Author Archives: mohawkvalleygirl

Running Comments If Not Commentary

As I ran this morning, I thought about the Saturday Running Commentary I would write. And now, sitting at the keyboard, I can’t remember much of what I thought. Serves me right for not making the post right away.

Last weekend, I had a good run and a bad run. Then I didn’t run Monday or Tuesday but put in an unprecedented 31 minutes on the mini-tramp on Wednesday (I was watching a John Garfield movie on DVD at the time) (not a particularly cheesy entry, but I do not despair of writing something about it). I took Tabby for a good long walk on Friday. I honestly cannot remember a damn thing about Thursday.

This morning’s run was not as heinous as last Sundays, but I can’t say it was a good run, either. My legs protested. I ignored them and headed down German Street toward Valley Health, which boasts a not bad little hill. It is the hill I start on when I once again start building myself up for hills.

As I got to the bottom of the hill, one leg said, “Are you KIDDING me?” while the other one said, “Don’t DO it!” Well, I was not kidding and I did it. After that my legs were resigned and beyond suggesting once or twice that a long run was unnecessary did not protest for the rest of the run.

I ended up running for 26 minutes, the same length as last Sundays run, shorter than the mini-tramp work-out. I felt pretty good when I walked my cool-down with my schnoodle, Tabby. I felt even better when we went for a long walk later. During the run itself… well, let’s just say I did it.

Grandma and the Left-Handed Compliment

For today’s Friday Lame Post, I share a memory that for some unknown reason popped into my head this morning.

My grandmother taught me the meaning of the term left-handed compliment one time when she said I gave her one. The occasion was a cousin’s wedding. We were dressed in our finest, uncomfortably placed in the family station wagon.

I was uncomfortable because I liked to ride in the back end, curled up or sprawled out as the mood struck me (these were the days before seat belt laws), not perched on the back seat in a supposedly lady-like fashion. My brother was uncomfortable because he was forced to ride in the back end, not the front seat in his accustomed spot. Well we, that is my three sisters and I, were in dresses. He was wearing pants.

Additionally, my mother had insisted we wear full pantyhose, not knee-his. Our dresses were long. We thought knee-his would be OK. Mom said it might show when we danced. We didn’t buy it, but she was Mom. She won.

We picked up Grandma at her house. When she got in in the car, the first word out of her mouth was, “Damn.” I can’t even remember what she was damning, but she went on to say something disparaging about her knee-his. Cue reproachful looks at Mom.

I said, “Fancy clothes don’t change you, Grandma. You’re still the same old Grandma.”

She told me it was a left-handed compliment. I never explained to her that I meant it as a sincere, loving statement. When Grandma had walked out her door in a long dress with her hair beautifully styled, I had felt a little intimidated. I remember thinking she looked like a Duchess. I think I was half-expecting her to act differently, too. To hear my “same old Grandma,” apparently just as uncomfortable dressed to the nines as we were, was a profound relief.

Thinking back on it today, I feel really bad that I did not explain that. Having subsequently received more left-handed than right-handed compliments myself (although I confess I haven’t really kept track), I think I know what one is. Grandma, if you’re up there listening, here is what I meant: You looked beautiful that day, but your true beauty was the person that you were.

From the Spiral Notebook

In future years if anybody looks at this notebook, they may be confused (um, that is the spiral notebook I was handwriting in this morning; I’m typing this into a computer now)(that sort of thing makes me feel so time-warpy)(where was I?) How egotistical is that, thinking posterity might utilize my notebook for history (as if they could read my handwriting).

What’s going on is I’m having a waste-not-want-not moment. I found a blank back of a page in the notebook I’m currently using and thought to write my blog post here. This is a notebook I had been using in 2012-2013, when I was secretary for Ilion Little Theatre. Boring minutes in messy handwriting. Seriously, none of my notes convey the drama of backstage community theatre. I’m sure any theatre-minded readers will understand. I need say no more, and, indeed, in would be inappropriate for me to do so. What happens at the board meeting stays at the board meeting.

OK, so that’s about all I have for today: a page to write on and a story about where the paper is located. Nothing in particular to write on it. Regular readers know this sort of thing happens to me at least once a week. Sometimes more.

Oh, I know, you’re all thinking of “That Damn Book,” a rather ridiculous essay I posted a mere two days ago. I actually had stuff to write about that day. I just couldn’t write any of it with that compelling book so close at hand. Today I have sensibly left the book at home. Along with, apparently, the better part of my brain.

That is all that I wrote this morning before beginning work. Then I thought, how appropriate for Non-Sequitur Thursday: using notebook pages out of order. Will I find something as good for Lame Post Friday? As always, I hope you’ll stay tuned.

Thanks, Crusaders

Sunday Steven and I went to the annual Wine Tasting Event sponsored by Crusaders Winemakers of the Mohawk Valley. The event features hobby winemakers and area wineries. The wines are adjudicated by professionals, and attendees like Steven and me can vote for their favorites.

Regular readers may recall that on Sunday I wrote a rather silly post just before I left for the event. It ran from 1 to 3 p.m. at the Herkimer VFW. I had dropped Steven off at work and intended to pick him up at one and get right down there. It worked out fine; we found a good parking space and walked into the place.

I told the man who sold us our tickets that I had found my ticket stub from last year’s event in my purse just that morning (no, I don’t clean out my purse very often; don’t judge). They thanked us for coming, and I thanked them for putting on such a fun event. I look forward to it every year, marking it on my calendar as soon as they set the date.

I love chatting up the various winemakers and sampling their stuff. My only problem is I can’t just run to the liquor store and buy the ones I like, except of course for the actual wineries. Some of the makers will give you a bottle for a donation. If I had had a lot of cash with me, I may have left with several bottles, so perhaps it was just as well that I was low on cash.

However, I had sufficient funds to get in on the 50/50 and Basket Raffle. We did not get lucky on the 50/50, but Steven won three things in the Basket Raffle: a bag from Adirondack Bank with a blanket, an umbrella and a key chain; three bottles of wine donated by Babbington Enterprises; and a very generous $50 gift certificate from The Refinery. The Refinery is a Christian bookstore which recently opened in Herkimer. I have been wanting to check it out. Perhaps Steven will use his gift certificate to buy me something.

That Damn Book

This is going to be another Tired Tuesday post, because I fulfill both criteria. I feared that would be the case, since my husband Steven and I planned on doing laundry after I got off work. Therefore, I went to work determined to write something while at work. Something not too long.

I guess no words at all is not too long.

Well, let me explain how the fates conspired against me. You may say I did myself in by succumbing to my own addiction. Potato, po-tah-to. A friend at work had told me about a book she had read that she thought I might like. It is a novel based on a local murder case which happened many years ago.

“Oh, I’d love to borrow it,” I told her.

Who knew she would be so prompt? The book was by my work station when I got to work this morning. How very kind of her. I would begin reading it at the first opportunity. First I had a blog post to write. I did, in fact, look at the blank page with a pen in my hand for, oh, a good three or four minutes before I thought I could read just a little bit…

I get to work a half hour to forty minutes early so that I have time to write and sometimes socialize a little. I did neither this morning. Oh dear. Well, there was still the nine o’clock break. And lunch. And the 2 p.m. break. And sometimes two or three minutes at the end of the day while I’m waiting to punch out.

I don’t really need to tell you I read during all of those, do I? Determined to make up for my profligacy, I left the book in the SUV at the laundromat and brought my notebook in with me.

And wrote one paragraph, which I immediately despised.

“It’s no use,” I told Steven. “I’m going to read that book and just write something off the cuff when we get home.”

And, I’m afraid this is it. On the brighter side, the book is about a murder that took place in the Mohawk Valley. Perhaps when I finish it I could write a book report for that day’s blog post.

Wrist to Forehead Run

Sometimes in the middle of a run, I flash on Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein. It is the scene where he makes the momentous decision to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps. He sits bolt upright and stares at the audience with the eyes of a madman.

“IT! COULD! WORK!”

I said those words to myself on Sunday, towards the end of my Wrist to Forehead Run. I had been determined to run, not blow it off for two weeks like I did after I ran on April 12. For one thing, my Saturday run had gone so well (perhaps you read my blog post about it), I feel I could be forgiven for thinking “I got this.”

Of course I didn’t “got this.” Every step of Sunday’s run was an effort. When it started out that way, I thought, I just need to get warmed up; it’ll get easier. A block and a half later, I thought, if I write about this I can call it “Wrist to Forehead Run.” That amused me as I pictured myself running along, the back of one wrist on my forehead, the other arm flung back in a dramatic gesture.

“Woe is me!”

That’s a good trick for a runner: think of something amusing and distract yourself from how much running can suck. Of course running does not always suck. If it did, I would find another fitness activity. And there are rewards to running, even when it does suck. For example, silly mental images which are amusing. The ability to write a blog post about it. And never discount the satisfaction of being able to say, “I did it anyways.”

Words Before Wine

I’m not having a particularly wrist-to-forehead Sunday, although I did have kind of a wrist-to-forehead run earlier. However, I am having a kind of a wrist-to-forehead moment right now. You see, I must pick Steven up from work for a Wine Tasting Event in about twenty minutes (it became 19 as I typed that). It would be a good idea to make my blog post now.

I CAN’T TAKE THAT KIND OF PRESSURE!!!

What a silly thing to say; of course I can. For one thing, the pressure is purely self-imposed. I can remove it at any time. For another thing, when it comes to writing, I thrive on pressure! I never wrote a paper in school one minute before I had to. Then I stayed up late, scribbling frantically. And the best essays I ever wrote in my life were on exams, writing against the clock, once with a screaming headache due to strep throat.

Ah, those were the days.

On reflection, I must admit that I have no idea if those essays were the best I had ever written or not, because I no longer have access to them and I certainly don’t remember what I wrote (although I did ace the exams in question). Regarding the paper, not having a basis for comparison, we can’t be sure the papers would not have been better with more time taken.

This is not the post I sat down to write. I had meant to write about how I did almost everything on my to-do list. Except write this blog post. Wait a minute, maybe it is exactly the post I sat down to write. Ah, deadlines.

At any rate, I am over 250 words. I’m going to go taste some wine.

Begin Again AGAIN

So we were all excited that Saturday Running Commentary was back, and then, well, it wasn’t any more. This morning, I had no plan to run. I had a vague thought that perhaps at some point today, I’d give it a try. So there I was, about an hour before Steven had to be at work, thinking, what would I do? I really needed a shower. Shower now, run later, shower again? Stay stinky, run later, shower then? Oh, hell, like Nike says, just do it.

I got my gear on, I got out the door. I was doing it!

I figured I had enough time to run for 20 or 23 minutes and do my cool down walk with Tabby before Steven had to leave. Of course it was not really a problem if he left while I was gone, but he is a creature of habit. He might lock me out of the house without thinking about it. Then too, I do like to kiss him good-bye. I’m that sort of a wife.

The first thing I realized was that I was running faster than my usual pace. Naturally I was; I was in a hurry to finish the run before Steven left. The problem with that is I run for a certain length of time, not a certain distance. Twenty minutes is twenty minutes, whatever pace I run. Silly me. Well, the pace felt good. I kept it up as long as I felt like it and slowed down when I had to.

The second thing I noticed was that I was cold. My thermostat said the outdoor temperature was 45. That is normally shorts and t-shirt running weather for me, adding a sweatshirt for the cool down walk. But I am out of shape (actually, I maintain that round and puffy is a shape, so I guess technically I am NOT out of shape, but you know what I mean). So I felt a little cold. My hands felt really cold. At least my ears were OK, because I had found a headband which covered them.

The world was grey and gloomy. It had rained in the night but had luckily stopped. I don’t mind gloom. It suits me. I dodged around some of the puddles but was unable to avoid all the mud. No matter. I could take off my sneakers at the door.

As I ran, it occurred to me that it was not a problem. I can get back into running ANYTIME, I told myself. This is EASY! Really, it felt better and better. I even stopped feeling so cold. I suppose my hands might have been numb, but I didn’t need to use them. They’d be fine.

The question was how far to run. I had done 23 minutes when I ran two weeks ago. I thought 20 would be OK, since I was beginning again (yes, my two-weeks-ago run was supposed to be beginning again; sometimes these things don’t work out). Then I thought, I have been running for 23 minutes for a while now, with all these new beginnings. Perhaps I should break the 23 minute barrier.

Then again, I had the whole rest of my Saturday to get through, with a not inconsiderable list of chores I wanted to get done. I probably shouldn’t rack myself up. I mean, the idea isn’t to run as far as one can possibly run, is it? Oh, I suppose for some people it is. I finally compromised on 24 minutes.

As I finished the run, my inner critic said, this is no way to build up time. But my optimism, buoyed up by the thought that I HAD RUN, said, perhaps not, but it is a very good way to begin again. I ignored the inner critic’s math as she began to tally up the number of times I have tried to begin again.

As Tabby and I walked my cool down, I felt terrific. I love running! I have a definite plan to run tomorrow, and at least twice in the coming week. Thus I publish my intentions, in hopes it will encourage me to follow through.

Now about that list of chores…

Lamely Theatrical

I said earlier this week that I would use Lame Post Friday to consider the term “marvelously theatrical.” Regular readers (if any) may remember that George Zucco was described thusly in a summary of a Horror Classic I once saw.

The term “theatrical” to me seems a little silly. I would think that if something is on a stage in a threatre it is, by definition, theatrical. Kind of like looking your age. My dad says, how can you not look your age? I’m 50. This is what I look like at 50. Hence, I must look 50 (I know, I KNOW some of you probably think I DO look 50 or worse. It’s just an example) (And when my dad was 50, everybody said he didn’t look 50) (but I digress).

Perhaps it is one of those words that “I can’t give you a definition, but I know it when I see it.” I could explain this better in person. I would sit demurely and say in a quiet tone of voice, “I am in a theatre. I am theatrical.” Then I would leap to my feet, make a wide gesture with one arm and shout, “I am in a THEATRE!” Then a wide gesture with the other arm, “I am THEATRICAL!” Can you picture it?

I bet some of you have been sitting there trying to get a word in edgewise and point out to me that George Zucco was in a MOVIE not the THEATRE. Oh silly me. Did I even realize there is a difference?

Of course I did, stop looking so smug. I would submit that the difference may be less than we think. And I believe audience expectations are similar: they want to be entertained.

There is a wonderful scene in All About Eve where Gary Merrill tells off Ann Baxter for scorning movies vis a vis Broadway. He basically says that theatre encompasses all sorts of entertainment, “wherever there’s magic and make believe. So don’t approve or disapprove. It may not be your theatre, but it’s theatre for someone.” (I may be misquoting; don’t judge.)

“I just asked a question,” she replies, in that demure, well-modulated voice she uses when she’s got everybody fooled.

Steve and I always say, “Yeah, right,” because she used a horrified tone of voice, as if Hollywood is the antichrist.

Hmmmm… Do you suppose that’s kind of what the summary writer meant? That George Zucco is way better than an ordinary movie actor — he’s THEATRICAL (with gesture)! Perhaps he was just looking for a more impressive way of saying, “George Zucco is really, really good.” I eventually came to the conclusion he meant that George Zucco chews the scenery in a good way.

He is a pretty good actor. His presence will certainly be a selling point in my ongoing quest for movies to write about. Maybe one day I will even write a marvelously theatrical blog post.

Fresh Air! Times Square!

In Dolgeville, NY is an eatery called Green Acres. I have never been there, but it is an object of some interest to me because of the name. You see, the theme from the TV show Green Acres is quite a source of entertainment for my husband Steven and me. We used to sing it at karaoke. We quote the lyrics at appropriate times (and a few inappropriate; we’re that way). We even used a re-written version switching the male and female parts to audition for a musical at Ilion Little Theatre (I did not get a part).

All this by way of introduction to a silly work story I offer for this week’s Non-Sequitur Thursday.

Joanie, who lives in Dolgeville, goes to Green Acres sometimes. Marshall always wants her to take him. The place is only open in warm weather, so it is a sign of spring when I can start asking Marshall has he been to Green Acres and asking Joanie if she has taken him. Yesterday, spring came for me.

“Hey,” I said to Marshall, “Green Acres ought to be opening right along here.”

“Last weekend,” he told me. “Joanie’s already been.”

“And she didn’t take you?” I was shocked, shocked.

“She didn’t even bring me anything! I asked her to.”

“Not even a napkin? That’s what I would have brought you.”

“I’d have taken it,” he said. “A souvenir!”

I duly reported the conversation to Joanie today. I also told her I was going to write a whole blog post about how she refuses to take Marshall to Green Acres. She was OK with it. She even said she was willing to take Marshall to Green Acres, as long as he was buying. I neglected to convey the offer to Marshall. I think he’s more likely to see if next time Joanie brings him a napkin.