This girl. Not that girl.: February 2011

Monday, February 14, 2011

Happy Heart's Day!

It's not where or how I would choose to spend the most hallowed of romantic holidays. And yet, the irony not only does not escape me, it comforts me. I am in the family waiting area at the University of Michigan's Cardiovascular Center.

My father is having his second cardiac ablation procedure performed in the hopes that it can help treat his abnormal heart rhythm. The ablation directs energy through a catheter to small areas of the heart muscle that cause the abnormal heart rhythm, and this energy "disconnects" the pathway of the abnormal rhythm in the hope that the heart will be able to sustain a normal rhythm on its own.

Like any medical procedure, there are risks, and the risks here can be pretty high. But I find myself unusually calm and positive.

My father had his heart bypass surgery on Valentine's Day 20 years ago here at U of M and today, I am comforted by the fact that on Valentine's Day, the ultimate day of hearts, his heart is being treated by the doctors and nurses at the 11th ranked cardiovascular center in the country (#1 in Michigan), according to US News and World Report.

I consider this a good sign indeed-two heart procedures, on the day of hearts, at the same heartfastic hospital. It's like the trifecta of cardiovascular care!

So while I am not having a traditional Valentine's Day, participating in the exchange of traditional gifts that are representative of love (like chocolates, flowers, and diamonds-although, note to husband: I would not be disagreeable to finding these when I get home), I am spending the day surrounded by people whom I love in a place whose sole mission is to make healthy and happy hearts for its patients and their families and friends. It is definitely a good day for my heart, and isn't that the ultimate Valentine's gift? Happy Heart Day.

"Heart" Day Sculpture at Cardiovascular Center.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Forgiveness? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Originally posted January 8, 2010

It’s Christmas time and I stand at the kitchen counter of my parent’s new home and look out across the family room and through the French doors of the office as the old man carefully and gently lowers himself into his chair, equipped with a pillow for either his head or back, a blanket, and an oscillating heater blowing 80 degree air into an already warm room. I am consumed with sadness and I think, “That is not my father.”

My father is not a 68-year old man who looks like he’s in his eighties. My father is not six feet tall with skin and what little muscle he has left hanging from his bones. My father is not so skinny that you can see his combination pacemaker/defibrillator protruding from his chest. My father is not so cold all the time that he has to wear jeans, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a sweatshirt in the sun, in Florida, in November. My father’s face is not gaunt and his voice does not sound like an old man. My father does not look chronically fatigued. My father is not so thin that when I hug him I’m worried I’ll hurt him. My father does not forget things. My father is not so frail that after spending five hours running errands, in which he mostly stays in the car, he has hardly any energy for two days. My father’s movements throughout his home are not labored. My father does not need handicapped features in his home like a bar in the bathroom so he can lower himself down and lift himself off of the toilet or a walk-in shower/tub combo. My father is not dying.

MY father is in his mid-thirties. It is about 1978 and he is six feet tall and weighs 250 pounds, and he is lightening fast. He has very strong legs and beautiful calves and they propel him around the bases of the softball field as he sprints from home plate to first and then to second. He has a curly thick head of hair and a smile and a laugh that will command your attention and light up any room into which he walks. My father is so warm all the time that it isn’t unusual for him to drive in the winter with the air conditioning on and the window cracked a jar. My father wins the “EF Hutton” award at work because when he talks, people listen. My father has two young daughters and he coaches their softball teams while smoking cigars. My father wears work boots, khaki pants with paint all over them, and a Michigan State University t-shirt that is close to 10 years old, also covered with paint, and he takes my sister and me on Saturday morning errands to the hardware store and bank, and he wants to hold our hands. My father is a businessman and he works very hard during the week at work to provide for his family. My father is a family man and works diligently on the weekends to accomplish the tasks on his “Honey Do” list. My father is very far from dying.

I stand there in the kitchen and fight back the tears, but it is a battle I will loose. Because the truth is, my father is dying.

My father is dying and I am angry about it—and he is the target of my rage. I blame him for dying. I am holding him accountable for the sins of his past.

And yet, I know this is neither right nor fair. How am I going to resolve these feelings so that when he does die, I am at peace with him, with me, and with the two of us?

Everyone with whom I have spoken about this has said the same thing—I have to forgive him. Forgive him for everything. But that doesn’t seem fair, and I struggle with the notion that he gets the slate wiped clean just because he is dying. And I struggle with the notion of how horrible this sounds as I think it.

At the end of Christmas dinner, my father said he would like it if we would say grace just once over the holidays; but, he says, “I don’t think I could get out three words before crying.” And as the last few words are coming out of his mouth, he starts to cry. Three seconds later, I am crying. Shortly after that, my sister is crying. I don’t remember exactly what we all said that evening, but I will always be grateful for the insight into my father I gained and the resulting compassion and forgiveness that just seemed to come over me and start to wash away the past.

I learned that night that my father’s identify is very much defined by his role as the provider in the family. And why shouldn’t it be? He has filled that role magnificently. No one in our family has ever wanted for anything. I grew up in a family where there was always a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food on the table (not to mention a debt-free college education and a beautiful wedding). I grew up in a family where I was told on a daily basis by at least one of my parents, if not both, that I was loved. I grew up in a family where I was allowed to express my opinions, even if they differed with my parents. I grew up in a family where I was taught that prejudice was wrong and being kind and generous to those in need was right. I grew up in a family where I was on the receiving end of such good advice from my father such as, “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” “Life isn’t fair. Fare is something you pay to ride in a taxi,” and “A guy will tell you anything you want to hear to get in your pants.”

Was there really that much for me to forgive? In the overall scheme of my father’s love and grace toward me, his sins of the past don’t seem so sinful. And have I lived such a pure life? No. Have I been the best daughter I could be at times? No. Do I want to be judged at the end of my days for things that happened in my past? No. Will I just want to be loved at that point? Yes, I think I will. So how can I not forgive my father? I can not not forgive him. And so I do. And I find this gift of forgiveness is also a gift for me. It allows me to heal. It allows me to move on. It allows me to love. It is the best Christmas gift ever.

The next day I watched CBS Sunday Morning with my dad. He was propped up in his chair with his pillow, blanket, and space heater and I was curled up in the seat next to him. Frequent conservative Republican guest commentator Ben Stein’s segment came on and although I generally change the channel because I don’t share his outlook on life, I wasn’t at my own home, and quite honestly, I’m glad I didn’t. For today, Ben Stein, perhaps best known for his role as Ferris Bueller’s science teacher in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, delivered a Christmas message that could not have come at a better time nor been anymore meaningful or personal.

“Why don’t we all clear out our homes inside our hearts and our heads of things that are really heavy and take up a lot of space-resentments and grudges, and anger. Why don’t we throw away our bad feelings at anyone we feel angry about because he or she slighted us or belittled us? Why don’t we toss away our remembered hurts and aches about people who didn’t treat us right? They’re just people after all. And they’re made up of all the things that make people maddening, just like you and I are……You’ll be amazed at how much sunnier and roomier it is in your head and your heart if you just get rid of everything that is blocking the light. Then comes the best part. As a gift to everyone in your life, give the gift of forgiveness. It is a great gift. I like doing it, and it’s really a gift for me. I’m even going to forgive my self for my usual sins. Just try it. Throw out your old resentments and give the gift of forgiveness for everyone, even yourself.”

Thank you Ben Stein. Merry Christmas to my dad, and Merry Christmas to me, compliments of a Jewish, conservative Republican. Who knew?

If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere.

Originally posted November 15, 2010

Tuesday night, October 26

Never in my entire life have I spent so much time getting ready for a trip. For over a month I’ve been planning to pack the perfect outfits. I would wear an outfit that I liked, and write down each of the components in a black book where I’ve been writing down things that I like. Five days. Five outfits. No more, no less. It seems like I’ve just lost five hours of my life packing. No more, no less.

Wednesday, October 27

I arrive at the gate at the airport 20 minutes late, and by 20 minutes late I mean I was supposed to take my flight tranquilizer 20 minutes earlier. This might not seem like a big deal to a lot of you, but for someone consumed with the fear of potentially facing my death in a long and drawn out matter every time I fly, I medicate myself. And, as some of my dearest friends will tell you who have witnessed me flying, there is a science and timing to better living through chemistry.

As I settle into my seat the perky flight attendant says, “Good morning, and thank you for flying Spirit Airlines. As most of you know, there was a rather large storm that came through the area last night, and its heading east.” No need say anything more, I know where this is heading and where I’m heading—to the bathroom to get water to take another ½ pill. While I realize this has potential implications for me, I’m doing what’s best for everyone. I mean, does the person sitting next to me really want to witness a 42-year-old crying, rocking back and forth in her seat, and saying, “Oh my God. We’re gonna die.” Over and over again? I think not. I do it just as much for the rest of the people on the flight as I do it for me.

As I stand inline outside of the restroom, I’m rather dumbfounded by the pilot texting on his iPhone. It just doesn’t seem right. While I too am a lover of my iPhone, and acknowledger of its amazing technological features, and have been known to send a text or two at my job….no one runs the risk of dying if I misspell a word or a client’s name, leave in a boilerplate footer, or duplicate the same line of text two paragraphs in a row. I guess I thought he might be just a little more focused on the pending task at hand—what with the big storm heading east and all.

I survive the loud snoring guy next to me by immersing myself in the deliciously melodic sounds of Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring. Before the end of the 25-minute, all-American symphonic piece that makes my heart happy when I hear it, the medication has taken hold and I am asleep.

I arrive at LaGuardia’s baggage claim to the techno sounds of “all-American-local girl-does good” Lady Gaga. Really? It’s 9:25 a.m. I’m still coming out of my medication buzz.

The main event of the day is a 28-year in the making reunion lunch with my former BFF turned frenemy (before any of us even knew what frenemy meant) from elementary school. The power of Facebook is transforming lives all around the world through reunions like this isn’t it? Why doesn’t Facebook have a special page for adopted children and birth parents that are looking for each other? Mental note…call Zuckerberg. Again, I’m still mildly medicated.

At the end of the day I hook up with my other friend and head to Staten Island for dinner. Armed with a ridiculously cheap, yet surprisingly delicious, bottle of Riesling, I settle into a wonderfully home made, Italian-style, Staten Island hospitality laden pasta dinner with meatballs, ricotta, garlic bread, and ice cream sundaes for desert. It makes for a sublime first night in New York.

Thursday, October 28

It’s not that I had to be back in Manhattan at a particular time, it’s just that I thought I would be back in Manhattan at a particular time. So the express bus from Staten Island to the city is like 20 minutes late. If it had been on time, I would never have gotten onto the subway in Lower Manhattan.

I get on the subway, which is very crowded. I go to grab the pole, and because there are three people already standing there, my first priority is to adjust my bag so it doesn’t hit them—not, grabbing a hold of the pole. Big mistake. Unfortunately, as the train takes off, I fall back into the gentleman standing behind me. I say to him, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” He is pleasant looking, but it stops there. He says out loud in a somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-his-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face-me, “That’s what the pole is for.” I am seriously, totally and completely shocked. “I’m aware of what the pole is for,” I said in a rather loud and snide tone, yet with the courtesy of turning to address him. To which he responded in a somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-his-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face- me, “And she didn’t even apologize.” To which both my friend and I said simultaneously, “I did apologize. She did too apologize.” To which he did not acknowledge said apology or apologize for being an asshole himself and in a somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-his-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face- me, “And she still isn’t hanging onto the pole.” To which my friend says in a rather loud, Staten Island accent, “She’s holdin’ on to me!” Thank you, my friend.

So, the rest of the time….we get him back. We talked in a rather somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-our-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face-him about how rude he was. And when he relinquished the pole and sat down, I had my friend photograph him with her phone to our great chagrin! Ha! I’ll show him and post his picture on Facebook for the world, and by world I mean all my Facebook friends and their friends, to see what an asshole he is. Ha! I never did it.

Friday, October 29

I depart Staten Island and head to the greatest city on the planet for the next three days and two nights! On the Staten Island side of the Staten Island Ferry, a gentleman and his bomb-sniffing dog approach me and ask to check my bag. As is the case in these situations, one becomes very serious. But how the hell am I supposed to respond when he says, “You don’t have any bombs in there do you?” “Um, no,” I say with a nervous voice. Is this a trick? Wait, do I have bombs in the suitcase? No, of course not. The suitcase has been in my possession the entire time since leaving the house this morning. Wait, why is he asking me this question? Why does he get to joke and I have to be serious? I do not want to say the wrong thing. I think I’m having a Homer Simpson moment.

At the subway turnstile in Manhattan, I contemplated at great length how I was going to get my almost 50 pounds of luggage through. It wasn’t going under. It wasn’t going beside me. I guess it’s going over, which is actually harder than I thought since I couldn’t do it until after I was already on the other side. Realizing at that point, that it would have been very easy for anyone with strength, agility and speed to run by, pick up my suitcase and take off. Fortunately, two very friendly gentleman helped me lift if over. And people say New Yorkers are rude.

I go to my uncle’s job to pick up the keys to his apartment, which is where I’m staying. He has left me $60 and a grocery list for tonight’s dinner party for 11, which, fortunately, I am invited to and don’t just have to shop for.

The list reads:

Fresh squeezed orange juice. Easy enough.
6 lemons and limes. Easy enough.
cranberry juice. Easy enough.
Pellegrino, 6 bottles-Shit! What size? So I text him, “6 Pellegrino water as in a 6 pack as compared to 6, 25 oz bottles?” His response, “6 big bottles.” OK. Good. Shit. Wait, there are 25 oz. bottles in glass or 32 oz. bottles in plastic. Does he want plastic or glass? Big or small? I text him back. I don’t hear from him. I call him. He is actually in the store and seems annoyed with my shopping thoroughness. “The glass bottles.” Done. I head to the check out line, then head to his place, unpack, and then realize…I need a drink.

My quest for alcohol is easily accomplished at the Mexican restaurant around the corner. It is very warm and cozy and I am the only one there. It is the first time in my life I have ever eaten out by myself. What do I do? Read? Text? Update my Facebook profile? Just eat? Think?

My chair is facing the street. A van-like car goes by with writing on the side that says, “Exclusive Ambulated Service.” I’m sorry, I would NOT get in that vehicle no matter how bad of shape I am in.

It’s happy hour. $5 margaritas. But the real kind, not the fruity stuff I usually drink. Damn. What the hell? I’ll try it anyway. Oh my, this is delicious.

Imagining myself the star of my uncle’s dinner party this evening. I’m not sure why. These drinks must be strong.

I could stay here for hours, and just sit and drink, but I will surely run out of food. Feeling buzzed. Do I order another one? Just because I can? Yes please.

Time to go. Better update my Facebook status with witty comment about my new favorite drink. “Oh tequila…why hast I forsaken thee for 27 years? You are very delicious on the rocks with margarita ingredients, especially when your glass is rimmed with seasoned salt. Oh my! How I heart New York!”

I get back to my uncle’s and spend the next two hours helping him prepare the meal, doing last minute shopping and setting the table. We’re eating pasta. There is no white wine in sight, only red. Can’t drink red. What am I going to drink? I can’t survive this meal with what are no doubt fascinating people sober. I am in need of a social lubricant. John says people are bringing white wine. Phew.

Here is who sat around the dinner table:

-Brazilian screenwriter

-Former screenwriter and now head of his own Kenyan-focused fashion label

-Guy whose sole job is to manage his family’s immense wealth through their foundation

-Writer/editor for a marketing/branding company that caters to the fashion industry

-Composer, for the likes of the Metropolitan Opera

-Major news network/affiliate liaison

-Casting director

-Theater critic for The New Yorker

Thank God the white wine came early.

Saturday, October 30

I am awakened at 4:45 a.m. by a string of “Fuck Yous” being yelled back and fourth across the street from three guys on my side of the street and woman across the street at the Cozy Corner bar-by the way, it ain’t.

I can’t see the three guys but I hear, “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. My lawyer. Fuck you.” I hear from the woman across the street, ‘No. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.” At this point I am less intrigued and more annoyed and look out the window in the hopes that my intimidating and pissed off looks from the third story window would all scare them into shutting up. It didn’t work. If I wasn’t so pissed at being awake, I might have been more concerned with the woman’s safety. She was with four guys, but they didn’t seem to be even a fraction as aggressive of the three guys who were rapidly crossing the street to “see her.” Since she was yelling, “Fuck you,” to a bunch of strangers, I’ve got to believe she might have been aware of potential consequences, of which there were none. It was like watching a physical fight in slow motion in which nothing physical ever happened. I found myself oddly disappointed.

When I wake up for the day, my uncle and I catch a bite to eat, stop at the coffee shop, and head off to the High Line. Amazing, amazing, amazing what little urban planning revitalization projects will do for an area’s economy recovery. The High Line was an elevated railway for freight trains carrying diary products, produce, meats and other food. It has recently been converted into a beautiful greenway with about 10 blocks of pathways, woodlands, grasslands, a horticultural preserve, a viewing amphitheater at 10th avenue and a variety of places to sit comfortably and read a paper, think, write, soak up some sun, and get annoyed during the people watching as two women in their 30s allow their small children to run around and misbehave. Yes. I actually hope the 4-year old falls off the chair.

I wanted to sit in one of the incredibly creative crafted seats that rest on steel wheels and move on the train tracks that still exist and type on my iPad, record my thoughts, and be one of those people who you look at and think, “How pretentious. Why don’t they just do that at home?”

Due to the cold, I moved on to the Apple store, which just happened to be located right next to a small plaza area filled with seats and chairs and potted plants in the Meat Packing District. Excellent. I could sit and type. I would now become one of those people you would walk by and look at and say, “How pretentious. Why don’t they just do that at home?”

At 4:00 we head to the Julie Saul Gallery in Chelsea where Maira Kalman (author, blogger, illustrator and friend of my uncles) was selling autographed copies of her new book The Pursuit of Happiness. I got one. She signed it cheers just like I do. Later, I would come to realize this is just one of the many reasons we should become imaginary best friends.

Sunday, October 31

It is not fighting that wakes me up at 4:45 a.m. today, but rather the CONSTANT yelling of drunken passerbyers from midnight until dawn that keeps me awake most of the night. If I wasn’t a big fan of adults dressing up in ridiculous costumes, acting like adolescents and celebrating Halloween before, I am certainly not one now.

I wake up. Eat. Run 8 miles. Get ready to fly home and with the time I have left I crack open Maira’s book. OMG! I love her. She writes with such serious and insightful whimsy! I used to want to be Katie Couric (Whew! Dodged that bullet). Then I wanted to be David Sedaris. Now I want to be Maira Kalman. She is writing about her trip to the Supreme Court where she meets Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. She says she thinks of Ms. Ginsberg as being her new imaginary best friend (her current one is Jane Austen). I feel the same way about her. I want her to be by new imaginary best friend. Wait a minute, who is my current imaginary best friend?

I’m in the cab on the way to the airport thinking about the affair I am having—my love affair with New York. How else do you describe it? I always want more, I can never get enough, it overwhelms me in both good and bad ways, and it’s always amazing when I’m there. And even though my friend says, “We all know the reality, don’t fuck with the fantasy.” I can’t help it. I am going to fuck with the fantasy. I am going to move to New York one day and live in a 200 sf apartment with a window looking out onto a brick wall and long for neighbors as sensitive as the occupants of the Cozy Corner. And it will be great. And I will continue and embrace my affair. New York actually makes me a better me.

Sitting at the airport gate in plenty of time to get comfortable and take my tranquilizer for the trip home, I do some texting (no need for me to save any lives) and people watching and all of a sudden my jaw drops and I say to myself “Oh my God. Michael Imperiolli is on my flight.”

I have become very fond of his Detective Fitch character on ABC’s Detroit 1-8-7 crime drama, which is why I suspect he is on a cheap Spirit Airlines flight headed back to Detroit. There isn’t even a real first class on this flight, just four rows of wider and more comfortable seats with extra legroom. No curtain dividing the haves from the have-nots. What is the matter with ABC? He deserves better than this.

An older gentleman approaches him with a smile. You can tell he is being complimentary of Michael, apparently now I am on a first-name basis with him. Michael smiles appreciatively, nods, says thank you and then is escorted on the plane by a female flight attendant who is all smiles. There is a familiarity between them. I suspect he takes this flight a lot while working in Detroit. I suspect I will now be taking this flight a lot when flying back from New York in the future.

It’s time to board and the tranquilizers are starting to work. I walk up the plane aisle toward my seat and there he is seat 5D. He has on black glasses and is reading. He is handsome. The middle seat is empty and 5 is my favorite number. Why isn’t that my seat? I can see it all flashing before my eyes. I sit next to him. He is polite. Somehow we would start talking and we would become best imaginary friends, just like Maira and me. He would be so dazzled by me, just like John’s guests at the dinner party. No doubt I would be invited to the set. I would bring Zingerman’s and everyone would love me. Ahh. It’s good to be me. Or, at least it’s good to fly with prescription medication.

I get to my seat, 17 B, just 12 rows back from Michael and across the aisle—so close and yet so far. A young woman with a University of Michigan sweatshirt moves into the window seat beside me. Apparently she has a pretty severe peanut allergy because she is very eager when talking to the flight attendant, the one who is cozy with my new best imaginary friend Michael, to ascertain if there are any peanut or peanut-related snacks on board. I assure her I won’t eat any peanuts, which is fine because they are costly at $4 a pop. WTF is it with peanut allergies? NO ONE had peanut allergies when I was a kid! But what if I really wanted them? What if I look forward to having them on planes all the time, like I do a Mountain Dew in the morning or a pretzel and diet Pepsi at the airport or popcorn at the movies? And her allergy denies me this? I am mildly annoyed at the principle of the situation, not the fact that I actually want any peanuts.

People continue to board and peanut girl next to me sneezes. I say “God Bless You.” She says thanks. A few minutes later, I sneeze. I get nothing from her. “Hey, peanut allergy girl! Remember me? The one who saved your life by not ordering peanuts? What? I can’t even get a ‘God Bless you?” Where I come from-which is where she comes from-that is just rude.

The meds are kicking in and I am plagued with very deep and sophisticated thoughts, like, “What really happens if a cell phone or an iPad or computer is left on during take off in a plane? Are our systems really that fragile? Can one cell phone take down a plane?” This does not console me.

Despite my concerns about errant technological use, I am remarkably unalarmed. I just don’t think the flight will go down. It is sunny and bright out, and I am in love with New York City and I know it loves me back, and I suspect Michael Imperiolli is a guardian angel sent to protect me.

My genius note typing on the plane for what would be this blog, under the heavy influence of anxiety medication.

My former BFF turned frenemy.

Official outing of the somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-his-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face-me asshole kind of a guy.

Oh Sweet Mother of God, you are delicious indeed Ms. Tequila.

Some of my favorite views of and from the High Line.

Man sitting next to me in Meat Packing District plaza, where I sat and pretentiously typed.

Michael Imperiolli, my personal flight guardian angel, and the cast of Detroit 1-8-7, a.k.a. my new best friends.

Anatomy of a Free Press Half Marathon

Originally posted October 20, 2010

After running for the past 19 years, I can honestly say that I know what I am doing. I mean, who the hell would put their body through such an ordeal for 19 years if they didn't know what the hell was going on? As such, I am going to be benevolent and share some pre-race, during-race, and post-race tips.

Pre-Race Don'ts

Don't set a goal time that is not based in reality, this will only disappoint you. If you are not sure what "reality" is for a goal time here are some tips to factor in a reality-based goal time: Did you train properly? Did you miss an entire week of running because you had a cold two weeks before the race? Is it the world's largest marathon (lots of people can hinder a runner's normal forward motion, and thus the runner has to rely on lateral motion-which only takes up extra time)? Is the course flat? Hilly? Did you get a bladder infection the day before the race that could result in unnecessary pit stops along the route?

Don't wait until the last minute to go to the expo. If one of your best friends is running her first marathon relay, and is known for having difficulty leaving places and arriving places on time, don't count on her to arrive on time. Because, in the event that she shows up late, you really have no one to blame but yourself because you should have known better. If, however, she does arrive on time, just be grateful and don't give her any passive aggressive crap.

Don't spend over $100 for three people on a pre-race meal because you are too lazy to walk to the church where they are hosting the "traditional" spaghetti dinner, which also happens to be a fundraiser. While all runners know there is an added benefit to relaxing the night before a big race, there is a balance that has to take place, a balance between comfort, your pocket book, and being insane.

Don't be afraid to mildly hit the person sleeping in the bed next to you and say, "Hey, you're snoring." They will only hear what you say out loud, i.e., the snoring part. They will not hear what you are saying in your head, which is, "Shut the fuck up! I have to get up at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow to eat breakfast and I need a good night's sleep."

Don't underestimate how crowded it will be at the start. Even if you are luxuriating in a schwanky hotel just four-five blocks from the start, you should probably leave your room more than 20 minutes prior to the race. Despite your assignment to a corral, there are no escorts to get you through a crowd of 15,000+ runners who are tightly packed into a city street. If you approach corral M and you are assigned to C, and they have already sung the national anthem and the wheelchair races have taken off, assume you will not get much farther than corral F.

Pre-Race Dos

Document. Document. Document. Take as many pictures as possible at the expo, eating dinner, after you've gotten dressed, approaching the race, any significant mile markers, etc. See end of posting for a variety of examples.

Race Don'ts

Don't forget about elevation. Keep in mind that no one takes an elevator to get to the Ambassador Bridge. There is a reason you look up at the bridge, cuz it's high. You will be making this ascent for close to a mile. I know it's only miles 2-3 miles in, but pace yourself. A quick race "Do," try to distract yourself by the gorgeous pink and orange ribbons in the sky that accompany the sunrise. It helps.

Don't forget that you aren't the only one running the race. OK, I get it, it's pretty cool to be running a race that requires a passport at check in because you are running across international borders-twice! However, the runners have access to only two of the bridge's four lanes. So when you slow down to get your phone out of the many layers of your running suit you are unnecessarily wearing for a race that starts in 45+ degrees to take a photo, it slows you down, and thus the runners behind you. I recommend you drive over the bridge post race and take a photo of the "Ambassador Bridge" sign. The sunrise, well, you're outta luck with that one, unless you come back the following day at 7:15 a.m.

Don't get bogged down with anti-American sentiment that will just annoy you. When running in Windsor along Riverside Drive and you see at the park the monument to Canada's Vietnam Vets, don't go on a political downward spiral about how stupid it is that all these other countries get sucked into these stupid wars that the US seems to start, because that could be a lot of thinking about war. Instead, just be happy that other countries are willing to help us clean up our messes and don't hate us entirely, I think.

Don't forget that Windsor is not significantly elevated above Detroit. When you enter that mile-long tunnel as you head back to the US, which happens to be for over a mile with temps at least 10-15 degrees higher than you've been running in, remember that what goes down, must go up. And that, alas, you will not be running the entire mile down hill, you will actually have to exert yourself in what seems to be the Sahara Desert with car exhaust.

Don't get angry about the abundant of beautiful and quaint houses in Mexicantown that have been covered in vinyl and aluminum siding. Wait, I'm wrong here. This should actually be a Race Do.

Race Dos

Document. Document. Document. Take as many pictures as possible to help remember this amazing journey, unless of course your fuddling with the phone/camera is going to hold someone else up.

Do remember to have fun! Aside from the fact that you have to run in order to consume the daily amount of calories you have gotten used to over the past 20 years, do try to have fun. Take in the music; take in the bands; take in the kids on the sidelines with signs; make eye contact with supporters (if you have the energy to lift your head), smile and nod (if your face doesn't hurt and you have the energy to nod).

Do remember that you would like to keep running in the future, so you can continue to eat all the chocolate that Amanda puts out at work-which you practically demand, so listen to your body if it is hurt. Don't hesitate to stop and walk, stretch, cry, have a mini (or maxi) emotional break down, curse yourself for lack of preparation, etc. Bottom line....DO what you gotta DO.

Do pick out your Gumby. This could very well be the most important race do! Your Gumby is the person that you keep your eye on throughout the race. This is the person/people that you will be beside yourself if they finish before you. These can be women older than you, men older than you, girls younger than you (especially if they are wearing tight shirts that reveal their very slim and taught midsection and the top of their shorts are rolled down and they are in their 20s and wearing makeup and braids) and pre teen boys. You can have multiple Gumby's throughout the race, especially the last mile as you kick up the speed and post your fastest time of the whole race!

Post Race Don'ts

Don't expect anyone to read your running blog if it is the equivalent of either a long, short story or a short novel. This is egotistical and ridiculous. As your therapist says, "You're not that special."

Post-Race Do's

Do get your medal almost immediately! Isn't that one of the main reasons you do this? For the hardware?

Do get post-race food post-haste. Sometimes they run out. Even if you can't walk or breathe, try to get over to the food and beverage table before all the good bagels and drinks are gone!

Document! Document! Document! Take as many pictures as possible to ensure a record exists that this event indeed did happen-finish line with medal; finish line with medal and warming blanket; finish line with medal, warming blanket and flowers; in front of any race signs; in front of a building that used to be the home of a newspaper for which the race is named after; in the hotel room after looking so much better than your immediate post race picture at the race; at the restaurant outside after you've had the most amazing Philly Cheese Steak sandwhich you've ever had in your life; in the various rooms of the hotel for which you acquired a private tour; random shots in the parking structure; and ridiculous shots with statues that have nothing to do with the race. Again, see below for examples.

Do plan to do it all over again! Because not unlike the agony of childbirth, of which I have no personal experience but can imagine, you love the end result, eventually forget the pain, and can't wait to start planning for the next one!