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What You Don’t Know…


Dog Run

I do not recommend being sick.

Barack Obama’s Hidden Agenda


Sick House


Head Cold

Let’s Dance



Vitamin Popper

Because this blog isn’t already enough about describing the ways my body fails me.

Mr. Bingley Goes to the Vet

My eye!

If my optometrist ever sends my right eye (assuming, of course, that this is my left; I can’t tell by looking at the image alone), I’ll post it. It’s the one that’s got visual-field problems.

Eye stories

I’m at risk for glaucoma!

Speed Work

I have designed my runs to be as far from competitive as they can. I don’t run with other people. Rarely do I measure my distances. Not only don’t I time my splits, I don’t even carry a watch. My program is to stay out at least 45 minutes, to keep a steady pace, and to watch for unusual things.


Either the hummus, or the baba ganoush, or the combination of the two at our local falafel joint, where I ate lunch yesterday, disagrees with me such that it makes my skin smell.

On a whim this morning, I used one of those pore-cleaning strips on my nose. Plus…

What happens when you spill coffee on the cat?


Normally, the water from the coffee machine in which my tea now steeps isn’t hot enough to burn my lips and tongue when they touch it. The fact that my lips are smarting right now tells me the water is hotter than normal.


In the loo just now, a man was brushing his teeth over the leftmost sink.

Feel sorry for me, dammit

This morning my temperature was high and I felt miserable, so I called in. I’m parking myself on the futon the rest of today.

From the dentist’s chair

Dentists, dentists, dentists, dentists…

I take it back

Beards, mustaches, eyelashes, and all other facial hairs are not good places to store frozen breath. Especially eyelashes.

One manifestation of worry

Vivid dreams and a bypass surgery.

Run for the Schools (10K)

I ran my first 10K race this morning.

I am not a hypochondriac.


Several times a day my left eye shudders like poked Jello.

Night Run

On perils of running at night.

“Who’s next? Foot pain?”

In my defense, the dumpster I fell out of isn’t a bad place to get boxes.