Frittering

Fritter: (fri-tr) (v) to waste time. to accomplish little of consequence. to fuck around.

That, unfortunately, is what I've been doing of late.

On Friday afternoon I convinced Andy to get home from work early so I could run away to Maine for the night. I wanted to visit with my friend Alina. Also, there was a party being given by a few of my tri friends in Maine, and I wanted to go.
Miss my BF + party = reason enough to hike it north.

I'm listening to the book American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld in the car, and this was yet another reason I wanted to go. I'm a huge (and I mean huge) book on tape person. I'm a reader, but even more than reading I love to be read to. Anyway.  American Wife is a fictionalized account of the life of Laura Bush. I've no idea if there is a particle of truth in any of it, but it certainly is engrossing. I couldn't wait to get in the car, get comfy, crank the heat and listen....ahhhhh.....

I went straight to Alina's to pick her up, and then straight to the party, which was in Freeport, a good 40 minutes from where my parents live. We were late. Getting out of Boston is tricky business on any night of the week, and my journey was definitely not traffic free. Annoying. Luckily, I had my book, which was a big part of why I wanted to travel in the first place, so I wasn't too upset.

I should've taken pictures at the party.
But I didn't.

It was fun to see everyone drinking beer in normal attire as opposed to drinking from water bottles post-race, dressed in little kits that reveal way too much. Alina and I chatted furiously for an hour or so before the party split up. Then we headed upstairs with our friends Mike and Christine and ate. Well, actually-- I ate. They just talked to me while I ate, and Alina, sportingly, had a few ribs.

It was fun.

I drove Alina home and we gossiped, and I was very glad I had come up.

One of my favorite parts of going to Maine is visiting with my folks and experiencing the total quiet of a home SANS little people. My parents have pets, but this hardly counts in the noise department. I stayed up even later talking with my mom, and then even later reading because I was alone and didn't have to turn out the light so Andy could sleep. (I am a night hawk reader left to my own devices.)
t.o.t.a.l. bliss.

The next morning I got up and lazily chit-chatted with my mom, then frantically signed up for the Beach to Beacon 10K, a race that happens in AUGUST in my hometown, but one which sells out in under a 1/2 hour. Then I went for a nice run in the salty, cold, wind of Cape Elizabeth.
And then I drove home--listening to my book.

What a great 18 or so hours.

On the way home the monsoon began. Here in New England we are experiencing an apocalyptic rain that threatens to submerge the entire northeast completely.  It has alrady sumberged my basement. It's more than a lake down there--it's like one of the Great Lakes. I can't even look. The TWO pumps we have were sort of controlling it, but then (I kid you not) the pressure of the rising water table put a deep crack into the foundation of the house--just by the bulkhead-- and a torrent of water began to pour into the basement. Andy did his best to patch it up with concrete (which um didn't really work since you can't cure concrete in the WET).  And then one of our pumps burned out. Losing battle, my friends, losing battle.

Ho hum.
Other than water, there is not much else making headway here in the casa de Wilson.
Here are a smattering of tidbits: 

I got new bike shoes. Men's bike shoes to be exact. They are wide wide wide and hopefully will allow my poor little bunions and Morton's toe some room to spread out and be their ugly selves.

I had Andy change my cassette from its 12/23 to the 12/27 so when I go to Tucson next week and try to climb Lemmon I won't tip over on Mrs Z.

Tomorrow Jen has me doing 4300 yards in the pool. Oh mama.

I am reading a book on POWER so I can be the all powerful queen of the world.
The book is by a man named Skiba, who is a D.O. and not an M.D., which reminds me I need to find out the difference between those post-nominals. The book was recommended to me by Kurt. It's a good one. This dude Skiba also wrote Scientific Training for Triathletes, which I also just read, and which is also a good one.  So far I've learned that the terms lactate threshold and critical power are used incorrectly by most of we simple triathletes. Good to know.

Jordan is convinced she needs a racing bike. She is also looking to join a USS swim team that trains more than a half hour away. She wants to swim and compete year round.
I know I deserve it.
Don't say it.

I have been on a bread binge. In fact, the term frittering at first made me think of fritters. I love fritters. Anyway. I was doing very well for a very long time, and then I had a motivational slip and began partaking of all things bread. I love bread. I dream of bread. Toast with butter is possibly the greatest food combination of all time.  Give me toast, butter and coffee with milk and sugar and I will basically orgasm.

And on that note.
ta-ta