Apricots in August

Ron's dad

An exhaustive list of things Ron's dad likes:

1. Florida
2. Classic cars

We went to the all-GM show this weekend, which Ron's dad helps organize every year. The cars were organized by era, and walking along the rows of beautiful car after beautiful car (the oldest was from 1939), was like walking through US history. Year after year, GM turned out amazing, stylish, thoughtful designs that showed so much evident pride. And then...you hit the 1980s. What happened? The cars had been enormous for ages, but they suddenly lost their angles and curves. Rather than lightening bolt sexiness, glamor, and intelligence, the cars became arrogant, lazy-looking, Flintstone-simple, carved-out-of-granite dolts. There weren't enough examples to say for sure, but I saw signs of hope in a few of the newer models. Still, my heart belongs to the beauties of the past.

1957 Oldsmobile

Inside Ironman training

Basically, yeah.

There's your swimming:


Then you've got your biking:


Top it off with a nice run:


Ta dah!

Tomi-san

The thing about my friend Tom isn't just that he's super-smart (created a major in neurobiology for himself), or athletic (rowed throughout college), or hot (nick-named "The Body" by Charlottesville's gay community), or weirdly, randomly talented (singing bass at a Russian Orthodox church in DC, despite not being Russian Orthodox or even speaking Russian).  It isn't even that he is the best I know at making the people he loves KNOW that he loves them (such an underrated skill!). Dayenu, dude.

But it's not just all those fabulous qualities. It is also that he is truly, genuinely, hilarious. He is the person on whom I can 100% rely on to bring insight and humor to every single conversation. See for yourself:

Tom Fries tells a true story at SpeakeasyDC's open mic from SpeakeasyDC on Vimeo.
All of my memories with Tom involve a LOT of smart-alecky-ing, and confessions of (semi-) inner dorkitude ("I heard the most interesting statistic on NPR the other day..."), and generally inappropriate commentary. One of my warmest, most beloved college memories is of a grey, gloomy February spent entirely in his company. We'd gone to UVA's gorgeous pool and swum a million laps. Then we went back to his apartment, where we made something ridiculous like fettucine alfredo, and brownies, and proceeded to undo any calorie deficit to the point of actual physical pain. We recovered by lying on his floor moaning, and he introduced me to "All About Eve". It was perfection.

Tom's moving to Germany for a couple of years, because his company loves him so, and DC and my dinner parties will be a duller place for it.

Besos, Tomisan! Bon voyage, gute Reis, miss you already.

Spa World

Full disclosure: The point of this blog, at least partially, is to create a forum to receive feedback on my writing. The story below is long, and not a typical blog post, but if you get through it, I'd love to know what you think.

Also, what is going on with the formatting? Does anyone know how to fix the spacing, etc? Annoying...

SPA WORLD

About 45 minutes outside of DC, in the kind of bland strip mall that makes city-dwellers a little smug, is an oasis of wonderful weirdness called Spa World. The enormous facility is modeled after the more luxurious traditional bath houses in Korea, and prior to visiting for the first time, I'd heard just enough about it to make me both curious and slightly concerned.

To taunt a mockingbird

In the spirit of noticing the humor in life....

This morning as I was walking Pippa we got dive-bombed by a very angry mockingbird. She seemed annoyed with me, but truly furious with Pippa. She dived down behind her, getting closer and closer to Pippa's backside, maybe 4 or 5 times - all the while Pippa was completely oblivious. Finally- contact! The mockingbird goosed her right on the nubbin. Pippa jumped up in the air with a little yelp and then plunked her butt down hard on the pavement.

This is especially funny because, since she got her short summer haircut, Pippa has been jumping at unexpected breezes in and around her back door. She didn't imagine this one, though- I saw the culprit myself.

So, today I am grateful for a good laugh before I even properly woke up.

The video below is not of Pippa, but I included it as evidence so she can feel better that she's not the only one.

But I will be an Ironman

For a better idea of the ridiculousness of this activity, please see this handy informational video. The fact that I find it motivating is probably just one of many signs that I have indeed succumbed to Ironmadness.

Ironlove

Ron and I are training to compete in the 2011 Ironman triathlon in Cozumel, Mexico. The race is November 27- the Sunday after Thanksgiving.

Triathlons are always comprised of 3 events: swimming, biking, and running. They are always held in that sequence in order to decrease the odds that  your fatigue will result in your untimely demise. 

The name "Ironman" refers to a triathlon of a specific length. There are 3 categories of triathlons: sprints (short); olympic (medium); and Ironman (fucking long). 

Specifically, an Ironman is a 2.4 mile swim, then a 112 mile bike, topped off with a 26.2 mile marathon. You have 17 hours to complete the race- it starts at 7am and you have to be off the course by midnight. Technically, Ironman is a brand, like Kleenex or Snuggie.

Competing in this thing was not my idea. It is a crazy idea and it was, initially, Ron's crazy idea. But it's our friend Katy's fault. Last summer we watched her finish Ironman Lake Placid, and we were both blown away by the achievement.

Ron knew from the minute we left that he wanted to do this; I was not so sure. It wasn't that I wasn't sure I could do it- I hope I won't jinx myself completely if I admit that I have always been sure I could.

But training for this event eats your life. From the start, though, I knew that if Ron were doing it, I'd have to do it too. First, because I had no intention of becoming an Ironman widow, and second because I knew I would regret not sharing this experience with him.

So we're 6 months into a 12 month training, which means we're 6 months from the finish line as well. I should have been doing this from the start, but I hereby swear to put my tired little fingers to the keyboard and document this process 'till death or jellyfish do us part.