Oy! This is becoming Mrs. Duffy's weekend blog. I'll have to fix that.

In the meantime, I've finally decided on a training program! That's already started! Uh, I never said I was punctual. However, the New York Times online had a marathon feature with automatic plug-ins on calendars for numerous marathons (including, of course, New York) at levels from beginner to advanced. They included the plan I was fixing to use - the so-called "Official NYRR plan," from Bob Glover, but they also had a couple of plans from the New York Flyers club that included local races, and I was instantly hooked. I'm combining two (beginner and intermediate) to make a hybrid, i.e., I'm currently running beyond the level that beginner prescribes, but I'm a little worried about keeping up with the intermediates as they crest 50 miles per week. So that's that. Plus, races like the Queens Half and the Tuneup are already accounted for, so there's no tinkering required on my part. Good times.

Work is, well, work, and the home life is broke but happy. The Junior Olympic qualifiers for Little Duff are tomorrow, and we're in full on prep mode, with the oatmeal on the counter and the team colors laid out with pins and whatnot. I bought him croakies over the week so he could train in them prior to the meet, and the effect is an endearing combination of physics dork and athlete. Endearing to the mom, anyway.

On a completely unrelated note, I went to yet another work going away shindig last night. It's that magical season when my young, ambitious co-workers flitter away to live like kings on their accumulated vacation time while relaxing in preparation for their first semester of grad school / law school / business school (not so much, these days) or the odd new job (these are not so much either, or so I'm told.) When I first started with my agency, two years ago next week, I really, really resisted these happy hour get-together things. I had just stopped drinking a few months before, and I didn't really have any interest in watching a bunch of 23 year old wanna be Iowa hipsters get trashed in some dirty dive bar. Not so fun. But lately, I've been going, downing my tonic or seltzer or what have you, and realizing I still have that weird little euphoria buzzing around in the back of my head. That little buzz wasn't ever the booze, I guess; more the social flittery twittery aspect of running around a large crowded room and cramming as much interaction as possible into a few hours. Anyway, if it hasn't come across yet, I had fun and hope next week's (at Boss Tweed's, LES, Friday - my supervisor, architectural landscaping school) is outside, in the sun. Sun is better for seltzer-sipping.

Alright. I've gotta go do my 9 miles. I'm on a plan now, after all. Sidenote: how sad is it that I need a plan to tell me what to do? I was going for 12 today, but then I got a plan, so so more. However, left to my own devices, I'd probably be injured within a month or so, so the plan thing is probably for the best.