5 things

5 things you [most likely] don't know about me, courtesy of Kloumr:

1. When asked as a kid what I wanted to be, I'd say that I wanted to be a mother. With 10 kids. [2.] By age 14 I'd subscribed to Ms. and delivered a speeches on feminism to my English class and abortion to my health class.
3. In 4th grade our teacher taped a group of us talking to illustrate some topic to the class. Bored with our assigned discussion topic, I began talking about why I hated our teacher, forgetting that the video would soon be played in front of the whole class.
4. My brother used to tease me as a kid by telling me that I'd been in one of those naked-baby-sitting-in-the-tire Michelin tire commercials. I'd get upset, and apparently my mom found it funny, because while she wouldn't confirm it, she wouldn't deny it, either.
5. I had my first ever can of Diet Coke this year.

Booby

SECRETS
Anyone who knows me at all knows that I enjoy the things we don't usually talk about - the things beyond how your week went or how work is going, the things that we don't necessarily offer up -- in some cases, because we're never asked.

Inspired by my friend with the 5'4 red-haired boyfriend, I picked up my journal again after months of neglect. After engaging in some talk of secrets this weekend at a get-together, I decided to list every secret that I could think of. When I was done, I realized 2/3 of the secrets were about other people. I can only conclude:

1. I am boring.
2. I am too chicken to commit my secrets to paper, where they could potentially be read someday.

You decide.

Either way, should probably find a better hiding place for the old journal. Cause damn, I know some good dirt.

LIMITED IMAGINATION
I realized this weekend that when friends talk about their new beaus, I envision as the epitome of my type - i.e. 5'11* or taller, brown haired, and broader than me. Surely this is not everyone's ideal, especially for the friend in question, who is 5'4. *Me + 2 inch heels = 5'10.

GOOD THINGS
Miss American Pie, comprised of diary entries and letters, recounts the author's life from age 12 to 18 growing up in the Deep South in the 1970s. Desegregation, unexplainable adolescent angst, crying over boys -- it's all there. By Margaret Sartor.

And God Created the Au Pair by Benedicte Newlan and Pascale Smets. Don't be deterred by the awful and misleading title -- this book by The Times (London) columnists about two sisters sharing the woes of child-rearing over email is full of dry British wit that made me "laugh out loud" on many occasions as promised.

5 SECONDS AGO:
Tacohead: I can't think of a good title for this post.
Husband: Titular?
Tacohead: What?! There's no tits in this post!

In the dark

Tonight I am saving energy practicing in case I go blind emulating the pioneers ... OK!, I admit it: I'm hiding out in the dark from trick-or-treaters. What's more anti-child and anti-American way than not handing out candy to one and all? When I realized that Husband would be gone again, leaving me to fend off greedy kids who grab extra candy out of our candy bowl as I drop a pair of Reese's into their bag, I decided to boy- and girl-cott the candy giving. That, and we ate all our Snickers last week. And as you know, Halloween has never been my favorite holiday.

All you masochists out there--take note. November is NoBloMoPo. You, too, could write everyday day, and show me up by two weeks. Me? I've still recovering from the two-week challenge. I'm hiding, you could say, in the dark.

So, how are the cats?

They're fine, thanks.















Don't let their sleepy exterior fool you. Inside lurks pure evil.















Their latest victim is my plants. Despite dousing the plants with cayenne and mustard powder and spraying them liberally with orange oil, they have attacked and destroyed.
Exhibit A:














Two week ago these were lush clover.
So I went to plan B: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
I grew them their own plot of grass... their very own pasture to graze in.
Exhibit B:














Do they eat it? No.
They look at me like, "What is this crap." They're offended by its very presence.

However, Operation Learn to Sharpen Claws on the Play Cavern Scratcher and Not the Couch is going well. And they are a welcome presence at night--my feet have never been warmer.
So the cats can stay. The plants? I'll take them to the office.

Being wrapped in a mylar blanket was pretty cool, too

While starting in a mass of people, being cheered on by thousands, and crossing the finish line was pretty cool, there is nothing that says "real runner" than grabbing a cup of water from a waiting volunteer, slamming it, then tossing it to the ground as you run away. Who knew littering could feel so good?

His hand looks like it was mauled by a lion

I SURVIVED THE TWO-WEEK CHALLENGE
And it wasn't pretty, folks. You were there... you saw the carnage. I won't be challenging myself to do that again anytime soon. I sort of thought I might hit my stride and produce some good stuff. Nope. After day 5 things got ugly.

This would be easier if I were Husband. He does interesting things, like slice his hand in five places washing out a can for recycling, or light a cutting board on fire. And that was just today!

Snippets

CAN ANYONE PLEASE TELL ME
Where the cute clothes for fall are? Because all I'm seeing are 1. 80s throwback clothes that look sloppy and unflattering, and 2. same-old, same-old turtleneck sweaters and cashmere cardigans... good classics, but nothing that says, "Wow, is that new?"

STRANGELY SATISFYING
Was reading Men's Health sex advice for men. (An issue recently appeared in our house). After all the years of randomly flipping through Cosmo, it was nice to read something that made men feel that being good in bed was something that required intense study rather than just instinct and practice.

DOMESTIC GODDESS
In general, I try to do at least one productive thing each weeknight. Not that I'm Little Miss Do-Gooder, just that 15 minutes of cleaning does much to justify two episodes of CSI.

Tonight I was an overachiever, trimming viney bastards from lilacs, filing 7 months of bill stubs, scheduling the chimney sweep -- all the while reading 1.5 Glamours!

USEFUL BITS
Not Martha has all that useful domestic stuff you mean to make note of but always forget.
Guilty pleasures shopping blogs: Mighty Goods and Outblush.
Random tips from all people in all sorts of jobs: Tricks of the Trade

Wisdom from Walnut Grove

In order to feel like a real daily blogger, I took Friday and Saturday off. You know, like they do. Who blogs on the weekend?

As Husband and I are finally in the seventh season, I think it's time for:

LESSONS LEARNED FROM LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE (the TV show)
1. "Cash on the barrel." Although this is Pa's mantra, he breaks it all the time. And nothing spells crop-destroying storm/drought/windstorm like seed on credit.
2. Prairies look an awful lot like the California hills. Unless there's a mountain range I haven't heard of in southeast Minnesota.
3. There are many scenarios in farm life, approximately one per episode, that require Pa to appear shirtless.
4. Despite the open child-filled loft above their bed, Ma and Pa appear to have a smokin' sex life.
5. "God provides." (Ma's mantra). Provides a lot of fires, smallpox outbreaks, dead babies, drownings, and creepy men who are new to town, that is.
6. Mr. Edward's alcoholism is part of his charm.
7. The show doubles as a drinking game if one has a half-pint whenever Pa calls Laura by her treasured nickname.
8. I know he's old and wizened and all, but there's something a bit sexy about Doc Baker and his ability to cure anything from his black bag. Surely the men have thought similar about Miss Beadle or Miss Wilder, and their warm-hearted care and concern for every student?

The real challenge

The real challenge in blogging everyday is not thinking of something to write about.

And it's not the actual writing.

It's putting it out there for people to read.

Because what is more egotistical, more self-centered, than writing about yourself and posting it on the internet, presuming that other people will read it and possibility enjoy it? Do I really think that I'm that interesting? Do I really think anyone cares?

I would have been easier writing some anonymous column where no one really knew me. Where I didn't care what individual people thought.

And I know that the key to having a well-read blog is divulging intimate details. Your real name, the city you live in, what you do for a living. Your dating/sex life. Your deep dark fears. Even your bathroom habits. And I'm not willing to do that.

The hardest part of the two-week challenge (not over yet!) has been getting over myself.

Socks older than you are

TACOHEAD RELICS
I have a different statute of limitations on clothing than most people. Sure, I get new clothes every season... but if I like something, it sticks around. I'm not really proud of this... I realize that my co-workers are tired of seeing the same black bag every day for five years. But I already replaced my winter purse for them, so they'd better deal.

Other members of the Hall of Fame:
-Favorite black sweater that I wear all the time - 7 years old (and kickin'!)
-Husband - 9 years old (Seems young in comparison)
-Pajamas that I wore last night - 9 years old (Bought to take to college)
-Winter black wool pants - 10 years old
-Purple paddle hairbrush - 14 years old
-Umbro shorts that I wear several times a week - 15 years old (long live blue check!)

More like meow

I'm trying to hurry up and post before Husband gets home and we have our one hour together before falling swiftly and convulsively to sleep... lately I have been like a single woman again, and boy, cooking for one is not where it's at. Too easy is it to make a dinner of say, ice cream, or crackers. The production of cooking and even worse, cleaning, is too much for one person on a daily basis.

But tonight, I prevailed! A real dinner, chock full of bok choy, asian eggplant, and zucchini.

I am woman, hear me roar.

But tonight I am also little girl, spoiled yet again by my parents, who met me a nearby mall to pass on a giant box of goodies from Costco -- pita chips, Nut Thins, oatmeal, Bake Naked granola, Dubliner cheese, wheels of Laughing Cow, quiches, Ghiradelli chocolates, Advil, etc. But I resisted their offers of a spin around Macy's, their unused coupons burning a hole in their pockets.

Roar?

Etiquette

A few months ago, in a fit of perversity, I read Miss Manners' Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior. I guess, like with all reading, I like to see how other people live.

Apparently, other people carry handkerchiefs.

And have a very specific set of personalized embossed stationary.

I did learn a few things of interest:

- A woman is never Mrs. Firstname Lastname, i.e. Mrs. Laura Bush. She is Mrs. George Bush or Ms. Laura Bush or just Mrs. Bush. According to Miss Manners, some people find the convention sexist, but I like it because it encourages the use of Ms., which I prefer for its neutrality, to Mrs. But to each her own.

- The eternal holiday question resolved: Platters of food are passed to the left.
- The eternal event question resolved: Nametags go on the right.

- The proper way to eat asparagus is with your hands.
- Eating spaghetti by twirling the fork into the spoon is improper. Use only the fork.

There you have it, folks. You're now fully prepared to go to spaghetti and asparagus dinner and not make a fool of yourself. Where would you be without me?

Emergency back-up plan

Solutions to blogger's block:

1. Steal entries from other people. (A common crime in the blogosphere).
2. Post entries from my old diaries, c. 7th grade, perhaps (There is the Collected Works of Tacohead, 3rd grade-senior year in a box at my parent's house).
3. Record all conversations verbatim. (Ex. Tacohead: Good morning! Husband: I was a little sleepy last night. Blogging already? The day has just begun! Tacohead: Tell me about it.)
4. Pretend I am CuteOverload and post photos of my cats.
5. Better yet, make ASCII art of my cat. Oh wait, that's been done.
6. Pretend I am PostSecret and make lots of postcards using all the secrets I can think of that my friends have told me. (Hee-hee.)
7. Record my daily schedule. (8:43 wake. 9:04 rise from bed and shower. 9:20 clean kitchen cupboard. 9:34 pay bills 9:41 make grocery list...)
8. Have fake "guest bloggers" write in.
9. Start stripping so I'll have things to write about. Wait. That's been done, too.
10. Start an advice column, Dear Tacohead, and invite others to "spill the beans" by writing in with their problems.

This entry was brought to you by Hot and Spicy Cheez-its, the snack of wives everywhere waiting for their husbands to wake up and go to a coffeeshop with them to read the paper.

Feeling the burn (or Day 5)

It's day five and things are getting tough. I had created a stash of partially written entries and ideas but now I've culled the "good" ones and have been sitting here for half an hour, reading anything within grabbing distance and not getting anywhere.

Any requests?

------

One of the authors of a blog I read occasionally does this thing she calls an Uberlist -- or a giant to-do list sorted by categories (on the link, scroll to Aug. 23). Inspired by her brilliance and my own love of lists, I expanded and consolidated various jotted lists to start on my own Uberlist. As I'm still working on it, I won't post it all, but I will post the 3 things I can already check off!

Cooking: Learn to bake hearty wheat bread (accomplished today, hurrah!)
Knitting: Knit something this fall (started purple hat last night)
Writing: Challenge self to blog every day for two weeks (in progress)

There's nothing like fall for getting things done.

Well, off to cook some fantastic sounding split pea soup to go with the bread.

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.