Babycarrot sister had been training for a marathon that no one was quite sure she would be able to run, as she had been plagued with severe foot pain throughout the past year. She had taken nearly the last two weeks to rest before the race, but just the day before she had been favoring her stronger foot, as her other foot was still giving her noticeable pain.

On race day she miraculously felt not an ounce of pain coming from her feet. At least, not the kind of pain she had grown accustomed to feeling whenever she ran any distance. Throughout the day I’m sure there was pain. LOTS of pain. Marathon sized amounts of pain. But my babycarrot sister is nothing if not a trooper, and troop she did, all 26.2 miles without stopping once.

It’s difficult to express how inspiring watching a marathon is, the hundreds of spectators strategically placed throughout the course, rushing from one mile-marker to the next to catch brief glimpses of their particular beloveds so bravely and determinedly pounding the pavement toward the finish line.

Waiting for Theresa to come into view around mile seven I was struggling not to cry.

Standing there alongside a road I had driven myriad times before, I was suddenly struck by the sheer magnitude of the event, and the complex simplicity of it. Run. That’s it. Just run, from the start all the way to the finish. Keep running, even when you want to quit, even when you think you might fall over from sheer exhaustion or fear. RUN.

Along the sidelines there were mothers who roused babies at dawn to put them in strollers and pull them along. There were husbands with kids in tow, telling their little ones “Here comes Mommy; here she comes!” There were bright pink signs laden with bright pink balloons, and spectators who would cheer for anyone whose name they could read from their bib. There were runners under the age of 18, and there were runners who were grandfathers. There were runners who looked strong, who laughed and talked and thanked the crowd for being there, and those who looked like they were literally limping along.

There weren’t as many spectators, as many bands, as much activity as there would have been, I heard, supposedly because it was a pretty gloomy day weather-wise, Portland having traded its newly crisp clean and sunlight-laden Fall air for grey skies and drizzles with short bursts of torrential downpour.

We were still there, along with thousands of others; we were there for her. To see her finish a race she had vowed to start. And finish she did.

My little sister finished her first marathon in 4:09:52 with an average mile time of 9:32.

Out of everyone who ran the race yesterday, my little sister finished 2,560 out of 6,413.

(That’s her, waving in hot pink, around mile 7.)

Out of all the women who ran, my little sister finished 777 out of 3,057.

In her age and gender group of 20-24 (she’s 24), my little sister finished 71 out of 256.

Out of all the sisters in the crowd, I’m pretty sure I was proudest.

For the running savvy, and for posterity’s sake, here’s a breakdown of her times throughout the marathon:

————————–

Bib #: 6977
10 Km: 55:05 (Mile Pace: 8:52)
8.9 Mi: 1:17:45 (Mile Pace: 8:45)

Half: 1:55:10 (Mile Pace: 8:48)

17.5 Mi: 2:36:21 (Mile Pace: 8:57)
20 Mi: 3:00:35 (Mile Pace: 9:02)
21.1 Mi: 3:12:18 (Mile Pace: 9:07)

Finish/Tag Time: 4:09:52 (Mile Pace: 9:32)
Gun Time (because they start in waves): 4:16:03

————————

After the race Theresa told me her favorite sign out of all she saw on Sunday was one that read:

“Your feet hurt right now because YOU’RE KICKING SO MUCH ASS.”

Agreed.

She’s trained long and hard to get herself physically and mentally to this point, and she’s battled a bit of injury along the way.

Forever believing in the power of positive thinking, it would mean the world to me (and to her, too) if you could send her your proverbial running shoes tomorrow.

If you can take care of the positive vibes, her husband, my parents, Chris and I will take care of the jumping up and down and screaming our fool heads off each time she passes by.

“Umm…”

“Oh, wait. ‘Athena’s Desert Day Spa.’”

“I’m sure they would sever you dessert by the sea if you asked nicely.”

——————–

On the phone with our doggy day care, where Iggy has been apparently being a little too friendly with the other dogs.

“He’s doing well, and he’s so good-natured, but we’re really working with him to keep him from humping the other dogs.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, once he gets going, he just doesn’t seem to want to stop.”

———————-

Driving out of Abbotsford on Highway 1 we see an electronic flashing traffic billboard that reads:

Seat belts save lives. And then:

Are you buckled up?

“Even the SIGNS in Canada are nice!”

“I was just thinking the same thing!”

“It’s definitely a different tone than the U.S.’ CLICK IT OR TICKET! campaign.”

“Are you buckled up? Would you like a bottle of water? Or maybe a back massage? What’s your favorite color? Can I make you some spaghetti? How’s your mother?”

Are all of your friends, your family, the lady you talk to on the elevator every morning, registered to vote?

(Just an FYI for all of you feed readers: there is a video embedded here. Also, hello! there.)

They should be.

This election, maybe more than any other, affects every single person in this country. Every woman, every man, every child, every businessman, businesswoman, every small or large business owner, every father, every mother, every teacher, sister, brother.

More than that, it affects millions of people who don’t live in this country and never will.

It’s worth the few minutes it takes to send this video, or a little registration nudge of your choosing, to anyone who might not yet be registered to vote. Time is running out; every voice should count.

(Thanks! to Aimee for the link)

Last night Chris and I cheerfully handed over tickets purchased months ago to see Jackson Browne at The Schnitzer, and while the show was fabulous for many reasons, his political songs spoke the most profoundly, the most loudly to the crowd last night, and he played more than a few of them.

After one particularly stunning set a man from the crowd yelled at Jackson: “WHO ARE YOU VOTING FOR?”

(All caps, of course, because, again: YELLING, LOUD ENOUGH FOR THE ENTIRE THEATRE TO HEAR HIM, from the first balcony, I think.)

Jackson Browne laughed and replied nonchalantly while tuning his guitar for the next set.

“Are you serious?”

A thunder of applause and laughter and then, “Well, let’s see. I’m SUING John McCain, so…”

I think his sentence may have continued coherently after that “so,” but it was oh so quickly swallowed by the joyous cheers and fists thrust victoriously in the air for a candidate that the overwhelming majority of a crowd that was comprised primarily of men and women over forty so clearly support.

I’m recounting it here because (it was awesome, and) it was also probably my favorite happening of the evening.

Save, of course, for the woman who took to dancing in her aisle about three minutes into the show, so restless were her limbs when the band started playing, and the way she gyrated and raised her arms in surrender and sheer musical adoration reminded me of church, and it was then I realized that Jackson Browne was her own personal Jesus.

There were also two INCREDIBLE (Yes, I YELLED IT, because they SO WERE) back-up singers in his band who might have been angels from heaven, so perfectly could they sing, and they had the crowd literally on their feet and Jesus-gyrating in their general direction on multiple occasions.

Can I get a witness?

From Jackson Browne’s “Lives in The Balance”

I’ve been waiting for something to happen
For a week or a month or a year
With the blood in the ink of the headlines
And the sound of the crowd in my ear
You might ask what it takes to remember
When you know that you’ve seen it before
Where a government lies to a people
And a country is drifting to war

And there’s a shadow on the faces
Of the men who send the guns
To the wars that are fought in places
Where their business interest runs

It should herein be stated for the record that Chris is the musical genius in our relationship, and he also rests easily at the musical helm with regard to overwhelming and uncanny knowledge that will ensure we will beat you at the music portion of Trivial Pursuit without me ever needing to answer a single question. I say that only to illustrate that his idea of “hints,” musically speaking, means that nine times out of ten he will be sitting there smugly, laughing while I continue to have no idea as to what these carefully selected songs and artists are supposed to be alluding.

“Um. What does the song Constant Craving have to do with our anniversary? Are we going to the vampire city?”

More smug smiles. “Maybe.”

“No, that’s not it. It’s probably something completely obscure, like all of the artists are from the same city, and of course I will never guess that.”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

“No, not yet. Let me see if I can figure it out. I totally won’t, but I’m not giving up yet.”

An hour later and I still had no idea where we were going, save for that we were surely headed toward Seattle, or through Seattle, or toward the general vicinity of Seattle.

When Chris finally caved, he cheerfully exclaimed that all of the artists on the CD were from (Yep! I never would have guessed it!) CANADA! And that’s where we were headed. Vancouver first, and then on to visit Angella D. & family, at which point in the declaring I nearly passed out from the sheer and unexpected awesomeness.

It turns out, Chris and Angella are quite skilled in the art of covert trip-planning, and I had NO idea they had been working together for weeks and weeks to plan a trip that quickly and ultimately became our all-time favorite, ever.

Having left Portland at 5:00pm, around 11:00pm we ended the first portion of our Canadian road trip in downtown Vancouver, and about five minutes after arriving at The Fairmont we were sure we weren’t going to be able to leave without being forcibly removed from the premises.

In addition to everyone we came into contact with both associated with the hotel and indifferent to it being insanely cordial and welcoming, our room was incredible, with a view of the Vancouver Art Gallery and the downtown streets beyond, and our bed was so comfortable it would have made leaving our room difficult had we not been clamoring to see the sights and sounds of Vancouver during our two-day stay.

That first night we wandered around the hotel for a few minutes until we found Joey’s, a lively bar & restaurant that was still serving food and drinks, and where I fell a little bit in love with a B.C. brew called “Pinup Pudding.”

We spent all of Friday wandering about downtown Vancouver, after breakfast at The Elbow Room Cafe stopping at a vintage shop called Retro Rock, where apparently Michael Madsen had been a week prior, and meeting and talking to a street artist who was in the middle of finishing a fantastic mural in an alley off Davie, ultimately making our way to Stanley Park where we spent the rest of the afternoon traipsing about the 1,000 acres of wooded parkland, making pit-stops at the Vancouver Aquarium and a cozy restaurant in the middle of the park to warm up with coffee and seafood chowder, with myriad stops for photo-ops along the way.

This is my favorite shot of that Friday, taken just a few minutes after we entered Stanley Park, looking out over part of the channel, waterfront Vancouver reflected in a busy marina:

When we started to lose the light we reluctantly finished meandering around Stanley Park and headed back to the hotel to relax and freshen up before our final night out in Vancouver. Around 8:30pm, after many a wardrobe change on my part, we finally made it down to one of two restaurants in the lobby of the hotel to have a glass of wine and a cheese & fruit plate. Our friendly server (Hi! Grace) chatted with us, asking us where we were from and why we were visiting, ultimately suggesting Bin 941 for a continuation of drinks and dinner when Chris asked for her recommendation on an authentic Vancouver wine bar.

We took a cab and found an eclectic hole-in-the-wall tapas restaurant that would be easily missed from the street if you weren’t looking for it. Packed when we first arrived, we waited thirty minutes for a table, and didn’t regret it for a minute of that thirty, their food being absolutely incredible and their atmosphere boasting small and large groups who sat around for hours, laughing and talking, their voices easily becoming lost in music pumping loud enough so as to vibrate every seat in the house.

The next morning we slept in and made it out of the hotel by noon, the streets drenched in rain that had started to fall earlier that morning, apparently the first rainfall Vancouver had experienced in months. After acquiring friendly directions as to the easiest way to catch Highway 1 in our intended direction, we left the rain and our new favorite city behind, headed toward warmer Summerland.

(Part two of the anniversary trip recap coming soon and very soon. Until then, here is my photoset from the trip, and Chris’ is here.)

Be it posts that move and inspire me, the latest newsworthy headlines, or me waxing poetic about my new favorite scarf, I wanted to have a reoccurring bloggy segment that would give me the ability to share all the good with you. And so without further adieu, I bring you:

Good Thing One:

This post written by Schmutzie, addressing our nation’s fascination with the exploitation of women and children, victim mentality, and the gravel sound of Law & Order, and in this particular case (no pun intended), Law & Order: SVU. I have long been a fan of (Mariska Hargitay, and) the show, but haven’t watched it regularly for years. Schmutzie’s (well-written and thoughtful) post discusses the myriad nuances of a culture that is simultaneously disgusted by and enamored with sexual assault against the female form.

Yes, Women Are for Raping, for “Law & Order” Tells Us So.

Good Thing Two:

This Classic Plaid Scarf, from Forever21.com

(See how I wasn’t kidding about telling you about my favorite scarves? I’m a bit of a scarf addict in Fall, and well, all the time, and the fact that it’s consistently cool enough in Portland to rock them nearly 70% of the year does nothing but further my excuses for buying more inherent need for them.)

In addition to being (blue! $9.80! and) cozy comfortable, it’s also the only thing keeping my neck from taking a trip to the Arctic Circle while I sit at my desk in an office that is apparently incapable of maintaining regular above-frigid temperatures.

Good Thing Hullabaloo:

The first presidential debate is GAME ON, which is fantastic for endless reasons, not the least of which being that I get to see Meggan & Daniel tonight for some patriotic debate-watching festivities.

—————–

This weekend I also fully intend on (finally!) making it through the hundreds of pictures taken during our anniversary trip to British Columbia to see (everything! and) Angella, Amanda, and their respective families last weekend, after which I’ll be fully recapping one of the best trips ever.

For now, I’ll leave you with the Flickr set from our Great Canadian Adventure.

(FYI, if you can’t see all of the pictures in the set, it’s because some of them are marked “friends only.” Just let me know if you want to be added! Don’t Flickr? Never fear; I’ll be posting a plethora photos with the recap post soon and very soon.)

Happy! weekend, all.

“‘I Love Chris So Much Because He Walks To Get Us Diet Coke When It’s Raining?’”

———————

This weekend is our one year wedding anniversary.

We are going away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Chris won’t tell me where.

I don’t know that I’ve been more excited for a trip wherein I have no idea as to the final destination.

Come to think of it, I don’t know that I’ve ever been on a trip wherein I didn’t know the final destination before over-packing my suitcase(s).

This trip I’m only taking one suitcase. One suitcase which I of course didn’t let Chris pack in, thus exemplifying marital compromise and sharing. And how it doesn’t exist when suitcases to be packed for non-disclosed destinations are concerned.

I’m not quite sure how me loving Kevin Costner’s movies easily segued into how poorly Mr. Cage emotes, or the ridiculous roles he chooses, or how you heard he stole someone else’s baby that one time while he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, but segue it did, and quite frankly, I could not have been more thrilled.

I will herein happily admit that I happen to very much like Nicolas Cage (you weren’t really surprised were you?), but that I can completely understand why you (or anyone) would so strongly dislike him. The Wickerman is case enough against his poor movie role selecting, and his inability to act even mildly allergic to bees.

(Please, for the love of all that is not a waste of your time, do not ever rent and watch that movie if you haven’t already; I promise you will want to kick him in the shins if you do.)

All of that to say: A few months ago I stumbled onto Maxim’s website, and thus, into their apparent affinity for awesome list-making, and a few hours minutes later, I found and saved the link to this gem of a list:

“Nicolas Cage’s Magical Hair Mystery”

Quoting Maxim now: “For a guy with very little hair, Nic has sported several wacky ‘dos. Here’s a look back at his follicles’ finest moments.”

Thinking it was a perfect follow-up to my previous Questionable Actors That I Adore post, and seeing as how I’ve been wallowing in movie watching while I’ve been wearing a particularly unflattering shade of Chest Congestion coupled with slight overtones of Fever all weekend, I felt obliged to share it here.

Please to enjoy.

As a magical preview I’ll tell you that this one is my favorite, mostly because a hairstyle just doesn’t get better than a flaming skull:

© Maxim.com

Oh, and Ghost Rider, if you were wondering, is fantastically horrible. And by “fantastically” I mostly mean “You might want to watch it with your eyes closed. Perhaps then the dialogue might be believable. But probably not.”

Once we reached the lake where my parents own property, we were overjoyed by the sight of campfires:

And fantastic people holding marshmallows, grahams and chocolate (with almonds!) hovering closely around said campfires:

There was a plethora of pontooning, on a large and lazily lake lapping boat my parents prefer to most any habitable home nowadays, and not just because of their proximity to the fish at the bottom of the lake:

There was also a brief swimming stint, hosted and performed by three of the bravest (see also: craziest) of our crew:

That’s babycarrot sister on the right, in her awesomely vintage 1950’s swim cap, and her brother-in-law and his daughter to her left. The water was 62 degrees. (Just like bathwater! With a few buckets of ice!)

Then there was my parent’s neighbor’s puppy, Mikaela Mary Michael (I so wish I were kidding about those THREE names), a rare breed of an ancient line of Japanese dog called a Shiba Inu, who is remarkably lovely, as it were, and also, as we quickly discovered, exceedingly aggressive toward other dogs.

You’re probably thinking to yourself right now: “Aggressive? That dog? She looks downright ANGELIC to me.”

She is trixy, that Mikaela Mary Michael, and there were indeed moments where it appeared Iggy and MMM would be the best of canine friends:

Lest you be fooled by my inability to appropriately capture the prevailing moment, let me assure you that 99.85% of the time MMM was in the yard she was chasing Iggy fearlessly, attempting to bite his face, his neck, his cute beady eyes, even his, shall we say, JUNK, and thus Iggy was running for his life, hiding behind any pair of legs that happened to be in the vicinity, mowing the green lawn in all of his nervousness, looking at me in sheer desperation as if to wonder what he could have done to deserve myriad encounters with a dog who seemed determined to chew his face off.

That’s when we jumped out from behind a pair of imaginary bushes and yelled “Surprise! Happy BIRTHDAY!”

We then proceeded to explain how we had attempted to procure him a friend to cavort with all weekend, but had instead been given this demon dog who was determined to give him a puggy ulcer for his first birthday.

While I do love me some hyperbole, I’m really not exaggerating about the “demon” part; my sister even called her a “jerk,” which Chris then of course appropriately translated to “ass.”

It’s endlessly entertaining to me how these pictures in no way convey the sheer chaos of their canine yard co-habitation, and the undiluted fear in Iggy’s eyes whenever she was anywhere near him.

After all of the s’mores and excitement, after we had bid farewell to my parents, and to my little sister and her husband and his family, and to the lake in all of its chaotically blissful Labor Day glory, I snapped this picture of our newly one-year-old Iggy on Monday:

It’s by far my favorite picture of him ever, and I like to pretend he’s harnessing his chi, forgiving us for not saving him from the tornado that was Mikaela Mary Michael.