Trim Tram Donovan

An Open Letter to Nancy Peterson: Stamp Out Hunger

Dear Nancy,

It's true that I haven't written in here for a while. My apologies for leaving this a little unguarded because, as you suspected, I do have a few things to write. The excuse has been the same, "I've been very busy." But never so true as it has been lately.

Upside to these past two weeks, goes without saying to you, is that my rib is doing well! It's not healed all the way up but it's much better off than it was a few weeks ago. A few weeks ago, I would wake up and could not sit up straight. Now, I begin to sit up straight and remember that it's hurt and sorta cheat the angle so that I can get up. Before, I had problems running because my left side would suffer acute pain. Now that I haven't run in five weeks, I only suffer during running because my legs went into atrophy from the lack of training. I won't be breaking any land speed records at the Green Bay Marathon.

More upside news: We got the Victoria's Secret catalog. It's the swimsuit edition which is, no doubt, my favorite. Though lingerie is nice, swim suits have a certain panache that I enjoy more. Lingerie seems forced and contrived. Swim suits are natural. Almost organic to these women. They seem happier when I see their pictures in the swim suit edition.

I'm looking to buy a new dishwasher. Don't tell me this isn't big because it is! My pet peeve around the house is that I'm constantly picking up dishes, washing dishes, emptying the dishwasher. Constantly. I mean everyday. Sometimes two times a day. Pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher. It's a routine. Like every routine...pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher...it gets annoying. Pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher. How do you make a chore...pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher...more fun? Pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher...Buy gear to go with it! Pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher...I think a new dishwasher...pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher...could hold more per load and be a little quieter...pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher...and it would make it a little more fun...? Pick up dishes, wash dishes, empty dishwasher...we'll see.

This time of year means two things to me. Ok, three. Ok, maybe more but this is the story about this time of year where I get scared that old ladies will run out of their houses and yell at me. And this time of year gives me that chill. It stems from two things: Graduation Time & The Stamp Out Hunger Campaign. Two years ago, my buddy Bruce was graduating from UW Madison after 67 years of college. I think that's a little exaggerated, but you get the idea. After a very long time in school, it's only natural to have a keg with a bunch of friends to celebrate. I doubt highly that he even attended graduation ceremonies. His pleasure was not so much pomp and circumstance as it was Pabst Blue Ribbon. That weekend, my buddy Sylvan was in town helping me work on a huge project for a documentary. After long laborious hours, Jeni, Sylvan and I went to the PBR Graduation Bruce Spectacular at his house in the Monroe-Dudgeon neighborhood. I was driving the Pathfinder and found parallel parking on the street. As I backed into a spot, I ran over some groceries that were left for the mail carrier to pick up for the "Stamp Out Hunger" campaign. As the three of us walked out of the car, we surveyed what damage I had done. This food donation was sitting in the front of a driveway near my parking spot and was difficult to see as I was parking and I ran over it. I wasn't sure what to do, so I cleaned up what I could and we started to go inside Bruce's house.

Immediately, an old lady comes storming out of her house. "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? ARE YOU JUST GOING TO LEAVE IT THERE?"

"I didn't even see it."

"YOU SAW IT!" If this lady had a shotgun, she would have brought it out.

"What is it even doing there in the middle of the street?"

"It's for a donation to Stamp Out Hunger!" She searched my face for a reaction but I'm sure I gave her the complacent looking of apathy that I give many old women.

"Can I give you money for the groceries?" I was searching for a way to finish this ridiculous argument. Was she looking to vent or did she want something?

She starts to walk away and we did too. She yells at us, "That was a donation!"

I received a post card yesterday to help promote Stamp Out Hunger. I contemplated donating as well as driving to Bruce's house and running over the old lady's donation again.

The last news item has to do with our new dog Buster Brown Donovan. Franny's been working for about a year to get him and he's finally here. He's very nice and I believe he may be a little scared of me for some reason. Either he fears me or respects me deeply. Now I know how Tony Soprano feels (if all his henchmen were Corgi puppies).

I saw you running yesterday and I honked. I'm not sure if the car ahead of me thought I was honking at him to hurry up and cross the intersection. I hope not because that would be yet another traffic frustration that I would have instigated instead of being on the receiving end.

Like I told you yesterday, I won't be in the gym this week. But I will be back next week.

Sincerely,
Steve Donovan

An Open Letter to My Rib

Dear Cracked Rib,

Hi. How are you? I know this is a bit premature in our relationship to have this discussion but I want us to focus on each other. I don't need you in my life. You create problems. You weigh me down. I can't cough or sneeze without thinking about you.

You just seemed to show up in my life two days ago when I was out running. Now my life seems to revolve around you. Everything else is on hold. Is that what you want? You want me to drop everything else and make sure YOU are taken care of? Screw you!

After this is all said and done--you've healed and gone on your merry way--I don't want to hear from you again. We'll take this time to make sure of that.

-Donovan

p.s. Don't wake me up again. I don't like being woken up for no reason.

ironman 4: Dear Amy

October 30, 2006

Dear Amy,

I’m happy to report that I didn’t drown.

There are four men and four women in the class. They split the class into two groups that coincidentally turned into one group men and the other group women, sorta like that one season of “Survivor” where it was one tribe men and one tribe women.

The teacher for my group said, “OK. OK.” She wiped her face, “OK. Raise your hand if you know more than two strokes.” She looks around at the four of us in her group and sees nobody with their hands raised, “OK. OK. Good. That’s good. OK.”

She asked us to float. Everyone got on their backs and floated except me, “I don’t know how to float.” I told my teacher Erin.

“OK. OK. Everyone can stand up.” She turns to me, “I’ll get you a float belt.”

I wore this day glow green float belt all through class. It was the true mark of my low level of swimming abilities since I was the only one sporting one of these things. It was even harder to wear in my group that comprised of all men. But, I think having all men with the belt was better than having all women with the belt. Maybe not. You know what? I think having the belt was a little embarrassing no matter what group I was in. But I have to pack that emotion away since I have to learn this stuff at a pretty quick pace.

We primarily worked on kick. Kicking on your back. Kicking on your front. Kicking with your face in the water. Kicking with your face pointing at the ceiling. Kicking with your ears in the water. I can already see why she’s doing this. Training the kick requires a lot of practice. It gets you very little distance, but done properly, it seems it can help you quite a bit.

The Masters Swim Class started a little bit before we finished up. They would look at us practicing our kick. They swam a little. Watched us a little bit. Their stares at our class reminded me of the way first graders looked at kindergarteners.

I will concede that I am a little tweaked for doing this. But, I think I got a good start on my kick tonight.

Will keep you updated.

Steve