charlotte harris

Duh na nuh na duh na nuh na duh na nuh na duh na nuh na BATMAAANN!

We’d been enjoying the live music but finally decided to pack it in and head home.  As we left our seats on the sunny patio and walked past the band, they changed tunes.

I didn’t catch on at first but then I heard MF laughing.   I heard a few people laughing.  I’d forgotten that he was wearing his new Batman t-shirt.  MF loves superheroes.  And, apparently, so did the band.  They picked on the Batman theme song as we walked away, big grins.

Last night MF quizzed me on the superheroes’ real names.  I pretty much knew them all.  Superman is Clark Kent is Kal-El.  Batman is Bruce Wayne.  Darth Vader is Anikin Skywalker.  I stumped him with Ironman, though.  Ironman is Tony Stark! 

No, I’m not a diehard comic book fan… puhlease!  I only know about Ironman because when I watched last week’s episode of The Hills online, the ads were for some “Be Tony Stark for a weekend” contest out in L.A..

See, watching MTV has fringe benefits.  I won coolness points with my man, AND with some kid who was running around the office last week on bring-your-kid-to-work day.  The little boy of a coworker was fiddling with some action figure. 

“Whatcha playin’ with?”  I asked him. 

“It’s a superhero!”

“Which superhero is that?”

“It’s Tony Stark”

“Oh, isn’t he Ironman?!”

“Yeah!  Ironman!”

“How many of those superhero outfits does Ironman have?!”

… and the silliness continued until he left my desk to go play.

Oh, I have not seen the last of Tony Stark.  Per MF, we’re gonna see Ironman this weekend.  And we “hafta get there early so we can sit really close to the screen!”  He’s giddy like a ‘lil boy over this movie.

So MF, how many of those superhero outfits does Ironman have?!

We used to slide the record jacket across the living room floor, Sis lying in front of one speaker and me with my ear up to the other, “The Best of ABBA” playing.  When it was my turn to look at the album cover, I would stare at the photo of the foursome and try to decide which man was married to which lady. 

In years since, anytime I hear the first few bars of any ABBA song playing anywhere, I squeal in delight and urgently grab the wrist of whatever female might be with me (”OOOOOH!  I LOOOOOVE this song!!” or something equally predictable) and if folks are lucky, I might start in with the dorky finger pointing and dancing.

Last night Sis busted out that exact album, the cardboard sleeve barely held together with some old masking tape that lost its sticky sometime back in the ’80’s.  She dusted off the record and placed it on the turntable.  Mom made a special request for “Mamma Mia” and who can say “no” when a cute little 3 year-old asks the whole family to get up and hold hands and dance?

In a backyard full of toys, my niece just wanted to be pushed around in the wheelbarrow.  In a house full of modern gadgets, it was the vinyl records that entertained us all.  On a night I could have done anything at all, the only thing I wanted to do was hang with my folks.  Sometimes it’s just comfortable to return to the old family classics.

Sis has urged me to blog about the ridiculousness of people using ther cell phones in public restrooms.  Gross!   What goes through the mind of the person on the other end of the phone when they hear a big loud flush?  I did not write about it, because I think a lot of other people already have, including this guy:  Sis, this one’s for you.

I was gonna celebrate Earth Day 2008 by washing my hair only once yesterday.  But then my employer gave everyone in the company a Compact Flourescent Lightbulb to take home and use.  I am stoked about this product because it saves me money while saving the earth.   Sort of like my awesome new front-loading washing machine. 

My mom taught me to never buy a gift for someone that you wouldn’t like to receive yourself.  So for Mothers Day I ordered her a gift that I soooo would like to receive for myself, that I think I just might go order one more for me.  (Mom, don’t click on the link, lest you spoil your surprise.)

Did I tell y’all that MF and I are going on vacay next month?  We’re booked to go to Sanibel FL for 5 days.  We will do nothing but swim, sunbathe, eat, drink, sleep, read, nap and moon over one another the entire time.  We will not see a single attraction except the sunset and it is going to be wonderful.

I Netflix’d Jesus Camp after I heard Elliot interview one of the filmmakers on DC101.  I had not prevously been interested simply due to the title - I didn’t want to see a “religious” flick.  Well, it’s not exactly what I thought it was.  I did learn so much more about Evangelical Christans from this fascinating movie.  Ya know, I watched this and was endeared to some of the characters simply because they’re sweet kids: Tory, the girl who break dances to Christian Speed Metal, the odd little Rachael who approaches strangers to talk about being saved, and Levi, a youth preacher articulate and confident beyond his age.  I can look beyond the brainwashing and see them for the adorable kids they are - too bad their parents and preachers have taken away their carefree youth.  It’s sad and a ‘lil bit scary that a whole population of children is being exploited to carry political messages that they can’t possibly truly understand.  What does a 10 year old kid know about abrtion enough to go protest it in Washington DC?  What does a child that age know enough to state that President Dubya and Justice Alito are good for America?  What “sins” has a child even younger possibly ever committed bad enough to be told they are “dirty?”  Seriously, look beyond the film’s title and watch this movie.

A  “5K at a winery” sounds like fun, right?  An easy 3.1 mile jog with gorgeous views and free wine at the finish line.  Probably little kids and grandmas finishing alike, all decked out in their stiff new race t-shirts.  Spectator friends and family with dogs on leashes, picnic baskets and coolers waiting to be toted off to the vineyard where tired legs will splay out and soak up springtime’s first warm rays.

That was my fantasy when I decided that it was worth the $35 to drive out to the Blue Ridge Mountains on a beautiful 85 degree day with the top off the Jeep, my man and his dog Spot beside me, and a picnic blanket and some snacks for afterwards thrown in the back.  I rallied two girlfriends from the gym, a few acquaintances from the Tri club, and even a couple other friends to come for just the wine-tasting portion of the day. 

Well people, a 5K at a winery is not what it sounds like.  Oh there was wine at the finish line, alright.  And yes it was a beautiful day with spectacular views.  Yes, I did get to mingle with my friends.  But otherwise it was a tough course.  

The first 2.5 miles was a series of frequent switchbacks through the grape vines and adjacent apple orchard.  Like running through a tight maze.  Mile one was back and forth, switching our way down the hill.  The second mile and a half was switchbacks in the uphill / downhill direction, essentially a series of hill repeats.  

This was not merely putting one leg in front of the other.  It was dodging foxholes and rocks and pumping up hills.  I actually had to stop and lower my heart rate and nurse a side cramp a couple times.  It was exhausting work, this deceitful ‘lil race.  

The last half mile was an uphill time trial that every racer except the top two finishers had to walk.  (When I drove the Rubi up to the top, I was in first and second gear.)  When I was “racing” to the top, I was leaning so far forward that I could probably have reached out and done some damn pushups on the ground, because it was THAT STEEP.  It was a 350 foot gain in .5 mile.  I walked the entire thing, taking me nearly 9 minutes, until I got close enough to the winery porch that I could hear people chanting my name, then I picked it up and pranced to the finish line.

But climbing up onto that winery porch with the sweeping views of the valley and the warm breeze was a great reward.  After downing the requisite water and banana, we finally got to the whole point of the day… wine, friends, laughter as we clapped for age group winners in our tiny race field of only 50 runners.   We cracked up when Annette, despite it being her first 5K, actually won her age group because she was the only woman over 50.  And when a 20-something male who finished behind me won his too, because he was the only young man in his 20’s.  In fact, a steady parade of my amateur triathlete pals collected their prizes.   Prizes that would not have been won in a larger race… so it was a special day. 

I think I’ll go back again,  on another a beautiful 85 degree day with the top off the Jeep, my man and his dog Spot beside me, and a picnic blanket and some snacks thrown in the back…. but I’ll probably head directly to the wine at the finish line and skip the run uphill!

“Pull in that entrance.  I like to always park in the same place.”  I pulled in there and remembered my first trip to this same mall with this same friend about 16 years ago.

It was a legitimate college freshman road trip.  I say legitimate, because it was a contrast to how my girlfriends and I would typically just “steal” cars.  Like the time Lisa and I took Bridget’s car to Blockbuster across town and the battery died.  We got a jump and never told her about it because, well, we weren’t supposed to drive her car.  Or when MB and I took Melissa’s car on a joyride to Richmond just to eat a late night grilled cheese at the 3rd Street Diner where the boys at the table next to us wondered if we could explain a “rasher” of bacon.  We were *hoping* she’d never check the mileage. 

Yeah, I became sullied at age 17 when Heather stole her boyfriend’s Subaru so we could go party-hopping with our math teacher’s daughter.  I think she was the girl who gave me my first cigarette.   That night, we got pulled over by the cops, which evidently did not deter me from a future in grand theft auto.  Whatever, stealing cars is merely impish if you always return the vehicle when you’re through, right? 

But that particular night Pia had borrowed, with permission, a grey Honda  Accord from some guys in the dorm, and we drove to Northern Virginia with the intention of buying lingerie (lin-ger-eee, as she used to teasingly pronounce it) at the Tyson’s Corner mall.  We didn’t yet have fancy panties in the Fred.  I don’t remember much… but I do remember the perfume in the air as we picked out our lacy bras and satiny bikinis and left the store with crisp logo-emblazoned bags.  I wanted to go to Britches too, because “everyone” was wearing the warthog emblem. 

I think we wore those bras the night we celebrated Pia’s birthday.  Of course, to add a little girliness to a night otherwise involving a tin of Skoal (we were experimenting) and a couple gallons of screwdrivers.  I know we did wear baseball caps.  Backwards, as any righteous skoal-dipper in the South would. 

But I left the Skoal and the baseball caps behind in the spring of 1992, and I haven’t ”borrowed” a car in maybe 13 years.  In fact, I am shocked that we did not arrive at the mall in a minivan this time.   But really I am just so happy that my awesome wacky adventurous freshman year roomate is still my awesome interesting and savvy friend after all these years.  And if remembering all the fun times we had means I am also unable to erase the embarrassing memories (like the night we dipped Skoal in our lacy bras or all those cars I borrowed), then so be it.

Val-der-reeeeeee, val-der-raaaaaaaah…

Gramma would get us all singing as we hiked through the woods.  She said it was so the hunters would not mistake us little kids for deer.  

Nowadays we just wear bright orange hats in the fall, though I wouldn’t mind a bit if we got some silly songs going. 

Like the summer of Sis’ wedding when we sat around drinking the leftover wine from the reception and singing camp songs.   “Flea.  Flea Fly.  Flea Fly Flo.  Exameenie, decimeenie, oo walla walla meenie.”  Or when cousin Katy distracted us from the bitter cold one late November night with her Army marching songs.  ”I’m a steam roller baby, I’m gonna roll all over you!”  Or when my niece plays audience of one to a room full of adults singing “I’m a little teapot,” all of us posing with handles and spouts.

Anyway, hiking in the woods and singing… 

So I went for my first trail run of the spring at a park near my office after work on Wednesday.  A quick run because I wanted to get home and clean up for my dinner date with MF.  My plan was to run one long loop through the woods, followed by one loop of a much shorter adjacent trail.  It would total 4 miles.  I studied the park map real quick and left it behind in the car, knowing I should simply follow the blue trail markers, then the red trail markers. 

An hour later I emerged from the woods, my sneaks caked with clay and my legs splattered with mud and marked with little red scrapes.  Three times, I lost the blue trail markers.  Went way out of my way and had to backtrack.  Ran through a couple soccer games (ummm, definitely not on the map).  Ended up on Church Street (also not on my planned route).  Backtracked some more.  Even when on course, I was slowed by some seriously gooey mud and fallen trees several times.  

So while I was “lost” (ha ha, I could hear traffic and people playing in the distance the whole time)  I occupied myself remembering those Vermont hikes with my Gramma.  She’s the one who taught me to follow the trail blazes.  Why couldn’t I find them this time?   I visualized the map and remembered which other trails would take me back to the lot.   I had no problem finding the white trail — ya know, the faded blazes looked just like flaws in the grey tree bark.  But bright blue?  Had a little trouble seeing it. 

So I just ran.  I would just run ’til I got back to my car.  I would enjoy the empty woods on whatever color trail I found.  And I sang as I wove my path through the woods.  In my head of course.  “I love to go a wandering along the mountain track, and as I go I love to sing…” 

Cokes, blueberry muffins, chocolate chip cookies, M&M’s, burritos…

Even healthy things like yogurts, school milk, and those rest-area-snack-shop packages of peanuts and sunflower seeds…

It seems like everything is supersized, king-sized, 33% more free, and all-around bigger these days. 

So I want to thank Dunkin’ Donuts for keepin’ it real.  Those chocolate glazed donuts are exactly the same perfect size today as they’ve always been. 

Just right for an indulgent little breakfast on a morning like this… it’s gonna be a beautiful day!

Inspired by Just Run’s post.   Like her, I love chopping food with a sharp knife.  And these other simple pleasures…

Crawling into bed with clean sheets, clean skin, clean pajamas.  The first day of spring when I turn off the heat, raise the blinds, and open the windows and the sunlight colors everything a brand new shade.  Ceiling fans and white noise at bedtime.   Big, soft throw blankets to snuggle under while I watch a romantic comedy on DVD.    Daydreaming about the kitchen of my future and the vegetable garden out back.   Pressing snooze and rolling over.

Ro-tel in my mac and cheese.  Fresh, cold beer at noon on a hot summer day.   Biting into a chocolate-covered cherry.  Real Vermont maple syrup.  Sipping red wine while I cook dinner for my man.   Toasted bagels with cream cheese and fresh hot coffee with a splash of milk.  Krispy Kreme when the HOT sign is lit up.  Organic fruits and veggies.  Trying another one of my Dad’s recipes and calling him for advice.  Misspelled words on takeout menus.  Lazy mimosa brunches and walking it off afterwards.  The smell of jasmine tea. 

Hearing my niece call my name.  Little kids telling knock-knock jokes, getting them wrong, and cracking up anyway.  Paying a genuine compliment.  Strangers who smile at me.  Smiling at strangers.   Learning something new about an old friend.   Getting real letters in my mailbox.  Magazines in my mailbox.  Hugging my mom.  Finishing a Sunday crossword puzzle with no help.  Letting someone I love help me with the Sunday crossword puzzle.  Holding hands when he reaches for mine first.  Not letting go when our palms get sweaty. 

The first few laps in the pool when I am still relaxed enough to breathe every 5 or 6 strokes.  Ending my swim workout with some streamline on my back.  Having a swim lane to myself.  Trail running in the shade.   Squats, lunges,  pushups, crunches, wall sits, plank holds, and jumping rope.  Long stretches.   After dinner walks and, on Thanksgiving,  pre-dinner walks.   Game nights.

A sunny fall day with the top off the Jeep.  Forgotten old favorite songs that come on the radio.   At a concert, hearing the first few bars of my the song I had been hoping most to hear.   A cool shower, aloe lotion, and a soft tank top after a long day in the sun.  Remembering my wacky dreams when I wake up in the morning.  The way my hair looks when I first get home from the salon.   The sound of gravel crunching under tires.  The nooks and crannies of my old college town.

Crossing completed tasks off to-do lists.  Researching a good bargain.  Making plans and sometimes even planning to do nothing.  Understanding something spoken in Spanish.  Traffic and weather together on the 8’s.  Checking my internet favorites every day and scribbling on this blog.

Tag, you’re it.  Tell me what you love in the comments secion.

A few-pounds batch of homemade pasta salad and a pressed salami sandwich built 6 layers thick on a 9-inch Italian round, 12-inches round after I weighted it overnight under two cast iron pots.  Edamame-radish salad and candied pecans.  

I must have mixed up the weekend weather report because I wasted a gorgeous Saturday inside my kitchen prepping and cooking for a picnic that would be rained out the next day.  Way too much food for two people to carry up to Bears Den, I know, but I was anticipating a few days’ worth of leftover lunches. 

“Oh we’ll picnic right here on my living room floor if we have to.  We will eat this food,” I avowed after peeking through the curtains early Sunday morning.  But what about our hike?  And tossing the frisbee?  Having ditched the Cherry Blossom 10-miler, I was determined to do something active and had really been counting on playing outdoors.

We’d already spent all of Saturday evening lounging around on that living room floor, a card game spread out, enjoying the soundtrack of a warm spring night through the open screened door: the faint laughter from neighbors’ conversations as they lingered out on the sidewalks below and the distant hum of motorcycles on the toll road.  MF’s dog repeatedly scampered between us, threatening to shuffle cards or topple glasses of red wine and causing general chaos.

So around noon, after spending a lazy grey Sunday morning on the couch sharing a pot of coffee and a small hunk of buttery banana bread, our two laptops and the Sunday Post, we decided to leave the confines of my cozy living room and see what the rest of the world was up to. 

Picnic food packed into a large grocery bag, we headed to MF’s parents’ house where we spread it out on their dining table.  Turns out all we did was change the scenery, because after lunch we promptly moved our butts onto their couch where we, all of us on the verge of food coma, chatted about books and movies and restaurants.  Not once did we mention anything more ambitious than watching a DVD or ordering pizza for dinner later. 

And I didn’t fight it.  Every once in a while it’s nice to just surrender to the lazy Sunday.

Whistles and howls.  Some guys will catcall at any old girl… I know it’s not that they’re attracted to the Breathe-Right strip plastered across my nose. 

But running in my neighborhood during rush hour, suffocating by exhaust fumes and my nasal passages constricted by pollen irritation, I must do whatever it takes to get oxygen into my desperate lungs, and that includes uglifying my nose. 

At 4:30 on a weekday I find myself jogging alongside a steady parade of cars and buses, lurching along in traffic, in motion and idling at lights.  The buses blow heat and fumes.  I pass landscapers at work and choke on the lawnmower exhaust.  Meanwhile the spring breeze blows itchy scratchy pollen from the budding trees. 

It’s my usual post-work, pre-date workout.  On days when I have dinner plans with MF, I rush home from work to squeeze in a run along this neighborhood loop followed by 50 pushups and 125 crunches at home.  The exact same four-mile route that was my “short run” prior to the trees starting to bud, back when the winter wind whisked away the exhaust fumes before I could suffocate by them, is now a miserable chore because I am not getting enough oxygen to keep me going.

It’s me versus my environment.  Exhaust fumes and allergies versus Breathe-Right strips and a stubbornness to work out.  I am determined to win this battle, no matter how funny I look.  And when a dude narrowly blew by me on his bicycle on the pedestrian sidewalk yesterday, I didn’t even get irritated.  I thought… at least he’s not leaving me in a trail of exhaust!