claire and me

Still Alive

2009-08-02T15:24:00.000-07:00

Were you wondering?

I haven't felt a real need to write on this blog for a long time. That's what it was before: I needed to write, and this was my outlet.

I write, all day now, for a living. If I believed in "blessings," this would definitely be one. (Blessings are not how I characterize good things in my life, because who am I to be "blessed" more than someone whose life circumstances are awful?) I feel lucky lucky lucky. I have clients who pay me to write for them. Wow.

And we've been gardening, D. and I.

Life is good and I've been wondering about all of you. Hope you are well and happy!

Flirty Pretty Things

2009-02-08T22:59:00.000-08:00

Has this ever happened to you? You’re scrounging around in your lingerie drawer, reaching behind the most used items (Spanx, control top tights, and warm socks, am I right?) for something action-appropriate to wear; you’re tossing them on the bed as you go, when suddenly, you’re feeling wooden drawers instead of silk and lace. Hard wooden drawers. And you realize there weren’t that many in here.

If you’re like me, you stare sort of blindly at the meager pickings with a "Whaaat?" sort of expression on your face. Then you concentrate and decide to look through more drawers. I must have reorganized, you might tell yourself. Don’t I have lots of little lacy and silky and spaghetti-strappy pieces to choose from? Hello, I used to wear them all the time! Where the ffff did they go?! You might think.

Then you realize you can’t even remember what that one little black lace overlay one-piece doodad was called. [Hint: it’s a teddy.] Oh, yeah.

Again, and only if you’re like me, you begin to wonder when all the lacy pretty underthings were replaced with full-coverage, uplifting, high-tech bras and solid color, 100% cotton, high-leg briefs and bikinis. Perhaps you, too, have slid into the same-five-basic-colors-(pink, ivory, white, black, buff)-different-day routine.

So I ask you: Why aren’t we wearing our lacy undies? Is it work, stress, family, boredom? Or laziness, time flying by, out of practice? Is it possible to not do something so often that it becomes an unhabit? And does a little piece of our brains then close off, never to open again?

How sad would that be?

If you're like me, you managed to find something to tide yourself over for the night, all the while resolving to buy some new pretties real soon. Because didn't we love wearing them? I wish I knew why I stopped.

Hear that "Splat?"

2009-02-05T17:45:00.000-08:00

That’s the sound of my head exploding. Let me bring you, dear reader, up to speed on the goings on around here.

In the past couple of weeks, D. and I have:
1. Hosted a big Obama Inauguration Dance Party (it was awesome!);
2. ~~Starred~~ occupied space in a TV spot that filmed over two nights (like midnight to 8 am), which screwed royally with my sleep/wake/work schedule;
3. Babysat a four year old for an evening (nearly three entire hours);
4. Continued on our balance-the-budget, no-wine-for-you, never-eat-in-a-restaurant-again lives.

The good news is I have been working a bunch:
1. Writing copy for a website;
2. Writing copy for a media kit;
3. Writing copy for a direct mailer;
4. Writing four blog posts a week (for a client, not me!);
5. Had a crash course in writing for SEO, Marketing for Social Media, Marketing for Social Networking;
6. And stayed on top of all the keywords and metatags, twittering, posting, templating, widgets, application development, viral video, Facebook, LinkedIn, Hulu, YouTube and MySpace activity that one person could possibly handle.

The bad news is, apparently copywriting has been outsourced overseas while I wasn't looking and nobody wants to pay anything. Blech. Such is the life of the American worker with a big mortgage.

I had a really great Super Bowl post in my head. Then it exploded and the moment has passed.

Maybe I’ll be more interesting next time.

He Knew We Could

2009-01-24T13:36:00.001-08:00

I’ve never heard so many people express the same sentiment before: that they never thought they would see the day come. Not in their lifetimes would it come. The day when a black person would be President of the United States. The day blacks and whites, Natives and Asians would unite behind him, as one, in joy and hope.

But I didn’t share that sentiment. I didn’t think the day would never come. This is not to say that I thought they were wrong when they said it would never happen. I hoped they were wrong. I knew in my heart that the goodness in all of us would one day see beyond the color of a man’s skin. I believed Dr. King’s dream would be a reality. I hoped I was right.

I hear and respect their sentiment, their disbelief. I honor the men and women who pilgrimaged to Washington DC to see it happen with their own eyes. The elders who truly believed it would never happen in their lifetimes. Their faces washed of the pain of past inequalities, and reflecting the highest level of joy. The young, exuberant faces, free of the fatigue their parents and grandparents know so well. All watching, together, as President Obama and his family stepped into their rightful places in our country’s history.

I know that I sound more than just a little bit naïve when I say I knew we could.

He said “Yes, We Can.” He knew all along.

Tiny Dogs, Big Cruelty

2009-01-23T10:19:00.000-08:00

Don't you love tiny dogs? Seems everywhere we look, there's a delicate, not-bigger-than-a-minute Tinkerbelle of a pup on the end of leash. Sporting adorable coats against the winter cold or bows and jeweled collars, these pets are their keepers' darlings. I've never seen so many Chihuahuas, Poodles, and Yorkies as I have of late. And then there's the Puggles (like in this photo), the Peek-a-Poos, Chugs and other so-called designer mixtures. So precious. So cute. So overbred. So abused.

This just in:

Nearly 250 dogs were confiscated from two separate kennels south of Mount Vernon for animal cruelty, said Chief Criminal Deputy Will Reichardt of the Skagit County Sheriff's Office.

More than 400 dogs were being held in a Mountain View Road puppy mill where they had been kept in small kennels, not bathed and many were left in their own feces, Reichardt said.

Well, gee. I bet they cleaned those babies up before their new parents arrived to take their little bundles home. I bet the people who kept this hellhole in business never asked to see where the darlings were being bred, born by the hundreds, and raised in unspeakably cruel conditions.

Well, gee. This is what happens every day in puppy mills everywhere. They're in small towns. In neighborhoods. In the upstairs bedroom of the house down the street from you. They're not all operated by kind-looking, cruel-hearted farmers in Pennsylvania—you know, the bad guys Oprah exposed on her show. Puppy mills are operated by soccer moms and ballet dads. In trailers and minimansions. By scumbags of all description.

They can be stopped, though. It's not even difficult. The cruelty and heartlessness that enables some people to let dogs die in their own waste (there were SEVEN dead dogs found in the above raid) can be forced into dormancy. How? Just stop buying these dogs. It is the easy—and only—way to totally stop the puppy mills and the cruelty that these dogs live in every single day. It's a simple supply and demand equation—we all learned it in economics class.

So just don't buy a purebred or designer dog. Nobody must have a brand spanking new puppy that's somehow “better” than the puppies that people have been abandoned. Anyone can take the time to carefully choose a dog from a rescue organization or shelter. They have dozens and dozens ready to go. Every person who adopts or rescues a dog helps decrease the overbreeding, the cruelty, and the 9.6 million animals that are put to death every single year in this country.

It's a travesty. I've yet to hear a good reason for breeding dogs. Or for buying a purebred or designer dog. And every time I hear about someone buying one, I think about the cruelty that puppy mills keep pumping out. There are just no excuses.

UPDATE: We're up to SIX HUNDRED dogs rescued--80% of them are pregnant. Oh my heart.

WTF were these idiots thinking??@!???!?!??!

Unwrapping My New Look

2009-01-15T10:21:00.000-08:00

Whoop! Whoop! I finally revamped my plain-Rainne (as in Wilson—why should Janes always have to take that rap?) blog header! The standard blue text/white background number the template gave me reflected my personal laziness more than my personal style.

While I don’t dare even dream of possessing the amazingly mad Photoshop skilz that my girl Melanie over at Beanpaste has coming out her adorable ears, I can sort of maneuver my way around the Adobe Creative Suite. (As long as the GPS window is up.)

Unleashing my design abilities is a little dangerous, sure, but I could be wreaking much more havoc on the world than Adobe CS will allow. I mean, bad graphic design, improper kerning, and whacked out alignment never hurt anyone TOO badly, right? It’s not like I’m in charge of dropping bombs on the Gaza Strip or anything.

Sigh. We, the world, are facing bigger issues than my little blog design.

So I’ll try this header out for a while. I love my little bird. Love the colors. Not crazy about the font, but hey, it was late and I had one cup of plain popcorn waiting for me—so I stopped right here.

Tell me—is it gorge? Take my little survey and you might win a PRIZE!*

*Not true. I have nothing to give that anyone wants. But be a pal, huh? One can always use survey practice.

Not the New Year’s I Had in Mind

2009-01-09T15:50:00.000-08:00

This year, I did not spend New Year’s as I planned: just D. and me, enjoying a nice dinner out at one of our favorite tapas restaurants, then returning home for a quiet evening in front of the fire, or in front of a movie, topped off with our traditional champagne toast at midnight. And then. . . onto something that’s best not described here.

Sigh. A girl can dream, can’t she?

I got the dinner. I got the champagne. I got the fire. I didn’t get the rest.

The problem? A third wheel. And herein lies the conundrum. Should we have just told him our plans, knowing he’d find something else to do—or tell him our plans, taking the chance he’d be alone NYE? Should we have come right out and said, “We’re going to dinner and then spending the evening at home, just the two of us.” Ouch! Can you imagine being on the receiving end of that message? Stay away, we want to get frisky.

The man I married could never do that to a friend. I could. And wanted to. Friends should understand, right?

As it turns out, we had a nice dinner, wonderful wine, and my favorite champagne (apart from Dom, which wasn’t even a consideration). Plus, we brought Actual Meaning into the night by writing down all the things we wanted to let go of ( I don’t deserve this or that, I release my negative feelings about a certain ex, etc. etc.) and burning the little bits of paper in the fire. Heady stuff. Great revelations were shared. Growth was achieved.

I can’t remember any of it because we consumed two bottles of champagne. Three of us. Do the math. But no matter. It felt good to share and the evening was quite enjoyable.

Still, I lament the loss of the night that could have been. A romantic end to 2008. And truly bringing in 2009 with a bang. Dang.

Lose Weight, Exercise More, Blah, Blah, Blah

2009-01-04T14:49:00.001-08:00

My 2009 resolutions are short and sweet. No major improvements needed? Hell, yes, there are. But I'm taking it easy on myself. Overreaching is overrated.

Make Money With My New Business
This is a biggie. We sold our business last July, with a financial cushion to hold us over for about a year while we launched our new businesses. That cushion was based on the new owner of our business paying us a nice chunk of money (also known as "the mortgage") every month, beginning January 1. Now it looks like that monthly payment is everything but happening. Thus, earning income from my freelance copywriting business is ever more important.
Cut Back on Spending
See above.
Lose The Damn Weight
By eating more veggies and fruit.
By eating less sugar and flour.
By training for a half marathon in April.
By getting outside for more adventures.
By being accountable. And it starts here: 28 pounds, people. 28 pounds.
It's a health issue. I'm not being my body's best friend. And who else will be?
Write, Write, Write
My parents' life stories
My blog
My novel
My clients' work

That'll do me.

Last Year's Resolutions--How'd We Do?

2009-01-02T09:46:00.000-08:00

We, meaning me, of course. How you did is your own personal business and nobody else's. You need not expose your failures here. I'll do it for both of us.

2008’s list wasn’t a total washout. I really did okay. Having a major life change (I have them Almost. Every. Freakin. Year.) helped my resolutions along. For example, seven weeks of vacation made it much easier to keep the take care of myself promise. And I'm not apologizing for it, either. That's part of the growth, see. I've been working since I'm eight years old, and thirty-eight years later I should have some time off.

Digressing here. Guilty much?

And, it was easier to be kind to D. seeing how he had two surgeries in three weeks' time. The first was an emergency (are there any others?) appendectomy in Missoula, Montana, and then there was his double hernia repair when we got home. Poor baby! I was very kind and patient with my little patient. I had to carry all the grocery bags for weeks. And the 50-pound suitcase up the broken escalator at Sea-Tac airport. While the line behind us grew. And people glared at him for not helping me.

Again, I digress. Whiney much?

As for the rest of the list, here's an honest accounting, including my original resolution and self-imposed grade:

Resolution #1: Be more patient with my husband. As in, no rolling eyes when he asks if we have any butter. This is a tough one because it involves a DNA transplant. Might need help. I reserve the right to silently say, “Have you LOOKED in the refrigerator, by chance?????”
Grade: B+. I have tried, and it actually works. He’s sweet and deserves it.

Resolution #2: Scoop the cats’ litter boxes every day. This will be an easy one: if I do it each morning after I feed them, it will only take a minute, max. Maybe it will cure the phantom pooper, too. I don’t know any cats who get scooped every day, but I’m sure they’re happier than mine, who deserve a cleaner environment in which to poo.
Grade: B+. I've missed a few days, but all in all, I am the queen of scooping kitty poop. So proud.

Resolution #3: Be kinder. I am not completely unkind, mind you, and I will never be one of those annoying public-sweet-closet-bitchy women. I keep it real. But at times, that realness lands on others with a thud, or worse—with a smack. It’s not what I say, it’s how I say it, they say. I’ve heard it enough to know I need to work on it.
Grade: A. Helped along by selling a business that stressed me out to the max.

Resolution #4: Write. I have two novels in the works. I need to get back to them.
Grade: F. As in FFFFailing miserably. (Sidenote to Hay—here's your answer!!) This one goes to the top of 2009’s list. (Novels aside, I do write almost every day. Make excuses much?)

Resolution #5: Get organized. Since we moved into this house in April, I have never felt completely unpacked. There are still two unfinished rooms where boxes are shoved into corners, the closets are jammed full of crap, and nothing hangs on the walls—because we haven’t painted them yet. My mind is not at rest, and every time I walk into those rooms I feel stressed. I will pick out the paint and get started. Hang the pictures and clean out the closets. Breathe easier.
Grade: A. Wow. I didn’t realize this was so undone last year. We’re good now. Again, selling the biz made this achievable.

Resolution #6: Attend Boot Camp faithfully. I have done better than I expected—I have survived two 8-week sessions of Boot Camp, and I’m stronger, my clothes fit better, and I love the class. I’m signing up for round 3 (I need the discipline of a class structure) and I vow to not miss any classes unless I’m sick or out of town. Three hours per week is no big deal. I just have to make myself get dressed and leave the house.
Grade: C. I did complete Round 3 of Boot Camp. But then I stopped having fun. It seemed to be getting more competitive, and I don't do competitive any more. I didn’t lose any more weight, after the first 6 lbs (which came right back—the shock!), and it was a lot of work. At 6 a.m. So I didn't sign up for Round 4. Long hikes and light jogs work for me, and will appear on 2009’s list.

Resolution #7: Be this girl (come warmer weather, of course—I’m not going near the water now):

Grade: F. Didn’t. Paddle. Once. We sold the business, traveled a bit, then D.’s hernias appeared. That was it for strenuous activities for this summer.

And this girl:

Grade: A. I rode my bike a lot.

Bonus points: I was also this girl:

That was a big deal for me. I love the skiing. Not the knee twisting.

Resolution #8: Get myself on one of these:

purchased, rented, borrowed—whatever it takes. Because I had nearly forgotten the pure happiness I feel when I’m sailing. I don’t want to forget.
Grade: F. Didn’t do it. Stepped on a boat in a slip once. Does that count?

Resolution #9: Take good care of myself, however I define it, each day. Naps, massages, walks, bike rides. Be with people who are good for my soul. Simply put, do more of the stuff I want to do and less of the stuff I do not.
Grade: A+++++. I rocked this one.

Overall Grade: A-. I became a happier person in 2008. Don’t know how I could top that, but I think all things are possible . . . even getting rid of those 20 annoying pounds I need to lose again this year. Now I need to start that list. . .

Fat Birds

2008-12-30T17:32:00.000-08:00

What is so appealing about fat birds? And how can we translate that to me?

Outside my window right now is a fat chickadee. He is so darn cute, I want to grab him and love him right up. He’s everything I could want in a playmate. He’s cuddly. He’s elusive. And he’s well dressed, sporting his jaunty black cap.

I’ve been watching him. He and I have much in common. Seems he was much thinner just a month ago. As was I. Perhaps he, too, used the recent holiday as an excuse to throw a cheese and carb festival at his house. Perhaps, he, too, used the “company’s coming” defense in whipping up a batch of Ina Garten’s Peanut Swirl Brownies. [You know the ones—with a whole pound of butter and over two pounds of chocolate. And peanut butter. Unlawful.] Perhaps he, too, grew up in a nest full of siblings and always thinks there are twenty-five people coming over. When there are only six. I mean, why else would he I bake those too-rich-for-human-consumption brownies, PLUS chocolate chip cookies, thumbprint cookies, banana bread, and Danish wedding cookies?

He’s fattening up to survive winter. Maybe I am, too. The way it’s been snowing here, I could again be blocked from Trader Joe’s for whole days at a time.

If the game is survival of the fattest, me and the bird will win.

A Holiday Letter, Sans News. Read on for Hope.

2008-12-28T10:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

Hello and Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Hanukah, and Happy Festivus to you all! My heart felt wishes go out to each of you across the miles and across the wireless wonder of digital communication that keeps us all in touch.

In the coming new year, I wish you all the joys that come with having loved ones around you; I wish for you close companions and a circle of friends to keep you happy and laughing. I wish you solace in times of pain, and I promise my support when your spirit needs uplifting. I wish you the peace and calm in your heart that comes with giving back and loving others. I wish you fun in your life, whether it comes from a thrilling run down a mountain, a wild ride down a river, or a meandering walk down the street. I wish you quiet and peaceful times, too, when reﬂecting on life’s goodness is all you need to be truly happy. And I wish for you something that’s been hard to feel for some time: hope.

I hope for an end to this war and the avoidance of new ones; for a solid, intelligent plan to lead us out of a difﬁcult economy; for civil rights restored and extended to all–not just some; and for no more torture under the guise of protection. The restoring power of hope makes it possible to feel good about our country and our future again. It is real. And it is mighty. I hope that it touches you and lifts you up.

I look forward—with hope—to another interesting, fun, active, and surprising year. And I wonder—what will 2009 bring? Visits to dear friends? Visits from family? An unexpected discovery? New friends? New babies? Reunions with old friends and family, all of whom I appreciate more with each passing year?

I’ll see. On New Year’s Eve, I’ll raise a toast to each of you, wherever you are, and my heart will send you all the love, joy, peace and hope that your heart can hold.

Love, Claire

A Seasonal Poem

2008-12-23T15:10:00.000-08:00

little tree
by e. e. cummings

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a ﬂower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,

only don’t be afraid

look the spangles that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the ﬂuffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i’ll give them all to you to hold
every ﬁnger shall have its ring
and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you’re quite dressed
you’ll stand in the window
for everyone to see and how they’ll stare!
oh but you’ll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we’ll dance and sing
“Noel Noel”

Dusting the Cobwebs off My Blog

2008-12-20T19:09:00.000-08:00

Do NOT adjust your screen. There is nothing wrong with your eyesight, either. This is a genuine actual blog post by Yours Truly. So where have I been, you ask? I’ve been Lucky. And Happy. And Healthy. And Honestly, life has been real good.

I’ve been right here, thinking that my little ‘ol life just isn’t that interesting right now. There has been Nothing To Write About. Election's over. No angst about that anymore. And since I don’t go to work “out there” any longer (although I have been very busy working right here from home thanks), and I don’t interact with dozens of people every day, I just don’t see much worth talking about. The view out my office window is of our curvy, hilly, nicely covered-in-snow street. It’s pretty. And quiet. And that’s it.

I don’t drive around town much these days, so I don’t see Bouncing Girls Fresh Off the Bus that I just have to write about. Even my family is disgustingly drama-free. D. is wonderful as mostly-always; mom and dad and my siblings are great. We’re all getting older and I worry about my 83- and 81-year-old parents, but they are quite the happy little octegenarian couple and for the most part, very healthy indeed.

See? I told you—my life is not interesting right now. And that’s just fine.

But the thing is, this blog was intended to be a place I can be creative on a regular basis—by writing, which means more to me than anything. Now I write for a living—a limited, sparse living so far, but hey, it’s a start. I write every day. And perhaps that little itch is being adequately scratched.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps I’ve just been lazy. Could it be? Uh, yeah, it so could. Maybe I need to stretch myself. Force myself to be creative. Find things to write about.

Well, let's get going, then.

Where Do We Go From Here?

2008-11-10T15:13:00.001-08:00

Last week, I received my newsletter from our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I scanned it for whatever tidbits of information I thought would still pertain to me—the fallen member who hasn’t attended a service in almost three years. (Being a fallen Catholic has its own issues, but a fallen UU?? Perish the thought.) As usual, I noticed the title of Sunday’s sermon: “Where Do We Go From Here?” Gee, I thought, I’d like to know that.

D. did too, so we walked down the street a mile or so and entered the building for the first time since the end of 2005. It looked much the same. Our nametags where just where we’d left them. There were lots of new faces, and enough familiar ones to make it feel homey. We struggled through an unfamiliar song or two, but remembered the words to our covenant. We settled in for the readings, which were poignant, and the sermon, which was amazing as always.

The congregation clapped and cheered loudly as our ultra-cool minister started by sharing his delight in the idea of a President Obama. His talk centered around the joy and challenges that have bubbled up in many (ok, all) of us in the congregation.

“Hold onto that joy,” he said, “even when reality and cynics try to take it from you. Hold onto it for a while.” He went on to describe a feeling that I share with him completely. A stone-like creature that has been sitting in my gut (or was it in my heart?) for, oh, about eight years now. A stone whose presence was such a familiar feeling that I forgot to notice it after awhile. Until it made me angry. Or made me sad. It sometimes made me tired. But mostly the stone made me feel hopeless—and my hopelessness grew.

It didn’t go away when I moved across the country in an attempt to escape it. It didn’t go away when I tried to surround myself with more people like me and fewer people like those in the administration. It didn’t go away when I positioned myself fifty miles from the Canadian border—just in case it got so bad that I had to leave.

The little stone in my heart didn’t go away, and I felt hopeless enough to stop trying. I stayed away from the Unitarian Fellowship. I stopped decorating my house for holidays. And we didn’t celebrate Christmas last year—not really. We were happy to have friends and family in our home, and we cooked and talked and ate and drank and laughed. But there was no usual holiday frenzy of excitement. There was no shopping for the perfect gift. There were no handmade, imperfect gifts, either.

But now I have joy. I have hope. I’m happy and proud again. I feel like being around people like me again—people who can now really, truly believe that our future will be better than our past. And I’m holding tight to all of it—the pride, the joy, the happy. With all of this, I know I can work toward the change I want to see.

I couldn’t do it without hope. But I can do it without that stone of hopelessness that was weighing me down. That stone that suddenly wasn’t there anymore as of 11:00 (Eastern time, because we were in Virginia) on November 4, 2008.

Want a free Obama sticker like the one at the top of this post? It's designed by Shepard Fairey, the artist who created the iconic HOPE poster. And MoveOn's giving them away totally free--even the shipping's free.
I just got mine. Click this link to get your free Obama sticker:
http://pol.moveon.org/shepstickers/?id=-3512581-hXdfMLx&rc=

Three Weeks Away

2008-11-07T08:11:00.000-08:00

We have returned from our colossal, east coast trip-of-a-lifetime. It will take me awhile to process the changes I saw—in my parents, my siblings, our little godson, and my former city. I never thought this before, but I now know there are times when you should not go home again. This trip was a doozy.

Here's what I heard:

“It’s people like YOU who are the reason Obama won’t win.” (Because I’m one of those elistists, you know.)

“We have to talk to the stone-cold racists or he’ll never win Virginia.”

“Some people at church think he’s the anti-Christ. They hope he is, because he’ll bring on the End of Days.”

“How can anybody vote for that guy???” (Referring to McCain, with all manner of hand waving to accompany.)

But it wasn’t all politics. I also heard:

“I’m proud of you.”

“I love you.”

“You’re my best friend.”

I managed to stay with my in-laws and survive it. There was absolutely no mention of the election with the hateful email-sender. I ignored him as much as I could, and realized what a sad man he is.

We saw gobs of friends and family. We even attended an Obama rally, with 20,000 people of all races and ages. What a thrill! I screamed when I saw him like he was a rock star. But he was so much more; I didn’t scream when he was finished—I was too full of emotion and hope to do anything but smile.

We ate too much and exercised too little. We drove 2500 miles up and down the east coast, and paid as little as $1.95 per gallon for gas. We slept in six different houses and three motel rooms. We saw the autumn leaves change color in a wave from upstate New York to North Carolina; and we buried our toes in warm beach sand. We celebrated a new future for our country with some of our oldest and dearest friends, whom we miss so much.

And we are very, very happy to be home.

Ignorance

2008-10-01T10:51:00.000-07:00

This morning, my husband received one of those “FW: FW: FW: FW:” emails, full of untruths. You know these emails: they are sent along whether or not the sender has actually read it through, much less verified the content. This one stated that perhaps we should be suspicious of all Muslims in our country because they cannot be “good” Muslims and “good” Americans simultaneously (although that particular big word was not used). The “reasoning” was that their religion requires allegiance to Allah, not God; to the Quran, not the Bible; to Mecca, not America. It stated that Muslims do not accept the US Constitution and that when we declare “one nation under God,” we’re referring to the Christian God, which is loving and kind, not Allah, because he is never referred to as the “heavenly father.”

I knew where the email was going next: Barack Hussein Obama. Of course. The email called on us to WAKE UP! Because Barack Obama—a Muslim—wants to be our President. It said that Barack Obama was sworn into his current office on the Quran, not the Bible—and that he has stated he will be sworn in as President on the Quran. And that he refuses to say the Pledge of Allegiance. Or to put his hand on his heart when the national anthem is played.

I so want to reply to this email like this:

Barack Obama is a Christian, not a Muslim, you ignorant asshole.

But I can’t, because the sender was a member of D’s family. And we have to visit them in a few short weeks. We’ll be there on Election Day. Talk about bad timing.

Reader, how does one reconcile one’s belief in equality, truth, and religious freedom with the need to respect one’s in-laws?

I am at a loss.

I Got Nuthin'

2008-09-21T21:36:00.000-07:00

During this time of horrendous (and ridiculously costly) war, of genocide, disease and starvation, of economic failures each more serious than the last, with a side order of hurricanes, tornadoes, and floods, and a political circus show to top it all off, I can offer no words.

Happy, lighthearted posts seem insignificant (not yours, lovely readers, just the ones at the dead end that is my brain).

I've had it up to here with political commentary (D. has become an absolute addict!) and I can't take another sarcastic, vicious, ludicrous, or even thoughtful opinion. Therefore, I will give none.

And, despite two recent back-to-back surgeries for my precious D. (nothing too serious or life-threatening), I have not one complaint or concern to share.

I think I'm just numb.

And you?

We Interrupt Your Fun to Bring You This Environmental Message (Please Don't Yawn)

2008-08-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

If you’re like me, you have eschewed bottle water of late and are doing your green Girl Scout best to refill your own bottles. I used to think that as long as my plastic bottles were being recycled, there was no harm in it. Now I know better. Our to-be-recycled bottles end up on slow boats to China, where who knows what happens. Maybe they’re actually recycled, but in the end, we’re still making our waste someone else’s problem.

Besides, lots and lots and LOTS of bottles still end up in landfills:

The above photo is by Chris Jordan, a Seattle photographer. It "Depicts two million plastic beverage bottles, the number used in the US every five minutes." Perhaps you’ve seen his other pieces, each focusing on visually arresting images of ubiquitous items we often waste, like paper cups, cell phones, and paper bags, that show at a glance how quickly our junk adds up. In this collection of his work, called Running the Numbers: An American Self-Portrait, mundane objects are presented in ways that set my jaw to dropping—and my mind to thinking.

I think of Mr. Jordan’s work each time I walk down the water aisle at my beloved Trader Joe's. (Only 89 cents for 1-liter Spring Water, such a deal!) I had been buying them occasionally and then refilling them for weeks, but each one eventually ended up in the recycle bin. So I stopped myself and returned to refilling my Nalgene-esque water bottles. Now I hear they leach harmful chemicals into our bodies, so we’re not supposed to be using them, either. Aluminum is the latest craze for refillables, but I’m not about to fork over $18 bucks for a water bottle when I have so many already, purchased when Nalgenes were okay and I had ~~more money~~ a job.

So there I am, cheerfully humming and dutifully refilling my green, red, and blue ~~cancer-delivery systems~~ bottles with nice, filtered water from my Brita pitcher when I receive an email alert that pretty much ruins my morning. Said that my plastic Brita filter was not recyclable. Guess I knew that. In our house, D. is the one who always changes the filters (he’s a prince), so I was not really conscious about (ok, ignoring) where they went. But of course it’s not the recycle bin. In the garbage they go, where they’re gathered up and dumped in the landfill. And what about all that chlorine and lead and whatever else they’re filtering out? Leaches into the ground. Perfect.

In the UK, Brita has a take-them-back recycling program for their filters. Not so here in the US of A. So if you use Brita filters—and you’d like to recycle instead of tossing them, consider signing this online petition and see if Clorox (yes, CLOROX) will do the right thing—and help us do the same.

That’s all. Carry on.

Brita filter photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Eight Things I Want to do Before I Die (the semi-achievable version)

2008-08-18T20:39:00.000-07:00

The lovely Krissa of HalfAsstic.com visited with a meme challenge. How appropriate that she picked my birthday week. My forty-effin'-sixth birthday week. (Can you hear the screaming?) As always, this time of year brings me pause. . . sets me to thinking about. . . myself, of course. I’m a Leo. And it’s my birthday month. Sheesh. Only thing is, the questions I ask myself: they are a-changin’. Now it’s not so much the what am I going to do with my life? question, but the how much of it is left? question. And the how have I done so far? question. And the how will I look in twenty years when I'm sixty-six holy mother of god? question.

Looking ahead is difficult for a non-planner like me. I am a dyed-in-the-wool, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants (and clichéd out the wazoo) kind of gal.

Looking back is even scarier. Maybe things would have been better, had I actually made a plan or two along the way. I’ll never know. It doesn’t matter anyway. But I wonder—does it not matter because I choose not to feel regret over the past? Or am I choosing not to feel regret about the past because I don’t want to admit that I could have done it better, accomplished something really significant, or caused myself less pain?

I don’t think it’s the latter. Going through my life without every one of its hardships would have made it different, certainly. But better? What if I had actually thought through the consequences before making some of my bigger (and dumber) decisions? Or, here’s a novel idea: how would this little life have turned out if I had always, always put myself first? I know that doing any of it differently would have yielded a different me. Everything, in its time, occurred because I made it happen that way. And even with all my shortcomings, and all I’ve been through, I’m pretty happy living in this skin.

Which leads us to the meme, (thank god she's stopped philosophizing, you're saying) and some of the things I’ll do from here on out. This is the “actually possible” list. Next post will be the “when monkeys fly out of my butt*” list.

Eight Things I Want To Do Before I Die

Write novels—many of them, whether they are published or not.
Learn to speak Spanish.
Start an animal sanctuary like she did.
Take art classes: drawing, painting, pottery—any or all.
Get together with my parents and all ten siblings at least once more while we’re all still here. And when we do, I'll be scared that it's the last time. Until the next time.
Do a bicycle tour of Ireland.
Get over my fear of needles (but not through repeated exposure).
Read as many of these books as I can. Only 970 to go!

Thanks for getting me to think about this, Krissa! I saw the movie but haven't thought about the things I haven't done yet. Now I have. I'm not going to formally tag any of you, my friends, but I would LOVE to hear what's on your bucket list!

*Wayne’s World, 1992. “It might happen. Cha! And monkeys might fly out of my butt!"

The Fresh Air Interview with Claire B.

2008-08-04T14:12:00.000-07:00

Ok, so we’re just pretending here. Terry Gross doesn't know I’m alive. But if she did. . .

Cue snappy music. . . bah de dum de dum!

Terry Gross: From WHYY in Philadelphia. . . This is Fresh Air. I’m Terry Gross. My guest today is Claire B., a sometimes-blogger from the Seattle area, who has surprised —and perhaps relieved—the blogging community by dropping out of the scene for the past five weeks. Welcome to Fresh Air. Thanks for being here.

Me: You’re welcome, Terry. And may I just say that I’ve noticed none of your guests seem to reply with a simple, “you’re welcome,” when you thank them?

TG: Huh. Why no, I haven’t noticed that. (Chuckle) It’s sort of intriguing that you have.

Me: Well, Terry, I can’t help it. I was taught the proper response to “thank you” is, of course, “you’re welcome.” Yet often the reply is, “thank you for having me,” which leads the original thanker in this case, you, to be in the prickly situation of answering “you’re welcome” back to the person you were originally trying to thank—or just sort of letting the second “thank you” hang out there in the air. It’s unsettling. To me. I can’t speak for anyone else.

TG: Interesting. Well, let’s move on to the interview before we run out of time. I’d first like to ask you, why haven’t you blogged in a over a month?

Me: Well, partly because I’ve been quite busy of late. You see, my husband. . .

TG: I believe you refer to him as “D.” on your blog?

Me: That’s right. You see, D. and I used to run a business together. We did that for five years of the six we’ve lived here in Bellingham. And we worked together for four and a half years before that.

TG: So, doing the math here, you’ve worked together for almost ten years, then? And you’ve only been married, for . . . what, eleven?

Me: Yes, correct. Oh what joy we have known. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week in each other’s company. Our very dissimilar communication and management styles only added that extra spice to our marriage that so many couples crave. One day we were “discussing” work and our relationship and the strain it sometimes, well to be honest, often brings to our lives—I believe D. was dodging the plates I was hurling toward his head at the time—and in between ducks he suggested that we maybe ought to think about not working together any more. We decided it would be beneficial to seek another lifestyle—one that fits our personal passions, our yearning to have more control over our time, and our desire to stay married.

TG: So rather than just get a divorce, you, what? Sold your business?

Me: Yes. In hindsight, the divorce might have been simpler. . . and of course, both processes involve lawyers and CPAs and financial planners and mediators. But in the end, we made the right decision after all. We’re very happy that we decided to sell the business.

TG: So you’re glad that’s over with. And now you can start something new. What’s on the horizon?

Me: Well, Terry, I’m going to be a freelance copywriter and also get back to work on my two novels.

TG: Ahhh, yes. The writer in you is coming out. How does that feel?

Me: It is thrilling beyond description.

TG: (Chuckle) Well, if you’re going to be a writer, you might want to work on coming up with one.

Me: Hmph, well, yes I suppose you’re right. Truth is, I used to be so envious of D. because he’s a very gifted and talented musician who has always known beyond a doubt that music is his passion. I have envied countless people who write and talk about their passions, wondering all along what the hell mine was and when it would present itself to me. Then I began writing classes and was soon writing all the time. Writing fiction, writing my blog, writing professionally for advertising. And do you know what, Terry?

TG: Um, no, what?

Me: Just thinking about being a writer full-time—just thinking about it—makes me feel funny inside like riding a roller coaster or falling in love or speaking in front of a large group. Without the nausea. That’s the thrill. And that’s my passion.

TG: Well, that’s great, then. Fabulous. One more thing: I noticed you have no photo on your blog.

Me: Yes, that’s true. You know, when I started blogging I was very naïve. I felt exposed to the whole world. I didn’t want anyone to know my innermost feelings and thoughts. I was embarrassed that I thought anyone could possibly be interested in what I had to say. This was before I decided I didn’t give a rat’s ass what anybody thought. And realized that only about four people on the planet look at my blog. And that they are among the finest human beings out there. They even say nice things about my writing. It took all that silly fear away.

TG: Yes. I see. What does that have to do with the photo? Or the lack thereof?

Me: Well the rest of it is, I was mostly afraid I would be recognized by my staff or a customer. I live in a very small town and being a very public business owner as well made me feel way too naked.

TG: So you felt naked? Can you descibe that?

Me: I was uncomfortable. I was worried someone would find my blog and see what I was saying about my personal life. Or them. Or D. No way did I want any proof that I was connected to that Claire B. person.

TG: Well you are Claire B., right? Or is that a nom de plume?

Me: I love it when you speak French, Terry.

TG: So, what is it?

Me: It’s a pen name, is what it is.

TG: You know, I didn’t think you looked like a Claire. Where did that name come from?

Me: Claire is what my parents almost named me. The B. is for Brennan, my great-grandmother’s maiden name.

TG: I’ll look for that name on the New York Times Best Seller List.

Me: Oh, you do go on! Seriously, though, you should keep your eyes peeled for that.

TG: Well I want to thank you very much for being here.

Me: You’re welcome.

TG: No “thank you for having me?”

Me: Um, no.

TG: So you think we look alike?

Me: Um, again, no.

Terry Gross and Guess Who?

I'm On Mrs. G's Open House Tour!

2008-06-26T21:55:00.000-07:00

Mrs. G. of Derfwad Manor had a great idea. Let's everyone

post photos and write about the heart of our homes.

So, come on in . . . or as the little sign in my

mom's kitchen said,

"Come in, sit down, relax, converse.

Our house doesn't always look like this.

Sometimes it's even worse!"

Don't trip over the dust kittens.

The two most expensive window seats in the state of WA.
I had to have 'em.

Aforementioned window seats, the piano,
and the fireplace. Comfy chairs for reading,
plenty of room for people and animals to lay around.
We spend a lot of time here, listening to D. play the
piano. He can play ANYTHING. Dog.

One view of the kitchen. Not quite the
heart of the home. More like the elbow.

I do love my new pot rack.

OMG. The cutest fur family EVER! This is Elica's bed
and the stuffed animals are hers. The real ones are ours.

Summer evening in the Pacific Northwest. Chilly, cloudy.

Flowers trying desperately to conjure up some show.

The good thing about our weather? There's
never a bad time for a nice hot bath.

That's it, folks. A tour from the front door to the back deck. Do come again.

And next time, bring some wine!

Post # 104 Titillating Things About Me

2008-06-23T20:16:00.000-07:00

I've noticed other blogs celebrating their number 100 post. Well, I apparently missed mine, so let's just do this now.

How about 104 things you didn't dare to ask and had no idea you could live without knowing about me?

I'm a Leo.

I'm number 8 of 11 children.

I'm the fourth, and final daughter.

I have seven brothers (obviously, do the math).

I love and adore all of my siblings.

My parents are 82 and 81.

They've been married for almost 61 years.

My mom is older than my dad.

All of my sisters married younger men.

My husband is 7 years younger than me.

My best friend in the world grew up down the street from me.

We were born 4 months apart.

We've been friends ever since.

Even though I once pushed her down the stairs at my house. Ouch.

I have been married before.

More than once.

First one didn't count.

I had two miscarriages.

They were with husband #2.

He was a BIG ASSHOLE.

So I'm glad there were no children to raise alone.

Not many people know about #16 or #18.

The older I get the less that concerns me.

I have been married to D. for eleven years.

He's the ONE.

I had an emergency appendectomy when I was 12.

It was ruptured.

I almost died.

But my parents knew better than to come right out and tell me that back then.

I still used my "illness" to get away with all kinds of behavior for several months.

Then my parents wouldn't have it anymore.

I was quite the drama queen.

Stayed that way for many many years.

I was a straight A student.

Until my junior year of high school.

In my senior year they almost kicked me out.

And still, no one tried to figure out what was wrong.

I was accepted everywhere I applied, but I took a year off before college.

And then I decided on a program for Respiratory Therapy.

And I hate hospitals.

And I pass out cold whenever a needle is within 50 feet of me.

I have passed out completely unconscious on an airplane.

Twice.

You should see the commotion they make when one passes out on a plane.

I quit college in the middle of the program.

So I could work at the mall.

I also worked at 7-11.

I smoked cigarettes there.

I got fired.

Not for smoking.

My mother inspired me to get the hell out of Upstate NY.

I moved to South Carolina.

I continued my career, working for international corporations.

They were Pizza Hut and Burger King.

Someone there showed me how to avoid ringing up cheeseburgers and to pocket the money.

We put it in our shoe instead of our pocket.

It was the first time I ever stole anything and I felt too guilty so I stopped.

It wasn't Catholic guilt, despite my Catholic upbringing.

My previously-mentioned best friend has enough for both of us.

And all of you.

I used to work for a sporting goods (i.e. guns and crap to go with them) distributor.

Turns out I was really good at sales.

I had a special chair to signify my status.

There was much jealousy.

I used to smoke there, too.

We would let co-workers buy cigarettes for a nickle if they were out.

This was 80's perm and shoulder pad time.

I got married.

Didn't take.

I lost 40 lbs.

Soon I took up with THE ASSHOLE.

I moved to Virginia.

Married him for some unknown reason.

Left him after five years, but stayed in Virginia by myself.

With my dog.

Met some of the best people in my life there.

Including D.

He asked me how old I was on our first date.

Which was to see James Carville and Mary Matalin speak.

I was so excited when he asked me to go with him

He was so excited that I knew who they were.

It was love at first sight.

We got married 5 months to the day from that first date.

Even though I freaked out a week before and begged him not to marry me.

He was undaunted.

We lived in a house with a pink and green bathroom.

Together, we adopted our second dog, who was three.

Among other similarities, our child-rearing philosophies drew us together.

And we have no children.

Didn't even try.

People still tell me "it's not too late."

I'm almost forty-six for chrissakes.

It IS too late.

And that is just fine.

People think we don't like kids because we don't have any.

I just wonder where all the money we didn't spend on kids is.

When my first dog died at 15 1/2, I cried for two years.

When my second dog died at 13 1/2, I cried for two months.

I don't want it to get easier.

Our newest dog is 3.

I adore her, too.

She was a rescue.

I don't believe in buying from breeders.

I don't believe in heaven or hell, either.

I could go on. Believe me, there's more. But really, isn't this enough? Thanks for helping me get to number one hundred four, yo!

Summer Solstice Wake Up

2008-06-21T08:30:00.000-07:00

The Solstice sun breaks the horizon; instantly, light streams through the crack in the curtains and dream images are interrupted by semi-rational thoughts.

Ugh. Friday. One more day to get through and then it will be Saturday.

Wait.

It IS Saturday.

Is it?

It IS!

Smile. Roll over. Fifteen more days. Just fifteen.

Happy Summer Solstice everyone! Today in Bellingham the sun rose at 5:07 and it will set at 9:17, for 16 hours and 10 minutes of daylight. It will be light outside till almost 10 p.m. Now, if the sun actually pokes through the clouds, all will be right in the world.

The Purpose of this Post is to have Three in May

2008-05-31T08:18:00.000-07:00

That's it.

This is a shameless, empty post. It is devoid of humor, substance, and introspection.

In fact, it is devoid of CONTENT.

Devoid is one of my favorite words. My least favorite words are cyst, moist, and irregardless, which all of you know is not a word at all.

I once knew a woman who thought the expression is It never seeks to amaze me.

That's all I have today. Three whopping posts in May. Count 'em.

Back soon. Promise.

Thoughts from a Belgian Bakery

2008-05-06T16:34:00.000-07:00

We moved to Bellingham from the east coast five and a half years ago. We wanted the fresh, crisp air, the recreational opportunities, the laid back, liberal atmosphere, and the cultural opportunities we'd have in a college town. And a bakery. Specifically, the Mount Bakery. During our weeks of online research deciding where exactly (more targeted than “as far away from here as possible”) we wanted to move, one of us (can’t remember which) found this little jewel and said to the other, “and there’s a REAL BAKERY! A REAL BAKERY!” and that pretty much sealed the deal.

Have you clicked on the link yet? Do it! Listen to the delightful accordion music and let it transport you to a Parisian sidewalk café. Imagine that you’re lifting a flaky, buttery croissant or pain d’chocolate to your eager mouth. Visualize the crumbs all over your lips and chin. Revel in the orgasmic waves of pleasure that engulf you.

Ahem. Before this becomes a post for an erotica site, I should digress immediately.

I was sitting in the Mount Bakery a couple of weeks ago, awaiting the arrival of my breakfast date. My friend and I meet for breakfast once every month or so. We don’t meet for drinks (she’s a non-drinker) or for lunch or dinner, or for shopping. We don’t visit each other at home. We see our respective spouses at occasional community events. But other than our breakfast dates, we’re not in each other’s lives. And that works for us.

Except for when she forgets and doesn’t show up. Then I have the pleasure of sitting in the café, sipping their delightful organic, fair-trade, shade-grown coffee and just looking around. All alone—just me, my fellow breakfasters and my observations:

Deep, not-too-bright red and mustardy-goldy yellow is one of my favorite color combinations. Vivid and cheery, with just the right amount of depth. And perfect for a breakfast café (or a fast food hamburger joint, come to think of it). Hmmm . . . would that work in my home office?

Apparently some people in this world actually sit around and eat chocolate croissants on regular, old, average Wednesdays in April. And they don’t look the least bit guilty or worried about it. Imagine that.

Is there a more beautiful word than creperie? But then, there are patisserie and boulangerie. Ooh, and I also love toile. Why, oh why did I have to be born in New York instead of France?? The injustice.

I can’t decide whether to be a pastry chef or a brewmistress when I grow up.

Either way, I’m guaranteed to be happy. (And fat. But happy fat.) And I wonder. . . what am I waiting for? Like George Burns said, “I’d rather be a failure at something I enjoy than a success at something I hate.”

Isn’t that a delicious way to think?

My Very First Meme

2008-05-04T10:14:00.000-07:00

It's not like you can tag yourself, now, can you? So yes, this is my first meme, compliments of Professor J., and I am not about to turn her down. Because she rulz.

When I received her note that she tagged me, I felt like I'd been invited to a birthday party. And I wondered what I should wear. What will the other girls think? Eventually, I picked out a dress and polished my shoes, and I'm ready.

Here are the rules:
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about her or himself.
3. At the end of the post, tag 5-6 people and post their names, then go to their blogs and leave them a comment, letting them know they've been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you've posted your answer.

Question 1: What was I doing ten years ago?
I was living in Virginia and working full-time at a rather conservative financial institution—women had to wear skirts or dresses and hose—except on Fridays, when we could wear pants. I kid you not. I was also in school part-time, in a Professional Writing program. D. and I had just celebrated our first anniversary with a trip to California to visit my sister and her fam. That trip infected us with the West Coast bug. And here we are today.

Question 2: What are five things on my "to do" list today?
1. Finish an article I’ve been working on; deadline is Thursday;
2. Read two Sunday papers;
3. Do a bit of laundry;
4. Take our pooch on a loooong walk;
5. Pretend I’m gardening by walking around the yard, wishing all my new beds were already in place, and then pulling up some morning glory vines—my nemesis for the next several months.

Question 3 (which really is not a question): Snacks I enjoy:
My latest weakness is not cupcakes, but chips and salsa. Trader Joe’s has awesome organic yellow corn chips (only $2.29!) and a totally addictive corn and red pepper salsa that together make the perfect sweet/spicy combo. I am also a crackers-and-cheese fanatic. And I love the Mediterranean hummus at Trader Joe’s, too. I am not much of a sweet or chocolate fiend. I used to eat a lot of pretzels. And SPICE jelly beans. But I've stopped that madness.

Question 4 (Again, not a question, I see a trend here): Things I would do if I were a billionaire:
I would volunteer for and give tons of money to animal and human rights organizations; I would buy a large piece of land and foster old and unwanted dogs; I would start a no-kill shelter (or a bunch of them); I would make sure that all the young ones in my family received all the education they need; I would take classes at the university (whatever I want!); I would work to eradicate AIDS from our planet; I would work to enable women and children in oppressed societies to choose their own life paths; I would take care of my parents forever; and I would use my riches to woo a certain Mr. Depp away from his gorgeous girlfriend in France.

Oh, and buy my own Trader Joe's store.

Prompt 5 (let's call them prompts): Places I have lived:
My Hometown, Elmira, NY; Columbia, SC (hated it); a small town in Virginia that shall remain nameless (read all about it in my book ~~if snowballs freeze in hell and~~ when it's published); Hampton Roads, VA, Bellingham WA.

Prompt 6: Bad Habits:
Nagging my dear sweet husband, eating WAY too fast; not eating as healthfully as I should; not exercising as consistently as I should, not modulating my tone of voice as well as I could, getting really loud sometimes when I drink too much. In other words, being Less Than Perfect.

Prompt 6: Jobs I have had (interesting because I've been writing about them):
Paper girl, grocery store clerk, cafeteria worker, housecleaner, legal secretary, executive assistant, production manager, copywriter, business owner.

Prompt 7: Peeps I want to know more about (or at least peeps I think may be interested in responding):
The rules say ask five or six, but I don't have that many bloggy friends. Perhaps if I had more time to read and comment like I used to. Alas, I'll have to break this rule.

Hay at The Secret Life of Us
Nora B at Whopping Cornbread
Mary Alice at From the Frontlines (although she’s probably way too busy)
Jen at Jen on the Edge (I don’t even know her—I’m stretching here. What if she HATES memes?)

I really do want to know you women better, because I love your blogs.

This was fun! Thanks, Professor J!

My Stolen Food Story

2008-04-13T12:50:00.000-07:00

Last month, I was lucky enough to attend a fantastic writers conference close to my home. One class, led by Deborah Madison, prolific cookbook author and promoter of the Slow Foods Movement, was about journaling life through the lens of food. We all shared how food shaped our childhoods, and how we associated food and our mothers and our fathers. Then Deborah asked us to write about the stolen food in our pasts. Stolen food? Puzzled looks crossed many faces as if to say, Moi? And then, delicious, mischievous expressions replaced the haughty ones as each writer put pen to page.

As it turned out, no one in the class had difficulty crafting an essay right away. One gentleman, about my dad’s age, wrote that he and his friends fed themselves during the Depression by stealing green apples off of trees, grapes from the vine, and watermelons from railcars. The lady who owned the grapevines always chased the boys from her field—while never picking any grapes herself. And since those long-ago days of his youth, the man won’t eat sweet apples—he longs for the tartness of the unripe fruit from his youth. They just never tasted as good as they did when were stolen.

Another writer shared her story of stealing a block of Vermont cheddar cheese from a Manhattan gourmet market—when she could well afford to buy it. She secreted the two-pound chunk within the folds of a voluminous coat and likewise kept her secret all these years, wrapped in layers of shame and need.

As for me, I had a hard time getting started—I couldn’t think of a time I had stolen food. I was the kid who NEVER stole penny candy because being raised ~~Paranoid~~ Roman Catholic, I knew beyond a doubt that stealing would ensure that, upon leaving the corner store with my precious stolen Boston Baked Beans or Devil Dogs, I would immediately be flattened by a passing delivery truck and go STRAIGHT TO HELL. I have never stolen any food, I thought. And then a thought bubble appeared over my head.

Ahhhh, yes. The cupcake.

This is my stolen food story.

Have you ever been inside a real Italian bakery? Have you witnessed the piles of chewy pignolis, flaky butter cookies, the gleaming tortes, the orgasmic cannoli? You know what I’m talkin’ about, eh? If not, fuggedaboudit, because ~~readers~~ reader, you have not lived. To taste authentic Italian pastries is to dance just outside the gates of heaven.

Unfortunately for me and my chubby thighs, I grew up right next to the Italian part of town, and my daily walk to elementary school took me past Rossi’s Bakery. (It also took me past a bowling alley, two bars, a pizza joint and a corner diner, but they were meaningless then and now.) The sweet smells wafting through the air set my mouth to watering as I peered through the plate glass window—my daily exercise in frustration and longing.

Once in a while my mom would let me accompany her while she picked up a loaf of Italian bread or some snowflake rolls. (Oooohhhhh, snowflake rolls! Your rich, buttery insides are exquisite beyond belief, outdone only by your soft, flour-dusted crusts!) On certain, perfect days when the birds were singing tra la la, the counter lady in her starched apron and white polyester uniform would grab a waxed paper square, pick out a chocolate chip cookie, and hand it over to me. “Say thank you,” my mom would say.

“But I’d rather have a cupcake,” I would think, gobbling the cookie anyway while I stared through the glass case. I had never seen cupcakes like these: each a perfect replica of the next. Each with exactly the same number of swirls in the frosting, the same pattern of multi colored sprinkles or even silver sparkles.

Oh, yes, I wanted one. And each time I asked my mom, the answer was the same: “NO.” Dammit, life was as unfair as it could possibly be.

But my luck was about to change. One day, mom called me to the kitchen. “Run to the store and get a loaf of bread, nothing else, and bring me my change. And hurry, dinner’s ready in twenty minutes.” Off to the corner market I went, bought the bread, wrapped one chubby hand around the tie wrap of the bread bag and the other around mom’s change, and walked back home.

Where the miracle occurred. Instead of putting out her own two hands—one for the bread, one for the change—mom only asked for the bread. I slyly slipped the change into my pocket—I think it was twenty-eight cents—and quickly left the room.

For days, I waited for her to ask me for the change. She never did. After a few weeks, I figured she had forgotten all about it. The coast was clear! My chance was upon me! Cupcakes filled every dream while I hatched my plan.

The morning of my heist, I walked past the bakery on my way to school, just like every other day. I peered past my reflection through the plate glass window, just like every other day. I spied my perfect cupcake waiting there for me, taunting me, just like every other day. But I knew that this day was not just like every other—this was one I had been waiting for.

At school, the hours shuffled by until at last the bell rang and I was free to claim my sweet prize. I anticipated the sugary frosting and dark chocolate cake as I flew out of the building and through the gate, down the street and around the corner. For the first time, I boldly entered the bakery knowing that finally, I would have what I wanted.

I faced the white starch lady and asked for a cupcake. She looked at me incredulously, but bent over and slid the mirrored door open on the case anyway. “That’ll be twenty-five cents,” she said. Smiling, I handed over the money that I had secreted away from my mother all those many days.

My eyes glowed with expectation as I left the bakery with my treasure. For a few blocks, I carried it in both hands, admiring its curves and swirls. Then slowly I peeled away part of the paper wrapper and took a bite. Nothing could have made me any happier. Down the street I walked, savoring my sweet, sweet cupcake in surprisingly small bites. Frosting coated my upper lip. I licked the paper, trying to make it last as long as possible, but knew I must finish it before I arrived home and raised the suspicion of my entire family.

In my sugary stupor I lowered my guard, forgetting that I was Up to Something, when suddenly I heard a shout: “Hey! Where did you get THAT??”

Jolted out of my bliss, I looked around in dismay to see who had ruined another of the relatively few good days of my early adolescence. It was my brother. My brother, who knew that I didn’t have money of my own to be spending on cupcakes. My brother, who knew that if our mother had given me money for a cupcake, he damn sure was going to get one, too. I was busted. I managed a lame “none of your beeswax” or something, and gobbled up the rest of my suddenly oversweet cake. It went down in a big lump.

I dreaded the confrontation that awaited me. Sure enough, when I reached home, brother John (taller, thinner, swifter) had already told mom what he saw. I knew this the moment I met her in the kitchen, and I knew that she knew where the money had come from. “That was my change, wasn’t it, Claire?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling ashamed and full of regret.

I don’t remember my punishment, but I’ve never forgotten how it felt to get away with something (quite an accomplishment in a family of my size, when twelve sets of eyes were usually upon me), to have something I really wanted (of course it was food-related; many lifelong issues around that subject), and to be caught in the end, ensuring that my joy was short-lived and ultimately guilt-inducing.

While the joy was fleeting, the feelings around the incident shaped much of my young life. Who was I to have such pleasure? I didn’t deserve it. Silly me, enjoying a treat out in the open like that—it’s far better to be sneaky with food. Then, no one can harass you about needing to lose weight. The guilt and shame piled up, over and over, like so many layers on a cake, until I pushed it back down with a squeaky clean plate at the dinner table, a trip to the cookie jar, or a big piece of mom’s home baked blueberry pie. With ice cream, of course.

craigslist Ads I'm Going to Place--and This is No Hoax!

2008-03-26T12:37:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you've heard of the Oregon man who came home to find dozens of people rifling through his barn and front porch and driving off with his belongings. He caught people in the act. He tried to stop them, to no avail. He was told by the thieves who were hauling away his work ladders and lawn mower that they were simply answering a craigslist ad indicating the man was moving away and wanted to give all his stuff away. “No,” he said, “that’s not true. Give me back my stuff.”
“No,” they said, “it was on craigslist, so it’s true and we’re keeping it.”

The stupidity and audacity of the general public never ceases to amazes me. Does it not amaze you? Said the victim, “It boggles the mind.” It does, indeed.

Then I got to thinking. If that’s all it takes to get people to haul your junk away, I’m getting started on some craigslist ads pronto!

Free: Dog Poop. Several sizes and textures to choose from.

Free to Good Home: Top ¼” of large lawn. You cut it, you keep it.

Free Soap Scum. You Haul.

Free: Cat and Dog Hair. Many uses! Multiple colors available! Virtually limitless supply! Brush provided.

Bags, Bags, Bags! Paper, plastic, all sizes and colors. Pickup truck recommended.

I could be wrong, but I think I’m onto something here—and I’m just getting started.

So, dear ~~readers~~ reader, what do YOU have around the house, ready to be foisted upon an unsuspecting public?

The Last Available Room on the Island (Whidbey, That Is)

2008-03-23T19:54:00.000-07:00

Long, long ago—like at the end of February—I spent a GLORIOUS three days surrounded by authors, editors, agents, and publishers at the Whidbey Island Writers Conference. I learned a great deal about the business of writing and publishing while feeling the thrill of rubbing elbows with my personal celebrities—writers—such as Erik Larson , William Dietrich, Deborah Madison, Stephanie Kallos, Elizabeth George, Stephanie Elzondo Griest (wearer of extremely cool boots) and Randy Sue Coburn. At the end of each day, following the many seminars and speeches, writing exercises and recitations, my spirit was bolstered with the camaraderie that fellow (make that actually published) writers bring—while my head was packed to overflowing with ideas and inspiration.

Luckily, I was able to retreat to my homey B&B, with a quaint, peaceful bedchamber all to myself, where I luxuriated in:

Comfortable, fine bedding!

Fluffy towel(s)!

The finest literature!

Interesting antiques!

And De-luxe bath products!

My eyes rested upon the amazing water views!

Alas, my stay was only for two nights. But then, two nights with THIS nightmare-inducing toilet paper was enough:

For that fresh, clean, patriotic feeling--all day!

There’s nothing like it. At least, I’ve never seen anything like it. Fortunately, I didn’t have to SHARE THE BATHROOM with the other couple who was staying at the B&B; they decided to have a weekend in Vancouver instead. Whoever you are, nice couple, I thank you. Not that I would have minded sharing the toilet with your husband. But the star-studded TP? All mine! You woulda had to fight me for it.

Next year, I’m booking my room EARLY.

What? Me Complain? About Hawaii? Maybe Just a Little

2008-03-08T19:27:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow we leave the Big Island and fly to Maui, where we’ll be until next Monday, the 17th. Amen to that. I have high hopes for Maui. Our time here on the B.I. was fun . . . and lest I appear to have lost my mind over here for hello? being in HAWAII and complaining about ANYTHING, I must explain that wherever I sound like I'm complaining, I'm not; I’m just making observations. I simply haven’t found many reasons to perform mad handstands and cartwheels of joy at the whole idea of Hawaii, tropical paradise and hulas and luaus and lei and beaches and coconut palms and aloha brah and all that. It’s only been kind of average as far as vacays go. Were my expectations too high? Has the cloudy weather affected my mood? Or am I just a cynical, hard-to-please beyotch?

Let’s focus on the positive: the resting and relaxing parts have been the best. After our oh-so-long day of traveling, we went to bed super early and slept eleven hours. Needed it. The next day we just chilled and stayed close to home. Except for a trip to Costco, of course, for ~~rum~~ supplies and food. We’ve both read a ton and napped a little. And we each had hour long massages at the nimble fingers of a most excellent massage therapist named Kathryn. She was amazing. There has been actual exercise performed, too. I’ve tried hard to keep up my boot camp training so I’m not pitifully behind when I finally return to class. I’ve been walking and running and lunging (uphill, no less!) and doing pushups and situps. We’ve also been lifting—large plastic tumblers filled with coconut rum and pineapple juice. Ahhh, the tropical splendor of ~~rum~~ pineapple juice on a hot day. Except I do not consider 72 degrees to be hot. Not for a minute. No I do not. But that could be considered ~~a complaint~~ an observation, and we are attempting to focus on the positive.

Oh—this was fun—we kayaked and snorkeled yesterday. And saw this:
Snorkeling is studly, energetic, sportsy fun! The water was ~~a little too chilly for me~~ clear and brilliantly blue and we flopped and swam around like little fishies in a huge natural saltwater aquarium. Lots of cool-looking fish and coral, anemones, sponges and other ~~gruesome~~ fascinating sea life. And then we went into town and had drinks oceanside at a dive bar called Lulu’s. Just our speed—and the scenery was truly breathtaking.

BUT, tropical beauty aside, the weather has been a negative factor this week. You see, they have this volcano here and it’s actively erupting right now and all this sulphur dioxide gets pumped into the air and forms vog, a volcanic smog (I know, I know, it sounds delicious!) that covers the island. Like every day. We’ve only had two sunny days since we arrived. I mean, I live in the Pacific Northwest. Clouds and rain are a daily occurrence for us about nine months of the year, for godssake. So I do feel a bit justified in my whining observations.

After all, isn't this what every vacationing girl wants?

Here's what this vacationing girl gets. WAAAAAHHH!

Them are clouds

But enough whinging. Tomorrow, I shall write about the amazing bits that made the Big Island a fantastic place to spend Week One of our vacation. And the country music currently blasting from a stereo within my earshot will not even be mentioned. Now, please excuse me while I go take a hugenormous swig straight from that big, white jug of Malibu rum. Aloha!

Vacation Time, at Last

2008-03-05T18:47:00.000-08:00

They didn't want us to go.

They thought if we sit on their suitcases, they won't be able to leave! Ha!

Ha! We left anyway.

And here is where we are:

And the ocean looks like this:

And the sunset, like this:

Aloha.

Today's Report from the Whidbey Island Writers Conference

2008-03-01T21:52:00.000-08:00

Day 2. Today was filled with exciting opportunities to learn from folks who do the business of writing every day. First, I enjoyed a lively, at times hilarious, and often goosebump-inducing story performed by a real, live, indigenous Yu'pik Eskimo storyteller named Jack Dalton. Funny and dramatic at all the right moments, he entertained and inspired. Storytelling looks like it takes a lot of practice and enormous talent to do well, and he did. Jack made me feel like he was speaking straight to my heart; he made me feel like my writing talent has been given to me so that I can express my ideas to others, because who knows, maybe I, too, will actually save a life with my words, like he did. In his case, it was a six-foot-eight-inch Maori from New Zealand. I doubt that will be my experience--but who knows? Anything can happen.

Next, I took a seminar on incorporating screenplay writing tricks into fiction writing, given by Randy Sue Coburn. She is a kind, warm, smart, accomplished and way cool chick, who wrote the screenplay Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle, as well as the novel Owl Island, which I purchased and asked her to sign for me.

In the second of my series of dorky encounters with authors, I was chit-chatting with Randy Sue while she was signing my book, and when I said the word experience, it was unfortunately accompanied by a few droplets of my very own saliva, which landed on the table between she and me. I know she saw this and while I said oh! excuse me, she just kept smiling and signing.

I was two for two. I greatly feared the next author book-signing, but did not allow that fear (thank you Eleanor Roosevelt) to stop me from purchasing ten or twelve books and rallying myself to have them signed without making an ass of myself again.

I then participated in a writing seminar with the lovely and wonderful Deborah Madison, author of The Greens Cookbook, Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, (a recipe from which you have seen here), Local Flavors, Vegetarian Suppers, and about a hundred other cookbooks and magazine articles. We spent 90 minutes writing about our lives as seen through the lens of food, and it was fascinating! The topics:

Write about your mother's food. Ten minutes. Go!
Write about your father's food. Ten minutes. Go!
Write about food you have stolen. Ten minutes. Go!
Write about what you have when you are eating alone.

You might want to try these exercises yourself. They were incredibly insightful, and everyone's were interesting. Deborah Madison is someone I would like to have for a mother-in-law. She is awesome.

A woman in the class wrote very well. As she read her pieces, I thought, "wow, she is a really good writer." At the end of the class, I saw her name tag: Stephanie Kallos, author of last year's popular novel Broken For You.

She and I talked after the class and she was really, really, really nice and gracious and I managed to have an interaction with her completely devoid of dorkiness. Whew. She wrote a very nice inscription in my copy of her book.

My last session was with Michele Scott, who, after about 200 rejection letters, landed a three-book deal for wine-themed murder mysteries. I kid you not. Talk about a niche! She was really nice and full of information and told me to email her if I ever needed inspiration.

After a long day of writing classes and shmoozing with the authors, I was beat. And, as is often the case, I wanted a nice frosty beverage to ~~make it all go away~~ facilitate the creative process. I drove through this impossibly precious (nod to Melanie at BeanPaste) waterfront town we're in, to the imposing old tavern, complete with wooden swinging doors, a la Gunsmoke. I moseyed up to the bar, ordered a beer, and made an instant friend with the only other barfly, a woman from Montana who was also doing the writers conference. She invited me to tag along to dinner, where she was meeting another creative and fun, very cool (and beautiful) woman from Vancouver BC. The three of us had dinner, drank wine, and talked about writing. And that's all we talked about. I don't even know their last names. It was all about the writing.

And it was a perfect day.

Reporting LIVE! from the Whidbey Island Writers Conference

2008-02-29T18:04:00.001-08:00

Each year the Whidbey Island Writers Association presents a writers conference. Read the list of agents, publishers, and authors who are presenting here and be amazed.

Here for the first time, I feel giddy with creative joy and excited like a little kid at Legoland. Two and a half days surrounded by real writers. Real editors. Real people who work in publishing and are looking for new ideas, new book topics, or the next ~~James Frey~~ J.K. Rowling.

Yesterday I met one of the keynote speakers, Erik Larson. (Met means I bought one of his books and asked him to sign it for D.) Erik is an author of non-fiction books about historical events and the people involved in them, who caused or tried to prevent them, or whose actions changed the course of our lives. I greatly admire his work and was looking forward to meeting him, if only for a moment. And in that 30-second exchange, I revealed that I am, clearly, one of the world’s biggest dorks.

Me: “Hi, I’m Claire.” I shake his extended hand, hand him the book to sign. “My husband read this in a couple of days, and raved about it for a couple of months. I’m reading Thunderstruck now. I’m learning so much. It makes me feel smart!”

Erik Larson: “I was hoping to stir your passion, not make you feel smart!”

Me, Dork: “Oh, well, I haven’t gotten to that part yet.” I smile my most clueless smile, turn, walk away, and know that inside, Erik Larson is regretting, just a little bit, that he agreed to do this conference. At least he sold some dork another book.

High Tea It’s Not

2008-02-27T16:02:00.000-08:00

Overheard at the breakfast table:

“Get off the dining room table!”

“Meow.”

“Get your ass out of my breakfast! I don’t put my ass in your breakfast!”

“Meow.”

Mad class in my house.

The Motivating Factor

2008-02-22T09:43:00.001-08:00

You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

-Eleanor Roosevelt

D. made this for me. I think I'll have a print made, frame it, and hang it in my "Room of One's Own". When I actually have one.

No Good News Today

2008-02-19T18:21:00.000-08:00

The little boy lost is apparently gone now.

My heart has been broken for this boy and his family. Thank you, dear readers, for caring about this sweet little one. While none of us know them, they are a part of the larger family we share by inhabiting this earth together on this day in this time. And a loss like this touches many.

Sometimes the unthinkable is unavoidable. Is it possible to hold your little ones any closer?

Can't Stop Thinking About William

2008-02-18T07:47:00.000-08:00

A precious little boy from our town is missing. He's been missing since Friday from a rocky shoreline on Vancouver Island. Little William was with his parents, on the beach, and he just disappeared.

He's the same age as Anna--my most favorite, adored, precocious niece. And our godson, Jake, is seven too. He's the same age as all the seven year old little boys and girls, and you know that's such a lovely, sweet age. He's only seven, and he's in big trouble.

I imagine all of his little friends are missing him, too, at the Montessori school that sits high up on the hill so the kids can see the bay and the islands beyond.

His parents must be experiencing the most horrifying type of anguish. His aunts and uncles and grandparents are likely worried beyond belief. His teachers, schoolmates and their parents are probably sick at heart. His community here, and the amazing people on Vancouver Island who have been searching for days are hopeful and numb at the same time.

Won't you send the family some good thoughts today? If you're the praying kind, then as many as you can muster would probably help, too.

I won't stop thinking about William today.

It's Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T08:41:00.000-08:00

This morning, D. and I were out walking our dog. This is an unusual event, in that D. does not voluntarily get out of bed when it is still dark out. But today, he wanted to join my friend and me on our Tues/Thurs trail walk. After we parted ways with our friend and headed back, we passed a house with a balloon-covered car in front. A huge heart balloon and several red and white balloons surrounded a hand-written message: your the best thing that ever happened to me. As D. was awwwwwing and smiling, I just had to mention that it was too bad his or her admirer couldn't spell. But then I succumbed to the sweetness and said, "Wow. Isn't it nice that someone thinks that about that person?" D. put his arm around me and said, "I think that about you."

Me too, honey. Me too. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.

A Blizzard, A Mountain, and Me

2008-02-08T08:25:00.000-08:00

I have returned—completely unscathed—from that exotic, exciting world known as skiing. For the uninitiated, skiing is a popular activity for which you get to dress interestingly. First, you don tight, every-bulge-revealing underwear, plus as many layers of fleece and down that you can pile on your body. Then you shove your feet and calves into heavy, bloodflow-restricting, stiff, uncomfortable, unfashionable boots, grab these things called poles (and I don’t mean the people) and clamp long skinny skis onto the boots. This ensures that you a) cannot manage anything closely resembling a human walk and b) will immediately fall over sideways, relying on the kindness of strangers or young children to right yourself.

Once properly equipped, you stagger and skid your way to the chair lift, a most enjoyable place where you get to humiliate yourself before spectators of all ages. You stand, legs shoulder-width apart, poles in one hand (to ensure that if you lose your balance, you will again fall sideways and require assistance), and wait for the chair to swing around and smack you in the back of your thighs, knocking you off your feet so your bum is planted precariously on the chair while it is still moving. Then, you get to ride up the side of a hugenormous mountain, clinging to the bars of this most dangly open-air bench, out of which you could tumble with the slightest puff of wind—or a decent sneeze.

If you’re me, you have the added enjoyment of riding up the chair lift alone. How did that happen to the girl who was a bit terrified at the prospect of riding up the lift at all? One moment, there we were, D. and I, in line together, side by side, waiting for the proper moment to advance up to take our places. An empty chair went by, and then it was our turn. I dutifully waddled to the correct waiting spot and was immediately thumped in the back of my thighs and whisked up, skis and boots over my head, desperately attempting to hang onto the chair while I settled my feet back down below my knees, suddenly realizing I was doing all of this completely alone. I turned around (without falling off! yay!) to see dear husband gracefully landing on the next chair.

There was no turning back. The lift does not run in reverse. Anxiety tried to set in; I pushed it away. Alrighty, then, you can do this, I thought. I whistled a happy tune, pretended I was comfortable, and looked everywhere but down. Instead, I gazed far off to the horizon—which in the whipping wind and blowing snow was oh, about 25 feet. Squinting through my cool new amber goggles, I focused on gentle white meringue slopes and the green tops of trees poking out of freshly fallen snow. Tops of trees? Dear jebus. . . save me from this day. I don't WANT to be on the tops of trees!

As I approached the end of the lift, I readied myself to disembark. Off I went, upright and on two skis. That went well! I thought, as I glided about ten feet—and fell down. D. was soon beside me, helped me up, and away down the hill we went. It was fun, it was scary, and skiing very slowly, I made it back to the lodge in one piece. And I even went up for a second run. And again I jumped onto the first chair that came along while D. waited for the next. Was he trying to tell me something?

Despite wind and heavy snow, two sore knees and shinsplints from dragging those monstrous boots around for hours, it was a successful day. While it’s not like I can’t wait to do it again, I am looking forward to getting better at skiing.

Honestly, I think the fear of being cold was my biggest roadblock. I am your witness: it is amazing how $175 worth of long underwear, wool socks, and fleece will warm a girl’s soul. And how a few hours on a mountain top will make it sing.

It's Ski Day--Hooray! (I think)

2008-02-05T07:51:00.000-08:00

This is me in about two hours.

I have only skiied once in my life, in Virginia, about eight years ago.

Keep me in your thoughts today, please, dear friends, that I may return unscathed.

Photo originally published by the Archives of Ontario

My Second Job

2008-02-02T13:51:00.000-08:00

When I turned sixteen, I qualified for the two rights of passage I yearned for: a driver’s permit and a real job. The desire to learn how to drive, I understand. But why I was in such a hurry to join the ranks of the working stiffs, I can only ponder. I suppose my main interest was getting out of the house and out of my dad’s way. I constantly rankled him, and he was pretty much pissed off at me for about seven years or so. So, a part-time job that occupied the hours of 6-10 pm sounded pretty choice (this was the late seventies, you know).

I applied for a job at only one place, in the grocery industry—the other traditional career route in my family (the first being the newspaper industry). My dad, you see, was a grocer for the first twenty-something years of his adult-type married life, and a butcher for the remainder of his working days. My older brothers and sisters helped out around his small neighborhood grocery store, the one a few miles from our house that Dad opened after his first store, a block from our house, burned to the ground one horrible night. It was the first time I ever saw Mom cry one of my older sisters remembers. I was a year old. By the time I was old enough to help bag apples (how do you think they got into the bags?) or sweep the warped oak floors, Dad decided that the larger chain stores were a real threat to the neighborhood stores—and he converted his into a Laundromat. Smart guy, my dad.

But this is about me. I’m sixteen, and I’m ready for my first interview at Tops Friendly Market. I meet the small, eyeglassed and balding manager in his tiny, dark little domain of power behind the cash office. I’m extremely nervous, and figure I have a snowball’s chance in hell of being hired to be a real grocery store cashier (low self-worth, anyone?). But the manager is impressed by my work history. He is even more impressed by my personal reference: Mr. B., our next-door-neighbor and all-around good citizen, who was a bank manager back in the day when they wore suits, topcoats, and hats to work every day, and were held in the highest esteem. (Side note: I was happy to visit Mr. B. just last November. He is eighty-nine.)

I was hired and started my career. I remember my first day of training, when the front-end manager introduced me to the expression, “I don’t get mad, I get even.” I spent days wondering what she really meant by that. But she was a toughie, no doubt about it. She scared me, and I stayed out of her way. With a little practice, I soon became a very good cashier. No scanning bar codes back then, oh no. We had to read the price and punch in the numbers, attributing each item to meat, produce, frozen foods, or miscellaneous as we went. I was a veritable machine, grabbing item after item from the cart, placing it on the conveyor belt with one hand, while accurately punching in numbers with the other. Fast as lighting. I was that good. My failure as a paper girl was soon a distant memory.

Tops Friendly Market was an odd little segment of society. Aside from the wide variety of personality types in our customers, the people who worked there were a little different than I had encountered in my sheltered world. They were a little more crass, a little more permed, teased, sprayed and Camaro driving than I was used to. I liked them. Once I felt comfortable, I wandered to the break room to chat with the other women, usually older than me and much more aware of the world. I started bumming a cigarette here and there, to fit in, to have something to do on break. I started making friends among the red polyester smocked and vested community; even took on a van-driving boyfriend, much to the horror of my parents. He was a real loser, but I thought he was pretty much the best I could do. The jocks weren’t lining up outside the door, you know?

I used to go out after work with a guy named Troy. He was cute and I had a real crush on him. We’d get some beer after work, and sit in his car, drinking and listening to Lynard Skynard. We’d flirt some and make out, even though he had a girlfriend. I was one of those girls, apparently. I was in his car one night, in front of my house as he was dropping me off, when the radio announcer told the world that John Lennon was dead. That’s why I remember Troy.

Back at Tops Friendly Market, I eventually ended up switching to the produce department. It was more solitary work, interacting with the iceberg and parsley instead of the drunks and yuppies. I had time to think, and hum, while I was making piles of oranges and weighing bags of broccoli crowns. I was usually the only one in the department in the evenings. All alone and isolated from the rest of the store.

All that stretching, reaching for the top of the apple display. Plenty of bending over, sweeping up the celery fronds. The quiet nights when very few customers would wander through the department. Ample opportunity for a predator, otherwise known as the store security guard, (you know, someone to be TRUSTED) to graze a bustline or a hip, and to say the inappropriate things that only confused a young woman into wondering if she should be flattered—or frightened. And so she said nothing at all.

That was my second job. And my first experience with sexual harassment. Little did I know how many more were to come.

Tops logo is a registered trademark of Tops Markets.

On Hormones

2008-01-30T20:00:00.001-08:00

Ooooh lordy! I am raging today!

It has not been pretty.

Did it sound pretty when I slammed the office door shut? Dunno. Don’t care.

How did it feel? Great.

Did I look pretty glaring at the parking lot smoker as I walked through his cloud o’cancer?

Doubtful. Don’t give a rat’s.

These unpredictable, uncontrollable emotions—the absolutely raw feelings of rage, complete impatience, and zero tolerance—they’re not normal for me.

My hormones, controlled by the miracle of chemistry, are at a very steady, predictable level. Every day, we take the magic pill, we keep our estrogen and progesterone right where we likes ’em, and everybody’s happy. It works for me, my doctor says I can go on like this until menopause, and if anyone ever tries to take them away, they are gambling with their lives. They shall rue the DAY they tried to take my little peachy pills away! They can’t HAVE them! I will fight to the DEATH for them, do you HEAR ME???

Ahem. Like I said, today we’re experiencing some wee surprise episodes of rage, where I can be flitting along like my normal ~~saintly~~ bitchy self, sprinkling ~~delight~~ dirt on all who walk in my ~~sunshine~~ shadow and then BAM, suddenly I’m tottering on the very delicate edge of a quite-high cliff, over which I can topple with just a puff of air directed at my back. With very ugly results at the bottom.

I’ve fallen off that bluff at least five times—so far—today. But, like Chumbawamba, I got up again (much to the chagrin of everyone in my path).

This, too, shall pass.

They call it PMS because Mad Cow Disease was already taken. ~Author Unknown

A Long-Targeted Goal—Achieved At Last!

2008-01-27T13:20:00.000-08:00

I’m so pleased to announce that we’ve done it. Finally, it has happened, just yesterday, in fact—and we couldn’t be prouder or more excited. After many years of trying—and failing miserably (but thankfully not enough to dampen our enthusiasm for trying again), D. and I, together, achieved the unattainable, the unreachable, the heretofore seemingly impossible!

And not a moment too soon, let me tell you. Who knows how much longer we would have had the energy to keep trying? I shudder to think that yesterday’s successful event might not have come to fruition, due to our all but complete and utter exhaustion, not to mention our near-inability to face another round of bitter disappointment.

Oh, the reminders of our failure were everywhere. We saw it in the movies and on television. We read about it on the covers of women’s ~~sex~~ self—improvement magazines in the grocery store check-out line. We took the quizzes and analyzed our results. There was no apparent reason for our constant malfunction. We approached each attempt strategically, even practiced our technique, to time it correctly, to go slowly, to move carefully, and yet—our goal eluded us again and again. And oh! the self-pity! as we constantly heard of other couples’ success, listening glumly as they ~~smugly~~ described how effortlessly they attained that pinnacle of couplehood, about which we could only dream. Were they more worthy, more deserving, somehow better than we? What is wrong with us? we lamented.

But no more! The raw envy, constant disappointment, and bitter frustration we suffered for all those years are now locked in the past, behind the wall that threatened to contain us for the rest of our married life. At last, we are no longer defined by failure. We have done it.

Success! It is ours, and it tastes so sweet!

We made it in and out of Target for less than one hundred dollars. First time ever.

My First Job

2008-01-20T22:33:00.000-08:00

This morning, as on every other morning of my life, I opened the old wooden screen door and stepped out onto my front porch. Lying neatly, right at my feet, was my local Sunday newspaper. As if it had been placed there with love. I peeked over the railing and spotted my Seattle Times at the bottom of the steps, safe and perfect in its plastic sleeve. I sent a silent “thank you” to my delivery people, the faceless ones who so kindly meet my needs and those of my neighbors by not requiring me to walk out to the yard or (egads!) to the front sidewalk to fetch my papers.

You see, every morning, my hair looks like this:

and I believe that nobody other than D. and the other animals who live in my house should be subjected to that crowning glory.

This morning, as I sometimes do when I see how nicely my papers have been delivered, I thought back to my pre-teen years when I had that job—and how much less care I took to meet my customers’ needs. I was a substandard newspaper carrier.

I inherited my paper route from my older brothers. Each of them had done it, mornings or afternoons, and on Sundays each of us sold three different newspapers—our local paper, the New York Daily News, and the New York Times—in front of our church. For years, every Sunday for four Masses, from 8:00 a.m. to 1:30 p.m., year round, one of us kids was out there schlepping hundreds of papers over to the church so we could sell them to the people who walked by our paper stand on their way home.

And every afternoon after school, I folded somewhere around a hundred papers and arranged them in my paper bag, which featured a hideous, attention-grabbing, neon orange strap, ensuring that I could not hide from the boys in my class who were playing hoops or baseball along my route. Then I either took off on foot or on my badass Sears Free Spirit 3-speed wonderbike and headed up the street to bring the news to the people.

My paper-tossing skills were not great. In fact, I really sucked at it. The shrubs, the porch roof, halfway up the stairs—yeah, those were my targets. But landing one on the porch at the actual front door? A rarity. Sometimes I’d get lucky and hit a screen door with a smack! But most times I just grabbed a paper out of the heavy canvas sack and lobbed it in the general direction of the porch. And kept right on going.

It wasn’t that my parents had not instilled the “if you’re going to do something, do it right” mantra in me. Apparently it didn’t take, at least not back then. Had my father witnessed my performance, he would have made me pick up every single misfired paper and walk it to the customer’s door, placing it between the screen door and front door. Then, he would have had me ring the doorbell, greet the customer when they answered, and apologize for the poor quality of my work.

I took great pride in the occasional toss that actually landed on the porch. As time went on, I became better at it. But for the most part? Toss and go. Walk up the block. Toss and go.

Now, my favorite customers received world-class service. I used to collect once a month from each subscriber, and some of the little old ladies on my route greeted me with homemade sweets each time. Their papers went behind their screen doors—every day. And the two older women who were confined to their wheelchairs? I walked into their living room and handed the paper to them. But the strong ones had to work a little harder to get theirs. Even if it meant grabbing a broom to retrieve it from the roof.

Today I understand how they must have felt. I understand how much they probably despised their papergirl. And why my tips were never that great.

But as a sixth grader who hated being outside in the cold and felt scared in the dark, I had one mission: get home to supper. Get rid of the papers and get back home to supper. Complete my route, hopefully unscathed by bad dogs, mean boys, vampires (these were my Stephen King days) or frostbite, and get back home to the warm kitchen where supper was on the table.

When I think back to that time in my life, I wonder if we were crazy, naive, or stupid. Who would allow a young girl to walk the streets after school, even in winter when it was very dark, to go to strangers’ homes to collect money once a month and then to carry this money around with her? Were things so vastly different then? Was this routine act that is now unthinkable really safe then? Or was I just very lucky?

What I thought then was that it was cool (apart from the hideous orange strap on my bag). I was our small city's first female paper carrier. I was so proud of that. I was earning my own money and learning how to fulfill an obligation every day. There were no sick days. There were no “Mom please drive me today” days. Oh, no. Mom had a bunch of kids to take care of and the aforementioned supper to get on the table. And Dad wasn't home from work yet.

I had nobody to rely on except me. Whether I wanted to do it or not, I had to. On days when I would have given anything to just hang out at my best friend’s house listening to music and talking about boys, I was still out there. Throwing papers. Into the bushes.

Perhaps that’s the real reason my aim was so poor.

My Favorite Childhood Book: We Help Mommy

2008-01-17T22:46:00.000-08:00

I'm child number eight, out of eleven kids. Born smack in the middle of six boys. By the time I was nine, the oldest kids, including all of my sisters, were out of the house, on their own, hundreds of miles away.

It was me, mom, and the boys (including dad). We all had to Help Mommy, or she would have collapsed under the volume of laundry she faced daily. Smelly boy laundry.

This was one of my very favorite books. How wildly traditional, repressed, and stereotypically un-feminist of me. But the book helped bring me along the road to equality, too. I remember thinking "Hmm, where are the boys when I need someone to hold the dustpan?" Gosh, I loved this book! I think I loved it because I loved my mommy. And because it inspired me to help my mommy (hey, now that I think about it, I smell a rat!). And because of the beautiful illustrations. I looked at that pudgy little blond girl and saw myself. And she was good.

I'm going online now. Must. Have. Warmandfuzzypieceofchildhood.

Thanks to Jean Cushman (author), Eloise Wilkin (Illustrator) and Cynthia Smoot (photo credit).

Reading, Not Writing: The Update

2008-01-16T21:17:00.000-08:00

My Book Group met on Monday, sans moi. Worked late again, due to a huge project that has consumed our entire team and even required a Saturday work day for all of us. D. worked all day Sunday as well, while I took photos (see below) and avoided laundry. I did vacuum and put away serving pieces from New Year's Eve, right on schedule.

So, you're wondering how I'm doing with ~~War and Peace~~ The Brothers K? I'm presently up to page 161. Not bad, considering the story (subject matter: family relationships and BASEBALL) is moving along at a painfully slow pace. It's all about the backstory, and while I'm certain every scene, every character description, and every baseball game play-by-play commentary is there because it needs to be, the story is moving about as quickly as my 89-year-old neighbor's daily walk around the block. Slow and steady.

My Book Group friend, Amy (the one who chose this monstrosity), stopped by today. "How was it?" I asked.

"Well, nobody read the book, except me, and I stayed up until 3 in the morning the night before to finish it." (Amy doesn't work right now and just returned from a month in Brazil, but I don't hate her or anything.)

A-ha. I'm not alone in my failure to live up to a commitment.

The difference between the other women in the group and my own twisted self is that they have long since moved on to their next read. I'm still nose first in The Brothers K every night. I have to finish it. I have to finish every book I start. Just have to.

Amy says it gets much better in the second half. "Can't put it down," she said.

I had no plans to do so.

Sunday Photos

2008-01-13T16:16:00.000-08:00

On this rare sunny and relatively warm January day in the Pacific Northwest, the late afternoon (3-ish) sun looks lovely in and around my house.

Squirrel Nutcracker

Doesn't work worth a ~~shit~~ darn.

Nuts seen here will never be consumed, but D. had to have them.
We have a whole bagful.

Dreaming of Glory, Same Squirrel

One of these days, I am SO out of here!

Windowsill Rocks

Hiding the dust.

Kidney Stone

Har.

Winter Garden

I use the term garden liberally here.

Waiting For Spring

Honey, I know what you mean.

Winter Sky at Sunset

And it's only 3:30!

2008-01-09T10:20:00.000-08:00

GO HILLARY!

However you or I or the neighbors feel about her as a person, as a politician or as the wife of a politician, this is huge: a woman has won the New Hampshire primary. On the heels of a black man winning the Iowa primary!

Like many of you, I have been waiting my whole life to see a woman become the President of the United States. And it’s possible now. It’s not impossible. It’s possible. It is no longer just a far-off dream.

And you know what? Right now, I don’t want to think about whether she’s electable; about whether she’s the right woman at the wrong time, or the wrong woman at the right time.

Right now, I don’t want to dissect her appearance, her cleavage, her tears, or her cookie-baking ability.

Right now, I'm not worried about any of it.

Because right now, this woman voter, this child of the sixties, this girl who never dreamed of becoming president of anything besides The Arnot Park Neighborhood She-Woman Boy Haters Club is just beaming.

Reading, Not Writing

2008-01-07T19:11:00.000-08:00

It was written by David James Duncan [not to be confused with all of the other David Duncans out there, like this one, who looks like a nice photographer guy, this one, who wore out the shredders at Arthur Anderson getting rid of Enron evidence., or this one, who was a prolific screenwriter (The Time Machine) and died in Everett, WA, just down the road a piece.]

It weighs 1.1 lbs (.4989 kilos for our metric friends).

It contains 656 pages of text. (No pictures! No illustrations!)

It has received 99 “5 star” ratings on Amazon.com.

It is my book group book—and we’re meeting one week from tonight.

I only got it from the library yesterday.

In order to participate in the discussion, I must read 94 pages per day. Yikes.

Who has time to write? (New Year's Resolution #4, is in danger, and it's only the 7th. (Note to self: I think book group has to go, as much as I enjoy it; I must write.)

Next time it's my turn to choose our book, we're reading this:

So easy! And so good!

Dearest Reader: Have you read The Brothers K? Do you remember? (It was published waaaaaay back in 1992.) What did you think?

Bugs in the Food, Part II (Lunch Spoiler Alert)

2008-01-05T12:11:00.001-08:00

Oh, good Christ. This was in D.'s sandwich just now, dead from either the freezer, microwave or broiler. The poor thing didn't stand a chance of surviving that triple-whammy. Luckily, he found it before he ate it. After a "What the. . ." he put it in a tissue and brought it to me. My ohmygod ewwwww get that thing away from me!!!! reaction could not be described as kind, as I had resolved to be, but neither was it profoundly bitchy or sarcastic, so I gave myself a pass.

I do not like this particularly crunchy-looking insect at all, particularly its pincer parts. What do they DO with those, anyway? Must go to Wikipedia and see.

How did it get into a sandwich in our house? I'll tell you my theory: D.'s favorite bread in all the land is a seeded baguette made by a local bakery. It is perfect in every way, crusty outside, light inside and covered with poppy, sesame, and caraway seeds. Or are they fennel? No matter, they're spicy good. Now, you'll recall our bug-infested jumbo shells from Christmas weekend. Is it a mere coincidence that said local bakery sells their breads in that SAME grocery store? I daresay it is not, but a deliberate plan to keep me from shopping there ever again; indeed, to keep me from supporting a local (albeit huge corporate Republican type) company and to force me to continue my new love affair with Trader Joe's!

If only all my problems were this. . . well, tiny and insignifcant. But why focus on the big issues, when the wind is howling outside, our animals are safe and secure and at our feet inside, and all of our needs: shelter, water, companionship, books, tea, cute eyeglasses and plenty of (bug-filled) food are met? Life is good today in the House of ~~Earwhig~~ Earwig (thanks, Melanie!).

Oh God, Not MORE New Year’s Resolutions?!!? Yup.

2008-01-02T23:14:00.000-08:00

Monday night, we had a gathering of friends and family (will it EVER end??) at our house. It was lovely, my carpets are unscathed and nobody revealed any naked body parts, intentionally or not. At some point while I was still semi-coherent (the last guests left at about 2:30 am), we went around the table answering the venerable, quintessential New Year’s Eve question: “What are your New Year’s Resolutions?” One by one, we professed a goal or two. Until it was my cousin’s turn. His answer? “I never make resolutions.” His tone? And don’t ask me again next year. We moved on to the next guest.

I’ve been thinking about this—probably too much—but hey, there’s nothing of terrible importance going on right now (as in, no meals to plan). I just don’t get this hard line that folks like my cousin have against New Year’s Resolutions.

To me, the non-believers fall into one or more of three categories:

They believe they need no improvement (and that right there is a fat clue);
They know they won’t keep their resolutions, so they don’t bother to make them (have they given up on themselves?)
They think it’s a silly clichéd tradition, like wearing funny hats and blowing through noisemakers at midnight (awesome!).

Well yes, we all know that it’s cliché, that resolutions are as are easy to make as a bowl of cereal—and as hard to keep as a mammogram appointment. (Two bad similes in one sentence! How does she do it?) And how many of us remember—much less keep—our sincerely made resolutions by April when all we can think about are taxes, not diets or quitting smoking or going to the gym three times a week no matter what?

I love how bloggers are writing about their resolutions, and I’ve decided to join in the fun. My list will be lurking out there in black and white forever. How convenient for ~~beating myself up~~ referring back to when I need reminding of what the hell it was I said I would do in the bask of a golden ~~champagne-induced personal breakdown~~ holiday glow.

To me, there’s no harm in taking stock of myself, blowing through an entire box of Kleenex and bottle of good Syrah, then dealing realistically with my shortcomings (unlike my cousin, the rest of us have them), and vowing to do better.

So here we go. Here’s what I need to improve, and I solemnly vow that I resolve to do so:

Be more patient with my husband. As in, no rolling eyes when he asks if we have any butter. This is a tough one because it involves a DNA transplant. Might need help. I reserve the right to silently say, "Have you LOOKED in the refrigerator, by chance?????"
Scoop the cats’ litter boxes every day. This will be an easy one: if I do it each morning after I feed them, it will only take a minute, max. Maybe it will cure the phantom pooper, too. I don’t know any cats who get scooped every day, but I’m sure they’re happier than mine, who deserve a cleaner environment in which to poo.

Be kinder. I am not completely unkind, mind you, and I will never be one of those annoying public-sweet-closet-bitchy women. I keep it real. But at times, that realness lands on others with a thud, or worse—with a smack. It’s not what I say, it’s how I say it, they say. I’ve heard it enough to know I need to work on it.

Write. I have two novels in the works. I need to get back to them.

Get organized. Since we moved into this house in April, I have never felt completely unpacked. There are still two unfinished rooms where boxes are shoved into corners, the closets are jammed full of crap, and nothing hangs on the walls—because we haven’t painted them yet. My mind is not at rest, and every time I walk into those rooms I feel stressed. I will pick out the paint and get started. Hang the pictures and clean out the closets. Breathe easier.

Attend Boot Camp faithfully. I have done better than I expected—I have survived two 8-week sessions of Boot Camp, and I’m stronger, my clothes fit better, and I love the class. I’m signing up for round 3 (I need the discipline of a class structure) and I vow to not miss any classes unless I’m sick or out of town. Three hours per week is no big deal. I just have to make myself get dressed and leave the house.

Be this girl (come warmer weather, of course—I’m not going near the water now).

And this girl.

Get myself on one of these, purchased, rented, borrowed—whatever it takes. Because I had nearly forgotten the pure happiness I feel when I’m sailing. I don’t want to forget.

Take good care of myself, however I define it, each day. Naps, massages, walks, bike rides. Be with people who are good for my soul. Simply put, do more of the stuff I want to do and less of the stuff I do not.

Well, this ought to be enough to set me on the path to self-love, family harmony, and life balance. Who knew it could be SO EASY? Stay tuned.

Groaning with Christmas/Seasonal/Holiday Joy: La Parte Tres

2007-12-31T13:16:00.000-08:00

Greetings and welcome to the final report on our Christmas International Food Frenzy. Now, Claire's father may not appreciate foreign cuisine, but his daughter surely does. I love real Mexican, and it loves me back (and me thighs, and me upper arms). The chiles! The cheese! The tortillas! All good and so good for you.

Christmas was our last night together as an extended family for a while, and while we probably did not need another meal after the previous evening's Indian feast, we started cooking again anyway. It was great fun.

On the Menu:
Chile Quilles (supplied by friend D.)
Three Sisters Burritos
with roasted squash, pinto beans and corn

from

Take a peek at their menu. Creative, healthy food that makes me swoon. Not unlike Mrs. G. swoons over Hugh Jackman.

This is a good dish for company. It presents nicely. You are going to dirty a few pots and pans, but oh, is it worth it. I serve this often to serious carnivores and they act like they really like it. Raves! I get raves!

The Ingredients:

3 pounds butternut squash

1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon vegetable oil, divided

1 1/2 teaspoons ancho chile powder

1 1/2 teaspoons salt, divided

1 tablespoon maple syrup

Juice of 1/2 lime

1 1/2 cups corn, fresh or frozen

1 14 oz can pinto beans, drained and rinsed*

1/2 bunch cilantro, stemmed and chopped

2 teaspoons chipotle puree (follows)

3 1/2 cups grated white cheddar cheese

6 whole wheat tortillas*

Mesa red sauce (recipe follows) or other favorite red sauce

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Peel and seed the squash, and chop into 3/4" cubes. Toss with 1 tablespoon oil, ancho powder, 1 teaspoon salt, maple syrup and lime juice and spread out in a glass baking dish. Roast until tender, about 20 minutes. Transfer the roasted squash to a large bowl, and spread the corn in the same baking dish. Toss with 1 teaspoon oil and a pinch of salt and roast 10 minutes. Combine the squash and corn and cool. Toss in the beans, cilantro and chipotle puree and season to taste.

To roll the burritos, lay a tortilla out in front of you and spread about 1 cup of filling across the middle. Top with 1/3 cup of cheese and roll the tortilla around the filling to form a cylinder. Place seam-side down on a lightly oiled baking dish and repeat with remaining filling. Spoon sauce over the tortillas and sprinkle with remaining cheddar. Cover the pan with foil and bake 30 minutes at 350 degrees until heated through. Remove foil for a final 5 minutes to melt the cheese on top.

*Notes: I have often omitted the maple syrup when I was out of it.
I sometimes use chili beans and don't rinse them all the way.
Trader Joe's homemade whole wheat tortillas are very good.

Chipotle Puree
Buy a little can of chipotles in adobo sauce. I buy this:

Whirl it all up in the blender or food processor and put it in a jar. That's it. This stuff is so good--it's smokey and hot and flavorful. ONLY USE A LITTLE BIT. You can add more, but you won't want to. Use it in and on everything. Really really good mixed with butter for corn on the cob. Equally yummy in chili. Add some to sour cream and dollop on Mexican food. Put a little in mac and cheese. Adds zing to guacamole. Makes barbeque sauce lip-smackable. The rebar gals are on my secret girlfriend list (now there's a posting idea) for introducing me to this heavenly flavor sensation.

Mesa Red Sauce
Put DOWN that canned enchilada sauce and make this instead:
The Ingredients:

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/2 yellow onion, diced

6 garlic cloves, minced

4 tablespoons masa harina

4 tablespoons ancho chile power

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin

1/4 teaspoon cayenne powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon cracked pepper

1 tablespoon minced oregano

4 cups vegetable stock or water, heated

2 tablespoons tomato paste

1 teaspoon brown sugar

Heat the oil in a saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onions and saute until translucent. Add garlic and cook 3 minutes. Sprinkle in the masa harina and stir constantly as it cooks and turns golden.

Add the spices and oregano and stir for another 2 minutes. Slowly whisk in the warm vegetable stock and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and whisk in the tomato paste and sugar.

Simmer partially covered for 30 minutes, stirring regularly. Season to taste.

This Christmas will be remembered as one of my favorites. I was surrounded by friends and family that I love, and we simply enjoyed our time together without artificial deadlines and unnecessary expectations. I hope 2008 will be a year of happy memories, good health, and peace in all of your homes and hearts. Happy New Year!

Groaning with Christmas/Seasonal/Holiday Joy: Part (how do you say “two” in punjabi?)

2007-12-29T10:56:00.000-08:00

Our to-die-for Indian feast took place on Christmas Eve, that holiest of nights when families observe sacred traditions, passed on through the generations. The Midnight Mass tradition. The “just one” gift opening tradition. The visits to loved ones tradition.

Or in our case, the visit to the brewpub tradition. Each year since we moved here in 2002, we have stopped by “our” brewpub on Christmas Eve. Devoid of crowds (I mean, who goes out drinking beer on Christmas eve, geesh! Scoundrels!), dark and quiet, it is as sacred to us as any cathedral. The gigantic tree sweeping the thirty-foot ceiling made us feel all festive inside—or was that the sublime IPA or seasonal winter brew we quaffed? No matter, we were sure happy to be there.

And this year was no exception, but for the MASSIVE CROWD ~~OF SCOUNDRELS~~ that preceded us. Where normally about a half-dozen worshippers shared the sanctity of the place with the proprietors (all the staff was off duty), this year the word got out and we could barely get ourselves a table. Behind the bar, where once the owner pulled our Christmas pints (and give them to us for free), were two bartenders scrambling to keep up. In place of the manager, stopping by our table to visit with a plate of homemade macaroons, was our favorite friendly, but frenzied, waitress, who was trying to get home to be with her kids. Our manager friend was swamped in the kitchen, and we had to go back and stick our heads in the door to get a Merry Christmas! in. Worst of all—there were so many people drinking WINE* in the place that I thought we had entered the wrong building by mistake. Oh, it was sad, alright. We could not believe our eyes. The owner even apologized to us! I’m sorry, guys, he said, I don’t know what happened this year.

And so another Christmas tradition has become commercialized and ugly. I don’t blame all those folks for wanting in on something good. Oh—wait—of course I do. They should have kept their wine-drinking asses at home where they belong! Sniff, sniff. This was OUR tradition, dammit. *I love wine, oh I do, but not in a brewpub on Christmas Eve when the beer lovers can't get a table.

Afterward in years past, we would head over to our Unitarian Universalist fellowship for the Christmas Eve service, buoyed by the happiness in our ~~bellies~~ hearts.

This year, we had another service in mind: make some gooooood Indian food and serve it up as soon as possible. So we went home and got busy.

With no casualties or cut fingers this time, and no bugs in the food to deal with, we measured, chopped and stirred, and presto! presented the following for our friends’ and family’s enjoyment (and kids, DO try this at home):

Christmas Eve Indian Feast Menu

Dal with Basmati Rice (simply the best ever)
Lentil, Pea & Potato Curry, courtesy of Mediterrasian, a lovely website by a New Zealander and an Australian
Basmati Rice with Dried Fruit, Almonds, and Coconut (I'm eating some now. Yum! Friend D. brought it, let me know if you'd like the recipe and I'll post it)
Some chicken dish that our friend D. brought over for the carnivores in the house
Naan from Trader Joe's (so easy! and so good! why make it yourself?)

The Lentil, Pea, and Potato Curry was one of the best I've ever made or eaten anywhere. Note the recipe is for two servings, so double or triple at will. It is soooo good.

We make the Dal often. It is a combination of two recipes: Dal with Coconut Cream and Red Lentil Dal with Aromatics from Vegetarian Cooking For Everyone, by Deborah Madison, food goddess:

Ingredients:

1 cup red lentils

3 cups water

½ teaspoon salt

1 garlic clove

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro stems

2 teaspoons minced fresh ginger

3 tablespoon ghee or clarified butter*, divided

1 small onion, finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, sliced

1 jalapeño chile, seeded and chopped

½ teaspoon turmeric

1 15 oz can unsweetened coconut milk

salt

2 shallots, sliced

1 dried red chile, broken into pieces

3 bay leaves

1 teaspoon mustard seeds

Wash the lentils thoroughly and drain well. Combine with 3 cups water and salt in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer until they have disintegrated and turned mushy, about 20 minutes. If needed, add more water.

Meanwhile, pound or puree the garlic clove, cilantro stems, and ginger together. Add them to the cooked lentils.

Heat 2 tablespoons ghee over medium-high heat, then sauté the onion, garlic, and jalapeño chile for 1 minute. Add turmeric and sauté everything until the onions are soft. Add to the pot of lentils. Pour in the coconut milk. Taste for seasoning and add salt if desired.

Heat remaining 1 tablespoon ghee over high heat. Add the shallots, dried red chile, bay leaves, and mustard seeds, and sauté about 1 minute, until mustard seeds turn grey. Stir into lentils and serve with cooked basmati or jasmine rice.

*Note: I always use regular butter, because I am far too lazy to clarify it or to make ghee. However, I recently read that ghee is the only acceptable fat to use in Indian cooking, and that it makes all the difference. I plan on making some soon, and will likely regret every dish I ever made without it.

Perfect Basmati (or Jasmine) Rice
from Rebar Modern Food Cookbook

Rebar is our most favorite restaurant in Victoria, BC. Amazing food! You will see more in Part Tres of our Holiday International Food Frenzy

Prepare yourself for rice ecstasy!
Combine in a heavy saucepan:

3 ½ cups water

2 cups uncooked rice

1 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon butter

Heat to a boil. As soon as it starts boiling, put a tight-fitting lid on the pan and lower the heat to the lowest possible setting and set the timer for 18 minutes.

When the timer goes off, turn off the heat and let it sit for 5 minutes.

Fluff with a fork, and amaze your friends.

And it came to pass that a new Christmas Eve tradition was born, on a star-filled night in the Pacific Northwest.

And peace abounded in the hearts of all who shared it.

Dad's Food Comment

2007-12-27T17:05:00.000-08:00

In the midst of our Christmas food frenzy, my phone was passed from my my sticky, onion-and-garlic-covered hand to my brother's clean one (he appreciated that) so he could send good wishes to the thirty New York relatives on the other end.

Brother: "Hey, Dad, we're having a great time and eating some great food! Sunday we had Italian, last night was Indian, and tonight is Mexican!"

Dad's deadpan comment: "What's wrong with American?"

Sorry, we were fresh out of hot dogs.

Groaning With Christmas/Seasonal/Holiday Joy: Part I

2007-12-26T10:08:00.000-08:00

Our goal was to have family and friends over and spend QHT while eating good food and drinking better beer and wine.

We certainly succeeded.

After a late Friday night at a club, listening to a favorite band (as if still in our twenties), we slept in on Saturday and then tried to clean the house for awhile. Having no fun, we ditched that plan and watched Christmas (“the little lights are not twinkling”) Vacation instead.

On Sunday we got ready for company and cleaned for a few hours, then headed to the grocery store where we spent a whopping and ridiculous three hundred bucks, seventeen of which went for a single bottle of olive oil I had picked up in error. In my righteousness, I accused the grocery store of overcharging (in my humble defense I offer that they do indeed overcharge us on a regular basis, which I thought was nearly impossible with the ubiquitous bar-coding of our society, but they do).

Way behind schedule, I was just putting away the last of the groceries when company all arrived. Together we started preparing the first of our Amazing Meals: welcome to Italian Night! I had stuffed shells on my mind, and dug out my favorite ~~cookbook~~ cooking website and thanks to that skinny Italian chick, had a fab recipe just waiting for me. I substituted this

for the pancetta. (If you’re just joining us, D. and I are vegetarians. Well, I am, and D. tries. Real hard. His heart’s not completely in it, but it’s 98% there.)

While my sister-in-law and I were chopping, chopping, chopping (and I was cutting my left index finger and my right thumb), D. ran back to the grocery store to apprise them of their grievous error and collect our cash. Turns out I had really chosen a $17 bottle of olive oil. Sheah, right?? I like my family, but. . . no. D. returned the bottle and purchased a more reasonably-priced model. Mass-produced and probably environmentally unfriendly (oops) to boot, but affordable.

Meanwhile, I dumped a box of jumbo shells into boiling water and up to the surface floated not only a few of the shells, but a handful of tiny brown things. Upon closer inspection, the little brown things revealed they were each sporting a pair of wings and a few dozen legs. WHAAAAT??? I inspected the box, searching for some sort of explanation, while my cousin offered, “Oh, they’re just a little added protein.” Chuckle, chuckle, upchuck. The glue holding the box ends together was littered with bug bodies and there were a few survivors still crawling around.

ICK. When D. returned from the store, I showed him the pot of doom and the box o’bugs. He grabbed both boxes for evidence and headed back to the store for another refund (this time truly not my bad). He called me from the store to report that every effin' box was crawling with creepy little insects (just going about the business of survival, but still). The clerk who assisted him with his return and subsequent empty handedness said, “Yeah, we’ve been having problems with bugs in these boxes.”

“Great—thanks, I’ll head to Trader Joe’s,” said D., barfing a little as he left.

Without our shells, the rest of us were stymied: we couldn’t do anything beyond making the sauce, mixing the filling, and shredding a pile of mozzarella. So we drank beer. And chatted and chatted. And looked up favorite You Tube videos to share. Nothing better than Brenda Dickson's Welcome to My Home to make you laugh so hard your beer comes out of your nose. . . but that wasn't me.

D. called from the road. “TJ’s is out of ‘em . . . I’m heading to the other store.”

He called again. “They’re out, too. . . I’m heading to Fred’s.” Who knew that stuffed shells were such a holiday tradition in the Pacific Northwest? In New York where I come from, Italians are everywhere and each family makes at least ten pounds of pasta per person for the holidays. I don’t think I’ve met the first Italian-type person here. But I’m sure they exist, because they bought all of my shells.

Finally D. arrived back at the hacienda with pest-free shells. We proceeded with our dish, the girls stuffing and spooning sauce and the boys watching and drinking beer. (At least they stayed in the kitchen with us.) I messed up the recipe, though (could it be the beer?) and dumped the mozzarella into the ricotta instead of putting it on top. Pity—it made the filling a little heavier than I preferred, but nobody complained.

We sat down to dinner at about 10 p.m. How very European of us. How very Italian of us. At that rate, we should have followed dinner with Midnight Mass, but. . . no. We followed dinner with Trivial Pursuit. My cousin, who is beyond brilliant, and would have won had he stayed, left for home at about 1:30. The rest of us could not, would not stop playing until the game was over.

I actually won. It was 3:20 a.m. Our friend D. went home and the rest of us went to bed.

That was food, drink, and game night #1. It was grand.

The next morning I got out of bed at 10:52 a.m. Wow. I needed the sleep to prepare for our next gastronomical adventure: Indian Night! Details to come. . . .

10 Things

2007-12-22T10:29:00.000-08:00

Oh, the temptation to analyze what's passing for “news” these days. . . such as the current scandal involving that troubled young singer’s even younger sister’s troubles. Or the nerve of that other troubled young celebrity showing up at her boyfriend’s football game and making his team lose! She must be stopped, apparently, and this is a BIG DEAL that people are actually discussing on the internets. And let’s do talk about the presidential candidates' holiday ads, which I thankfully have not witnessed—but! Luckily for me, NPR provided a fascinating analysis of all dozen or so of these special holiday greetings, interviewing two experts in their fields who told me what I should think of Sen. Clinton’s generosity or Rudy G’s sincerity. Whew! My personal holiday season is so much the richer for that. Thanks, NPR!

Oops—those sarcastic remarks snuck out after I implied there would be no news analysis. Here I go, adding to the noise. Well, what else is there to do on a delightfully rainy Pacific Northwest Saturday-morning-before-Christmas when smug little me has no shopping or any other sort of seasonal prepping to do? I’m eatin’ my oatmeal and drinkin’ my coffee and readin’ the newspaper. Life is good.

So good, in fact, that on this particularly good day I feel compelled to write a “10 Things” list. I’ve seen various lists on other blogs, usually initiated by a meme, which I have not been on the receiving end of (forgive the dangling preposition, Mrs. G.!). But instead of writing about myself, this one will be a pay it forward kind of thing. In the spirit of the season, I'm thinking about someone other than me!me!me! I invite you to do the same. Today's list is about my sweet husband, who, despite being as challenging to live with at times as, oh, I dunno, perhaps I am, is still the best person I’ve ever known.

This is for you, D.

10 Things I Love About My Husband

10. You like almost everything the same as me.
9. You like to lay around the house in jammies for entire weekends.
8. You do all the research about every new gadget, piece of electronic equipment, or appliance that enters our house so I don’t have to.
7. You don’t have foot odor. Amazing.
6. You are a snappy dresser.
5. You enjoy shopping at Target.
4. You have never answered the question, “Do I look fat?” in the affirmative.
3. You say I look exactly the same as when we met eleven years ago.
2. You set up the coffee every single night so it grinds and brews before I wake up.
1. You love my family.

And here are 10 more:
1. You are the best doggy and kitty daddy in the whole world.
2. You cut the grass.
3. You pump the gas.
4. You hate raisins. This is cute.
5. You are a good son and brother.
6. You are an incredibly talented musician and know more about music than anyone I’ve ever known.
7. You write poetry for children—and we don’t even own any.
8. We have never had a single disagreement over how much money to spend on our animals.
9. You ask directions without hesitation.
10. You let me be who I am like no one else ever has.

And you love good movies and hate bad acting and you're not a sports guy and you're totally in touch with your feminine side, which makes you a good shopping partner, and you like to cook with me and drink good wine and you agreed to start this amazing adventure called marriage even when I tried to talk you out of it.

What, dear reader, do you love about your S.O., sister, brother, parents, friends?

A More Meaningful Holiday

2007-12-14T17:50:00.000-08:00

Everyone I know, it seems, is rethinking the holiday this year. We're either: a) sick to death of the nonstop holiday tunes and tv specials; b) a little scared to shop after viewing ads imploring us to "Stop at Nothing!" (does this include violence?) to make sure we get the I Can Play Guitar thing before someone snatches it out from under us; or c) we're more aware of the bad stuff that's going on in the world. War, starvation, injustice, the effect of global warming on penguins, power outages and natural disasters will dampen even the hardiest holiday spirit.

Have we Al Gore to thank for this Blue Christmas? Maybe. We're completely cutting out purchasing unnecessary stuff for people who don't really need it. We're examining the pedigree of each item: where were you made? How much oil did it take to produce/transport/package you? Will I be taking advantage of some poor soul's socio-economic status by purchasing you? If you don't fit the guidelines, you can just stay on the shelf!

We're aghast at the piles of wrapping paper we wasted each year. We always knew it was bad, so naturally, we recycled as much as possible . . . but show me a half-price sale the week after Christmas and I was a wrapping paper stocking up fool, trees be damned! And now? Never again will I buy a roll of wrap when there is plenty of shipping box stuffing paper and yesterday's newspaper lying around! I should be getting carbon credits for this.

We've done all the shopping we're going to do. I bought a few books for some friends and family, and a painting for our godson. Gift bags (reusable, natch) for each of our employees. Practical items like grocery store gift certificates have replaced tchotchkes and silly stocking stuffers.

No Stuff on My Cat calendars. No bendable Oscar Wilde figurines. No Clickit magnets.

There is no tree in our living room, no lights on our porch railing. Yet. I may still be compelled to decorate a bit. But, as one of our favorite servers at our brewpub said, "You don't have to cut a tree down to feel good about yourself."

On Christmas, we'll invite our friends and nearby family (now that we have some) over to relax and enjoy some good food and even better beer and wine. We'll play games. We'll talk about ways to celebrate our friendships and the ties that bind us throughout the entire year, and we'll each define the season in our own way.

We'll look with hope to the new year, and we'll all feel good about the complete lack of wrapping paper in the recycle bin. If only it could save the penguins.

Wednesday Evening Poetry: Channel Firing

2007-12-12T21:14:00.000-08:00

Here is another favorite poem. I used to know it word-for-word, but have forgotten bits over the years. It fits my generally cynical view of politics and the hopelessness of war. I find it incredibly contemporary, too. I'm amazed and saddened that Hardy and I, though separated by nearly one hundred years, are both questioning why we (the universal “we”) have been fighting each other for centuries, with no imaginable end--and that we cannot seem to learn another way. But mostly I love this poem for the sound of it in my ears and the feel of it on my tongue. Draw out the o's, rev up the r's and see if you agree! Picture the cow stopping to listen, and the church mice shuddering with every blast. Listen to the last line as the tempo slows to end softly on starlit Stonehenge.

Channel Firing
by Thomas Hardy
That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgement-day

And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worms drew back into their mounds,

The glebe-cow drooled. Till God called, “No;
It's gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:

“All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.

“That this is not the judgement-hour
For some of them's a blessed thing,
For if it were they'd have to scour
Hell's floor for so much threatening...

“Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need).”

So down we lay again. “I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,”
Said one, “than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!”

And many a skeleton shook his head.
“Instead of preaching forty year,”
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
“I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer.”

Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.

Eighty-two Today

2007-12-07T10:00:00.000-08:00

She was born on December 7, 1925. American women had won the right to vote only a few years prior.

When she was seven, in the middle of the Great Depression, her father died on Thanksgiving Day. She was the second of five children left to be raised by her widowed mother. The youngest was ten months old. Times were very hard and they were poor. She remembers picking up coal scraps at the side of the railroad tracks to help heat their house.

They moved a lot when she was a young girl, but her close family, Catholic faith and school were constants in her life; she received an excellent education and graduated from high school with what would now equate to a university-level education.

On her sixteenth birthday, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. In the war years that followed she saw many of her friends leave home for faraway battlefields.

When she was eighteen, she met a boy at a dance. He said he was eighteen, too, although he was only sixteen. She dated him anyway, and when he went off to China with the US Marines, he asked her to wait for him. Rumor has it she refused, but when he came home, they were married. She was almost twenty-two; he was twenty. They celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary on November 15th.

While running the family business, she and her husband raised eleven children together. The first was born in 1949 and the babies came pretty regularly for the next twenty-one years; the last one was born on Valentine's Day, 1970.

Their children are examples of the incredible love, strength, courage, faith in each other and in their religion, and good humor that the two of them share. They are all good people, productive members of society, wonderful mothers and fathers themselves. None are suffering from bad health or addictions; none have been in jail or in rehab. They are good friends and love each other as they love their parents; they know how lucky they are and appreciate each other and each day.

She and her husband are respected, loved and admired by hundreds of friends, their childrens' friends, their community. They are called "inspirational" by many.

Her husband would say she is the glue that held the family together for the forty years he was working day and night to provide for them. Her husband says she is his best friend. Her children love her beyond measure.

I am her eighth child. There are no words to describe how I feel about my mother.

She taught me how to be the person I am.

She taught me how to be fair to everyone: "Do not judge a person until you have walked a mile in their shoes."

She taught me how to appreciate what I have: "There, but for the grace of God, go you."

She taught me how to weather tough times: "This, too, shall pass."

She taught me to stand up for myself: "Remember, marriage is 50-50. He has to do his part, too." (Previous marriage, not D.!)

She taught me to be nice: "No gossiping! Don't be catty."

I've never heard my mother say anything remotely resembling racism, sexism, homophobia, or plain meanness.

The woman is a saint. And I have been blessed every day of my life to be her daughter.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you so.

Holding Hands with Dad

2007-12-06T15:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was returning to work from getting a new haircut (it's way cute) and enjoyed a rare opportunity to take a look around town and listen to some good tunes as I drove. (Stevie Wonder's Songs In The Key Of Life, only one of the finest albums ever recorded in our lifetime, IMHO, but I digress. . .)

I was stopped behind a school bus with flashing red lights. Out hopped a little girl, maybe seven or eight; her father, hands in pockets, waited on the corner for her. He was patient, as was I, as she performed the very important task of waving goodbye to the bus driver and her school mates. The door closed, the lights stopped flashing, and father and daughter grasped hands and turned to walk home. Rather, dad walked. The little girl skipped with such momentum that she bounced down the sidewalk like a blue-jeaned ball.

I wondered how their conversation went, how she answered the standard, "How was school today?" and what super major events occurred with her friends on the playground at recess.

I smiled, immediately taken back to my childhood--holding hands with my Dad, walking the block-and-a-half to church on Sunday mornings with my brothers and my Mom.

In winter, my legs would freeze, even though Mom would have put them in thick cable-knit tights. The short walk would seem miles long.

I skipped, slid on snow, or walked doubletime to keep pace with Dad's brisk pace. He would let me lag behind and then pull me so I'd have to run. It made me giggle every time. It was our ritual.

I don't know how many Sundays were spent walking to church holding my Dad's hand. I don't know if we knew the last time we did it would be the last time.

But I have always remembered, even though I was so small I had to reach straight up with my arm to put my small hand in his big, safe one.

NaNoWriMoNOT

2007-12-02T08:33:00.000-08:00

I was so excited to be part of National Novel Writing Month! I came up with a story idea on November 1st. I started writing every day. 1700 words a day. I slacked off when it came close to the 8th, when we were getting ready to go to New York.

Working ten hours a day and trying to keep the rest of my life running (clean clothes are a must) was the most I could do on some days. Writing is for people who don't have to work for a living.

I made great progress on the plane coming home from NY. And that's the last bit I wrote. My total? 11,496 words. The goal was 50,000 words. I scored about twenty percent of the goal.

I'm not sure how I feel about this: while I didn't "win," I certainly don't feel like a loser; I feel a bit of real achievement. The program worked by just getting me writing; it was invigorating to be part of a worldwide effort by writers from all backgrounds and abilities, all working toward the same very personal goal. In that respect, it worked brilliantly--it got me writing a new story and I was writing every day just to get that story out, not for it to be perfect.

But writing every day in November? For me, there could hardly be a worse month. I really had no time to even read a newspaper, much less two hours a day to create a novel from nothing--no plot, no outline, no character development--nothing but a blank page. Writing is for people with the luxury of time.

I'm not disappointed in myself. It would be nice to have been able to write 50,000 words in November, but I just couldn't. It would have been possible only if I took that time away from my family and work obligations. How haughty and self-centered that would have been. Can't imagine it: "Sorry, Mom, I'd love to visit with you but I must write. See you in a couple of hours." Maybe that's how some writers do it, but that's not me.

So now what? I'm going to make January my own Novel Writing Month. There is so much less going on in my life in January (I think). Maybe I'll try on that haughty writer's persona, shut the door, and practice the following: No, I'm sorry, I can't. I have to write today.

No Yoga

2007-12-01T11:15:00.000-08:00

There we were, putting on our little yoga outfits.

There I was, removing the last of summer's chipped polish from my toenails.

There we were, sliding through the snow to the yoga studio.

There we were, fifteen minutes early for the 10:30 a.m. class so the newbie (me) could fill out the paperwork.

There we were, standing outside the studio, watching the class that began at 10:00 a.m.

Oops. Duh. No yoga for me today!

And Now Yoga?

2007-11-30T09:46:00.000-08:00

I have always wanted to take yoga classes. When we lived in Virginia, there weren't many options to do so. I ran quite a bit (even did one (1) and only one (1) marathon) and worked out at the gym. I took some Bodyflow classes, which incorporated some yoga moves. But never a real yoga class.

When we moved to the PNW, my yoga opportunities increased a thousand-fold, it seemed. There are probably ten yoga studios in our town, with choices of Bikram, Iyengar, Viniyoga, Hatha, and more.

I figured when my schedule settled down some (as in not working 60-hour weeks) I'd be able to fit in the luxury of ninety-minute mid-morning classes.

This week, my husband started taking yoga. As my upset nine-year-old niece said when her older sister got her ears pierced, "You don't understand. . . you're living my dream!" He's living my yoga dream. Of course, I didn't get off my ass and go--he did. I thought it would be too much with my three-times-a-week boot camp, NaBloPoMO, and NaNoWriMo, Thanksgiving, trip back east, and my regular work schedule--and I was right. I can't do everything.

But I'm going with him tomorrow morning. And I'm really excited! Maybe I can fit in two or three classes a week. . .

Doing Stuff I Don't Wanna Do

2007-11-29T23:02:00.000-08:00

That sounds whiney, I know. And I'm perfectly okay with that.

I'm going to stop doing stuff I don't wanna do! Why wouldn't I?

Tonight I went to a very, very crowded sports bar and watched a football game with some friends. I didn't care about the game, but I do care about my friends, so when they asked, while my first thought was, "thanks but no," I wanted to see them, so I said "why not?".

First clue that I should have gone home instead: The bouncer dude blocked the door as I tried to enter.

"You got a stamp?" he said to me, while talking on his cell phone.

"I don't know what you're talking about." I didn't know who he was or that he worked there.

"You already been in here?" He's still blocking me from entering, and way too far into my personal space.

"Um, no."

"We're full here." Like I should know this. I told him my friends were already here.

"They got a seat reserved for you?"

"I don't know," I said, implying you idiot.

"Well, I'll let you in."

"Thanks." It's possible my look communicated some disgust with his rudeness.

"Don't look at me like that," he said to my back. I had an urge to turn back and throw him a one-fingered salute, but I was busy trying to make my way through the bodies slammed together like spaghetti in a box, all the while thinking why am I in this place? Finally I spotted my friends standing and waving their arms frantically.

I squeezed in. The place was so crowded that they couldn't keep up with drink and food orders, so the waitress literally recommended we not order food. Therefore, I drank more beer (when we finally got some) than I probably would have. Not way too much, but more than two.

After the game, starving, we went to a nearby Thai place. I ordered some soup and rice. Luckily I didn't eat too much, but it was 10 p.m. by the time we left. I'm driving away, freezing to death, thinking "why did I go through all of this just to watch a game I don't care about??".

I arrived home tired, grumpy, whiney, and wishing I had just gone home after work like I really wanted to do.

I was invited to go to Seattle Saturday with the same friends; I didn't commit because I didn't really want to go. I'm telling them tomorrow I'm not going. I'm going to have a delicious Saturday and Sunday at home.

Because that's what I wanna do. And it beats the hell out of doing something I don't wanna do and whining about it after.

Fearlessness

2007-11-28T22:04:00.000-08:00

My husband is fearless. He is not a daredevil, mind you. He doesn't go for really extreme sports--beyond scooping the poop of a 96-pound dog once a week or so. His sport love is kayaking. He learned rock climbing to get over his fear of heights.

But the man will talk to anyone, email anyone, phone anyone. He asks directions. He asks people which way to bathroom. He is not embarassed to not know where to go or how to do something. He learns a whole lot just by doing the asking thing. Just now he said, "I'd try to get in touch with Bill Gates if I needed something from him."

He reaches out to people with absolutely no fear of rejection or of feeling dumb.

Me? I grew up too embarassed by my size to go up for seconds in a buffet line. I didn't want people to laugh at the fat girl.

I nearly died the first time a professor read my writing aloud in English 102. I had an actual anxiety attack. I didn't want anyone looking at me while he read.

I used to lose sleep for days before a public speaking class or "real" event where I had to speak in front of a group.

Then a funny thing happened. I took on an alternate persona who was braver than I, who could stand up tall and talk to more than one person at a time. First, she did the eulogy at a dear friend's funeral. Then, she spoke to the congregation at church about how she came to find Unitarianism. Then she led an auction at a charity event. Finally, she became president of a women's networking group and led meetings for eighty people every month.

The alternate personality varied, but was usually Oprah or Beyonce. Not sure why I choose one-named African-American women as my alter egos--aside from the fact that they're both on top of the world and can do anything. Oprah and Beyonce are fearless. So, whenever I found a microphone in my hand, my little voice said, pretend you're Beyonce, and I could do it.

But call Beyonce? Um, I don't think so. She might find out I'm a dork and I've been pretending to be her for years. And then what would happen? I'd just die of embarassment, that's all.

The beauty in this story is that the older I become, the more fearless I become. I don't care as much what people think. I'm becoming more confident in my talents and knowledge. I convey that I care and that I'm sincere and of integrity, and have good information to impart. And what exactly is so scary about that?

The Closet of Misfit Gifts

2007-11-27T20:11:00.001-08:00

I'm no good at this season. I've no talent for shopping. I could care less if my house is lit or if there is a tree in the corner. I used to love all that stuff. I don't know what happened.

Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe working 50 or 60 hours a week leaves no time for that other stuff. Maybe I'm cynical and jaded. Oh, and I don't believe in the Reason For The Season, either. Hmmmm, maybe we're onto something here.

I like buying presents for people. It's the wrapping and shipping parts I don't necessarily ever--ahem--get to. There is a corner in a closet where I toss things I've purchased for others and never given.

A partial list:

One (1) luggage tag in shape of a woman's pump. Totally cute. Meant for my friend in LA.

One (1) boxed Family Game Set purchased for our friends in Virginia.

Two (2) scarves: one black, one purple. I think they were meant for my nieces.

One (1) book of IOU sexual favors gift certificates purchased for my hubby and god knows how it ended up in the pile. Like I can give it to anyone else?

One (1) book titled Raising A Daughter, purchased for a friend who just had one. I forgot to give it to her when she first had the baby and I don't see her often. The child will be raised by the time she actually receives the book.

One (1) cutie-pie girl's hat and gloves set and a little boy sweatshirt from The Gap purchased for some friends' kids TWO Christmases ago. Oops.

One (1) set of amber glass bear salt-and-pepper shakers purchased for the parents of the above kids. They (the bears, not the kids) are now in my kitchen, where sometimes D. and I face them together like they're kissing. They are too cute.

Six (6) fish barrettes purchased for my niece about three years ago. And a t-shirt from our Farmers Market for her brother.

When I buy things for people, D. looks at me with an eyebrow cocked up like he knows where they're going to end up.

In the closet. The closet of misfit gifts. Waiting for Santa.

The Cat Who Won't Shut UP!

2007-11-26T21:36:00.000-08:00

I have two cats. Both are adorable, orange, long-haired tabby cats, which are widely known as the best, most mellow and sweet, good-natured, adorable, sweetest, mellowest, chillest, coolest, kindest, smartest, most adorable cats on the Planet Earth.

Except for right now. One of them is walking around the house meowing in his eff'd up way, which sounds like a cross between nails on a chalkboard and a--well, wild cat in heat--not that this one knows anything about that. What sound in creation could be more annoying?? I am absolutely powerless to stop it.

(Just for fun, give a cat a command of your choice and then hold your breath and see who dies first.)

I love all animals; the ones who agree to live in my house and eat my food are my children--I'm a little weird like that. I think animals have more inherent rights than many people deserve and I am a humongous supporter of every animal rights group, yes, including PETA, and some may think it's "because" I don't have children, but god, the animals need SOMEONE on their side who thinks they're as important as people, do they not?? So whether I have spawn or not does not enter into this equation. I know too well how dogs and cats take a back seat when the kids come into the picture.

That said, this particular animal is asking for it, big time.

"Reerrrrawwwaaarrraaaahhhhhh," says he.

"What do you WANT?" says I.

"Mrrreeeeeewaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaahhhhh," says the cat.

"Be quiet! You're NOT going outside!" says the patient and kind animal lover.

Pad, pad, pad go the furry paws; swish, swish, swish go the butt and high-held tail. Around the kitchen, through the hall, in circles around my chair and the dining room table, and back to the hall again.

"Weeeehhhhhhhaaaaaaayyyyoooooouuuuuuuhhhhhh," says he, more forlornly than last time.

"Oh for godssake, what IS it?" says I. I follow him downstairs to the cubby where their food bowls live.

Oops. Empty.

Ok, I'm the bad one.

This cat is up for adoption. His name is Twinkie. He looks exactly like mine. You need this cat. I'm sure he's very quiet.

My Favorite Poem by My Favorite Poet

2007-11-25T14:29:00.000-08:00

THE PEDIGREE of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.

Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
From Complete Poems, 1924

I Believe I'll Stay Out of the Loop

2007-11-24T15:30:00.001-08:00

After spending the past couple of weeks sheltered from what poses as national news, I had the luxury of time today to read and catch up. As always, two newspapers magically appeared on the porch this morning, each touting headlines about Black Friday,the shoppers who got in line at Wal Mart Thursday night after Thanksgiving Dinner, and the 1.3 million pairs of socks sold at Fred Meyer's.

This is news? Or do we just need a break from the war in Iraq, another impending one in Iran, the mess in Pakistan, and the lead toys from China?

Are those reasons enough to plaster Kanye West's mother's death all over the airwaves (and the *internets*)? Actually, in this case, I think it's our culture's current and obscene obsession with celebrity, plastic surgery, or the irresistible combination of the two.

What an important time we are living in. The dumbing down of America equates to news of celebrity, plastic surgery, and finding "good deals" on crap that nobody needs. I think I'll grab a good book and go back into my cave.

I Will Shop No More Forever Or The Battle For the Plain White Plate

2007-11-23T17:32:00.000-08:00

Upon returning from New York, I was a little busy. First up: the dreaded first-day-back-from-vacation at work, which turned into the dreaded first THREE days back. I had to attend two after-hours events, on top of dealing with jet lag and very little sleep. The weekend was no respite, but was spent in mad “company and Thanksgiving dinner prep” mode. I spent a day cleaning the house, an evening schlepping the food, a few hours finding and washing the china and crystal, and a RIDICULOUSLY. LONG. MORNING. SHOPPING. FOR. SIX. PLATES.

We needed a few plates to supplement our china-for-eight, since we were having twelve for dinner and had finally pitched our old, tired, not-even-good-enough-for-goodwill dishes. First stop: Target. Had a long list of necessary household items to buy, and wanted to try out the cute Method mop thingie (that ultimately disappointed), so after visiting our rug dealer, we headed up to the Tar-Jay. Got everything on the list, except the plates: all of their basic white casual dinnerware was completely cleaned out. Big surprise.

Next stop: Pier One. Right around the corner from Target. I remembered P1 having a decent selection of dishes. I remembered incorrectly. Candles? Check. Martini glasses? Yup. Crap for your walls? Tons. Dishes to eat off of? Not so much. D. and I found a plain white dinner plate that was acceptable, stacked six or so up in a pile, and discovered inconsistent, uneven edges that you could see a mile away. More waves than a tsunami. Cheap, cheap, cheap. Forgetaboutit.

Third stop: Macy’s home store. On their “biggest sale of the year” day. Semi-huge mistake. Found some simple, elegant and nicely made (i.e., consistent) dinner plates, salad plates, and humongous cereal bowls. We got the last six dinner plates they had in the store. Whew! Somehow, we were able to hold all of our new dishes in our four arms and headed for the checkout line. We chose the wrong line, as we always do, and stood in it for thirty-five minutes while my hands turned numb.

Did you know that at Macy’s, the checkout person (ours was the slowest in the history of the planet) has to put a dumb little sticker on each and every item that you purchase? Did you know that they take approximately fifteen seconds for each item? We had eighteen, and by the time he stuck the fifth label and slowly scanned five plates, we had been in line for forty-five minutes. We grabbed his stickers and started sticking the rest of the plates and bowls ourselves. Finally he finished ringing us up. Luckily, someone else wrapped them, or we would still be there, and our guests would have had nothing to eat for Thanksgiving.

The nice wrapping person then offered to carry them to the parcel pick-up door so we could avoid carrying eighty-five pounds of dinnerware through the mall to our car. Unfortunately, she fell on the way and smashed one dinner plate to bits. Various Macy’s staff people spent about twenty minutes checking over each plate and searching for one to replace the broken one. There was no other such plate in the store. Now we have six bowls, six salad plates, and five dinner plates.

Figured I’d order the remaining plate on line. Nope. They don’t carry that particular one. Just in the store. Fine. I ordered six additional plates of a similar style so I could have six that matched. Oy! I am staying out of stores for the next six weeks. I cannot handle it, and I don’t have the time to waste just to buy more crap!!

I'm Thankful

2007-11-22T18:07:00.000-08:00

I am thankful for my family.

I am thankful for my friends.

I am thankful for my adorable, wonderful husband.

I am thankful for my adorable, wonderful animals.

I am thankful for my good health and for the good health of my family, friends, husband, and animals.

I am thankful that we will have a new president in a little over a year.

I am thankful that I have two gorgeous new/old rugs on my floors.

No Method Mopping for Me

2007-11-21T17:53:00.000-08:00

Ok, I admit it. I’m a clever-marketing sucker. I adore great design, smart packaging, and clever advertising. I am a fan of any good idea that I wish I’d thought of.

Enter the Method line of soaps, household cleaners, gels, sprays, candles, scent sticks, air fresheners, and on and on. So, they should have probably stopped with the new lines of products several products ago (hello? Seasonal scented hand soap? Give me a break.), but I was still willing to buy their stuff because it’s cute and safe for me and not tested on animals which is the MOST important aspect of anything I buy.

Take their floor cleaning system, for instance. I am not a fan of the traditional mop, and I’ve tried every type ever made: classic cotton mop-head mops, twisty stripey fabric mops, the dreaded sponge mop—you name it, I have purchased it, hated it, and thrown it away. Except for the Swiffer Wet Jet, a dumb name for what I judged as a wasteful product. I’m not into the disposable thing.

The Method O mop looked like it made so much more sense: one mop handle, plus compostable (huge bonus) dusting wipes for my endless animal-hair-covered wood floors, and a micro-fiber cleaning mop that velcroes in place and is washable and reusable. Voila! I happily placed the little kit in my cart and couldn’t wait to use it. I’m a cleaning dork like that.

Well, the Method guys have disappointed me for the first time. Suck me in if you will, but you MUST give me a quality product that works, or your clever marketing is just that and I will lose all respect for you.

The dust clothes work just fine, and the fact that I’m disposing them in my compost pile makes me feel all righteous and stuff. But the moppy thing is for the birds. (Hmm. Strange saying, that.) Pushes forward ok, as a mop should, but when you pull it back toward yourself, the whole head flips over and gets stuck. It is impossible—at least for me—to mop with this product in a normal back-and-forth motion.

Sigh. When will my search for mopping perfection ever end? Must I invent it myself? And what would that look like? Someone mopping my floors while I write novels, that’s what.

Six Pounds of Butter

2007-11-20T19:36:00.000-08:00

Imagine six packages of butter. Bulky, yellow, squishy, fatty, mushy globs of slick, shiny butter. Imagine it all balled up in, well, a ball. Imagine that ball attached to your back, or your ass, or your thighs.

Since I started doing Boot Camp, I have lost that six pound ball. Of butter. Of fat. Of flour. Of rice. Of beer. Of wine. Of those little Kashi TLC crackers that I adore so very much.

Six pounds, ladies and gentlemen. I did not diet. I never thought that I overate all that much anyway (hello? Denial? Yes, Claire B calling). But I am more aware of what I eat without the self-loathing that might, just might, have led to an overdrinking/munching episode or twelve.

Now, in Phase Deux of BC, I am doing so much better! I can do just about all the reps without wanting to turn and run from the room. I did four hundred jumping jacks and a jazillion lunges and squats on Monday (aptly named "Legs" day) and I did not fall down weeping. I feel it today, mind you. But I am just fine. I can help myself up from a seated position and everything, which was not the case during Boot Camp Round One.

It's exciting and satisfying and it is really HUGE for me. To see and feel changes in my body as a direct result of working hard and feeling pain and not quitting--it's a big deal and I'm proud of myself.

To see the scale move down was an unexpected bonus. I guess I had psyched myself into not hoping for that. Funny how a lifetime of battling weight will do that to a person.

Gotta keep on moving, keep on pushin', as Professor Klump would say. Now is NOT the time to stop--no way. Can't wait for tomorrow's session.

Short Days, Long Nights

2007-11-19T19:31:00.000-08:00

As much as I love summer in the Pacific Northwest, I relish this time of year, when I feel the real beauty in the change of seasons. Not the colors, but rather the quiet.

In the park, hoards of screaming kids have been replaced with a dog or two and their humans.

The brilliant hot pinks, purples and oranges of our daily sunset have turned to a warm golden glow filtered through a hundred hues of gray.

The days seem longer to me—or rather, the evenings do . . . and since that’s my time at home, it makes the whole day seem longer and much more relaxed.

It’s dark so early now. Looking at the clock, I catch myself being surprised at how much evening is left. I would sometimes feel dread in August (“Oh god, it’s time for bed already, which means I have to go to work AGAIN.”), but I smile in November (“Wow, it’s only 7:15? I have almost three hours left in my day! Yay!”).

A slowness, a relaxation, a stillness settles over the house. We’re not running, running, packing as much as we can into our long, perfect summer days before they’re gone. As the long fall and winter stretches before us, we have no choice but to hunker down, settle in, and enjoy.

I really love this time of year.

I feel like the PB&J

2007-11-18T13:33:00.000-08:00

I feel like a sandwich. Not eating one, but being one. On one side of me are the self-induced pressures of writing a novel for NaNoWriMo at the clip of 1700 words a day, plus participating in NaBloPoMo, with the requirement to post every day to this blog (thank god I only have one). On the other side is Thanksgiving looming before me. I’m hosting, as usual, and there will be twelve people at my house.

On the writing: I was out of town for six days, over last weekend, and accomplished some—but not enough—writing. I got to know my characters better, and figured out some scenarios that could work for the Big Secret they share.

This is good, for when writing a novel from scratch, i.e., when you pop open the laptop and start Word and a blank page stares you down and you then begin writing a story with characters you do not know and a town you have not named and a plot that is yet uninteresting, you have a huge challenge before you—one that is the most inspiring freedom you can experience. I think that’s the Whole Idea behind NaNoWriMo—have fun, be inspired, be overwhelmed with possibility, be scared that you cannot do it, and do it anyway. How very cool.

As for Thanksgiving, I’m thankful that I don’t have to cook a turkey, which is going to happen about the same time I become a size 2 and give up beer and wine. I do let it into my house, however, but only because I don’t want to be the Thanksgiving Witch. I’d rather have a meatless day—it is my house, after all, but I want my friends and family to be happy, too.

I do have about one hundred and fifty other things on my list, from cleaning the house and shopping for groceries to finding the china and figuring out how to get twelve people around my table.

I’m feeling a little squished, but it will be fine. It will all work out. We’ll have plenty of good visiting and conversation and lots of food to eat. But not PB&Js.

Falling Into Winter

2007-11-17T13:36:00.000-08:00

We live across the street from a beautiful park, full of huge trees and flowering shrubs of all sorts. Since we moved here this past spring, we’ve observed them all in their seasonal glory: light green leaves, white blooms, red berries, orange foliage.

We went away for a few days, and the brownish-orange leaves were still hanging to the grandest of the trees, perfectly framed in the high leaded-glass window over the piano.

A major windstorm hit while we were in New York. All the leaves are gone.

And the sky is grey.

And that’s the way it will stay until the spring.

A lovely, sleepy intensity lives in the tree branches and the prickly bushes lining the park. The playground waits, too, like a big fish at the ocean floor, watching unmoving until something comes along and it wakes it, suddenly alert and at the ready. An occasional dog roams by, sniffing the base of the monkey bars. The playground waits for the hardy children who are allowed out in the cold.

Soon the big tree's branches will lie under snow and we’ll gaze from the window seats, coffee mugs in hand, appreciating the warmth of the fire.

An Education, Interrupted

2007-11-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

I read my parents’ engagement announcement for the very first time last week. It said he was going to be entering college in January; they were going to live on the lake.

“What happened?” I said to Dad, “Why didn’t you go?” I knew he had given up a football scholarship to Pitt in favor of joining the Marines, an offensive move in itself, as he did not want to be drafted into the Army, for god’s sake.

But when he returned from the war, and after they married, he had intended to go to college. And then my grandfather bought a grocery store and dad was in business. And that ended his college plans.

I can’t help but wonder what all of our lives would have been like. Would he have been an accountant? Would thier lives have been easier? Would they have been happier? Would they have had all of us kids?

That last one is the only question I can answer.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad

2007-11-15T13:20:00.000-08:00

Today is their 60th wedding anniversary. He was just over twenty years old; she, almost twenty-two: like all her daughters to come, she married a younger man.

They were gorgeous. He looked a lot like Bill Clinton, only much better looking. He stood very tall, with the straight back of a US Marine. She looked very Irish, with her dark hair and blue eyes; fair skin and trim figure.

On that day, they looked really happy. They look as happy 60 years later. They are best friends, have the admiration and respect of all of their children, grandchildren, the community, and scores of their children’s friends. They receive letters from people whose lives they’ve touched in their subtle, steady, loving way.

They are deeply religious, but not judgmental. They took care of my grandmother into her nineties. They take care of each other. They worry about their kids and grandkids without prying into their lives. They are proud of us for whatever we have accomplished.

They truly gave us roots and wings, as they saying goes. Roots grounded in decent behavior toward others, belief in human rights, and a real work ethic. Wings that allow us to be who we are and to live our lives as individuals, responsible for ourselves and to our communities.

They are loved. Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Three Hours In Detroit

2007-11-14T20:20:00.000-08:00

On our way home from NY, we had a too-long layover in Detroit. "We get to eat!" said D.

"Yippee!" said I.

Our vegetarian selves walked the length, the breadth, the width of the C and A concourses (is that the plural form? Should it be concoursi?) in search of sustenance.

What did we find?

Fuddruckers. Certainly they have a veggie burger. Puh-leeze, lady. Whaddryou thinkin? Ok, well screw YOU Fuddrucker's! Motherfudders! Excuse me while I post a complaint on their website. . .

The Mediterranean Grill? Like hummus, eggplant, basil, squash and crusty bread Mediterranean? Uh, no. Grillin' up some chickin' and some beef, they were.

Oh--I know, the Mexican place! A veg head's dream!? Beans, rice, tortillas, si? NO!!! I was astounded to see NOT ONE item on the menu except for the Beef or Chicken Quesadilla*. No thanks, but I did enjoy a crappy margarita for 8 bucks. I needed it to calm myself down a bit! This place didn't have a single vegetarian selection, I kid you not. Thanks Diego's you shithead airport restaurant. Although your staff persons were quite pleasant and nice.

*can be ordered with just cheese

Ok, then, how about the fancy Grey Goose martini bar? Surely I'll find a salad? A sandwich? C'MON! What RU thinkin? Twelve paninis and five salads on the menu and NOT ONE was without meat. Not one! Could they handle the concept of a veggie panini like the rest of the free world does on a daily basis? Do they KNOW the definition of salad for godssake? Apparently not.

We sat down anyway. I ordered the cheese plate and was handed the hugest pile of chopped up cheese I have ever set eyes upon. And those Pepperidge Farm fancy crackers that I haven't purchased in ten years, although I don't know why. . . I'm probably too organically snobby for PF these days.

D gave up and ordered a turkey gouda panini. Told you he wasn't a vegetarian anymore.

I don't expect ten vegetarian restaurants to every one "normal" restaurant--in an airport or anywhere. And I know I am completely and totally spoiled by living where I live, knowing I can add tofu and tempeh to anything on the menu that doesn't feature it as the main attraction of the dish.

But I do expect a few effin' options in a freakin' international airport. It was disgusting, really.

I had to walk up and down the concourse to get the cheese ball moving through my system before I boarded the plane. Good thing we had three hours. And no, I did not make my seatmates suffer.

Next time I fly through Detroit, I'm boycotting the entire food-court-gossip-magazine-crap-from-China thing and keeping my wallet in my bag. That'll teach 'em.

Things That Spell Thirteen

2007-11-13T21:16:00.000-08:00

T is for Travel, which I love and don't get to do often enough

H is for Hussy, which I have been described as and have no problem with

I is for Irish, which I am fortunate to be, thoroughly and completely: the sappy, emotional "I love mum" crying part as well as the happy "hey let's have another Guinness" part

R is for Righteous Babe, which I like to think of myself as, for sure

T is for Talent, which for me is writing and I'm finally embracing the concept without feeling like a bad, bragging girl

E is for Elizabeth, who is my grandmother, even though she's been gone for nine years--she's still my grandmother

E is for Elizabeth again, which is my middle name, after her

N is for Nice, which very few people have EVER accused me of being--which is fine by me

The Stupidist Thing I've Seen All Day!

2007-11-12T21:40:00.000-08:00

Here it is, folks.

Gosh, thanks, Dr. Cliff Pickover (oh, I am so tempted), thank you SO much for teaching me the difference between men and women. I really needed it simplified and making it into this wacky dials-and-knobby-thingies graphic REALLY helped me.

I decided to Stumble and write about whatever came up.

Why did this come up?

What did I tell them about myself that generated this pathetic website?

I'm shuddering over here. I can't even write about it.

Miscellaneous Fun Stuff

2007-11-11T11:35:00.000-08:00

There's this guy named Jimmy Knox. Jimmy has a sister Marquita, and he lives on Juanita (that's a lake). She cuts hair. He makes it into rugs (the hairpieces, not the ones you walk upon). You can't make this stuff up.
___________________________________

My dad was telling me about a guy he used to know, named Sammy. Everyone called him Sammy the Shoe Man (guess what he did for a living?). My dad said, "He had sole." Har har! "When he met you, he would shake your hand, but he wouldn't look into your eyes--because he was looking at your shoes."
___________________________________

My niece is six and has a very sharp wit (in addition to being completely adorable--oh, yeah, she has it all). One morning, she looked at her mom, who was in her usual morning-running-around attire. With one hand on her hip, and the other using a baby carrot for emphasis, she looked at her mom and said, "Mom, I've just about had it with those pilates pants."

Dogs Who Walk Themselves and Other Hometown Stories

2007-11-10T08:21:00.000-08:00

Sitting in one of our favorite pubs last week, I turned my gaze from my table mates when I spotted two dogs strolling down the sidewalk. Apparently alone and walking side by side, their easy rambling way reminded me of two old friends. Two old men, perhaps, heading out for a drink or to meet their lady friends at a dance. Or maybe they were just getting in some much-needed exercise. No humans followed them. I’m still wondering about it.
_________________________________
Dogs are everywhere, including out on dates with their humans. One of my favorite summer nights out starts with a walk downtown to the best pizza place in town, where dogs are welcome on the deck and they can help themselves to the big water bowls. Afterward, we saunter over to a live-music pub where we try to choose from among the excellent beers on tap and where, again, dogs are welcome to hang with their people. Ours lay among the peanut shells and took a nap while we enjoyed beer, tunes, and friends.
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I pass an elementary and a high school on my four-minute drive home from the gym. Every morning, I observe a simple act that many don’t have a chance to see anymore: kids walking and riding their bikes to school. At both schools, the bike racks and the sidewalks out front are full. I love watching the little backpacked boys and girls hurrying down the street, and I gauge my lateness by how fast they’re going—because we both need to be somewhere by 8:15.
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What else do I love about my town? While it might not have been apparent in a previous post, I do love the political climate—because in our city’s recent mayoral race, we actually had to choose between two liberal progressives. Wow!

It's All Good

2007-11-09T09:36:00.000-08:00

I am a lucky woman. I come from a large family. We were all raised Catholic, and apart from our parents, none of us participate in the Catholic part any longer

And that's okay.

I am in upstate NY this weekend, celebrating my parents' 60th anniversary. Most of my siblings are here, along with lots of nieces and nephews. We are eating well, and drinking some really nice Pale Ale. We are yakking and laughing over old oft-told tales until our mouths hurt and sides ache.

Somehow, we all get along really well. Somehow, we really love each other, despite our differences, which are few. Most of us are like-minded politcally, socially, intellectually. Many of us share a love of beer. We love our siblings' spouses and children. As one of my brothers would say "It's All Good." No matter what's going on, who's going through difficulties, and how our successes or failures stack up against each others', it's all good. And if you ask any of us, each would answer that the "somehow" that made the difference in our lives is our parents. They could not have done a better job raising all of us and the results are amazing.

We're healthy, happy, and here. No one is ill. Our parents are vital, and still very much in love. They are best friends.

We are incredibly lucky. And trying to hold onto it while we can. Someday, and who knows when, I won't be able to say that.

What I hate about flying

2007-11-08T09:27:00.000-08:00

“Traveling today is not like it use be!” everyone complains. Long security lines, ridiculous regulations and surly TSA employees are just the start. Then you get crammed onto another full flight where you have less leg room than a first-grader’s desk. On my recent flight, there was no movie to ease the pain (thanks a lot, Northwest Airlines!) but you could enjoy the privilege of purchasing a box of crapfood for five bucks. Five hours later, and you’re on the other coast—which is less time than it will take for your poor legs to uncramp.

All of this is the new reality that most of us have actually become accustomed to.

None of this, however, is what I hate about flying.

What I hate about flying is the smell. Two hundred fifty breathing, sweating, sloughing off skin-ing, belching and FARTING people crammed into a space designed for half that many with absolutely no escape. I don’t despise my fellow human except for when he (or she, but I think mostly he) is farting on me. Yes, ON me. The air is moving around my body and I am in the middle of it so the fart-filled molecules are falling on me and my clothes. I am breathing the fart-filled molecules into my nose—and I shudder to think of where they originated.

Farting on the shuttle bus, farting in the security line, farting on the jetway, farting for three thousand miles at thirty five thousand miles up.

It’s a good thing they’re not allowing passengers to light up anymore, or we’d all be blown to pieces.

I hate flying. It’s the farting, my friend.

Real Progress

2007-11-07T22:40:00.000-08:00

Today was Day 1, Week 1, of Round 2 of Boot Camp. A new, improved version of Boot Camp for me. Again with the hundreds of lunges, jumping jacks, squats, over-arm claps, sadistic mountain climbers, and 8-count pushups.

But today, AMAZINGLY and very surprisingly, I was able to do every effin' repetition of every effin' exercise as the uberfit (what is wrong with me today? I hate the fad of using "uber" to describe just about every single feeling, emotion, object, person, place and thing, which in itself negates the term) instructor barked them out to us. I did them all, not effortlessly, mind you, but without pain. WITHOUT pain. This is real progress.

After class, I walked briskly to my car, easily lowered myself into the seat, and went about my drive home and the rest of my day without a thought of my burning muscles. I felt good. No, great.

Compare this to my description of this same class eight weeks ago.

I am making real progress. My body is adapting and getting stronger. And I'm thrilled about it. Now if it would only reward me by losing a few pounds, I'd be ecstatic. Not too much to ask, izzit??

You Want Me to Do How Many Push Ups?

2007-11-06T20:51:00.000-08:00

On the first day of Boot Camp, we measure our fitness levels, or yes, the obvious lack thereof, in five exercises: Push Ups (real ones--Boy Push Ups), Crunches, Squats, Knee Push Ups (I call them Girl Push Ups without shame) and Steps. This is my second round of Boot Camp, thus the second time I've established my base line of fitness.

How did I perform? Do you care? Of course you do!

Boy Push Ups: 21 in 1 minute (First round of Boot Camp I did 10)
Crunches: 209 in 2 minutes (First round I did 80 or something)
Squats: 104 in 2 minutes (First round I did 68 or something)
Girl Push Ups: 41 in 2 minutes (First round, I think I did 18)
Steps: 201 up, up, down, downs in 5 minutes. (First round, 163)

We (the proverbial "we") are progressing nicely! I am certainly doing, feeling, performing much better than week one of round one. Baaaad memories. I can perform all of my daily hygiene by myself, without pain! Including brushing my teeth without needing to rest between upper and lower. I'll let you know where things shake out at the end of this thing, 8 weeks from now.

Even more frightening is that I also have a baseline weight (aaaaccckk) and measurements for every available body part. Subjecting myself to that was quite unpleasant, but I want some results at the end of this--good, bad or just plain ugly. The next measurement happens in three weeks: oh, perfect--the peak of the holiday eating and drinking extravaganza. The thought of being weighed and measured will be enough to make me give up at least a couple of pints or the third glass of wine with dinner.

And that will make all the difference. It will! It will!

It's all I can do, get off me.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll share the results. Bwah ha ha! Yeah, right.

Bring it On!

2007-11-05T17:01:00.001-08:00

If you read the blog lately, you may have determined that I'm a bit overscheduled at the moment.

I am not under the illusion that busy equals happy. I do not believe that doing more in a day makes me a better person or even a good person. I used to do more for others (people, organizations) than for myself (and my family). I thought I was doing good things, but I was not happy and my husband was not happy and my animals were not happy. Turns out all of us needed more of me, even if that meant I was *just* sitting on the couch with a book (provides ample lap area for two needy felines).

So, while I am currently juggling a few balls of various shapes, weights and materials, I'm feeling pretty, pretty, pretty good about it (props to Larry David on that one). Here are my haps:

NaBloPoMo: writing every day. What could be better?

NaNoWriMo: writing every day. Again . . . better? What?

Boot Camp, Round 2: Hey, I wore a skirt Saturday night that I couldn't fit my ass into last winter. Damn straight I'm signing up for another 8 weeks of this magic disguised as torture.

Starting a copywriting business on the side while running a business: getting paid to write. . . even better than just writing every day!

This is what is not happening in my life:

Making a big deal out of having twelve people for Thanksgiving: I'm over the "all must be perfect" stage of my life. I was driving myself and everyone around me nuts. We're just going to relax and enjoy, whether the house is immaculate or not.

Volunteering for anything: Sorry, community, I need a break!

Cleaning: The house is messier than it used to be. Get over it.

Everything I'm doing is for ME! Yay! For Me! I'm giggling over here.

I'm a NaBloPoMo ER Too

2007-11-04T18:56:00.000-08:00

Am I seriously deranged? Do I not have enough going on in my life? I'm writing close to 1700 words a day in my *new* novel for NaNoWriMo, (uh, what happened to the one I started a year ago??) and now I've taken a vow to post to my blog every day in November. Oh, what the hell.

It's all about the writing. I want to write, don't I?

So what if I have a trip planned to NY for six days, and then family visiting for Thanksgiving for five days, a business to run and Boot Camp to attend (I signed up for another eight week session despite my back, which is currently attached to a heating pad and my knee, which I hit with a dumbbell on Friday), movies to watch, books to read, a business to run, dinners to cook, a dog to feed, a business to run. . . something is going to be neglected. It will be interesting to see who or what it is.

I hope it's the business, my least favorite activity of the lot.

Who wants to work for a living when one could be reading, writing, taking the dog for long walks and hikes, doing yoga, learning to sail, making fabulous meals, keeping the house clean, watching movies? Work sucks! Let's blog instead!

I have a list of things to blog about, something I didn't expect to need to do, but I can't remember shit, so writing the thoughts down as they arrive in the sad brain is helping.

So what the hell, why not? Let's write this beeeyotch!

So, What's the Fuss?

2007-11-03T15:12:00.000-07:00

In my town, as all across this great (ahem) land of ours, citizens will be marching to the polls on Tuesday. My marching shall take place at the kitchen table, as I fill out my ballot with a sharpie and put it in the secret envelope. Must be careful to place it in the pre-wrapper before the outside wrapper to prevent ANYBODY SEEING MY VOTE.

Frankly, I could give a rat's behind who knows where my loyalty lies. Frankly, I find it difficult to become riled up, as it were, over the local races. And don't get me started on the presidential race. I cannot believe we've had a summer of debates already. I am sick of it all already.

Back to the locals. . . I have observed that hundreds, no! thousands! of my friends and neighbors are putting much energy into who becomes our next mayor. Our next mayor! Like, when did that become a great, big, huge, hairy deal? Apparently I missed something in my move from major east coast metropolitan area to little small west coast sleepy town. People here care about who's running the show. They care deeply. They volunteer to be campaign managers. They write position papers. They design websites. They throw house parties. They doorbell on Saturdays. They do phone tree calling on Sundays. They write letters to the editor.

Call me crazy, or just lazy, but I haven't been able to get lathered up about this race. I have a sign in the window of my business. I am an "official" supporter of one of the candidates because I went on his website and put my name there. But that's it. No doorbelling, no partying, no campaigning. It all makes me feel a little funny inside, anyway. Why do people support a candidate so strongly? What's in it for them? What kind of power do they feel around this political circus?

A friend of ours called the other day and left an urgent message for us. I returned his call, thinking he needed something important from us and when I reached him, he asked if we would make one hundred phone calls for "our" candidate. "They'll give you a script and a list of numbers," he said. "R U KIDDING?," I wanted to shout. I work fifty hours a week, do boot camp three hours a week, volunteer for a women's networking group several house a week, have a house and a yard and a bunch of animals and a husband and laundry, dinners, dishes, grocery shopping, and blogging to do plus did you know that I'm participating in National Novel Writing Month AND National Blogging Month? Over Achievers Anonymous, I hear you calling. . .

Um, my November is a little busy. I'm sure our guy will make it through without my help. And if he doesn't? Oh, well.

If only we could just vote for Oh, the Joys' little Mayor and get it over with. But sadly he is not running here.

Writing: My New Obsession

2007-11-02T19:25:00.001-07:00

Remember those Calvin Klein Obsession commercials from the 80's? My new obsession has nothing to do with sex or bodies writhing on the page. It is the words that are moving around on the screen that is my page. Words connecting, overlapping, touching--like bodies, like sex. Creating new life. Making something real out of nothing.

I'm continuing on my novel writing project. It is Day Two and I'm creating characters, scenes, dialogue from nothing. I have vague ideas about who these women are, whom they love, what their lives look like. I think there is a secret that will be the undoing of one of them. I'm interested to see who that will be and what it will look like.

Maybe you'll see it someday, too.

I'm a NaNoWriMoER

2007-11-01T22:39:00.000-07:00

At least that's what I think I'm called. I signed up for National Novel Writing Month, and for the unaware, all the info you could ever want is here.

And now I'm all written out since I just produced my daily 1665 word quota on a novel that I started, oh, a couple of hours ago. I have no outline, I have no plot. A few weeks back, in preparation for this craziness, I listed a few ideas that came to my naive mind. And today, the first day of the thirty-day blitz, after a rough day at work and a nice dinner and pint of single-hop ale with my hub and a friend, I came home, looked at the list, and picked a topic. And started writing. The idea is to write 50,000 words in thirty days. Quantity counts. Quality is quite secondary.

Who knows what crap will come out of these lightning fingers. Stay tuned. It should be an interesting experience. What am I, crazy?

Some Things I Learned Today

2007-10-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

First, I learned what the Zoundz from Zizzle is. My kids (employees) call it the shizzle. It's a toy that makes music with pawns that light up and change the sound. You can record into it and mix the recording into the music you create. Or you can stream your Ipod (or other brand of MP3 player) into it and become a real DJ!

Wow!

And here I was, thinking that I'm not altogether up on the latest toyz for gurlz and boyz, but I know about zoundz, and that makes me very current.

Next, I learned that some sad and aimless individuals, for no apparent reason, simply have NO MEMORY. Zero memorization powers. Ixnay on the emorymay. I thought I was getting bad because I can't remember any of my friends' birthdays or phone numbers (yeah, but just ask me and I'll tell you the phone numbers of the house where I grew up, plus my parents' store, my grandparents' house, and my best friend's childhood home), but I'm officially in my mid-forties (sweet jesus) and have killed an awful lot of brain cells over the years. I have an excuse. I don't know what this guy's problem is, except for a simple case of CRS* syndrome. I tell him something, the next week he asks the same question. A customer calls, they have a long and friendly conversation, and a few days later he cannot remember what they talked about. This happens over and over--and these people WANT TO BUY STUFF FROM US. It's maddening.

I just hope he can remember to leave me off any future former employer reference lists.

*can't remember shit, of course

Finally, I learned where one of my cats (who has remained anonymous thus far) likes to poo when his tummy is upset and he can't make it to the litter box on time.

This is my previously-white bathroom rug. Eww. Stinky.

Ten Things My Dogs Have Taught Me

2007-10-21T19:20:00.000-07:00

1. If you're happy, show it.

2. Enjoying the journey is more important than reaching the destination.

3. It's okay to do it wrong.

4. Naps are a delicious necessity.

5. Greet your loved ones with a big smile, every single time.

6. Greet strangers with caution.

7. Be brave.

8. Don't take everything so seriously.

9. Loyalty matters.

10. Just because someone tells you to do it, doesn't mean you should.

Everything Changes So Fast

2007-10-15T18:56:00.000-07:00

What a long while since I last posted. It has been nuttier than usual around here. I've had houseguests galore: my sister, nieces, brothers, and assorted in-laws. I even met my adorable great-nephew (although I am far too young to be a great aunt) on his very first birthday. Loads of family time and we loved almost every minute of it. Quite a difference when it's MY family, and not D.'s, whom I like but have a hard time relating to. (It's not them, it's me, and I need to try harder.)

Our latest houseguests were a dream: they were easy, they made being the hostess easy, they were no trouble at all. Seven people sleeping all over my house and I didn't stress out a single moment. I didn't have to escape to my secret room overlooking the park where no one can find me. My peeps are so mellow and chill that I felt like I was on vacation. They didn't require entertaining. They didn't require waitress service. They didn't require a maid. They helped cook and clean, and my brother even folded my laundry. They didn't make us take them all over the place to see every fern, Douglas fir tree and mountain stream within fifty miles. In fact, they didn't want to do anything. We didn't go anywhere except restaurants. We didn't check out any local attractions besides the bookstore. We hung out. We walked. We ate. We yakked. And yakked. Oh, and we drank beer. It was good. It was very good. Relaxing and reconnecting. What more could I want from a family visit?

Certainly not the cold that someone brought me from the germ-infested planes they flew in on. What started as a series of loud dramatic sneezes turned into a nasty head and chest cold that I'm still not over. I was amazed at the amount of stuff that came out of my head every morning. Eeeeewwwwww! Boxes of tissues later, it's now permanently lodged in my lungs, keeping me up and coughing every night. Thank god for Nyquil, my new best friend.

Thus, I have missed two sessions of Boot Camp. And, I missed two sessions due to my family visiting. I'm starting to feel guilty. I hope I'm well enough Wednesday to go. Despite the pain and soreness, I really really am enjoying it. And I'm seeing results. And I feel better--physically and emotionally. I have not bitched about how fat I am even once since I started this program. That in itself is worth every moment I spend gritting my teeth and wincing in pain.

So on to better health for me (although a cold is hardly worth lamenting) and better days ahead for some of my friends who've had great and terrible losses recently.

I'm feeling very fortunate tonight that I'm not suffering the way my friend K. is. That I'm not facing the rest of my life without my mate. That I can look across the room and see D.'s beautiful face and hear the voice that still makes me weak in the knees. And I remember K.'s husband with love in my heart and smile on my face--because he made me laugh every single time I saw him. Rest easy, J. Wherever you are, I know you're stirring things up.

Random Boot Camp Thoughts

2007-09-26T20:20:00.001-07:00

I really, truly, totally enjoyed Boot Camp today! How far I have come. I like my classmates (teammates? cell mates?) quite a bit--they're all nice and encouraging and all. One guy, however, is difficult to be near, due to his *odor*. Ick. Like not breathing through my nose when I'm within ten feet of his visible aura.

Today we had to run, one at a time, up a very long staircase. When I reached the top, I threw my fists in the air and jumped up and down. I'm such a cheeseball.

I think I have muscles growing. It's been a really long time since I felt them. Maybe five or six or eight years, even. Did I have muscles when I met D.?

Me: "Did I have muscles when we met?"

D: "I can't say that I remember."

Hmmm. Is that good or bad?

Me: "Do I have muscles now?"

D: "I'd say you're getting some muscles."

I'd say, a bit guarded, yes? If he would say or could not say, then why not say or not say?

Besides, it wasn't that many hours ago that I made him feel my biceps. "Feel this, feel this!"

Correct answer: "You were a babe when we met, and are even more so today with your ripped and cut musculature."

One Boot at a Time

2007-09-25T21:02:00.000-07:00

Surprisingly, Boot Camp is going well. I'm no longer in complete and total pain all day and through the night. I can roll over in bed with one easy, pain-free motion, instead of a slow, calculated and complicated series of moves with rest periods in between. I can raise myself from the toilet without using the handicapped grab bars. I can reach for something on the floor by either squatting down or bending over. I relish the joy of having two means of accomplishing a task! And I can walk up and down the stairs quietly (no "oooowwwwww!s") again. This is progress.

I imagine how much better my results would be if I laid off the beer pints and red wine. Hmmmmm. . . I'll have to try that soon.

Just tonight, after meeting friends for a couple of pints after work, I tore myself away before the third round with "oh, no--I have boot camp tomorrow morning," and home I went, as they cheerfully ordered more IPAs, ESBs and Single-Hopped Ales.

"Your priorities are out of whack," one friend said.

"I don't want to look like you," I thought, as I quickly and easily skipped out to my car and lowered myself into the driver's seat without assistance.

Boot Camp, Day 2

2007-09-16T10:58:00.000-07:00

Friday was my second Boot Camp session. Our very nice and incredibly fit trainer guy was just as smiley and encouraging as he was on Wednesday--although his audience, me included, was a little less cooperative. We were in pain, dammit! Comparing notes with my classmates revealed that I was not the only one who spent Thursday inventing new ways to lower the tush to the toilet in an effort to avoid taxing my screaming quadriceps. But we were still in good humor and anxious to get on with the day's exercises--if only to make the hour pass so we could go home.

My session started early, as trainer guy needed to record my weight and measurements so we will have a basis for comparison when the eight-week camp is (finally and thankfully) over. And I was okay with this semi-public humiliation. I have gained some acceptance of my weight, which does not mean that anyone other than the trainer and I will ever know it. Not even D. And as long as the number is as high as it is, he never will.

And as luck would have it, my weight was higher than it had been all week. "I'm up three pounds from yesterday," I exlaimed weakly to the trainer, who nodded and explained how much weight can fluctuate, and therefore measurements are a better indicator of progress, etc etc. Well, the measurements were pretty effin' high, too. Interestingly, my left thigh is slightly smaller in diameter than my right, which is roughly equal to D.'s waistline. I love you, left thigh.

So yes, I have lots and lots of work to do. What did I expect? My body has changed muchly over the past four years, since our business started consuming our lives (and I started consuming large amounts of the incredible local microbrews I love so much).

And so Friday's session, Intro to Core Conditioning, began, on the floor, with thick comfy mats. Excellent! My secret weapon: realizing that my "be a good girl and perform every last rep" desire would only lead to great pain and possible injury. So, I did what I could when I could and didn't force my body to contort more than it wanted to.

Repeat often: Easy does it. Be patient. Love your body. You will get through this.

Beauty Through The Pain

2007-09-13T19:21:00.000-07:00

Day One of Boot Camp: 500 jumping jacks, interspersed with a thousand lunges (right foot, left foot, backward, three-quarters), 300 squats (regular and "sumo"), at least 675 arm raises, which looked easy and harmless until I did a hundred of them (arms out at shoulder height, palms up; raise arms over your head until they meet with a delightful clap!; lower arms and repeat fifty times, then forty, then thirty. . . you get the idea), then tens of 8-point push ups (on a wood floor, and I'm a knee push up girl so my knees are COMPLETELY bruised), and sadistic, painful "mountain climbers," which can only be demonstrated, not described. They are not ladylike.

And some other stuff which I have, thankfully, forgotten. By the time I left the gym ALL of my muscles were entirely spent, meaning I could barely lower my ass into the driver's seat of the car. And thank christ I didn't ride my bike to the gym, as I had thought about doing; I'd STILL be riding home.

Throughout the day, the pain settled in. Never had I experienced muscle soreness the day of the over-exertion; this usually happens to me the next day, after, say weeding the garden or embarking on a new leg-lift routine. But to be sore and hardly able to walk down a flight of stairs the same day? Never happened before. I was NOT looking forward to today.

For good reason. Heaving myself out of, or lowering myself into a chair takes all my effort and about five whole minutes. At times today I needed help getting up out of the chair, and I'm not kidding. I tried stretching, doing more squats, clasping my hands behind my back and raising up my arms (just a little), and more stretching. Last evening, I went for a 45 minute walk with my dog, allowing her to pull me up the hills. All of this was my determination to keep the blood pumping and get the lactic acid out of those muscles!

Didn't work. I have not been in this much pain in many a year.

I have never been more thankful for the disabled grab bars in the bathroom at work. I needed them today, and was reminded--painfully, but thankfully--that my pain and soreness was a result of my fully-functioning body going through a wide variety of strengthening exercises. And I have no complaints. Whatsoever.

Tomorrow I get to go back. We're doing core conditioning. On the floor. I hope I can put myself down upon it.

And Hello, Booty Camp!

2007-09-11T20:42:00.001-07:00

It begins tomorrow morning, 7 a.m. Think of me, please, and send little thoughts of sympathy as I start doing crunches, or leg lifts, or running in circles--really, only the trainer knows what's in store as I try to survive Boot Camp. I was coerced into attending by a nice-sounding guy at the gym, who just happened to call my business today. He must have heard a cry for help in my voice, because he not only seemed to understand that I needed a little kick in the ass to get myself to the gym again, but he had me signed up before I could say "drop and give me twenty."

It's an 8-week, 3-times-a-week class. That's only 24 hours. I can do it. Only trouble is, I think I heard him say something about a "cleanse." I don't know what their idea of cleansing is, but if it requires me to give up caffiene and/or alcohol, I will not be partaking of that part of the program. My life is nothing without coffee and wine.

And suddenly, I'm remembering boot camp scenes from An Officer and a Gentleman in which Richard Gere is weeping. Dear lord.

Updates to come. Painful, sore, can't-walk-normally updates. Hopefully, the weeping will be quick and quiet.