Hot and sticky under the collar.

I set a goal to run a half-marathon (21.2km) by the end of the month. Lola says I’m in my PRIME.

I even purchased a new pair of running shoes last Friday: the Mizuno Wave Rider 29, which I named “Skid Marks” on Strava. One of Strava’s features allows you to track the mileage on your equipment. My three bikes are named Sodapop, Ponyboy, and Cherry Valance. My shoes are called Runny Poos, and now, I have Skid Marks as well.

So far, I have put 5.8km on my Skid Marks, and I can’t do any more for the next bit because I am healing a re-tattoo of my stupid yellow-bellied goose and my underbite-having flying fish.

Continue reading “Hot and sticky under the collar.”

Life as a living canvas.

When I was 19, the mother of my then-boyfriend pointed to my ears and went, “Ewwww.” She was not referring to my deafness; she was saying to my face that she thought my stretched earlobes were ugly. In hindsight, I should have had the guts to inform her that her bowl haircut was gross but not as appalling as her manners. Her manners, by the way, got her sacked from her job at a Christian bookstore as well as from Mrs. Fields’ Cookies.

That’s right: she was too rude for Jesus and baked goods.

I was 19 in 2002, and this was right around the time stretched piercings started going mainstream. It was still during a time when stretched ears were reason enough to be denied a job. It was not that having a hole in your earlobe that was the problem, but the size of the hole. How big is too big? If one jumps from 14 gauge to 12, would that person be rendered unemployable?

It was up to the company where to draw the line.
Continue reading “Life as a living canvas.”