After I peeked at Pre’s life story depicted on screen, his equline-like muscles dancing in motion, there was only one thing to do: Strap on a pair of Nikes myself and start fartleking. Building up a marathon endurance has not been easy, especially given my nerdish, sedintary former existence. I’ve endured more than my share of giggles from friends and loved ones along the way. “My daughter, an althlete?” (Cue the uncontrollable laughter) You want running shoes more than a new purse? Are you su-re? Wait, let me get this straight, you just fell jogging on a cement sidewalk and poked a crater in your knee and you’re going to keep at it? Uh, Yep, as soon as the 10 layers of skin heal over and my ankle air cast comes off.

During my journey to the eight minute mile, I’ve discovered a community of obsessed fellow enthusiasts (who knew there were so many other people willing to rise at 5:30 AM to run 45 minutes in 90 degree heat) and learned the secret rules of running authenticity, like: 1) water bottle belts are only for neophytes, sissies and those in a marathon training program who can’t even run two miles; 2) one NEVER wears the shirt of the race you are running in but instead shows off by donning shirts from the cool races you’ve run in the past. Althelete as showhorse..hee..hee..and 3) Runners are loyal and unwavering about the brand of shoes they will don. Nike is Nike and Saucony is Saucony and nere the two shall meet. Although I confess to recently making the surprising transition from New Balance to ASICS, an unlikely swap which is only the result of losing my NB’s in an airport luggage mix-up. I won’t tell if you won’t. I mean who wants to lose my corporate sponsorship?

I’m convinced runners are the ham radio geeks of the sports world: so excited to find a fellow journeyman and perfectly happy discussing mutual interests of the best shoes, socks, wicking material and early morning running routes for hours on end. It unites people from all walks of life. Running has transformed me, physically and emotionally. Not only did I grow breasts, but my entire anatomical shape changed and I sprouted mini-muscles on my arms and legs. Mentally, I am stronger having broken a barrier I never thought I could, scuplting my body into an athletic machine and graduating from atrophied geekdom to be one of “them”, the swift in speed and spirit who gladly get up at 6AM on Saturday to run the charity race.

Pre once said that to give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift. Thanks Steve for inspiring me to realize I had a gift to give to myself. :cheer:

Signed,
TLRRG (That Little Redheaded Running Girl)

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We Ohioans are taught from our very first bites of cheesy potato casserole that our state is special and as citizens we are a chosen lot. Not ones to dwell on our cornfield obscurity, facts, figures, mottos and the state bird are engrained in our collective memories through years of mandated state history classes. Who needs to know about the Vietnam War when you can memorize all of the native tribes settled in Tuscarawas County? And why take a field trip to the zoo (yawn, yawn) when you can trek on over to the Harding and McKinley cyrpts?:cheer:

Ohio has grand political traditions dating back way before the creation of Howard Taft’s 3X bathtub. Electing more Presidents than any other principality and having a notable record in the Supreme court, it is no surpise that we are at the center of the Deja Vote storm. And may I add… proud of it! Our people are simple, sturdy, smart and strong and those years of early cold mornings spent in the driver’s seat of the farm tractors or combines were good training for standing on line in the pouring rain waiting to cast a ballot for Decision 2004.

The pundits are apt to say “So goes Ohio, so goes the Presidency.” Today we of Stark and Summit and Mahoning County and all others lit up on the maps of CNN and the icerink of NBC are living that reality. God bless the Buckeyes, Timken Steel AND America!

Signed,
TLRG:redhead:

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Instead of having a state flower, or secret handshake, we’ve got a state card game, Euchre, whose rules are so complicated that no one in Michigan could possibly understand. Left bower or right bower? You got the trump suit, baby? In all shuffling the deck seriousness, I’ve never met a sole outside of Ohio who knew how to even pronounce this wild ride of a game, let alone play it! Probably better that way since one you learn the ropes, your productivity is about the same as a long-termer who works for the local DMV.

As for the food, tasty as it is here, Buckeye cuisine is in a class by itself…so freak-show odd it makes Wiener Schnitzel seem mainstream. Growing up, I saw nothing unusual about eating peanutbutter and butter sandwiches, putting truckloads full of ketchup on my scrambled eggs (affectionately called lil’ yolkies) and scarfing down large weekly consumptions of Johnny Marzetti, a delish cream-based soup casserole that sounds like a man you might meet on-line but is really a traditional post-funeral dish often prepared by your Great Aunt Freda. This is to say nothing about the one-of-a kind meats brought to us courtesy of the Amish including Dutchloaf, trail bologna, broasted chicken and ham balls, a public health apocolypse in wait but nonetheless the most lip-smacking meat that will ever touch your lips. You just haven’t lived until you’ve had hamballs with maple syrup sauce over buttered noodles. Mmm…mmm…

Which brings me to today’s topic: the tride and true, timeless miracle of the crockpot. For those of you outside the Midwestern heartland, no I am not speaking of a new garden tool but of a firecracker cooking utensil that will save you time, money and whip up the best darned oreo cheesecake this side of the Mississippi!

I confess I am an avid crock groupie. There is not a season or occasion for which the crockpot can not be come out to play. Christmas…eggnog and BBQ weenies. Superbowl…chili. Thanksgiving…crockpot stuffing, one of my personal favy-faves. Unwieldy family gathering…a Sam’s club-size portion of lasagna. Easter…marshmallow yams. Rosh Hashanah…7-UP and catalina dressing covered brisket. The modern woman on the go would do well to invest $20 in this hot bowl that can, in 4-5 hours with no muss and fuss, turn random ingredients into a tasty stew or brew. Mulled apple cider is not just for Halloween anymore.

My advice? Run, don’t walk to your neighborhood Target and pick up the ‘Pot pronto. You won’t be sorry and as a bonus, be assured you will be in the vanguard of retro hipness. After all, even Williams and Sonoma recently issued a “Slow Cooker Cookbook” available in all luxury mall locales coast-to-coast. Dal or roasted rosemary rack of lamb and veggies anyone?:cheer:

Good luck, god speed and happy cooking! Look for some of my favorite recipes in the coming days.

Signed,
That Little Red-Headed Girl:kiss1:

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