Ultra ... Ridiculous

It's true. I'm ultra ridiculous.
Since my last post, I have followed through with the ultimate way to torture my body, and it wasn't acupuncture.
I ran a marathon.
And an ultra marathon.
People already think your a paddock short of a few cows when you tell them that you're going to compete in a marathon; 42.2km of non-stop running complete with thoughts of 'my legs are about to fall off', and 'I really, really need a poo'.
But I did it. I stowed away negative thoughts as well as the extra piece of peanut butter on toast I hadn't planned on eating that morning and ran my little heart out.
With an impressive time for a newbie of 4 hours and 11 minutes, I felt slightly invincible and opted to sign up for an ultra marathon directly after I'd crossed the finish line. Pumped with adrenaline, I didn't really consider what running 64km through bush terrain might ultimately mean. But alas, as of this weekend past, I completed the last of my running challenges for the year and have a medal and four buggered toenails to show for it.
I am sore and I am attempting not to complain to every passing person with ears, but I'm also very proud of my accomplishments. I'm 33, I can pee all by myself, cross the road without holding mum's hand, and now I can run for no other reason at all other than I've been secretly training for the zombie apocalypse.
I have absolutely no idea what the rest of the month will hold, though I suspect there's going to be some mass peanut butter consumption and a few wild nights on the chocolate to balance out all this 'healthy' clean living I've been doing of late.
Peace out.
Keep running. The zombies ARE coming.

Kristy :)

Carbs and Crisis

If you haven't noticed, the last few weeks on the blog have been a little sad. My blogs are somewhat few and far between and my usual flair for the dramatic has diminished under the weight of a few personal dramas. It's because of these dramas that I realised that although I aim to succeed, please and laugh along the way, I'm most definitely easily distracted and not great mates with focus.

For one, The Aligned, the third book in The Hunted series, has been in the editing stage for at least a year now. A new book I started to write in early January has been collecting proverbial dust as it waits for the tip-tap of Microsoft ink to appear on it's neatly typeset pages. Then to top it off, Goodreads has informed me that my previous status of awesomeness for being several books ahead in my reading challenge, has now disclosed that I suck and need to pick up a damn piece of fiction before I ask 'where are the pictures?'.

I mean Jeez, I just can't seem to get a grip on anything.

I find between earning the almighty dollar, sweating it out at the gym, squeezing in family time and hanging out with friends, I barely have a minute left to think. And what do I think about?

Food.

Oh my lord, have I been dreaming about peanut butter lately, and should I get started on the need to dive face first into a room full of fresh, buttered bread?

I think what I need is my study/work space back (and some carbs). Organisation was like a perfume that wafted from the smooth pine bench-top and custom built bookshelves, and productivity oozed from every aesthetically placed item and alphabetized file like an aphrodisiac of literary delight. 

Now I sit stacked against lumpy cushions on a futon with a TV dinner tray supporting my laptop and a rickety dryer spinning off-center in the background. It's a wonder I haven't written my opus.

So tell me, do you sometimes feel in such disarray that your life comes to a virtual halt? Do you wish you had more time and if you do, fluff around with the potential of it's productivity?

Let me know. I'd like to think I wasn't the only writer caught in a rut of her own making.

Kristy :)

Weirdo Neighbours

This could just be one of those occasions where I am eternally grateful for being a hobbit. I leave my house to go to and from work, but once I'm behind closed doors, I tend to stay there. This of course means I have no freaking idea who my neighbours are.
Sure, I'm well aware there's a drunken twenty something on one side of the fence. He makes noise on Friday nights, plays Ping Pong until the wee hours of the morning, and can't seem to aim for shit when kicking balls in his own yard.
On the other side I have a young family with two dogs. I know they have two dogs because they never stop barking and they're basically walking manure factories. Their kid cries non-stop, and they think we can't smell the 'garden' parties they sometimes 'roll' into on a Saturday night.

Across the road I have the Brady Bunch, otherwise known as the Biggest loser contestants - family edition. We have grandma and grandpa, mum and dad, son and wife, the other teenage kid and the two dogs. They worry me the most if the Zombie Apocalypse ever occurs. That is one hungry family and I don't have a front fence big enough to keep them out.
Alas that just leaves the mysterious neighbours on the diagonal. I have lived in this house for over five years and it was only yesterday that I was eating breakfast, minding my own business, that I decided to peep out the window and have a look around. Let it be said now that I knew they had a truck, that I knew it often came and went, but I never bothered to figure out why.
So there I was, eating my low fat cereal and congratulating myself on not cracking open the peanut butter jar again, when I heard the truck doors swinging open and crashing loudly against the metalwork. Curious, I slipped my fingers between the Venetian blinds on my window and had a quick peek. Interestingly enough, the truck was backed right up in the driveway and was now surrounded by wads of black plastic. At first I thought nothing of it, but then there was the thud.
Two men, one of them I think was my neighbour, helped lift an over-sized package into the back of the truck. Said package looked heavy and suspiciously like a body.
So what did I do?
Naturally I laughed and then tweeted about it - the sensible thing to do.
Thus I am happy to reveal that although the nature of my weird neighbour's business does appear shady and somewhat underhanded on account of the rather large unmarked truck, his lack of general day-to-day friendly wave at the letter box, and his seemingly absent wife, he is not a serial killer. Black wrapped plastic and body-shaped packages could mean anything ... anything.
I'm told it's roofing insulation.
Anyway, what has this little experience of the neighbourhood taught me? Simple. Deadbolts are a necessity. Erecting a 6ft fence with barbed wire is not overkill if fat zombies want to eat your ass. And yelling out to my drunken neighbour 'you've lost your balls again' is not exactly productive.
Cheers to the freaking hobbits, I say. STAY INDOORS!

Kristy :)