Anouchka Talks

I threw a temper tantrum today. In my defense, I forgot how old I was.  In fact, my tantrum was actually the second time that I forgot my age this afternoon.  At lunch, I thought I was one year  older than I actually am, and almost volunteered that information to my family (who would certainly have known better) as we were discussing the grandkids' birth order.  After lunch today, I thought I was about 25 years younger.... During my convalescence period of PFPS recovery, I have been doing a variety of strength training workouts.  One such workout involves the use of our DVD player.  (I don't normally promote DVD workouts, but this one is tip top!)  Anyway, since we got a universal remote to replace the last one that pooped out on us, the damn thing has been giving me nothing but Trouble with a capital T.  (We would all do well to remember that T rouble,  T echnology, T emper, and T antrum all begin with the same letter.)  The first world problem that prompted the whole ord

Grotto tour on the Atlantic coast in Lagos, Portugal

I drive a bit of a turd...metaphorically speaking, of course.  (BAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I just had a mental image of myself driving an actual turd with wheels.  I am five.)  The little blue Mazda Protégé that I got shortly before turning 16 has been quite a trooper over the past umpteen years; it got me through two years of high school, four years of college, plus a few years to spare.  Can you believe that? But, like me, my car is beginning to show signs of age.  The old broad is growing increasingly arthritic and curmudgeonly.  As she screeches through the neighborhood, drawing cringes from fellow motorists and pedestrians, it is obvious that she will never be part of a heist.  The corroded varnish, the beginnings of rust, the pebble-chipped windshield, and the dings in the fender are just a few scars that relate the stories of days gone by.  A quirky piece of machinery, the slightest breeze used to set off the alarm creating a veritable cacophony in my high school park

I found another grey hair today. Upon this discovery, I immediately sent a text message be-riddled with desperation and profanity to one of my closest friends.  I couldn't stand keeping the fact that I had another   impostor  on my head to myself.  I knew she would understand because, in the past several months, I have noticed acute changes in my appearance that I can attribute only to aging; she has had the same experience. This particular friend and I share a lot of physical traits from our weight to our shirt sizes to our Mediterranean noses.  We even have similar builds:  petite and rippling with badass-osity.  We're both runners and, dare I say it, we pronate ever so slightly on the same (left) foot.  Creepy, I know. To make things even stranger, we both have the same complaints about aging.  Though we know we're still young, we are beginning to notice crow's feet around our eyes, make-up creases around the mouth (despite the fact that neither of us wear th

I want to rant and rave about my injury frustrations.  As the merry days of spring and extended sunlight brighten the northern hemisphere with cheer, I find myself wanting to bang my head against the wall until my body will cooperate with my mind. I know.  Effective. If you will recall one of my more recent posts about running, I had a few hypothetical diagnoses.  Turns out, I was right on the mark with Option #1:  Patellofemoral Pain Syndrome (PFPS, a.k.a. "runner's knee").  Basically, this injury involves a knee cap ("patella") that doesn't track properly in the "patellofemoral groove," which is the space between the knobs ("condyles") on your thigh bone ("femur").  What happens as a result is a painful grinding of bone on bone (patella on condyle).  PFPS is a treatable injury but, as with all running-related injuries, it takes time.  And sometimes, that "time" is indefinite. %#*^!#$%!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So,

I know it isn't technically a rose, but still, it's a pretty flower. Heritage Rose Garden Grey, Iowa

I love mornings. In fact, I think I am an early riser by nature, but busy-body-osity prevents that from happening most days because nighttime happens. It seems that the witching hours are the exact point that I realize that I have 90 billion things I forgot to do during the day while I was watching Arrested Development. This morning, however, I made it a point to get up in the wee(eeeeeeeeee) hours of the morning and hit an early bird class at the gym, putting my wake-up time in the 4:00 am range. You see, when you get up that early in the morning, you are rewarded with one of destiny's greatest gifts:   two breakfasts. No one can go from 4 am until noon with only one sensible bowl of cereal (and if you think you can, then I bid you good day, sir!), so it's science. And you can't argue with science. Two breakfasts. Two meals. Two chances to screw up my metabolism. What fun! I'd like to point out that all great things come in twos. For instanc

Dear Bruno Mars, All of your songs sound the same.  Please stop them. Sincerely, Everyone With Ears