L U N A T A L K with Eva Moon

First-Timer’s Guide to the Half Marathon

It seemed like a good idea at the time: sign up for the Seattle Half Marathon and have a “fitness goal” to work towards. Get a gang of friends together. It’ll be like a party.

The weeks slide by and the gang of friends are winnowed down. A little plantar fasciitis here, no time there… you know how it goes. But race day dawns (or would at some point after the airhorn sounded) and my little gang of two is poised at the start line. (Hi, Vicky!)

I’ve never been to an event like this, but the Seattle Marathon seems remarkably well-run for such a large number of participants. We shiver our way through the crowds: Some, grimly-focused jogging and stretching in shorts in sub-freezing predawn, others bundled and festive with inflatable snakes wrapped around unathletic midsections. Despite the cold, it looks like it was going to be a fine day. Someone told me last year it snowed and sleeted the whole day. This morning stars glitter through early fog and a full moon hangs on the horizon.

START LINE: An obligatory, melismatic rendering of the national anthem, the bubbly announcer reminding us we were running for charity. (A complete crock, btw. I found out later less than 1% goes to charity - only additional donations made by participants above the entrance fee.) And off we shuffle.

MILE TWO: First water/Gatorade station. Grab some water. Feeling good. Runners toss cups and gu packets on the ground. This is something I didn’t know, though I guess it shouldn’t be surprising. Crews of volunteer sweepers struggle mightily to keep up with the drifting debris along the race course.

MILE THREE: Heading up the ramp onto I-90. Right hip flexor starts to twinge. This is not a good sign. In the tunnel I shed my jacket and tuck it into my fanny-pack waist strap where it will flap in the breeze for the next 10 miles.

MILE FOUR: First abandoned sweatshirt sighting. Another thing I hadn’t anticipated - the volume of clothing simply tossed aside along the route. The sweatshirt is crumpled on a fence railing not one block from a soup kitchen line. Does someone gather up the clothing and donate it? Later, I saw one race volunteer drop a pair of sweatpants into a trash bag along with Gatorade cups and orange peels.

MILE FIVE: A hill? Who allowed that into the race? I did all my training on the Sammamish River Trail, a flat easy lope past mallards, municipal art, a brewery AND a winery. If there are going to be hills, the least they can do is make them all downhill.

MILE SIX: Almost halfway now. Hip’s OK for the moment. There aren’t exactly crowds thronged along the roadway to cheer us on, but there are little clots of supporters with noisemakers and silly hats. It’s an invigorating surprise every time. I feel like I owe it to my fans to move my keister a little faster. We smile and wave like we’re in a parade.

MILE SEVEN: Live music! A little bluegrass combo is camped around an outdoor space heater. There’s been music here and there, but mostly spewing out of boom boxes. Still, any music seems to lighten the feet (which are depressingly leaden with six miles to go).

MILE EIGHT: Trudging now, but Vicky’s setting the pace - and she’s a tough taskmaster! Time to pull out my free sample energy bar. No sooner do I polish that off, than another Gatorade station appears around the bend. Right after that, volunteers are handing out free banana and orange pieces and quarter peanut butter sandwiches. I believe that qualifies as lunch. I grab a banana. The ground is littered with peels, but nobody slips. I look for a trash bag but in the end, my banana peel goes in the gutter along with the rest.

MILE NINE: Vicky pulls out her cell and calls her husband Tom to let him know it’s about time to get in the car. He’s our ride home and it would be nice to see a familiar face at the finish line. She forgets to ask him to bring ibuprofin, an omission we’ll regret.

MILE TEN: The first full marathon runners start passing by. A fine, fine sight!

MILE ELEVEN: Wall? Oh, that wall. I’ve heard people talk about hitting the wall but I’d never actually experienced it before. I can see the Space Needle, our destination, and it looks so far away, it might as well be on Mars. But there are more people along the sides of the road, so one foot goes in front of the other. Endlessly.

THE LAST MILE: At last! The end looms. Or it seems like it ought to. In fact, if I don’t see some serious looming soon, someone’s going to hear about it. We speed up, wanting nothing more than for it to be over. My right leg aches from hip to toe. I am so going to pay for this. But at last the stadium does indeed loom. And very welcome looming, indeed!

THE FINISH LINE: Suddenly, the last 13.1 miles are a distant memory. We made it! I am handed a finisher’s medal and someone wraps a space blanket around my shoulders. Inside the recovery area, a band plays oldies and vendors pass out drinks and snacks. For a price you can have a massage or acupuncture. We pass. We’re supposed to keep moving but suddenly, despite mental euphoria, my feet are distinctly crabby and uncooperative. Tom parked a mile away. He claims it’s for our benefit - to keep moving, cool down. I think he just wanted the free street parking.

AFTERMATH: We retire to Vicky’s hot tub while the menfolk cook up a hearty late lunch. Ahhh!

zzzzzzzzzz…

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Guilty Pleasures, A to Z

What do you secretly love, even though you know it’s either a) bad for you or b) would make you the laughing stock of your friends if it got out? Here’s my A-to-Z (but hardly exhaustive) list:

A. AIRPLANE. It’s silly. It’s juvenile. It’s dated. But it’s still one of the funniest movies ever made. (”Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?”)

B. BAGELS. Back in the day bagels used to be health food. But now we know that beneath the poppy seed surface of that innocent-looking bagel lurks a virtual death blow of carbs. Would someone please pass the cream cheese?

C. CHOCOLATE. (Falls to knees) Oh God, thank you for creating the cacao bean…

D. DAMN YANKEES. As kids, my sister Donna and I watched this movie single every time it was shown on TV. We’d swing the towel and bellow “whatever Loooooola wants, Loooooola gets…”

E. EARTHQUAKES. I know it’s not politically correct. But isn’t there a thrill when you realize the room is shaking? Will it be The Big One? When will it end? And after: the phone calls, the gleefully macabre TV reportage, the freedom to ignore the petty details of normal life for awhile and wallow in storytelling…

F. FRENCH TOAST. Who doesn’t love bread? It’s the ultimate comfort food. And then you FRY it. And cap it with sugary toppings. Mmmmmm…

G. GETTING RID OF SHIT. Every now and then doesn’t your stuff just starts to weigh you down? Piling junk into the back of the Honda and driving it to Goodwill is not really something to feel guilty over - after all, it’s a good deed, right? But for me, the good deed part is immaterial. It’s the sweet rush of getting shit the fuck out of my house.

H. HEDONISM. To hell with hard work, delayed gratification and self-denial. Hedonism pays off now.

I. THE IKEA CATALOGUE. Once a year that thick catalogue arrives on the doorstep bringing sunny visions of breezy living rooms, cozy bedrooms, sleek organized kitchens, airy uncluttered home offices (ha!). Hours of house porn.

J. JIGSAW PUZZLES. I have to be very careful to limit indulgence to holidays and vacations or the loss of income would force my children to drop out of college and pursue lives of crime.

K. KITTEN PICTURES. The kind so plentiful on one of my guilty pleasure websites - along with puppies. I can’t believe I’m outing myself on this one - it’s shameful, but here it is.

L. LUST. But you knew that.

M. MUSICALS. And the more turgidly overblown the better. Give me Phantom of the Opera. Give me Les Miserables. I even paid actual money to see the short-lived Dracula The Musical in NYC and Lord of the Rings The Musical in London. They’re awful and I love them.

N. NACHO CHEESE DORITOS. The only viable strategy is never to buy them. Then no one will have to live with the horror of finding my bloated, orange-powdered body amid the crumbs on the kitchen floor.

O. OVERHEARD IN NEW YORK. Click at your own risk. It will suck you in and smack its lips over your day without the least qualm. A snarker’s heaven.

P. PANTIES. You won’t find granny pants in my drawer. I’ve got a passion for Victoria’s. More than one ass really needs for uninterrupted coverage, but they’re so much fun.

Q. Online QUIZZES. Want to know your gangsta name? (Supa Gatmasta) What panties fit your personality? (Thong, of course) What Beer you are? (Corona Extra). This is educational!

R. Spending the whole day in my fuzzy ROBE then dashing upstairs to throw on jeans as the sun goes down so my husband won’t know.

S. STUFFING. Thanksgiving is almost here and the thing I’m most thankful for is stuffing. Forget the turkey. Forgo the cranberries. Fuck the pumpkin pie. Give me another serving of savory, bready stuuuuffffffinggggg. Oh my.

T. TUB SOAKS. Bathing itself is nothing to feel guilty over, cleanliness=godliness and all that. But getting clean has absolutely nothing to do with the joy of squirting oil into a tubful of hot water and slipping into a steamy dreamlike trance that can stretch on for hours. Add a glass of wine and a trashy novel and I’m gone.

U. THE UPS GUY. He’s got a nice package…

V. Anne Rice’s VAMPIRE BOOKS. They’re horrible, overwritten, overblown, sexless word porn. I hate them. I do. So why do I keep reading them? I don’t know! It’s like there’s an evil force beyond my control…

W. WORKING AT HOME which allows me to get away with all my other guilty pleasures. (If my clients are reading this I’m in such trouble.)

X. X-RATED MOVIES. You knew I’d get to this. I know you were waiting for it. Oh yeah baby. (Not that I really actually admit to watching porn… but a good source is http://www.adultdvdmarketplace.com. Retail is for losers.)

Y. YOUTUBE. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. There goes your day.

Z. THE ZOMBIE CHANT. This one is courtesy of my son, Mr. Zombie. I don’t know why but it just cracks me up:

What do we want? Brains!!!
When do we want them? Brains!!!

Your turn. What are your guilty pleasures. Come on. Fess up.

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Who put the goat in there?

Ah, Bollywood!

I first fell in love with Indian movies when I stumbled across one on the International Channel one lazy Saturday afternoon. It was in Hindi with no subtitles but it turned out that would not be a particular impediment to following the movie. In one scene the young hero is struck with a sudden, excruciating headache. “Brain tumor,” I hooted at the TV. A scene later he’s in the doctor’s office and the doctor solemnly intones “Bren toomoreh.” Score!

It’s a musical. They’re ALL musicals. Even the ones about suicide bombers have extravagant song and dance numbers atop moving trains.

You don’t need to know the language to enjoy them, but it invites all kinds of speculation - as in this hilariously subtitled video:

Benny Lava, I don’t care who put the goat in there. I love you!

Who knew that, in a twist of fate, we’d find ourselves playing these songs? For cheering crowds?

But that’s how things go in the movies. Latha Sambamurti, fellow Redmond Arts Commissioner and accomplished singer in Hindi, Tamil and other languages of India, has somehow charmed us into yet a third band. Here’s a clip from last weekend’s big Diwali festival in Seattle:

I’m looking for a song to sing myself - and thought I’d found one. But Latha quickly disabused me of the idea. “It’s in Tamil,” she shook her head solemnly, “Too difficult.” She demonstrated the three supposedly different “n” sounds. “Na. Na. Na.” They are absolutely indistinguishable, but she insists they are completely distinct. “You could say the word ‘make’ but it would come out as ‘pig’”, she insisted, “People will laugh.”

I suspect her of wanting to hog the Tamil songs for herself.

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Stealing Time

It’s back. My precioussss. My hour that was stolen over half a year ago.

Daylight Savings Time is like a blanket that’s too short to reach up over your shoulders. Cut a foot off the bottom and sew it to the top.

The truly alarming trend is DST creep. It’s been steadily eating up more of the year. This year DST kept the lost hour locked up into November. Where will it end? Is it a plot to steal it forever? Does an hour have rights? If it’s never released, where does it go?

Don’t let this abuse of time continue!

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Fly Away

I said goodbye to my grandmother today. She is so far along her path out of this life I’m sure we are no more distinct than faces outside the window of a departing train. She even refers to herself in the past tense: “I died in November,” she told me. Even so, she managed to give me one last kiss and I love you. I told her I love her forever, but she had already moved on and dismissed my words with a sly shrug and a flip of her hand. “Whatever,” she said. I had to laugh.

I wrote the song Fly Away about my children leaving home, but I will sing them for her too.

I remember leaving home
I heard tomorrow calling me
Poised for flight, I couldn’t see
My mother’s eyes watching me

Now my children look ahead
On the edge, they won’t stay
And they don’t look back at me
I wish them well and turn away

Seasons change and years go by
Children grow and summers die
Winter holds the seeds of spring
And the night surrenders to sunrise

I’ve left my former self behind
Her time is past, I won’t delay
And I won’t look back at her
I wish her well and turn away

Now I’m free to spread my wings
I hear tomorrow calling me
On the edge and poised for flight
I wish you well and fly away

When I left the house and walked down the street I noticed that the olives had been swept away and the sidewalk was clear.

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Dances with Olives

Olives aren’t edible as they come off the tree. They need a good bit of processing. Who was the first person to figure out how to turn them from inedible, bitter tree litter into delectable morsels? And more to the point, where is he when you need him?

The quarter mile between my aunt’s house and my grandmother’s house is a grisly battlefield littered with the corpses of a million hapless olives They skitter and squish underfoot, shriveled, wounded or wholly flattened. They could have been contenders. They could have been delicious.

If you walk a little further, the olive trees give way to eucalyptus. Crunching through the drifts of leaves fills the air with a brisk, lemony scent that makes you walk a little taller, breath a little deeper.

It’s November. The end of the year is on the horizon, the wheel of days grinding into the station. I’m here to wave goodbye to my grandmother. If you had asked me to imagine what sitting by her bed at this time would be like, I would never have guessed how much laughter would be involved. We’ve looked at pictures, cracked jokes, teased, been teased and touched as much as possible. I couldn’t have predicted how precious the feel of her skin would be. Here is an olive well-cured by time and love, lemony crisp in the air. Delectable!

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I thought *I* was Dollbaby

“Favorite” is a superlative. There can really be only one, right? But here’s a little paradox. My grandmother has always had the gift of making each one of us know we were her favorite. You’d think either we were willingly delusional or she was affectionately disingenuous, but here’s the one trick that makes it work: In her case, it’s absolutely true.

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