It's Spring!

Team Molly

 March 18th marked the 1 year anniversary of my cousin Molly's passing. Molly being a crazy runner and all, running a race in her honor seemed like the right thing to do, so  last weekend T-rav and I trekked down to Virginia Beach with my dad and sister Kate, and Aunt, her family, and my cousins' boyfriends and family. Together we made up Team Molly.

T-rav and I ran the 8K (we had wanted to do the half marathon, but sadly registered after it was already full. I just need to make that clear because I felt like a big wimp only doing 5 miles). Aunt, uncle, boyfriends + family, and cousin Jane ran the half, cousin Sarah ran the marathon, and my dad and Kate cheered us on. We were kind of a ragtag bunch: I was still feeling rather ill and hadn't eaten in 3 days, uncle got a stomach bug the day before the race, Sarah had a seriously pained knee, and Jane's boyfriend had a torn ACL. And he ran anyway (with dr's permission). Now THAT is dedication.

Team Molly was a great success. Our t-shirts were quite a hit--Molly loved tie-dye and bright blue--and you could hear fellow runners (mostly teenage ones) whispering about our awesome shirts as we walked/ran around town. There was an exciting energy in the race that I haven't really felt since 9th grade track meets. And although the weather wasn't fantastic (I actually think it was warmer in Palmyra for once), being at the beach and enjoying what sun we had was exactly what Molly would have wanted. She was born with one toe in the sand and the other already running.

We love you, Molly!

saltines are my salvation

I have spent the past 48 hours in various states of stomach distress. I was bloated to the point that I looked pregnant (Yes, really. T-rav noticed while I was changing but was too polite to mention it until I did). I couldn't take a deep breath and for a while I thought my appendix might be rupturing. That was what finally inspired me to go to the doctor for some unpleasant poking, prodding, and x-rays. The results of which revealed insides that showed a belly full of too much food and bubbles and acid, getting in the way of my lungs and causing significant pain in my stomach and intestines. Apparently I ate too many raw vegetables and fibrous products at once? Weird. I was sent home with instructions for liquids only for 12 hours, and then a soft and bland food diet for 3 days (which may make running my 8K on Saturday at a respectable pace a little difficult). Of course the lack of any food in my stomach or sugar in my bloodstream was almost as upsetting as all of that undigested food, so I spent today in the fetal position on the couch watching reruns of Law & Order while trying to shove  jello and plain white rice in my mouth. Things were a little sketchy until T-rav came home on his lunch break armed with crackers and apple juice. It was at that point that I started to feel significantly better. Thank heavens for Saltines.

And Zillah, if this was a fraction of how you felt the majority of the time before your surgery, I have a new level of PROFOUND respect for you.

king of the house

He's the type you'd be wise to tip-toe around. You offend him and he'll hold a grudge forever. His name reflects his personality better than most. He's smelly and rude and lets loose a string of profanity at the drop of a hat.  He must be given treats. He must not be yelled at. He must be pampered. He's very clearly the king of the house.

And he's my mom's cat.

Rascal is his name. And he's the most curmudgeonly animal I've ever met. He has a history of urinating on whomever/whatever has offended him. Case in point: while home for a short visit, my sister once yelled at him, he crept in her room while she was out, and she returned to a suitcase full of rank-smelling clothes. We've learned that if you shut the curtains in the living room and block Rascal's view of the sun, he'll let loose on them. I dared to step around him with an armful of laundry (neglecting to pat him on my way) and was treated to the most savage sounding hissing I've ever heard. And today a few hours after a I politely asked him to go into the other room while I vacuumed (Really. I spoke as congenially as I could muster), I discovered that he had again relieved himself on the mirror on the door that houses the vacuum. And now I can't get the stench out of the hall.

He's completely psycho. How do I get through the next 4 days at home without my mom to pacify the beast?

The Old Post Office

Yesterday we had the dubious pleasure of visiting another one of DC's historic, and free, points of interest: the Old Post Office. It's really an impressive building. Built in the Romanesque style at a time when it was already fading out of style, the fact that the post office survived into the 20th century is quite a feat. They considered tearing it down soon after it was built, partly because of its old fashioned facade, and partly because the postal system had already outgrown the building. During the 1970s, it was again threatened with demolition, but some vocal citizens and the chairwoman for the National Endowment for the Arts convinced Congress to reverse its decision.

So the exterior of the building is pretty fantastic. Surrounded by the bleak FBI and EPA buildings, it's certainly an architectural breath of fresh air. There's a free tour guided by the typically peculiar park rangers up the grandiose clock tower, offering one of the highest views of the city. You can also take a gander at the official "Bells of Congress" (I bet you didn't know that Congress has their very own set of bells). On the 9th floor (the highest main floor of the building) you can see a few photos that make up the pitiful "exhibit" explaining the building's history. But the saddest part of the post office is the interior. Their website boasts "some of DC's mouth-watering international cuisine, diverse shopping, and musical events." But in reality, the main floor hosts a profoundly depressing food court complete with an arcade and kitchy souvenir shops.

The most ironic thing of all is that the building serves as overflow for several different government agencies, including the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation. HA! It's a perfect example of the worst kind of "preservation:" let's turn it into a mall! A shop! An arcade! The worst kind of American commercialism. It's such a tragedy that I find myself looking forward to the day when Donald Trump starts work remodeling the post office into a luxury hotel. Maybe he'll put some class back into the poor underappreciated Post Office.