The Last Days at the Lodge

Work. Dog races. Work. Arizona snow skiing. Work. Revolutionary Road. Work. Scottsdale Club Hopping. Work. Downtown Phoenix Gay Bars. Work. Work. Work. Promotion. Yeah!

I have a dream - to run 13.1 miles

The past two weeks have only continued in their hastiness. I’m fully aware that that’s the way I start each post, but it’s positively true. MY LIFE IS A TORNADO.

The most important element of this insanity occurred yesterday – the PF Chang’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Arizona Marathon and ½ Marathon. It’s the world’s largest combined marathon and half marathon, located here in the Valley of the Sun. Stress fracture and all, Kate and I managed to finish the half marathon in two hours and six minutes. WHAT WHAT! As we crossed the finish line, both of us (like the synchronized swimmers that we are) gave three or four celebratory fist punches into the air and then reached for each other for a sweaty embrace. 13.1 isn’t the totality for all existing things, but it’s damn remarkable for someone like me, who over a year ago, hadn’t exercised nor lifted a muscle in five years. The experience as a whole was as rewarding as it was difficult. I’m afraid to say... I’m hooked.

I’ll speak of the half marathon alone, as it’s the only thing I can recount personally on. The race itself started in Southwest Phoenix, taking us through the up-and-coming downtown Phoenix, across into Scottsdale and all its beauty, wealth and fame, and finishing near the ASU Sundevil stadium in Tempe. At every mile was a rock band (stage and all), local cheer squads and water and cytomax stations.

And like every marathon and half marathon, the race was split into corrals. Depending on the time you estimate you’ll finish, you’re placed into a group. Kate and I raced in corral 12, of a total of 25 corrals. However, we ended up crossing the finish with corral 8.

The race was indescribable. Think Vanilla Sky, when Tom Cruise wakes up at the beginning of the movie to a city completely abandoned and vacant. We ran all throughout the Valley – the streets were closed down and we were running, literally, through the downtown, next to skyscrapers and restaurants I can’t find parking to normally, and streets I drive 50 and 60 down. It was like our city, all 40,000 of us, which was random in itself. Our determined mob weaved through the good and bad areas, passing the homeless who cheered us along with cigarettes and torn clothing, the elderly who planned their day around the event and various friends and family on every main intersection, geared with glittery signs, noise-makers and children…lots and lots of children. Kate took a liking to this last addition and every chance she had to give the line of toddlers a high-five, she took it. Both parties involved (the kids and Kate) left each interaction with the same level of content and satisfaction, knowing they had just made one another’s day. They each had.

When I had initially decided to enter the race, I was promised beer upon completion. Most everyone knows I’ll do most anything with the promise of beer. And yet randomly, it’s the one thing I did not want. It just felt wonderful to not be running, drinking the water, eating the popsicle and reveling in the fact that I not only did I run 13.1 miles, but I did it well.

So today, the day after, is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. It’s a day I have off from work, thankfully, as my old bones and muscles would shutter at the thought of running around and working a full day of tourism silliness. I’m enjoying today. It represents several things other than the day after my first accomplishment as a runner: it represents my friend Danielle’s (SIR) birthday, it represents the day after my childhood home burned to the ground 12 years back, it represents the second January I’ve spent away from home, and simultaneously, it represents the first January I’ve felt secure, independent and pointed in the right direction on my own.

Thus, in true MLK Jr. Day form, and as cliché as it most certainly is, I plan to do some dreaming of my own. Mostly about what the future may bring, but partially about things in my life currently being readdressed - maybe crazy, or stupid, but personally worth some thought. In my 77-degree perfect weather, I plan to sort it out.

Pffffffffffffffffffshhhhhhhhhhh.

"We're supposed to help each other, supposed to love each other; And to me, that's more important than [sigh] having a perfectly clean house"

For a person like Suzie Bell, there's no compliment more vast or of higher regard, than one she will, on national television, admit is "more important than having a clean house. "

And yet, what has been started by these two phenominal leaders, my parents, is nothing short of amazing.

http://abcnews.go.com/WN/story?id=6593866&page=1

It's an odd feeling, almost role reversal, when the child is proud of the parent. And maybe it's not that odd. It could be, just that it's less familiar, because it's more rare.

Nonetheless, last night as I watched on national television, my parents - two people who already serve as distinguished role models and inspirations in my life - I was extraordinarily proud. Like, pleasantly deeply, and unfamiliar-type proud.

And through one of the busier weeks I've had in a while, that pride has carried through. From meeting to meeting, and deadline to deadline, and a rather large ambush - I feel a calm and happiness. I'm a proud daughter. So there.

Another Bell Christmas

Another holiday with the Bell clan has come and gone and not without a mad moment in the slightest. Suffice it to say the week in Arkansas didn't fall short of my expectations and offered up any number of perverted pranks, a constant six dog pile-up, rubber chickens (just in general), an expected but nonetheless rekindled love interest, Neil Diamond, Nazi-like sewing lessons, pie gates and countless holiday beverages by the fire. Silent Night, Holy Night, I think not.

I'll touch on the high points...

The First Morning

I was awoken to two [Methodist] golden retrievers placing slobber-garnished rubber chickens on my face. Fair enough. They wanted to know why somebody was asleep in this bed that was always empty and wanted to offer this newcomer a welcoming token. So, I received their friendly welcome by jumping up and screaming at the top of my lungs. And off they shot out of my room, but not before snatching up the prized chickens that had fallen at their feet from my abrupt jolt from bed.

Pleased, I let my body fall back into my warm bed (thank you, electric blanket). What I didn't know at the time, was that two of those monsters would soon be joined by four other slobber-capable canines in a matter of hours: two english bulldogs, one chow mix and one mutt, creating a six dog pile-up that I, in general, spent the rest of my time in Eureka trying to avoid.

Christmas Day

As the whole gang sat in the living room opening presents, one by one in order of age, a determined knock at the front door interrupted the charade. Beau jumped up to answer the knock while three of the six dogs darted off into the darkness. He came back, smirking, with a large package in his hands and handed it over to Dad. The package was addressed, "Emergency: To be delivered to the residents of 699 CR 140." Dad wearily unadhered the weathered tape and then ripped the mysterious box open. Inside lied a note, a zipped-tight mini body bag and dirtied clothing. As the room went silent, Dad slowly tugged open the dark mini bag to find the infamous Jerry Mahoney, dressed in ripped up rags and dirtied clothing. The note accompanying Jerry read as follows:

"To whom it may concern: As I was driving my truck along I-40, I came across this young man nearly unconscious and weak from exhaustion. I hope you are not Chuck or Suzie because the only thing he was able to mumble seemed to be, 'don't take me to Suzie or Chuck, presentation is not everything...' I did manage to look in his pocket and find this address, so I brought him here. Please help him, he may not make it. Signed, A friendly truck driver."

A ROAR of laughter erupted and my mother was on her feet, arms outstretched to Jerry, guilty smirk displayed. As she took Jerry, placed him in the chair she was previously sitting in and went for the lone present under the tree, I took a moment to wonder just how subnormal each family was supposed to be. Sure, everyone's family is weird. But this...the doll saga of Jerry Mahoney, I am beginning to think it beyond the normal oddities the everyday family posesses.

However, weirdness is relative. For entertainment purposes, I prefer the craziness. But that should be obvious to anyone who has met me even once. Which means, yes, I like the drama.

The Pie Gate

Yes, the pie gate saga continued this year, and my mother paraded the items (created by Pampered Chef to gate ones pie in place once a slice has been removed) each holiday. This year, April did receive one in her stocking. As I saw her horror and subsequently my mother's delight, I cautiously reached to the bottom of my stocking in fear of the same shame. To my immense delight, I am still a proud pie-gate free individual. HA. Yeah!

So, the holiday season remained no more odd or less dramatic than the others, which was just the way I wanted it. Perfection.

As I flew back into the Valley of the Sun, it felt good to be home (which is odd to say 'home' about a place that's still relatively new to me). And then, just as I come back, off I go again. VEGAS HERE WE COME.

i reign in a city with no rain

The past few weeks have been a foggy and dizzy blur. I will attempt to recap.

Denver was a fantastic, fantastic addition to my November. A one hour direct flight - Phoenix to Denver, one bloody mary and wa lah. Miss Mollie was there to get me and we were Longmont bound. Bound to complete the trio with our bride to be, Miss Canadian, Tuque wearing Ashley Clayton.

And that's where we spent most of the weekend, Longmont, Colorado. Alas! The three meatballs reunited after nearly five years. And the phenominal thing is that we never skipped a beat. We truly didn't. Five years of emailing, texting and brief phone calls of life updates might as well have been five days, because we were right where we left off. The three of us stayed up until the wee hours of each morning catching up, drinking rum and coke and subsequently piling into one large basement bed. It was SO refreshing to see these gals. And, although it may have been financially straining to do so that month, it brought to surface an important lesson: maintaining these relationships, those that enrich my life so emmensely, and those withstand the distance of Phoenix to Colorado to Czar, Alberta, are of such substance and importance to me. Investing in them, are worth every cent.

I flew back into Phoenix Sunday afternoon, grabbed a $40 cab to my nearby condo and launched directly into my seven mile run scheduled for the day. Surprisingly, not as bad as I had anticipated, expecially considering I had a bloody mary on the flight home. The first mile or two were not the most direct routes.

And then magically, it was Monday. And then, in the blink of an eye, thanksgiving. Yet another quick, direct flight. Phoenix to Memphis, only this time, sans alcoholic beverages of any sort.

As I deplaned and said farewell to my new Army friend Tyler, I entered the barbeque aroma-ed and scrub-until-you-die and it'll still be dirty Memphis airport. There ahead, I could see my anxious Uncle waiting at my gate. Huge smiling Uncle Girl, dressed in his worn jeans, boots and working-man's jacket, slumped over. And yet, he was beaming. The thing about Uncle Girl is, he's rarely awake past 9:00 p.m. And yet, there he was, at nearly midnight. It felt so good to be in the presence of family. I scampered full-speed to give him a hug and we walked arm in arm to the truck and rode back through the darkness to Jonesboro. Even through the shadows, it was odd to see trees and pastures of what appeared to be green vegetation.

And I blinked my brown eyes and thanksgiving had vanished. I had found myself, again, at the Memphis airport. Upon landing in Phoenix-town, my jolly roomate Kate swooped me up in her shiny silver Honda Accord, and off we sped. The landscape was back to the desert, but it felt like home.

Condo. Change of clothes. $5 dollar Chinese lunch. Christmas Tree/Decoration Shopping. Peppermint Schnapps, Manheim Steam Roller and Cocoa. Bed.

And then, like it always creeps up on me - Sunday. Out of thin air! After an eight mile run, I dragged my near-dead corpse to the 1st Annual Battle of the Bloody Marys at my girl Meggie's house. And yes, I was a competitor and a fearless one at that. Many would not be stopped in their tracks to learn that the "shit talking" was at a high.

After six grueling rounds against my first competitor, Mike (Meggie's dad, an urban and seasoned drinker originally from Illionis), the judges casted their votes. And I, "Arkansas," took him DOWN. Thus, I advanced to the second round. The competition was steeper. "Illinois #2" and I battled it out for 30 minutes, getting judged on the likes of spiciness, drinkability, presentation, incorporation of secret ingredient (maraschino cherries), you name it. At one point I felt so confident, I actually said, "Keep shaking and stirring Illinois, but you can't beat a bloody mary from the dirty south." I was living in the competitive moment. And then, the time came to announce the judges' final selection.

Once again - I took Illinois DOWN, making me, "Arkansas," the reigning champion of the 1st Annual Battle of the Bloody Marys. WHAT WHAT!

I'm such a rockstar.

Upcoming areas of focus include kicking ass (finishing) in January's PF Chang 1/2 marathon, planning New Year's Mexico trip, investigating further into my close relationship with the former President of Panama (I always knew I was royalty), and listening to more Annie Lenox, Ray LaMontagne and George Harrison (I've got my mind set oooon you).

Christmas will be here before we know it.