Gold standard

When I was in high school one of the guides that led the canoe trips I went on got married. Everyone said what a great couple they were, and that they must have so much fun together that they could hardly fall asleep at night.

Since then that has defined and symbolized everything I've ever wanted in a relationship -- someone whose company I enjoy so much that I can hardly bear to stop spending time with them and fall asleep.

I won't pretend that after four years of marriage every night is laugh riot (although Tacohead was certainly born of one such night of silliness) Indeed, before bed is not usually our fun jokey time. We're both typically pretty mellow, engrossed in books.

But we've certainly had and do have our times of side-splitting laughter, of uncontrollable giggles that deter us from whatever we're trying to do (I'll let you use your imagination here).

But I value the times of silence, of understanding, where words and jokes aren't necessary, as much as the fun.

And I also value a good night's sleep.

No excuses

It all started with the ponytail.

Whap. Whap. Whap. With every step my mean-spirited ponytail slapped against my head. Why is it that some days your ponytail hangs meekly, and other days it turns evil?

Then, as we started running, I realized I had to pee. Too bad! I'd just have to hold it for an hour of bouncing up and down.

Then I was thirsty. Oops! Too late!

Then the combination of yogurt and chips and salsa that I'd eaten made my stomach ache. (Dairy before jalapeno, muy no bueno).

And damn, when did it get so humid?

Sometimes it seems like everything conspires against your best efforts to exercise. But today I had no excuses, since before we'd left we had a lecture about the psychology of running. The speaker, a gold-medal winning speed walker, was energetic and spirited, with a body type often called "Mediterranean" or "curvy." The thought of her breezing by all her opponents who underestimated her endurance made me smile.

Just two weeks ago, she'd had major surgery - a complete hysterectomy. And tonight she was running.

After that, there was no way I was letting a petulant ponytail get me down. And sure enough, like she promised, by mile 3 all my woes were forgotten.

Achilles heel

Outside of random taunts from boys and stray whispers from snobby girls, I was fortunate to escape significant childhood torment. I was not the girl shunned in sixth grade who eventually transferred to a private school. No one ever tried to give me a "breezer," (i.e., to pull down my pants from behind). Although part of me wants to give myself credit for this, I know it has a lot to do with luck.

Because at age four, I was unlucky.

I spent my afternoons then playing with neighborhood pals Peter and Michelle. Usually Peter and I would cut through the hole in my hedge, passing by the lilac bush area that we called The Yoda Zone, and cross the street to Michie's house (We called her Michie-Mushy when we were feeling mean). I don't remember anything about those afternoons except for their favorite game, the one they played over and over: hide my boot in the freezer.

For some reason, this would make me cry. My boot... in the freezer.

They'd taunt me with it, not giving it back, watching me get frustrated and teary-eyed.

One day I'd had enough. Wearing my one boot, I hobbled home through the slushy snow. I'm not sure what happened, but Michie and Peter and I went on to spend many years playing happily together, and they never played tricks on me again.

...Maybe what happened was us meeting Jordan, the neighborhood kid several years our junior who kicked his own butt when he ran and whose mom called out "Yoo-hoo, Jordie" when it was time to come in.

For him, we invented a new game. Whenever he came to play, we'd yell "Jordan alert! Jordan alert!" as we ran away and hid.

But hey, at least he got to keep his shoes.

Friendship tests (or Day 1)

In appreciation of those bloggers who write daily or near daily and to personally stretch myself, I am embarking on the 2006 StolenBike Blog Challenge! That is, I am challenging myself to write everyday for two weeks. I don't promise to be thrilling, but I do promise to be there. Want to join me? Take the challenge!

So my friend, Kloumr, to be precise, asked me many weeks ago who I considered to be my closest friend, and I was oddly taken back. Not that I don't have friends, but like people who begin speeches by defining basic terms, I got hung up on the definition.

So I came up with the following definitions:
- The person with whom you share your problems
- The person you like to spend your time with, i.e. hang out weekly
- The person you depend on in times of need, the one who will always be there

But then things got complicated. Isn't hanging out with someone a lot as important as confiding in someone? Both are crucial needs. And aren't the three mutually exclusive in a way, i.e. the one you depend on in times of need isn't usually the one you hang out with a lot, because you need an outside perspective. And you sometimes don't talk about all your problems with people you see a lot because they're too close or involved in things.

I suppose, if I gave in to my love of spreadsheets and formulas, I could arrive at an answer by weighing each criteria equally and assigning candidates a score on a scale of one to ten.
But that would defeat the purpose.

Would you be friends with someone who ranked you on a preference indicator?

Haute couture and death cookies

Ohmygoodness it's been forever. I sort of, um... forgot... about this. I was so enjoying reading other blogs (new secret fantasy wish: starting a craft blog. But really, when do I craft?) that I forgot all about my little effort.

But I have been doing some quality things with my time. Like vacation! Husband and I celebrated (gasp!) four years by backpacking on the North Shore of Lake Superior. Then we ventured into the BWCA for a few days with friends (highlights: the biggest eruption of rain I've seen in awhile, a gorgeous wispy early morning, vole crawling down Husband's pants). Then some good ol' time in Ely, reading, running, and visiting the local spa. Only in Ely can you get away with accidentally scheduling a spa visit that includes a scalp treatment (i.e. head coated in hot oil) before going to a nice dinner and get away with it. Being is greaseball is de rigeur in the city where North Face is haute couture.

Secret fantasy #2: I recently admitted to Husband that after reading books like The Undomestic Goddess, there's a small part of me that wishes professional housekeeping was prestigious and well-paid, because having it be your job to make a house pristine and gorgeous and having all damn day to do it sounds a bit nice. It's not like it's without it's mental challenges -- there's a lot of planning and smarts that goes into home upkeep.

Read [Only the good stuff this time]
For a fun quick read, Lost and Found by Carolyn Parkhurst. Engrossing read about a group of contestants in a reality TV travel show, of all things.
For excellent essays on topics such as why American harass runners and bikers, parasites the author has known, "unspeakable rituals and outlandish beliefs" of other cultures, German humor, and travel of all kinds, Fresh Air Fiend by Paul Theroux. Highlights: In an essay about kayaking to Nantucket, Theroux writes that in his younger days he traveled to unusual places by usual methods. Now, as he's older, he travels to usual places by unusual methods. Also, new favorite term: death cookie, for the patch of ice that intersects a cross country ski trail.

July, July

I have not made a difference in the world, in July.

July has been about ice cream. Softball. Weeknight gatherings with friends. Running. Reading. Planning trips. Salads.

I've made plans to leave the world better than I found it, in September. Seeking out a new volunteer opportunity -- fall. Learning how to sew -- fall. Resuming my bread-baking education -- fall.

July has been too damn hot to change the world.

But, as a small token of redemption, as the last hours of July tick away, I offer you what I've learned this month.

New author: Elizabeth Gilbert. Her three books are completely diverse (travel/personal discovery memoir Eat, Pray, Love, Maine lobster island fiction Stern Men, true story of a real wilderness man The Last American Man) but equally good. Other fun books: nonfiction What the World Eats, rainy day comfort reading/my favorite young adult series, the Alice McKinley books by Phyllis Naylor.

Ice cream: Mix 2 cups superfine sugar, 1 quart buttermilk, 1/8 tsp salt, 1/2 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice, 2 T lemon zest. Chill. Put in ice cream maker. Unbelievably fabulous. Much greater than the sum of its parts.

Running: Much as I many years ago finally discovered the Golden Mean in carrying a canoe (i.e. that precise balanced angle that makes the canoe not hurt), I'm beginning to discover the Golden Mean in running (i.e. as I increase mileage I can still pretty much run at the same pace throughout, and the middle mile is always the hardest). Plus I have new muscles in my legs and butt (which is a little disturbing, I have to say... having your butt feel different. But alas, it looks the same.)

A day of firsts

Today, for the first time in my life, I called in sick.

I've certainly left early feeling unwell, heck, I've even puked in my office trash can on more than one occasion.* But on a typical morning I spring out of bed, trip lightly down the hall, and greet the day with good cheer.

But this headache insisted, demanded that I stay put. Just try to drive to work, it taunted.

Feeling guilty, I showered and tried to convince myself that I was better. But finally I gave up, called into work, and settled my be-robed and wet-headed self on the couch with the cats. Three hours later I woke up. Vindicated, I thought, I'm really sick! I deserved to stay home!

Another nap later and I was better. That left plenty of time to run errands with Husband and have another first: my first Chipotle. My long standing hatred of the place was worn down by apathy and a craving for beans. Damn them.

All this leads me to wonder...
What magic adventures will tomorrow bring?

*Given a really empty stomach, citrus + yogurt = a fine substitute for ipecac.

Life lines

It occurred me today, after reading in the excellent book Eat, Pray, Love how the author had her palm read extremely accurately by a man in Indonesia, to read my own palm. I've only had this done once, in a train hurling across the Saskatchewan prairie, by a boy with a pack of tarot cards and a bag of CoffeeGo. After reading my friend's palms, I offered him my own, and watched as I sucked away at the coffee candy. He opened his mouth to speak and then shoved my hand away, saying that he wouldn't read it. I gathered that there was something inauspicious about my hand, but didn't ask. Instead, I asked for a tarot reading, and learned that blond haired man would soon enter my life. Sadly, he was wrong.

A little searching around on the Internet confirmed what I suspected: I have a short, or broken, life line. Serious illness or calamity was headed my way.

I thought about this for awhile, then searched again, hitting upon Wikipedia. Surely a reliable source in this unreliable field, it dispelled any myths about early deaths.

So thus, I will not die soon. Good to know.

4th it up, baby

I'm eating a big slimy pile of beet greens. Freshly steamed they might have been yummy, but overnighting in Tupperware is not advised. I nearly spit out the first bite several times, then remembered how good they are for you and piled a bunch of salt on the rest.

Hmm. They're a bit.. gritty.. too.

Well it's Patriotic Holiday Weekend, and my bags are packed. In splitting up the provisions for transport up to the cabin, my car was designated as the Boozemobile. (It seems that although my brother has a spacious Tahoe, there was some question of inventory control in his car). If anyone's curious, 1 Mini trunk = 15 bottles of hard liquor.

Oops. I'm slacking off on greens consumption. There we go... a big slimy bite.

I went to my first reunion of any kind this week — a grad school get-together. My enthusiasm for reunions declines from grad school to college, plummeting at high school, which I doubt I will ever attend, then picks up again at the thought of an elementary school or Kindergarten reunion (as I've heard they have in Japan). How sweet would a Kindergarten reunion be? Maybe we could make gingerbread houses again. I have fond memories of applying the frosting to my tongue instead of the graham cracker roof.

Well, time to hit the road. I have audiobook Goodnight, Nobody by Jennifer Weiner to pass the time, and surely, a well deserved stop at the Dairy Queen.

Island time

Like most people, I resist labels. I recoil at being called shy. I bristle when called a leader. I even dislike being called a vegetarian.

Yet one adjective that I fully own up to is restlessness. It is an everpresent companion, the force that makes me fidget, fret, and pursue mischief.

So when I started feeling shackled by routine and enslaved by mundane chores, I knew that I needed to get out of town.

Husband and I hastily asked our bosses for Friday off, threw our camping gear into the car, and set off for Madeline Island. There I rediscovered the unbelievable iciness of Lake Superior. The joy of lying on warm sand. The release of giving in to rain and becoming completely soaked. The coziness of falling asleep to the sound of rain, safe and dry in the tent.

How refreshing it is to simply gaze upon an unfamiliar horizon.

And being away for even two days makes coming home a novelty, piles of laundry and to-do lists and all. And as cozy as a tent is, it has nothing on a real bed.

Steamy

There's some nights when there is nothing else to do but take a hot bath. Nevermind that it's in the low eighties outside. Nevermind that I bathed this morning. Sometimes you just need to gather all your favorite bath toys (Lush's Mask of Magnaminty, Body Shop's Spa Wisdom, Origin's True Grit) and hop in the tub.
It helps when Husband comes home mid-bath and immediately serves you a drink (a vodka tonic with pineapple juice, or a Kealakehe, as we've come to call it, for lack of a real name).
This will have to do until we build our wood-fired sauna. And accompanying icy plunge pool.
One day, I may have to move to the country.

Inquiry

Although I think I pretty much worked the nose cast thing to the hilt, I received a request for additional info from someone who's never seen in nose cast in real life, and I felt a personal responsibility to oblige.

How does it affix to your nose?
How does it, indeed. By some miracle of sticky-doublesided-adhesiveness, most likely developed by 3M. It does not, as my Maine-dwelling friend inquired, adhere to the nose via an elastic band that goes around the head. The horror of that is too much to contemplate... so much so that I certainly would have passed out post-breakage.

So you couldn't wash your nose for one week? Gross!
Yes--this was the grossness that contributed to the other half of my post-breakage tears. But amazingly the nose was quite normal, making me theorize that exposure to polluted air is somehow related to oil production. Or maybe it's more 3M miracle.

What was your favorite part about wearing the mask?
Having every interaction go like this:
OtherPerson: Oh! Your nose!
StolenBike: Yeah. Softball injury. Makes face.
OtherPerson: Yeah, I broke my nose once... [insert gruesome story].
StolenBike: Really, you'd never know. It looks great now. Lies.
OR
OtherPerson: Yeah, once when I was playing softball, I took a hard one right in the [insert body part].
StolenBike: Turns green.

Why tacohead

Tacohead is what happens when I'm lying on my side chatting away in bed and Husband takes my pillow and pulls the ends toward him, wrapping my head in pillow, and yells triumpantly, "Tacohead!"

Provisions

My desk is shockingly well stocked with dried fruit. Bananas (both chipped and whole), strawberries, apricots, blueberries, cherries, raisins, pineapple... I'm ready for a hike at a moment's notice! I also have one of those many-tooled knives. But no matches. On my impromptu camping trip, I'll have to invite BizFerret so he can bring his lighter.

Other things in my desk drawer that reveal myself as a very odd girl: Stuffed panda, ACT, booze chocolates (Malibu and Cuervo), a two-sided handled mirror, a box of PG Tips, morning glory seeds, and a rubber snake.

Grab bag

SHH
Feeling displeased with my deodorant, I did an experiment and swiped some of Husband's today. Result? I smell manly. That's really it. It must not be Ph balanced for a woman. But my hair smells minty clean, thanks to Origins mint shampoo and conditioner.

THE BEST OF

Choose Your Own Adventure books are back! I loved how you couldn't really outsmart them... even if you took the sensible path the murderer/sandstorm/abominable snowman eventually got you. Just like real life. Wired has a fun little article on the series done in CYOA style.

Also on Wired: a research lab devoted entirely to cream cheese. Shockingly, it's located in Wisconsin.

Feeling quizzy? Find our your secret sleep position and what it means about you.

BOOKSHELF
My currently reading list is a little sad: egg cookbooks and fix-it guides. So I'll share a list of my all-time favorite authors! They are: Junichiro Tanizaki, Margaret Atwood, Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, Haruki Murakami, and Kazuo Ishiguro.

HOBBY LOBBY

New venture--orienteering! Want to try with me? I'm ordering maps for nearby city park.

If I had a hammer

Is there anything more rude, more cruel than the Tuesday morning after a holiday weekend?
It's not as if you want more weekend. You're ready to go back to normal life. You just don't want normal life to feel this bad.

But I aced their damn gum test

What is it about going to the dentist that makes you feel like a little kid? Sitting in that chair at the mercy of the hygenist, you find yourself inquiring about the flavor options for the polish and angling for the cool toothbrush. And you'd never ask for it, but you long for one of those tooth stickers. So it should be no surprise that when the dentist tells you that you have a cavity,* you instantly feel shamed. You adopt a concerned, puzzled expression, but inside you feel as if she wrote your name on the board.

And then they slap you with the bill! What, fillings aren't free? But I wanted that $62 for shoes!

*OK, cavities.

Biological clock on snooze

Signs that I am not ready to have children:
1. Can't bear to give up the guest room or office for a nursery.
2. When asked if I want to hold co-worker's new baby, say no.
3. Haven't made sufficient progress on learn-to-eat-fish plan.
4. Can't imagine using formula, can't imagine having thing feed off my boob.
5. Stretch marks don't seem worth it.
6. Feel tired enough as it is.
7. Worry that I would neglect cats.
8. At baby shower, don't feel need to rub baby clothes on my cheek like others do.
9. Always ready to wave "bye-bye!" after an hour.
10. Have yet to change a diaper and want to keep that record going.

Nose, cast

Well my worst fears are realized--I have the nose cast--and of course it's really not that bad. Kind of reassuring, actually, to have some hard plastic separating my tender nose from the world. (Take-home instructions this time include the helpful "Do not bump nose.") And before I know it (Monday) it will be gone. Hurrah. And I will dispose of it properly, not leave it around the house for people to step on.

And what a bully day to be off from work! Gorgeous sun to take a walk in like a woman of leisure, sipping iced latte and browsing at the garden market. Soft breezes to sleep on the porch in, flanked by snoozing cats.

Just mind the sun. A nose cast suntan would not be hot.

Hello?

Remember when you were a kid, and your teacher would call your house? And it would seem so weird... your teacher, on your phone.

I remembered that tonight when my doctor called.

8:55 p.m.
Stolenbike: Hello?
Dr. Brown: Hi. This is Dr. Brown. I was just going over my notes tonight, and realized that missed something. Your deviated septum...was that to the right or left?
Stolenbike: Umm... right?
Dr. Brown: Which nostril is it more difficult to breathe out of?
Stolenbike: Inhale, exhale... Umm.... right?
Dr. Brown: OK. Thanks.

The best part is that Dr. Brown has a CD of my CT scan...he's just too computer illiterate to view it.
Earlier today:
Nurse: Umm... Doctor... you just need to scroll up on the mouse, not hit the button.
Dr. Brown: Click. click click click. It's not working.
Nurse: OK... just... use the scroll.

Nose, broken

4 super things about breaking your nose:
1. Husband gets dirty looks when we go out in public
2. Having both a doctor and a nurse tell me, "Do not pick your nose."
3. Leaving messages for friends saying, "For the first time in 26 years, I broke a bone. If you want to find out what one, give me a call."
4. When I told my dad I had some bad news and he said, "Whadja break?" getting to reply, "nose" and hearing that moment of shock over having called his bluff.

Look!

It's my wallet!
The one stolen nearly a year ago!




















We knew where it was (between barrier wall and highway) but couldn't find it, despite some scary night searching.

It found its way back to my house... credit cards, driver's license, frequent coffee drinker's card, and all. Well, except for the money, of course.

It looks like it's been through hell (or a Midwestern winter).

Damn, if we only knew someone who read books

I often wish I had useful skills to share with others. Carpentry, gardening, sewing, Spanish expertise, and the like.

The only skill I can think of is that I'd be damn good at editing family Christmas letters. I'd also kick butt as an island vacation advisor. But alas, neither are in high demand.

Except... I do read more than the average person. But for a reader I suck at recommendations. It's like someone asking you, "You eat food? Really! I always mean to eat more food. What food would you recommend?" And I'm like, "Umm... do you like dairy?"

So I've decided to start sharing an occasional list of much liked books in various genres.

Today I bring you TRAVEL WRITING.

Note: I strove for diversity of location and experience in this list; it's not necessary my best-of. It's also limited by my poor memory of what I've read.

A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle
This book makes Husband and I nearly pee our pants. Every year or so we check the audiobook version out of the library and spend a drive up to the cabin delighting in Mayle's crazy friend Monsieur Menicucci, salivating at the descriptions of fabulous food, and crying with laughter at Mayle's dry deadpan delivery. For books about France, I also like Almost French by Sarah Turnbull (for glamorous-Paris-life-type book, and to understand why the French are the way they are) and On Rue Tatin by Susan Loomis (for the good French cooking-type book).

Sex Lives of Cannibals by Maarten Troost
This is for people who fantasize about going to those little specks on the map (in this case, a tiny island in the South Pacific). Or for people who enjoy reading accounts of hellish living (beaches doubling as toilets, spoiled cans of chicken curry for dinner) without having to suffer through the heat or hepatitis A, B, or C themselves. The other thing that fascinates me about this book is that Maarten and his wife are much like you and me; they finally leave Kiribati to go back to high-paced D.C. lives. I also discussed this book here.

Catfish and Mandala by Andrew Pham
More than any other travel book, this one left me feeling as if I'd really visited the country. Pham visits Vietnam in the way that one really should--traveling around by bicycle by himself, far removed from the tourist groups. Off-the-beaten-track Vietnam isn't very uplifting (their view of Americans, for example, isn't surprising, but it still depressing) and is often dangerous, so if you want to get a glimpse into real life Vietnam without, say, getting beat up, then this book is for you.

Beauty Tips from Moose Jaw by Will Ferguson
Who can help but be fascinated by Canada, which is so like us, but so different? It's a country that doesn't take itself too seriously and clearly has more fun that we do. My favorite parts of this book are the irreverent (Ferguson's bad kid days in Moose Jaw, his tourist trip to the Arctic Circle) and the educational (the part of Ontario that was settled by those who made it to the Underground Railroad's last stop). If you like Ferguson, his Hokkaido Highway Blues about hitchhiking around Japan is also good.

In a Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson
Bryson's arrogance tainted most of his travel books for me (although strangely, it didn't prevent me from reading all of them). But he does well in this one. Riddled with fascinating info and full of bumbling travel misadventures, my favorite parts were the numerous ways in which Bryson nearly dies. For those seeking an Aussie fix, I also really like My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin and the film Rabbit-proof Fence.

Boys

Cause it's been awhile.

Good friends

A good friend knows how to work the adjective.

For example, 10 minutes ago:

Ring ring.
Me: This is StolenBike.
GF: Hey, it's Good Friend. ... Are you OK?
GF: Because you seem ... soft-spoken... today.

Damn that's smooth. Men, take note.

Rum Twizzle

"It's hard to write about vacation without sounding like you're bragging," I said to Husband.
"Or, swinging the other way, and acting like a spoiled kid who doesn't appreciate what they have," Husband said.

So, while I'll be glad to tell stories about having happy hour on a party boat in the middle of the ocean, learning how to meditate, hiking to a deserted beach, or stealing our rental car, I don't think I'm going attempt to recap our week on St. John here.

I will say it was good. That we had adventures and tried new things. And that coming home to two love-starved kittens and the advent of spring isn't all that bad either.

Last time I was single, Clinton was in his first term

Scene: Borders, mystery section, 10 p.m., Friday night

They stole my bike: Book for trip... must find book for trip.... Shit.
Random guy: Hi. How are you doing?
They stole my bike: ... ... ... ... ... ... ... hi. Avoids eye contact, takes step away.
Random guy: So, you from around here?
They stole my bike: ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yes. Gives awkward, don't do this! look. Steps back, steps back, flees.

They stole my bike: Need wedding ring... must put back on wedding ring.
They stole my bike: Shit, that was really, really rude.

Fate

As a kid I felt destined to come down with a terrible illness... like diabetes, cystic fibrosis, or leukemia. I was too lucky, I reasoned; I had good parents who were able to provide me with whatever toys or clothes I wanted, I had enough intelligence and athletic ability, and I had been spared calamity and disaster.

Ergo, surely life-threatening illness was headed my way.

I wasn't dramatic about this, I didn't mourn the lose of my adulthood. It was just something that I accepted about myself. I didn't tell anyone; in fact, I hardly realized that I thought it.

I never dreamed about my adult life. I wasn't a girl who thought about weddings or careers or houses.

It wasn't until late high school that I realized 1. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life; and 2. I was probably not going to die. I'd passed the window of terrible childhood diseases.

I sometimes wonder if I had thought more about my career choice, if I would have chose something else. Why not doctor? Why not accountant? I've always shown more aptitude in math and science than I did in English. The path I've taken I really stumbled upon--from my selection of majors to my first real job. I feel incredibly lucky that I love what I do.

Yet, part of me still won't be surprised if the rains come. But it was only that particular storm--me, illness--that I prepared for. The other million possibilities scare the shit out of me.

Hometown

I never expected to spend my adult life in the city I grew up in.

I didn't have any grand visions of living in New York or San Francisco like other kids, but I never thought that the coffeeshop where I had deep discussions with high school friends would be the coffeeshop I would stop in after picking up wedding books with my mom. I never dreamed of being able to answer regarding a particular restaurant that yes, I'd been there... for prom. Stores and parks and streets that are just normal things to most people are riddled with memories both random and poignant.

When asked in high school about where I wanted to go to college, my standard answer was "Anywhere but here." I loved traveling and thought that it was a lame to go to college close to home... but I ended up really liking a school an embarrassing 45 minutes away. College made it natural to look for jobs in the area, and to be honest, I really love the city I grew up near and now live in. My dreams of having kids and growing old are always set against the familiar downtown skyline.

My adventurous roots have not died out, however. My life goals do include:
1. Uprooting our family and spending a year in another country, sometime after we have kids
2. Living for a year somewhere a. mountainous and b. near the ocean.

The pen is mightier

Potpourri, in honor of Alex Trebek.

BOOKS I ENJOYED BUT WERE TOO DAMN LONG TO READ ALL OF
1491 (life in the Americas before Columbus! Pre-vacation to get in the Caribbean isle mood)
Slaves in the Family (the meeting up with descendents of his family's former slaves was intriguing, but somehow... offensive).

WHERE TO GO WHEN YOU'RE BORED AT WORK
The best blog nominees of 2006. It is here where I learned of the brilliant Waiter Rant and the irresistible Cute Overload (who can resist Cats'n'Racks?).

FISH UPDATE
I was reading Case Histories and the four sisters had tuna salad for lunch and I thought, mmm, tuna. So I had Husband pick some up when he went out. Then he made me a gigantic tuna melt and I ate some. Then I wanted to puke.*
It's going to have to be a few more years until I can try again.

UNDERNEATH THE SOCKS
I have the most horrendous shade of purple on my toenails. After the lovely orchid color I chose at the salon turned into puke pink once applied, I panicked and chose the color preferred by Vikings fans everywhere. Oy.

HEALTH UPDATE
My new meds cause erectile dysfunction. You can't beat that.

*Although this sounds like some scenario that would happen to a couple that is expecting, no worries. The only thing we're expecting is four more years of tofu salad sandwiches.

Still life

Sur la table:
Tent by Margaret Atwood
Speak softly, she can hear by Pam Lewis
To do list, c. last weekend, mostly completed
Lint brush
Newspaper, today's
Believer
Torn up junk mail
Stilton
Meet the Fockers
Bills
Cooking the Norwegian Way
Waning vodka tonic (with biodynamic lime)
Bandaid wrapper
Tax forms

Sixth grade is bad for your posture

My capacity's post reminded me today how hard sixth grade was. How many tiny rules one had to abide by in order to escape embarrassment. I have to admit that I survived fairly well, thanks to parents who could afford Guess jeans (golden on nearly that alone) and a street-savviness garnered from thorough reading of Sweet Valley Twins and Babysitter's Club books.

However, here's the code of conduct I remember living by:
1. Slouch just enough to have your bra strap hit the top of your chair (to avoid snappage). Under anything at all light colored, wear a tank top over the bra so no one can tell you're wearing one (however it is very important to wear one, whether you need it or not).
2. Before sitting down in the caf, do a light sweep the chair with the hand (to avoid the grape-on-the-seat trick)
3. For lunch, do not eat the a. sloppy joes b. spaghetti c. hamburger d. beans e. anything with enthusiasm.
4. Beware of the potential for the kick-me sign. (If excess laughter occurs, a subtle sweep of the back will confirm that it's not you. No matter how popular you are, you're at risk. Slouching also prevents against the sign).
5. "Best friends" half-heart necklaces are not exclusive.
6. While it's cool to have your period already, never show any other sign of menstruation. Re: pads, emulate Russian nesting dolls: makeup bag in purse in Espirit bag, etc.
6. At sleepovers, never be the first to go to sleep. Best to be near the end. Be sure to ration water to avoid the hand-in-the-water pee trick (which you're pretty sure doesn't work, but you want to be safe). In truth or dare, while both are risky, truth is safest. Better to confess to kissing that boy in the lake last summer than running naked around the house.

Holy mackerel

I ate a tuna sandwich this weekend.

A few months ago I decided that after 11 years as a vegetarian, I should start eating fish. It's so good for you, I reasoned. And I'm tired of going to fabulous restaurants on vacations and having something pedestrian and American.

The interesting thing is that I don't like fish. Tunafish sandwiches aside, I've always hated it. Abhorred the smell of it, the texture. Had difficulty eating bread and most everything when I arrived in Japan because it all seemed vaguely fishy. Don't like overripe melons for the same reason.

So on New Year's, I had shrimp for the first time in my life. It was fine as long as I didn't inhale. I had a bite of crab cake last week. Same thing.

So when my mom offered egg salad or tuna sandwiches for lunch at the cabin this weekend, I brazenly made myself a tuna sandwich. The first bite went fine and soon I stared down at my empty plate and thought, Wow, I just ate a tuna sandwich. How strange.

And now I need to move on, because if the health properties of fish is why I started, canned tuna is not where it's at.

24 days

Until yesterday, I had a migraine headache every day for the last 24 days.

The first week, I figured, oh, jet lag.

The second week I called my doctor. I ruled out blood pressure (med-low), pulse (fine), and pregnancy (nope) for her.

The third week I called my doctor again and got an appointment. Her only guess was that a change we made in November to the way I take the pill (designed, ironically enough, to give me less headaches) started causing me headaches in January. I left with my old pill prescription, "try not to take pain relievers/supermeds every day because they'll lose their effectiveness," and "it'll take a month for it to work it's way out of your system, so hang in there." And also a prescription for a medication that slows my pulse to provide short-term relief.

I wanted desperately to write about it while I was in the midst of it, but it's easier for me to pretend it isn't happening (hence the rather stilted blog entries as of late).
So, sorry about any crabbiness or preoccupied-ness of late. It's good to be back, for real this time.

Winner

of the personal gold medal is the scratching pole, for helping me oust Husband out of the blog closet.

Buried treasure

Stilton was so excited to wish us Happy Valentine's Day that he was up at 6 jumping on the bed and meowing, then bolting downstairs, then running up again and meowing.
Cadbury is a genius kitty. We should call NASA. He is playing fetch, neatly retrieving the crumpled receipt, trotting back to drop it in our hands, then flying off to attack it again.
Johnny Weir is on the tube (not the subway kind). Husband is fondly remembering when he [didn't] see him pee.

Things that I did not get on Valentine's Day:
A Weimaraner
A blizzard
My ofuro

Things that I did get on Valentine's Day:
Takeaway Indian food from our favorite place
Spa time
One doting Husband

A "personal gold medal" to the first person who gets why I might have alluded to buried treasure in this post's title... it's right in front of you! E-mail me to collect.

What I didn't write about

Some days it just isn't there.
I've been trying to write for awhile tonight... thinking that it's been a bit since I've written.
Taking a suggestion from Husband, I wrote a post about my athletic history. Then it seemed too complicated, so I turned it into a post about my confidence in my athletic ability, concluding with a reflection on broomball, but then it seemed weird to mention broomball. So I condensed and then expanded that into a reflection on when I first felt strong (15, carrying a canoe) and when I first felt pretty (first week of college), but it seemed too overly-dramatic-personal-introspection.
Then I exceeded my half-hour limit on writing posts.

So here are my thoughts:
1. I read somewhere about how Swedes and Norwegians can go somewhere and speedskate for hours on some unless path, and how no one talks when they skate, it's just you and the endless ice. I'd like to go there and do that.
2. I'm pleased the world has discovered kakuro, the "new" sudoko, as I have loved these puzzles for years.
3. My new favorite anytime food: Bob's Red Mill 10-grain hot cereal. Husband had to sell out today and downgrade to the 8-grain, as both the 10- and 9-grain were sold out. But he knew better that to degrade himself with the 7-grain, even though they only had one pack of the 8 left and we go through one a week. [To eat, add one scoop natural chunky peanut butter, one splash soy milk, and a swirl of maple syrup. Mmm.]

Nurse Husband

One thing I really miss about being a kid is having someone pick you up and take care of you when you're sick. Somedays the thought of driving myself home from work is enough to... well, enough to make me want to stick it out, oddly enough, although the drive can never be avoided. And while when I get home all I usually want to do is crash in the guest room bed with the cats and sleep, occasionally I've really wanted someone to pick up comforting food and a good movie. So it was a treat today, on migraine day #7, to finally throw in the towel and come home and to have Husband here to dote on me. He fetched me water (with a lime), brought me flowers (purple tulips-excellent choice), ran the errands that needed running (including getting me some cash), and is in process of procuring comforting food--soy cheese pizza, from local hip pizza joint. With Anne of Green Gables, The Sequel on the screen and the cats in my lap (it's kind of hard to type, actually), what more could a girl ask for?

Chocolate

I feel like something out of those terrible chick lit novels. The ones that are pink or yellow with cartoon girls or close-ups of shoes and lipstick fonts. But I was reminded today that I am, truly, a chocolate addict.

Husband and I annually embark on a detox diet that forbids such things as chocolate, among other sweeping categories like dairy, refined sugars, and processed grains. Not because we think detox is necessary, just because we like to remind ourselves of how we want to eat (and to fit reasonably well into the swimsuits that are a regular part of our spring vacations). But today when I realized at 2 p.m. that I couldn't nurse my headache/jet lag/something-I-picked-up-on-the-plane? with the handfuls of mini-Butterfingers from the treat basket that I've become accustomed to, I became very sad.

Note: Immediately after writing the previous entry (where I described just how lead-filled my head felt), I stumbled out of the 80-degree computer lab, pushed through the double doors of the bathroom, and beheld a row of urinals. Shaken out of my stupor I rushed back through the doors, did a quick sweep to see if anyone saw me, and dived into the ladies.

Oslo

is the pure white crisp cold snow-covered cloaked-in-darkness city that you always imagined. Fjords and fishing boats everywhere, red-checked Norwegians toting skis around the city (presumably heading to catch trains out of the city). To be fair, there was more racial diversity in the city center than I'd have guessed. K and her friend NB and I walked along snow-covered sidewalks all around the dark city--by the icy harbor, through the fortress still guarded by gun-toting sentries (seriously, there have been guns everywhere I turn the last few weeks. And people say Americans are the ones with guns), by the palace and shops.
The motherland, as my brother called it, looked surprisingly like the hilly parts of my home state. The streets shared names with the class rosters of my youth.
I was left wanting, of course, and will go back once I've become a millionaire. I feel like I'm talking about $ all the time, but you can't pay $10 for a glass of local beer, $2 for the use of a toilet, or have noticed that the local pizza chain offers individual pizzas for $40 each without mentioning it.
Before crossing the North Sea, K showed me a fabulous time in England. She took me to the Bronte moors and the Peak District. She and her friends took me out drinking, twice, during which I had a stomach-churning mix of drinks (from Pimms and lemonade to Mojitos to chambord martinis to Aftershock shots and absinthe shots) but managed to keep my feet on the ground and not be hungover for the 7 a.m. 90 mph drive to Newcastle to catch the plane.
Although our time in Oslo was pretty tame, I feel today as if most of my brain has been removed and replaced by lead. The twinkling dizzy spots are a regular part of my existence.
I think I need to go home.

English countryside

Today I decided that having only become minorly lost on my last two ventures around town, I could finally go on a run without stopping every 100 ft to consult my map in frustration. So I set off, jogging through campus and then finding myself alongside a beautiful green field. "Mmm... English countryside," I thought, ignoring the creepy vine-covered brick wall to my right that a sign confirmed enclosed a Quaker Retreat (a.k.a. graveyard).
Then I turned the corner and followed the path into some sort of industrial area. "Hmm," I thought, as I spotted barbed wire curls and army trucks. Then I nearly ran into a sentry carrying some large automatic killing machine.
I stopped. The other walkers and bikers carried on, the picturesque path apparently wandering right through the middle of an army station. Since this didn't fit in with the merry-countryside-pleasant-run thing I had going, I turned around and followed the path signs to innocent-sounding Osbaldwick instead. Mmm...Osbaldwick.

Edinburgh

Edinburgh is the most amazing city I've seen yet. I walked out of the train station and found myself in a teeny valley buttressed by huge old grey buildings and castles. After finding a hotel I sat at my little table and made myself a cup of tea (not surprisingly I've become an addict) and just gaped. Then, of course, I set out and climbed up to the castle and gaped some more. The next day I climbed up this craggy old bit called Arthur's Seat and gaped again.

In between gaping I ate (trying to get some protein, I tried the veggie sausage. It was the same as the veggie burger I tried previously: veggie bits mixed with mashed potatoes, breaded, and deep-fried. Mmm... healthy,) went on a ghost tour (all the gory lore of Edinburgh punctuated by people in costume jumping out and scaring you. I.e., fantastic,) and shopped.

If that weren't enough, the accents were dreamy. All men sounded like that cute John Hannah from Sliding Doors and Four Weddings and a Funeral. Mmm.

London minute

I've meant to post more but we're so busy, busy, busy! all the damn time that this is the first chance I've had. So far we've been to London (5 days), Bristol (2 days), and now we're in York for the rest. We're also visiting Liverpool and Hull, and I'm going to Edinburgh and Oslo on my own for the next two weekends.

Brief highlights:
London - Am so impressed with my savviness on the tube. Thank you, Japan. Am a real pro at finding quick routes and also putting on my bewildered American face when oops! my train ticket is expired. I don't know how many exits I passed though on this pretense alone. Spent a lot of time with Brit friend K, who saved me from many solo travels by taking me out and getting me very drunk and then trying to help us recover with dodgy curry. Made the last train home - yikes. Also shopping and went to loads of museums and ate yummy food.

What else... the guy to my right is spending $6/hr to play video games at an internet cafe. How lame is that. It's not even a good game.

I'm learning a lot--my brain is very very tired. I've been to an average of at least one museum per day. Ahh. Am also drinking a lot of tea and eating a lot of sandwiches and digestives (but was very unimpressed with Jaffa Cakes, EC and SQ).

It's bloody damn cold here. My fingers are frozen at all times. Also so expensive (bus ride $5, regualr curry dinner $20, etc.) Will be poor just on food alone. Oh well. Must live it up while I'm here, eh.

And we even speak the same language

-----Original Message-----
From: XXXXXXXXXXXX
Sent: 28 December 2005 20:56
To: university@some uk city
Subject: RE: accom question

Regarding this reservation, do we need to bring towels or pillows? thanks!


-----Original Message-----
From: university@some uk city
Sent: 01/03/06 2:37 AM
To: XXXXXXXXXXXX
Subject: RE: accom question

No towels, pillows etc are provided in the room.
Regards,
Central Reservations


-----Original Message-----
From: XXXXXXXXXXXX
Sent: 03 January 2006 16:37
To: university@some uk city
Subject: RE: accom question

Thanks so much for this reply. What else is not provided? Or, to put it another way, what is provided?


-----Original Message-----
From: university@some uk city
Sent: 01/04/06 2:37 AM
To: XXXXXXXXXXXX
Subject: RE: accom question

All bedding and towels
Coffee & tea making facilities
Colour TV
Hairdryers

Reckoning

Yesterday I ate double chocolate ice cream cake, manicotti, appetizers that were little more than savory shortbread smothered in cheese, pizza, and chocolates. I drank sake, wine, a melon ball, blue raspberry Jello shots, and gin and tonic.

That was 2005.

Today is 2006. I took a shower, scouring away the symbolic dirt of the last year with a sugar scrub. I drank a pot of green tea.

Mmm.

Then I remembered that it's a day of reckoning.

Although blogging has nearly replaced my personal journal, I am stalwart about New Year resolutions. And sure enough, there is my cheerful and optimistic handwriting setting out how 2005 is going to be.

Gulp. Let's take a look. Yep, it's pretty much all-around failure. I could copy these resolutions down again for next year. I haven't been a better wife, sister, friend. I haven't learned to relax better or remain mindful of eating. I haven't really pushed myself professionally.

Hmm. Usually I kick resolution butt. I reread my 2004 goals first (since in the entry I review how I did before making new ones) and I've thoroughly kicked 2004's ass.

Maybe I need to celebrate my successes anyway, even if I didn't make resolutions about them.

- I learned a lot of new things professionally and had many new challenges
- I learned a lot of new skills. I really learned to knit and bake bread (not the half-assed efforts I lauded last year). I expanded my gardening skills, grew a good garden, and learned how to can.
- I kept up with exercise, and learned (albeit briefly, so far) a new sport, broomball.
- I took two camping trips (one short, one real)
- I expanded my palate, enjoying kale and beets, and bought locally.
- I made some new friends (yea!)

That's not bad! 2005 was a kind year, at least to my friends and family (not to the many plagued by natural disasters). I think nearly everyone is better off than last year.

So here's to 2006! May you be good to us as well, and may we rise to your challenge.

Personal faults

I believe that everyone is entitled to one personal fault. One simple thing they cannot and will not overcome.

For me, it's driving stick shift.

I know, I know... millions of people do it everyday. Whole countries do it as a rule. But me and the clutch do not mix.

My hatred of the H-shift began at sixteen when I tried to learn to drive Stinky, the CJ-7 Jeep that I shared with my brother. I sucked. I once stalled over and over through an entire green light, all the while being heckled by a van full of third grade boys. Even the mom laughed at me.

I was lucky to get another car and successfully avoided manuals until just after college. I was going to visit high school buddy AP in Maine, and we planned a road trip to PEI and Nova Scotia. She warned me that I would have to learn how to drive stick.

A week before I left, I practiced on Husband's old car Bubba on country roads. It wasn't pretty, but I could do it if no one else was watching.

I started off OK, driving through Maine and even pulling off for gas. My second shift took us across New Brunswick to PEI. But it was in Anne-of-Green-Gables-land that I fell apart. I had eluded the evil stick shift, and now it was time to pay. AP drove us all the way up Nova Scotia and all the way back down again (i.e. a very long way).

It got to the point that on the way back, AP stopped on the on-ramp and we hopped out and swapped places. She'd driven for the last three days and there was no choice. I carefully made my way down the New Brunswick coast, dreading the evitable: the toolbooth at Saint John.

I started sweating at 100 km, watching for the "Toolbooth ahead" signs and trying to psych myself up. Finally there it was on the horizon. I slowed way down and eased in, so I didn't have to stop behind a car. I fumbled for the change, hands sweaty, and ignored the cheery greeting from the tollman. Focused intently on getting out of there without stalling, I slammed my foot on the gas. The car lept, the tires squealed, and the toolman yelled "Ride 'em cowboy!" at my jerkily departing form.

As I finally put it in fifth and let out my breath, I thought, yeah, everyone's entitled to one fault, right? It's not like I'm afraid of heights or hate puppies. I can give myself permission to fail at this.

And so I've never operated a stick shift since.

As you like it

Potpourri Day!

Book: The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. Read the first page and if you can stop, do. If not, continue blissfully along.

Random info plus new vocab word: Merriam-Webster tracks which words are looked up most for a given year, and they offer sort of a microcosm of the issues that plagued the nation that year.. This year: natural disasters (tsunami, refugee, and levee). We also appear to be pretty tired of incompetence (insipid, contempt, and inept). Last year was all about the election (incumbent, electoral, and partisan) and Iraq (insurgents and sovereignty). 2004 also had "cicada" and "blog" and "defenestration," and a new vocab word! "peloton" (the main body of riders in a bicycle race).

Kittens: still pesky. To be fair, I crushed Cadbury last night because he was sleeping in the crook of my arm and I had a dream I was swimming and attacked by eels.

Knitting: a cat toy. Realize this mixes two scary personas: knitter and cat lady. But it's OK! Only one toy.

Recent mishap: Losing a needle inside my favorite down pillow. Luckily, crisis averted. Also getting stuck in the snow trying to pull into the garage from the alley. Luckily, nice boys out shoveling for cash rescued me.

Up next: winter sports extravaganza. Anyone looking to ski or snowshoe knows who to call. Also, risking of life and limb (and tooth): broomball starts this weekend. Also: Christmas recaps, then it's UK ho!

Thanksgiving

My freshman year of college, I sort of... forgot… to make female friends.

I'm not sure how it happened.

I made a lot of female acquaintances, I had guy friends, and I had a great boyfriend, but I sort of missed the part when you spent hours giggling and telling secrets with a gaggle of girls.

I had never had a shortage of female friends before, so it took me almost the whole year to realize that I didn't really have any good female friends.

Throughout the rest of college, I'd make lists of women I wanted to get to know better. I eventually made a few good friends my junior year, then got the hang of it and made camp friends and Japan friends, then reacquainted high school friends, and finally work friends and post-college friends.

So many girl friends that when entertaining a camp friend a month or so ago I effortlessly put together a cracker jack pub quiz team of female friends. I realized that to my camp friend, we probably looked like a regular group of girls, the kind that I used to gaze at in the cafeteria at college.

As I sat there, perched on my barstool sipping Guinness, surrounded by my smart and gorgeous friends, I remembered those sad little lists. And how glad I am that I don't have to make them anymore.

Stilton takes after Husband

Who doesn't love a cat with a martini shaker? This photo could have been one in a series (cat licking beer bottle, stealing nip of vodka tonic, tasting wine) but I had exercised restraint until I saw this just hours after shooing him away from a Summit Winter Ale.

Holiday spirit

I have no holiday spirit.

Me, the person who was so taken with the clever seasonal containers at Starbucks that she wrote about it in her blog.

The tree is up. The decor is in place (such as it is, a candle and a knick-knack). I even bought a pine-filled planter for the front step (after noting that all the other houses on the block had some type of front-step decor).

Where art thou, Christmas cheer? Residing in some volunteer opportunity I should explore? In church? In eggnog? In a viewing of Love, Actually?

I think this all might have started with the discussion with my dad about the where-when-how of Christmas. It was all schedules and driving times and fitting everyone in and obligations... when what we both wanted more than anything was to spend Christmas with our family how it was a few years ago. With my uncle Fred. With my aunt and cousins, happy and getting along.

I have one good picture of it... the last Christmas we had like that. We’re all looking into the camera with pure, honest grins, it never occurring to anyone that this picture will be different from the hundreds we’ve posed for before.

Shopgirl

Jesus, I thought, spying my alarm clock as I pushed Cadbury off my face (What is his deal?). 5:10 a.m.

Twenty minutes later I was on my way to the car, absently noting the beautiful dusting of snow as I slugged my Hansen’s smoothie.

When I called my parents Thanksgiving night to confer on the meeting time for the annual day-after-Thanksgiving-shopfest, I was expecting the usual: 8 a.m…. maybe 7:30 for coffee.

“We’re going to be at Walmart at 5, Herbergers at 5:30, and Marshall Field’s at 6,” my dad chirped.

My god.

“I’ll see you at Marshall Field’s?”

By 12:30 p.m. we’d filled my parent’s trunk with bags, hit two malls and one restaurant, and guzzled six coffees between us.

While the day fell short of our glory years (at SuperMall before opening for breakfast, hitting a record four malls in one day…) there is nothing like sprawling book in hand, kittens in lap at 1 p.m. with a full day of shopping behind you.

Wiener roll-ups

Husband and I, for all of our cooking skills, were not being taken seriously at family holidays.

"Oh, if you really want to bring something, you could bring the relish tray," we'd hear biannually.

And bring the relish we would, god dammit. We'd bring the world's best relish trays, overflowing with carrots with the tops still attached, stuffed olives, marinated peppers... a rainbow of organic goodness complete with homemade dips.

Last year we decided to corner the roll market. No one on my side of the family made rolls, so we were going to stake our claim in baked goods.

That year we were up to 2 a.m. the night before making three batches of rolls at once, a complicated schedule of rising and resting times scrawled all over our white board. Our criteria were 1: rolls that raised properly and 2: tasted good, and we succeeded.

This year, several other experiments with yeast successfully behind me, I decided to up the ante and add in 3: look pretty.

My first attempt (one batch honey wheat cloverleafs, one batch butter crescents) reminded me what I didn't like about the crescents last year.

They looked... well... wiener-y.
















Eww.

As we'd decided to make two batches of the crescents, I tried again Thanksgiving morning. (Tactic: decrease size, make crescent shape more pronounced, omit egg glaze).

And despite my poor photography skills, you can see I was successful.
















Yummy rolls. Not at all wiener-y.

Medium rare

Kate Spade peony vases, 2
Le Creuset cast-iron baking dish, red
Oxo measuring cups, set of 3

My eyes scanned down the registry list, looking for a good shower gift. The marble mortar and pestle, paired with some spices from Penzeys? Perhaps. Then my eyes alighted on the prize:

Rosle meat hammer

How could I resist? How tempting and wonderful those words sounded... meat hammer. With sneaky meat even hidden in the latter part of the title!

But it was my friend with whom I've giving the gift that came up with the piece de la résistance.

Actually giving meat as a shower gift.

Her dad raises cattle and she has one of his big-enough-for-two steaks in her freezer. How romantic! And it's a gift for the groom as well!

Let's hope the bloody juices don't leak through the white wedding bell paper.

Garden hopeless

After weeks of warm gorgeous weather,
I choose the first real day of winter
a nice hearty frost overnight
a snowstorm imminent
[i.e. the very last day possible]
to go outside after work,
[i.e. in the pitch blackness]
shivering, swearing,
wielding a pitchfork,
to finally dig up my calla lily bulbs.

Cats for sale--cheap

I took up knitting because I like crafty old-timey things and I have a lot of excess energy sometimes and thought that it might be nice to have something to do while chatting with friends or riding in the car.

I wouldn't call myself a knitter yet--I've only completed two projects, and they've been scarves. (Scarves are to the knitting world what macaroni and cheese is to the cooking world, or what Uno mas is to the foreign language world.)

Here is my second scarf, The yellow scarf.




















Oooooh. Pretty exciting, eh.
And here is my work-in-progress, Legwarmers in blue.




















At the rate I'm going, they'll be ready in March.

Unfortunately, after taking this picture I returned to blogging.
I just went to get a glass of water and found this:















So, any takers?

Breaking out of my "shell"

I'm a black turtleneck sweater sort of girl. Or a black v-neck. I like the basics--the clean lines that go with anything. And I look good in basics.

But today when I dug out the black merino wool blend v-neck sweater from the sale rack at Banana Republic ($19!), I knew I had to put it back.

Because I've faced it: basics are boring.

Would anyone compliment me on the black sweater? No. Because although it looks good, it looks like everything else in my closet. It resembles a similar shirt I bought five years ago.

So I made myself try on things today with embroidery, sequins, and bits of ruffle. I ignored the black and reached for teal, forest, plum, chocolate, and that pink/brown color. And while much of it was cringe-worthy, there were a few things I liked. And they didn't scream "Banana Republic!" or "Ann Taylor!"

While I'm not pinning on flower brooches or buying sequined shoes yet, I'm making progress.

I'd share

Ever at a loss for birthday or Christmas ideas? If you have to get me something, I'd take one of these. It doesn' t have to be this fancy, though. Simple metal or even ceramic would do. I'd even let you use it, as long as you obeyed the proper ofuro etiquette.
Only one month to my half birthday, and eight weeks until Christmas. You'd better order now.

Go away trick-or-treaters

Because I am tired of answering the doorbell and shoving the kittens off my as soon as they settle in.

SECRETS SECRETS
Anyone who knows me knows that I like to find out how people work. Why they do certain things. What events in their past have informed who they are. Not everyone shares my curiosity, and it’s interesting to see what kind of people volunteer stuff about themselves and what kind of people wait to be asked. But even the most loquacious won’t volunteer everything… and will wait to be asked or for it to come up before sharing. That made me think about my own “right questions”… the ones that few ask but if they did they’d learn a lot. It’s not like I’m harboring state secrets, and I’m not asking to be grilled. I just think it’s interesting… those questions. What’s on your list?

BOOKITY BOOKITY
Due Preparations for the Plague suckered me into reading and liking an international suspense book [by Janette Turner Hospital, fiction, story about an ’87 hijacking and the children who survived and their search for answers twenty years later.]

Better Off made me want to barter everything in trade and abandon cash [by Eric Brende, nonfiction, about a man and his wife living off the grid.]

Smart Women by Judy Blume made me want to write, because Blume is so adept at creating realistic and compelling characters [about two divorced women, their kids, and their complicated relationships with their ex-husbands.]

Whale Talk made excellent car listening, being light and fast-paced [by Chris Crutcher (young adult novel about a guy who starts a renegade swim team at his school and battles racist jocks.]

Summer at Gaglow made me want sisters but not the ones in the book because they were mean. [by Esther Freud, fiction, Germany, pre- and post-WWII life concerning three sisters at the family’s country estate.]

Right now I’m reading The Best American Travel Writing 2005, and it’s quite good so far, although I was so disappointed to open it up and see only one female author. I’m so sick of that.

The good life

Suckers, I thought, as I took off running down the road. All of those people who at 9 a.m. are chained to their desks. Sure, that's me every other day of the work week, but today I am living the good life. Wake at 7:30, watch gray flat sky slowly intensify with color. Read for an hour from the cozy enclave of my bed. Finally get up and head out for a run, set free with the knowledge that there is nowhere I have to be.

I'm at the cabin, again, and if I weren't on dial-up I'd link that back to other cabin entries. Grizz came up early with me last night, as to get some of the nice, relaxing, quiet part of the weekend along with the fun, crazy part that will start when our nine other weekend guests arrive later today. Not that Grizz and I didn't have fun, sharing some aged provolone and drinks while reminiscing about college... our worst semesters, the random people we thought were cute until we actually got to know them, mistaken illusions we had about ourselves.

Well... I'm off to enjoy the good life. Tea, perhaps. Knitting. Finishing my mystery novel (set in Yorkshire, to get me in the mood). And certainly a nap.

He exists!

I haven't mentioned Husband in a while. In fact, you may be thinking.... What ever happened to Husband? Is he OK? Well, I'm glad to report he is just fine. Quite busy, unfortunately, with that thing called "work," which is keeping him gone in the evenings. I find myself quite lonesome for him while he's gone... but mysteriously, when he returns, I often turn into Bad Wife, reminding him of chores and being annoying. Why is this, I ask. As I never know quite when he'll arrive I cannot have his drink prepared for him like a proper Wife. And I'm afraid my heels were tossed in the shoe basket hours ago, and instead of dressing nicely I am in clothes that one could sleep in.
But married life is indeed good. I'm amazed at how much we're still figuring out about ourselves.

Boo

I've never been one for Halloween. Sure, I like the individually-wrapped Reese's, but orange and black have never been my colors, and I have never been really into dressing up.

Halloween: A brief history

Age 4: Boogeymonster, which from the picture, somehow required a headdress that you had to blow up.

Age 6: Pumpkin. Gorgeous handmade costume made by my grandma. Some classmate wore it the next year when he showed up to school with no costume and my mom, helpful room mother that she was, pulled it out of her things and loaned it to him for the day.

Age 9: Not really sure... it just involved a lot of that greasepaint makeup that you could buy in those little crayons. Maybe "punk rocker."

Age 11: This is where Halloween really falls apart for me. I wanted to go trick-or-treating with my friend Sheila from the east side of town, and my parents wouldn't let me because her neighborhood wasn't that great (looking back, they were right). Defeated, I went alone (well, my dad tagged along and walked on the street) wearing a pumpkin T-shirt and my favorite black Guess? jeans. I got a lot of candy that year.

Age 15: Impromptu trick-or-treating with my friend Vanessa. As I had just come from my shift as a candy-striper... I went as a candy-striper. It was sort of sad to see the gentle reproving looks from people.

Now that I'm older, Halloween's a bit more appealing. Pumpkin-flavored things are yummy. Scary movies are fun. And candy always sweetens the deal.

When kittens attack

When I got home today, this is what greeted me:

Curious yet wary, I followed the trail of paper bits...and found:

Right: One decimated roll of toilet paper (rest of roll is MIA).
Left: One teething cat.

That cloying Swiss Miss

Today I got the brilliant idea to eat a cocoa packet dry.
I had just had lunch and had drank a whole Nalgene bottle (lunch was a bit salty), so felt overhydrated and thought dry cocoa would hit the spot.
Mmm. Boy did it. It even had those little mini-marshmallows that dissolve instantly when you add hot water.
It was soooo good that I wanted just a bit more... so I opened another packet.
Halfway through I’d hit the wall.
I never want dry cocoa or possibly even cocoa again.

I'm not the new me

Do you spend a lot of time thinking about what you eat?

I pressed my index finger next to the sign's question until my gym buddy had finished reading it. Although I'd quickly dismissed the first two questions on the "Do you have an eating disorder sign" posted in the locker room, the third question caught me. While neither of us had anything near an eating disorder, it made me sick to think about how much mental energy we and most women devote daily to just thinking about food and exercise.

I just read I'm not the new me by Wendy McClure. McClure, a self-described "fat girl," struggles to lose weight while defending herself against stereotypes, such as that people who are overweight have low self esteem. There's a great scene when she's trying to recalibrate her bathroom scale and she ends up breaking it, and gets pissed and starts smacking it around, and then realizes what a perfect Made-for-TV-movie moment this is - fat girl finally loses it and takes it out on her scale.

The book is wickedly funny and I recommend it highly (although the ending is tough. The book manages to avoid ending in a cliche, but you also realize how satisfying those cliches are and how much you long for them). But it also made me really sad how much thinking it all required... and how easy it is to slip into that dangerous vortex where your daily happiness level is determined by how much you ate or exercised.

Which all made me wonder... maybe the secret to body image contentedness is not embarking on a new plan or making new charts, but thinking less about it all.

I need structure

On my first day off I kicked ass. I went to Target, Home Depot, the fabric store, the drycleaner. I cleaned the bathroom, organized files, cleaned the office closet. I paid bills, bought stamps, checked my account. I went running and gave myself a facial. I mended pants and created a master list of friend and family birthdays.

On my second day off, I took a nap at 10 a.m. I stared at nothing for an hour. I bought a lunch I wasn't hungry for. Once I got going, I bought yarn for my next knitting project (leg warmers) and sat watching bad TV for hours while knitting on the yellow scarf.

I don't think I'd make a very good stay-at-home mom.

Almond, beechnut, cashew

Almond, beechnut, cashew...

When I can't sleep, I play head games.

I started doing this in high school, during debate season. We'd compete on Friday nights and all day Saturday, and during the night in between I'd lie awake, brain still on hyper-drive and nerves still jangled, worried about who I'd have to debate against the next day. Since I have always loved word games, I started forcing myself to play the alphabet game.

Margaret Atwood, Judy Blume, Truman Capote...

You know the one, pick a category, any category, and start with A. Some nights I'd go several rounds.

When I got better, I'd fall asleep by K.

I had another game in my repertoire, the one where you start with a topic, like licorice, and see what word/phrase pops into your head, like, makes-my-jaw-hurt, and keep going and going... headache, sleep, can't sleep, stupid debate, I can't believe we lost that last round... but you can see why the game sucked: it always led back to whatever I was trying to escape.

Auburn, Burnt Sienna , Chestnut...

Now, many years later, I've gotten quite good and have exhausted the list of potential categories. And making up creative categories, like "things that make me happy," doesn't work.

My favorite was the time I got Husband in on the game and we played smoothie names.

Alohaberry Luau, Banana-rama ding-dong,,Choco Making Me Crazy...

My Husband, the marathoner

Husband ran a marathon today. It was amazing. I am so in awe of him.
I kept being overcome with emotion seeing all the people struggling mentally and physically and wanting it so bad, and all the people rallying to support them... I had to finally stop looking people in their faces to focus on finding Husband, because I almost missed him the first time.
The whole day was like the anti-State Fair - a great community get-together, but instead of eating all day you run or run around cheering for people who are running. I saw tons of people I knew, including an old college podmate, a guy I went to high school with, and the boy I used to kiss in preschool (who now bears a striking resemblance to Teen Wolf).
We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening lazing around and eating. It's 8:24 now and Husband is in bed! I keep wanting to check his pulse or make sure he's breathing. I think I read too many articles about hyponatremia.

My cat threw up on my houseguest

Actually, he threw up on my houseguest’s bedding...but maybe that’s worse.

I thought I spelled something pukey last night with my uber-sensitive-woman’s-nose, but a quick search revealed nothing.

When I came downstairs this morning I saw the guest room’s bedclothes piled up in the hall. Please don’t be pee. Please don’t be pee, I pleaded as I searched frantically for the wet spot. (The cats haven’t recreationally peed yet, but cats’ previous behavior is never a reliable predictor of their future behavior.) Nope, it was a nice slime of puke on the fitted sheet. The morning got even better when I went to turn on the washer and nothing happened. Spin dial, select load level, pull. Nothing. I tried the dryer. Nothing too! I flipped the circuit breaker and we were washing with gas.

What a nightmare. The cats have only puked one other time... but they seem to have a knack for selecting terrible locations.

Mincemeat: Never a good idea

Fall! I've missed you so. It actually felt GOOD to wear real shoes and socks today. I can clomp down the stairs, legs flailing about like a puppet, instead of stepping carefully, toes gripping clammy leather.

Husband and I watched prime time CSI last night--it was an event! We had feeling-sorry-for-ourselves-too-all-of-the-above-to-cook pizza while we watched. You know how most mystery series fail because after some point it becomes unbelievable that there would be so many murders in one town? Well, the creators of CSI were brilliant when they set their show in Las Vegas. The week after week of slimy bastards, vengeful wives, and low-class hustlers are totally believable!

Where are all the books recommendations that I couldn’t care less about, you ask? Well, I’ve been reading titles more frequently found under BEACH READS than RECOMMENDED READING, so I’ll get back to you when there is something to write about. But in place of books, I have TRIVIA.

DID YOU KNOW
Mincemeat is one of many dishes that was created to be heavily spiced in order to hide the rotting meat that was a reality of dinner tables in Marco Polo-era England?

Before the Atlantic slave trade, the English didn’t drink coffee or tea? Of course tea and coffee had to be imported as well, but it was sugar that made tea and coffee palatable to the English and led to its popularity, making tea the quintessential English beverage, ironic since tea comes from China or India and sugar came from the West Indies.

SHORT BITS
My hair is no longer a source of woe. I heart Laughing Cow cheese and hate Mt. Olive pickles (I shown have known – olive, pickle, They Are Not The Same). Husband is going to be gone Saturday night and I keep finding myself thinking...only Saturday night? That doesn’t quite seem long enough. I got all geared up for finishing projects and having the cats all to myself that I forgot it's going to be only twenty-four hours or so.

Siamese in more than name only

Can-do

My first attempt at canning - success! I was inspired by the selection of jams at the craft fair to turn our surplus of peppers into jam (technically jelly). I was a little nervous to try canning because I didn't have any of the proper equipment and I'm kind of cavalier about recipes, but all three jars both sealed and set! (Just ignore the pepper bits all jumbled up at the top.) Now all I need is some cream cheese and crackers.

Purple mascara

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I play favorites with the kittens. Cadbury’s dog-like enthusiasm, affection, and big nose win me over every time. I love Stilton too, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes my attention to him is more... obligatory, more of an “Oh hey Stilton. I like you too!” kind of thing. Do parents have secret favorites with their children, too? I didn’t think so before, but I do now. It’s easy to love two things a lot but hard to love them equally all the time.

I sometimes feel like a kid playing dress up at work. When I’m on the phone with someone who doesn’t know me personally and they’re taking my opinion really seriously and trying to curry favor, I feel like I’ve fooled them.

Speaking of dress-up, I had my makeup done today at an Aveda event, and it’s driving me crazy. I couldn’t even wait until I was out of eyesight of the stylist to wipe off the bright gooey smear of lipstick/gloss. Ugg. And the eye makeup! White eyeliner with purple shadow, both over and under my eyes, and dark purple mascara... do I look like someone who would wear purple mascara? I hardly wear black mascara! I suppose it’s good to be pushed out of one’s makeup comfort zone once in awhile. I did like the tinted moisturizer and powder, and eye shadow (in smaller quantities).

Making farm kids cry

TUNNEL LOVE
I love driving through tunnels.
I go through two every day on my commute, and while I'm usually plotting my post-tunnel lane change, every once in a while I remember where I am at and get a little thrill.
I'm not sure why... it's sort of big city savvy Mary Tyler Moore thing. I can navigate insane freeway passages that would make farm kids cry.

REOCCURING DREAMS
I make it a practice not to share my dreams*, because I read somewhere that no one really cares about other people's dreams, and I think that's pretty true. But I do think reoccuring dreams are interesting... those dreams you watch over and over like a bad rerun of Saved by the Bell (I suppose "bad" is redudant). This is all prompted by the recent revisiting of my number one reoccuring dream: encountering raging impassable rapids while canoeing on some remote river.The sense of hopeless despair and impending death usually jars me out of sleep and spares me from having to witness my own demise.

CRAFT FAIRING AND LIKING IT
This weekend I'm going to a small town arts and crafts fair... and I'm excited about it. It's girls' weekend at the H house, when my mom, two aunts, and grandma get together and act like kids again, and I tag along for the fun. After packing as many finds as we can into the van, we're heading up to the cabin. I'm hoping to get a lot of knitting done during the long rides, since scarf weather is nearly here (Hurrah!)

*OK, I did share that one about Kate Spade. But it was an aside.

“Sorry I’ve been a bitch” cake

I'm back! On Tuesday morning, two weeks after returning from vacation, I finally felt back to my old self. It took a few random acts of kindness, including a “Sorry I’ve been a bitch” French yogurt cake, but it feels great to be back. Good riddance crabby post-vacation self!

When will I stop being mistaken for an 18-year-old? Women-friends, I am pleading for honesty: Is there anything I can do? A new haircut? Different makeup? I know I have a "youthful" face that people tell me I will come to love in ten years, but really. It's hard to think that people take you seriously at work when you are mistaken for an 18-year-old.

Current obsessed with: Ben Gibbard’s song, “You remind me of home.” I haven’t been this desiring of constant repeat play since last winter and the Postal Service’s “The district sleeps alone tonight.” Also: pudding pops -- mmm! I don't know where you went, but I'm glad to have you back.

Those damn funeral processions get me every time

I try to give off a tough exterior, but I'm as Husband said once, I'm "surprisingly emotionally available." Translation: I am brought to tears easily. Not in the boo-hoo playground crybaby way, but in the overcome-by-humanity tear-up that I'm usually able to hide. Here’s a list of things that have made my eyes well up/cry in the last week:
- Viewing photos of friend with her brand new baby boy
- Reading about Katrina destruction
- Friend sharing a story that had nothing to do with me but that made her eyes well up
- Watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (don’t be fooled by its silly exterior)

I also dependably well up/cry:
At funeral processions
At weddings, graduations, and funerals, even if I didn’t really know them
At cheesy but earnest displays of patriotism
Whenever anyone asks me how I’m doing when they know I’m not doing too well
At music of all kinds, especially odd but poignant Dar Williams songs, such as “The Babysitter’s Here,” and “The Christians and the Pagans.”

I'll stop there, but it's a pretty long list. Those damn funeral processions get me every time.

Black days and Beets

In The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, the protagonist, Christopher, an autistic boy, knows the day is going to be bad when he sees four yellow cars. ("Four yellow cars in a row made it a Black Day, which is a day when I don't speak to anyone and sit on my own reading books and don't eat my lunch and Take No Risks."*) My omen is when the word game of the day on m-w.com is Bee-cubed (shudder). But today it’s Dictionary Devil day, my favorite, and a sure sign of a good day if I’ve ever seen one.

My cousin’s best friend and brother live in Bay St. Louis, and she hasn’t heard from them yet. I can’t comprehend the scope of the devastation.

On a much lighter note the kittens are wrecking havoc on our home in their own way. The tally so far is three pairs of headphones, cords chewed through; two large glasses; and one bowl... and they’ve only been able to jump on to the kitchen counters for a little over a week. I was so angry after the bowl incident because they insisted on playing with the shards as I tried to clean it up (look, a new toy!) that I had to lock them upstairs until I was done. I’ve now approved judicious use of the faucet spray attachment on all occasions.

BEETS, BEETS, the magical vegetable,
THE MORE YOU EAT the more stained red your kitchen (and pee) is,
THE MORE YOU EAT the more you despise those little rattails they come with,
SO EAT MORE BEETS (’cause their tasty and in season!) with every meal!

*I've found myself longing to declare Black Days recently. Except my version includes lunch, a heating pad, and maybe a few good movies.

Steam heat

I am consumed by thoughts of having my own sauna. You know when I wanted a pool? Yeah, now I want a sauna, in a little cedar shack in the back of the yard. I’d use it all the time, I swear. I can’t decide whether it should be stove-heated or electric... maybe have the option for both? Think how great my complexion would look. Surely it’s cheaper than the fancy moisturizers and facials I will someday require?

Ennui typhoon

These last few weeks I’ve been all take but no give. All reading but no writing. Why? Because I’m in some kind of ennui typhoon where I have nothing of interest to say. My excitement has consisted of eating ice cream and having my face bandages downsized (I heart steri-strips). My angst has been grievances about my hair and whines about the library reservation system being down.

I did the depressed smoldering poet thing only once. It was in 5th grade, and I stayed home from school and typed out pages and pages of poems and short stories on the typewriter, pausing only to stare morosely out the window at the rain. (Oddly, a lot of the poetry was upbeat, like limericks). By the end of the day I had several inches of writing that I never looked at again, and I’d cured myself of any poet aspirations. Another childhood milestone that I passed too soon (along with abandoning Barbies in 2nd grade and canceling Seventeen at thirteen).

The guy who tosses the turkeys into the killing chute

The kittens were crazy this weekend. They were fighting on top on me while I was reading in bed, so I crumpled up my library receipt and threw it. I watched smugly as they scampered after it, and turned out the light. Five minutes later the paper wad returned. I thought their dog-like ability to fetch was charming earlier, but I was not amused during the next half hour, when Cadbury eagerly deposited the soggy wad by my pillow and I tried in vain to throw it further and further away. I hid it under my pillow only to have Cadbury crawl all over my head seeking it out. Defeated, I fled to the guest room.

I keep thinking that guys are checking me out, but then I remember the bandages on my face.* And while I think they’re checking me out, I’m not thinking to myself, Yeah, that’s right, I’m thinking Is he thinking about stealing my purse? or Does this guy think I’m trying to be suggestive by bending over when I’m really trying to read the bottom row of titles in the travels essays section?

* I saved the explanation for last, because it’s really lame: I had some moles removed. Mmm... attractive. As they were snipping away I wondered, What do they do with those little bits that they remove? Toss them into the trash? Put them into neat little biohazard bags? I know now that they probably incinerate them... but what about the person who has that job? I once knew someone whose job it was to take the turkeys off the truck and toss them into the killing chute. That’s so good it deserves to be in a novel.

Big Hunk

I'm back, but I don't know quite what to do with myself. I'm tired of all my leisure time activities -- reading, watching, knitting -- yet after an initial burst of enthusiasm (our bedroom has never been cleaner) equally reticent to do chores. I did a good bit of shopping, for me (shoes, wallet, baking dish) so now I can't do that either. Vacation has ruined me! Now that I have broken free from the shackles of oppressive routines I find myself longing for direction.

Consumed by thoughts about:
1) What it's like to date after being divorced. How do you transition from a dozen years of marriage to Sex and the City without getting the giggles at inappropriate times?
2) The "Big Hunk" bar I just ate part of. How can nougat taste so good?
3) Why I really felt bad for the man rather than the woman after hearing that two distant acquaintances accidentally produced a baby during a random encounter despite trying to be careful.
4) Whether or not the occasional stomach cramps I've experienced lately have anything to do with the Nalgene of unfiltered water I chugged on trail.

Read: Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker - the best book I've read this year. Sort of Salinger-y but without the pretension. Don't be put off by the naked woman on the cover. Also Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell, who's always great, and The Writing on the Wall by Lynne Sharon Schwartz.