Today I reached another milestone running - oh, it is nice, when you just start a thing, how practically every time you do it is some sort of milestone - which was running for half an hour without getting a vicious stitch at some point. Nobody seems to know what stitches are but so far I'd been able to just run through them by making sure I was really getting all the air out of my lungs before breathing in again. But they'd always pop on at about minute 20. Not today!
And today was another milestone in that it was a run measured by distance and not time, which you're supposed to start doing when you get to around half-an-hour, but which I hadn't planned to do - I pressed a button I wasn't supposed to on my Blackberry and the chronograph stopped. Anyhoo. 4.3 kilometres. I think normal people who run can run five kilometres in half an hour but I am very, very gentle with myself.
I hope this blog doesn't turn into a running blog, because I have a long proud history of disjointed nonsense I need to keep up. So here's something besides running: we've been functioning without a fridge since moving to L--- by using a chest freezer, ice, and a couple of coolers. It's worked well over the last couple of months, and I resisted getting a fridge for reasons I'll probably share someday, but can't be arsed to now.
Anyways, some friends decided we were being idiots and gave us their old fridge, which I wasn't totally thrilled about but now I can start preserving again. And I have two pots of the prettiest-looking kim chi I've ever bottled going now . . . cabbage is bizarrely expensive here, especially wombok, so I've decided to try using sugarloaf, in the context of this recipe - which I've also adjusted by using hot paprika, since, there being no Asians in this fucking town, I can't get any Korean chili. I suspect it's actually the same thing though. And instead of the apple, I used raspberries. I am so fucking stoked to eat this kim chi - I haven't had any since - oh hell, I don't even know. At least since September. But now I must wait and wait and wait three fucking days until it's ready . . .
sabato, febbraio 26, 2011
mercoledì, febbraio 23, 2011
More stuff about running
I don't know how long I ran for today because the shitty little watch I got so I wouldn't have to run around with my Blackberry strapped to my arm like a fucking wanker died. But it was a fair amount for me, around the cricket field nine times, with a little frolic with the perennial cattledog thrown in. Running around a cricket field nine times doesn't sound like fun when you see it spelt out, but this is a really fucking nice cricket field - surrounded by lovely hills, rainbow-y skies, and birds that are out of this world - lorikeets and rosellas and that whole awesome, mellifluous artemidae family.
As I'm sure you all know there are some landscapes that insert themselves right into the fabric of your brain from anywhere you spend any substantial amount of time, a little more egregiously than the rest - maybe from your walks through them to get to work or whatever so the relationship goes a little beyond familiarity. In Paris I guess it was the little parkette by the Palais Royale, and in Brussels certainly the park close to our apartment and also the Tenbosch gardens on the way to work, in Toronto Riverdale Park, in Ottawa the big open space with the sound sculpture by the defence buildings, the talking cigarette machine in Pinerolo, the Champlain river in North Bay - things that are so much a part of me that when I remember them and think about them, it becomes a little unbelievable that I'm not still close to them and can't just trot over to them. Anyways, this fucking cricket field here in L--- has joined them.
I do also like running around the city though, which is pretty dead so I mostly have the asphalt to myself. It's reasonably pretty as far as Australian towns go and of course the views are stupendous. I don't know if I'd run around the cricket field at all if I didn't want to spare my poor burdened knees.
I've decided I don't mind that my tits are shrinking. The F-word still likes them. The thing is I remember once early in our acquaintance I got really deathly sick for a couple of weeks and lost who knows how much weight. After that I went to stay with my family in Calabria for a week or so and thanks to my auntie's fucking awesome cooking - forget Soul Food, that shit is Holy Spirit Food - gained it all back. When I saw the F-word after that, one of the first phrases out of his mouth was 'you've gained it all back on your chest', and he just had this look of intense - I don't really know the word for it - some variety of happiness, I suppose - on his face. But now that we've been living together for nigh on five years, I figure my tits being differently-shaped might fool part of his brain into thinking that it's getting its hands on a whole new set of tits, and that will hopefully forestall any cases of the seven year itch.
As I'm sure you all know there are some landscapes that insert themselves right into the fabric of your brain from anywhere you spend any substantial amount of time, a little more egregiously than the rest - maybe from your walks through them to get to work or whatever so the relationship goes a little beyond familiarity. In Paris I guess it was the little parkette by the Palais Royale, and in Brussels certainly the park close to our apartment and also the Tenbosch gardens on the way to work, in Toronto Riverdale Park, in Ottawa the big open space with the sound sculpture by the defence buildings, the talking cigarette machine in Pinerolo, the Champlain river in North Bay - things that are so much a part of me that when I remember them and think about them, it becomes a little unbelievable that I'm not still close to them and can't just trot over to them. Anyways, this fucking cricket field here in L--- has joined them.
I do also like running around the city though, which is pretty dead so I mostly have the asphalt to myself. It's reasonably pretty as far as Australian towns go and of course the views are stupendous. I don't know if I'd run around the cricket field at all if I didn't want to spare my poor burdened knees.
I've decided I don't mind that my tits are shrinking. The F-word still likes them. The thing is I remember once early in our acquaintance I got really deathly sick for a couple of weeks and lost who knows how much weight. After that I went to stay with my family in Calabria for a week or so and thanks to my auntie's fucking awesome cooking - forget Soul Food, that shit is Holy Spirit Food - gained it all back. When I saw the F-word after that, one of the first phrases out of his mouth was 'you've gained it all back on your chest', and he just had this look of intense - I don't really know the word for it - some variety of happiness, I suppose - on his face. But now that we've been living together for nigh on five years, I figure my tits being differently-shaped might fool part of his brain into thinking that it's getting its hands on a whole new set of tits, and that will hopefully forestall any cases of the seven year itch.
martedì, febbraio 22, 2011
Side effects
So today I ran for half an hour for the first time. Rodelinda, among others of my friends who run, had promised me that at the point where I could run for half an hour, I'd pretty much be able to keep going forever. So I tried and could only keep going for another 90 seconds. Oh well. That's still more 1,800 more seconds than I could run without stopping for a break two months ago. It is rather exciting picking up a habit like this, having a plan - a fairly lose one but a considered, gradual one I've been faithful to - and see what happens over such a short time. A body that can run for half an hour versus a body that can run for 90 seconds are two different things, but in my case nothing seperates them except for seven weeks or so, which is really bizarre.
The manifest differences are not totally what I was expecting. There's been some weight loss, which is good, because I think you need to be pretty skinny to be comfortable in this climate. As mentioned yesterday I'm a much better fucker now, which is interesting and exciting. Today I noticed something I'd been suspecting for a few weeks, which is that my tits are definitely a lot smaller. That was interesting but rather less exciting, but so far their shape is still pretty good so I can live with it. Since I started running, my premenstrual fucked-offedness has morphed from a deeply melancholy, angry moodiness to being snappy in a way that's even funny for me, which is great.
No serious chafing yet, and no black toenails, which between them are the two best arguments I can think of for not taking up running. I've been warned to expect them. Yay.
The one difference is a diffence of method which I wasn't expecting; I've given up listening to music or indeed anything when I'm running. The birds here are too interesting and running is also a nice balance between the intimacy of walking and the speed of bike riding - it gives you a good chance to notice things. In fact, the house whose hopefully-pending mortgage we just got pre-approval on was something that I found while I was out on one of my laborious, fitful interval runs soon after we got back from Victoria in early January. I'm pretty excited about it though I am wondering what the hell we're doing a little bit. Oh well.
The manifest differences are not totally what I was expecting. There's been some weight loss, which is good, because I think you need to be pretty skinny to be comfortable in this climate. As mentioned yesterday I'm a much better fucker now, which is interesting and exciting. Today I noticed something I'd been suspecting for a few weeks, which is that my tits are definitely a lot smaller. That was interesting but rather less exciting, but so far their shape is still pretty good so I can live with it. Since I started running, my premenstrual fucked-offedness has morphed from a deeply melancholy, angry moodiness to being snappy in a way that's even funny for me, which is great.
No serious chafing yet, and no black toenails, which between them are the two best arguments I can think of for not taking up running. I've been warned to expect them. Yay.
The one difference is a diffence of method which I wasn't expecting; I've given up listening to music or indeed anything when I'm running. The birds here are too interesting and running is also a nice balance between the intimacy of walking and the speed of bike riding - it gives you a good chance to notice things. In fact, the house whose hopefully-pending mortgage we just got pre-approval on was something that I found while I was out on one of my laborious, fitful interval runs soon after we got back from Victoria in early January. I'm pretty excited about it though I am wondering what the hell we're doing a little bit. Oh well.
domenica, febbraio 20, 2011
Graphic content
I hate to be graphic, but if someone had been graphic with me like this years ago, so many things could have been different, so here it is.
I've still been running four or five times a week, and now kayaking on the off days, and after a couple of months of this I'm probably closest to 'fit' that I've ever been in my life. The corollary of this, which I guess I wasn't expecting quite so, well, practically, is that I'm much, much better at fucking now. I've never got any complaints in the past, and certainly drive has never been a problem, but the difference is (pardon the pun) fucking dramatic. Seriously. It has really sparked off a concern within me that the world is absolutely packed with people who aren't giving the loving their partners deserve.
It's funny, these unspoken but horribly useful truths. I guess most people have a vague idea, if someone mentions the topic, that if you're fit you're a better lay, but it's never an explicit part of the campaigns to try to make people fit, as far as I've seen.
My other favourite in that sense are anti-drug campaigns. They never mention the undeniable truth of how fucking good drugs are. They always concentrate on how bad drugs are, how using them is all pure lose, and then when a kid finally gets their nose into some drugs and spontaneously discovers how fucking awesome they are, of course they're going to go apeshit on this whole unexpected world of win. I can't help but believe that if these sorts of campaigns would be more effective if they could at least admit that drugs are jolly fun, but ultimately too dangerous to be worth all the fun, like being a pirate.
I've still been running four or five times a week, and now kayaking on the off days, and after a couple of months of this I'm probably closest to 'fit' that I've ever been in my life. The corollary of this, which I guess I wasn't expecting quite so, well, practically, is that I'm much, much better at fucking now. I've never got any complaints in the past, and certainly drive has never been a problem, but the difference is (pardon the pun) fucking dramatic. Seriously. It has really sparked off a concern within me that the world is absolutely packed with people who aren't giving the loving their partners deserve.
It's funny, these unspoken but horribly useful truths. I guess most people have a vague idea, if someone mentions the topic, that if you're fit you're a better lay, but it's never an explicit part of the campaigns to try to make people fit, as far as I've seen.
My other favourite in that sense are anti-drug campaigns. They never mention the undeniable truth of how fucking good drugs are. They always concentrate on how bad drugs are, how using them is all pure lose, and then when a kid finally gets their nose into some drugs and spontaneously discovers how fucking awesome they are, of course they're going to go apeshit on this whole unexpected world of win. I can't help but believe that if these sorts of campaigns would be more effective if they could at least admit that drugs are jolly fun, but ultimately too dangerous to be worth all the fun, like being a pirate.
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