Beware of the Broiler

In an effort to curb my current spastic writing tendencies (or lack there of), I suppose I will offer up a story this evening. The other night, I nearly lost all of my hair...yes, it nearly went up in a ball of fire and a cloud of smoke. You see, in an effort to make dinner, I dipped my head into the oven and neglected to remind myself that the broiler was on; and in doing so missed the flame shooting from the top most portion of my oven. I sat down to eat our delicious dinner of rolls with pesto, peppered turkey, mozzarella, and tomato when Laurel unsuspectingly brushed the top of my head. After such a motion, I noticed the smell of something burning and commented on such an observation. Casually, Laurel replied that perhaps I was smelling an old campfire or something. This I knew, however, could not have been the case, that is unless her campfires were composed of synthetic materials that did not smell like burning wood. Hurriedly, I ran into the kitchen, suspecting the worst. Not finding any fiery messes or melting plastic, I returned to the living room where Laurel asked what was covering my face and mentioned that she thought my hair had caught on fire. Confused, and a wee bit perplexed, I ran to the bathroom and did in fact discover that my hair had caught on fire. This left me thinking that though, I was in need of a trim, using the broiler was probably not the best avenue into acquiring one.

COWTOWN!!!

The air was brisk that morning and the anticipation of running for thirteen miles caused my heart to beat like the wings of a hummingbird (that means fast for those of you who might not be sure). My aunt and I stood, waiting for the race to begin, the smell of urine from the nearby urinals stinging our unfortunate nostrils; we were forced to the back so as not to get trampled by the faster and more experienced runners. She wore her tank top with pants, while I wore a t-shirt with my grandfather's face on it...her's was destroyed because of it's ill crafting on the part of my father. My newly purchased synthetic socks caressed my feet in ways I knew not possible and the pockets of my brother's shorts were filled with energy goo made by HEET (because they use more natural ingredients and goodness knows I put enough preservatives in my body), the taste of which I still did not know. As the race began, I realized I would probably miss high mass, a thought which was non too pleasing, but running the race and low mass would have to suffice for the missing incense and superb choir that would normally fill my nostrils and grace my ears. With "Macho, Macho Man" playing in my ears, the race began and all of us trampled forward like a herd of cattle. The first mile I found myself having difficulty getting in front of those slower people; by this time I left my aunt eating the dust and gravel I was kicking up with my new shoes purchased at Fleet Feet. Eventually, I found myself singing "Lay All Your Love on Me" and pulling ahead of the pack...I imagine the people around me were fairly glad I was passing them because of my awful singing (probably starting each one higher than I should be as I as told last Friday) and distracting arm movements (yes, I dance run...but that was nothing new to those of you who know me too well...). The first few miles were filled with the beautifully designed homes of William Land Park, their architecture was extremely pleasing and helped me forget I had many more miles to go. Eventually, I saw my parents and very happily waved in their direction all the while wondering how much longer it would take my aunt to get to the local I just passed. After running through the "projects" of Sacramento, an area in which I picked up the pace so as not to get shot or mugged or the like (okay, so maybe I was not worried at all, but I do like to embellish). Once the levy was reached I chewed on my first gel thingy which was quite delicious and tasted like raspberry jam! It was at this point that I realized I should have utilized the facilities because my bladder was hurting (I never seem to prepare for the water I chug before a race or movie for that matter). And after using the restroom, which was one of the most awkward experiences of my whole entire life, I continued on, ignoring the slight fatigue my legs were expressing. The river water was beautiful, reflecting the bright blue sky, it's surface dotted by a few docked boats. Then, at mile eight I experienced the WORST CRAMP OF MY LIFE...I pretty much thought I was going to die, but continued on so as not to renig on the promise to both my father and myself that I would not walk any portion of the race. At mile nine, I was praying for mile ten and the comfort I would find in the last gel I had in my pocket (I had to ration them as I had foolishly only brought two with me). Mile ten approached and I smiled with the prospect that the tropical goo would be tantalizing my taste buds with its slimy deliciousness. After its consumption I managed to cross paths with my aunt (we had to make a loop) and called out her name; she looked somewhat disoriented, but determined to finish the run. Here, we reentered the beautiful neighborhoods I was yet again revitalized, the beauty of my surroundings breathing new life into me. The last mile, I picked up the pace and with the end in sight I sprinted as if I was out running a cunning puma; I could hear my mother yelling out my name as I zoomed past her. This last bit was quite agonizing as I used every ounce of energy I had. In the end I ran an average 9:14 mile for a time of two hours and one minute...I was quite pleased as I simply wanted to stay around a ten minute mile. I must say, that the half marathon was quite amazing, and after its completion I was quite excited for the full marathon in December, though my aunt and I have decided we are going to both have our shirts professionally made because we can't be out of fashion while we run...

MEATLOAF!

So, maybe, it was more like a meat mound, but I made meat loaf with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli, and it was glorious.

The Saga of the Flat Tires

So, apparently, changing a flat is not nearly as hard as I thought it would be. You see, I was meaning to write about this a while ago, the owners of the apartment complex I used to live near, decided to rip the stucco off the building. As a result of such madness, I acquired two flat tires and managed to learn how to change a flat tire (which every man should know how to do so as to not embarrass themselves in front of any females). The first of the flats managed to cost me a whopping $95.00 because my brother decided to drive my car to Mass and destroyed the tire...he failed to check why, as he said, "Ryan, your car makes a funny noise when it drives." And the second of the flats, was a slow leak, so I was able to get it fixed before it needed to be replaced. To replace the flat tire with my spare, I simply jacked the car up, turned the screws loose on the tires and fitted the spare into place; it was amazingly simple, and I felt very skilled after replacing the tire.

The next day, after Mass, and before the AMAZING pig roast and square dance I attended at church after Vespers and Benediction, I went to get the flat fixed...this too was quite the experience! As I did not have a phone book, I entrusted my mother to find me a place that I could get my flat patched and, rather than call a Firestone or Big O' Tires or something reputable, she called the first business in the phone book. I pulled into the place and was instantly scarred to death because it was the most ghetto place ever! The business had a chain link fence with barbed wire around it and a bunch of old tires and old cars that looked abandoned and probably stolen. Anyway, they had me pull my car into the "back" and I stood in my tie and penny loafers and watched them change the tire (there was no waiting area). The toothless man who changed my tire did it with such speed and effortlessness, that I was worried he actually fixed the flat. He gave me a smile, tongue traveling between the gap in his teeth, and said it would be ten dollars. I asked if there would be tax (because in California we are taxed through our teeth) and he asked "You have cash?" I replied that I did and gave him eleven dollars (I figured a tip would save me from any shanking that may ensue). And without a look back, I sped off to Chipotle and bought a delicious chicken burrito...looking back, I can now say, though the place was a wee bit shady, the owners were very nice and I probably had nothing to worry about, but then again, asking me to not worry, is like asking me to not get a Slupee when I go to 7-11, and that is definitely not going to happen.

Full Steam Ahead on the Word Train

It seemed quite clear a while ago, that I needed to jump on the blogging bandwagon my friends had so quickly caught and begin writing my own online tirades; however, as usual, I boarded the word train a little behind the rest. Hopefully my friends (who I know will probably not read this until a few weeks or months after my writing it because of the sloth like pace I will acquire when notifying them of its creation) will forgive of such tardiness and begin reading it religiously because of the horribly interesting things I will post...who am I kidding, my life is not nearly that exciting! Anyway, as I have not spoken to many of them lately, I will begin my blog by giving them a brief update.

As of late, life has been fairly interesting. Most recently I cut all off my luscious locks and now have very short hair (I am still trying to decide if this was a good idea). I completed my pharmacy technician classes and received a passing score on my test and am now waiting on the state to approve my license....and we all know how quickly the government responds to such requests. This is of course an excellent thing because I have been stirring up trouble for myself in the front end of the store by being overzealous and too protective of the store's merchandise. Briefly put, such courage resulted in my being assaulted, i.e., punched in the face....but all in a day's work at Rite Aid I guess...

Fourth of July was fun, I made pomegranate popsicles, a family tradition since 2007, and my cousin blasted the Star Spangled Banner on his trombone in my aunt's front yard in order to commence the firework show. This year he was a bit shaky and as a result, my father and I proudly (and quite beautifully I might add) sang what portions of the song we knew; so wonderfully in fact, that I am nearly certain the neighborhood cats and dogs decided to join in with their harsh hissing and melancholy howling.

Alas, I have no more words, and my eyes are getting droopy...so, I suppose I will make this the end of my first post.