Muse Medallion Action Shots
/You asked for it and I deliver. Feast your eyes on the most-coveted Muse Medallion. Note the lingering awe and admiration in the eyes of my beloved felines. Yes, that's right...they adore me. - Dena
You asked for it and I deliver. Feast your eyes on the most-coveted Muse Medallion. Note the lingering awe and admiration in the eyes of my beloved felines. Yes, that's right...they adore me. - Dena
A small brag. I was so focused on sharing my "left my wallet in the cab" story I neglected to mention the outcome of the awards banquet I attended Saturday night. This is the cat writers association annual banquet and I'd entered my work in three categories - humor column, individual humor piece, gift book.
The way the judging works is that 3 independent judges rate your piece and you must score an average of 90% between the 3 judges to be awarded what's called a "Certificate of Excellence." Then all Certificate of Excellence winners in a category compete for the Muse Medallion, which is the highest award bestowed. It's a matter of points--whoever has the most wins.
I was a Certificate of Excellence winner in all 3 categories, but had hopes of winning a Muse Medallion only in two. My book was up against Chicken Soup for the Cat Lovers Soul and I harbored no illusions of the outcome in that area. And sure enough, I lost that category and the humor column. Then they came to the individual humor piece. Before the winner is announced, the mc reads the judges comments. For the humor piece, one comment was, "...the perfect humor article. There is nothing that could be done to improve it..."
"Oh shoot, I didn't win," I thought. But wait--yes--that was my name being called. Even better than winning the category was the cheer I heard as I walked to the stage to collect the medal. Cat writers are wonderfully supportive people and I received a big burst of applause which meant the world to me.
So now I have a big honkin' cat medal staring me in the face from the corner of my bulletin board where I have oh-so-causally draped it. On the back is engraved, "Dena Harris - Humor - 2006."
I'm very pleased.
"Schmuck," I muttered to myself as I sat on the bench outside the San Francisco airport in the dark at 4:45 AM Sunday morning. No one was around to hear me which was fine, as I was addressing myself.
Of all the stupid things I 've done in life--and there are a few--this ranks up there as one of the goodies. I had a 6:30 flight out of San Francisco to return home after my conference. The hotel shuttle didn't run that early so I had them call me a cab. Feeling very metropolitan (we don't have cabs in NC--we just hitch rides on tractors), I tipped my cab driver, grabbed the handle of my just-under-50-pound suitcase and sauntered into the airport. I parked my bag in front of a self-checkin kiosk, reached into my bag and...shit!
I'd left my wallet in the cab. The wallet including my money, every credit card I own, and that all important driver's license that would allow me on the plane.
Ever have those moments of pure panic where you just become completely immobilized? I experienced that, then came to and burst into a run for the door. It had been about 4 minutes since the cab dropped me off and I knew there was no way he was still out there, but I had to try. I flew through the door and wild-eyed examined the drop-off area. Nope. Gone. I turned to a luggage check-in guy and shrilled "I left my wallet in the cab!"
"Wow," said the guy. "Try downstairs and see if they can call the cab company for you."
Okay. Now I had a plan. Downstairs. Call cab. I ran up to the nearest uniformed person, a young woman standing outside a luggage x-ray machine. "I-left-my-wallet-in-a-cab-and-the-guy-upstairs-said-someone-here-could-call -the-cab-company-for-me," I babbled.
"Que?" she said.
Rational thought started to kick in. I grabbed my cell and called the hotel. "We know the driver," they said. "That's Amad. Hold on and we'll connect you."
I got Amad on the phone and explained my wallet was in his backseat and please come back to the airport. He said he'd be there in 15 minutes. Thank you, God, I silently intoned and went upstairs to wait for him. I held out for 20 minutes before I called him again.
"Hi Amad, this is Dena. I just wanted to let you know I'm waiting in the drop-off area like we agreed."
"Yes, yes. I am coming to you. I promise."
"Oh, I know. I was just, um, checking."
Another 15 minutes goes by. How on earth did he get that far from the airport in so short a time? But he finally pulls up and he's in a bigger panic than me when he hands me my wallet. I try to hand him a tip but he waves me away. "Please, please. Check to see everything is there."
I glance inside the wallet. "It's here. Thank you so much for--"
"No! Please check carefully that everything is there." He's very upset.
I do an inventory and everything appears fine. Only then does he accept my tip. I finally make my way inside, obtain my boarding pass and collapse in the waiting area.
And THIS is why I arrive at airports two hours early. You just never know when you'll hit traffic, an airport delay or--if you're me--do something incredibly stupid.
But life is a matter of perspective. I called Blair while I was outside waiting for Amad to show up. "Guess what I did?" I asked, then told him the story. "So you're having a bad day?" he sympathized.
I thought about it. Although my heart was only just returning to its normal beating pattern, I was okay. I was getting my wallet back and I had enough time to make my flight. I'd been extremely fortunate the hotel had been able to help me as quickly as they did and that I had a cab driver willing to return.
"I actually have to say I'm having a pretty good day," I said. "I got lucky."
Here's hoping each of you has a lucky day as well.
Greetings all! I'm sitting in a business center in my hotel in California, feeding my e-mail addiction. Thought I'd pop in here and share a chuckle with you.
Let me start with a shout-out to "Dan" who was the flight attendant on American Airlines from NC to Chicago on the 12:30 PM Thursday flight. Dan needs to quit his job as a flight attendant and go into stand-up comedy.
We're sitting on a little commuter plane and as the door closes, Dan turns to us and says, "Now it's time for the exciting safety presentation I'm sure none of you have ever heard before. " We all chuckled. Dan held up the sample seatbelt. "Okay, I'll show you how to work this but honestly, if you don't have it down by now you're probably beyond my help."
That got laughs. He went on to mime the words of the pre-recorded safety tape that broadcast over the plane and then said, "Oh! Listen--this is my favorite euphemism." The woman on the tape said, "In the event of a..." and Dan mimed big quote marks in the air, "WATER LANDING..."
"Right," said Dan. "Because we really meant for THAT to happen."
The woman's voice continued, "Please use your seat cushion as a flotation device..."
"I don't think that's been tested," said Dan. "They look like they'd sink to me."
People were howling. Everyone on the plane was watching the safety demonstration, waiting to see what Dan would do next.
He showed us how to use the oxygen masks that dropped down, making a face as he pulled it over his head, as if it stank. The woman's voice droned on, "...If traveling with a small child, secure your mask first and then your child's."
"And if you're traveling with two children, pick your favorite," cracked Dan.
At the end of the safety demonstration, the plane erupted in spontaneous applause. What an effective way to get people to pay attention. I know that's probably the first safety presentation I've actually watched in 10 years.
So I arrived safe and sound in California. The hotel reeks of cats, which I don't recall from prior years. I must be on a floor with a number of unfixed Tom cats as their urine is usually much more potent than a fixed cats. Regardless, it stinks.
Later today I'll head over to the Cat Fanciers National Contest and do a 1-hour book signing and then wander rows and rows and rows of felines. I will be in cat heaven. If I can get a cab waiting for me, I may just grab a Persian and run.
Wish me luck.
Author. Humorist. Fitness fanatic. Control freak. Mentor. Klutz. All-around decent human being.
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I want a cat.
There, I’ve said it. Proclaimed my intent to the Universe. Although I’m only willing to accept moderate blame when events transpire to actually bring a cat into my life.
I have no business getting a cat. A few strong reasons off the top of my head include:
And yet.
When I began sharing the news that I had taken a new job near Atlanta and was moving . . . spreading my wings. . . opening myself to new horizons. . . without fail the first comment from almost everyone was, “OMG. You know about the traffic there, right?”
Yes, I am aware of the traffic. Thank you for your loving concern and support.
So how bad is it really? Having lived here now for three months, I can tell you that the 12-mile drive to my office from home can take anywhere between. . .
One of the hardest decisions in moving to Atlanta was knowing I would be leaving behind my 25-year network of friends. These are friends that saw me through job changes (insurance adjuster, librarian, author, marketing maven), life changes (divorce, moves, dating), as well as were there for everything from my first published book to my first marathon to holding my hand when my cat died. A lot of years, a lot tears, much more laughter, and oodles and oodles of love.
In other words—not something easily replaced.
Of course, I’m not “leaving behind” friends but since the five-hour drive between Atlanta and Greensboro isn’t convenient for a quick movie or fro-yo meet-up, the burden is on me to make new friends.
The obvious place to make friends, for me, is the gym. I joined a big-ass Lifetime Fitness...
As most of you know, after 20+ years in NC, I’ve recently relocated to Georgia, about an hour outside of Atlanta. More updates on that later. Right now, I want to share with you the saga of the license plate. It’s a story that more or less sums up my life. What takes other people twenty minutes, takes me 9 weeks, 8 phone calls, 4 DMV visits and a two-week plan to evade the law.
It all started the week I moved to Georgia. I was checking things off my list right and left (pictures hung in new home - check. Food in fridge – check. Wall art for half-bath – check, check, check) and in an effort to be pro-active, toddled off to the DMV to get my GA driver’s license. I showed up prepared for anything – NC driver’s license, passport, pay stub, and invoices from gas, electric and trash removal verifying my new address. I approached the teller window.
Teller: “Social security card.”
Me: “I don’t have that, but here’s my passport.”
Teller: “I can’t issue you a license without a social security card.”
I get a lot of questions about the best ways to train. Which, considering I spent the earlier part of this year on crutches, unable to run for four months due to an overuse injury that could have been avoided, I find somewhat amusing. Then there’s the immediate back-pedalling that takes place, usually in the form of, “But I don’t want to run, or get up at 4 am, or do anything that’s hard.”
Gotcha. I can work with that.
Below are five training tips I try to follow. I say try because let’s be honest—we’re all human and some days will be better than others. But these are the big picture items that have kept me pushing for the last ten years, and they are things anyone can adopt into their lifestyle.
1. Pick Something You Love
I can’t count the number of times people say to me, “Ugh, I know I need to run but I hate it.” Um… why exactly do you need to run? I hate Pure Barre and even though my butt never looked better during the month I took classes, I’m not going back.
When I first signed up for this half Ironman, I knew my swim would be slow and my ride would be average, so the plan was to make-up some time on the run. The Universe had other plans though, and handed me the stress fracture in my hip. It was literally only days before the race when my chiropractor agreed that I could try a walk/run of the course, but only if I swore a blood oath that if it hurt, I would stop. And, in a cruel twist of fate, advised that my best strategy would be to run the uphills and walk the down. That goes against everything I hold dear in life, but okay. I figured I would run a mile/walk a mile throughout the race for as long as I could.
My strategy worked perfectly… for the first quarter mile.
(ICYMI: Part I: THE SWIM)
Let’s call it like it is. I crushed the ride on this race. 18.71 average speed. My normal pace with a group where I’m drafting is closer to 17.5, so I had aspirations of maybe holding a 17 mph average. Crushed. It.
What helped me is my Garmin died before the ride even started, so I had no idea for the entire 56 miles what my pace was. I just rode according to how I felt. The first 3-5 miles were shaky (I kept repeating, “You’re out of the water. You’re alive.”), but then we turned right onto the highway, I settled into my arrow bars and literally said out loud, “Let’s make some time.”
Fun fact: They mark your age in sharpie on your left calf in an Ironman race. Not sure why, but...
On Sunday, June 4, I completed my first (because there will be more) Half Ironman. 1.2 mile swim. 56 mile bike ride. 13.1 mile run.
Being my first IM, there’s a lot to process, especially as I didn’t think I’d be able to complete the race due to my hip injury. I am thrilled beyond all words that I finished and probably most proud of the fact that I have (as of yet) to get the IM tattoo splattered across, you know, my face.
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