a blessing and a curse because, boy, did things look closer than they actually were, but no cluster of parched looking people, anywhere. Holy cow, where was this thing? Hadn’t it been miles since the last one? Then, I saw it. The tables, a few volunteers, but no cluster of runners. As I got closer, I noticed that the tables were empty, and the volunteers were not handing out cups of delicious, refreshing agua but apologizing. Apparently, they had run out of cups. They had a few pitchers of water and offered to pour it into our hands, if we’d cup them.

I was dumbfounded. How the heck does this happen? Sure, I wasn’t near the front of the pack, but there were, I found out later, more than a thousand people behind me. There wasn’t water for us? I soldiered on.

By the time I got to the next station, I was, shall we say, cranky. They, too, were out of water but had some sports drink. Since my well-crafted hydration plan was a complete loss at this point, I gulped down two cups of the warm, yellow liquid, just happy to be snatched from the clutches of certain death for a while. A local country band played a song called “Collards From A Can”, and I cursed the day my mother birthed me.

This particular race runs along the beach, but then takes runners out to the country and through a military base, of which I didn’t get the name because, you know, I was busy outrunning death. The route to and from the base is heavily wooded and, on a day like that, thick with insects. I run so slowly that the bugs had no problem landing on me and hitching a ride. There was no breeze to be had, and I sure wasn’t creating one. I swatted as I ran, working up even more of a sweat, convincing myself that I had invented some kind of crazy crossfit workout (I have no idea what crossfit is, but in my mind it looks like the thing I just described). There was swatting, there was running, there was grumbling.

Then, I saw the halfway mark. And I almost gave up.

You gotta be kidding me! This is halfway? This thing is only halfway over? I turned to the girl who had been slow jogging next to me for the last twenty minutes, and she looked straight at me and said “Don’t.” So I didn’t.

Even though more than one of the hydration stations was dry, I ended up needing to relieve myself during the run anyway. As I stood in line for the much talked about race course portapotties, another rite of passage, I jogged in place. I was the only one. A man turned to me, irritated, and suggested I might take this opportunity for a little break. I told him that if I stopped, I’d never get started again. He shook his head and made a big motion of turning up his mp3 player.

Then something happened. It wasn’t magical, or anything, but I just got determined. I mean, this whole experience has been about determination, and I just decided I wasn’t going to give up all that I’d worked for quite so easily. I got to the 10 mile mark and remembered how effortlessly I’d turned out ten miles back home, and how three miles, the remaining distance, was a walk in the park for me. I turned up the juice and started passing people, encouraging them along the way, noticing and complementing their running attire, telling them they were close to home, promising that the beach was just around the corner and so was that supercool medal. I told myself that this was like giving birth and the baby was almost here and coming whether I liked it or not so I’d better get with the program. I did crazy poses for the official photo guys, I gave high fives to those who would accept them.

I finished the race one minute and forty-two seconds off of my predicted time and eleven minutes off of my secretly hoped-for time. Neither mattered much, because it all counted as my personal best. That’s the beauty of a first race: it’s a record for you. I crossed that finish line having called up the reserves and pulling out the stops, and placed 9,395 out of 10,958 runners.

I learned so much from my experience. Like I said, I’ll miss that naiveté, but now I know that I have both reserves and stops to be called up and pulled out. I also know that I should run with my own water bottle and wear a hat or visor because yikes sunburned cheeks. I’ve shed some tears about the fact that this wasn’t the gloriously triumphant experience that I had built it up to be, but I’ve also toughened up a little, having learned the score.

Am I glad I ran this race? Yes. Am I glad I ran this race in another city where you all couldn’t see me go through it? Darn straight. But I’ll see all of you here, at the Richmond Marathon in November, and on the streets of RVA until then. Oh, and if we do run into each other out there, please high five me. This girl could really use some high fives.

On the Run: Week 2

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 11:21:44 +0000

Days until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 70
Miles run: 78.51
Stress poops: Numerous

While it’s true that I’m still nearly three months out from the Richmond Marathon, I am but days away from my first big race.

I’ll be running in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Virginia Beach Half Marathon this weekend, and I am terrified. So terrified, in fact, that my digestive system has declined to behave in any sort of civilized manner for the past week or so. Just ask my boss, who has all but stopped inquiring “Again?” when I excuse myself from my cash register for “One quick sec.”

It’s not really the mileage that frightens me. Yes, 13.1 miles is a whole lot, but I’ve run that many times. While it wasn’t easy, necessarily, it was far from terrible. Typically, once I get past mile four or so, I’m golden: settling into a comfortable pace and losing myself in a combination of the day’s iPod selection and a hyperawareness of what’s going on with my body, paying close attention and running checks from the toes up to make sure that everything feels okay. I guess what I’m saying is that barring some big, unforeseen circumstance, 13.1 miles is something I know I can run.

There’s just so much I don’t know about running a race. I mean, I’ve read every single runner’s guide ever published and have seen people running races in movies and on television a time or two, but what really happens? What about things like portapotties and little cups of water and sports drinks and all those other runners?

I mean, look at this picture from their Facebook:

That is the starting line for this race. Overwhelming, right? Well, consider this: that photo only shows half of the runners. That’s right, there are more than twice this many people, they just wouldn’t all fit in the picture. Isn’t that nuts?

Thankfully, I got an email with everything I need to know about the race, except how to not freak out. There were maps, which I carefully memorized so as to eliminate worry about bladder and tummy issues. There was info on the official sports drink and energy gel of the race, both of which I immediately purchased and used on a few runs, for the same reason as above. There were very detailed instructions on parking and meeting your loved ones after the victory, because most of those people pictured above come with both vehicles and cheerleaders and, understandably, it can become a bit of a cluster if people don’t follow the rules.

Now, this race, like many races with thousands of participants, uses start corrals which are assigned based on previous race times or predicted times. This kind of organization of people is supposed to facilitate a smoother flow of traffic creating a faster and safer environment for participants. The everything-I-need-to-know email included the fact that I have been assigned to Corral 20, the very last group to start. Yes, it turns out that the powers that be in the Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon offices, which very well may be computers or robots or something, saw my predicted finish time and placed me with the walkers. In other words, I’m not terribly likely to get run over by anyone, which, being a slow runner who runs slowly is a big fear of mine, but it’s a tiny blow to my ego.

A customer maybe twenty years older than I came through my line a few days ago and was wearing a shirt from the same event, dated 2006. I asked him about it and he let me know that he and his wife had participated every year since 2002. He said that they like it because it’s a pretty walk and they get to hear a lot of good music. He also let me know that they too were starting in Corral 20. “BUT!” I wanted to shout “I’VE ONLY JUST CONVINCED MYSELF THAT I’M A RUNNER!”

However, unless a sinkhole opens up and swallows 20,000 other people, and I'm spared because I was the only one moving so slowly that I had time to go around it, the odds are that I’m not going to win this race, or any race, really, so what does it matter where I start?

And there’s not a lot of room for ego in running, anyway. I mean, making an exception for those who log their miles on treadmills in the comfort of their own homes, running is probably the most disheveled you’ll ever look in front of other people. Or at least let’s hope so. For me, I roll out of bed, teeth unbrushed, bed head in full effect, makeup askew from a full night of dreaming I’m Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and also full-blooded Puerto Rican, don spandex, and step out in public. And public is that place where I proceed to sweat buckets and huff and puff like a human version of The Little Engine That Could. In fact, every once in a while, I’ll catch sight of my red-faced self in a window as I run past and think that if I saw me I’d call 911.

Much of what I’ve learned from my running experience so far is about letting go. At this point in my journey, I’d rather be surrounded by the people who are there to have fun, meet others, and perhaps take this sort of thing a little less seriously, and I suspect that those are the people who’d prefer to be around me, as well.

So, I’m looking forward to gaining experience, not to mention the super cool medal I will be awarded upon finishing, which, I’m not going to lie, was a big motivator in me getting into races in the first place. “Wait, there are medals? I’m in.” Mostly, though, I’m excited to revel in the experience of running my first race. Never again will I possess the lovely naiveté that I have now, and I will miss it. What I won’t miss, however, will be paging my boss, repeatedly, to cover my post while I jog to the ladies room. At least not for another three months, or so.

Off the clock: Strange bedfellows

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 10:55:45 +0000

“I want to take you to a movie tonight. What time can you get here?”

A seemingly innocuous text from him, which preceded a life lesson.

Of course I agreed. We are homebodies who both work entirely too much, and I was excited at the prospect of a night out. Heck, I was just looking forward to doing something that didn’t involve sweat and pounding. A movie? Like, sitting down? Count me in, Dr. Quinn!

I’ve mentioned the fact that the man I’m dating holds an endless fascination for all things political, while, as a conflict-avoiding, stranger-hugging, modern day love child, I abhor them. What I didn’t mention, however, is that the few political opinions I do hold don’t necessarily jibe with his. Let’s just say that if we were all suddenly put in into big boxes based on our political proclivities, we wouldn’t share a box, not only that, but we wouldn’t even be kept in the same warehouse. We are Tony and Angela. We are David and Maddie. We are Whitney and that dude on Whitney, probably.

So I guess it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when we pulled up to the theater and the marquee read “2016: Obama’s America.” I mean, he had mentioned that the movie we were going to was called 2016 and that it was about politics, but my brain was all “Yikes! Politics? Well, you know what other movie is about politics? Casablanca, sort of, and you love that!” Honestly, I was half expecting a Hunt For Red October-type thriller.

If you haven’t heard of 2016: Obama’s America, it’s a documentry by Dinesh D’Souza, based partially on his book, The Roots of Obama’s Rage. D’Souza both stars in and narrates the movie, which dissects Barack Obama’s family, personal, and political histories, looking for clues to some of the decisions he’s made since taking office. Decisions which D’Souza doesn’t agree with.

D’Souza brightened my bulb with some facts that nearly everybody else in the theater (aside from the gasper) seemed to know. President Obama never knew his father and wrote a book about it? Well, bust my buttons! Seriously, I told you, I don’t do politics. But, I’m always down for learning.

The film has been in very limited release since July, and despite the fact that it was showing in only a handful of theaters earned $9.2 million. It just expanded to over 1,000 screens where it’s expected to earn another $6 million, finishing in 8th place for the weekend. Not bad for a movie that cost only $2.5 million to make and, frankly, probably has somewhat of a niche audience. It’s looking like this little film that could, actually can, to some degree.

But I don’t review movies, I tell stories, and the story with this movie was how challenging I found it to free myself from my political views and just watch the film. I mean, I don’t have to believe that Oompa Loompas make chocolate bars to sing along with Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Factory or even that global warming is real to take in the soon-to-be-spoiled natural beauty offered in An Inconvenient Truth.

Trust me when I say that the discomfort I initially felt in that movie theater verged on comical.

I made a very loud, deliberate comment upon entering about how there were “A lot of white people in this theater!”, but then proceeded to slump down in my seat a bit, lest anyone notice the very not conservative-looking girl who didn’t belong.

I peeked over, nervously, at the couple who sat closest to us in our row, praying that they didn’t recognize me from the fancy grocery store in which I work, because they are regular customers. Then I sulked because they didn’t seem to know me without a cash register between us.

I giggled at the woman behind me, who was so shocked at the information presented that she spent the entire hour and a half gasping, while I myself gasped a time or two.

I’m a study in contrasts, I know.

Once I finally did let go, I quite enjoyed what the movie offered. There was something so liberating about deciding to set down my notions long enough to take in information that I might have missed, otherwise. When I picked those notions back up at the door, on the way out, they seemed slightly lighter and less burdensome.

While dating a man with whom I have some opposing viewpoints hasn’t always been easy, it has been worth it--because I’ve learned. Learned to keep my eyes and ears open. Learned to keep my mind and heart open. Learned to quickly make intelligent counterpoints when the opportunity rises--because this guy is smart. And, most importantly, I’ve learned that boxes are for cereal and hard-to-assemble furniture, not people.

On the Run: Week 1

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 12:14:44 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 78
Miles Run: 41.22
Heroes Discovered: 1

“Did you see that girl?” I asked, excitedly, on one of my morning runs.

“Yes,” my friend and sometimes run partner answered, “What about her?”

“She was so normal.”

I apparently live in the hilliest neighborhood in the suburbs of Richmond. Five years I’ve lived here without ever noticing that the Alps have nothing on my little part of the world. Once I started running though, it took less than five seconds for me to realize I needed to get some lederhosen and to practice my yodel if I was going to survive a slow jog down my street. So necessity (not to mention my glutes) dictates that I either join the Von Trapp Family Singers or head to another part of town for my long runs.

Typically, I drive a few minutes into the loving arms and flat, wide streets of the city. The good news is, not only are the streets flatter but they are better lit and probably safer, because there are more people in the city. The bad news is, there are more people in the city.

It’s not unusual for me to encounter fifty other runners during the course of a three or four hour workout. And the thing is, they’re so, well, runner-y.

Now, when I said “runner-y”, the first thing you probably thought was “I hope they aren’t actually paying this girl to write” but the second thing you probably thought was “Ah, runner-y” We all have these preconceived notions in our heads about runners. Runners are long and lean and fit and serious-looking. Picture the people you see crossing the finish line at the Boston marathon. Runner-y, right?

Well, most of my runs are spent looking at either the magnificent fronts or breathtaking backs of people just like that. But me? I’m chubby, with short legs and pink hair and, most of the time, anyway, a big smile. I am decidedly unrunner-y. Most of the time, I don’t think about it. I mean, I’m out there like everybody else, right? Sometimes, though, I feel like someone has let a Shar Pei onto the Greyhound track.

That’s why I was so enthused when she ran past.

She was wearing only very practical nylon running shorts, a sports bra, and had plenty of jiggly bits coming out the tops, bottoms, and sides of everything. She was so imperfect that it was perfection.

“She’s my hero,” I finally concluded, out loud.

I looked down at myself in my big shirt, chosen for its body camouflaging abilities rather than its functionality or comfort, which I carefully readjusted every block or so lest someone see the vulnerable parts that I was trying to camouflage. I looked at the black pants I was wearing in the oppressive heat of summer that I’d rationalized by telling myself that black is slimming and pants hide a multitude of cupcakes. And, finally, I thought “No more.”

You know what? Shar Peis are cool, fun, and they sure as heck don’t wear oversize collars to cover up their superfly wrinkles because they feel bad about them.

I get up at 3:45am, four days a week, and hit the streets; sweating when most people are sleeping. I don’t stay out late at night or wear high heels or put too much salt on my food or any number of things I feel might keep me from being the best runner I can be.

In other words, I am runner-y.

Tattoos and Scars

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 10:45:08 +0000

“Who’s Steven?”

It’s a question that I’m asked at least once a day--on days I forget my sweater, anyway.

Even if you’ve never met me, or seen a picture of me beyond the small one next to my bio at the bottom of this column, it’s probably not a stretch for you to believe that I have a few tattoos. After all, it’s not as if the things I write are particularly conservative. In fact, you may be surprised at how few tattoos I actually do have. Spoiler alert: just four.

But, in addition to the generic flower, the tribute to my favorite band, and the giant super hero I’ve got forever preserved on my physical being, my epidermis is also home to the one thing you should never, ever, have permanently engraved on yourself: the name of a romantic attachment.

I was married, very briefly, to a Steven. Before we married and, indeed, before we’d even met in person (oh internet, is there nothing you can’t do?) he surprised me by having my name tattooed over his heart. “Surprised” might not be strong enough a word there. Try “caused me to reconsider our two years of correspondence and, essentially, everything I’d ever known to be true and right.” I mean, promises of never ending love and junk were one thing, but this guy was making declarations with his body when he’d not yet seen mine.

When we finally did get together in person, we had no chemistry. Zero. Zilch. Sure, we still had tons in common--loving all of the same books, movies, and television shows. And sure, we still lived our lives according to similar philosophies and had nearly identical ideas about how to make the world a better place. What we didn’t have, however, is an overwhelming urge to matress dance. Or, for that matter, even make out.

But we gave it a go, this man with the “Jennifer” badge and I. After all, wasn’t his tattoo already more commitment than I’d gotten from anyone in a long, long time? I was convinced that since nearly everything was exactly right, save for that pesky passion, the rest would come together. Or, maybe I wasn’t convinced, but I was hopeful.

I was so hopeful, in fact, that one night I got more than a little tipsy and made a commitment of my own. In what was, even then, an obvious attempt to convince myself to stay with him, I had “Steven” tattooed on my left forearm. The poor tattoo artist tried mightily to change my mind. He explained how a name tattoo is the kiss of death for even the most fervent relationship. He said that it wasn’t just superstition, he had seen it with with his own eyes. He told stories of couple after couple that came in to get each other’s names covered up.

But I was undeterred. I knew that if I were going to make this marriage work, I would need insurance. What better insurance than using my body as a billboard for our relationship?

— ∮∮∮ —

This week, video of a mystery woman having her anus tattooed with her boyfriend’s name (NSFW, obviously) has been making the internet rounds . The footage was shot and posted by the Broward Palm Beach New Times, a weekly Florida newspaper located in Ft. Lauderdale. The video has over four million hits.

Now, the star of the video, or the woman who carries it around, anyway, has come forward for an interview with the same paper (also NSFW). The twenty-two-year-old (or, as she says, “deuce-deuces) Maria Louise Del Rosario gives some insights into why a young lady would do something like let a man repeatedly stick a needle into her backdoor, willingly.

My dad was born on June 12, at 6:12. If you divide it by two, that's 666. I believe I was born from Satan's spawn.
My dad had a drug problem and I was left alone with him. Something happened that nobody has ever told me, but my hip was dislocated, my skull was fractured. How do you do something like that to an infant?
I paid my debts by suffering when I couldn't even walk or talk. He gave me a free pass to live however I want and have fun.
He went away for 7 years for that. And seven is my lucky number, for what he did to me. There's a reason I was hurt, a reason I survived, and all it did was make me stronger.

The reporter also asked Maria about the notoriety she has received because of the video.

I love it. I'm famous overnight. And I'm already all healed up and ready to go. It heals fast because the cheeks are squeezed together. No oxygen gets through. I had ten shots of Jager in me (you can see her drinking in the video), and they're calling me a crackhead, or a meth-head. I took a drug test that morning for probation. I'm totally against man-made drugs.

And what’s next for the girl who has showed the internet the fruity of her booty?

I ain't gonna stop till I reach the top. What I wanna do with all the fame is pursue my modelling shit. I wanna show off my ink, butt naked, not clothes and crap like that.

While it would be easy to judge Ms. Del Rosario by first the video, then the interview, and, boy howdy, have people done just that as the comments on both are brutal, it’s obvious she’s got things going on that most of us, luckily, will never have to deal with. Plus, we were all deuce-dueces once, and goodness knows, I was making some of the most interesting decisions of my life at that time also ten shots of Jager in.

I went ahead with the "Steven" tattoo, but not the marriage. Not for long, anyway. In fact, it couldn’t have been more than two or three months after I’d been inked that I gave up the ghost. It was a difficult decision because, by this time, Steven had become my best friend and, frankly, was the best roommate ever. Sunrise, sunset.

I have never once regretted my Steven tattoo. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a visual reminder of something that is a real part of me and a great conversation starter. Who knows, maybe years from now Maria will feel the same way. If not, I guess she can just put on underpants and call it a day.

Photo via Facebook

Introducing On the Run with The Checkout Girl

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 11:03:21 +0000

You know how in elementary school there’s that chubby, slow kid who’s always picked last for every team sport and is always beaned out first when that sport is dodgeball and you feel bad for him because of course you do, after all you’re not a monster and you even give canned goods to the food drive that aren’t just the disgusting things you want to keep your mom from forcing you to eat because, well, because you care about your fellow human beings just that much?

Well, I’m that kid’s larger, less-coordinated sister. At least, I had always considered myself to be. Then, earlier this year, I took up running. Slowly, at first. And slowly, still, for that matter.

When I ran my first 5k last month, I was nervously waiting at the starting line next to a really lovely woman, with whom I was having a wonderful conversation. The gun sounded, and I explained to her that she didn’t have to run with me, as I was really slow. She told me that, due to a knee injury, she also needed an easy pace, and it wouldn’t bother her at all. Well, cut to halfway through the run and the woman was still next to me, keeping perfect pace, BY WALKING. “It’s a power walk,” she assured me, kindly. But it didn’t bother me one bit. I laughed and told her that it was alright, my tortoise-like pace was the key to the fact that I could run for practically ever.

For practically ever. That thought stuck with me. And as I was slow running up a big hill, which was inexplicably located smack dab in the middle of a 3.1 mile “fun run,” the still really lovely woman, still walking next to me, exclaimed “Look! You’re the only one running up this thing! Good for you!” I looked around, noticing that I wasn’t passing anyone, including the woman with the stroller who was, well, strolling in front of me, but that, indeed, I was the only one running. I smiled and told myself that, hey man, pace wasn’t my thing. You don’t rush an amazing journey just so you can get to the end. And that’s what every run is for me--an amazing journey. But that also lead me to wonder what, exactly, “for practically ever” entailed.

Well, I’m going to find out. It may not be “for practically ever,” but I have decided to train for this year’s Richmond Marathon. As of today, the little countdown widget on their website says I have about 84 days to figure out how to run 26.2 miles without instantly dropping dead from exhaustion like the very first marathoner, who was one heck of a dedicated messenger.

And I’m taking you with me. From now until the race on November 10th, while I work out how to safely and sanely run farther in one day than I commute to work in a month, I’ll be keeping a weekly running journal, here on RVANews. I’ll share the trials, tribulations, and black toenails of a regular person training to run a distance, heretofore only conquered by Olympic athlete, superheroes, and, you know, runners.

Now, I should say that I’ve been running like a mad woman, one who needs to put a few miles between herself and her problems, four days a week since March. So I’m a noob, but not so much of a noob that I don’t realize this will be a challenge. Up to this point, my longest long run, which I do once a week, has been just shy of 15 miles. So, while me and my badass 14-minute miles, of which I’m exceedingly proud, are more than halfway there, I’m totally aware that there’s a humongo difference between running for nearly three and a half hours and running for nearly seven hours.

I guess it makes sense, then, that I’m a little scared. As a girl who had only experienced athletic activities through a lens of abject humiliation, including a brief stint as a chubby, bumbling softball shortstop; a failed, embarrassing cheerleader tryout;¹ or entire shifts spent on the Stairmaster because good enough was never good enough; I want to conquer this thing. But I’m determined to do it without all of that baggage weighing me down--there’s no way I can carry that load for nearly seven hours.

I have, more than once in my life, been referred to as tenacious, and I’m counting on that tenacity. I really, really believe I can do this thing, which has been on my life list since 2010 but never shared with anyone except the people I am very closest to and, even then, in a joking manner. While failure is embarrassing, what’s worse is never trying at all, and I’m willing to try in front of the whole internet to prove that you can do the secret things on your life list. The things you hold close to your heart so as not to accidentally reveal them to another. Yes, you can. And so can I.

So, I hope you’ll join me on my quest to transform from regular old boring me, to regular old boring me who talks entirely too much about running² and entirely not enough about important things like Real Housewives, because who can stay up that late when you have to be up at 4:00am. FOR RUNNING.

And, you know what? I can’t do this alone. I’m going to need some cheerleaders. So, are you with me? I promise not to show you my toenails--not unless you ask, I mean. After all, I’m not a monster.

Now, let’s do this thing.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

11 out of 12 girls were chosen, and I recevied an insincere apology from the coach claiming “Sorry, we need an odd number of girls. Um, for stunts. Or whatever.” ↩
I’ve created a facebook page about my running exploits and how you can join me. Like Slow Running Revolution for more info. ↩

People are strange

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 13 Aug 2012 10:49:34 +0000

I saw him come into the room, and I lit up, thankful to see someone familiar. I was about to go on stage and, so far, this audience was a sea of anonymity.

“Oh my god, hi! How are you?”

He smiled and hugged me, then asked how I was.

“I’m great! Hey, where’s Kate?”

The look on his face made my blood run cold and my face heat up. I knew instantly that I had made a mistake.

“Kate? Who’s...wait, Kate is Josh’s girlfriend. Do you think I’m Josh?”

I blinked hard and swallowed, unsure of how to proceed. After 40 years, I’m still unsure of how to proceed. He turned to the man standing next to him and laughed.

“She thought I was Josh!”

I slunk away, face on fire, as they seemed to find no end to the entertainment I had provided. I found out later that the man who was Not Josh was someone I’d met ten times before. This, I thought, THIS is why I hate to leave the house.

I have prosopagnosia, also known as “face blindness.” Basically what this means is that I see faces clearly, but my brain processes them differently. Though there are several forms of prosopagnosia, my particular challenge is with remembering a face when I encounter it again. When I see a face, even if it’s attached to someone I’m very fond of, it’s like seeing it for the first time, every time, at least for a long while.

But, I’m lucky. More severe cases of prosopagnosia render the sufferer unable to recognize their loved ones and many can’t even identify their own faces in pictures or mirrors.

It used to be thought that prosopagnosia was only caused by stroke, traumatic brain injury, or certain neurodegenerative diseases, but now it’s known the disorder can also be congenital. And the congenital sort likely runs in families. As soon as I mentioned this whole thing on Facebook, my brother piped up “Me, too!” For a girl who’s always suspected that maybe, just maybe, she might belong to the milkman, there’s something a tiny bit comforting about this. So, considering I’ve never had any significant head injuries and am neurodegenerative disease free, it’s likely I came by my face blindness the old fashioned way: genetic mutation!

Socially, prosopagnosia is a disaster. You likely never think about such a thing, but trust me when I say you’d be surprised how frequently you use a person’s face to identify them in everyday life. In general, people have the very reasonable expectation of being remembered--and it’s not that I don’t remember them, it’s that I don’t recognize them. Once I’m sure of who they are, I usually recall past encounters to the smallest detail. Memory? Memory is not my problem. But, it’s very likely that if I’ve seemed to recognize you, I’ve deduced who you are rather than figured it out based on the dinner plate sized clue on the front of your head.

To avoid unnecessary gaffes, I scan facebook invites for the few events I do decide to attend--studying the guest list beforehand, desperate to seem cool, collected, and connected when I enter the room. I ask friends, ahead of outings, who we might see there and pose leading questions about how I might know them. I frequent the same stores and restaurants, appearing to be a “regular” like Norm from Cheers, when the truth is it’s just easier for me to solve the puzzle of who someone is in a familiar context.

While a job like mine seems perfect for someone with prosopagnosia, due to the fact that I encounter hundreds of people each day, I’ve been at the store where I work for just over five years--meaning customers assume I know them by now. I’ll ring up someone’s groceries and they’ll ask “Hey, how are your kids?” or “How’s the running going?” I’ll answer and, as they walk away, say to the courtesy clerk “I’ve never seen that person before in my life.” It never fails to amuse my coworkers to point out that the person to whom I’m referring has been coming in three times a week for years or, better yet, was in earlier the same day.

Like many people with prosopagnosia, I’ve learned to cope. I frantically take mental notes when meeting (and re-meeting) people: where we are, what they're wearing, who they are with, and how they sound. Meeting people at night or in some place noisy is always a challenge because I need to pick up as many cues as possible, and cutting down on my visual or auditory abilities is the kiss of death. Stick me in a crowded bar and I’m completely out of the game.

In the case of Not Josh, he shared cues with Josh, including a similar style of dress, nearly identical facial hair, and a voice with a tone very much like Josh’s. Most importantly, I ran into Not Josh in the very same spot where I’d first met Josh. All of that added up to the Joshiness of Not Josh and resulted in my confusion and extreme embarrassment.

By the way, I’m not not the only one with this funky face thing. In fact, now that the internet has made the world much smaller and finding people who share similar quirky brain janks a whole lot easier, research suggests that as many as 1 in 50 people have some form of prosopagnosia--including Jane Goodall and Chuck Close.¹

But, believe it or not, prosopagnosia hasn’t been all party pooping and hurt feelings for me. Truth is, unlike a lot of people you run into, when we meet I’m actually paying attention. Close attention. A lot of it. Because I have to. You want someone to be 100% into a conversation with you? I’m your girl--right after I tell myself five times that Kelly’s eyes are kelly green, she has blonde hair and uses a good conditioner, she’s got the tiniest bit of a whine mixed with a New England accent, she has a cute baby girl who has dark black hair, and she’s a customer in my store.

A close friend once quipped that I am “best friends with the world,” and it’s true. Another thing that I’ve gained from the challenge of face blindness is that everyone I run into is greeted warmly and sincerely. It’s my way of being on the safe side, at least for the first few seconds until I either pick up some cues or don’t. Luckily, even strangers love to be greeted warmly and frequently respond like friends, leaving me, once again to gather cues should we ever meet again.

So, I’m really good (or in the case of Not Josh, somewhat good) at the cue thing. And I’ve dyed my hair pink, making me instantly recognizable to others, therefore triggering their “oh hey I know her” face--a super helpful hint to the status of our relationship. Also, when I do make a mistake, I’ve started to give myself a break and explain the situation to those I’ve offended. Plus, I’ve learned to laugh. Because, seriously, what’s funnier than nodding politely, as you would to a stranger, at your boyfriend when he comes into the room and then being surprised when he wraps you up in a bear hug?

Like The Doors song says “People are strange, when you’re a stranger”. Prosopagnosia has the potential to turn everyone I encounter into a someone I don’t know, which can be frightening and isolating. But my choice is to behave as if no one’s a stranger to me, and it’s sort of a wonderful way to live. Just remind me of that the next time we meet. Because I won’t remember.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

His prosopagnosia lead him to study and paint faces, including his portrait work that used a giant grid so those faces could be painted one square at a time. Brilliant! ↩

Who will save your soul?

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 10:00:55 +0000

About twice a week, I see them coming from a mile away. OK, it’s only a grocery store away, but I always see them coming. They are the loveliest couple, really: polite, kind, and warm. They visit with the various employees that man each of the departments, and they notice things.

“Oh, Jennifer, did you get a haircut? It looks great! How’s your son?”

Their attention is a welcome oasis in a desert of customers who don’t see me at all. Customers who I help frequently, some up to four or five days each week, but who have no idea that I’m the same girl who has tallied their groceries for the past five years. They’ve, quite literally, never even glanced at me.

“Hey, how was your mastiff’s birthday?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your dog, Hank. Last time you were in here you had a cake, and you said it was for a party you were having for your dog’s birthday.”

“I did? It was fine.”

*cue the uncomfortable silence*

That conversation actually took place, including the dog and the birthday and the cake and the uncomfortable silence. I’ve seen that same customer once a week, every week, for years. Meanwhile, I’m certain she couldn’t pick me out of a two person lineup, despite the fact that I have pink hair.

And that’s retail. Like every profession,¹ it has its good points and bad. Want a job full of routine and certainty? One with things like meetings and one boss and set hours? Keep it moving, buddy, retail is not for you. Prefer a paycheck that comes with a side of variety, problem solving, and 300 thirty-second conversations, every day? Well, as Uncle Sam says, We Want You. But it can be a drag, being ignored by hundreds of people a day. That’s why this nice couple makes such a difference.

Sort of. Because, as sweet as these shoppers are, every interaction ends the same way: with them handing me a copy of their “illustrated religious magazine” and a promise that, if I read it, I can feel free to ask them any questions I may have.

Me, I’m OK with it, I guess. I knew it was coming. After all, I’ve seen them tooling around the store for a half an hour--plus, it ain’t my first rodeo. The other customers, though, are visibly uncomfortable. They all watch my face to see how I’ll react. Breath is momentarily held until I speak.

“Thank you so much! Have a great day!” Like Whitney Houston, those who are waiting finally exhale. Sometimes the next customer will mention the interaction I had with the couple, often praising me for my reaction.

“I like that somebody is concerned for my soul. Besides, I’m paid to be polite.”

And therein lies the naked truth about every customer interaction I have. Whether I like the person who I'm helping or not, and I frequently do, I'm paid to be nice to them.

— ∮∮∮ —

Like a lot of people, Adam Smith was mad at Chick-fil-A because its president, Dan Cathy, had recently announced that the company contributed to anti-gay Christian organizations. Also, like a lot of people, Adam Smith wanted the company to know how he felt about those contributions. So, Adam Smith decided to make a statement.

Smith visited a Chick-fil-A on August 1st, which had been dubbed by former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee to be “Chick-fil-A Appreciation Day”.² Huckabee encouraged people to "affirm a business that operates on Christian principles and whose executives are willing to take a stand for the Godly values we espouse" and to patronize their local restaurant to show their support.

Smith pulled into the drive through, video camera in hand, and let loose on the employee unfortunate enough to be tasked with helping him.

Smith: You know why I'm getting my free water, right?
Worker: No.
S: Because Chick-Fil-A is a hateful corporation.
W: I disagree. We don't treat any of our customers differently..
S: I know, but the corporation gives money to hate groups. Hate groups. Just because people want to kiss another guy.
W: I'm staying neutral on this subject...my personal beliefs don't belong in the workplace.
S: Yeah I believe that too, I don't believe corporations should be giving money to hateful groups.. I'll take my water
W: I'm really uncomfortable that you're videotaping this..
W: It's my pleasure to serve you, always.
S: Oh of course, I'm glad that I can take a little bit of money from Chick-Fil-A, and maybe less money to hate groups.
W: Well we're always happy to serve all our guests.
S: I don't know how you live with yourself and work here. I don't understand it. This is a horrible corporation with horrible values. You deserve better.
W: I hope you have a really nice day, and...
S: I will, I just did something really good, I feel purposeful, thank you so much.
S: Have a good day...I'm a nice guy by the way, and I'm totally heterosexual...not a gay [unintelligible] in me, I just can't stand the hate, you know? It's gotta stop, guys. Stand up.

I cringed while doing the copy and paste on that transcript, it makes me so uncomfortable.

Exactly what kind of statement are you making by bullying a young girl working in a fast food establishment? One who is nothing but polite, even while you launch personal attacks like “I don't know how you live with yourself and work here.” My guess is she works there to live.

But, just like me, that employee was on the clock when Smith came through, and she did her job. Even though he was verbally coarse, and even though he was filming her without her permission, she did her job. Smith, though, won’t have to worry about doing his job any more. He’s has been fired from his job as the CFO of an Arizona-based medical device manufacturer.

While I hate to see anyone lose their job, perhaps Adam Smith has learned a lesson from this incident about holding hostage someone tasked with customer service.

As for my witnessing couple, I will continue to be polite and even take their very colorful literature. After all, I’m being paid to be pleasing. Besides, at least they remember my name.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

I just called retail a “profession”, y’all! Lol! ↩
Mike Huckabee is declaring days now, apparently ↩

That’s what friends are(n’t) for

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 10:41:18 +0000

"You expect friends to meet the same impossibly high standards to which you hold yourself. All you’ll ever gain from that is disappointment."

You know how, sometimes, someone will say something sort of off-the-cuff and never give it a second thought, yet it really sticks with you? My sister dropped the above bomb over seven years ago, and it still echoes in my head to this day.

I suck at friendship. I am bossy, short-tempered, selfish, and (perhaps worst of all) neglectful. I will forget that your father committed suicide and constantly, dramatically, exclaim “I wanted to kill myself!” over something as trivial as seeing my ex with his new girlfriend. I will forget you exist, until I need you. I will forget your birthday.

I will wonder why you don’t see that your boyfriend is totally wrong for you. I will be disappointed in you when you don’t stand up to your boss. I will expect you to be emotionally evolved, and frustrated with you when you are not. It’s not that I don’t mean well. I do. It’s not that I don’t care. I really do. It’s not that I don’t love my friends. I really really do.

So, what’s the problem? Why can’t I get it together to be a good friend?

First, I am horrible with time management, therefore always behind on things. Those things stress me out and dominate my brain. When you ask me to hang out, I’m going to say: “No, I have to work on X, Y, and Z” (clearly I work for Children’s Television Workshop) and mean it, even though I probably won’t touch X, Y, or Z, opting, instead, for a Little House on the Prairie marathon and a nap.

Also, I’m a terrible listener. I want to listen. I mean to listen. But, no matter how interesting your story is, my mind wanders. I tell myself it’s okay because I am just one of those people with a short attention span. But three seconds? What am I, a goldfish?

But a lot of my friend trouble comes from the fact that I am emotionally stunted. Frequently, friendship is about leaning on others and being leaned on. Unfortunately, I am super independent and dislike needing anything from anyone (even emotional support) and being needed, so am always encouraging friends to work out their own issues, rather than supporting them through them.

So, friends and potential friends give up or lose interest. Of course they do! Who would want to be friends with someone like that?

In California, five friends have been documenting their relationship for 30 years. The men first posed for a group picture while on vacation at Copco Lake in 1982 when they were just 19 years-old. They sit on a fence, three of them shirtless, looking rather serious, and one of them holds a jar that contains a cockroach (a pet they adopted for the trip). The photo screams “SUMMER!” The photo screams “YOUTH!” The photo is largely unremarkable, just a snapshot of a moment in time, that would likely be of interest only to the men themselves.

But that photo has now become a tradition, being recreated by the men every five years. Same pose; same spot; same friends, a little older and a little worse for the wear.

As the photos progress, shirtlessness ceases, baby fat fades, hairlines recede, wedding rings appear and disappear. Having just taken the seventh photo in the series, the men discussed the tradition.

"Watch us lose hair and gain forehead, gain and lose and gain and lose weight," John Dickson (the man on the right) posted on a website. He maintains devoted to the tradition. "There are reasons we all decided it was better to take the photo with our shirts on."

John Molony (second from right) said: "It's kind of an organic relationship that's evolved not just from being high school buddies but from having common passions for life."

Molony, particularly, caught my eye. His look goes from Ashton Kutcher in That 70’s Show to Tom Hanks in Bosom Buddies, to Kiefer Sutherland in 24. It hammers home the point that, as much as we all think we haven’t changed since our younger days, time waits for no man. As for the future of the tradition? There’s no question as to whether or not it will continue.

"We plan on doing this for the rest of our lives, no matter what," said Dickson. "Up until there's one guy just sitting in the same pose! Even then, maybe someone will take a picture of an empty bench for us."

What a cool tribute to a friendship that has endured breakups and shakeups and relocations. Meanwhile, I can’t remember how to spell your kid’s name (to be fair, Amy need only be three letters and I resent you just a tiny bit for churching it up with an i and two e’s. Who does that?).

But I really want to change. I’m currently going through this whole physical transformation, and am down for some emotional growth, as well (I mean, I’m already dismantled, so let’s do this thing!). Feeling incapable when it comes to friendship is one of the few things I really don’t like about myself.

So, inspired by the men of Copco Lake, I’m going to relax and pay attention and relax. I’m constantly meeting people and my automatic response is the shoe gaze, because I know I’ll just end up disappointing them, but I’m going to try looking up, next time, and connecting with the people who seem cool. Maybe I’ll even give them my number. And maybe I’ll take our picture together, just in case.

Life at a Funeral

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 23 Jul 2012 10:55:17 +0000

Being a Southern California girl, I’ve probably been to Disneyland more times than I’ve been to church.

For the unDisneynitiated, there’s an attraction at the park called The Haunted Mansion,¹ which is basically a Disney version of the old fashioned haunted house ride you’d see at a county fair.

At the end of this ride, the small car in which you are riding suddenly turns and faces you and your companions toward a wall. On this wall is a mirror which reflects the riders, plus a “hitchhiker” or two in the form of ghostly images that “sit” beside you and are, supposedly, going to follow you home.

That’s how I’ve always thought about death: as a hitch hiker, a tag along, a constant companion.

I’ve been interested in death and dying since I was young. In fact, for a time, I was convinced I would study mortuary science and go on to be a funeral professional. Of course, for a time I was convinced I’d be an astronaut, and not when I was in kneepants, either. And don’t even get me started on the period of my life when I was convinced I’d end up married to one of The Monkees.²

I somehow found the idea of death comforting. My home life was a little tumultuous, and something about the fact that, no matter what happens during our lifetime, we all die in the end gave me solace.

But like most of my unusual obsessions, no one wanted to discuss death with me. “Why do you want to talk about such unpleasant things?” grownups would ask, only adding to the mystery and allure of not living.

So, I poured over books and movies that included dramatic death scenes or mentions of funerals. In my pink Hello Kitty diary, I meticulously planned my own funeral, outlining my final wishes, including what I should wear and what music should play. At night, I would lie in bed, arms across my chest, practicing my best death pose.

I was adept at demise.

— ∮∮∮ —

‘Uncle’ Lionel Batiste, drummer for the Treme Brass Band, died a few weeks ago. The beloved New Orleans musician, who was 80, passed after a brief battle with cancer. Though he was an icon who appeared in numerous movies and tv commercials, including HBO’s Treme, it turns out that Mr. Batiste’s last performance is the one that made the biggest splash.

Instead of having a traditional funeral, Uncle Lionel Batiste was sent out in a way that can only be described as...unique. Rather than lying, serenely, in a casket, the late Mr. Batiste was propped up, wearing his finest suit, and leaning against a faux street lamp.

Mr. Batiste’s children, in consultation with the funeral professionals who were handling the arrangements, came up with the idea for his unique send-off.

“You have to think outside the box,” said Louis Charbonnet, owner of Charbonnet-Labat-Glapion funeral home and a professional with more than 50 years in the business. “And so he’s outside the box. We didn’t want him to be confined to his casket.”

Charbonnet is also playing it close to the vest when it comes to sharing trade secrets. “Five or six of my competitors have been through today, asking how we did it,” he said. “It was a challenge.”

Not everyone thought the send off appropriate, and some found it downright upsetting. Comments on the story ranged from enthusiastic to offended. But I say what a wonderfully unique tribute to someone who, himself, was wonderful and unique!

I still love to talk about death. Fortunately, the internet is a place that won’t shame me for being rabidly curious. I can openly discuss books like Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach, a bitingly funny look at the science of death. And I’m currently obsessed with the “Ask A Mortician” video series where the lovely Caitlin Doughty, licensed mortician, answers viewers’ questions about what comes after our final breath.

Look, I don’t know that I want to have to stand up for my own funeral, because I’m a girl who loves a good nap, but a send off that leans a little untraditional would be nice--perhaps something involving a nice prom dress, a pair of running shoes, and my ukulele. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better find that pink Hello Kitty diary.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

Not to be confused with the Eddie Murphy debacle of the same name which my daughter claims I am the only person in the world to love. ↩
That period is ongoing. ↩

Photo by: dsb nola

Don’t get mad, get Steven

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 10:53:38 +0000

“I don’t get mad.”

It’s one of the first things I’ll say to you once we roll past the “Don’t you know who I am?” portion of getting to know each other.

“I got mad at someone, once. It didn’t end well.”

I went through my preteen and teen years with a lot of passion but no particular focus. What did I want to be when I grew up? Someone who saved the world, of course. I dabbled in peer counseling, Greenpeace, Habitat for Humanity, Up With People, and Amnesty International. I went through a period of either hugging, or yelling “FASCIST!” at everyone I met. Nevermind that I wasn’t particularly clear on what fascism was (and still am not). I wasn’t sure from which thing I was saving the world, but damn if I wasn’t going to try.

So when I found my high school days coming to a close, yet the world remained unsaved, I was forced to ask myself what was next. Though I wasn’t a great student, I shrugged and said “College, I guess.” The decision, such as it was, had been made.

I signed up for the SAT at the last minute and slid in to the test without having gotten much sleep the night before. So, color me surprised when I eventually got a letter from a college in Missouri saying they were interested in me. I found Missouri on a map and considered the distance from my home state of California and the complicated family dynamics that were playing out in my house at the time, and announced I would be attending.

My mother and brother hauled me halfway across the country to drop me off at my new institution of higher learning (and living) and left me to my own devices. I had chosen an all-girl’s school because the thought of no boys to worry about/dress for/eat in front of appealed to me--so obviously the first thing I did was find the nearest place to meet some of those boys.

Luckily, there was a major university nearby, and I soon made it my second home.

Now, my roommate came from a nearby city and therefore knew quite a few of our classmates, as well as plenty of people who attended the university. Through her, I had soon built a small and dysfunctional pseudo-family of my very own.

One of the members of my school family was a friend of a friend named Steve from Memphis. I don’t mean his name was Steve and he was from Memphis, though both of those facts are true. He introduced himself as “Steve from Memphis” to everyone he met, in an accent thick as molasses, and it became his name just as sure as mine is Jennifer or yours is Person Reading This Column on the Internet. It was endearing, the way many qualities are, right up until the point that they make you want to strangle the person who possesses them.

Steve from Memphis was handsome--exceedingly so. Plus, he had that Southern drawl thing going on. So, imagine my surprise when he confessed a crush on me, and I had to tell him I just wasn’t feeling it. I tried to talk myself into him, acknowledging that I found him attractive and sweet, if a little overbearing, but just couldn’t find the chemistry I needed to do the things teenagers do with each other.

But Steve from Memphis wouldn’t give up. He called my dorm (no cell phones then!); he showed up with gifts, unannounced; when we hung out with friends he wouldn’t leave me alone. Finally, I’d had enough and reacted the way a 17-year-old does, I got mad. In front of all of our friends.

“LEAVE ME ALONE, STEVE FROM MEMPHIS! I DON’T LIKE YOU AND I NEVER WILL!”

Steve from Memphis got sad. Steve from Memphis went home and swallowed a whole bottle of Tylenol. Steve from Memphis was OK, but Steve from Memphis had to have his stomach pumped. His dad came up, from Memphis, to take him back home for good.

Since then I’ve been told by loved ones that my anger is scary. That it is tinged with disappointment and disgust. That my face changes and my eyes darken. It’s what my ex referred to as “the clouds rolling in,” like the darling little Drew Barrymore in Firestarter. I was aware that my anger was powerful but wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Then, few years ago (thanks, therapy!), I realized that my anger was mostly a mask for other feelings. I have a fear of being seen as weak and often use anger as a smokescreen for hurt, disillusionment, grief, and frustration. So, what I really mean when I say I don’t get mad is that I make a concerted effort to figure out what my true feelings are in a situation and express those, instead. Sometimes, though rarely, it’s actual anger, and I do express that because it’s kind of healthy. I mean, not necessarily for the other person, but you know.

I don’t know what happened to Steve from Memphis after he left school. I flunked out not long after, mostly due to never showing up for class because OMG there was so much drinking and sleeping to do. I toddled back home to live in my parent’s guest room and skip classes at the local community college, instead.

But Steve from Memphis taught me a valuable lesson. My emotions can scar others, if I don’t wield them responsibly. Something I feel temporarily, even momentarily, can be felt by others for much longer if I’m not careful. So I try to think before I speak and have learned to recognize my own clouds rolling in. Still, it would be cool to be able to start fires with my mind. Not sure how I’d use that power to save the world, though.