The last person in the world to sign up for Twin Cities

I said my legs needed a break. That I was excited to do more yoga. That I was tired of having my weekends filled up by long runs.

But I was fooling myself.

I lasted one week without run club. It sucked.

Because here's what has happened frequently during the last six months:
1. Come home from work a. tired or crabby or b. wearied by some life problem
2. Drag self to run club
3. Arrive home feeling happy and strong
And I was scared about not having steps 2 and 3 in my life anymore.

So I took a hard look at why I hadn't signed up for the Twin Cities Marathon in October, and discovered it was two things:

1. Not wanting to steal thunder from good friend and first time marathoner KC
2. Feeling like Grandma's was such a big deal for me and so many people graciously listened to me blabber on about it... and worrying that people would think I would demand the same amount of attention again.

But when I really thought about it, I knew #1 wasn't that big of deal, and #2, well, is pretty stupid, too.

So I really couldn't have procrastinated any longer. The race has been closed for over a month, but my run club gets a handful of guaranteed entries, and even then, I had waited until there were only two left.

This is not like me. I am a planner. I make lists.

So here I am, spending my Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Sundays at run club again. I even agreed to be a pace group leader.

How does this turn of events leave me feeling?
Happy. And strong.

Note: I wrote this post two weeks ago... please excuse the delay in posting.

Inner air conditioning

One and a half months of summer are officially gone, but lo! there is still time to take summer by the reins and keep it from galloping out of control into fall.

And what better way to celebrate it than with cold press coffee.
























Cold press coffee "tastes like coffee smells like it will taste," as my mother-in-law so brilliantly put it. Without the bitter edge created by heat, you taste all of the caramel-y and fruity and mellow flavors in the coffee.

And it is insultingly easy to make that I can't even deign to call it a "recipe." Mix ground coffee (fill grinder to full) and water (4 cups). Let sit overnight. Strain and add 4 more cups water (or water and some milk). Drink all morning long because hey, it's meant to be cold.

There is still time for happy hours on bar patios and bike rides with ice cream stops. But hurry! August has the illusion of being summer, but with all of it's back-to-school urgency and busy-ness, it's not to be trusted.

Making the Founding Fathers proud

It's National Patriotic Holiday again, and as usual we're cramming as many people into my cabin as possible. It used to be that to merit a bedroom you had to be part of a couple; now with all the kids (4 this year!) the ante is upped and Husband and I will soon find ourselves on the porch (or worse: in the garage) if we don't start reproducing.

With the 4th on a Wednesday (how unpatriotic!) and my brother in the BWCA (practically in Canada, traitor!), and with two infants, the weekend promises to be a bit different this year. It's only a hunch, but I'm guessing that less time will be spent
1. drinking

2. tubing

3. playing with fire

Which sounds pretty good to me. Relaxing sounds much more appealing than the usual game of Consume-All-the-Required-Drinks-While-Still-Remaining-Upright! (Having my brother off wandering through the woods helps, because his Bloody Marys and Pina Coladas are considered a must. And it's not like the rounds of shots are optional, either.)

So here's to hoping the weekend doesn't contain poison ivy and emergency room trips (like in '04) or speeding tickets (like in '05).

Extra innings

I'm playing first base. The hit - it's a fly ball, coming to me! I back up, back up, back, back, back... stretch out my arm ... nearly there ... and ...

thunk!

My hand lands solidly on Husband's face.

Oh dear.

"Sorry!" I mumble sheepishly, before turning over and falling back asleep.

Vacation Diaries, Day 10: Marathon!

My last vacation day of the Vacation Diaries challenge was one that I had planned for a long time -- taking Friday off to go up to Duluth for Grandma's Marathon on Saturday.

Worst thing about the race: The weather. It was already hot and humid when the race started at 7:30. By mile 2 I was covered in sweat. The sun was unrelenting, and there weren't any clouds or shade to offer reprieve.

Best thing about the race: The community support and that the race was extremely well organized. The people from Two Harbors to Duluth were awesome, and the city of Duluth really turns out and does an amazing job.

Favorite T-shirts slogans worn by fellow runners:

I'm with stupid (arrows pointing in all directions)

I have to poop

Favorite cheers from the crowd:

Mile 16 - Don't feel bad about the heat, you'll do better next year!

Mile 18 - You're almost there!

Lowest point: At mile 17, realizing that I was alone and would be running the next 9.2 miles by myself

Highest point: Seeing my family seven times, which is so AMAZING it deserves capital letters and a medal and finisher T-shirt of their own. Seeing friends KS, GR, and RL at Mile 25 (and nearly equally as great, distracting myself during Miles 19-25 by idly looking for them).



















Most frustrating point: That damn finish line! It's short sequences of two blocks, two blocks, two blocks, over and over, and each one does not yield the finish line.

Final time — 4:22!

Most proud: Of running the whole thing at a steady pace and feeling good the whole time.

Of course, I want to do it again, but I think I should probably take a break. I also realize that I was incredibly lucky -- with the heat you're just doing your best to guess how much water and gu you need. Next time it could easily be me puking on the side of the street or hobbling on cramped legs.

Blood test #2

I haven't talked very much about volunteering to be a kidney donor for my aunt because it seemed like I should wait until it was official. But it's been on my mind a lot the past few months... and even for the past few years, as I first volunteered three or four years ago. (My uncle (her husband) and my grandma have also donated kidneys to her, but because of a strange blood clot issue, both kidneys died).

I didn't volunteer because I wanted to make some grand noble gesture, I did it because of logic. As someone young, healthy, and closely related but not too closely related, it seemed to me that I was the best option. And sure, I might get some nice presents afterward and get to lie around eating ice cream.

I had my first blood test a few weeks ago -- I passed, but not really because I was a stellar match, but mostly because modern technology could overcome the deficiencies.

I went in for my second blood test earlier this week. If I passed, the final step in the donor screening process would be a trip to Mayo for a lengthy examination.

Test #2: Six vials of blood to test the antibody reaction

When you're young and healthy, it's hard to imagine failing any medical test, even ones that have nothing to do with your relative fitness. So I was surprised and disappointed to hear that I had failed. The antibodies in my aunt's blood reacted too strongly to my blood.

So after preparing myself for the scar, the surgery, the two weeks off from work, and the lifetime ban from playing football, I find myself with a free schedule, and the knowledge that I'll still be able to wear bikinis. (I was still going to, of course, because who cares, but now I won't have to think about).

It's not my fault that I didn't pass, but I still feel sad.

Please tell me

Please tell me that I'm not the only woman to come home, kick off my heels, tear off my button-down blouse, and sink into a bath? Or collapse on the couch with a G&T? Or throw myself in a book with a martini and maybe some good cheese? Or dive into bed and hide under the covers with no drink but also no clothes?

How do women with children do it? After being Madam Boss and Ms. Project Leader and Chief Coordinator of Scary Projects all day, sometimes I need to come home and be 17. 

28

I got some amazing gifts for my birthday this year -- I was truly spoiled by both expense and thoughtfulness -- but I couldn't help taking a picture of this perfect little gift.

I'll hardly be able to stop admiring them to eat them. And what to make? What form will allow for their greatest appreciation? Everything -- scrambled, saladed, quiched, deviled -- sounds sacrilege, yet at the same time, divine.

Compost

I’m embarrassed to admit it took us this long, but we finally got around to getting a compost bin.

“You can’t have a compost bin in the city!” my mom fretted. “The raccoons! The smell!”

I heeded her warnings for awhile, but then realized that since the county sells us compost bins at reduced prices, surely they know what they're doing. So I ordered one.



















Until a recent farmer's market-fueled cooking frenzy expanded its diet, the bin relied a heavily on two H family staples: lime wedges and coffee grounds.

So I guess I ran a marathon!

Everything I'd ever heard about running marathons was about the wall you'd hit at Mile 21. About the blood and tears, the pain and the cursing.

So I was in disbelief at the Med-City Marathon on Sunday, when my only tears were from laughing and the only time I doubled over was with the giggles. Dubbed the "party pack" by the water stop volunteers, our mobile party of 12 goo-gel- and endorphin-high runners whooped, told sex stories, heckled volunteers, and cheered on other runners for 26.2 miles. Part of our giddiness came from the success we were having with a new running strategy. Since it was a training marathon, we wanted to take it easy, and decided to try out 6-and-1s (stopping every six minutes for a one-minute walk) instead of 10-and-1s (once every 10 minutes). The rumor around the run club is that running guru Galloway said that 6-and-1s are really the way to do a marathon, but no one we knew had tried it.

We were stopping every six minutes to walk (crazy!) and running at a slower pace than we usually do, but it soon became clear we were maintaining a 4:30 pace (my goal time for the real marathon). Sure enough, we crossed the finish line at 4:32! Chatting, laughing, and hooting up to the end.

Afterward, wearing our medals and chugging Gatorade, we all stood there, sort of stunned, emotionally detached since this wasn't our real marathon. But proud nonetheless, and knowing that we had been part of something amazing.

Then we split for our respective hotel rooms to lay around in ice.

I've embarked on an intense (and ice-filled) rehab regimen to get these legs back in shape to do it again in three weeks.

And this time, I'm pushing it 'til we get to blood and tears.

Homemade laundry soap

I love laundry. What other chore can you cross off your list while reading a book or making dinner?

But I've never liked laundry detergents. I hate the scents but I dislike paying more to have no perfumes added. A few years ago I spied a bar of Fels Naptha soap at my local upscale grocery and happily put it to good use pretreating stains. So when I saw a recipe for homemade laundry soap using Fels Naptha on Modern Cottage, I put the ingredients on my next shopping list and got to work.

Local upscale grocery had all the ingredients (clearly, I'm part of a trend). It was easier to grate the Fels Naptha bar than I thought -- I little NPR made it a pleasant chore. (Read through the comments on the site to get some good tips on grating and reviews.)

When I first went to use it I had doubts — will this really work? It doesn't foam up or look like it does anything when you add it to the water! But I gave my first few loads a thorough inspection (including the smell test), and yep, it seems to work great.

Tacohead's Running Gear Review

At the camp I went to as a teen, people prided themselves on making do with scavenged gear. Beat-up hiking boots, Goodwill wool sweaters... it was 1996, after all -- deep in the flannel grunge years. And no deeper was it felt than at a canoe tripping camp where you couldn't even wash your hair. But since my parents always sent me off with appropriate REI gear (as they should have), I always feared being called a one of the dirtiest words around camp - a "gear-head."

So you can understand why I'm embarrassed to show my stash of running accouterments. Heck, I was embarrassed to buy most of them. But I quickly learned when I finally tried my first goo-gel that there's a reason this gear exists -- most of it really works. Many of them come recommended from very sensible, experienced people. So I bring you:

Tacohead's Running Gear Review



















BioFreeze. This product has been a near daily part of my life since its purchase. I love it. It's like Icy Hot but fancier and more effective and in a spray bottle. It helps soothe sore muscles and joints and can be applied in seconds.

Frozen veggies. Broccoli and spinach go under the legs, corn and edamame go on the knees. I've used this a lot as a preventative -- when things are a bit sore to prevent them from becoming really sore. Good before and after a run.

Goo gels. I actually like the taste of these enough I could eat them anytime. But for some people they upset the stomach, so test before race day. Although I have no proof, I'm a believer that caffeine helps, so I always pick the kind with caffeine. (Favorites: Powerbar green apple and tangerine). I felt really silly when I started to use these, but it makes sense -- your really body needs the 100 calories and (during hot weather) the sodium that these supply. I use 1 for 13-14 miles (taken at mile 10 or so), 2 for 18-20 miles. About $1-$1.50 each.

Endurox. I was most embarrassed to buy this, but everyone I know who trains uses it. It's a muscle and joint recovery powder that you mix with water and take after long runs. And again, I can't prove it, but I feel like I started recovering better and quicker after taking this. $25 (enough for me and Husband); available at REI and running stores.

The Stick. I finally got one because I figured why not -- it's a staple at my run club, and they were doing a bulk order (only available online) and I figured it was better than trying to massage my own leg muscles. I don't really think it does much, but it helps you feel like you're doing something. $20 (bulk price).

Garmin Forerunner 301. This GPS running watch tells you your pace, speed, and distance -- all based on a satellite. This means you can stop guessing at mileage or counting up long columns of numbers and know exactly how long you run. It also means you always know your pace -- which is amazingly helpful. While this watch has been invaluable to my training, I know there are other good watches out there, so if you're interested, I'd do the research. The only drawback is that it doesn't work in the woods (too much tree cover) or in the rain. It's also big, although the new versions are smaller. $150 (on sale, regularly $200. There are also different version available for different prices).

New Skin Liquid Bandage (not pictured). I've had a blister on my left pinky toe for over a year. It was really causing me pain last fall, but then I read a Wired article about Dean Karnazes (the guy who ran 50 marathons in 50 days) and he talked about using Krazy Glue on his blisters, so I took his suggestion but took it one safer. The blister is still there, but now it doesn't hurt. I apply it every morning as I blow dry my hair (when else am I regularly sitting immobile for five minutes?). Now if I could only figure out how not to get a blister there...

Next I'll find out I'm really a Taurus

My world is thrown upside down. I've lived my life thinking I had type O blood only to find out today that I'm an AB! I've always thought of myself as a universal donor -- now my blood is useless! And instead I am the universal receiver!
The Japanese are particularly into blood type, and think that it influences your personality. Prospective spouses and workplaces judge you based on your type. And it's a good thing I'm already married and employed because they do not like AB's. We are loose cannons, apparently -- a mix of the A/B yin/yang that can't easily be classified. They even sell condoms according to type. (I passed one on my bus route, conveniently located in a vending machine on a residential street, next to an Asahi beer vending machine. Those Japanese are all about the 24-hour no-clerk-interaction-required nature of the vending machine. Thankfully, I never spied any of the famous ones offering used panties.)

Vacation Diaries, Day 9: On the Farm

For the last few years I've dreamed of visiting my grandma and learning from her all the amazing things she knows how to do -- like quilting and sewing, gardening and canning, cooking and baking -- all things I've tried with varying success to learn from books. But for some reason I've felt too dumb to ask her. The vacation challenge gave me the courage I needed, so on Mother's Day my mom and I headed out to the farm.



















Some of my favorite childhood memories occurred at my grandparent's farm — learning how to ride a bike down the apple tree hill, riding in the tractor with my grandpa, ringing the old school bell in my grandma's garden. And what a beautiful farm it is -- it's in that wonderful glacierless part of Wisconsin full of hills and valleys.



















I was still feeling a bit nervous when we arrived, but my grandpa broke the ice by inviting me on four-wheeler ride. Soon we were sailing down the lanes, he on the old three-wheeler, me following on the four-wheeler. We stopped and picked Sweet William for my Grandma and (don't tell mom!) drove down the steep grassy hill by the creek so we could see some deer.

I begun my apprenticeship by learning how to bake rolls. My previous attempts were edible but not great. Under grandma's tutelage we baked Great-Great-Aunt Lila's rolls, and I have to say they turned out great. The skill of grabbing the dough and smoothing it into a roll is certainly something I couldn't have learned from a recipe. (They fetch $7/dozen at bake sales, Grandma informed me).




















We also did a few loaves of bread, to make sure I had down the water temp for yeast (hotter than I thought) and the stickiness of dough while kneading (OK to add flour as needed). We skipped pie crusts because Grandma rightly guessed that I couldn't handle working with lard, but we discussed technique and tips.

I also had a mini-tutorial on gardening, and came home with a bucket of flowers and jars and baggies of seeds. Also a big bag of asparagus that I harvested myself (I didn't get a chance to tell Grandma the kind of price that could fetch in the city).

We didn't get to sewing, but I think I'll take that up with my mom later this summer (I just got Lotta Jansdotter's Simple Sewing and am excited to dive into it). So maybe next summer I'll be ready for Grandma School, Session 2: Quilting and sewing. Or maybe even this winter...

Special thanks to The Scratching Pole for photo editing help.

Medieval torture device

I saw someone curling their eyelashes while waiting at a stoplight this morning and I almost threw up. I don't know what it is about those things but they freak me out.

Vacation Diaries Index

So I have this surplus of vacation days that will be no longer if I don't use them by July. This seems like an opportunity that I should use wisely, as surely wasting days = bad karma = my next job having only 10 days vacation.

If the challenge of finding things that cost little money and that often don't involve [vacation-limited] Husband wasn't enough, I added the following goal for each day used:

1. Go somewhere I haven't been OR
2. Do something I haven't done

Here's what I ended up doing:

Day 1: Madison Weekend
Day 2: Family Discovery Day
Days 3-7: St. John
Day 8: Chicago
Day 9: On the Farm
Day 10: Marathon!

Vacation Diaries, Day 8: Chicago

When I mentioned to my family my vacation problem, my dad immediately rose to the occasion like the adventurer he is and told me to reserve May 3. Over the next couple weeks he peppered me with a series of clues (It's midway between two really cool things. Think of the 12th letter of the alphabet) which of course I didn't get because I thought, as one would, that it would be in driving distance. So when I learned we were flying to Chicago for the day I was super excited. Despite it's relatively close proximity, I'd never been.

We left on a 7:30 am flight, so we touched down in Chicago, hopped on the El, and made it downtown by 9:15. Although we'd already had two coffees, we headed to our first stop, Intelligentsia coffee shop, and spent some time with the barista choosing from their amazing selection of fair trade coffee. We spent so much (including a $33/half pound Brazilian reserve) that we got free coffee, and good thing we did because it was the MOST AMAZING COFFEE I'VE EVER HAD.

Abuzz, we headed over to Millennium Park to see the big silver bean!
It didn't disappoint.



















I'd booked us tickets on the highly recommended Architectural Boat Cruise through downtown, and I was glad I did because it was amazing - we learned a ton about the city and got to see a good portion of it, too.



















We stumbled off the boat, famished, and stumbled into South Water Kitchen for a one-martini lunch, before setting off to the Macy's/Marshall Field's Flagship Store, primarily because it contained a LUSH mini-store -- cause boy do I like my bath and body products. The salesgirls fluttered around us as we whirled through the shop. We decided on a host of sorry-you-stayed-home-gifts for Mom, and for me, Ocean Salt facial scrub, Ultimate Shine shampoo bar, and Wiccy Magic Muscles massage bar for my sore post-run legs.

We returned to Argo Tea, where we'd breakfasted on quiche, so I could get some tea (mango, bubble), which turned out to be the MOST AMAZING TEA I'VE EVER HAD.

Then we shopped, wandered, and explored some more before heading back, scooping up some souvenirs at the airport (including a Chicago big pencil, nostalgically adding to the big pencil collection I had as a kid). My dad dozed on the flight home as I contentedly sipped a Bloody Mary, ate pita chips, and worked my way through a kakuro puzzle book we'd thrown in at the airport.

"We should do this more often," my dad said when he awoke.

I heartily agree.

The zone

When I began my marathon training journey I felt like I should do something good with all of the time I would be spending putting one foot in front of the other. Explore the depth of humanity. Develop an outline for the Great American Novel.

Then I remembered the meditation class I took once and realized I'd be better off getting out of my head and into the zone. The blissful zoned-out state, that is.

And I've gotten better at losing my firm grip on reality. Particularly after the sugar-high of slamming a goo gel. So what did I think about during my three-hour, 18-mile run with Husband last weekend (2:53 for the record) beyond when to take walk breaks, how many miles left, etc.?

1. Noticed that I had a new hot spot leaving a bloodstain on my shoe (adding to the carnage of last week's toe blister explosion 2007).
2. Noticed my new running top encouraged sweat to pool around my nipples, highlighting their existence. Sweet.

That's about it. That and what good is running 18 miles if you don't get to talk about it. Man that's a long time to be doing anything.

Softballs are actually quite hard...

Disclaimer: I wrote this a few weeks ago.

As I've become an adult, I've struggled with a small group of things I expected to like/be able to do, that I've found I've disliked/haven't been able to do very successfully.

For example, drive a manual transmission car.

And when I've encountered these few things, I've had a deep personal battle between:
1. Don't be a quitter! Suck it up!
2. It's OK to not like some things.

This issue came up again when [and here's where I reveal something I've been trying to hide, but I'm sure has been quite obvious] I invited a few female friends to join our XX-deprived softball team.

"I don't really get into team sports," one said.
"Yeah, and I'm afraid of the ball," the second chimed in.

And part of me caved in.

For I, too, was quite surprised to find myself [and here I cringe again] afraid of the ball while playing softball last year, after how many years of youth city league softball? But youth softball was women! Women who didn't want to chip their nails because it was prom season!

"And you, like, broke your nose," the first reminded us.

I know! And surely I should be well over that!

But last year I found myself, stomach in knots, thinking, "Don't hit it to me. Don't hit it to me," and dreading my up at bat.

I didn't admit these things because obviously they are quite a downer. And I don't want to be a downer! I want to be:
1. a team player
2. fun!

But I'm admitting it now, regrettably in a very poor setting, as this is my blog, not my softball team, but I plan to rectify this by admitting to my softball team that softball, well, makes me a little nervous, but I want to give it my all and have fun.

Addition after first game: Hurrah! Confessing my insecurities made me feel a lot better. I think part of problem was thinking that I had to hide it.

Pinching Koala and Tree

Even since the days of Seventeen and Cosmo you can't resist a good quiz.
Find out your secret couples sleep position and what it means.

Courtesy of Evany Thomas, author of The Secret Language of Sleep: A Couple's Guide to the Thirty-Nine Positions.

Welcome home

Saturday night, 12:48 a.m.

The ferry-taxi-plane-plane-taxi-car 12 hours of travel had addled our brains, and we'd begun to do things lose the car keys in the mottled pattern of the comforter on my parent's guest room bed. Our silver suitcase sat outside, forgotten in the joy of greeting the cats, were it would remain until morning, frosty in the Easter dawn.

We'd rescued our toothbrushes and paste, listened to 18 messages of hang-up calls, then pushed open our bedroom door to see this:


















Those crazy cats, I thought, as I swept past.

But I soon realized that this was not the work of cats.


















The culprits revealed themselves on a note clipped to a onesie on the bed, a note that also congratulated us on our pregnancy... a note so happy for us that it almost convinced us that we were pregnant.



















But the toilet paper, whispering around us like the seaweed and coral we'd just snorkeled through, was so beautiful. So we stood, agog, admiring the quality craftsmanship, feeling loved. Then we fell asleep under its magical canopy.


















Too wonderful to take down, it remains, drifting down a piece at a time like ribbons of snow.

Vacation Diaries, Days 3-7: St. John

The fourth annual H family vacation broke a long standing rule of not returning to the same place twice by spending a week again in St. John, USVI.

When we arrived I struggled (as much as one can, when one is lying on the beach sipping a BBC) with the desire to DO SOMETHING I'D NEVER DONE BEFORE, as I so firmly resolved, knowing that by doing so I risked doing something new for doing something new's sake.

Because there are plenty of old standbys that I love. Like hiking. Snorkeling. Kayaking.

Exhibit A: Snorkeling at Waterlemon Cay. (That's Husband, the small dot in red.)


















Exhibit B: Hiking (looking down on Waterlemon Cay)


















I did push myself out of my comfort zone a bit. For example, I had a facial. Delightful. And I tried a mango mojito -- very tasty. I'd do it again. I also drove on the left side of the road for the first time. I even got my passport stamped, by going to Jost Van Dyke and Tortola, beating my "to do before I'm 30" goal shamefully easily. (Obviously one needs to aim higher). But I relented when Husband was less than enthusiastic about the "Chi of Relationships for Couples" class -- he'd suffered enough. And when the weather is perfect and the water, inviting, why spend two hours inside?

Conversation had come to a standstill

"Oh, how he longed for someone to break out of this and say something, if nothing else than a reference to the fact that life has other things to offer. He was really looking for someone to allude to that, if only in a kind of code -- yes, if only someone or other, during one of those quick exchanges in the teacher's lounge, would suddenly point his index finger at the heavens and in that way signal that there existed a long religious tradition, based on Christianity, in our part of the world, and that consequently one often pointed straight up like that, where according to tradition God and his angels, well, the blessed ones too, were supposed to be, for then Elias Rukla would have thrown his arms around his neck, regardless of how ironic such an index finger would have appeared, both to the one who performed this act and to the others."

From Dag Solstad's Shyness and Dignity

Vacation Diaries, Day 2: Family discovery day

I'm not sure what made my Norwegian, fjord-living ancestors stop at Six Mile Grove outside of Benson, Minnesota, and call it home.

But make it home they did, building a church across the way and a school down the lane. All that remains is the cemetery, where my great-great-grandparents and great-grandparents were buried.

































Great-grandpa Rasmus







I spent my vacation day with my dad, exploring his hometown, visiting my (step) grandma (who pressed lefse and hardanger into my hands as I left), eating rosettes and flatbread at the local bakery, and meeting people who are actually named "Swede."

Discoveries:
1. My family has a here-to-unrealized tradition of draft-dodging, starting with my great-grandparents, who left Six Mile Grove for North Dakota for seven miserable years so that the oldest son could stay as the head of household and thus avoid serving in WWI. (See also Grandpa, "sand on the lung," WWII, and Dad, "old football injury," Vietnam).

2. My great-grandma had 14 children in 24 years. If a child died after being born, they used the same name for the next child. (Luckily, twice was always the charm).

3. In leafing through the big book of descendants from my grandma's maternal line, I came across lifelong friends of Husband's family, their neighbors at the Ely cabin. Luckily I did not come across Husband's family itself (Although my dad pointed out the first cousin swap done by the great-grandparents was much worse. Apparently it was slim pickin's at Six Mile Grove.)

The little house on the prairie where my great-great grandparents lived (now on display in the local historical society)












Cozy

Benson is also where they make Shakers vodka using local wheat.

Threes

VACATION PREP
Surely how you prepare for a vacation says a lot about who you are.
For example:
1. Husband packs the day before. I save itemized lists on my computer: I open St. John 2006.doc, make a few minor adjustments, and get packing. ...(at least two days in advance).
2. After once being forced to jettison excess poundage from my suitcase, I now haul my suitcase and plop it down on the home scale before embarking on a flight. But still, when they place my bag on the airport scale, I find myself chatting up the airline worker in hopes that she/he is distracted.
3. I learned just a few years ago* that not all families pack booze in their carry-on wheelie bags so that when they arrive they don't have to hunt down the nearest liquor store (which is usually closed by that time). We also pack our own glasses (we're kind of particular).
*The peals of astonished laughter by a coworker clued me in. This is her favorite Tacohead story.

TOP THREE SIGHTINGS, courtesy of recent lake running:
1. Man in parka, ski mask, and shorts.
2. Woman running while clutching earphone cord in teeth.
3. Man running while holding shirt aloft to display view of abs

RECENT REALIZATIONS
1. This was my last thought before falling asleep Saturday night: If Husband ever contracted head lice (say, from a recent student), I absolutely would not be able to comb through his hair, no matter how much I'd tell myself to suck it up.
2. My friend has a MySpace page for her butt.

Coffee, rediscovered

My parents had very few rules, but they were firm on one: if you're going to drink coffee, you have to learn to drink it black.

And it's a good rule. You need to learn to enjoy the real taste of coffee. There are going to be times when cream and sugar won't be available.

But I'm just finally realizing that just because I can drink it black, doesn't mean I have to.

Specifically, I can add a generous dash of milk.

And suddenly coffee -- unforgiving, harsh on the stomach -- becomes creamy, decadent, sinful.

So when I was driving through St. Peter this weekend and needed a break, the neon "OPEN" sign of the co-op caught my eye, and soon enough I was at the coffee bins, letting glossy rich beans pour down into the brown paper bag, visions of steamy cups dancing in my head.

Vacation Diaries, Day 1: Madison Weekend

Thanks to a random teacher day off, Husband was able to join me for my sojourn to the dairy state to explore its capital with longtime friend and former Maine resident A (and boyfriend, B). Equally important, Husband was able to drive as I read and puzzled and wrote and slept and was a vacationing woman of luxury.

I have to hand it to you, Madison, you're awfully convenient, with your easy walking, plentiful restaurants, and tempting bars. As I shared my vacation challenge with the others it became clear that our most difficult decision would be choosing which of Madison's drinking traditions we should embrace. Ads for the "Two Schlitz lunch" and the famous yet unconquered "boot of beer" beckoned, but we remained firm to our dedication to the ice cream drink. Specifically, the grasshopper - a delicious blend of creme de menthe, creme de Cacao, and vanilla ice cream. On Saturday, when A and B shared their recent homebrewing efforts, we made it a theme weekend by indulging in beer floats -- dark creamy homebrew with organic vanilla ice cream.


















Other adventures...
You know all those times you've gone snowshoeing and wondered if you really needed them?
I present you: the time I went hiking but really needed snowshoes.


















We could hardly drive through Mount Horeb without stopping at the Mustard Museum. I was ready to express fake enthusiasm for homemade displays but no! The museum was a class act*, with rows and rows of mustard for purchase (and sampling) . I was overcome with a zealous passion for mustard... where has mustard been all my life?!
*Well, except for the "Poupon U" merchandise.
























We wandered down the obligatory and legendary State Street, eating (biscuits rivaling mustard in my newfound cult-like devotion), shopping (why don't we have a Community Pharmacy?), and exploring (shortcut through the Capitol! Liberty indeed). Everything is so much more fun when you're out of town and unchained from the errand-running, chore-completing responsibilities that mar weekends at home.
























This picture sums up the weekend quite nicely. What a treat it is to write, sipping a G&T with friends around, making dinner and chatting after a day of exploring.
The giant bowl of sweet potatoes fries is just gravy.

Vacation Diaries: Intro

So for the past month I've been scheming about what to do with my surplus of vacation days that will be no longer if I don't use them by July. This seems like an opportunity that I should use wisely, as surely wasting days = bad karma = my next job having only 10 days vacation.
If the challenge of finding things that cost little money and that often don't involve [vacation-limited] Husband wasn't enough, I've added the following goal for each day used:

1. Go somewhere I haven't been OR
2. Do something I haven't done

I'm proud to report that my first day (Friday) and the accompanying weekend were successful.

Stay tuned for Vacation Diaries, Day 1: Madison weekend.

TEASER:
Which "never-done" Wisconsin-pride alcohol-related challenge did Tacohead accept?
1. The boot of beer - the realization that none of us had never "done the boot"
2. Ice cream drinks - a small town supper club tradition, the dairy state at its best
3. The two-Schlitz lunch - proudly offered by one downtown establishment... could we resist???

Teenage angst

Aww, cute. A picture of the cats. But look closer.















See the guilty look in their eyes?
No? Me neither. But you can at least see
the PHONE CORD that they chewed through.

Snowed in

Finally, a snowstorm to be proud of.















Perfect for making progess on my bread-baking goals







Whole wheat dough,
on the rise






And taking my domestic nerdiness to new heights.






Embroidery, courtesy of Sublime Stitching's Camp-Out! collection

Divison of labor

When Husband and I got married, we thought we had it all figured out. He would do the dishes, and I’d take the laundry. Done! Marital strife averted. And with newlywed glee and an easy apartment, it was nearly enough.

But a little over a year later we bought a house, and cleaning clothes and dishes became a treat when faced with taxes, home repairs, and lawn care.

In a fit of fear and frustration, I made a list. Under my name I wrote the things that were mainly my responsibility: managing money/paying taxes, cleaning, household upkeep and decor (yes, I actually used those words), and planning vacations. Husband got household repair, outdoor upkeep, errand running, and pet maintenance.

I actually called Husband at work to discuss this. I remember pleading with him to take something, and he agreed to take on vacation planning.

Now when I find that list I laugh. It wasn’t funny then – I remember being near tears – but we’ve reached a place where we both feel more comfortable with our responsibilities. And our approach continues to evolve – Husband really takes the lead on cooking, to the point where I feel like I’m losing my skills. But there’s nothing like arriving home to Husband cooking dinner, offering to make me a drink as I read the mail and unwind.

Yes, we’ve got it all figured out.

That is, until a baby throws it all to hell.

Half-marathon

Miles 1-4. Hmm. Don't know if I can do this.
Mile 5. Subconsciously speed up in anticipation of half-way point. Get light-headed. Swear.
Mile 6.5 About frigging time.
Miles 6.5-8 La la la...
Mile 8 Gu gel! Mmm, tangerine.
Miles 8-10 Sugar high.
Mile 10 Big frigging hill. The "You could just stop" demon starts whispering seductively in my ear.
Mile 11 Seriously doubt viability of marathon.
Mile 12 Hurrah! Promise myself that in just nine minutes I never have to run again.
Mile 12.8 Walk very steep, short hill. Break into run and pass those who ran up the hill. See you, suckers! Spy finish line blocks away but quell excitement in case a mirage.
Mile 13.1 Finish line! Eat that!
Mile 13.2 Difficulties fade in warm glow of success and central heating. Thoughts turn excitedly to upcoming marathon.

My capacity

NAME CHANGE
I think I should change my blog name to "My Capacity for Self-Preservation" because as much as Husband runs into trouble and mayhem, I stave off embarrassment and trouble. And then we could have his 'n' hers blogs, and how cool would that be.

GROWING OLD
I really dread the day when I will have to change my profile to say "late twenties" or god forbid, "early thirties."

ADVENTURE
At all points in time I am simultaneously working on goals in the following categories:
-Self improvement (health, mind, skills, personal growth)
-Relationships (friends, family, Husband)
-Career
-Home (improvement, decor/upkeep)

And as things happen, the goals shift in relative importance to one another.
For example: Friend EC comes to happy hour with Sex and the City-esque tales of hijinks.
Thus: Home improvement goals fall; ADVENTURE goals rise.

Grassy

Remember when my cats were destroying my plants, and I grew them grass, but they eshewed it?

Apparently, like children, they need to try it many times before discovering that they like it.

Or maybe they needed Sylvester to show them how it's done.

Cadbury eating from a Chia cat grass garden, a Christmas present from my brother.

But really, I think they started eating it because they knew how much I would enjoy adding yellow and cartoon figures to my living room decor.

Canoodling

The New York Times has an homage to the inventor of the ramen noodle, who died Friday.

The cafeteria at my university in Japan served something called "Stamina Ramen," which I thought was the ramen equivalent of the monster cookie, but apparently contains pork, garlic, and leeks.

I always wondered if it was supposed to be for test-takers or runners, but I secretly hoped it was for lovers.

Peace Rally Tuesday

There is a peace rally in my neighborhood every Tuesday. As I speed up the highway exit, there they are, handmade signs, kids, sometimes a dog, just a half dozen of them, really. They tilt their cardboard peace signs at me. There is no call to action -- just "PEACE."

And I think, every week, as I creep up to make a right turn on red, "WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?"

Still, I wonder.

Every Tuesday.

PEACE.

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?