Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Wasatch Crack Relay: Post 6 of Many

Happy Birthday To Me!


At 12:08am on Saturday, June 20, 2009, I turned down the tunes and made an announcement to the teammates in my van: "It's my birthday now. Sing to me!"

In the which they sang Happy Birthday Dear Rabid in pleasant harmonious tones while I did my best to conduct. Downhill Diva surprised us all with her soprano of tessituric quality.

At 1:05pm on Saturday, June 20, 2009, I turned to my teammates and proclaimed: "It's the official time of my birth. I'm 37 now. Sing to me!"

In the which they sang to me again in pleasant harmonious tones while I did my best to conduct.
They also provided an impromptu encore of Happy Birthday Dear Rabid while I was climbing the beast known as "Ragnar."

Monday, June 29, 2009

Wasatch Crack Relay: Post 5 of Many

What The Fox!

As mentioned in Post 3 of the Wasatch Crack Chronicles, the Crack-o-Dawner's were waiting. And it was late. And we were anxious. The faster and more competitive members of the Cracker Clan were housed in Van 1. The monkeys in Van 2 (that's me, us, whatever) were in it for the giggles. Which is great unless you have a... uh... uh-hum... title to defend.

Last year, we Crack-o-Dawners entered ourselves in the sub masters coed division. This means 6 women, 6 men, all over thirty. Last year, the Crack-o-Dawners won the division. This was by a narrow margin - for we were nearly out-foxed by a team called What The Fox! This year, the Crack-0-Dawners entered ourselves in that same sub masters coed division.

And so it was, in the metropolis of Liberty, Utah (did I mention we were waiting?) when who should turn the corner and park across the street? Van 2 of team What The Fox! They were back. They were looking fierce. They were looking fast. And they hadn't even exited their vehicle yet!

The Foxes opened the doors of their van and stepped out one at a time. No lie, it was like a slow-mo scene out of The Terminator (but only the good Terminator where Arnold's the good guy). Those Foxes were still looking fierce. They were still looking fast. And one of them was sporting a giant high level video camera - equipped with football-field spotlight, mango-sized microphone and L-series lens. At this point I forgot about whether or not they were fast...for I had lens envy. Who cares if I don't shoot a video camera? Those Foxes had a movie maker with a red-ringed bazooka!

There's a few things you should know about the Foxes - all of which I've discovered and/or cued just by watching. They are organized - with coordinating warm-up suits, singlets and professionally printed decals. Their colors are orange and black, they wear orange fox tails and distribute magnetized fox tails among random vans in the Wasatch Pack. Each of the What The Fox! vans is cleverly decorated with foxy accouterments. This Wasatch Back stuff is a big event for them and they take it seriously.


(Cute, isn't she? Downright Foxy if I don't say so so myself.)


That's right, those What The Foxes! take the Wasatch Back seriously - not like the Cracker Jack Gigglers in Van 2 - who showed up in mismatched outfits and a cheaply painted rising rump on the window for decoration. (Thanks Brian for the Cracker Jack reference! Thanks Megan for the Rising Rump addition!)

This is when Hillene started it. She took one look at those distinguished, polished and gentile Foxes and screamed "WHAT THE FOX!!!!!"

As the Crackers in Van 1 were finishing their first legs of the race, our Runner 6 - TrailTrekker - ran in to pass off the bracelet thingee to our Runner 7. Before I continue the story, you should know that TailTrekker is tough - and not in the typical running girl tough (which is pretty tough). She has finished two 50 mile races in the last few months. One of those 50-milers was two weeks before the Wasatch Back where she won the Master's division. She's tough. Scary tough. A don't-want-to-meet-in-a-dark-alley tough.

After TrailTrekker finished her first running leg, she wandered over to the gigglers of Van 2 to report: "The Foxes are on us."

"WHAT THE FOX!!!" Hillene screamed. And giggled hysterically. (Don't tell Crack-o-Van 1, but we're in it more for that Qumbayah Camaraderie Crap than the measly baton they give you when you win your division.)

Why Hillene's intense interest in What The Fox!? Great question! You see... we're Mormon. Mo for short. It ain't exactly appropriate for us to curse. So any time Hillene gets the chance to sound like she's cursing without actually cursing, she takes advantage. Ask her some time to pronounce hilarious (it's hilarie-ASS).

And so it was at exchange 6 that Hillene yelled "WHAT THE FOX!!!" (and we all laughed). She screamed it again (and we all laughed again) at exchange 7 and at exchange 8 and at exchange 9... and all the way to the finish. Hillene didn't stop saying "WHAT THE FOX!!!" (and we didn't stop laughing) for prolly 16 hours.

Those poor Foxes.

You can imagine my precipitance, when a random comment showed up on one of my posts. It was from Brian - of team What The Fox! (who evidently knows how to use Google.)

Brian revealed his full name. Not only is Brian quick-paced, he plays bass in a Los Angeles band called 1RKO (First Round Knock Out). 1RKO has recorded a surprisingly innovative cover of Sweet's Fox On The Run. (Let's give a rooty-toot-toot for rabidrunner research!)

Fox On the Run... fitting isn't it?

The rabidrunner has purchased her copy from iTunes. (And so can you!)

Wasatch Crack Relay: Post 4 of Many

Conversations with the BYU
While waiting in Liberty....

Hillene: "You guys are babies. Look at you. [Pointing to one in particular] And look at your baby face."

BYU Boys: "Hahahahaha. We call him 'Baby Face'!"

rabidrunner: "Isn't Ed Eyestone your coach?"

BYU Boys: "Yip"

rabidrunner: "Spouse ran Cross-Country at the BYU with Ed Eyestone."

BYU Boys: "Holy cow. He is like, way old!"

(Here's the photo. Just in case you missed it the first time.)

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Wasatch Crack Relay: Post 3 of Many

Ready... Set... Wait!

First, imagine a car full of six people, all addicted to running, who haven't run a step in almost two days. Second, imagine that same car loaded with addicts who must wait until 9:30pm to run. All are anxious, all are nervous, all are full of carbohydrates.

That's a long time in runner years.

Not every team participating in the Wasatch Crack Relay gets to start at the same time. The first group of teams start at 7:00am. The last group of teams start the journey at 6:00pm. The teams are stagger-started in-betwixt the first and last teams. Every 20 minutes or so, I believe.

Generally speaking, the slower the team, the earlier the start time; the faster the team, the later the start time. That raucous BYU boys team? They start last.

Obtaining a team's start time can be extremely advantageous when sizing up the competition and/or determining the quality of the runner you're speaking to. For example, I walked into the local running shoe store looking for a blinking LED light (which each runner is required to wear while racing at night). The punk behind the cash register asked, "Are you doin' the Wasatch Back?" I told him I was (the LED light purchase was a dead giveaway). "What time do you start?" he asked. I told him that our team started 5:00pm. "Ooooooh, wow" he said, all while looking me up and down in disbelief.

Why the disbelief, I hear you ascertain? Because I'm one of those run-faster-than-I-look kind of people (not that I'm fast, but you get the idea). It's prolly the 5-inch stilettos, blue eye shadow and spare tire around my middle. Could also be the Mary Jane t-shirt and the patchouli oil....

Anyway, back to race day. Around 3:30, I was looking at Yu-Gi-Oh cards at the Target (and you didn't know that I was in on that card-collecting craze). While deciding which pack to buy (so as not to duplicate the cards I already have), the phone rings and it's Becca. She's in Van 2 of her team and they've already made it through 9 runners.

What the!? I started to panic. My team hasn't even started yet and I'm squandering away precious minutes in a toy aisle? What the!?

Let's just get it off my chest and declare that Becca's team, The Joggin Broads, started way too early. They ended up taking 3rd in the Women's Open division (that's all women, all ages, 3rd over-all, FAST). They loved their early start time. I hated their start time, because A) I never got to see them and B) They gave me an anxiety attack being so far ahead! (I'm selfish, I tell you. But you knew as much.)

Finally, 5:00pm rolled around and the Van 1 Crack-o-Dawners started the race in Logan. The rest of us in Van 2 weren't scheduled to run until 9:30ish in Liberty (which is in the Ogden Valley area near Pineview Reservoir). Liberty is roughly an hour and a half drive from home.

At 6:00 pm, we piled into our "van". Last year we had a 15-passenger-Giraffe-Hauling Ford. This year, no such luck. We had a six-passenger-Monkey-Hauling Suburban. (Monkeys are smaller than Giraffes and we're as hyper as Monkeys - get it?) Last year we had a designated driver (my gracious Daddy-O). This year, no such luck. We didn't have room for a driver and had to take turns.

And so we piled into the Monkey-Hauler only to discover that we hadn't yet taken a photo. Being as photographing the experience is essential, we crawled out, took some snaps and headed for Liberty.



After several discussions of "which of the eight ways to get there shall we go?", a quickie meal at a Chinese joint that turned into Smith's, miles of speeding and a stint or two of driving backwards on the highway, we made it to Liberty. Safely.


Anxious, wide-eyed and excited, six of us spilled out of the car screaming "Lemme run! Lemme run! Lemme run!" only to discover that we were too early and had to wait.

And wait we did.


Friday, June 26, 2009

Wasatch Crack Relay: Post 2 of Many

Becoming Something

The Wasatch Crack Relay is NOT a show-up-at-the-spur-of-the-moment kind of race. One must prepare a year in advance by coughing up $1200 for your team to participate.

After you’ve given the establishment your piece of the $900,000 pie, you run. If you have one of those hillbilly stages (which few get to escape), you run hills. I have a friend named Hillene. She likes hills, that's why we call her Hillene. We’ve been running this behemoth of a hill called Suncrest (in Highland, Utah). This Suncrest doozy is 5 miles up and climbs 1500 feet. Hillene likes to run so hard she pukes. Not me. I don’t puke – for I foam at the mouth.

Foaming at the mouth and puking are not becoming.

Each team who participates must find 3 volunteers, come up with a name, commiserate over t-shirts, have them printed, pick who runs which stages and find vehicles to trash. It goes on and on. Logistically it’s a big fat pain.

One week before the race, our team does a Friday run, Friday midnight run then a run at 5:30 the next morning. This is to practice and/or prepare for running without sleep. The midnight run is scary - it’s dark and the canyons are filled with bats and Zoobies around campfires. (Zoobies are what the locals call the college kids at the BYU). Someone usually runs ahead and jumps out screaming and someone usually wets their pants. It’s not me, however – for I foam at the mouth.

Foaming at the mouth and wetting the pants are not becoming.

By the time all of the above has been completed, I start to complain with “I’m never doing this again” and “this is too much work” and “those Ragnar people are making bank over this enterprise.” Then I quit complaining – for I foam at the mouth.

Foaming at the mouth and complaining are not becoming.

I’ve completed the Wasatch Crack Relay twice now. Each of those years, the Ragnar folks send all participants an e-mail that says, “We want to hear your story! Send us your story and you could win something special!” (Like a box of Wheaties with your picture taped to it).

Both years, I’ve given serious thought to sending them a story. I take notes, make brainstorming charts (complete with snide remarks), and type myself up a real nice outline. Then reality hits and I relinquish my efforts. I don’t have a gut-wrenching story that divulges how running saved me from an alpaca addiction or how our team is completing the race in honor of Operation Save Darth Vader. I don’t do charity when it comes to running - for I foam at the mouth.

Foaming at the mouth, running and charity are not becoming.

On Thursday night (T minus 24 hours), the Crack-o-Dawners meet to temporarily vandalize our vehicles and discuss details. Details like what time to leave, what to eat, who’s bringing what and how fast (or slow) each runner plans to complete their assigned legs. Vandalizing and discussing are something I do do - for I foam at the mouth.

Foaming, vandalizing vehicles and discussing details are becoming. (Or at least they’re on the road to becoming something…)


Ms. Mileage

Trailtrekker and rabidrunner


Hillene and Downhill Diva

Facebook pose complete with photographer's shadow.

A minor glimpse of the antics to come.

Van 1

Van 2

Ever Supportive Spouse



A Day Of Mourning


Today is a sad day. Sadder than yesterday. And much, much sadder than the day before that. The King of Pop is no longer with us.

We will celebrate Michael's life today. (Michael and I have been on a first name basis since the fifth grade, 27 years if you must know how long ago that was.) We will watch the Thriller video (even though the Yahoos are scared to death by it). We will do the Thriller dance. We will do the moon walk. We will wear a sequined glove. We will pretend we're Strangers in Moscow.

In essense, we will have an "All Michael, All Day" day. I will wake at the Break of Dawn in a State of Shock to look at the Man In The Mirror. This will be Bad because I am a woman, not a man (some like to call me Dirty Diana). It's Human Nature to Rock With You. If you don't agree, Beat It - for I Wanna Be Startin' Something. My advice to you?

Enjoy Yourself
and Don't Stop Til You Get Enough.

In regards to the Wasatch Crack Relay Recap (or WCRR), it will hafta wait a day. I can't type while wearing a glove on my left hand.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The Wasatch Crack Relay: Post One of Many

Before I attempt a recap of the aforementioned Wasatch Crack Relay, I must first define the current audience. Among professional writers this is something to be researched before writing so as not to bore your readers with the target and/or purpose of the essay.

Being as I am three degrees below amateur, I get to break all the rules. This means I can do my audience research on your time. This also means I can include boring and useless details, fragmented sentence structures, alliterations for the sole sake of alliterating, piss poor punctuation placement and parenthetical whoredom. (Incidentally, what is it with my language lately?)

Back to my audience. (Fragmented sentence, by the way. Even my reference to the fragmented sentence was fragmented.) As of the middle of June 2009, only a handful of my running buddies read this rabidrunner dot com stuff. I suppose they think that I reveal all of my offerings while malleating the mileage. They assume my jabbering jaws have told them all there is to hear (or stomach) after several hours a week in the dead air of the dawn.

They are so very wrong! Some stuff is saved just for you, here in blogland. Even Spouse must read this junk to see the inner tumblings of my thinking machine.

You, audience, are special.

But who exactly are you, dear audience?

The running gallery around here includes a handful of running buddies from the present, a handful of running buddies from the past, a running buddy or two picked up from a race or cyberspace and Tom Lindsey (who is an aficionado of running but a fellow geek from the ghost of software companies past). These three small handfuls (and Tom) might seem like a fairly large amount of runners - enough that one might conclude that the rabidrunner assemblage is mostly runners. Not so.

This, dear audience, is why I must compose a recap of that silly Wasatch Crack Relay in a way that will entertain and delight non-runners. This is a challenge. Constructive criticism is welcome and valued.

Stay tuned. It will be exciting. Like your first chapter book without pictures (only I will include pictures).


If you feel so inclined, leave a comment with a brief description of yourself. This way I can target my stories just for you. Consider it market research.

Also, leave a comment with the correct number of alliterations and I'll send you a prize.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Predictably Unpredictable

Reading today, I decided that predictable is not interesting. I then decided that I want to be Predictably Unpredictable.

Yes... my aspirations are high. I overshot adjectives like loving, kind, giving, intelligent, trustworthy and dependable then went straight to Predictably Unpredictable.

Predictably Unpredictable: This is my wish for the perfect personality.

Monday, June 22, 2009

One of Them Moms

Somehow, over the last 8 years and one month, I've turned into one of those "What's the point in showering today" kind of people. How do I fix that?

Really friends, what's the point? I work in the Windowless Basement Office. Nobody sees me. The Yahoos are filthy within 30 seconds of stepping themselves out of the tub, so naturally they don't care. Spouse? He's just happy to see skin. Unless I'm caked in mud, lint and marbles, he won't notice the current level of clean (or dirty).

Then there's the house work, yard work, car work, photoshop work. All this work that makes me dirty. So what if I've run 9 miles and muscled my way (ungracefully) through a yoger class... I'm just going to get dirty again... what's the point?

I swore over Jim Morrison's grave (by proxy of course) that I wouldn't be one of them "What's the Point in Showering Today" moms. What's next? Polyester, stretchy-waste-band pants that rise to just below my droopy boobies? Housecoat? A Perm?


Sunday, June 21, 2009

BYU Boys Win Again

Once again... the BYU Men's (er... boy's) cross country team dominates the Wasatch Back Relay. Took them all of 17 hours and 49 minutes (a 5:40 per mile pace). The next team was 43 minutes behind them.

Maybe they could make it more exciting by bringing
the rabidrunner along next time?


Friday, June 19, 2009

Yeah, Right...


Thursday, June 18, 2009

Wasatch Crack

Tomorrow, June the 19th, is the start of the Wasatch Back Relay - a pointless 187.9 mile Utah footrace from Logan to Park City. This particular route is not a direct one - for that would be too easy. A direct route from Logan to Park City would be somewhere around 45 miles (give or take a hundred). Since this is a race to prove awesomeness, we will run the long (albeit scenic) way. Twelve of us will run 187.9 miles in 24 hours and some change.

The pioneers would think we're stupid.

Two vans, each equipped with 6 persons, will leapfrog through the race. It will be treacherous. It will be steep and up hill. It will steep and down hill. It will be on the beaten-to-death path. There will be mayhem. There will be no sleep. There will be sweat. There will be laughter. There will still be no sleep. But there will be oodles of salted potatoes, shot bloks, pretzels, spinach, roast beef, gatorade and water.

The pioneers would be so jealous.

(But they'd still wonder why the hell we do it when we don't have to.)

If the pioneers were around, I'd tell them that running is my crack. I'd emphatically explain how running affects my mental health, how it beats me up so as I can deal with the day, how it makes me feel alive, how it provides an avenue for socializing and how it allows me to consume upwards of 3200 calories and still fit into my jeans. "All of these things," I'd say, "make it as addictive as that laudanum that you pretend you're not taking."

Crack is the laudanum of today.

I wonder, friends, if the term lawdy lawdy law was taken from those taking laudanum of old. Is it possible that perhaps, they sip the laudanum then feel lawdy? And say lawdy lawdy law? They should have spelled it laudy.

Anyway. Our team, known as the Crack-o-Dawners, will run again. The dawn is our crack and we wake at dawn and sometimes our shorts don't fit right so we show some crack and that is why we are the Crack-o-Dawners.

We need cheerleaders dressed as pioneers, don't we?

The Crack-o-Dawners will not run the relay faster than last year (the course is 7.9 miles longer - as if 180 miles wasn't hard enough, they had to make it 187.9). It will take us longer. But we will prevail! With our bonnets! And our sing-songing of Put Your Shoulder To The Wheel!

Here's the Crack-o-Dawner's Logo:


I will run 3.5 miles through Ogden Valley at about 11:17pm then 7.7 near Echo Reservoir at about 7:36am. Finally, I get to do this beast at around 3:29pm:


Holy oxen dung.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

The Preschool Mansion

Our very own Hef.


Nothing Compares

Nothing in life compares to getting a letter in the mailbox from the IRS. There are a few things come close - like getting a root canal without anesthetic, a day without the internet and shooting your big toe - but nothing compares.

I shouldn't waste your time by repeating the first sentence of this post, but I'm going to anyway. NOTHING on this planet compares to a letter in the mailbox from the IRS.

Especially when that letter says you owe $18,196.

Actually, I should thank the IRS. I was feeling like today warranted a good cry and that letter did the trick in 3.2 seconds flat.

This has happened before. The reason? Somebody (and we'll just keep that somebody's name private for now), reported income to the IRS that doesn't exist. So now we make copies, write a letter to the IRS, call the "somebody" company and they apologize, then the IRS will take away the bill.

Not a big deal, I know. But it's a big hassle. With a capital "F".

**** On the lighter side of things, do you dig the new header and skinny? Dig! Thank you Megan.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Bennett's Gonna Jet!

June 15, 2009

Bennett's Gonna Jet. And he doesn't know it yet!
(Cha-ching! Special points for the rhyme!)

Politics are a-buzzing about our house these days. Spouse is an elected delegate for an unnamed political party. Why is it unnamed? Because it's not the Pervertarian party. The Pervertarian Party is my party, therefore all other political parties are unnamed or made fun of. Today, out of respect for my beloved Petulant Ninny, it will be unnamed.

On Saturday, Spouse attended the annual state convention to cast his votes. On an on-election year (you can tell if it's an on-election year instead of an off-election year if the year is even), voting at the convention is a big deal. Spouse's primary role as a delegate is to bring about a primary. Being as 2009 is an odd year, it's an off-election year and not much is happening. Except. Except. Except! Bennett.

(Did you notice how that rhymed nicely? More bonus points for the rhyme!)

Spouse takes his delegateship very seriously. Each year, Spouse must petition and present a speech to the peers of the hood in order to keep his precious delegateship. Each year, Spouse stands up to present his ideals. Each year, Spouse communicates his support of private education, limited taxation, lots of cleavage (oops, that's my party), limited government, control of government spending, yadi yadi yada. Each year, he's been elected. Which is a bit of a surprise when he boasts of his support for private education to a 33.3% population of the public education-employed. Prolly because none of those other shmucks want to waste an entire Saturday in June adhering to Robert's Rules of Order.

It's no secret that Spouse doesn't like Senator Robert F. Bennett. Their love affair ended when Bennett fer Senate announced he'd run a second term. Why is this a big deal? Because during Bennett's inaugural campaign, he resolutely declared that he'd only stay in office one term. That would be 6 total years of public service. Bennett is currently working on year 18.

If you want to be friends with Spouse (which I'm sure Bennett is worried about), don't... I mean DO NOT, make a promise to him you will not, cannot, refuse not to keep. If your promise to Spouse becomes a failure, he will write you a nasty letter each week of your entire existence as senator - a letter reminding you of your one-term promise in firm and flowery vocabulary (Spouse is good at vocabulary).

Scary, isn't it? Gives me the shivers. I've had one of those letters.

What's scarier, however, is that the office of Bobert EF Bennett fer Senate has not responded to Spouse on this particular issue. Not a-once. It appears his staffers are cowering shamefully in their cubicles with a tail or two betwixt the legs over this one. Or maybe they open one of Spouse's letters and holler "Hey look! It's another one of those letter's from rabidrunner's Spouse. Go add it to the pile." (Megan wrote a 5-part story about meeting me on her blog, so I'm famous now. Naturally, the political people know about me now too...)

It's too bad I don't have copies of those letters. Would make nice wallpaper.

Anyway, Bennett in his previous 3 terms, has been re-elected without much hassle - without even a mention of a primary. And you all know what happens in Utah. If you're a senator with representation from that unnamed political party, you usually win. It's a brainless process. Lemmings I tell you.

Do you see, friends, why it's so important to have a primary? Do you see why Spouse runs his little toosh off to become a delegate - all in the hopes of bringing political justice through the means of a primary?

I see the light bulb now! It's a good look for you.

At Saturday's convention, Spouse could feel the buzz. Next year, in Bennett's on-election year of 2010, Bennett will have NOT ONE but THREE opponents in his senatorial ring: Shurtleff, Bridgewater, and Eager.

Bring on the Primary, Bennett's gonna jet!

(As a bonus... if Shurtleff wins, we can get Greg Skordas to fill the Attorney General seat. There's a special place in my heart for Skordas.)

Friday, June 12, 2009

Rainbows and Butterflies

June 12, 2009

Here's the story of how I met Megan.

On March 26, 2008, Spouse had dropped several feet skiing. Gravity and ice handed him a pair of crushed calcaneuses. He was sent to the hospital to figure out what to do next.

Neither Spouse nor I dared ask the question, “Will I/he walk again?”

After six long hours of evading the above mentioned question, the othopedic surgeon on call paid a visit. I don't remember what was said exactly. I only remember a few key phrases. They were, “always results in permanent disability” and “Why did you do that?” then “permanent disability” again followed by “the calcaneus can rarely be put back together” and another “permanent disability.”

This doc became known as Doctor Permanent Disability. We'll call him Dr. Disability for short.

Dr. Disability began to exit the room while Spouse and I stared at each other. He didn't offer anything. No hope, no help, no nothin'. I've seen a few docs in my small little life who lack the personality necessary for a decent bed side manner. But this guy? Could have told Spouse he was a race horse with broken legs and it was time to, you know... do the Barbaro. Wouldn't be much different. (Well, okay. You got me - that was overly dramatic.)

Just as Dr. Disability was leaving, he threw in a “I'll have a specialist come by.”

So there we sat, looking, waiting and hoping. Looking at the door, waiting for the specialist, hoping for a miracle. It was 24 very long hours before that specialist opened that door.

By now, you're prolly saying, “Rabid, darling. (Love it when you call me 'darling'). This is a story about Spouse. Not a story about Megan. Would you get to the point already? I have important matters of business to attend too.” Hold onto your horses (and don't let the doc put 'em down) 'cause this is where Megan comes in.

What, exactly, did I do during that long-and-dreary 24 hours? Anxiety lodged in my throat and a brain dammed with tears? I went a-blog-hopping.

Is blog hopping a new term for you? (Is for me. At the time I didn't know that's what I was doing.) Blog hopping is where you visit a blog, then visit blogs linked on that blog. It can be a giant web of junk. That's why they call the internet The Web, you know. Something about everything being connected, I think.

Anyway, while hopping like a toad from blog to blog, I found this post at Megan's blog. A girl with a love affair for punctuation? Oh me, or my! A girl who writes each post as if it's a finely polished chapter in a novel? Oh me, oh my! A girl as cynical as I? Oh me, oh my, indeed.

And so it was, that for a few hours, I lost myself in Megan's Remarks From Sparks. I laughed. I learned the value of italicizing quotations, the oomph of a bold sentence in a paragraph, to appreciate the fine design of headers and logos. I learned about Yoga, the terms, the styles and that maybe I should look into it. It was a good escape. In that few hours before the real doctor showed up, you can say that Megan saved me from unmentionable despair.

As we all know by now, Doctor Van Boerum - Dr. Ability for short - flew in with a scalpel and screwdriver. Dr. Ability saved Spouse.

Over the last year, I've continued to sponge up Megan's insight and knowledge. I agree with her most of the time and disagree others. I have contracted her services to design a logo and header for Emoticon. We have become cyber-friends and pen-pals through this new-fangled electronic mail system. I even received a lovely scripted thank you note sent via US Post!

In most of Megan's correspondence, she signs off with “Rainbows and Butterflies.” Which is so perfect – because that's what she means to me. A ray of color and light after a thunderstorm or the beauty of a butterfly after the struggle of metamorphosis.

Why am I filling you all full of this sap? Is it because I want to share a heart-warming, humanity-saving tale? Is it because I want to prove that I can make friends?

Nope. It's because Megan and I will meet in person today.

If I don't make it back, if I'm abducted, if I'm forced to join a literary training camp, if I run off to find rainbows, if I'm manipulated into a downward-dog that I can't get out of, if I cocoon myself into a butterfly, you can all be a witness for whodunnit.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Mistress of Mediocrity

June 11, 2009

On the way home from The Sister's house the other night, Daddy and I were talking about tennis. We were discussing The French Open - that's the one with the clay courts and fancier wearables (as opposed to Wimbledon where they're forced to wear white).

I'm a greatest hits sports enthusiast, so I don't watch the little events in any tournament – I go straight for the big show at the end. And when I want details, I prefer to get a summary from he who spawned me. It's more interesting that way.

My Dad has a repository in the left hemispheric portion of his brain for sports. And not just rules and regulations for the major stuff either. He follows local and high school competitions. You want to know the High School Baseball MVP for Utah in 1982? Call my Dad. He'll tell you – without looking it up on the internet. He can explain who's up for drafting, what college wants who for what and it just goes on and on. Exhausting isn't it? To think of how he stores all of that nonsense? Need a nap just thinking about it.

So back to our conversation about The French Open. He talked about the two Russian girls who made the finals (he said their names but being as I don't have the above mentioned repository, I have since forgotten them), then went on to discuss the men's finals – which hadn't happened yet. I asked what two hunks were scheduled to whack that ball back and forth. I also wanted to know who their sponsors were, their shoe size and the type of shampoo used before the match (Daddy knows all that stuff).

He replied with “I believe tomorrow's game is between Wah-wah-wah-wi-wa and Roger Federerererer.”

Remember, I am the Greatest Hits Gal of Sports. Unless you've won the French Open, like eight times, I won't know your name (hence the Wah-wah-wah-wi-wa on player number one). I have a tiny little left brain that is already jam packed with useless (yet important) information. It's full. In order to store new stuff, old stuff must be removed.

Roger Federerererer (make sure you pronounce all the extra ERs - it's more fun that way) has a net worth of 387 million 482 thousand tennis balls, 123 million sports courts and an ocean-full of Gatorade (give or take a few thousand something-or-other). The Federerererer has volleyed the great John McEnroe to surpass the mighty Pete Sampras. He's hot stuff. Has been for years.

While having this conversation about the Grandeur de Federerereruh (French spelling on purpose), I said: “I can't imagine what it's like to be that good at anything.” Then I sulked for the rest of the night.

Why did I sulk for the rest of the night? Because I'm the Mistress of Mediocrity.

I can do lots of stuff - but none of it all that well. I have my fingers in too many berry pies and my brain functions like a pin-ball machine. The runner de rabid cannot concentrate on anything long enough to be in-your-face-awesome at anything.

Let's take college for example: I wanna do mechanical engineering like my dad. Yeah, that's it. Take a few classes. This isn't any fun, all my school-mates are nerds, let's switch to, uh, general studies. Okay, that's good. No wait! Get a kickin' it job working for a software company. Sweet. But now I want to program stuff, let's switch to Computer Science and take a class about an ancient Egyptian programming language that runs on the HP 9000. Oh bother! Why would I waste my time and money on schooling that's five years behind what I learn at work? Switch again...

On and on it went. The only thing I didn't try was Family Science, (gee isn't that one a surprise with all my Suzie home-wrecking skills). Finally, I landed on the ol' BA. As in Bad Ass, Business Administration.

Now that this college crap is out of the way, lets move on to what I do now: Running, Music, Writing, Crocheting, Reading, Skiing, and Potty Training the Dog. For money it's Tax Software with a dash of Photography. I enjoy all of this, but I'm sure there's room for something else, something new... one more thing I can be mediocre at.

What could it be? Far-out Fencing? Astrology? Palm Tree Planting? Backgammon? Cycling? Oh cycling. Seems cycling is the craze these days. All the running friends are doing it. But seriously - I can't take being mediocre at one more thing!

After the sulking, I discovered that mediocrity has many advantages.

The most advantageous advantage? It's lonely at the Top (or at least that's what I hear). To be at the Top, someone or something must be worse; someone has to be your Under. We Mediocres, however, don't need someone around that's worse than us to feel good about ourselves. And if someone is better than us? We stand Under and congratulate.

Mediocres - we don't need an Under. And we're just fine if we get to be your Under.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

Under Construction

June 9, 2009

Please pardon the dust while I figure out how the heck to reconstruct the rabidrunner blog. Needs something. Botox, nose job, augmentation... something. The old template was shared from some nice person who wanted to share blogger templates. This nice person decided not to be nice anymore and removed it. So give me a few days to figure out what to do next.

I figured, however, that most of you are using the googley reader at www.google.com/reader - so the template is hardly necessary or even noticed. Not using www.google.com/reader? Get with the times!

In other news, the rabidrunner has parked www.rabidrunner.com! From now on, you can open your browser of choice and type www.rabidrunner.com to get to the rabidrunner blog.

Neat, huh!?

I had ravenous jealousy thoughts over someone else having www.rabidrunner.com, so I took matters in my own pocket. It'll cost me a whole 10 bucks a year... might have to start selling advertising to cover my new expenses.

Anyone have something they wanna sell?

Deep Thots with rabidrunner

June 9, 2009

I waxed my armpits just now. As I stood, caked in baby powder, recovering from the sting, I discovered the armpit wax metaphor for life:

The best parts of life require a bit of a sting.

(Sorry, no photos today. I know you wanted before and afters, but that would produce too much sting. For both you and me.)

Saturday, June 06, 2009


June 6, 2009

How I Loved Today!



Friday, June 05, 2009

Crackberry or mePhone

June 5, 2009

Crackberry or mePhone: That Is The Question

Crackberry or mePhone: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to touch
The screen and its outrageous apps,
Or take fingers to keyboard buttons,
And by opposing one of them? To betray: and surf;
Oh more; and by surf I mean endless information
The heart-ache and shocks o'r this decision
That plastic to palm, 'tis communication
Devoutly to be wish'd. To touch, or push;
To push: perchance all the time: ay, there's the rub;
For when surfing what dreams may come
When we have googled this mortal quest,
Must give us cause: which to pick?

*Verse adapted from Act Three, Scene One of William Shakespeare's "Hamlet". Note that I have cited the appropriate source and the blogger cannot take me down for plagiarism. Eee gads! The ramifications of the blogger bringing me down!

Don't bring me down, blogg'r!
Don't bring me down, blogg'r!
Don't bring me down...
Down, down, down, down... oooh who hoo.
I'll tell you once more, before I steal some info.
Don't bring me down.

**There I go again. Previous sentence structure and thoughts taken from ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down". But you knew that. You're smart and well informed when it comes to pop culture. You also knew that "To Be or Not to Be" is Shakespeare. You prolly like Shakespeare. Or at least the fancy pants that he was known to wear.

***The referencial nickname of "mePhone" was borrowed from Stu.

Thursday, June 04, 2009

Immunizations for the Midlife Crisis

June 4, 2009

I'm surrounded by women in the thick of a midlife crisis. Okay not totally surrounded. I know of a few and I eavesdrop while watching the Yahoos at the pool. All of this midlife crisis BS can be a drag. Other than the fact that it's selfish and immature and annoying, it's downright difficult to understand or empathize.

I'm empathetic. Emphasis on pathetic.

In all seriousness, I wake up every day with monumental gratitude. Spouse can walk. If you want to vent over your toothpaste drama-dirty underwear-doesn't bring me flowers enough-diatribe, forget it. I won't empathize.

In lieu of my pathetic empathy, I'll provide a few options for midlife crisis prevention. An Immunization, if you will. Being a professional watcher of sorts, I've noticed a few reoccurring sagas in each of my subjects.

1) Don't get married young.
2) Don't have kids young. (Wait until your one month shy of 29 - a blatant self righteous plug, in case you missed it.)
3) Stop having kids BEFORE you hit that breaking point. Keep in mind you will not see your child-raising limitation until you PASS IT. (No self-righteous plug here. Might have passed it already.)
4) Spend more time naked.
5) If all else fails, learn to play tennis. Smacking that ball with a grunt like Anna's is bound to relieve some stress. Cheaper than the Hummer too. Which brings up an interesting point - what happened to the sports car midlife? They're all buying Hummers now. This isn't a good move financially, being as the Hummer (or the make-believe Hummer without the shrapnel accessory and mega-axle) is being orphaned as we speak. Sigh.

Selfish right? To some yes. Need a reminder of the rabidrunner mantra?

A man's got to know his limitations.

*** For the record, I haven't yet learned to play tennis. It's my secret scheme for battling the midlife crisis. If you hear of my plans to learn the whack-it-back-n-forth game involving the squishy yellow ball, note that I'm in trouble. Or better yet... Spouse is in trouble.

Monday, June 01, 2009

Multiple Choice Monday - Atlas Shrugged

June 1, 2009

I've currently committed myself to Atlas Shurgged. Spouse is jealous because it's the first thing I reach for when I climb in bed. It's a fantastic read. Highly recommended on the Rabidrunner Reading Richter scale.

As a rule, I don't generally write in my books. Figure that if I loaned the book, the markings would reveal too much of my inner identy. As if I should worry about someone else's book (with my notations) revealing too much. As if.

Atlas Shrugged
, on the other hand, has proven itself worthy of a few splotches and smudges. I don't intend to lend this one out. Ever. So get your own damn Atlas Shrugged. (Or if you're nice to me, I'll buy you one for your birthday or send it to you in lieu of flowers. This reminds me of the year I gave everyone that Healing Back Pain book. Have a grand ole testimony of that one too.)

In honor of this book and it's bewitching dialog, today's Multiple Choice is all about the writings of the Ayn Rand.

Which of these following is NOT an Atlas Shrugged quotation?

A) " [The] Soul is in every man who has the capacity to equal this achievement. Should the soul vanish from the earth, the motors would stop, because that is the power which keeps them going - not the oil under the floor under her feet, the oil that would then become primeval ooze again - not the steel cylinders that would become stains of rust on the walls of the caves of shivering savages - the power of a living mind - the power of thought and choice and purpose."

B) About the Colorado government: "It's a backward, primitve, unlightened place. They don't even have a modern government. It's the worst government in any state. The laziest. It does nothing - outside of keeping law courts and a police department. It doesn't do anything for the people. it doesn't help anybody. I don't see why all our best companies want to run there."

C) "Money demands that you sell, not your weakness to men's stupidity, but your talent to their reason; it demands that you buy, not the shoddiest they offer, but the best that your money can find. And when men live by trade - with reason, not force, as their final arbiter - it is the best product that wins, the best performance, the man of best judgement and highest ability - and the degree of a man's productiveness is the degree of his reward. This is the code of existence whose tool and symbol is money. Is this what you consider evil?"

D) "When you see that trading is done, not by consent, but by compulsion - when you see that in order to produce, you need to obtain permission from men who produce nothing - when you see that money is flowing to those who deal, not in goods, but in favors - when you see that men get richer by graft and by pull than by work, and your laws don't protect you against them, but protect them against you - when you see corruption being rewarded and honesty becoming a self-sacrifice - you may know that your society is doomed."

E) "Let me give you a tip on a clue to men's characters: the man who damns money has obtained it dishonorably; the man who respects it has earned it."

F) All of the above.

G) None of the above.