By now everyone has heard what Mr. Nagin said to 60 Minutes reporter, Byron Pitts. If you haven’t, I’ll repeat it. Byron Pitts confronted him about how he’s taking too long to clean up after Hurricane Katrina. To which Nagin replied, “You guys in New York can’t get a hole in the ground fixed and it’s five years later. So let’s be fair.”

I wasn’t particularly offended by his comment. I still don’t take any great offense to what he said. I thought it was a copout answer, but I didn’t take offense. As far as I’m concerned our political leaders should not waste time dodging questions by comparing tragedies. But he is right; we do still have a hole in the ground.

I used to think of the World Trade Center as a King on the chessboard called Manhattan. I knew that if I positioned myself just so using the Empire State Building as my Queen, I’d know exactly which way I had to move. After the towers fell, I found myself lost in more ways than just one. Sure, I was lost emotionally, busy simmering my thoughts in booze, but I was lost physically, too. There were numerous times I would pop out of the ACE line or the 4/5/6 and feel totally disoriented about which way to go. Lost.

As ugly as those buildings may have been, they graciously stood above all else in Manhattan, two beacons letting me know exactly where I had come from and where I needed to go. When they were gone, I had to figure it out on my own. (Granted, this technique fell apart if I found myself above 36th street, but who is ever really above 36th street? I kid. I am above there right now.)

The entire downtown area was in shambles. The piles of debris, the ash, the endless reams of paperwork, the trash, the metal scraps, the rock, the dirt, the sand, the merchandise, the human remains, all of it stood there looming. And while I don’t have a firm grasp on my thought process or memory bank from back then, there were a few poignant thoughts that managed to slip through. For example, I specifically remember thinking, “There is NO way they will ever get this cleaned up. No way at all.” It was devastating seeing that massive pile. Devastating. Businesses closed. People were forced out of their apartments, some never got to go back. I thought that area was done for. I really thought that. Done for.

And then sometime very soon after that day, (I want to say the very next day, September 12, but that time is admittedly a bit foggy for me) they began to bring the flatbeds out and the dump trucks, the emergency vehicles, and the tents. They shut down the West Side Highway so the trucks had easy access, taking debris to and from, back and forth, to and from. For me, seeing the forest for the trees was a downright impossible feat. I probably would have given up. But the volunteers and the city workers, they just kept on going. They just kept on cleaning.

Volunteers brought them food, supplies, hugs, and genuine smiles. The Red Cross made sure everyone was properly cared for both medically and emotionally. And then one day, not too long after I decided all was hopeless, the area was an actual area again. There was no longer a mountain of remains. It was turning into downtown Manhattan again. And that’s when I took away another thought, “I can see new ground.”

I have not seen New Orleans firsthand. My judgment rode in on a pile of photographs. I have seen images taken within the past few months that amaze me and I have thought several times, “How are things still that messed up down there? Why isn’t that city cleaned up yet?”

Now, I realize that New Orleans and the size of its devastation far exceed the area of Ground Zero. And I also realize that the powers that be can’t seem to get their ego out of the way long enough to let construction begin at our hole in the ground. Most of us are ready for anew. Most of us are sick of hearing everyone bicker about what should be there. We’re just looking for a something, a new chapter, and preferably one that begins peacefully.

Our hole in the ground used to be a mountain, a mountain so tall and daunting I spent most of my time trying not to think about it, let alone actually face it. Thankfully, for every New Yorker, the pieces were removed one by one at a most gracious and careful speed. Mourning no longer had to face a mountain of death, instead it faced fresh, rich earth. Sure, my South Star was gone but so was that horrible heap of a reminder.

So, Mr. Nagin, I know we still have a hole in the ground. Everyone here knows that. But our hole in the ground is at the very least a hole, not a rotting house, or an empty, shattered storefront. Our hole isn’t a wooden cross, nailed together with pieces from a dead man’s house. And I realize, Mr. Nagin, that you apologized for what you said and that you “meant no disrespect”. I’m not upset with you at all because what you said is indeed true. And while you may owe the people of New Orleans an apology for not having an answer to the question you were asked, I don’t think you owe us one. Don’t be ashamed for what you said. I’m not ashamed of our hole in the ground, either.

Clean up New Orleans, Mr. Nagin. Make our Federal Government help you. You don’t have to rebuild it. You can take five, six, ten years to do that if you need to. We’ll be fair.

Seriously, y’all, this is the funniest and most screwed up thing I have read about or heard in years. I had to share it.

Every other day is my first day on the Internet. Time and time again, Tobyjoe has asked me, “What is this? Your first day?” because I’m upset by something I have read, taken part in, seen, or instigated on the Internet.

I got dissed today on Flickr. Actually, I wasn’t really dissed but I am so much of a sensitive and selfish freak that I assume everything directed toward me is, in fact, a diss.

Here’s the skinny. On Thursday, a friend of mine sent me a link to a Web site she thought I might enjoy because of the new project I’m currently working on. This was the featured story at the time.

I read the paragraph below. I’m not sure I agree with what the author wrote, but that’s not the point.

Diane Arbus’ apartment room portraits. She met many of her subjects on the street and followed them home to photograph them in their surroundings. The pictures were taken indoors, but it’s still street photography. One could ask, “why?” but one can ask “why?” about a lot of things. Trust me, the medicine is good for you — Arbus was a street photographer.

Let’s back up for a minute. Up until recently, I didn’t know anything about how Groups worked on Flickr. I knew how to join one after someone sent me an invite but I had no idea how easy it was to add an image to one of your Groups. (This should further reiterate how every day is my first day on the Internet. Had I spent about half a second more looking around, I’d have figured this Group thing out a long, long time ago.) So, I’ve warmed up to Flickr Groups. I decided to join this gent’s Not Street Street Group even though I do not know this person and I’m not a street photographer. (I hold street photographers in high esteem; the good ones amaze me.) Since this was a group about NOT street street photography, and a group that even the author admitted was undefined, I figured I’d take part. I figured I might help him to define it.

I convinced myself that since my pictures from The New York Post Project were posed portraits of people I approached on the street, they would fit into this group. The thought that they might not be street photographs because they are shot outside also crossed my mind so I looked at some of the other ones in the group. I saw this one and this one and assumed that my own worked as not street street scenes as well.

Today, the administrator of the group left the comment below on one of my photos. (I have since deleted the comment because, well, I can. I am God of my Flickr page.)

These are street pictures, why are they in the Not Street Street pool?”

I immediately removed the pictures because it is, after all, his vision and I’m not one to crash a vision or a Flickr Group. I also realize that while my images may have been posed they were still taken outside and near a street. But one wonders. What if my pictures were taken in Phoenicia in upstate New York? What if I had asked farmers to hold the New York Post? What if they were on a street? Would that be considered not street street photography? Similarly, if I had asked these New Yorkers I met on the street to come into the lobby of my office building, or into the local Starbucks, would that be considered NOT street street photography?

In a perfect world, I think he should have written me directly, deleted the photo, or started a discussion about street photography. Because, had there been an open discussion, I could have lost the battle the mihow way: by jumping in, eventually saying something nonsensical, being trashed because of it, and then promptly being voted off the island, because when it comes to online forums I am the world’s biggest loser.

The statement below was pulled from the “Welcome Section/Disclaimer” on the group and written by the author:

I’m not entirely sure what I’m talking about in terms of what this group is for—but I know it when I see it.

My photographs were not what the author of this group was looking for and he knew it when he saw it. I’m totally cool with that. I feel a little foolish, like I underdressed for the big ball, but that’ll pass. It always does. He did leave me with a big fat question, which is the main reason I’m writing this today. What is “street photography?” And if you have an answer to that one, what is considered NOT street photography? I always thought that street photography was a from-the-hip kind of art form not something posed and in a park. I feel that this image, this image, and this one, as well as this one are all good examples of what I might consider street photography. But like I said this is my first day.

I realize that I know very little about the subject. I also realize that if you put something out there you open it up to critique. I’m excellent at handling creative feedback whether it is positive or negative. I wrote the author of said group and explained why I had uploaded the images to his the group. But I’m still left wondering: what is street photography anyway?

P.S. If you diss me, I will cry.

P.P.S. This is why I shouldn’t join online groups.

A stranger named Larry broke my heart on Friday. And nearly every time I looked at his picture I felt sad.

While New York City has been known to callous someone, it has been known to bring out moments of compassion as well. New York City is a canvas of faces; each person is a unique color. Each person wears his or her own sorrow and pain and happiness differently. Each person ponders his or her day differently. And I think that if we just take a moment to see some of them, we’ll realize that through all our differences our underlying emotions are very much the same.

Have you ever barely met someone? Have you ever passed a person on the street and met their glance? Have you ever watched someone as they waited in line at a grocery store, or as they ate lunch in a park, or read a newspaper over a cup of coffee as they waited for the bus and caught a glimpse of their life? I use the word “glimpse” because sometimes the interaction takes place in under a minute. But it’s more important than that. Sometimes, during these tiny minutes, I feel like I have a most distinct understanding of who they are, not all that they’ve gone through in life, but perhaps what was left over. Maybe.

I approached Larry while he read the New York Post. He had curly hair, which grew tall on his forehead. He had warm eyes. He greeted my gaze with more care and ease than many of those I know. He was easy to talk to. I asked him if he’d mind being in a picture for a project I’ve been working on. He very much obliged. He said, “The New York Post? Absolutely. Absolutely.” That was all. Just, “The New York Post? Absolutely. Absolutely.” He positioned his body in the chair so it turned toward me. His suit was neatly pressed, his briefcase lie on the table before him. He smiled. His eyes beamed. Suddenly, I wanted to be someone really special. Not just some girl in a park with an expensive camera. I wanted to be Henri Cartier Bresson, an AP photographer for the New York Times. I wished I were Diane Arbus. I wanted to be someone who could actually do something for Larry, someone with clout, someone who would see to it that Larry’s picture ended up on the cover of The New York Post.

But I was just me. I was nothing. I was a girl who walked up to Larry in a park and interrupted him so I could take a picture for an online art project. Why couldn’t I have been there with a better opportunity for Larry? Why couldn’t I make him really happy?

There are these people I see every day. Sometimes I walk by them without a thought. Sometimes I barely notice them at all. Sometimes we bump into one another. Sometimes I say something to them. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes they repeatedly break my heart and I spend the majority of my day trying to repair it.

This is Larry. Larry did that to me. Larry broke my heart. And I’m starting to feel sad all over again. And now it’s Monday.

In order to live up to my flakiness, I have come up with another pet project. I know that some of you are thinking, “Oh, here we go again! Another pet project! What a flake!” That’s me. I’m Pillsbury in a can. I’m a hot biscuit on a Sunday morning. I’m a boardwalk elephant ear. I’m dried skin. I’m old paint. Pick at me, peel me up, but there will be more. There will always be more.

.

First, there was Self-Portrait Day. Then, there was Cool-Props. Next up we had Spread. There was IhateDesign. Oh, and let’s not forget about the Hurricane Project, which I’m still trying to edit together. There were the Bush T-shirts I had printed and then didn’t sell because I’m too much of a wimp. And these projects, my Internet friends, these are just a few of the Internet projects. I also have personal projects of the real-world, tangible variety. I have signed up for classes that have nothing to do with my career. (And often.) I join social groups such as soccer leagues, marathon runners, potters, yogis, bakers, and pet-friendly organizations. You name it—I’m interested. You’re talking to someone who decided to move to England over an evening cup of coffee and had everything worked out by 9 AM the following day. You’re talking to the someone who moved in with a guy after three weeks of knowing him. (I would have married him before that had he asked me to.) You’re talking to someone who got an apartment in NYC while on a business trip for a company in DC.

If you’ve been reading this for a few years, or if you’ve known me for longer, you’re probably aware of my whims. And given how much I annoy myself, I’m certain I’ve annoyed you.

And I wish I could change that part of myself. I do. I can’t. Instead, Tobyjoe has agreed to warn me when I start becoming too manic because usually I can’t see it.

This particular pet project was approved by Tobyjoe because it doesn’t hurt anyone, not even myself. I’m not going to take out a 30-thousand dollar loan or get burned by hot, molten glass. I’m not going to go into debt buying books for people and mailing them halfway across the nation. I’m not going to run until I destroy my knee or break a toe. I’m not going to end up with about 300 rags sporting an illustration of President Bush. And I’m certainly not going to end up full of debt and depressed when I come down from it (and you know that I will). Let me reassure you, that if I have irked you in the past, I’ve been even more annoyed with myself.

But I got the go-ahead for this one. Tobyjoe agreed to let me work on this one. He’s even lending me his lens. This one is called the New York Post Project. I only have four pictures thus far because I didn’t really put together the idea until four days ago. You may be asking, “Why? Why is mihow doing this?” Well, I’ll tell you why. I think the New York Post has some freaking hilarious headlines. They have made me laugh out loud as well as groan. I figured this would be a fun way to share with the rest of the world what New Yorkers probably take for granted.

We’ll see how it goes. I started a set over on Flickr as well where people can leave comments if they wish. Come visit if you have a moment. Let me know what you think.

I visited the sport’s medicine doctor yesterday. We’re still unsure what is wrong with my right knee. He thinks it might be because my left leg is a little teeny tiny bit longer than the right. (I’m hot.) Either way, the right thigh muscle is sensitive to the touch. It’s also super tight. He showed me some exercises to work on and told me to focus on standing on all four points of my feet (as seen in Mountain Pose for all you yogis out there). Apparently, I stand on the outsides of both feet and the inside of my legs are weak because of it. I also run with bad form because of this impurity.

I have another appointment with him next week to discuss my shoes, how I run (he’ll put me on a treadmill), and physical therapy. He also wants to give me acupuncture, which leads me to my question: Has anyone out there ever had it done? Know anyone who has? How does it feel? Is it painful at first? Does it work? Any and all information will help me out. I’m nervous now.

P.S. If you dislike leaving comments, kindly email me. (michele @ mihow dot com.)

Here is another reason to avoid certain commercialized foods, particularly pre-packaged meats.

The viruses are grown in a preparation of the very bacteria they kill, and then purified. The FDA had concerns that the virus preparation potentially could contain toxic residues associated with the bacteria. However, testing did not reveal the presence of such residues, which in small quantities likely wouldn’t cause health problems anyway, the FDA said.

So, let me get this straight. They’ve created a mixture of viruses, which are grown in the bacteria they are to eventually destroy. Apparently the residue left from the virus mixture might be toxic. But small quantities of this very bacterium they’re working to destroy won’t cause health problems anyway. Does that mean most people ingest said bacteria anyway and aren’t hurt by it? Does this make the chances of more people getting sick higher?

I guess I just don’t trust the government so it’s a good thing I don’t eat pre-packaged deli meats especially since they’re not planning on putting any labels on the actual products.

Consumers won’t be aware that meat and poultry products have been treated with the spray, Zajac added. The Department of Agriculture will regulate the actual use of the product.

Last question: Why aren’t they telling consumers that the FDA approved such a technique? Why aren’t they adding it to the ingredients? Don’t you think people want to know they’re eating a mixture of 6 viruses sprayed on their cold cuts, 6 viruses that grew in the exact bacteria they’re trying to kill off?

I have several food allergies. I carry an EPI pen around with me wherever I go. The scary thing is, I’m not entirely sure what I’m actually allergic to. My allergist tells me, it’s probably a preservative. The even scarier part is I have actually gone into Anaphylaxis shock, hence the need for the pen. I am led to believe that my allergies are directly related to FDA approved and managed preservatives. Luckily, for me, many foods come with warning labels stating as much. I choose to avoid those foods. Why not do the same with this? I’m actually asking.

There isn’t a week that goes by where Tobyjoe isn’t approached about his tattoo. We did some rearranging this weekend and brought this back from the dead. It’s nice for now especially since I hate overhead lighting so much (and that’s all we seem to have). Speaking of leg lamps, remember this ordeal?.

When I first started running, I thought my heart would be my shortcoming. But the heart is easily beat into submission. It doesn’t really get much of a choice. It’s either going to work or it’s not. And if it breaks down, well, then it’s lights out for me. And at that point being able to run or not being able to run wouldn’t much matter. No, the heart isn’t an obstacle at all. The heart’s submissive. There are other parts threatening to put an end to this.

But I’m not ready to talk about the negative side-affects. (Yet.)

In hopes weening myself off of the treadmill, I started running home from work. My decision to jog home helped me get my necessary mileage in for training, it helped me avoid the busy L Train and I was given the chance to see the city (which I discovered is really quite small). Plus, since I work in Midtown and live in Brooklyn, I am able to vary my route. 1st Avenue is less crowded and it runs along the river. And 14th Street feels like a great halfway point even if it isn’t. Avenue B moves by quickly. The Lower East Side spends its minutes wisely; watching its people is an inspiration. They give my mind something to do. And the Williamsburg Bridge is a perfect climax; it punctuates my run. (There is nothing more gratifying than stopping for a drink on the bridge, looking back at the Chrysler building, and seeing where I came from.)

I’m pretty slow. It takes me about an hour to get all the way into Brooklyn. That’s roughly 5.0 miles in 60 minutes (according to www.walkjogrun.net). I usually walk home the last half a mile. I take my time. It’s better for my legs and they’re the ones doing all the work.

I picked up a fuel belt, which is really just a fancy looking fanny pack for runners. The need to wear a belt became a necessity, since I need my ID, credit cards, cash, MTA card, cell phone, and house keys. The fuel belt includes four water bottles; they have been a lifesaver when I have needed an extra boost.

For shorter runs of about 6 miles, I fill two of its four water bottles. I fill one up with water and the other with some Powerbar Endurance mix (Recovery mixture shown above). The Endurance gives me an immediate boost of energy but I can’t say that I enjoy the taste all that much. It goes down and stays down. My body doesn’t complain.

People talk about the runner’s high. I never much believed in all that. I used to think runners were stupid, actually. Who would want to do such a thing? There are easier ways to get high. I know now that I was just jealous. Insulting what the unfamiliar is usually a side affect of jealousy. The runner’s high is, indeed, true.

For me, it usually happens right around mile 4. It begins in my lower gut. It sounds weird, I know. But it feels like I have to pee. I think it’s from squeezing my lower abdomen so tightly and for so long. Either way, about five minutes later, my entire body breaks out into hundreds of acutely sensitive goose bumps. Every single pore becomes erect. If I were an animal, I’d be puffy. My ears tickle. My head hums. My vision becomes crisp. I’m no longer aware of my breathing; it’s just taking place. My muscles move without my telling them to do so. I’m lost without thought. My body totally takes over. It’s like those windy nights where the fan in the window catches a breeze and its blades can’t keep up. And, just like that, time actually stands still.

I love that feeling.

Sometimes, after I run, my mood changes. I’m not sure why but sometimes I become really sad. Sometimes, I become angry. And a lot of the time, I become agitated and restless like someone is repeatedly poking my thoughts with a stick. (I am told the agitated state is a telltale sign of over-training. I don’t know what to say to that.) But the most frustrating part, the part that I’m having trouble coming to terms with, the part bringing me to a sports doctor this Tuesday is my right knee. My right knee took a turn for the worse after I began running longer distances. And from everything I have read it’s my IT Band, which can ruin someone chances of long distance running. Obviously, I am unhappy about it but I’m not giving up, yet. Needless to say, I have had some setbacks. But if my heart has agreed to this, my knee will too.

I hope.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I might not meet my 2500-dollar charity goal But I’m not going to let myself get too down about the money. I’ve also come terms with the fact that my knee might stop me from running this marathon. I’m trying not to think about that. I’ll walk away from this experience with a newfound knowledge about the physical me, which is the part I’ve been ignoring for a long, long time. The body is truly fascinating. I’m inspired by the way it repairs itself, how it answers to each movement, how the organs, veins, bowels, intestines, and lungs come together to form a seemingly chaotic masterpiece. It’s a mad choir, a work of art. And when it comes to mystification it far outdoes the mind. It will humble the most profound thought.

Changes are taking place inside of me that I can’t even begin to explain. Long runs affect my digestive system especially if I consume an energy drink or gel. Sometimes my right knee just won’t work. It just will not move and that bums me out quite a bit. Running directly affects the chemistry of my brain regardless of all its words and knowledge and songs and books that it keeps.

Everyday my mind is surprised by something my body has done. I regularly think, “Did you see that? Did you see what Body just did?” (You should see the post its currently working on.) And I’m amazed that my mind and body actually live together. I’m amazed that they coexist. All my life I have lived at the mercy of my thoughts and emotions. It’s shocking that it puts up with me. What I’m trying to say, Internet, is that my body has caught up with the blades and lately it’s been whispering, “Shhhh, Mind, stop for a moment. Did you hear that? You’re living too fast.”

This is an animated gif of my eldest, Schmitty. He likes to roll over.

He’s the greatest.

I have insomnia. I think that’s the word you’d use to describe this. It’s 4:30 AM and I can’t get back to sleep. And everything is eating away at me. I hate not being able to sleep for longer than a four-hour period. I’ve been lying here thinking about all the things I should and could do better. Everything from visiting my parents more often, paying my bills on time, and picking up the phone, to paying everyone back for the donations they gave me because I’m freaking out about running in November. The list of things I should and could do better is infinite. This long night might meet an even longer morning, which will mean an even longer day.

Somebody please punch me.

Ever since I decided to train for the ING NYC Marathon I’ve hit a mother load of questions. I discovered an online forum on the NYRR online training program and have found that the people there are not only inspiring but they’re helpful as well.

When I first signed up I started threads like: “Newbie. I’m not sure what I was thinking.” I wrote out my story and how worried I was about running 26.2 miles. They came back to me with some of the most inspirational stories. I seriously had tears in my eyes. It pays to be honest and upfront. After that, I felt a little better. I began asking more questions. I bugged them about physical therapists, running routes, Central Park safety tips, energy foods, and sports drinks. Each and every time I was greeted with information. (For example, I found this superbly amazing site where you can map out any route and find out exactly how much mileage it is. Totally freaking awesome, people. Go there.)

It’s been over a week and I’m finally starting to actually picture running a marathon and thinking about the logistics. For example, things like my cycle, using the bathroom during the marathon, overcoming an excitement fueled bout with insomnia the night before the big run, and how to actually get onto Staten Island by 7 AM that Sunday morning came to mind.

Seriously, what if a woman has her period during the marathon? This idea suddenly (not to sound dramatic) terrified me. I was so worried about actually learning how to run the mileage I completely forgot that nature would be a force to reckon with as well. No matter how much one trains, one still has to deal with good old Mother Nature. (Bitch.) And so I asked the question. What if I have my period during the marathon?

I have learned that sometimes the Carb gels make people vomit. And the Carb gel booth is at mile 18 so if you plan on consuming a gel for energy at mile 18, it’s best to practice a few times prior just to make sure you don’t vomit. After all, no one likes a vomiting jogger. I haven’t tried the gels yet. But Tobyjoe purchased two packets for me. I plan on diving in this Saturday when we run through Central Park during our 11-mile run.

I learned that it’s best to avoid any fiber at all before the marathon for reasons one might imagine. I learned that you shouldn’t take any Acetaminophen 24 hours leading up to a big run as it might cause kidney damage. I learned not to eat anything but maybe an egg or two for breakfast that morning and make sure it’s done hours and hours beforehand. I learned that stretching, using the bathroom and drinking is recommended throughout the run. I learned that walking isn’t at all shameful and neither is dropping out should you suffer from an injury. I learned that one must continue to walk for at least 25 minutes after the run even if one would rather immediately fall to the grass in Central Park while angels massage their feet and loved ones bring them gifts and candy, kisses and baby pools filled with Jell-O.

I learned all of this and a lot more (such as what to do should you have an irritating 11-mile diarrhea bout) but I still don’t know what to do about The Flow.

I’m still waiting for more feedback as this question was posed last night. But one woman wrote back and said that if I’m regular, I should talk to my OBGYN and see if there isn’t some way to curb the cycle. We’ll see. Until then, I’ll continue to freak out. Until then, I’ll continue to talk incessantly about it. Until then, feel free to sponsor me a buck or two. #73577 Howley.

Oh, and one more thing, I would like to thank all those who have donated money thus far. I receive an email each time a donation is made. Those emails include the addresses and names of the people who do so. I will be sending you all something to show my gratitude. You have no idea how thankful I am. Eventually, I hope to be given the chance to repay each and every one of you.

Edited to add: Some of you are donating too much money. I meant it when I said I’d be happy with 10 bucks. I swear to crap. But please, please, please if you’re going to donate more than that, make sure you write this off it’s the only way my conscience will let this fly.

Tobyjoe and I met up with Heather and Derek yesterday for brunch at the Coffee Shop on Union Square. What was supposed to be just a brunch ended up with a visit to the Beard Papa, the Leica gallery, and a ride on both the Cyclone and the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island. Coney Island is the only place I can think of where a guy can make money by allowing babes to wear his pet snake. I felt a little bad for the snake, actually.

Heather had had the Bearded goodness before. (That is not meant to be dirty.) And I can’t be sure, but I think she may have clapped when we came upon it. We had to partake. I had the chocolate one. Word of advice: Don’t breath in when you take bite. I inhaled a bunch of chocolate powder and came close to choking. I’m not sure if I should thank her for introducing us to the Beard Papa or kick her ass. Sweet jesus, they’re good.

We had an absolutely fantastic time with Derek and Heather. When they got off at West 4th and we parted ways, Tobyjoe looked at me and said, “They are really nice people. I like those two.” And they are. Incidentally, Tobyjoe is heading to the geek fest known as WWDC today. He’ll be in San Francisco by sundown. They’re going to try and meet up again on the left-hand side of our nation. I am sad that I cannot make it.

This evening Missy and I are heading to Joe’s Pub to see Bonnie Prince Billy. I almost bailed when I found out the concert coincided with Tobyjoe’s absence. Everybody knows that a week without my Beaner pretty much means a week without fuel. We’ve been married for almost three years and I still don’t like being without him. I hope that feeling never goes away. I freaking love that guy.

It’s hot and there’s a lot going on. And I’m sorry for the lack of updates as of late. We’ve been running around, doing things, taking care of business. Plus, there was the vacation and all. Plus, I’ve been Interneted out as of late. I think I’m going through a phase. It’s either that, or coming out of one. We’ll see.

We got the car back from our mechanic right before we left for vacation. The news was not good. We got it back in the same state we dropped it off in. I posted a picture taken from the garage. My mechanic said he’s willing to do the work but he has no time to look for parts. We were told we need two upper ball joints and two lower ball joints. On top of that, we need an engine pipe, which he’s pointing to here. I immediately thought we were screwed. I began to mentally divorce myself from the lovely car. And then the Internet came to the rescue. Someone shy who goes by the name “nervous and small” posted a link. 163 bucks later, four ball joints are making their way to me.

Let’s see, I signed up for a soccer league that begins in September. I’m looking forward to that. Let’s hope it cools down by then.

What else. On Sunday, after weeks of going back and forth, I finally resolved to train for the NYC Marathon that takes place on November 5th, 2006. I even did some research and came up with a training schedule. I was quite pleased with myself. In the state of a daydream, I imagined one friend or family member standing at each of the 26 miles along the route. (First, I daydreamed about actually having 26 friends.) And, duh, of course I’m way, way past the deadline to sign up legitimately. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I thought I might be able to raise 2500 bucks to train with Fred’s Team. They were sold out, too. DC is sold out as well. Maybe I can do that next year. (A kind man contacted me about a few other opportunities with local charaties in NYC. I may have given up too easily. I’m waiting to hear back again but there’s a good chance we can still run.)

Nico and George got married while we were away. Soung and David had their wedding party. We stayed at The Tabbard Inn. DC was wonderful. I got to see a lot of people who I miss greatly. We had brunch with Michael and Inger and their most beautiful baby girl. I fell in love with this child. I can’t tell you how much this baby touched my heart.

Rhode Island was cool as well, although not having a car was a little rough. We didn’t nearly get to see as much as we would have liked. But it was relaxing and we got to share Nico and George’s big day.

Lastly, it’s about the blog. Truth be told, I have a love/hate relationship with this Web site. Sometimes, when I branch out a bit and read other blogs, I begin to feel shameful that I’m a part of this community. There is an uncomfortable amount of hatred out there. There is an uncomfortable amount of cattiness and vindictiveness. There always has been. (Lord knows, I’ve been involved in a few meaningless spats over the years.) It seems that people thrive from it. There is a lot of laziness and finger-pointing that takes place as well. I’m often embarrassed for other people. I’m embarrassed for myself.

The first step to recovery is accepting that you have a problem.

My name is Michele and I’m a self-hating blogger. Am I the only self-hating blogger out there? Do others struggle with this?

I’m not a proud blogger. Running (and completing) a marathon, petting the cats at the Barc animal shelter, snuggling with Tobyjoe every night, sharing brunch with an old friend, cooking corn on the cob to perfection, baking scones, finding the parts to repair my perfectly wonderful car, writing my brother a letter about his baby’s hands, these are things that I am proud of. I wish I could be proud of blogging too.

In other news, we’re talking about a trip to India next year. We’ll see if my reproductive schedule allows for as much. Who knows what a year from now will bring but I have wanted to see India for over a decade. It simply must take place especially now that I have 30 lovely Xanax pills for flying. If India doesn’t work out, London is in order. I want to see Dan. I want crisps. I want British football. I want to visit Manchester and have a pint at the pub I worked at.

That’s all for now. It’s nice to be back in New York even if it’s blazing hot. I miss her when she’s not around.