Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Hey, Dirty! Baby I Got Your Money


I bought a SanDisk mp3 player yesterday. I haven't paid my bills in months, but I just dropped 100$ I don't have on a music player that I wouldn't have even considered purchasing were it not for the marathon -- which is in less than two weeks, peeps. It doesn't feel right. And yet, when I think about going that distance with just the crapwack PDX radio stations to sustain me...it makes me want to cry.

Anyway, Bernie is almost completely done paying me back the money she owed me -- almost none of which I used to pay my credit card bils (preferring instead to use that money to buy groceries and gas, as I am only working part-time now trying to finish up the dang dissertation)...so, now, I'm just as effed as I was nine months ago, and there's no way out of it. By natural means. I may have to start making meth.

My moms birthday is this Saturday. I got her a beautiful scarf, and I'm going to pick up a pair of earrings I saw yesterday, too. If I get them in the mail today, she should get them on time. I hope so. In the history of the world, I have been on time with someone's birthday present maybe, twice. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic!

And speaking of birthdays, I am accruing some hi-larious goody-goods for Bernie's birthday, which was back in JUNE. Anyway, I only have one more thing to get and then she is going to die laughing. It's just that good.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

It's Just Not Funny


Yesterday, a hammer fell on my rommmate's head.

She was trying to hang a banner, and the hammer came down from its perch on top of the ladder. I'm not sure what speed it was going when it finally impacted her face, but it made a nice sickle-shaped scar. Which is appropriate, really, given a) the implement that did it; and b)the fact that she works for a labor union.

She is fine, by the way. She's got a couple of stitches in her forehead, but she'll be fine if she just keeps taking the ibuprofen.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Oh, and by the way

Your Brain's Pattern

Structured and organized, you have a knack for thinking clearly.
You are very logical - and you don't let your thoughts get polluted with emotions.
And while your thoughts are pretty serious, they're anything from boring.
It's minds like yours that have built the great cities of the world!

We are the Champions, My Friend


I rocked the 16 this weekend. I killed the 16. I destroyed the 16. I triumphed over the 16 with no more than a little grit, some cheap running shoes, and sufficient hydration.

I came back strong, kids. On race day, I will be ready. Thanks to my dad, who gave me some much-needed advice (that I didn't want to listen to) and Fergus, who gave me the kind of long-distance high five I needed to keep trying and not give up. Which sounds corny, but kiss my ass, you cynical bastards -- 16 miles is a long way to run. It's the furthest I've ever run in me life. But I did it. I did it in the heat of the day, wearing crap gear and a weave that was three days past needing to be taken out. I did it even though I had been beaten the last two times I attempted it. I did it even though some thought I couldn't shift my bulk. I did it! I did it!

Sorry if I'm getting on your nerves here, but I was really anxious, readers. I didn't know if I had it in me, and my parents spent a lot of money on tickets to come see me run this race. I don't want to crap out halfway through. Nor do I want my overachieving brother to have any more ammunition against me.

Shit. Can you imagine how insufferable I am going to be when I finish the actual marathon? You should probably skip that post.

Monday, September 12, 2005

Glucosa-mine-o-my


I didn't finish the 16 yesterday. After about 5 miles, my feet and knees hurt so bad I had to decide if I wanted to keep punishing myself. I wound up doing 7 altogether, but not without walking a little bit. It suuuuuucked, kids. I cried in the car on the way home, as I already freaking out about finishing the race, and this kind of late-in-the-game injury and training derailer is precisely what I don't need right now. I have to start pushing the glucosamine and chondritin, and hope that by race day, I see some improvement.

I am going to try the 16 again tomorrow morning. I got some new running pants and a new jog bra/tank top. Maybe if I don't look like a hobo running from the law, I will feel better out there. My last set of running pants went through so many crotch repairs it was ridiculous. It looked like a coat of many colors down there.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Blogly

16 miles today. I have to start no later than around 4 o'clock or I will never get done before dark. It's a new route; one I've never run before. I hope there are plenty of water/rest stops. I have to pee a lot when I'm running. And man -- you can't choke down a gel without water.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Who am I?

I'm eating a cold tamale and doing laundry.

It's a Saturday afternoon and I have a couple of bucks to spend (literally, like, a couple of bucks. That's it); why am I inside doing this?

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Fa Sho'

I got my marathon confirmation in the mail today. It's for real, kids. I'm going to be running a marathon in a little over a month. I don't feel ready, and I'm so so scared. But I know that I can do this. Just like I know that I can finish writing this dissertation and defend it and get my long-awaited, eagerly-anticipated PhD before my 31st birthday.

I am going to do two amazing things this year. And just staying alive doesn't count as one.

All the Way Live in 2005, kids.

Monday, September 05, 2005

I Just Can't. Not Yet.

I've been reading a lot of blogs lately; and I've been seeing and reading a lot of great material covering the absolute tragedy in the Gulf Coast. But I just can't write about it here yet. I am still too emotional, too angry, too..willing to scream, I guess. I never thought that the racial and class inequities in this country would reveal themselves so starkly, so horrifically. It has never been more apparent that -- all niceties aside -- if you're white, you're all right, if you're brown, you can stick around, but if you're black.. get back. And really, if you're white but poor...well, they ain't got much use for you, either.

I Can't Believe It's Not Human Hair

Things I am doing today:

1. Hanging out with Bernie. Should be a fun time, as Bernadette Van Dyke is some kind of crazy broad.
2. Finishing this home-made Tragi-Weave (tagline on the package: "I Can't Believe It's Not Human Hair"). Actually, the braids look pretty good. I'm doing some crazy pattern of corn rowns and individual [semi] box braids, and it doesn't look quite as crappy as it could have. Plus, the color I got is amazing. It's this weird combination of auburn, silver, and dark brown (the color of my natural hair). It's sounds ghetto fabulous, and believe me, it is. But it's also quite punky and glam. I'll take a picture if I can and post it.
3. Maybe going for a run tonight. I did a 10 last night (instead of the scheduled 16), and had a horrible time. My knees ached, my hips were sore, my attitude was bad. I give yesterday's run a C/C-.

Have a great Labor Day, kids. Remember, if it wasn't for unions, your ass would be at work in the factory right now.

Saturday, September 03, 2005

Sui Generis

If you google "Ebony Adams," you get about a billion hits -- and around of two of them actually refer to me. This Ebony Adams is NOT the Ebony who is a) a champion equestrian; b) a high school track star; c) the person for whom a warrant has been issued somewhere in Texas; and most importantly, d) NOT the Ebony with that "ghetto soul" poetry up on the web. Now, I got nothing against those other Ebonys...in fact, we might just start a girl gang and commence to kicking ass in your town. But I do take issue with the fact that apparently, my mother didn't have the forethought to name me something truly unique, like Clytemnestra Jones, or something really common, like Kelly. I honestly couldn't care less about people from my past contacting me, but if some poor soul I used to torment is curious about what I've been up to lately, I don't want them to relax back into their easy chairs, thinking, "that ho is running from the law and winning jumping trophies and I just didn't think she was that kind of woman..."

'Cause I ain't.

Mark It Down

Thursday afternoon, while I was tap-tap-tapping away on my keyboard at work, I listened to Mark Lamarr sub for Mark Radcliffe on BBC Radio 2. Lamarr had promised to do an hour and a half show of all requests, and like the wage-slavin' badassssss I am, I requested "I'm Bad" by LL Cool J (it turns out to be true, kids: ladies do love cool James), or barring that, some Sam Cooke -- one of my favorite artists, whether he was leading the Soul Stirrers or singing about his li'l red rooster. You dig? I didn't expect to get my request played, as I've asked for some Buck Owens in the past and gotten bitterly denied. But Thursday afternoon...man, it all came together. Just as I was getting ready to have my 20th nicotine craving of the day, he did it. Monsieur Lamarr played some Sam Cooke, said that it was for me, and then proceeded to break down why he couldn't play the LL Cool J track. Peeps, whatever -- I couldn't have cared less. Lamarr thinks I got great taste in music and he said my name on air and I'm telling you: it doesn't even matter that he thinks I'm a dude.