No Pain, No Pain

The most pathetic 5k ever run in the history of the running of mankind was run last night. The husband and I ran the 2006 Annual Running with the Bulls 5k in Lower Manhattan despite the fact that my throat was on fire and the Holbs’s sinuses had been screaming at him all day. Me, my cankles, and my sweet, patient, ginger-haired athlete of a husband made our way through the Financial District and ran the 3.1 miles in a glorious 47 minutes. A slow, painful, 47-minute death march that halted every block and a half as I prayed that the Lord would let me live to see another day.

Heaven bless me, but I am not a runner.

Muddy Clairvoyance

It is school-acceptance season here at the house of the Holbs, and sadly there have yet to be any actual school-acceptances, only nos and no-thankyous and four wait-lists, which might perk some of us up a bit, but only until we remember that a wait-list is like when you ask someone to marry you and they tell you they want to think about it and we all know that can never mean anything good.

Today as I was napping on the sofa I had the sudden inspiration that there was an acceptance letter, right then, that very minute, in the mail downstairs. I was so convinced that it was really, truly there (and I knew just what school it was from!), that I actually got dressed and pulled my hair back, found a decent pair of shoes (such a hassle!) and went downstairs to check the mailbox.

(Do you feel the suspense building?)

When the elevator dinged! I saw to my dismay that the friendly mail-dude had just arrived and was just now starting to sort the mail. I sighed. It was dramatic.

Finally he was about finished and, making small-talk (awkward), inquired of my apartment number. (“Yo, what apahtment you in?”)

I told him, and he handed me a stack of mail. I scanned the pack and knew immediately that there were no acceptances there.

So I went back upstairs to my grumpy puppy with the cone on his head. And we both felt pretty silly.

This Is A Brooklyn Bound 4 Express Train

Okay, picture in your head a subway car. You are in it and it is packed. You are somewhere under the East River. You are moving and the car is swaying side-to-side, side-to-side, and okay let’s be honest here, it is hot, you might be a little sweaty.

Now, imagine the worst possible thing you could smell while stuck in an overcrowded train under the East river.

Go on. Got it?

Did you imagine baked salmon?