I Don’t Know What to Title This Post, but It’s about San Francisco, the Half-Marathon and Some Childhood Memories of California

Half-marathon training starts tomorrow, with the first running day happening on Tuesday.  I plan on lifting tomorrow – some muscle gain in the months leading up to the half-mary will be wise, if only to help me out with the hills I’ll be tackling.

I’ve also reserved a room in San Francisco, and contacted my friend.  It’s well in advance, and I will be sending her an e-mail prior to the day, but she was quite enthusiastic when I let her know I’d definitely be in town in October.  Little sister V is still planning on making it, so hopefully we’ll have a fun time in San Francisco that weekend.

Looking forward to it – even though training’s just starting, I’m very hyped up about the idea of finally running a half-marathon, and in a place I’ve never been to before.  Sure, I’ve been to California, but to San Francisco?  Nah.  I’ve only been to California as a) a very small baby and b) a five-year-old attending my uncle’s funeral.  I scarcely remember any of it, and I don’t believe we were anywhere near San Francisco.  I do remember being allowed to go home with some woman and her child.  I played with the little girl for a while, then told them I had to go home (wherever the fuck home was at the moment, I’ve no clue).  They barely acknowledged me – so I started out on my own.  Before I continue, who the fuck lets a five-year-old kid from Michigan wander the streets of some rinky dink California town by herself?  Anyway, I proceeded to leave said house when it became obvious they wouldn’t lift a finger to help me home, then wandered for what seemed like hours around various neighborhoods, trying to find another uncle’s house.  I finally gave up all hope of finding it by myself, going up to a house which was busy with activity – some kids were having a party.  I marched right up to a blond guy with curly hair (even then, I liked my men light-haired) and burst into tears, saying I was lost.  They asked me for the name of the people I was staying with, and then proceeded to drive me home in a red Beetle.  I do remember that it took some time to get back, so I was at a distance from my base.  When I was delivered safely to my mother, it didn’t seem like she had noticed my absence in the least.  I chalk this up to her trusting the bastards she left me with, but really, Mom – your precious kindergartner was missing!  For hours!  And had to be brought home by some strange kids who just happened to know her cousins!  C’mon!  Show a little bit of indignation on her behalf!

I just asked my older brother if he remembers when I was lost in California.  “No,” he answered.  Seriously, did no one care I was wandering the California mean streets, shivering and alone in early June 1983?  Geez.

Actually, like I said, I barely remember, but I am still pretty pissed at the lazy daughter and mother who couldn’t even deign to take me back to my family.  Fuckers.  Would it have really taxed them to make sure I got home okay?  Particularly after they had begged me to come over so that the daughter could actually have someone to play with for a while?  Again, fuckers.

I hope that this visit to California is much more pleasant and won’t require that I ask the assistance of some blond, curly-haired guy who owns a red Beetle.