Keenie Beanie

Happy Effin' Birthday

2012-01-13T01:07:00.000-08:00

It's my birthday today. 13 is my lucky number and a birthday on Friday the 13th is just cool.

I've scheduled this post for the precise minute when I was born all those {ahem} years ago, adjusted for time zone effects and all.

That's about all the acknowledgment my birthday's going to get from me this year. The monstor move has taken over our lives. In fact, I got myself a 20 ft shipping container for my birthday. That's how I roll, and I hope there's a big effin' pink bow on it when it shows up on the drive this afternoon. Kind of like those cheesy Lexus commercials for Christmas.

Not that it hurts my feelings if my birthday doesn't happen.

If a birthday candle is lit in the forest and no one is around to see it, does one turn another year older?

I don't think so.

So many stories...

2012-01-07T07:27:00.000-08:00

... I could tell you.

I could tell you how the job opportunity in the UK with my old company did work out.

I could tell you how I was feeling so optimistic and happy at how things were coming together for the big move to the UK. Until the monumental task of actually accomplishing the move caught up with me.

I could tell you how hard we worked to get the little shack on the prairie remodeled and ready to sell.

I could show you the before and after pictures which remind me just how far we've come with the house. Even when all I can see are the few little things that aren't done yet.

I could tell you how we worked every waking moment on the house until it felt like we had nothing else to give and yet the work still wasn't done. And how I thought I would never, ever, be done painting the utility room.

I could tell you how we didn't really get to celebrate Christmas, our absolutely favorite time of year, and it felt like we were robbed.

I could tell you about how we still managed to put up a little Christmas tree and the small treasured light it brought to our miserable existence nearly saved my sanity.

I could tell you that we stood in the biting cold on our new back deck and surveyed our 130-degree view of the horizon and watched as the fireworks went off all over to ring in 2012 and how I will never forget the moment when this life-altering year kicked off.

I could tell you that I was optimistically hopeful that since everything else came together for the move, selling the house in this dire market would be a piece of cake. But now I'm not so sure and it terrifies me.

I could tell you that my immigration application was ridiculously easy to get approved and for that I'm grateful. But it doesn't stop me from having a recurring nightmare that I've forgotten some critical step and won't be admitted to the country when I get to Heathrow.

I could tell you how hurt and angry I feel since someone I considered a close friend here in Portland wrote me a "have a nice life" kiss-off message (she's got her own things to deal with right now) and didn't even respond to my gracious and understanding reply.

I could tell you how another one of my closest friends has volunteered to drive over 300 miles for an overnight trip with her family and her two dogs to help us load the shipping container. But I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am to have a friend that would do something like that for me.

I could tell you how I was so focused on the future after we move, I forgot to prepare myself for how difficult it would be to tear myself away from the life I've built in a city I love.

I could tell you how lucky I am to find that a dear friend's mother was willing to adopt my two cats...how I was prepared for how hard it would be to give them up when we dropped them off on New Year's Day... but that my husband was not prepared for how hard it would be for him - and how experiencing that pain with him intensified it more than I could have imagined.

I could tell you how we found a place to rent in a fantastic location in the UK and how I'm slightly worried since we rented it sight unseen (in person anyway), but so excited because it's a little cottage set in the English countryside and seems like the perfect place to start our new life there.

I could tell you that I've gone back to work at the start of January (commencing in the Portland office before moving to the UK later in the month), which was perhaps a foolish decision given how much we have to accomplish before the move.

I could tell you how I have nightmares and wake up in cold sweats because I feel like I'm balancing spinning plates and I'm just barely managing not to drop the whole lot of them.

I could tell you that no matter what happens, we are on a plane to Iceland in two weeks. And after a few days relaxation in the frigid Icelandic winter, our new life will begin - ready or not, here we go.

I could tell you all this, but I've barely time to breathe, let alone write. I'm a ball of tears and optimism, and I'm just hanging onto my sanity by a thread until this relentless pressure ends and I can finally relax.

Many Blessings

2011-11-24T10:32:00.000-08:00

Photo by Little Man

There's nothing quite like posting memories of September 11 and then not writing again for over two months to highlight a blogging lapse. However, since it's a holiday, I've decided to take some time to count my blessings and get back on the horse with this here bloggy thing. In light of major upheavals in 2011, I have so many things for which to be thankful and today is an appropriate day to reflect on them.

I haven't been writing because I have been completely caught up in effecting some huge life changes, and writing moved down on the priority list. Very far down. I've been preoccupied and lacking inspiration, and I don't have the eloquence of the lovely Leonore, who recently wrote a brilliant post about that exact issue.

At the beginning of this year, D was struggling and I posed a question to the universe as I pondered a course of action. I grappled with the urge to throw caution to the wind and make a big life change, balanced against the desire to be prudent in a bad economy. My mental wranglings were compounded by doubts about the stability of my relationship and the potential for regrets about any big decisions made in the face of these issues.

The question:

Do I leave a good job and a bad house and the comfort of a life where I'm from to follow D into the great unknown?

Then in the spring, my company got acquired and my job was scheduled for elimination. As I've previously wrote:

I really couldn't have received a clearer answer. It's like the universe was saying, "So you're not sure whether you should give up your job for the good of your relationship? Bam, problem solved. Now go sort it out with your man!"

This is where the blessings start. You see, we felt couldn't leave the little shack on the prairie without completing the major renovations we had undertaken and left half done. We needed some time before the big life changes could commence. I got such a soft landing, because I didn't lose my job - originally scheduled to wrap up in June - until the end of July. Then I spent three months working as a part-time contractor, mainly from home. This afforded time to get the renovations underway again while still making an income.

November rolled around, and we had secured a good contractor (that rare commodity!) and progress had resumed on the renovation in earnest. I had substantially wrapped up work with my old company at the end of October when the blessings continued: I got a call asking if I had interest in going back to assist a company I'd worked with for four years before moving on to a better opportunity in 2008. My old position was vacated and they were looking for some help while they find a replacement. I get to work with a few of my favorite people in the world and secure an income for a bit longer.

That extra bit of money is going to come in handy, because D and I are moving back to the UK to be closer to his family. This is a huge move. Although we lived there briefly after our wedding, I'm leaving career security in a city where people frequently call me about job opportunities. My accounting specialty is valued by the small population of companies that need my skills and my reputation in this town is a good one. Those skills won't be as applicable in the UK and I'll have to start building a professional network all over again. Our plan to move there without jobs in a struggling economy could be considered foolhardy. But D and I are so excited that any career sacrifices are worth it to me. Looking forward to the move, together, has changed the dynamic in our relationship resulting in a huge improvement. That is priceless.

Here, the blessings begin to rain down. Before I was laid off, I spoke to the VP of European operations to see if he could introduce me to people in the UK that might be good contacts as I search for employment. His words: "I'd like to hire you!" Thus we began discussions about creating a position for me in the UK, though in a different function that will require some growth and expansion in my skill set. There were budget constraints to overcome and it has taken some time for matters to progress. All signs are go, and I'm now waiting for the final offer letter and the start date to be determined. If it all comes together, it looks like we will be moving very early in the new year.

Ah, but the house... we are still a couple of weeks away from putting it on the market, and a very poor market it is. However, I have this optimistic conviction that if we can just get it listed, things will simply work out. Everything else has. This house will turn out to be a spectacularly bad financial investment - we will have lost a substantial amount of our life savings on it. But you know what? I don't care. We are so very fortunate that we can get out of it without having to resort to a short sale or foreclosure. That is a blessing too.

Looking back to the beginning of the year when I knew this change needed to be made, but was hesitant to take the actions to accomplish it - I can hardly believe how fortunate I am. In part, you make your own luck. We are in this position because I have been a dedicated employee and because we took on the purchase and renovation of the house with fiscal prudence - well, as much prudence as possible when you pay top dollar in an overheated market, invest a ton of money into renovations and then sell after a 20% drop in real estate prices.

But bad things happen to good people all the time, no matter how much one tries to "create your luck." So I know that I am also very, very lucky that things have worked out this way. Lucky...it's a word I generally hesitate to use, because it reminds me that I can't control everything with the simple force of my will. But lucky I am - pure and simple - and I'm going to own that admission for a while. 2011 has been a tough year - one that has forced me into some big decisions that needed to be made. That is yet another blessing. 2012 will present its own set of challenges, but because I can count so many blessings, I'm facing the world with a grin I can barely wipe off my face.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Remembering

2011-09-11T05:46:00.000-07:00

Photo: Magnus Manske

Love and loss. Bravery and sacrifice. Coincidence and near misses. Pain and shared healing, and the kindness of strangers. There are millions of stories. Where were you on 9/11? I was closer than I could ever dread to be, and yet so blessedly far. I was there, in Manhattan, and that day, that week, was so difficult I've shied away from the memory for 10 years. I don't like watching television coverage commemorating the events because it all comes back, so raw. Besides, my own experience pales in comparison with those who lost someone in the tragedy. But I was there, and this is what I remember.

* * *

On September 11, I had been working in Manhattan for several months, staying at the Palace Hotel during the week and flying to Cayman to visit D most weekends. We had been seeing each other, in a long distance relationship, for just under a year and he was taking me home to England to meet his family that coming weekend. On Wednesday, I was due to fly to a conference in Vancouver before taking a flight to meet D in London on Saturday.

I was working in midtown that bright Tuesday morning. Around 9 a.m., I received a call from D in Cayman to check I was okay after he heard the news a plane had crashed into an office building in Manhattan. It was the first anyone in our office knew of it and the last time I was able to speak to D, or anyone, on a phone for a while. I flashed up CNN live video online as co-workers gathered around my desk. We watched in disbelief at the smoke pouring out of the north tower a mere 4 miles away and wondered how it was possible that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.

9:03 am: Overwhelmed by site traffic, the CNN video weblink crashed, leaving us with the audio broadcast only, while the video remained frozen on the haunting image of Flight 175, a split second before it crashed into the second tower. The image remained on my computer and is still burned into my mind. Everyone on board that flight in that moment knew their fate but were powerless to stop it. I wished the power of video technology worked in real life to freeze a moment in time and forestall the inevitable. CNN reporters were discussing "some sort of explosion" in the south tower. I stared at that frozen image, thinking, "It's another plane. How can they not know it's another plane?"

Riveted by the reports of disaster in downtown, we start to hear about the plane hitting the Pentagon, and rumors about other flights that are MIA. The stricken looks on the faces of my coworkers mirror my own emotions. How far would this disaster, this attack, extend? It feels like the end of the world and for the first time in my life I feel hate in my heart - for those that could do this terrible thing to so many innocent people. I'm not proud of it, but that is truth.

By 9:45, we have lost the audio link to CNN and I decide to cross the street to bring back the clock radio from my hotel room. I get back to the office and have barely plugged it in and found a news broadcast when the reporter starts saying "Oh my God, oh my God, the tower is collapsing!"

The view of downtown from our office is blocked by the MetLife building straddling Park Avenue, but the group of us rush to the conference room on the southwest corner to see what we can. There is a growing cloud of dust emanating from the area, enveloping the city like some kind of evil creature. A few people begin to cry - I don't remember if I'm one of them. It's barely been an hour since I received the phone call from D. The world is already forever changed.

I had been introduced to a friend of one of my coworkers at a happy hour the week before, and she is panicking now because he works at the WTC and she hadn't been able to reach him. I did some quick mental math based on news reports of the 50,000 people usually in the complex at that time of day and came up with an eerily accurate estimate of the lives lost - about 3,000. I told her to keep up hope, the chances were very good that he was okay. Thousands of people may die, but tens of thousands more were likely to survive.

He worked at Cantor Fitzgerald, and we didn't know it then, but that firm was in the direct line of fire when the first plane crashed. They never found her friend. I still don't know whether to feel bad about my platitudes to her at the time, or to be relieved that I gave her some hope, however futile, to calm her in the moment.

I don't remember many clear moments for the rest of that day. Most of the local employees began their hours-long trudge home, lacking any other mode of transport but their own two feet to make it back to their loved ones. The out-of-town travelers like me milled around the office, unsure of what to do.

I do remember, vividly, crossing Park Avenue to go back to my hotel in the afternoon. The city streets were empty and deathly quiet. I started to cross, against the light. US airspace had been shut down for hours, but I heard the roar of an aircraft and felt a flash of panic, stopping in the middle of the street to scan the sky for a threat. It was a fighter jet, on patrol. The strangest thing about that moment was the quiet on the street. If I had stopped in the middle of Park Avenue while jaywalking on any other day, I would have been mowed down by a cab. But there was nobody out there now, only a few lonely souls such as me.

The rest of the week is a blur of isolation and frustration. For two days, my flight out of the city was cancelled and rebooked waiting for the airports to open again. By Thursday morning, the airline just told me they couldn't rebook and would contact me when a flight became available. I fell apart. I was alone in New York and I couldn't escape. I couldn't book a flight to London from another city because I couldn't get transport out of New York. The rental cars were all gone - in fact, some of my coworkers had left for a two-day drive home to Dallas the day before. Eventually I booked a train ticket to Washington DC for Friday morning and then checked all the airlines for a flight from a city anywhere between New York and DC that could eventually bring me to London.

When I got to the Philadelphia airport to check in for a flight I booked to Miami, the line stretched for a quarter mile outside of the airport. I was never going to make it, but saw no other course of action. I had struck up a conversation with a teenager, traveling on his own, who left the line to make a phone call and asked me to hold his place. An airport worker, for some reason, came down the line calling that young man's name and I directed him to the phone bank. Miraculously, that same airport worker, after getting the young man settled, came back and personally escorted me through security and to my gate. If I hadn't made that flight, who knows how long I might have been stuck in Philly. It was like an angel had been sent to rescue me.

Arriving in Miami, I had time to meet D briefly at the airport before his originally-scheduled British Airlines flight to Heathrow. His plane was full, and I got the last available seat on my American Airlines flight so we couldn't travel together. The BA employee at the front of the blocked-off check-in lines impatiently asked for him to just wait for his name to be called when he inquired on how to check in. How would they know to call his name when they hadn't let him register his presence at the airport? Never mind, I was already checked in and had to leave for my own departure - an hour before his - so I'd see him the next morning at the customs exit in Heathrow.

Saturday morning, I waited at customs for two hours after his flight landed, impatiently scanning the crowd. Eventually I checked my voicemail to find a harried message. BA had given away his seat "because he hadn't checked in." He was now stuck in Miami for another day.

I know that I did cry then. I was alone, more alone that I had already felt during the week, now in a foreign country, with nothing to do but find a hotel, wait for D, and contemplate the horror of the tragedy back in New York. I remember little of that time, which felt like purgatory, but I do remember that people were so kind to me when they detected my American accent.

The next morning, I was back at the customs exit anxiously awaiting D's arrival. In more than 10 years together - that includes nearly three years of commuting in a long distance relationship - I was never, ever happier or more relieved to see him at an airport. He enveloped me in a great big hug, and in his arms, although I was thousands of miles from where I lived, I was finally home.

* * *

What's your story?

Fascinimation

2011-09-03T19:06:00.000-07:00

I recently received an email with the following video attached along with the text in italics below....

This is almost unbelievable. See how all of the balls wind up in catcher cones.

This incredible machine was built as a collaborative effort between the Robert M. Trammell Music Conservatory and the Sharon Wick School of Engineering at the University of Iowa . Amazingly, 97% of the machine's components came from John Deere Industries and Irrigation Equipment of Bancroft , Iowa . Yes, farm equipment!

It took the team a combined 13,029 hours (6.26 years) of set-up, alignment, calibration, and tuning before filming this video but as you can see, it was WELL worth the effort.

It is now on display in the Matthew Gerhard Alumni Hall at the University and is already slated to be donated to the Smithsonian.

The thought that such a machine could actually be built is an intriguing one. However, having read a bit about chaos theory in the fascinating book by James Gleick, Chaos: Making a New Science, I questioned the feasibility of launching thousands of balls with enough precision to form the soundtrack and land in the collector cones every time. I undertook in-depth research (okay, a quick google search) and found that the email story is a hoax.

The video is still remarkable, and kudos to the folks at Animusic who put it together. Stuff like this makes me feel so fortunate that there are amazing, creative, artistic souls in the world that share the product of their inspiration with the rest of us.

2011-08-09T12:21:00.001-07:00

Who'd a thunk it? Geometry IS useful!

2011-07-31T14:02:00.000-07:00

The time has come at the little shack on the prairie (well, actually it's been long past) to tear off the rickety front porch with its rusted metal roof. And this past week, that is exactly what D did.

This was a bit of an adventure in which skunks, geometry and suspected survey monuments all played a part. And you thought I lived a quiet life in the country.

I arrived home from work to find D wielding a sledgehammer and a crowbar, with most of the porch roof already missing. I asked D is there was anything I could do to help, but he just indicated that my mere presence and moral support were more than enough. (The level of assistance I can provide on DIY projects is generally on par with that of a five-year-old child.) So I settled in to watch the goings-on. At one point, D got an odd look on his face and backed away from the deck, brandishing the crowbar.

"Skunk!" he exclaimed.

* * *

One evening a few months ago, I called the cats in and caught a pungent whiff of eau de skunk. A cursory sniff of my feline family members indicated, thankfully, neither of them were in the line of fire. Further olfactory investigation revealed the event had definitely taken place pretty much on our front door step. That odor ebbed, but never really went away. It did seem to be coming from under the porch deck, but I thought perhaps the skunk had sprayed under there after being cornered by the cats and the odor wasn't dissipating because it couldn't be washed away under the shelter of the porch roof.

* * *

Back on porch demo day, surveying the immobile pile of fur from a distance, I said, "Well, at least that explains the lingering smell."

"What if it's only sleeping?" asked the husband.

"Do you really think that a skunk would sleep through 2 hours of porch demolition taking place right above its head?" I asked. It's easy to be confident when he's the one in the line of fire if I'm wrong.

D wasn't taking any chances. He whipped a rotten tennis ball he'd found under the deck at the skunk and, receiving no response, assured himself it was indeed dead. Closer inspection revealed it had been that way for some time. Thank goodness that skunk up and died under the porch BEFORE we tore it off and built a new one, which would have made recovery and disposal of the vile thing a significantly more unpleasant task. For D, of course. Because that's what husbands are for.

* * *

This isn't the first time we've been startled by an unexpected finding of fur at the little shack on the prairie. The day we bought the house, D was exploring the dark nether regions of the attic eaves with a flashlight. There was rotten insulation falling from the ceiling, piles of hazelnut shells discarded by some varmint and mouse droppings everywhere. Suddenly, D recoils and says, "What the F@CK is that? Is that a creature?"

I'm backing away from the attic hatch thinking, Right, it freaked you right the hell out and you want ME to investigate? Ain't gonna happen, buddy. After some poking with a long stick to assure himself the object was well and truly (currently) inanimate, turns out it was a poorly cured, half-rotten full elk hide someone had just tossed up there with the rest of the mess. Who does that? Country people, that's who.

* * *

So after clearing away all the porch deck beams and boards, D was left with the concrete foundation blocks, half buried in the soil that had accumulated over the years. He begins to dig them out and finally reaches the last one, set closest to the corner of the house. It was ENORMOUS. Easily three to four times bigger than any of the others.

"Do you think the county surveyor will mind that I've just dug up and disposed of one of their survey markers?" D asked, only half kidding.

I'm pretty sure the porch deck wasn't built over an official county survey monument. But in the country one never knows.

* * *

When the porch deck was fully dismantled, we needed some temporary steps built to reach the front door, now two feet above ground level. D had acquired some lumber and was eyeing up the situation, trying to determine how to measure and construct the steps. I confidently told him that I was sure there would be an internet calculator that would work it all out for us lickety-split. D made a cup of tea and waited for me to provide him the measurements.

Turns out it isn't as easy as I thought. There are indeed stair calculators online, but I couldn't make heads nor tails of the results provided. So I went back to simple geometry. Measuring stair stringers is merely an arrangement of right triangles. I'm calculating hypotenuses (hypoteni?), adjacent and opposite angles and diagramming for all I'm worth. After an hour, on my third attempt at a measurement diagram that D might be able to read, he went straight to his saw and prepared to cut the stringer to length.

"Wait! Aren't you going to check my work?" I sputtered. (My math is notoriously unreliable.) "Or at least draw out all my measurements before you cut? What about measure twice, cut once?"

"Nope - if you got it wrong, we've only wasted $4 in wood. And we've got to learn to work together to get this renovation done."

Feeling his confidence was entirely misplaced, I nervously hovered over him while he measured and cut wood to my specifications. If I'd calculated right, that should result in two stringers on which we could affix the stair treads, hopefully level and plumb.

When the last piece was measured and cut, and it all fit perfectly onto the lengths of wood I specified, I was elated. I raised my arms in the universal gesture of victory and said, "I don't care what happens now, that was a math WIN!"

Turns out I did have a small logic error regarding the interplay of tread depth and stair rise, which means those three steps now measure 8", 6.5" and 9.5" high to get to the front door, but the damn math WORKED. They're only temporary stairs anyway, so I'm still claiming a victory. Anyway, I won't ever make that mistake again when I'm designing stairs; sometimes an error is the most effective way to learn.

Given this small taste of success, I'm now ready to conquer the DIY world... as long as D is around to run the power tools.

* * *

So tell me about your DIY experience. Are you afraid of power tools too?

Slow like Honey: Adventures in Molten Glass

2011-07-24T11:43:00.000-07:00

I have long been fascinated by the art of glass blowing. There is something completely mesmerizing about watching a clear, brittle substance morph into a glowing orange viscous mass that can be formed into fantastical shapes. So when I recently spotted a groupon for a glassblowing lesson for two, I jumped on it.

I was slightly nervous as D and I arrived at the glass blowing studio. For one, I had no idea what to expect, and for two - as I lack hand eye coordination - I was afraid I might make some spastic move and cause myself or someone else a serious injury, or at least cause some damage to my dignity by, say, dropping my masterwork just as it reaches completion.

But Corey, the owner of Portland Glass Blowers, put me right at ease. Corey is a super cool dude, and as D is wont to say, "You know you're in good hands when you see a beard like that."

Rockin' the Specs

First, we got kitted up with some stylish purple goggles that shifted the visible spectrum and made it easier to see the flame. The type of glassblowing we were doing didn't involve using a big furnace and putting glass in the "glory hole." (I'm not kidding; that's what Corey called it, which made me inwardly giggle like a schoolchild.)

No, we were using a propane torch that fired at upwards of 4000 degrees F. Okay folks, that means I've got a stinking HOT flame mere inches from my hands. Oh yes, and I have to keep the glass spinning evenly or I end up with a hot gooey mess dropping to the work bench. Concentrate much? You bet I did.

That set up affords some very cool pictures. I was able to capture my favorite image while Corey set D up on his torch before I got started:

Our first task was to create a little paperweight by first heating a 1-in. rod of clear Pyrex until it forms a ball of molten glass at the end of the rod. This takes some time, and you must keep the rod spinning slowly and evenly. There is something almost meditative about the process. When it is ready, you dip it into powdered colored glass and continue applying heat until it all melds together in a sort of lens shape. This is an exercise in chaos theory. The colored glass crystals often look nothing like the finished blown color, and you have no idea what shape is going to form inside the lens as you fuse the glass, but I'm pleased with this effort. It brings to mind some kind of blooming coral on a reef.

Next up, making a stemless wine glass. We heat a tube of pyrex glass and, when it reaches the desired consistency, blow slowly and evenly through the tube while spinning to keep the shape blown out symmetrically. That's the idea anyway. Here, D demonstrates the technique with his usual flair for doing things perfectly:

I, on the other hand, managed to get a tendril of my hair in my mouth while trying to blow the bowl, which promptly spiraled around the tube and restricted the spinning motion. In an effort to get that sorted out, I stopped blowing for a critical couple of seconds (as the glass cools very quickly) and ended up with a sad, oddly pregnant-looking shape. Corey took over, put the piece back into the flame, and valiantly tried to rescue it, with decidedly mixed results:

So what have we learned here? 1) Glass blowing is as mesmerizing when I'm doing it myself as it is when I watch someone else; 2) I shouldn't quit my day job because it turns out I'm not going to be the next DaVinci of glass blowing; 3) Much like in life, it's about the journey, not the destination. (a.k.a. whatever, my glass looks like it was blown by a wonky troll, I still had a good time.)

* * *

So tell me, what new thing have you tried out recently? Did you surprise yourself with success?

Happy Fourth of July

2011-07-04T09:52:00.000-07:00


View from my office: Rose Festival Fireworks, Portland Oregon. May 27, 2011

Happy 4th of July to my American friends and Happy (belated) Canada Day to my friends up north. To the rest of the world - have a great week!

P.S. I'm finishing a four day break which also served as a kind of honeymoon for me and my new Android smartphone. My online activity has been almost exclusively devoted to learning how to best take advantage of its capabilities. Regular blog commenting will resume shortly. I've been reading, but I couldn't figure out how to accurately type on this @#$^% touchscreen keyboard, 'til I discovered "Graffiti" which lets me write out the characters like the old Palm Pilot days. Sweet!

P.P.S. Do I dare download Angry Birds? I hear it's crazy-addictive.

* * *

So tell me, how did you spend your weekend?

Wordless Wednesday: Last light of the longest day

2011-06-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

Sweet!

2011-06-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

I've been a bit quiet on the blog lately. There are big doings in Keenie Beanieland at the moment, but I'm not free to write about it all yet. They're good things, but this has had the effect of altogether stifling my urge to share, ya know? Being absolutely consumed with something, but then trying to focus on other things and pretend it's not going on feels somehow disingenuous.

Which is why I'm touched and grateful that Leonore (Leo for short) of As a Linguist was kind enough to nominate me for an Irresistibly Sweet Blog award. It's a fantastic way of pulling me out of my blog shell a bit.

First a bit about Leo: she is my #1 internet crush at the moment. Devastatingly clever, she puts together posts centered on her passion for language that I once likened to an episode of the Simpsons. You start one place and end up ranging far and wide; so much happens in her entertaining blog posts. Plus, the more I learn about her, the more I wonder if we weren't separated at birth. A few of our odder affinities: a mutual crush on Top Gear's Stig and a penchant for stick shift cars.

So according to the rules of this award, I should disclose a few facts about myself and pass the award on to a few other deserving bloggers. I've decided to use this forum to write a few snippets rattling around in my head that don't seem to merit a complete blog post, but do have a sweet theme.

Kitchen Adventures

I'm a picky eater - not very adventurous - but not a particularly discerning one. I don't much care about the quality of the food I ingest, so long as it's not rancid. I've no talent in the kitchen at all. I'm a to-the-letter recipe follower but I don't generally have a feel for what's going on with the dish I'm attempting to make. There's some secret to the alchemy of creating tasty food from a collection of raw ingredients that can't be conveyed directly by a cookbook page, and therefore I am missing out entirely.

My husband is a superb cook and, as such, bears the brunt of the feeding duties in our home. He is also an extremely discerning judge of the quality of most things, including the food he eats. So if there is something I cook that he approves of, I feel like raising my arms in triumph and taking a victory lap of the kitchen. I recently baked a carrot cake from scratch, frosting and all, for his birthday. He doesn't have much of a sweet tooth; I more than offset that for both of us. I served him a slice of the cake, which he immediately pronounced 'ginormous' - at which point I offered to polish off the portion he wouldn't be able to eat. I figured this was kind of a pity tasting - like you might undertake for the baking efforts of a small child. Imagine my surprise when a few minutes later he presented me with a sparkling clean plate and a word of gratitude for the 'delicious cake.' I wanted to rent a billboard to proclaim my success to the world. Instead I just blogged about it.

Childhood Memories

Speaking of baking, the act of creating that carrot cake brought back a rush of memories. When I was very small I was given a children's baking cookbook and I used to really enjoy making cookies and brownies and such. I'm not sure I was ever particularly good at it... I mainly liked sampling the batter. Somewhere along my journey to adulthood, I gave up baking. I'm sure my waistline is grateful. When I was making the cream cheese frosting for D's birthday cake, I forsook my trusty Kitchen-Aid mixer and dug out the rarely-used handheld mixer - one just like my mom had - to whip the frosting.

It was when I ejected the beaters and began cleaning off the frosting (with my fingers and tongue, naturally) that I was so completely returned to childhood I could almost feel the whoosh of years reversing past me. I carefully licked the outside of each batter "blade," then switched to sweeping frosting off the inside with my finger, slightly stymied when it all collected where the base of the blades joined the shaft of the beater before I realized I could extract it with my tongue. The systematic, almost reverential, execution of the process took me back years and years to those determined childhood baking efforts and their primary reward - licking the beaters.

Favorite Sweets

Speaking of sweets, I've recently rediscovered a passion for a certain candy. Lemonheads. I know, right? You probably haven't had a Lemonhead since you were about ten. I think I was first introduced to these when you could buy a little box for 5¢ or so. I used to get them at a penny candy shop that one of the neighbors was running out of the front room of his house. Isn't it funny when you are small and your reality doesn't seem strange to you? Of course, everybody has an old guy on their street with a sweet shoppe in his living room. That's not odd at all.

Recently, I was in The Dollar Store and I found this big box of Lemonheads. I took them home, put them in the cupboard, and forgot about them for a few days. Then one evening I cracked them open and popped two in my mouth. Oh, sweet candy crack, these are amazing. I simply must eat them two at a time; no more, no less. If one has enough patience to suck on them until the sweet-tart outer covering dissolves, you are rewarded with a tiny globe of purely sweet candy core. I do not have that patience. I pop two in my mouth and there is a rush of sensation from the back corners of my mouth, right up under my ears, responding to the tartness. Then I crush the little candies to release even more of the sweet-tart flavor all at once - it's like a drug to me. I can eat a ridiculous amount of these things in one session, but it's not like I'm thinking about them if I don't have them or anything. I could quit any time, honest.

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So, on to the nominees for the Irresistably Sweet Bloggers I'd like to recognize.

Nicki writes at Suddenly Single Journey and What Dreamers Do and just recently quit her job to write full time. Nicki was the first blogger that encouraged me to keep writing - I might have give up long ago otherwise. Life keeps throwing her curve balls and she keeps fielding them with drive and determination. I can't wait to see how this next stage of life develops for her.

Leanne of Ironic Mom is wickedly sharp and funny and I'm in awe of her ability to come up with great on-line community building ideas. For instance, she is the co-conspirator behind Search Bombing and School Photo Day. Mainly, though, I am drawn to her brilliant tales of being a mom of 7-year-old twins, because it gives me a glimpse of what I might take on should I choose a path of motherhood, and an example of how to deal with that eventuality with grace and humor. Well, with humor anyway. ;-)

Beth of The Botut Blog chronicles her journey of "experimenting through life" as a wife and mother of three. She is hilarious and has a big heart - she and her family coordinate International Relief Missions in order to share their blessings with families lacking basic essentials due to conflict or natural disasters. If anyone can be called Irresistably Sweet, it is her.

Last, but not least, Em at It's the Small Things blogs her adventures in the North of England, including periodic posts of scrumptious entries into the Iron Cupcake competitions. Somebody needs to get right on the invention of teleportation of delicious baked goods through broadband lines so I can find out if her amazing cupcakes taste as good as they look.

Thanks once again, Leo, for passing this award on to me. You are so sweet!

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So, tell me, what is your favorite sweet... or if you don't have a sweet tooth, feel free to wax rhapsodic about the one food you can't resist, sweet or not.

I Heart Macro

2011-06-12T10:07:00.000-07:00

How often have you stopped to really take in the little details? These are the nearly imperceptible textures, colors and shapes that saturate our world, but are so easily overlooked. This is why I adore the "I heart macro" project hosted by Lori at StudioWaterstone. The power of macro photography amplified by social networking gives me a peek into the little details other people capture from their lives. Wonderful! Click through the link to enjoy this week's other submissions.

Here is my contribution, captured on a walk with the trusty tiny Canon point-and-shoot I always have with me. It's lucky I found it before the surface tension collapsed and this water droplet, impossibly suspended on the leaf ridges, disappeared like it was never there.

Falling into a dewdrop

Way Back Wednesday: Swag me baby

2011-06-08T09:08:00.000-07:00

I originally posted this back in April 2010. If you ever click through to my blog, you might notice the banner at the top of the page that tallies the real dollars I've earned using Swagbucks in the past couple of years. If you want to join me in the Swag Nation, read on.

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About a year ago, I heard about the Swagbucks search engine. Every time you search the net with Swagbucks you get a random chance to win 10 or more swagbucks. You can use your swagbucks to redeem gifts and prizes, my favorite being the $5 Amazon gift card for 450 swagbucks. In the past 12 months, I've earned $85 (UPDATE: now over $200!) in real money to spend at Amazon... just for searching the net! How cool is that?!

My strategy has been to set the swagbucks search site as my home page and default engine in my browser's tool (both at home and at work) and never go directly to any website before first entering the name in the swagbucks search. Amazon? Ebay? Yahoo mail? MSN portal? Swagbucks 'em all. Alternatively, in Firefox and Internet Explorer, you can add Swagbucks to the browser built-in search toolbar as your default search tool by installing a plug-in.

Swagbucks uses Ask.com and Google to provide the search results, which include sponsored listings, and if I'm honest, the search is nowhere near comprehensive (UPDATE: It seems to have improved over the past year). For easy searches, it gets the job done, but often I find that after first entering my search terms at Swagbucks to try to win a few, I just go up to the address bar or favorites menu and directly access the site I'm seeking. For more complex or in-depth topic searches, I often end up swagbucksing Google then heading there to do a "real" search. I always laugh deviously at the irony when that wins me swagbucks too.

Full disclosure: If you sign-up for a Swagbucks account using this link or click through from the banner I've posted at the top of this page, you will get 30 swagbucks upon registering and I get a few swagbucks too.

If you are the type of person that only cares about efficiency in your keyboard strokes, swagbucks isn't for you. But over the past year, I would estimate that the extra keystrokes I've entered as a result of using swagbucks could only add up to an hour at most. And earning $85/hour for something I'm doing anyway... that is totally worth it to me.

School Photo Day: Oh the horror

2011-06-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

The journey as I morphed from this adorable tot...

... to this adult version (hands down, the day I felt most beautiful - it's amazing what professional hair, makeup and photography can do for your self image) was not always a graceful one.

Wait, you say, this is supposed to be School Photo Day? Well, that is true, but for my own pride I had to post those two images to counteract the pain of what comes next.

I was, like all of us, a cute baby and I have grown into a reasonably presentable semblance of human as an adult. However, there were those terribly awkward years in between, painfully documented in that annual rite - the school photo day. I never had cool clothes. I didn't know how to smile naturally. I would wait for my turn in front of the cameras, in line with all my fellow students like lambs to the slaughter, inwardly practicing my best portrait smile. This, of course, was a useless exercise because I didn't have a mirror. The torturous process was made worse by the feeling that one was doing it in a fish bowl. The whole class was standing there, probably thinking what I a dork I looked like, smiling my geeky smile. For someone as shy as my childhood self, this was intolerable. Ack!

The portraits documenting my awkward progression through childhood were lovingly compiled and labeled by my mother, who I still haven't quite forgiven for those bangs:

These culminate in my senior yearbook portrait... my, my I was really working the supermodel pout there, wasn't I?

Those aren't so bad, you say? Well, we always are harder on ourselves. But it gets much, much better if you scroll down to the bottom.

There were informal yearbook photos too.

I was a cheerleader:

I was in the school play:

I was in the school choir, which is the only excuse for this getup:

But if there were a contest for awkward yearbook photos, this has got to be a top contender*. Note the snarky comment inserted by a fellow student signing my yearbook:

* The year after this photo appeared, I joined the yearbook club in order to have some chance to intercept the publication of any other humiliating photos.

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So come on internets, if I'm willing to post a yearbook photo of me apparently picking my nose, you gotta give me what you got. Join in and post a link to your site in the comments below. No excuses if you don't have a picture available today. It's now School Picture Week! Follow my nose-picking lead and dig one out... then come back and post a comment in the next few days. For more school photo fun, visit the sites of my co-hosts: Ironic Mom and EduClaytion.

Blast from the Past: School Picture Day

2011-05-25T19:48:00.000-07:00

Join in and spread the word: Graphic courtesy Leanne

So last week, I was back in the old home state kickin' it with a friend who's known me since I was four. During the visit, she shared a brilliant scrapbook that her mom had put together with pictures spanning her entire childhood. I appeared in a few of those pictures too, at various stages in my ugly duckling childhood. Well, that wasn't my whole childhood. Mainly just the years from, oh, seven to seventeen.

During the week, S and I also discussed blogging, bloggers and the IRL childhood connection that she has to one Clay Morgan at Educlaytion. Yearbooks were dragged out and photos were perused. After I threatened to unleash Clay's 3rd grade photo via Twitter (I didn't), Leanne of Ironic Mom, a veritable font of great ideas, mooted a suggestion and a blog-hopping "School Picture Day" was born. SPD, or doomsday, depending on how you feel about your school pictures, is June 1st.

The idea is to dig out your old school portraits or yearbook photos and ~~inflict it upon~~ share them with the world on June 1st in a post, tweet or even a billboard if that's your sort of thing. Comments on other photo posts with link-backs to your own are encouraged and, as with most on-line contact sports, the more the merrier. It will be like awkwardfamilyphotos.com, but more inclusive.

If you know Clay and Leanne, the dynamic duo that unleashed SearchBombing upon the world, you already know that anything these two cook up is bound to be a good time. If you don't know Clay and Leanne, add them to your readers ASAP. You won't be sorry.

So tell me - are you on board for school picture day? Extra points: Any ideas for the Twitter hashtag, besides the obvious and rather lengthy #SchoolPhotoDay?

Things for which I am Supremely Grateful

2011-05-23T21:44:00.000-07:00

"I'm not going to tell you cancel your vacation, but I am going to tell you if you choose to go, you'll be working very hard."

This came from my boss four days before I was due to take off for a week-long vacation to visit, in two separate jaunts, a couple of dear friends on the east coast. The trip was spectacularly ill-timed due to some big developments at my company on a transaction for which my input was critical to meeting its deadline. To his credit, my boss offered to pay for a replacement trip at a more convenient time, but I didn't want to reschedule at the last minute. I had already been working very hard and darn it, I wanted to go; hell, I needed to go.

So I headed out Friday evening on a red-eye flight. By the time we were airborne, I had been up for 22 hours, and operating on less than 4 hours of sleep the night before.

And here is where we get to a list of things for which I am supremely grateful:

1) Technology. A secure, accessible-anywhere-there-is-internet connection that lets me get my job done pretty much anywhere in the world.

2) Workplace flexibility. I have worked hard to earn the reputation that I don't let people down. I've been rewarded with an extraordinary flexibility in when and where I get my job done. Even when the success of one the most important events in the company's history was partially contingent on the performance of my job, nobody batted an eye when I said, "I'm going anyway."

3) An empty middle seat next to me on the red eye flight. Holly over at Nothing But Bonfires said it better than I ever could in her post about flying this week.

"On the plane, on the aisle of a row of three seats, I chanted The Frequent Traveler's Prayer as the other passengers filed on. Oh, you don't know The Frequent Traveler's Prayer? I just made it up and it goes like this:

Please please please please please please please please please please please plesase please please please please please please let nobody be sitting in this middle seat.

You can mutter it under your breath or chant it in your head until... the flight attendant announces that the aircraft doors are now closed---at which point you may sigh with relief, turn to your neighbor on the window and exchange a smug smirk and/or fistbump, depending on his or her age and your feelings on fistbumping strangers in public."

I don't even remember the last time I flew on a plane that wasn't completely stuffed full of people. So I didn't dare to entertain such a decadent thought as I settled into my window seat with a pillow and a Delta blanket that left red fuzz all over my freshly dry-cleaned trousers. I was so involved in the 820-page novel I'd brought to pass the time that it wasn't until we were backing away from the gate that I noticed a distinct feeling of freedom. Space, sweet blessed space, afforded by the empty seat next to me, which brings me to the next thing I am grateful for...

3) Physical flexibility. I might possibly have missed my calling in the circus. I have the ability, rarely found in those past puberty, to curl myself into a 3 cubic ft ball and comfortably sleep that way. So as soon as we were airborne, I tucked my feet into the empty middle seat, stuffed every soft thing within arms reach behind my back to the plane wall and didn't wake until the flight crew were asking us to place our seatbacks and tray tables in their full upright and locked position for landing.

4) Last, but by far not least, the unconditional love and acceptance of truly great friends. I worked well over 40 hours on my week's "vacation." I'm not sure I joined my friend's families at the dinner table more than once on my visits to their homes last week. But my friends kept me fed, watered, and even cocktailed if necessary. They offered me sympathy and support and never once questioned why I was putting so much effort into work when I was ostensibly on vacation and there to visit with them, not to spend the week tethered to my laptop.

* * *

I've been friends with R for the better part of a decade. We've never even lived in the same city but became close while surviving an intense workload during a 9-month stint working together on a client in Manhattan. Few people in my world could have understood why I was working so hard last week better than her. She is pragmatic, driven, sympathetic and supportive. She cheers my successes, and I hers; she seeks and provides counsel in equal measures. She's not afraid to tell me what she thinks, she doesn't take offense at my own frank opinions and I know that she always, always has my back. I couldn't ask for more in a chosen sister.

I've been friends with S for even longer. It shocks me to realize that I've known her for nearly 3 1/2 decades. Where does the time go and when did I get this old? We met on my first Sunday at church after we moved to Pittsburgh when I was 4, when she offered to let me play with her stuffed cat. It had realistic fur softer than anything I'd ever felt before and I admired it immensely. She gave me that cat just before I moved across the country at age 14, and I stumble across it now and again when I'm organizing boxes. We roomed together briefly in college to cement our friendship as newly-formed adults. Despite long periods of disconnection, we have never held the passage of months or years between calls or visits against one another.

As we explored the depth and width of our shared history and put the current world to rights during the past few days, I realized just how lucky I am to have a friend who has known me for so long. It a rare treasure. We exist in such different worlds and might not have been able to find the common ground to connect our souls, had we not enjoyed a childhood together. It's a shame that we haven't lived within a few thousand miles of each other since I was 17, but I know it matters not - I always have a home where she keeps hers.

* * *

I had poured all of my mental resources into work before this break. I felt as though I had been turned inside out and wrung free of every last bit of energy I have to give. Although my "vacation" was anything but relaxing, being welcomed into my dear friends' homes for a few days with nothing but acceptance and support was a more restorative experience than I could have hoped for, and I can't thank them enough for getting me through the past week, and for the treasured friendships of many years.

Ju5t Wed

2011-04-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

I know, I know - there are a whole bunch of people that don't give a monkeys about the Royal Wedding. I know, I know, that wars and poverty and earthquakes and tornadoes abound. And I know, I know, that we fought a bloody revolution over two centuries ago to throw off the tyranny of the rule of a monarch. So go ahead and judge me, but I was well excited for the Royal Wedding. I love all things wedding, and what with tiaras and glass carriages, good old British pomp and circumstance, a newly-minted princess (or duchess, whatevs) and the dress, Oh, the DRESS - what's not to like about a royal wedding?

I know I'm not the only one. But for her husband's emergency surgery, I would have been toasting Wills and Kate with friend J. Friend P told me that she and her teen daughter only just discovered a fascination for it in the few days leading up to the wedding. And after I facebooked my excitement on the eve of the big day, I received a message from a faraway friend in New Zealand to say she too was watching the coverage.

Because of the time difference, I wasn't planning to watch it live (at 0300 Pacific time!). So I set my dvr to record BBC's 6+ hours of commercial-free coverage and went to bed, intending to watch it on my own in the morning. However, at nearly 3 a.m. I unexpectedly woke to an empty bed. I wandered out to the living room, my sleep-addled brain completely spacing the event, and the husband said, "You came out at the perfect moment!" Kate was just climbing into the car at her hotel. "I haven't been up watching the wedding build-up since midnight," he said, then with a wry smile admitted, "okay, I totally have."

You should understand that the husband is a born-and-bred Englishman down to his very bones. "The crowd is brilliant; it's so nice for us all to have a reason to celebrate being British," he said. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, he would send me links to the anticipatory press coverage, indulging me in what he knows is a bit of a wedding fetish. He himself, though, was not really that arsed about it all. Until the BBC pre-ceremony coverage completely sucked him in.

So I was treated to a viewing partner, which was awesome. The husband voiced firm approval of Kate's gown - high praise indeed - and a bloke's understandable admiration of maid-of-honor Pippa's amazing dress. I loved watching William and Harry nervously awaiting the bride. I got a bit misty-eyed as Wills whispered, "you look stunning, babe," when Kate arrived at the altar (according to a lip reader employed by The Telegraph - other interpretations were that he simply said "you look beautiful" but I would love to think that the prince refers to her as "babe"). D turned up the volume when the congregation belted out Jerusalem, and I smiled when he cheered lightly under his breath as the couple was pronounced man and wife and discreetly crossed his fingers in hope when it was intoned "let no man put asunder."

Much like I vividly remember watching the pageantry of Charles and Diana's wedding as a child 30 years ago, decades from now I will fondly recall watching the union of William and Kate as a live event in the dark pre-dawn hours with D - a completely unexpected, but entirely enjoyable treat. May their marriage be a long and happy one. Given the obvious love and affection displayed today, I have great hope that it will be so.

Congratulations, William and Kate!

UPDATE: For those of you finding my site by searching for what Ju5t Wed means: There are no personalized license plates in Britain and a number must be included, so there is a bit of an art to getting plates that seem to say words through a combination of letters and numbers. In this case, the plate cleverly reads "Just Wed." I am puzzled, though, as to which vehicle this plate came from, since the front of the car (owned by Prince Charles since 1969) reflected an entirely ordinary number plate.

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So tell me, were you one of the millions that tuned in to watch some of the wedding? What did you think of the hoopla?

Secret

2011-04-27T07:39:00.000-07:00

I've got a secret. (Settle down; I'm not pregnant.) It's not actually my secret but it has huge ramifications for me. This secret is going to set in motion a series of events that will change my life. The change is going to be hard work - there is so much to do. My mind is spinning, trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together. Planning the what and when is consuming me. I feel like I've become one-dimensional, unfocused, incapable of having a conversation if it doesn't move me one step closer to the goal. This is frustrating because: 1) I can't be open with most people because the catalyst for change is a great big SECRET; and 2) I'm worried about boring/frustrating the one person I can discuss this with (did I mention this is consuming me?).

When I need to, I'm actually quite good at keeping a secret. Once, a coworker who was fired admitted to me the real reason why and then asked me to keep her secret. I played completely dumb every time someone came up to me with the salacious piece of gossip saying, "Did you hear why X was fired?" Clearly she also chose to confide in someone else who was not so discreet.

If someone asks me to keep a confidence, I wouldn't knowingly betray it. Right now, though, I'm second guessing everything I say, afraid I'll let slip the secret that isn't mine to tell. This secret is such a huge part of my inner monologue that I might not even realize that one innocent line of thought voiced out loud could open up a series of questions that I can't answer honestly or come up with a plausible cover for until it is too late.

So I walk around with a proverbial hand clamped over my mouth, anxious and reticent, wishing I could hide away until all of this is out in the open.

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So tell me, are you good at keeping a secret? Do you have anything you want to confess here? I could use the distraction, and my site even allows anonymous comments. ;-)

Sometimes they are actually worth watching, Part II

2011-04-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

Back in this post, I waxed rhapsodic about my DVR and the power of the pause button to morph watching TV into an interactive activity for the husband and me. More importantly, the power of the fast forward button virtually eliminates the torture of inane and asinine commercials. "We don't watch no stinkin' adverts!" we intone in our best Clint Eastwood impression, as we indulge in the heady power of our very own time machine. You know - the one that gives you back 20 minutes of your life when you've reached the end of an "hour long" TV program?

That's why it is so satisfying to come across the kind of advertisement that sucks you in and makes you want to watch it again and again.

This week I stumbled across an intriguing and cinematic ad for Heineken created by the Dutch office of powerhouse firm Weiden + Kennedy (a little hometown love here, since the firm is founded and headquartered in Portland). The catchy soundtrack is by Danish band Asteroids Galaxy Tour. There is so much going on between the characters and our hero that I would love to know the backstories. In a genius bit of leveraging the power of "The Facebook," W+K actually did create short films about some of the characters seen in the ad, which can only be viewed if you "like" a certain tab on Heineken's fanpage. The films are non sequiturs, but entertaining none-the-less.

Without further ado, I present my new favorite commercial, "The Entrance" for Heineken (or linked here):

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So tell me - do you have any favorite advertisements (either in current rotation or a golden oldie blast from the past?)

Way Back Wednesday: Because It's There

2011-04-13T07:55:00.000-07:00

I wrote this back in December 2009, just after three climbers were lost on Mount Hood.

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This is a somber post, but the topic has been on my mind all week. Three people were lost last weekend climbing on Mount Hood; one perished and two are missing and presumed dead. They went out for a 13-hour round-trip to the summit and didn't make it back. It's a tragic story, one that has been repeated over 140 times before.

Sometimes stories of loss insinuate themselves into my psyche and my mind keeps returning to them, worrying at it like a tongue in the groove left after a tooth is lost. My heart is breaking for the loved ones left to ponder the fate of these three vibrant young people, well equipped and experienced climbers all, lost in their prime. I find it disturbing that this mountain, of which I have so many fond memories, exerts a lure that can be deadly.

Mount Hood presides over Portland's skyline, a peaceful sentinel. It's a striking mountain, rearing up over 11,000 feet - its volcanic height impressive among the low rolling peaks of Oregon's Cascade range. The mountain has a special place in my heart - an icon of the little corner of the world I've claimed as home. On a clear day in winter, I can just catch a glimpse of it, if I stand on the rotting sequoia stump on the very corner of our property when the leaves are off the trees down the road. We mark the seasons by the mountain's cloak of snow.

I beat myself up for six days on Mt. Hood learning to snowboard at the age of 25. Without an athletic bone in my body and no sense of balance, it didn't come easy, but I was determined to find a reason to be glad when the winter rains started. "It's snow on the mountain" became my refrain when the gray, soaking season set in. I can lose myself in snowboarding. It was the first, and still one of the only, activities in which I can completely disengage from the constant consideration of the minutiae of life. I only think about the next turn, the next line, the feel of my edges biting into the snow - or on a really good day - the board floating over powder.

In the summer, D and I have driven 10 miles up a bumpy gravel road to escape the city heat and camp in the relative solitude of Tilly Jane campground at 6,500 feet. On a hike one day, we went up to the old stone Cooper Spur shelter at 8,500 feet. Then I rested my bum knee there, enjoying views of the valleys unfolding below, whilst following D's progress through the binoculars as he powered up another 1,000 feet of elevation or more. It was only a day hike, strenuous but not technical. Still, D - always prepared - had us kitted out for an (uncomfortable) night out if something went wrong. The mountain deserves respect at any time of year, summiting or not.

One winter, when D visited me for Christmas before we were married, I coaxed my rear-wheel drive sports car - completely unfit for the dodgy drive - up the icy Timberline road to stay at the lodge for a night. Arriving in the parking lot, we were treated to the most stunning sunset I have ever seen. The colors were intense and the sun was below the horizon formed by the nearby mountaintops, shining a beam of light straight up into the vibrant clouds. I can't pinpoint the date of any other of the many beautiful sunsets I've seen, except for this one - December 29, 2000. Standing there, my chilly hand enclosed in the warm palm of this man I had so recently fallen for but who lived so far away, a kaleidoscope of possibilities for the future were spread before us like the colors of that sky blanketing the mountain range; we felt on top of the world.

But I have enjoyed Mt. Hood from a relative cocoon of safety. Statistically, Hood is not a deadly mountain. Thousands of people climb it each year. I think about the enthusiasm of its three most recent victims... getting up early, registering their climb at Timberline Lodge, heading out with the anticipation of reaching the summit for spectacular vistas since the weather had been crystal clear for over a week. Then the mountain turned on them - an unfortunate climbing accident while a storm closed in, making search and rescue a dangerous and improbable prospect. I wonder if they ever considered the potentially deadly consequences of their decision to climb that day. I wonder if that was part of the lure. I don't understand the attraction, but my husband does. We are very different people, he and I.

Life is precious, but for those who crave a challenge, who wish to push themselves against the awesome backdrop of nature, I suppose life is meant to be grabbed by the nuts and experienced, risks and all. For them, the mountain is meant to be climbed simply because it is there. I hope that these three felt some peace in their final moments. I hope there is some value in that old cliche - they died doing what they loved - if only to help those left behind come to terms with their loss.

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So tell me: What challenges move you to take them on, just "because it's there?"

Crash and Burn

2011-04-09T10:16:00.000-07:00

I have had a truly terrible no-good rotten week. I returned to work on Monday after a week off, ready to get stuck in to the quarterly busy period that comes with the territory in my accounting job. Little did I know that the job I've loved had morphed while I was gone into something I'm not sure I want to do.

There are big things afoot at my company, and I have been asked to take on some different responsibilities. It's placed me outside of my comfort zone. Up until now, I've approached the requirements of the job with over a decade's worth of experience and expertise in a specialized field. There are rules and guidance to address technical accounting issues. I understand my objectives and there is a framework, a discipline, that I can apply to the process of achieving those objectives.

Now I've been asked to partner with someone in our organization who doesn't have financial sophistication to help him analyze how he runs his part of the business. Hard questions have been asked of him. Questions that he needs my help to answer. Questions that need to be answered quickly. However, mining the company's disparate information systems to try to answer those questions is a new process for me. I haven't done it before and the only way to figure out how to do it is to just do it. At times, I'm not even sure I'm trying answer the right questions, let alone doing it in the right way.

I've worked so hard this week. Pretty much all my waking hours. Wednesday night, after a 15 hour day where my effort was monumental but my accomplishment puny, I hit a wall. I started to question whether I could be effective at this part of the job. It's a possibility that these new responsibilities will soon become ALL of my job. I started to wonder whether I even want to do this. I started to feel like I was failing.

I'm embarrassed to admit this: I sat in front of my computer and wept, harder than I have cried in a long time. The frustration had built into this lump of tension that sat in my stomach, traveled up to my throat, behind my eyes and squeezed my brain. I had to let it out.

The next morning, I confessed to my boss how I was feeling and requested some coaching on the best way to approach the issue. I was assured that nobody thinks I'm failing. I said that no one had made me feel that way, but that I felt that way. I don't like it, not one little bit.

Coincidentally that evening, on the drive home from the office at 9:30, the local public radio station was hosting a Think Out Loud segment on Failure. There was a fascinating discussion on research with children to study the impact of praise, motivation and coping with failure. Professor Corpus presented findings that show it can be detrimental to young children to constantly praise them for how smart they are. It leads to a mindset that success comes from an intrinsic, uncontrollable attribute. When the children face challenges as they grow, their response to failure is a tendency to give up. They attribute previous successes to their intrinsic characteristic, smartness, and believe the failure has occurred because they are "just not smart enough." This is demotivating and can lead to a child's disengagement from the challenge. The research conclusion: it is important to praise children for their effort, not their attributes. This leads to an ability to view failure as the result of a controllable action (I did not work hard enough) and provides motivation to increase future efforts.

I reflected on this discussion of failure and how it related to my current dissatisfaction with my performance. Why did I end up indulging myself in a 10 minute crying jag so intense I nearly hyperventilated? I think it was because I knew that I had literally given all of the effort I could and was not succeeding. There was no more left. I have met with much success in my career, the product of both hard work and a general aptitude. I was thinking if this kind of effort is required and it's not enough, I want no part of it. I've never flamed out that thoroughly and it hurts to consider that happening now.

This is not the first time in my career I have shed frustrated tears. It will undoubtedly not be the last. As I try to relax and recharge this weekend, I'm reminding myself that just because this is hard now, I can improve. This too shall pass. I will learn and become more efficient. I may, in the end, decide that I'm better off applying my current expertise at another company that requires it rather than applying myself to this new facet of financial analysis that I don't enjoy. But I will have learned something in the process.

So tell me, have you any advice as I deal with this potential failure? Have you overcome a failure in the past, or had to admit defeat? Misery loves company; tell me your stories.

Way Back Wednesday: Adrenaline

2011-04-06T07:27:00.000-07:00

Thanks to encouragement from Educlaytion and Ironic Mom, there have been few new faces around here recently. I thought it might be an idea to dig up some old posts that really never got much exposure when I first started writing. This is the very first post that I wrote here, published back in November 2009, recounting the story of a leap of faith taken just days after our 2003 wedding.

* * *

D and I got married in Queenstown, New Zealand - the "Adventure Capital of the World." D was determined to take on the bungee jump there at Nevis canyon. This is no ordinary bungee jump - you throw yourself off a gondola suspended on cables 440 ft above the bottom of the canyon. 8 seconds of free fall. Count that up: 1-one thousand, 2-one thousand.... that is like, forever, in free fall moments.

I am decidedly NOT an adrenaline junkie. The rush that some people get when that natural chemical starts coursing through their blood just leaves me wishing to curl up safely under my blankie with a nice cup of chamomile tea to calm my racing heart. So, despite all the recent til-death-do-us-part-yada-yada, I had no desire to join D in this particular leap of faith. However, everyone on the gondola - even spectators - gets kitted out in a jump harness. So we both got strapped into the gear and headed out to the jump platform.

There was a group of about 10 on this mission. I was the only chicken that was not jumping. The group is set to go in order by descending weight for technical reasons. My newly minted husband's turn came up, and on the count of "3-2-1-bungee" he executed a perfect swan dive. They hauled him back up to the platform sporting a grin so big it could split his head in half. His first words were, "Can I go again?" which he summarily did. I wasn't surprised that he enjoyed it so much - he who loves throwing himself down steep hills on a mountain bike in maneuvers that I find terrifying.

After a while a giggling gaggle of youngish girls rotated through the jump order - and every single one of them leapt on the cue of "3-2-1-bungee!" No hysterics, no crying or shaking or hesitating or being talked into it. At this point I was starting to feel a little stupid. If even one person had freaked out about their jump, I would have stood aside and sagely said, "You see - that's why I'm not doing it. Why put yourself through the trauma?" But, as luck would have it, I'm small enough to jump on the lightest weight cord, so I was given the final option to jump before we all returned to solid ground. I thought if they can do it, I can do it. Man up - here I go.

You jump at Nevis head-first with your feet strapped together. As I sat fidgeting in a reclining chair, getting strapped in, I was silently repeating this mantra: no thinking... no thinking... if you think, you don't jump...

I penguin-scooted to the edge of the platform, and put the tips of my boots out over the end. I remember clearly that I never once looked down. I even crossed my eyes a little when I checked my toes to ensure I wouldn't accidentally focus on the HUGE EFFING CHASM that I was about to throw myself into.

The mantra continued: no thinking... 3-2-1-bungee and you go... if you don't go the first time, you'll never do it. Then they counted it out - and I pushed off the platform. Weightless, free falling, yelling my head off because as long as I was screaming, I was conscious, I was alive. After about forever, I felt the bungee slow my descent - stretch tighter and tighter and then all the blood rushed to my head before I shot upwards again. I don't really remember much as they hauled me back up to the gondola - but it was an intense rush, and the photographic evidence shows that I had the same grin on my face that D did. I freaking did it!

For the rest of the day, I was giggling and completely loopy, totally high on adrenaline for the first time. I've never felt that since; nor will I in the future because, although I'm proud that I conquered the Nevis bungee jump, I am still an adrenaline-averse chicken, and I am NEVER doing that again.

* * *

So tell me, what's the scariest thing you've ever done?

Missing the Killer Instinct

2011-04-02T11:15:00.000-07:00

I've come to face a truth about myself recently. I am a lousy competitor. There must be a fundamental gene that is switched off in my DNA because I really don't thrive on competition.

Recently, I threw my hat in the ring to back Harry Potter in Educlaytion's March Movie Madness. I entered a March Madness bracket, despite knowing next to nothing about basketball that wasn't gleaned from my high school cheerleading days. (So, in a word, little.) The husband and I went bowling last night. These mundane details all have one thing in common: I decided to "compete" at something. Results would be tallied. Rankings would be made.

The results:

Harry and I lost to The Lion King in the first round so GO PRINCESS BRIDE!
My quirky and completely uninformed bracket strategy quickly shuttled me to the bottom half of the pool standings.
I was reminded that I really, really suck at bowling.

The revelation here is, although I wasn't a great success at any of these recent competitive efforts, I really didn't care. Sure it was mildly disappointing, but had I succeeded in winning, I would have struggled with the discomfort of beating someone else. How would they feel, being in a losing position? In my own twisted mind, the desire to be liked means not making others feel bad, and that is in direct opposition to my pallid desire to win.

My supreme lack of coordination means I've never been on a sports team faced with the opportunity to make a clutch play. But had I been so, I would most definitely have choked. I don't have that killer instinct, that mental toughness that says "I want to win and I'm not going to let ANYTHING stop me. Now, self, let's MAKE THIS HAPPEN."

My husband and I play a round of Tiger Wood's Golf on the Wii every Friday. To keep it interesting, he generously handicaps me by playing on the advanced level while I play easy. I've gotten a lot better with practice, so I regularly find myself in front. However, the husband is a competitor. Sometimes if he's having a particularly rough game and I get on a roll that handicap starts to feel a little unfair. Even though I don't deliberately throw a game - he would hate that - my concentration falters and I start making bad shots too. It's like I can't actually make myself go for the jugular. Even when we're talking about an electronic stand-in for a game that some would argue is barely a sport considering how unfit an excellent player can be in real life.

I have known some ultra-competitive souls in my lifetime, and I see how invested they are in the result. They are intense, irritated when things are going poorly, elated when things are going well and it all just seems so exhausting to me. I wonder whether my indifference to competition is born of mediocrity? Do I refuse to care simply so I won't be too disappointed if I don't succeed? Perhaps. I get frustrated enough engaging in activities I'm bad at - it would only be worse if I also cared that I'm not as good as someone else.

For me, life isn't about competition, it's about excelling myself. When I bowled, I achieved improvement and even managed to break 50 in the third game. (Yes, I really am THAT BAD.) I knew to stop when the score dropped in game four due to the fact that I couldn't grip a ball, or indeed even a doorknob, anymore. Simply improving was enough for me - and it had to be when I was playing against a man who had only bowled once more than two decades ago but is good at everything.

Thanks to a free subscription to the daily newspaper, D recently rediscovered an enjoyment of crossword puzzles. He starts them and if he happens to get stuck, after a while he'll hand it over to me. I hate not finishing a crossword puzzle and I'm not above resorting to google to suss out a clue. I try to resolve it through research, not just finding the answer. Invariably I'll stumble across someone on Yahoo answers who has posted a question that could only have arisen while trying to solve the crossword. Invariably there will be correct answers provided. I love this - crosswords as a global team sport. I'm not competing against, I'm competing with people. When D hands me a crossword and I can unlock it solely through my own efforts, I'm stoked. I proudly hand it back to him and say, "I did it!" I feel that I excelled, but I didn't have to beat anyone else to do it.

It might mean I'm a loser, but at least I am an excellent loser.

So tell me - are you a competitor? What's it like on the other side?

Of Motorcycles and Fashion Mavens

2011-03-26T11:23:00.000-07:00

Amazing photo by Eurospiders

Last weekend, the husband finally pulled the trigger on a motorbike purchase. He had been talking about doing this and researching his purchase for quite some time now. However, since the new toy was delivered on Saturday evening, he hasn't been able to go out and play because he didn't yet have a helmet. He could only hang out in the garage admiring it and resisting the urge to lick it every now and then.

I was also pretty excited about the new purchase for two reasons. Firstly, I've got this mild fetish about men in full face motorbike helmets. Especially if the helmet has a tinted or mirrored visor so one can't see who is under there. There is something so mysterious and sexy about it. I confess a little crush on Top Gear's Stig. Star Wars' Storm Troopers do it for me too.*

* D - if you're reading - the attraction to any helmeted dude (yourself excepted) ends the moment the helmet is pulled off to reveal a sweaty hot mess.

The primary reason I'm excited is because I was instructed to procure cycle-riding safety gear for myself. This includes abrasion-resistant pants and jacket and of course, a helmet. I broadened the mission mandate: Procure cute cycle-riding gear for myself. Much research ensued. Did you know that you can easily drop $500-$800 on a helmet, but that you can also buy a brand new street legal helmet that meets DOT safety standards for as low as $25 on ebay? We asked the guy at the dealership why one should consider an expensive helmet if the safety is the same. He came up with some malarkey about how a good helmet is like a fine samurai sword and then pointed out the pink accent graphics on a $500 black lid with shiny sparkly flecks in its clear coat. I was all "ooooh, pretty, mama likey." In the words of Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias, "Pink is mah signature coluh," so I was on a mission to find a pink helmet. But then I shook my head to break the trance and start thinking sensibly.

Because D has trained me well, both in matters of financial restraint and diligent research of potential acquisitions, I came up with a couple of good mid-price helmet models. Comfort, venting and visor fogging control are important, and I resisted the urge to put graphics as my #1 decision criteria.

After reading reviews, I settled on a Scorpion EXO-400 in Paradise Blush or an Icon Airframe in Regal Lace which I went back to the dealership to try on for fit and comfort. Then I found out that helmets are like car models: they change each year, and those graphic patterns were sooo 2009. The Icon now came in a day-glo pink with some kind of serpent scale pattern, which, while providing a high-visibility safety edge, is just not me. The Scorpion line had no pink graphics to be found at all in this year's model. Sigh.

I chose the Scorpion in Lilly-Purple (pictured at right) from the dealership catalog. When it arrived, I was all worried that I would be disappointed that I couldn't get pink, but I lurve it. The white base is actually a pearl color, reminiscent of a luxe Audi paint I adore, and the purple accents are just lavender enough that I might get away with a pink jacket after all.

My head was measured at the very top of the range meant for a small, and the medium didn't fit tight enough. I tried on my new helmet and asked the sales rep if the pressure making my brain feel all squeezy was normal. He advised me to take it home and wear it around the house to start breaking it in and if I hadn't passed out after an hour, then the fit was perfect.

So last night, that's what I did. Despite snorts of hilarity from the husband who insisted I look a right bobblehead, I surfed the net in my helmet. I played Wii golf in my helmet. I freaked my cat (who is terrified of strangers) right the heck out in my helmet. And despite having downed two vodka redbulls over the course of the evening, when I watched a movie I even dozed off (as per usual) in my helmet. So if anyone is looking for a Scorpion EXO-400 review, I can say with confidence that it is comfortable enough to sleep in.

So, interweb peeps, I need a little help from you. I have to decide whether to follow my heart and get a pink jacket, or whether I should choose silver or blue in the name of fashion and better color coordination with the helmet.

The contenders are pictured, so please give me your opinion in the poll below (click through if you're in a reader). Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go convince the husband that he needs to break in his new lid so I can give in to the desire to rip his clothes off and whisper "No, baby, you can leave the helmet on."

So tell me in the comments, do helmets do it for you or am I just a weirdo? And if not, what does?

March Movie Madness: Vote Early, Vote Often

2011-03-15T07:23:00.000-07:00

EduClaytion regularly hosts a Friday Flick Faceoff where two films with a common thread are set up for a smackdown via vote by the masses. Now, in honor of March Madness, an entire bracket of films has been set, each one backed by a blogger whose goal is to marshal the film to victory. There can be only one. Head on over to view the contenders and vote for your faves.

I'm sponsoring Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and its first match is The Lion King, backed by Jessica at Meet the Buttrams. Read on to see why Harry should prevail.

* * *

The Harry Potter series of films is blessed by phenomenal source material and I think they are all good, but when asked to choose my favorite (so far), it's not a hard decision at all. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix chronicles Harry's 5th year at Hogwarts. The film is a tight, compelling, and fully-formed story that has the power to capture the hearts and minds of both children and adults in the audience.

The film opens with a Dementor attack on Harry and his distasteful cousin, and Harry is brought up in front of a jury by the Ministry of Magic for unlawful use of magic by a minor. While in London, Harry meets members of the Order of the Phoenix and is surprised to find that his nemesis, Snape (imbued with divine ambiguity by the talented Alan Rickman), is one of the trusted few. Though Harry is cleared of the charges at the hearing, we get a first glimpse into the tyranny that will be brought to Hogwarts by the grating Professor Umbridge, who in her ill-fitting pink suits, is about as delightful as nails on a chalkboard. It quickly becomes clear that the Ministry's desire to deny of the return of Voldemort has been manifest in a campaign designed to smear Harry, which has reached all the way to Hogwarts and threatens his friendships at school - the only place Harry has ever been happy.

In response to the Ministry's edict that the Hogwarts students will not actually learn any defenses against the dark arts in the course of that name, Harry and his friends form a secret society they dub 'Dumbledore's Army' and begin to practice the spells that will arm them for a conflict against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. This strengthens the bonds between Harry and his schoolmates and begins to relieve some of the isolation he felt as the school year opened.

When Harry receives a vision of an attack on his beloved godfather, Sirius Black, at the Ministry of Magic, his friends Ron, Hermoine, Ginny, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood join him in a journey to London to try to save Sirius. It turns out to be only a ploy by Voldemort to lure Harry to the Hall of Mysteries. A battle ensues between the Order and the Death Eaters which results in the death of Sirius at the hands of his cousin, Bellatrix LeStrange, using the unforgivable Avada Cadavra curse. Harry chases after her and Voldemort appears, taunting him to use the same unforgivable curse to kill her. At this point, Albus "The Man" Dumbledore (insert we're-not-worthy bows here) arrives and engages in a truly epic duel with Voldemort. During the duel Voldemort possesses Harry, who fights back from within and discovers that he has something Voldermort never will, the love of friends.

The themes running through the film, the bureaucracy and authoritarianism of the Ministry of Magic, the factionalism in the wizarding world, the erstwhile isolation of adolescence, the acceptance of the oddities of individuals such as Luna and Neville that can lead to tight bonds of friendship, and the power those bonds can provide to us against the difficulties of the real world, reflect that these films are growing up right along with their protagonist. Drawing from the terrific source material of the novel, brought to life by a superb cast - both the maturing child actors and a phalanx of talented adults, backed by an inspired soundtrack and impressive special effects, particularly in the culminating duel scene, this installment of the Harry Potter series is, in my humble opinion, the most enjoyable so far.

* * *

So why should Order of the Phoenix advance past that Disney juggernaut, The Lion King? Nobody does animation better than Disney and the The Lion King is a well-executed version of old school animation that brings the circle of life, well, to life. But we're all adults here, right? Wouldn't you rather watch the most kick-ass wizard of all time marshal the forces of fire and water to triumph over evil than have that insidious "Hakuna Matata" song stuck in your head? Just sayin'. Either way, click over to EduClaytion and vote for your favorite.

Photos courtesy Warner Bros.

For Japan

2011-03-12T20:14:00.000-08:00

photo by StefanG81

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post after the Christchuch quake in New Zealand. While New Zealand is closer to my heart, I couldn't let my thoughts for the victims of the Japan quake, tsunami, and a threatening nuclear disaster go unvoiced. I'm so troubled that if I think too deeply on it, I feel the sting of tears threatening.

I was working at home yesterday, which afforded the dubious luxury of unfettered access to video news coverage of the disaster. The images haunted my sleep last night. One of the most arresting pictures is this aerial video of the tsunami. The dichotomy of the pristine, regular pattern of the agricultural land being consumed by the monstrous churning maelstrom of mud and debris is nearly irreconcilable in my mind. Another still photo in a slide show at life.com shows the first wave bearing down on the coast:

In the foreground, cars are lined up at what appears to be a fuel station on a normal Friday afternoon and a few seconds after the frame was shot, they were surrounded by devastation. Can you even imagine what that must be like? I see these pictures and I have to force my brain to accept that they are not the product of some CGI special effect.

In my post about the New Zealand quake, I mentioned the theory that these sorts of things seem to happen in threes. Perhaps Christchurch was simply the first blow in a new round. Scientists have claimed that there isn't necessarily a direct link between earthquakes in far-flung regions of the globe. Maybe, but if you look at a map of the Pacific Rim, the west coast of North America is the glaring exception to the recent pattern of large quakes. (There was a 6.8 magnitude quake in Chile on March 6, 2011 as well.)

I know that I live in an earthquake-prone area. A seriously major quake hits the Pacific Northwest on average about every 500 years. The last one was about 300 years ago, which either means we've got a couple of centuries of peace to go, or the clock is ticking and the alarm could blow at any minute. It's a scary thought that has crossed my mind a few times as I head to my car, parked in the bowels of a 20-story building each day.

D is a handy dude to have around in a survival situation, as preparation for the worst case scenario is a kind of a hobby for him. But this weekend, I've asked him to take some time to make sure I'm a bit more up to speed as well. Statistically, I'm nearly as likely to be away from him in a disaster situation as I am to be with him. I'm also following some of the advice at Lifehacker's guide to preparation for a disaster. You never think it will really happen to you, until perhaps one day it does.

For the victims of the Japan disaster, my heart is truly hurting for you. Many blessings, and may you find some peace in the chaos surrounding you now.

To assist: Text REDCROSS to 90999 to make a $10 donation and support disaster relief efforts, or visit www.redcross.org.

My National Day of Unplugging

2011-03-06T21:46:00.000-08:00

A friend gave me the heads up via facebook on Friday that this past weekend - specifically sundown March 4 to sundown March 5, was the second annual National Day of Unplugging, during which people are encouraged to back away from the PC and set down the smartphone. This concept struck a chord with me. This past Tuesday, I finished up a two-month annual stretch of intense pressure at work. During this period, it feels like I could work every waking hour and still not get ahead. Beyond days in the office glued to my PC, there are evening and weekend work sessions - thankfully from the comfort of my own home. Combine that with catching up on the news, checking facebook and twitter feeds, blog reading, personal financial management, personal research projects and the (lately rare) composition of my own blog posts, and that's a lot of time spent online. Finally, toss in prime time TV, and I'm probably spending something like 80% of my waking hours parked in front of a screen.

I've also noticed recently that all of this online activity seems to be rewiring my brain, leaving me with a critically short attention span. If an application or page takes too long to load, no problem, just click somewhere else on the glowing screen and fall down some interweb rabbit hole. My beloved blackberry provides me access to email and the web anytime, anywhere, and furthers the crack-like addiction to the satisfaction of clicking a button and receiving the payoff - more information, more entertainment, more of something different. Pavlov would be delighted to see the ubiquitous manifestation of his research theories come to life as a nation of online junkies replicates itself through the power of social networking.

I knew I had a problem when I had to physically restrain myself from picking up my phone to check email at a stoplight - not because I was expecting a message or particularly wanted to receive any of the potential content therein, but simply because it was something else to do while waiting for the green light. Really? I'm bereft without something to occupy my mind for all of 30 seconds?

So, at sundown on Friday, March 4, I accepted the challenge. Could I unplug for 24 hours?

Here is a chronicle of my efforts to overcome the urge to plug into the matrix:

First, a fail... we were out running some errands when the sun went down Friday evening. D stopped to peruse some vintage hi-fi equipment at a local shop. I stayed in the car and took advantage of the time to call up our favorite pizza joint to order up the evening's dinner. What?! That's a perfectly legitimate reason for picking up the phone... actually making a call. But what wasn't strictly necessary was then opening up the google reader app to catch up on some blog feeds while I waited for D to return. I justified my actions with an assurance that my day of unpluggedness wouldn't really begin until I got back home that evening.

On the drive home, we encountered some truly impressive rain showers, and D mentioned he wanted to check the radar on wunderground when he got home to see what the storm front looked like. "Ah ha," I thought, "I can do that right on my phone." Really Keenie? You need to look at a radar image on your smartphone to confirm that, yeah, that sure is some heavy rain... that you're driving through at this very moment?! (Relax - D was driving, so in any case I wasn't going to be DWO - driving while online.)

Arriving home, I picked up a pen and the New York Times crossword. That's a nice analog activity to engage your brain, I thought. However, I am firmly in the camp that likes to finish the crossword at all costs, even if it involves cheating by going to 'the Google' (as D and I affectionately refer to it ever since W's gaffe). So after working through the puzzle for a bit, I got stuck. My fingers were twitching and I cast sly glances at the laptop. Surely it couldn't hurt to look up just one little crossword clue, right? But, loyal readers, you will be glad to know I remained steadfast.

I woke on Saturday morning, and here is a brief list of the things I could NOT do because I was unplugging:*

* via notes take with actual pen and paper(!)

review the available services at a spa I'm visiting with a friend next weekend;
find out what I'd missed from my bleeps when I was too busy to stay caught up on blogs during the week;
figure out the consequences if I'd really lost my skipass, rather than simply misplacing it (fortunately, I used some of that unplugged time to - gasp! - get off my butt and actually locate it);
find out what the heck change at Warren Miller Productions resulted in nearly the entire film that I watched on Saturday morning, Playground, being backed by a thrash metal soundtrack like every other ski/snowboard adventure video, rather than the sublime musical choices that I remembered from the good old days;
look up Levi's Curve ID jeans, which I'd recently heard about on a daytime talk show and was reminded of by an ad in Vogue, which I was reading as an attempt to distract myself from the siren song of the interwebs;
and last, but certainly not least, work on my tax return (for which I use Turbo Tax - seriously, if you haven't tried it you totally should. It very nearly makes tax returns painless - well, as painless as a tax return ever could be.)

Fortunately, that brought me to the part of the day where I actually accomplish things on the weekend, which provided a welcome distraction from my internet withdrawals. I'm proud to say that I did manage to stay unplugged until the sun went down on Saturday evening.

So, did I have any great revelations from my own participation in the National Day of Unplugging? Sadly, no. But at least I proved to myself that, although it posed some mental difficulty, I could actually back away from the laptop for a while.

Signing off now before the monkey on my back strengthens his chokehold.

For New Zealand

2011-02-22T17:46:00.000-08:00

photo by StefanG81

They say things happen in threes. So after last year's earthquakes resulted in horrific conditions in Haiti and serious damage in Chile, I was so relieved that the consequences in Christchurch's earthquake last September were restricted primarily to property damage. It was terrible for the people that live there, but I considered it a real blessing that no lives were lost. I hoped that might be the end of dreadful earthquakes for a while.

But now, I am distressed to hear about devastation from the earthquake in Christchurch again yesterday, including casualties and terrible, life-altering injuries sustained by people needing to be freed from collapsed buildings. The pictures in this slideshow bring it home so forcefully.

D and I were married in and spent our two-month honeymoon touring the whole of New Zealand back in 2003. Christchurch was one of our favorite cities and I vividly remember standing in the cathedral square with the stone tower looming over me. Now that iconic tower is a pile of rubble.

The Kiwis are some of the warmest, most down-to-earth people we've met in our travels. Because we married in New Zealand, it holds a special place in our hearts, and now my heart is breaking for the people of Christchurch and their loved ones around the country and around the world.

If you would like to help, the Red Cross is accepting donations. As I found when reading this article, the response has been so overwhelming that the Red Cross website keeps crashing. This warms the cockles of my jaded heart.

Many blessings to you, Christchurch.

The mountain, she calls to me

2011-02-19T10:39:00.000-08:00

One of the pretty fantastic things about my pretty fantastic job is that THIS is my view.

And when I say that's my view, it's not that I can get up and walk to a window, or turn around from my desk and see it. No, I'm fortunate enough that my desk is snuggled right up against the sill, facing out over the river and the city, and best of all - on a clear day, there is a fabulous vista of Mount Hood shining in the distance.

See?

Sometimes, this can be delicious torture. I'm there in my cube, toiling away diligently, or perhaps not-so-diligently because I'm a little bored with what I'm doing at the time. Just over the corner of my monitor, the mountain presides over the skyline.

And on days like that, I dream of days like this...

* * *

The alarm beeps, just like it always does, at 5:20 am. But this isn't like other days. I skip the morning shower routine and face the mirror. I arm myself, not with the standard cosmetic mask, but with sunscreen. For today, I am going to the mountain. I double- then triple-check that I've got all the accoutrements of a comfy day in the snow. Would hate to drive all the way up there and find I'm missing a key piece of snowriding equipment, or frostbite-fighting snow gear.

I load up the car and point it east, where hints of dawn are just appearing on the horizon. I speed towards Portland, hoping to clear the city before the morning commute traffic gathers steam. Leaving the eastern suburbs behind, I head out through the stunning Columbia River Gorge. The sunrise is painting gorgeous watercolors across the clouds. There is a bit of mist and fog clinging here and there on the cliffs of the gorge. I smile a little, thankful to be enjoying nature's beauty, rather than commuting to the office.

Arriving in Hood River, I turn south and begin the climb up towards the mountain through the Hood River valley, an area famous for its fruit orchards. At one point, I round a bend and the mountain dominates the view ahead. My smile grows a little wider.

I hit the snow level and the road slices through the evergreen forest cladding the mountain's flanks. The sun, fully risen now but hanging low in the winter sky, sends shafts of sunlight through the trees, alighting on the virgin snow on the steep embankments along the roadside. The angle is just right to reflect off the ice crystals, winking and twinkling brightly like a million diamonds. I beam back, entranced by the effect.

Soon I have arrived at the Mount Hood Meadows parking lot. The payoff to my early start is that I get to park nice and close to the lodge. I hastily don my snow gear and grab the snowboard, rushing to get to the lifts just as they open to score some fresh tracks. Waiting around with other eager snowriders, I fire up the MP3 player, loaded with all the tunes designed to pump me up for my workouts. I haven't been to the gym in months, so these old favorites are gems that I haven't heard in a while. The soundtrack of my day, perfectly suited, and each tune in the rotation widens my grin a little more.

I board the lift, which speeds me up the mountain, affording a view of the pristine snowy peak against an impossibly blue sky. It carries me above the timberline, and when I disembark at the top, I take in the panorama of the Cascade mountain range, clouds settled into valleys below, layering into the distance where I can see other volcanic peaks jutting into the ether. I sit in the soft packed powder, breathing the cold air in deep and slow, momentarily awed.

Then the descent is begun. Groomed corduroy everywhere, with off piste-powder to go play in. I connect the first few turns, reengaging with the familiar motions. Lean onto the back edge... roll my weight over the board, push into the front edge turn, roll back again. Gathering speed, I head for untracked powder, shift weight to the back leg to keep the board tip up. In the powder - magical fluffy powder - the board floats, turning, sinking, lifting at the slightest movement, even the slightest thought. Look where I want to go and it just happens. Nothing in my mind but the next turn. This is like six months of therapy rolled into one moment. My grin is so large now it nearly splits my head open.

I've come to the mountain alone today - something I've only started doing regularly this season. It's easier to just check the snow conditions, let the office know I'll be MIA and just go. No coordinating schedules, no accommodating others' needs. Although I thought it might be lonely, I find it incredibly freeing. I make the runs I want to make, changing my mind from moment to moment about where I'll head to next. No stopping to wait for a companion, no charging ahead worried that I'm being too slow. It's just me, my music, my board and the snow. Halfway down the mountain, Jesus Jones "Right Here, Right Now" plays through the headphones.

You know it feels good to be alive

I was alive and I waited, waited

I was alive and I waited for this

Right here, right now

There is no other place I'd want to be

Indeed.

* * *

So tell me, what perfect day do you dream about?

You know the stereotype that says women can't parallel park?

2011-02-16T07:44:00.000-08:00

BOO-YAH!

I am inordinately proud of this... of course it did take 5 minutes and a 27-point turn (Austin Powers style) to get it in there and I'm a little afraid about getting it back out again.

Deep thoughts: the universe gives back

2011-02-12T11:19:00.000-08:00

So first of all, I owe some of you a big thank you for the time you took to write thoughtful comments on my last post.

After some reflection on the comments and my situation, I've come to a conclusion. There really is no question in my mind that I should leave the comfy life I have here to go with D into the next stage. Ever since I met the man, who has traveled and lived all over the world, he's never provided a guarantee that we would ever "settle down." If I'm honest, it's part of the reason I fell in love with him in the first place. Even when we moved to America, our deal was that we'd stay here for at least five years, and now it's been seven. There is something intriguing about knowing the world is one's oyster. As Lemon Gloria said, "That's pretty huge."

Educlaytion's question, "What if you end up feeling the same in a new place?" goes straight to the heart of the matter for me. I don't know that won't happen. But upon reflection the answer to my question, "Is it better to regret something I have done than something I haven't?" is a resounding "yes."

I took Ironic Mom's suggestion to fast forward three times and try to imagine what I would regret more in 5 weeks, 5 months and 5 years. After thinking about it in those terms, there is no way I can imagine not making the leap with D. We may not make it, even if I do... but we're guaranteed not to make it if I don't. I would always regret not taking that chance.

So, with that decision made, that leaves me/us at the crossroads of trying to make it happen. I reflected on the anchor that is the house. An anchor, physically, in that it's half renovated and filled with stuff we need to either divest ourselves of or pack up and move, and more importantly, an anchor mentally as I agonize over the money we'd lose when we walk away. As Go-Betty said, "At what cost your relationship and happiness???"

In the past week, I kept asking myself that question. In the end, I've decided to view the money invested in the house that we won't see back as a temporary "asset" that was never meant to be ours. Sure, we scrimped and saved and did everything (financially) correctly, and I could view that effort as a waste if it evaporates in a fire sale to rid ourselves of the anchor. But if we hadn't scrimped and saved, we wouldn't in the fortunate position of being able to move on so easily. If we hadn't been blessed in our careers, finding the good jobs that allowed us to earn the money, we would never have had it in the first place. Am I a better person because I "have it?" No. Will I be a lesser person if I "lose it?" Of course not. Money is transient and it sure the hell hasn't brought us happiness. So why am I even considering allowing the concept of a pile of money invested in the house stop me from making a decision that would make us happier? It's foolish and I've decided to let it go.

A few of you suggested making a plan. I have been trying to get D to sit down and do so ever since the new year. There are a few things blocking him. Fear of what his family will say or feel when they find out we're kicking around the idea of moving even further away (we need some information from them to complete the immigration docs we started at the holidays) ... frustration that I was clinging to this idea that we have to "finish the house" before we can go... and I believe he's simply at a loss of how to get out of this situation with a bit of pride intact because he doesn't like the idea of giving up either. But trying to push forward with the project has been sucking the spirit out of him. Rock, meet hard place. Sometimes it feels easier to just hide under the covers and wish yourself out of a situation.

Lastly, to address the elephant in the room - is D depressed? There is no doubt - not in his mind and not in mine. His symptoms are textbook. However, stubborn pride means he won't seek the assistance of a therapist or accept medications that could change the thought patterns that have become embedded in the past few years. This depression seems to be situational, brought on by dissatisfaction with the choices we've made together. Since he won't seek assistance from the medical community, our only hope lies in changing the situation.

So I'm going to take the bull by the horns and develop my own plan for how we can accomplish this. I was convinced that we should develop this plan together, but perhaps it will feel easier for him to either bless or revise my scheme rather than starting with a blank sheet of paper. I'm fortunate that my accounting skills are fungible and in demand around the world. I'm cooking up a proposal to my current company, which has a global presence, that may allow an ongoing relationship to provide a bit of a safety net.

Time to pick ourselves up, dust each other off and get this show on the road.

Clearing out the cobwebs & a question to the universe

2011-02-05T11:27:00.000-08:00

Um, hello out there. Is this thing on?

Things have been pretty quiet at Keenie Beanie lately. I've been in a funk and I don't really know how to pull out of it. That can make for fairly boring blog fodder. Add that to the fact that I'm in the annual "I'm-an-accountant-and-therefore-lose-two-months-of-every-year-to-a-soul-sucking-amount-of-work" period, and I've got myself a great big case of blogger's block.

But there is something that is consuming my thoughts. Maybe I should put the question weighing heavily on my mind out there to the universe and see if it has any good advice - or at least a different perspective.

You see, once upon a time, two crazy kids crossed the cultural divide between England and America, got married, moved to Oregon, settled down at the little shack on the prairie and started to take it apart while simultaneously trying to live in it. It seemed like a good plan... five years ago.

Here's where we are now: the house project is getting nowhere and hasn't really for some time. We've run out of enthusiasm, if not yet money, and one of these two crazy kids refuses to engage a contractor to just get it finished because said crazy kid hates bending to contractors' early-bird schedules (Really? You want to start work at 7 am? The nerve!), letting them tromp through our home and ask nosy questions, or "accidentally" end up snooping in cupboards and closets, missing deadlines, doing shoddy work and generally making the experience of hiring a contractor unpleasant. (All stuff we've dealt with so far.)

So we're in this house that we bought at, literally, the very top of the housing bubble. We've invested a lot of money in replacing the cracked foundation (including earthquake retrofitting), leaky roof, insulation, plumbing, furnace, hot water heater and kitchen appliances, upgrading the electric service and installing propane gas, but very little of the finish work is done. So frankly - despite being much improved structurally - to a potential buyer, the house looks a mess. In this state, it probably would struggle to sell at a comparable price (after adjusting downward for the market decline) to what we paid, never mind getting back the additional funds we've invested in the bones and infrastructure of the place.

One of said crazy kids (okay, fine, it's the husband) has also not settled in to America very well. He has chosen to isolate himself socially. His discontent has changed his character an awful lot and he is now short-tempered, suspicious of people, and often not the considerate, thoughtful person that I fell in love with when I had so much to learn from him. We've stuck it out in America for seven years this month... the last two years have been awful for him. He's wanted to leave but felt trapped by the house project. Six months ago, he basically told me, "I'm not working on the house for a while. It's too demoralizing and I just need to take care of me." I supported this decision. But it's not helping. He hasn't been feeling better. Things have gotten worse, but now every day that goes by is another day where we're not any closer to being able to move away, and he is more unhappy. It's sucking the spirit out of him and it's endangering our marriage.

Let me make this clear - our highs are higher than our lows. We spent 11 days cocooned at home together 24 x 7 over Christmas and it was blissful. He is clever and funny, and when not sucked into the mire of his own discontent, a loving husband. He also takes fabulous care of me. Sometimes, though, when I am at my wits' end with his endless complaints about how much this life sucks, I just want to tell him to leave then and end both our misery. A few times, to my shame and with toxic effect, I have done so. However, I stick it out because his finer points keep sucking me back in. I want to still be there when he feels better about the world again. He sticks it out because the house in the country was his dream and he doesn't want to abandon me to deal with it (even if he currently isn't), because of stubborn pride, and if he's honest, confusion about what to do next if he did just leave now.

So this is my question: Do I leave a good job and a bad house and the comfort of a life where I'm from to follow him into the great unknown - with absolutely no guarantee that we, as a couple, can get back on firm footing again?

There is this to consider: A full 3rd of our life savings has been invested in this house - and to walk away at this point means barely covering the mortgage - if we're lucky. So all of the hard work and fiscal responsibility and scrimping and saving that we used to fund that investment will be a write off. This is difficult for me to accept. I came from a poor family and have worked hard to escape that worry about money. If I leave America, my CPA will be worth less to new employers, our cost of living will be higher, and things could feel very different from a fiscal perspective. Writing off over six figures of our net worth at the outset because we were too demoralized to finish the house properly could feel like a big mistake at that point.

On the other hand, how lucky are we to have the flexibility to walk away from the house, with our credit intact and a fair amount of financial resources left with which to start over? Many, many people caught out by the collapse of the housing bubble don't have that luxury. Am I placing too much value on financial security? Is it worth the risk? Shouldn't this be an easy question if I love him enough?

Is it better to regret something I have done, than to regret something I didn't? I just know that staying here isn't working for us, but I'm paralyzed to decide what to do next.

So I have a favor to ask. Do you mind popping any thoughts you have in a comment below? Even if you stop by and don't generally comment, just leave me a quick note. If you're as confused as I am, it can be as simple as "Geez, I don't know what to tell you." But seriously - any perspective is welcomed.

Thanks so much for reading.

Twelfth Night... um, I mean Eighteenth Night?

2011-01-12T20:57:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. I didn't take my Christmas tree(s) down until Tuesday of this week. It's not because I'm lazy (though that's true, too). It's just that I'm mourning the end of the holidays.

D was a willing partner in this. By our own tradition, we're supposed to take our Christmas tree down on Twelfth Night. Though there is some dispute about the actual date of Twelfth Night, we want to prolong our enjoyment of the holiday season, so that means our trees don't come down until the end of the Twelfth Day of Christmas - January 5th. Except this year that fell on a Wednesday, and I said to D, "Can't we just leave them up to enjoy through Friday?" I'm not sure I even finished the sentence before he readily agreed. Then Friday became Saturday, became Sunday (because we might as well enjoy them through the weekend), became Monday and those trees finally came down on Tuesday. I was really sad while I was packing up the ornaments. Our little home lost a bit of its glow, literally and figuratively, when the shining trees were gone. Now we make it a game as we drive down the lane to our home... which of our neighbors still have Christmas decorations up tonight? We celebrate each one. Power to my Christmas-lovin' peeps!

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'll turn 29 for the 10th time. It's the culmination of the my own personal holiday season, but I am just not feeling it this year. Perhaps when I wake tomorrow, I'll get in the spirit. But at the moment I don't feel much like celebrating.

In the blogosphere, people are summing up 2010. Some people are glad to see the back of it; some have fantastic memories to savor. People are welcoming the clean slate of the coming year and grabbing 2011 by the balls. Me, not so much.

I usually coast through my existence, feeling generally blessed. I have a good life really. Do I wish some things were different? Sure, but it's just easier to be content with my lot. However, the Navel-Gazing holiday (as Ironic Mom so eloquently dubbed it) made me stop and look back at the year and get all discontented crankypants.

I remember discussing 2010 at the beginning of the year. Big things were going to go down. But now I look back on it and feel like the months ticked by unnoticed and unproductively. If there is one word I think of when it comes to 2010, it is stasis.

I didn't travel; we didn't finish the remodel or make any other of the big changes we wanted to; I'm not yet a mother; I'm running out of time to make the decision to try to be a mother; I'm worried the decision has already been made for me by Father Time.

Stasis.

The interesting thing is, in 2010, I got a great new job in which I happen to be working with a couple of great old coworkers. Best of both worlds. But even reminding myself of that isn't enough to bring me out of the funk. Instead I'm bemoaning the fact that I'm too busy to take the day off and make a big deal about my birthday. I'll just go in to the office like any other regular day. And now I'm not even working with some of my besties that made it fun to be at work on "my" day.

I'm sure I'll soon be over throwing myself my own personal pity party. D has promised me a special birthday dinner and I do love that man's cooking. Birthday cards and electronic best wishes have already started rolling in. Tomorrow is a new day. My day.

I once read a profound thought by a woman who had survived breast cancer. She said that, after dreading her birthdays for years as she got older, once she survived her illness she wore birthdays like a badge of pride. She'd enjoyed another year on this earth - good, bad or indifferent, that is something worth celebrating. I hope it doesn't take something so harrowing to make me realize the same thing.

Christmas morning

2010-12-25T08:06:00.000-08:00

The ingredients for the Christmas Feast have been sourced and the presents lay waiting under the tree. Champagne is chilling for Bucks Fizz, and I'm up early, enjoying Christmas morning peace and dulcet tunes broadcast from a carol service in Buckingham Palace, brought to me by the magic of internet. Soon, via that same magic, I'll be joining the relatives across the sea for a video chat.

D and I celebrate Christmas on our own with a feast of epicurean scale. Due to an unfortunate back strain on the part of the husband, I've been called up from the minor leagues to undertake feast production duties... properly supervised, of course, because my lack of ability in the kitchen is legendary. Fingers crossed our cooperative effort is up to the standards of his usual production.

I'm two days in to a long, long Christmas break in which I intend doing little more than watching ridiculous amounts of Christmas movies and TV, drinking ludicrous amounts of champagne and Absolut Vanilla vodka, and eating absurd amounts of chocolate.

To you and yours, I wish a Happy Christma-hanna-kwanzi-kah (or Festivus for the rest of us) and all the best for the New Year. Thanks so much for stopping by my little corner of the net.

Happy Holidays All!

Amongst my Favorite Things: Sonic Scrubber

2010-12-09T18:03:00.000-08:00

D and I have been sporadically, and yet constantly, remodeling the little shack on the prairie for over 4 years now. We work on it as funds and enthusiasm allow and frequently find ourselves lacking either or both. But one of the things we (and by "we" I totally mean "he") accomplished some time ago, to my great delight, is the remodeling of our home's single bathroom.

And it is beauteous. D single-handedly demolished the dire toilet, vanity, vinyl tiles and painted-over tin-tile wainscoting and wallpaper and rebuilt the bathroom around the only thing left - the old cast iron tub, which is in decent shape and too dang heavy to consider removing. He replaced the ugly vanity with a pedestal sink, installed a new toilet, laid ceramic floor tiles, and most impressively of all, affixed over 1,200 subway tiles to the walls to replace the tin-tile wainscoting and create a tub/shower surround.

Here are before and after shots:

Quite a transformation, no? When the bath renovation was finished, it was the most "done" room in the entire house and I was thrilled with it. I was so excited that if I could have filled the tub with cushions and installed satellite television in there, I would have moved into the bathroom full time.

Since we chose - some might say foolishly - white grout for both the floor and the wall tiles, we invested a little extra money and a LOT of extra pain-in-the-ass effort (on D's part anyway) for epoxy grout, which is supposed to resist staining. One of the things I promised D, after all his hard work, is that I would keep the bathroom sparkling clean. And I did... for a while.

Then life and my old bad habits got in the way and suddenly I found that I hadn't scrubbed the shower walls for a good couple of months and we were a getting pinkish scum build-up in there. So I scrubbed, and scrubbed and scrubbed some more. And while I could get the bathroom sparkling clean, the grout lines stubbornly hung on to their new pink hue. Fecking epoxy grout - stain resistant, my ass.

I had seen an infomercial for the Sonic Scrubber and then noticed that they were sold at Bed, Bath & Beyond with the Dow Scrubbing Bubbles brand name added. Perhaps this isn't the normal "as seen on TV" useless tat? After checking out some good reviews on the interweb, I decided to try one out.

Combined with Soft Scrub with bleach, this thing works a treat. No scrubbing or sweating, just slowly pass the spinning brush across the grout and presto, it's sparkling clean! It's like a power toothbrush for tile - awesome!

And as a little follow up tip for anybody else that hates cleaning the shower as much as I do, I have only one thing to say: daily shower spray. I never really believed in this stuff. In fact, at nearly three dollars a bottle, which you can easily go through in a week or two, I considered it a bit of a waste. But after diligently detailing my shower tiles with the Sonic Scrubber (which, while easy, was still time consuming) I decided to try it out - but found a recipe for a homemade version which is easy to mix up in a spray bottle and very inexpensive as well.

1/2 cup (4oz) Hydrogen Peroxide
1/2 cup (4oz) Rubbing Alcohol
2 tsp Jet Dry dishwasher rinse agent
A couple of drops of dish soap
4 cups (24oz) of water

I've been spraying this on my shower daily for about 2 months now. The shower wall tiles still look sparkling clean and I haven't had to scrub them once.

So there you are, friends. If you've got a bunch of tile grout to clean, get thyself a Sonic Scrubber!

Note: I haven't been compensated for this review/recommendation in any way. I just loved this thing so much I want to share it with the world. Or at least the little troupe of you reading my blog.

Revelations in the dental chair

2010-12-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

I went to the dentist this week for my 6 month cleaning and check up. There was a time in my late 20s when I was traveling constantly for work that I got fairly, shall we say, neglectful about taking care of my teeth. The HMO dentist I was seeing made you schedule appointments a minimum of three months in advance. I generally couldn't tell you where I was going to be in three weeks, let alone three months. After canceling and rescheduling, canceling and rescheduling, I gave up going to the dentist at all. For like three years.

Then I went back. They scheduled two separate deep-cleaning sessions because they weren't sure I was "going to be able to take it" in one session. The hygenist practically climbed up onto the chair with me, bracing herself with her sturdy legs while going into my mouth with a pickax and a miner's lantern hat. Or at least that's what it felt like.

And I vowed to change my ways. I took up flossing with a vengeance. I make my next dental appointment for bang-on six months away before I leave my current appointment. And when I go back, they scrape at my teeth for about 15 minutes and do a quick polish. And I'm all, "That's it?" They warn me that I should be swishing with Act to address a couple of weak spots that could become cavities and send me on my way. They've been warning about those weak spots for 5 years now.

So this week during the cleaning, I'm laying in the chair trying to relax my hands which have balled up into little fists, and release my back muscles that are trying to levitate me off the chair. And the hygenist is scraping and scraping. I'm wondering when this is going to end. She does the whirry-polishing thing and THEN gets out her scraper for another go at my molars. I'm wondering... is there something wrong here or is she just being more... diligent than my previous hygenists?

Then the cleaning is over and the dentist comes in and starts poking around my mouth and casually orders a filling on two teeth. Two cavities - including one that wasn't citied as a previously-noted weak spot? WTF?

Then I remembered. My husband recently discovered these divine toffees in the bulk candy bins at our local grocer's. And after I had a few, I made him buy about three pounds of it and we (and by "we", I mean mostly "me") ate it all in less than a month. These things are chewy, sticky, buttery-caramely bites of perfection and they became my go-to sweet of choice. I'd have a couple as "dessert" after lunch, and a couple more as "dessert" after dinner and, hell, sometimes I would have one if I was walking through the kitchen and feeling a bit bored. Then, as quickly and mysteriously as this decadent treat had appeared, the shop stopped selling them so I had to quit cold-turkey. It hasn't been easy, mind.

But it turns out, layering chewy, sticky, buttery-caramely sugar onto my teeth on a fairly regular basis without increasing the frequency of brushing? Not so good for the old chompers. So, NEWSFLASH: sugar rots your teeth!

Damn it. I hate it when my mother is right.

Color my world

2010-11-25T10:30:00.000-08:00

So, the new Harry Potter film is out, have you heard? (I didn't really write a whole post about how I'm grateful for a Harry Potter film - I mean, I could have, but it would probably be way more interesting to me than to you, so just stick with me here.)

D and I have, over time, become huge fans of the series. We resisted watching the films initially, tending to dismiss the "sheeple" jumping on the the latest bandwagon. Then a good friend lent us the first DVD, insisting that we really should give it ago. And a passion was born. Over the years, we've done a couple of marathon series of Friday film nights to watch all of the films and we are planning another for over the Christmas holiday. We won't go see the new film for a while... we may even wait for the DVD - which we have done with every other installment of the series. But the Biography channel has recently broadcast a thoroughly enjoyable series of documentaries entitled "Creating the World of Harry Potter" which offers a fascinating peek into the process of bringing the books to life.

It was when we were watching a discussion of scoring the film and the evocative impact of a few spare notes in the "Music and Sounds" episode that I was struck by how fortunate I am to live in a world where brilliant, creative people exist with the passion to create works of art for the enjoyment of others. People who face a blank screen, or sheet of paper or canvas, or roll of film (or camera sensor?) and are compelled to pour a little of themselves into it and share it with the world. I'm astounded and humbled by the talents others manifest in language, music, film, still images or other media. Works of art that amuse me, move me and inspire me. Sure, some people do it for money, but for many the act of creation is its own reward. They undertake that first effort with no surety that it will come to anything significant financially... rather with a simple creative urge that must be released.

And we are so lucky they do. How many times have you been brought to tears or laughter by a book, film or blog post? How many times have you been soothed or compelled to dance by brilliant music? How many times have you been drawn to an arresting image? How much bleaker would the world be if we couldn't escape the dullness of simple existence through these works of art from time to time?

So today, before I stuff myself with a feast my dear husband will create for us (another talent I'm supremely grateful for), I am pausing to be thankful for the artists that color my world... including you, my blogging friends. To morph a turn of phrase from the Discovery channel: People are just awesome.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

The Great Internet Bangs Smackdown of 2010

2010-11-21T16:26:00.000-08:00

For most of my childhood, my mother insisted on styling my hair based on the firmly rooted tenet that I should be wearing bangs because I suffer from five-head. Bless her, she never actually used that term, but I was painfully aware of my high forehead and therefore I wore bangs all the way through high school.

I had a love-hate relationship with my bangs, and with my baby fine super straight hair in general. As a child, the bangs were the blunt-bowl-cut-straight-across-the-forehead variety. Then in seventh grade I became the proud owner of a curling iron and I would curl those suckers and spray them up within an inch of their life. Then there were the unfortunate perm years. Oh the frizz, the shameful, shameful frizz.

Anyway, when I grew into adulthood, I let go of my five-head insecurities, grew out the bangs and thought little of it for a while.

However, recently I felt a tug to change my hair, which I've been wearing pretty much exactly the same way for damn near ever. I won't dye it because I don't want to mess with the striking blond color - my hair's best feature. I've worn it in short layers - hated that. I've worn it long, but it tends to suffer under its own fine, tangled weight. And recent consternation with forehead wrinkles, which I can indubitably attribute to a severe sunburn sustained on a 4-day houseboat trip on Lake Shasta when I was 25, led me to the conclusion that I should try wearing bangs again.

I did this once before, about 5 years ago, and the husband? He hated it. At the time, I was wearing them in a "fringe" (the British word for bangs) straight across. This go round, I showed my stylist a picture of Reese Witherspoon's sideswept bangs and hoped they'd meet with the approval of the husband.

The response was lukewarm - but that's far better than before. And to his credit, regardless of what he thinks of my hair he is quick to assure me that it's what I think that matters. I think I like it, but I dipped my toe ever so gently into the water, with the bangs cut long so that I can quickly revert to my old boring style if need be.

So internets, help a girl out. Don't sit on the fence, people. Get out the vote and let me know what you think.

Before (passport mug shot, excuse the harsh lighting)


After

Leave a comment and let me know - should I go all in on the bangs?

A) No way. D's right, what were you thinking?

B) For defs - this is a much better look.

C) OMG - get over yourself - nobody cares!

It's your language; use it

2010-11-10T17:29:00.000-08:00

I am inspired by this today... I could write for decades and never come close to such an indulgently sensuous use of words... but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try.

Stephen Fry, on language:

"So if you’ve got it, use it. Don’t be afraid of it, don’t believe it belongs to anyone else, don’t let anyone bully you into believing that there are rules and secrets of grammar and verbal deployment that you are not privy to... Just let the words fly from your lips and your pen. Give them rhythm and depth and height and silliness. Give them filth and form and noble stupidity. Words are free and all words, light and frothy, firm and sculpted as they may be, bear the history of their passage from lip to lip over thousands of years. How they feel to us now tells us whole stories of our ancestors."

I was tipped off to Stephen Frye's whole essay, Don't Mind Your Language, along with Matthew Roger's mesmerizing kinetic video excerpt of that essay by the good folks at Lifehacker, who this week are writing about... writing.

Falling back

2010-11-07T08:27:00.000-08:00

I love daylight savings time. In fact, I think we should be on daylight savings time all year round. Then, of course, it wouldn't actually be daylight savings time, it would just be "picking up our country and moving it one step to the right on the global time zone map." (Take that Greenwich Mean Time!)

I hate, hate, hate losing an hour of sleep in the spring. And all the parents I know with infants or young children can't stand "gaining an hour" in the fall because children don't know they are supposed to wake up an hour later on their circadian bio-clock.

But I was struck today that, due to the ubiquitous nature of clocks linked to "the grid," I've all but lost a time-honored tradition in Keenie-Beanieland. You see, I am a godless heathen who doesn't go to church on Sunday - and indeed, rarely makes a date for that lovely, lazy day of the week. Even though I am godless, I take that "day of rest" commandment thing pretty damn seriously.

So in the good old days, I would wake up and trundle through my lazy Sunday blissfully unaware of the time change until the evening, when I might turn on the television and notice that my favorite show wasn't going to be starting for another hour.

And friends, this is a priceless gift, because just as I was starting to wind down the weekend and bemoan the fact that I had to be at work the next morning, I was handed another whole precious weekend hour. How cool is that? I would go around the house resetting all the clocks an hour back and revel in the found time.

That is way better than getting an extra hour of sleep. My unconscious self has no appreciation for the gift.

But now on "fall back day," I wake up and check the time on my automatically-synchronized atomic alarm clock - mildly pleased that I seem to feel a little less sleepy than I usually might at this hour of the morning. I turn on the DVR whose clock has been updated by its satellite tether, note the (naturally) accurate time on the morning news, check messages on the smartphone with a clock reset by those clever folks at T-mobile, and fire up the laptop that somehow knows what time it is before I even connect to the net. As it happens, the only clock I need to reset is the watch that I rarely consult anyway and apparently wear primarily for decoration, and only on weekdays at that. I usually figure out the watch is wrong sometime around the middle of Monday, which if anything, makes me feel like I have to spend an extra hour in the office.

So as far as I'm concerned, I haven't gained anything. Where is my precious found hour? Sometimes technology is too smart for its own good.

Not so good at the details...

2010-11-04T21:26:00.000-07:00

So I went to a dermatologist on Monday because I've had this bit of contact dermatitis on the side of my hand for like, six months. It isn't really all that big of a deal. But after so many months of not being right, it had got to the point where it didn't feel like hand skin anymore... more like those calloused bits on the edge of one's feet.

I finally didn't want to have foot skin on my hand any more so I sucked it up and booked an appointment with a dermatologist. I've never been before. I felt kind of dumb going in with this eensy little problem, but I started to think, "what if this never gets better and now my hand is just like this for the rest of my life?! And then it didn't seem like an eensy problem anymore - we're talking about the rest of my life, people!

Anyway, I went in with this little problem on my hand and when the nurse took my blood pressure, she handed me a gown and told me, "the doctor does a full body scan for skin cancer on all new patients so please disrobe and put this on over your underwear."

Um... you mean the raggedy ones I pulled out of the drawer in the dark so as not to disturb the sleeping husband this morning? Practically the only ones left in said drawer because I hadn't gotten around to doing the laundry for a disturbing couple of weeks? Those underwear?

But it gets better, because I am so severely blond and my hair is so fine that I can get away with being, shall we say, a little cavalier about shaving my legs in the colder months. So not only am I wearing grim underwear, but I'm sporting Sasquatch legs too.

And I only remember about the scraggly remains of a weeks-old pedicure clinging forlornly to my toes as I'm sat there fidgeting nervously waiting for the doctor to knock on the door. Dammit.

So I don't know whether to be relieved or dismayed when a medical student (it's a teaching hospital) steps into the room instead of the doctor and indicates that she'll be doing the exam. Because she is adorable. I bet her adorable little toes are sporting a perfect pedicure. And we know how perfectly put-together women make me feel.

After quizzing me on my sunscreen habits (which are exemplary) and doing the full-body scan, including peeking between my pathetically manicured toes at the end of my furry legs, she says - "How old are you?" and I tell her, and she says, "You have taken very good care of your skin!"

So - lingerie, pedicure, de-fuzzing? Epic fail. But minimizing sun damage: Aced it!

And she didn't give me permission, but you can be damn sure I had my clothes back on the very instant she walked out of the room to get the doctor. Because there's only so much humiliation one can take in a day.

Decade

2010-10-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago today...

D and I met while we were working for the same international firm. I was based in Portland, Oregon but traveling nearly constantly. He was based in the Cayman Islands.

We met at a company lunch on Grand Cayman, and the story goes that after setting eyes on me, he said to a co-worker, "She's a babe!" He calls me Babe to this day. I don't consider myself such, so I love him for the fact that he does. He's a Brit and his accent charmed me immediately. It's backed up by an acerbic, rapier wit that keeps me in stitches all these years later.

As a former bridge officer on large ships, he's extremely well traveled, having crossed the equator and transited the Panama canal numerous times. He's sailed six of the seven seas and set foot on six of the seven continents.

I told him once that the chance that we even met, let alone crafted a relationship that led to a marriage, seems so astronomically unlikely it must have been fated. I imagine us as little pinpoints of light on the globe... his circling the earth, transiting the seas... mine orbiting within the confines of my country, occasionally brushing Canada or Mexico. Then one day our points of light collide in the Caribbean and turn into a shower of sparks.

At first, the distance thing seemed insurmountable. We enjoyed spending time together for the remainder of my visit to the island. And both of us were sad when it was time for me to leave but it seemed a brief island romance destined to become a pleasant memory. This was before Skype, and it cost $0.25/min for me to call him on the Islands, and over $1.00/min for him to ring the States. So even keeping in touch seemed an expensive proposition.

He sent me the sweetest e-mail the day I left. He told me that he was listening to David Gray's "Please Forgive Me" and it made him think of me. Not that he had anything to apologize for - here is the lyric, which still melts my heart when I hear it:

Please forgive me if I act a little strange
For I know not what I do
Feels like lightning running through my veins
Every time I think of you

He had a business trip to the States the day after my departure, and I remember that we decided to take advantage of the low cost phone calls and had a few marathon overnight conversations. Somewhere in those calls we decided on his visit to Oregon at Christmas, sacrificing his holiday visit to England to come see me.

So two months after those first idyllic days on the Island, I was nervously waiting at the Portland Airport - back when you could still meet someone at the gate as they stepped off the plane.

The sparks were still there.

We spent the week between Christmas and New Years Day completely absorbed in each other. One evening, curled up on a sofa in front of the massive stone fireplace in the great room at Timberline Lodge, we noticed that when we were together, it was like we were in an insulated bubble for just the two of us. I wanted to stay in the bubble forever.

Three years and three days later - across the international date line and on another island in the sea, we did this:

Happy Ten Years, my love. You've made the world my oyster
and I'll never see it the same way because of you.

Photo: Miles Holden

Our wedding album:

Click here to view this photo book larger

The Silvery-Pink and Orange Lining

2010-10-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

"It's 0600... what's the "o" stand for? Oh, my God, it's early!"
-Robin Williams as Adrian Cronauer in Good Morning Vietnam

You know back in 2007, Congress changed the start and end dates of Daylight Savings Time, to extend the DST period by an extra month each year? I'm definitely a fan. I think it's great that the precious daylight hours after work are conserved for a few more weeks. But in recent days, the start of my morning commute has moved from "Oh, my God, it's early" to "O-dark-thirty." I literally leave the house at the butt-crack of dawn.

I welcome fall, snuggling in as the heat dissipates and the leaves turn fiery colors. It's time for nightly cozy fires in the woodstove and looking forward to Christmas - I love Christmas. But as the days get shorter - darn that rotation of the earth around the sun! - it starts to get a bit depressing to leave for work and get home in the dark. I used to work in cubeland where I couldn't even see a window... and if I worked through lunch during a busy time, days would go by where I'd barely set eyes on sunlight. Last winter, at least, I enjoyed my very own office with an exterior window - a luxury indeed.

With the new job last spring, I'm back in cubeland. But the enlightened designers of our company premises have placed all the execs in offices on the interior of the building, ringing them with low-walled cubes, some of which face right out the windows. It's only fair that those who make the big bucks cede the windows to us schmucks toiling away in the cubicles. It makes such a difference to have daylight flooding the workspace, and although I don't like leaving for work in the dark, if I get to enjoy this view as the sun rises over the city when I get there, it's a definite plus to the shorter days.

Update on Miracle the Kitten

2010-10-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I told you about the kitten we rescued who was dubbed Miracle. After contacting, Oregon Friends of Shelter Animals, I received this message from the lovely Marilyn who coordinates the cat adoption program:

Miracle did come in this morning and is negative for FIV and Leukemia! She is being fostered with my current kittens that are her size so she has three buddies, October, Prada and Boston. She is a little out of sorts as all kittens are at first, a few grrrr's at the others but she will be just fine by this time tomorrow.

I cannot imagine how little and fragile she must have been when "the incident" occurred. She is about 5-6 weeks old and weighs 1-10oz. She is not shy or frightened and she is even trying to play in my office with the toys all around the room. You are welcome to come visit any time.

Thank you for caring - - I will follow with pictures but she needs a bath first. Maybe tomorrow.......???

Marilyn

So the kitten is healthy, receiving excellent care, and now has a bunch of little buddies. I'm so glad because I'm sure she was probably missing her littermates after her terrifying adventure. The mental picture of this 1 lb handful of fluff growling at her new roomies cracks me up though.

D and I went over one evening to visit the kitten and meet her new crew. There were eight kittens of various ages being fostered by Marilyn and her husband Steve at the time of our visit. I'm restricted from taking them all in by my much more sensible husband, but if I was on my own, I could easily become a crazy cat lady. I would love to foster kittens - though Marilyn did admit to a bit of sadness when a cat has stayed with them for a while or required a lot of care and it's time for them to move to a forever home. I'm so sentimental I would just be setting myself up for heartache.

But you guys, if watching a bunch of sweet little kittens at play doesn't make you grin just a little bit, well then you must be dead inside. I love how Miracle's got these cute little turned-down walrus whiskers, a leopard spotted tummy and permanent bed-head fur. Check her out here:

Now I only have to wait for the news that she's been adopted to a forever home.

UPDATE 11/19/2010: I found out from Miracle's foster home that she was adopted this weekend! She went to a really nice family, a mom with two early-teen boys who have another young playful cat. This news totally made my day.

Ronaldo!

2010-09-19T07:36:00.000-07:00

In real life, I don't usually yearn for the metro-sexual, professionally manscaped hairless beefcake type. And footballers aren't my type. But, oh sweet lord, this man is a work of art... brought to you by Armani.

You're welcome.

They called her Miracle

2010-09-16T19:56:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday, we were out for a country drive - enjoying one of those golden late summer afternoons. The white SUV that pulled out in front of us had only just got up to cruising speed on the 55 mph road when a bundle of fur fell out from under the truck and tumbled sickeningly onto the road. We quickly sussed that it was a kitten that had fallen from the engine block of the moving car.

Without hesitation, D instructed me to turn our car around to see if the little thing was injured. It was - staggering is the only word for it - off the road as we spotted it again. It sought the safety of a hedge and we could see it was shaking and bleeding a little from its mouth.

D let the people who lived behind the hedge know why we were crouched on the edge of their property. A woman came out and instructed her son to get an old cat bed they had on hand. He set the scared little thing into the bed and they agreed to look after it and see how it fared overnight.

Upset about the fate of the kitten, but not really knowing what else could be done, we headed off. I was so out of sorts I didn't even think to take the woman's phone number. Arriving home that evening, I was really disturbed. I was grateful that family agreed to take on the little kitten. I was worried it might not make it if it had internal injuries - and I was frankly glad that I wouldn't have to endure the heartache that I would have felt in that case if we had taken it home. But we had essentially saddled this family with the same burden.

Then I thought of all of the emergency response personnel, the doctors and nurses, the hospice workers that deal with these issues to assist human beings every day. I don't have the emotional fortitude to do what they do - and admire those that are there for us all in our hours of need.

Back to the kitten though. By Wednesday evening I couldn't contain my curiosity about the fate of the little thing, so we drove back out to the home that had taken it in. Prepared for the worst, but hoping for the best, we approached the front door. The lady saw us coming and told her son, "It's the cat people!" then she turned to us and fairly shouted, "It's alive!"

Alive and doing very well. It's an adorable thing. Tiny - probably only 6 to 8 weeks old. But it was amazing - if I hadn't seen that horrible fall onto the road, I wouldn't have believed the kitten had been subjected to that trauma. The lady's two sons had quite clearly fallen in love. The older one is a stoutly built young man of about 20. If I saw him on the street, my snap judgment would be that he looked a bit of a thug. Shame on me - you know what they say about books and covers. But he's a complete softy and this little kitten has completely stolen his heart. He played with it, slept with it, and generally functioned as the kitten's giant jungle gym. They've dubbed the wee thing Miracle. And as D said when we found out, the fact that it has not only survived but appears to be fine pretty much made my week. I still smile every time I think of it.

But here's the heartbreaking part - the family rents their home and the landlord won't let them keep the cat. The younger son - a quiet lad of maybe 14 - was apparently so upset when he found out that he was nearly in tears.

Not wanting to let the kitten be abandoned to a feral country life at such a tender young age, and informed that the local humane society is likely to simply euthanize it, we offered to help the woman find a no-kill shelter to take the kitten in. I've contacted Oregon Friends of Shelter Animals, from whom we adopted our cats a few years ago. I've offered to sponsor the kitten with a donation, and I really hope they find room in one of their foster homes to give it a chance to be adopted.

Fingers crossed they do, because it's a brilliant cat - sociable and funny - and who could resist this face?

Man, Oihou, Wild

2010-08-29T20:11:00.000-07:00

My husband is one of those men that will be handy to have around when TSHTF at TEOTWAWKI (the sh*t hits the fan at the end of the world as we know it, to those on the bushcraft forums). This is a man who always has several means of lighting a fire on him whenever we venture out of the city. This is a man who carried me off a Welsh mountain when my sissy arse was in tears from the pain in my decrepit knee.

With memories of the devastating aftermath of Hurricane Katrina renewed from the publicity surrounding the 5 year anniversary this past week, one is reminded just how close we dance to the total breakdown of social order and how quickly daily life could turn into a survival situation. Even here in the good old U.S. of A. And if the worst ever happens, I will be in good hands as long as I am with my man.

Another man who would be handy in a crisis? Myke Hawke, the sweet Southern hunk of beefcake that is one half of the couple on Discovery's survival show Man, Woman, Wild, filmed with his adorable wife Ruth England. Have you seen this show? At the moment, it is the highlight of my television watching week.

I know it is currently achieving a sort of cult status, probably appealing to a broader audience (read: women) than the already popular installments of the genre such as Man vs. Wild, Survivor Man and Dual Survival. I feel a sort of affinity with the couple, which increases my enjoyment of the show.

First off, like mine, theirs is a mixed marriage between an American and a Brit, albeit with the genders reversed since he is the American and she is English. And as I've already noted, both her husband and mine have the sort of aptitude to provide in a survival situation that satisfies the ancient cavewoman urge to find a protector. But even better, Ruth is a total oihou (pronounced wee-hoo, an acronym for "off in her own universe") - a word we've coined to affectionately describe girly-girls with a slight disconnection from reality. D has made an extensive study of oihous, having been married to one for nearly 7 years. Watching the interaction of these two is absolutely hilarious, as his caveman protector tendencies are matched against her oihou wits.

If I was industrious enough, I would make up a drinking game based on Man, Woman, Wild, much like blog friend Krysta (yes, there are two of us) recently did with the Bachelorette series. The rules would be as follows:

Drink each time Myke has to admonish Ruth not to "name the chow." This first appeared in episode number 1, filmed in the Amazon jungle, in which the hungry couple finds a turtle - Ruth's favorite animal - and will have to eat it if they can't find something else to eat. This brings Ruth to tears, but fortunately they find a snake and are able to release the turtle to continue its slow journey across the jungle floor.
Drink each time Ruth pulls her knife in her best "I'm really hard and not scared at all" stance when she's totally freaking out. Generally occurs when she is standing off as Myke does something like capturing a deadly snake.
Drink each time Ruth is genuinely delighted and appears nearly surprised when Myke coaxes a fire into life, using nothing but two sticks or some other tortuous method. Honestly, wouldn't it be easier to just carry a lighter? [D is preparing his lecture on belt-and-suspenders preparedness even as I type that.]
Drink each time Ruth pulls a truly horrified face when presented with something deadly, disgusting or just plain discouraging. See the most recent episode, filmed in Utah, when Myke presents Ruth with big fat juicy grubs to add some pure protein to the cattail and frog leg stew, and when Myke has to tell Ruth that, having just completed a freezy river crossing (thanks for the great word Lisa) and started her own fire, they are, in fact, only on an island and have to do all it again.
Drink each time Myke shakes his head in disbelief as Ruth betrays some secret of coupledom, like how the bathroom smells after his morning pee ("that's too much much information, Baby;" Episode 5: Mexico) or how many weapons he has stored in their bedroom (Episode 2: Botswana), a major security disclosure faux pas, according to D.
Drink each time Ruth has to basically "go long" which means "industriously stay out of the way while Myke gets the real work done." Like at the end of the Botswana episode where Myke is tending a fire made from the tires of their jeep to signal a passing helicopter and Ruth starts running around and waving her arms. The heli film shows to her to be barely visible next to the massive smoke signal, but Myke encouragingly tells her "that's good, Baby, keep doing that."
Drink each time Ruth exhibits complete skepticism of a survival technique explained by Myke; double when she's miffed that it actually succeeds. In the Utah episode, Ruth made a spear and demonstrated typical oihou throwing skills (or lack thereof) trying to catch a frog with it. After a frustrating half hour, she announces that the river is full of "frogs... elusive frogs." Myke walks up with a big stick, smacks the water hard and captures the stunned frog immediately. Ruth's how-the-funk-did you-do-that look is priceless.
Drink each time Myke or Ruth says or does something innocently which has a massive sexual innuendo. Seriously, there is one of these in pretty much every show... from Ruth sucking the juice out of a jungle plant like she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, to Myke admonishing Ruth "you can go deeper than that" when she is tentatively biting the end off a cattail root.

I will say, though, despite her oihou tendencies, Ruth is a TOTAL trooper, putting up with way more discomfort and disgustingness than I would ever take on. I mean, the woman actually drank (under protest) some of her husband's pee. It is entertaining to watch how earnest she is in her desire to hone her survival skills, how proud she is of Myke and how sweet he is to her. They are totally endearing. If you haven't seen it, there are full episodes on You Tube, and preview videos here.

And besides, there is real value to a television show that spawns conversations like this at home:

He: If we were stranded in the desert I'd offer you some of my pee to drink.

Me: Aw, that's love, right there. (long pause) But I think I'm good.

He: All right, more for me!

photos: discovery.com

Sometimes they are actually worth watching (again and again)

2010-08-24T20:00:00.000-07:00

I'm a firm convert to watching television via the magic that is the DVR. It's so nice that I control the TV schedule, rather than it controlling me. And by I, I mean "he," because I usually happily cede control of the remote to him. Ladies, am I the only one on that - or do the men in your life usually control the remote as well? I don't mind though; navigating the menus and dealing with the quirks of our circa 2006 DVR satellite receiver truly tries the patience.

Another advantage of watching DVR'd TV is that it becomes an interactive thing for he and me. If it weren't for the pause button, I'd miss out on D's hilarious running commentary on the shows we watch. Sometimes those pauses become a 20 minute digression, and we get to the end of the conversation and go "how did we get there?"

Anyway, I love that I can blast through the ads and get through an hour's worth of television in 40 minutes. But every so often, I stumble across an ad that's worth actually watching. It is a mystery to me how these get discovered, since theoretically we don't watch ads. But I owe this particular one to D, who specially replayed it for me one evening after I woke from my nightly doze on the sofa.

I believe this might have been a Superbowl ad, but it's recently gone into heavy rotation again. We rewind to watch it and I laugh. Every. Single. Time.

What have you got peeps - any ads that tickle your funny bone?

Confidence (or lack thereof)

2010-08-18T19:08:00.000-07:00

On Monday, Nicki posted about getting back on the workout wagon this week. I really should follow her example. Last spring, I had undertaken the P90X program and although I frequently cursed Tony Horton during the workouts, I did like the way I felt after they were finished. But I got bounced off the wagon when I somehow injured my neck, and despite the fact that I'm better now, I'm enjoying being lazy far too much to pick up where I left off. Maybe when it cools down in the fall. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Nicki mentioned that the motivating factor for her workouts at this point is because she's joining one of her best friends in a few weeks for a family vacation at a cabin (which sounds blissful). Her best friend is probably going to see her in a swimsuit. I'm fairly certain that Nicki's friend won't care one bit about how she looks in a swimsuit, but I totally get where Nicki is coming from.

As a married 30-harump-thing, I am past worrying about looking good for other men, but I do care how I look. My husband likes me with little to no makeup, but I still do my face up for work everyday. I hate that my fine, flyaway hair that never looks good more than 10 minutes after I brush it in the morning. I fret that my clothes aren't stylish enough.

The one thing I have accepted is that, being that 30-harump-thing, I am who I am. I hate shopping, particularly shopping for shoes. Believe me, I would love to have cute shoes because there is just a certain je ne sais que that they add to an outfit. The difference is subtle but definite. But unless someone is going to source them, break them into to my exact foot contours and deliver them to me at no charge and match them to all the equally cute clothes I also don't own, I can't be bothered. I haven't trained myself to touch up my hair or makeup during the course of the day. Once I'm out the door in the morning, what you see is what you get. And most of the time, I'm fine with that.

When am I not fine with it? Two situations: 1) when I'm confronted with a terrifically stylish woman in real life and 2) when I'm going to be seeing my girlfriends. Situation number 1 just reminds me that I'll never measure up to the people in the magazines that have stylists at their beck and call... but that some mysterious creatures manage it in real life. This makes me feel inferior, even though I'm usually confident in my quality as a person and that has nothing to do with how I look.

Situation number 2 - well, that's just me being silly. My friends don't care (even if they do notice) that I don't wear cute shoes - or any of the rest of it.

The thing is, most men don't really notice all the little things women do in the name of beauty. But ladies, we do notice. And we can be a catty bunch, no? It's the women I'm dressing for, doing my hair for, fretting about my clothes over.

I have what you could call striking looks. I claim "striking" with absolutely no arrogance - striking isn't the same as beautiful. It's just I have the kind of looks that people notice. I'm so blonde and pale that I've been asked on numerous occasions if I'm albino. Do you SEE red eyes here people? No? Then I'm not an albino - watch a little Discovery channel now and then. I used to be so skinny that people asked without compunction whether I was anorexic. (I'm not, and now that my 30 harump-thing metabolism is slowing, I don't get asked that anymore!) But why is that okay, when mentioning someone's extra pounds is rightfully considered rude and tactless? And if those are questions women would put to me in person, what must they be saying, or thinking, behind my back?

It shouldn't matter. My husband loves me the way I am. I'm successful even if I'm not beautiful. I have good friends and a good life. But that doesn't stop the insecure teenager buried inside me from rearing her anxious little head now and then.

It's not just me is it? Will I ever be grown up enough to get over myself?

The second leaving of Keenie Beanie

2010-08-12T08:01:00.000-07:00

So, big news in Keenie Beanie land... I've entered the ranks of the unemployed.* Sorta.

* "A-ha!" say a few of my wiser readers, who may realize that this kind of stress could precipitate an existential blogging crisis.

For the few of you that have been around here for a while, do you remember when my job was eliminated last year due to a corporate acquisition? Well, it happened again.

But it's a good thing. Really. I found out about the possibility last spring... not so very long after I posted this question to the universe.

Now I'm a godless heathen, but if I had been praying for a sign from a god, any god, I really couldn't have received a clearer answer. It's like the universe was saying, "So you're not sure whether you should give up your job for the good of your relationship? Bam, problem solved. Now go sort it out with your man!" Even better, I was offered a choice: a different job with the same company or a generous severance package. And let me tell you, if you must lose your job, it stings a whole lot less if you feel you are captain of your own destiny.

I was originally scheduled to finish work near the beginning of June. We'd had the leaving do (happy hour drinks) to wish me bon voyage on my last day, but the very next day another person in our department quit. So I was asked to return to work full time through the end of July. On July 28th, I snuck out to the elevator taking my last leave of the place as a full-time employee... for a second time. I'm a sentimental fool and I hate good-byes, even good-byes to those who were never more than pleasant acquaintances. It really sucks having to do them twice. So I just... didn't.

But the blessings continue: for at least the next four to six weeks, I'll continue working as an independent contractor on a part-time basis, telecommuting from home. Good-bye isn't a big deal when one is going to be popping in to the office for meetings now and then and interacting electronically on a frequent basis. The added advantage? Someday, I'll just fade quietly away and perhaps some people might think, "Huh, I haven't seen Keenie Beanie around the office in a while." But we don't have to make a big deal about it.

I've nearly completed my second week of the part-time working-from-home arrangement. It. Is. Awesome. A girl could get used to this style of (sorta) unemployment. No alarm clocks, no commutes, a little money coming in... all good things. I am, however, looking forward to really digging in on the still-languishing renovation project once there are no further professional demands on my time. Let's do this thing.

This change is the first of many to come, so I will keep you all posted as events unfold. Thanks for stopping by and reading, and many, many thanks for reaching out when I needed a little encouragement.

Color me boring

2010-08-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

Meeks over at Juggling Motherhood recently posted about her love/hate relationship with routines. She’s speaking of routines as the glue that holds her family together – making sure everything in the household runs as smoothly as possible… and although I don’t have children, it led me to consider the routines in my life.

As I’ve mentioned before I used to travel a lot for work. And if I wasn’t traveling, I was frequently working at a different client location every few weeks, so it seemed like my life - my work life anyway -was never routine. That bled into other areas of my life… for instance, trying to plan a dentist appointment when I had to book months in advance just to secure a slot felt an insurmountable task. What would I be doing in six months? How the hell should I know? After a long while where I didn’t plan much of anything and watched life pass me by accordingly, I got a lot more flexible. Make plans, keep them if I can, change them if I had to.

Fast forward a decade or so, and I’m comfortably ensconced in a life where I go to the same office day after day, and work on closing the books on the same cycle month after month. I even changed employers, but my title and job responsibilities are still fundamentally the same. I was really worried when I left my position as a consultant that the very sameness of it all would make me want to stick a pen in my eye, just for a little variety. But you know what? I found out that I like routine. Color me boring, but there is comfort in it.

So here’s a glimpse into the little habits that I’ve grooved into over time:

1) I eat the same breakfast day after day. Cereal and a small glass of orange juice. I’m happy to eat the same cereal every-damn-day too, because who wants to be faced with choice at 5:30 in the a.m.? On weekends, I either repeat the cereal routine, or make a waffle… which by the way is my go-to choice if I’m out for breakfast, too.

2) Working for a technology company that, not too many years back, boasted a ping pong table in one of its conference rooms, the office dress code is fairly casual. And though I haven’t completely capitulated to flip flops and shorts like some people there (*cough* engineering *cough*), I do wear jeans without fail on Tuesday and Thursdays. Well – not when there’s a board meeting, but that’s pretty much the only exception I make. It used to be jeans day on Tuesday and Fridays, but since I work at home in my PJs on Friday now, I switched it up.

3) Thursday evening is “unofficial start to the weekend” night, and D and I celebrate with a pint at our local pub. The wait staff there know us, and even before we’ve sat down at “our” table – in the corner by the fireplace - there is a pint of stout being pulled for him and they are guessing out loud what I might like from limited list of drinks that I order regularly. As D said once, “I thought if I’d ever stayed somewhere long enough that they asked at the pub if I wanted the usual, it’s time to move on, but it’s kind of nice that they don’t even ask anymore.”

4) Friday night is pizza night – often accompanied by Wii golf and vodka redbulls. It’s so nice to just know what’s for dinner without having to think too hard.

5) Weekend mornings, I wake up early – a habit I can’t really break since I am a terminal morning person. But I quietly surf, read, catch up on the week’s DVR’d TV, or lately, work :-( , while my night owl husband has a bit of a lie-in, and then return to bed for a cuddle when he wakes up. We spend a good long while easing ourselves into the day before venturing out into the real world, and even then there seems to be a well-worn path to the grocery store, Costco and the library. Every now and then, we might change it up a bit by (gasp) visiting the usual haunts in a different order. I know, right? We are just a coupla crazy kooks.

I know there are some people that might find such sameness suffocating, but as I think about these routines, I find the recurring theme is that they provide parameters in my life that just make things easier. In those moments, I don’t have to wonder what to eat, or wear or stress about how I’m going to spend my time or when the grocery shopping will get done. Fortunately, I’ve also learned the value of going with the flow. Routine is nice, but when a hair-brained idea pops into my head, a little flexibility goes a long way. I suppose I’m simply floating on, anchored by my little customs, but open to the great unknown around the bend in the river.

What about you? Does a life this routine make you feel itchy just thinking about the sameness of it all? What’s your most comforting routine?

Blogger on Blobbing

2010-08-07T07:36:00.000-07:00

A while ago, I wrote about some of my favorite summer camp memories. But we didn't have anything this awesome on the camp activity lineup. As the video says, a "genius camp director" came up with a great use for a military surplus water transport bag. How fun is this?!

Let's take some "E!"

2010-08-03T19:23:00.000-07:00

Me: (While watching E! ads during Chelsea Lately) I wonder if Khloe Kardishan ever feels inferior?

Him: Why, because she's the ugly one?

Me: Well, yes, I guess you could put it that way.

Him: Well, she did marry an NBA player after about a week.

(Long pause.)

Me: Considering I've seen the Kardishan's show like twice and those times were accidents, it makes me sad you know that.

Him (resigned): Me too, babe, me too.

Nobody but us crickets

2010-07-31T08:54:00.000-07:00

Hello - is anybody out there? All work and no play makes Keenie Beanie a dull girl. For anybody following along, I took a new job in April and, boy, has it been taking it out of me. I've been averaging 50 hour weeks, and I just met another big deadline on Friday, leaving me with a few moments to take stock.

Let's see, since I started this job, I've barely picked up my camera, I've nearly stopped writing, hardly made contact with my friends online or IRL, and have no energy or motivation to actually get out and enjoy my leisure hours. There have been lots of OT hours on the laptop, exhausted early nights when I can't keep my eyes open past 9 pm, and weekend naps. Come to think of it, the weekend naps have been bloomin' lovely.

I didn't even bother going to the fireworks shows for Rose Festival at the beginning of June or for the Fourth. The effort of leaving home at that time of the evening seemed just too much. And I LOVE me some fireworks. Lots of people are a bit, meh, about fireworks. But for me there's something about the beautiful sparkling colors against an inky sky, combined with bursts of sonic waves slamming into your chest. It puts a mile-wide grin on my face, and if I'm honest, always makes me a bit sad when the frenetic burst of rockets goes off for the finale because I know it's going to end soon. All too fleeting. It's not like I can just go out and see fireworks any old time. So for me to miss them this year is kind of a signal.

I'm not complaining, understand. But recently I've been feeling like I'm in some kind of chrysalis. Waiting for real life to start again when I'm not so busy, or whatever. And the fact is, what I'm actually doing is letting real life pass me by. I can sleep when I'm dead - but I'm not going to get these moments back, so I'd better not waste them.

* * *

I moaned back in the middle of June that my neck hurt. That injury, however mysteriously I got it, affected so much. The pain of working at a computer got me out of the habit of writing or loading photos. It completely derailed my workout program. But I never recounted the prescribed course of chiropractic and massage therapy, which was an adventure in itself.

I visited a chiropractor on the advice of my GP, who assured me it would be fine when I expressed suspicion and a bit of nervousness about the therapeutic techniques. I went to see Dr. Megan DeJana, who is this adorable, tiny little thing. Lovely person really. And she did a great job of allaying my fears, talking to me at length about what appeared to be wrong and how her treatment would address it. And she was so practiced, assured and deft that I barely had a chance to be nervous about the neck adjustment before it was all over.

Then she sent me down the hall for the first session of massage therapy. Should I be nervous if the massage therapist says, with a kind of pity, "Unfortunately, you don't get to have a nice relaxation massage today"? Should I be even more nervous when she runs her hands over my spasming neck and upper back and says, "Oh my, you're all knotted up! It's going to be cool to work on someone that actually has something wrong with them"?

My husband teases me about a ridiculously low threshold for pain. I'm not sure its that I can't tolerate pain - I just don't want to tolerate pain. And if a little moaning or reflexive overreaction can mitigate the pain somehow, well I am all. for. that. However, I didn't want to be wasting the potential therapeutic effects of this massage, so I just clammed up and agreed through clenched teeth that whatever the masseuse was doing was totally fine - even when she was pushing so far into my back that I'm convinced she may have been able to cop a frontsie feel from the inside of my chest. And I was sore for days afterwards.

The visit finished up with this session that the chiro staff just called, cryptically, "therapies." It involved laying facedown as they stuck electrodes to my back and neck and then pumped current through them for about 10 minutes. Kind of like those electronic ab belts must work to contract your muscles (and isn't it a crying shame that those things don't actually do anything to reveal one's inner six-pack?). The tech told me it might feel a bit weird and to just say "when" as she turned up the strength to a comfortable level. See my above-mentioned reflexive overreactive pain-avoidance techniques? As soon as I felt the tiniest twinge of electricity, I was all "that's good!" So the first "therapies" session was not so therapeutic.

The next time I asked her what level I had used, which was about an 8, and what was the highest she'd seen - about a 40. So I manned up and let her turn it up much higher. And as I lay there, the strangest things started to happen. First my neck and shoulder muscles started to involuntarily twitch - not constantly, mind you, but just every so often, so I looked like I was trying to do part of the Thriller dance. Then it started to feel like there was something moving around on my back and shoulders - like a leprechaun was walking on me. It's the oddest thing to have your nervous system telling you things are happening that you know simply cannot be true.

The next session I asked her what level I had previously used, which had been about a 13 and I told her confidently, "turn it up to 17 today." And she started to turn the dial, and it got stronger and stronger, and I steeled my bravery until I thought "Holy hell, that is so strong it's going to fry my brain!" So I said "when" and then asked how high I'd let her turn it - preparing to impress myself with how brave I'd been. Fourteen. Really?! Yep - still a wuss.

After about five visits over the course of several weeks, I was much improved but not completely back to normal. One Saturday, I was starting to feel frustrated - like maybe this was it. I'm getting old and I'm just going to be in pain now. I was feeling a bit down about it, but miraculously, I realized by the end of Sunday that I had felt like a new woman all day. It was almost like a switch had been flicked and I was healed!

Of course, that same day I mysteriously injured my wrist, which those of you who know me personally may remember I had a pretty serious bone surgery on about 5 years ago. But that's another story.

So, tell me about your tolerance for pain. (Props to anybody that's given birth, because I am terrified of the prospect.)

Are you a boob man or a butt man?

2010-07-17T08:48:00.000-07:00

Me (to the husband): If you had to choose one thing for the rest of your life, would it be boobs or butts?

The husband: Um, butts I guess.

The husband: (Pause for thought) But if I could, I'd definitely choose one of each.

(He then makes a gesture that looks something like this, complete with hands making a little "honk-honk" motion.)

The husband: (Contemplating his flash of brilliance.) That totally works. I only have two hands anyway.

Me: But then I'd be all deformed! (Picturing something like this)

The husband: Oh sure. And you wouldn't be all deformed if your butt or your boobs were somehow removed?

Me: Well, at least I'd be symmetrically deformed.

The husband: This can't end well; let's just leave your butt and your boobs where they are. They're perfect.

Me: That's a fair point well made.

(And he is a very wise man.)

* * *

The presentation of this missive from Keenie Beanie-land shamelessly imitates certain clever posts by the brilliant Lemon Gloria. If you aren't reading her blog yet, you totally should.

You neared to me, but I couldn't quite discern you

2010-07-10T09:31:00.000-07:00

For a long time I didn't want a child.

Then I married D who does want a child and brought my thoughts around to the same idea. It went on our list of things to do "someday." The time to have a baby hasn't yet felt right and there have been good reasons for this in the past.

For some time now now, I've imagined the presence of the child that would be. The little soul is floating around in some alternate dimension, waiting for the right time to come into our lives.

I've wondered...

Are you a fluffy little blonde, like me? A dark, rough-and-tumble little boy, like D? Will you be quiet and observant? An old soul? A chatterbox? A social butterfly? Will you have a thirst for knowledge? Will you struggle in school? Will you love the outdoors and collect rocks and bugs? Will you cry when you're 3 years old and the ocean gets your skirt wet and the broken shells on the beach hurt your tender little feet? Will I be able to parent you well? Will we be friends when you reach adulthood?

Will I ever find out the answers to these questions?

For about 24 hours last week, I thought that perhaps you had decided that - planning be damned - the time was nigh. I was simultaneously excited and terrified. However, it came to pass that is not the case. I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

This is still not the right time to plan for your entrance into the world. But now I'm worried that I have waited too long. I may never get to hold you, love you, watch you grown and learn and absorb the experiences this great world can offer.

And I wonder, if so, will I always feel the presence of the little one that never was?

Summer camp memories

2010-06-29T18:43:00.000-07:00

Have you ever caught a scent so evocative of a certain time or place in your life that you were immediately transported there? This happened to me on a recent morning as I strolled the three blocks between my parking lot and the office tower in which I work.

Despite the mild weather that had me taunting winter back in February, winter did indeed return and took me up on my offer to hang out in the Pacific Northwest until May or so. It's been one of the coolest and wettest springs on record, and we've only just reached the 80 degree mark in the past two weeks.

But this week it was finally warm enough to shed my jacket and enjoy the mild sunshine on my morning walk. I get into work by 7 a.m. to avoid the worst of the morning traffic. Downtown streets are quiet, almost peaceful at that time of day, and my stroll takes me along the edge of the downtown core where it fronts a park running along the river. As I passed under shade trees filtering the morning sun, I smelled the fresh air and all of sudden I was transported back to the sleep-away summer camp I attended each year from the ages of about nine to thirteen. Something about the light and clean air recalled the walk down the lane from my cabin to the dining hall for breakfast, where I would happily indulge in Froot Loops - one of the over-sugared cereals my mother denied us at home.

I haven't thought about camp Laurelville in years, possibly a decade, but once I opened my mind to it, the memories came flooding back. Laurelville is a camp run by the Mennonite Church conference located in the foothills of the Laurel mountains in southwestern Pennsylvania. It was only 5 nights sleeping away and I never remember being homesick. Camp was always the highlight of my summer. When we would arrive, the first thing my brother and I would do is start bouldering on the field of huge rocks in front of the main lodge, some as tall as we were, playing the game of getting as far as we could without touching the ground again, or risking limb, if not life, playing tag and leaping from stone to giant stone. There was the flurry of check-in, cabin assignment, bunk-picking (I was an upper bunk kind of girl) and re-establishing friendships started in prior years.

I remember signing up for the daily activity sessions where, among other activities, you could do crafts like making popsicle stick cabins or macaroni pictures, or get your shoes thoroughly sodden tramping through a mountain stream on a creek hike. I didn't learn to swim until I was 11 or 12, but I loved swimming pools. I would sign up for the swim session designed for us flotation-challenged children which was held in a pool fed directly from the chilly mountain river. It was so cold, I would be shivering and blue-lipped in no time, and I never did learn to swim at camp - it took phys ed sessions at the heated pool in 6th grade to finally master swimming. I heard they later fitted a solar heater to that pool, and I think the children that still attend camp there probably don't know just how good they have it.

I remember in the evenings after dinner, all the campers would play games like Red Rover or my favorite - Capture the Flag. We played Capture the Flag on the best natural field possible - divided roughly down the center by a small drainage ditch, only two or three feet across. I couldn't run fast so I wasn't a natural, but I still remember clearly once when I managed to creep across the ditch unnoticed at the very end of the playing field. Then I casually sauntered back to where the flag was kept and offered to be a guard. As soon as I was left unattended, I grabbed that sucker and high-tailed it back across the ditch - a successful capture. Unfortunately that trick only worked once, because with my pasty skin and platinum hair, my looks were too striking to blend in with the other team once my treacherous tactics were known.

Each day, we had a session designated for cabin clean-up. I don't ever remember that the cabins I stayed in got very messy but there were a few times when a cabin was "raided" by practical jokers. One evening, I was walking back to my cabin solo and a boy approached me, saying he thought there was someone in his cabin but he didn't want to check on it alone and would I come with him? I know - this sounds like a lame attempt at a "ya wanna come see my rock collection?" line put on by a 10-year-old Lothario, but if it was I was oblivious to it. We tentatively pushed open his cabin door and flipped on the light and I exclaimed "oh, no!" The place was a mess; there were clothes strewn everywhere and it seemed like his cabin MUST have been the victim of a raid. He said "What?" and I said, "Hasn't your cabin been raided?" He just laughed and said, "No, it always looks like this." I was horrified, and wondered what went on there AFTER the daily cabin clean-up session, but just chalked it up to "Boys!"

You know how when you were young, you thought whatever reality you experienced must be the same for everyone, because you are too little to know any different? Well, I thought that everybody got to go away to summer camp each year. Little did I realize that isn't necessarily true. Those are some of my best childhood memories and I feel blessed to have them.

Did any of you go away to camp as a child?

The Swagger Wagon

2010-06-26T09:52:00.000-07:00

I saw this awesomely hilarious video over at Juggling Motherhood. You don't have to be a mom to enjoy this. Seriously, take the time to play the video... it's SO worth it!

And the little girl is totally my MiniMii.

Pain in the neck

2010-06-16T20:04:00.000-07:00

Out of nowhere almost two weeks ago, I woke up one morning feeling fine, but as I reached up to wrap my hair in a towel after my shower, my neck seized up. I took an Aleve, turned my head gingerly for a few days and didn't think much about it... until this weekend when the dull ache that had never quite gone away grew into a severe pain that has spread across my upper back and leaves me wishing I had one of those halo brace things so that I don't actually have to move my head, or indeed, even use my muscles to balance it upright atop my neck.

I went to work on Monday and by the end of the day, I had to drive home leaning my head back against the rest on the car seat because it ached too much to hold it steady. Leaning far back, reaching for the steering wheel with the hand on my "good side," i.e. the one on which it hurts only slightly less to engage the upper back muscles, I felt slightly ridiculous, like I should be cruising slowly down a street in the 'hood while hydraulics make the car do some crazy bouncing. 'Cuz I'm cool like that. Not.

Then Tuesday came and I surrendered - no work for me - just miserably laying on the floor and endlessly heating water for my beloved rubber hot water bottle. I felt fine actually, as long as I didn't have to move, like, at all.

As I type this now, I find the most comfortable position is to tuck my chin down, roll my spine into a ridiculous c-shape and hunch my shoulders over far as I can manage. Even if I don't always maintain a perfectly ergonomic seated position at my desk, when standing I generally maintain reasonable posture - chin up, shoulders back. Could balance a book on my head and everything. So I find it I ironic that in my misery the most comfortable position would be horrifying to anyone who knows anything about spinal health. But if I pull my shoulders back, my muscles writhe in painful protest and I just can't make myself do it.

My tolerance for pain is... well, admittedly non-existent. The only thing that makes me feel better about this is the secure knowledge that it will pass as mysteriously as it came on. It makes me wonder how I'd feel if I knew this pain would be chronic... that this is just how me and my body were going to get along from now on. Gives me a glimpse into how people can get addicted to painkillers that have a street value.

I'll stop whining now, because frankly, spending time at my computer is not currently high on the list of things that make my neck and back feel better. Plus I get to take a muscle relaxant now, and I'm not sure BUI (blogging under the influence) is advisable.

Too good not to share

2010-06-05T10:42:00.000-07:00

From my awesome cousin and his wife, via Facebook:

Him: The Great Dishwashing Avoidance Challenge: all couples should try it, as nothing builds unity like a shared goal. The goal: see who breaks down first and washes the dishes. Eating cereal out of the blender, I can't be beat. A friend suggested lining dirty dishes with Saran Wrap. Remember that you knew the world champ before he was famous.

FB friend: So she gave in first?

Her: I so did not give in first! Just back from Paddy's Pub, in fact, and dishes piled to high heaven in the sink... (could I drink water out of a measuring cup, perchance?) ;-)

Him: If you eat fast enough and/or have a dog, eating soup from a colander works too. [ed. note: the mental picture delivered by this one makes me giggle!]

This topic is obviously one of those cultural touchstones, as it engendered quite a few comments. I particularly liked one commenter challenging them to match his prowess in the Singles Class. Come on, who else has been there, done that? (Typed with one hand, since the other is raised in shame...)

Time Capsule

2010-06-01T20:26:00.000-07:00

Thanks to both Lisa and Amanda, I now know that June is National Blog Posting Month, and with daily prompts, one is encouraged to write each day. I won't begin to claim I can keep up with that, but the prompt for June 1st is: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up? (I can tell you this: my childhood dream was never to be come an accountant, but then again, who's was?)

However, I thought I knew the answer to this question. I thought I wanted to be an astronaut. In March of 1983, I was 10 years old, and my 5th grade teacher had us write a time capsule letter to ourselves, to be opened 10 years later. I was sure that I had said somewhere in that letter that I wanted to be an astronaut. It was nearly two years from the date of the first space shuttle mission - and before any of the shuttle disasters - and that floating around weightless in space looked majorly fun to me. Little did I know at the time that the classes in the hard sciences and the G-force training required to qualify for such an occupation were well beyond the scope of my interest in either.

So this post prompt led me to dig out my baby book, where that letter has been safe-kept since it was written. I didn't open it on time in 1993, only sometime in the late 90s... and I hadn't looked at it more than once or twice since then. So I was amused when I dug it out again this evening. Here, in all its embarrassing glory, is the letter I wrote to my future self [with notes from my current self] when I was ten years old:

Dear Ms. ____________________ (1),

I'm sitting in reading now. Mr. Schlosser said that at the end of the year I'll be able to grade him as a teacher, so far I've decided on a B for him (2). But of course this is before I've gotten my 3rd report card.

I simply adore Christopher Mayer (3). When I grow up I want to ~~mary~~ marry him or his twin. By the way he was [Vance Duke (the dark haired one in the photo)] on the Dukes of Hazzard, but he is off the show now.

My favorite TV programs are:

Little House on the Prairie
You Can't Do That on Television
Black Beauty

Mrs. Kilomeyer (4) is such a b bitch! And this whole school is terrible!

My favorite subjects are Art and Library.

Oh, speaking of teachers being stupid, Mr. Starz (5) is such a _____ it's too bad to ~~wright~~ write or say.

My family consists right now (6) of Mom, Daddy, Jeff, Me, and we're in the process of adopting Alex. There are three siblings that I want as brothers and sisters. Lisce, 14, Harry, 10, and Cathy, 7. (7)

My best friend is Sheryl (8) and Kim H______ is a brat (9).

Next year, I'll go to Columbus [Middle School] or ~~Allaghany~~ Allegheny but I really want to go to Columbus.

My favorite sports is skating and swimming. (10)

We have a Apple II+ computer and I'm learning to program it.

When I get big I want to be an astronomer. (11) And I'll be 20 when I read ~~that~~ this again and I'm 10 now.

I remain,
Myself (12)

(1) Apparently at the time, 10 years seemed so impossibly far away that I wasn't sure I wouldn't be married by the time I was 20, so I left the surname blank. Note the use of Ms. - to hedge my bets, I guess.

(2) Looking back, Mr. Schlosser was one of my favorite teachers, so I was a tough grader!

(3) OK, this crush is seriously embarrassing, but I love how I made sure to tell my future self who he was, just in case I forgot. (Good thing, too.) And also that I said I'd like to marry his twin - not because he has one - but because I think the realist in me acknowledged, even at that age, that I was never going to marry a real TV star.

(4) I have no idea which teacher is Mrs. Kilomeyer or what she did to turn my 10 year old self into such a little potty mouth, but I guess since this was going to be sealed up for 10 years, I felt free to speak my mind.

(5) Mr. Starz was the gym teacher who stymied my lofty academic achievement ambitions with a C every term for my entire elementary school career. As I've often said, I'm no athlete. But it wasn't like I didn't try. I wonder what the epithet that was too bad to say or write was? I'm not sure I knew the f word.

(6) & (7) This paragraph makes a lot more sense if you know that my parents took in about 40 foster kids throughout my childhood. I have no memories of the coveted siblings named in the letter, but I can only assume they were foster kids that I wanted to stay around.

(8) Still one of my oldest and dearest friends.

(9) The playground bully-girl who, after her transfer to the school in fourth grade, quickly discovered how easy it was to make me cry. (Dropped the surname in case she googles herself!)

(10) Let me be clear - I didn't DO these sports; I merely enjoyed watching them.

(11) So there you have it - apparently I wanted to study the stars when I grew up, rather than fly among them. Or maybe I was confused, as a ten-year-old, about the proper name of my childhood career ambition.

(12) "I remain, Myself" (!?) I have no idea where I would have picked up such an old fashioned, yet curiously inspiring, sign off to a letter written at the age of 10. But it's a good thing to hope to remain, no?

Coming home

2010-05-29T10:31:00.000-07:00

I used to travel for work. Like an all-the-time, gold status on the airlines, Four Seasons leaving me a personal welcome back card and chocolate dipped strawberries in my room 'cuz I've been there so damn often (true story), kind of travel. It was luxe, as business travel goes, and it's the kind of life that some people might enjoy.

But I am at heart a homebody. This week I had to travel to Seattle for two nights and three long days to wrap up the work project that has been consuming my life for the past month. I stayed at the W, where I had been many times before nearly a decade ago, so walking into the lobby started a round of flashbacks to a life I had long been away from and didn't miss.

The W Seattle is an uber-hip hotel, and honestly, I'm not sure I'm "cool" enough to stay there. Once, a friend of mine sat down at the W's bar, looked to her right and noticed she was sat next to Harrison Ford, who was quietly enjoying a drink alone. She told me they were there for like half an hour and she never once let on that she recognized him. Cool as a cucumber, she was.

I walked through the revolving doors at the W after returning from work around 9 pm on Wednesday and was confronted with two turntables and a microphone. There was a DJ set up in front of the door to mix tunes for the evening in the "living room" (as the hotel dubs their lobby/restaurant) which is turned into a club. Fortunately it was early, so there weren't yet many of the beautiful people around to make me feel self-conscious of my slightly rumpled appearance after a 13 hour workday. I am terminally uncool, and no one is at their best in those circumstances anyway.

The corridors leading to the W guest rooms are clad in dark wood and lit very dimly by the indirect glow of blue lamps, which means it always feels like night in there. Kind of like Vegas, where time doesn't exist. As an aside, I once spent months working in Las Vegas and stayed for a while at the Palms, another hip hotel, and there is something very strange about negotiating a Vegas casino labyrinth as part of your morning commute. Stumbling out of never-never land into bright Nevada sunshine as you make your way to the office is surreal.

This week, the W gave me a giggle the morning of my departure. The hotel reservations had been made for the team by an administrative assistant, so imagine my surprise when I received the invoice slipped under my door and I was registered as shown here. WTF - really? Have you seen me? I must be the palest member of that club, ever. (Not to mention possessing the wrong bits.) The mystery deepened when we found that is actually the home address of one of our coworkers, a middle-aged Jewish white guy. Not exactly your prototypical founding member of the club.

Back when I was traveling all the time, I gave up my apartment and commuted from whatever client location to D's apartment in the Cayman Islands on the weekends. I was, quite literally, homeless - though never without a place to stay. I kept a smooshable down throw blanket tucked into my carry-on bag wherever I went. It could function for warmth on a plane or crumpled up as a pillow; I slept under it at airplane gates during 3-hour layovers in the middle of the night. It made hotel rooms feel a little less impersonal. Once, on a flying visit to Oregon when I had stayed overnight with my brother and his wife, I left the blanket behind. My insightful sister-in-law was all "Oh, no, she left her blanket!" My brother was like, "So what?" And she said, in a flash of understanding of something that even I hadn't yet realized, "This blanket is home to her, it's the only thing that is constant wherever she goes." I still take that blanket on any long trips; that's probably one of my top travel tips.

My journey home this week started with cab ride piloted by this guy. Seriously? That's the best picture you could get, when it's required to be prominently displayed on the dashboard of your cab? It either shows a wicked sense of humor, or a serious lack of care for the confidence (or lack thereof) to be instilled in your passengers. No matter, I made it to the airport in time and in one piece, and that's what's important.

Although I haven't lived here 100% of the time, Portland has been claimed as my hometown for nearly two decades now, and I have always loved flying home. Watching Mt. Hood slip peacefully under the wing on approach... gazing out the window as we come in to land, eager to spot the landmarks of our beautiful city spread out below, as if I hadn't seen it tens and tens of times before. And this week when I flew home, she did not disappoint. We touched down at 9 pm in the glow of a truly phenomenal sunset, and 20 minutes later when I pointed my car west for the 35 mile drive home, there was still a pink, gray and blue twilight streaking the horizon under the night-black clouds shrouding the sky over the city. I drove towards that light for 40 minutes, and although it dimmed, it didn't fade altogether and was still there when I pulled onto my own driveway. It was like Portland had left a porch light on for me... and that made me smile.

Late arrival to the party

2010-05-23T18:10:00.000-07:00

Lisa at curious girl posts beautiful photographs and hosted a "Color Week" beginning this past week and I was excited about participating, really I was. Lisa took requests to assign a specific color to each day and then participants were to go capture color glowing in their lives and post the photos on the appointed day.

Then the 65-hour work-week hit and it didn't even wait until Monday to start. Something had to give. But I had gone out looking for color and so, despite not being able to post on a timely basis, here is my contribution to color week - a rainbow of shots, better late than never.

There's a blog roll at Lisa's site with all the people who did actually participate in Color Week, so check them out and put a little color in your life.

She lives!

2010-05-16T11:28:00.000-07:00

Hello bloggy peeps! It's been a while. As my last post indicated, the new job has proved quite challenging. In addition to working hard all day at the office, it has consumed quite a few of my "leisure" hours too. And in the hours when I'm not getting enough sleep there are all those DVR'd episodes of Lost to get through before next weekend's series finale is broadcast. I don't know why I care, but it seems catching up on the final few episodes after the rest of the world has already figured out what is going on there is anticlimactic.

So in between working too hard, sleeping too little and ignoring my "Upgrade Your Life" project altogether, I've undertaken another project (with less dedication than I'd like): to get really fit again.

Like many of us, I have a patchy history of dedication to the gym. I am not now, nor have I ever been, an athlete. I lack hand-eye coordination. (You should see how slowly my mouse is set to track so I can manage to control it - pathetic!) Let's just say I lack coordination full stop. Watching me dance is probably only slightly less painful than this classic from Seinfeld... (I don't actually know because, blessedly, there is no videographic evidence of my dancing talents, or lack thereof):

I have been blessed with a fast metabolism and my father's skinny physique. So I can ignore the gym, sometimes for months on end, without suffering any dire consequences or a need to revamp my wardrobe. At 5'6" I weigh 120 lbs on a bad day. But here's my dirty little secret: I am a skinny overweight person. The last time I had my body fat percentage measured it came in at something like 28% and I was horrified. That's 33 lbs of fat - a good 10 more than I should be carrying. I've got tiny little bird bones - the epitome of a small frame - so although I actually register slightly underweight on the BMI, I could stand to lose a few pounds of fat and replace it with muscle.

Before I met my husband 10 years ago, I walked to work 20 minutes one way and carried my gym bag on the "commute" every day. My gym was on the route home and did it really make sense to walk right by the gym door carrying that bag I had packed with the intention of working out even if I didn't want to do it (which was like, oh, every time)? No, it did not. So I worked out. Long and hard. I had no one to get home to, and when I did get home I could eat beef jerky and cottage cheese for dinner to get my minimum protein allowance for the day. I looked good. I felt great. I was more conscientious about physical fitness and nutrition than I ever had been or likely ever will be again.

Then fun with D and eating the lovely meals he prepares for us, longer commutes, inconvenient gym locations, international moves, and well, life, got in the way of my motivation. I've been doing sporadically little to overcome my natural tendencies to laze around and do nothing that could possibly create a caloric deficit or generate new muscle fibers. But age and a slowing metabolism are creeping up on me and I think I'd better get onto it before the situation gets out of hand. Inspired by D who's always been naturally fit and athletic, we recently bought the DVD-based P90X personal training program by beachbody.com.

Before you start, you have to take a fitness test to provide a benchmark against which to measure yourself and to ensure you that have a minimum level of fitness to commence the program. I was a bit worried, but was able to accomplish the targets adequately - except for being able to do 1 chin up, which I have never ever been able to do, and don't know if I'll ever get there. You also have to take a series of photographs of yourself (front, side, rear) in the smallest amount of clothing that could be considered decent.

Although I've not really struggled with weight, I still hate the way I look in a swimsuit and generally manage to avoid being seen in public in one. Bikinis are not my friends. I carry my extra pounds in a little pouch settled around my midsection and I obsess over flat tummies and trim waists. Why can't I look like that? What I wouldn't give to convert this belly fat to a little extra junk in the trunk. But I can look in the mirror each morning after a shower and think: "Not bad... not really bad anyway."

Until I saw these pictures. Oh. My. Goodness. I have been deluding myself all these years. I look TERRIBLE. That lumpy tummy. That square, flat pathetic butt. And despite inheriting my father's generally skinny physique... how could I not have realized I have my mother's puffy upper arms?!

There are plenty of people blogging their way through this program and posting their before and after-90-days pictures for the world to see. (I will not be doing that.) Many of those before shots look way worse than mine and their after shots reflect amazing transformations. The program comes with a fairly strict nutrition plan and I suspect those success stories reflect dedicated compliance with the diet. I will not be doing that either. They say you can't out exercise a bad diet, but dammit, I am going to try.

I haven't been keeping to the strict 6 days of workouts/one day of rest schedule. I have merely been trying to keep pushing through the program every few days or so, fitting it into my manic work schedule whenever I can. I revel in the complaints of muscles taxed in unfamiliar ways after the first few workouts. I've also realized that I am getting old, and no matter how young I feel, the joints just aren't what they used to be. Washed up physically at 37? Maybe, but I'm going to fight the good fight anyway.

I think I'm in for a painful realization though, if at the end of 90 days of workouts I realize that, no matter how strong I've gotten, I'm going to have to diet these few pounds of flab off after all. 'Cuz I really do love me some junk food.

9 to 5...

2010-05-05T21:47:00.000-07:00

Okay - more like 7-to-7 (plus).

I've worked two weeks at the new job, and they have been doozies. I happened to join the company, according to one of my new coworkers, during a "perfect storm" and we've all been working our tails off.

But since I'm a glass half full kind of girl, here are the positives:

I've done every one of my overtime hours in the comfort of my own home - plus Fridays working all day at home. This is a new luxury, of a sort.
At least it's not working for the craptastic management that took over my old company. This past week they laid off three people with only a day or two's notice. Makes me not feel so bad for giving them two day's notice when I left.
Plus - I don't have THIS guy's job (yikes!), but I do get to enjoy that view of the river and the city:

Vocabulary

2010-05-01T09:02:00.000-07:00

These are favorite words that have appeared on my blog.

(Click to enlarge)

The most intriguing thing to me about this is how it takes words completely out of the context of my use and, through proximity in the jumble, creates totally new (or sometimes painfully familiar) concepts. Kind of like those fridge magnet word kits.

My favorites from this jumble:

wicked wish
growing confidently fortunate
unlimited potential
searching mess
unspoken awareness/hidden life
embrace unanswered frustration
baffles gorgeous sense
genuine unlimited soul
envisioned exquisite quiet infinity
craved manic motion
accept challenging grateful experience
embrace scattered thrills
fidgeting affinity
beginning surprised delight
clutter masterpieces (boy, do I have a few of those)
beloved wandering delicious creature

Isn't that fun? Now you go. Head on over to wordle.net to create your own.

(By the way, I cheated a little by copying in a bunch of my favorite posts and then eliminating the lame words to leave my favorites from the selection - otherwise my words would be all, like, you know, boring. Also, you have to screen shot it to turn it into a picture.)

Temptation

2010-04-28T05:06:00.000-07:00

There are many foods that my British husband misses living over here in the US that either can't be had or can only be found at a very dear price. The only food I truly missed when we were living in the UK was marshmallows. I once bought what passed for marshmallows over there and tried to toast them over a campfire. It was awful - saccharine tasting stuff that just melted without toasting - and one of my favorite treats, hands down, is toasted marshmallows. We have installed a wood-burning stove at the little house on the prairie, so I can pretty much toast marshmallows whenever I want throughout the winter. You'd think the novelty would wear off, but no, each and every time I have a toasted marshmallow, I think it is the Best. Thing. Ever.

The way I like to eat them, I toast them ever-so-golden brownish - best done carefully over really hot coals - then gently pull the toasted outer layer off as a whole and pop it in my mouth. The slightly crispy, caramelized sugar shell is absolutely sublime. This leaves a ball of slightly melted marshmallow at the end of the stick, ready to repeat the process. I think I once managed a record six "pulls" on one marshmallow. I recently discovered that if I toast and pull a marshmallow shell off once or twice then simply eat the marshmallow ball left behind, I get delightful melted marshmallow covering a bouncy unmelted center. Yu-um-my!

My dear husband is often kind enough to point out when the fire reaches perfect marshmallow toasting conditions, and on a recent evening when he did so, I confessed that I only had two marshmallows left in the bag and had decided not to buy more because I found it difficult to resist the siren call of my favorite treat. And that reminded me of this video, over which we shared a giggle.

I love the little blond girl who nibbles away about 2/3 of her marshmallow then examines it and puts it back on the plate, like, "nah - they'll never notice."

Keenie the Beanie and the Blustery Day

2010-04-25T18:16:00.000-07:00

So, as I mentioned, I started a new job on Wednesday. Well, I actually "started" for the second time, and for real this time, on Wednesday. In the first week of April, when I still couldn't leave my old company due to an impending bonus payment that I had earned, dammit, and I was going to hang out to collect no matter how long they put off paying it (ahem)... I had taken a day of vacation from my old job and joined my future coworkers for an 8 hour long presentation about "who we are and what we do" to a group of, um, external constituents shall we say. Confidentiality rules forbid disclosure with more clarity.

And, can I just say, that was the best first day of work I could've had. Because as an accountant, I could pretty much work for any company in the world (assuming they would have me, which I'm not). Every company needs someone to count the money - even if they're losing it. As a result, I come to positions with a good idea of what I can do for them, but only a general idea of what it is they can do for their customers. I mean, if you are a doctor, librarian, book editor, whatever - you probably know what it is your company does, but the person counting the money... not so much. Particularly if you've just joined a company (as I once did) that makes "semi-conductor link processing systems." Whaaa? I still don't know what that means and I worked there for 4 years.

Anyway, for this first day of work, I got to sit quietly and listen while the execs talked about the company, our customer's requirements and how the R&D and the sales processes work to develop and deploy products to meet those needs. And I was awed, because these people are smart with a capital S and they are excited about what they do and the company managed to grow 20% last year even as the economy was collapsing around us. And I'm sure that if I had seen it all before I would have been bored and checking my crackberry every few minutes like some of the people in the room. But it was my first day, so I listened intently and it was quite an education.

So about the blustery day. We were sitting in a conference room that opened onto a terrace 10 stories up and in the afternoon the wind was howling so much that it was blowing around the plastic chairs that had been around the little cafe tables outside. I was worried one of those chairs might flip over the railing and tumble down on some unsuspecting person below. What a sad way to go. St. Peter at the gates of heaven says in mild surprise, "you're here early," and you go, "yep - never saw that flying plastic chair coming."

In the afternoon, when the presentation was done, I had to get back to my car which was parked 18 blocks away from the offsite meeting location. I took the streetcar line 8 blocks and then stepped off to transfer to a cross town bus... and into the stiffest wind I have encountered in a long time. I was tottering along in my pumps, leaning far into the wind and struggling to make forward progress as my laptop bag bumped on my hip, occasionally caught by the wind and turning into a sort of heavy sail that threatened to drive me back into an ungraceful pile of limbs flailing about on the sidewalk. I got to the bus stop and stepped into the shelter of a building vestibule.

For a long time, Portland has had what's known as the "fairless square" in the downtown core where you could ride any of the three public transport options for free. Since I haven't worked or lived downtown in many years, I didn't know that as of January 1 this year the buses are no longer part of the fairless square arrangement. Gratefully boarding the bus, I discovered this fact from a poster tacked above the windows. I thought maybe I could just claim ignorance when I got off the bus 10 blocks later and perhaps skate the $2 fare - which I didn't have change for anyway. But no, I immediately pulled the stop request cord and the bus pulled over. I walked up to the driver and explained that I was only going 10 blocks and had just discovered the termination of the fairless square and could I please disembark without paying the $2. And she just stared at me. Straight in the eyes. Unblinking. No barely perceptible nod, no insistence that I pay anyway. Nothing. It was like we were in a third grade staring contest that she was determined to win. So I cheerily said, "Right, ok, thanks, bye!" and hopped off. It was SO weird.

The best part - the wind had subsided and I started hustling to get to the car before it picked up again. And after traipsing 8 blocks, I arrived onto the block where my car was parked just as that very bus was pulling away from it. Who needs your stinkin' fairless square, anyway, lady?

Photo by Lize Rixt

Road Rants

2010-04-22T17:12:00.000-07:00

Day two of the commute, and it's going well (not). Inspired by Pippi, I bring you notes from the road.

My dear husband, without even realizing what a tough day on the road it had been, offered me his Crystal Healing CD (the soundtrack to my Japanese Garden slideshow) for the car. Isn't that sweet? It's hard to be stressed when these dulcet tones are playing... at least that's the theory anyway. Ohhmmm....

Post-its courtesy http://wigflip.com/superstickies/

Moving on

2010-04-20T18:06:00.000-07:00

Big news in beanieland... Her Beanieness is upping stakes and moving on out.

A few months ago, when the ~~takeover~~ merger of my company was completed, I was all whaaah, "stupid merger," mourning the end of an era and worried about my future employment status. As it happens, I didn't end up unemployed and the new owners made a real effort to assure me that I was a valued member of the ongoing team, albeit doing work I didn't enjoy as much. That was a big relief, but at the same time, I was experiencing a natural resistance to the changes as well as being less than impressed at the new owners' lack of leadership. We were running around like the proverbial headless chickens because one person would tell us to do one thing and another, something else. They also exhibit a severe lack of respect for their employees' time and opinions... unfortunately in this their reputation preceded them, and they have done nothing to disprove it. Case in point, one day last week one of my coworkers was scheduled on conference calls starting at both 5:30 am and 6:00 pm. It doesn't matter what you do in the middle... that basically mandates a nearly 14 hour workday, and they don't think there is anything wrong with that.

But today was my last day working there - and it was a hard one. Mainly because of my foolish sentimental nature. I wanted to sneak quietly out the door, dodging goodbyes from coworkers. But it was not to be, everyone wished me well, a small group took me to lunch which was nice, and my best friend cried so I did too. Boy am I glad that's over.

Tomorrow I start a new job, taking up the role I enjoyed before the merger, but for a smaller tech company staffed by seriously smart people that are excited about what they do. I'm trading a 15 minute commute through the countryside for a traffic-clogged 45 minute slog into the central core of Portland. (This is why driving was on my mind recently - I hope to carry a certain zen calm into my new commute so as not to relapse into questionable driving habits.) But that is essentially the only drawback to the new position and frankly I've been spoiled in the commute department - it's not like millions of people don't deal with worse journeys to work each day.

Well, there is one other drawback... I'm giving up my office, a nice space with a window and a door that closes and everything. When I first moved into an office after working in cubeland, I kind of missed the social hum of a communal workspace, but I quickly grew to appreciate the luxury of my own private place.

(the old workspace - documented for posterity and of no interest to anyone but me)

On the plus side, the new company's space is configured so that nobody has an office - even the top execs only get a room with four walls but no door. But even better, the cubes are on the outside of the building so the cube dwellers (including yours truly) are afforded the luxury of a view. And my particular view is over the river, across the city and out to Mount Hood, from 15 stories up. Not bad at all.

Also, I've negotiated a four day work week in the office, with Fridays working at home, which I'm totally stoked about.

There is a buzz and energy at the new company, and it will be a refreshing change from the merger blues still pervading my old company, and I'm totally excited to move on to the next chapter in my professional life.

Wish me luck at my "first day of school!"

Luscious color

2010-04-18T11:20:00.000-07:00

Tulips are my absolute favorite flower. I'm not sure why I adore them above other flowers. They seem almost shy, with their petal cups shielding pollen stems from prying eyes. Their season is short; in bouquets, they lack the longevity and flamboyance of the ubiquitous rose. But I think the blooms are sublime.

Yesterday I went to the Wooden Shoe Farm Tulip Festival in Woodburn, Oregon. There, for four weeks each spring, you find acres and acres and endless acres of gorgeous, luscious, exquisite color as the tulip bulbs stage a show that is far from shy. And oh, the color: white, pink, coral, red, purple, even midnight blue. And the shapes: traditional cups, showy ruffles and multi blooms, ladylike lily-flares.

I just wanted to capture the view, wrap it around me like a blanket, drink it in and live in such glorious technicolor all year round. I did the best I could to take it in with my camera, and you can't help but take beautiful pictures with such an expansive and striking subject, but my efforts don't begin to do it justice.

To see a slide show of about 20 of the better images, click here. I hope they put a smile in your day.

Driving Miss Beanie

2010-04-16T06:15:00.000-07:00

In the past I have had a reputation, probably well deserved, for being an aggressive driver. I used to drive everywhere at fifteen to twenty miles above the speed limit. I would slice through freeway traffic like a ginsu, with little patience for anyone who wouldn't keep up with traffic. Stop signs were more of a suggestion than an imperative. Saying "stop" in your head as you execute a rolling stop to check for cross traffic is just as good as actual cessation of vehicular motion, right?

I once spent an hour crossing an empty stretch of desert in Southern California tailing a fellow speed freak, never dropping below 100 mph. It was exhilarating. One would think that this penchant for speed would have endangered my driving license or insurance rates, but I led a charmed life. My ratio of traffic stops to traffic tickets is at least 3-to-1. I must look innocent or something.

There was the time I was stopped for driving over 90 in a 65 - by a plain-clothes detective. I was on the wide eight lane bridge that crosses from Washington into Oregon, then part of my daily journey into work. This was years ago and at the time that bridge was generally empty, even on the morning commute, and I just stepped on the gas and let her rip. I must have blasted past the unmarked cruiser at some point, because I looked in my mirror and saw a red sedan flashing lights embedded behind its grill and pulled over sheepishly. The detective walked up, dressed in a suit with a badge on his belt.

"Do you mind telling me what you were doing going that fast?" he barked, "I had to go over 100 just to catch up with you!"

"I'm late for work," I offered, with that little upward lilt that turns a statement into a question.

"You'd better slow down if you want to make it there alive!" he said and turned on his heel to march back to his car.

I just sat there, stunned, unsure what was going to happen next, because if I'm honest, I could possibly have been arrested for reckless driving. Then he got into his car, fired it up and pulled out onto the freeway. He didn't even ask for my license. My theory - either the vaunted detective didn't want to do the paperwork on a lowly traffic stop, or maybe I had skated by on a jurisdiction issue by crossing the state line, Dukes of Hazzard style.

My most recent encounter happened when an accident shut down the freeway during the morning commute, pushing me and everyone else onto nearby surface streets. Traffic lights were overwhelmed, causing gridlock. Near the end of an hour-long journey that usually takes less than 20 minutes, I had already waited through a left-turn stoplight signal twice. As I crawled up on the third green cycle, it turned yellow, then red right as I reached the crosswalk. I hesitated briefly, then figured if I stayed stuck to the bumper of the car in front of me, I could get through the intersection before the stopped cars on the other side started rolling.

As soon as I made the turn, I heard a siren burst, and noticed that the car stuck in traffic behind me - a fully marked and obvious police cruiser - was quite reasonably pulling me over. I sat on the side of the road within sight of my office building. I had my license and registration out and ready to go as the young officer approached the car. "That light was red when you went through the intersection, ma'am," he said, not unkindly.

"Yeah, I know, but I've been stuck at these stoplights for SO long, and I work RIGHT THERE, and I just wanted to FINALLY get there." I shut up then, because the first rule of traffic stops is to never actually admit you know that you did anything wrong, and I had just broken it.

"You knew I was behind you, right?" he asked.

"Nope... preehh-ty sure I wouldn't have done it if I had known that," I admitted. And here the officer actually laughed out loud. He told me he was going to go run my license. Walking back to the car a few minutes later, he said, "You have a clean driving record [response in my head: mwa-ha-ha-ha], and I understand your frustration, so I'm not going to ticket you. Just be more careful in the future." How awesome is that?!

I've mellowed a lot in my old age. On the country roads around my house, we have seen quite a few really bad accidents - one fatal - in the three years we've lived here, so I tend to drive very carefully and never exceed the speed limit (55)... not because I'm a law abiding citizen, but because I'm now aware of my own mortality and realize it's not actually safe to blast around blind corners at excessive speeds when tractors or school buses or little old ladies in Buicks or god-knows-what-else could be hidden around the bend.

On the freeway, I would love to let my inner speed demon free, but find that my concern for the legal consequences makes me excessively nervous when I do so. If I do get up to 20 mph over the limit (which happens occasionally as I clear one of those annoying drivers going slow in the fast lane - still a major pet peeve), adrenaline starts pumping - not because I'm scared of speed, but because I'm worried I'll be pulled over and I think I may have exhausted my nine lives for escaping traffic citations. And I am not a fan of adrenaline.

Sigh. So my speed demon days are behind me. Someday, I would love to go to Germany and drive the Autobahn where I could speed with impunity. You know, just to prove I've still got it.

Photo by Julien Tromeur

Upgrade Your Life Chapter #1: Control Your Email

2010-04-11T18:39:00.000-07:00

As I recently mentioned... I have a clutter problem and have started to address it by doing a digital decluttering and working through the Upgrade Your Life book by Gina Trapani. Chapter #1 is entitled "Control Your Email."

I am ashamed to admit that until yesterday, my beloved yahoo mailbox inbox had nearly 1,300 unread messages. Apparently, it's not only my physical environment that's cluttered!

Don't get me wrong... I stay on top of my personal and professional admin tasks. My Outlook e-mail at the office is actually impressively organized. Coworkers often come to me saying "do you still have that e-mail that..." and it's a rare request that I can't quickly help them recover. My messages are responded to, my calendar is detailed, organized and complied with, my deadlines are met, my bills are paid, my financial records are maintained in impeccable detail.

But in my personal email box, I simply did not organize or dispose of much after I read it... or decided I might read it, or need it someday. But I am proud to say that today my e-mail box looks like this:

Yes, that figure in the trash folder is no mistake. I really did delete nearly 6,500 messages. This gives you an idea of the scope of the problem I had to attack.

My strategy: I sorted the inbox by sender and did a major blast delete of immediately identifiable irrelevant topics/senders and moved all of what was left - about 1,450 messages - to a folder called "e-mail bankruptcy." This idea comes from a recent post at Lifehacker which recommends that if you have let your e-mail get out of control, you should "declare bankrupcty" - even to the extent of sending out a distribution e-mail to people telling them about the bankruptcy, apologizing, and asking that if there are unanswered items requiring follow up from you, to please resend the request. Frankly that last step horrifies me, and fortunately isn't necessary as I haven't dropped the ball on actions or replies, only organization. But the e-mail bankrupcty concept frees me from the self-imposed imperative to go through and classify or assess the importance of the remaining old messages. Bless Yahoo for unlimited storage!

Also following the advice of a Lifehacker post, I have embarked upon an e-mail triage system in which absolutely no messages are left in the inbox after you first read it. For each and every message that is read you either:

delete it;
respond to it and a) delete it or b) place it in the Hold folder* - which is a sort of purgatory for messages that don't need to be retained permanently, but are important for right now (like an order tracking number);
place it in a Follow-up folder* and (this is key) add an item to your to-do list; or
place it in an Archive folder for permanent retention.

* Key to success with this system is a periodic and relatively frequent purge of these two folders.

I've been guilty of marking items unread and using those items in my inbox as sort of to-do list in addition to my actual to-do list. This means I have to monitor two action item lists, the second of which requires scanning the inbox for items I've read but not addressed, while remembering to read the new items and skipping through items that should have been placed in the Hold or Archive folders. Commencing use of a system like this should make me marginally more efficient, as well as more organized. I'm excited about this "reboot" for my personal message management. My inbox at work is actually pretty minimal, but I will now commit to maintaining an empty e-mail box at all times both personally and professionally... and am one step closer to an organized life.

Next step: Chapter 2 - Organize Your Data

What about you - do you have any tips on how you control your e-mail and keep it organized? Or can you totally relate to having over 8,000 message sitting around gathering digital dust?