Tales From the Life of a SportsFan's Daughter

Why is 6 Afraid of 7? Because it's an Epic Book by Jen Hatmaker

2012-01-15T19:36:00.001-08:00

In the spirit of full disclosure, let me start with a confession: I have a huge girl crush on Jen Hatmaker. It began when my friend Lisa sent me a link to this blog post about the exhausting work of welcoming adopted children into your family. I would seriously rather you read that post right now than this post, if you had to choose one. It's just so good. So honest, so funny, so heartbreaking, so human. I loved her instantly. I texted my friend Anna, who is also in the process of adopting through the foster system, and told her she HAD to check out this Jen Hatmaker character (She was way ahead of me, as per usual). I started following her on twitter where it became evident we share a love of all the same "F"s: family, food, faith, and football. It was then that I became 100% convinced that she was my long lost best friend.

So when she extended an offer to send a free copy of her forthcoming book, '7,' to any bloggers who were interested in reviewing it, I was on it like white on rice - or in "our" case, like mayo on a fully loaded panini sandwich. It arrived just after Christmas and I know that God really wanted me to read it because my 10 month old actually slept on the plane ride home from my in-laws, allowing me to get totally hooked.

Here's the premise (taken from JenHatmaker.com):

"A seven-month experimental mutiny against excess, tackling seven areas of overconsumption in the spirit of a fast; a fast from greed, irresponsibility, apathy, and insatiability. Each area boiled down to just seven choices for a month:

Food.
Clothes.
Possessions.
Media.
Waste.
Spending.
Stress.

Only seven foods for a month. Only seven pieces of clothes for a month. Give away seven things we own a day for a month. Eliminate seven forms of media for a month. Adopt seven substantial habits for a greener life. Spend money in only seven places. Practice "seven sacred pauses" a day and observe the Sabbath...a deeply reduced life to find a greatly increased God."

Crazytown, right? Give away 7 things A DAY for an entire month? Maybe we weren't meant to be best friends. Or if we were, she'd be the salt-of-the-earth type of friend that is relatable and funny in spurts, but mostly too pious to really enjoy.

In '7,' though, Jen Hatmaker manages to chronicle her "experimental mutiny" with thought provoking wisdom and relatable humor that reaffirmed my girl crush once and for all. She sets the stage by noting that "When we hear 'fast,' we put on a yoke of self-denial. When God said 'fast,' He meant to take off the yoke of oppression," but she isn't too pious to include her private conversation with a failed dinner entree: "I hate you, separated cheddar cheese sauce that ruined my creamy sauce. Why are you so temperamental about heat? Velveeta would never treat me like this."

Long story short, I loved the book. It dominated so many of my conversational contributions that I can now refer to it as "that book that makes me want to be a better person" and my friends know what I'm talking about. I alternated between reading it strictly as an observer and engaging it in a personal way, wondering how Hatmaker's observations about her own overconsumption were applicable to my life as well. It's an enjoyable read either way, and a potential life changer if you lean toward the latter.

Case in point: Reading '7' was the push I needed to declare my 2012 New Years Resolution to only shop second hand. It also spurred me to contact a local under-privelaged elementary school to see if they could make use of some items that I would have normally just donated to the Goodwill. It turns out that they can in fact use our old electronics, and they could use some school uniforms too, so now I've rallied some girlfriends to collect as many as we can.

Read this book if you want to be challenged about your own contribution to the consumer machine. Read this book if you could use a laugh at the expense of a soccer mom who takes away her kid's TV and video games for a month when they didn't even get in trouble. Read this book if you could use a good cry. Or a good laugh.

And just in case she's reading this: Dear Jen, I love you. Not in a creepy stalker way, but in a it's-really-a-shame-our-life-paths-didn't-cross-because-I-bet-we-would-have-had-a-good-time kind of a way. My favorite part of '7' was the adoption story sub-plot, and I completely lost my sh*t when you were all, "I want you to know their names." So tender. Keep it up, and keep it coming. XOXO - Anna

Five for Friday: Rules of Engagement for Healthy Marital Fighting

2012-01-06T09:02:00.000-08:00

These have been culled and invented over our 8+ happy years together, entirely out of necessity. We actually follow these rules, and I totally credit our practice of fighting fair for a good chunk of our happy marriage.

1. No Name Calling. Includes names like 'control freak,' 'imbecile,' and 'crazy person,' not that any of these have ever been uttered in our household. Also includes all name-calling expletives.

2. No Raising Your Voice. I know this kind of takes the fun out of it, but maybe that's the point.

3. No Generalizations. You always do that. You never do this. You're so [adjective] all the time. The idea is that if we're fighting, it's because of a specific incident that likely just happened. So now we're worked up, which is the worst time to do anything other than try to resolve the specific instance at hand. When a generalization is thrown into the ring, the appropriate response is, "Right now we're discussing X. If you feel that you'd also like to discuss the more general issue of Y, please initiate that conversation when we're more calm and have a better chance of seeing eye-to-eye. For now, let's stick to X."

4. No Interrupting. Want to make a mad person madder? Don't let them finish their sentence.

5. No Imitations. I know this seems bizarre, but does your husband use the same crotchety old lady voice to imitate both you and his grandma? As in, "And then you were all, [crotchety old lady voice begins now:] 'It's your turn to do the dishes!'" To which you reply, "I did NOT say it like that! I DO NOT sound like that!" So maybe you were about to have a tiny little fight about the dishes, but now you're going to have a big fat fight because you're seeing red over the misrepresentation of what you said. The appropriate alternative to impressions is, "When you said X (e.g when you asked me to do the dishes), it felt like Y (e.g. it felt like you were talking down to me)."

New Years Resolutions: Adoption Remix

2012-01-03T11:04:00.001-08:00

No, I don't have a second set of New Years Resolutions specifically centered around our forthcoming adoption. I do have a second set of thoughts about 2012, though.

I'm entering 2012 feeling full of sadness about our adoption. I am still completely excited about growing our family, about meeting this next baby, about everything that comes with a new baby (okay, maybe not the sleep deprivation part, but pretty much everything else). We are still completely sure that we want to do this. We still have peace in our hearts about this journey.

But as I greet this new year, the peace in my heart feels heavy. I can't help but remember the start of 2011, the year that we would become parents and meet the baby that was in my [oh so large] belly at the time. I didn't make any resolutions because the year seemed to hold so much change. I knew that simply adapting to that change would likely consume me. I already felt so much love for the baby growing inside of me (whom we wouldn't know the gender of until his birth), I could only imagine how that love would rock my world when there was an actual baby in my arms. And now that he's here, it would be impossible to overstate how much I love him, and how changed I am by his presence in my life.

And then I think about the baby that we will meet in 2012, likely growing in his or her mother's belly right now. I wonder if she's feeling the same things I felt last year - overwhelming love, excited anticipation, the promise to be a good mom. Does she rub her belly every morning as she wakes up like I did, grateful to feel her baby kicking around in there? Does she look at other babies and wonder what her baby will look like? Do tears come to her eyes like they did to mine when she thinks about finally feeling that baby resting on her chest?

I hope that all of those things are true. I hope with palpable desperation that the baby in her belly feels a mother's love. But knowing what will happen next, that a Child Protection Services worker will have to take that baby away from her due to "abuse or neglect," my heart breaks for her. There are a million roads that could have possibly led her to that end - addiction, mental illness, an abusive partner, systematic failure to impart basic life skills - but no matter what the circumstances are, I can't fathom a situation in which having your baby taken away from you is not completely devastating. And so my heart feels heavy for her. I'm sharing in her heartbreak today.

My heart breaks for the baby, too. He or she will become a part of our family only because the family that was supposed to raise him or her was unable to. Worse, for that failure to even be known by us means that there will be actual hardship. The baby that we will call ours will suffer "abuse or neglect," and then grow up without a biological family. In so many ways, it's downright unnatural. In so many ways, it seems impossible to survive. I feel crushed under the weight of it all. I'm sharing in this sweet baby's heartbreak today.

And then there's us. The adult children of two sets of married parents that both still buy us stocking stuffers. The parents to a healthy baby boy that came easily and with nothing but joy. A support system of friends that have known us since a time before cell phones. And none of it seems fair. Our good fortune feels so lavish, so uncommon, so completely opposite to the despair that our baby will be born into. My heart breaks for the injustice of it all.

*****

After a week or so of this heartbreak stirring up inside of me, I finally told Shane how I was feeling last night. To say the words out loud seemed almost impossible. I wept for the mother, for the baby, for the thousands of babies everywhere that might never belong to a loving family, for our own family for being so brave to support us through this all. Bless his heart, Shane just let me weep. He didn't try to lessen it or fix it or make sense of it, all of which would have been impossible anyways. He just listened until I had unloaded it all, and then he quietly said the only thing that could have possibly felt both true and hopeful at that moment: It's God's baby. It's not ours, and it's not hers; he or she belongs to God. Just like Louie belongs to God. Just like we all do.

New Years Resolutions: Something Lame, Something New

2012-01-02T09:01:00.000-08:00

I'm not great at New Years Resolutions. Well, I can't think of any that have been particularly transformative, at least. I don't necessarily expect this year to be any different, as lame as that sounds. The things that I most hope to accomplish this year are so cliche it's embarrassing. Lose some weight, save some money, blah blah blah. The thought that half of all Americans (I totally made that up) are resolving to do the exact same things, and the knowledge that most of them will fail (I also made that up, but I'm pretty sure I could find a statistic to back me up) is frankly depressing.

I have one creative resolution that I haven't totally committed to yet, but maybe by telling you about it right now I'll be forced to own it. What if every purchase I made in 2012, with the exception of food, was secondhand? Clothing, household items, gifts (?), furniture, all of it. This appeals to me for a variety of reasons:

1. 'Reusing' is one of the original ways to go green. I certainly haven't made going green a big priority (I considered using cloth diapers for approximately zero seconds before deciding that that the ability to throw a poopy diaper away and never touch it again was totally worth ruining the planet. Yeah, I'm the worst.), but I'm all for incorporating a greener lifestyle one step at a time.

2. Curbing impulse shopping. I'm really not a huge impulse shopper, and even my husband would back me up on that. I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't come home from a diaper run to Target with shoes and earrings, though. Since a lot of secondhand shopping requires a fair amount of effort (finding something on Craigslist, having cash, driving to a stranger's house, bathing in Purell upon leaving the Goodwill, etc), I'll have to decide ahead of time that I really need something and that I need it enough to do put in all that effort.

3. Saving money. Used stuff costs less than new stuff. The end.

4. A fun little challenge. I'm not going to lie: I actually like shopping at thrift stores. I enjoy the hunt, the thrill of finding a rare treasure, the bargain. It kind of turns shopping into a sport. Making it a way of life for a whole year is a challenge I think could be pretty rewarding.

So, what do you think? Am I crazy? Would you be totally offended/repulsed if I gave you something used as a gift? What if it was as cute as this Pinterest find:

Source: blog.craftzine.com via Nicole on Pinterest

Secondhand find (Bob Ross style painting) + minor crafting (stick on letter decals, paint the whole thing, remove decals) = one of a kind art. Chance that I would lose steam and make Shane do the "crafting" part: high to quite high.

Assorted Tips, Hope They Help

2011-12-15T13:35:00.000-08:00

I'm following Seth Godin's lead and offering up some totally random assorted tips, because seriously, who doesn't love unsolicited advice???

1. Never underestimate the value of a sincere apology. If you blew it, own it.

2. If you're washing your hair every day, you're wasting your time.

3. There is probably at least one thing that's making you ask yourself, "Am I normal?" The answer is probably yes - the scope of "normal" is much broader than you think.

4. The only 2 things that you can do to actually slow your skin's aging process are to use a prescription retinoid and minimize your UV exposure by staying out of the sun or wearing SPF 30 (or higher) every day. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling you something.

5. If you're thinking about getting a dog, you probably shouldn't.

6. All you can do is all you can do. Remind yourself of this often, especially if you're a mom.

7. The best way to clean your microwave is to nuke a bowl of water for 2-3 minutes and let it sit in the closed microwave for another minute or so, then just wiped it out with a kitchen sponge. Seriously, you're welcome.

8. Save money on groceries without using the word 'coupon' as a verb: Never pay more than $1.99 per pound for chicken breasts, and never pay more than $2.00 for a box of cereal. These sale prices are easy to come by at least once a month.

9. Once something is in your closet it doesn't matter what a good deal it was.

10. Pick your favorite thing in your nearby natural environment (the sunset, the ocean, the mountains, etc) and make it a point to be around it more often.

An Open Response to An Open Letter: Hoping My Kids are Grateful

2011-12-12T21:58:00.000-08:00

My friend who’s an adult adoptee and has been very thoughtful in offering encouragement and perspective about adoption since I’ve started sharing our adoption journey recently sent me a link to “An open letter to APs [Adoptive Parents], PAPs [Prospective Adoptive Parents], and anyone who has even considered adoption.” My friend included the disclaimer that she didn’t necessarily agree with everything in the letter, but noted that the writer details some issues that Shane and I should keep in mind as we raise an adopted child. I’m grateful that she passed the link along to me, although it wasn’t an easy read.

I encourage you to read the whole thing if you’re particularly interested in the topic and have the time, but for those of you who’d like the CliffsNotes, here is my own synopsis of the main points:

“To be joyful about adopting a child is to be glad that [a] tragedy happened... The very foundation of adoption is that of loss.”
“Adoption should be the very last resort after all other options have been tried” to keep a biological family together.
“Adopted people know we are a... Plan “B”... please don’t put the added pressure on an adopted child by forcing them to live up to the unspoken standard of the child you couldn’t conceive...”
Adoptive parents should be totally open with their adopted children about their heritage and adoption story without ever disparaging the child’s biological family.
“Adoptees are the only subset of society who are wholly expected to be grateful for our very lives, and with this expectation comes the need to try to suppress any negative emotion or feeling.”
Don’t make a big celebration out of the anniversary of the day a child was adopted since the foundation of adoption is one of loss in one form or another. Also, birthdays can be very difficult for adoptees and big birthday celebrations should be exercised with caution.
“Adoption should be about finding homes for children in need, NOT finding children for people to fill a need.”

Pretty rough, right? This letter sparked a lot of introspection for me and a lot of conversation for Shane and I together. I wanted to share some of those thoughts here.

First, I want to commend the writer for putting voice to her feelings and thoughts, and furthermore for using her voice to educate others. She has obviously suffered a great wound, and it takes tremendous courage and dedication to pursue a road of healing.

Admittedly, I felt a little scorned as a “PAP,” although I don’t believe that was the writer’s intention. Even though I think we’re “exempt” from some of her admonitions since we’re adopting through the foster care system (ensuring that preservation of the biological family is the first priority and that no one is pressured into giving up their child), and we’re fortunate enough to be able to conceive biological children of our own (making the whole "Plan 'B'" thing a moot point), I didn’t emerge unscathed. Ultimately, I felt like like the point of view from which Shane and I are approaching adoption, one of gratitude and love and tremendous responsibility, is not even considered in the letter. Moreover, the writer seems in many instances to use her personal experience as an absolute, to assume that all adoptees share her thinking.

What unsettled me most in this open letter was the writer’s contempt towards the idea that adoptees should feel grateful that they were adopted. While I painfully understand that adoption can only occur after some sort of loss and that no one should be made to feel grateful for personal tragedy, is it possible to separate that tragedy and subsequent need for adoption from the life that follows? I’m not asking if it’s possible to pretend that the tragedy and adoption didn’t happen, I’m asking if it’s possible to be grateful for one’s life story despite that wound. Is it possible to be glad that you were raised by the family that adopted you while still acknowledging that it’s a great loss to have little or no relationship with your biological parents? I can’t help but wonder if some adoptees are grateful that they’ve been adopted into their respective adoptive families.

In the same way that the writer of this letter is looking at the world through her personal experiences, I am looking at the world through my own experiences, and my personal experience includes a tremendous amount of gratitude for my family. I was raised in a family that loved me deeply, made my needs a priority, provided me with an education, taught me the priceless values of self-respect and hard work, and modeled healthy relationships for me. Not a day goes by that I’m not grateful for that. And the thing is, I hope that Shane and I can provide the kind of family that our kids - both biological and adopted - will be grateful for. I hope we can come alongside them as they suffer the injustices of childhood, that we can see them for who they are and foster their individual spirits, that we can paint on their hearts the notion that they are created in the image of a perfect and wonderful God and that that is how we see them as our children. I don’t expect our kids to be grateful, not for a few decades at least, but I sure hope that I can earn their gratitude one day.

As I compare the writer’s bad experience of being made to feel that gratitude was expected of her with my own hopes to create a family worth being thankful for, I wonder - and this is not a rhetorical question - when it comes to hoping that my kids will be glad that I am their mom and that this is their life, am I supposed to treat my biological kids differently than my adopted kids? If I’m willing to do the work, can I hope and pray that all my kids are happy that I call them my own?

Dog Days Are Over. Maybe.

2011-12-06T20:54:00.000-08:00

Okay I'm just going to say it: We're thinking about getting rid of our dogs. Wipe that look off your face and just hear me out.

Let's just get a few facts out on the table:

1.) The dogs are supposedly "Shane's dogs." He's the one that wanted them. He promised to take care of them. (If you have an 8 year old son this probably sounds familiar, right?) He even said that he would take Jim to work in his truck every day.

2.) None of that is happening.

3.) What *is* happening is that now that I am a stay at home mom (not to be confused with a SAHM) *I* am taking care of them. I manage their mess to make our home appropriate for our crawling baby. I manage the constant confusion between dog toys and baby toys that everyone seems to have. I turn into a guest on Jerry Springer every time the mailman incites a bark fest that threatens to wake the baby. I am mortified every time a thoughtful friend stops by and my dogs try to attack her and then run away.

4.) We fight about it. It starts with me nagging, then Shane gets defensive, and there's just no way out of it. I'm annoyed that they cause so much work and hassle for me, and Shane is annoyed that I'm annoyed. It's not great.

So. These fights have been building over the last year since I've been home. In my experience, recurring fights get a little worse each time they happen, and this is no exception. It's reached a boiling point recently.

Then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, Shane announces that he's ready to get rid of the dogs if that's what I want to do. I am dumbfounded. I did not even know this was an option. In all of my complaining about the dogs I just wanted them to not be my problem. It didn't occur to me that the solution to this would be anything other than making them Shane's problem.

You would think, as Shane thought, that I would be happy about this. He thought that I would be posting a "Loving Home Needed" ad on Craigslist before he could even get the words out of his mouth. Instead, we fought more.

We fought because I am conflicted about the implications of getting rid of them. Not the implications for them, the implications for me. It's the age old question: What will people think of me?

As I worked myself into a total tailspin about the prospect of getting rid of them, I realized that the reason it felt so heavy is because it is a concrete example that I can't do it all. I am failing at managing a house and a baby and a baby on the way and these two dogs. And admitting that out loud, much less admitting through taking action, is depressing.

I know I'm supposed to already know that nobody can do it all, and I'm supposed to say that admitting it feels freeing or something. Well it doesn't, okay? It feels like everyone else can manage their babies and their pets, and I can't. Everyone else is all laid back and patient and either vacuums every day or is somehow totally at peace with dog hair all over the place. I mean, what other explanation is there for the fact that gazillions of families have kids and dogs, but having 1 kid and 20 pounds of dog is making me crazy?

In the meantime, we've reached a compromise. Shane will train the dogs. Since I refuse to let the story read, 'It was due to Anna's inability to tolerate the dogs that alternate housing had to be found,' I demanded that the onus be put back on Shane. Now, the story might read, 'It was because Shane never invested the time to train the dogs that alternate housing had to be found. Anna remains thin, attractive, and able to manage the household with grace and poise.' Shane has until February to specifically train the dogs to remain calm when someone comes to the door. If that can be accomplished, I have agreed to make peace with the additional housework the dogs create.

Stay tuned.

Competent is Complicated: The To-Do List of Foster/Adoption

2011-11-21T10:49:00.000-08:00

So. We've decided to adopt a child through the foster care system in Sacramento County. Now what?

Now, we work. I've been staring at a blank computer screen for nearly a half hour now, trying to figure out how to write this. How to make it interesting and relatable, how to be accurate yet clever. The bottom line is this: The County doesn't really care about the emotional journey that has led us here. They are not interested in my sentimental reflections or [attempted] irreverent wit. They are not impressed by us at all.

They just want to know that we're competent. The thing is, 'competent' is complicated. We're not just talking about caring for a child, we're not even just talking about raising a child, we're talking about parenting a child who has other parents - "real" parents - who have in some way failed at being parents. We're talking about parenting that child in a way that honors those parents while acknowledging the wounds they have caused. Parenting in a way that attempts to heal those wounds no matter how many times they re-open. Parenting in a way that says, "I love you exactly as much as I would if I had carried you in my own belly," yet makes sense of the myriad court hearings and biological parent visitations and other reminders that this child definitely did not grow in my own belly.

So it is understandable that proving our competency is a long and complicated process. I think of it as a parallel pregnancy journey. Weren't we more than happy to attend all of those prenatal doctor appointments? Didn't I voluntarily spend hours googling every pregnancy topic I could think of and checking in each week to see how big our growing baby was, in the universally accepted fruit-measurement system (e.g. "week 15: your baby is as big as an orange now!")? The yoga, the birthing classes, the hospital tour, the trips to Dairy Queen - preparing for a baby all adds up.

This is exactly the same, only totally different. Here's a quick rundown of the steps we're required to take:

1.) Orientation Meeting. A general overview of the foster care system and the foster to adopt process. (3 hours)

2.) Application. Over 30 pages, took about 5 hours to complete. Every insurance policy number, everywhere we lived and worked, an essay about our upbringing, an essay about why we're doing this, our thoughts on discipline, personal information about our marriage, how much money we make, how much money we spend, more.

3.) Four personal (non-family) referrals. We provide names and addresses and the county mails them each a referral questionnaire so that we never see it.

4.) CPR & First Aid Certification

5.) Physical exam

6.) TB test

7.) Two sets of fingerprints (each)

8.) Eight weeks of parenting classes. (24 hours total)

9.) An additional "regulations" class (3 more hours)

10.) Home Inspection. To make sure everything is childproof, there are adequate smoke detectors, fire extinguishers, etc.

*** At this point we will be certified to be foster parents, but not yet approved to be adoptive parents. Prospective adoptive parents (that's us) generally don't have a child placed with them until they are approved for adoption.

11.) Home Study. A series of 3 to 4 interviews conducted over the course of a few months - including interviewing us separately - to make sure we can hack it and that our marriage can hack it.

We're currently just about at step ten. Sacramento County currently has TWO social workers that do Adoption Home Studies (there are over 3,400 children in the foster care system in the greater Sacramento region, for those of you keeping score at home). Due to this severe under staffing, we've been told that our Home Study probably won't be completed until 6-9 months from the time our application was received.

So we wait. And we work. And we pray.

Where Do [Adopted] Babies Come From?

2011-11-16T20:14:00.000-08:00

As I covered in my last post, I've known about the birds and the bees for quite some time now. When considering adoption, though, babies can come from all kinds of crazy places. I mean, all babies come from a uterus, let's be honest, but that uterus can live in all kinds of crazy places.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have decided to adopt from a faraway, exotic land called...Sacramento County. Specifically, we are adopting through the foster care system, a process known as foster-to-adopt (or fost-adopt, as the cool kids say).

Fost-adopt wasn't even on my radar when I first started thinking about adoption as a young adult, and it wasn't even on my radar when Shane and I first discussed adoption in those very early, very hypothetical conversations. I just knew that I wanted to be a family for a child who needed a family, and beyond that I really didn't care much about the details of how that would go down.

When adoption would come up in conversation with friends or acquaintances in those early days, our consideration of adoption was often met with remarks like, "Isn't adoption super expensive?" or "I think it takes like 10 years and $20,000 to adopt a baby... are you guys ready for that?" I'm not sure I really understand the motivation behind asking questions like that. It usually just felt like thinly veiled disbelief (There's no way these idiots know what it takes to adopt a baby; this will never happen). To be honest, though, I didn't have much of an answer. I remember thinking that if spending tens of thousands of dollars was the only way to adopt a child who needs a home that something was very, very broken.

I felt confident that there had to be a more straightforward way to bring a child into our family though adoption than hiring lawyers and spending tens of thousands of dollars. Surely there was an avenue for people like us - who weren't dead set on Russia or Ethiopia or Caucasian - to adopt a kid who needs a family. I knew in my heart that there was a way, I just didn't know what that way was.

And then some friends-of-friends adopted their third child and showed us the way. We were casually acquainted with this family through mutual friends and our church, which they also attended. They had 2 children, both of whom were adopted domestically after they discovered that they were unable to have biological children. I knew they had used an adoption lawyer (translation: spent a lot of money), and I didn't really think of this family as 'adoption advocates' or anything. Many people probably didn't even know that their kids were adopted. When they decided to have a third child, however, they opted to adopt through the foster care systems with the help of an agency called Angels.

As I heard about what they were doing - becoming foster parents with the plan of adopting their foster child - I knew that this was the way for us. This is what my heart had been wanting all these years.

The practical reason that I knew this was our path to adoption is the accessibility. Bottom line: We can't afford the lawyer fees, agency fees, and potential travel fees that private and/or international adoption entail. I suppose that if we felt a strong desire to adopt from a particular country we could have made it a priority to save the $8,000 to $20,000 required to do so (see one family's Haitian adoption cost breakdown here). Our desire to adopt has never been about a connection to any particular country, though, so that kind of financial planning was never really on the table.

The sentimental reason that I knew foster-to-adopt was our path is because we are capable. While adopting through the foster care system generally won't cost you a dime, the "emotional cost" can be immeasurable. The catch, as it were, is that the county's first goal for foster children is to reunite them with their biological families. What this means for prospective adoptive parents is that we could potentially have a foster child placed in our home whom we hope to adopt - we bond with them and care for them and love them as our child - and then the county could decide that the formerly abusive or negligent parent has gotten their act together and should resume parenting. It is a daunting prospect, to say the least. For us, though, it's not a deal breaker, and the fact that it doesn't feel totally wrong kind of makes it exactly right.

What I mean is that we feel like we can afford the emotional cost. We acknowledge how painful it could be to consider a child ours, and then have that child taken away from us; we acknowledge that having a transracial family (a likely possibility) brings with it a host of challenges; we are aware that the myriad hoops that we will have to jump through will be frustrating and exhausting... and we feel like we can survive it. We have an emotional safe deposit box that holds a mind-boggling support system of family and friends, a decade-long romance built on trust and communication, and faith in the Good Lord's plan for our lives. It's not that we feel that we're strong enough or good enough or spiritual enough, it's that we feel that we have been given enough. We feel like we can be those people. We are becoming those people.

The One Where I Make My Parents Tell Me Where Babies Come From

2011-11-09T14:14:00.000-08:00

In my last few posts I've laid out the basic storyline of how Shane and I individually and cooperatively decided that we'd like to pursue adoption as a means of creating our family. In summary (this is an exercise for myself more than a reminder for you): I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my own family and a compassion for others who didn't have an opportunity to experience such fulfilling family relationships. For Shane, although the initial idea of adoption came as a suggestion from me, the birth of our son awakened a compassion in him for children whose needs are going unmet, and it also created an awareness that his capacity for unconditional love could be freely shared with a child that was not blood-related to him.

Part of the backdrop for these realizations on our part, however, is that I've known several family members and friends who have adopted children in one form or another, and I think our exposure to these relationships helped to make adoption seem like a more accessible concept for our family. As with almost anything, having the opportunity to see it done - and in these instances done well - allows an observer the chance to imagine themselves in that situation. I really believe that our exposure to these adoption stories is what created a fertile planting ground for our "seed of desire" and "seed of curiosity" regarding adopting a child of our own.

*****

The first adoption relationship that I was aware of is actually that of my father and his mother. My biological paternal grandmother died in childbirth with my father, her firstborn. Her widower, my grandpa, remarried 18 months later and his new wife took on the task of raising my father as her own, in addition to bearing 3 more children. Although this isn't really adoption in the way that most people think of adoption, there is no getting around the fact that my dad is in no way biologically related to his mother. But let me tell you, that woman is his mom, dammit. And I mean that in the best way possible.

The second adoption relationship that came onto my radar is that of my cousin, Sam, who was adopted from Korea as an infant. I was 6 years old when Sam was adopted, and it is one of my first memories of being a flat-out brat. One night as my parents were tucking me in, they sat on the edge of my bed and told me that they had great news to share with me. After years of trying to have a baby, my aunt and uncle were going to adopt a baby from Korea and he would be here very soon. I'm not exactly sure how at this point in time I knew how babies are made, but I did. I mean, I'm sure I didn't know all of the details, but I knew that it involved the phrase "when a mommy and a daddy love each very much," private parts, and Madonna music. But do you know what I did upon hearing this wonderful family news? I played dumb and asked my parents how someone "tries" to have a baby. Just to watch them squirm. What. A. Brat.

Anyways, my own brattiness aside, Sam's adoption was received as a joyous occasion amongst our family and aside from that initial announcement I can't recall any instance from my childhood in which the fact that he was adopted was even a second thought. He is just another cousin at the kid table, and I mean that in the best way possible.

The third adoption story that I was aware of is that of my mom's friend who adopted 2 children from Ethiopia after genetic testing revealed that she was a carrier for a terminal disease. I was 12 when she traveled to Ethiopia to pick up her 6 month old son after a lengthly legal process. I still remember his chubby brown face amongst a sea of adoring white people on his first birthday - the classic cupcake-on-the-highchair-tray scene playing out in exactly the same fashion as it does in millions of families all across America. And now, 18 years later, that seems only fitting because they are a quintessential American family, and I mean that in the best way possible.

*****

In my adult years I encountered more acquaintances and friends-of-friends who had adoption stories of their own, but the above three stories are what really shaped my personal view of adoption as just another way to have children. I saw families have children through their own pregnancies, and in these cases I saw families have children through adoption, and from my perspective they all just looked like families.

And being a family is what this whole thing is about.

Two to Tango

2011-11-07T09:18:00.000-08:00

Shane and I recently celebrated the TEN year anniversary of our first date. It was a DECADE ago that he invited me to his dorm room to watch 'The Nightmare Before Christmas" on Halloween night. Yeah, that sounds weird to me too, now, but apparently it worked. We dated for a year, got engaged, and were married nine months after that. I was 21, and he was 23. Yeah, that sounds crazy to me too, now, but apparently it's working.

Somewhere along the line during those dating months, we wistfully discussed all of the fun hypotheticals: What do you want to be when you grow up? Where would you want to live one day? How old do you want to be when you have kids? How many kids do you want to have? What football team will you teach them to root for? (What? Not all 21 year old girls vet the NFL preferences of their potential mates?)

Since by that time in my life I had already done the math on the 'surplus of family love (me)+ deficit of family love (many children out there) = adoption' equation in my mind, during one of these conversations I mentioned that I'd like to adopt in addition to having biological children. I don't remember the exact conversation or specifically what Shane said in response, but I remember thinking that he wasn't into the idea.

In reality, he probably said something like, "That's interesting." And when we were far enough along in our relationship that the hypothetical conversations had turned to more practical conversations about our future together, he probably said something like, "Let's just cross that bridge when we get there." I suspected that he thought my desire to adopt was a lark, or at least that it was something that was too impractical to actually happen, like living abroad for a year or finding jobs that allowed us to travel the world.

As the conversation progressed over the years, he expressed a concern that he might not feel as connected to an adopted child as he would to the biological children that we both hoped to have as well. He worried that the love that he imagined would come naturally for a child that shared our DNA, that looked like us and in some ways acted like us, would come unnaturally or not at all for a child that more-or-less showed up on our doorstep one day.

He also worried about the "risk" of committing to raise a child whose genetic background and in-utero history were unknown to us. What if the birth mother did drugs while she was pregnant? What if learning disabilities ran rampant in their family? What if they were (gasp) Raiders fans? (Oh wait, that would have been my concern)

Shane didn't really know anyone who was adopted. To him, adoption had been somewhat of a theoretical concept, something that "other people" do - probably because they can't have children of their own. As is the case with most people, Shane expected to fall in love, get married, have children, and generally live happily ever after. You know, a normal life with a normal family.

Slowly over the years of our marriage, however, our conversations about adoption planted a seed of curiosity in him. He observed my family's relationship with my cousin Sam, who is adopted from Korea. He looked more closely at families in our church who had adopted children. He started to consider what it would be like for him, for us. It started to seem less "out there," less scary.

When I gave birth to our son, Louie, this past February we were both instantly in love with him. I had wondered how the experience of having a biological child would impact my own desire to adopt, and I worried that it could be a deal-breaker for Shane, who at that point was "open" to adopting if I insisted on it. What neither of us expected was for the experience of having our biological son to overwhelm us both with the feeling that we simply HAD. TO. ADOPT. Which is exactly what happened.

Shane says that the change for him was the realization that the immense and unconditional love that he felt for our son really didn't have anything to do with the fact that we shared his DNA, it had much more to do with the feeling that this child was a gift - innocent and miraculous and perfect - that had been entrusted to us. Shane felt strongly after our son's birth that if Louie had in fact just showed up on our doorstep that he would be just as much of a gift, and that the fatherly love Shane felt would have come just as naturally. He recognized that certainly all babies are perfect and innocent and miraculous, and this one just happened to be related to us.

So it was decided. The next baby would just show up on our doorstep. Well, we would do a lot of homework and jump through a lot of hoops and ask God to give us superhuman strength, and then a baby would just show up on our doorstep. And it will be ours. And the love has already come, in case anyone was worried.

Five for Friday: What Our Adoption Story Isn't

2011-11-03T09:27:00.000-07:00

1. It isn't meant to make anyone feel bad, for any reason. This is such a deeply personal story, one that draws on nearly every part of who Shane and I are as individuals and as a family. To do the story justice it requires some over-sharing and a great deal of vulnerability. I often worry that things that I might say here could be perceived as hurtful. When I go on and on about our loving families, for example, I can understand how that would feel like a slap in the face to someone who has longed for a better family relationship. When I talk about my experience having a biological child who is healthy and happy, I can understand how that would feel like salt in the wound of someone who is desperately trying to have a biological child of their own. And I'm sure there are things that I'll say here that could be hurtful for reasons I don't even know yet. I'd like to offer a preemptive apology to anyone who is hurt by anything that I say here. I am telling our story as honestly as I can, and I hope that you can extend me the grace to do so knowing that any hurt is unintentional.

2. It isn't an Instruction Manual or an Expert Opinion. We are not experts. We are figuring this out one step at a time. We are doing our best to be as educated as possible about the process that we are pursuing, but at best we will still only be experts about the exact way that our process plays out. I do hope that what I share here is informative and that you are able to occasionally learn something about adoption, and about families in general, but this is meant to be a personal story about our family.

3. It isn't a Sales Pitch. We are passionate about adoption. We are really excited about this next phase of expanding our family and we probably talk about it enough to be pretty obnoxious. We're not trying to talk anyone else into being passionate about adoption, though. Don't get me wrong, I think adoption is an important social issue and one that is totally worth being passionate about for anyone, but so are a million other things and I think passion has to be a little bit organic. Adoption is not for everyone, I get that. It's for us, though, and that's all that we're talking about here.

4. It isn't a Sermon. You know when you hear about someone you know taking a somewhat extreme stance on something, and you immediately start thinking about all of the reasons that their stance is stupid, but mostly you're just preemptively working on a defense for your own stance, because you assume that the other person is judging anyone who doesn't agree with their extreme stance? Please don't do that. Well, not to me anyways. I'm not here to imply in ANY way that we are more Christian/spiritual/humanitarian because we are choosing to adopt. I'm also not here to imply in ANY way that if you think we're crazy that you are less Christian/spiritual/humanitarian. Mama don't preach.

5. It isn't Finished. We are still very much at the beginning of this journey. It could get really ugly, or it could play out like a Hallmark card. I reserve the right to change my mind about anything that I say, because I don't know where this is going to take me and how it's going to shape me yet. So not only am I shirking any responsibility for being any kind of 'adoption expert,' I'm also saying that I don't even have all of the answers about our own story. If you feel like you're getting ripped off, I will gladly refund all of your money.

Our Adoption Story: Part One of {Indefinite}

2011-11-02T21:20:00.000-07:00

An announcement: We're going to adopt a baby. Boom goes the dynamite.

We've been thinking about this seriously for several years and taking tangible steps towards making it happen for several months, and are now far enough along in the process that it feels only natural to start talking openly about it.

I'd like to use this blog as a place to tell our adoption story because 1.) I love telling stories, and 2.) I think this story will be worth sharing. And with that, I'd like to start at the beginning:

*****

We're adopting because we want to. This isn't a plan B or an alternate route, this is just part of how we're having kids. Like how most couples talk about when they'll have kids and how many kids they'd like to have and how far apart they'd like them and do they care if they have boys or girls etc. It's exactly like that, except that adoption is on the table too. For us it feels like a normal part of our family planning conversation.

I know that the next question is, "How did you arrive at this place?" and I'm not sure I have a great answer. I mean, I have an answer, but there is no AHA! moment or anything. For me, adoption has appealed to me since young adulthood (and I'm using the Barnes and Noble definition of "young adult" here, as in high school-ish age*). It was around then that I was aware enough of the world around me to understand how immensely lucky I am to have a family that loves me unconditionally, that cares deeply about ensuring that all of my needs are met, and that has equipped me with all of the tools that I have needed to be a happy and independent adult with fulfilling and sincere relationships.

Inherent in that realization, of course, is the recognition that many people are not so lucky. I did not merit or deserve the circumstances that I was born into, and I don't take that for granted (Clarification: The most valuable thing about the circumstances that I was born into is a familial love so deep that it will make you go blind if you stare directly at it. While my family was fortunate enough to always be able to provide all of the tangible things that I needed, it is the intangible love, the modeling of healthy relationships, and the unending stream of encouragement that I am most grateful for and what I am referring to when I refer to being born into great circumstances).

Essentially, I felt that I had a surplus of family love, and that I wanted to bring people into that family love who had a deficit. Adoption seemed like the most natural way to go about this. And from that general thought process a desire to adopt began.

While we are Christians and that has come into a play a lot as we've arrived where we are today in this journey, I want to reiterate that this began as a desire. This began without any supernatural visions, scripture references, or humanitarian data. This began as a seed of desire for a child. It feels important to say that because if there is anything that I want our next child to know, it is how desperately they are wanted.

*****

Coming Soon: I start talking in "we" terms and Shane enters the story.

*Yes, this means that I'm judging you if you're over 18 and trying to defend the literary merits of the Twilight books.

Five for Friday: Things that Made my Most Recent Haircut One of My Best

2011-09-29T19:58:00.000-07:00

1. Groupon! As we adjust to life on a single income, I've parted ways with my quarterly highlight appointment and I've made peace with trusting my tresses to whichever "stylist" has an opening at Super Cuts. But wait, there in my inbox: it's a bird, it's a plane, it's a ... Groupon! I have had 3 haircuts since Louie was born nearly 8 months ago, all utilizing the sweet sweet savings that only a Groupon can offer. Groupon has me right where they want me with these salon savings - 50% off a haircut at a nice salon brings the price down to just over what I'd pay at Super Cuts, so it's not so cheap that I question it's legitimacy or devalue it, just cheap enough that I feel like I'm getting a great deal, thankyouverymuch.

2. Wine! It's pretty standard for the receptionist at a nice salon to ask if she can get you something to drink, presumably some fancy pants cucumber water or maybe a hot tea. At this particular haircut, however, the choices included beer and wine. I'll be honest, a beer sounded pretty awesome on this unseasonable hot afternoon, but it felt a little white trash. I classed it up with a glass of red wine and kicked back with a copy of Teen Vogue while I waited for 'Camille.' Take your time, Camille, take your time.

3. A proper respect for the sanctity of the head massage. Who doesn't love a good head massage? I'll tell you who: Someone who is desperately looking forward to the bliss of a professional salon head massage, and instead gets hurried through a lukewarm shampoo session during which the stylist asks a series of questions that leave you wondering where to look and how loud to talk. My girl Camille, she gets the head massage. She gets it so much that she asked me to thoroughly explain what I had in mind for my haircut before she even took me over to the shampoo area so that we wouldn't have to talk at all during the shampoo. She took her time, kept the temperature perfect, and didn't hesitate to really get in there and suds the hell out of my scalp. It was heavenly.

4. Low pressure sales approach. It's ironic that I've made my living perfecting the art of sales for the last decade, because I loathe being put on the spot by over eager commission seekers. Having had my hair cut at this salon before, I was prepared for the thorough explanation of every product that would go into my hair, complete with a written "prescription" that I would awkwardly be handed upon checking out. There are a few people that you always want to keep in your good graces, and the person who takes a scissor to your head is one of them, which makes declining the sale a delicate dance. While Camille did explain which products she put in my hair, her approach felt very "just FYI," not so much "so what would you like to buy today?" Thanks, girl, for not killing my wine + head massage buzz.

5. A great out-the-door style. I have long wavy hair, which by it's very nature is pretty forgiving in terms of imperfect haircuts. A little unevenness here, a weird cowlick there - my hair forgives you. The curse of my waves is their indecisiveness. Neither glossy and straight nor truly curly, my hair requires a nudge in either direction to look decent. Most stylists don't seem to get this and they blowdry my hair every which way until I look exactly like the "before" girl in a Frizz Ease ad. Then they furrow their brow a little as they realize the error in their ways, but, pressed for time, they run a flat iron though it a few times and send me on my way. Not so with Miss Camille. Best. Blowdry. Ever. I knew I was in good hands when she told me that she would style my hair into "Victoria's Secret waves, not Texas hair." She wasn't lying - my hair looked so good that I swear I increased a full cup size.

Dear Large Groups of Girls: I Love/Hate You.

2011-09-28T08:44:00.000-07:00

Women are curious creatures.We buy ill-fitting jeans simply because the logo on the back pockets lets all our friends know that we spent $150 on them, and when you compliment our shirt we'll excitedly inform you that we bought it for $7 at Ross. We order extra cheese on our pizza, but salad dressing on the side. We want our partners to do what we want , but we want them to do it because they want to do it.

Basically, we're crazy.

There are some things that can be expected when groups of women gather together, and some of these things drive me crazy.

For starters, there is a collective inability to make decisions that makes Brett Favre look downright resolute. Have you witnessed what goes down when a group of girls tries to decide where to go for dinner? First, 87 options are presented. Then anyone who has heard anything unfavorable about any of the options will share this information, but quickly add a disclaimer that she's still willing to go there if that's what everyone else wants ("I heard that they don't use very high quality meats there, like the chicken breasts are from imprisoned chickens who's dads were never very nice to them, but I can totally just order a salad if that's where you guys want to go") . So now there are still 87 options, but 15 of them have an asterisks next to their name.

Next, the group will consider the logistics of each option: Will there be enough seating, how far is the drive, how does the particular social scene of each restaurant compare with the current energy level of the group, etc. This part of the conversation will take about 20 minutes and will involve everyone talking at the same time. Still, it will just be a time of sharing ideas. None of the 87 options will be ruled out.

Then, as if the Lord has given someone a prophetic vision, one girl will declare above the crowd, "You know what sounds so good?" And she will present an idea that was somehow left out of all the previous discussion. How did we miss this? Why did no one think to suggest this, this most perfect restaurant option that has ever existed in the history of food? The group will collectively oooh and aaah over the perfection of this idea. Yes! That does sound so good! I'm going to order extra cheese on my pizza and my salad dressing on the side! Squeals of laughter will begin to emerge as the decision is somehow reached without anyone ever actually making a decision. Then it's time to figure out who's driving and who's going in which car. God help us.

* * * * * * *

Underneath all the crazy, though, there can be something sacred that emerges when women convene. When you are lucky enough to be with women who are honest about their imperfections, sincere about their desires, diligent in their integrity and earnest in their affection, there can be a feeling that anything is possible. Not in an 87 options for dinner kind of a way, but in a way that feels like you are free to survey the landscape around you, choose a destination that you'd like to reach, and begin blazing a trail to get there.

I am lucky enough to have women like that in my life. Some near, some far, some journeying down paths that closely resemble the path that I walk along, some who are on paths that I can barely relate to. I am a better person because of what happens when I'm with them. I hope that I am contributing something to their lives as well.

And if we ever decide to all get together for dinner, let's just do a pot luck, okay?

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Strangers in Spandex

2011-09-27T12:55:00.000-07:00

I've been going to "bootcamp" classes at the gym 2-4 times per week lately. Correction: I have been going to "cardio bootcamp," "basic training," and my personal favorite, "power hour" classes.

I know that the classes are legit because there's always men in there too. I've walked by the exercise room a few times during a step aerobics class or whatever, and it's all women and I immediately assume that the classes I'm going to are harder, more effective, and generally cooler. Because there are men. My name is Anna and I am a sexist.

There is one guy in particular who is at almost every class I've ever been to. He stakes out the same spot every time and puts his step on FOUR risers (that's TWICE as high as everyone else). He is always dressed in spandex shorts but he somehow makes them look really hardcore. I've actually wondered if he's coming to these classes directly from a spinning class, which would be ridiculous because Sweet Jesus who could do this many squat jumps after a spinning class?! Any time there is an option to make any given exercise harder, he's all over it, even when that entails adding some sort of ballerina jump or big arm gesture. He's not afraid of anything.

I don't know anything about this guy. I could guess at his age - grey hair but good skin, I'd guess forties - but aside from that I really have no idea who this guy is. And I'm happy to leave it that way. Not just because I generally don't like small talk that doesn't involve reality TV, but because I think there's something special about keeping my one dimensional view of him in tact.

He could be an accountant. Or a consultant. Or unemployed. He could be thrice divorced. Or married to his high school sweetheart. Or gay. He could be amazing. Or terrible. But right now, in my mind, he's just the Power Hour rockstar. Why would I mess with that?

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More Cowbell

2011-09-26T19:23:00.000-07:00

And by 'cowbell' I mean 'writing.' More writing. I don't know if the universe is trying to tell me something, or if this is just another example of seeing what you're looking for*, but the concept of writing more seems to be so hot right now.

First, I decided that I was going to re-start my blog.

Then, my I'm-kind-of-a-big-deal friend, Michele, asked me to write a guest post for her blog (read my post here).

Then, I read this great blog post by Seth Godin about how we never get 'Talker's Block.' Godin observes that:

"We get better at talking precisely because we talk. We see what works and what doesn't, and if we're insightful, do more of what works. How can one get talker's block after all this practice?"

Godin also links to a short video of a mini lecture from Ira Glass, which is generally more of the same idea: Writing more is so hot right now. (I highly recommend reading Godin's post as well as watching Glass's video. Both are super interesting and will take up about a total of 5 minutes of your time)

To cap it off, 2 of my friends posted an article on Facebook from The Art of Non-Conformity called 'How to Write 300,000 words in 1 year,' which, as you might guess, discusses the logic behind committing to more cowbell. I mean more writing.

And you know what? I'm taking the bait. I'm inspired by what they're saying and I'm going to strike while the iron's hot.

I'm going to try to write every day for 30 days. Here. On this public blog.

Confession: I read on Twitter today that "writing about writing is like wearing a black bra under a white shirt," so I feel like trailer trash for posting this. I'll try to be more interesting over the next 29 days.

*Re: "Seeing what you're looking for," I am following Lesley's lead and tweeting something that I am thankful for every day until Thanksgiving. For me, this is a practice in training my vision to search for gratitude. I love this idea. I would love it if you would join us, either on Twitter or on your own. Look for what you hope to find.

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Five for Friday: Obnoxious Abbrev. Re Being a SAHM

2011-09-17T10:09:00.000-07:00

1. SAHM (Stay At Home Mom). I just don't really get it. I've been a "sales representative" and/or "territory manager" for the last 7 years and not once can I recall anyone calling me a SR or TM. I also find that, like all of these obnoxious abbreviations, their natural habitat is online message boards, generally in a forum where people go to ask questions about various aspects of child development. And in almost all of those cases, the occupation of the mother is pretty irrelevant. "I am a SAHM to a 6 month old angel, and the diapers that we use are made from responsibly harvested Scandinavian wood pulp." I find that it is usually in real life conversations that it is actually is relevant to share your occupation, and no one should ever say out loud, "I am a SAHM." If you're too busy to take the extra 2 seconds to say "stay at home mom," you might want to loosen up your schedule. Please see this Brian Regan stand-up comedy routine about loosening up your schedule:

2. DS (Dear Son) / DD (Dear Daughter). 90% of all online chat rooms relating to child rearing are running rampant with this one. We get it, you love your kid. Your kid is dear to you. The fact that you're spending your precious free time in online chat rooms commenting on the proper swaddling technique was our first clue. The most annoying thing about this is that DS is only one letter shorter than "son," and since you either have to hit caps lock or shift to capitalize the letters you're not saving any time or finger strength. Just speak English.

3. TTC (Trying To Conceive). Haven't we already abbreviated (euphemized?) this to simply 'Trying?" Do we really need to take it even further? It sounds like a sorority.

4. PDF (Parent Directed Feeding). As far as I can tell, 'Parent Directed Feeding' is a term that was made up by the author of a book called Babywise - it's not a medical term even a term widely acknowledged by the medical community. If you're going to make up a term and abbreviate that term, wouldn't you want to come up with something that everyone in America doesn't already know as 'Portable Document Format?' Come on, Babywise, put your back into it.

5. Binky (Pacifier). I Just. Don't. Get it. Why? How? How are those words related? Who started this?

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Remembering

2011-09-13T15:13:00.000-07:00

I was a sophomore in college on Tuesday, September 11th, 2001.

I had an 8am class called "Professional Activities." Part of me wants to stop this post right here and just take a poll to see what people think a college class called "Professional Activities" would cover. If I was you, I'd probably guess that anyone in that class was on some sort of remedial track, required to take vocational classes in hopes that they would someday land a job, any job. It was actually a glorified P.E. class, required of all Kinesiology majors. We covered basic rules and skills of pretty much every sport you can think of, presumably because many of us might go on to teach P.E. at some point in our careers. Or maybe it was required just because it's hilarious to watch a bunch of 20 year olds try to learn archery and folk dancing (yes, I actually learned how to folk dance and, um, arch (?) in college).

On that particular Tuesday morning, we would be covering golf for the first hour and basketball for the second hour. Before all this Professional Activating I headed to the Dining Commons for my usual oatmeal breakfast. Of the 25 or so students who were also there at such an early hour, all but 1 or 2 were gathered around the only TV, located at the back of the room, beyond all of the tables and chairs.

Something was not right.

I silently joined the already silent crowd and tried to discern what was going on. I could tell from the tone of the newscasters' voices that they too were still trying to figure it out. I watched as an airplane flew right into a building, and even though I still couldn't really piece together what was happening, my stomach sank inside of me. I'm not sure I had ever really heard of a "terrorist attack" before, but at 7:58am, as we disbanded to head to our respective classes, I exited the Dining Commons knowing that that's what this was, with no idea what the implications of that were.

Coach Mulder made us golf anyways.

I have no recollection of what he said when he greeted us or what reasoning he gave for continuing on with our golf lesson, but there we were: lined up at the goal line of the soccer field, hitting golf balls into distant hula hoops with 9 irons, under a cover of heavy Santa Barbara fog and eery silence.

At 9am we packed up our golf gear and headed up to the basketball gym, where Coach Moore informed us that we would gather for a quick prayer and then be dismissed to return to the news coverage of what was happening. So we sat, the 12 or so of us Kinesiology majors who had almost every class together. We sat in a circle that felt almost microscopic in that big empty gym, under fluorescent lights that buzzed so loud I wondered if God would even hear us. We prayed for New York. We prayed for America. We prayed for the fire fighters and the President and the families of all the aforementioned. I prayed for my brother, who at that very moment was on a US Navy submarine.

When we left I returned to my dorm room and woke my roommate with the news. It was a time before college students carried cell phones, before Facebook and Twitter. There were probably less than 10 TVs on our entire campus, so we gathered in large awkward groups and watched the news all day. I called my parents from my dorm phone. They were fine in Northern California and I was fine in Southern California. But it didn't seem fine.

It still doesn't seem fine. I can't believe that it's been 10 years.

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Five for Friday: Reasons I Went Dark for Two Years

2011-09-08T09:14:00.000-07:00

1. I had too much to say. A job that I absolutely loved went wonky and left me feeling unfulfilled and stressed. Then I got laid off from that job when the company sold the product line, and I wished I could take back what I said about it being wonky if they would just climb into the way-back machine and undo it. I spent sleepless weeks searching for a new job and miraculously had 2 offers to choose from. In a turn of several super dramatic events that included making a friend pretend to be me on a conference call, and dancing on a table in Las Vegas, I made a choice and started a brand new job in a somewhat new industry. Turns out, I chose wrong. I was unhappy almost from the start, and in no time at all I had a stress-induced cystic acne breakout and became one of those crazies who checks their blackberry at midnight and sleeps with it under the pillow in case any clients call in the middle of the night. Then I got pregnant (boom). Then we moved to my hometown. I quit working altogether. My husband started his own company (and yes, for those of you keeping score at home, he started a construction business in the worst economy of our lifetime, in a new city, as our family downgraded to a single income - not stressful at all). I gave birth to an absolutely perfect baby boy.... Every sentence in this chaotic paragraph could have been it's own blog post or five. But I just got... behind. And then I didn't know where to start again. So I just kept not starting again. Yadda yadda yadda, I haven't blogged in over 2 years.

2. I'm not one of the cool kids and sometimes I feel sad about it. I have all these super amazing friends - amazing both in their commitment to being 100% kick ass friends, but also in their mystifying ability to be 100% kick ass at life. And while they kick life's ass, many of them use blogging as one of their weapons of mass destruction. And they're good at it. Much better than I am. They have focus, their intentions are clear, they have artistic abilities that make their blogs beautiful and appealing, they have laid the groundwork to attract readers and keep them interested and make that process easy. I started blogging simply because I like to write, and in my grown-up life which has no requirement for any real writing, starting a blog was a way to keep up writing as a hobby. Although I am generally pretty self-assured and comfortable being who I am (see: dancing on a table in Las Vegas), I allowed a seed of self doubt to be planted about this blogging business. And like so many destructive thoughts, they grow like weeds - without even giving it much thought, simply the failure to squash it allowed it to grow.

3. I stopped reading other blogs. It probably started by avoiding the computer altogether as I entered my personal blogging tailspin, and then I probably wanted to feel like since I couldn't pull myself together enough to keep up my own blog that surely I wasn't missing out on anything by not reading the other blogs that used to captivate me. I just quietly exited the blogging world altogether. I don't have to expand on the greater life/spiritual lesson that is embedded in this example do I? You get it.

4. Mommy Blogs aren't my jam. Don't get me wrong, I like mommy blogs. I used to read several, before motherhood was even on my radar. Now that I am a mom myself, re-starting my blog begs the question: Does being a mom and having a blog mean I am a mommy blogger? And the answer, for me, is no. Maybe it's lingering self doubt (mommy blogs are so ubiquitous, why would I add my voice to a conversation where slightly different versions of all the same stories I would tell are already out there, probably told by better writers with awesome SLR cameras?), or maybe it's the self-assurance that I'd like to think has been around longer than the self-doubt (I have stories to tell. Stories about what the world looks like through my eyes, and although my eyes see an awful lot of my baby these days, they see everything else too).

5. No more reasons. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single Five for Friday post, right? I am recommitted to my original vision of this blog, an outlet for my personal hobby of writing. I can't promise I'll post with predictable regularity. This is for me. I do hope than you enjoy it - if not I will refund all of your money.

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Happy [belated] [Chinese] New Year!

2009-02-03T15:56:00.000-08:00

Who's idea was it to have New Years so soon after Christmas anyways? I'm still way too bloated and travel-crazed by January 1st to be able to greet the new year with any kind of dignity.

Which is why I've made a little tradition of celebrating Chinese New Year, which is sensibly observed 3-4 weeks after the holidays. Nevertheless, I am still lagging.

Never fear, interwebs, I haven't forgotten about you. I have been writing so many posts in my head - posts about new year's resolutions, about my softball team's thrilling championship victory, about being in sub-zero temperatures for the first time in my life and not dying - all kinds of moderately interesting things.

Instead of any of those stories, though, I just need to get the requisite "resolutions" post off my chest to feel like a real blogger.

First, the dirty laundry: Last year I resolved to finish a half marathon, write regularly, complete the Santa Barbara long course triathlon, pay off the debt from our kitchen remodel, and volunteer somewhere. I'm happy to say that I went 4 for 5 in the year of the rabbit, with the triathlon remaining elusive.

Next, the new laundry (does that metaphor even make sense?): This year I resolve to become a better skier, read the Bible regularly, build up a rainy day savings fund, fit into all of the jeans in my closet through whatever balance of diet and exercise I find most fulfilling, and do that damn triathlon.

A very happy 4707 - year of the ox - to you.

(Just a heads up: You're going to want to tune in very soon to hear THE TREADMILL STORY. I figure it's the least I can do for you after this unexplained absence. Also, it might be just the excuse you're looking for to justify breaking your own year-of-the-ox resolutions.)

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Looking Back

2008-12-31T16:05:00.000-08:00

Mile markers of 2008

Starting this Blog, duh.

Completing my first half-marathon on Super Bowl Sunday.

Upgrading my bicycle to clip-in pedals and quite literally getting 'back in the saddle' after the self-inflicted masechtomy debacle of 2007

Casting my first vote in 8 years

Volunteering for/getting elected president of my condo's HOA. Can't believe I haven't blogged about this yet... all ridiculous, all the time.

Traveling to London and Spain with great friends

Welcoming my brother and his family back from 2 years living in India

A fun and family-filled weekend in Palm Springs, where I threw up in public

A Santa Barbara heat wave that led to a summer full of pool parties and barbecues with friends and neighbors

Going to the opening of the Sex and the City Movie at midnight on a Thursday

Celebrating our 5th wedding anniversary

Watching Michael Phelps and Nastia Lukin dominate the Olympics. Having a crush on Shawn Johnson anyways.

Skinny dipping with my very best girlfriends at the Lazy J Ranch Motel in Three Rivers, CA

My very first softball season

My very first fantasy football season (which I won, thankyouverymuch)

Casting The Big Vote, and knowing that I put my back into it. (Endless love to my "Informed in '08" ladies)

An absolutely beautiful weekend in San Francisco to watch my Niners lose.

Thanksgiving in rural Washington with my in-laws, getting to meet my newest niece, Elise

Turning 27 and getting showered with family love from my parents and husband, who surprised me with plane tickets for a February ski trip to WHISTLER!

T-minus 3 hours away from putting on THE CUTEST DRESS OF ALL TIME to ring in 2009 with Santa Barbara's finest, and I don't mean the police (hopefully).

UPDATE: Here's the proof on my claim about the dress:

Thanks to all of my A-MAZING friends who were a part of so many of these moments. I can hardly wait to see what 2009 has in store for us. Cheers!

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We Might be Going to Hell: A Photo Essay

2008-12-18T22:12:00.000-08:00

This is the hand-carved nativity set that has been my favorite Christmas decoration since childhood and that my mother graciously gave me before my first married Christmas...

Aaaaaand this is how I found Baby Jesus this evening:

And this is the result of my lecture about "The Reason for The Season."

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You Know You're Grown Up When.....

2008-12-01T21:04:00.000-08:00

... You not only remember to clean out all perishable items from the refrigerator before a week long departure, and you make a grocery list - ORGANIZED BY SECTION OF THE GROCERY STORE - on the plane ride home, and go grocery shopping immediately upon your return home, and - before unpacking the groceries into the fridge - say out loud:

"I'm going to take advantage of this opportunity of having the fridge so empty to clean off all the shelves and drawers."

And I meant it. I removed every shelf and washed each one in the sink. And hand dried them. Yikes.

At least I still use run-on sentences.

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The Requisite 'Things I'm Grateful For' Post

2008-11-27T18:56:00.000-08:00

{photo credit}

Besides the obvious: Family, friends, and elastic-waist pants, this Thanksgiving I'm especially grateful for feeling homesick.

Who's grateful for homesickness, you ask?

On my morning run today as I was thinking of my family's Thanksgiving traditions that I would be missing while I celebrate with my in-laws, and admittedly feeling a little homesick as a result, I realized how incredibly lucky I am.

I spent this Thanksgiving surrounded by a loving and engaging family including 4 healthy and hilarious nieces and nephews, gathered around a table of delicious turkey and trimmings, inside a warm home where I am always greeted as family.

The fact that in the midst of such a Rockwell-esque Thanksgiving that part of me was actually homesick just goes to show how fortunate I am.

And for that, I give thanks.

(I'm also thankful for the extra time that I've had to give the old bloggy-blog a little makeover. What do you think about the hew header and color scheme? And get used to the shameless self-promotion of subscription options at the end of each post... It's embedded, baby.)

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Mixed Tape Longing FULFILLED!

2008-11-26T13:27:00.000-08:00

I'm barely able to keep myself from spewing celebratory swear words right now.

ALL MY DREAMS ARE COMING TRUE.

Well, all of my mixed tape dreams, anyways. I was trolling the interwebs when I came across a blog called Happy Mundane, which just so happened to feature an online mixed tape today.

One thing led to another, and now I'm sharing my very own mini mixed tape with you. Just a short sampling of songs that are speaking to me in rainy rural Washington State.

You're welcome.

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Longing for a Mixed Tape

2008-11-25T21:51:00.000-08:00

Remember mixed tapes?

Were they about the perfect dance mix for you? The perfect pre-game warm up? The exact recipe of break-up songs to evoke a cathartic Ugly Cry?

I was a world class over-analyzer when it came to mixed tapes. Lord help the poor boy that innocently handed over a tape loaded up with his favorite songs, meaning only to show a gesture of moderate interest.

I would listen to each song over and over (remember rewinding?), sometimes literally transcribing the lyrics so that I could pour over them, attempting to determine what message my crush was trying to send me.

If I happened to be the mixed tape creator, I chose each song with the same sense of duty. The lyrics of each song, the order of the songs, the handwriting with which I copied each title onto the cardstock cassette case insert - they all meant something. My expectation was that the recipient would listen to my creation with a devoted curiosity that matched my diligence in composition.

I was often wrong.

And really, what is more deflating than an unrequited song dedication? What is lonlier than sitting side-by-side with someone special, moments after pressing PLAY, just a few lines away from the poetic chorus that so perfectly describes your feelings, when they look into your eyes and say, "so, what did you want to do for dinner?"

Interweb world, I promise that if you ever dedicate a song to me, much less toil over an entire mixed tape, I will not only listen, I will hear. I will listen to each lyric, I will foot-tap to each note, I will infer exactly what you're trying to imply.

It's just common [mixed tape] courtesy.

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Why I am a Sports Fan

2008-11-18T18:39:00.000-08:00

Unless you avoid the news at all costs, you probably know that we recently had a huge wild fire here in Santa Barbara, and that Westmont College - which happens to be my Alma Mater and the place where I fell in love with my husband - took a big hit. The following article was published in the LA Times today and has already been blogged about by three of my friends, but I just now finally got my lazy self to click on the link and read the article. Turns out, they were all totally right and the article is an amazing account of how a simple soccer game is launching Westmont's journey towards recovery.

This is why I am a sports fan.

It's not just the competition and the sweat and the thrill of victory and agony of defeat. It's about the dance of teamwork, and what being a teammate can mean. It's about how rooting can be more than pom-poms and pennants, it can be a cause to gather around.

Ive copied the entire article here so that you can read it without the enormous hassle of clicking a link to another page:

Bill Plaschke November 18, 2008

Harrison Hill kicked through the smoke of uncertainty, the soot of fear, finding the back of the net with a solid right foot on a spotless white ball.

He kicked the first goal, the only goal his Westmont College team would need, then he turned and ran.

He ran past the teammate who, at this moment, owned only the uniform on his back.

He ran past a teammate who had prepared for the game by searching Craigslist for a place to sleep.

He ran off the field, under the covered bench area, and into the arms of one who lost more than any of them.

In last week's Montecito fire, the home of Westmont Coach Dave Wolf burned to the ground.Hill hugged his teary-eyed teacher and lifted him to the sky.

"This is the first brick in your new house," he whispered.

This is how the healing always begins, doesn't it? A community torn by tragedy searches for a reason to find each other. A group of athletes reaches beyond itself to become that reason.

The healing, it seems, always starts with a game.

On Monday afternoon, on a pristine field abutted again against clear and majestic hills, there was a game like few others. Westmont College played Azusa Pacific University for the Golden State Athletic Conference championship and a spot in the NAIA national tournament.

They played even though Westmont, a private Montecito college with an enrollment of 1,347, had been shut down since last week because of the wildfire.

They played even though 15% of the campus had been destroyed, including faculty housing for about two dozen teachers and a handful of dorms for 50 students.

They played even though they were supposed to play on Saturday, with no rest and no preparation, but the game was delayed by request of Azusa Pacific.

That's right. Imagine that. Azusa Pacific could have won by forfeit, yet the defending national champions insisted on postponing the game until they could bring the bedraggled Westmont soccer players to their campus, house them, feed them, and get them ready to play.

"At the end of the day, that title can burn up and those rings can melt away," said Phil Wolf, Azusa Pacific's coach and brother of the Westmont coach. "Sports are about relationships, family, brotherhood."

So, heavy underdogs with heavy minds, the Westmont players showed up on the Azusa campus last weekend with little chance of even paying attention until the game.

"I couldn't even believe we were here," said Zach George, a freshman whose dorm room burned down, leaving him with nothing, not even his wallet or keys. "We had lost so much.

"But by the time they stepped on the Azusa Pacific field Monday, they had found something.

It was on the other sideline. It was standing five deep, the length of the field, stretching beyond the fences behind the goals, shrieking and cheering and chanting.

It was their people. It was their school. Westmont was officially closed, but its heart had opened to pour out several hundred students and faculty who had driven two hours -- some even on a chartered bus -- to cheer for the first sign of post-fire life.

The cheers of "West-mont" filled the humid air, far stronger than the remaining faint whiff of smoke. It sometimes even drowned out the "A-P-U" cheers from locals who made this gathering of about 500 people the biggest crowd in Azusa Pacific soccer history.

"I know this has been said before, but this time it's true," said Westmont freshman Austin Crowder, who was painted in the school colors of red and white. "We're here to show how we will rise from the ashes.

"The Westmont players saw this, felt it, huddled around their coach before the game and choked back tears and prayed about it.

By the time the game started, the burning had returned, only this time from within.

"There was no way we were losing this game," said senior midfielder Jonathon Schoff. "I mean, no chance, not an option, no way.

"The fans never quieted. The players never slowed. And no, there was no chance Westmont was losing this game.

The Warriors beat the bigger, stronger, faster Cougars, 2-0, in a match that didn't feel that close. They seemingly won every contested ball. They appeared to win every race to every corner.

They scored twice in the second half, both goals followed by runs directly into the coaches' arms.

Just as the emotion fueled Westmont, it drained Azusa Pacific, the classy hosts overcome by their own generosity.

"There was so much going for them, the fans, the momentum, the situation, it was too much for us to overcome," said junior midfield Eric Winblad. "We almost felt like the bad guys out there."

That's sad, because rarely in Southern California sports has there been a better show of sportsmanship than this, Azusa Pacific sacrificing its chance at a title defense to give Westmont a fair shot at taking it.

As impressive as the resilience of the conquerors was the kindness of the conquered.

Goodness, the school didn't even charge admission to the game and offered the Westmont fans a free lunch of pizza and salad.

"I've lost a lot, but right now, I can't think of one thing I need," said Westmont's Dave Wolf. "The people of Azusa Pacific have given us everything.

"Monday's game ended, and the Westmont fans streamed onto the field, surrounding their heroes, singing, chanting, then coming together for a most amazing final embrace.

They tunneled. That's right, just like parents in a youth soccer game, they lined up across from each other, stretched out their arms, clasped hands, and formed a tunnel through which the players ran. Darn thing stretched about 50 yards, from Azusa toward Montecito, from despair to hope.

Wolf will soon begin a daunting search for a home for himself, his wife and their five children. But for a few minutes Monday, anything was possible, the sixth-place Warriors advancing to the national tournament, scheduled to host a first-round match next weekend even though they don't know if they still have a field.

"I know it's not a very sophisticated answer, but when you ask how I'm feeling about today, I can say only one thing to everyone," said Dave Wolf, staring red-eyed into a collection of kids dancing, laughing, rising from those ashes. "Thank you."

Read the article directly from the source here.

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Saturday Shout Out

2008-11-15T09:03:00.000-08:00

This week's shout out is going to the hilariously progessive e-card website, someecards. Corinne turned me onto the site earlier this year with a hysterical card that literally made me LOL, and I don't even use internet talk like LOL. You can find off-beat, off-color, and fall-off-your-chair funny cards for any and every ocassion at someecards. Here is just a random sampling:

Now go on and brighten someone's day!

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An Open Letter to Local News Reporter, John "Primetime" Palminteri

2008-11-14T11:00:00.001-08:00

Dear Primetime,

Let me start by expressing my most sincere gratitude for your tireless work in bringing breaking news to California's Central Coast residents in a way that only a man of your reputation and class can. Your dedication to your beat is unmatched, demonstrated by your ability to consistently deliver the inside scoop before any other news outlet is even on the scene. I really mean this: You are truly in a class by yourself.

And so is your moustache.

I don't doubt for a moment that you have carried over your dedication and enthusiasm from the news scene to your bathroom, grooming each unruly strand of your machismo facial hair into the perfect bushel of moustache glory. Congratulations to you, Primetime, for staying true to your news reporter calling and - quite literally - keeping it classy.

Which brings me to the point of this letter.

As I have spent the better part of the past 15 hours glued to your unmatched coverage of the Tea Fire, with fires blazing just over your shoulder and wayward embers fluttering over your head, I cannot help myself from fearing for the safety of your 'stache. While my first concern clearly remains to be for the safety of the lives and property that are affected by this terrible fire, not the least of which is the campus of my Alma Mater, I'm guessing that your moustache doesn't stay so well groomed on its' own, and I'm guessing that whatever metrosexual grooming products you've got on that bad boy are just making you more vulnerable. All it would take is one little ember, one spark to graze your television star face and the whole operation could be up in flames.

So. I'd like to offer the following suggestion:

"Nylon Fire Retardant Hairnet in a variety of sizes. The most "Invisible Hairnet" - light weight 15-denier single strand nylon with 1/4" aperture. Fire Retardant. Very Fine Nylon Hairnet 28 inch Black "

I will do the alterations myself to tailor this hairnet into a 'stache-net. It's the least I can do.

In other news, that's "the most invisible hairnet?" Rough.

Warmest Regards,

Anna

[In all seriousness, Santa Barbara county is truly in a state of emergency and my most sincere prayers are going out to all of the families whose homes have been lost and to the firefighters that are risking their own lives to protect the homes that remain threatened. We housed evacuated students at our home last night and are eager to offer any additional aid possible. Let me be clear: Fire isn't funny. Moustaches, on the other hand, are.]

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Two Truths & A Lie

2008-11-13T12:17:00.001-08:00

Can you tell which is which?

I have never worn fake nails in my whole life.

I have won a local photography contest at some point in my life.

I make a mean berry smoothie.

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Just Askin'

2008-11-10T13:31:00.000-08:00

What's the deal with turkey eggs?

Turkys do lay eggs, right? Don't all birds lay eggs? Turkeys are so similar in size and shape and essence to chickens that it seems like their eggs would be similar, no? Yet all I saw is chicken eggs: Here a chicken egg, there a chicken egg, everywhere a chicken egg!

Here are the scenarios I've been through:

1. Turkeys are all male. Then how are baby turkeys made?

2. Turkeys are only raised for their meat. We eat far more chicken meat than turkey meat, though, and - as previously stated - everywhere a chicken egg.

Okay, that's all the scenarios I could think of. So, before I have to Wikipedia this business, what's the deal with turkey eggs?

Five for Friday: Day Ruiners

2008-11-06T23:20:00.000-08:00

1. Getting a parking ticket. The second I see that neon green envelope on my windshield it's over for me. Whether I choose to blame myself for being so negligent or the meter maid for being such an obvious a-hole, I am bound to spend the remainder of the day thinking about what I could have done with that $40.

2. Spilling coffee on your shirt at like, 9:30am when you have no option to change all day. I did this on my second day at a new job once and have been paranoid about it ever since. Those Starbucks baristas can be a little hasty when they're putting those lids on, and sometimes even if they get it on nice and tight the cadence of my gait seems to be the perfect rhythm for causing latte foam to geyser out of the drinking hole directly onto my shirt. Which is why I always carry a full cup of coffee like it's a hand grenade.

3. A super slow internet connection. I suppose that if you live in, say, a little house on the prairie and are simply accustomed to a slow connection that it might not be a day ruiner. If you are a spoiled DSL junkie like myself, though, and one day your internets get a snag in them, pretty much anyone within a 100 foot radius is going to want to duck for cover. I don't have time to be staring at your stupid hourglass all day, internet, I have blogs to read. I have celebrity gossip to judge. I have e-mails to send. I have social networking to do, duh.

4. When your husband/roommate eats the leftover take-out in the fridge that you were looking forward to and thinking was all yours. I can seriously spend an entire day looking forward to the delicious ease of microwaving some leftover pasta. I visualize how carefree it will be to eat from the container and not dirty a single dish. I imagine how the perfectly paired ingredients are blending their flavors and getting even tastier. And then I come home to see the empty container out on the counter - ravaged in an instant by someone who likely had far less invested in it than I did.

5. Accidentally biting the inside of your cheek so hard that it swells up, causing you to keep biting it all day. Is this one just me? Do I have some kind of chipmunk cheeks that find their way in between my chompers? For a couple minutes afterwards I talk like I just had my wisdom teeth pulled or something, and then it eventually eases into a dull pain, threatening to strike again at any moment. And let's be honest, it is pretty much impossible to retain your dignity when you're trying to talk while keeping the inside of your cheek as far away from your teeth as possible.

[As an aside, spell check just informed me that "ruiner" is not a real word. You get the idea, though, right? I'm sticking with it.]

Because Appearances Can be Everything...

2008-11-05T19:11:00.000-08:00

...Especially when you're trying to eat healthy and make each meal count. What I wanted for an afternoon snack was a nice plate of nachos. What I had was a sliced apple spinkled with cinnamon and some almonds. Despite the fact that I was home alone and intended to eat my snack while glued to my lap top, I decided to put my back into it and dress it up a bit.

What nachos?

Just For Future Reference

2008-11-05T12:37:00.001-08:00

I've had a sporadic eye twitch for over a month now. It's a slight flutter of my left upper eye lid that is neither painful nor inhibiting, just totally annoying. I am a little concerned that when it acts up during a one-on-one conversation that I may appear to be winking. Or retarded. Or both.

The purpose of this post is not to complain, but simply to keep you abreast of the situation so that I can freely reference it in future posts. See, it seems to flare up when I am emotionally provoked - both positive and negative emotions - and I'd like to be able to mention that fact to illustrate stories that may come up. For example, I was reading a commentary about Prop 8 that referenced a website with the domain name "godhatesfags," which made the eye twitch go absolutely bat shit crazy.

Should I find myself in similar situations in the future that make their way onto this blog, I'd like to be able to say, "And then so-and-so said xyz, which fired me up so much that my eye twitch could be measured on the Richter scale," which devoted readers would understand right away, and which new readers could click on a link from the words "eye twitch" back to this post to understand the origins of the reference.

So, stay tuned for possible reappearances of the eye twitch. And for the love of Pete, if you know how to stop them please let me know.

Wink wink.

Like the Sticker on my Chest Says: I VOTED

2008-11-04T17:02:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning on the second day of a business trip to northern California, in a hotel just down the street from the summer camp where 15 years ago I found Jesus, as the saying goes. The full circle moment of beginning this day, this election day, in this place was not lost on me. It enveloped me.

What it means to cast a vote as a Christian woman in America is a concept that I have pondered perhaps since I cast my first vote at age 18. It is a concept that I have pondered pensively and tediously at times, and nearly indifferently at times. This past year falls into the prior category, as I have labored over the decisions I would make today with real knowledge, real feeling, and real friends.

I cast my vote today with a heavy heart. Not heavy from sorrow, but heavy under the weight of my gratitude and awe at the journey on which this vote has led me. I am reminded just how fortunate I am to be able to cast a vote at all, to PARTICIPATE. To participate as a woman, when less than 100 years ago women were not thought competent enough to participate. To participcate as a Christian, when in some countries freedom of religion is a far away dream at best. To participate as an American citizen, knowing that so many brave men and women have laid down their lives for this nation.

My gratitude is for my church, where they believe that God is not a Republican. Or a Democrat. My gratitude is for my friends, who engage in passionate and educated discussions stemming from drastically different viewpoints, but who never lose sight of the values of respect and open-mindedness. My gratitude is for Barack Obama, who has shattered one of the greatest barriers that I believe I may ever see overcome in my lifetime. My gratitude is for John McCain, who suffered for 5 years as a POW and lived not only to tell about it, but to serve his country.

It is under the weight of all of that that I entered my polling place this evening. I'm not going to tell you who and what I voted for, but I will tell you that it was one of the proudest moments in my life. As I exited the polling place to an expansive sunset, I looked into the bright eyes of a 2 month old baby being pushed in a stroller by his mom and I said silently to him, "This day will change your life, baby." Tears fell down my face as I let it all wash over me. One way or the other, it will change us all.

Saturday Shout Out

2008-11-01T15:10:00.001-07:00

This week's shout out is going to my husband, Shane, who carved this pumpkin on a whim last night. He has put Martha Stewart to shame for the past 3 or 4 years, carving pumpkin portraits of everything from Gollum to our wiener dog, Jim. To answer your questions: It took him about 3 hours, he did not trace the images, and yes, it is a bit like living with Rainman.

Five for Friday: Alternate Honking Options I'd Like on My Next Car

2008-10-31T10:32:00.000-07:00

1. The "I'm sorry, I know I'm an A-hole honk." I imagine this one to be a low-toned, two-part honk, kind of like the "WONK-wonk" when a contestant on the Wheel of Fortune loses their turn. You know, for those times that you didn't see that guy in your blind spot or you really need someone in that turning lane to let you in, even though your light is green and cars are lining up behind you. I can usually be found in those moments with at least one hand waving in the air, which I intend to be an acknowledgement of my apologies for the inconvenience, but which probably looks more like I'm having a religious conversion experience. I'd like a universally recognized honk that I can employ to let the other drivers on the road know how acutely aware I am that I should barely be allowed to have a driver's license.

2. The friendly reminder that the light has turned green honk. Because sometimes you know that the person in front of you is just a tad spaced out or is in the middle of a juicy text message or something, and you don't feel the need to give them the big "HONK! GET OUTTA THE WAY!" You just want to give them a little "toot toot!" audio version of a shoulder tap.

3. The "Hey, I know you" honk. For all those instances that you're driving around town and you recognize someone on the sidewalk from church/school/whatever, and you start waving like a crazy person because, "hey! I know you! I know you from somewhere totally different than this sidewalk, but here we both are right now! On the same sidewalk! What a coincidence!" But your windshield glare pretty much has you in the witness protection program, so your sidewalk friend is like, "who is that crazy person having a seizure in that car? Do I know them or something?" I just want a little "howdy ho, neighbor" honk option to streamline that situation.

4. The "this traffic is killing off my brain cells one-by-one and making me insufferably miserable, don't you feel the same way?" honk. Because sometimes we just need a release. We just need to express ourselves. And maybe if we all had that honk option and were utilizing it together, our unity in misery would ease the pain.

5. The original "What you just did gave me a hot flash of hatred and I will express that to you by laying on this horn" HONK. Enough said.

Rooting for the Home Team

2008-10-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

I was born in December of 1981, on the tail end of what was shaping up to be the best season of San Francisco 49ers Football to date. My mother, who kept copious baby books for both my brother and I - documenting out first words, steps, haircuts, birthday parties - somehow forgot to save the newspaper from the day that I was born, which is kind of a must-have for a Baby book For a Child That Will Not Grow Up To Resent Her Mother. Never fear, when this gross oversight was revealed with shock and horror a few weeks after my birth, the SportsFan had a plan.

On January 10, 1982, in the 4th quarter of the playoffs, 49er quarterback Joe Montana threw an impossibly high and fast pass to receiver Dwight Clark, which he miraculousy caught to put SF ahead by one point with mere seconds remaining and which remains known to this day simply as "The Catch." I know this because the Sports Section of the San Francisco Chronicle documenting the victory is in my baby book, standing in for the news from my actual birthday.

*****

While taking in the 49er game in the flesh at Candlestick Park this past weekend, we happened to be seated next to a lovely family of 4. Dad was clearly invested in the game, decked out in faded 49ers t-shirt and hat, with earphones firmly in place giving him the play-by-play. Mom was the best support staff that a sports fan could ask for, making beer runs in her Coach loafers and making sure the kids were in line from behind her fashionable over sized sunglasses. Big brother had taken a cue from dad and had his headphones in place, removing them when Shane tried to befriend him by talking game day strategy.

And then there was Little Sister. Still somewhat cherubic at about 8 years old, dressed in pink with sandaled feet dangling from her seat. She knew the drill. She had come armed with a paperback copy of Judy Blume's Double Fudge, and as far as I could tell she was happy to read while her family sunk into their 49er trans. As dad looked over at the kids periodically, she would offer up a contented Judy Blume smile and go back to her book.

*****

I observed the dynamic with nostalgia and fondness for my own SportsFan upbringing. I wanted so badly to look the dad in the eyes and tell him, "I sat beside my dad during Niner games just like this, distracted and largely uninterested as he tried to teach me the player's names and the rules of the game. And here I am, sitting next to my husband, whom I demanded convert to 49er fan-dom before we married, having paid for these tickets with my own hard earned money, clinging to the same hope that you are that Singeltary can take us back to the glory days. Even though she's just getting her Judy Blume on right now, I promise you that she's taking it all in. That each game plants a seed in her. You just wait."

I never said that, of course. But I knew it.

Stepped on a Pop Top, Blew Out My Flip Flop...

2008-10-22T14:14:00.000-07:00

R.I.P: Reef flip flops that I've had since high school. That I bought at Cowell's Surf Shop in Santa Cruz when I was determined to look like a beach girl. That I wore almost every day of my freshman year of college in Santa Barbara, and became a beach girl. That remain one of the only pairs of flip flops I have ever been able to wear without getting foot-raped.

Time of Death: A pre-dinner jaunt to my local Ralph's supermarket. In produce. No one around to appreciate the gravity of my situation. Walked out to the car barefoot, dejected.

Afterlife: Can't bring myself to throw them away yet. The nostalgia is so strong that I might keep the Caboodle too. I might store the flip flops in the caboodle. Alongside my preserved wedding dress.

Toodles to my Caboodles

2008-10-20T11:44:00.001-07:00

While my husband spent all day Saturday rebuilding the built-ins in our office closet to make it actually functional for our home office needs, I took on the 'B list' chores that don't require a command of power tools. Chief among my tasks was a full organizational overhaul of our master bathroom.

I have long neglected our bathroom, probably because I think it's ugly and I have little hope for it outside of an expensive remodel. I don't know if you've heard yet, but the economy is not looking so hot these days, and said remodel is nowhere in our near future. Which leaves us to make due with our 1960's era bathroom complete with pink bathtub and sinks, complimented by white tiles that have a rainbow iridescence to them in the right light. Soooo chic.

I tackled each cabinet and drawer, filling an entire trash bag with expired medicines, gifted bubble baths, ineffective hair products, and redundant cosmetics. I wiped down the interiors with warm water, de-gunking all of the hair product spills that I had hoped would magically dry out.

And then I came across my Caboodle. A relic most likely obtained at a pre-pubescent birthday party, my caboodle has served many roles over the years:

Housing my collection of Tinkerbell Cosmetics. This pre-teen cosmetic line consisted of matte clear lip gloss, water-scented Eau De Toilette, and nearly visible shimmer powder. The perfect compromise for young harlots like myself and over-protective parents like mine.
My surplus of Bath and Body Works products, collected over the course of 2 years of holidays during the early teen Bath Product Boom. My signature scent was Sun Ripened Raspberry, but C-List friends who weren't privy to such personal information undoubtedly gave me Country Apple, Tahitian Vanilla, or overly feminine Freesia.

When my Aunt Liz finally convinced my mom that allowing me to wear make-up before age 16 probably wouldn't result in a teen pregnancy, my Caboodle welcomed an array of Wet-n-Wild make-up that I had only dreamed of. Eye liners, lip sticks, pressed powders - Oh My!

When it came time to move into the dorms at college, I didn't have any trouble organizing a portable vanity of all of my bathroom sink needs - Caboodle it!

Post-college, when I had a permanent bathroom vanity to move my products into, Caboodle made the perfect tackle box for all my nail polish needs. It neatly stored everything from summer pinks to winter mauves, polish remover, emery boards, even a buffer and an orange stick (because Glamour Magazine says so).

Cleaning out my adult bathroom with the intention to simplify and streamline, though, I had to admit that I don't wear the same nail polishes as I did in my frivolous youth. In fact, I've turned into a boring old lady relying mostly on Elizabeth Arden's Madison Avenue Light Bronze for a year-round pedicure, OPI's Bubble Bath for a demure manicure, and perhaps Revlon's Cherry Berry for a summer vacation pedicure.

I think you can see where this is going. It's time to say goodbye to the Caboodle that has served me so well over the years. It's been a great journey, Caboodle, one that has seen me mature from an insecure young girl trying to look grown up, to a slightly less insecure young woman trying to look occasionally professional, occasionally dance club worthy. I can still smell the familiar scent of Eau de Water mixed with Sun Ripened Raspberry on your hot pink plastic (*single tear*).

You'll have a great second go at it, Caboodle. Some little girl will find you on a rickety Goodwill shelf and pee her pants with excitement over her good fortune. And you'll be exactly what she needs to clean herself up and emerge smelling like a lady.

Five for Friday: Satellite Edition

2008-10-17T17:16:00.000-07:00

I have been a contributing writer for Blissfully Domestic for a little over a month now, and decided to give them a taste of my Five for Friday style today. Check out my article, 5 Ways to Wear Scarves this Fall to get your Friday fix.

If you like what you see over there, show me some Interwebs Love by leaving a comment, or show the site that's publishing my work some love by subscribing to their RSS feed.

Just Askin'

2008-10-16T16:51:00.000-07:00

What is the deal with abandoned cars on the side of the highway? I'm serious. I don't have an analogy or story I'm getting at. I just really don't get it: What is the deal with abandoned cars?

We've all seen them, right? All caked with dirt, with cobwebs on the wheels, sidled way over on the shoulder with that bright yellow ticket on the windshield. What does that ticket even say? Some thoughts:

Just because it's paved with the same kind of blacktop, the side of the freeway is not a parking-lot. I can't believe I'm the first person to have to tell you that.

You better be lying lifeless somewhere in that field over there, in which case we'll assume this car was parked here against your will. Otherwise please send a check or money order to the City of This Is Not A Parking Lot.

Does the phrase, "Finder's keepers, loser's weepers" mean anything to you? You have 24 hours to reclaim this pile of crap, otherwise I'm selling the parts on e-bay.

What I'm most confused about is what chain of events leads up to someone abandoning their car on the side of the freeway, usually in the middle of nowhere. The first few steps I can make an educated guess at: The car breaks down (or threatens to), causing the driver to pull over and call a friend/AAA/other roadside service. The driver then gets taken home or to wherever it is they were on their way. It's at this point that I lose the storyline.

The driver is dropped off wherever it is they need to be, and then... they take the bus to their next engagement? They get a ride from a friend and decide that this is their new favorite way to get from point A to point B? At what point does someone decide that retrieving their vehicle from the side of the road is not that big of a deal?

I'm guessing most of these people don't have extra cars laying around. I mean, it's not like these abandoned cars are BMWs and Mercedes. Perhaps the Chevy Novas that I'm seeing alongside the I5 are each just one Nova in a series of Novas that the owner has available to them?

Just askin'.

Pretty Good.... For a Boy

2008-10-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

My friend Lesley had the million dollar idea to start an all girls fantasy football league this year. Lesley, of course, is married to a guy who would probably choose ESPN Sports Center over food and water on most occasions, and the sad part is that is would actually probably sustain him. His body has adapted, in a new twist on Darwinism, to convert the betagamma rays (or whatever). And now, she's adapted too.

She rallied her best girls and her loyal bloggers and appointed herself Commish. We thought up team names that best reflected our desire to keep it cute and playful while still fighting to win. My favorites include Princess Pain and Huddle Hotties. Our wise commish opted for an auto draft so that our ESPN host site could do the toiling while we selected players based on most unusual name, Alma mater, team colors, and team mascot.

And it was good. Especially good for me, who went undefeated in the first 4 games. My foray into fantasy football was everything I'd hoped for: A crash course in the who's who of the NFL, a way to connect with my husband over his own fantasy football musings, and a little friendly competition.

And then one of the girls confessed that she had handed the reigns of her team over to a friend of her husband's. A boy friend. And then - shock of shocks - "her" team started winning. And now that team is tied with my team. And that is unacceptable.

Lesley. Dear commissioner. Dear matriarch of this rag-tag group of women just trying to join in on the fun that our male counterparts have enjoyed for years. If we wanted to play dirty we would have weaseled our way into these leagues one-by-one, years ago. We want our own league, though. Aren't we granted that right through Title IX or something? Please. Fight for our right to football.

[Comments for this post have been removed and disabled due to the total shit storm that ensued. I apologize to those people whose comments were deleted or who were offended by the comments before I deleted them. To those of you who missed the whole thing and are feeling left out, let this be a lesson to read this blog more often or subscribe via e-mail.]

Saturday Shout-Out

2008-10-11T09:21:00.000-07:00

This may or may not become a weekly installmet here at SportsFan's Daughter, but I thought I'd give a shout-out to a blog or two that I've been enjoying lately & spread the love.

Pictures and Pancakes

"The affairs of a photographer and food stylist"

This is the blog of some newly married friends of ours. She happens to be a food stylist for productions such as Everyday Italian with Giada de Laurentiis and nmerous Bon Appetit magazine spreads, and he happens to be a photographer for productions such as Santa Barbara Magazine. The result is like culinary porn. Eat your heart out.

Five (+1) for Friday: My Batting Practice Checklist

2008-10-10T08:29:00.000-07:00

1. Bend your knees, in the voice of my former surfing instructor, Keith. When the company I was working for announced that they were putting my division up for sale, and that I may or may not have a job in 6 months, I decided to stick it out and gamble on the possibility of getting a severance package while simultaneously landing another job (ahhh, to be 23 and living in an economy that hasn't totally collapsed on itself). I did decide, however, that my version of "sticking it out" involved reducing my work ethic by about 40%, to stick it to the man. I used my extra time to take a surfing class offered by the junior college that met 2 hours a day, 4 days a week, for 6 weeks of the summer. I sucked for about 5 of those 6 weeks, in large part because my fear of getting a concussion and drowning forced me into a premature rigamortis, which is incidentally the worst possible thing for balance.

2. Get over the plate, in the voice of the common sense that I've picked up being a sports fan's daughter, but that my fear of getting drilled by the pitch tempts me to ignore. As a new softball player, I find myself consistently relying on Go-Go-Gadget arms that I don't actually posses. In the outfield this results in pop flies thudding to the ground about 2 feet in front of my outstretched glove. At bat, this results in me barely getting inside the batter's box.

3. Tighten your core, in the voice of my favorite yoga teacher at my local YMCA. The thing about bending your knees and leaning over the plate is that is can put your back at high risk. The thing about my back is that it's already all jacked up, so I have to employ all kinds of geriatric tricks for keeping it safe... like sleeping with a pillow between my knees and looking like a robot when I run. Tightening my core is probably the most covert of my back-saving moves, so I remind myself to do it often.

4. Keep your back foot planted, in the voice of our team's 3rd base coach, Andy, who noticed that I kept transferring my weight like a golf swing. And no, I don't golf. Go figure. Letting my weight transfer to my front foot was causing me to swing down on the ball, which was causing the softball to bounce directly in front of me and then meander casually to the pitcher, which was causing me to get out, which is unacceptable.

5. Power through the swing with your hips, in the voice of Corey Watts, a skeavy guy who took me on a date to the batting cages in high school when he was a senior and I was a sophomore. And yes, he tried to do the reach-around batting demonstration. *Shudder.*

6. {BONUS!} Keep your eye on the ball, in the voice of the SportsFan himself, my dad. Recorded into my 5 year old mind during back yard t-ball sessions, this is one of many sports lessons that became life lessons. He wrote it in a card when I left for college that I kept in my desk all four years, consulting it when I needed a reminder to renew my focus. He assured me that even though hitting the ball seemed a little impossible, all I had to do was bring 3 things together: My eyes, the ball, and the bat. Just 3 things. It was all the confidence I needed.

Here's Katie and I after our first big Safety First win.

My hat says, "Maui ['hang loose' sign] Easy Bruddah." Consult your local Goodwill.

Reading This Blog Just Got Easier

2008-10-06T14:27:00.000-07:00

If you'll direct your attention to the right --> you'll see that I just added an option to subscribe to this blog by e-mail! So, for those of you who don't use an Rss Feed (or don't know what that even means, Mom), and don't want to check my blog every day only to be disappointed that I only average 1.4 posts per week, you can simply enter your e-mail address into that box and start receiving e-mails each time I publish a new post. You're welcome.

How To Kick a Cold's Ass

2008-10-06T13:25:00.000-07:00

Although it's still pretty hard to tell that Fall has officially arrived here in Santa Barbara, somehow my immune system seems to have gotten the memo. After a 3 day non-stop business meeting in Los Angeles directly followed by a 3 day non-stop wedding weekend in the Central Valley, my throat is sore and my sinuses are grumpy.

Never fear, I have a bulletproof system for fighting off colds that has been successful for me for the last 3 cold and flu seasons. Here's what I'll be doing every morning after breakfast and every night before bed until I'm feeling back to normal:

1. Drink one Airborne fizz

2. Drink hot tea made with mint-flavored green tea, a teaspoon of honey and a squeeze of lemon.

3. Brush teeth and tongue

4. Gargle with Cool Mint Listerine as far back in my throat as possible, pretty much until I gag. Repeat this step 3 times for about a minute each time

5. Take a "Cold Eez" zinc lozenge

6. Repeat steps 4 and 5 at mid-morning and mid-afternoon.

I swear by this regimen! Hopefully none of you will need to use it this fall/winter, but just in case you do I thought I'd pass it along.

SportsFan's Daughter Cooks: Buffalo Wings & Blue Cheese Dressing

2008-09-28T21:45:00.001-07:00

I have been craving buffalo wings for about a month now. It started with a trip to Hermosa Beach to visit a college friend who ended up taking us out to the best pizza and wing joint in town. I've never been a big wing lover, but that pile of fried up goodness did me right that night and left me craving more. Since then, I've had buffalo wings at at least 3 restaurants and even attempted my own improvised version using boneless skinless chicken breasts that I had on hand. Nothing satifisfied my craving. They weren't spicy enough, weren't saucy enough, weren't served with good enough blue cheese. They were just, meh.

With the onset of football season, I have been determined to find the best wings money can buy. Like many tasks, however, I've come to accept this one as something that I'm going to have to do myself if I really want it done right. After scouring at least 25 recipes and gleaning the best advice and most innovative techniques from all of them, I have developed my own recipe that I believe is second to none.

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Best Damn Buffalo Wings:

Ingredients:
For the Wings:
2-2.5 lbs Chicken Wings (I used 1 Styrofoam-tray package of Foster's Farms)
Juice of 1 Lemon
Garlic Salt
Spicy Seasoning (I used Mrs. Dash Spicy Chipotle Mix, but I think any spicy or even Cajun spice mix would do)
1 qt. (4 c.) Canola Oil
1 c. Frank's Red Hot hot sauce
1/2 c. (1 stick) Butter, melted
Dash Tabasco
Celery

For the Blue Cheese Dip:
1/2 c. Buttermilk
1/2 c. Sour Cream
2 T. Mayonnaise
1/4 c. Blue Cheese crumbles (adjust to taste)
1 t. minced Garlic
1 Green Onion, finely chopped
Juice of 1/4 - 1/2 Lemon
1 T. finely minced Celery Leaves
Generous Salt and Pepper

Directions:
For the Blue Cheese:

1. Mix all ingredients together (duh). Cover and refrigerate. I prefer to do this the night before so the flavors can become BFF.

For the Wings:

1. Prep: Heat oil in a large, tall-walled pot to about 375 degrees (I used my biggest stew pot and heated the oil on med-high), and preheat oven to 350 degrees. Prep wings by cutting off the pointy tip of each wing and cutting through the joint of each wing so that you have "drumette" and "double bone" wing portions. Squeeze lemon juice all over chicken. Sprinkle garlic salt and spicy seasonings all over chicken, and use your hands to toss & massage chicken pieces in marinade until evenly coated. You could do this the night before as well. I did this before kick off and let it sit until half time. Once chicken is marinated and oil is hot...

2. Fry those babies up! Working in 2 batches, use long tongs to gently place chicken into the hot oil (I used BBQ tongs to keep my hands as far away from that spattering oil as possible and managed to emerge unscathed). Let chicken fry for about 5 minutes per batch, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking to the pot. Remove chicken and place on a paper towel lined plate to drain excess oil.

3. Mix hot sauce, butter, and tabasco in a bowl large enough to accommodate all the chicken. Place fried chicken in sauce and toss to coat (and by "coat," I mean "drench until drowned"). Once coated, reserve excess hot sauce and...

4. Bake chicken for 15 minutes (placed in a single layer on a parchment-lined cookie sheet). When done baking, baste chicken with remaining hot sauce. Serve with blue cheese and celery. Round it out with a cold beer and, lastly, GO NINERS!

Five for Friday: How to Tell that It's Fall in Santa Barbara

2008-09-20T10:40:00.000-07:00

1. Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Starbucks. On a recent Monday morning trip to my local S-bux I noticed that the chalkboard so kindly recommended that I "Try a Pumpkin Spice Latte and a Slice of Zucchini Bread!" I literally looked outside at the sunny 75 degree day, glanced around at the tank-tops and flip-flops all around me, and thought to myself, "Huh. I guess it must be fall."

2. The window display at Nordstrom gets all leafy. Cruising up Chapala Street I notice that all the mannequins at Nordstrom are wearing tweed coats and brightly colored scarves. "Aren't they hot?," I wonder to myself from my air conditioned car. They are slaves to fashion, though, and they must obey the laws of fall, regardless of the fact that the temperatures have held steady since August.

3. The coffee shops are doubling as libraries. Coffee shops in Santa Barbara spend their summers serving iced lattes and lemonade to bustling moms with kids in toe, plus the usual morning business crowd. With 4 colleges in the the area, though, 'back to school' means 'back to late night coffee runs so you can flirt and gossip while pretending to study.'

4. The end of parade season. With the town's main drag starting at the beach and ending at a multi-block sized park, Santa Barbara was practically built for parades. City organizers make use of this natural resource with no less than 4 parades within 3 months of summer. Residents use the fall season to recover from the taco-stand gluttony and confetti throwing, getting in some rest before the 'Parade of Lights' that will be upon us in December (when temperatures will drop to a blustery 65).

5. The leaves change color (!). Okay, you have to leave Santa Barbara proper to witness this one, but just a short 45 minutes away in the beautiful Santa Ynez valley there are over 100 wineries that bear witness to the traditional changing of the seasonal guard. Rows upon rows of grapevines take a cue from the window display at Nordstrom and transform into the very colors that define the season. Happy Fall!

Hey, Batter Batter! Suh-Wing Batter!

2008-09-17T14:26:00.000-07:00

There are about 27 scars of various shape and size all over my body that are the undeniable proof that I am a Total Spaz. Aside from the random accidental table bumping, finger burning, and toe stubbing that have become a part of my everyday existence, I have had at least one big fall every year for the last 3 or 4 years.

It started in 2005 with the most epic of all my falls, the treadmill fall, which really deserves a post all to itself (just rest assured that it involves me hanging on to the base of the handrails while flopping on my belly on the moving treadmill). I followed that one up in 2006 by getting bucked off my Vespa, in the DMV parking lot no less, to the tune of a busted up chin and knee. Last year’s fall was the most painful to date, both physically and emotionally, as I flew over the handlebars of my bike and broke my arm just 6 days before a triathlon that I’d spend the previous 5 months training for.

With only 3 ½ months remaining in 2008 and only one inconsequential fall year-to-date, one might think that my streak is in question. Well, worry not, internet, I have taken matters into my own hands.

I’ve joined a softball team. Despite our team name, ‘Safety First,’ I think this is a guaranteed ticket to the ER for me.

“You’ve never mentioned an interest in softball before,” you’re thinking to yourself. Oh right, that’s because I haven’t had a mitt on my hand since I played tee ball when I was 6; and because I grew up playing soccer, which meant that my hand-eye coordination went terribly undeveloped and to this day I can barely catch a set of car keys being tossed to me in the driveway. The thing I’m looking forward to most is seeing how much Big league Chew I can stuff into my mouth.

It seems clear that it’s really only a matter of time before a pop fly into right field lands squarely in my eye socket, or a grounder deflects off a gopher hole and gives me a tracheotomy. Do you think I can wear a catcher’s mask in the outfield?

Ruh-Roh

2008-09-10T20:48:00.000-07:00

One of the less glamorous aspects of my career as a traveling saleswoman is the necessity to manage a constant supply of stuff to be sold. This is done by maintaining a monthly contract at my local U-Haul Self Storage, which is essentially a crack den where you can also store things. I maintain a 5x10 cell there, with 3 of the 4 walls lined floor-to-ceiling with columns of boxes. I have done by best to organize them into stacks according to product, lot number, expiration date, etc., but it's still kind of a cluster-f*ck. On the 4th wall is an industrial steel shelving unit (that took about 147 hours to assemble myself, by the way. And by "assemble myself," I mean, "watch my husband assemble while I handed him screws and tried not to swear"). Each month a shipment of more, new stuff arrives at the storage facility, and the employees there kindly drop kick and sling-shot these boxes into my individual unit for an extra fee of $2.95 per month and the extra privilege of keeping my extra key.

So I'm in my storage unit the other day, pulling out some boxes to be circulated out into the real world, when something out of the ordinary happens. While I'm trying to extract the box I need from somewhere in the middle of a stack of about 94 boxes while not letting the entire operation topple down onto my head, I feel something soft and furry on my foot. This is odd, since I only store cardboard boxes and shrink-wrapped sales material in said storage unit. I glance down and see... Scooby Doo. A 12" nearly new Scooby Doo plush toy is lying on his side, face shoved under the shelving unit. Ruh-Roh.

Now understand, while there is about a foot of space between the ceiling and the wall that divides my unit and my neighbors unit, the ceiling is about 12' high and it would take a Los Angeles Laker to propel a stuffed animal from one unit to another. How in *the hell* did Scooby get in here? No seriously. Did one of the employees that was hurling my shipment of boxes into the unit leave it in here? But 1.) Why on earth would one of the employees have a stuffed animal with them, and 2.)I've been in here since my last shipment and I don't recall Scooby's presence then. Sooo, what do you think? Is there foul play involved? Is your mind going to the same terrible places that my mind is? Should I consider moving my whole situation to another storage facility like Shane practically demanded that I do when I told him about Scooby? What would Scooby Doo?!

Five for Friday: Things I did in High School that Would Have Brought Unnecessary Criticism upon my Parents, had They Been Running for Vice President

2008-09-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

[Alternate Title: Bad Things I did as a Teenager That I Still Haven’t Told my Parents About. (Nervous voice: Hi Mom and Dad)]

1.) Public nudity. I’ve already disclosed this wild streak publicly here, so this one shouldn’t be too shocking. I have mooned my friends. I have gone skinny dipping. I did not wear anything underneath my high school graduation gown. I don’t bring a towel into the sauna at the gym. Certainly our country could not trust an elected official who has an exhibitionist for a daughter.

2.) Physical violence. I bitched-slapped my friend Amber about a week into our freshman year. She was my only friend from junior high that went to the same high school as me, which made her the only person privy to the fact that just a year earlier, I had been “going out” with Ben Stapp. He exuded a grungy musician vibe that had been very cool-kid-mainstream in the 8th grade, but which labeled him unquestionably as just a “band geek” once we got to the big leagues. One day at the bus stop, upon spying Ben lugging his tuba across the street, Amber announced, “Hey Anna, there goes your ex-boyfriend.” Shocked and appalled that she would sell me out like that when I was trying so hard to act the part of the in-crowd, I bitched slapped her. We were both horrified and put it instantly behind us, where it has remained for the last 12 years. I’m sure it would re-emerge if my mom ran for veep, though.

3.) Co-ed sleepover. This is the big one. The one I haven’t told them about yet. The first time I was left alone overnight, sometime during my junior year, my boyfriend spent the night. It was terrible. I was so overcome with guilt the entire time that I could barely carry on a conversation, much less look him in the eye. I made him sleep on the couch, which still didn’t help me get more than about 45 minutes of sleep all night. I finally kicked him out around 6am, packing up his belongings for him and quite literally shoving him out the door. If I had been found out I would have crawled into a hole and died. If it had come up during one of my parent’s VP campaign I would have given myself little cuts on my arms, rubbed salt into the wounds, dived into a pool of lemon juice and then crawled into a hole and died. (Mom and Dad: Sorry I lied guys. I learned my lesson. Can we still be friends?)

4.) The drinking. I didn’t drink in high school. Seriously. I did go to the parties, and I did hang out with cool kids who did the drinking, but I did not do the drinking. Except once. New Year’s Eve of my senior year was the big Y2K party. An unnamed friend with a cool/questionably responsible mother hosted the party. There was alcohol. Not an obscene amount, but some beer and wine and champagne (and yes, the mom did collect all car keys and made sure everyone spent the night or was picked up by a parent, so at least there’s that). I decided that a champagne toast at midnight at the turn of the millennium was surely within my good girl limits. As soon as that glass got into my hand, though, the intensity of the flashbulbs made me think the paparazzi had mistaken me for Britney Spears. All the friends who had been so perplexed at my non-drinking at so many parties before treated the situation like a rare comet sighting, or the re-emergence of an extinct species. It really was only a few sips of Cooks, but had those pictures found their way onto the interwebs, my status as a teen lush would have been cemented in history.

5.) Liar liar. My freshman year of high school included an “elective wheel” with a quarter each of grammar and 3 other things that I cannot remember to save my life (Speech and debate, maybe? Computer lab?). Our grammar teacher was an obese, monotone, and disengaged warm body that I tried to avoid as much as possible. Our final assignment was to write an autobiographical essay. I saw this as an opportunity to leave with guns blazing, so to speak. To give it to the man. So I lied. I wrote my autobiographical essay about the day I found out I was adopted. He might have been onto me, but he still gave me a B. So I would have been deemed not only a liar and but also a recipient of favoritism.

Miracles in Politics

2008-09-03T14:38:00.000-07:00

Did you watch Barack Obama's historic nomination-acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention last week? I took it in with 3 girlfriends over BBQ, in front of the TV in the garage, right next to the beer fridge. You know, 'cause we're middle class like that. Anyways, while listening to Obama's inspirational rhetoric, I wondered...

One of the miracles that Jesus performed, as accounted in all 4 Gospels of the Bible, is that of multiplying a small number of loaves of bread and fish to feed a crowd of thousands of hungry spectators. The way the story goes, these people all came out to the desert to hear Jesus speak, but nearly all of them came without enough food to sustain them for the journey and the sermon. When Jesus realized this, he asked his 12 disciples to gather up the bread and fish that they brought for themselves so that he could share it with the masses. When their contributions amounted to only a few loaves and fish in total, Jesus said a prayer and passed the small portion around. The miracle, of course, is that the food never ran out and everyone present eats "as much as they wanted."

While most Christians believe this miracle to be an illustration of the supernatural power of God, I have heard some theologians speculate that supernatural activity had nothing to do with it. Well, almost nothing. They theorize that the spectators, moved by Jesus' sermon and charisma, dug deep into their own pockets as the basket of loaves and fishes was passed to them, many of them actually contributing to the offering from their own measly scraps of food. As a result, for every hungry spectator that took some food, one or more spectators added food, allowing the supply to never run out.

And isn't that just as miraculous? While one theory credits the miracle to the omnipotence of God, the other theory relies on the good will and generosity of thousands of normal people to sacrifice for the benefit of the crowd as a whole.

Back to Barack. He has been both criticized and praised for the kind of inspirational rhetoric that we heard from him last week. Some say that it's just fluff, others say it's the voice of change. To be totally honest with you, I haven't decided which side of that argument I agree most with. But I do wonder: Even if it is just fluff, even if all it is is inspirational rhetoric that makes people feel good about America, what if it's enough to move people? What if it's enough to make people sacrifice for the benefit of the crowd? Even if the change that Obama is promising comes not as a result of his own policies and politics, but by the actions of a nation that has been inspired to action, wouldn't that be just as miraculous?

Let's Call a Spade a Spade

2008-08-27T16:29:00.000-07:00

I love trashy celebrity gossip. LOVE it. I’m not particularly proud of this fact, and under no circumstances will I try to defend the honor of such a practice, but I’m like a moth to the proverbial flame. Even as I make my way through cycles of swearing off it, PerezHilton.com, People Magazine, and especially the one that started it all for me, US Weekly, will always hold a place in my heart (and my Google Reader or beach bag, depending on the media).

While I can admit that the cultural phenomenon of obsessing over the minutia of the lifestyles of the rich and famous has some serious pitfalls (female self esteem, consumerism, and general gossipy bitchiness, to name a few), what really irks me is the failure on the part of the magazines to give themselves an honest title.

US Weekly? (Just to clarify for any readers that are just tuning in, it’s pronounced us weekly, which rhymes with bus weekly. Not U.S. Weekly, as though it’s the news of the entire United States wrapped into a 30 page glossy) It seems to me that the entire appeal of the ‘editorial content’ - if it can even be called that – is predicated on the very basis of an ‘us versus them’ mindset.

For example, the readership of US Weekly does not care about the daily goings on of, say, overqualified secretaries who eat Lean Cuisines a minimum of 4 times per week. We don’t care about the grocery shopping preferences of stay at home moms who make no less than 9 round trip commutes to the soccer field each week. We have no interest in the love lives of 35 year old school teachers who have finally given in to their mother’s pleas and they registered on match.com.

And you know why? Because we are those people. That's us.

The readership of US Weekly wants to know about THEM. The people who carry $3000 handbags to their lunch date at The Ivy. The people who design clothing lines on a whim. The people who stay out until 4am on school nights and accidentally flash their babymakers to the paparazzi. The people who go to $30,000 a month rehab facilities for “exhaustion.” Celebrities.

So really, shouldn't it be called Them Weekly? I’m just sayin'.

Population: 2

2008-08-15T08:35:00.000-07:00

Overheard:

[My husband's cell phone rings. He answers it.]

Husband: Hello?

Other Side: Hey, it's Kevin!

H: Hey Kev, How's L.A.?

Kevin: It's okay. I'm thinking about coming up to Santa Barbara this weekend! What are you up to?

H: Oooo, it's our 5 year anniversary.

K: Oh yeah? Congratulations! So, you're going out of town?

H: Well, not exactly.

K: Oh, so you're going to be around if I come up to visit this weekend?

H: No.

K: I don't get it.

H: Well... we're going to be... ummm... not exactly gone, but... We are going to be in Sexytown.

*****

I hear there is no cell phone reception and no wi-fi there. Maybe some Olympic coverage. So, bon voyage to us as we get ready for a luxurious "staycation" to celebrate 5 great years.

Place Your Mind Firmly in the Gutter

2008-08-13T11:15:00.000-07:00

[DISCLAIMER: This post is going to contain the word vagina. It will not be in reference to a particular vagina, but it still seemed only fair that I warn you ahead of time.]

While watching the Olympics with some wild and crazy guys this past weekend, a completely juvenile game emerged. As these guys watched women's volleyball with the sound turned down so they could voice over their own frat-boy version of the play-by-play, it didn't take them long to realize that when they employed various fake accents to their already obnoxious "announcer voices," certain words sounded like other words.

Specifically, "for China" sounded like "vagina."

As if watching 10 women in tiny spandex shorts didn't thrill them enough, now they had "Oooo, that one really had to hurt fa-China," and "Uh-oh, that one seemed a little slippery fa-China."

Okay you get it. The options are endless. They can be sport or situation specific, or more general. Whatever. I want to hear what you can come up with. I've enabled anonymous comments so you don't have to reveal yourself, although I might be awarding prizes to the most creative submissions. Even if you can't bring yourself to come up with your own fa-China one-liner, you know someone who can. Just click on the little envelope below to e-mail this to them. Bring it.

The Results Are In...

2008-08-12T21:08:00.000-07:00

Seventy five percent of you think that I drank hard alcohol after I accidentally ingested raw chicken in an attempt to kill the offending bacteria. Twenty five percent of you think I gagged myself. ZERO percent of you think I hoped for the best. (As an aside, only TWELVE of you voted. I have a hit tracker that tracks how many people read this bad boy each day, and I know for an Internet fact that I have way more than 12 readers. Ummm, I don't know if you're familiar with Sean "Diddy" Combs or his "VOTE OR DIE" campaign, but seriously, where you at?)

Anyway, nine of you guessed right. I did in fact take a shot of tequila on a TUESDAY night in order *not* to throw up. It made sense at the time. And it worked! I did gag a little trying to choke it down (sorry to let you down, Mom - I'm not worthy of your tequila legacy), so the other 3 of you weren't too far off either.

Five for Friday: Let's Just Go to McDonald's

2008-08-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

1. Fishy Fish. I spent years of my childhood begging to be pardoned from the sentence of eating fish for dinner, a meal choice that my health-nut of a mother seemed insistent on. Now that I am a grown ass woman and my metabolism has slowed down enough to really put the ‘ass’ in ‘grown ass,’ I’ve decided to put fish back on the menu. Tuna salad – the gateway fish – eventually turned into Salmon, which led to Seabass, and now I’m open to Tilapia and Mahi Mahi as well. I’m feeling pretty good about this, right? Feeling like a real grown up, even ordering fish at a restaurant where I could have had PASTA. And then people start trying to tell me that I shouldn’t eat so much fish because I’m going to get MERCURY POISONING. My friend Josh tries to convince me that the term ‘Mad Hatter’ refers to actual mercury being found inside the brains of people who eat too much fish. So I have to choose between mercury in my brain or fat on my ass? More tuna please!

2. Toasting my Nuts. I hear a lot of noise out there about the evils of red meat. Inhumane treatment, antibiotics, carbon footprint – red meat really has the market on trendy causes cornered. I tend to be a late adopter in general, and I love me a big juicy cheeseburger, so I’m not prepared to swear off the stuff entirely. I am prepared to incorporate some alternative proteins into my diet, however, which means I’ve got a pantry full of almonds, walnuts, and pecans at the moment. I toss them into yogurt or salads. I eat them plain. The other day I decided to research the hierarchy of nut nutrition as I suspected that not all nuts are created equal. Instead, what I found was some raw food guru preaching that while nuts are in fact a superfood, toasting them messes with the quality of their natural oils. Or something. Toasted nuts are obviously way better tasting than raw nuts, and until now I was feeling superfood-tastic about including them in my diet. Turns out my toasted nuts are toxic and probably carcinogenic as well. Aw, nuts! (Sorry, but I couldn’t resist).

3. Run Down Joints. Running is the best thing you can do for your cardio-pulmonary system (that means heart and lungs, kids), but the WORST thing you can do for your joints. What’s a girl to do?

4. Whole Wheat, Part Nutrition. I have a friend who buys organic raw wheat and then mills it herself to make homemade bread (and presumably other foods that are made with whole wheat). That alone makes her the healthiest person I know. I can barely bring myself to buy the store bought bread that doesn’t contain Satan’s Spawn, otherwise known as refined sugar. Now she tells us that she has learned that the blade in her electric wheat mill can generate so much heat while it’s whirling around in there that it can – you guessed it – compromise the nutritional value. To recap: Milling locally grown, organic, raw, whole-of-the-grain wheat IS NOT HEALTHY ENOUGH.

5. Micro-Waving the Vitamins Goodbye. Other friends of mine, who have not yet reached the level of milling their own wheat, DON’T OWN A MICROWAVE. Something about zapping out all the vitamins, turning the food into the nutrimental equivalent of styrofoam. When I pressed these friends to back up their claim with surgeon general’s warnings, FDA statements, or recommendations from Oprah, one of them honestly said, “I mean, doesn’t it seem weird that you can take food out of the refrigerator and 60 seconds later it’s the temperature of the sun? Doesn’t that freak you out?” To which I replied, “It’s weird that an iPod Nano can hold a gazillion songs, but it doesn’t freak me out. What freaks me out is that you guys are microwave conspiracy theorists.”

Puke, Prayers, & Booze

2008-08-06T22:51:00.000-07:00

I ate raw chicken! It was an accident. Halfway through last night's chicken breast I realized that it was a little pinker and a little mushier than protocol. I panicked. I had to leave for San Francisco at 6am the next morning and could not afford to be puking all night (unlike all those times in your life when you totally CAN afford to be puking all night). The first three options that came to me were 1.) Just wait it out and try not to think about it, 2.) Get to the toilet ASAP and gag myself to get it out of my system, or 3.) Get to the liquor cabinet ASAP and take a shot to kill the bacteria that had just gotten into my system.

Go ahead, guess what I did. Cast your (TOTALLY ANONYMOUS) vote over there to the right. Polls close at midnight Friday.

Who's Got Two Thumbs and Just Got an Article Published? This Girl.

2008-08-05T18:21:00.000-07:00

Okay, "published" might be a bit of an exaggeration. A few weeks ago I submitted my Bottom Drawer Scrapbook piece to Divine Caroline, a fun online magazine of sorts that features articles on everything from Style to Career & Money to Home & Food. I just got an e-mail notifying me that my piece was selected to appear on the front page of the Style section! Please check it out, as they update their articles every few days and my fame will therefore be short lived.

If you've been stalking this blog anonymously, you now have an opportunity to show your support while maintaining your anonymity. At the bottom of the article on Divine Caroline there is an option to click the "I Like It" button without revealing your true identity, but still contributing to my street cred.

Are you a fan of this blog? {Subscribe via e-mail}

Forgetting

2008-08-03T23:04:00.000-07:00

A good girlfriend of mine just had a baby. Via C-section, which was not her first choice ‘birth plan.’ And she has a 2 year old at home. Who’s not totally convinced that pooping in the toilet is all it’s cracked up to be. And they live in a small cottage that was built in the 1800’s and doesn’t have a dishwasher. Or a garbage disposal. And she never, ever complains about any of this.

I offered to organize dinner drop-offs for her as a small token of my admiration for the grace and humor with which she approaches motherhood (not to mention life in general). I gathered the e-mail addresses. I compared calendars. I took social gatherings, vacations, and left overs into consideration. I kept track of the responses and compiled an extensive master list of who would bring what meal on what night.

At the bottom of that master list I asked that volunteers please make note of their assigned dinner delivery night in their calendars or phones as I would not be able to contact each person to remind them as their day approached. This seemed like a reasonable request to me, and indeed I did not hear any grumbling about it.

Due to the fact that I was invited to NINE weddings this summer and am subsequently traveling out of town almost every weekend on top of my usual weekday business travel schedule, only one of the nights was an option for me to bring my friend dinner. That night was this past Friday, August 1st. I would be hosting a dinner party the night before and heading out of town that evening, but I figured I could bring something by at lunch time that she could re-heat.

As I prepared for my Thursday night dinner party I had one of those panic attacks where you realize that you have an upcoming commitment that isn’t really locked into your memory. There’s still time, you haven’t blown it yet, but you realize that you haven’t written it down on your mental calendar yet. It’s likely to be one of those things where someone asks you if you have plans on Friday night and you’re like, ‘Hmmm, Friday. I feel like I had something going on, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it would have been.’ Yeah, so that happened to me on Thursday. I realized that I should really put it into my Outlook calendar, but I was wrist deep in marinade and carne asada, so it would have to wait.

Fast forward to 7:30 pm on Friday, August 1st. The phone rings. It’s the new babydaddy. Since he happens to be good friends with my husband and they share a mutual fondness for heckling each other, this is his golden opportunity. His tells my husband that his 2 year old is in his high chair, donning his favorite bib with a fork in one hand and a spoon in the other, hungry. Crying. Losing weight.

I am mortified. I am hissing in the background, telling my husband to tell Hungry Dad that we are on our way, take-out in hand. I tell him that I don’t care if they’ve already eaten, we’re bringing it over. They can eat it tomorrow, I don’t care, I’m not letting the evening close without bringing them a meal.

They are uber laid back and understanding, true to form. They assure us that their refrigerator is overflowing with left-overs and that they don’t want to inconvenience us right before we head out of town. They are adamant about it.

I start the road trip in a state of depression. It takes me 45 minutes to come out of it enough to call my girlfriend and declare my self hatred to her. I tell her that I will make it up to her by babysitting her kids while she and her husband go out on an actual dinner date, which I will pay for. I will plan the timing around her breast feeding schedule. I am starting to feel better about myself.

But just barely.

Five for Friday: Things I Remember For No Good Reason

2008-08-01T12:16:00.000-07:00

1. The theme song from Fresh Prince of Bel Air. "Now this is story all about how my life got flipped turned upside down…" That’s right, I could sing every line of the theme song that introduced Will Smith the world. Remember Carlton? Jazzy Jeff? Aunt Vivienne? I do. I don’t know why I do, or why I can’t seem to voluntarily forget and free up that brain space, but I’m afraid it’s in there for good. My future children might get rocked to sleep to the tune of “Chillin out, maxin, relaxin' all cool and all shootin some b-ball outside the school.” Poor kids.

2. And, or, for, nor, but, yet, so. I learned this list in my 10th grade English class, but the embarrassing thing is that I can’t remember what the list actually is. I think you’re not supposed to begin sentences with these words, but I can’t for the life of me remember exactly what part of speech that is. Yet, I could easily refer to google or Grammar Girl to find out. But where’s the fun in that? So instead I’ll just advertise my ignorance here. For your enjoyment.

3. Green is the opposite of red. You know, on the color wheel. Like in art class. Not only can I not recall where I even learned this tid bit, but I can’t recall a time that it was ever useful information for me to have. Nevertheless, there it is. Tattooed on my brain.

4. A screw is just a modified wedge. This useless gem was garnered in my high school physical science class, which was held in a portable classroom that had been on campus for over a decade – just to paint the picture for you. In learning about simple machines (lever, pulley, etc), we learned that a screw is simply an inclined plane wrapped into a cylinder. The fact that I’ve carried this information with me through college and into the adult world is lame enough, but it seems even lamer when I consider the other machines I could have memorized instead. If I was ever stranded in the wilderness, it seems like a lever or a pulley could really facilitate the building of a makeshift shelter better than a screw. Like I’m going to find a triangular shape of metal that I can use my man-hands to twirl into a tight cylinder and all of the sudden I’m Bob Villa? [And by the way, don’t act like you don’t watch ‘Man vs. Wild’ and mentally prepare yourself for your next isolated journey across the Tundra]

5. Billy Joel and John Cougar Mellencamp inducted each other into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Okay, I’m lying here. I just learned this last night, but it’s such a fun factoid that I intend to store it in my brain forever… as long as I have enough room left in there.

Why the 'Sex And The City' Movie is Such a Big Deal

2008-07-27T23:23:00.000-07:00

There are some objective reasons why SATC has been a news-worthy event, such as the fact that it is the largest grossing film with a female lead ever, but objectivity has its’ place and this blog isn’t it.

SATC was a big deal for me on a personal level, and yes I know how fanatical that sounds. I have been a fan of the show for years, and was given the DVD set of the entire series about 3 birthdays ago. I’ve reached for those DVDs numerous times since then, pulling out a particular episode to fulfill a craving, searching for something to make me laugh (Anthony: “HATES IT! Nice beadwork, though.”), or sometimes something to make me cry (Magda: “You love. What you did, that is love.”). The characters have become friends whose personalities I have come to know and understand as they’ve blazed the trails of their own lives, loving and losing along the way.

As the movie approached, it was clear that there was absolutely no way it could live up to my expectations. I was eagerly anticipating an exciting reunion with 4 girlfriends whom I had not seen in 4 years – but what could we really accomplish in just 2 ½ hours? Surely I would be left wanting.

I decided to fill those anxious weeks leading up to movie with a cover-to-cover SATC marathon, watching every second of all 6 seasons to ensure that I would be as prepared as possible for our reunion. I would arrive to the theater fully re-briefed on exactly what had gone wrong with Aiden, how Big had finally swept Carrie off her feet, what exactly had led Miranda to Brooklyn.

What I didn’t expect was how the characters and story lines were revealed in a completely fresh light the second time around. I had hated Big throughout the entire series the first time I watched it. He had been emotionally unavailable, irresponsible in his handling of Carrie’s heart, just plain jack-assed. I ached for Aiden to return, hoping until that last episode in Paris that he could find it in himself to take Carrie back.

Re-watching the SATC series turned out to be the re-do that real life never grants. How many times have I thought back to past relationships – both romantic and platonic – and finally thought of the perfect come back, the more appropriate response, the mature apology, only to have let too much time and distance pass to execute any of my moments of clarity? How many times have I wracked my brain trying to figure out where a particular relationship went south, or what it is that makes other relationships so bulletproof? Real life can be lived in no other tense than the present, though, so even in the rare moments when hindsight is 20/20, by the time that clarity is possible one is often in the middle of an entirely new plot line.

My second go-around with my relationships with the characters of SATC allowed me to re-evaluate my judgments, lingering in the sweetest moments and bracing myself for the painful ones. I saw that Big might have been occasionally jack-assed, but Carrie’s inconsistencies and uncommunicated expectations were equally to blame for their problems. What’s more, I saw how Big brought out a part of Carrie that we normally only saw when she was with the girls – her quirky, silly side that is full of laughter and loyalty. It turns out that they were, after all, good for each other – disproving all of my previously concocted judgments.

I entered the movie (a Thursday night midnight screening, for those keeping score at home) more than just re-briefed. In taking in the information for a second time, the facts of the story didn’t become more vivid, they changed. It was, for me, a lesson in the occasional impossibility of objectiveness. The story may appear to be one thing when we live it the first time, but it becomes something totally different when it is put into a larger or different context. While events that once seemed clear cut can turn out to be vague and confusing, moments that left us in a tail spin can emerge as the cornerstones in building a new self.

Is this all a little fanatical? Yes. Am I not simply articulating part of the appeal of any television or movie series? Of course I am. Nevertheless, do I think that Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha are worth the hype? (Big: Abso-fucking-lutely).

An Open Letter to My Husband for His Birthday

2008-07-26T14:58:00.000-07:00

Dear Husband,

We're at a funny age right now, where it seems that half of our friends are planning their weddings and the other half are planning their next international journey to find themselves. We are obviously in neither of those popular camps, but are instead blissfully enjoying the normalcy of our everyday adult lives with 5 years of marriage under our belts. We are not immune, however, from occasional bouts of lusting for more adventure, more money, more simplicity, more time, more more.

I was reminded of the common and familiar desire for more time last week at the John Mayer concert when he played his recent hit, Stop This Train. This gist of the song being about wanting to press the pause button on life for a while as it seems to be slipping by so rapidly, it was clearly a crowd favorite among the audience of primarily 20 - 35 year olds. As I observed the audience identifying with the lyrics as they passionately sang and danced along, I felt a flash of desire for more time to figure it all out myself. Life is slipping by pretty fast, I panicked, I've already been married for 5 years and we don't have any idea where we'll be 5 years from now. Seriously, can someone please stop this train?

As the melodic panic swirled within me, there was one thought that suddenly made it all irrelevant: I have a partner on this train. More than a partner, a lover and a best friend who can make any scenery seem beautiful, any terrain seem travel-able, any delay seem manageable. Sharing my life journey with you means that even if I get lost, even if I am discouraged or aimless or panicked, as long as we are together I am on the right journey.

It has been the greatest joy of my life to live our mid-twenties together. And even though this birthday of yours officially inducts you into your late twenties, I am confident that our journey together will only get sweeter with time.

Happy Birthday. I love you.

XOXO

Five for Friday: Things that People do that Force me to Label them as Losers Before I can even Introduce Myself to Them

2008-07-25T15:04:00.000-07:00

1. Wearing the concert t-shirt TO the concert. Oh are you a fan? I couldn't tell by the fact that you've paid $50 to be at this concert, just like everyone else here.

2. Wearing either a fanny pack or a mini backpack. I recently saw, with my own 2 eyes, a youngish woman sporting a mini backpack covered with sayings like "# 1 Fashionista," "Style Icon," and "Fashion Slave." Style Icon? On a mini backpack? Are you effing kidding me? Is there even a handbag company still manufacturing those, or is that a vintage 1995 model? Is is too much to ask that you possibly inconvenience yourself with a single shoulder strap? What exactly are you carrying around in there that you can't bear to carry in a bag that isn't either buckled around your waist or strapped onto you like a parachute? By the looks of you I'm guessing that it's the rough sketch of your next Taz tattoo.

3. Pimping out your $2500 car. Don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with driving a $2500 car. I used to roll in a 1989 midnight blue Chrysler LeBaron, after my older brother had wrecked it (twice) and had it fixed in a back alley (twice). But I celebrated the spirit of the LeBaron for what it was, a hilarious relic that got me where I needed to go. Don't act like your 1985 4 cylinder Acura Integra with no air conditioning is a one-of-a-kind classic because you put a spoiler/television-satellite on the back. Don't act like those racing stripes on your Honda Civic hatchback make it faster. What you should paint on the side of your car is a sign that says, "This bad boy gets 35 miles to the gallon. Biyatch."

4. Playing air guitar in public. The most extreme case of this is when the guy has his girlfriend in front of him and has the reach-around air guitar going on, playing the "chords" on her left shoulder and strumming the "strings" on the right side of her mid-section. There should be a shelter for women escaping those relationships. Air guitar is only acceptable in an air guitar competition at a karaoke bar with a KISS cover band present. You don't know how to play guitar. You're not in the band. Just bob your head like the other middle aged white guys, would you?

5. Having 37 different tchotchke key chains on your key ring. Travelled to Hawaii, didya? Is your title of #1 Grandma self-appointed, or did you enter some kind of competition? What kind of rewards program are they offering over there at the Piggly Wiggly nowadays? So your name means ' butterfly kisses from Saint Paul' in Gaelic? For crying out loud, is that a key ring or a scrapbook?

Five for Friday: Celebrations of Freedom, in General

2008-07-05T11:44:00.000-07:00

1. Freedom from loneliness. My freshman year of high school was an exciting time for many reasons, not the least of which was the fresh new crop of BOYS that awaited me, as I didn’t come from the “feeder” junior high that most students previously attended. My good friend, Amber, was in the same boat and quickly began “going out” with Adam. They were the iconic couple of our circle of friends, attending the dances together and unafraid to hold hands IN PUBLIC. The transition into summer vacation was not an easy one for them, though, and the shit hit the fan at the 4th of July party at Allison’s house. I cannot recall exactly what events led up to the actual break up, but I vividly remember Amber laying in fetal position ON THE FRONT LAWN and crying the way only a broken hearted 14 year old girl can cry. She was not alone, of course, because she was surrounded by a phalanx of girls cooing condolences and affirmations to her, like only girlfriends of the jilted can do. I was one of these girls, of course, stroking her hair and telling her that he didn’t know what he was missing, etc. At some point, though, I began to see how the Amber/Adam breakup was taking over the 4th of July and threatening to ruin MY night. Trying to lighten the mood and move things along, I sighed loudly and proclaimed, “Well, you know. It is independence day, after all.” The horrified stares of my fellow comforters instantly removed my smug smirk. Another sigh. Back to playing with Amber’s hair. One of our own was down. This was no time for my quips or my nudging. Amber may have found herself newly independent from Adam, but we would not let her be alone.

2. Kill your T.V. I grew up with one of those moms who is convinced that Satan is real, and he lives in the T.V. We were allowed no more than 1 hour a day of T.V., did not have cable, and were under no circumstances allowed to watch even a second of Married with Children or Beverly Hills 90210, lest I wind up pregnant. As a young adult out on my own for the first time, I could no longer resist the temptation. It started with some mild addictions within the basic cable networks: Friends, Seinfeld, you know, the shows that everybody was doing. Eventually, I could no longer be satisfied with my Thursday night fix. I knew there was more out there. There were music videos, reality TV, entire channels devoted to minutia like home decor and animals. There was… CABLE TV. The first month was FREE, and the next five months after that were practically free, and they upgraded me just because I was such nice girl. And then there was Tivo. Sweet Jesus. Before I knew it I was craving The Daily Show, Road Rules, Design on a Dime, 30 Minute Meals with Rachel Ray, The E True Hollywood Story, and the lowest of the low, The Girls next Door. I knew I wasn’t actually gaining anything from my litany of must-see-TV, and I often loathed myself after wasting hours of my day, but I couldn’t stay away. And then. Then we bought a condo. We were instantly broke and had to cut back all luxury items. There would be no more weekly Sunday brunch at the Cajun Kitchen, no more Friday night cocktails at the James Joyce, no more flippant Target runs, no more unlimited text messaging, and of course, no more cable. It was $75 a month that we could no longer justify, so we went cold turkey. We could probably afford to give our old dealer a call now, and he’d probably even give us the first month free, but we’re in a better place now. We’re free to leave the house for an entire evening, any evening, without checking in with Tivo. My emotions no longer have to pay a price if my favorite contestant is voted off. Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I’m free at last.

3. Freedom from clothing. I hate to say it, but I’m a well behaved woman. As long as I can remember I have strived to impress authority (although in my teenage years I thought that outsmarting them would impress them, which didn’t quite pan out like I’d hoped). More dramatically, though, I have feared getting in trouble. I am often unable to articulate what that trouble would entail, but I just know that I don’t want to be in it. There is one area where I have gone against this personal characteristic enough times to perhaps call it a pattern ... public nudity. Don’t worry Mom and Dad, I’m not talking about flashing strangers or intentionally stripping down in front of an open window. In the company of friends, when the time is right, and the hour is late, sometimes nothing but a good mooning will do. A few times, though, the stars have aligned in such a way that I was compelled to take it to the next level. A group of nubile young adults. A night of simple pleasures that has somehow ended up with a bonfire or a walk on the beach. A dare. Collective laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. But then… the dare is accepted. One person’s acceptance becomes contagious. And just like that we are all naked, running into the ocean with arms flailing above our heads, drunk with the crazy freedom of not giving a shit.

4. Freedom from sobriety. I am not much of a drinker. I like to talk a big game, prefacing a night out with exclamations about how I’m really “feeling it,” or how I’m going to go “all out.” These are just jokes, and anyone who’s been out with me on a Friday night knows to just roll their eyes at my theatrics. I have never had a hang over, a lack of recollection, or until very recently, a nauseous experience. On the 4th of July about 3 years ago, however, I had my first surprise drunk. It started so innocently, meeting up with friends who were visiting from out of town at Longboard’s Restaurant on the pier. They were well into a round of margaritas when we arrived, so we politely obliged in joining in. One of our friends sneakily ordered a “Wipeout,” which is essentially a long island ice tea FOR FOUR, served in a gigantic martini glass with 3 foot long twirly straws so that everybody can partake. Somewhere along the line, somebody else sneakily ordered a round of shots, which by that time I saw fit to drink using my 3 foot long straw, standing up hovered over the tiny shot glass and drawing way more attention to myself than I care to admit. It was maybe not even noon at this point. Clearly, I wound up completely drunk and befriending strangers all around me by 1pm, on a day that started out with the nice plan of meeting friends for some chips and salsa. The beauty of the surprise afternoon drunk, though, is that by the time the fireworks went off I was completely back to center and woke up on July 5th feeling fresh as a daisy.

5. For me? My father, the SportsFan himself, was born in the quaint town of Placerville, CA on the 4th of July. As a child I envied the summer themed birthday parties that my family celebrated him with, full of watermelon and pool parties at Aunt Liz’s. Despite the fact that my mom put her back into not letting Christmas overshadow my December 22nd birthday every year (that’s just 3 days before Christmas, for those keeping score at home), watermelon and pool parties are 2 of my favorite things and they are pretty hard to pull off in December. At one point I asked my dad if he would trade birthdays with me. He said no. I can understand why, though. I mean, despite the fact that birthdays are celebrations of the day one was born, and he really was born on July 4th and I really was born on December 22nd, he has a special attachment to his holiday birthday. Growing up, my grandparents told my dad that the fireworks were just for him. I don’t know how they pulled that off with 3 other kids looking on, cursing their lackluster births, but they did. And my dad bought it. He spent his first 12 or so birthdays reveling in the pyrotechnic display of his specialness, a tribute just for him on this exciting day of his birth. I don’t know when the other shoe dropped on that one, or how hard he took it, but I choose to still believe. Every year when I see those spectacular lights twinkling in the sky, with everybody angling for the best view, I think it’s a perfectly fitting celebration of him. Happy birthday, Dad – I love you!

Five for Friday: Best Snacks Ever

2008-06-27T14:28:00.000-07:00

1. Chips and Salsa, paired with Dr. Pepper. Mission tortilla chips, Chachie's salsa, and a fountain Dr. Pepper, to be exact. If this doesn't make your mouth water, how can you even call yourself my friend? The crunch of the chip, the kick of the salsa, the bubbly sweetness of the Dr. Pepper - a holy trinity of snacking goodness. This is my perfect "after school" snack, best enjoyed on a porch in the just-about-to-spoil-you-dinner hours of the day. This combo was my teenage girl version of a happy hour beer after work, always enjoyed more when justified by the long hard day.

2. Graham Crackers with Peanut Butter, paired with Milk. A nostalgic and not totally unhealthy late night snack. What you're going to want to do is take 2 whole grahams, spread evenly with your fave peanut butter (it was always the all natural situation in my house), sand which together and then break into 4 small rectangles. I don't know what it is about graham cracker shape and size, but I swear to you that it has an effect on the taste. Sometimes a whole graham will do, but for PB sandwiches, I assure you that small rectangle is the way to go. Serve on a paper towel with a smallish glass of milk and enjoy about 10 minutes of your late night TV show of choice. Sweet dreams.

3. Ritz Crackers topped with Cream Cheese, topped with a Green Olive. It's pretty hard to go wrong with a Ritz cracker foundation - the buttery flakiness does me right every time. Add the cool creaminess of some cream cheese, and a fancy little salty olive topper and you're a regular gourmet. If you're feeling actually gourmet (like you want to serve these at a social gathering), you can swap out the green olive for a kalamata olive or a dollop of tapenade. If you're feeling really fancy, you could swap out the Ritz for a crostini, but then you've really lost the heart of the snack. Ideally, this are made with full fat, full sodium, original Ritz and served on a plain cookie sheet. Come one, who are you trying to impress?

4. Pac-Man Cheese, paired with Red Juice. You know the cheese I'm talking about, in the round red wax shell that separates horizontally to release the the nugget of white cheese, leaving a perfectly Pac-Man shaped shell? I don't even know what kind of cheese that is, probably something really basic, but something about it's special little individual wax encasements, all bundled together in the mesh bag, make it such a treat. Pour up a glass of red juice (cranberry, cran-anything, pomegranate, whatever), and you've got yourself a nice little late morning pick-me-up.

5. Costco Trailmix. There are a couple items that the Kirkland brand does even better than "the leading brand," and the big ass zip-lock bag of trailmix is one of them. My friend Brittinee and I bought a bag for a road trip from Santa Barbara to Arkansas thinking that it would last save us from buying candy bars at gas stations along the 5 day trip. It was cashed out by the Nevada border.

Welcoming Summer

2008-06-23T21:44:00.000-07:00

Just when I had publicly declared my self-pity over a grown-up summer full of work, chores, and, well, normal adult stuff: a gift from above. Up in the sky, it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s…. the scorching hot sun! The record-breaking, 95 degrees by 10am, sun.

A Summer Solstice weekend of ‘round-the-clock near oppressive heat left me with only one option. I strapped on the familiar uniform of so many summers past, grabbed a towel and a bottle of SPF so low it could send a dermatologist into anaphylactic shock, and split my time between the pool and the beach like I was a kid with divorced parents. It was perfect.

While most people balk at a sunrise that greets the day at 90 degrees in a town with no residential air conditioning, I can’t help but revel in the gift of unavoidable and unanimous laziness. Typically, I am a list maker, a box checker, an initiative taker, a doer of tasks in general. I am the kind of Type A personality that gets stressed out on a vacation if I don’t feel like I’m capitalizing on the opportunity to relax enough. When the sun shines down so bright and so hot that the simplest of tasks - sleeping, even- becomes unbearable, even I am happy to surrender to it.

And I am not alone. Half the joy of my heat-induced semi-coma is the comraderie of a whole city sharing in it. Our houses have been turned into easy bake ovens. Our cars are so stifling after 5 minutes in a parking lot that actually driving them might be David Blaine’s next stunt. Requesting any food item that requires an oven to be ignited just might get you bitch slapped. We are hot, we are sweaty, we are incapacitated. Now this is what I call SUMMER.

Five for Friday: Thoughts on Summer

2008-06-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

1. Some like it HOT. Having grown up in an un-airconditioned house in Sacramento, in the heart of The Valley, I know a thing or two about the heat. Joan Didion once wrote that summers in the Sacramento Valley are “so hot that August comes on not like a month but like an affliction.” The cure for that affliction in our family meant trips to the McKinley Park public pool (pictured here), keeping the shades drawn all day, homemade fruit juice popsicles, and of course, greeting the evening breeze that eventually wanders in from the Delta like it is a local celebrity, deserving of our finest barbeque and American beer. The heat is nostalgic for me now, and those few days each summer when everybody here in Santa Barbara loses their minds over the unbearable 90 degree weather can be like a time machine to those childhood summers.

2. I don’t want to grow up. As a student, “summer” was an extended holiday, not a season. As a grown-up with a full time job, the daily fare of summer looks an awful lot like the daily fare of any other season: A hurried breakfast, off to work by 8am, home at 5:00, make dinner, clean up dinner, get ready for the next day, etc. I am convinced that Daylight Savings is the consolation prize for adults, generously giving us a few extra hours of daylight to go for a walk, enjoy a leisurely barbeque, whatever.

3. A very merry UN-birthday. This Sunday, June 22nd, is my half birthday. I had the incredible foresight while out on a little Ladies Night last night to flirt with the bouncer at the newly renovated club, Tonic, and ask him if he would be so kind as to waive the cover charge for us on Saturday night, since it was my half birthday and all. He was kind enough to oblige, and we agreed that the password would be “half birthday.” Obviously.

4. A plethora of fruits. Red fruits, that is. True confession: I only like red fruits. I know, it’s totally childish and illogical. I always thought I would grow out of it, but the mere smell of a banana can still make me gag. Summer means a delicious bounty of watermelon, strawberries, cherries, and raspberries. I rely on frozen berries for most of the year, but summer means that all my faves are fresh and readily available. (And just to save you the time of asking, I really don’t like any non-red fruits. I know. You’re tempted right now to ask, “What about oranges? Peaches? Mangos?” Look, those aren’t red, so I don’t like them.)

5. To have and to hold. We were invited to NINE weddings this summer. While we are unable to attend them all, we are still excited for so many of our friends to join the club. All our love to: Curtis & Cassy, Josh & Kelly, Ian & Camille, Paul & Naomi, Tyler & Stacey, Doug & Courtney, Sarah & Kenny, Jenna & Joel, and Scott & Melissa. Cheers!

Five for Friday: Reasons (translate: Excuses) I Haven't Been Blogging

2008-06-13T11:32:00.000-07:00

1. Jesus died for my sins. Okay, I know that sounds dramatic, but let me explain. Let’s just start right at the beginning of the blog breakdown: March 18th. My next intended post was to be a ‘Five for Friday’ post on March 21st, which happened to be Good Friday. I intended to post something somehow related to Good Friday, and spent at least an hour at the computer working through various drafts that touched on everything from The Stations of the Cross to car insurance. You know how on Sex and the City Carrie Bradshaw will plop down in front of her laptop in her cutest around-the-house-boyshort-outfit, and the funny/relevant/insightful question that will serve as the theme for the show will just magically flow from her fingertips onto the screen? That is the opposite of what happened for me that day. Nothing worked. Stations of the Cross felt too preachy, a little too personal. Car insurance seemed too irreverent, and what I could come up with wasn’t funny enough to justify the irreverence (because Lord knows I’ll take funny over reverent almost any day). Eventually I just had to walk away. The inspiration never came.

2. The laws of physics. Remember how when I got started with this blog of mine I referenced Sir Isaac Newton and his astute observation that objects in motion tend to stay in motion until acted upon by a an equal or greater force? Turns out, objects in non-motion tend to stay that way too. The Easter Weekend Blog Debacle slipped right into a weekend trip to Denver, which slipped right into a lovely long weekend visit from uncle Paul, to a church retreat, to a business meeting in Dallas, to a trip to Europe, a visit with my brother who I hadn’t seen in 2 years, a trip to Palm Springs. In other words, lots of motion in my life that turned out to be a force great enough to bring the motion of my blog to a screeching halt. But here I am again, so lay off.

3. Comparison is the thief of joy. That is to say, once I was officially in a writing rut, each clever blog post by one of my many talented friends felt like another nail in my coffin. How do they do it? Emily with her relentless updates and insights. Lesley with her funny anecdotes – isn’t she at a new job? Who has time to balance a new job and be so damn funny? Clearly I was an imposter, a flash in the pan lacking the stamina to remain dedicated to this hobby after a few weekend trips got me all discombobulated. I know, of course, that this is negative “self talk” and also mostly untrue.

4. I’m not mentally unstable. At least 3 and maybe as many as 7 people asked me at various points of my non-blogging if I was okay. The kind of, “are you okay?” that is accompanied by a furrowed brow and concerned eyes and a head tilted to the side at the angle that says, “You are clearly unstable right now, and I am right here, ready to listen to whatever it is you need to get off your chest.” The thing is, of course, as I hope I have made clear by now, that I am in fact O.K. The fact that people had worried that my stagnant blog was an indication of some sort of change of heart or emotional shut down made me feel like my comeback blog post had to be Something Special. Something that proclaimed my unwavering optimism and self-confidence, that said, "Here I am, blogosphere, and I am hilarious.” Or, maybe just a Five for Friday full of mostly unfunny excuses?

5. There is no #5! No more excuses, okay? The streak is over, and my wheels are turning again. Since I’ve been gone I have: gotten a round brush stuck in my hair that required the assistance of a friend to remove, gone to my first Hot Yoga class where I created a kiddy pool of sweat, been a part of a church that successfully merged with another church without any conflict (a Christmas miracle!), been given a free hand-me-down bath towel from a stranger in London, bar-hopped until sunrise on a Wednesday night, taught my red-headed nephew how to make a s’more, and had my first alcohol-related throw up. There are surely more blog posts to follow.

Meeting my Quota

2008-03-18T18:31:00.000-07:00

I tripped and fell on a run today. Just running on the sidewalk, down Chapala street, with Jimbo on the leash. Came across a jacked up piece of sidewalk without really noticing how jacked up it was, kicked the hell out of, and lurched forward into one of those stumble-as-you-go falls. Of course I dropped the retractable leash handle on my way down, leaving Jim the wiener dog prey to his nemesis once again. I popped right up, dove on top of Jim who was losing his mind on someone's front lawn, and resumed my run in hopes that it went unnoticed. A skinned knee and suspicious bruise on my inside thumb knuckle are my only battle wounds, which is pretty unremarkable for me. That's all for today, kids.

Five for Friday: Quotations I like to Use Out of Context

2008-03-14T09:18:00.000-07:00

1.) “I’m gonna make it do what it do, baby.” – Ray Charles, Ray (the movie). In its’ entirety:

Jerry Wexler: Ruth Brown’s got a tour booked in Georgia. She needs a band.
Ray Charles: I’ll take it. I could write the charts for her, I could do backup, and I could also be an opening act.
Ahmet Ertegun: Okay. But you’re gonna be financially responsible. You’re gonna have to make it work, Ray.
Ray Charles: Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna make it do what it do, baby.

I rely on this quote as a resolution to my own attempts to over-plan, over-control, or over-think any given situation. When I find myself toiling over preparations for a sales call, angsting over finances, or even fretting over a new recipe, I find solace in the acknowledgment that any given situation possesses a life of it’s own that will inevitably “do what it do.” I can script out only so much of a sales call, foresee only so much of a month’s expenses, and follow a recipe only so well, the rest, I’m afraid, is out of my hands. It is this realization and acceptance of life’s own inertia that enables me to do the best with what I have and find peace with whatever outcome results.

2.) “Your cervix knows what to do.” – Hypno-Baby Hypnosis Birthing Tapes. This quote is contained within a sequence of comforting and encouraging sentiments designed to bring an expectant mother into a state of calm and peace leading into her labor. When then-expectant Katie shared her experience with this relaxation technique, something about the line “your cervix knows what to do” just stuck with me. Later, on a long and challenging run during which I was struggling to resist the temptation to quit early, the quote resurfaced amidst my mind’s scan for some kind of motivational nugget buried deep within me. I began repeating it silently to myself in the way that runners do to regain a rhythm and distract themselves from the barrage of quitter thoughts that swirl around. As it chugged through my mind like a freight train – “your (gasp)– cervix (gasp)– knows (gasp) – what (gasp)– to do (gasp)” – it began to remind me of all that my body is capable of. In the way that childbirth is a right of passage that welcomes the new mother into a tradition of creation that has existed from the beginning of time, I was reminded that even my small-potatoes running regimen is a tangible manifestation of the complexity and capability of my body. With each workout in which I challenge myself to go faster, farther, or harder, I trust my body’s innate ability to rise to the task at hand, knowing that bodies just like mine have accomplished this task and so much more. All of our cervixes know what to do!

3.) “Cornballer! Every damn time!” – Michael Bluth, Arrested Development, Season One. First of all, if you haven’t watched season one of Arrested Development, you need to add that business to your netflix list pronto. This quotation is just a simple sidebar when Michael burns his hand on the popcorn-ball-making “cornballer” machine that his father invented and has since been banned in America for its high frequency of injury. The family continues to embrace their father’s invention, though, and tends to question that loyalty when they are inevitably scorched. Michael’s exclamation has become a versatile declaration of frustration for me, in situations ranging from missing a wave while surfing, making a wrong turn while driving, or fishing for my ringing cell phone in my purse to find it just after the call goes to voicemail. Every damn time!

4.) “Why don’t you just tell me the name of the movie you selected?” – Kramer, on the show Seinfeld (video here). When Kramer realizes that his home phone number is only one digit different that the Movie Phone hotline, he embraces the wayward callers by attempting to play the part of the Movie Phone recorded operator. This plan is quickly foiled, however, when the callers “enter the first 3 digits of the name of the movie you want to see,” and Kramer obviously can’t tell what numbers they’ve pressed. Always quick on his feet, Kramer resorts to simply asking the caller to “just tell me name of the movie you selected.” This quote has become the perfect comic relief, while still serving as a valuable communication tool, when I find myself in any kind of circular discussion that attempts to address the needs or wants of someone who is struggling to get their point across. For example, if Shane and I are trying to make plans for a Saturday night, and Shane responds to my list of suggestions with some kind of long-winded pros and cons list for each suggestion without really ruling any of the options definitively in or out…. You know how I respond.

5.) “Put your back into it.” – Ice Cube, from the song You Can Do It (Put Your Back Into It). I’ve read the lyrics to this entire song and I still can’t tell you the original context. The “it” that Mr. Cube is referring to could honestly be anything from staying out of trouble to getting some action from the ladies, from what I can tell. Either way, this has become one of my favorite sayings to convey heartfelt effort in an arena. I guess I originally heard the lyric when the song was released in 2000 and undoubtedly played at parties and proms, but the saying entered my vernacular after Corinne recounted hearing a radio DJ politely request that when celebrities recorded a plug for the station (“This in P!NK and I listen to K-Whatever radio station”) that they “please put [their] back into it.” The combination of succinctness and ingenuity make it an instant classic in my vernacular. For example, if you’re going to leave a comment, please put your back into it.

Bottom Drawer Scrapbook

2008-03-12T23:20:00.000-07:00

I remember seeing a Victoria’s Secret advertisement sometime in the 90’s – before all this Angels business started – that said something to the affect of, “…Because your top drawer could use some spicing up.” I found it simultaneously clever for it’s realization that most women do in fact keep their underwear in their top drawer, and insulting for it’s realization that I keep my underwear in the top drawer. I contemplated rearranging my foldables to find some new real estate for said underwear, just to reaffirm some notion that I was an individual and not necessarily subject to any kind of ‘most women do it this way’ rules. The task proved too daunting, and I settled for separating my bathing suits out of my overcrowded underwear/bra/sports-bra/socks/hosiery/bathing-suit drawer.

My bottom drawer, which previously held jeans, is now home to bathing suits and lingerie (jeans now live on the shelf above my closet rod). Over the years, the drawer has gotten fuller and fuller in the kind of way that you don’t notice until one day, seemingly out of the blue, you find yourself shoving an item down into the back corner and hoping that the drawer will close and conceal your real-life Real Simple ‘before’ photo.

How did this happen? I am a fairly diligent Goodwill donator and an embarrassingly stringent laundry folder (just let me know if you’d like a clinic on the appropriate folding techniques for thong underwear versus full-bottom underwear. It’s magical). As I pulled the drawer out and sat down in front of it, determined to do whatever it took to apply my thong-folding prowess to the tangled web of lycra, it dawned on me: While all this time I thought I was dealing with an overcrowded drawer, what I really had on my hands was a time capsule. A mid-twenties, Californian time capsule.

I untangled the web to find every bikini I have owned since puberty. The yellow triangle top number with the vintage french tablecloth print: My first grown-up bathing suit purchase, it indoctrinated me into the common bond of women who pay way too much money for way too little fabric and complain about it with undercover pride. The green and blue paisley string bikini: A rebound from the overpriced scene at Macy’s, my discovery of Old Navy’s stellar swimsuit selection has done me right by retaining both it’s stretch and it’s color over the years. The blue and brown tankini: A misguided purchase after an Oprah episode suggested that the tankini cut would help to visually shorten my awkwardly long torso. The zebra print with fuschia trim: I consider this bikini to be a joint gift from both the good Lord and whichever designer at Target finally figured out how to make bathing suit bottoms fit like underwear, keeping my ample butt cheeks generally concealed.

These bikinis and the many others that have taken over my bottom drawer are more than just options for my next beach day, they tell the stories of summers past. The summer I worked as a Counselor in Training at Mission Springs Summer Camp in Santa Cruz and spent my weekends at the Boardwalk, the summer I worked with developmentally disabled kids at the C.K. McClatchy High School swimming pool; the summer I stayed in Santa Barbara, alone, and found companionship in the ebb and flow of the ocean; the never ending “summers” of my 4 years at Westmont College, just a shuttle ride away from all of the beach volleyball and fountain drinks that East Beach could offer; the summer spent working as an assistant river raft guide (we preferred the title “gypsy river divas”) on the Rogue with Tessa; the study abroad trip to Sri Lanka; my honeymoon on Lopez Island; our first wedding anniversary in Maui; learning how to surf; competing in my first triathlon; the cruise to Saint Thomas that I unbelievably won on the Ellen show. These bikinis have seen me through some of the best moments of my life.

How could I possibly part with any one of them? To anyone else they’re just grungy stretched-out bathing suits with questionable crotch panels. To me, though, each suit is a reminder that I am more than just work and chores and day-to-day. In each grain of sand still caught within the fibers of every bikini that I’ve held onto, there is a reminder that I am a little bit fabulous.

Five for Friday: Cereal Celebrations

2008-03-07T08:36:00.000-08:00

1.) Corn Pops. What can I say? I gotta have my Pops. From the uniquely foil liner bag (why Corn Pops are too good for the standard plastic number remains unknown to me) to the perfectly sweetened milk left at the bottom of the bowl, Corn Pops just had me at hello. While I’m sure this list will go on to reveal that I am a sucker for the simply sweet category of sugar cereals (as opposed to chocolate or fruity), but I think it’s ultimately the texture of Corn Pops that earns them the #1 spot. The pops are just the right size to make each mouthful a pleasant amount of bulk (unlike Grapenuts, which leave your tongue to play zamboni after each bite; or Oh’s, whose largish size and hard texture give me road rash on the roof of my mouth), and the texture makes the perfect amount of crunch.
2.) Lucky Charms. Look, I don’t care if those “marshmallows” are made up of 27 different chemicals that I can’t pronounce, those suckers are good. The contrasting texture of the kibble and the charms offers a nice tactile variation in each bite. When you’re lucky enough to get a bite made up of mostly charms, however, the second your teeth crunch through that Styrofoam goodness you know that you’ve hit the jackpot.
3.) Kix. I know, a boring choice right? Think again. Kid tested, mother approved? You bet your ass they are. Kix are kind of the ninja of the cereal world: They seem plain and innocent enough, but once you dive in, something about them seems notably treat-like. You don’t have to feel ashamed to pour yourself a bowl as big as a bundt cake, but with each bite you can gloat a bit in knowing that you’ve outsmarted the system.
4.) Cinnamon Toast Crunch. They have actual cinnamon-sugar sprinkles on them, folks, what’s more to want? I was raised in a pretty healthy home (the cereals on this list were definitely available to me only at Grandma’s house. Except for Kix. Suckers.), and I remember vividly being blown away by the cinnamon-sugar shaker that my friend Claire’s mom let her use on freshly buttered toast. Whenever I had a playdate at Claire’s house I would find a way to secure a piece of toast so that I could bury it under a solid ½ inch of cinnamon-sugar goodness. When I discovered later in life that there was a cereal that had captured this goodness in a box, I was sold.
5.) Honey-Nut Cheerios. If Cheerios are your girlfriend, Honey-Nut Cheerios are your girlfriend on a special date night, all glammed out in her cutest outfit and make-up. With each bite you revel in the specialness of this dressed up moment, but taste the everyday goodness that drew you together in the first place.

Your Vote Doesn't Count

2008-03-05T20:48:00.000-08:00

Well, not on my blog, anyway. A few weeks ago, overcome by an uncharacteristic bout of caring what other people think, I added that polling application in the right margin to ask you all how you felt about my recently added musical playlist feature. In retrospect, I wish I would have offered a gentler option for voting against the playlist than the “it’s raping my ears” option that ended up taking in the most votes. I’d like to think that maybe some of those voters just kind of don’t like the music that much, but, finding themselves underrepresented by the available options, went with the ear-raping choice. When the polling finally closed and publicized your displeasure for all to see, I have to admit that I was a little disappointed. I had really been putting my back into keeping the playlist fresh and relevant, and my efforts were apparently all for naught.

I’ve been tentatively ignoring said poll until now, as I’m sure you can hear. From now on, however, I will be blatantly ignoring it. I’ve been generally feeling like, you know what, it’s my blog and I think the music adds some of my own flavor to it so I’m going to keep it. Today, though, my sister (in-law) posted this post on her blog about how she’s added a playlist to her site after being inspired by my own ear-raper. So there. She goes on to explain the significance behind her artist and song choices and how she views her playlist as a sampling from “the soundtrack of [her] life.” I think it’s a sweet, personal addition to her blog. I just hope she’s not stupid enough to ask anyone else what they think.

Five for [last] Friday: Leaps of Faith

2008-03-04T00:19:00.000-08:00

You know, for Leap Year!

1.) Going to Westmont College. It may not seem like a decision that would take a lot of faith, what with the posh location, stunning campus, and endless endearing perks, but coming from an urban high school of 2800 highly diverse students that provided 4 of the best years of my life and a group of cohorts that I still count as friends today, squeaky clean Westmont was outside of my comfort zone to say the least. Even though I certainly looked the part of the upper middle class, Caucasian, Christian Westmont student body, I worried that immersing myself in a Christian college would cause me to say things like “such a blessing,” “woman of God, and “lift it up,” all of which I thought reeked of a faith taken for granted. My experience at a large public high school where I was publicized as a Christian my freshman year when I broke up with Steven Nelson since he wasn’t one had caused me to defend my faith regularly, live by my convictions always, and even withstand the occasional witty persecution joke – all of which strengthened my faith and my character. I expressed this to an admissions counselor during an interview, and he related his own similar experience and confided that he saw attending a Christian college as a unique opportunity to make one’s faith about more. More than just youth group and reputation, but about academic and historical knowledge, mentorship of Reverends and PhD’s, and a community of people to figure it all out with. When I made my decision to attend Westmont, I remember telling my Dad to only pay for one semester at a time, because if I caught myself saying that “it was such a blessing that I had become such a woman of God, and I just want to lift it up,” I was out of there. After one semester I told my Dad that he could pay for all 4 years. And he did, and it was such a blessing

2.) Getting Married! During our first premarital counseling session, Rev. Ben Patterson sat back in his pastoral arm chair and asked us, “So, what makes you think that you’re ready to get married?” It wasn’t confrontational, just to-the-point and probably intended to disarm us a little. Shane answered something about love and commitment and blah blah blah. I’ll admit it, I was frazzled by the question and Shane’s decision to steal the “right” answer from underneath me didn’t help. I eventually found myself on the receiving end of both Shane’s and Ben’s “yeah, well?” stares, and knew I had to say something profound if I didn’t want to flunk out of premarital counseling. Instead, THIS tumbled out of my mouth: “I’m not! How could I possibly be ready to get married? How could anyone be ready for marriage?” What I meant, of course, was that there isn’t any way to thoroughly prepare to commit the rest of your life to a partnership with another complex human being. There are certainly ways to be better prepared than 13 year olds who are 3 months into puppy love, but there just isn’t an exhaustive list of premarital “to do’s” that ensures success. It’s a unique journey for every couple that embarks on it, and it’s a ‘learn-as-you-go’ situation to be sure. Sure, we could have waited until we were 30, dated each other for 5 years, traveled more, established our careers more, been more financially secure, and generally ensured that every other marital statistic was on our side before tying the knot, but even then there would have been more experiences to be had, more individuality to secure, more fish in the sea. My opinion is that it’s always a leap of faith to say “I Do.”

3.) Taking a job at SkinMedica. I got my start in Pharmaceutical Sales at 3M (of Scotch Tape and Post-Its fame), which had a thriving pharmaceutical industry for 40 years. On exactly my one year anniversary with the company, which was coincidentally the day that my first mortgage payment was due, 3M announced that they intended to sell off their pharmaceutical division, sales reps and all. We were told to sit tight for 6 months or so until there was more information, like, say, whether or not any of us would have jobs any time in the near future. I waited patiently for a while, and when my patience wore out I interviewed for a job with a small start up company called SkinMedica that specializes in dermatology products. At first I pursued the position only to obtain an offer with which to leverage a higher salary out of the buyers of 3M, but throughout the interview process they kind of won me over. In a good news / bad news kind of a way, SkinMedica offered me the job at exactly the same time that a buyer stepped forward with 3M and offered the sales force their current jobs (good news: I wouldn’t have to register with the unemployment department, bad news: I had a tough decision ahead of me with plenty of potential for big time regret down the road). I agonized over the differences in product line, corporate structure, salary, performance expectations and territory size. I called my Dad. I prayed. I went for a long run. When I boiled it all down, there was something about SkinMedica that resonated with me. The younger sales force, the entrepenuerial spirit, the endearing motto (“Think big, stay humble, and surprise people”). I accepted the job and held my breath, awaiting the inevitable news that the 3M buyers had decided to give everyone 50% raises. They didn’t, and my new boss sends me e-mails like this.

4.) Buying a Condo. After 2 ½ years of marital bliss spent living in 550 square feet or less and dreaming of buying a dream house, we woke up one day and said, “Screw the dream house. If we’re going to spend all this money on a crappy apartment, we might as well spend our money on a crappy condo that we at least own.” With the help of our friends in the real estate business, Corinne and Deyl, we found a decidedly un-crappy condo that seemed like the perfect fit. The decision to cash out all of our savings, borrow additional funds from Mom & Dad, and increase our monthly cost of living by more than 100% was still not exactly easy. The moment of truth came in acknowledging that buying a condo meant selling a significant portion of our freedom. The financial responsibility of a Santa Barbara mortgage means that we are no longer allowed the option of quitting our jobs if we decide we don’t like them anymore without first lining up an equal or higher paying job somewhere else. We no longer have the option of dropping out of life on a moment’s notice and traveling like these people. We are adults now.

5.) Registering for the Santa Barbara Long Course Triathlon. My friend Paige sent me an e-mail last March that said something like, “I have a fun idea, let’s do the long course triathlon this summer.” To which I replied, “Yikes. No.” Being the sales person that she is, she rounded up 2 other girls and convinced us all to train for a few weeks and then re-evaluate. Since the race was an unusual distance of a 1 mile ocean swim, 34 mile bike, and 10 mile run – longer than an Olympic Distance but shorter than a Half Ironman – we opted to stick to a Half Ironman training program we found online and allow ourselves the confidence of overtraining. The 20 week training schedule started with a 5 mile run. I could barely walk the next day. Bound by peer pressure, I completed the first 2 weeks of training under a cloud of self-doubt and sore muscles. I consider myself to be a generally optimistic and self-assured individual who is not prone to much self-sabotage, but I could not shake the feeling that completing a race of this magnitude was simply outside of my realm of possibility. Then I heard a radio story celebrating the anniversary of Jackie Robinson’s induction to the MBA. And like the sun shining through the clouds, this thought appeared: “If Jackie Robinson can play major league baseball, I can do this.” And then Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton were speculated to be running for President. “If a black man and a woman can run for President of the United States, I can do this.” And all of a sudden, I could. It certainly wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t without flashes of doubt here and there, but the boundaries of my own possibility changed somewhere in the mid air of that leap of faith.

An Accidental Cautionary Tale.

2008-02-26T17:25:00.000-08:00

For Emily, who is a proud new scooter owner. And hopefully, a smarter scooter owner than I am.

We bought a used Vespa from our friend Dana when he upgraded to a newer, better model (as he is prone to doing with almost everything he owns. Thankfully for his stellar wife, Tami, she is not a woman to be owned, much less upgraded). It’s silver with a black seat and the perfect mode of transportation in this perfect beach town.

After a quick tutorial from Dana, Shane was right at home on two wheels, with or without me seated behind him. I needed far more coddling and encouraging though, and even after many laps around our quiet San Roque neighborhood I was still not ready to brave it on my own in an actual transportation kind of a way.

We decided to use a Saturday morning to do some drills in the DMV parking lot to improve my handling skills and, hopefully, my confidence. Accompanied by our friend, Josh, and his real motorcycle, Shane and I took turns driving up and around the lollipop shaped course painted onto the blacktop. I did a couple figure-8’s through the light posts and some straight-aways with a bit more speed, and decided I was ready to really challenge myself. I asked Josh what a good drill would be to really improve my skills, and he confidently recommended that I do some “sudden breaking.” He instructed me to start at one end of the empty parking lot, hit the gas for 3-4 parking spaces, and then hit the breaks and try to stop by the 5th painted line. It sounded simple enough –just some gas powered red light, green light really- so I made my way to the starting line. I deliberately pulled back the throttle harder than I normally would to accelerate from a dead stop, and when I had flown across exactly 2 parking spaces I jerked my wrist forward to release the throttle and squeezed both hand breaks until the Vespa came to an abrupt and complete stop at exactly the 5th painted line. I was clearly an expert at this. A little more confidently now, I headed into my second repetition of the drill. The additional speed I added at the beginning felt great, and for that split second before I hit the breaks I could envision myself cruising along the beach on Cabrillo Boulevard, sun on my face, wind in my hair, freedom in my heart. And then I hit the breaks.

What Josh had assumed I knew about sudden breaking was that the value of practicing it lies in the fact that when done too suddenly, the wheels on the vehicle are apt to lock and leave the motorcycle at the mercy of it’s inertia without the control of mobile wheels. Josh’s assumption was incorrect, of course, and as I white-knuckled the hand breaks on that second repetition, I found myself in the exact situation that I was theoretically practicing to avoid. The Vespa screeched diagonally across the blacktop, the back tire threatening to fishtail around at any moment.

It was not one of those disasters that unfolds in slow motion, letting you consider each possible outcome with a thoroughness that is far disproportional to the amount of time that passes. I was painfully subject to the real time horror of an uncertain ending to the events that I was literally screeching though. The only thought I can remember racing through my mind was, “I am about to fall off of a motorcycle. This will only end badly. Please Baby Jesus don’t let me break my femur. Or my face.” The tires of the Vespa, after several yards of the diagonal screeching, eventually slid out to the left from underneath me, dumping me off the right side of the scooter. I apparently held onto the handlebars until they were ripped out of my kung-fu grip, which inevitably saved my face, and perhaps my femurs as well. After the scooter and I were forced to part ways – it careening across the pavement to the left, and me to the right - I slid across the pavement on my belly, arms outstretched in front of me like a baseball player sliding into home plate.

I managed to escape the accident with only a classic under-the-chin bonk mark, and a badly bruised knee (I’m guessing it was the first thing to hit the ground when I finally got bucked). The horrified looks on Shane and Josh’s faces as they rushed over to me sent me into instant sobs, though, much like a toddler who mirrors the reaction of her parents when she takes a tumble.

The emotional trauma stuck with me all day (as Josh learned when he tried to poke fun at the incident over dinner and evoked more tears). What it came down to was the realization that I was really just one mistake away from disaster. What if I had been at an intersection instead of a parking lot? What if a car had been driving by at that moment, and I had flown into its’ path? What is the scooter had fallen on top of me instead skidding out to the side?

Okay, when I starting writing this I intended for it to be a mostly funny story about one of my many embarrassing moments. In my final round of proof reading, however, I don’t find it that funny at all. It seems like it’s ended up as more of a cautionary tale with a little hint of funny brewing underneath. I consider my blog to be a collection of rough drafts, though, so I think I’m just going to go ahead and post this one “as is.” Maybe a clearer story line will present itself as I mull over it some more.

Five for Friday: Kitchen Catastrophes Involving Beef

2008-02-21T23:04:00.000-08:00

1.) Date Night Guinness Marinated Steak. Several years ago I stumbled across a recipe in a random cook book put out by the local morning radio talkshow hosts that centered around 2 of my husband’s favorite foods: steak and Guinness Beer. It was early in our relationship and I was eager to impress him with my domesticity and “Guy-Q.” He was certainly impressed by the concept and even enjoyed the meal itself, but spent the entire night on the bathroom floor after he was struck with food poisoning. I tried to convinve him that he was just lovesick, but he wasn't buying it.

2.) Christmas Dinner Pot Roast. My friend Beth and I co-hosted a Christmas dinner for 12 of our friends at my house this past December. Beth is a better cook than I am by all accounts: she is more adventurous in trying new recipes, she has more recipe ‘regulars’ in her everyday rotation, and she has better disaster-preparedness skills in terms of general kitchen knowledge to draw from. None of this stopped me from volunteering to prepare the pot roast, which would comprise 50% of the main course when offered alongside the big-ass-ham that Beth would be bringing. I researched my favorite cooking website, http://www.allrecipes.com/ and decided on a crock-pot recipe that seemed straightforward yet delicious with a broth-meets-onion-soup-mix base. It all started out okay, but with 90 minutes until guest arrival the center of the roast seemed suspiciously pink, which led me to do what any mid-twenties girl does in that situation: call my parents. Dad said to turn the crock pot to ‘high’ and stall, assuring me that it was impossible to overcook a pot roast. Well, Dad, I found a way. The roast turned out tough and leathery, and was selected from the buffet at about a 1:5 ratio compared with the ham.

3.) Valentines Day Fondue. My husband and I haphazardly “take turns” orchestrating holidays like Valentines Day and our anniversary, to avoid both the, “What do you want to do?” “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” vortex, as well as the possibility that one of us ends up bearing the burden of creating all the romance. I stepped up to plan Valentine’s Day this year, and was inspired to plan a surprise dinner of fondue, enjoyed picnic style in front of the fireplace. I found recipes for cheese and stock based fondues, and secretly shopped for veggies and meat to accompany both. While meandering the beef aisle for the appropriate cut of meat to simmer in my oh-so-perfect broth/wine/mushroom/garlic/green-onion stock, I decided that the pre-cut cubes marked “Beef for Stew” seemed like a good fit, since we would be slowly, romantically simmering these cute little cubes in a fashion quite similar to stewing. What resulted after the first cube was slowly, romantically extracted from the fondue pot consisted of me looking like a lion in National Geographic, using both hands to try to gnaw a bite off of the tough and rubbery meat…. by romantic firelight, in lingerie, surrounded by roses and gold foil covered chocolates. How romantic indeed.

4.) Sander’s Family Bake-Off Beef Wellington. Our good friends Dana and Tami Sanders host an annual pot-luck competition every December, where all their friends are invited to bring an appetizer, entrée, or dessert, sample all the entries, and vote for winners in each category. I took home a blue ribbon for my rookie year offering of Baked Brie Cheese (a recipe shamelessly snagged from Beth’s mom), and have remained undecorated ever since. I decided to bring out the big guns last year, and try my hand at Beef Wellington. Never mind that I had never made it, I was confident that the combination of red meat and flakey pastry crust would get me to the podium. I scoured the internet for recipes, and eventually found one in the San Francisco Chronicle archives that managed to add blue cheese crumbles to the mix – brilliant! I did a practice run with a cut of beef from my local Ralph’s Grocery Store, but the result was decidedly mediocre (The remainder of that cut of beef was then reserved for the Christmas Pot Roast, above. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried). I headed to the fancy store down the street, Gelson’s, and prepared to spend a little more on a better cut of meat, all for the sake of guaranteed victory. I marched straight to the meat counter and asked for 3 lbs of a nice tender cut of beef for soon-to-be-award-winning Beef Wellington. He gestured to a row of red meat in the refrigerated display case and asked if that would do, and I told him I trusted his recommendation. In keeping with their fancy store customer service, he told me to continue my shopping and he would find me when they had wrapped it up. A few minutes later, while I was taking a cell phone call in the bread aisle, a friendly butcher man came up, held out a shank of paper-wrapped beef for my inspection like it was a bottle of wine, and placed it in my cart. I gestured my gratitude, and glanced down at the customized label, which read, to my horror: $28… PER POUND. Making it a total of $84. I abruptly ended my phone call and stood there in shock and shame. Too embarrassed to return the meat, I nauseasly made my way through the check out and headed home, preparing a pathetic speech to explain the cost to Shane. True to form, Shane was empathetic and understood that my own self pity was ample punishment, and tried to usher me out of said self pity and into focused Wellington prep. My composure was beyond salvation at that point, however, and I arrived at the party with a Beef Wellington that was burned on the top and rare in the middle (I saw one woman microwave hers). I lost. To Beth. Who brought delicious-yet-affordable eggplant parmigianino.

5.) Chef’s Surprise at Red Robin. Okay, this blunder isn’t from my own kitchen, but [thankfully] I could only come up with 4 catastrophes involving beef that I have personally caused, and I’m really trying to be consistent with this “FIVE for Friday” thing.

A group of coworkers and I went out to Red Robin for lunch to celebrate the fact that it was Friday, back when Santa Barbara had a Red Robin and I had coworkers. Near the end of the meal, one of the girls admitted that her burger wasn’t that good, and proceeded to lift off the bun to inspect the mediocracy of her lunch. To her horror she discovered a square of parchment paper – the kind that separates frozen beef patties. Except that only about 25% of the square remained, since SHE HAD EATEN THE REST. The waitress comped her meal, which seemed to me an inadequate compensation for the snafu.

Please Direct Your Attention To The Right

2008-02-19T21:01:00.000-08:00

...And cast your vote in my newing polling application. I'm pretty sure votes are anonymous, but if you'd like to leave additional commentary I promise to take it into consideration. (And yes I know that the very right edge seems to be cut off, I don't know what the problem is)

NPR: Making [Radio] Waves

2008-02-19T18:50:00.000-08:00

My job requires me to spend a fair amount of time in the car, traveling anywhere from Burbank to Santa Cruz. Driving is neither one of my strengths nor one of my interests, but I have decided to embrace the requirement by making the most of the built-in quiet time. I think through events and relationships, looking for lessons to be learned and insights to be gained. I write mental drafts of e-mails and now, blog posts. I occasionally obtain an audio book. As part of my resolution to become a more informed citizen, however, lately I’ve been listening to more and more National Public Radio.

Morning Edition, Fresh Air, Talk of the Nation and Tell me More have become familiar travel companions. I look forward to discovering what the topics at hand will be, which experts will weigh in, what trivial fact I’ll be able to impress my friends with later. I have greatly increased my awareness of the election, current events, and emerging scientific research. And just like when I eat well and exercise, I feel better about myself.

There is just one thing that has left me with a little to desire about my recent foray into NPR. The voices of some of the female hosts can really drive me crazy, especially if my day is a little off-center to begin with. It’s as if the head-honchos at NPR send all the female hosts to ‘radio voice’ class, where they teach them how to sound cultured and smart at all times. Every one of them has mastered the art of constantly maintaining the perfect ratio of saliva and breath within their mouth, allowing their diction and annunciation to be just so. The result is an air of melancholy intelligence that only a certain breed of woman can evoke, and regardless of my intelligence or occasional melancholy, I will simply never fit in to their club.

While the host may say, “There’s been a tragic car bomb explosion in Pakistan,” what she means is, “I DON’T WEAR ANY MAKEUP.” “The Surgeon General has released a new study about the effects of smoking” means “MY DINNER PARTIES LOOK LIKE UNITED COLORS OF BENETON ADVERTISEMENTS.” “It’s a sad day for baby seals, who have become even more endangered” means “MY NETFLIX LIST CONTAINS ONLY DOCUMENTARIES. ABOUT RUSSIA.” “Oil prices rose again today” means “EVERY PIECE OF JEWELRY THAT I OWN WAS HANDCRAFTED BY INDIGINOUS PEOPLE SUPPORTED BY MICRO-ENTERPRISE.”

Why can’t they have a female host that sounds like Gwen Stefani – radiating with girlish cool (have you heard her new HP ads?) ? Is it too much to ask for a host that is fully versed in both foreign policy and Brangelina? Fair trade and American Idol?

Until that dreamy hostess with the mostess comes across my radio waves, I guess I’ll just have to settle for my current concoction of 90% NPR topped off with 10% Top 40. Sigh.

Print This Out, Douse it With a Marinade, and Store it in the Freezer so I can eat my Words in About 5 Years

2008-02-18T11:42:00.000-08:00

I hope you’re enjoying this President’s Day holiday and using it more wisely than I am. I often fall into the trap of looking forward to a lazy day off of sleeping in, staying in pajamas for an embarrassingly long time (yes, I have worn the same pajamas to bed 2 nights in a row… without changing out of them in between), and generally doing nothing productive. Halfway through these days I remember that I usually end up feeling bad about myself for being so lazy and wishing that I had taken advantage of my day off to do something out of the ordinary.

But alas, here I am, watching The View. I don’t even like The View that much on a regular day since it seems to me that the crux of the program is women talking over each other. As an added shot of pathos to my worthless day, today’s episode of The View – in honor of President’s Day being a school holiday – is dedicated to all things kid-ertainment. I kid you not, I just sat through performances by The Naked Brothers Band and the Laurie Berkner Band, which from what I can tell are B-list versions of The Jonas Brothers and The Wiggles, respectively. I hate myself a little for knowing who the A-list kid-ertainers are, much less voluntarily sitting through the sugary numbers performed by the B-listers.

I once read somewhere that many early rock bands, such as The Beatles and the Beach Boys, typically utilize simple and repetitive beats that are actually very appropriate as alternatives to mainstream kid music. I internally vowed to stock my music library full of these albums when the time came, and sighed a silent sigh for all the unfortunate mothers who weren’t as cultured as I would surely be and who were spending their afternoons listening to songs about Dinosaurs and Spaghetti.

My unfortunate President’s Day morning follows an afternoon spent volunteering in the church nursery yesterday, where one new mom instructed us to call her out of the service if her son “cries at all.” It seemed a bit extreme to me, and I speculated that she must be following some sort of Attachment Parenting philosophy in which she aims to reassure her baby that he will never be abandoned by responding to his every cry. Again, I sighed a silent sigh for her endearing devotion, and internally renewed my vow to let my babies “cry it out” when the time comes.

These are just some of the embarrassing thoughts that meander through my mind when I imagine how I will parent children one day. Since I’m not doing anything actually worth writing about today, I just thought I’d share my foolishness with you.

Five for Friday: My Most Unfortunit Speling Misteaks

2008-02-15T09:27:00.000-08:00

1. Competetive (competitive). Although perhaps not a gross oversight, it was in the subject line of an e-mail sent to my boss in which I was brown-nosedly passing along some information about a competitive product that I discovered on a sales call. Impressed by the useful information, but not moved to correct the error, my boss forwarded the e-mail on to her boss, the senior Vice President of the company. My heart sank when the cc’d copy arrived in my inbox, spelling error still proudly displayed in the subject line. My heart sank even more when I was cc’d on the e-mail that the VP forwarded to the entire company, apparently also unmoved to correct my blunder.

2. Karen (Caren). Really, who pronounces their name “Karen,” but spells it with a flipping C? I’ve seen a “Karin” or two in my day, and even though it’s a little new agey, at least it’s just a little vowel at the end of the name that’s getting swapped. Who would have the audacity the change the first letter of such a nice, normal name? My boss from my first real job, that’s who. I was informed about the job verbally through a friend, and of course my cover letter reflected the name we had discussed, “Karen.” I was miraculously called in for an interview, where I sat my barely-out-of-college butt down in her office and was slapped in the face with her “Caren” desk plaque. A real confidence booster, especially directly preceding the first statement out of her mouth: “This is not an entry level job. I only called you in for an interview because of your friend’s recommendation.”

3. Weiner (wiener). I send out over 100 Christmas cards every year, a good deal of which might be my only real communication with the recipient for the year (extended family, old friends, etc). I spend a fair amount of energy selecting photos that accurately represent the year’s best memories while also making me look like I could do some modeling for Mervyns if I wanted to (lets be honest, I’ll never be willowy enough for Anthropologie). In 2007, I selected photos of our trip to St. Thomas, our graffitied about-to-be-demolished kitchen, and the crown jewel, our first “family photo” with our new miniature dachshund, Jim. In the interior of the card, I completed our well-wishing memo with an informal family signature that read, “Shane and Anna Quinlan / (and Jim the weiner dog).” I was a little insecure about having the word ‘wiener’ in my Christmas card, as I would be sending it to co-workers and very morally conservative family members, but we were such a happy family and the whole thing felt so right. I’m thinking about suing Shutterfly for emotional damages resulting from their oversight in not including a spell check feature in their ‘Design a Card’ program.
4. Retarded (Mentally disabled). Okay, this is more of a political correctness error than a spelling error. In an ‘adapted physical education’ class in college, we all had to write an extensive paper about a particular disability and how physical education should be adapted to accommodate such a condition. The disabilities were assigned, and I happened to receive the 3x5 card that read “mentally retarded.” Unphased, I spent weeks in the library and wrote a comprehensive paper on the matter, which obviously contained several references on every page to the condition at hand, referred to in all my pre-1990’s text books as “mental retardation.” Apparently the professor had an unspoken expectation that I would take the initiative to translate this into current Political Correct vernacular (“mentally disabled”). I didn’t, although when I received the graded paper back with a red slash through each painfully un-PC “retardation,” I sure wished I had. I’m pretty sure the professor lowered my grade in the class on the basis that I was prejudiced towards retards.

5. See (Sea). Excited about the seeming success of my recent blogging, and desiring input from anyone that would aid in the creation of better posts, I decided to go out on a limb. A twig, really. One of my friends was recently dating a New York Times bestselling author whose work is very much in the vein of what I would hope to create if I were going to venture into real writing. They came and stayed with us for a 4-day weekend this past summer, so I had the very enjoyable experience of getting to know this guy on the kind of personal level that you do when someone is sleeping on your couch for 4 nights. I am not at all a star struck personality, so my main objective in getting to know him was merely assessing if he was a good match for my friend (author, shmauthor). After their departure we became facebook friends that don’t communicate at all, and I’m sure he forgot about me entirely, which was fine. Now that I was looking for some blog-firmation, though, his name came back into my mind and I wondered how weird it would be for me to send him my blog link on facebook. Despite my better judgment, I went for it. I regretted it the second I pressed “send.” I regretted it even more when he responded that he would be happy to check out my blog, but I would have to send him the actual name and / or link. I had asked him to read my blog and forgot to include the link. *Hotflash* I respond with a self-deprecating joke and included the link. He responded that he would check it out when he had time, as he was currently “in a cabin, on an island.” I responded with sheepish gratitude, and in an attempt to create some camaraderie, a reference to a Lyle Lovett song since I know that we are both fans: “Have fun in your cabin, on your island, on your boat out on the see.” When I noticed the gaffe there was nothing left to do but turn off the computer and hang my head in shame.

All Systems Go

2008-02-13T17:55:00.000-08:00

My friend Lesley recently pondered what could be expected for the (long) journey from newly married wife into motherhood. I was of no help.

I can, however, recall my parents fondly recounting their own decision to become parents - probably on my birthday or upon the news of a family pregnancy - and their total acceptance of the irrationality of their desire. They objectively acknowledged that as happily married, financially independent, urban dwelling Americans, there was simply no logical argument for reproducing. But there were an infinite number of wildly illogical arguments, like wanting to create new life with their uniquely shared gene pool, carrying on family traditions, creating new family traditions, and the magnetic draw to the wonder of it all. Illogic won, obviously, and here my brother and I are, 28 and 26 years later, respectively.

I don’t necessarily remember the presence of many parenting books in our house during my childhood, or even wall charts or vernacular that would have been indicative of their following some sort of program, but I can see now that they had some specific outcomes in mind for their kids that they worked towards from the very beginning. One of those outcomes was for their daughter to be a strong, independent woman.

They got their first third-party affirmation of this goal when they got called in for an emergency parent-teacher conference when I was in the 1st grade. I was apparently having trouble discerning the appropriate times to talk in class (you mean people aren’t interested in what I have to say all the time?). My Dad and Mrs. Townsend diligently discussed a united strategy of moving me to the front of the class, separating me from my BFF, Kira, and more after-school parent accountability. After the meeting, when my dad asked me what I felt like when the teacher would write my name on the board, and then get dreaded check marks added to it, I proudly told him that I just didn’t look at it and I pretended it wasn’t there. I was sure he would fawn over my ability to remain sure of myself despite being confronted with potentially self-image-damaging messages. My ingenuity was just so in-line with they had been teaching me all these years. I was sadly mistaken and spent the remainder of the year quarantined in the front-and-center of the 1st grade.

Fast forward to when my 7th grade English teach, Mrs. Clark (who read The Hobbit to us using hobbittish character voices, by the way) called a parent-teacher conference to discuss what she called my propensity to “question authority.” My parents explained that they wanted their teenage daughter to be self-assured and confident. The way my dad recalls it, she practically guffawed in their faces and asked them how far exactly they were hoping to take this goal, because I was certainly already one of the most self-assured students she’d ever had and it was frankly about to cross the line. I think they decided to ease up a bit on the self-confidence directives after that, now that they had some empirical evidence that I was on the right track (or the wrong track, according to Mrs. Hobbit Voices Clark).

The older I get the more I am amazed at the sheer endurance that my parents exhibited in sticking to their guns for all those years. It’s as if they decided that they wanted to raise happy adults before we were even babies, and decided to stick to that plan no matter how many parent-teacher conferences tempted them to give in and simply raise agreeable children.

My mom now volunteers to help lead a young moms group at her church, and recently asked me for some input. She is leading a discussion on successfully “launching” children (into independence, adulthood, mature relationships with others and/or the world at large, etc,) and was curious as to what sticks out in my memory that helped equip me for my journey into my own narrative. She also asked me what my friends would say.

Well, friends, that’s you. What did your parents do or say that helped your successful launch outside of their watch and into the “real world?” Leave your comments for my mom to bring to her group, it’s the least you could do after all the confrontational parent-teacher conferences that I’ve put her through.

My Big Girl Bike

2008-02-11T21:07:00.000-08:00

One of the reasons I was initially drawn to triathlons was the seeming simplicity of the gear. Living in milk-and-honey Santa Barbara means that I have access to an ocean to swim in (free!), and weather that enables enjoyable running and biking for about 11 ½ months out of the year (free!). Like any good kinesiology major, I already owned decent running shoes; and like any good daughter of my sun-worshipping mother, I owned a plethora of swim suits. The way I figured, I would need to amass only goggles and a swim cap for the swim portion ($10 at Big 5), and a road-worthy bicycle (Craigslist here I come).

I actually completed my first triathlon on a borrowed bicycle, as a sort of penance to ward off any impulse buys until I was a race-proven “triathlete.” I then promptly began searching Craigslist for a reasonable starter bike, unable to escape my frugal DNA. While my online searching yielded no promising leads, Play It Again Sports just happened to have a women’s 49.5 cm road bike that was only a year old, and just because they liked me they agreed to give me a good deal. I took it for a spin around the parking lot and concluded that it was perfect. I loaded it into the back of my SUV and drove home amidst of cloud of self-congratulations for choosing such a practical sport (3 sports for the price of 1!).

Well, 1 professional bike-fitting, 1 expert running shoe analysis, 1 speedo racing bikini, several oh-so-flattering spandex outfits, countless energy drinks and gu packets, and 2 years deductibles worth of chiropractic vists later, I have realized that the minimal gear appearance of the sport may have been a little deceiving. And while I’m still keeping it to a pretty bare bones operation, I did recently receive clip-in pedals for my birthday, which feels like a sort of graduation into the next level of the sport.

With the middle of February apparently marking the end of winter here on the South Coast, we decided to celebrate the 75° weekend by breaking in my new bike upgrade. Ever handy Shane swapped out my old ‘rat trap’ pedals and installed the new Shimano clip-ins like a pro, and we headed out to the driveway for some practice. Hilarity ensued.

Okay, do you remember learning how to ride a two-wheeler for the first time? Remember how one parent kind of propelled you with a white-knuckled hand on the back of your bike seat and jogged alongside you awkwardly until one of you decided it was time to let go, at which point the other parent, poised like a catcher at the imagined destination, broke into an excited grizzly bear/sumo wrestler dance and tried to stop you before you fell? It was kind of like that. Except that Shane was playing the part of both parents, and although my facial expression probably looked about the same, I was a grown ass woman.

Shane patiently taught me the tricks and offered praise at every possible turn (“There you go!,” “Now you’re cookin’!,” and my personal favorite, “Great instincts!” ). After about 20 back-and-forths across of the driveway, Shane decided it was time for a trip around the neighborhood. I nervously agreed, not wanting to let him down after all his cheerleading, but knowing full well that I was looking down the barrel of a real melt-down opportunity.

Against ALL odds, I actually never fell (I know, sorry to disappoint). I did make Shane wait through an entire green light with me because I just didn’t “feel ready to brave a 4 way intersection yet.” I used the following red light to take some deep breaths and silently run through the necessary steps for a successful take off, and by the end of the next light cycle I was miraculously on the other side.

Five for Friday: Lately I Just Can't Get Enough of.....

2008-02-08T10:50:00.000-08:00

1.) Venti Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Lattes from Starbucks. The “Skinny” moniker is a new addition to the Starbucks menu. Before, I had to order a “non-fat, sugar-free, no-whip venti cinnamon dolce latte,” and when the barista would call out that ridiculously long drink order at the pick-up counter I would have to hang my head and do a walk of shame up to the counter knowing that everyone was judging me for being so high maintenance. Have you tried that latte though? It’s so worth it.

2.) ‘Apologize,’ by New Republic. Not only am I hopelessly behind the curve when it comes to musical coolness (I mean, Amy Grant is still cool, right?), but I never download or buy music. This leaves me painfully at the mercy of my car radio. For some reason, ‘Apologize’ seems to be somewhere in between the mainstreams of my usual FM pre-sets, so when it does actually come on it feels like a big treat. Yes, I have sat in the parking lot after parking my car to hear it out.

3.) Sunset walks at Hendry’s Beach. I don’t mean to sound like I’m on some sort of dating gameshow, but man do I love long walks on the beach. Jim the wiener dog has gotten to an age/size where if he doesn’t get enough exercise during the day he starts running psychotic laps around our house when we’re trying to catch him for bedtime. Conveniently, Hendry’s Beach is only 3 miles away and offers “off leash” recreation, and we’re able to make it over there about 3 times a week. Walking on the beach at sunset, surrounded by other dog-owners and googly-eyed couples, I’m always reminded how lucky I am to live here. This picture was taken by my dad on one such walk on my 26th birthday.

4.) My camelback water bottle that my aunt Kathy gave me for Christmas. The ingenious combination of a straw (so I don’t have to do the awkward tilt-the-bottle-up-to-my-mouth-while-turning-my-head-to-the-side-and-trying-to-keep-my-eyes-on-the-road thing), and a water-tight lid (so I can throw it in my purse on my way out to the car in the morning without worrying about it spilling) makes it perfect for my active lifestyle. It is the perfect solution to the conundrum of getting enough water without buying bottled water which is expensive and bad for the environment.

5.) Blogging! I am loving being a part of this community of writers and thinkers, with so many interesting stories and perspectives. I have already found in the short time that I’ve been blogging that I am perpetually on the hunt for funny, insightful, confusing stories all around me. Even if I don’t get it all on paper, it’s not a bad hunt to be on.

[Chinese] New Years Resolutions

2008-02-06T12:45:00.000-08:00

This Thursday, February 7th, marks the beginning of the Chinese Year 4706, the year of the rat. For anyone that might remember hearing me talk about New Year’s Resolutions around, say, late December to early January, I’d just like to clarify that I meant Chinese New Year. Having already completed a half marathon and begun a habit of writing more regularly (8 blog posts in 10 days, anyone?), I think I deserve a round of applause for being ahead of schedule (golf claps ensue). Other resolutions I hope to make progress on in 4706 include completing the Santa Barbara Long Course Triathlon, finish paying off our amazing kitchen remodel, and putting my convictions into action through some sort of volunteer opportunity.

Although I’ve never really been a strict subscriber to the idea of official New Year’s Resolutions, I do find something inspiring about the whole concept. The fact that our society embraces these little annual oaths is our quiet acknowledgement that we as human beings possess the tools of change. It is possible for us to change our behavior, change our perspective, change our contributions to the world around us. Each resolution carries with it both the conviction that we are created as powerful and meaningful beings who are called to do the best with what we have, and the hope that we will get better at this with time and determination.

Wishing you a happy and prosperous 4706.

Kick-Ash Wednesday

2008-02-06T08:47:00.000-08:00

Today is Ash Wednesday, a Catholic observance where believers traditionally attend services in which a priest marks their foreheads with ashes to signify their repentance before God. It also marks the beginning of Lent, and not coincidentally, directly follows Mardi Gras.

Being raised in a typical Protestant church, I was barely aware of Ash Wednesday growing up. When I arrived at Westmont College, however, there was a sort of everything-old-is-new-again social embrace about the whole concept. Inspired by the traditionalism and excited about a new adventure in my faith, I was in. After some earnest prayer and deliberation about what I should give up for Lent – I wanted to find something that would serve the purpose of creating a noticeable void in my life that would hopefully direct my thoughts to the more metaphorical void that led me to faith in the first place, but I didn’t want my inaugural Lenten experience to be so unpleasant that I would resent the whole thing – I finally decided that I would give up wearing make-up for 40 days.

Although it might sound somewhat trivial, especially to some of my many au natural girlfriends that aren’t drawn to the glitz and glam quite like I am, I knew at the outset that going without make up for 40 days just might give me the shakes for the first few days, if you know what I mean. I was just one semester into my college career, still struggling to stake my claim within the social hierarchy as one of the pretty girls, and eager for the clout and comfort that accompanies such a title. My decision to observe my first Lent in this way was a conscious choice to foster the side of my personal venn diagram that was comprised less by my social prowess and more by the content of my character.

It was a life changing experience, to be sure. The first few weeks were awkward and self-conscious and had me avoiding the dining commons at times unspokenly reserved for the social elite. That gave way to quiet resignation, which eventually transformed into peaceful acceptance that had me back in the dining commons whenever the Captain Crunch called to me. In time I realized that the only reason anybody was looking at me funny was because I was hunched over my cereal at a side table with my back turned to the room, not because my eyelids were oh-so-plain-looking. And with that newfound realization, I straightened my posture, tilted my chin up, and paraded my naked face around campus with the confidence of a girl who knows full well where beauty comes from.

[Ba]Rock the Vote

2008-02-05T22:57:00.000-08:00

Well since everybody is doing it (Lesley, Megan, & Emily, at least), I thought I'd go ahead and post a picture of my "I Voted" sticker. It's actually a pretty momentus occasion, as today marks the first time I've voted in 8 years. Embarassing, I know. My only other vote was cast just months after my 18th birthday when I was still in high school and loosely under the impression that being Chritsian meant voting Republican. What a long 8 years it's been. Since that vote, I've been frustrated by my inability to find what I felt to be objective information about anything on any ballot I might be confronted with. It was impossible for everything I read to be simultaneously true, which meant I was being lied to, which my parents taught me not to stand for. One of my 2007 resolutions was to become a more educated and participatory citizen. With the help of the aforementioned friends and a few others (Corinne & Anna J), I am pleased to say that it has been a successful resolution. I cast an educated and heartfelt vote today, and plan to make this the beginning of a new streak.

Whole Hearted Half Marathon

2008-02-04T21:26:00.000-08:00

Katie and I arrived in sunny Huntington Beach after a generally traffic free commute to find that the beach house we would call home for the next 24 hours was cuter than we had imagined, situated just blocks from the beach and less than a mile from the half marathon starting line. Surely, it wouldn’t rain.

We were welcomed by fellow racers Deyl, Paige, Brian, and Amy, and acting team mom, Crystal. We eagerly swapped stories about past races and race day strategies, knowingly shared confessions of over-zealous gu consumption in our 5K days, and generally pumped each up over a carb loaded pasta dinner. Surely, it couldn’t rain.

Katie and I retired to our side-by-side-twin-beds-bedroom and laid out our ill-equipped foul weather gear until it looked like Play it Again Sports. We decided on yoga pants, long sleeve zip mock neck tops, and windbreakers. Worth mentioning is that both windbreakers were provided by Katie, one of which was courtesy of her 1997 Sacramento State rowing days, the other courtesy of her neighbor, Dave, who wears a men’s large. We would look like a walking garage sale. Surely, it must not rain.

I awoke in the night to the sound of the inevitable. Rain. Freezing, pouring, angry rain. We arose in the morning confronted with the unavoidable concession that we were T-minus 1 hour away from what could possibly be the worst 2 hours (okay, 3 hours) of our athletic careers. We were under-trained, under-prepared, and now, underdressed.

Nevertheless, we were not under-motivated. We were, afterall, athletic girls with a can-do attitude, and at least one of us had a dad that taught his daughter about digging deep. We converted our nervous energy to girlish enthusiasm and greeted the rain as if it were a drunken, but hilarious, relative. We were soaking wet before we even reached our starting group.

The rain came down so sideways I feared I would contract swimmer’s ear. Our pathetically un-technical cotton yoga pants literally wicked up water from the ankle-deep puddles. We cursed ourselves for being in the small minority of runners who hadn’t simply cut out head and arm holes from a blissfully weightless garbage sack.

We stuck to our plan of walking the first 2 minutes of each mile and jogging the rest, give or take a couple bathroom breaks by 17 weeks preggers Katie. We maintained high spirits, with the exception of an uphill leg on mile 6 and the inevitably grueling last mile. We were greeted by cheerful volunteers at the finish line who placed surfboard shaped medals around our necks and gave us thermal-reflective blankets that we wore like capes to help prevent post-race hypothermia. Too sore to walk the additional mile home, we hitch-hiked back to the beach house where we collapsed with aching bodies and full hearts.

Half Assed Half Marathon

2008-02-04T17:42:00.000-08:00

In mid December my friends Deyl & Paige invited me to run the Surf City Half Marathon with them on Super Bowl Sunday, complete with overnight accommodations in a rented beach house and a smorgasbord of post race “replenishment” to consume during the game. I thought about it earnestly for about 7 minutes and then promptly forgot about it. The idea resurfaced in early January when my friend Katie and I discussed the possibility of training together, carpooling together, and undoubtedly gloating together afterwards as we smugly noshed on well deserved delicacies. We agreed that it was a foolproof plan and immediately signed up online.

Nevermind that this would be my first half marathon, nevermind that Katie had just found out that she was pregnant, nevermind that I hadn’t excercised regularly since I broke my arm in August, and especially nevermind that the race was only 6 weeks away. We were two girls with can-do attitudes and plenty of miles logged on our hi-tech running shoes, and we could surely “dig deep,” as my dad had encouraged me to do in so many athletic and non-athletic circumstances before.

In the days leading up to the race, having hit the running trail approximately twice since signing up, I mentally prepared by telling myself that this was simply my get-back-into-the-swing-of-things race, that there were no expectations, nothing to prove, that I deserved congratulations for even taking on such a challenge. And mostly, that if all else failed, it would be a beautiful day - the entire race taking place along the ocean in palm-tree lined Huntington Beach - and I would surely emerge just a little closer to God after run-walking through 13.1 miles of His beautiful creation.

I checked weather.com on Saturday morning before picking up Katie to head down to what had become known as the “what-the-h-have-we-gotten-ourselves-into-race.” Where I had expected to see a cute little smiley faced sun in the forecast, instead I saw a grey puffy cloud with either rain or swords coming out of it at a 45 degree angle and a caption that sad, in red, “high wind advisory.” It might as well have said “God’s wrath is coming down upon you.” After calling Katie in an attempt to solve one of the many versions of the “what are you gong to wear” dilemma, I threw a rain jacket and yoga pants into my bag and headed out the door.

Huntington Beach here we come: Half Marathon or Bust. (I’d give “bust” at least a 50% chance)