More evidence of the importance of the soundtrack:

Today's run was harder than usual, not due to the downpour, but because my music player's battery died only 10 minutes in. A lesser athlete would have just quit right there, but not me. Oh no. I gutted it out at least a whole 'nother 5 minutes.

I'm not sure why I didn't stop, at least long enough to get the medium-sized iPod from the house. Maybe because it was raining so hard and I didn't want to risk ruining it. Maybe it was laziness.

I'm not sure how I didn't stop. Running with music is just so much better. But, the song that was playing when the battery died did keep going through my head for quite a while...




I'm not sure what made me not stop. I guess my thoughts were enough to keep me distracted, but two days later, I can't remember what I thought about, other than the above Facebook status update.

And because it was a Facebook update, "at least 5 minutes" was all I was willing to publish about the length of the run. It was quite a bit longer than 5 more minutes. And it ended in a zero.

And I'm a little sad about that...I decided to quit messing around with numbers that end in 7 or 8 and just round up. It feels sort of more accurate and serious. I guess if I don't like it, I can just keep running until the end of whatever song is playing when the time turns to the zero. Unless it's one of those seven-minute songs and it just started...

I should have known by now.

A list of just some of the things it took me way too long to learn:

1. That's Mick Jagger singing back up on Carly Simon's "You're so vain"!

2. You can and should always keep a good tweezers in your wallet. My sisters descended of hearty Eastern European or Mediterranean peasant stock know exactly what I'm talking about.

3. We don't have to dial a "1" before the area code on our cell phones.

4. The difference between Meg Ryan and Melanie Griffith - Griffith is the one you'd want backing you up in a fight.

5. What steampunk is.

6. "It only takes a minute, girl, to fall in love." En serio.

7. RSVPing and mailing things don't take very long either.

8. Spend on shoes, save on everything else.

9. Douchebaggery transcends age, race, gender, class, ethnicity, nationality and economic ability.

10. Palm Springs' art museum kicks modern art ass!

11. Everything looks, smells, sounds, tastes and feels better with love.

"Wow. Now that's discipline, going for your walk even on Christmas," my neighbor observed.

That sounds like a compliment, but I honestly believed that I was running at the time...and to make matters worse, I'd just sped up for my "faster minute" as I passed his house.

It was one of those "Why bother?" moments that I sometimes have before, during or after a run. Another thing that makes me, paradoxically, question why I run is catching a glimpse of myself in a window or car mirror as I run by, or when I see my shadow and think thoughts like "Wow, after 2 1/2 years of this, I only almost have a waist." Fortunately those moments don't happen often, and I think I'd be really sad if I just gave up this activity. It's taken me a long time to even call what I do "running" without qualifying my word choice.

I'm disappointed that I'm still so slow. In a whole hour I can only go just a little over 5.5 miles. But I still don't want to train or set speed goals...my goal is to just not stop going out there.

Leaving Las Vegas

The bus pulled to a stop and everyone but me exited, into the desert it seemed; there were no buildings near. The driver put the bus in Park. The airport was in plain view, but I asked anyway, "Should I get off here and walk that way to the airport?" He stood up to stretch. "No, please don't! I just have to wait here another 2 minutes." "Will we get there by 4:30?" He laughed, "We'd have to go really slow to get there by 4:30." Normally I would have felt like an idiot and kept quiet. "I had to ask," I replied, "because time and distance in Las Vegas are not like time and distance in any other city."

Membership has its rewards.

Well, OK, Café and Bar Bernardo doesn't have a membership; if it did, I'd sign up. As it is, I'm just a regular and not even the kind of regular whose name the staff knows. But they know my order, and that of my almost-tocaya, speaking of names.

For a few months we've been trying to go once a week and we usually make it. I value these lunches; we talk about work, our work and details before getting down to more personal topics. Sometimes we eat quickly and get back to our respective computers, but most of the time we can linger a bit, la sobremesa.

Tocayos are people who share the same name. My almost-tocaya and I have many other things in common and we always order the same thing at Bernardo. Sometimes the servers remember...

On Monday I went to Bernardo, but not with my almost-tocaya. I went with my mentor, who can be a bit formal and always appropriate. We approached the counter to order, "Go ahead, Val," he nudged me forward.

The dimpled waiter/cashier smiled and asked, "The usual 3-salad sampler?"

"No no, not today... I'll be doing something a little different. Just the Thai noodle, please." And I let a tiny bit of panic show in my eyes. The kid's a quick study; he winked almost imperceptibly and asked, "Anything to drink?" instead of his usual, "And the usual Sauvignon Blanc? One now and one after?"

I'll be sure to take good care of his tip jar next week...

"Are you ready for Christmas?" chirped the cashier.

"It took me 10 minutes to find a **** ****** DVD, I have smashed chocolate-covered pomegranate all over my white sweater and I'm trying to pin my bangs out of my eyes using a paper clip. Do I look ready for...well...anything?"

No, I'm even more not ready for Christmas than usual.

How many stereotypes are too many?

Last night I* caught up with L.** outside his house where I handed him a Costco box of oatmeal and his chartreuse Bakelite serving dish I'd had since before my exams when he brought me a lasagna in it so I wouldn't have to stress about cooking. In exchange he handed me a plate of pineapple upside-down cake he'd made the night before.

We sat on the short concrete wall talking for a good while. He said he'd been talking about me. He'd observed to his husband***, "Valerie doesn't really like to decorate very much, does she?"

"Sure she does," R. replied. "Her style is just different from yours. She decorates like a Mexican."

Mi casa es...
Mi casa es...

*white girl

**Mexican-American

***Anglo-American