Mrs. Nitmos and I are escaping for a much needed vacation (re: once you have kids, any time apart is now deemed “vacation” even if you happen to use that time sitting in your kitchen watching the bushes grow through the window). In this case, however, we are traveling to my ancestral birth home of Traverse City, Michigan. I’m an aboriginal Traverse Citite. It is here that we can deposit the loin apples off at their grandparents by slowing to 10 mph, placing foot in middle of back, and jettisoning them out the car door into the nearest snow bank. I reach out and snip the rope that is holding their suitcase to the top of the car and it clunk clunk clunks off the back and down the road we bound. I believe Mel Gibson, as William Wallace in Braveheart, said it best as he was being impaled and gutted: “FRRRRRREEEEEEEDDDOOOOOMMMMMMM!”
I’ve been invited* to TC to judge** the First Annual Traverse City Comedy Arts Festival. Now anyone that reads this blog would think to themselves, “But, Nitmos, shouldn’t you be performing at a comedy arts festival? You are hilarious and your biceps are strong.” Guilty. I can’t defend either charge so I’ll just let the anonymous mid-post blog comment stand (though I’m slightly embarrassed.) No, I won’t be performing. They thought it best that I mix in with the commoners, buy my own ticket, and stand in line like everyone else. These guys sure are sticklers about not drawing attention to me.
TC is remaking itself into the Sundance of the Midwest except for all of those pesky crowds and celebrities and national media attention. The annual TC Film Festival in late July is going strong into its 6th year. We even attracted Madonna one year!*** And what a thrill it was to see The Kite Runner a few months before anyone else. /sarcasm
We are slated to see Jeff Garlin, Whitney Cummins, and – yes, she still apparently does stand up comedy – Roseanne Barr. Jealous much?
However, the Jokey McJokesters are really ancillary to the weekend. The important equation here is:
Me + Mrs. Nitmos + wine and/or rum x my biceps – kids = A little slice of heaven
For much of the weekend, Mrs. Nitmos and I will be nipple deep in a nice warm hot tub when not laughing at comedians. Or drinking. Or both. We’ll scrap the condensation off the hotel windows while wearing our big fluffy robes and scoff at the mounds of snow outside.
Winter will be our bitch.
At least, it will be for a few days. Let my wrinkle finger shine.
*through mass email marketing
** the festival calls it “a paying customer”
***insert your own penicillin joke here…something like: she couldn’t come back the next year because it costs too much to inoculate the town.
So far, I’ve hit every scheduled run for February. To ease the pounding on some tender knees, I took last Saturday’s 15 mile long run on the treadmill thankyouverymuch. Post-run, whipped and starving, I ran into an impromptu baked goods sale in the lobby of the gym. A cherry cupcake with vanilla frosting? Yes, please. Oh my God, it tasted great. I've never been good at metaphors but, let me give it a shot here, it tasted like....like...an angel shit in my mouth.
I’ll be doing my scheduled long run for this weekend tonight so as not to interfere with my wrinkle finger plans.
I did a poll last week about what you think about when running. I admitted to being a non-thinker. And it looks like most of you are as well. A whopping 58% (25/43 votes) don't think when you run. This doesn't surprise me. I've seen your vacant looks in passing. For the two of you who voted that you think about WORK! WORK! WORK!, you do know that your boss isn't reading this blog right? Good try.
For the eight of you who said you'll be thinking about a unicorn birthing a midget, get over it already. I was leading you astray. Everyone knows that midgets birth unicorns and not the other way around. Sheesh.