The race

It isn't often that one can feel good about finishing in 6,240th place. But when you have more than 11 thousand competitors, I believe this becomes perfectly respectable.

Even better, consider that only 8,787 people even managed to FINISH the Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon in downtown San Jose. So even if my worst loserville nightmare of coming in last had actually come true, I still would have finished better than 3,000 people.

Some more numbers: I ran the 13.1-mile race in 2 hours, 34 minutes and 20 seconds. This is almost a four-minute improvement over last year, which is impressive only because I didn't exactly follow a traditional running-based training program. (But on that note, I guess yoga ain't exactly for the wussies, now, is it, SUCKA!!!!) Also, I had another one of those stupid sharp cramps sneak up on me at mile 11. Only this time, instead of getting all panicked and blubbering like a five-year-old, I calmly came to a walk until it subsided after a minute or so, and then I began to run again. No big deal. Happened two more times, including a nasty jolt of pain as I sprinted toward the finish line, but at that point, who the eff cares?

I wish I had lots of ridiculous sights and comical moments to write about, but on the other hand it feels great to say the race was simply an all-out blast. I can't even describe how cool it felt to turn the corner onto Santa Clara Street on mile 4 and see thousands of beaming people lining the street, like it was a freaking holiday parade. I just couldn't believe my eyes. Hollering, clapping, ringing cowbells, waving their arms, reaching out to high-five us or pat us on the back as we ran by. I mean, that kind of thing just doesn't HAPPEN to regular old boring adults who spend every day in a cubicle. "Hey, I just finished editing that girls golf story." "WOOO-HOOOO! ALL RIGHT, AMY! YOU'RE AWESOME! YOU ROCK! YOU SOOOO ROCK!" Um, no.

One more cool moment: While I was enjoying my post-race meal of an In-N-Out double-double with a side of my own french fries (no sharing, that's the rule after a race) this guy came up to me and said "Congratulations!" Now, I was wearing the race T-shirt, but this dude wasn't, so I was confused about how he knew. Then he grinned and pointed down at his feet, clad in the plastic sandals every runner got after crossing the finish line. Then he limped over to wolf down his own cheeseburger. I'm glad we all recognize the REAL prize at the end of a 13-mile run.

Running scared

Most people passing through downtown San Jose this week would probably see this sign and think, "Cool!" Or "Huh." Me? I'm more of an "OHGOD, OHGOD, OHGOD" kind of girl.

This Sunday, I'm taking part in the San Jose Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon, which will be my third time running such a distance. I signed up back in April, fueled by a ferocious burst of optimism as I recovered from my painful half-marathon finish in Santa Cruz. "This!" I said, finger waving wildly in the air. "This! Will be my triumphant return!"

Only now I have stage fright. Because recently I realized I may have made a grave mistake in how I trained for this race.

Again I decided to follow Hal Higdon's intermediate half-marathon program. Unfortunately the 12-week training plan coincided with the summer I fell in love with yoga. Which, like running, is another pastime I pursue despite a total lack of talent. I was on a roll, doing yoga three days per week and improving a little with each class. And I didn't want to give that up. So I would, you know, just sorta bypass a Wednesday track workout, or a Friday tempo run, in favor of grueling, sweaty 75-minute yoga workouts. Workouts that made my muscles feel strong, and lean, and pleasantly warm for the rest of the day. Plus, I told myself, I'm still working out four or five days a week. It's not as though I've spent the past 11 weeks on the couch with a bag of Cheetos.

But a couple weeks ago, a terrifying realization hit me: To train for this race? I WAS SUPPOSED TO RUN A LOT. But instead of the prescribed 4-5 runs per week, I have been doing 2-3.

But often, uh, 2.

Dammit! So now I'm a little freaked out. Like I'm going to be in a play on Sunday and I forgot to memorize my lines. Now, if there is one thing that will save me, it's that I did every single long-distance run in the plan. These are critical. Each Sunday I drag my sorry self down to the Los Gatos Creek Trail for long runs, and then longer runs, and then even longer runs, the final being 10 miles. And that distance I did two weeks in a row. So it's not like running 13.1 miles is utterly beyond possibility.

Yet for some reason I have it in my head that had I just done EXACTLY what ol' Hal told me to do, I'd probably finish this race with the friggin' Kenyans. But since I veered so crazily off-course, into the mystical land of downward-facing dogs and eight-parts bowing, I'm gonna choke.

It would probably be wise to revisit the goals I had last October. I, a person who was once so unathletic I would hyperventilate after a single lap around the track, was preparing for my first half-marathon ever. My goals were thus: 1) Don't die. 2) Don't throw up. 3.) Don't walk. That's it. Simple as that. And I'm fairly sure that on Sunday, with the right attitude and a favor from the angry gods of cramp, I can accomplish these goals again.

And, I guess if it all goes to hell, at least I'll have something to blog about.

Girl talk

Notable moments from my OB/GYN checkup today, otherwise known in secret womanly terms as "The Annual":

1. While flipping through a parenting book (no, I am not pregnant, and no, I don't plan to be pregnant anytime soon. This just happened to be the only available reading material, so settle down, mom) I read the following words describing infant poop: "putty," "curd" and "cake batter." Um, ew.

2. A teenage girl is standing at the counter waiting to schedule an appointment. In between smacks of gum, she asks "OB? What's OB?" The receptionist replies, "That means obstetrician." Girl stares blankly. Receptionist: "A BABY doctor." Now, is it OK that a 17-year-old girl doesn't know that word? Did I not know it back then? Because I feel like I did know it. I feel like it is probably not OK.

3. About a decade ago, I was having abdominal pain. Turned out to be ovarian cysts, which aren't usually a big deal and were subsequently removed. But during one of many exams that year, a doctor informed me I had a "tilted" uterus. I very clearly remember him describing it as "backwards." While this anatomical curiosity is found in roughly 20 percent of women, I was alarmed as hell, and for years every time I saw the med-school drawing of womanly parts, I was a little disappointed that I didn't look like that. Well, today I mentioned this to the physician's assistant, who looked at me like I'm nuts. "Umm... no. Nope, your uterus is fine. It's in the right place." She said either that dude was wrong, or somehow my body corrected itself since then. And I was so delighted by this news that I wished I could somehow give my uterus a great big hug.

Hey, remember when I said I like spiders?

Well, I'm pretty sure they ALL heard me.

Yesterday I was working in the garden when I looked up and saw one crawling along the bill of my ballcap. Yeah, the one on my HEAD. Then I went to work, and one of my reporters had a spider drop down from the ceiling onto his keyboard. This morning, I shooed one out of the laundry room and into the back yard, and tonight, I discovered one in the office, and then again in the laundry room.

I also had dinner tonight with a girlfriend who told this story: She was walking beneath some trees when she ran facefirst into a spiderweb the size of the one in my front yard. It got all tangled up in her hair, a sticky, stringy mess. She picked it all off and thought the story was over, but 20 minutes later while standing in her kitchen, she felt something crawling in her sleeve. Looked down at her arm and then BOOP! Out of her sleeve crawls a fat orange spider. She believes it crawled through her hair, down through the neck of her long-sleeved shirt, and then along her entire arm before she noticed it. I went online and pulled up the picture of the marbled orbweaver (same as my front-yard visitor) and sure enough, she swears that's the exact spider she saw.

By the way? This is not an invitation to tell me your worst spider story. In fact, I told my friend she is grounded from ever telling me another story again, ever. This subject is giving me the major heebs.

Tenant

Heard a gasp come from the front yard yesterday morning and I went outside to find my husband and mother-in-law staring up at the eave of our house. There, billowing gently in the breeze, was a spiderweb the size of a wagon wheel. And perched in the middle of it was the fattest, gnarliest arachnid I have ever laid eyes on.

This sucker is the size of a friggin' egg. He has a bright orange body, with flesh textured by swirls and strange markings. Very unusual legs. A couple of them extend upward, two pointy, jointed outreached arms. The rest dangle down in one leggy clump. The web itself is magnificent, countless rings and a geometrically perfect pattern.

My mother-in-law suggested that we get rid of that thing. "But .... how?!" I wondered. She looked up at him with narrowed eyes. "I'd shoot him," she said.

Normally, I couldn't agree more. Since childhood, I have been a trembling, hyperventilating arachnophobe. At the sight of even the tiniest house spider, I'd freeze, and from my lungs would burst a screech like I was watching an axe murderer chop my mother to bits. Even as an adult, I still have occasional nightmares about giant spiders dropping down from the ceiling onto my face. The dream is so realistic that I literally leap out of bed and bolt across the room, petrified. You know what else? I got so sick of flipping open my dictionary at work and ALWAYS having it open right to the tarantula listing (with the appropriately frightful drawing) that a few years ago I got a sharpie and blacked out the picture:



So now here I stand, staring up at my worst nightmare dangling from my rooftop, and I realize the most unbelievable thing: I'm not scared. In fact, as we discuss ways to, er, "handle" the situation -- like with a broom, or bug spray that has some SERIOUSLY long-distance spraying power -- I feel kinda sad about ruining things like that. And when I think about the spider dying, Chickenbone's face keeps popping into my mind.

Isn't that completely ridiculous? I know it is. I just wrote that sentence and already I'm embarrassed about it. But I'm starting to think that having a dog has made me think a little differently about something like a spider. I mean, this orange creature? He's just a little guy, just like Chickens. Just a little guy trying to get along in the world! And his web, way up there on the rooftop? It isn't exactly bothering me. It's not like it's draped over my pillow or something. Plus, he worked really, really hard on it! You can tell. It is so intricate and big! And then if we just go and kill him? I don't know, it just seems so mean now!

Now I'm sure there are limits to my newfound compassion for nature. If this sucker even THINKS about putting even one of his scary spider feet into my home, he's getting a hammer in the back. (A hammer tied to a broomstick tied to a mop, but a hammer nonetheless!) But for now I think we'll all keep an eye on each other and see if we can't just calmly go about our business.

Here's a picture, though honestly, you're going to have to trust me that this dude is so, so much bigger than a photograph could ever illustrate.

Let's all have a comment, shall we?

Greetings! Today I am participating in "The Great Mofo Delurk" (click the button above for info). Why? Because I support Schmutzie, and because blog comments bring me such joy! You really have no idea, these vast amounts of joy. (Unless you have a blog, too, in which case you do have an idea. And also in which case you should expect a comment from me today, because this here Mofo is going to put down the lurk and say hello to you!)

Would you like to bring me some joy? Post a comment today! I would really love to hear from you. You. I don't even know who "YOU" is! My little site counter thinger says I had 20 unique hits on this page yesterday. But, like, I only know of seven or eight regular readers of this blog. THAT IS CRAZY, MAN! Who are you people? Are you my friends? My enemies? Is there anybody reading this who has actually never met me in person? I think that would be the wildest thing ever. OK, so here goes. Don't be shy. Let's all go post a comment on our favorite blogs today. Spread some joy, Mofos.

Puckered up

A few months ago I was invited to try makeup products and review them for the paper. This sounded like a refreshing change from my typical work duties, which happen in a sports department and rarely include fun things like dual lip and cheek cream, or pearlized eye shimmers. So of course I said yes, even though I have to do it on my own time, and it kinda felt like working for free.

But after a few weeks of testing, it finally dawned on me that I might actually get to KEEP this stuff. I mean, who's going to want to use a lip product I have been smearing all over my big ol' mouth every single day?! So I asked, and sure enough, you get to keep everything you test. So that's the cool part: Try fabulous and expensive beauty products, write little blurbs about whether you like them, and keep all the stuff! This week I reviewed three lip plumpers. Read my expert opinion here.