I’ve been training for the half marathon—informally—for, well, for years if you look at my running regimen. But with the Nashville Women’s Half Marathon just one month away, I asked the East Nastywomen’s team if I could tag on to some of their long-run training sessions. I figured I'd meet some other runners, see some new terrain, and make sure I could comfortably complete a 13.1 mile course before race day.

Sunday was my first official training run with this group.

The course was supposed to be eleven miles, starting behind Grassland Elementary School, just off Hillsboro Road. But prior to setting out, I was handed a set of directions for a 12 mile course that ended on Hillsboro Road. No biggie, I thought. So it’s 12 miles, not 11. 

And off we went.

There were maybe a dozen or so women in the group, and we ran as a pack for the first two miles. At that point, I ran ahead, figuring I had my directions and didn’t need to follow anyone. 

Yes. 

I figured.

Good things never happen when I do that.

I was cruising along—the weather was perfect, my pace was brisk, and I reached the 8-mile mark feeling strong. On a long straightaway, I turned back to see if anyone from the group was behind me. They weren’t, but I didn’t give it much thought. I had directions, I was enjoying the run, and … hmmm … there was a strange noise behind me. Sort of a snarling. Mixed with a lot of snorting. And panting. And a tinkling. Like a collar. Like a collar on a bulldog. A giant, snorting, snarling, panting, tinkling bulldog, with TESTICLES THE SIZE OF A GRAPEFRUIT. 

Excellent, I thought. I am going to die now. Either that, or this dog is going to try and have sex with me. What else was he going to do with the contents of those titanic testicles? 

So there I am, with the biggest, loudest, drooliest bulldog I’ve ever seen, snarfing and DARTING AT ME IN A ZIG ZAGGY WAY, like an evil bulldog in a Disney movie, before they photoshopped out his libidinous balls to get the G rating. 

Quickly, I googled “WHAT TO DO WHEN A SNARLING BIG-BALLED BULL DOG IS CHASING YOU” in my head. And let me just say, there is a reason my brain has never had an initial public offering. 

Zero search results.

Instinct told me it would be a mistake to try to outrun this animal. Instead, I decided to pretend he was my friend. My very loud, snarly, furry, grapefruit-betesticled friend. I ran very slowly alongside my friend, telling myself that if he wanted to kill me he probably would have done so already. And if he wanted to have sex with me, perhaps I could interest him in four more miles of foreplay. 

A half a mile later, Dog Juan got tired of me leading him on and moseyed off to find a more suitable partner. The next three and a half miles went by without incident, and I arrived at the finish line on Hillsboro Road. Twelve miles. Done.

Except. 

It was unlike any stretch of Hillsboro Road I’d ever seen. 

It had a Kroger. And a La Hacienda. And a bunch of other non-suburban-subdivisiony establishments OH MY GOD. 

OH MY GOD.

WHERE AM I?

WHICH DIRECTION AM I POINTING? 

WHAT PLANET AM I ON? 

I checked the back of the directions six or seven times to make sure there were no further instructions written there. Amazing how you can try to will a piece of paper to SAY SOMETHING. I never studied the directions before we started to see exactly where on Hillsboro Road we would end up. I just saw Hillsboro Road written there and assumed ... ASS. UUUUMED ... the directions were a full loop. Clearly, though, I was nowhere near the school where we'd started.

Keep in mind the following: I was running in an unfamiliar part of the city that is a 40 minute drive from my house. Also? I have no internal compass. I wear flip flops every day because it takes me so long to find my feet, there's no time left for laces. 

So, I  turned right on Hillsboro Road when I should have turned left, only to discover that, my goodness, Hillsboro Road has a plethora of shopping options IN SEATTLE. 

As things became less and less familiar, I realized my mistake and ran back in the opposite direction. But I was still not recognizing ANYTHING. 

It was a Sunday morning. The stores were closed. I had no watch. I had no phone. I did, however, have the very strong sense that God was laughing at me. A billboard erected itself in my mind: "THIS IS WHAT YOU GET." This is your punishment for running ahead of the pack. For being a loner. For telling yourself you were doing a great job. I TRIED TO WARN YOU WITH THE BULLDOG BALLS! BUT DID YOU LISTEN?

Now I had no choice but to keep running. And running and running, for what I guessed was a little over three miles.

Finally I arrived at a BP station and found a woman pumping gas.

“Which way is Grassland Elementary?” I asked her. 

She pointed in the same direction I’d been running.

“Thank God.” 

“But it’s a ways down that road,” she said. “It’s not close.”

I kept running.

I’d run just over sixteen mother effing miles when a car pulled up alongside me and a voice asked if I wanted a ride. It was the most beautiful voice in the world. I could have married that voice. It just happened to be Erin Burcham's voice. Erin writes the Her Night Out column in Her Magazine, and she, thank God, was also in the group, had also run ahead with another girl, and had also followed the directions. Only they had the good sense to hitch a ride. A nice couple had picked them up at the BP station, and now I was about to repay them for their kindness by sweat bombing their leather seats. (So so sorry about your leather seats, nice couple.)

As it turned out, we were supposed to turn back at the 5.5 mile mark, to make 11 miles. Something I would have known if I'd stayed with the group. Or if I were the kind of person who GOT THE MEMO. EVER.

I never get the memo.

Why do I never get the memo?

Also! Why has it taken me longer to tell this story than it did to run it?

Perhaps because I can't figure out the take away.

What am I supposed to GLEAN from this experience? Other than, yeah, I can definitely run 13.1 miles.

--Mommy, you look really good in those jeans.

--Thanks, Gus.

--I bet you're going to get a lot of boyfriends wearing those jeans.

--I'm not really in the market for a boyfriend.

--Then why are you wearing those jeans?

On Sunday night, friends of ours took us to see Ray LaMontagne and David Gray downtown at the Name-Changes-Daily-Who-Can-Keep-Up? Arena. I think it's the Bridgestone Firestone Arena now ... or at least it was when I started typing, not that the name of the arena pertains to my story in any way whatsoever, FOR GOD'S SAKE, AMANDA, FOCUS.

Point of story -----> Ray LaMontagne.

Hot damn that guy can sing. 

I mean, he can really, really, sing. And play the guitar. AND SING. I knew that already, of course, but it was nice of him to confirm it for me in person. 

We had terrific seats, Ray was awesome, his band was on fire, and we could have just left it at that. There was really no need for David Gray (who was also great, though stylistically not so much my cup of tea), and there was certainly no need for anyone to give me backstage passes. 

I should never be given backstage passes.TO ANYTHING.

EVER.

Something happens to me in the presence of the passes. 

What the pass says:

What I see when I look at the pass:

I can't help myself.

Larry stayed upstairs with the male half of the couple we were with, while we ladies made our way down to the bowels of the arena with limited assistance from security. We kept pointing to our passes saying, HI! WE HAVE THESE! SO, LIKE, WHAT NOW?, and the security guards would sort of shrug and point down another darkened hallway, like, if you don't know, we ain't gonna tell you. We must have walked at least six or seven miles (uphill, barefoot, in the snow, both ways) before we found the little room with the band standing outside.

Ray's drummer was a lovely man. He said something about being from Maine--or having just come from Maine--I can't be sure. As soon as I heard the word MAINE, I was all MAINE! WAIT! I KNOW THIS ONE! And I jumped into his arms and asked him to hold me while I showed him the slides from our family vacation to Kennebunkport. Nice guy, that drummer.

Then we went into The Room, which was just, like, a room. With fluorescent lights and a cooler of Heineken and Sierra Nevada.

AND NO BOTTLE OPENER.

This was very harrowing. Because you can't not partake of the free beer when it is given freely for free.

My friend and I looked at each other.

"MAYBE IT'S A TEST!" I said. "TO SEE IF WE ARE WORTHY!"

We started to chat with the nearest two gentlemen. Charming guys. Perhaps they would say a riddle! And it would give us the secret of the bottle opener! 

They did not say a riddle. They were friends of Ray LaMontagne's road crew. But one of the two guys happened to be Audrey Niffenegger's driver, and I was all OMG! (POM-POM SHAKE!) I LOVETHE TIME TRAVELER'S WIFE! Because I do. I love The Time Traveler's Wife. It was an excellent novel. I haven't gotten up the nerve to dive into her second book, because some idiot reviewer on Amazon said it was GAH! AMANDA! FOCUS. FO-CUS.

------> BACKSTAGE. FREE BEER. NO BOTTLE OPENER.

So the two men did not have a riddle for us to solve, but Audrey Niffenegger's driver did have a lighter. And luckily, according to Larry, there are two things every woman should know. One is how to change a flat tire. And two is how to open a beer bottle with the butt end of a cigarette lighter. I am a master at both.

And I look so much like my father in this picture it is downright ALARMING. Excuse me while I go finance some commercial real estate.

Once I got the bottle open, Ray appeared. Just a few steps away and to my right. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, talking to a small group of people who seemed to know him. Smaller than I'd imagined. Little Ray! So thin and young and suspicious of strangers. We waited a few minutes, hoping for a chance to say hello, but he wasn't making eye contact with anyone, and David Gray was starting, so we made our way out. Until we were stopped and told not to go one step further with our glass bottles. Which. Clearly. Was a sign.

A sign that I needed to go back and shine my light on Ray LaMontagne.

When we got back to The Room, Ray was standing outside, talking to a group of people, who looked as if they might be members of his extended family. It would be inappropriate to interrupt a family gathering, and yet.

My beer tank was full.

When my beer tank is full, it does not matter. There is nothing to discuss. When my beer tank is full, I am going for a drive down I-Love-You Lane, and you can either hop in or prepare to be FLATTENED BY MY PRAISE. 

Vroom! (Pom-Pom shake) "HELLO THERE, TALENTED SIR!" 

I must say, Ray did not look all that happy to see me. "This looks like your family," my friend said to Ray. 

"It is my family," Ray told her. (Subtext: my family of which you are not a member WHY ARE YOU HERE, BLONDIE?).

I waited for him to say something else, but he was not in a sayingkind of mood. He seemed to be in more of a GO AWAY kind of mood. So his aunts started introducing the whole family to us while a little thought bubble appeared over Ray's head that said FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, AUNT MARVENE, YOU DO NOT HAVE TO INTRODUCE YOURSELF TO THESE WOMEN. THEY ARE ONLY HERE FOR THE FREE BEER. SPEAKING OF WHICH, HOW DID THESE TWO BIMBOS FIND THE BOTTLE OPENER? 

Ray stood there, not smiling, while I told him how awesome he is, and how much I enjoyed his show, and his band, and ...

This seems to be Larry's and my specialty. 
 Praising celebrities who would prefer to see us go f*ck ourselves. 
 See also: Shawn Colvin.)

... and then, unable to enjoy basking in his hatred of me any longer, I did a double round off, and a split.

GO. TEAM! 

I don't hold it against Ray that he found me intrusive. I found myself intrusive, to be honest. But I was intruding because I enjoyed his concert, and I wanted to tell him so. WITH POM POMS! And for god's sake, if you don't want strangers backstage, don't be letting your management give out backstage passes to strangers!

AM I RIGHT?

Hollaback! 

I was having dinner with a friend this weekend when she mentioned that her mother has developed a serious hoarding problem. I sat in horrified silence while she described the sorts of things her mother collects--and how, room by room, these objects have taken over her parents' home. Then Larry reminded me of another close friend of ours who'd said her mother was a hoarder, and I asked him to please pass the duck sauce, because my foot--the one in my mouth--was tasting a little dry; I wasn't sure if I'd be able to choke it down. My column in the September issue of Her Nashville is (of course it is!) about hoarders. 

Does your mom or dad suffer from a disease or mental illness? Let me know, and I'll be sure to make fun of it in a magazine article.

No, really. That's what friends are for.

This weekend I took myself to see a little film you probably haven't heard of called Eat Pray Love.

I read the book when it first came out, long before it had been hyped to the heavens, and I loved it. I loved it simply because, gosh, it was a swell book, written in a voice I found both funny and endearing. It did not dramatically alter my life's course, spiritually or otherwise, but it entertained the heck out of me. And this is why it annoys the ever loving BESHITTILYFUCK out of me when people go off about how much they despised this book. And how much they despise the woman who wrote it for being so selfish. And irresponsible. And vapid. And spiritually bankrupt. And lightweight. And ridiculous. And OH MY GOD MY BLOOD PRESSURE.
 
Just stop it, people.
Okay?

Eat Pray Love was a memoir. A really funny memoir, in my opinion. 

And I'm sorry if you feel it sends a "bad message to women" that she left her husband, traveled around the world, and wound up finding true love again, but, the thing is? SHE LEFT HER HUSBAND, TRAVELED AROUND THE WORLD, AND WOUND UP FINDING TRUE LOVE AGAIN.

It's a TRUE STORY, see? That's how memoirs work. If you change the ending, and all the middle parts, so that she sticks out the lame marriage and has a baby like you would have, and gets a job in human resources just like YOURS, then it would be (da, da, dah ...) a NOVEL! A really shitty, boring-ass, novel that I defy even a loyal and steadfast human resources person such as yourself to finish.

Next week on Blabbermouse: Biographies! And Why You Can't Write One About Yourself.

I don't know what it is with me defending Eat Pray Love. I just sense that Elizabeth Gilbert is a very nice person with a good sense of humor who doesn't NEED YOUR SHIT.

You may have other reasons for hating this book. My sister in law did. So did my friend Margot, and several other people I love and respect (and want to throttle. WHY WHY WHY DIDN'T YOU LIKE IT?). Wait. Don't answer that. As the self appointed guardian angel to Miss Gilbert, I will not open up the floor for yet another catty debate about whether this book was good or not. I simply don't think you're capable of having a mature and rational discussion about it.

It was a good book, and that's final.
WAS TOO, WAS TOO! 
SHUT UP.
YOU'RE STUPID.
Anyway! Not to get all fighty.

So.

I went by myself to see the movie, because I suspected it was the sort of movie that would

a) kill Larry
b) make me cry for no reason

And I was right on both counts! What I failed to predict was that the movie would be so ... 

Not good.

Not really very good at all.

I'm not sorry I saw it. Julia Roberts is so lovely and radiant, I would pay $10.50 to watch her pick nits off a goat for two and a half hours, but the whole time I was watching, I wondered if this movie would even make sense to someone who hadn't read the book.

Why is she leaving her husband? He seems like a nice enough guy. A little dull maybe, but. Why would she be attracted to James Franco's character? He reminded me of Joey on Friends. How could she afford to make this trip when he got all the money in the divorce? Since when did Sophie and Giovanni become a couple? Why are Liz and Sophie hanging out in a barber shop with a guy named Luca Spaghetti? None of this is accounted for in the movie. Perhaps because the director was too busy stereotyping the living shit out of Italians.

WOW.

It was just ... 
Wow.

Did you know that Roman women feed their little doggies with silver cutlery at street cafes? Did you know that Italians SCREAM when they are ordering espresso? They do! They scream and shove, and GESTICULATE WILDLY. And dangerously. And also, they scream! The cafe and coffee shop scenes reminded me of a highly choreographed introduction to a Broadway musical. I half expected Julia Roberts to shout "FREEZE" and walk around inspecting these yappy foreign creatures and their mysterious cannoli.
I understand that the book is called Eat Pray Love, and that the whole "eat" thing had to be addressed somehow, but HOO BOY, this director made some interesting choices on that front. In one scene, the camera comes in for a revolting and much-too-long close up of Julia Roberts's mouth, as she basically performs fellatio on a plate of spaghetti to the soundtrack of *La Traviata. I was embarrassed for her mouth. 

*I don't actually think La Traviata was playing in the background, but it felt that way.

Another thing the movie failed to capture is that Elizabeth Gilbert (my dear Elizabeth!) is funny. Even while performing voice-overs of the author's actual text, Julia Roberts couldn't get that across. When Elizabeth Gilbert first talks about prayer, and how she hadn't prayed in so long, she says she felt like warming up to God by telling him she's a big fan of his work. It was a funny line when Gilbert wrote it. The way Julia delivered it, without a trace of humor, it was like an anvil being dropped on my head.

The "Pray" portion, which took place in India, managed to gloss over the whole prayer issue pretty nicely, so those of you who find meditation and ashrams boring will be happy about that. If it weren't for the little Indian girl and the elephant wearing flowers, I would have forgotten we were at an ashram all together. It felt more like AA.

Indonesia was ... pleasant but soulless. And pleasantly filled with Javier Bardem. Whose son in the movie was Australian? Or British? Or ... he didn't look Brazilian or anything like Javier Bardem, and I kept getting confused and mistaking him for the skinny dipping Australian guy and wondering why they were hanging out together ... and Kertut was cute. And then Julia Roberts fell in love like she always does and the movie was over. The End. 

Have you seen it? Will you?

I've got to hand it to my friend Barbara for having her finger forever on the pulse of all weirdness happening the world over. The links she posts on Facebook are so ...

Good god this is gross.

It's either this or me weeping about writer's block.

Writer's block that I might have a better chance of unblocking if I'd spend my lunch hour WRITING instead of making these fucking collages. 

Knowledge, in this case, is not power.

Admitting you have a problem? Not a solution!

Instead: Denial! Denial and collages! (And exclamation points!) (And Xanax if the whole "collages & exclamation points" thing doesn't work out.)

I present to any of you who are still here, my living room-in-my-mind:

And ... my new office-in-my-mind:

 I'm not sure if I totally like the office. It's a little ... I don't know. ... too piecey or fussy or incoherent. (Or is that just me who's incoherent?) My confusion might stem from the fact that this also happens to be Larry's-office-in-my-mind. And while we agree on the living room and bedroom, our two offices should not co-exist in the same galaxy, not to mention the same 12 x 12 foot room. But so it is. 

For aesthetic purposes, I decided not to include our other six guitars and his bill filing "system", all of which I've decided will have to be suspended from a net, out of sight, near the ceiling.

As if I needed one more thing to distract me from the fifteen things I'm already too distracted to accomplish this week, along comes Polyvore. Otherwise known as The Next Five Years of My Life. Gone. Dot. Com. 

I've mentioned that I'm a bit of a collageaholic, no? Well Polyvore takes collagaholism to INTOXICATING new heights. No more scissors. No more glue. No more purchasing magazines with your children's college fund. To put it in alcoholic terms, just imagine if you could drag and drop those beers into your blood stream instead of having to swallow them. 

Click! Drunk!

LIKE THAT.

Sort of.

Except it's a collage. 

Never mind.

No I have not been drinking. I've been collage-ing. GIVE ME MY CAR KEYS.

This, for example, is the collage I created to illustrate how I want our master bedroom to look. 

So far I've got the lamp, the floor, and the dog. 
And a vision! 
Never underestimate the importance of a vision.